Today my mom told me that since knowing me as an adult, I have changed the way she cooks. This surprised me at first because, although I consider myself far more accomplished in the kitchen than I was ten years ago, I don't think of my cuisine as being too inspiring. She told me she prepares far more vegetables and relies on them for the main part of the meal. I thought her comments over later and realized, what a great compliment!

At the time she and I were driving up to Olympia with my oldest child to buy fabric for the latter's Halloween costume. We stopped for tea, visited the rest area (which Sophie loves for some reason), and enjoyed a nice day away from our households. We talked about parenting (a lot), about family stuff (a bit), and about sewing (of course). We talked about my dad, a little - but what is there to say? We miss him terribly, and we speak the same language about him when.

The city affords niceties our smaller urban environs do not. The friendly anonymity of strangers taking walks through Capitol Lake Park - a man who'd set up a tightrope between trees and, after giving us a demonstration, gave a tutorial to Sophie. Dogs; lots of dogs. Great food (we ate at a funny Japanese grill restaurant where they throw knives and cook at your table). Some detriments: traffic, parking headaches, and bad bathrooms.

At home the evening the weekend comes to a close amidst a gorgeous fall day. We go on a "spooky walk"; actually, a bike ride up through our cemetery, peaceful in the gloaming and yes a bit spooky, owing to the fact there are many old and creaky trees. Upon getting home Ralph and the kids carve a pumpkin while I prepare dinner. Inspired by friends I have discovered a new repetoire in my cooking: simplicity. Not every night needs to have a bona-fide dinner. Tonight I cook while listening to Ralph and the kids chatter, serving cinnamon toast, grilled figs with goat cheese, sprouted almonds, a quesadilla with sharp cheddar, chamomile tea.

Ralph runs the bath and Sophie and I finish some homework; move the couch into position to watch a "spooky" movie of Sophie's choosing.

Labels: food geekery, Grazdma

I have never, to my knowledge, strained my back by lifting, carrying, or doing physical work. But this morning marked the second time in my life I've hurt my neck badly - by lying in bed, or more precisely, moving my head in some incorrect way. At just after 6 AM I awoke to the distinct "twang!" of muscle spasm. Thoroughly awake, I lay uneasy with a hot dagger of pain working its way in my neck. I get up, take iboprofin, steel myself for the likely recuperation over the next couple of days, and lay back down. Ralph awakens and is sympathetic; I ask him to pass our daughter over to me. She snuggles up against me in the quiet, clingy, lovely way she does. I can smell her cornsilk hair and feel her deep, peaceful breathing. Soothed, I fall asleep for another couple hours.

During the day I got as much "done" as might be imagined: namely, nothing. I watched some things I'd had on the computer and had been meaning to get to: Dial M For Murder (I giddily enjoy this film so very much) the final two episodes of "John From Cincinnati" (loved it!) and From Here to Eternity (a decent film and yay Burt Lancaster in tiny bathing shorts!). I finish knitting Sophie's hat and start on a scarf for Ralph. Ralph, meanwhile, does the dishes, the laundry, takes the kids to parks and on hikes. They flit in and out of the house while I cringe on our couch.

This evening my mother brings us a delicious dinner (pork chops, garden potatoes, avocado, celery, garden carrots, blue cheese dip, and sauteed mushrooms), strawberry ice creams cones, wine - and codeine. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It isn't often I need assistance with food but tonight it's welcome.

Currently reading: Bigfoot: I Not Dead (or rather, Sophie's reading it), plotting for more knitting, and eagerly awaiting getting to know my "new" Singer sewing machine (a Freecycle score) as soon as I am healed.

Labels: food, gratitude, Grazdma, Sophie, sorrows, the bod

Are we dying, or are we really living?

Last night we had a very small gathering which was only in part about my mother's birthday. I made a cake; or rather, I made the best frosting ever, and fucked up the cake on eighteen levels, and Ralph saved the day with his amazing cake re-animator skills, and it turned out an *awesome* cake. We dressed the kids up nice and packed up the birthday gift and homemade card and headed to meet family.

My father's brother and sister had arrived in town to stay at my parents' house hours after the piano has been moved and minutes after an adjustable bed (complete with oscillating air mattress to forestall bedsores), wheelchair, and oxygen tank had been installed. My mother hadn't been happy at first when it dawned on her my dad wasn't well enough to go out to dinner (the original plan). So after a talk with me on the phone she decided to pick up dinner. Now I'm in the living room talking to my aunt and uncle, the kids crawling on everyone, Ralph fixing my aunt and I a cocktail, and my mother nervously chopping up a salad. She's feeling glad for my family's help yet somehow "responsible" for everyone's food, good time, and happiness. P.S. her influence is something I struggle with daily - being a hostess, but not taking on The Weight Of The World by doing so, either.

My dad sits quietly. Sometimes his head is in his hands. Sometimes he smiles. He joins in the conversation then sinks away. We ask if he needs more medicine. After he has a coughing fit that lasts a while, Nels approaches his knee gravely and tells him to drink his water.

After dinner the kids are absolutely obsessed with the electric bed that's not in the living room. I tell them after dinner, wash hands, let us make it up, then you can get in. In tucking in sheets and sorting out pillows I realize I am making up my own father's deathbed. Sometimes I get these dramatic sentences, they pop in my head. But it doesn't need to feel bad. Why not a deathbed? I remember us making up my bed for my son's delivery, at home. This was an occasion too of worries, of expectation, of the unknown. The more time I spend at my parents' home the more similar and deep the experiences of birth and death seem to me. It's not even as simple as one event is joyous and the other sad, although I know so many see it that way.

The kids are in the bed, giggling. Nels says he's "dying", sticks his tongue out, dramatically falls back in bed. Sophie manifests a convincing consumptive cough. Ralph ministers to them by pouring out "medicine" (Diet Coke!) in a teaspoon. They love this. They cuddle-wrestle. My mother moves the bed into different positions. Nels snaps to this concept and when my mother leaves he immediately finds and operates the bed control. She returns, scolds him. He is banished from the bed for the evening.

This morning my mom arrives on the bike to deliver some leftover baked sweets that came into her life. People bring food to her home and it is appreciated, so very much, although I think people (including myself) may be bringing a few too many sweets - at least in the days when it's just my mom and dad in the house. But food doesn't go to waste around here. For instance, I made her a pie last week from fresh-picked berries (actually I made three, gave them to various and sundry) and she was able to take it to church and share it, something I knew gave her satisfaction.

I don't mean to go on about food. My mother's mood this morning is almost elated, girlish. She has somehow escaped hostess duties for a little bit of exercise, a drop-in visit bearing gifts. She hugs the children and cuddles the youngest chick before revealing what's probably really got her happy: "David slept really well tonight," she tells me (they had both slept poorly the night before). "He only woke up coughing once and I gave him some oxygen. I think that bed really helped."

Life (death) will get difficult again. But last night our family gathering - interrupted with a welcome and sweet visit from two friends bringing, yes, pies and singing two-part "Happy Birthday" - wasn't co-opted by maudlin experiences of sickness and dying, even as we were in the presence of such and indeed had gathered because of it.

Labels: cancer, death, family life, food, Grazdma, illness, tenderness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Time slows down on the bike. Today I started the day with sewing machine loaded up in the trailer and lengths of fabric, heading off to my mom's to sew on a quilt (for my son's school's yearly auction). She and I set up in the kitchen and talked and hummed along on our two machines, taking breaks for coffee and to steam-press newly-sewn seams before sitting back down for another round of stitching. Nels joined us after preschool and happily retired to the living room to help Grandpa with a puzzle until it was time for us to hit a diner for lunch.

After eating and chatting with the waitresses it was off in the sunshine to pick up my daughter; we're early so once Nels and I get off the bike and unpack helmets and walk in to the school for Suse, why not let the kids stay and play on the playground for a few minutes? Not something I feel inclined to do when I'm in the pickup line, dutifully driving through the roundabout and pausing to have my child inserted in the car (I've seen other parents stay uninterrupted on cell phone calls during this operation). On the swings I permit myself a foray into Andrew Bird (must... stop... listening to incessantly!) on my new [late] birthday present from Ralph (variety: purple).

Time slows down enough that, say, you suddenly realize you had a date ten minutes ago in Aberdeen and can't possibly make it (shit!). Or enough that you don't jet home for the day and therefore miss a phone message canceling tonight's hosted dinner at friends' house, due to friends' illnesses. Therefore my joke in arriving at our friends' house (smoking a cigarette while biking, observed more often than you might think in GH) is completely lost on the hosts, afflicted with equal parts plague and guilt. Home for a quick plan and make-up of evening repast.

Labels: Aberdeen, bike, GH, Grazdma, sewing, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

I find when I invite gratitude into my life, richness pours in. Today I felt so fortunate to be sitting in the hospital with my mother and son while my father sat pre-surgery awaiting another medical procedure - this time, a port installed into his body so we could pump chemo into his heart. The nurse commented on my father's eyelashes. Since his latest respite from chemo his hair not only grew back thicker and kinkier, his eyelashes are long and curly like a cupid's, a rare physical beauty blooming from a ravaged body. Another strange-yet-true part of our journey with cancer. Nels' behavior is complemented by many nurses and staff and in turn I get to hear the (rare) out-loud testimonies from my parents, who are proud of the care their grandchildren receive.

This morning my husband printed out fifty copies of the zine (click to download: [here] ) and after getting home from the hospital I painstakingly stamp them all. They're off to my East County distributor, whose efforts I appreciate so much in spreading the zine out a bit. Perfectionist I am, I cringe that my website still needs an update; oh well. "Done is better than perfect," I remind myself.

In just a few minutes Nels and I travel to Suse's kindergarten class for a Valentine's Day party. My mother made lovely meringue sugar cookies and I am supplying soaked almonds and dried fruit. Let me tell you, my time with those children is unadulterated joy. Now if I can just pace myself, I'll still have energy to sew on my brother's coat this evening before we're off to an Open Mike at the deli (Ralph is performing).

Labels: gratitude, Grazdma, illness, Nels, Ralph, school, SNF, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Today as I walked between my kitchen and living room I came upon the tipping point about our homeschool decision, which was: if I ever decide I want money more than I want our homeschool / family experience, I can always choose money. I am not destined to poverty for life (which is how I sometimes fear my future) just because - for now, and a while at least - I'm choosing not to work outside the home for financial compensation.

But can anyone know how strongly I feel I'm supposed to be hurrying my children along to free babysitting so I can go put my time and brain and body into someone else's endeavor, so they can give me money, and I can bring it home? Why do I feel this way? Simply because that's what nearly everyone I personally know is doing. Although this doesn't match with my or my husband's goals, I still feel this tremendous pressure to chase investment (in a home, in better cars, in more stuff, in nicer stuff), some outside sense of accomplishment, some way of being smart money-wise so I can have enough that I don't have to actually count up the bits and think about them.

What I need: mentors. I have been told, oddly it seems sometimes, I am a mentor or at least an inspiration to not a few who read here or know me. And I'm seeking the same in this category of my children's education and our life as a family. Applicants, do seek me out because I feel decisively like I'm setting on a path few travel and maybe one more importantly: a path my own family of origin did not travel.

I briefly feel such a kinship with and gratitude for my mother when I discuss this with her, later in the day on the phone. I'm saying, "... trying to accept that I won't be working" when she starts to talk and I add, "well I mean, working for pay." She interrupts herself to laugh "Yeah really!" aside, under her breath, in the exact we're-both-knowing-the-same-thing tone she'd use if I mentioned how perfectly sexy Johnny Depp is or said a perfect joke we both know and love. See, she and I know what "work" I really am looking forward to, work I started in on the moment my daughter was born but only get better at and enjoy more (with a few decidedly horrific "off" days, hee hee). My last six years and my future stretch out in a continuum of priorities and newness and love and learning and gratitude that just seems to bloom more and more and give me more energy than any previous endeavors.

It is funny sometimes finding out who I am, as I grow. I'm always a little surprised to find I'm not who people told me I was.

Labels: goodness, Grazdma, newness, school

Is there anyway I can skip my boring Juice Parent day tomorrow at school and stay home sewing on... drumroll...

MY NEW MACHINE?!

I am completely drained and overwhelmed by this. I got it home this afternoon and yes, I've already sewn a project with it (tulle underskirt for Suse's Daddy Daughter Dance dress).

Color me excited, happy, and spent.

Labels: Grazdma, newness, sewing

I tasted my first fresh Krispy Kreme today (what can I say, I'm the OG Country Mouse). It was a struggle, but I got it down eventually (actually, the remainder I picked up are calling to me now). More surprising than the donut hype around the legendary junk food was the coffee - hot, fresh and tasty - and the fact the retro 50s squeaky-kleen donut factory ambience actually worked on me. I felt pleased and comforted and totally forgot I was sitting in the middle of a square mile of strip-mall concrete in Puyallup.

My fabric trip with my mom (and Nels) was bookended by watching my parents fight about their severely damaged roof, a post-storm saga that does not seem to be winding down to a close (yesterday they had another contractor quit on them). The fighting was kind of surprising because growing up my parents "rarely" fought and somehow the legacy was they "didn't" fight. Today there was yelling and cussing and later a cell-phone apology (delivered by my mother who, distracted and sad she'd yelled at my dad, pulled over on our way out of Aberdeen in order to call) and then when we got back, a wind-up, more yelling, tears, and stomping. "It's not my fault," my father reminds my mother as he angrily saddles up to drive to the roofer's offices. She doesn't quite apologize again, still angry about the stream of contractors she's alienated, anxious to stop the deterioration of her home (the tarping fix fell apart and water damage has started to hurt the insides of the house), and mad that my father isn't taking care of it in the way she feels he should.

My son and I witness these words. I feel badly for my parents. I am sad they are struggling and fighting over these things while my dad is so sick. I am sad that my parents, who used to enjoy household projects together in their mutual interest and good health, now have a total pain-in-the-ass problem that's costing money, taking time, and making my mom crazy which results in her picking on my dad. My dad is so thin he has those crazy old man legs they can cross at the upper thigh. Yet despite this, despite a near-skeletal frame (he's lost an inch to his height, did I tell you that?) and his tests and poisons he still remains my father, the same. I am not all that sorry for him in the sense I think he can still handle life's complexities. But I am sorry that my mom has this household burden at the same time she's facing the poor health of her mate. Oddly, or perhaps you understand, it's exactly experiences like today that make me glad I moved here to be witness, to help if I can, and to participate in their lives through good or ill.

The fabric store itself was great. Mom and I stuck to our small lists (I did not select an underlining for my brother's coat yet; the addition of my four year old to the shopping experience caused us to cut things a bit short) and found things in short order. I felt joy at the fabrics I saw, more types that I could have pictured, and I did not find myself longing for fabrics I can't have. This is a good thing. I saw dual-colored zippers and plush fake fur and lovely wools and found four color combinations of the rare-ish bonded sherpa / minkee fleece I'd sought for my baby slipper project. I also was cheered to discover their minimum yardage cut is 1". It just seemed so sweet and accommodating on their part.

It's funny to visit "the city" and suddenly realize I could find socks for Sophie, or face wash, or exactly the restaurant food I crave, or the perfect color of sheets, or a tiny teapot from an Asian grocer or whatever. I get so used to being in a small town where your spontaneous creativity is hampered by what you can lay hands on (which does make the occasional inspired find all the more exciting). In cases like today, a list is the way to go. Otherwise I just feel an envious sense of overwhelm.

And now, I have a bootleg copy of Sweeney Todd to finish. I think I'm going to get on that.

Labels: film, FOO, food geekery, Grazdma, Nels, OG country mouse, sewing, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

I have to admit, there was no real reason for me to hang out for the Group Circle time at my daughter's class (which started two hours late today for snow delay) except I had missed seeing those children (I skipped last Thursday's classtime due to illness). Today when it was their turn to talk both Sophie and Nels separately shared about Sophie's new bed. Tom especially always says hi to me, and seems to relish saying "Mrs. Hogaboom". I think all the children like me. It's not that I'm all that likable and not only due to the fact I feed them something each week; it's because children are easy to please when you take time to pay attention to them.

Before I left Sophie took the teacher's chair and read a book of her own premeditated selection (Theo and the Blue Note, a great story) to her class. She did a great job. I was fighting back tears. Not because of the "accomplishment" of her reading but because it struck me how fast our children attain skills and kindnesses when it seems only yesterday you felt confused how to help them find them.

But today went sideways in a couple ways. For one, I was up at 4 AM today with a head packed full of cold again. By 7:40 AM I already felt weary and dejected, and my day was just starting. Then it bellied up and got cold and snowed, preventing a bike ride this morning. And later, after running grocery errands with my mom and Nels, it happened again. This time was funnier because my mother was unsure of the 8 oz. cup capacity (adequate for the 3 year old's bladder) and because I "made" her take the still-warm pisscup into the house to throw away. For some reason she did it, too, with that expression on her face like a cat makes when it smells something rank.

Here's hoping - hoping! - for a restful afternoon.

Labels: books, Grazdma, grocery opus, Nels, Sophie

Last night my parents watched our children for the first time for a sleepover night. It involved a makeshift bed on the floor with lots of quilts and falling to sleep while watching a kids' movie. In the morning my mom made them a far better breakfast than I typically do and got them to school on time easily.

So at 9:19 AM - I wake up. The house is calm, there is no breakfast rush or kids teeth to brush or lunch to fix. I do chores, take a hot shower, listen to music loud and make our bed, begin sewing in my new sewing room. I check and re-check my schedule (Sophie gets out early from school today). Having a house to myself and having no risk the home would get messy anytime I turned around was a revelation. What a nice morning.

Then at 12:15, fully 45 minutes past when I was supposed to pick Nels up from preschool, my girlfriend calls on location to ask if I wanted her to bring my son home.

For about thirty minutes the shock I felt at forgetting my son's pickup time clouded my knowledge of what the chain of events mean - sleepover, then forgetting a child. It's simple: as a parent of young children, if I slow down my breakneck pace I run the risk of losing my system entirely. A more minor example of this was a girlfriend (the same one who brought Nels home today - thank you) who experienced a nice tea and cookie date at my house and was so enjoying herself she forgot her young baby was in the living room, unsupervised. It was like it took her a few moments of being able to straighten her body and not have someone grabbing at her hair before her mind went, "What's different right now... Oh right, the baby! Yikes!"

At least I did not forget Sophie's early release day.

My date night with Ralph was very nice. We both worked on our projects, did a little bit of housework, and watched a movie I'd been meaning to see (it was excellent; my husband didn't seem too impressed although I would have thought he'd love it), and then had some awesome beard nookie (the beard makes everything awesome). I didn't even miss the kids although today I was grinning ear-to-ear to see them again.

Labels: babysitting, family life, Grazdma, Ralph, Ralph's sweet beard

Sleeping with our kids has the benefit - besides a warm cuddly life-affirming experience - of hearing what they say in their sleep. This morning, for instance, Nels was worried about spiders. He kept jabbering about it. In my 6 AM sleepy haze I tried to address his concerns but I must have been lacking as at one point he said, "Mama. Mama, is there a spider here in the bed? - Yes or no?" to get the straight story. Even better: about four nights ago, when suddenly at about 3 AM he said distinctly, "I *EAT* greens!" and then even more hilariously made a huge chomping sound to prove the point. As Ralph and I lay quietly shaking the bed with our silent laughter our three year old made about a half dozen more "for good measure" emphatic chomps before finally quieting back to sleep.

I am currently trying not to hyperventilate at the thought that I might very well be receiving a new sewing machine, and soon, due to the inexplicable potential generosity of my mother. This would be the second of my New Year's resolutions already accomplished in the first month of the year. Did I mention fully three of my five resolutions have to do with buying myself something? Yeah, I know. It means I'm some kind of asshole or something.

You have to understand that this came out of the blue as yesterday, while waiting for our coffee pre-bike ride, my mom went directly from suggesting I save my pennies for a new "low-end" (meaning, $800 or more) sewing machine like she has - to telling me she was thinking of trading in her high-end serger to get me a machine. As a gift. (I think this was her very fast math after I did an out-loud calculation of how long it would take for pennies to get me a new rig.) So tomorrow and Tuesday we'll be going about fishing for a trade-in. It's all a very interesting process for me, and I don't know if I'll end up with a machine or not. I don't pretend to know how her crazy old mind works and I know she doesn't get mine. I'm trying not to think of how wonderful it would be to have a new machine - because a bird in the hand as they say. Don't get your hopes up. Don't sit here, rocking back and forth, wanting a new machine.

Today it was beautiful out and we enjoyed a modest bike ride to the 7th Street Theatre where my husband donated his expertise at getting them set with DSL and my children ran all over the place and tumbled down the ramps while yelling because by noon they'd already had three types of chocolate. Well, I love my new bike. Today Ralph tried to hook the kids' trailer up to it and said, "Hmm, it appears to be rubbing on this part of the bike," and I looked down to see his man-thumb was gripping my disc brakes which are not supposed to be touched by human hand at all, let alone rubbed by a big ol' hardware hookup. This means I'm back to the bike shop ASAP since the shop owner had told me the bike would accommodate the Burley trailer easy and the entire point of my bike acquisition was that of a family transport.

Tonight: a little MST3K courtesy of the DAP project while I attempt to avoid thinking about the bottle of wine Ralph bought.

Labels: gratitude, Grazdma, Nels, sewing, sreep

Today.... well, a bit overwhelming in bits and pieces.

On the way to Aberdeen along with my mom she let me stop by the brand spankin' new business of a local blogger, Etsyan, and young mother for a mystery package. After touring their office (the pride in their hard work really shone through) I accepted a gift package and well-wishes for the family. When I got in the van I found in the packet coloring books, crayons, and other little bits for my children as well as a Visa gift card with the following message:

"Sometimes things can be tight - regardless there's always someone looking out for you! Go buy some cheese for those pizzas! [heart] & hugs - [signed] Amazing Family"

I sat there a minute and swallowed hard while my mom asked me what my brief visit was all about. It's hard for me at times because I work so hard to make sure my writing here is never a specific communication to anyone or a plea for any kind of help or consideration (as my friend Cyn says, "can I tell you how I feel without you feeling like you need to solve me"). I always want the freedom to write what I want to write even if that might make others uncomfortable (or maybe, on the other hand, colossally bored, whatever). On the other hand, all the rest of you reading this, you are nowhere near as cool as this woman for how kind she was to me today.

I kid, I kid. No really. I am totally kidding. And yes, I am going to buy us some excellent cheese.

Three minutes after this visit I set my bag of goodies on the floor of the van, get out, and hoist Nels into the parking lot for our all-too-familiar trip to my father's biweekly poisoning session. When we arrive in the new chemo ward (fancy!) I realize I know three of the seven patients there. My own father and two fathers of friends I grew up with. You know, I never get angry at Cancer. But today I was really struck by seeing these men and I felt like there was some cruel joke being played on all of us. Why are these men being stricken, weakened, and yes, taken from us while they still have so much to offer?

The second part of my day I am on foot with my two children through the rain and wind. This is because I had no gas in the van and had piggybacked on my mom's errands (hanging posters for our theatre's upcoming showing of Mary Poppins among other things) so when she suddenly found herself caught short she dumped us in West-ass Hoquiam to take her meeting. Luckily my children are seasoned winter travelers.

"You really need to learn how to play that game," I tell my son as we walk. Nels has this remedial, caveman-like concept of Paper Rock Scissors, the game I've adopted to help the kids choose who gets to ring the bell on the bus, or pick the ice cream flavor to split with one another. He thinks Rock should beat everything else (I swear, this makes sense to me). Depending on Sophie's mood she will either take advantage of this to win, or deliberately Scissors so he gets the prize. When she wins, and we don't do a rematch, he howls with anger.

Spending so much time on foot, bus, and bike (I have $134 left to pay off my new bike's layaway... I am just so excited for it!) is a real blessing. I experience my children, my community, and my world so much more viscerally. Things slow down. I am grateful for my alpaca mittens and I think ahead about packing snacks in my pockets for the kids. I rarely see anyone out with their kids in this town. I see dads walking fast with a kid in a stroller, smoking. That's about it. Everyone else is in cars.

Labels: bus, gratitude, Grazdma, HQX, Nels, on foot, rain

Today I had a wonderful conversation, and then a great visit, with a friend and her children. Besides having a good time relaxing in someone else's home with cookies and coffee and a new diversion (in this case, a new pair of super-adorable pygmy goats). It was one of those times where you have a few conversations that happen to provide good mental work and make life seem easier. Where you are grateful for a friend and for life's circumstances that brought you together.

On another issue I am just feeling so congested and horrible. My mother recently bought a smoking new sewing machine. It was about $1000 and she walked into the dealership and wrote a check for the whole thing. I was with her; I helped her pick it out (I'd been scoping machines myself, more in the "wishful thinking" category). I went with her to her first class tonight. I sat there and watched as she messed with one million functions and sewed strong, stable seams and I thought about how sewing is a part of my life - more than hers - and here I am having something cherry dangled in front of me, just enough to see but not to have. Her Twin Demon of a high-end serger, bought as a present from her father for half again as much, sits in her closet almost entirely unused. In fact it was her serger example that led me to push for her to take the class and for me to attend with her; she reported to me she'd been feeling guilty about not using such a developed, specialized tool. I wanted her to, if she was going to buy it, use her new machine to its potential and love it. After all she herself has used mostly low-end machines for her sewing career as well. Still, despite knowing this was a good thing for her, it felt wretched for me.

This isn't about a sewing machine. It's part of a larger feeling of falling behind in some way, never to have what I want, never to catch up. It's a shameful feeling of not being able to deal with going without unless I really put effort into it (effort I'm effecting now, I hope). It's about getting lost in the mental wheel-spinning of envy, or getting caught up in other people's plans and pursuits and reverse-projecting them into one's own life. I know it isn't wrong to want something nice, or well-made, for one of my life's strongest passions. It's soul-shrinking, however, to allow my feelings to prevent me from enjoying someone else's experience of something lovely. For their sake, and because I'm their friend.

The fact is, obviously, her resources and her spending have nothing to do with me. Me, some day, it will come. If and when something (materially) fabulous like this machine is mine (examples of my treasured posessions spring to my mind: my wool pants, my Mac), I will cherish it, use it, and take good care of it. If I'm a talented and "deserving" seamstress I will find a way to make sewing work for me (nevermind the last 10 months of broken and inadequate machines and tons of bobbin case jams and busted seams... okay, deep, cleansing breath...) even when obstacles make it seem like a wasted effort.

Another fact is, I am strong enough to handle "going without" - whatever that means. Not buying something I can't really afford, or struggling for groceries, or occasionally getting my gas shut off. Besides, lately life seems a little easier (financially) than it has been.* Or is it just that my husband and I seem to be on the same page more often these days? Whatever the reasons are, when I think about my own life and what I have to be grateful for, I feel humbled and contrite - and grateful, and, finally, finally! - joyful for my mother and her new purchase.

Today has been a good day but also draining. It is time once again to return to the family, to domestic chores - and tomorrow, painstakingly remove and re-do another crappy seam and try to patch it up again.

* Abbi - "Things are looking up for the Hogabooms!" as we said a few New Years' ago.

Labels: consumerism, gratitude, Grazdma, i'm a hater, sewing

Thanksgiving is come and gone. There was a lot of food. There were visits from family and friends. Yesterday I worked for ten hours straight and didn't even take a bathroom break. It was surreal. It was a nice day.

This morning we woke up with Nels in the bed (in between Ralph and I - how did that happen again?), and a curious kitty visiting each member of the family one by one with his snow paws until we all gradually had our eyes open and we all had our arms around one another. What's nice is we get two more mornings like this in the weekend, mornings without Ralph having to rush off to work and me having to get the kids to school.

It seems there were a few people out for walks today as the weather was brilliant and clear. Our foursome walked a little under three miles and it was such a nice time talking with the family - well, especially Ralph who's looking so especially handsome these days for some unknown reason - and viewing Skanky the Seal in the Hoquiam River. I finished Sophie's two skirts but lost energy before I could start sewing the dresses.

My parents arrived back home today after their Thanksgiving at the family's Mason Lake cabin. It was so nice to see them again tonight although being around them fills me with inner sadness I dare not show them. My father is having trouble swallowing because (we think) of the tumor growing just behind his stomach. He kept putting his hands to his face because his new medicine irritates the lining of his throat and mouth. I think it's like having one's entire mouth be a canker sore. The steroids are making him sleep poorly. He talked about waking up at 3 AM and being wide awake. I hated the thought of him being alone and wish I was in the house to sit with him. Despite all his suffering he was gentle and sweet tonight, chasing my children and hugging them. We talked about a recent ridiculous letter to the editor and laughed and laughed.

My mom was also bad off. We talked about some of the things bothering her for a while and she was, uncharacteristically, not able to feel better by the time I left. It isn't just my father and his illness, but also some of her experiences with her own father and two of her siblings this weekend. I think my mom's world is slowly crumbling in more than one way. I obviously know a lot more about her situation but there is no point to writing more about it here. These days I'm out and about I really will experience what people call "a chill around my heart". When this coldness creeps into me it stays with me for hours at a time, even if I look like a loving mother or caring wife or a happy friend - I still feel it there.

My children are a saving grace. They give me focus, direction, and ground me in reality. Life goes on and my children are evidence. They are irrepressible, at turns incredibly wise and ridiculously irreverent, made of sturdier stuff than the rest of us. Give them a nap, tell them a story, feed them, wash their hands or play a game of 20 Questions and they are as good as new, able to handle a hike or bad news or a visit to the hospital or help with chores. They give us lessons in survival and unconditional love. I'm not sure what I'd do without them. I'm glad I have them.

Labels: family life, Grazdma, holidays, illness, sorrows, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

When I ride or walk around my hometown a forgotten house, a sight of a neighborhood tree or the feel of the air, some small synapse gets triggered and I am suddenly reminded of someone I knew or something that happened I had completely forgot about until the moment it hits me. Today it was a surfaced memory of my brother and I. I think I was in ninth grade and going to go to a dance. I found this electric blue, fitted (but not whorish)* lace-overlayed dress. It was perfect for the semi-formal I was attending and my mom bought it for me from - what was the name of the shop? Jay Jacobs? It was just a bunch of shitily-made clothes for teens and young women but exciting to browse in the preoccupation of liberating oneself from kid-hood into female-ness.

So at home I put this dress on and was looking at myself in the mirror, my under-average-height 130-lb body and new perfect boobs and feeling very pretty and different. And my brother came into the room and I said, "What do you think?" and he said, "Oh..." and I said, "I feel kind of self-conscious because, you know," and I gestured to what must have been the world's least-significant slight potbelly (a "flaw" I sensed, rather than felt, would be a detriment). And my brother, Hades fuck him, said, "Well, yeah."

I didn't wear the dress; I returned it. Whatever burgeoning confidence I felt evaporated - maybe not because of what my brother says, who knows - and I remember what it felt like to hate my uncooperative and vaguely displeasing body. I of course excuse my brother who was as much a victim and participant in the gauntlet formed against young females as I was. What mostly I think is, I will kick my son's ass if he ever says anything less than worshipful for his sister's beautiful body (no worries so far; he loves her fully and completely). And of course, I remember how much I loved the blue of the frock, which I have never seen anywhere else (thank you, Taiwanese textile factory!).

Today I discovered my father is super-excited about Popular Science's DIY messenger-bag-cum-solar-cell-phone-charger. I don't even know where he got the idea (it's too bad the link doesn't show a picture; it is kind of cute). Not only does he want to make one (with my husband's help in choosing electronics), he thinks we should make them and sell them (WTF? I think maybe he was smoking some of his medicine). However despite the fact it is semi-strange for him to be soooo excited, Ralph and are actually so happy he has a project that involves us. I said, "You can show it to Ralph when he comes over tonight," and he snorted, "What, time to borrow the lawnmower again?" (actually a software install for mi madre).

* Here's another nice tidbit from dinner at my FOO's the other night: totally unrelated to this story of the dress my mom, telling my husband how much she was glad I didn't dress provocatively as a young woman. "I know, I know," she crowed, "You'd think by her personality she'd be ... you know ... [a slut!] but she was actually very modest." O-kay.

Labels: billy, FOO, Grazdma, HQX, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Labels: food, Grazdma, Nels, school, Sophie

The tag on my mom's bike handlebar claims, "6/30/07 - 1 week". It had a bad tube and (possible) wheel burr. So after ample repair time two weeks ago I went into the (shall remain nameless) bike shop to check on the bike; not yet. OK. So last week I called to ask if the bike was ready; it was not - but, "I'll have it done tomorrow. It's probably a ten minute job." OK.

This morning my parents, their dog, my children and I walked the family down to the shop, towing the bike trailer behind us and anticipating our first ride together in over a month, yay! (This neighborhood mongrel followed us half the way which really enraged my dad for some reason). We get to the shop and the bike is Still. Not. Done. This time the Goofy Bike Guy (I really need a good nickname for him) is very apologetic - he winces as he hears what bike I'm here for, because he knows it's overdue twice over. Meanwhile I notice the bike shop - a truly amazing building with more clutter than you can imagine including a 15 foot tall pair of functional display Lee overalls - has filled up with lots, and I mean lots of bikes. More than half the bikes are ones waiting for repair. There are only two employees in the shop, including GBG, and they both seem (understandably) busy.

GBG asks me to come back in a couple hours (that would be 3 PM); I tell him I'll be in at 4. I leave my trailer inside the shop and we haul our asses home. You know where this story is going, don't you? Because at 4 PM I once again walk the kids down and we ring in and guess what? The bike isn't done. Meanwhile, GBG is hurriedly doing a job for a customer who'd come in and said they had "immediate" needs. I have now officially noticed that to get your bike done you have to tell GBG you need it right now and literally stand in his shop while he does it - thereby arseing over the many people who were willing to wait a week or month (but in reality, will wait forever or until they themselves come inside the shop and stand there).

That's what ends up happening. The kids and I hang out in the shop for the (as promised) 10-minute job. It's taken up so much of my time today (not to mention the other trips), that by the time he's done I'm just kind of sad and not even pissed. The total is just $10. Somehow I would have liked to be charged more, maybe because it would have energized me in some way.

Anecdotally: after the first trip to the shop today my mom, kids and I left the shop to immediately encounter a HQX panhandler of sorts (rare here; more common in Aberdeen) who told us the buses weren't running and she needed gas money for a ride to Olympia to catch a train. "I don't have any money," I said (truthfully) and my mom demurred as well. The woman yelled abruptly, "NO! I mean I give YOU gas money and you give me a ride to Olympia!" "Oh," I said, "No, sorry." The woman half-stomped, half wandered into the street to flag down cars. Mom and I headed to the sandwich shop and my mom said, "She really did say it confusing," in almost a hurt tone of voice. We go inside the Sweet Shoppe, sit down. Have to move tables because the top of the table wobbles fiercely. "What's with this town?" I ask my mom and she laughs. I make a "root toot" farting clown sound with my mouth and jog my elbows up and down.

HQX was not in fine form today.

Labels: bike, Grazdma, HQX, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Roadtrip! Today my mom, brother, husband, children and I headed to Olympia - mostly for fabric and sewing purchases. My mom bought us lunch and post-shopping snack - how awesome is that? I didn't eat a snack but I did bring home some amazing cinnamon bread for Wagner's.


I just want to say that the only reason my mom took us on such a long trip - 11:30 AM to 6 PM - was that Billy was along. She likes spending time with him more than with me. Because they are dating.

I love hanging out with the FOO. Sometimes certain members are a right pain in my balls, but mostly, I like spending time with them daily if I can. Today my poor brother and I had to run and keep Nels and Sophie at bay in Music 6000 while Ralph was "grinding his axe" (i.e. playing a guitar out of tune, to try out a pedal) and headphoned. Why did we get Nels to monitor in such a valuable commodity shop? I was glad Billy was there, besides for his company.


Nels fell asleep on the drive home and still, about three hours later, is out.


Sophie napped too but, once home, stripped her shoes off and started coloring. She and Billy like taking pictures together.

(And just for my secret thrift-whore housewifery buddy - here are my recent thrift store purchases on Flickr - I really do love the inexpensive and fun thrifting to be had in HQX!)

Labels: birlo, consumerism, FOO, Grazdma, roadtrip

Today a series of small but essential things happened that made me happy.

One, after checking in with my parents' home (and watering plants) I walked with my kids to a local sandwich shop and people recognized us and greeted us; a woman behind the counter said to her workmate excitedly, "That's the one that bikes with her kids!" This made me feel nice, as well as the fact my children ate every bit of their lunch then ordered their ice cream (each of them chose a horrid, electric blue bubblegum) in a very grown-up fashion. Their manners at restaurants are improving.

Two, after lunch when it seemed my son could not walk the whole way back home without incident (I had a cup of coffee to carry to boot) we crossed the street and I boarded the bus to Quinault in hopes it would get me a bit closer to my homestead. What I discovered immediately is that many people take this bus: it was more than 75% full and as soon as we climbed aboard they let out a collective gasp at my tousle-headed son, who is less than three feet tall and gets on buses with his hands in his pockets and in this case the pockets were in a handmade dinosaur costume. The driver kept trying to engage my son as I tried to ask him if he would be passing Emerson: "Yeah, yeah," he waved at me vaguely, still chuckling after The Boy who mustered dignity, excused himself past passengers, and clambered up in a seat. Soon this driver was blasting past my street of destination as I desperately scrambled for the cord to save us an even longer walk to our house. This whole time half the bus raptly watched my children whose bus-riding skills really are funny to watch, although Nels did nothing more than act like a little boy.

Three, this afternoon as I did dishes a friend called me. She and I talked about our sick fathers. We talked about another dinner and movie date, which is exactly each of our speed. I put it on my calendar and it's what I look forward to the most in July, second only to Ralph's thirtieth birthday where I get him something outrageous (but useful) for his birthday. (Except damn! Ralph has a new rule where we dont' have a kitchen gadget with only ONE function. Shit, I'd also been thinking about a sandwich grill. Back to the drawing board.)

Four, tonight another friend and her kids came over for dinner. Our four kids played marvelously together, and we had homemade pizza, veggies and dip, and more homemade chocolate cake. After our dinner my FOO came over; my parents having just arrived from their vacation. We talked about bears, churches, and I offered my mom as treasurer to my friend's mayoral campaign.

Five, Ralph took charge of the four children as my girlfriend, my mother and I hit a local bar for one drink and some good talk.

I am so glad to have a few very dear, very lovely friends here in HQX. I haven't yet seen much of them - honestly? I don't want to screw anything up. I still feel slighly hermitty and sad, so it is only right I'm not painting the town. It already feels "right" and normal to have my parents back in town; to know I can see them any time (or almost any time) I want. Even to know I get to take my dad milkshakes at the hospital while he gets his chemo or feel aggravated at their pet-like creature.

Labels: bus, FOO, friends, girl life, gratitude, Grazdma, Nels

Yesterday my father, mother, and their wee little dog loaded up in their homebuilt motor home (actually a converted logging crew bus with black-purple and gold detail, solar power, and an elevated roof - it's a trip) waved, and headed off for a 2+ week trip to Montana - the Tetons, Yellowstone, friends.

My brother gave long, sincere hugs goodbye. I felt just too rotten to do that so I pretended I didn't feel bad and held Nels on my hip (my god... he's three years old! I don't really have the baby-on-hip thing going on anymore, do I?). I occupied my mind thinking of how I was going to steal their lawnmower for a few weeks and pick up some of my mom's flower starts. But really, I felt just inexplicably shitty and couldn't get away from it; as they drove off I thought, well it makes sense I feel bad. My whole life we've been a foursome; we've always been together. And as they left I felt a keen separation as I will when either parent succumbs, and I wonder when that will be. My mother at least is mostly convinced my father doesn't have much hope of holding out much longer; his chemo treatment is losing efficacy and there isn't a backup plan after it stops holding the fort. Daily I go back and forth between letting them do the thing their way and just supporting and loving them; or inserting myself more aggressively: asking them to seek more opinions, going online and looking up experimental treatments. Daily I yo-yo between being allowed to accept his death and the peace and sadness this brings, and fighting for more life. It's an odd state of being that protracted illness and long-looming death can beget.

I also harbor this sneaking suspicion those sneaky bastards that are my Mom, Dad, and brother know something I don't and are keeping it from me. Like that the doctor only gave him a few weeks to live and that's why they're having this roadtrip. I wouldn't put it past that trifecta of non-communication. Last week he was so not-sick after his chemo I grew alarmed and point-blank accused him of not having treatment Tuesday, which he denied. Five minutes later I then ambushed my mother, coming inside the house with my kids: "Did dad really have chemo yesterday?" Her innocent and surprised reply, "Oh yes," was clearly honest. He just lucked out and wasn't very sick. The first time in six years we'd seen him feel good post-medicine, and I'm suspicious about it.

It's hard sometimes to remember that it isn't the cancer that makes him feel so bad, it's the medicine. I can't believe he's even gone through it for all these years with scarce a complaint (to anyone else; I know my mom gets a more full story). Sadly thought, it's also the sickness that contributes as he can get depressed. The depression changes him. I have known and loved him thirty years and up until he got sick I'd never seen anything like the depression, I would not have thought he had it in him. I don't talk him out of it, I talk to him. Sometimes he barely answers. I have found if I keep talking to him eventually he pulls his head out of whatever mire he was in and answers me. I go home, then come back the next day.

I like being active; on their trip, I email them. I work on a care package to send general delivery to whatever township they name. I thank Sweet Baby Jesus in his Golden Fleece Diapers that we moved here. It has been so nice spending time together and I love, love watching my children with my family. Yesterday at breakfast my father and my son sat together and my dad helped him eat breakfast and they fit together like peas in a pod. Nels put his hands up to grandpa's face and said in surprise, "You have glasses Grandpa!" and tenderly stroked his face. My father acted casual (his M.O. even at his most demonstrative) but his entire body leaned towards his grandson and they touched frequently. My dad wiped strawberry preserves off Nels' face and said, "Oh, I let you get some on your shirt. Your mom's going to be pissed." I ignored this. Then he said, "You're mom's going to have a heart attack, she's going to have kittens." so I looked at Sophie and said, "Should we get some kittens today?"

At the table I said to each of my parents: "Ralph and I think you are a good grandpa. And we think you're a good grandma."

Buen viaje, mi padre y madre.

Labels: FOO, goodbye, Grazdma, illness, Nels, roadtrip, tenderness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

I'm in a black mood today. Correction: I was in a black mood.

This morning as my children and I came downstairs, me with a huge pile of laundry on one hip and a wailing Nels holding my other hand, I heard the distinctive sound of my daughter vomitting on the floor. You know, you know what the sound is split seconds before you identify it? For a confused moment you're thinking, Did my child pee her pants? but you already know the answer is "No", so your mind then moves on to ... damnit. Puke.

Luckily we taught Sophtie to be a champion puker long ago so she was straightened out in no time (a quick bath, two pigtails so she could vomit unhindered). And life continued on, badly. It seemed stuffy and unwelcome in the family home - like my parents no longer want us (specifically, me) here; like we all need to get out of the house but they really don't all that much so I do (sick child and all) - a visit to the library, not so bad.

Other lowlights: trouble with Ralph. Making playdough for my children's school. This fucking sucked. My brother - saintly - helped me. It involved a lot of mess and a lot of kneading and I didn't even get anything to eat out of that. Oh, and of course my daughter puking, again and again. This afternoon as I dispassionately hold back her hair, "Yeah, that looks like your ice cream and peanut butter." She pukes in the car while waiting for drive-through coffee - "luckily" in my husband's coat.

On the other hand, this evening my husband, mom, and I watched Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan and during the naked hotel / fight scene my mom and I were laughing so hard, and for so long, it was painful.

Let's hope tomorrow continues on in that vein. Okay?

Labels: family life, film, FOO, Grazdma, hilarity, illness, Sophie

Already we are as busy here as we were in Port Townsend. Mornings my mom and I go workout at the Y while the kids cavort in "Busy Town" (the childcare facilities there). Monday, Wednesday, and Friday Sophie goes to preschool; Thursday, Nels does. Tuesday and Thursday are Sophie's swim lessons. Every night I go to bed early, exhausted (from working out and living at my parents) and annoyed because I can't really nest the way I want to. Anyway, forget I wrote that. It's a tired story. I am lucky, I repeat goddamned lucky, to have such a great family to shore us up while we try to find a place to hang our hats.


My mom and Sophie, just before church last Sunday. Sophie has a secret. Can you guess what it is? She is not wearing panties. Before she went to church, I told my mom, "Make sure she's wearing panties." Guess when my mom found out she wasn't? During church service.


For me, to chase the blues away: a little materialism goes a long way. In this case, abovementioned DC hoodie and:


A pair of Keen shoes. The shoes are not yet broken in but soon, I will wear practically nothing else. On my feet, I mean. (hoodie and shoes courtesy of zappos.com - the closest online thing to instant gratification).


Mom and I trade off cooking each night and everyone else benefits. My brother had several helpings of my Vietnamese Sticky Chicken with Spicy Peanut Sauce.


Weekends, I sometimes cook a special breakfast. (this version is made with a cardamom-challah made locally at the Farmer's Market - open year-round here).


OK, just to prove to you how weird my family is (mostly my mom and brother), they made this "dog hair sculpture" after my mom gave Tuck his cut.


Actual dog, post-haircut. I try to be nice to him. He has "issues".

Today: my father has his nasty chemo and my brother and I try to feed him milkshakes (this went very badly) and I try to keep the kids upstairs so he can sleep.

Labels: birlo, FOO, food, Grazdma, HQX, Sophie