Monumental Tooth

My last post was honest, difficult to write, depressing as all get-out and necessary. It can't remain as my home page, though. Why not?

Here's why not:

I dare you to look at this picture and not at least smile a little bit. Besides the hilarity, besides the casual arm flung around her little brother, look at my jBird's giant front tooth. That, my friends, is a monument.

It is a monument of tooth-bone to change, to growth, to shedding childish things, but not quite growing into the permanent things, either. I love that huge, solitary front tooth and sometimes I just want to touch it. My jBird is a patient girl, but she rarely indulges me in this. I don't blame her, but still. Look at that thing!

Her teeth will all eventually come in and straighten out (hopefully without a whole lot of orthodontic intervention) but for now, I secretly cherish this giant front tooth that is so awkward, so strange and out of place in her face, but a talisman of more big things to come. For now this is more beautiful to me than any movie-star-perfect smile in the world.

These two - with their life and their energy and their constant vibration - these two wear me out and they worry me and they drive me straight up a wall sometimes. But look at how they laugh. They lean into each other and laugh. With their messy hair and hand knit sweaters and heads full of nonsense and of course the giant tooth, they laugh. I can fume around and stew and boil about things that are so much bigger than they are, but you know what? These are the biggest people I know. They have virtually no control over their lives, they have very little say in the things of the world; they get told what to do, where to go, how to behave and to go and pick up all their Legos. Their mother is moody and somewhat unpredictable, she's intense and she's insane and she loves them with all her heart. And still they laugh. With eyes closed, without self-consciousness or guile - so hard, they laugh. This is their default mode.

And that monumental tooth. Well, you know how it is. It brings me to my knees and it makes me laugh, too. So hard. 

He's 5 Today

He was a surprise, twice.
He continues to surprise me.

His first word was "Go!"
His second and third words were "I'm stuck!"

His favorite person in the world is his big sister. Hers is the only opinion that matters.
His second favorite person in the world is me. I love a mama's boy.

His big dark eyes, cowlicky hair and dimpled chin have been wooing the ladies since he was born.

He slipped into our life 5 years ago today without a whole lot of fuss and completed our family in a way we never could have imagined in advance.

He's my Sweet and Tender Hooligan.

Breaking the Rules

Halloween is my 2nd favorite holiday after my birthday. It's the best day of the year for breaking all the rules. Now that the kids are bigger, they have begun to issue the Halloween Challenge every year. It goes like this: They come up with a costume, I make it. This year's challenge accepted and completed:

Chewbacca

My wee hooligan has developed an obssession with Star Wars over the last year. His character of choice: Chewbacca. I will add here that he has NEVER seen any of the Star Wars movies. Everything he knows about it, he knows from books and his Daddy's Lego Star Wars Wii game. So, in the interests of this darling little face, I broke my rule about licensed characters and made him a Wookiee suit. The one rule I won't break, Halloween or no, is the weapon rule. He is a disarmed Chewbacca, carrying a carrot instead of a blaster.

Peacock girl

We did a little gender-bending for my wee girl's costume. She wanted to be a peacock, and a fabulous peacock she was. She designed the layout of the costume and I executed it. She wanted to be able to display her plumage at will, so we attached her tail to her cape and she could spread it out into a beautiful peacock tail. Not a peahen tail. They're not as fabulous.

Heading out to take candy from strangers.

And of course, one of the biggest rules broken every Halloween: taking candy from strangers. Lots and lots of candy. And eating candy. Lots and lots of candy. One year we went to a local event (it shall remain nameless because it's pretty popular and just because I wasn't thrilled with it doesn't mean that other people don't love it). Anyway, this local event was a chance for the kiddos to do some trick-or-treating around in a community setting. The "treats" were all things like product samples, magnets advertising local businesses and toothbrushes. I agree in theory that gorging oneself on candy is unhealthy for any number of reasons, but once a year, can't we lighten up a little bit?!

Buffy and Angel : Breaking all the rules.

And, lastly, my favorite bit of rule-breaking: the primping rules. The make up comes out. Hair spray, wigs, leather pants from another lifetime. There is nothing like running into your neighbors while you're dressed like Buffy the Vampire Slayer to boost the confidence. This is one day a year when, young and old, we get to be something else and only our imagination limits what that "something else" is. Break some rules, eat some candy, love a vampire, have some fun.

I love the smell of paranoia in the morning...

Paranoia comes with the territory. It's part of the welcoming package we get when we give birth: Here's your tote bag with formula samples (which will be thrust into the back of the cupboard "in case I die"), a tiny little hat knitted by generous old ladies (that will never fit the watermelon-sized head you just passed but they will have fun putting it on their dolls later), a booger sucker, a medicine dropper, 37 pamphlets about diseases (to keep you awake at night in case your baby doesn't), and oh yeah... a great big jug of Paranoia Mist - it's so effective it will linger around the edges of your consciousness for at least the next 18 years. Enjoy!

A friend and I were watching our kids play on the playground before school. I had to take a moment out from our conversation to scream at my 4-year-old: "Don't throw the wood chips! You'll get a corneal abrasion!" This is, for me, a completely reasonable reaction. Not so much for other people, I discovered. First, apparently, you aren't supposed to yell instructions to your children across the playground. You're supposed to ask them how they feel about it and what a better course of action would be, keeping a calm voice and a big smile even while said 4-year-old continues to not only throw wood chips, but now to throw them into your big smile. OK, not gonna do that. I've made my peace with the fact that I startle other parents by suddenly yelling instructions at my monkeys. What was more surprising to me was that not everyone worries about corneal abrasion. WHY NOT?! My brother had to wear an eye patch for a month when he was 7 from that exact thing! It happens! The same mom who laughed at my "oddly specific" fear of corneal abrasion is terrified that one day one of her kids will inhale something and get it lodged in their left bronchial tube. Crazy lady.

Paranoia, to a degree, is necessary in raising kids. A healthy dose of fear is what helps us keep our kids safe. The metallic twang of adrenalin and the fight or flight reaction are what send us running to save precious heads from the sudden effects of gravity. It's what wakes us up in the middle of the night when the cough from the other room doesn't sound quite right. It's what makes us hold hands crossing the street. It's why we don't send a 7-year-old to the grocery store by herself to buy a gallon of milk even though she insists she's perfectly capable. Some fear is good, but by it's very nature, fear is irrational. Our guts kick in before our brains have a chance to catch up. And sometimes our guts kick in with bizarre, oddly specific scenarios.

We all have our own custom flavor of Paranoia Mist. It is an enchanting cocktail of our worst fears, past experiences, bad advice, books we've read (sometimes confusing the fiction with the non-fiction in our addled states) and that documentary we watched about the guy who had a botched circumcision as a baby so his parents decided to raise him as a girl and the rest of his life was a torturous hell.  Even the most "laid back" among us have it. In fact, I secretly believe that parents who are generally seen as "laid back" are either A.) heavily medicated or B.) are just better at keeping that big, boiling ball of neurosis inside and out of sight. But it's there, with its distinct, and highly personal scent. My Paranoia Mist is vomit scented.

I recently read a blog post by Lindsay Maddox on her blog, Silly Mom Thoughts about trying to talk herself out of her sudden and irrational fear of a suspicious acting stranger at church. With her usual humor and aptness, she describes how her gut reaction kicked in and her imagination was flooded with images of being gunned down in church. She describes that heart-thumping, I can't sit still and concentrate, I must do something NOW reaction that we've all felt in different situations. I caught myself feeling all superior and self-satisfied as I was reading because "I would never..." Crazy lady. I'm a far more put-together mom because I have let go of those fears of violence or kidnapping. I'm way cooler because I am open-minded. I don't have a fear of strangers. Oops. Except if they look like they might throw up.

Living in the city, we spend a lot of time on public transportation. I spend a lot of that time on public transportation carefully scrutinizing the other passengers for signs of illness. That fellow there is adjusting his necktie, is it because he's nauseated and finds it a bit constricting? She has cleared her throat 4 times now, is she about to chuck? You there! You look a little green around the gills. Don't make eye contact! Don't make eye contact! Argh! That person just put her head between her knees! THIS IS IT! Oh, wait, she's just getting something out of her bag. The embarrassing fact is, someone could be holding up the bus driver with an automatic weapon and I might not notice unless they also looked a little peaked. More than anything in this world, I am terrified of vomit. I generally try to keep this terror to myself, being totally irrational and all. I mean, sometimes I do suddenly snap at my kids to "Turn around and don't touch anything!" for fear that someone may have, at some point in the history of the bus, vomited in that very spot. I have been known to change seats a few times to better locate us away from possible hurlers. But that's just being prudent, right? OK, so maybe that one time few times when we jumped off the bus 3 stops early and I made my tired kids walk the remaining 12 blocks home was a little crazy, but exercise is good for you.

If you've never had the Bus Panics, or the Church Panics, or the Sitting in My Living Room on a Tuesday Afternoon Panics, then you are either A.) not a parent or B.) heavily medicated. We all do it. It's easy enough to look at someone else's crazy and feel all special because it's not the same as ours. But the next time you feel that nothing but buzzing in your head, heart palpitating, hot-sicky fear, take a whiff of your own special blend of Paranoia Mist. Chances are, some other mom is thinking you're insane. And you are. We all are. So how 'bout some hugs. But not if you're feeling queasy.


*** Special thanks to Lindsay Maddox whom I've only recently discovered and I've never met in the flesh but I'm pretty sure we would get along.  Read her blog. Thanks, Lindsay, for your courage and your humor and your boundless energy.


*** Bus Panics are totally justified, by the way. 2 weeks ago, the Chief Lou came home from work and left his shoes on the back porch. You know why? Someone threw up on the bus. Right in front of him. He stepped in it. I will never touch those shoes again.

In this economy...

"In this economy..." is rapidly climbing my chart of Top 10 Social Disclaimers that Should Be Stricken From the English Language for Overuse and Abuse. Seriously, it's about to replace "Now more than ever..." and that's saying a lot. These phrases get bandied about willy nilly, and generally get attached to the front of any sentence that you want to excuse in advance for being obnoxious or selfish or xenophobic or just about anything involving duct tape and bottled water. Any sentence begun with this phrase will automatically send me to a place in my head that plays my favorite songs on repeat. Your lips are moving, but I can't hear what you're saying. It just looks like you're lip-syncing to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" and that amuses me. That's why I'm smiling and nodding along. I have a serious problem with cliché to begin with, and I find social disclaimers to be among the most despicable forms. If you have something obnoxious to say, say it. Don't hide behind a mindlessly repeated talking point or try to excuse it or make it seem somehow all right under the circumstances. So, "in this economy..." is about to be stricken from my lexicon forever. But first! Some advice from my mother:

My mom is one of the best teachers I know. With a career spanning 40 years, she has seen every trend in education come and go and come around again. One time she told me her trick to classroom management: "Your classroom is like a government. The teacher, as the leader, gets to determine the 'currency of the kingdom'. If you trade in positive reinforcement and excitement for learning, the students will learn to do the same." This advice has also saved me from many temper tantrums (my own) over the last several years of parenting. What is the currency of my household? Do we trade in mutual respect and kind words? Do we give these things to each other without reservation? What is the currency of your household?

And what is the currency of our country right now? We can continue to focus collectively on the distribution of wealth and material goods and see where that gets us. Or, we can devise a new economy. The good news is that we don't have to wait for new people or the right people to get elected to get it started. There's no joint resolution that needs to be passed, there's no spending to cut, no disenfranchisement, no endless bickering over dollars and cents. The other good news is that I'm going trot this tired phrase around the barnyard before I put it out of its misery.

In this economy... I will choose to give liberally and without regret to those who need it without judging their circumstances.

In this economy... I will also choose to give liberally and without regret even to those who I don't think need it.

In this economy... I will spend my energy developing relationships and experiences; not accumulating possessions.

In this economy... I will get to know my neighbors and my community. I will not be isolated by fear or apathy.

In this economy... I will not adopt positions or ideas just because they are oft-repeated or popular. I will choose to think for myself.

In this economy... I will not participate in gossip or slander of anyone, whether they are a public figure or a private individual, because that only divides and hurts.

In this economy... I will plant flowers and bake bread because they smell good and because they remind me of things like delayed gratification, growth, and getting my hands dirty.

In this economy... I will tell people the nice things I think about them, whether I think they need it or not.

In this economy... I will continue to enter (and lose) local contests and events because it forces me to expose myself and get to know new people in ways I wouldn't otherwise.

In this economy... I will listen carefully to the stories of others. I will not judge based on appearance, my pre-ordained pigeonholes or stereotypes. I will constantly be surprised.

In this economy... I will turn off the "news" and turn up the music.

In this economy... I will express gratitude, both loudly and inwardly, for the goodness that surrounds me: in nature, in other people, in the things I have, in the lessons I've learned, in the challenges I face, in the silliness of life.

In this economy... I will take responsibility for my choices, my actions and my words. I will also give myself and others the grace to make mistakes.

In this economy... I will play nicely and share.

In this economy... my kids' inheritance will be love for themselves and others, an appreciation for hard work, thankful hearts, faith, and a sense of their many-splendored gifts and how they can use them to change their worlds.

What is our country, if not a conglomeration of all sorts of households? Join the revolution! What's your new economy?




*Photos courtesy of the inimitable Thomas Poarch. The figures are of part of an installation by Tom Otterness in the 14th St subway at 8th Ave in NYC. Should you ever be in the Big Apple, you should check both Toms out. Also, am I allowed to say "Big Apple"? I'm not sure about this.

I Love the Fall

I love the fall. I love fall food: apple cider doughnuts, chili, warm bread from the oven, hearty soups. I love the sweaters and layers and hats of fall. I love the smell of the summer winding down and starting to decay. I love the frost in the mornings and puffs of visible breath at night. My three favorite holidays are in the fall: Halloween, Thanksgiving and my birthday. I love the word "autumn". I love a toasty warm fire in the wood stove to take the edge off the evening chill. I love the early nightfalls, made for cuddling. Fall is my "energy season". I cook more, write more, knit more, make more. Albert Camus said "Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower." These flower-leaves are my favorite thing about the fall. 


I grew up in northern Vermont. As a child, I always thought it was a little bit silly that people would drive from all over the country just to come and look at our trees. Once a year, my dad would load us all into the car and we'd just drive. Out through the hills and small villages. Not to anywhere in particular, just winding around getting lost in the brilliant patchwork of a New England autumn. I wish I could say honestly that it was a time of magical wonder and idyllic family bonding; but at the time I think a lot of the focus (in the back seat, anyway) was on whose legs were in the wrong foot well, whose breath smelled, who was chewing too loudly, who might get carsick and who got to sit by the window - not for the view, but for the position of power it seemed to convey. Like most children do, I took it for granted. Of course it was beautiful. What was the big deal? It happened every year.


As a somewhat larger child now, I find myself living in a city of many trees. We have a long, slow autumn. As if on a secret cue given by school buses and eraser dust, the trees begin to change their clothes. One variety at a time, each with their own signature colors. The maples begin with the reds of fire engines, lipstick, clown hair. The alders blush a faded orange. The beeches trade their leaves for pennies, winking in the sun. A tree near our house is my favorite - a lime green to yellow, almost fluorescent. Bit by bit, they all don their ball gowns and jewels for their final curtain call for the year: tourmaline, garnet, amethyst, ruby, topaz, alexandrite, tiger eye. They swish on the sidewalks to the opalescent flashes of autumn sunshine, gracefully nodding and fluttering waves. 


I go about my business. I walk the kids to school. I go to the grocery store, the library, the bank. I trip through my days, spilling coffee as I organize, make lists in my head, clean up messes, fold clothes. I pack lunches, find shoes, answer countless nonsensical questions, check homework, retrieve library books, make dinner. Somehow I still find myself concerned with whose legs are in the wrong foot well, whose breath smells, who's chewing too loudly, who might get carsick and who gets to sit by the window. 


This time of year, the easy, torpid pace of summer picks up with the breeze and we find ourselves always en route somewhere. How many days have I hurried small, dragging feet through the freshly fallen leaves, seeing nothing but the minutes ticking toward the late bell at school? How many times have I driven the same routes, staring only at the red light making us wait instead of the red leaves waving along the street? How many times have I seen only the smudge of chocolate instead of the soft cheek that held it? How many times have I only half listened to rambling, imaginative story while I balanced the checkbook in my head? How many times have I tugged, wishing they would hurry up, without savoring the feel of small hands, so trusting, so sweet in mine?


I can no longer be mistaken for the child piled in the back of that station wagon. I recognize the fragile, ephemeral beauty of the autumn leaves. I understand my father's wish to just drive and soak it in; to fill the senses with the majesty of it while we still could. I know that there is no guarantee of next year. But still, like that child, I take the beauty that surrounds me for granted. Of course they're beautiful. What's the big deal? The thing is, they won't always be there next year. Not in the same way. Our seasons will change and their lives will move forward and will I have spent this time - this sparkling, colorful, fragile, ephemeral time - focused on petty squabbles and daily minutiae? Will I take this beauty for granted? Or will I take the time to really see my life around me - the bright eyes, the crooked, gap-toothed smiles, the messes that mean that there are little people alive and curious around me, the growing bellies that need to be filled with good food? All of that, like the glowing leaves, won't be around for long, but they're here today. I think today I'll leave the tussling and griping to the back seat of that station wagon all those years ago and lift my head up, out of myself, and savor the view.

Closing Night Interview with a Performance Artist

It is the closing night of the performance art piece that has been showing in my front yard the last few weeks. It's a poignant piece called Pots of Dead Things: An Exploration of the Existential Conflict of Squirrels vs. Zucchini and Why Dahlias Do Not Make Good Toys. I caught up with some of the players just as they were wrapping up.

Me: So, last performance, huh? How are you feeling about that?
Zucchini Plant: Well, there's always a little sadness when things change, but I think we had a brilliant showing and accomplished some of the things we set out to do.
Me: Can you articulate some of those things for our readers?
ZP: There were a lot of people who, when we first started this project in June, were doubtful of the outcome. I think we proved that you can, indeed, grow zucchini in pots. We also got to work with some great kids this year who really poured their hearts into watching this piece unfold. From the very beginning when we were just a seed of an idea, they were there to nurture us along, to help us see this thing through. I like to think we helped them learn some things along the way.
Me: What sort of things?
ZP: Patience, primarily. And, you know, that exhilaration of watching something spring to life and transform. [chuckles quietly] Also that they don't like to eat zucchini very much.
Me: Was this problematic for the performance?
ZP: Nah, it's all good. We fed some hungry squirrels. Cycle of life, man, cycle of life. There are so many things that can get you down in today's world. It's great to have been a part of something that encourages discovery. It's good to know that plants just keep growing, the seasons keep turning. Ahem. [clears throat and takes a moment]
Me: Any words of advice to your successors?
ZP: Sure. They're young and pretty now, but they have a hard winter ahead of them. They're working with some great people, though, and I hear they're hardy, so they should be OK.

Dahlia's neck was broken and was unavailable for comment. Both she and Zucchini Plant will be retiring to Compost Bin later today. We're excited to announce that a brand new performance Mum's The Word will be debuting this fall, weather permitting.

Discovery Park

The winter had been mild, but brutal for reasons other than the weather. Seemingly for months on end, stuck indoors with first one illness and then another, circling our family like greedy, mucus-laden vultures. It shook me to the center. Made me question my beliefs about myself, my health, my children's health, my parenting prowess. I declared "Enough!" and bundled little bodies, sore with remnants of our latest bout. I stuffed my pockets with tissues, healthy snacks, a camera and a map and heaved us out the door in search of a cure.


The city is hemmed by natural vastness on both sides. The Cascades to the East, the Sound and Olympics to the West. Abundant forests, lakes, foothills, volcanoes surround us. Hulking, shimmering there, patiently allowing our farce of human progress until they decide to reclaim the land. It is this constant visage of the absolute enormity of nature while still having access to good schools, flushing toilets, cultural events and decent shopping that I love about my most recent home.


The kids were antsy as we wound a new direction through a residential area. They'd never been this way before, had I? How did I know where we were going? Was I sure we weren't lost? 
"Trust me, please, to be the Mama."
Their questions were literal, but the low boil of irritation they ignited spoke to my own set of questions on an entirely different level. How did they grasp that so naturally? Or is it just my inner critic speaking?
"No, honey, I've never been this way before."

The shadow of doubt infected our space, in spite of my reassurances. The oddly flat, well-manicured mid-century subdivision through which we were driving didn't seem like the wildness I was seeking. Slowing for speed bumps and watching for my cue, I think I held my breath a bit. Slowly, slowly, then - aha. There it was, my talisman: the small, slightly dated-looking, rainbow striped sign of a city park. With a triumphant flip of  the blinker and a tap on the brakes, I felt more vindicated than I should have. I was right. I did know the way. With that slight course adjustment, we left the landscape of tidy yards and ramblers for our personal frontier.


Over lunch we spotted a white rabbit, startling against the green underbrush. It stopped and watched us watching it before cocking its head and leaping off into the deeper forest. It seemed as good a sign as any that it was time to begin our descent to the beach.


The path was worn and well-marked and the kids enjoyed the freedom to dance or run or meander at their own paces. Stopping to inspect: witch's butter here, moss formations there, rocks, bugs, the first brave flower buds of late winter.


Across the meadow to the bluffs - the first lookout point to the Sound. I think it was then that they finally started to believe me that we were going the right way. Impatience, urgency - "There it is! I can see the beach! Let's go straight!" The futility of explaining that what felt like walking away was really the best way to go.

I watched their little legs and feet making their way down the steep and knobbly forest trail. Each step so much effort, distances so much further for them than for me. These two little forest creatures, gamely heading the direction I pointed them. Setting aside their doubts and plunging deeper into the evergreen glow of sunlight filtered through clouds filtered through cedars.


We rounded a bend as the cedars gave way to deciduous trees not yet in leaf. We three stopped to catch our breath and mine caught me. Unfolding before us, the wind and salt bleached trees, with bare limbs held high. Clothed in white, a crowd of supplicants, arms lifted in praise, frozen there in their dance down the hill to be baptized by sun and sand and sea. We took up their dance for them; eagerly, trippingly, breathlessly down the rest of the trail. At once blinded and inspired by the occasional flashing glimpse through the limbs as the ripples on the Sound grasped a little sunlight and tossed its sparkle up to us. In good faith we clamored through the last tangle of vines that completely obscured our goal until bursting, tumbling, gasping like birth onto the sand. 


Off they ran to dig, to hunt, to discover, to revel. The brilliance of the sudden afternoon sun was matched only by the shining, dancing, aching pleasure in my children's chilly, wind-kissed faces.
"Thank you, Mama! We made it!"