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It's all pretty good

On Monday, I wrote a long post about the Max and Claire's respective camps and how I wept when I picked them up the first day because I was so proud.

They were nervous at the beginning of the week. Yet they were game. They trotted off to their separate programs and they participated. Two years ago I never could've dropped them somewhere unfamiliar and driven away into the city. At least not without much shrieking and crying (mostly theirs).

But then–-back to the post I was going to write--Safari was all "I unexpectedly quit. Sorry." And the entry was gone. Which is probably for the best because it would've been interesting only to my mom and me.

***

I'm changing my eating habits. Not because it's the new year and I'm making resolutions, but because a friend was recently diagnosed with colon cancer. His wife, one of my nearest and dearest, asked me to order Coping Books and Cookbooks for her.

I stumbled upon The Cancer Fighting Kitchen, and the more reviews I read and the more I learned in the way we do on the internet, virtually staggering from one link to the next, I thought: Why don't we all eat like this? More veggies. Less red meat. Little sugar. Let's prevent the cancer before it starts. (Not that I believe all cancers are preventable, but I do believe diet has a lot to do with health.)

Once upon a time, where once upon a time means about a month ago, I ate as much sugar in a day as good stuff. An entire village could live along the hilly terrain of my sweet tooth. It was that big. But then, I stopped buying treats. I'd go to the cupboard in the middle of the afternoon, or in the evening, and there'd be nothing. So I'd shrug and find something else to do. And you know what? My sugar cravings largely faded. Not completely, mind you. Baby steps. But mostly.

Then my friend and the cancer. My research. So here I am on December 31st feeding my kids a breakfast of quinoa sprinkled with organic brown sugar. Weird.

***

For Christmas, I made the women in my life these fancy flax and lavender-filled pillows. I'd always wanted one myself, too.

 

It turns out, though, that I prefer my ratty old rice sock. It stays warm longer and smells comfortingly of a Japanese kitchen. Who'd have guessed?

***

Here's my favorite photo I took this week:

 

I'm resisting the urge to write any sort of New Years round-up, so I'll just say, have a wonderful start to a new decade.

And, as always, thanks for reading!

Merry Holidays

Hope you have many sweet moments.

Flashbulb clicking

I see the Picasso exhibit at SAM by myself. Then, driving up First, a guy in a gray hooded sweatshirt steps languidly into the street and splays his fingers at me, as if mimicking a flashbulb. I stare at him, passing, thinking about Dora Maar and speculating how bastardly Picasso really was, wondering if my friend who is struggling mightily right now will call my cell phone. Christmas, is everything done baked wrapped will I ever not be the Holidaymaker do I ever want to not be?

Why did the guy do that with his hand? Lights reflecting off wet pavement all around him.

I stop at Trader Joe's for wine and chocolate chips. Maybe a few other things. Chicken breasts and organic, free-range eggs. How free-range are the chickens, really? How happy are they, or were they before they went to the big coop in the sky?

I drive, thinking about kissing Max and Claire's cheeks. In lieu of a cat, it's my greatest comfort, those fleshy, warm cheeks. Someday Max's will have whiskers.

There was almost no time to write today, but I found a half hour to bury myself in my current story. More like dive into it, the words murky blue all around me. A few gleamed--shiny perfect fish. But most were krill, just sort of floating there.

It was a relief.

Still driving. A police car pulls out in front of me. Instinctively, I touch the knob that controls my headlights. They'd been off all that time.

That's why the flashbulb fingers.

Aha.

Pull

Today I'm 42. Yeah, I don't know how that happened either.

Recently, I've had a recurring memory cycling through my brain. Of my mom and the teenage version of me stretching my jeans after they'd come out of the wash. She'd grip the waistband, I'd take a leg and we'd yank the damp denim in opposite directions as if we were pulling taffy. We hoped this would offset shrinkage. That it would delay, for a few months, the inevitable new Gloria Vanderbilt purchase.

My poor mom. It must've been hard for her, watching her oldest daughter sprout so fast, passing all the girls and most of the boys her age. All those crazy bones and tendons and muscles thrusting higher and taller, refusing to quit.

I don't know why the jean-stretching memory has bubbled to the surface lately. Except that, in those moments of tug-of-war, I remember feeling close to my mom, bonded in a common goal of lengthening my pants.

And for that, despite the general shittiness I associate with my height in my teen and young adult years, I'm grateful.

Cat Video Friday

Thanks to KC for this video. Happy The-Kids-Are-Off-School-For-Two-Weeks-Holy-Crap Holidays

Busy

How quickly I fall back into my old ways.

Of posting once a week or less.

It's just that I've been frantically preoccupied.

With work and hand-made Christmas presents.

Max's dental woes.

Conferences with teachers.

Sweeping pine needles off the floor.

Bacon Jam.

Writing fiction. I still do, when I can.

Sleeping.

Buying.

Getting my eyebrows waxed. My favorite pastime outside of photography.

Looking for my slippers. Always looking for my slippers.

Snapping at the children.

Researching lip piercings. I think I've decided against it.

Eating tacos and cookies.

You know, the usual.

Perspective

How many people in the world would love to open a full cupboard, a bulging refrigerator and try to decide what to feed their kids?

Keep it in perspective. This isn't so bad.

Max got skin tests yesterday for egg and milk and the flu shot. He was cleared for the shot and got it, grimacing bravely. He still can't have dairy products or anything egg-laden, though.

Keep it in perspective. This isn't so bad.

A filling fell out of Max's mouth and a small cavity formed.

He has a bumpy rash all over his torso that the allergist thinks is viral. At the allergist's office, in fact, Claire smashed her finger in the hinge side of a door. I must've turned white when I saw her soft, small pinky stuck in there, because it looked flat.

Claire's chest hurts. Dull, she says. Often. Like mother, like daughter? Or something worse?

Keep it in perspective. This isn't so bad.

Max's handwriting is horrendous and requires extra lessons. That I need to provide. We have to go back to Kindergarten books so he can relearn how to shape his letters. And Claire's speech. Claire's speech. So cute, yet so distorted. The schools tell us to wait. She doesn't need therapy. My gut tells me she does.

Keep it in perspective. This isn't so bad.

Worry. I'm worrying more than usual these days. Reminding me of my former, pre-medicated self. I'm a little too flustered. A little too lonely. Yet all I want is to be by myself.

Keep it in perspective. This isn't so bad.

My kitchen is nice. Granite. Semi-fancy appliances. But...all that time I have to spend in there. All that damn deciding and cooking and cleaning up. The kitchen. It drives me insane.