Autumn Kids

Numbers 2 and 3 aka Benici and Clara have celebrated their birthdays this past fall. In the past, I had written dedications to my little ones on their birthdays here on this blog. This year, however, I poured my energies into parties that have left me depleted of birthday mojo. But for archiving purposes, I have to report a few things about them.

Benicio: Five Observations Since He's Turned Five--1.I have come to the hard realization that he absolutely no longer can wear a size 2 in clothing. (He's had a few pieces that I really could not part with.) 2. He recently said, "I don't want to do it because I might not be the best." 3. I predict that he will be a Forensics champion. 4. He has precise and beautiful handwriting like my Dad. 5. On his birthday, he chose to go bowling and have lunch with Geoff on campus. The evening ended with a quiet birthday dinner at home. Neighborhood friends surprised him for cake and an impromptu dance party. Benicio cutting a serious rug encircled by a few friends and his sibs, what more could you ask for?

Clara: What can I say about my right hand girl? She came with me on a school tour today and I was reminded of how she came with me the first time I toured this house. She is composed, silent and wise beyond her years. However, when she wants to, she is startlingly assertive as in, "No Mommy, you're not sharing your mimi's!" or "It's not a-tay, Beecio!" She is now the chairman of the Nomenclature Bureau, naming her dolls- Tana, Meena. Also, there's the elusive "Mr. Battamuna." We don't know who this refers to. All of her names sound vaguely Japanese. We are thinking she might have a wheat aversion so we also have her diet seeming vaguely Japanese as well. She gets the elegant little fruit plate when the others get a little thicket of pasta. Or she gets a little octopus-shaped hot dog beached beside his wave of catsup while the others get PBJ pita wedges.

the photos: Benicio at his Suzuki lesson. He would have me note the little bug that remains perfectly balanced on his violin. Below: Clara could not be more thrilled to have her friend Kayla move here from Beantown. These two play so harmoniously, it's so sweet.

In Praise of Practice

Last Thursday evening was the first time it occured to me, how much my Mom put into these prayer services. These prayer services go back decades-- us gathered on the pink carpet of their bedroom at 1610 praying the Family Unity Prayer from the book with the blue vinyl cover. I could not yet read but I still remember the book and the words "Lord Jesus, our family needs your help today. We are searching for peace, unity, and end to discord." Years later, us clustered on the steps at 1610, my young sister mistaking, "Blessed is the fruit of diamond Jesus." The candles, the Italian Baby Jesus with Charo-esque eyelashes at Christmas, the John Michael Talbot tapes. And a very stern dismissal if you disrupted, say for instance by laughing at your sibling. If one of us were given a passage to read and made a "word mistake." This "word mistake" caused you to laugh uncontrollably to the point where you were convulsing with paroxisms and gasping for breath. The whole Gestalt of these family prayer-gatherings were something nostalgic and quaint for me.

It wasn't until Thanksgiving night that I realized what went into the preparation. My Mom selects passages from Psalms the Gospels, the Epistles, Daily Missals, Guideposts Devotional, as disparate as the words of St. Augustine from 360 A.D. but also then these call and response prayers that seem to have been penned by John Denver. Just before we all gather, almost 20 grandkids, us six sibs and our spouses, my Mom hands us each a reading. When you get yours, you just read over it and basically wait until you are called to read yours. You listen to hear if this person misses his cue, or if this nephew's voice has deepened. I love to look around and see my brothers and sister, us all together, and I love to hear them lift their voice to read. This year was Manny and Benicio's first time when they had been given a passage. This is when I became acutely aware of the scope of some of these passages. It really floored me.

In recent years, I had just not warmed to these prayer services. The whole thing brought out a cranky and pragmatic side of me. I could go into my skepticism about it all, how sometimes these times seem so forced. "Why can't we just eat before the kids spiral?" I demand. I find myself resistant to any sort of emotional goading, and then I start to get really irritable. It is usually not pretty.

For some reason on Thursday, I was able to follow the whole thread of the little liturgy she had planned out. I can't believe I hadn't done this before! My Dad started off with a reading about humble service. My brothers with passages about working for the Lord and not for man. I began to imagine my Mom standing at the copier at work, little postits in the pages of about 10 different books. Wondering how long that must have taken, what the co-workers thought she was doing. I read a Psalm about praising God as a mother enwreathed by her children. My teenage nephews with the call and responses about exalting God as from mountaintops. My heart softened.

I realized how lovingly and intelligently she had chosen each of our readings. How fitting they were, how they were both desperate prayers for us as well as proclamations and praises for God's work in our lives. And then lastly, my little boys shyly sounding out their passages printed out in 40 pt. size typeface, from Psalm 34:v3 "Glorify the LORD with me; let us exalt his name together." Man, it was knee-weakening. All at once, I got it . Here we are, practicing our faith with our kids. Demonstrating and giving them the steps, rehearsing the words with them. This is how we teach our faith. This is how we pass it down. Awkward and forced at times, this is how we show them.

The Great Advent Toy Purge

When we decided to embrace the Santa mythology, I did not anticipate the intricate web of white lies and near-truths we would need to weave. Maybe not we, but "I" would be more accurate. I found myself trying to pick up toys in the family room, a chore I used to do while the boys were at nursery school, Clara cool and calm in my sling. These days, this chore is akin to an Istanbul bazaar, with all the noisy haggling: "Yes, I absolutely DO know where the Playmo pirate's hair is!" and "I still use that ream of bubble-wrap for padding with my gliders." I have become a ruthless, swifthanded phantom who separates the boardwalk-arcade detritus from my beloved HABA toys. (You had me at "spiel.") I root out our Waldorfy dolls with full-flowing heads of mohair when they fraternize with the bath ducks who are suffering from internal mold issues.

Anyway, to head off the bargaining, I found myself threatening that I was going to write Santa and tell him that the boys did not know how to take care of their toys, that they were overwhelmed with what they had and to suspend their gifts until next Christmas. Harsh, I know. I am not proud of that, I will confess. However, my threat has worked! We have arranged the family room toy-shelves into labeled and organized perfection.

Many of the little armed soldiers have gone to the trash not because of the war association but rather because they hurt like the dickens when you step on them. We gave fond farewells to homeless puzzles whose boxes had collapsed. Spiderman's jet ski, a strung out slinky, these things needed to go. The boys looked over their shoulders, was Santa looking in? The purging was gaining momentum, "Mom, maybe I don't need this," Manny offered a translucent bug ball he's had since his first birthday. The whole thing was triumphant but heart-wrenching at the same time. Most of our great things remain; the 10 Plagues wooden Tenpin Set, their legion of of Supers, a basket of figures we called "Teeny Fighters," with Ninjas the size of cherry tomatoes mixed in with little thrifted Iroquois fighters with their bows and quivers. The 1950's green metal baby doll crib is where Clara lays either "Antal, "Podol," "Shandal" or sometimes "Baby Joy." I don't think I will part with that until she or Cloe want it for their girls. Honestly, when we purge the toys, there are some things we will never give up--Santa's watchful eye be damned!

Rather than St. Nicholas, the patron saint of poor children who brought joy and trinkets into the ghettos, I think I am raising our kids to believe that Santa is a capricious, conditionally-loving, voyeur.

Andy, Frida, a Night to Remember

After too much of what Anne Lamott calls "pharmaceutically-packaged candy," I was on a mission to find great costumes for the Design Ball at Geoff's school. Our get-ups required, trimming a wig, clipping fresh flowers, and studying portraits online.

Cigarette Girl, Pixie

In Omnia Paratus

Photo: Our kids playing in the uber-depressing waiting room at the Pep Boys in Norristown. It had the distinct pungent odor of rubber and all the associations of testosterone-rife workplaces where misogyny and money-swindling are present.

We are in the middle of what Geoff calls our "transportation odyssey." On the way to a large family event, our minivan left us stranded on the turnpike. We spent Saturday afternoon in 3 different tow trucks, zigzagging the county in our best party clothes. It boils down to a van that is getting old, how to fix it, and how we might go about getting another car. In the midst of this, getting the run-around from the mechanic, the towing people, and then trying to foresee how buying another car would affect our financial stability.

I have been asking, "What could this mean?" When the timing belt snapped, Geoff and I looked at eachother searching for the grownup within each of us. Being stranded threw us a series of curveballs, we had to respond with unified and wise maturity. Geoff and Manny rode with the car towing the van whose driver had a Dungeon's and Dragon's hairdo. I had the three others with me in the bigger truck and tried to keep up morale by feeding them chicken tenders and gum. We had a lovely family dinner at Genuardi's followed by an interminable stay at the Norristown Pep Boys. Finally, we got rescued by Jeremy. Heroism took the form of a van to fit all of us and a Veggie Tales soundtrack.

How do you do it? Teach your kids that they will always be safe, that things are okay and good when you want to shake your fist at crooks and choke swindlers? How do you keep a game face for your kids when faced with the disappointments that life brings?

Why Work?

Photos: Manny's Arthur Ashe poster and the Fab Four at what we call the "Secret Beach."

Geoff is up for review at work and it has been a very good thing for us. He has put in strenuous hours compiling his dossier-- an exhaustive compilation of basically everything he has done for the school and a record of his performance. He had to submit it and then have it reviewed by his peers. It was this tome, this huge binder to hand in.

I was jealous. He had this tangible, juicy document, detailing all of his hard work, showcasing his past work. On top of that, colleauges he respects and admires give him feedback and guidance about his work from here on out. I wish I could do this, have this concrete document laying out my performance, synthesizing my experiences to make sense and then have someone sign off on it and then give me a cushy raise.

I wish my home were my dossier, an elegant document that demonstrated my fine taste and flexed my organizational muscle-tone. Instead housework is elusive and constantly demanding, a suitcase I want to close but always bulges-- threatening to disgorge. I wish I had student-evaluations where Manny and Benicio could give me feedback on the effectiveness of my explanation of the silent E rule. Instead, it is me ad-libbing and trying to fit instruction into ten minute increments and trying to anticipate their boredom. I wish Clara and Cloe would say, "Mom, I think you need time for more professional development, I can get dinner started."

Maybe I sound ungrateful. But in my ingratitude, there is a pearl of true gratitude. My work and my calling right now is amorphous (How do you measure developmental progress?) and cyclical (Another load of laundry?) and I just laugh. In my sleep-deprivation and fatigue, I am reminided that if I live for myself this is all a vain sham. If I live to serve as Jesus lovingly served then I can reconcile that in my soul.

Ever the Mary, Trying for Martha

This past summer, I was visiting one of my sisters-in-law and asking her to help me implement her streamlining and organizing techniques on my own house. I was poised with my notebook, ready for tips. Without pause, she said, "Oh, but you are a Mary and I don't think you should try to change." She is referring to Jesus' friends, two women who had very different approaches to the home, or entertaining in the home. Jesus favored Mary, she wanted to visit with folks, let the appetizers wait. This, while her sister, Martha, was fussing in the kitchen and mad that her sister wouldn't help her out.

I wanted to see this as a compliment but I know my own tendencies toward stagnation and laziness and am deeply afraid that my beautiful, stone, Turn of the Century- Germantown stead will become Sanford and Son's. Reconnecting with one of my college roomies is a daily reminder of how I behaved in college-for better or worse: I remember my room in Holland Hall, piles of papers, stacks of modern poetry and books on the apostle Paul, my beloved French press, baskets and bins of clothing, several pairs of wooden clogs that could send you to the ER if you tripped on them. And if you could find it, my sturdy little word processor that my Dad got me at Boscov's. All this to say, I thrive on chaos or what my British design book would graciously describe as "busily charming" or "lived-in appeal." I am a collector and I like to be visually stimulated by my possessions.

And yet, I am not content to be this way. I am married to a man who buys a pair of shoes and then feels the need to get rid of one. He returns his fork and knife to the same position after each meal. I admire the simplicity of his drinking a glass of water and then rinsing it, drying it and returning it to the cupboard. I am SO not like this.

I want to make my mark on this house and really deliberately choose the paint color, invest in fairly-traded rugs, have "well-appointed furniture." For now, it is me and my little green label maker, enforcing a place for everything. It is our thrifted leather Chesterfield sofas with Maxine's scratch-marks. It is me trying to decide if the molasses teething biscuit is still clean after the third drop, it is day-to-day living, it is following kindergarteners around wearing swiffer sheets under my shoes.

I think I will have to rest in this struggle for now. I will have to accept my post as Mary, enjoying the company of her loved ones, listening to their tales, attentive to their adventures and dreams. The other stuff will have to wait.

Bella Karoly's Gym

Since we have started Suzuki violin in August, I have had in my head this image of Bella Karoly's Gym-- hundreds of tiny gymnasts, with grotesque muscle-tone tumbling and flipping around an under-lit industrial space. The image reminds me of adult pressure on children and having a white-knuckle grip on some vision I have for them.

We have our private lesson on Thursday morning and every other Wednesday a group lesson at a local elementary school. We have rented instruments, have margarine box violins on which to practice, and are now considered "Pre-twinkle." I did not realize that there was such a thing as a period in which you are studying for months before you are able to play one note. I am trying to get the whole zen of the thing. Feet positioning, posture, holding the violin just so. And that's not even holding the bow yet!

The whole thing exposes how product-oriented I am, how badly I want something to show for. How impatient I can be about seeing a return on my effort. For now, I want to see how much the boys love to open their cases, take out the teeny violins and have them take this deep bow to me or their teacher. I want to savor their love of routine, their natural way with music, and how they bring a playful sense of exporation to everything that they put their hands to.

Alien Hummus and Odes to Arthur Ashe

I have to believe that one of the great pluses of this homeschool thing is creative freedom. Full-on creative control. We are taking a classical approach to school-- heavy focus on the written word. I read at least 10 books a day and ask them each to write everything from grocery lists to reasons they're angry at me to plans for their own farmer's market. So when they've done the writing I've asked for I want to really allow them to have their own extra-curricular plans.

Yesterday, this meant Alien Hummus for Benicio. A green potion of paint, soap and sundry lotions. He enlisted unguents from around the house. No one's toiletries were safe. He proceeded to scoop it into a plastic ziploc and freeze it "for when I get to Space," he says. He told Manny, "They can dip any food they want into this!" I did not know that Aliens had a special love for garlicky Mediterranean food.

I need to post photos of these-- we have been taking tennis clinics at Arthur Ashe Youth Tennis Center. Apart from the funloving vibe, you really get a sense that Arthur Ashe leaves his legacy, a commitment to his people and to see that everyone gets an opportunity to play. We did our first "reports" on Arthur Ashe. Manny did a poster with tiny, detailed cutouts of Ashe's head-- of course, a racket, and a few other things like an eagle (for America), a camera (bc he married a photographer). Arthur Ashe's glasses are the best part!!

Benicio did a booklet. It was going to be called "A Hard Road to Glory" (Ashe's epitaph) until I showed too much enthusiasm for that idea and now it is simply called, "Arthur Ashe." It's a five page picture book including a drawing of the state of Virginia, and an "about the author" section in the back where he's drawn a self-portrait.

Secrets for homeschool I have learned this week: We don't always have to be confined to the homeschool room. If they get an idea for a project, let them see it through.

Burbridge St. Homies

Tomorrow, we begin week 7 of our homeschool adventure. I had read this great quote: "There is much to be discovered when where you live is where you learn and where you learn is where you live." I think it's from Charlotte Mason or Edith Schaeffer, I can't remember. Back in July, I received a grocery bag of homeschool books from my sister-in-law. I like to think I've been entrusted with the quintessential homeschool canon-- The Little Lamb's book of art projects, a collection of Aesop fables with amazing illustrations, and this primer from 1933, which suggests that children memorize passages of prose to promote diction and memorization. Our days have fallen into a rhythm: Everyone up by 7, Geoff takes the boys downstairs to start breakfast. I get dressed and go up to the homeschool room (formerly our playroom). Usually, Manny is sent up first and Geoff meets me on the stairs with my coffee. I meet with Manny for a half hour. In this time, we have worked on workbooks, built tangrams together, read aloud together, or just played memory for a half hour. Then I send for Benicio and we do the same. After that, we all go downstairs for breakfast and help Geoff to get to work. By 9:30, we are ready for our circle time-- Clara rings the bell that Mema gave us and everyone knows to come upstairs for songs, stretches and a little calendar lesson. We have been studying our bodies. After a 10 minute lesson about bones or muscles, we move into a group craft or a story. So far, we've had two illustrious guest lecturers and two exceptional yogis have agreed to teach as well.

Everyone asks how it's going: there are things I predicted and things I didn't. What I predicted: that things would relax, that the family clock would slow down, that Manny would begin to read on his own, and that I'd receive new stamina for the kids. I feel like I know each of them better. What I did NOT predict: that there are four voices asking me almost constantly ALL day long. That I would need to prepare lessons just as formally as when I taught at Hollow Reed. That I would need to use PBS as much as I do. And that, at the end of a long day, I am bone-tired and utterly spent.

Anyway, here's to a new season of blogging: I want to record this journey of learning at home. I want to look back at this and remember how this little home school took shape, how the kids and I made our way. I hope you keep reading and as always, go to bat for us in prayer.

My Summer, Unplugged.

Here we go, some parting shots. Calliope at 3 months, her buttery breath and intense gaze. Us berry-picking to celebrate what Geoff told the kids was "the birthday of our family"-- our 8th anniversary.

So, the official beginning of a slower, more deliberate, more checked-in season. The mailman has brought us 4 postcards as part of a dee-lightful postcard swap to bring in the summer. Hurray for good old-fashioned snail mail! In yoga, on Monday, Meredith said, "Our organs are compressed by all the sitting that we do." I have been thinking about this. I need to get off my can when I can.

Calliope and I spent an evening at my neighbor's watching the episodes of "My So-Called Life," tasting possible wedding cakes and eating Machengo and Piave cheeses. Nursing a baby and watching Jordan Catalano was totally surreal for me. A lot of laughing and admitting to wearing flannel shirts with tank tops underneath. Remembering Eddie Vedder's voice and writing for the Talon again.

The summer is in full swing, the local produce is knocking our socks off. We have finally lived here long enough to find a "secret beach" (Thanks to the Incomparable Stephanie!). Clara's gymfoolery. Benici's day camp. Manny's Capoeira. Reading "Nurtured by Love" by Sinichi Suzuki. Anne Lamott's new book is the tall drink of water I have needed.

I wish you long, languid days, where you pass through the heat with composure and hours of puzzles on the cool wood floor.

Visit again when we have new trees on our street (Talk about putting down roots!). When I have a one-kid Kindergarten class underway. When we tone down the messy art-making in favor of a teeny Suzuki violin. Trade some of the action-figure action for some language lessons.

Hydrate, stay loose, nose over toes.

There will be broccoli stems, ramen noodles.

It will be a year ago that we moved into this house. It's the house that when Geoff first toured it said, "Mia, if we have to eat ramen noodles for a year in order to live here, I will." In many, many ways my dream house-- in the city but in the greenest part, a big stead with room enough for a diligent husband to grade papers while a raging toddler can freely tantrum, a kitchen we adore, and a front and backyard that could occupy our weekends for a lifetime.

Anyone I've spoken with lately can tell you that since I have taken over the tasks of finance-management, I think like an entirely different creature. I see our money as a medium with which we demonstrate our priorities, a finite sum we are given the privilege of stewarding. It has been so difficult to curb my appetite for fine things and to apply wisdom to our situation. As part of this effort, we are on our second week of Farm Fresh Express-- a small local company committed to bringing healthy and economically conscienable food to people. You choose from an ever-changing selection of fresh food grown and made by local farmers and artisans. It is rooted in the "no impact" idea, like it's cool if people want to have bananas driven in trucks from California but not on my account. All the food is produced locally and then delivered to your home. I received my first delivery and it was like Christmas. I waited around until this slight, middle-aged woman pulled up in a Prius and muscled two coolers up to my porch. I have to say, the food was amazing-- brown egss with golden yolks, Metropolitan bread with an M stenciled onto the top, the most phenomenal salt you've ever touched/tasted. Anyway, when I cut the broccoli to steam for dinner, you can bet that I cut every last stalk and leaf into the pot. We are not paying $4/lb just for florets, my friend!

Just reading that, I can see how that would look like an inconsistency. But we want to be committed to wise use of resources-- the fuel used to bring food to our stores, the time it takes me to bring kids in and out of the market, and then make those sorts of sacrifices to live out of those convictions. Anyway, we are just trying this out, trying to be a work in progress. We'll see how it goes, but I have to tell you that receiving Lolla Rossa lettuce at your door, it having been picked that day, is just amazing.

loose tooth, lights out

Photos I wish I could up/download for this blog: Baby Calliope's glorious smile-- way more frequent these days and sometimes with accompanying and appropriate laughter. Manny's loose tooth--bottom left, I swear it's the first tooth he ever got. He is very shy about it, though. You can see him discreetly wiggle it with his tongue. Clara's Lisa Bonet-inspired pedicure, turquoise glitter with teeny red jewels on the pinky toe. My sis and I chasing our kids in the backyard, spoon-feeding them at dinner together. Geoff teaching Manny the fine art of the bicycle-kick on the fields at Philly U. Coming back into the boys' room after the whole routine to find them, not only awake but demonstrating a full-on Capoeira sparring match. "Lights out, brothers," Geoff says.

Ask the kids about: the 10 Commandments (They can tell you their faves and why.) Also, what pizza and God's Law have in common. Ask Clara to sing "The Wheels on the Bus." And if you want to choke up, ask the boys to sing verse 3 of "This Land Is Your Land."

Plugged Melon and G Diapers

Okay, I know I said I'd be taking a summer-blog break but one friend is leaving the country at the end of the month and I don't want to "let the wires go dead" just yet. Just wanted a quick post about a few things, free-association style:

Moving Up Day was really wonderful. I told you about how I am such a sucker for processsions: the children processed single-file, down a long aisle in the church and the music teacher played "Pomp and Circumstance." It was too much. We bit our quivering lips and snapped pictures to keep our arms from going weak.

When my old roommate, Katiebird, gave me the "Poor Poet's Cookbook," I don't think she predicted how essential it would become to our cooking life. Anyway, we made the "Plugged Melon" recipe. We made it once on Hyde Park Ave. in Boston. We got a cantaloupe from the Food Not Bombs box at Harvest, took it home. There, Geoff seeded it, and poured rum in it, I think. And then corked it back up and sealed it with a masking-tape X. We refrigerated it over night. The result was cold and delicious. The other night we tried it with this white wine that comes in a neon green box, I got for risotto. Geoff threw the wine in and some of the anemic little blueberries from the bottom of the pint. This time, the result was tart but the melon was ripe and sweet. The blueberries were a really fun addition. In retrospect, the neon wine is best for risotto. Maybe we'll get Lillet or something sweeter.

Geoff described my decorating style as "Ten Thousand Anthropologies." I think this is a good example of how I tend toward poshy excess but have my conscience bound up in the third world plight and frankly just enjoy things that look like they were pillaged from pirate ships. I am at peace with my contradictions. Anyway, I don't consider wear my ecology on my sleeve, generally speaking. But having two little girls in disposable diapers has me really scratching my head. "Oh, the landfills!" I keep thinking. So, Khiet, the closest likeness I'll ever meet to St. Francis, introduced Geoff to G diapers. They're flushable! They have a cloth cover and I have been rotating in cloth pre-folds that we've had since I attempted diapers with Manny back in the day. These are the non-bulky, clean, and rather easy solution we have been waiting for!

Becoming That Mother

I had a boyfriend in high school whose cosmic purpose in my life was to have his mother serve as the example of someone I did not want to become. But someone I was definitely in danger of becoming. Or am in danger of becoming.

This boyfriend was preparing to start college later that summer. His mother reminded him to nap in the afternoon. She plated his food for three meals. They were having stones in their front-walk relaid and made him sit and watch the masons for a physics lesson.

She phoned the Booster Club chair-person ahead of time to make sure that her family had good seating at the Sports Banquet. She had his NHS stole professionally pressed. She squabbled with the art teachers over which hallway his pottery should be displayed.

I can count on one hand how many times I have thought of the boyfriend. Yet I think of his mother at least once a week. Especially at the beginning of a week like ours: Alumni Auction, Moving Up Ceremony, Signups for Private Violin Lessons, even teaching Children's Church. I walk that fine line between loving and serving my children and masterminding their status to a very sick end. I want to mother my children well, hoping they'll be successful. Yet, I am tempted always to be angling for their success in a way that I think is manipulative and unhealthy.

This boyfriend's mother looms in my mind. I hear myself sometimes and think I resemble her, petite and polite but imperious and curt. She was perfunctorily polite but talked to her husband through her teeth. Her home was tasteful and groomed-- Delft pottery a big friendly dog of pure breeding. All of her ethnic features were country-clubbed into submission. I think of her now because she perplexes me. She was complex-- she was raising a really confident son with a very agile mind. He was creative and funny. He was happy, which was not common for a high school boy, at least in my experience.

So what I wonder now-- was she right? She had her hand in everything. I, on the other hand, am used to a big family--we invited our parents to our ceremonies and our games. Our parents had careers. My brother describes their style as "benign neglect." Our parents were macro-minded. I remember fighting with my mom, "What is this hockey-hockey business?" she asked after I'd been at an all-day field hockey tournament. They took our successes with gratitude, grace and humor. Having chosen to be home with my kids, I am looking for a way of being involved micro-mindedly but in a way that does not make me into that boyfriend's mother. I guess I know the answer I'm looking for, sane balance. Fighting that ivy-hungry paradigm. Being self-suspicious about what success means.

That boyfriend, with his Sampras-esque armspan, had in many ways what I would like for my kids-superficially, anyway. His mother had sterling intentions--let's have you travel, let's expose you to art and let's offer you a chance at some cool colleges. I think I can bring those opportunities to my kids. I just want to be honest about how this exposes my hunger for status. She stands out in my mind because she was aggressive and explicit about what she wanted for her son. As my kids grow up, I think it would be good to be explicit about it but just to be authentic as possible.

On the Town with Four

We Need to Talk

I've hit it. I've reached the point at which I am no longer just blogging about my life but doing things so that I can later blog about them. This is not a healthy thing for me. I think it is time for me to take a blogging sabbatical. I did a reading this past weekend, and you could read anything of your own. I chose two blog essays and when up there, I just felt like my first-word, best-word style was kind of stale. I missed having tight, polished poems. I felt the incongruity of my blog-voice and my own voice.

I am concerned about my attachment to my blog-identity-- a preoccupation with how I seem. I want to take more time and really "be." I find myself dodging out on real live interactions with friends and then thinking, "Oh, well, they'll read my blog and see how busy I am." While I absolutely believe that the work of mothering is noble work, it is work that I do not want to hide behind.

I am making for myself what I call, "My Summer, Unplugged." I want to pare back my use of all screens (tv, laptop, cell phone). It is one of my aims to try to slow down my thinking and have more intentional interactions with my man, with my children, also my friends.

I think I can return in the Fall, when we start our homeschooling adventure. I love the blog entries where folks document a definitive event or project. Maybe I'll post some photos especially of Calliope (who rolls over both ways now.)

I'm not breaking up with my blog, I just think we need some time apart.

Limitations of this Medium

How do you take a little thing you've always done and continue doing it when time marches on and you begin to see that in so many ways it could be better? Being married to the "god of digital media" (as Geoff was described in the credits of one of the senior films), I understand this is normal-- you want things to be user-friendly but to be slick and cool and beautiful at the same time.

I remember sitting in our coat closet-turned-Mac desk on St. Rose St. Geoff was presenting this idea of the "blog" to me. He set one up for me as a First-Mother's Day gift. Living in Boston, I had folks I wanted to update about our babies. I had so much to tell, my whole world was changing with the transition to motherhood. I used to send out these "baby mails," emails about Manny--rambling musings about all of his firsts, gushily grieving about the end of our honeymoon phase, and how I was finding my footing in the neighborhood parenting-scene. When I read these posts, I have to laugh. I was a little myopic and diva-esque, qualities I struggle to shake.

He transferred the content of these emails into a web log and showed me how simple this was all going to be. I embraced that folks could visit the blog when they wanted to, hoe my own little row and not worry with hit counts, counting on faith that my college roomies and my mom and sibs would faithfully check my posts. And mostly, these folks are for whom I write-- but also, that drooly baby I used to prop up on pillows and endlessly photograph, can now read. And soon he will be able to read my posts. For goodness sake, he will be able to post himself!

It occurs to me that I can write so that my kids will read my words and trace my path into motherhood. Whatever they choose to do, and the timeline they choose, they can see themselves and identify their mother finding her sometimes struggling, sometimes managing, one crazy day at a time. Hopefully, they will see that the whole time I was just holding dixie cups at the fountain of God's grace, trying to catch some for me, trying to catch some to give.

All this to say that there are so many slick and beautiful and elegantly-designed blogs in the ether. I'm just going to keep going as I can, trying to get it all down.

Prescription Playdates

The play dates are working. A few weeks ago, we had a five year-old on our hands who was sullen, moody and dreading his friends at school. Is it about the new sibling? Is it because he has been here for three years now? Is it his diet? Is it his rest? I was a pinball bouncing between these questions. I observed that when he is at home, he is my right-hand man, "Manny, please make sure Clara doesn't leave the porch. Manny, would you hold this bag of produce while I unlock the door. Manny, will you tell Benicio to unhand his sister?" I have all these expectations that he be a leader, a lot of responsibility for someone all of 40lbs.

While at school, he was unable to break from his role at home into being a peer among peers, a five-year old with simple cares like shoe-lace tying and rhyme-pairs for "Down by the Bay." So at school, he became a bit of a menace-- barking at kids for not sitting boy/girl and even hit his good friend. He took on the role of monitor and really lost his footing when it came to free play. So his teacher recommended we set up play dates with kids who were second born, less moody so he could be a "kid in a kid's world." She named two kids and we have had four dates so far. I was skeptical, I like my family cinched tightly around me. I pray the prayer, "Hem them in, behind and before." constantly.

But I saw a fruit today. His teacher was right. I can't tell you how deeply satisfying it was to see Manny take a friend's hand so naturally and have them not just laugh at his jokes but augment them. Or to hear him say, "You stir this until your arm hurts and then it will be my turn." I picked him up at his friend's house and he showed me his sun-print. I could see that he had been lost in play.

As we get ready for homeschooling, I can see that I will be unable to go it alone. That he will need his friends. That Geoff and I will need other adults who know him and whose hearts break for him when he struggles and who jump to their feet when he succeeds. Let this be a lesson to me.

The Mighty Small Ones

Benicio has informed us that he is "the baddest kid in the whole family." He has said it numerous times and each time I am caught flat-footed like, "Is this a self-proclamation? Is this a guilty suspicion? An aspiration?" I still don't know. When we started having kids, we always asked for spirited and interested kids. This, my goodness, we got.

Geoff has begun an epic consisting of the adventures of D and T (for Day and True, but the boys don't know this). D and T are the Mighty Small Ones. They are a cross between the Littles with their domestic inventions like acorn cap helmets and also the Justice League with their death-defying attempts at having truth and beauty win the day. In Geoff's stories, they defend Margalo, the baby sister, by rescuing her from physical near-misses. In mine, they ride around on firefly's backs and have arguments with killer whales.

I wanted to post about Benicio because I haven't in a while. He's so adaptable and hasn't made many waves since Calliope's arrival. In the sibling dynamic, he can be the subtle instigator who quietly wears down his brother's patience until he is sweating with rage. OR he can tenderly sing to the baby and select the softest toys as bedside offerings. Also, I've seen him shove Clara within the same game where he has also made her a cozy bed with couch cushions. He totally has my bugging-gene, which is the gene that is prevalant in the younger sibs of my family. It's this insistent almost compulsive need to tease. I don't think "tease" is the best word, it's sort of endearing and certainly motivated by affection. For example, following someone around offering evolving nicknames over their shoulder. Or finding a clever rhyme and exhausting everyone by repeating it ad nauseum.

This is, however, who has mastered the "to the moon and back" theory of love. He told Geoff that he loved him "up into space, up up up into space on top of that and breathlessly added up into space on top of that." Also he says names his best friend at school but then quickly adds that Manny is actually his best, best, best , best (he raises his voice pitch and adds several more bests) friend.

A few recent quotes from BTB: Using a a half-shoe box full of paper they had torn, they made a sushi factory using Clara's wooden slide. They called it "their Chinese Kitchen" and made sushi rolls called "chinese rice rolls.": : "Mom, I'm writing the signs for cents and cash in my ketchup." : : "Dad, before Cloe was born, was she just only made of sky?" :: "Cloe is getting lips like me." :: "When I was a baby, my name was Boone. Now I'm a big kid, my name's Benicio. I have another name I'm also going to have besides Benicio---- it's Rocket Boy."

What's On Your Desktop?

My friend's blog entry of the contents of her purse inspired this list of what is currently piled on my workspace: teacher evaluations that were due Feb. 16th, my crochet bag (Did I tell you I finished all three scarves?), address labels for birth announcements, a Virgin Mary night light, Fisher Price magnetic letters M, S, W and L, a boot box full of buttons given to me by my eighty year -old neighbor from Duval St, two issues of Baby Bug, Box Set of Gilmore Girls Season 2, my spending notebook whose last entry was February 11th, orange string belonging to a set of stilts, a coupon for a free greeting card, cards from my neices and nephews in Omaha a brochure about the RSV immunization and the thing that holds my ipod when I want to wear it at the gym.

Goodbye Fondue Pot, Hello Blender

With this phenomenal weather, I am getting to switch out the wools and fleeces for the cotton and the linen. We brought the thermoses to the basement, they had done hot-chocolate and vanilla milk duty all winter. The fondue pot from IKEA, which Geoff used for my 30th bday party also is going into hibernation. I am looking forward to all manner of kiddie tipples, fun freezy smoothies, and milkshakes that give purpose to my summers as an ice cream scooper at Mollie's.

We spent the afternoon at Olly Shoes getting amphibious shoes for the boys--shoes that do double duty for scooter-riding as well as prolonged hose-play. I have to make a little pile of extra frocks for Clara as she is quite taken with mud and other messy delights that our backyard offers. I am in love with her little red wellies.

One triumph of the weekend was getting the piano sound-board down from the deck. I think we are offending the sensibilites of our piano-playing friends but we had this idea to use the sound board as sort of a found-art sculpture that happens to be musical. Taking the harp out of a piano and having it in the backyard sounded redemptive to me. It turns out that its kind of rusty and perhaps we may be taking chances with tetanus.

We brought out the summer bedding, Woody Woodpecker pillowcases from my childhood and the softest flannel rose sheets from Geoff's grandmom. The kids have come into the house with bubble-solution stained shirts and their sweaty heads that smell somewhere between puppy and baking bread.

Something to Give, a Song to Sing

Things to remember about our life right now: the way the girls have been napping, nested in like little measuring spoons. When Benici set his load down to go answer the door--one in a set of handmade owls, a gift for the kids when Calliope was born and his favorite film of late-- Superman versus Nature and War (not only nature but war, too. And I love the ampersand, as if nature and war were a pair.) Our nursery school had chicks hatch this week-- the teeny life, cracking through and literally coming out of its shell. Reading the Sylvia Cynthia Stout poem aloud at nursery school and having the kids throwing their heads back in laughter. A visit from one of my best college buds with her daughter this week--lots of great chats.

And this unbelievable quote a friend found inadvertantly while observing a highschool writing class, sent from Anne Lamott:

"This is one of my favorite jokes because the character is so familiar to me. She is probably familiar to a lot of people you know. Maybe she is not ready for the deadness to be killed, or maybe, against all odds, she is. Maybe you can give her something from deep within to find or do or fight for that will break the trance for her. You'll have to find this first within you, though. And then you'll have it to give away. This woman may get to wake up.. And then she will have something to give, a song to sing. Maybe it won't be a song exactly, but maybe just a little tune, a CALLIOPE tune, the tune of survival."

Holy Weak, part 3

The boys are the perfect age for the Tenebrae Service-- the gradual darkness of the sanctuary, the thunderous pipe organ. We went to their friend's church. His parents were married there, this old stone Germantown gem with Bavarian wood carvings and immense and ornate stained glass. The three boys drew and we bribed them quiet with apricots and during the seventeen Scripture readings, m & m's. Ahem. I found it solemn and beautiful, my sleepy sons, dozing with their heads in my lap. One of our babysitters, home from college, gave a performance of "Were You There" that was soul-stirring and deeply grounding at the same time. Also, my Dad exchanging smiles with Calliope on Holy Saturday.

Holy Weak, more pics

I usually hesitate with pics of small cute boys (You never know if Pedophile McPervyson is checking your blog.) but Marcelo's faux-hawk made my day. You can't really tell but it's blue. Below is My Mom's symbolism table-- she painstakingly assembles objects and then the children get quizzed about the significance of what they see. Their scores are tallied and are given prizes accordingly. How's that for catechism accountability? (I was standing behind my kids biting my nails and thinking, "He knows that one!)

Holy Weak

More than any other year, I believe that Christ meets me in my weakness. The strained relationships, the arduous days as a mom, I know God is with me and in me. The frailty and brokenness in and around me are not lost. God promises beauty for ashes, liberation for bondage, and hope for entropy.

Eighteen Months Today

Clara Margot, I was looking for you this morning. The boys were at school. Your baby sis was asleep in the swing. I was trying to pay bills on the second floor. My guesses were: in the bathroom unpacking the hair products and glossing up the mirror pointilism-style OR in the family room trying to eat the cherries from Hi-Ho Cherry-O. When I heard you on the third floor, I dashed up there to find you on the floor of your room trying on shoes. You were maneuvering to kick off your solid soled, T-strap walkers in favor of the pink canvas sandals that tie across the toes in a cunning little knot. They look like something Chrissy would wear on Three's Company. I tried to stay hidden but you heard me laugh and immediately started to ask to nurse.

I know this transition has not been easy. You are still so young. I vascillate between thinking that you are really a big girl, making takeout tea parties in your play house outside, body checking your brothers' friends into the wall but then coming to you in the night to find a fitful baby who can't seem to find her way back to sleep. I also know that I'm not super-consistent about the nursing. Yes, at nap and bedtime but during stories or in the kitchen just for fun, no.

I see you finding your language and it is thrilling. You can say all of our names. You say, "um. . . um" and smack your lips as if to tell a story. When you recognize me during the night, you say, "Hey" like you are Rachel on Friends rather than my baby daughter. I want to savor you as you are right now. I don't want to pretend like you are more sophisticated than you are. Or that you are more delicate than you are. Last week, when you switched to the toddler nursery, one of only two girls among five boys. You held your own on the Sit and Spin and when someone tried to snatch your book, you held it fast and said "no" in a voice that would have made Camille Paglia proud.

When you want to linger on the front porch and unpack the groceries on the steps, I need to be more patient with you. When you insist on peeling your own hard egg, I need to let you. Your alabaster skin and your omniscient eyes take my breath away. You have your Dad's elegant neck and when you turn away, your little gold hoops swing a little. Keeping up with you is my athletic challenge, you climbing the ladder at nursery school, you standing on the kitchen counter. If I have to spend all my days, in pursuit of you, me breathlessly climbing steps to get you in my arms and snuggle you, then baby, I will.

Little C. Free: One Month Old

What a long road this month has been! Dear Little Calliope, happy first month birthday! What do you think of your life so far? Is it everything you hoped it would be all that time you were stewing in my tum? You amazed us with your triumphal entrance that night five weeks ago. With only your head born, we saw you making kissy face. Let it be said, Calliope, that you had us at kissy face. When they examined you, the student midwife kept talking right to you, "Now Calliope, I know this may feel strange, but I'm checking your parietals." She gazed into your eyes and said, "I think you have breast buds." We inspected you, searching for clues, wrinkled skin, overgrown nails-- did we really miscalculate the date? But no, you were pink-perfect and your fingernail-tips looked like they were tucked in to your nail beds, sealed for shipping.

Those first weeks, did you think you descended on a wild household? All the running, the brandishing the foot-stomping! Oh, but you and me, we got our little honeymoon. Rocking with you, watching the faint, toothelss smiles appear on your face then pass by like clouds on a bright day. When people say that infants only smile from gas, I think it's baloney. You really do smile, it is just brought on by your own newborn soulful thoughts. You at the breast for hours, vegging out on my voice tones or the stripes on my jammies. Your eyes fixed on something just above my head, what do you see? Is it angels, as my Mom believes?

Your milky neck smells and your biscuit-y hand smells are my oxygen mask. You may have been my littlest but you have been so steady. Already, you have been on the town. It must be said that I may of jumped the gun on this but how is a mom-of-four supposed to stay home for a whole month? You have been on the red carpet at the Philly Student Film Festival. You have been out past eleven at the Standard Tap. You have been to a political demonstration at Chestnut Hill Hospital. During these times, I will pull you from your sling or someone who has held you will pass you back to me and I worry that you got blanket impressions on your cheek or I fret that I didn't ask someone to sanitize their hands before holding you. But then I get you back in my arms and I see your Sara Gilbert-esque adorable turned-down mouth and your teeny star hands, and you look back at me as if saying, "I'm checking it all out, Mama."

Your entrance into our family rounds us out. You give us the symmetry I crave. Your brothers declare it a national holiday when you are awake. And your big sister has tried to nurse you on more than one occasion. What can I say, to my precious newborn baby girl? We welcome you with our openest of arms and we will stay busy at the work of making this world fit for you.

Forging Ahead in Fits and Starts

When Calliope was first born, I felt this release--we have the rest of life ahead of us! The last time I felt this way was after our wedding-- one chapter closed, a new bold kickass one begins. We've had our babies, now let's get down and dirty with the development-- spiritual formation, discovering literacy, long hours drawing on our tummies on the floor, social consciousness. Yes, I have these glimpses of a vision for the shape our family will take or a new direction to move as a parent, and then the inevitable--I lose my train of thought. I don't mean derailed and then quickly recovered, I mean the entire thought is vanished, gone.

A good friend confirmed this for me last night, this memory loss does not indicate a brain tumor. It is the side-effect of nursing our babies. The combination of the hormones prolactin and oxytocin act as memory erasers. You forget the stress and pain of childbirth, but then you forget your own cell phone number too. Folks ask how I am doing--I answer that I feel like I'm getting back the helm of my ship, finding the family rhythm little more. My dear friend brought me an Americano coffee this morning. I sipped it and made this juicy list about homeschooling. Calliope was in the swing and Clara was playing with her dinos. I was in this state of hands-free euphoria. Fifteen minues later, I'm nursing the girls on the couch and I cannot seem to form a sentence.

Goodbye Juniors Department

My parents were in town this past weekend. My Dad cooked up a storm-- a fortifying roast, a chicken soup for runny-nosed grand-kids, and a Spanish Menudo that Manny and Benicio devour. My Mom was on a Spring cleaning streak that both exposed my pat-racking tendencies and also simultaneously forced me to make my list of moratoriums-- no more lipsticks, Clara does not need more than 3 pairs of jeans, fight the attraction to adorable bags! Also, my Mom gave me a little money to go buy something that made me feel great. So, Cloe and I took to the mall.

The mall is where I discovered that I can no longer shop in the junior section. I was equipped with my new organizational resolutions--Keep things clean and feminine and classic. Springing for a well-fitting single thing is better than three cute things that I won't wear next year. Think of my closet as prime real-estate and don't fill it with stuff that makes getting dressed an ordeal. Also, I found myself standing in the junior department where there seemed to be an inordinate number of young women with long coltish legs, and drum-taut abs. I was in the market for a trenchy-type coat and maybe a cleverly -cut white dress shirt. I grabbed two coats and with Cloe in the sling, tried them on in the mirror. When the junior size 6 began to cut off the circulation in my upper arms, I thought, "That's okay." But when the size 8 failed to conceal what Anne Lamott refers to as the "flannel covered waterbed" that is my belly, I thought, "Damn it, we're leaving."

Geoff and I resolved that our thirties were going to be the time when we stopped posing. Grew up. Grew into who we've always been and kind of pare away the rest. Begin to see ourselves rightly. I am not saying I am throwing out all my favorite novelty T-shirts. My Mom was begging me to do away with my E.T. shirt and my "Cow-tipping" one. We compromised and she put them in a bin entitled, "holding area" for stuff I can't make heads or tails of. I think I am still holding onto my carefree days where my sis and I combed the boys section at thrift stores and squeezed into boys 8s and 10s that said funny things like "Sacred Heart Bulldogs" and my favorite tank that had British auto names emblazoned on it. My mom held up my Rubber Soul T and said that Manny could fit into it. Dear Lord.

Anyway, I bought a lemonade and regrouped my dignity, went back into H & M and found a smart little coat in a color halfway between army green and chocolate brown with a flattering shape and a sash tie around the waist.

the swing of things

The Cowardly Lion and the TIn Woodsmen at the nursery school Wizard Of Oz night party. Geoff said it was amazing. Also, Geoff with our FOUR children!!

Week 3: Strength in the Water

Geoff started back at work this week. Our sons were on Spring Break. I felt equipped by the stern lecture from my mother, "You have strong genes. We came to this country with nothing. Imagine me with a newborn and a ten-month old, I had to be at the hospital every fourth night and work all night-- and your Dad was at sea." I thought of this scenario a lot this week-- my mother in the late sixties, new to this country, trying to juggle med school and motherhood. Thinking of this makes me feel a bit like a ninny-- I chose this path, we chose this spacing, and I have four healthy and wonderful children. I should be grateful-- and I really am.

But it wouldn't be an honest account if I didn't say that this week has felt like treading water-- a boy on the third floor needing assistance on the potty, Calliope rooting and fussing in the sling, and Clara standing at my sewing machine plucking pins from their cushion, and another boy trying to explain a complex plot in one of his drawings and would I please draw some speed lines from this guy to his ship. Trying to catch a breath in between, staying afloat while the needs and demands swirl and bob around me.

Trying to figure out what it means when folks are offering help, how to say what would be helpful (or what wouldn't be helpful for that matter.) Help to Geoff sometimes looks different than help to me. I am learning to steer myself toward my safe harbors-- visits from friends who help me to breathe and laugh, going outside to begin to see Spring, this book on the life of St. Francis, which I lifted from my parents house. Trying not to sweat the laundry situation, the veil of dust.

Calliope Free-Week 3

Calliope's Birth Story

Most midwives require that for each child who is present for the birth, there should be a care-person for him/her, someone other than his/her parents. Because it was a priority to have Manny, Benici and Clara present, I thought carefully about who I wanted to be their support-people. I asked my two yoga teachers, one who was with me through Clara's pregnancy as well as Calliope's and one whom I have trusted with a lot of my pregnancy questions-- with both I would say, I have done a lot of "body work." What I mean is, I trust their care like a clinician and find that after practicing yoga with them through Cloe's pregnancy, I really had little or no reservations about moaning or hip-circling in their presence. (This is a very important thing for a birthing mama. If you don't feel comfortable with someone seeing you vulnerable, you aren't going to birth well in their presence.)

And also, I invited someone who I consider to be a great friend to my kids. She came up to me just after Clara was born and said, "I had a great conversation with Manny on the swing today. He's a bit low-energy but it seems like he's really transitioning well with his new sister." It is hard to tell if I like her more than Clara does because we have equally meaningful interactions with her. In other words, I love the way she enjoys my kids and I knew if they found themselves in her arms to witness their new baby's birth, they would be delighted.

All this to say that I have three amazing accounts of Calliope's birth, which these women have given me. I tried to excerpt them for my blog but I feel like some kind of editor, and I don't want to mess with them. So, what I'll do is email them in their totality to whomever asks.

first days with our Calliope

Calliope Free

Our daughter, Calliope Free was born just after midnight on Friday, March Second. She arrived in glorious fashion. We feel full with pride and hope for her. She weighed 7lbs. 10 oz. and was 19 inches long. Her siblings were present at her birth.

Connecting with the Expanse

photos from our afternoon at Morris Arb. We played Hide 'n Seek, Red Light, Light and discovered the soul-renewing qualities of frolicking in open green space.

Holy Field Trips and Getting My Hook On

"Our priest sent us ice skating two days before our wedding, and it was amazing to say we were on a holy field trip of sorts and no amount of relatives were going to argue with that. Having time for just us to do whatever was really good when there was so much other stuff going on. So I hope you guys felt a little bit of that freedom, even if it was at Home Depot!"- -my friend, Genevieve

Friends have afforded us some great dates during these past weeks. We have seen the new Diane Keaton film, the new Drew Barrymore film, discovered an adorable candy store that stocks Scandinavian licorice reminiscent of Geoff's Denmark year, and had a very satisfying return-extravaganza at Home Depot and Ikea. I love Genevieve's idea of a "holy field trip." It does feel like that, being sent out on a kind of mission where the goal is to allow the activity to diffuse some of the thick and tangled stuff inside you. I like picturing her and her husband out on the ice, out from the strictures of family-expectation and just skating together hand in hand. Anne Lamott writes about taking her son bowling after a friend's funeral, out there flinging heavy balls and wearing borrowed shoes.

We have so enjoyed these gifts of freedom. Driving the bends of McCallum St. back into Chestnut hill laughing at the SNL sketch about the Target cashier. Asking Geoff to pick up a melon salad for me thinking (for the hundredth time) I was starting active labor. Scoring two beautiful chairs from AS IS Ikea. On these dates, we get to look at each other and wonder who feels worse for whom--Geoff weathering beautifully the on-callness of all of his classes and meetings trying to provide for the monthly bills while there are so many trips to the food co-op that begin to add up. He is up with the 5am requests for cereal. And then he passes out at 8pm reading stories to Clara. I can see how life is stretching him. When taken out of the context of the home, we can revisit briefly our dating days and our adolescent courtship.

As for my crochet process, I was slowed down by two things. Manny seems to have lost his beautiful new scarf at school-- and in a futility spiral today, I declared, "I will not continue to make things that you boys disregard!" Manny says that the scarf is "somewhere around his cubby." The other thing is that Claresie unwound my yarn ball for Benici's scarf. Not as fun to crochet with a big tangle to contend with. It has been good to get back to the tactility of needlework. I am challenging myself to see if I can finish these scarves before El Numera Quatra decides to make an appearance.

Still More Lessons In Waiting

In case you were wondering if we'd had the babe yet, we haven't. I guess I will be at 42 weeks this Friday. We woke up this morning and Geoff said, "I think it's going to be this week!" I dearly hope so. His hope is strong. I, on the other hand, am done guessing. Done with the false starts. I think I need an epidural so I can stop guessing if active labor is beginning, have it wear off just when I'm starting to really roll, really dilate. Okay, Labor, show me what you got-- you elusive and tricky thing. My sis assures me that my bod has NOT forgotten how to labor and that it will let me know what it needs to do.

Last night, Geoff built this huge fire, such that we were down to our T's before the first commercials. I watched the show careful to watch the reactions of disappointment. I had never been so fixated on this. Watching the divided screen when they were opening the envelope and then the way the non-winners reacted. The blinky, flustered look. The trying to look really dignified and not shocked with disappointment. I thought it was artful-- how to handle this, with so many people watching. My month-long project in disappointment has has so many phases-- can I put my head in the oven now moments, hole up in the house and don't speak to anyone moments, jamming God's inbox with whiny squeaky prayers about patience. I want to learn to have dignity and still be desparate for supernatural healing and transformation. To have a hunger for "the lesson" in all of this even while I go about the day's business of nursery school pickup and standing in line at the food co-op.

Anyway, more lessons for myself in case this I am ever in this situation of over-gestating: Do not wear convalescing clothes-- shower and dress for every day to do the work of waiting and being a mother to this family. ::Throw yourself into the minutiae-- I went to the yarn store and bought three skeins of yarn, got a crash-crochet tutorial from Genevieve and have made 1.5/3 scarves for the kids. Very gratifying to send Manny out into the snow with a new green scarf in this gorgeous plump German wool. :::Enjoy things that I won't be able to do for a while-- I made a beautiful risotto last night, something a little more tedious than I usually have time for.::: Talk to the kids-- yesterday, I pulled the boys aside and wanted to repent to them about how I have really been harsh and full of orders rather than love. How I have been less interested in playing with them and obsessing over wear they stow wet boots. Benici's response was, "But Mom, yes you do play with us! Remember when you drew heat vision for my penguin?" Manny's was, "Mom, I can forgive you." Little Margot and I skipped church and watched Gilmore Girls. She nursed and napped while I crocheted. I'm trying to have my aperture thrown wide to notice these cozy, juicy moments.

seven instead of ten

We found out on Wednesday afternoon that we have a miscalculated due-date. Just by 3 days, though. So, we are still awaiting our baby girl. Numbers bounce around in my head: Manny was 10 days past due, Benici-8, Clara-1. Now we are 41 weeks, in 7 days, we won't be eligible for a homebirth.

We have been trying to stay steady on the roller coaster that these past weeks have been. So much for thinking that after three kids, you are an expert. Each day brings new discovery about how fundamentally we don't control our lives.

a taste for sweets

Left: Manny won the candy topiary at Baby Lucia's First Birthday Bash for his decisive and swift victory at "musical chairs." Right: Clara discovers the distinct taste of blue razz. (And also, you can see how I milk every last day out of the Hannah Anderson pilot caps.) When faced with the opportunity to enjoy sweets or juice, I appeal to their conscience and ask, "What did Dr. Rivette (our dentist) say about this?" Today, Manny, who is usually the strict legalist, replied, "Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind."