On the Last Day of the Year

I would like to quote my (still) favorite writer:

Not forgiving is like swallowing rat poison and waiting for the rat to die.

"You can either practice being right or practice being kind."

both by Anne Lamott

Winter Break: Hot-Button Words

There are some controversial words to Clara and Calliope. Here they are:

-die: It's not that I want to censor them but we try and teach them that words matter. And in this case, I say, dying is not a joke. As in, if you squish that bug, that's it. Its life is done. Clara is fond of listing people who have died including saints and presidents. Calliope is testing the word out like, "Manny, you don't want this marker-- it's DEAD!"

-shut: The major controversy is that Clara shrieks if Calliope says it but Calliope swears that it's what her play-group sings (Wheels on the Bus) so it's okay.

-fat:This one is new. My own post-partum-figure struggles aside, I had a good friend in high school who was hospitalized for tearing her esophagus from bulimic purges. So if you ask me, I encourage them to draw zaftig princesses and angels who my dear friend Mercedes would describe as "thickems." But alas, they are aware of depictions and images of figures and have begun to describe things this way. Mostly, they use it between themselves while drawing and really I haven't addressed it yet.

-Who cares? I don't care. We don't care. This one is big. This is Clara's favorite. I know that she is "coming into her own power", as my director at Hollow Reed School would say. So this phrase allows her autonomy and sometimes self-defense. Sometimes it is a statement of advocacy as in, "Calliope knows you're excluding her but she doesn't care." This one has gotten dicey: "Benicio took my seat when I didn't care but now I REALLY DO care!"

christmas days-photos to follow

Our Christmas, Stream of Consciousness Style:

Singing in the choir on Christmas Eve: Descant to Silent Night is my favorite. Hearing a sermon about the shepherds being immigrants. That God chose to reveal the news of the Messiah's birth to poor, uneducated, uncool, immigrants. The salmon was tender and perfect. I will never forget bending over it with my Dad, us both diagnosing it like a patient. My Dad peered in and saw how I stuffed it and said, "Whoa, that's nice." The Yankee Swap-- laughing really hard about a crystal tray and proper uses for a Slanket. Geoff in his best shirt, patching my brother's windshield against the rain. Playing with Adri's puppy, Charlie aka Cholly. Our kids singing in the choir on Christmas Day-- chests barreled out on that fine line between singing and yelling. Calliope eating Christmas dinner in her bikini bottoms and that's it. Mushroom risotto made with questionable shiitakes. Chatting into the night with R & W about heat-conservation, movies, our jobs, stress-management. Having everyone sleep in on the morning of the 26th and being able to be up way before my parents, never happens.

And now we are tucked in the coziness of Aspen Way, where kids have gone on dates with the grands, we have ducked out to the movies, taken wintry walks, shopped with Mom (who says all picked out instead of all picked-over), eaten ice cream in the glass flower-petal bowls of my childhood, made copies of old family photos. My Mom made dinner tonight and I don't remember eating her cooking since I was in college. She made Dad's lemon chicken with sauteed string beans. I watched part of her process and find we are so similar-- an inspired flurry of coarse chopping and then taking a phone call then pausing to read an article, rather than a meticulous clean as you go style. She spares no countertop, and uses many bowls-- as if staging for her own cooking show.

The kids are strung out on cable and langorous baths given by my Mom. They have each earned more than $5 for Theology questions like: When the angel came to Mary, what did she do? What did she NOT do? Clara bounded from my parents car after Church, "I just earned silver coins because the Herod chased Jesus family out of their home!"

Winter Break:Days 4 et 5

Last night, I babysat for friends. I forgot how sweet it was to be with an infant at Christmas. I got to rock a little baby by the light of the Christmas tree while watching cable. Bottle feeding is a trip! You can see the vulnerable little palate as they take in all that milk. I gorged myself on tv (a show that follows the Antrhopologie buyer around the world, parts of the movies "He's Just Not That Into You" and "Rachel Getting Married" a depressing program about black mold, which I had to turn off and Oprah's Obama Special at the White House).

We also went to family swim, my eyes are still red from exchanging underwater messages with Clara. She had the common sense to do sign language while I was unsuccessfully mouthing words while laughter bubbles obscured my face.

This morning--Geoff took the girls to the movies while the boys and I had our own date. They came with me to my Kickboxing class. Oh my, that was so much fun! Manny wanted to listen to his own ipod while still participating in class. Talk about marching to your own drummer! And Benicio, oh man, he was 100% ninja. After Kickboxing, we went to the five and dime and saw tiny baby turtles. They got Pokemon cards and are happy as larks. I had really hoped that vacation would be so chill that they would have time to play in their rooms, to rest, and for goodness sake, find themselves bored. I like watching them make their own fun. I think it's good for them to direct and redirect their energies.

The elfing is almost done. What we haven't made yet, will have to wait. The kids are more excited to give their gifts than they are about Santa. I'll tell you more about the gifts later but I need to run-- I have a carrot cake in the oven!!

Leavetaking and Homecoming

It has been hard to write about this but as more time passes, I know the window is closing. But this is what I want to say: I am practicing Catholicism and it is good.

I just came from Seasonal Choir practice. I go back and forth about this in my head-- the voice of my Protestant friends, clicking their tongue and shaking their head in disappointment but then this other voice, this voice of okay-ness. Like where we are is okay because that's where we are. I don't want to say that coming away from our Liberti experience has affected me with this limp, this spiritual handicap. But I feel like something got broken there and it still hurts.

And that where I am, at St. Vincent's in this particular community, feels like I am able to be who I am. I don't know if it's a disrespectful metaphor but this may be what it feels like for some people to come out of the closet. Like maybe I was putting on a charade of being this person, of doing these things and all along, I wasn't being honest. I am less interested in exploring the great theological divide between Reformed Presbyterianism and Social-Justice Catholicism but more interested in exploring why I left what I was raised with. Why I turned so easily from it, and why it took me so long to look back.

Not long ago, I was at a party with folks from our old church. I took on the posture of an older-sister when asking this newly-graduated friend about her leave-taking of her Catholic upbringing. I could see myself in her, the fresh-faced sincerity of wanting a faith with feet, of enacting God's Word in zealous and radical mission trips, dramatic evangelical conversations in her stunning social life. She explained how the liturgy felt suffocating to her. She felt hostile about praying to saints and Mary. I could hear her but I asked her to just be cautious in her turning away, to be careful about how she walks away.

I can't make sense of it all here but I want to document these things now, so when my girls for example are in college, they can read this and maybe identify with this--the divergence of what your parents have taught you and how God is being revealed to you. I want them to know that I have been here. That this heavy and difficult spot is no fun but somehow, God is at work in it.

Above is a photo that Clara took just after Daily Mass at St. V's. The priest is from Jakarta but has been to the PI lots of times, he says.

Winter Break:Day 3

Ideas that Did Not Work Today:
-wearing suede wedge platform boots to go sledding
-sleeping in
-a 3pm snack of cookies

Ideas that DID Work Today:
-playing music in their rooms while we cleaned them
-telling them that Santa is watching over how often they wear slippers
-giving them the label-maker for their domain

Ideas Whose Success Remains to Be Seen:
-ordering a Nova Scotian whole salmon to grill on Christmas Day
-putting protein powder in hot chocolate
-Santa's general interpretation of their letters not a literal one

P.S. I have never felt this blog so interactive. I love the comments that are lists back to me. I really think all blogs should be a dialogue. Maybe you can't tell but I get a thrill every single time!

Winter Break:Day 2

Missing:
-pie spatula
-bag of tiny candy canes

Healing:
-Benicio's bad wind burn from yesterday,eeee.
-Calliope's chapped cheek from a week ago, much better.
-Clara's eczema, ooh.

On its last leg:
-toaster
-plexiglass in our bathroom

Pronounced Dead:
-babyfood cuisinart
-two Superhero ornaments

Now Making:
-whole wheat baguette
-a system for cold wet things not to make salt stains on the floor
-a Lego ship that plows snow and shoots bad guys
-an oven to heat water for babies
-a jewel lineup along the wall

Winter Break: Day 1

Geoff and sons brave the snow and attend last Street Hockey session. They come home with their first trophies!:: The girls and I watch Creature Comforts and make French eggs:: I get the sewing machine up-- boys finish girls' gifts, I finally finish a banner from Clara's first birthday:: Knitting by the fire:: Lube up cheeks tomorrow-- 2/4 kids got bad wind burn!:: The boys hardly did any writing or drawing today. It's okay:: Geoff plays the piano through our choir songs:: Made chicken pot pie--Manny can make salad by himself-- in a few more tries, he'll be able to toast nuts for the salad:: Geoff reads Aristotle while I finish sewing:: Then we watch 2 Days in Paris by Julie Delpy. We laughed so hard:: Kids are asleep in the family room with the embers glowing.

To the Parkview Girls

Okay, girls. I did it. I got into grad school.

I dedicate this acceptance letter to you Alice, Shannon, Katybird and Jes. After putting up with me in the year of our engagement AND the season of trying to get into ten MFA programs-- it is you who should be congratulated. At long last, more than a decade after graduation, I finally have closure to all that anxiety that was wrought during our senior year. Wedding planning aside, I was in an academic identity crisis and trying very hard to comport myself as an MFA candidate-- all the revising, the incessant self-doubt, the late-nights, the buckling self-esteem spiked with spells of arrogant grandiosity. As my roommates, you buoyed me through that year and now, I can see my debt to you.

Alice, for fasting with me and feeding me omelette just after. For calmly reading Plato while stirring at the stove. And for eating Ben and Jerry's with me when bad letter after bad letter showed up in the mail. We were cut from the same odd and beautiful cloth. I think of Geoff when I read Neruda but I hear your voice. Counseling school will help me plumb the waters in which, maybe ambivalently, you have always swum well. Love you bunches forever.

Shannon, I confess that I ate more than my fair share of that banana bread. It was sustenance for the hollow feeling the writing workshops gave me. I think God knew that I was not cut out for poetry school. I always admired your commitment to your nursing program, your clarity, the joy that work gave you. Summa cum laude, you are no joke and never ever will be.

Katybird, to you I owe my coffee addiction, my love for baking, and stock in DELL for an unbelievable amount of tech support. I printed everything out on your poor computer in the basement! And I had the gall to wake you from a sound sleep so that I could finish my analysis of Russell Edson's anus poem! I promise not to wake you when I try to finish papers for Westminster, no matter how strange the computer is acting. From a sound REM sleep, you could sit up, press buttons, and the printer would produce a ten page paper! However, I reserve the right to be tucked into the safety of one of your patented Katybird wingspan hugs.

Jes, remember that horrible time when I grilled you about why you thought psychology was a good major and did you think that was kind of a cop out? You don't? Okay good. Never mind. Ahem. Well, in case you DO remember that, I only said that because I didn't know what I wanted to do. (And I thought that Women's Studies might be a better fit for you.) Well, I certainly am getting mine now because here I am, about to take out mad loans to attend--in essence, psychology school. You showed me Kenneth Koch and his recordings,introduced me to good tea, and took photos that captured who I was during that unbelievable year.

So, girls, grab the nearest thrifted juice glass, shamelessly fill it with Prosecco (Jes, for you rootbeer) put on your fashion specs (aka grad school glasses), raise your glass and drink up! This one's for you!

Playdate Overheards

I am learning a lot during these playdates. Here, you have your own kid whom you know intimately and always have. And here, you have this other child that you've agreed to have over, to care for, to watch. I did a lot of observing with Manny and his friend. I think this was best. Even on the drive from school I was reveling in their matching quirks-- you think that they aren't listening to what's being said but then in the most adorable and canny way they respond appropriately. Example: Manny says, "Remember when our class went on that camping trip and we took rocks and threw them in the creek?" Pause. Friend is looking out the window the other way. "Remember that? Hey, do you remember when we did that?" Long pause. And then slowly he turns and wistfully replies, "Of course I do. I remember."

And then this kid was eager to have Geoff home to show them how to animate. Geoff had come into their class for a demonstration last year. "Hey, Manny. Do you think your Dad could animate a hippo with red pants and a frog with no pants at all?"

Also:"I haven't made a video in almost a year but I'm in tip-top shape for it!"

Then at dinner, when Clara dropped her barrette into the lemonade, I said, "Clara, that's mischief. Now no one can have lemonade."

Friend pipes up, "She wanted to see if it would sink or float."

Is it okay to do mischief at your dinner table at home? I asked.

"My Mom loves it when I tinker with science!"

Clara smiles, "Liam, it floats!"

Names and Letters

I don’t even think she knows about signatures. That you write your name in this way and that it bears significance. She is learning how to sign the letters of her name, her little polished nails with the snake tattoo she chose from the Advent calendar. She forms the letters with her hands. She concentrates so hard, forming it first in her lap then thrusting her hand out there for you to see.

And now she writes her name. First and last. And this is the best part, what comes after. Like you would sign MD or PhD or MA or CNM after your name she writes:

CLARA BEATTY 4EKKKTT

The 4, for her age. And the letters to represent friends she’s had playdates with. And if she’s had two playdates with someone, she writes the initial to correspond. I don’t know how long the letter-string will go on, she doesn’t actually do a ton of playdates. But this makes me think she remembers each one and that they really mean something to her.

Pie and Joke Night

We went from having regular Movie Nights to Game Nights to Fort Nights and to Pie and Joke Night. Here are some of the jokes from Pie and Joke Night. In case you were wondering, Geoff built a fire upstairs. The pie was cherry (no red #4). And the jokes were all extemporaneous and stream of consciousness. I was spitting crust crumbs, laughing so hard, and trying to scrawl these down:

What did the vacuum say to the dust buster?
What?
I'll clean up.

What did the week say to the Earth?
What?
How many more days?

What did the tornado eat for supper?
I don't know, what?
Houses and people.

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Banana.
Banana who?
I forgot to say apple.

Why did the girl drive this way and the boy drive that way?
I don't know, why?
Because he called her a pig. Then she crashed the pig.

And then this one which is an antique joke from when my brothers were into making VHS films in high school. They wrote it for my sister when she was 6 but this is how Manny has modified it:

(with tons of innocent enthusiasm) Hey, guys I have a joke! I have a joke!
What time is it when an elephant sits on the fence?
(Change the expression to grave seriousness.) TIME TO COLLECT YOUR THOUGHTS.

She Knows Too Much

Today in Giant, she started out requesting the behemoth shopping cart with the truck front. She did that for a bit. Then in the chicken-stock aisle, she hopped out and decided to identify rice types--"This one looks good, Mom. It's little. This is the one Big Dad uses." Then she climbed into the seat which faces me. She can fit into it sideways, her whole lower half perpendicular to me as I make my way through the store. This is very good for sniffing her ear and neck. We spent 20 minutes with the musical cards, her favorite was the Charlie Brown one with "Hark the Herald."

All of my erranding, my stealth elfing operation is in danger. She has seen everything and there's nothing I can do about it. Knowledge of Santa's existence hangs precariously in the balance. She could easily tell her sibs that she saw me buy the Playmo Roman Arena at Marshalls and she saw me poring over fonts for the monogram on Clara's ballet bag. She could bring the Santa mythology down like so much wind to a house of cards.

Margaret, Are You Out There?

A few months ago, my friend Margaret, from Boston days, commented on my blog. She hasn't commented since, neither Geoff nor I have her email, and she's not on Facebook. So this message is for her:

Times I Think of You: A List For Margaret
-whenever I see flowering eucalyptus, which I used for Thanksgiving
-using silver trays for every day like when you served McDonald's on silver trays with plastic Ikea cups by the light of the Christmas tree
-whenever I re-arrange furniture
-when I make a boundary as in, "That's not my red wagon to pull."
-whenever I make apple cake with hot custard
-when we use the fire-engine plate you painted for Manny

-and now that I am trying to apply to counseling school, I'm thinking, how did you pull that off??

BTB's Seventh Trip Around the Sun

To our dear son as you turn seven:

Over the weekend, you invented "Tag Ball," made your own passport with this question, "grownup or kid" and you wrote:k-I-d, and you tithed your birthday money. You make all of us around you look better, be better and want more out of life. You navigate critical adults, awkward and stony-hearted children, and your carefully-selected friends. How do you do it? It's like you are able to finely tune the world around you to play perfectly in your harmony.

I know that I am the toughest on your character because I know we are very similar, and you don't know how hard I pray that you don't get messed-with in life. That you can find your corner--get strengthened and rally back into the tough and terrible world out there. I know you know this and yet you work hard to bring hope and beauty into it anyway. Like the moon-power reflector you made tonight. It was a skinny stick that you whittled to expose the bare wood. You drew on it with soft-graphite so that it was silvery. Then you held it up under your eye. It was to reflect and catch the moonlight, you said. All out of a stick!

We are dumbstruck, flat-footed, and bowled over by you every day but know that we are your parents. We are here to keep you safe and to lead your way.

highlights, lowlights

From my weekend sans Geoff:
Highlights:
-Scrubbing the kitchen sink to a satisfying shine while listening to Ah Perfido! while the kids played in the sun.
-A long game of hide n' seek at the arboretum, chasing the heck out of them with nowhere else to be.
-The litany of the Saints on Sunday morning, the kids touching the Book of the Dead with wonder in their eyes.
-They collected kid-sized armfuls of kindling at the arb.
-Wrapping them up like burritos and tickling them til they drool or toot.
-Waking up before all of them to read and have my cup.
-Wearing jammies and robes and reading stories on the front porch to wait for Geoff.

Lowlights:
-Almost 20 minutes, five of us, in the bathroom at Whole Foods.
-Dropping the F bomb at breakfast when 5 dollars of organic milk splashed our feet.
-Trying to arrange pillows to simulate my husband's sleeping frame.
-The worst combination of 2 kids fighting, one injured one and one precariously close to being injured-- and all of them SIMULTANEOUSLY asking for help in some way.

Sons of Geoffrey

These are things the boys have done while Geoff is away that demonstrate that they are, in fact, his sons:
-Manny sat on his feet for 45 minutes straight while silently building with Legos.
-Manny wanted to listen to Christmas music in the car and also at home.
-Benicio ate two Tarzan sandwiches.
-Benicio put his T-shirt in the drawer and took two out that he no longer needs.
-They both put away an entire homemade pizza last night.
-Benicio has drawn surveys, look n finds, and scores of battle scenes just today.
-Manny says, "I have not been on my water today."

Proustian Quiz: Clara and Calliope

I just gave the girls the questionnaire from the pages of Mini Boden via Genevieve's blog. I can't wait til the boys get home. I am surprised at their answers and can see how people spend so much time doing this. Give them 10 years or even 20 and the answers could be the same.

Name:C-L-A-R-A

Age:4

Best thing in the world:
HERSHEYPARK

Fave movie:
ALICE IN WONDERLAND

I want to be:famous ballerina

Animal I'd Like To Be:a pig for Sophie

Worst food:salad

best gift: heart purse from Kayla Joy

fave book:Alice in Wonderland from Zady

Afterschool, I enjoy:watch a movie at home without the boys

favorite word: princess

favorite sandwich: cream cheese and jelly

hidden talent:soccer

fave game: hide n seek no tag stay hidden

Best thing I’ve found: found the hook at my school

something nobody knows: Sometimes I’m bored.

Name: Calliope

Age: 2

Best Thing In the World:Nanay calling me “Chula”


Favorite Movie:Bible Songs

I want to be a: princess

Animal I'd Like to Be: crocodile snapping my arms

worst food: peas

favorite book: Toot and Puddle

After play group: get gum


Favorite word: perfect

Favorite Sandwich: cheese and pickle

Hidden Talent: doing ABCD’s

Fave Game: pbs kids

Best Thing I've Found: treasures from L.A.

Nobody Knows: That I’m perfect and grownups stop saying it.

a list for lost time

Entries I Could Have Been Writing:
-Calliope's Drawings
-Clara's New Signature
-Teacher Conferences
-Floor Hockey, the New Frontier
-My New Love/Hate with the Treadmill
-Why Geoff No Longer has Night Bikes to School
-St. V's
-How I Am Staying Calm Before Turkey Day
-The Book I'm Reading (which contains both the words "frottage" AND "mutatis mutandis")
-How I'm Supposed to Write a 400 Word Essay (for my grad school app and it's turning into a doctoral thesis)

Plum Wine and Ace of Base

Okay highlights from K with the M's"
-Role call: one med student, one law student and one PhD student, one Catholic housewife.
-Drinks ordered:two ice waters one plum wine.
-Songs belted: Nat King Cole's "L-O-V-E", Xtreme's "More Than Words" (Guess who held the mic.), Ace of Base's "Signs."
-Duets attempted:everything Disney like the one from Aladdin and the one about Moses.
-Embarassingly satisfying and enjoyable: Mariah Carey's "Always Be My Baby" and "Tainted Love."
-While trying to channel Maggie Gyllenhaal singing "Just The Way You Are" karaoke, I might have been more of a sleep-deprived but studious tween.
-Endnote:It was great to come home by walking through our backyards and up the back deck into the kitchen door. It felt very Family Times-ish.

About the Mormons

I was a religion major. So I think about these things a lot. How families are. How their faith strengthens them, how they live--and why is that because of their faith?

I grew up knowing a Mormon family. They had a ton of kids and I knew one of the sons. He is one of the most fun-loving and clean people I have ever known. They didn't have a house, they had a stead. The home was full of inside jokes and complicated but innocuous pranks. At the time that I knew them, some of the older sibs were in adolescent rebellion and the parents were handling it with humor and humility when some of our parents were having what my bff used to call "shit fits" (As in, I can't call you until Sunday or my Mom will have a shit fit.)

I have never seen a Mormon have a shit fit. We live back-to-back with a couple who exemplifies this pattern. Not only this but they are illustriously-accomplished. One of them is in med school and the other wants her PhD in public health. Once I ran into them late at night at the Shop Rite. I asked Mark, "Doesn't shopping here make you hate your existence?" He looked at me and thought about it. Then he said, "Maria, nothing makes me hate my existence." And it's completely true, as far as I can tell. And you know neighbors, you end up seeing each other's seams. More than once, I have laid down right in the backyard, agonizing over mosquitoes and whining about what to make for dinner. Every time I see them, one of them is studying and Mark naps contentedly in the grass with his cell phone resting carefully on his chest.

Anyway, I had to write to clarify. I am stumped by them, those Mormons. Their witness is pristine. And at this moment in my life, it feels good to know people so sincere and un-jaded and grateful for every breath.

little things

At our church in Cambridge, part of the Sunday School for kids was to send them home with a sticker that said a talking point or some topic that they covered that day. I remember Emi's, "Ask me about One Lost Sheep." Well, today my sticker would say, "Ask me about:
karaoke with the Mormons
the pure joy I get from my step class at the Y
the Used Clothing Sale at our school
how first floor bathroom is proof of God's love
Dr. Sears NDD book is giving us all a healthy glow and more energy
mentoring an undergrad who's dating another undergrad whom Geoff's mentoring
my admissions meeting at Westminster Seminary

*Katybird had her baby girl, Dessa, on Clara's birthday right there in the O.

The Gut Is Right

Manny's got Lyme's. In June, we found a tick in his ear. I saved it in a tiny glass jar and they said it was not a deer tick. in July, he had a rash over his left breast. Alarmed at its proximity to the heart, I took him in, and nothing was found. Mid-October, he's got joint pain and a swollen elbow. He told us and the ER over and over again that he was not injured. That his elbow just hurt. He was right, it was from the inside. His body at war with the disease, doing battle in his joints.

With kid-illness, with other things in mothering, I keep finding that the gut is right on. Anne Lamott writes about seeing things out of the corners of your eyes, vigilant for the broad strokes, the larger shapes, the general tone and sense of things-- is this a safe idea, is this a good scene for us, is this the best we can do? Generally looking this way, I can do well when I tune into these instincts.

My Mom reminded me to consider The Sorrowful Mysteries of Mary: The Agony in the Garden, The Scourging at the Pillar, the Crowning with Thorns, The Carrying of the Cross and the Crucifixion. I have never understood those until now. I can see Mary, tempted to be like "GOD, WTF??? Here's this child you gave me, this creature you put in my charge, I do not understand him much less what you are doing with him!" I can see Mary, sweeping sawdust, wanting to shake her fist and beat her bed with a broom. It all could be seen as one huge cruel joke or as a sanctifying and loving process that brings God into a sharp and clear focus. I think Mary could have chosen to go on Adavan or to tune into the power of what was happening with her child. And be present for him, even if her stomach turned with grief.

I think I have Sorrowful Mysteries for all four of my kids: Calliope: The Unnecessary Hype Around Her Birth, the Slow Weight Gain, and the Time I Left Her Alone Outside. Clara: My Unwise Choice of Midwife, The Eczema, and How The Hell We'll Afford Kindergarten. Benicio: That I Can't Stomach When He Gets Favored Over Manny and So I Just Keep them Both Home and That He Does Not Share His Feelings. Manny: The Epidural, The ADD,The Lyme's, the Repeated Grade. The parsing is tiresome-- God, why him? And what should we be learning here? Why is this child suffering? What strength does this suffering reveal in him?

Oh, it's all so weird. Manny's on his antibiotics, it seems to help. They say it is now much better researched and that he will be over it soon. Something about tiny bugs penetrating the bubble of safety around our kids makes me sick with grief. I want to invite that tick in and examine his cosmic purpose in our life and also I feel violent toward it. I thought it was something like this, not a broken elbow. But like Mary, I pause to appreciate the Sorrowful Mystery.

School Nut Lane and other Knee-Weakening Overheards

Calliope:Dad goes to bad-guy college.
Geoff:What do they teach there?
Clara:Shooting, poisonous, clapping and putting on necklaces.
Geoff:Putting on necklaces?
Clara: Dad, it's a nice bad guy college.

Calliope:What is that deal? (Asked emphatically, hands gesturing with teeny nails painted.)

Calliope to Geoff at tennis: I am going to buy a dollar-snack if I get hungry. And then I'm going to say 'yum' to it.

Clara: Singing, "The heels are alive with the sound of music." also "Maria makes me love." (from "How Do You Solve a Problem like Maria?")

Benicio: Do drug-guys just want money for the drugs or do they want other drugs?

Clara: Nanay's house is apple-y, flowery and Jesus-y.

The Year We Didn't Party

has been your best birthday, in my opinion. It was a weekend affair, with your actual day on a Monday. That Saturday, I took the boys erranding where they chose gifts for you. Manny chose earrings with pale pink hearts. He did not break stride and saw them, and that was it. Benicio took a lot longer. The finalists were a Hello Kitty stationery set and a bear holding a bottle of perfume. Deliberating, he said, "The writing stuff will run out but when the perfume runs out she'll still have the bear that smells good." He chose the bear.

Then Sunday, while at Mass, they sang to you in Children's Liturgy. And my favorite part was watching you bring the food baskets up with the other children. You were radiant, a huge but shy smile, your static-charged pony tail bounced as you walked. Then we came home for hummus and pretzels and leftover pumpkin soup. Then, as per your request, we all went to Family Swim at the Y. I had so much fun-- all of us buoyed and bobbing in the warm water. The boys were mischievous with the noodles, you squirmed and flitted like a mermaid and Dad and I passed Calliope back and forth while she chased the spiky ball. Afterward, the warm showers were soul-affirming and we all got into dinner clothes. Your choice for dinner, Earth Bread for pizza. You kids silently devoured two Big Joe' (plain cheese) and also dug the white bean dip (who knew?). The waiter and waitress came and brought you a huge piece of chocolate bread pudding with a candle in it and we all sang to you. It was wonderful. At the end of the evening, we all came home smelling like your perfume bear.

Then Monday,Dad brought you a cute omelette in bed. You chose to wear a side-ponytail in your hair and wore your party shoes to school. Then Calliope and I co-oped at your school. I read Poinsettia by Felicia Bond (way before the "If You Give" series and way better). We served cut strawberries and pink yogurt in retro dixie cups with clear spoons that looked like Cinderella's slipper. Then we had lunch at the Cheese Shop in Narberth where you and Calliope shared a hot bowl of gumbo and turkey slices on the side. You chose a beautiful ballerina puppet and paint- your-own nesting dolls. You didn't want to buy the nesting dolls til you checked to see the tiniest one.

We had a relaxed afternoon at home. Calliope napping on the couch, you pinching the pot pie dough sealed. We had a quiet dinner after Dad and the boys made their way back home. I know I'm just listing details here but what I want to share is how lovely and low-pressure the day was. It was not ruled by your sense of entitlement or my ambition to pull off an event. There was nothing to prove to anyone, just a basic Monday infused with appreciation and love of our girl.

What If Ballet is Your Thing?

Dear Clara,

I write this to you as you turn FOUR. Maybe you will read it one day and ballet will have been something you tried when you were little, or it could be something you have given your life to completely. Having no idea which way, I want to remark on how you were when you were trying it, how you were when you began.

Geoff and I wanted to try to put you guys in some extra-curriculars this semester. Having read thru different programs, the WDA had me at their handbook with the uniforms for each of the levels--pre ballet, elementary and advanced. Yours, of course, would call for pink and of course too, a specific hairstyle for all dancers.

The locker room is as important to you as the class itself. A real studio with a real locker room, which is a space with high ceilings,wooden cubbies and huge willow baskets for lost and found. There is a kitchen in there with a huge collection of ceramic mugs, some with Russian names, some chipped and old with conservatories' names. But more importantly, the way you watch the older ballerinas. Some of them spend their whole Saturdays there, so we see them stretching on the wood floor of the locker room, arched over their books, snapping their gum and tying their shoes.

You didn't want to wear legwarmers until you saw the big girls. You beam and raise your chin when you chat with them. When we stayed to watch an advanced class upstairs, you whispered your commentary to me, "Her leg is shaking too much" and "I like her purple sweater shorts." They would rehearse the same steps to one very short piece of music. This did not tire you the way it did me. You seemed to perceive the distinction that the dancers were making with each repetition.

And when you enter your own class, you carry the same accuity to the scarf-dancing and even the goofy freeze dances. The pre-ballet studio is small, with a very old barre, but the high celilings are wonderful for when the music plays. Every dime spent on behalf of this program is cashed in with the observations you are making about what it is to be a girl, about your own body's sense of movement in space. I only look into the little window a few times, nervous to cast a spell of apprehension or self-consciousness on you. When I do look in, I hope my eyes tell you how proud I am, how utterly tickled I am, and what a clear joy it is to be your mother. When you file out with your classmates for water break, you come out up on toes, arms raised in a circle, it is everything I can do NOT to give a standing ovation.

What a gift you are, an inspiring person even at this young age. You dig into your life so well, you scale every obstacle. Right now, you have Dad's powers of observation, his love of biking, his passion for the poor. You have my sense of deep conviction, my love of language, and my addiction to Sharpies. Just like with the ballet, all these attributes might change or they might weave right in there and stay on. Who knows but my goodness, Clara, it's marvelous now.

Semi-practical Notes for ER visits

I interrupt regularly scheduled blogging to make this list:

-Bring your own pillow from home. (Thank you Bradley Class, Boston 2001!)
-Don't ever say "That was the last one" when referring to blood draws or other testing.
-Bring ones.
-Don't ask child if he wants to be held, he does.
-Pack child backpack as if packing for a plane trip--layered clothing, travel games, ipod, protein snacks.
-Mamas, wear socks and bring lip color (balances any crying and harsh lighting) and all the water you can drink.
-Bring a chapter book you can both get lost in.
-Allow child to take photos so he can feel sort of in control of the situation. As in, "Do you want to take a photo of the X ray machine?"
-Geoff says, make it as possible as you can to have child rest.


Special Thanks:
-God for the network that played America's Funniest Home Videos, 3 episodes in a row. Thanks for having tv in the ER bay! Having never seen it, he laughed for an hour and a half-- spitting, belly-roll laughter, that kept us all buoyed.
-The entire staff of ER at St. Chris. They will have the table with Chanel goody bags in Heaven, I just know it.
-The other parents at the ER, who kept me real. We were there for 5 and a half hours, heard 4 different languages, heard tens of babies wailing, parenting and marriage tested as in fire. Mamas dressed in their postal uniforms, fast food uniforms.
-Heidi and Jill, who have taught Manny to self-soothe and pass time with hand work. We both had yarn, I untangled a huge bunch and he made a ball the size of his fist.
-Everyone who called, came over, and counseled with this whole scenario.

Four Entries, on the Occasion of your 4th Birthday

"And she is going to dance, dance hungry, dance full, dance each cold astonishing moment, now when she is young and again when she is old."
— Anne Lamott

For Clara, as You Turn 4

She
May be the face I can't forget
The trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay
She
May be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day

She
May be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell
She may be the mirror of my dreams
The smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seem
Inside her shell

She
Who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one's allowed to see them when they cry
She
May be the love that cannot hope to last
May come to me from shadows of the past
That I'll remember till the day I die

She
May be the reason I survive
The why and wherefore I'm alive
The one I'll care for through the rough in ready years
Me
I'll take her laughter and her tears
And make them all my souvenirs
For where she goes I've got to be
The meaning of my life is

She
She, oh she
-Elvis Costello says it better than we can.

More on This

A dear friend and faithful reader told me she'd love to read more on our faith journey. We are in a painful moment still with the close of our church plant, the wound is sore and I can feel the aperture on my heart close. How do I fight this?

-by reading stories of spiritual heroes to my kids: Jesus' miracles, Esther, Hannah, St. Vincent de Paul
-by reading and meditating on spiritual heroes myself: Henri Nouwen, Anne Lamott, my parents, St. Paul, Job
-the soothing ritual of noon Mass. (Calliope got to have parts of the Mass narrated by our friend Marta who described the beginning of the Liturgy of the Eucharist as "setting the table." Marta, it was beautiful and she will never forget this, thank you!)
-enjoying myself ignore the compulsion to evangelize. Maybe that one sounds bad but I am beginning to unteach myself the notion of bringing people to Church, and convincing them of faith in God. While I know that God wants me to share my faith, I will no longer manipulate folks into seeing things my way or exclude them when they don't.
-retreat. Jack Miller was a missionary who realized that he let his own pride rule his life. He took a break from his work. He let his soul get healed. And the result was a much more meaningful return to his work, to his faith. I admire this.
-by laughing a lot. A week ago right now, I was in Pittsburgh in the company of my roommates from college. We could laugh about ourselves and our assumptions in a safe way. I found I could take myself less seriously when in the company of friends who understand how serious I am.
-by hiding in the bosom of family. We rode up to Kutztown to watch the first member of our family to play college sports, our neice Luci, who will play both soccer and basketball for her college. I sat on a blanket with my sister, my mother, my sis-in-love, and our kids. It felt very secure to be there. Even taking our daughters to the bathroom at dinner, I liked standing in the mirror with my sis. Her journey so similar to mine, she totally gets this rough period--the one where it feels like you wasted so much time reading about "two-plus" evangelism and driving over our AC/DC cassettes with the Toyota.
-Also I pray a lot. This keeps my heart soft. During a yoga class, in Child's pose, I am prostrate and praying "Let me hide myself in thee." And in "Happy Baby" pose praying, "I will not rest until I rest in you." And in the opening heart poses, "Open the eyes of my heart, Lord (Calliope's favorite song).

Okay, so I 've just listed my best moments. Most of the time, my mental mode is mad at the mismanagement and leadership mistakes. I feel chewed up and spit out by churches run like businesses, churches that package and market themselves, I shake fist at all of it, I have had my fill.

Back to the 'Burgh

The day I graduated from college, I got into my parents' car, and did not return until four years later. That visit was a whirlwind for a friend's wedding, we had baby boys in tow, and I spent the bachelorette party expressing in the bathroom. Last Wednesday, I returned to Pittsburgh the way that I really wanted to--taking our time, with deliberate intention, and there to serve a friend.

Arriving by train on the eve of the G-20 conference of world leaders, there was anticipation in the air. That plus showing Pittsburgh to my girls plus seeing my dear friend pregnant after years of trying, I stepped off the train with a full heart. The odd humidity, the blocked off streets, and trying to find Alice almost distracted me from seeing the Greyhound Station, where, when I die, I want a memorial bench with a Neruda quote. Right away, my head was spinning with nostalgia. Alice (new wheels!) drove us to her flat, where she served us bubbling personal pot pies with the girls' initials cut out in the crust. We put the girls to bed and drank Rhine wine and toddies so late that she had to call in sick the next day.

Clara, Callio, and I, however, had a strong momentum and took the 51A down to campus. The thing about Pittsburgh is not the route you take from here to there but the view you have as you approach. When driving, you come out of the Ft. Pitt tunnel, round a bend, and the city is revealed like a blue-collar Oz, bridges and hillsides span and add to the unexpected elegance. This view always brought me to tears when coming back to school. Katiebird, mom-to-be, offered to drive this with me, I should have accepted. The way the bus approached campus, though, made up for it. We saw the music building where the Mr. Rogers archives are. The clean sand-colored stone, exactly as I had remembered. The students filing in the door, passing us on the street, were exactly as I had remembered too. Then we got off the bus at the end of N. Craig where we walked past Caliban books to meet Elli (my neice, senior there). The whole time, I'm thinking, that these are my peers, and that I have class to get to, then being jolted and surprised at the 2 and 3 year olds holding onto my skirt and the umbrella stroller on my shoulder is not my schoolbag, and instead of Petrarch in my bag, it is Richard Scarry and goldfish crackers.

We spotted Elli in the balcony of Kiva Han laughing with a guy dressed in what we called "alternative style" (I was thinking Kurt Cobain but I don't think they use either of these references nowadays.). She was giddy and played with the girls on the stanky couch while I sipped my coffee and repeated to myself "I am 32. I am 32." She was dressed for yoga and wore earrings made of metal measuring tape. She has the effortless beauty of 21, looking at her, you get the sense that time and gravity have not yet begun to mess with her. Don't get me wrong, I definitely do NOT wish I were 20 years old again with all of the angst and every gaping option staring me in the face about my future. I am just a nostalgic girl with a woefully good memory.

In this regard, I did spend the trip, sliding back and forth between fond remembering of those years and a sober joy about how my life did turn out. You'll have to ask Clara and Calliope-- about how many places we visited, about sitting in thrones in the Cathedral of Learning, about yelling up and down the infinite stair wells, about the bathroom in the Cathedral where I used to go after a particularly bad writing workshop (where my poems were described as "pedantic" or "dry and guarded"). My girls and I shared the sacrament of gum in that bathroom. Very healing for me. Also, Katiebird and I fed them O fries, which are largely responsible for my freshman 15 and Dave and Andy's Ice Cream where the cones and all the flavors are made right there. Also, they were drawn to the Water Wall at the Carnegie Museum, where I used to study and at the 61C cafe, spent an easy hour there, as if they'd been there before.

I got such a kick at every turn at sharing these places with my girls. A friend called it "latent Pitt Pride." I showed them where I saw Howard Zinn speak on Valentine's Day, Hemingway's pub where I did my last reading before graduating. We took photos on the corner in Squirrel Hill where Geoff proposed, The whole time, they were so game and interested. Maybe they just liked seeing me drunk on nostalgia and in the easy and warm company of my friends. I am so thankful for those years there and the things I learned-- oodles of modern poetry, wrote chap books full of poems, (some decent), lots about world religion, built a foundational understanding of faith, learned that it will take a community, learned that a person that thrills you isn't necessarily the one to make a life with, learned how to navigate heartbreak of all types (academic, romantic, friendship, and spiritual, heartbreak for others', sometimes my own).

It was a magical trip, and I know for next time, how totally crucial it is, to go at our own pace.

This Quote=This Weekend's Trip Back to the Burgh

"And so did you get what it is that you wanted--
to love and to feel loved on this earth?"

This quote is a paraphrase from an Anne Lamott epilogue. It is from my memory, which at this hour, is foggy and sleep-deprived.

Scenes To Remember:

-Benicio sitting across the floor from Maxine, holding his ipod earbuds up to her ears.
-Clara standing with her ballerina peers, all in pale pink with their hair up in neat buns (as per the dance school handbook).
-catching a glimpse of Manny in the backseat, arm around the seat next to him and chewing gum, I was startled at this glimpse of him as an adult.
-Geoff using a compressor and a nail gun to put the wainscotting in the first floor powder room.
-biking in the dewy late summer morning with Cloe singing to herself behind me.
-singing "One Bread, One Body" at Mass and not needing the hymnal.
-meeting our neighbor in the backyard where she gave me a requested lime (mojitos!) and a gift of a bottle of white wine called, "Mommy's Time Out."

Clara's First Day

big yellow school bus

my day, in thirds

Into the school year only four days, I am beginning to see a pattern. The first third of my day, is spent sending them off. The second third is about getting them all back in the nest, and then the third third is about getting ready to do it all again the next day.

Years ago, a friend asked me why I always went to Walden Pond, why couldn't I switch it up and come to the zoo or the museum? And I said because I was getting Walden down perfectly. I knew exactly what to pack. I knew what time to go to avoid traffic. I timed the diaper change with the ride home. I knew that it took almost 15 minutes to get from the car down to the pond, arranging things onto the stroller and strapping the boys in there. I knew what snacks did not attract bees but was enough to get us to lunch time. Anyway, I had the outing down to a science. I wore a groove into that road but I just adored that rhythm, the sameness. Sometimes, I varied it up by stopping first at De Cordova sculpture garden or meeting a friend to show them the Revere statue in town but for the most part it was me and my boys and OUR day.

So this is how I am beginning to feel about our school year. I sit up, as if rigged by springs, around 5, do my quick but essential regimen of hygiene and spiritual devotions (okay, basically it's a shower, reading some promise-y passages, and then praying some beggy prayers for us and for our kids.) But then, I go down the steps and do breakfast setup-- eggs, bowl and whisk by the stove, cereal and its accoutrements on the counter. Then I quietly go upstairs and make sure the outfits are weather-appropriate. This morning, BTB had laid out green shorts, his green globe T, even green undies! As they get dressed, I send them downstairs where Geoff is pouring juice and making little scrambles for them. The morning's great crescendo is putting the boys on the schoolbus. The denoument is coming back to the girls who watch an episode of Miffy, get a yogurt-fruit bowl and I get to do their hair. Then it's about getting Geoff off to school, the girls wait at the front windows to watch him take off up the alley and down the street. On her first day, I was able to bike with Clara on the back who described my bike as nicer than Dad's but my ride was "crashier" (low branch, solid helmet.) Dropping her off at nursery school is without fanfare, I think she will be the type of kid that wants to be dropped off two blocks before the high school dance so she can apply lipstick and light a cigarette. (Not that I was like that AT ALL as an adolescent.)

But then Calliope is my partner erranding, getting dinner ingredients, and folding laundry. While I check email, she sits under my desk with her back-to-school gifts from my parents (a tiny canvas bag filled with little thrifted figurines and Hershey Kisses). Then we fetch Clara, who has outgrown naps and whose afternoon activities include brushing her own hair and writing on post-it notes. We read stories and simmer dinner until it's time to walk to meet the school bus. I brought a lawn chair out there yesterday. The chair, the Kevin Henkes stories, made a half hour pass easily. Until that walk home with my four ducklings, I cannot rest. Which may be why, when they came home yesterday, I passed out for 15 solid minutes, noodles bubbling on the stove.

Geoff is Mr. Mom for the post-dinner bedtime regimen. He clips nails, bathes, and reads to all of them. This is when I step out for a workout or go strip paint. But then it's back to the backpacks, with forms to fill out, lunchboxes to excavate. This is when Geoff and I wearily check email, speak with family, and try to have meaningful interaction before falling into bed.

Wow, this is a lot of verbiage: but it's a documenation our cadence, the pace of our days right now. Like those trips to Walden, I am understanding how this goes, how to perfect these deep worn grooves into the day.

Invitation to Comment

Hello, dear blog reader:
In keeping with my strong conviction that when air and light are brought to the matter, it is a good thing, I now, after blogging for seven years, take this time to invite your comment.

I myself am a closet-blog-reader. The few times I have come out to say something, once got misinterpreted and once got ignored completely. So, if you choose not to comment, I totally get it. But lately, I've gotten facebook messages, emails, even phonecalls from folks who are against odds, helping me and dialoguing about things that need to come out.

Just look at it like one friendly soul reaching out to you with my words. If something strikes a chord with you, comforts you, or charms you (as my kids are wont to do), please reach back because this odd form of human contact, my blog, really helps me.

I know I have said, but I started doing this after Manny was born and while I was pregnant with Benicio. From my little closet/office on St. Rose St, I began to blog or "biog" back then as a document for our kids about our life. I am a shabby archivist--Manny's baby book is perfect and tidy Sara Midda, Benicio's a plump but messy Liebowitz notebook, Clara's a Michael's scrapbook 1/5th complete, and Calliope's is a Nikki McClure book that I haven't seen since before she could walk. So this blog is my that. A baby-book project gone global.

I would love if you'd be a part of it. Join the conversation, say something you'd want my kids to read later. I know it will mean something to them and to me.

Deliverance: the magic of the school bus

Now that four ducklings are back in the nest, I can describe our day:
-Never take a spinning class a day before you need to ascend and descend the stairs 5500 times.
-We had our Primary Brothers breakfast: egg sandwiches with vermont cheddar on 12 grain bread, melon, granola and life cereal.
-We ran to the bus stop, my self-afffirmation: I gave birth to them, I can put them on the schoolbus. I gave birth to them, I can put them on a schoolbus . .
-I videoed, held Clara, while Geoff helped them board the bus holding Calliope, and taking down the busdriver's cell phone number, which he doesn't seem to answer. . .ahem.
-We immediately got into the car to meet the bus at the school. You might think that's crazy but there were maybe 7 other families doing the same thing.
-The magic of the bus arriving (before the bell!) and delivered to school safe and sound. We parents clustered like paparazzi, I was shifty and my legs were cold (Clara has deterred me from pairing jeans with dresses). And then, amazingly, the bus files in behind the car line. And then, we watched our kids, an straggled string of them, walking the path down to their classrooms. We, the anxious paparazzi, they the backpack toting stars on the red carpet. Manny and Benicio did not break stride but waved shyly at us. We followed them down the path.
-After a minor continence glitch, the boys got settled into their classrooms. Their rooms are next door to each other. We stood back and noted how different the tones were in each room, evident even in the first few minutes of the year.
-The girls and I dropped Geoff off and spent the morning at Clara's playgroup. And I could process things and laugh. My favorite was discussing the sewing project of making one's own menstrual pads, Maggie, with conviction and certainty, "No, not at all. What would the OPPOSITE of that be?"
-Then we erranded (Whole Foods, Ballet School, library) until it was time to meet the bus. Due in at 3:50, I spent a 10 frantic minutes praying, "Trust, trust, trust." And yet speed-dialing mamas whose kids were on the same bus. When, at 4:03, appearing like an enormous whale beaching on the intersection of Green and Washington, arrives Andy the bus driver, and I can see my sons emerging the aisle, smiling and bounding down into my eager arms.

*Stay tuned for pictures and more about life with two first graders.

forgetting about it to death

A friend of ours used this phrase to describe the closing of our church site. I know I walk the fine line of criticizing and maybe even gossip but if a girl can't parse her heartbreak on her blog, then, I ask, where can she?

I remember when we joined this church, when we had only lived here two seasons and we only had the two boys. Right away, Manny was chatting with the worship band, the painter-hipster offering for him to strum the Stratocaster. Benicio was taken with the other children, the gaggle of rambunctious boys. Geoff and I thought, they're comfortable here. We know God wants us to be in the city. We kind of fit into this scene of transplanted suburbanites turned hip and edgy by college and by reading Tim Keller and Jack Miller. We like this. We are like this. So, in haste we took the steps of membership. I took sermons on my ipod to the gym and to the market. I went through the Westminster confessional with the boys. We went to home group, to planning meetings, to vision-meetings, to search committee meetings, in-covenant retreat, leadership retreat. We tried with all available might to develop friendships while doing so. All in the name of community. Trying to weave this great garment together.

And after the stuttered and awkward steps of planting a site in the Northwest, the thing started to come apart. Our leadership, made of broken sinners, as we all are, had a bad string of mishaps. Family sickness, mismatched talent-set, a pool of poorly-suited pastoral candidates, and now our church must close its doors. Those friendships, some hearty and full of stories of mutual rescue you'd want to cry. And some friendships are brittle and shallow from competitiveness and sarcasm.

I sometimes think, as our friend puts it, that if I could forget about it all to death, that this wouldn't hurt. I vacillate between thinking paranoid thoughts that the church leadership is Big Brother out to get us and thinking that a season of closure and recreation would be good. As a good religion major, I know this is normal. That it is absolutely human to turns one faith over and over in one's hand-- sometimes seeing that the whole thing could be nonsense or that the whole thing is all you have.

As we go forward, I'm not interested in the ways we have been wounded, the slip-ups, the ways we were shafted or overlooked. I am interested in the shoots, the impossible and improbable growth and maturity that will, that fucking have to, appear.

disbelief

-I cannot believe that summer's over.
-I cannot believe that I have four children who can strap themselves into their car seats.
-I cannot believe that Clara's going to stay for lunch bunch.
-I cannot believe that we didn't finish all of our sunscreen. Will it hang on for another year?
-that the raspberries are almost all gone from the backyard.
-that my boys will ride the bus.
-that Calliope will be our own little duet--going to daily Mass, to the library, to the market.

feeling the gravity

In the year my father turned 70, in the year that our church unravelled like a cheap sweater, and in the year that our first child encountered numerous learning challenges, I have come to a clear crossroads. I am drawn moth-like to the road of bitterness and cynicism. The attitude of blame-shifting, of anger, of general self-sorrow and private rage. Listening to other people, the shutters of my heart close, I see their struggles as weak or lame, my eyes glaze over and I check out. The numb stupor acts as a wall and there is an odd sense of safety. Just reading this I realize that these aren't devastating problems, the ones listed in my first sentence. And yet, they are the precipitating events that have led me to exactly this point.

The other road, however, is the "BUT GOD" road. This is the road I want to take. The one that I have to practice wanting to take. It is the attitude of openness. Awaiting the serendipitous, miraculous things that God brings and does in my life every day. It is preaching to myself the sermon of service to the marginalized, love for the poor, the soothing call of the Beatitudes-- that the underdog will win the day, that the forgotten and lost will be found, that the world's priorities are upside-down. It is pushing myself through the yogic stations of patience in discomfort, pausing to acknowledge the fear, and persevering when I'm flat-out beat.

When we were in PR for our anniversary, I fell in love with paddle-surfing. When there are no strong waves, you take this huge, rubber-lined surf board and a kayak oar. You go out past where the waves would break and you stand up and paddle. Counter- to the surfing impulse, you are supposed to stand up completely straight in order to stay balanced. Our instructor, Jose, would say, "Vamo!" and motion for us to follow him. I did not have time to calculate my balance, my risk of falling, my fear of looking silly. He kept inviting us further out. He invited us out, maybe 200 yards to see these caves. I was giddy and laughing at the view. Jose said to Geoff, "She's found her inner Polynesian goddess." But that wasn't it at all. I felt like Peter out with Jesus. And every time I looked at my feet, without fail, I wavered. Every time I set my eyes on the view, things ahead, Geoff's words, Jose's instruction, I cruised through the water like it were a kayak. My kids studied this passage today at VBS, and I have been thinking about it nonstop. I know, I'm switching metaphors-- divergent paths or Peter on the water, but for me the struggle is the same.

I think I will forever wrestle over these things, my fear around my parents' mortality, where our family should worship, Manny's studies. How do I look at these things without navel-gazing or numbing myself to the gravity?

P.S. I post this to document this for later, for me after God and time have brought us through these things but also for the kids to see how these things get parsed.

Homegirl Got Velocity

I was getting dressed to see friends after dinner. Clara (from the bathroom) says, "Mom, come show me you."

Wearing an embroidered Mexican frock, jeans and sandals, I twirl and appear before her. She says,

"Okay, the bottom looks bad."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, sometimes people wear pants with something beautiful at the bottom. And that looks good, like my roses leggings. But not you, right now."

"Really? I feel pretty good. I feel pretty comfy and good just like this."

"Okay, no, you look good. You look good because your sandals have something pretty on the strap there."

Then I proceeded to wipe her and help her wash her hands. Flummoxed and self-suspicious by the comments of my three year-old.

Arithmetic for My Evening

Nostalgic visit from Clara's baby group buds + inspired and awaited phone conversation+ a good deep cry + a contemplative and restorative yoga class - chore stress- shutting the door on my fear of appearances and people-pleasing= a centered and worshipful soul and a super-relaxed body that I am so proud to inhabit.

A Dream Job

would be getting to name the colors. All those colors, just the sheer number.

Gifts Our Mountain Trip Gave Us

-I discovered a lot of abilities I didn't know I had: driving four kids up there, taking field trips, handling toads,carrying kids to the car in ankle-deep pounding rain, driving the dark mountain roads at night.
-staying up late with just my sis--laughing about our kids, our husbands, and our kooky family.
-our kids putting on swim caps and flippers to venture to the deep end, Becky and I scrambling for the cameras.
-late night calls from Geoff reminiscent of Pittsburgh circa 1997.
-observing cousin-play and over-hearing Larry, "It's Dodge Ball. You're gonna be kinda mean."
-painting my neices nails to look like soccer balls for the soccer-themed birthday party.
-eating soccer-ball cookie cake
-my neices and nephews who are becoming adolescents who still call me Aunt Mimi and kiss me on the lips like they did when they were little
-seeing our oldest neice's engagement ring in person
-seeing our kids manage the short hike to the pool and back

-eavesdropping on the kids' Bible quizzes with Mymom, "Do we count Judas as a disciple? Was Jesus' father Joseph or God?"
-for Manny: sometimes swimming without a life jacket, holding his own in a game of dodgeball with cousins, singing a Miley Cyrus song for Karaoke hour, perfecting his lip-sync routine, and at the end of a long day, the joys of taking a sauna.
-for Benicio:the gift of fire; magnifying glass+dry dead leaf, how to find shoes that are in your size at an outlet; he found Manny his school shoes by knowing his size and knowing what he'd like, playing an evening-long game of hide n' go seek wherein you could be found mischievously sharing gum in afore-mentioned sauna.
-for Clara: what she calls back-skipping (skipping backwards), pillow-floating independently in her life jacket, the game sharks and minnows, playing with the big cousins until her eyelids were so heavy that her eyes were crossing.
-for Callio: running wild and free on the sports field while her cousins and siblings chase her, on the pool steps and gripping the bannister with both hands and laying your head back and dipping just the very tip of her hair into the water, eating breakfast at a table for two with Andre and then playing for 45 minutes a game involving a purse full of monkeys and yarn and both of them being kitty cats, doing magic tricks with Big Dad.

-And when we arrived back home, the squeals and running into Geoff's arms was immense.

She Will Never Be a Vegetarian, I Guess.

I was snuggling with Clara and I asked her something I have never asked her before. I said, "Clara, where did you get that beautiful twinkle in your eyes?"

She shrugged her shoulders. I went on, "They are so bright and lovely. Come on, tell me, where did you get that twinkle?"

"No, I told you before."

"Where, Claresie, did you get it from God's love?" I asked.

"No. I'll tell you where I got it. I got it from meat."

synecdoche

Like Crate & Barrel and Room & Board, if our kids had their own synecdoche names for their lives right now:

Calliope: House-keys & Swimsuits
Clara: Headbands & Fragranced Markers
Benicio:Quarters & DS Negotiations
Manny: Diving Sticks & Dicing Veggies

home doings

-planted hibiscus in pots on the front steps. The flowers are big as the kids' faces.
-reading about discipline. St. Augustine, Siddartha Gautama and many other saints had privileged and induldged childhoods and then when confronted with the realities of suffering and injustice were totally flummoxed. I don't want our kids to think that they are the center of the universe. How do I do this??
-Benicio wants his own room so we are separating their belongings as if in a breakup: Manny: You can't take my yarn. Benicio: I will leave you Avatar books if you let me have the yarn.
-packing for our mountain trip next week
-thinking about friends who are due with babies in August, September, and October.
-Manny just came over and said, "The girl on the radio's name is Melissa Blog!"
-The triathlon came and went and this weary mama just could not pull it off. The extent of my athletic trifecta has been the events of being in and out of Shop Rite under 45 minutes, returning laundry to the dressers the same day I wash it, and biking to JOA mart with Clara on my bike.

You Know You're Home When. . .

-I bleached and hosed out our simple human trash can for the third time to remove the essence of kitty litter.
-I sawed off a branch from our rose of sharon that the kids hung on one too many times.
-Geoff did a rose petal-ectomy from Calliope's nose. (And the kids agreed that that was the only drawback about having a rose bath.)
-I am working on school paper-work that was due on July 15th.
-We had a play date where I again encountered my vanity about how my kids fare next to other kids. But God triumphed and I administered the holy sacraments of water balloons and cheetos.
-I watched napless Clara dance so fast to keep up with the boys.
-I played two rounds of Guess Who to console the left out Clara. (She's getting so good! Yay process of elimination skills!)
-I cut hydrangea and wildflowers that have riotously showed up while we were away. Fresh flowers in every room but I still have laundry to put away. Mary's priorities, I guess, not Martha's.

And now Geoff's making seltzer spritzers and we're going to watch a movie.

Providence List 2:Some Things I Learned

-When in doubt, lie on the floor with the kids.
-We no longer need a stroller.
-They really don't need tv.
-Track with them on their obsessive quests: Yes, the DS costs this much. You won't always want a Wii this much. What is it offering you that other things you have can't offer you? OR Honey, I'm not certain if things become alive at night at museums, but my gut tells me that they don't.
-Taking individual children out for a bike ride or for coffee is mood-altering for all involved.
-Maybe invest in a GPS.
-No matter how bored or hot, NEVER take all four of them into Target. Unless you want to feel soul-sucked.
-Go to the closest beach every day, no matter the weather. In the end, it will feel like its theirs.
-Thank you to the inventor of Cat's Cradle, which made daily Mass possible.
-Plan meals and bring all the groceries. Only buy produce snacks there.
-Do less daily bribing. Levity and distraction work better.
-Leave them to their play. It's way messier but after a certain point, they all get into it.
-Going to a car wash can give you a new lease on life.
-It's okay to get involved with play with one or two of the kids. It is magnetic and will either amuse the others from afar or draw them in.
-If you are going to build a house, have the kitchen sink look out onto a sweet little garden.
-We are grateful for this gig, that Geoff has work and that in this case, it has offered us a chance to travel. I think we could do it again.

Sweet Anonymity

One thing I love is when, after dinner, Geoff says, "Go get some head space." I feel like Fred Flintstone sliding on the dinosaur's tale at the end of his workday, Yabba-dabba-doo! He was tagging-in, he was calling me off-duty. He was telling me to get some space from the day's work. He offers this when he can.

Last night, I went to the video store around the corner and then to find a mailbox. But first I ducked into the coffee shop. (I love being 2 blocks from these independent spots (Acme Video, Coffee Exchange). I was in a state of post-beach, post-shower, post-dinner nirvana. Standing in the cool evening, in line for a decaf mocha latte, in my dryer-fresh cotton frock and jeans and sandals. Standing there, reading the Pro Jo, vibing off the heady scent of the roaster. I had no guilt about my People magazine in my bag. Not worried if my dress looks maternity. It's like when we'd visit relatives in Queens, my Mom and I would be getting dressed, "Hey, let's wear crazy socks! No one knows us here!" she'd say. I get giddy about anonymity.

Back home, in a community I love, and have loved now for five years, you can't always just DO things. Once someone said to me, "Wow, I'm really surprised to hear you went to Walmart." Or the mutual explanation that happens when shopping at Shop-rite when both people feel like they are cheating on the food co-op. Or being out with my kids and being asked what camps they're going to or what school they attend.

Being here for two weeks, I get to perfect my act of pretending not to speak English. (I have practiced this a lot at the Please Touch Museum especially when it is crowded. Shout-out to Jen who indulges me in this.) I like being where my identity is not identified as these things. I get to lay aside things like food-righteousness and car and clothing as status. I have been able to be my creaturely-self behaving creaturely. It helps me relate to my kids as a human being. To stay deep into the afternoon with them at the beach or at the playground around the corner. Today, I videoed the boys riding their bikes down a hill and crashing into obstacles I set up for them! I peed myself laughing when Benicio whiffed obstacle completely and tried to kick it instead. The thrill of "Who cares?" The riskiness of appearing as slightly reckless!

And by myself, I have biked up to Thayer St. when the sports-practices are letting out, realizing that I am not of this scene. These 18 year-old atheletes are not confusing me as a peer. And without my kids, without the stroller to serve as my Mom-barricade, I am a human soul among other souls. And I feel acutely, that I am not a college-student in a world of papers and philosophies, not a single chica on the town, but by no means am I anybody's granny either. Please remind me to stay in this mindset when we get back home. To find moments to breathe like this. I have met my goal of finding a beach that achieves this. (But I can write more about that later.) I have appreciated this space.

I wish this for everyone. Chances to go encounter yourself in spaces where you used to belong, or maybe will never belong. Serendipitous-outings where you can have a chance-encounter and a cool, fun date with your own soul.

rainy day play

Providence List: Week One

We could:
-walk to Thayer Street backwards and with our eyes closed
-live on that RISD beach forever (singing "We've go the whole beach to our selves" to the tune of Got the Whole World In His Hands")
-not have not had more fun laughing and catching up with friends we met at the Park St. "Honeymooners" class who now have as much chaos as we do
-eat every meal from City Feed in Jamaica Plain
-swing forever on the squeaky swings on Brook St.
-listen to the bluegrass trio at gallery night again and again
-not live in New England again and afford it
-have a family soak in the tide pool to make up for the fact that we can no longer have family soaks at home
-make and remake lego structures from just the legos in that shoebox
-use ideas for more card games
-spend every day on the beach rain or shine
-ask them to make boys' board shorts with the internal elastic
-use a Vietnamese sandwich shop in Germantown
-get used to walking every where
-get used to an awesome farmer's market everyday somewhere close by
-not have had more fun at that baby park in Cambridge with family and an old pal
-use some tips on getting berry stains out of white upholstery and marker stains off of particle board

next time pack the floor-length apron

We've minor-leauged it. We've zooed it. We've biked it. We've Browned it. Tooling around town with our kids has me on my toes by day and face-down by night. Yesterday, after the zoo, I told them I needed to rest my eyes for a minute. 45 minutes later, one kid is naked, the dinner baguette is half-devoured with a crumb-trail from the fridge, which stands open and an open container of cream cheese as the welcome mat. A lone fly circles the dirty dishes and someone has drawn on the futon frame with marker.

It is one thing to be a housewife on your home-turf, with your pit crew, a friend to meet you at the playground, a pal to meet up with at IKEA on a rainy morning, a great sitter who is eager to read ANOTHER Amelia Bedelia book. At home, I have my nooks. I have the phone-closet to duck into. I have the back deck for my chapter of Psalms and coffee. I even have the linen closet to stand in front of just to catch a deep breath. I think it was Susanna Wesley, the theologian's wife who was the mother of nine children. I read that when she was overwhelmed, she would pull her apron up over her head.

I like Providence but I have gotten lost every single day so far. All roads lead you to I-95 or over some weird bridge into a residential Brazilian neighborhood. And unlike Boston where the Charles River always gave me my bearings, one bridge takes you over a bay and another one over some random lake. Today, after I was spit out into yet another indistinguishable neighborhood, all four kids were fed up. Manny sighed impatiently, Clara shouted, "No, this can't be right!" Benicio pleaded, "Just turn around!" And poor Calliope craned her neck and then shoved her shoulders back against her seat in frustration.
Even on foot, I had to call Geoff, "I can't find your building. I am at Hope where it intersects with Benevolent."

I WILL become friends with my Google Map. And I WILL get the hang of this place.

Oh, Provide-ence

We've rented an apartment not unlike the one on St. Rose Street. It's the first floor of a triple-decker, spacious and wide but with the neighboring house an arm's reach from your window. I am grateful for this tidy furnished rental. It has everything we need. And the things it doesn't have, I have easily procured after being here less than two days. I reunited with my old thrifting haunt and easily found 6 white-cotton tab-topped panels for the windows, a hand-thrown pitcher for water, some hand-towels and a few child-sized pieces of flatware.

A furnished living space is like reading someone's facebook profile: reads Octavio Paz, takes Acidophilus, bike-riding and children's artwork are priorities. And what the apartment doesn't have are even more curious to me: are curtains against your religion or something? You have a closet full of propane tanks and yet no cookie sheets? I don't know if I'll ever meet this family we're renting from. There are no photos on the walls or mantles. They live in Manhattan and this is their "country house." She teaches at RISD, judging from the books, I'd say architecture but I'm not sure.

Being here, not in a hotel and yet not at home, I realize what it is that is essential to home for us. If the boys have yarn and legos, they're all set. If Clara has books to flip through, she can pass the minutes. If Calliope has a cup to fill or a bag to pack and unpack, her play will go into motion. If Geoff has his crossword, his Bible and his laptop, he's in good shape. Me-- there are a lot of props to my set, lets' say. Now that there's a cloth on the table and curtains in the strategic windows, I can rest easier. How lavish God's hand always is. Oh, generous hand that always manages to provide!

gonna tri:lessons in masterful indifference and drinking the Schuykill

Okay so I am registered for this triathlon. Why am I doing this? Well, months ago, I needed to focus my energies on something besides having another baby. As a foolhardy and rash act, I thought training for a triathlon would be akin to pregnancy. The major difference is that in pregnancy, the baby grows on its own. With a triathlon, you have to clear your schedule for things like open-water swimming, for 15 mile bike rides and for that matter, running 3 miles. As you can imagine, carving out time to train like this is like carving The David out of a side of a mountain.

I went to an open-water swimming clinic yesterday. Two thirds of the morning was spent on education. A swim-trainer discussed tips for an efficient stroke, taught us "sighting" when you look up to sight the next buoy. She also told us that it was okay to come and grab onto a kayak to fix your goggles or to compose yourself. Hallelujah! A break to compose myself! Breaking to compose myself should be my middle name. She also taught us how to keep our mouths closed from drinking the Schuykill water that my friends have me nervous I will end up with a nerve disease.

Then there was the sport psychologist. I took his talk to heart too. He had us articulate our fears in this loud cacaphony of fears filling the air. Then he had us whisper them like secrets. He said that courage is only possible in the presence of our fears. To name our fears: drowning, being slow, claustrophobia in the dark water and in the presence of many other swimmers. Allow our fears to come, thank them for coming, THEN allow them to leave. He taught us "masterful indifference," a suspension of judgement, to think of the race as play. Then mistakes are not problematic, setbacks are not problematic, even injuries are not necessarily problematic. These things are simply variables that can be looked at as influences on the event and NOT dealbreakers. I loved that "masterful indifference" like I know I am ready for this. I know I will be okay, and so I can detach from the outcome. I don't have to pour my identity into the outcome.

And then there was the swimming! We were grouped into heats of 20. I was one of the first in the water because I just wanted to get it over with. I had inked the words "PLAY" and "MASTERFUL INDIFFERENCE" on my inner forearms and tightened my watch, so I could time myself. Well, all that went out the window when I hit that water. I got into that water where I immediately had to tread and my heart caught in my chest and nervously I started freestyle-stroking and did not have the composure or wherewithall to look at my arms nor my watch. I was a frenetic mess. Anyway, the swimming instructor saw me and I guess what was my apprehensive swimming. From her canoe, pointed at me and asked, "YOU! You in the blue cap, are you okay?" She had taught us to ask for help a little before we thought we might need help. So I said yes. They rowed over to me. I hiked my arms up on the boat and just floated for a minute, closed my eyes. Just savoring the break. She coached, "Slow that breath down. You don't have to breathe hard to go fast." I got back in the water and finished the swim. I needed a mentor to be along side me. Essentially, I needed a doula. My mentor swam beside me, encouraging me, telling me to stroke longer instead of higher. I need to keep sight of her neon pink cap to keep my alignment.

I don't know if I'm going to be up for this. We're here in Providence. I have my suit and my sneaks and my bike. I have down-shifted and have just enjoyed drawing with my kids and kind of just want to ramble around with them like a goofy little tourist family. We'll see what happens.

Free To Be Three

I have heard that when you teach a certain group, you begin to identify with them. And maybe, I think, you begin to behave like them. I have spent almost four weeks with two dozen pre-schoolers aged 3-5. In that time, twice I have fallen narcoleptic before dessert. I have dipped into my pipe-cleaner and bead jewelry collection. And I had a phone meltdown with a triathlon registrar saying, "You are SO not helping me right now!" Also, I have thoroughly enjoyed my sidewalk-chalk tatoos and wood-chip exfoliation treatments.

But the whole thing helps my parenting. I understand why preschoolers need to eat at least every hour. They give over to their play. My field hockey coach used to say, "Get in there, go after it, you gotta want it!" No one has to tell Clara that. She is in the game. And she is owning the game. Even when that game is "house" or "doctor" or "lemonade factory." Playing in the sandbox isn't playing. Calliope excavated the sandbox for glass beads, with the express intention of exhausting it of its treasures. Knees down, shovel pitched. It is no wonder she is famished and losing it by 9:30am!

I like it, I like knowing their rhythm, it helps me see how benign things are. Many of them are testing things out, trying things on. For example a new sassy, almost competitive tone-- affected to a discussion about having toileted before school. Or grabbing your best friend's favorite color for him but then arguing with him about taking the cap off. Or telling someone "You're not my friend" as you ride beside them in the double stroller going to their house. The incongruities are striking and sweet. How fickle and yet how safe they must feel to test these things out. I imagine it is the development of boundaries and even self-control.

Speaking of self-control, Calliope caused her first bloody nose. Being a counselor, I hadn't thought of it this way. She collided with a three-year old boy. His nose. Her cheek. It bled for a good 5 minutes. Shirt bloodied, I called his mother who comforted him. Callio, on the other hand had a red cheek, but in the end did not bruise. When I called Geoff, he said, "Her first bloodied nose!" Benicio said, "Pacquio Baby!" And at once, I thought about how last year at the same camp, she collided with someone at the sandbox, and had a near-eye injury and a bad scrape. And how this year, our baby is formidable enough to collide and NOT be harmed. Hallelujah, she is not delicate!! Even though small, even though roughed up, my kids can emerge unharmed. It has all been worth it to learn this lesson.

A Note to Build a Dream On

I just received this from a friend. Messages like this are exactly why I blog. When air and light is brought into a situation, it is good. When shame and dread are brought into a situation, you end up with a hot mess. Here is an excerpt: I don't know if I ever told you. But I started reading late, very late. From kindergarten to about 4th grade, I was in a special needs class. I thought algebra I and II were going to do in my family and I. My parents each took turns tutoring me thru it. We would stay up late almost every night, well past midnight. My Mom and I would be crying because I just couldn't grasp the concepts, no matter how many times and different ways it was explained to me.

I guess I wanted to share that story to say that academics and school are a marathon. There will be times when it seems like everyone is outrunning you and there is no water station in sight. But, it is a long endurance race with moments of sprinting, walking, and crawling. But, it is all about the accomplishment of finishing. And it is a BIG accomplishment to finish...no matter what your end time is.
I know this friend from our years in Boston. When she witnessed our boys' baptisms, I think she took to heart standing up as a congregant at Christ the King, she stood up to say, "Yes, I will seek nurturance of this child. Yes, I will be part of the village it takes to raise him." Anyway, she shared that story with me, and all over again, I felt like I was standing in that sanctuary with our little baby, offering him for his baptism. Like I was saying, "Here is this baby, I can't do this by myself!" And the community said in response, "It's okay, we know, it won't be easy."

Just FYI, the friend who sent the email graduated from Wellesley with honors and holds an MBA from the University of Chicago and as a minority female in the business world, generally knows how to kick ass when she wants to, which in the end, is all I really want for any of my kids.

now he is 8

Last night, we had a sweet, low-key dinner. After the parade (Wait til you see the pictures!), Manny chose "Angels in the Outfield" to watch while the grownups cooked. During the movie, the call of his gifts was so strong, he got up to flip through his chemistry book and his water uzi. Our musical friends played the guitar and the melodica for "Happy Birthday." Everyone should be so lucky to have a 1972 Harmony Rocket guitar accompanied by a pea-green melodica played for their song. Our boy, hair wet from sweat and water play, no shirt, standing on the back deck turning 8 right in front of our eyes.

Then this morning, I awoke to him calling to me from upstairs, "Mom, hey mom, Calliope feels a bit warm to me. She might have a fever." I love this kid.

It's Not a Birthday Unless

there's labor. I have layer #2 of this year's pinata, which is a mosquito drying on the kitchen counter. I have ingredients for cheese straws on the other counter. There are 48 rubber duckies for party favors. And I know I won't feel right until I have some cute packaging idea. What is this sickness???

I still remember my friend Jamie's bowling party in fifth grade. Her mom was driving us there and I could see her hands on the wheel, they were stained bright red, up to her wrists. Later, I asked about her hands. She said, "For dinner, she wanted pickled beet eggs. She loves the pickled beet eggs." I loved that detail. My friend Jamie and her family around the table dining on those strange eggs. And now, a day later, proof on her mom's hands.

I do think birthdays are like this, requiring these stores of energy, attention to detail that no other time of year demands. Eight years ago today, I was admitted to Cambridge Hospital. I should say, I asked to be admitted there instead of laboring at home and then waiting things out for my turn at the birth center. I was so anxious and simply could not wait. Geoff's parents are staying here like they were staying with us around the time of Manny's birth. It was sticky-hot and I was a watched pot. I paced St. Rose Street, chatting with neighbors and begging my body to contract for this baby. Eight years later, I am putsing in our garden, fretting over ADD meds and if white flour is a friend or foe for Manny. Weeding around the nasturtiums, I am praying for wisdom, begging for patience.

We are throwing a little Bike Parade for Manny per his request. His grandparents gave him a book "Hats off for the Fourth" where this little Cape Cod town has an Independence Day parade where all the town kooks strut their festive stuff. Hoping for good weather, and myriad friends that we have invited. I am still trying to make sense of the incongruity of this loud and brash holiday being the birthday of my reserved and unknowable boy. All I can do is listen to his requests, show up for him, be affectionate, and let him have his anchors. His anchors these days: cat's cradle, origami, and discussions about Halloween costumes. I am working to ignore his direct line to my neuroses and fear about him being suited for the big, cold world and the big, cold world being suited for him. Ignoring these things is an art I cannot master. He will repeat first grade in the fall and I am tailspinning about it. A complicated conundrum.

His birth was like this: 10 days late, 50 hours of total labor, cocktail of meds, the flurry of interventions, layer after layer of our birth plan stripped by the hour. Our young and delicate marriage was stretched and tested with all of that decision-making, fear of mortality, trusting caregivers, trusting ourselves. I know now all these years later, that it's not THAT different. I am encountering the layers of my hopes for him and how I have to let them go and trade them in for more love for him, more unconditional acceptance for his abilities.

Just taking it day by day, staying faithful, staying present. I think my pinata might be dry. If you'll excuse me, 25 kids are going to need a mosquito to pulverize. . .