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

My son is brave, impulsive, good-natured, loving, willful, his energy ramped to 100% for every minute he's awake. I guess in reading the above list I'm a lot like him. A few episodes in our last twenty four hours:

Yesterday I am forced to truncate his dessert in a diner and take him out to the car. He's angry, yelling. I'm gentle but firm. As I straighten from placing him in the carseat and swing the door shut he looks at me with angry tears in his eyes and yells, "Everything out of your mouth is CRAP!" Of course I'm dying laughing, internally, but it's not really funny to talk to someone that way, and it's definitely not okay to laugh at someone when they're angry. The door shutting allows me to keep my smile to myself. When I come back to the car with my purse, coat, other child, etc. Nels is wretched, his face tear-stained. "I'm sorry I said what you said was crap," he mourns. I say, "Thank you for the apology Nels," and reach a hand back to him. He and I forgive one another a hundred percent and move on.

This morning he takes me on a tour of the garden. He shows me the new cucumber, the one bean on the bush (he can spy the very first new growth of anything). He remembers, in our unsorted and untidy yard, where things were planted. "I planted an apple there," he tells me. "The love-in-a-mist is blooming. Look what happened to the snapdragons!" "The tomatoes are having Good Times." (yes, he actually said this). "Sweet peas, calendula..." (both blooming fresh). "The amaranth, and..." he trails off, pointing. "Nicotiana," I remind him (a real success story - so far - as they've come back from near-death via slug).

This evening we play a game I play with my children (one he enjoys more than my daughter), a simple exercise in reverse psychology: I say, "Don't come over and push me off the chair and climb on top of me and kiss me on the lips, I'm really busy right now." He starts laughing right away, head thrown back, runs over, pushes me, and tries to wrestle on top of me. He is strong, with a spry strength in his long-bellied little boy body. What I like, what I couldn't and don't do, is that he devotes all his energy, balls-out, into trying to overcome me. And laughs and laughs and kisses me, finally, and he smells of the pint of raspberries he bought (with his own garden earnings!) from our Farmers Market, and ate almost every one in the car.

Labels: garden, hilarity, Nels, tenderness

I'm standing at the kitchen sink and have been for some time washing, cleaning, cutting, blanching, boiling, freezing. Right now I'm tenderly slicing the tops off strawberries. Some are for our dessert this evening: strawberries so tender and red-ripe all the way through such that no honey or sugar or accoutrement is needed. I just chopped and froze a mix of spinach and arugula (for use in lasagna, or calzones, or casseroles). For dinner tonight: frittata with garlic scapes, arugula, sundried tomatos diced and softened, spinach, and fresh eggs; focaccia with mozzarella and red sauce to dip.

Most of the food bounty is from our CSA share. Because we traveled to a local farm, because it is fresher and superior to the produce one generally buys, every single bit is tenderly pored over, nothing wasted (the strawberry tops go in our compost pile). Tomorrow I'm making a meatball and escarole soup, substituting our head of lettuce for the escarole. After a Monday grocery trip for staples at the Marketpace - 25 lbs. bread flour, olive oil, garbanzo beans, vanilla - it feels nice to have a full larder.

For some reason, despite a day of doctors and cross-town errands, and the repetitive nature of doing dishes again and laying out strawberries on a baking sheet to freeze and having a messy house (I scrubbed the bathroom and washed the table and windows and vaccuumed but it's the paperwork piles that frustrate me the most!) I feel oddly content at the sink. I'm in a work trance; tired but soldiering on. My son flits by, singing to himself about Framps - significance: birthplace of eclairs* and croissants, the latter of which we finished today - and baby peas. Earlier today he found the first pea to go from flower to peapod and has asked each family member to come see, including my mother when she visited. So as he comes by this time I ask if he'll show me and it's a request that makes his day.

We walk out and the pea vines are frighteningly large, jumbled. I can't tell where the pod might be as it looks so much like the leaves. Nels finds it though. I smile and look to him and he's watching my face, beaming. I pick him up and we wordlessly hold one another as I carry him back inside. I feel oddly light-headed, slightly drunk on the cool summer night and The Boy and our bounty, only bathtime and bed ahead of us before kisses and legs kicking at blankets and soft, solid bodies and nighttime.

* Nels pronounces them "Maclair", we joke like a Scottish clan.

Labels: food geekery, garden, Nels, tenderness

Last night I had two glasses of wine at dinner with friends (dinner was a nice time) and then two more glasses later the evening. This is a fair amount of wine by any standard, but quite a bit for me. My eyes popped open in the middle-of-the-night-post-drinking way that tells me sleep will not return for a while. Imagine my disappointment when I journeyed to the kitchen to discover it was only 2 AM!

Ralph once told me that if struck with insomnia (which he also sometimes suffers from) there's no point lying in bed trying to sleep if you can't. So I got up and sewed most of a shirt in my sewing room, knocking about on my recently reclaimed serger (fresh back from a tuneup) and fortunately not encountering any of the bad sewing mojo I've had lately. I passed through the bedroom at one point and found my son, curled up against his father but with eyes wide open. See, he'd suffered a similar bump in his normal sleeping arrangements, having fallen asleep at the table at Casa Mia while eating. This has happened several times in this particular restaurant - I guess that's some sleepy pizza. Here he was seven hours later quiet in mind and body and awake in a sleeping house.

I put my arms out to Nels and he silently clambered up into my arms. The next three hours we spent fireside snuggling in blankets, in the kitchen making Mexican hot chocolate, or back in his bed looking out the window at the "firefly" he discovered - a blinking light from a nearby tower on the hill. He talked and talked but what was better is, I listened to him, and he listened when I talked. I'd been feeling like the last few days I'd been ignoring him, often on errands with my mother or friends, or trying to get my chores done and including him in the process but with my mind far away. My mind and body were with my boy last night. And I guess if one is going to be struck with insomnia having company - especially company exhibiting such sweetness - ends up being better than sleeping.

Addendum: I had a really nice Mother's Day. Ralph really spoiled me with gifts (flowers, special breakfast, tickets to my favorite ever songwriter, and a generous gift certificate to one of my favorite ever places). My children each made me cards and gifts and we got to go to a Cinco de Mayo party that afternoon. Only mere "minutes" ago - to my mind - my children were tiny babies I lived for and slaved for who rewarded me with smiles and embraces in between crying fits and meddling with things and diaper needs. Things look much the same these days except my children are intentionally communicating how they feel about me; Sophie's Mother's Day card said, "I [ heart ] My Mothr" (with her photo glued in the middle of the heart) - inside were not only two beautifully-drawn flowers but also a three-tier cake topped with a crown and above this all, fireworks! So I guess to her at least sometimes, I'm pretty awesome.

Labels: friends, holidays, Nels, sewing, sreep, tenderness

Our bed is a fishing net; you don't know what it will catch by morning. Sometimes it's just me, alone, as Ralph has had a sleepless night wandering the house. Usually I find children in it. This morning found both of them clinging, one to a side, with their arms around my neck and their faces softly pressed against me. The black cat, encouraged there was affection to be had. hovered just by, making soft honking sounds through her nose (I think she has a deviated septum). I held each child with my arm around them and hand around their small upper arms. Their skin is perfect; their little arms so trusting and whole. Nels kissed and kissed and kissed me and when I looked down Love was shining in his face as he smiled up at me. Sophie stroked the hair out of my eyes with her confident, tender hands. I think the first thing I said when I opened my eyes is, "No one better kiss me on the lips," which of course they silently and smilingly did, their soft fragrant hair falling against my face. I thought that I'd given birth to these creatures that now supply me with love, a full feast, every day. What a smart plan I'd had!

This morning finds us off to Westport to pick up a Freecycle boon (I hope) of a vintage radio. We lost an hour of time this morning and I slept so well it felt like I'd absorbed it.

Labels: roadtrip, tenderness

Lately I've spent some time noticing vehicles on the road. Man, they are large. Yesterday on our way to Olympia an Acura SUV thing idled behind me, the driver quick to hop on my ass as we traveled from stoplight to stoplight in the motorists' tedium that is downtown Aberdeen. In my rearview mirror I saw a man alone in the cab with his left shoulder up, draping his hand over the wheel of his Amazing Driving Machine and the other alternately on the phone or down out of sight, texting or fondling his balls or whatever. In front of me a Silverado rumbled as it spread it's huge asscheeks all over the road, easily larger than the Acura and laughing back at my seemingly miniature Mazda "light" pickup. And today on the road I saw some kind of Mazda - it looked like a car, but way bigger, or close up with a tiny person inside. This person sat well above the cab of my truck. These cars are huge but don't seem to boast a lot of room inside - they mostly just boast being big. I find myself wondering why we have so many gleaming, gigantic vehicles out and about, especially in an area that is said to be "economically depressed"? I guess I will start concerning myself with people whinging about gas prices when I see just a few fewer bewheamoths out on the road.

This morning on the bike I found a good route to get to Nels' school; ducking out of highway traffic and staying on a relatively quiet side-street for much of the ride. The route was nice; the bike ride not so much. It was clear but cold, with a head wind persistent enough that on mile two my legs stopped complaining and just did their drudgery dispiritedly, like listless indentured whores. Nels sat back in the trailer amidst winter coat, wicker basket full of juice and snacks, and a big quilt my mom sewed him several Christmases ago. He wasn't complaining.

It was quiet out and comforting enough. At the end of Cherry I hit a small snag and had to backtrack half a block for an alley. Finding my way back to a road I heard my son from the trailer: "You can do it, Mama. You can find my school!" I felt oddly heartened and touched by his cheerleading. An hour later when he was chosen in his classroom to describe today's weather, he put the weather dials to "windy" and "cold". I thought he was in a special position to know, having braved the elements with me.

On the way home he fell asleep; I aborted my shopping plan (only after I'd already parked, chained the bike, and removed my helmet to discover him in Slumberland, Population One) and headed home where I brought in his artwork, dirty laundry from the school, leftover juice bottles, and one sleeping boy to strip down and tuck in for the remainder of his snooze.

Sometimes - not when I lose my temper or get distracted doing my work - but sometimes, I wish I was my own mom, and I was a little kid who got to be taken care of by her.

Labels: Aberdeen, bike, Nels, roadtrip, tenderness, weather

Homemade pizza (again!) cools on the counter. Nels is in the kitchen with Ralph singing a song called "Sophia" to the tune of West Side Story's "Maria" (incidentally, the day after Sophie was born at the tag end of my hospital stay this musical was on TV; we took great joy in not only co-opting the lyrics for this song but laughing at the dance numbers and cameltoes of the "gang" members).

Still, Nels' rendering is lovely. He literally sings every word. Then suddenly he darts across and pinch's Ralph on the bottom (family vernacular is "cup-a-cakes" for someone's bum cheeks) and darts away. Nels is literally a joy for me constantly these days - like how while riding the bus he solemnly repeats over and over as he points to the icons at the front of the bus: "That says No Smoking, No Eating Food, No Wiggling, and No Playing Loud Music." (guess which one mom inserted into the transit mantra).

I walk in my bedroom where Sophie is watching a Spongebob DVD and pause the film (time for dinner). She sees my new haircut which has also been flat-ironed and says, "Straight hair!" with a shy, happy grin. "I'm almost as pretty as you now," I tell her, and hustle her into the kitchen.

Labels: family life, tenderness

A pamphlet was delivered to us for an upcoming religious gathering: a smiling, Aryan Jesus holds his hand up in invitation, his arm draped with a poncho and his coif softly curling. My husband, without a word, cut out a talk-bubble and applied it - "Who's up for some Ultimate Frisbee?" The Son of Man congenially asks - then put it on the fridge where I saw it an hour or so later and spluttered laughter (Ralph went to Evergreen).

Last night I bathed with both my children. My aching body found comfort in the hot, hot water. Sophie sat behind me and poured water on my back, unasked but so appreciated by me. After a few minutes she said, "Let's lay back," which is exactly what I wanted. I held her and we whispered. She got out and into a towel; Nels arrived next. I smelled his salty skin and his hair - I simply can't describe how good his hair smells to me. His little strong body is the brownest of all of us. I hold and kiss him and think it's remarkable how my children allow me to fuss over and touch them - sometimes they enjoy it, leaning in and reciprocating, but often they don't even notice. I thought, how nice for us all that we touch this much.

I told my son, "Nels, you were born in water." He said, "This feels good," and smiled. Sometimes I simply can't believe I'm allowed to spend time with them in my life. I cherish and love almost every minute.

Labels: hilarity, Nels, Sophie, tenderness

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

Years ago my then-boyfriend and now-husband remarked on a small tradition at his church he found troubling. Every Mother's Day Sunday the church would purchase flowers prior to the service. At the conclusion of the sermon (usually rather mommy-centered or at least referential) the deacons would pass out blooms first to mothers, and then to the little girls and women in the congregation. There would be a special meal and lots of smiles and platitudes and recognition.

Let's put aside for a moment the creepy implied dictum that all little girls will grow up to fulfill their lives as mothers, or the inference that older childfree women should have been mothers. My boyfriend's complaint at the time was that a Mother was a Mother. He contended one is not an "honorary" mother simply by being female; Mother's Day is not in fact - to be blunt - Pussy Day (although we really should have one of those).

Of course I didn't see the big deal. Flowers are nice, we said lots of things about Mommy, who cares? Quit being obsessed with details.

But tomorrow is Mother's Day and over the last handful of years it has become special to me. I have been a mother a little over five years and I already know I do deserve a special category - not one especially edified or canonized, but the recognition I get is welcome. Being a mother isn't the same as owning a dog, babysitting or being "aunty" or "uncle", being a grandmother or grandfather even. It is uniquely different than all those roles, as important and lovely as those other things are.

After I had Sophie, the minute of, I became a mother. I did not know what this was or what it meant in any way (except for the overwhelming emotional elation at birthing a child I loved immediately and intensely). And I was alone in this! Despite all the family and friends who have helped along the way there was no "backup" for me and there continues to be no real respite. People may babysit my children, offer commiseration or advice, walk my crying infant in the restaurant as I bolt down food, but I have never been able to stop my ears to my child's cries nor believe anyone else could be truly responsible, not even for a moment. When I read about mothers or fathers abandoning their children I know that such an act is not on my personal radar in any way; I am glad for and humbled by whatever part of my human nature makes this impossible to consider.

My children will one day leave my house; I will one day leave them in death. I simply find the idea of this separation so emotionally difficult I choose not to think about it at all; I pray, I try to be in the moment as much as I can when I'm laying next to my son in bed or holding my daughter's hand in the supermarket. My children are strong and larger than I (though they don't know it) and it will likely be my privilege to watch them grow in strength and identity; strong enough one day to start their lives without me, to raise their family, and to help me die, if I am fortunate.

There are so many potential pitfalls to being a mother. These include the shallow and silly; the alluded-to fashion gaffes, the obligatorily-assigned loss of the self (not true, as it turns out - merely fleeting). Moms are simultaneously pedestaled - Mother's Day is Hallmark Cards' most lucrative holiday - and categorically disrespected as evidenced by the term "MILF" - an apparently radical concept that a mother is, actually, capable of being sexually attractive to males. Imagine that.

My children make me a mother. They make me their mother merely by their experience of me. I will always be a woman and (hopefully) always be a wife; the first category is what I make of it and the second is between Ralph and I. But my children and I have a dance of our own that I think of performed in parts of 1/3 love, 1/3 hilarity, and a remainder of harshness and humanity that I'm finding is unique to the three of us.


Sophie's card she made at school for me. Inside: "I love you because... you make me food to eat." (narrated by Suse, written by teacher).

And as I type this, I find myself knee-jerk saying to my daughter, "Don't run with scissors!"

Happy Mother's Day!

Labels: babies, family life, gratitude, Nels, Sophie, tenderness

I'm in for it this week. My son wakes up this morning sick and cranky. Laying on the floor, crying, complaining. Ralph asks, "Did you have any dreams?" "Yes!" Nels belts out, wallowing on the couch. Ralph persists gently: "What did you dream about?" "Butterflies!" my son yells angrily. The meanest, tiniest, most pissy butterflies ever, apparently.

Ten minutes after Ralph leaves, after Nels has complained and asked for milk and then no milk then "hold you" etc - he finally sobs, "I'm going to go find Sophie." Which is where he is ten minutes later when I finish making the kids' breakfast (scrambled eggs and toast made from Blue Heron Bakery's black olive blue cheese bread. P.S. best toast ever.) - happily and quietly spooning Sophie in my bed as she drowses.

Labels: Nels, Sophie, tenderness

and I'm gonna gift ya'll with a tribute to my son and our life thus far.


This is me, right about when I got pregnant with Nels. I haven't been skinny since. Thanks, Boy!


Sophie, same time as above. What the fuck? How cute is that? That's Ralph's pasty leg in the background, BTW. Not mine. I swear.


My Easter Baby. Well, not Easter exactly. His birth was my favorite thing ever. He hung out in the sling quite a bit - in this case, daddy has him.


Ralph, a few days later. Everyone in the goddamn house slept while I ran around. It was great.


Sophie, the "big" sister - right after Nels was born. Her hobbies at this time: dressing up as a ninja, nursing a couple times a day.


Sophie and Nels - still summertime, you can tell by their skin. Jesus, have I never heard of sunblock? What kind of mother am I?


Nels' smile is always in his eyes. Our doula knit this cap.


First Halloween. How cute is this? His ears even match his expression. He's just about to go on the hayride at the Ft. Worden Spooktacular. We went every year. (P.S. you can see the tiny "flaw" in his left eye, in this picture).


One year old - and this is how our life was. He rode around on my body as I went about my business. I loved it.


Why is he so fat?!? Why did no one tell me?


Grabbin' the junk, in the front yard. God I miss PT. We won't be doing that here.


Nels' second birthday. I made him a butterfly cake. Check out Mr. Surly Curls. He will look the same in 65 years.


A typical "look" from Nels, usually trying to get some boob or chocolate (or both). Check the cleft chin. What a hunk! Yes, I'm a sick Oedipal case - but most mommies are, they just don't admit it.


My little kitten on our last day in PT. He's heading - who knows where. I have always yelled, grabbed, and / or caught him. So far.


The Boy, contemplating life's existential issues.

(Flickr tag set)

Labels: birthday, family life, Nels, tenderness

This morning I took the kids out to their favorite park, as requested. It felt like it had been quite some time since I'd had fresh air. Perhaps because we had been snow-bound for a while, or perhaps because my children and I have moved into a different phase in our life together, the three of us had a very harmonious hour and a half on the park grounds (read: they let me go to the bathroom without drowning themselves in the sea; Nels did not run away in the opposite direction of Sophie *every single chance he got*, I actually listened to and followed the suggestions of my wee ones instead of barking out orders while clutching my precious, precious coffee). I attended them in the childish activities that to many must look boring: swings, monkey-bar spotting (my son copies everything his older sister does, no matter how terrifying to himself or me), leaf-scuffing, creek bed exploring. Instead of fervently hoping for another Mama to join me, or allowing my mind to race about thinking of chores I have to do, beans to soak, toilets to scrub, I just accepted I was not doing any of those things *now* and I really attended my little ones. I sat, swung, walked with them. We ate lovely, heavenly fresh hearth rolls from the uptown bakery and they took my breath away with the beauty that bloomed on their rosy cheeks and noses.

I find myself begrudging how quickly my children are growing up. Why do I ever want any stage, any difficulty, to end? I should desire and hold onto everything, and I mean everything. The late nights, the crying, the clinging at naptime. A year ago I was breastfeeding my son and could still remember, vividly, breastfeeding and diapering my daughter. Now I am adrift, afloat, no longer a physical necessity except in my performance of slave labor (daily) that I now have learned to love. Now. My children are both potty-trained, both weaned, and I am ten pounds heavier in part because every day I think of, shop, buy, and prepare their food. And I make no milk. No nursing; I realized the other day with a small, angry mix of pride and sadness that *just anyone* could take care of my children now (although, of course, no one else really does). I suppose this was true from the day they were born, but my unique gifts of my milk, my love, my voice, my intelligence, my body, and the pain in the ass of a diapered child somehow kept them more within my exclusive realm. Now I know they are growing upward and onward, and although they will always remained tethered to me and I have formed a Goddess-image for them - they will need me less and less. It is time for them to take flight a little more and for me to pull back into myself, my art, my work, my marriage - just enough to not resent their going.

As I type this my children, back from a fancy-festive Christmas party, are putting together their new Christmas gifts (note that Nels' comes with a key-fob so you can take your precious pets with you - "up to 18 hours" and I don't have to tell you what happens after 18 hours). With dad's help, of course.

Labels: family life, holidays, party animal, tenderness

This morning I awoke amidst the three others in my family, burrowed under blankets on a large mattress Pangaea on the floor of my kids' room. These measures are necessary because we are currently having our house interior painted and sleeping in a freshly-painted room is, well, kind of gross and scary. That's OK because I am secretly (or not-so-secretly) a big fan of family-sleeping. So last night I was only too thrilled to move a TV into the kids' room and watch a movie (a "conventional but entertaining sports flick" indeed - I'm coming to believe the Disney sports films - The Rookie, Invincible, etc. - are my version of other women's romantic comedies - which I don't watch - perhaps because they are always well-crafted, contain a good period soundtrack, and are comforting, formulaic, and only mildly emotionally moving), a late-night snack, and all-night family snuggle.

This morning I disentangle myself from the litter and start coffee; Ralph and Nels soon follow in waking up and while I shower Nels lays on the floor whinging as Ralph washes breakfast dishes (apparently being hungry for ten minutes in the morning is an existential nightmare for our son). After getting dressed I snuggle next to my daughter's sweet body and we lie in bed quietly for a while. Then she starts talking, whispering to me of a purple dragon, a dragon "that saves people". She sits up cross-legged and holds her hands in front of her, meshes the fingers to cup someone gently, and tells me the creature has long claws to hold people, as she talks she is gazing off, remembering. "The dragon had a very friendly face," she breathes, her smile beatific.

Today has been a near-madhouse of activity, mostly including family events - playschool responsibilities, Halloween costumes, trick-or-treating - and significantly hampered by having the house torn apart for painting. But yes, I got all my Halloween sewing done, easy. And don't think I'm not thrilled that I have had emails asking me to post photos! And you would think I'd get to breathe a breath of relaxation now the Halloween sewing is done. My last day of my sewing workshops is tomorrow, however - so I have to prepare for that. Zippers. Funsies.


Nocturnal animals in my car, from the other night's late-night grocery run. Which I and the kids enjoy. Note Nels' many layers of scarf, which he wore all night without even toppling over.

Labels: chaos, family life, film, homesteading, Nels, sewing, tenderness

Today I woke up in worse shape than I was two days ago. My throat, my sinuses - congested, scratchy, ill. Yuck. This morning at least I am blessed with plenty of sleep and no hangover. At 7:30 I slide out of bed (kids still sleeping) and head to the kitchen. Start coffee for my husband and I and some breakfast for my kids to warm in the oven (they wake up voraciously hungry and a proactive breakfast is something I can throw at them in self defense, like jars of peanut butter at voracious doberman shepherds from some movie I saw once).

About 8 o'clock after Ralph has left and I've caught up on email and am contemplating sitting down and resting (I've done the math and I believe I do this about every 2.6 days) when I hear whispers from the hallway - Sophie coaxing Nels about something. I open the door to their bedroom to see my children, tousle-haired, pj'd, asking for Mama. I know the drill. I take my coffee and put it on the coffee table; sit on the couch. Nels crawls up on my left side, Sophie furnishes the blanket and tucks herself on my right. The three of us sit there quietly for minutes. I stroke their backs and the length of their strong, sturdy little legs; their little hands pet me. The smell on the top of Nels' head is something lovely and indefinable. It is part shampoo, part health, part sleep, part uniquely and wondrously my Son.

I realize as I sit there with them that I have some sort of precious commodity. I have a treasure that I did not altogether ask for, nor did I quite win like a lottery. It isn't the only treasure in the world nor the most glamorous. I do not deserve it entirely, based on merit, but many others (more deserving?) do not have what I have. These creatures curled up on my lap depend on me, love me, and are forever connected to me. Nothing could break the programming within them that causes them to find my arms, my voice, my smell to be the most Home they could ever hope to find.

A couple hours later and I'm home doing dishes by myself. My daughter is at school; my son with Abbi who is watching him for me as I take a more restful morning than I would normally have. In this way too I am fortunate, benefiting from friends who are also raising their young children. Abbi and I are sometimes like dual wives; daily bringing food, clothing, children's books and knitware back and forth to one another. Just a phone call away from help, commiseration.

Tonight for dinner: Beef-in-Guinness (courtesy of a lovely brisket from Sunny Farms*), potatoes, cabbage, and carrots. We are sharing our meal with a friend and her daughter. Home-cooking and loved ones all around.

* This website cheerily claims, "a row of registers along the front of the store helps keep customer wait time to a minimum" - what they don't tell you is that there is no frakin' room to wheel your cart, and that several of your fellow cart-using customers will glare at YOU as if this is your fault. It's the weirdest vibe.

Labels: family life, food, friends, homesteading, Nels, Sophie, tenderness

My son woke up from his nap, ate half his weight in pizza, and then climbed on my lap and insisted I sing him a song. Then another. And another. He sat perfectly still, alternatively staring at the monitor (where my iTunes visualizer swirled) or clinging to my neck with his arms, pressing his cheek to mine to hear my voice. I sang him oldies:

"Be My Baby" by the Ronettes
"Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You" Frankie Vali
"Will you still love Me Tomorrow?" The Shirelles
"Needles and Pins" The Searchers
"Little Red Riding Hood" Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs


"I love you baby! And if it's quite alright I need you baby..."

You know, I honestly can't think of anything I'd rather do.

Labels: family life, Nels, tenderness

This morning- I don't know how it happened - but I woke up next to an angel. She had gone to bed with her brother the evening before but how she's lying next to me in bed and her soft hand is petting me. I open my eyes and she says, "I love you Mama." Her face is just inches from mine. Her eyes are clear and large. Some alchemy of Ralph's reddish-brown depth and my lighter green and dark lashes and her skin is calm and clear from sleep. Her skin is flawless: the only imperfection a very small scratch, barely visible, on her freckle-dusted nose. Her tresses fall around me, clean and sweet smelling and I think of the song lyric: your hair upon the pillow / like a sleeping golden storm. She yawns and even her breath is sweet. Her belly peaks out from under her black cotton shirt: a long, white, lean tummy. She twines her legs around me. I love it when she shares my bed, because like me she likes to talk for a while before getting up. Her last words before sleep and her first words in the morning are always of Love.

Later in the day this same girl runs downstairs with a new Snake Body book - a thrift store purchase by my husband. She slams open the book and jabs a finger, wordless. To a six-page photo spread of a snake graphically swallowing a bird chick. She tells me to read every word.

Labels: Sophie, tenderness

Dear Readers.

So much to tell, and no idea where to start. The family drama. The impromptu, packed-up-in-twenty-minutes roadtrip whereby I loaded up my oldest child in our truck and headed down to visit my brother for the weekend. The two days away from Husband and The Boy where my daughter and I were thick as thieves, staying up to 2 AM then sleeping in together, limbs wrapped around one another and hands tangled in one another's hair. The sheer comedy of my daughter's unconditional and expressive love toward my brother, who can be understated as standoffish (until you get to know him, anyway). At 11:30 PM on Saturday night, the two of them head into a local pizza parlour. She: peaches-and-cream complexion, blonde wispy hair, white sweater and kitten hat, and frilly skirt. Holding the hand of her Uncle Billy: sunglasses, long dark hair and beard, slight glower to his walk, and in his perennial thick dark wool peacoat (which he wears even on the hottest of summer days). They spent many an hour curled up on the couch (watching Nightmare Before Christmas and - Ralph was so pissed to hear this - Jurrassic Park). I think he's still trying to resist her charms a little, but it isn't really working.

I learned that it's possible to have a vacation with a child. Of course, we've had the kids on vacation before. But I mean a vacation in the sense of: totally relaxing, responsibility-free, fun every single minute of the day. No back-breaking lifting of an 18-month-old squirming fiend. Caring for a child 100% potty-trained who also washes her own hands when she's supposed to and can occasionally find her own food. No goddamn breastfeeding! [sigh!] Bliss for a couple days.

Unfortunately, The Boy is making up for his lost time without Mama. He seems to have grown an inch and converted yet more of his precious babyfat to sturdy muscle. He also can climb higher, scream louder, and eat more.

Three more weekdays to survive.

Labels: birlo, chaos, family life, Nels, Sophie, tenderness