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Mourning

This is what it's like living at my house:

Fruit Bat (this morning before school, holding a plastic model of the solar system): "Mommy, Mommy? Mom. Mama. This is how I think the planets are aligned right now. This is how I think they are. Pluto isn't a real planet. It's a dwarf planet. There's another dwarf planet, too. Right, Mama? I think I knew about the other dwarf planet before scientists discovered it. Mama, look. Look, Neptune takes 244 of our years to go around the Sun once. I won't live that long, will I Mama? To see Neptune go around the Sun once."

I say, "Two hundred and forty four years? I don't think a person has ever lived that long, no." It makes me a little sad to say.

I am scrambling eggs for Kitty Cat, making fruit smoothies, trying to get Fruit Bat's lunch together, gathering library books to be returned, dumping vegetables in the slow cooker for dinner, emptying the dishwasher and transferring laundry from the washer to the dryer.

Kitty Cat is dancing around the living room with a yogurt-covered raisin in her mouth.

"Sit down and chew your food," I bellow. "Please. That's choke-able."

Kitty Cat says, "Two plus three equals four, right mommy?

"Five," I say. "It equals five."

"Let's pretend we're in a raisin factory and I'm the expert yogurt-covered raisin taster. Okay, mama?" She asks. "Let's pretend we're in a raisin factory and I'm the expert yogurt-covered raisin taster. Okay? Okay, mama?"

"Yes, let's pretend that. How are those raisins, expert taster?"

"They're okay."

Fruit Bat: "Mama, why didn't they put rings around Neptune when they made this solar system. Neptune has rings too. How long do you think that red storm on Jupiter will go? How long Mama? How many years?"

"I don't know...thousands and thousands more years. Wait a sec, I'm turning on the blender."

"Mama," Fruit Bat says. "This smoothie is too watery. I don't like it. I don't want it."

"Watery? I made it the same way I did yesterday."

"No you didn't. It's too watery. It's gross. I don't want it."

"Fine, don't drink it then."

"Mom, uh, hello?" It's Kitty Cat chiming in again. "I wanted to wear a dress today? A pink one?"

"Go get a pink dress from your room then."

"I need someone to go up with me."

"You're almost five. You can go up yourself."

Crying. Whining. "I need someone to go up with me."

Fruit Bat finally agrees to go with her. He comes back down with a book of animals facts and asks me to read them.

"Oh, I'd love to, honey. But, after school okay? We're getting short on time now."

"Mama? Mama? Hey, Mama. Did you know there's a river in this part of Africa that crocodiles live in. And some people hunt them for their skin. Did you know that, Mama?"

"I think so," I say. "I do now."

Etcetera.

Jealous?

All is merry and bright. Or something.

 

We get a holiday card every year from the medical study Kitty Cat is in. She has a gene. One that's not so great and could someday turn into something chronic (but probably won't). So the people who work for this study poke her and examine her toenail clippings and evaluate our drinking water. 

I hate the whole endeavor, to be honest. But I know we're doing something good, helping to advance research, etcetera, etcetera.

The card is festive and is all "Happy Holidays! Season's Greetings! Thank you for collecting your daughter's poop every month and mailing it to our East Coast lab! Thank you for letting us draw her blood far more often than a baby/toddler/preschooler should have her blood drawn! Thank you for the privilege of also testing her for celiac disease and worrying the shit out of you this past summer even though it all came to nothing!! Thank you for opening our letters every three months (with trembling hands) as we send our Yea, she's developing the Evil Antibodies or Nay, she's still good, after every blood test!"

Each person involved in the study signs the card. Because we're all friends. These do-gooders and us.

I glance at it and toss it in the recycle bin.

*-*-*-*-*

I'm ambivalent about Santa. We've told the lie and perpetuated it all these years (J. going to great lengths to keep the kids believing). It's fun. It's absurd. It's totally not what Christmas is about. And yet...and yet...I believed as a kid and I don't remember that learning the truth did me great harm. 

I do recall extreme irritation when, at 7, I grilled my mom, demanded she tell me definitively if there was a Santa or not. And since Christmas was just days away, she said, "The SPIRIT of Santa Claus is real. We'll talk more in January."

"The Spirit of Santa?" I thought. If I had known WTF then, I certainly would've uttered it. I could not grasp what The Spirit of Santa meant.

Looking back, though, I think she handled it well. And I know Fruit Bat will ask soon. He's already announced that he doesn't believe in magic. Magic is how I've explained so much Santa ridiculousness.

How does Santa get in through our chimney-less gas fireplace? Magic, of course. How does Santa make it to every hut and yurt and house and condo in the world on one night? The big M. How do Santa's elves mold plastic to make it look exactly like the Tonka truck at Toys 'R Us? Why, Magic, my son.

So, the whole gig is blown if he doesn't believe in magic. Which I'm kind of okay with. A few times these last weeks I've been tempted to blurt out the truth. But I haven't. And I shouldn't. Not yet.

There'll be plenty of years during which Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat can hone their cynicism, not enough time for them to just enjoy This.

Thanksgiving 1969

This is my extended family 40 years ago. I was almost one, so probably sat off to the side in a high chair smearing mashed potatoes all over myself.

Carving the turkey is my Grandpa, John. I blogged about him once, about how he lost a finger in a lawn mower and about his stoicism and infuriating reserve. He was in the Navy during World War II, though I could never convince him to tell me stories from those days. His reticence frustrated me back then. Now I wonder if he was too traumatized to speak of it. I don't know.

When this photo was taken, he and my grandma, Ruth, to his left, owned a 9-hole golf course (hence the lawn mower incident). They lived there, in the clubhouse, occupying a few designated rooms upstairs and off the back. We took big family meals in the common dining area. And this is where the photo was shot. Oh, how I remember that golf course. Even now, the fuely smell from a fleet of golf carts takes me right back.

The auburn-haired stunner to the right is my aunt, Betsy. She's an all around lovely person with an artistic eye and a sweet soul.

I hesitated to post this picture. It's just a holiday snapshot, after all. Probably boring to most of you. But I love how it captures a family moment, a moment when the world was about to enter 1970. And how that time makes me think of so many other happy times from my very groovy childhood.

Saved by a pumpkin patch

I took Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat to a pumpkin patch yesterday. The sky was low and gray, the weather nondescript. No breeze. No raindrops. Nothing except a nip in the air.

And my children? They couldn't have been better. More cooperative. More precious.

It was quiet, the pumpkin patch, but there were a few other small groups. One was a mother with three toddlers. She was overwhelmed. Beyond overwhelmed. She reminded me of myself last Saturday. The abundant mud drove her nuts. Her kids could do nothing right. They were too loud, too exuberant, too dirty. While part of me wanted to send her telepathic messages to relax and remember that outside, on a farm for God's sake, was the perfect place for whooping and getting grimy, another part of me understood completely.

There are days (weeks, months) when you're at your limit and attempting an outing of that magnitude puts you over the edge. You do it, because you think the kids will enjoy it and that you should, after all, take them to a pumpkin patch in October. When what you really ought to do is find help so you can sit in a bean bag chair with a giant mug of something hot. Alone.

As I watched her, and listened to her (dear dog, did I have to listen to her) I felt so much on the other side of my foul mood Saturday. Like I actually had a choice to embrace my good fortune or not. Last weekend, there was no choice. I was at the bottom of a well. As close as I ever come to depression.

I've made no secret of the fact that weekends are hard for me. That J. and I often fall into a strange groove of deferring to the other or fighting for control of how the household will run. Last weekend was a little (okay a lot) of both. Less symbiotic and more judgmental and argumentative. That's not how either of us want to be. And then there are the kids, wanting and needing me, when what I crave is a day to move at my own pace.

One thing, too, I never considered about motherhood, when I was young and considering motherhood, was that it would turn me into a nag. Not even nagging J. really. While we have our issues, I don't think nagging is on his list of what bugs him about me. But nagging the kids. To brush their teeth and get dressed and eat and clear dishes and turn off lights and wash their own damn grapes because I'm tired of being in the kitchen. I never thought of myself as nit-picky and annoying, but that's often what I feel I've become. I hate that particular version of myself.

Maybe the woman at the pumpkin patch was thinking the same thing: I hate being like this, yet I can't stop because it's kind of a vortex that sucks you in and how will these kids survive if I don't protect them from the dirt and untied shoes and their own exhilaration?

All I know for sure is that the pumpkin patch did the opposite for me. It helped save me from that Angie. I got to hang with my kids and let them get grungey and yell and run. And I enjoyed every second of it.

8 Years

As of today, I've been married to this man for eight years. 

I love this picture, flawed lighting and all. His expression is so him. Observant. A hint of bemusement. Wheels turning in that head.

Our wedding ceremony was tiny. Just our immediate families amid the red rocks in Sedona. It rained that day, but stopped in time for our small gathering, for us to read the vows we'd written ourselves.

I was so happy with him. So ready to be married.

And he, J., has been unwavering. A rock. A hard worker, committed, compassionate, earnest, smart smart smart without being condescending, and he has these dark blue eyes that, when they're happy, can liquefy brick walls.

Happy Anniversary, J. You've brought me to a place that is incredible in its complexity, delicacy and depth.

With and without

I didn't have my camera last night. Damn. Because as we crested a hill in our car, there were the Olympic Mountains and Puget Sound spread out before us like some visual banquet. Sun poked through dark blue clouds, the water a creamy steel. A loan boat with a teal sail glided through it all. And I, without even my point-and-shoot. Not that I probably could have captured it anyway, without it coming out looking like a muddled and distant diorama. What lens is good for landscapes, anyway? Because that's what's going on my next wish list.

*****

We're into the full swing of school now. I know because both kids have colds. Kitty Cat, in particular, woke up feeling pretty crummy this morning. To prove it, she screeched and cried and wailed and made it almost impossible to get out the door. We did it though. Thankfully. My partner-in-crime on one of the sites I write for has just resigned, which means I have a lot more work to squeeze into the couple of hours a day when both kids are at school.

*****

I think spanking your kids sucks. Read this if you disagree. While I know that a segment of the population is not educated about how to more constructively discipline children, I also believe anyone who has the resources to be on the internet (and might be reading this post), has the resources to learn how to do it better.

*****

We hiked this past weekend. J. picks the hikes because I cannot remember where we've already been. You know, trees and rocks and ferns. Undoubtedly beautiful. But, to me, the same as every other Pacific Northwest Trail we've done.

Not the mountains and sea, but cute backsides, yes?

The very long weekend

Here's the thing about weekends when you have small children: Saturdays and Sundays are not your own. 

Not like they used to be, when you could roll out of bed at nine, relax over a cup of coffee, read the paper, listen to This American Life, maybe plan a hike and pack a picnic lunch.

You can still have coffee and picnics, but none of it's on your time table. It's not especially leisurely. Often, it's downright aggravating. You want mellow. You want sweet silence, just for a short time. And what you get is ebullience.

And you have to, at least attempt to, embrace it. Because there are only twelve or so years (which sounds impossibly long to me right now) before your children don't especially want to interact with you. Before they start hiding what they're doing rather than shouting, a hundred times, "Watch this! Watch me!"

I get that.

Which is why I try so hard to also get this:

Autumnal

We went on a great little hike yesterday. Our trail wound through the Arboretum near the University of Washington and over several floating bridges to a small, marshy island.

It was family time embodied. And I wasn't at all angsty.

Deep breaths.

Hello date stamp. I accidentally activated you and I'm too lazy to Photoshop you out.

King of the world

Today I was driving Kitty Cat to and fro around Seattle and once, from the backseat, she said, "Mom. Mom. Mommy? Mom? I know who is King of the World."

I wondered what the heck she was going to come out with. Muhammad Ali? Rick Astley? Obama?

"Who?" I asked, genuinely curious.

I shouldn't have been surprised that she said, "God."

Despite the fact that J. and I are the least religious people I know, Kitty Cat's preschool is in a church. And, as such, she learns churchy things. Like to say grace before snack. To sing bible songs like she means it. How to bake heavenly brownies.

It's not all about Jesus and his ilk though. (And before you send me any howlers, know that I LIKE Jesus. Jesus was a good and kind man.) The preschool does tons of other cool stuff. Today the class VOTED on what the snack would be (timely, very timely). Last week a fire engine came to the school. The kids cook and paint and dress up and explore letters (and I'm totally wanting to be in preschool right now) and, most importantly, practice navigating other children.

And that she's learning about Noah, Moses, Luke and John...well, she's not getting any of that at home.

So, it's probably okay that she acquire it somewhere.

As much as I don't believe in bible stories, I think it's good to know them. To have a base of knowledge from which you can then pick and choose your ideologies.

Besides, she'll forget it all when we put her through our hardcore PreK Gospel Cleanse that includes several lessons in Rick Rolling.

Mothers and Daughters

Last Monday, while we were still in Northern Michigan, Kitty Cat and I went out to lunch with my mom.

Happily, my mom and I have a lot in common. Namely: values, energy level (lowish) and a love of Diet Coke. We both like to shop (especially together) and enjoy the same books.

We have tons to talk about. 

When the kids were babies, I called my mom everyday. Until I had children, I could never understand women who claimed to talk to their moms that often. Even though I have a lot of the same attitudes and tastes as my mom, I always wondered, What do you have to say?

The thing is, though, once you start making daily contact, your conversations become more intimate and focused on minutiae. Which, if you ask me, is a true indicator of closeness.

Lately, we've been talking a handful to times a week. That actually works well because the kids are a bit older and we're out and about more. I like it too, because when I call, my mom's voice is full of real enthusiasm to hear from me. Not that it wasn't before, but, you know, she did answer the phone to find me on the other end an awful lot.

We still chat about small things, but our conversations seem richer somehow, full of bigish announcements (Fruit Bat can write his name! My parents are going to Boston!) as well as idle babbling.

Anyway, we had a fun, girly lunch.

I love having a boy. Really, I do. I love the trucks and his funny, focused perspective. 

Having a child of the XX persuasion, though, is amazing. 

I imagine such phone calls, shopping excursions, book discussions and lunches with her and I whimper with joy. Of course, it may not happen. Her preferences could diverge from mine. She could decide I'm annoying and overbearing and only call once a month.

But a mom can dream.