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

I'm sitting at the kitchen table and I'm crying again. I think I have dried snot on my jeans from crying earlier today. My shirt is dusted with flour from helping Ralph cook dinner, my children are in the bath, my life is "perfect", and I'm so worn out because somehow life is also so very, very hard for me lately.

I did OK for part of the evening but actually, at about 3 PM part of me thought about drinking all my heavy-duty cough syrup (still got that cough - yay!) and slipping into a coma. Life was just too much suck, and the thing is, it was all my own fault. Let's be clear, the cough syrup fantasy was definitely coming from the not-really-going-to-do-it place (after all, I do need smaller doses of it on a nightly basis), but it was also a pretty deep, stagnant mire of suffering and despair. A few years ago I had a friend relate a similar episode in her life after watching the film Love Actually (P.S., blarf!), so I know if she's reading this she relates.

Instead of drinking cough syrup, I did another first. Depression eating. No, really, first time. I mean I've mis-eaten out of boredom or social anxiety (grabbing at pretzels when I'm at a party and don't yet know anyone), but never literally ate something as a deliberate and hopeless effort to make myself feel psychologically better. I found an appropriate instrument to do so: my husband's recently acquired stash of Cherry Garcia ice cream. Turns out that is one good fucking ice cream. While dishing up I got the most ludicrous phone scam call ever ("...calling from a business in nearby Ocean... Shores," the young man nervously mispronounces in a thick, unrecognizable accent), and in my trademark way I was deliberately polite and courteous throughout the call which itself is an excellent exercise. Putting down the phone and I really did feel better, freed up. By then it was four PM and I'd muscled through the housework (devastating amounts of laundry today) and my kids were somehow behaving and I sat down with the bowl of ice cream and a great re-read of a book. And I staved off existential despair at least until Ralph got home.

Labels: food, sorrows

Today after this-and-that chores and breakfast we went to my parent's house. While Ralph mowed their lawn I cooked custard (my dad loves it), made two loaves of egg bread, washed all my parents' bedding, and dusted the bedroom and grand piano. And we all had lunch and visited, of course. I started in on making jam out of the fresh blueberries we picked but sensed my mom was ready for me to exit her kitchen. A project to tackle tomorrow.

I felt so unbelievably satisfied when we left. It's not even that we did my parents "favors". I know my mom appreciated some of it. I don't really know what else. Sometimes I think they must like our company. But I don't even know how much they enjoy that. In fact I laugh to think I don't know, at all, what my parents care for. They are unwilling or afraid to tell me. Sometimes they tell me thank you (my mom far more than my father), but this is a language hard for my family.

It's not about them, it's about me being who I want to be, at least with the information I have.

Labels: FOO, food, gratitude

Last night we're sitting in our favorite pizza parlor. It's so nice to have Ralph home and know he's home for the weekend. I'm feeling very proud of him as he's been riding his bike to and from work every day. In the Hogaboom driveway days go by while both our cars lay fallow as my husband, children and I use public transit and our own human power to get around. It feels liberating.

Tonight in the pizza place I can't hear it, but on the television propped up by the kitchen I see an amusing commerical featuring a duck. First the duck somehow gets its bill stuck in a mail slot. Then the duck runs inside a barber shop and stands in front of a poster such that it appears to have a professionally-coiffed head of hair. Then the duck gets surprised about something and opens its bill really wide. I don't know what the commercial is about but I like it better not knowing what I'm supposed to buy, and just watching the duck.

A party of four adults toting one baby come in. The baby is about six months old, a girl, bald, and dressed only in a little red polka dot romper. No fuss, no huge carseat caddy or special sippy cup or pre-packed little baby food containers. I like that. The adults are young and boisterous - one calls the other "retard" as the shuffle the tables around. The baby turns around to look at us often as we eat. When the baby drops her toy Nels picks it up. He keeps an eye on the baby.

A couple comes in, a few years younger than my parents. He is huge, massive, wearing a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt, long silver-streaked ponytail, and full-arm tattoos. I actually feel very comfortable around men who look like this. They are usually very friendly, engaging guys. Sure enough, a few minutes later and he's making goo-goo eyes across the room at the aforementioned baby. I notice he and the infant have the same shade of large, blue-grey eyes.

The pizza, pasta, fresh coffee arrive and my family digs in.

Labels: babies, bike, bus, food, weekend

Today I dropped my daughter off at the last day of Vacation Bible School. Three years ago in one fell swoop I overcame my internal difficulties with sending my children to church functions; the decision was made easier by the fact my daughter especially loves, unreservedly, anything involving church. However I'd avoided this particular VBS installment - despite my appreciation for the free and, to my way of thinking, high-quality childcare experience - due to rumors of this church's recent decision that amount to politics (anti-gay) I personally disagree with. But yesterday a child who had spent the week in the day camp invited Sophie, and I decided to come off my principles a bit - principles which I'm also well aware had not been personally investigated with regards to this church.

At 9 AM my daughter is the picture of well-scrubbed simplicity, ponytail and dress and little tennis shoes and she asks me as far along as to seat her in the pew at which point the super-friendly, energectic grownups introduce themselves and I feel her little psyche pull its hand away from mine. I move to the back of the sanctuary for a moment. It's all smiles, people taking care of our children with the utmost care and perception of their interests and needs. Outside in our summer morning I see the playground across the street set up with games, balls, chairs, ropes. I step outside to head back home, glad for the Sophie's opportunity and mine.

I've been enjoying Nels so very much. Yesterday afternoon while Sophie went swimming with my mother, my son and I shelled peas from our garden together and just talked; mostly, about the things he wanted to (he has lots to say). Last night he set the table before ceremoniously laying out his own contribution to our dinner - clover, buttercups, and cherries from our tree. His knowledge of edible wild plants and flowers is merely a continuation of his gardening interest and abilities, which easily outstrip mine (Abbi would be proud of especially his foraging; she's a forager at heart as well). He gives me inspiration to keep growing, to keep learning.



Last night the boy and I shared a sundae at the deli and he repeatedly asked for "Barack Obama" ice cream; when pressed further, he grew more frustrated and said something that sounded like "Broccoli...". I finally realized he was trying to repeat Rocky Road, a recent addition to his food repertoire. We topped the ice cream with hot fudge and sprinkles - on his half only.

Labels: food, Nels, Sophie

(Skirt handmade that day by Jasmine!). Last night even before we got back in town from the beach our daughter had fallen asleep in the car. Nels was awake, listening to the grownups (myself, Ralph, Jasmine and Randa) talk. Then he'd say quietly, from the very back of the van, "Hey, dad?" He had an idea: he wanted to go home and put bells on our door - "with a needle" (meaning a small nail). We drove to a few lookout spots and talked. I felt pretty sick from the over-exertion of the day; or, My Lung Spot Is Acting Up as I've been saying.

By the way, in the picture above it was slightly normal when we first arrived at Copalis Beach, where we thought we'd put our chairs up and enjoy a small, quaint little fireworks celebration. After we parked things rapidly got more and more pyrotechnic, voilent, and crazed - the quintessential low damp fog of this beach combining with the spent remains of so very many, many fireworks being set off by revelers in cars, trailers, trucks, mopeds and motorcycles and including one charming (= shitty) camper with a Confederate flag prominently displayed and some jerk next to us who thought we'd all like to listen to Toby Keith, full blast, out his hatchback. Still, I like people-watching and I like relaxing into these minor circles of Hell where there's way too much activity and it's wasteful and gratuitous (the only thing that really bothers me about the 4th of July is the litter) and really viewed on the whole, kind of creepy. It's also kind of joyous and hopeless too. And the final mediating factor: my children love it, through and through, and seeing their joy forces me to be a little less uptight.

We had a few dinner guests this weekend:


Of course I've been cooking a lot, it almost goes without saying.

Labels: beach, food, holidays, Nels

Nels slept in today and woke up under a blanket in between my parents on the living room couch while we enjoyed a morning coffee date. My son's temperament was sweet made all the more hapless since he has his last day of preschool today and was sporting a black eye, cutting a rather pathetic figure.

Chores today: cleaning rat cage, dishes, making beds, cleaning bathroom, starting two loaves of sourdough for tomorrow's Stone Soup cooking at Suse's kindergarten. At lunchtime on a whim I felt hungry for sushi. Easily accomplished: I made up the rice and while it was cooling blanched carrot matchsticks, cut cucumber, battered and lightly fried tofu, and toasted and crushed macadamian nuts. Of course this all makes several rolls so I assembled a bento each for my friend Shannon and my mother.

At 3 PM while Nels was at school I picked Sophie up early so we could go to a Smithsonian traveling exhibit hosted at our own Polson Museum. The volunteer was thrilled to see museum attendance double - well, more than double as when we entered the museum went from 0 visitors to 2. It was a great exhibit and a lot of fun to attend with my daughter. She listened politely to the volunteer, asked questions, read the exhibits, and seemed to enjoy most of all racing around the model train set.

Labels: food, friends, geekery, Sophie

If you were going to go out, say, for a long night out where you go to dinner, and a movie, and get to listen to music in the car and have an uninterrupted conversation or two with a friend, I suppose there are worse things you could come home to than your son's huge, giant, enormously swollen black eye obtained from roughhousing with his father - this injury inflicted on the exact eye that had just barely recovered from a rather nasty stye. I mean really, it could be a lot worse.

In other news today I picked up seed potatoes (Russian Banana fingerlings!) and two thai pepper plants while Nels lost a pair of shoes - all at the iconic and fabulous Satsop Nursery, which looks like rundown scary buildings and then you go inside and it's a lovely jungle of beautifully-maintained plants.

Tonight with friend Amy on our date I ordered Irish Coffee and Bangers & Mash at the Galway Bay pub in Ocean Shores. And I really did not regret that decision in the slightest. Yes, that's right, sausages actually covered in gravy, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Labels: film, food, friends, Nels, Ralph

This morning finds me making soothing sounds to and careful motions around my LAZR printer in hopes it will do as it's told and print my little zine out without eating a lot of paper or making me cry with it's weird paper handling voodoo. I'm eking out copies at this point, but at least it's working.

Today I got up about two hours earlier than I usually do, at 6 AM (OK - I slept in a bit, it was more like 6:20 AM) to start making foccacia for my daughter's kindergarten class in our Thursday morning ritual. OK, yes, it's kind of a grownup recipe for little kids. But honestly, I had no groceries in the house except my breadmaking staples, some lovely roma tomatoes, and garlic. The best part will be when one little one pipes up about their hatred / fear of tomatoes (the ones I sharpened and re-sharpened my knife for and cut so carefully) and the whole class catches the bug and also start vehemently professing violent tomato antipathy. I mean those children are used to me and my food - they trust and eat whatever I make - but wee picky eaters are a contagious lot.

Tonight: helping a friend sew, crashing out early to a bad movie.

Labels: food, school, techy, zine

Yesterday evening I biked about 8 miles total - hauling both kids, two huge coffee carafes, cream and coffee cups for two dozen people, my Secretary's binder - and a chicken barley casserole - to my son's preschool for our Open House. Now as one of the school hostesses I'd like to see myself this way: hair impeccably coiffed, one foot extended in a classy patent leather pump, sweater seat or classy dressy frock, and I'm smiling and saying gracious stuff (something like her). Instead it's me loudly cackling and probably saying the word "cock" to my friend Shannon (who also biked with me, and is also loud) and I'm sporting really filthy hippie pigtails, sweat rings*, red face, and leaking barley juice that was at least fragrant (the casserole turned out beautifully) while my children tumble into the school breakneck speed and I'm pretty sure Nels was, as usual, fully cross-dressed.

At the end of the event - four Board members, so much coffee, so much effort and organization - we'd managed to entertain and enjoy the one family that did attend. I looked at Shannon (our President for next year) and said, "We nailed it!" and we cackled some more. In all fairness I do think the family that came to the Open House will be enrolling both their small children. And my family and I had a great time and a great bike ride.

Today Ralph and I met with a school administrator to discuss next year's plan to homeschool Sophie. It was a great meeting and we were assured that the school supports our involvement in any school programs Sophie would like to attend. But I was left with that distinct feeling of - for lack of a better word - company-speak. I found myself wanting to know more from this administrator; more about how someone privy to the school system felt about our WASL, about homeschooling; perhaps some candid talk about the troubles and triumphs of the system. As it is I am still dumb as a post to any political or backroom knowledge. Still, it was nice to meet and discuss; and it was very nice to know the door is completely open to us.

I felt so silly the rest of my day. I've been busy lately but not too busy to avoid a general contentment in my life. Is it true all I want to do is cook**, visit with friends, garden, hang out with my kids, bike, and clean my house? And if it's true that's "all I want to do" - isn't that just a form of living, and a pretty good one? How did I luck into having my life this way (for now)? Why do I feel so odd being - again, for lack of a better word - fulfilled, by such mundane stuff?

* I couldn't find anything on Google image search sweaty and gross enough, sorry.

** Today I made Cypress Easter Bread, sourdough rye from my own starter (pwnage!), and Rustic Baked Beef Stew.

Labels: bike, food, food geekery, homesteading, Nels, school

Every Thursday since school's inception I've assisted in my daughter's classroom twice a week - Mondays for art or math exercises, and Thursdays by bringing a homemade snack. I've come to love this part of my week, especially my Thursdays. I know every single child there and would truly love to take each home. They seem to love me too - not in the "novelty of a stranger bringing food" but in the trusted, I'm-a-part-of-their-world way - because I've been there consistently for them.

I have to say, at first my volunteering felt like something I should do to be involved with my children. But now nothing could take away my gratitude and gladness I've been volunteering my time. Not because I gave yet more to my children, and not even because I gave to other children. But because being involved with children has given a lot to me. I see things through their eyes, with their loyalties and caprice, with their delight and short attention span. It matters so little if they like what I cook for them (they almost invariably do), so over the last months I've learned not to worry about that. What has come to mean a great deal to me is to learn to serve and let go out outcome, to listen to each child as I pass out their food at their places at the table. Most say, "Thank you," many say, "What is this?" in frenzied excitement (today's offering was a last-minute recipe discovery). Usually as I'm slicing fresh pita open or parsing out carrot sticks one of the children will come and wrap their arms around me, laying their head against me, or tell me, "I always like what you bring!" with a shining smile. It's an amazing gift, that kind of unselfconscious display of affection. I put myself in the way of that affection by accident but I find myself so pleased to have it. By merely being there for the kids I know we will each be indelibly etched in one another's memories for as long as we live, even as a tiny thread of early childhood that brings simple comfort and joy.

Later today involves that kind of evening routine I don't look forward to: a series of meetings. First, the Afterschool Program with the kids at Central School. Following that, a Garden meeting and then a sewing date. I don't like to do things at night. I want to be home, cooking dinner, hanging out with the family. Nothing expected of me but food on the table. Each and every activity is worth it's while and I am willing and able to assist. Just sometimes I don't know how I'll get up a head of steam for my responsibilities.

Labels: food, school

Today is my father's sixty-fifth birthday. I remember last year wondering if we'd reached his terminal age. Today he tells me his own father died at sixty-six (also cancer) and he thinks it will be a "challenge" to outlast.

Unfortunately I just couldn't bring myself to have dinner with them tonight. Instead I had breakfast with my parents and catered out a lemon meringue pie - a pie I'd attempted to make myself this morning with disastrous results, disastrous as in my entire kitchen covered in various sugar and cornstarch cements. Bleh.

Today had its good points: I'm still alive, I still have my family, and we're all healthy. A friend took Nels to school today, thereby freeing me from an across-town errand. I met with three other individuals committed to this year's Community Garden - what a bright spot in the day! And in boiling tonight's bagels (all of which turned out perfectly) I looked out the window to see my husband and son gleefully having a flower fight, probably the only thing I smiled about today right down to my heart.

Labels: birthday, food, Nels, Ralph, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Four years ago today despite the onset of faint contractions I'd taken a lovely, deep nap in the sunlight of my living room, waking as peacefully as I ever had. Deep in my bones this brief sleep felt like a ritual, a final act as mother to one child - before embarking on the New Adventure. I've heard it said any time you add a child to the family it's as momentous as the first child's addition. I knew this to be true that afternoon and time has not proven me wrong.

The family we dined with the afternoon I went into labor with Nels just left this morning - my friend Abbi and her two daughters who decided impulsively to take a trip and ended up staying three days and two nights (yay!). We spent a very active and rather foodie weekend cooking, playing, visiting the sights (including the farmer's market, our fruit and veggie stand, the carniceria, our Salvadorian restaurant, and a local creamery), swimming, recovering (by napping - which saved my body and mind), cooking some more (raw milk cheese! strawberry rhubarb pie! roasted jalapenos!), and sharing gardening hopes, seeds, and starts (the Hogaclan being by far the primary beneficiary on the starts).



About thirty minutes after our guests leave we find ourselves at my parents', serving up the pie I'd made the night before. My daughter suddenly exclaims in proud surprise, "I lost my tooth!" and reveals to us a bloody gap. A small flurry of excitement; my mother and grandfather in tears as they say to one another, "I wish Jean [my grandmother] were here." Sophie's sweet voice develops a slight lisp; now in talking her full upper lip catches a bit on the void her upper tooth left behind. She tells me later with cool confidence, "It fell into my sleeve."

This evening I knead the dough for treat I'm bringing Nels' class tomorrow (his birthday as well as his last day before moving up to the older class which he repeatedly points out, "Is full of new girls!") while he sits at the table, licking the mixer paddles. I am tired but breadmaking is one of my favorite things to do. "This dough is so nice..." I tell my husband, pleased at the soft, springy, smoothness that warm milk, egg, and butter affords (this particular confection contains chocolate and brown sugar, too!) and Nels adds, "Uh-huh!" enthusiastically, busy wiping his fingers and nodding. I lean in and kiss him for being who he is, my golden child who shares my love of cooking (ingredients he's chosen for us over the last week: cauliflower, cantelope, and a special red sea salt) and is forever coming up with the most imaginative games (tonight he was a pie bird and required I pantomime the preparation of a pie using his body).

The rest of the family enjoys the fireside and the warmth, contentment at the end of our Spring Break.

Labels: babies, birthday, food, friends, milestones, Nels, Sophie

By 9 AM, done: made beds, fed kids, got two chocolate pound cakes in the oven, messed up the kitchen.

To do: groceries, library, make a big dinner for company, maybe get some topsoil.

Labels: food, weekend

Today I felt defeated by the end of the day. Really, I'd had successes and I'd had good times but somehow around 4:30 I deflated with a big, listless pfffffthbh.

Maybe it was that I'd left my bike guy with the go-ahead to drill holes and install a piece of wood to part of my new bike work. I dunno, that took the starch out of me a bit; but it had to be done.


The Bike Shop has some excellent systems for running smoothly. Here's the thing, it's so incredibly cluttered and crazy yet Terry will never lose even your tiniest set screw (although it might take him a minute to find it).


Sophie makes do in the Lariat while we wait for our keys to be re-delivered to us. It has been so very, very cold - alternating between sunny, sleet, rain and wind.

Highlights of the day:

Cleaning up my sewing room (yay!) but even more meaningful, once again moving my tomato starts to an even sunnier spot and making a hallowed little place for them (tonight my mom asked if I'd named each one). I think growing green things might keep me cheerful this spring.

Driving next to Nels and listening to our latest download (Alicia Keys' "As I Am") while he puts his arms around me and sings to me.

Getting a coupon for free bread at the Franz outlet - what a creepy yet almost wondrous place that is! Nels got a "Cookie Credit Card", an ingenious marketing ploy to inspire children to pester overworked parents to stop in for mass-produced refined grains.

Making dinner, despite being so tired I didn't want to.

Having dinner with the kids; simple fare (homemade pizza dough with layered cheese; roasted brussel sprouts, sauteed tomatoes and squash) but so nice to see their joy in eating and pouring their own beverages from their little pitcher of water.

My husband trying to take care of me. He doesn't always know how much I appreciate this.

Labels: bike, food, gratitude, Mama's crazy, Nels, Ralph, Sophie, sorrows, weather

Tonight we have guests for dinner. I'm making a bunch of Mexican food including camarones, a defiant seafood purchase (Ralph hates anything that flops around in the ocean - except, oddly, tuna sandwiches - the more ghetto the better).

Yesterday I biked a little over nine miles with the kids - and groceries. My trip got heavier and heavier, and windier and windier (the rain was pretty much a constant). Plus there were these bright ideas I had at the middle Swansons of picking up - on a whim - self-rising flour, buttermilk, and tinned goods - thereby adding massive amounts to my payload.



I had a dream last night my Xtracycle was up and running. It was almost pornographic.

Labels: bike, food

My daughter's kindergarten homework gives evidence of something I used to do myself: intellectually twiddle my thumbs by embellishing schoolwork easily mastered. Examples: having filled out a grid with numbers one through one hundred, Sophie will go back and embellish each void space within the numerals 6, 8, 9 and 0; she will write notes in the margins or put flourishes in her name. Even on an occasion last week she corrected an error in the homework itself. Volunteering in her classroom I have not seen any other child do this to the extent she does.

However her intellectual prowess, such as it is, does not manifest in boredom or ennui in a way that is easily detected or even harmful. In fact she is cheerful enough to go to school and fine sitting on the carpet being not-challenged by the academic exercises. She enjoys her social time and navigates confidently. She has learned bullying behaviors and how to be an Alpha Female; that is, rude to some of her other classmates although quick to say "sorry" and respect her teacher's authority. She seems to like all subjects. Last Friday while getting ready she said, "I have P.E. today," then paused... "so I need some sweats." As if kindergarten physical education needs to be geared for.

Still, today I notice that her abbreviated day at school (8:30 to 11:15 AM, cut short for conferences) seems to result in her being less keyed-up and more receptive to the remainder of the day's activities: visiting the bike shop (a new kickstand and - ding! ding! ding! - my xtracycle parts are in!), having lunch in a cafe with my mom and a friend, stopping at the library, and finally, returning home to start our dinner with Nels and I (he is always willing and able to be a great help in the kitchen). This latter exercise was the most fun for me. All three of us took our knives to trimming green beans and carrots and did the dishes together afterwards. That done we retired to my bed to each of us to read silently for a while which in turn made me too sleepy to do much of anything else until Ralph returned home and I biked the four or so miles to this evening's preschool Board meeting.

It's only spring, and the beginning of spring at that, but already I long for the long days of summer with my children in my house and out of doors.

Labels: books, food, Nels, school, Sophie

Today the children and I took the day off to take a trip to Elma on the bike and transit. Graced with four fresh tamales my mom picked up from our local market I first biked to the bank (I'm ashamed to admit I was really irritable when told I could not use the drive-through bank teller at my bank - two clerks were sitting there and no cars were in sight, not to mention I had two children buckled in the bike trailer) then sorted us out at the station for a two-bus trip.

I didn't mind the free occasional bad language or methadone / heroin / prison talk (I heard all of this on both trips between Elma and Aberdeen) although I was shocked and disgusted to hear a woman behind me, in response to discussing a court date, call an area judge a "faggot". I just forget the ugliness some people openly display (I guess I'm more used to those who hide it inside).

My children charmed many on our trip both in shops and on transit. Nels complimented a woman on her hair, eyes, and earrings in such a way several people laughed and the lady herself blushed. Lots of beautiful people who've lived hard, aged early, and have bad teeth. But somehow more vital, because they live so much of their life in public systems and don't hide their light, such as it is, under a bushel.

Total miles not driven today: about 55, or $6.20 in gas (I spent $1 on bus fare roundtrip). This theoretical $6.20 more than paid for the two necklaces the kids had custom made at Unique Beads, a cute little Hawaiian print dress marked down to 50 cents at a new consignment shop (day three of their opening), and three kid-sized ice cream cones at a local coffee shop after our home-packed lunch.

So yeah - I like shopping, as it turns out. It's nice when it's all day, a family experience, and costs next to nothing.

Labels: bike, bus, consumerism, food, Nels

This weekend found us at my family's cabin* up near Shelton:


It was beautiful, cold and clear at Mason Lake (note: "Little Hoquiam" where my great-grandfather settled with friends!) for all three days.


My knitting + rustic decor. I also sewed Suse a pair of pants with a cute, but horrible-to-work-with, polyester woven I bought years ago.


A state of such permanency the label my grandmother made lives on and on. There's also a box marked, "Whiskers Nails & Armpits" (for razors, fingernail clippers, and deodorant, natch).


"Let's go to town, kids!" On Sunday we hit Olympia in part to take Ralph's guitar to Music 6000 for an expert opinion. At the Blue Heron Bakery we had a picnic of our own home-made sandwiches followed by cookies, coffee and tea from the shop. Let me tell you something: in my entire coffee-drinking career I have never taken a coffee back for being too bitter, but I had to in the case of the Heron's americano. I asked the barista if there was a mistake or ...? After coyly pouring a bit into his own wee cup the be-mustached, fey young man replied, "Yeah, that's pretty much what our espresso tastes like." Feeling like a puss, I switched out for a drip coffee which smelled faintly like hippie feet (I am not kidding nor exaggerating) but tasted fine enough. The cookies were great and the Garlic Kalamata Sourdough loaf was divine.


Sadly, during our lunch someone joked about eating the "top cookie" (that is, the cookie in the top of a package of five identical cookies) and the teasing was taken quite seriously by my son before we could convince him that yes, the "top cookie" was reserved for him.

As for the sweater: this is the least feminine thing Nels wears these days. His sister's a good sport, sharing her clothes with him.

Last weekend, my school friend Jodi visited along with her husband Doug and their children Cyan and India:


Sophie sat in the stroller and chronicled our gray stroll - down the highway and to a greasy spoon for soft-serve ice cream. Nothing but the best for our treasured guests!


Did I mention we in Hoquiam are sinking into the earth? Now I know why, growing up, people who met me out in the world would ask if I had webbed feet.


This was actually quite brilliant: the four children found a Connect Four game at the local coffee shop / popcorn factory and immediately began playing the game differently than intended. Without any noticeable communication (although children this age together can develop a monkey-language of their own) they'd fill up the board with alternating colors for each vertical row. Sophie, Cyan and Nels instinctively worked together at a high rate of speed while India (the youngest at 2) just did what the hell she wanted and the older children would either firmly grasp and re-direct her paw or, if she succeeded in dropping a color out of sequence, quickly retrieve the offending gamepiece and secure it. After a while the chore of catch-India-before-she-fucks-it-up got old and Cyan and Sophie started broadly hinting that maybe "someone" shouldn't play anymore.

* Built by my great-grandfather back in the day; shared by hordes of extended family now.

Labels: coffee, food, friends, knitting, Nels, Sophie, vacation, weather

This afternoon I'm sitting in Casa Mia with my husband and son drinking coffee and watching, out of the corner of my eye, back-to-back episodes of "Cops" from the television that faces the restaurant kitchen. Onscreen an anemic blonde's shiny, anxious face crumples into ruin as officials pull two small baggies of a plant from under her seat. Her boyfriend sits against a concrete wall, grim and silent, while she is handcuffed and put in a patrol car. Both of their faces are as spare as knife blades, homely with anxiety and a life used to disappointments, setbacks, and drama. I feel so odd seeing this onscreen. We don't have television in our home; getting glimpses of it is a foreign experience.

Today I've had several birthday wishes and songs,* a lovely bouquet from my friend Shannon, and numerous sweet emails and IMs. A morning mocha from my mother and - best of all - Ralph took a full day off to be with me. In the "Gets Your Teary-Eyed Thing Going" category, my daughter ratted my birthday out to her class and after my volunteer time the teacher led them all in singing to me. I love those children dearly.

I also just printed out the finished copy of January / February's Sure Nail & Fire, mailed out issues to subscription-takers, and got our Valentine's out (two separate swaps). Oh, and I've officially decided to homeschool my kids, and been rather busy with that concept as well.



Busy busy.

* I even find the ones from my online community-bots to be oddly comforting.

Labels: birthday, family life, food, SNF

It's just before six and I'm kneading dough for pita while my son helps clean the dough bowl. This is the third meal from scratch I've made today and normally this is doable but today, it's not. And yesterday, Saturday, stretches out behind me of a day of cooking and having just a few dollars for groceries. The lack of money is only a problem in that I'm forced to be more creative, but I'm just tired in some elemental way that makes me exhausted tenfold to think on what to feed the family. And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow I get to get up and do it again, amen.

This weekend I didn't get things done I wanted to: printing out my finished zine, making more headway on my brother's coat I'm sewing (I'm currently angry about some bound pockets that didn't quite work), enjoying the family, relaxing. We did do a lot of chores and Ralph's loft bed is finished and painted with the kids' room all set up for them and I freeycled two things and got a buyer for Sophie's old bed frame. But no amount of "getting done" helps me now because with my hands on the dough at the table it just seems all I do is cook and clean and clean the refrigerator and work for other people and when I take time to myself I'm too tired to do anything worthwhile. It's a horrible feeling. It's no one's fault. It feels like being first trimester pregnant again. Wretched and uninspired.

At least today I got to tell my mother, remember that part in that Ya Ya Sisterhood book (we both read it) where the mom goes crazy and just leaves her family for month? I keep telling them I'm going to do it but they don't realize I mean it. I think because to the outside world and to them it looks like I'm functioning the same, functioning well. My mom told me to take a job. I'm not sure that will help; I'm not sure what will help, really. And I don't want help; I want to learn how to take care of myself so I can take care of my Others. And I want to be able to tell people I might be needing a Crazy Person Vacation, even if it doesn't end up happening quite that way.

"Are you OK?" Yes, I'm OK. Just not every minute of every day.

Labels: burnout, food, homesteading, Mama's crazy, sewing

Yesterday, annoyed that taking rest the week before had not resulted in a complete recovery, I simply didn't rest. And perhaps in karmic bodily retribution, last night I had the worst case of stuffed-up head I'd ever had. I felt like I'd been hit in the face with a big, blunt object - without the pain, but with all the swollen pressure. A shot-glass of the blue-green heavy duty called Nyquil provided means to sleep through the congestion. Waking up after mouth-breathing all night: priceless.

Today about thirty minutes before school's close I get a call that my daughter is sick; her ear hurts. She'd mentioned this in the morning but had not felt hot nor looked feverish so I'd sent her off. I help Nels into layer upon layer and we go pick up his sister. Home again I begin an afternoon meal of soup (garlic sauteed in coconut oil, broth, pasta, cayenne, lemon, egg), salted cucumber, and sliced blood oranges while my daughter falls asleep in front of the fire, an exhausted pile of empty-looking clothes.

Ralph too is sick but did not stay home from his day trip to Olympia. Only Nels and Harris remain cheerful and virile, my son quickly scuttling under the kitchen table when I catch him, barechested and eating directly from the sugar tin. I place a small table for him in my bedroom so we can watch a movie with monsters together and wait for the man of the house to return.

Labels: food, illness, Ralph, roadtrip, school, Sophie

Tonight I walked the kids to my mom's to have dinner. She was in a muddle of what her current state often is: stress / drinking to relax or relieve stress / over-giving / enjoying herself. The part that was enjoying herself was the part that invited us for dinner, made a lovely stew, and had rented some family movies. The part that was over-giving was the part that tried to make the stew "perfect" for us then (and this was the part that was stressed and used drink to manage it so inhibitions were dropped but not the underlying stress) used an angry tone on my children for preferring their cornbread and eating it first. My dad took some special medicine and seemed to be feeling better than he had over the last few days (something tipped this week and he has now become someone "dying", no longer someone coping with illness. I'd like to feel differently on that one if I could) but this meant he retreated for our viewing of Harry Potter and I didn't get to see him much. It was a nice dinner and I really did enormously appreciate the night out and the homecooked meal. But I can't get away from the the strain and bad feelings that my life's dinnerplate seems to hold when I look down at what I'm eating.

I'm getting that really paranoid, really perfectionist sense of angst. If anything goes wrong I am a wreck (internal, so as not to inconvenience anyone). Sometimes I get a vision of who I might be when age and senility set in. And it feels small, like tiny wheels turning in my head, mucked up and in semi-darkness and doubt, unsure of myself unless someone tells me they love me or not just that they love me, but they promise not to be mean to me. Today I missed two appointments I had. One I was able to recover OK; the other I just completely missed. This is rare for me. And when I screw up like that on a commitment I make to others, or something I told myself I'd do, or whatever, I really just hate myself and it eats away at me for an indeterminate amount of time.

I don't think but two or three people close to me realize what a perfectionist I am. I laugh at the term "perfectionist" a bit because no one who knows me would think my life looked perfect. Yet that drive, that insatiable unsettledness, has a strong a grip on every aspect of my waking hours. I hold myself to ridiculous standards and then feel bad, like pit-of-the-stomach bad, when I inevitably screw up. I have to have a clean house or if I don't, a plan to get it clean. I can't relax until housework is taken care of; then I'd better relax correctly. I hate myself if I have something to drink, or if my husband and I aren't getting along for the evening, or if somehow during the day I was amiss in my parenting. I have to take care of my kids properly which means clothing and grooming and brushing and flossing and if they miss a night of this I have to demand my husband help but if he doesn't do it I feel like a failure that we don't provide this to them. I have to meet my commitments on the three volunteer leadership positions I'm in. If I don't meet them I feel I can't get over it or make amends to those I might have (usually only minorly) inconvenienced. No, for me if I mess up, it means people hate me and they have a right to hate me. It takes me a lot of internal thought and sometimes discussion with a friend (Ralph, my mom, or Cyn mostly) to "talk me down" from the ledge of I-Suck.

For a half year I wouldn't allow myself to buy the family clothes but had to scrump, sew or thrift them. This was a fun and interesting project, sure - but it also became a burden at some point. I hold myself to the standard of preparing nutritious meals without taking culinary shortcuts. I feel bad if I buy anything "extravagant" or even buy anything without having it on a list first - or else I eschew cooking altogether and go out to eat (which, for some reason, feels like a tremendous ease on my daily cooking burdens). I choose to, for God's sake, plan, write, edit, layout, and design for a zine which I then have to publish on our shoestring budget. I have to balance my marriage such that I support my husband and manage my own needs without asking for his emotional help when I'm fragile - which I am all the time these days, whether it's apparent to others or not.

Some reading here may think these confessions mean I'm a miserable person all the time. That is precisely the problem; I'm not miserable, I love doing so many of these things. Every effort of mine is born of love and energy. I thrive on creativity, on learning now to do things well, on pushing myself just a little bit because it seems like I can. I do sometimes congratulate myself on the fact that I can "coast" as a housemom on some days and do well at providing for my loved ones. I love every single thing I write, or sew, or every meal I cook or the way my counter looks when I wipe it down. It is precisely the dual love-hate of the work vs. the drive to do the work right, every time, that makes for tricky terrain.

Perfectionism, as far as I can tell, has no easy cure. It isn't a matter of, "Why don't you do less?"* That question is like asking, "Why don't you stop having the Kelly-brain?" or, "Have you thought about leaving your tits at home before you go out in the day?" It's a non-sequitur. It doesn't follow. My struggle with perfectionism could probably only be helped by - no offense to any reader who thought I was more hip in some way - prayer and discourse with God. My struggle with perfectionism was manageable in PT. It has become at least trebly difficult since moving here. I have my ideas of why this would be; for now it's enough to recognize it's happening.

One thing, the walk with the kids over to my parents' was nice. I'd prepared us for the cold - coats, hats, gloves and good shoes - but the rain started falling intensely and there was nothing to save us from the wet of eight blocks. How to explain a Pacific Northwest winter rain? It is not violent at all but rather like a cold spell that covers us, the air filling with rain that is safe, nourishing, life-giving. You expect rain so you don't begrudge it except a few weak moments, here and there, in the five solidly soaking months we get per year. You get home and strip off your clothes and put some in the dryer and towel your hair (we don't generally use umbrellas here) and fix coffee and look outside at our beautiful weather. Tonight I watch my children on the walk. Sophie walks self-protectively. She puts her hat on firmly and zips her coat and steps carefully but purposefully. Nels just barges out into the elements, sure that he will be fine. I start to know he's cold and wet when his hand creeps into mine and he falls silent. The children act as if they were born for this weather.

* If any well-meaning friend writes or says, "You should relax your housekeeping standards," or "Why don't you give up such-and-such?" I will deliver a cock-punch via Airmail.

Labels: film, FOO, food, homesteading, Mama's crazy, nerves, on foot, walking

Now seems as good a time as any to reveal that for ten months now I have been really, really timid regarding writing about my new life here - and by my "new life" I specifically mean my friends and peers. I find that I just don't want to write about school (which takes up a lot of my time and thought) and upset my kids' teacher(s), or offend a schoolmate's parents, or write about my friends and upset the three ladies who have taken me under their wing since we moved (I know they don't think of it that way as everyone seems to think of me as an Alpha Bitch who needs no help nor coddling). Yes, surely, I am being paranoid: none of these people read my blog so let it fly, eh? But in fact I have learned over the last four years that I really don't know who's reading the blog, sometimes not until I get an email either offended (once) or, more likely, having followed me for a couple years and heretofore remaining silent.

Today is the day that I throw off caution and decide to just be me and quit writing about the safer subjects of my father's illness, or cuddling the kids, or whatever, and write about who I see during the day and what I do. Yeah, HQX is a small town; but so was PT. Yeah, I don't have enough friends to spare but I'm willing to work my ass off to keep them. Yeah, I'm not really "established" here but c'mon - when am I going to feel like I am, anyway?

Oh and in case you thought the last couple paragraphs were preludes to some great dirt: they weren't. I'm just officially acknowledging yes, I've been letting you down, dear reader. And as of today I'm going to grow a pair and write on.

Last night I was joined by eight local ladyfriends for a gift exchange and holiday party. I had a great time and I was honored to host. Because it was a group of women, we had plenty of food and a comical amount of beer stacked in my kitchen (I think a few guests left with more booze than they brought). Because it was me, the food was overly coordinated and excellent (I ate one hundred thousand servings of Jasmine's asparagus appetizer) and included an Aztec sherry cake - both delicious and hilarious. Because it was a group that doesn't see one another all that often, we only got about twenty minutes into the 80s movie before we stopped due to a lack of interest (not me! But I'm a dork like that). With the exception of two gals, I'd known all of them for 20 or so years. Isn't that just incredible? I felt so fortunate to have my girlhood friends, and my own mom - dressed like a rockstar BTW - all under my roof to share our lives together. And no, Ralph, we did not strip down to panties and have a pillow fight, although I hope you're envisioning that with my mom and all.

After a night staying over at my parents' (I joined my family there after my last guest left) my family returned home and centered our schedule around wrapping presents for our 4 PM delivery to our adopted Christmas gift family (pictures and details pending post-holiday). Dinner tonight was at Shannon's with her lovely family of five and after a lovely homecooked meal we stayed until 10 PM. It's like last night kicked off the final couple days until Christmas. Tomorrow morning: no school for the kids. Sleep-in for three of us as Ralph heads in to one day of work before the Big Night.

I am not as ready as Bonesaw, but I am pretty ready for Christmas. How 'bout you?

Labels: film, food, friends, holidays, HQX, party animal

Just ten seconds ago I was reminded of a parenting "tip" I'd heard years ago which goes as follows: your kid asks for a giant ice cream cone or to go on the merry go round or whatever you don't want them to have at the moment so you say, "Yes, after dinner," or "Yes, the next time we come to the park!" So goes the wisdom: that way "your child sees you are saying 'yes' to them but you get to set the limit."

Hey guess what, this is total bullshit. Because about 0.3 seconds into your deferment even the least bright youngster realizes you are saying "no" to what they want - which is to eat the ice cream or whatever immediately. I was reminded of this stridently just now when my daughter approached me with last night's Christmas Concert DIY decorated cookie (there were concerns that last year's guest Santa had provided empty calorie candy so, um, this year there was a cookie underneath the candy? I dunno) and I said, "yes, after dinner" with predictable results.

At 6 PM tonight the children and I are off to a church to wrap presents - for other children in the area. We'll see how well they handle it.

Labels: food, holidays

I'm working up a new recipe.* Listening to Dean Martin's "Forever Cool". You know, he has me at Track 01 ("Ain't That A Kick In The Head"). Damn, that man packed some sex appeal in his crooning.

Tonight Cyn sends me a link. I kind of laughed, then I started looking around. And it turns out this is the loneliest, and I mean the loneliest thing I have ever seen. More lonely than the geekiest D&D nerds with their 12-sided die, drinking Mountain Dew all night. More lonely than that dog turd half-squished on the lawn. More lonely than the stale half-donut in the bottom of the box after the Insurance Benefit Primer Workshop at a Community College.

* ETA: we had it for dinner; 'twas amazing!

Labels: food, friends, geekery, inter-tron, music

Today besides the normal drill of fixing breakfast and lunch and getting the kids read for school I cooked a mini-Thanksgiving "feast" of roast turkey, mashed potatoes w/butter, and carrot sticks for Sophie's kindergarten class - fresh out of the shower at 12:40 throwing potatoes in boiling water for a lunch date at 1 PM (yes, I made it and on time too), deep-cleaned the bathroom, entertained my father during a surprise coffee visit (our conversation actually took many turns for the personal depths, much to my surprise), took the kids to the Sweet Shoppe and picked up some catered bread pudding while there (the only item on the T-day menu I'm not making), took the kids to the Y and worked out, and cut out two dresses and two skirts to sew for Sophie. At my parents' tonight I realized I couldn't sew at home; my children / the kitten - someone - had got ahold of my bobbin helmet, a part I truly do need in order to sew. On hearing this my husband offered to haul my Singer 201 down the narrow stairs, put it in the van and drive it to our house to set up; the machine itself weighs 25 lbs. and is in a giant cabinet that isn't easy to carry even over level ground. I opted instead to come home and tear the house apart for the missing piece to my 15-91. *

Here's another reason I like being married to Ralph; tonight at 9 PM when I said, "Oh, you should go rent Roadhouse since the video stores won't be open tomorrow," and he said "Fuckin' A'!", grabbed our son, and left to go do it. So. There are so many, many people who would not have had that response.

Through a misplaced Tweet I found Devil's Night Radio and I'm loving it. Tonight I heard Nick Cave's "Stagger Lee" which I haven't listened to in nine years on account of how much it offended Ralph when I played it in my car.

Oh, and I found out that after working out and not drinking alchool for a little over a week I have dropped six pounds. People, just so you know, this is officially the first time in my life I've ever done anything approximating "dieting". I'm glad to have lost weight but I'm even more amazed at how good I feel.

So yeah. Things are going great around these parts.

* ETA - that was fast. I published my post, walked into the living room, moved one couch and immediately found the little metal part. Good times.

Labels: film, food, holidays, music, Ralph, school, sewing, swayze, the bod

Today I went to my parents' house as soon as I was done dropping off kids and fetching groceries. They were just back from the oncologist's. They'd heard a number. The number represents the amount of time this doctor thinks my father would have if they "did nothing" in terms of medication or treatment. It wasn't a very big number.

My parents and I sat at the kitchen table and talked about our options, our choices, the time we have left, all the medicine and treatments and our future plans. It was a good conversation; there was a lot of laughing, actually (my father's insistence on a coffee-can ash receptacle inspiring recitations of scenes from The Big Lebowski). I felt a lot of hope. It's also sad, and it just stays sad. It doesn't suddenly one day get poetic or easy or anything.

In the afternoon after Sophie's first-ever school conference (high marks, natch!) we went back to my parents' where the children played and snacked while my mom and I baked up a huge amount of pumpkin pies - 24 miniature ones, and one large one - for Sophie's school tomorrow. As soon as the pies were done we went to a house my mom is interested in buying (a downgrade from the large family house they are currently in). The house itself was a 1916 little cottage in a ghetto / river / industrial corner of town. The yard was amazing and even more so was the owner who'd built the garden - a jack-of-all-trades, an entrepreneur with glass-blue eyes and painter jeans, gesturing excitedly with his cigarette while talking to my father about solar power. He and his partner had formed the most amazing, beautiful garden I'd seen - orchards of cherry, fig, kiwi, pear, apple - bushes of beans and peas and carrots, potatoes, fennel, tomatillos, garlic - I mean literally almost anything you could think to grow. It was a really interesting part of our day. It was really lovely.

Labels: food, gratitude, illness, newness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Most everyone I know bitches about expenses or claims they "can't afford" this or that - often baldly and in the face of evidence otherwise. Some I know look at other people's seemingly more extravagent choices and vociferously point out just how easy said others must have it because, you know, they themselves are just struggling to make it. Recently a friend with a family transport easily twice as expensive as mine readily pointed out that others in her peer group have vehicles newer, better, more status-y. And I feel confident those she speaks of with the high-dollar brand new SUVs can wave their arms at "proof" they themselves don't have it as easy as so-and-so, or that their car is their only extravagance on an otherwise "tight budget" (actually, I know a few of those moms myself). All of which leaves me and my assy Astrovan that's half paid off and feeling a bit threadbare wondering if there's anyone I can relate to at all besides my own husband.

Twice every month when it gets toward the end of the pay period our finances get tight. For me this means a lot of creative thinking about groceries. It means time at home baking bread and going for walks with the children instead of taking the kids to errands where I send something off in the mail, or go buy lightbulbs for the house. It means not going to the HDA function my mother bought me a ticket for tonight, as I'd originally planned to - because I don't have something appropriate to wear. I mean I have one evening dress that almost fits, but no shoes, no hose, no nice coat, and not even a bra that doesn't show and show with popped elastic in the band at that (my mom gifted the auction a heretofore unknown Elton Bennett painting, given to my grandparents on their marriage. The painting is kind of a big deal and she anticipates being interviewed so she has been buying up makeup and getting her hair done and dry cleaning her dress and in short gussying up for the event - I call her preparations "going to Whore Island"). This morning I tried to make it happen. I walked into an apparel boutique and saw lots of beautiful things. Then I thought, "I can't get any of these and know where my food budget is going to come from for the next week." I left; I wrote my mom a (not-covered) check for the ticket price and asked her to take my father if he'd go (he won't)*.

Twice a month things get tight. It means when I'm supposed to run off 50 copies of a letter for my child's preschool (I'm the board secretary) I find myself not able to buy the envelopes, do the printing and postage, and get reimbursed later, whenever. Oh, I guess I could do that - except my larder has no cooking oil, we are out of milk, behind on preschool tuition, late on at least one car payment, can barely make rent, haven't even touched the debt we owe my parents for their rescue of our family car, and Ralph has needed a haircut for months (yes, I've offered him a DIMY). I hope that last sentence at least can illuminate why I'd walk into a clothes shop and just know I couldn't do it.

I'm not complaining. I'm just explaining what my reality is. I don't think of the Hogaclan as "poor" because we still have freedom in our lives. We have made deliberate choices and they are hard ones. I read a phrase the other day in the paper: "kid poor". The author of the letter meant that all the money in the family went to the kids - their care and feeding, mostly. When I read that I knew it was true for Ralph and I. For instance, and largest in our way of thinking, we have an entire lack of a second income. This is not because I don't want to work or couldn't find work. This is because of what we want in our family life. We spend our money on the children. We put our kids in a co-op preschool because we wanted a good experience for them and believe in these programs for the betterment of our community. Ralph and I may be out of clothes (he has two pair of boxers and yes, they are washed carefully and regularly) but our children always have coats and raincoats and good shoes because we make it a priority. Food. Food is a huge issue for us. We may have $10 to last