Musings and Memos

Femme

2011-10-28T16:05:00.000-07:00

There’s a scene in 2 Days in Paris where the male lead, played by a hilarious, hypochondriac Adam Goldberg, walks into his girlfriend’s aged Paris pied-a-terre and gasps at the mold growing on the shower walls due to a leak that possibly dates to the French Revolution. He asks, “What the fuck is that? Is that black mold? The deadliest fungus known to man?”

His girlfriend is played by the brilliant and talented Julie Delpy. She defends the mold and says something like, “It’s not black, it’s green. Look at it, it’s green, like blue cheese. It’s probably good for you even.”

This is the beginning of a film (ruckusly vying to be my favorite) where throughout, Delpy deftly articulates a French female persona that is outspoken and witty, making her seem carefree and sexy, where in fact she’s intelligent and deep as Sartre and de Beauvoir after midnight.

She expresses her depth and social consciousness via heated political arguments with cab drivers, public outbursts of blame to former boyfriends, and guilt-laden confessions of using toilet paper when there are so many other needs in this world.

Delpy wrote, directed, starred-in, and co-produced the original score for the movie. I adore her for this. ADORE.

Watching the movie by myself is pleasure enough, but 2 Days in Paris is also the funniest movie I’ve watched with Robin. Not that he’s ever had a problem accepting my family, but the movie softly illuminates, like a streetlamp along the steps to Montmartre, why I’m the way I am and that my mom is really quite normal. (In another laugh-out-loud scene, the French mother walks in on Delpy and Goldberg having sex and asks if they have any laundry she can do for them. Yep, this happened to us, except my mom saw more, so had to back out of the bedroom and ask about the laundry when we emerged later that morning.)

Since I was born in the US, along with all the American freedoms I’m fortunate to have, I also have the freedom to choose which parts of my heritage I adopt and which I eschew.

Home:
I promise my shower is clean. Like a proper American mother, I have bleach spray and Clorox wipes and stain remover and I use them with abandon. My house is organized, vacuumed, wiped down and mostly decluttered.

However, I refuse to feel unreasonably pressured to make my home perfect, as in properly accessorized and decorated, and in keeping up with people who are good at those things. I do love a beautiful house, with coordinated throw pillows, shiny wood floors, crisp-white trims and kitchen counter space for more than one cook. But even if I had the money, it’s just not a priority. That part of my brain (the French part) isn’t wired to care that much. I’d rather read or write or watch a movie or see a friend or think.

Food:
The non-fat, fake food, fad diet, obsessive way of eating is entirely unappealing. Over the years I thankfully and deliciously assumed the French Girl’s diet. To me it’s defined by real food, add butter, hold the sugar. Unprocessed, unpackaged, seasonal variety, add extra fat to everything, and only eat the highest quality desserts or none at all. Yes, one can be snotty about dessert, and one gets used to it quickly.

Clothes:
Shopping for clothes bores me to tears. I’m disappointed by what’s out there and I don’t have time anyway. I want to give it up. So recently I embarked on a Wardrobe Simplification Project (WSP). I’ve narrowed my clothes to a few simple pieces that essentially all look the same, but fit like bespoke basics. I accessorize these simple pieces with scarves, yoga and attempted wit (the scarves being the only consistent and successful part).

Parisian women have always been known for their style, fashion, elegance, or an effortless combination of the three. But I think the modern French woman prefers simplicity above all. Because to think clearly about what’s important to her, or to think in any higher degree at all, she must simplify wherever she can. Of course she wants to look nice and be desired, but she knows that what she wears is a miniscule part of who she is.

I wish I could adopt other ways of the French woman, like being more outspoken, more confident, less timid, and less worried about the imperfections of myself and my life. I’d love to more naturally embrace an uninhibited joie de vivre that for now takes 3 glasses of Bordeaux to achieve. Maybe it's just a matter of time.

Which takes me to my favorite Frenchy philosophy to adopt: The idea that women get better as they age and become more of what I describe above. That a woman’s 20’s and 30’s were just practice for her 40’s and 50’s. That her lifetime peaks, gently rising and falling more like rolling hills than snow-capped Pyrenees, get brighter, smarter and more sensual as she ages. Whether this philosophy is true or not, I’m grasping on and running with it, like I’m stealing baguettes from the Boulangerie.

I’ll read and write, meet and discuss, watch and learn, and allow each new wrinkle to add a depth of character that is impossible to attain without the passing of another year. And maybe even some day, when the gray in my hair rivals the grayest January day, I will aspire to having mold in my shower. It’ll be good for me even.

Sensorially

2011-09-15T07:46:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning from a vivid, detailed dream. I laid in bed with my mind racing the way it does at night. The dream made me realize how sharp my thought processes were and how revved up my energy was yesterday. Which means they had not been that way the day before. Or the week before that.

I knew I'd been walking around in an emotional fog, but I must have been cloudy mentally and sensorially (not a word, but whatevs) as well. It's not how I like to live. It feels lazy and gloomy.

I think I'll take pleasure in everything I see, hear, touch, taste, smell, think, write and read for as long as I can. Possibly two days, probably two hours, but I may as well take advantage.

Here Are the Steeples

2011-08-20T22:45:00.000-07:00

The Olympic Mountains were in focus as though carved with a razor. It was that clear. Whenever the sky is blue here, to me it’s a blinding New Blue, one I don’t remember having seen before. On this Saturday morning, the bright New Blue above the Olympics was muted by the deep smoky blue of the Puget Sound.

It was my first time experiencing this view from the downtown Sculpture Park. Why I never made it here since it was completed four years ago, I don’t know. We had supported its development, but have yet to find our family name etched in the donor railing along the water.

It was still before the downtown weekend bustle, so there was only the occasional ship horn and faint hum of scant traffic. Against the silence, with no distraction from the other senses, the view was made even more majestic.

I walked the wide zig-zag path for twenty minutes while waiting for my yoga partners. We were trying out the summer yoga at the Park, and I had come early to find parking and take a walk.

I had company on my stroll. A few people looked like regulars – headphone walkers and park bench readers. An addict, coming down from something that morning, followed me with huge glazed eyes as I walked by. I may have been worried had I thought I looked to him like anything more than an apparition. He lumbered and weaved around the trees with the weight of the night and his condition, then eventually disappeared from the park.

Up ahead I tried inconspicuously to watch as a man dabbed a woman’s mouth with a handkerchief. She was in a wheelchair, gazing out at the view with a face that was presumably and sadly subdued by a stroke. The man was about her age, so I assumed it was her husband that lovingly brought her to feel the sun on her skin and take in this beautiful day. I imagined their many years of marriage, years when she could smile at her children and had boundless energy to care for everyone but herself.

Of course this made me cry, but I made it past them before I did. I heard the slow crunching of the white gravel as the wheelchair was pushed up the hill behind me. How quickly and profoundly one’s perspective and emotion can change.

When I got to the sunny amphitheater where the class was to take place, the instructor had arrived and helpers were setting up the speakers for her microphone. I chose a spot and stood imposingly so that my small frame made it known that me and my three places were not to be messed with.

A steady trickle of lithe bodies found their way to the open spaces on the broad grassy steps of the amphitheater. Soon every spot was filled to form a colorful cascade of limber students. Our river of poses flowed evenly and in perfect unison. The instructor likened us to a field of flowers because of the bright yoga outfits. And how could we not bloom under so many sun salutations?

There was something liberating about doing yoga in a location so public and abundantly bright, yet within the protection of a hundred yoga siblings. It’s a different experience than the one in a private, low-lit studio. More exciting maybe, in a way that raises your heart rate without raising your insecurity.

Near the end of the class, we could choose our own inversion or final pose. I relished these last few minutes in a shoulder stand.

With my legs extended straight into the air, I looked up to see my lacquered toes against the New Blue. Like ten steeples painted pink, they reached skyward while I prayed in the church below. As I do in every yoga class, I expressed gratitude for the things I have, but also for just being there at all.

On this particular morning, in the warm open air, next to my good friend, having taken the walk I had, felt the things I’d felt, I was especially grateful. A pretty view is nice, but having the time and ability to envision what you’re thankful for is magnificent.

If memoir serves me well

2011-07-17T22:31:00.000-07:00

Due to family circumstances, my dad is temporarily living on his own, far from home. He brought with him some projects, including his collection of sunrise oil paintings that he hopes to sell and a few books he hopes to finish. One of his goals is to start his memoir.

I can see his broad shoulders hunched, most likely in the middle of the night, over a few leafs of aged paper, writing with a thick pencil that was sharpened using a blunt knife. One would think that age 72 is a fine time to write your memoir. You’re still alive, that’s one good reason. You may die any day, that’s another.

My dad was born abroad. He was an actor and artist in his youth. He met my mom in Paris. They came to the States to get married and have children. He traveled with the movies as a set painter. And he has philosophies. Is that enough to write about?

When we were younger, Robin and I mused that to live a full life, your life should be worth writing about. Saying it was meaningless then. What did we know about living a full life? We worked and we went out. Our only desire for the future was that it be interesting.

So what kind of life is worth writing about? Or worth reading about, if we dare go so far? How interesting or inspiring does it need to be? How much material do you need to begin?

I’ve only suggested to two people that they write about their life. Both endure pain and tragedy. Does this mean one needs tragedy to begin a memoir? Is that why my dad finally decided to write his?

If I think of the biographies I’ve read, they were usually about writers or artists, or people related to writers or artists. Vincent Van Gogh, Zelda Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker, Christopher Hitchens, Sarah and Gerald Murphy. They all lived lives worth writing about, but with the exception of Hitchens’, I wouldn’t choose to live any of them. Could be I prefer contentment and sanity over a life worth writing about?

But surely there are reasonably happy people with modestly exciting lives who’ve written their memoirs anyway. Perhaps in a thousand closets, above the winter coats, behind the boxes of old photographs, under the stamp collections that will never be worth anything, there are memoirs.

They won’t be published, but maybe they’ll be read. And the people reading them might laugh or cry, or do both at the same time. They might raise their brows at the secrets revealed. Then they’ll reflect on the life they read about and reflect on their own life in contrast. And if those memoirs are read by even one person who cares, isn’t that something?

If I look at my own life so far, there’s not much material. Nothing particularly exciting or inspiring. And would I want it to be? Would I ever want a reason to start writing a memoir? Of course I want to live an interesting life filled with fascinating people. But a life worth writing about? Not sure anymore.

Of course, I AM writing about my life in this blog. But it’s not often about the day-to-day details of what I do. It’s more the day-to-day of what I think. And thinking about your life is at least half of it, no?

But I think though a blog may be more accurate because the memory is fresher (unlike a memoir that’s written at the end of your life when you need to force your pruney brain to remember details) it may possibly be more dishonest in terms of actual feeling because it’s current and there’s a level of caution and social prudence guiding what ends up on the internet. Or maybe not exactly dishonest, but not entirely inclusive. If I were at the end of my life, I might possibly divulge more, or about more private things.

What I must be coming to suggest is that everyone should keep a journal or post in their blog or write their memoirs or any combination. For their own personal reasons, but also because we have very few true witnesses to our lives. We have witnesses for the things we do publicly or with friends or with family. But not as many witnesses for how and what we think. And even less with whom we feel comfortable sharing with, and lesser still who understand us.

But sharing what we think or how we feel through words, I think, has the capacity to invite our friends and family closer to us in our current lives, hopefully enriching readers and writers alike. And at the end of our lives, our words can give meaning to the person who finds the memoir hidden in the coat closet. The kind of meaning that they wouldn’t have found by simply hearing stories about that person or even living alongside them. I guess what I'm trying to say, is maybe you don’t need to live a life worth writing about for your life or your writing to have meaning.

Postcard from Paradise (and my grandmother's tiny apartment)

2011-06-29T16:34:00.000-07:00

One would think that, when placed on a tropical island with few distractions, one would find the motivation to write for later remembrance of the holiday. A few paragraphs here and there, coaxed to the surface with the nudge of Absolut POG, or whatever the day’s imbibery might be.

But one only needs a few hours below the Tropic of Cancer to feel how effectively the sun kills brain cells. Not quickly perhaps, but with lethal determination, like a boy with his magnifying glass, vaporizing ants on a midday August sidewalk. Pffzz…poof! Pffzz…poof!

So it’s with mixed irritation and relief that I’m forced indoors due to my unfortunate allergy to the sun. Meet my skin: no fragrance, no chemicals, no hair products, no sunscreen, no wool, no perspiration and, no blinding fiery orbs.

What keeps me outside the edge of depression about this is:

1. Knowing that in two weeks my freshly-plucked chicken skin will return to a smoothness as good as can be expected for a nearing-40 woman who’s had two children but takes vitamins and fish oil.

2. Knowing that I already live in the most perfect location for my condition – the gray side of the Emerald City.

I wasn’t always like this. From toddler to high school, I would bronze in a way that could call into question my ethnicity. And until eight years ago, I could sunburn at 2pm and be caramel by 6pm. But as I’ve said before, having children changes everything, including the chemical make-up of your body. Thusly, childbirth has left me with skin that’s allergic to everything, but sex that ripples like the Pacific between the Hawaiian Islands. Deal.

The grass and trees outside our Kauai condo have a look, scent and feel that take me exactly back to my grandmother’s apartment complex in Santa Monica thirty-two years ago. There was a short walk from the street-parking to her door, and within that distance was an expanse of grass and tiny white flowers that beckoned a (tan) little girl to run and pick with abandon.

I’d collect dozens of miniature daisies, and my grandmother would sweetly put them in make-shift vases short enough so the flowers wouldn’t topple out the top, but instead sit pure and bright so I could proudly show my bounty.

Then we’d sit in the small apartment, with its scattered carpet remnants placed for comfort over the thinner, unpadded carpet, until lunch was served. Every Sunday her lunch would relieve our craving for her cooking, which was comfort food not because of its nutrition and satiation, but because she created it and she loved us more than anyone ever would again. It’s at the top of my very short list of Things I Miss From Childhood. Brown skin might be number two.

Why, when I’m on a wonderful, beautiful, relaxing vacation, do I think of my grandmother? Isn’t this one of the most important times to “focus on the moment”? Another being when you’re with your kids? (which I have learned in parenthood can be as challenging as the opposite mental task of distracting yourself from having a splinter removed from under your toenail.)

So in an effort to focus on the moment, here’s a short combined example of Being Present With The Kids and Being One With My Vacation:

“Mommy?” Gigi asked in her tiny Marilyn voice, her spiral curls trembling under the ceiling fan and shining with the color and glossiness of a sliced banana. "Do you want to go to the pool?"

It's a most pleasant 45-second walk from the condo to the pool. On one side of the chlorinated lagoon is a rock waterfall and shallow pond. On the opposite side is another waterfall that empties into a frothy, shaded hot tub. You half expect a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model to emerge from the bubbles and rinse her hair in the falling water. In slow motion.

Atop and around this rock mountain are impeccably kempt, lush flora in varied shades of chlorophyll that have the power to forever convert your favorite color to green.

I know my time in the sun is limited, so I make the most of it. Since being in a pool together creates a special kind of intimacy, and kids are generally ecstatic to be swimming at all, this is easy to do. We swim. We play. They love Mommy in the pool. I love them in the pool.

And there it is. One of the simpler points of vacation with kids. Realizing, recognizing and appreciating that you can have a genuinely fantastic time together.

Since I can’t come home with a tan, I’m bottling these moments to bring back with me. I can bask in them as long as I want and the feeling takes longer to peel away than a tan anyway.

Son

2011-06-12T07:04:00.000-07:00

It’s true. I love you most when you’re asleep. As you’re doing next to me now. But that most is not much more than when you’re awake. I’m just more tired when you’re awake.

I know you understand because when I sigh, you know exactly which sigh it is.

It may be the Good God Can You Just Do What I’ve Asked 10 Times Already Sigh. Or the I Can’t Possibly Do Another Dish Sigh. Followed by the Dammit We’re Late AGAIN Sigh.

And sometimes the sigh is not even directed at you at all, but you notice and ask. It’s the sigh that worries you most because you were so sure you’d been doing everything right.

And I tell you it wasn’t for you, and that makes you happy. And I forget what I was sighing for in the first place.

The other truth is, you amaze me.

When you were 3 days old, I laid you down on the playmat, the one with the red, black and white contrasting patterns meant to be visible to newborns. Above your head swung the rings, just out of reach, not yet meant to test you, just for you to lay and watch.

But you wanted to be tested, so you reached for the rings. You reached up like an old, trembling, dying man reaching for the light he’d waited all his life to grasp. Determined as though it were his last and most important task. You earnestly reached as if your soul had waited a hundred years to test its humanity. And you got it.

It was at that moment that I understood how some men and women could be great. How some had the inborn perseverance to reach the rings. How they created their own inspiration.

You do this – reach for the ring – every now and then when people let you, when you’re allowed the freedom to pick your own challenge. You’ll invent and create and play and answer and joke and feel.

When I watched your first race yesterday, I was optimistically unconcerned with your stroke technique or your speed. Instead I saw your future and what could be. I saw you start to reach for that ring that I know you’ll get on your own.

The truthiest of truths is that I believe in you. In your fiery passion. Your deep empathy. Your honest remorse. Your intense strength. Your encircling love.

And your goodness, which is not blatantly apparent, but which I know you have. You’ve inherited it from your dad, and that’s how I know it will be there forever.

So my son, though I take so much of you for granted, and I sigh more than praise, and I seem to get in the way sometimes, please know that above all, I believe in you.

Darling? Wake up, darling. Happy birthday.

Booty Call

2011-05-15T22:13:00.000-07:00

On one of our rare sunny evenings, I was driving along a side street in my neighborhood. It being May, the opened pink tree blossoms were especially cheerful, giggling and bouncing in the sunlight. Perhaps it was sparked by a sunray, but I suddenly felt a surge.

It was an overwhelming full-body buzz that made me feel young and floaty. It was familiar, yet far away, and it took me a minute to recognize the feeling as being in love. As during those early weeks where everything reminds you of him. When your belly smiles at the sight of his name.

But it wasn’t a man I was thinking of. It was blogging. (I know. What can I say. I’m trying to make this blog honest.)

Then I thought of how perfect it was to be in love with it. It’s there when you need it. It’s yours alone. It can’t reject you. You can tell it stories for hours on end and it will listen. You don’t need to say to your husband, “I can explain!” when you’re caught in bed with your laptop.

And unless you have many readers (I thank both of you), there’s little pressure to commit. Just the occasional booty call when you’re in the mood.

Kind

2011-05-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

One Thursday morning as I walked from Gigi’s classroom after dropping her off, one of her teachers came out of the room and stopped me in the hall. She wanted to compliment Gigi on knowing some Japanese words and point out how nice she’s been towards her classmates.

The teacher is Japanese, about 60, and because she smiles and gives a little bow every time I see her, she lends an air of pleasant politeness.

I thanked her and we talked about the ways in which Harrison and Gigi are different (Harrison being nice in more boyish ways). She said, sort of under her breath, that she thought it was somehow better when the brother was older than the sister, and not the other way around. (Her children are older-brother/younger-sister, as are me and my older brother, as are Robin and his younger sister).

It didn’t matter if there was any truth to the opinion. We shared a moment of nodding connection that felt good. Not just because of what she said, but because of the effort she took to start the conversation.

We bowed our goodbyes and I walked away with my hand on my heart and my face making that I Can’t Believe Someone Was So Nice face.

I had recently finished The Happiness Project (post forthcoming), thanks to my friend Amy. In it the author experiments with Extreme Nice. This is being as nice as you possibly can for a set period of time. Including being nice to your kids and husband the entire time.

Through her experiment she recognizes that though doing this is challenging, it does make her happier. By making others feel good, she brings herself joy. Not a new concept by any means, but the way in which she experimented – by being nice no matter what and for a set amount of time - was a new approach to me. One I have yet to be in a good enough mood to try.

Since that Thursday morning, and after reading The Happiness Project, I’ve thought more about Nice. What is being nice?   Who are the nicest people I know? Do I thank them enough? Am I nice enough? What is my contribution to Nice?

Often I see Nice in teachers, who by the very nature of their jobs can’t help but be nice. I don’t think you become a teacher for the pay or notoriety.   Or in a friend who’s recognized our possible connection. Or in a mother who’s simply made it a habit to be nice because of so many years trying to be nice in raising her children. But it’s also often in someone I only sort of know, who radiates goodness, generosity and effort in more than they need to.

When I think of Nice, I also have to think about my own mom and mother-in-law. When they’re around, they sprinkle Nice in their wake and I follow close behind to inhale it, hoping my high lasts after they’re gone. I don’t know where they learned it or what keeps them going. I know with my mom, she has few reasons to be happy or nice, and yet there she is.

I asked Robin what his thoughts were on Nice. He didn’t have to think about it. He said he doesn’t believe in being nice.

Wha? Doesn’t believe in being NICE?

He said anyone can be nice. The most insincere person can be nice.

Ah, I see.

He believes in being kind. Because kindness shows empathy and is more honest. When you’re kind, it shows you’ve put thought into what you can do to make other people happy.

Yes, of course. He’s right. It’s kindness that’s meaningful. Kindness that I mean.

So I’m going to try to be kinder. To the kids. To Robin. To strangers.   To the someones I only sort of know. And especially to the people who already make an effort to be kind. To me, they’re people who help others. Who volunteer. Who say kind things and do kind deeds. Who look out for other people’s happiness (and encourage them to read The Happiness Project!). Who look out for other people’s kids. Who ask how you are and care to know the truth.

Though they never demand it, shouldn’t kind people be rewarded? With spa treatments at the good places and gift cards that let you buy whole outfits and dinners that include wine, appetizers and dessert? But if money’s tight, I bet they’d be okay with a sincere thank you. And when you’re ready, and in your own time, you can give your thanks again, in kind.

Super Moment

2011-05-10T21:51:00.000-07:00

What constitutes the happiest moment of your life? When you discovered you were pregnant? The first time you held your baby? The moment he proposed?

If today I was forced to choose what it was for me, I believe I might have an answer.

It was the night of the Super Moon and started with a simple meal, just the four of us. It’s so rare we all eat together in our little kitchen nook. But when we do, we have a tradition. First dinner, then out for ice cream, then a Drive-Out.

When I was a girl in Southern California, on cool nights my dad used to tell us to grab our winter coats so we could go “skiing.” On a long stretch of road somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, we’d open all our windows, pick up speed, and lean just inches into the outside to feel the cold rush of wind on our faces. This was thrilling and it didn’t matter that we didn’t have the money to actually go skiing.

Our new tradition reminds me of those nights.

The deal is, with our ice cream cones, we drive through the nicer parts of our neighborhood with our car stereo bumping as loud as we dare. We each have our own favorite song that we hear at least once. Everyone sings, uninhibitively, mint chocolate chip soothing the vocal cords.

But on this night, our Drive-Out was just the prelude.

After Gigi’s “I Love Rock n Roll”, Harrison’s “Dynamite”, my “Born This Way” And Daddy’s, um, whatever it is Daddy listens to, it was time to go home, brush teeth and get jammies on. We had somewhere else to go.

We’d heard about the Super Moon throughout the day and vaguely knew the time of night when we could see it. Twenty minutes before that time, we set out to watch the spectacle along Lake Washington at Magnuson Park.

We parked the car near the other cars who, presumably, were waiting for the same show.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Did we misread the news? Was that Central time? Was it last night?

At about eleven minutes the sky above Kirkland, already glowing from city lights, became ever so slightly more illuminated.

I had no grand expectations. It would be a silver moon, probably looking bigger because of its proximity to the horizon. But it was a rare one, so we had to watch. When you become a parent, missing these things causes not only wondering disappointment, but irrevocable guilt. It’s difficult to make up for things that only come around once every twenty years.

Then with almost imperceptively slow celestial magic, the moon’s red color emerged just above the city. It continued its majestic rise until it was a full sphere, its reflection duplicated on the smooth lake. The crowd by the lake was thin. Maybe a dozen people where we were. This made the moment quietly intimate.

I stood there watching the moon, holding my daughter, shaking with my love for her. I nestled into her hair as though this was it. This was all there was.

It was the closest I’ve felt to ecstasy. Drinking in the heavens with my eyes. Holding them ethereally with my arms.

I don’t think we can define our happiness with the quantity of happy moments we experience through life, though that’s nice too. I think rather we should include in that definition our ability to wholly feel these most rare moments as intensely as we’re able to do. They may only come around once every twenty years.

Blog Housekeeping

2011-05-07T19:00:00.000-07:00

Went through and deleted about 30 old posts (which inadvertently re-published a few other ones, so sorry if they show up in anyone's RSS feed).

I had forgotten how often I blogged. Brought back memories of my years at home (as if they were 20 years ago). I wouldn't go back there, but I am glad I wrote some of it down. I would surely have forgotten everything. Funny how a blog can serve as a witness to your life.

Now onwards.

Pic's Loves

2011-05-05T16:56:00.000-07:00

Muse [myooz] –noun

2. the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like.

Last month Vanity Fair had what I call a perfect little treat of an article. I do appreciate reading about politics, finance, society, etc, but the articles that retain my loving gaze often combine art, love and biography. This Picasso story had exactly that.

From what I know of the man, it seems difficult to disconnect Picasso’s work from his women. So many of his pieces are either of his women (obviously or cryptically) or inspired by them. They were his muses as well as his subjects.

The article didn’t surprise me, but I did find the logistics of how he kept his women separate intriguing. For instance he would put them up in apartments in different cities. He would paint his mistress within the guise of a musical instrument to hide from his wife that he’d painted her. But in most cases it seems they usually found out about each other, and there’s a part in the article about his then wife and mistress duking it out.

After reading the article I considered two things:

Whether, even knowing the kind of genius I was married to, if I could withstand years and years of a wandering, um, paintbrush. Not just wandering, but often dipped in true love.
If Picasso would have been so prolific and successful an artist had he been married to one woman all his life, or at least narrowed his field. (I’m sure there are books and books written about this subject, but I haven’t read them, so I’m making my own assumptions.)

What I’ve read about Picasso has made me adore his life. His circle of friends was one of fantasy. In Everybody Was So Young, Picasso appears (as do Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway) at the Murphy’s place in the French Riviera. During the time he’s welcomed by Gerald and Sara Murphy, he paints her and adds to their generally glamorous life. His appearances are some of the more enjoyable parts of the book that ends tragically.

Throughout his life, he surrounds himself with passionate and incredible people like Gertrude Stein, Henri Matisse, the Murphy’s, Jean Cocteau, Igor Stravinsky, and many other artists and writers.

So if I didn’t have children, I’d say the answer to #1 is yes, sign me up. I don’t think I’d pass up a life so fascinating and deeply rich in beauty. But as they say, children change EVERYTHING, including what you’re willing to endure. So, no thank you, I’ll stick with my tech geek. (Also I grew up with an artist and, no offense dad, family life has enough drama already.)

For #2, I’m going with no as well. Yes, he was raised by an art professor. And yes, he probably never hung out with a boring person for more than 5 minutes. But we’re talking about lovely women here. Naked ones.

If he had only chosen subjects that he was not in love with, would he have been as inspired? Would his paintings have been as impassioned? Would he have been able to see the soul of a woman enough to paint her in a hundred colors without having slept with her? As intensely inspiring as I know love is, in this case, I don’t think so.

One day I’ll read his biography and get a deeper understanding of his influences and motivations. But for today I’ll stick with one of my favorite romantic notions; the belief that love, and her muses, have the greatest power to inspire greatness.

Nook

2010-07-06T20:01:00.000-07:00

Lunch today in the nook was silent except for my slurping soup and streaming thoughts, the latter being louder. Every so often I'll have lunch this way. No music or TV, no yelling kids, no cajoling parents, no dreaded ticking timer that serves as the final judge of when dinner is finally over.

The muted winter light comes in through two south facing windows and rests on the round table for four. The furnace blows a soft draft that flutters the cheerful drawings covering the nook's three walls. There are drawings from when we first moved in a year and half ago, and one from just this week. Harrison's orange Mona Lisa. Gigi's collection of rectangle faces with legs. The nook smiles with their art.

Without the kids here, the nook is strikingly peaceful and barren.

I sink into this solitude and imagine the elderly woman who lived here just before us. Her and her husband were the original owners of this house 57 years ago. She probably conceived in our bedroom, wobbled pregnant through the hall and brought her babies home through our front door. She fed them in our nook, let them outside through the back door, and watched them play in the garden from the kitchen window while she made dinner.

Before we moved in, our neighbors said they used to see her sitting in the nook by herself, drinking coffee. Her husband had died, so she lived here alone with her dog. I see her looking out into the verdant backyard, admiring the flowers she had planted over recent years. I thank her for being a gardener and for loving roses. I thank her for taking care of this house and loving it as I do.

I wonder if, while she sat in the nook with her coffee, she reminisced about the meals in the nook with her children when they were young. Did the memory make her sad? Did she wish she had those days back? Did she remember the art on the walls?

I imagine myself in her place as an old woman, and I wish for those years back. I wish for the chaos and exhaustion of family life. For the baskets and baskets of small, dirty clothes. For the volume and satiation that a full life brings. For the sweetness of a loving home.

Tonight's dinner in the nook was just as loud and frazzling as any other night. But if I didn't have those few quiet lunches, I could never appreciate what a gift those dinners are and how soon they vanish.

Revolutionary Road

2009-01-25T14:31:00.000-08:00

With the Oscars coming up, I'm trying once again to see a few movies in the running. However that turns out, the movie I wanted to see most right now was Revolutionary Road. I had read about it a couple months ago, and it seemed intriguing, not to mention Kate Winslet leads, which will always catch my interest.

It did not disappoint. It was well-directed and well-acted, but more than that, it was one of the most meaningful movies I'd seen in a long time. It has a storyline that I think resonates with a small part of most of us. You can be happily married and love your job, but doesn't each of us have a tiny itch within our minds that asks if we could be a little more? Live a little fuller?

I liked that Kate and Leo didn't hold back the emotion. Too many movies hold back the reality and end up flat. I had read that Kate almost separated herself from her husband (Director Sam Mendes) while filming so that they could have a wholly professional relationship. Thanks for that, Kate.

Also very notable was the crazy son, played by Michael Shannon, who is also the only actor in this film to be nominated for an Academy Award. It was brilliant how they interjected him into the film to reveal certain truths about the characters. Like truth serum injected into a subconscious facade.

I'm not sure this film is for everyone. Might be boring for some. And maybe my interest in The Feminine Mystique makes it more interesting to me. Don't see it on a date, but I'd recommend it as a thought pill that you swallow from a distance.

My House Is Me And I Am It.

2008-12-30T21:08:00.000-08:00

Today was rough. I cried a lot. I cried at home. I cried at work.

I thought I was done with holiday challenges until I found out this morning that our freshly topped off 300 gallon oil tank leaked into the ground of our front yard within two days. Much waiting and work to be done in the coming weeks to fix this. Right now the hard part, aside from the cost, is not knowing how serious the contamination is.

Then, at work, I learned that the young child of someone we know died after a year and a half of battling cancer. My heart ached and I sobbed in my cubicle. It is the saddest story I have ever known and I grieve for them.

In one of their blog posts, there is a quote from one of the child's favorite books:
"My house is me and I am it. My house is where I want to be and it looks like all my dreams." (If you know what book this is from, please let me know.)

Of all that happened today, this quote pulled at my heart more than anything. It condensed what is important to me and crystallized my understanding of what my children see in their limited world.

Robin and I are in love with our home. We love every imperfection. It is us. To me, it is a member of the family as a beloved pet would be. When we were stranded in Portland, I felt as if we left it behind to fend for itself in the cold. This attachment is partly why it's so upsetting that the ground, our ground, is now saturated with oil. I want it healthy again. "My house is me and I am it."

The house also anchors everything my children know. They know school, they know the park, they know the grocery store, but they will always come home. Home is where they will find comfort. Home is what they will remember. I want it healthy for them. "My house is where I want to be and it looks like all my dreams."

I'm low, but I really have no right to be. Our front yard may be ripped shreds, but it will heal eventually. I would do well to recognize our luck and the insignificance of the incident.

Highlights

2008-10-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

The past month was another busy, overwhelming 30 days. This made the highlights that much brighter. Here they are.

Oh but first, today's News of The Bizarre.

I awoke just before 1am this morning in mild shock. I dreamt that my hand had flung up toward my nose. But instead of relaxing back to sleep knowing it was just a dream, I noticed my nose was leaking. I went to the bathroom to turn on the light and my nose was bleeding. I had somehow jabbed my nasal septum with my fingernail in my sleep. ??? The thought of this made me lightheaded and the blood drained from my face, which was good because I wanted my nose to stop bleeding. The queasiness gave me an upset stomach, which then made me poop. Hope I didn't lose any friends by telling this story.

On to the highlights, in no planned order.

1. Seeing our basement transformed from a dungeon (no walls, no ceiling, no light) to a cheerful, livable space. This morning our painter applied the color "Butter" to the new walls.

2. Thursdays. Thursdays are when I come up for air after three days in an abyss of relentless responsibility.

3. Eating two fish tacos from Taco Del Mar, alone in my kitchen nook.

4. Harrison having some "good" days at school. It seems at school he's been all boy, all the time, which can come as a shock to people with either A) girl children or B) mellow boys. Within two weeks in kindergarten he was a notorious troublemaker. Parents I'd never met before had heard about him from their children. Greeeaaat. The most frustrating part is he's perfect at home. Cooperative, empathetic, gentle, thoughtful, even calm. So I feel helpless and panicky when he comes home with another note from his teacher detailing the "incident." Usually it's related to horsing around or play-wrestling with another boy. Anyway, the few days with no incident have been the relief that made my day.

5. Picking Gigi up at the end of my workdays. What a sight for sore eyes. Sweet, smart, lovely.

6. Robin and I being cautiously grateful we have jobs. Then figuring out how we can work harder.

7. Having some time to myself to read this pleasurable article by Dominick Dunne. In it he describes some of his adventures while writing for Vanity Fair. What a life.

8. Exploring Seattle parks we'd never been to. This sunny time away from the house fills our hearts, preparing us for the imminent week.

9. Seeing someone I love dearly, clean and healthy.

10. The changing landscape of Seattle in October. Magnificent.

I hope to add to this list over the weekend. In the meantime, I'll try not to poke out my eye in my sleep.

Just an update

2008-08-15T21:07:00.000-07:00

I've wanted to blog so many times over the last month, but each time I thought about it, I'd trip over an unopened moving box and spend until bedtime putting it (and three more) away.

This may be the first evening I've had an hour to spend on my laptop. Not that I really have an hour. As I write this Robin is downstairs pulling out cabinets with a crowbar. I could be helping. I could be watching the Olympics (are they still on?) I could be doing laundry, which has piled up over the week. But I could also use a break.

Our new house is two floors - main and basement. The main floor is fully unpacked save a few boxes buried in the garage under who knows what. So there is normalcy and calm as we walk around up here and go about our daily routines.

Entering the basement is another story. It's mostly unfinished and looks about what it did in 1953, when it was built. There's still an old school pencil sharpener screwed into a cabinet. I can see the previous owner (there was only one before us) use it to sharpen his pencil before working in his garage woodshop.

It's a lot of space to go unused, so we're finishing it. We're taking out cabinets, replacing plumbing and fixing wiring. We'll put up walls and install lighting. The first step is moving the washer and dryer, which involves concrete work and more plumbing. Today we gave the green light on the plumbing jobs. Only 5 times what we'd budgeted. Who needs curtains anyway? Or lighting? Or food?

The good news is we LOVE the house. The garden is a little slice of heaven. I've already spent about 12 hours a week out there cleaning and raking and pruning and watering. Thus the no blogging. But once the clean-up is complete, it's next to no maintenance. The roses, flowers, bushes and trees are already in place. The woman who lived here obviously loved gardening, but she was old the last few years and likely couldn't do much upkeep.

---- 10 minute lapse ----

Poor Robin. While he was pulling out cabinets, a piece of wood came down on the bridge of his nose and cut into it. It will bruise and not be pretty. I gave him the Cinderella ice pack that Gigi picked out today at Target. He has a 5K in the morning that he really wants to do. But the cut is right where sunglasses rest, so that'll be irritating.

So many other things I want to say. Like complain about the enormous quantity of candy and sugary snack foods that are available and marketed with abandon. Holy childhood obesity, Batman! And speaking of Batman, I wish I had time to see the movie so I could blog about it. I miss blogging about movies, but I miss seeing them more. Hopefully by the time cooler, darker weather is here, we'll have completed most of our projects and I can catch up.

In other news, I love working. I love leaving the house early in the morning, treating myself to a latte. I love walking into a climate-controlled office and sitting at my cozy cubicle. I love (like-ish) sorting through emails while I nibble on my poor-man's scone - two slices of whole grain bread with jam and thick pats of cold, unsalted butter in between. I love starting my to-do list and feeling productive when I turn things in. I smile when people say good morning and I reapply lipstick when my coffee cup has stolen the previous coat. I love eating lunch sitting down, even when I'm working at the same time. When I pick the kids up after work, I'm calm. They're happy to see me. The evening goes fast. I'm tired at the end of those days, but I'm happy.

Now I'm off to bed. Not so much time will pass until my next blog. They may be shorter and not proofed, but I'll try. Night.

Big Girl School

2008-07-09T12:12:00.000-07:00

One morning last week daddy woke G up since she had slept-in unusually late within the cozy folds of our bed.

He said, "Wake-up princess." She kept her eyes closed.

Then he said, "Are you ready for your first day of school?" She popped open her eyes and broke into a wide grin.

Before she started preschool, every time I'd mention school to her, she became giddy. She'd been taking H to school for two years, but always had to leave with Mommy. At times I had to bribe her, then pull her away from the playroom there. I could have waited to put her in preschool, but I wanted her to be able to go with H for a few months before he starts kindergarten.

When we got to school that morning, she raced to put her new princess lunchbox in the fridge, then methodically went to the nap room to put her blankie in the cubby she shares with H. The school director took her hand, introduced her to another new girl, then showed them the ropes in the bathroom, which G was already an expert in, having gone there most mornings when dropping H off.

With all the chaos of our house buying, selling and moving, I don't want to overlook this wonderful event. I have been a less than perfect stay-at-home mom. It's no secret that I've struggled with it. I've been clueless about planning enriching activities for the kids, and my frustration has surfaced far too often than was good for anyone. She, as H, deserves to learn and thrive in an environment that lives up to her potential.

I cried on her first day of school not because she is no longer home with me, but because I was sad about how inadequate I've been with her, and with H on his days home with us. In moving forward, I can only promise to be a better mother during those now-precious hours I'm with them.

Other Places

2008-05-27T09:25:00.000-07:00

This past weekend R and I went to a show run by a small theater company in West Seattle. I'm lucky to know one of the organizers (who also acts in the plays), otherwise I would've never heard of it.

The show is called Other Places. It's a collection of three short plays by Harold Pinter: Family Voices, Victoria Station, and A Kind of Alaska.

In Family Voices the two main characters, a mother and her 20-year-old son, are writing letters to each other, reciting them aloud. The son has been away from home for a few months, making the mother anxious and then angry that her son hasn't been in contact. The son writes of the inhabitants of his new household, occasionally breaking into the characters of the house to convincing effect. The mother writes of her increasing frustration. The letters never get to their recipients. I took this story as conveying the tension and emotional loss that result with miscommunication and words left unsaid.

Victoria Station was the shortest of the three. The act is simply a conversation between a taxi dispatcher and one of his drivers. The driver is clearly off his rocker in some way, which irritates the dispatcher. At the end of the conversation the two seem to form an unlikely connection in their loneliness.

A Kind of Alaska is based on the memoir Awakenings, which was also made into the movie with Robert DeNiro. It opens with a woman coming out of Encephalitis lethargica with her doctor looking on. Struggling with confusion, she tries to make sense of the present while opening up to us the lively personality of her past. She behaves as an ebullient 16-year-old, though she's speaking through the body of a much older woman.

I was so riveted watching this last play that I don't think I moved one time. The woman playing the patient was incredible. Surely one of the best actresses I've seen in a play. She moved me to gratitude for having memory of my last twenty years.

If you have a free Thursday, Friday or Saturday this week at 8pm, and West Seattle's not too inconvenient a drive, I'd recommend seeing these plays. It's very inexpensive and always a great cause to support community theater.

Hope for Carbon Independence

2008-05-14T11:22:00.000-07:00

In last month's Green Issue of Vanity Fair, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. contributed a hopeful article about reducing our carbon dependence - The Next President's First Task.

In it he explains how our carbon dependence is harming our economy, among other things. He says how when other countries "decarbonize," their economies improve greatly:

We know that nations that “decarbonize” their economies reap immediate rewards. Sweden announced in 2006 the phaseout of all fossil fuels (and nuclear energy) by 2020. In 1991 the Swedes enacted a carbon tax—now up to $150 a ton—and as a result thousands of entrepreneurs rushed to develop new ways of generating energy from wind, the sun, and the tides, and from woodchips, agricultural waste, and garbage. Growth rates climbed to upwards of three times those of the U.S.

He lists the obstacles to America's own decarbonization, but suggests a plan of action, the first step of which is:

A carbon cap-and-trade system designed to put downward pressure on carbon emissions is quite simply a no-brainer. Already endorsed by Senators McCain, Clinton, and Obama, such a system would measure national carbon emissions and create a market to auction emissions credits. The supply of credits is then reduced each year to meet pre-determined carbon-reduction targets. As supply tightens, credit value increases, providing rich monetary rewards for innovators who reduce carbon. Since it is precisely targeted, cap-and-trade is more effective than a carbon tax.

He goes on to explain how the energy grids need to be rebuilt and opened up to green energy competition.

The cost?:

Construction of efficient and open-transmission marketplaces and green-power-plant infrastructure would require about a trillion dollars over the next 15 years. For roughly a third of the projected cost of the Iraq war we could wean the country from carbon. And the good news is that the government doesn’t actually have to pay for all of this.

I thought this short article was a positive look at our future and gave ideas to check on when the next president takes office.

Tree Kiss

2008-05-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

On my walk today I stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk and searched around for where the sweet scent was coming from. It may have been the row of blossoming fruit trees in front of a house. Like many scents, it played with my subconscious and made me wonder whether I had smelled it at another happy time, or just wish I had.

There were other moments like that on my walk. The day was cloudy, but the trees were becoming full with spring leaves, so the faint shadows they cast made nooks that felt romantic rather than dark.

One very tall tree, with its swaying branches and fluttering leaves, let through glimmers of light that produced an especially amorous air. I wanted to kiss. I wanted to kiss like I had that one time in that one place that was halfway between fantasy and deja vu.

For now it was just me and the tree, but it was nice.

Leek Bean Soup

2008-05-08T12:50:00.000-07:00

I make this Leek Bean soup once a month, usually the day after my Pioneer Organics delivery brings my leeks. It's incredibly easy, the kids eat it and the husband loves it. It's my favorite soup to make because it's so healthy. Lots of fiber and vitamins.

Thought I'd share the love.

Ingredients:

Olive oil for sauteing
2 large leeks, sliced
2-3 garlic cloves, minced
32 oz chicken broth (or veggie broth for vegan soup)
2 - 15 oz cans cannellini beans, rinsed
about 10 baby carrots, chopped
1 tbsp cumin (or more, it's yummy)
2 bay leaves
salt and pepper to taste
1 bunch spinach, washed, stems removed

Heat olive oil in a large pot. Sometimes I add a pat of butter just because. Add leeks and saute until soft. Add garlic somewhere in the middle of cooking the leeks, but be careful not to burn it.

Add the broth, beans, carrots, cumin and bay leaves. Simmer for 1/2 an hour or a bit more.

Right before serving, add the spinach and cook until just wilted.

Serve with shredded parmesan cheese and warm rustic bread generously buttered.

(Note: This is not my own original recipe, though I don't remember where I first saw it and I've modified it a bit.)

Home in Seattle

2008-05-06T10:10:00.000-07:00

When the sun comes out in Seattle, it is magnificent. It's magnificent because of the verdant freshness it uncovers and because the sun seems novel whenever it appears.

Last Sunday it came out after a Saturday of rain. We took the kids for a long walk where dozens of rhododendrons were blooming. They love these nature walks even more than we do.

For H, each trail is a Choose Your Own Adventure. He leads the way and we can't keep up. G, however, takes her time. She nestles into the groundcover every few steps to "take a rest" or "collect teeny-tiny monsters." Nature through their eyes is refreshing and creative. Everything is new and nothing is simply what it appears to be.

We'd planned on eating dinner out, but the kids were so dirty we decided they needed baths first, and since that would've made it too late to leave the house again, we got some Hebrew National dogs to BBQ and crisp veggies to munch on.

I had a glass of white wine and R had a Corona Light with lime. Though I'm perfectly happy with raw onions on my hot dog (must have onions), R grilled me some to caramelized perfection.

Outside the sun was still high and it poured warm air and bright light into our walled deck. The blossoming apple tree rose over the west wall, sending us a thousand pink and white smiles across the rays of sun. The lilac trees, not to be outdone, filled the yard with fragrance so sweet, we didn't need dessert.

These trees and this deck come back to life every spring to enchant us. When the weather permits, we eat outside as often as we remember. It's something of a rare gift to eat en plein air. To have that much open space around you while savoring your favorite foods.

By the time the kids fell asleep we only had energy to clean up and go to bed ourselves. I opened our bedroom window to let a breeze in and listened to the cars slowly whooshing by on the arterial. I thought how I'd like to hear pond frogs out there because they made me feel far away. Then I thought No, I like the sound of those cars exactly because they remind me of where I want to be. Home in Seattle.

Cloy

2008-05-02T19:50:00.000-07:00

cloy \KLOY\, transitive verb:

1. To weary by excess, especially of sweetness, richness, pleasure, etc.
2. To become distasteful through an excess, usually of something originally pleasing.

This was the Dictionary.com Word of the Day yesterday. I considered it for awhile because I thought the word didn't sound like its definition. Also, I wanted to linger on indulgences and imagine my limits.

(Note: I struggled in using the word correctly. I may not have gotten it right even once. Feel free to offer corrections or sentences of your own.)

Here's my little list.
Cloys means the thing or experience cloys quickly.
Bring It means just that.

Cereal: Bring it. I already eat at least a bowl a day, but I think I'd have to eat two a day for a month to be sick of it. Especially when there are blueberries to sprinkle on top.

Artichoke Jalapeno Dip: Bring it. I'd eat the whole Costco-sized tub with pita chips.

Vegas: Cloys my zest for partying after 24 hours.

Vacation: Less than 5 days, Bring It. Cloys my need for relaxation by day 6, after which I feel bloated and restless.

Cheese: Bring it. I'd stop for health reasons, but not because I tired of it. I'd need to eat a grotesque amount before it began to cloy my craving.

Celebrity Mags: Bring it. I try to abstain for as long as I can, but every once in a while I'll buy a magazine and it's never enough.

Sushi: Cloys. You think you can eat more, but you just can't make it fit.

Movies: It's been awhile since I sat through a movie marathon, so I'm going to guess after two good movies straight or seven movie nights in a row, my excitement and interest would be cloyed.

Champagne: Both. Two glasses is too many, three is not enough (to paraphrase a witty aquaintence).

Sex: Cloys. I have my limit. It's called Orgasm.

Well that was fun. As I always say, Everything in moderation, including moderation. How will you know what your moderate is if you don't test your limits?

I Predict

2008-05-01T21:45:00.000-07:00

After countless hours of quantitative calculations using polydynamic quadrant scales and qualitative analysis of triannual branding trends over the past two fiscal quarters, my research has predicted that Ben & Jerry's Neapolitan Dynamite ice cream will outsell all their other flavors combined.

Okay, I didn't do that much work. But have you seen it? It's Cherry Garcia and Chocolate Fudge Brownie, spooning together inside the pint. Grab a friend, it's bound to lead to things other than an empty pint.

Early Morning Catechism

2008-04-29T10:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning Harrison wore a glow-in-the-dark rosary and carried around a chopstick (substituting for a ruler) and a black sunglasses case (substituting for a bible). He sat me down, opened the sunglasses case, and gave me a lesson on being good.

He did this because the day before I brought home a Nunzilla from the Late Night Catechism performance I took my mom to.

Nunzilla shoots sparks out of her mouth as she wobbles along. I explained to H why she held a ruler and a bible, though I didn't want to go into what a bible was, so I simply said it was a book with lessons about being good (that's not totally wrong, is it?)

I also didn't explain the crucifix on his rosary (from my mom), but when he noticed there was a man on it, I said the man was the goodest man who ever was and this was a celebration of his goodness. I'm trying here.

Late Night Catechism was held at ACT in a side room on a tiny stage surrounded by thirty chairs. The stage was set to resemble the front of a classroom where catechism classes take place. Holy posters, art, little statues and catholic tchotchkes galore. With only thirty seats, there was no hiding, but at least I chose the 2nd row instead of the 1st.

I should have heeded my mother's advice and crammed my dusty Catholicism for Dummies before seeing the show. Not that I would have enjoyed it more - I laughed as hard or harder than most people in the audience - but I might have been less terrified of the Sister calling on me. My practice of Catholicism started and ended with my baptism at age two, and the only thing that stuck was the guilt.

The sister called on about six people in the audience, all of whom went to at least eight years of catholic school. She wasn't shy about teasing them or proving their answers wrong. Thankfully, she never called on me.

But I did learn a few things. For instance, the Immaculate Conception was not Mary being miraculously impregnated by God (as I thought), but Mary herself being conceived without the stain of original sin. You're welcome for that bit of cocktail trivia.

My mom, who grew up catholic, had a great time. She's even more easily amused than I am, and gets out even less often, so it was a pleasure to treat her to the show. But the best part was that my souvenir made Harrison want to be a nun. It was only for an hour, but I'll take it.

Beneath the Scar

2008-04-25T21:09:00.000-07:00

It is about an inch long. The color is burgundy with hints of purple near the middle. It makes a dent in the right side of her forehead, about halfway between her eyebrow and hairline. When she raises her brow, the dent deepens, protruding the surrounding flesh.

To a stranger, a scar may simply spark curiosity. But to a mother, her child's scar holds complicated meaning. There is the painful memory, the current care and the future heartache.

Will it fade? Will the dent grow shallower? Will it bother her? Will she be embarrassed? How many minutes will it take for someone to see beyond the scar?

Years ago when I was having dinner with family in France, the patriarch of my cousin's big, boisterous family looked at my face and said in front of everyone, "She's not bad for being disfigured."

Only the French can be so outright, n'est pas? After my initial humiliation, his public comment actually made me feel good because my scars were acknowledged, then dismissed as insignificant. Something I was never able to do myself.

On the drive home from the ER the night of G's fall, before all the complications happened, Robin tried to ease my concerns. I was worried about her scarring because I had struggled for 30 years with my own and it distressed me that my daughter would have to go through similar anguish.

He said if anything, we would have this connection, this bond, that only the two of us would understand. I could tell her how it could strengthen her self-esteem instead of weaken it. How it could set her apart and help her grow into a unique individual. How it would motivate her to try harder at just about everything.

This was not the sort of bonding I would have chosen. While his comments about our mother-daughter commonality didn't make me feel better, it did make me think about my own scars and in a way helped me come to terms with them.

I think it's like when you have kids, You as a separate being no longer matter. Your kids are more important than you will ever be again. So the same might be said for anything that happens to them. It will overpower and render your own issues inconsequential.

As I look at her now, the scar provides a contrast that forces me to wholly appreciate the rest of her. I see her incredible beauty. The little sparkles in her blue eyes. The gilded curls circling her face. Her riotous expressions. Her epidemically infectious smile. And under it all, I see the emergence of a beaming personality, clever and charming and generous.

Isn't what's underneath infinitely more interesting and wonderful anyway? Perhaps this would serve well as a reminder to teach that lesson. Even if the scar fades, hopefully the lesson will last. For the both of us.

Things that made me smile today

2008-04-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

10. Getting carded at the grocery store.

9. The movie marquee in a scene from The Adventures of Elmo in Grouchland:
Sharon Groan in
Basically it Stinks.

8. The large soft sign covering a new building going up in University Village. It reads: H & M.

7. A best-of Go-Go's music montage this morning on the radio. That was my minivan you heard thumping.

6. Reading about this incredible dinner. You wouldn't believe it if there weren't pictures as proof.

5. Moist roast duck (my first homemade attempt), creamed garlicky spinach, and fingerling potatoes baked under a drizzle of olive oil and coarse sea salt.

4. Arranging a cheerful bunch of sunflowers in a vase on the dining room table.

3. Discussing Rome with Robin. And watching Titus Pullo.

2. G eating around a strawberry, then giving me the white part inside and saying, "Here's the bone."

1. Watching G & H squeal in their glorious happiness.

Don't Gimme Some Sugah

2008-04-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

I don't have a very strong sweet tooth, which is lucky for me because if I ingest more than a minimal amount of sugar, I turn into a fretful bitch. However, I do like me some refined carbs (a few bites of a Zoka scone or homemade apricot-almond cookie) with my post-lunch coffee, and it's gotten to be a habit with a noticeable increase in cravings. So it was useful to come upon an article to remind me that my sugar sensitivity is not imagined and I should take care.

The article is about stress and hormones in perimenopause. The interview in it is with Dr. Christiane Northrup, who's book, Women's Bodies, Women's Wisdom, I bought years ago, but only read parts of. I thought she made sense in that book, so I read the article respectfully.

While the article focuses on menopause symptoms, women of any age know how powerful hormones can be. They can make you rage, bawl and want to have sex with all the stockboys at Safeway.

Two excerpts from Northup's tips on reducing stress during perimenopause especially stood out to me:

1. "Exercise burns up stress hormones."
It's old news that exercise reduces stress, and that an hour of exercise has a similar effect to taking antidepressents, but I hadn't heard it put in a way directly related to hormones.

2. "Excess blood sugar (insulin) turns into stress hormones."
Again, I hadn't heard the correlation between sugar and stress in quite so direct a way.

You can read the rest of the tips and article here.

Anyway, for anyone needing more reasons to reduce refined carbs in their diet, less stress seems like a good one. I might try to have soft cheese instead of a cookie once in a while. Might need more motivation to give up the scones though.

Change

2008-04-20T22:26:00.000-07:00

On the evening of our beautiful warm day last weekend, I leaned on the kitchen counter in front of the wide open screenless window and let the California breeze wash over my bare shoulders. It was an extraordinary sensation that felt like change was coming.

The week following G's accident was excruciating. We spent every day at another doctor's visit to receive bad news. Internal and external stitches. Endless fever. Severe swelling. Infection. Drainage. Antibiotic shots. At some point I got tired of crying.

I hesitate to say she's totally fine for fear that some hard edge will hear my confidence and attack at the first opportunity. So I'm ever humble, watchful and careful. I no longer start blacking out at the sight of it, which is good I suppose.

So, change.

The coffee table was removed immediately and replaced with an ottoman hybrid. Edge padding was installed where needed in the house.

We decided that the bunk bed and room-sharing we planned for the kids were never going to happen, so we didn't waste time setting G up with her own big-girl furniture. I was desperate to do something for her. We said it was princess furniture. It made her happy.

I care a little less about some things now. I can't pinpoint exactly what they are, but I think it has to do with petty insecurities, wimpy indecision and keeping up with things in general.

I considered stopping blogging altogether. I didn't have much choice over the past two weeks, and I don't see finding much more opportunity soon. Maybe it's sharing too much, but these little entries give me remarkable satisfaction because they are lifelines to the outside world. A little sad, but there it is. I'd like to continue, but probably not as often.

Maybe this need for change will subside in proportion to the healing. I don't know, but I hope not, out of respect for the scar.

Thanks to all who offered support and kind words. Much appreciated.

Quiet Time

2008-04-08T11:42:00.001-07:00

I'm taking a break from blogging, thinking and anything else for a while, at least until G's stitches are out.

Yesterday's 911 call and trip to the emergency room were traumatic. The worst moments of my life.

G is recovering now from the laceration in her forehead. I'm useless but to care for her. Coffee tables are evil, evil abominations.

Thank you to the incredibly fast and kind paramedics. Thank you to the incredibly careful and experienced doctors. Thank you to the incredibly calm and calming husband. Thank you to the incredibly sweet and cooperative big brother. Thank you to the incredibly resilient and tough little girl. You are my life.

Delicious Dita

2008-04-04T20:05:00.000-07:00

I took home the New York Times Magazine insert that was in the newspaper at the hotel and meant to read the cover article, A Case of the Blues, about the Republican party.

Instead I read most of the article on the Harvard chastity club and ate up all of the interview with Dita Von Teese, whom I'd only heard of a couple times in reference to being married to Marilyn Manson.

After writing A Responsible Plan I needed some reading dessert with pretty pictures. Her interview was just the ticket and now I have a little crush on her persona.

Von Teese is a Burlesque dancer and all-around vintage sexpot. She collects "vintage hair combs; vintage clothes; vintage lingerie; hats; jewelry; cigarette holders." Her home is luscious and I covet its decor.

What she appreciates says everything about her taste:

"Treasured eras: For taxidermy, Victorian; for furniture, Art Deco; for lingerie, 1940s stockings and Victorian corsets; hats I like mid-1940s, when they wore the little tilted hats, like men’s hats."

Reading about this woman made me remember a part of me that has shrunken (probably for the better) over the years. The part that whiled away time aspiring to be someone from an era and place that I didn't honestly or soberly want to live in.

While I would still love some rooms as sumptuous as hers, these days it's just fun to read about a person living a fantasy and savor the details, like eating a piece of moist strawberry white chocolate cake.

One Ecohabit at a Time

2008-04-03T20:38:00.000-07:00

I felt a little warm and fuzzy reading the news this morning about Mayor Greg Nickels proposal for a 20-cent "green fee" on all disposable bags in Seattle. I'd heard about this fee working elsewhere, so I'm pleased he's moving ahead with it. I emailed him to say it's a good and necessary thing and I think the reality is that most people need incentives to become greener.

As a parent I deal in lots of garbage: packaging, wrappers, diapers, craft projects, cheap toys. I'm usually so frazzled that I'll take shortcuts to make things easier: paper towels and napkins, disposable diapers, disposable cleaning wipes, throwing toy trinkets away. I feel guilty about it, yet not enough to change. Anytime there's outside incentive to waste less, it helps.

I've given up buying disposable bottled water. Diapers are on their way out (hallelujah). I bring my own grocery bags when I remember, and those I do acquire, I use as garbage bags. I've vowed never to buy paper plates or plastic utensils for future BBQs or home parties (still need to find cool, quality melamine plates). And I freely make suggestions to make up for my own family's waste.

But I almost feel silly saying that I try because I'm nowhere near adequate. I'm not giving up antibacterial hand wipes until the kids are in college, I'm addicted to Ziplocs, and I go through an embarrassing number of to-go coffee cups every month. Also, hello minivan that I love.

Good habits are hard to build and with as busy as everyone's life is, I just don't think many people can master ecohabits without real incentives, positive or negative, and without messages at least as ubiquitous as the most annoying marketing campaigns. Am I speaking for myself?

In any case, I'm kinda proud that we have a mayor so devoted to green initiatives, even if I'm not yet living up to his example.

A Responsible Plan

2008-04-02T16:56:00.000-07:00

On Monday Arianna Huffington posted about a plan for ending the war in Iraq. Since I haven't read much spelling out how this could be done, I thought it was useful info.

She starts her post by referencing a Gallup poll that has McCain ahead of both Obama and Clinton in dealing with the war. She says his message of winning the war is simpler than the Democrats' not-so-clear message of ending the war.

A Responsible Plan to End the War in Iraq, developed by Darcy Burner (who's running for Congress in Washington state) lays out how it can be done. Both Obama and Clinton have their own plans, but I haven't done any comparing and contrasting.

Here's a paragraph summary from the report:

“What follows is a series of objectives that, taken together, refocus our current military involvement in the region while repairing damage to the U.S. to prevent a repeat of our mistakes. We have included some sample legislation currently in Congress to show that these objectives have been identified and can be addressed given sufficient political will. We have also included recommendations that the Baker-Hamilton Commission published in the Iraq Study Group Report. In some cases, no existing legislation or clear recommendations exist and new authorizing legislation plus careful planning would be required.”

The summary for A Responsible Plan to End the War, as well as a link to the full plan, is here. The full plan is only about 20 pages, plus an appendix of bills, and is neatly organized. A few tidbits I didn't know or think about:

"Whether we like it or not, Iraq’s neighbors will continue to intervene because they have serious national interests at stake: they have to deal with the refugees, violence, crime, economic shocks and all the other consequences of Iraq’s instability. All of the neighbors have an interest in maintaining stability but they also fear other neighbors gaining advantage. To achieve this goal they have looked for proxies who will carry out their agenda – which makes the situation worse by strengthening various warring parties and creating greater potential for broader regional conflict."

"Many military leaders have spoken out about the need to do far more with diplomatic and economic power to improve the situation in Iraq. Our post-invasion strategies in Iraq have been pursued primarily on military terms, and the diplomatic efforts have not resulted in any substantial progress. Billions of dollars have been wasted on failed reconstruction projects which have been left incomplete or unusable due to incompetence or corruption on the part of the chosen contractors. There has been no serious attempt to revive the Iraqi economy by providing employment and carefully directed economic stimulus. "

"Iraq, prior to the invasion, was one of the more egalitarian societies in the Middle East with respect to women. Over the last five years, however, their status has become increasingly threatened. In order to renew Iraqi civil society, the lives of Iraqi women must be improved and their basic rights protected in Iraqi society."

“The U.S. Constitution is very clear about the process by which legislation is passed: the House and the Senate must each pass the legislation and it must then be signed by the President. The President has no power to make law unilaterally. Our current president, however, has made unprecedented use of “signing statements”_8 in which he attempts to substantially alter the meaning of laws and their interpretation by the courts. These signing statements are a dangerous device that undermines Congress’ constitutional powers and ability to act as a check on the executive.”

Not the most exciting blog material, but I thought it was relevant and useful.

(P.S. I feel the need to apologize for my boring political posts. They're a little selfish. I write about this stuff because it forces me to read and learn things I'd normally just be lazy about and ignore.)

Bed

2008-03-31T15:32:00.000-07:00

When R asked me what I wanted for my birthday I said, "I'd like to sleep-in, snuggled in a hotel bed." Since sleeping-in at home is impossible due to two very persuasive wake-up callers, it needs to happen elsewhere. R surprised me with a night at Hotel Andra.

We checked in three hours early to relax and indulge in a disco nap. Our corner suite was roomy yet cozy and the sun streamed in through the south and west windows for a few bright moments. Once we settled in with our bags, we made a trip across the street to the Dahlia Bakery for some take out lunch to eat in the room. Then, nap time.

And by nap I don't mean sleep, just rather lay there uninterruptedly. Ever since having babies I haven't been able to sleep during the day. Even when I was sleep deprived for months on end with newborns, I couldn't nap. But I can laze around for hours if permitted. And laying in that hotel bed was the most relaxing non-nap I've had in as long as I can remember.

I removed the decorative bedspread, then slipped under the down comforter, which felt like light to medium warmth. The down pillows were a bit under-filled for my taste, so I smooshed them to my desired firmness and lay my head contentedly.

The mattress was soft, different from our own at home, but it was incredibly comfortable. It allowed you to sink into it, then hover weightlessly. The warmth of the cover and the muffled sounds from outside made it feel womb-like and protected.

The sheets were perfection. 300+ thread count crisp yet soft cotton with white-on-white stripes. Clean sheets are very high on my list of the most wonderful things in life (just under a clean house that I didn't have to clean). Their softness is physically comforting. Their purity is spiritually cleansing. I lay there in the quiet and listened to the down float under the fabric.

After a few hours it was time to get ready. Though I didn't sleep I was refreshed. And the next morning I didn't exactly sleep-in, but I didn't get up either. What a treat it was to have those quiet hours with no risk of disturbance. Thank you to those that made it possible for us to leave the kids carefree.

And thank you to everyone who celebrated with me at Vessel. It was delightful to see you and restful in a different but equally lovely way.

Now I'm off to my own clean sheets and sea of down.

Hey little sister, what have you done...

2008-03-27T14:05:00.000-07:00

Billy Idol's White Wedding came on the car radio the other day and I turned it up as I've always done. For my own wedding I requested this be the first song played as our reception began. I wanted to open the night to my friends in a way that suggested that just because we were now married, it didn't mean we were automatically stodgy.

After I thought of that moment at my wedding, I imagined Harrison singing the song at Gigi's wedding (apparently Idol wrote the song for his own sister).

In my fantasy we are at the reception and it is late in the evening. The older guests have retired home or to their hotel rooms, so the youngsters are left to dance the night away.

Harrison is in his smart black tux, top two buttons opened on his crisp white shirt, bowtie torn off hours before. He has control of the mike again (he made a toast earlier, then handed it off to others, including Gigi's girlfriends who teased her about her past boyfriends, much to the dismay of the groom). The DJ has a special karaoke copy of White Wedding for Harrison to belt away, which he does with champagne gusto.

Gigi dances with her bridesmaids on the dance floor, tulle flying and chignons unraveling everywhere. She's grinning at her brother in wild amusement. They've put on so many family shows together as children that this is just another naturally nostalgic moment for the both of them.

Robin and I, in our own wedding costumes, are of course laughing hysterically because Harrison is behaving exactly as Robin did some 30 years earlier.

It's nice to look forward to things this weekend, or this summer, or next year. But there's also a comforting excitement in anticipating the far off future because it makes you feel young today. In thirty years I'll be 65 (which by then may be the new 35 anyway). I want to make it there and I want to be dancing. White wedding or not.

What doesn't send you to the loony bin makes you stronger

2008-03-19T09:22:00.000-07:00

I think I'm doing pretty good. Not as a wife or mother, but in keeping sane. Yesterday I had one of those This is What I Do All Day days and I held it together, almost coasted.

In the morning there was a 7.8 tantrum by a 4-year-old followed by an extended time-out right before school.

At the coffee shop play area G managed to make three kids cry before I finally decided that sipping tea wasn't so relaxing after all.

At home G pooped on a rug.

Just as I started cooking dinner G dumped a watering can filled with mud onto the kitchen floor.

While washing hands in the bathroom the kids knocked a glass onto the tile. Of course everyone was barefoot and the dinner pots were boiling over, so I rushed around keeping bare feet from broken glass, cleaning it up, and minding dinner at the same time.

And what was for dinner? Spaghetti. Well now I was just asking for it.

Just to keep things interesting, I tried making myself a salad (I don't like spaghetti) while the kids made a mess of their noodles. G needed help, so while feeding her I burnt my pine nuts in the toaster oven. Twice. Do you know how much pine nuts cost?

To top it off, it was R's running night, so I was solo putting the kids to bed.

Through it all I maintained composure (mostly). I don't know if it's because I'm finally getting used to this SAHM gig or because I have things to look forward to or because these kinds of days only come once or twice a week instead of every day like they used to. Whatever it is, I hope it means I'm building up an immunity to insanity. That can only be to my benefit as the years creep up.

Potluck Perfection

2008-03-18T14:26:00.000-07:00

While rummaging through our basement bookshelves I found this recipe card from 1970. Jellied Chicken Salad. Does that look tasty or what?

I'm not showing the recipe side because I don't want anyone to steal it from me. All I'm revealing is there's a lot of pimento product in it. If you want to taste this delectable dish, you'll just have to invite me over for dinner.

No End in Sight

2008-03-17T21:23:00.000-07:00

Since this week marks the fifth anniversary of the US invasion of Iraq, might I recommend the film No End in Sight.

I've watched films, read articles and blog posts, even saw a play about the Iraq war, but it seems every new interview and piece of information adds to the messy puzzle. The play and most of what I've read dealt with the political actions and deception that led to the decision to start the war. By contrast No End in Sight deals more with the utter absence of war-planning that caused serious mistakes, the insurgency and a complicated mess.

The film mentions that there were two years of planning prior to WWII, but only 90 days before our invasion of Iraq. As a result, looting and lawlessness broke out immediately and got worse from there. The cost (at the time the film was made) of looting alone cost $12 billion. Rumsfeld didn't help gain respect for the US military when he mocked the reports of the destruction. While Iraq's National Library and Musuem were looted, the oil ministry was the only building protected by our military. Telling.

The film also goes into the ill-planned military decisions that led to the insurgency, most notably the surprise disbanding of the Iraqi army which put 500,000 bitter soldiers (who knew where to find weapons) out of work. One image that struck me was of a map showing who controls what parts of Baghdad. It's a bloody mess.

The costs of the war are also laid out. The film says $1.8 trillion. However, an excerpt from The Three Trillion Dollar War in this month's Vanity Fair estimates that it will eventually cost, you guessed it, $3 trillion.

Anyway, not much detail in this post, just wanted to give a recommendation.

No Country for Old Men

2008-03-15T10:12:00.000-07:00

My friend mentioned yesterday that he saw No Country for Old Men, but wouldn't talk about it or even say whether he liked it until I saw it myself. That meant of course that I (R) had to run out and rent the movie right away. I wavered about whether to spoil it in my post by listing all my questions, but I won't. However, I will say openly (and disappointingly) that I couldn't enjoy it. Maybe this was a case where reading the book might have been the better option.

I'm going to sound like a bore even to myself, but the movie left me weary. Perhaps I don't have the patience for that kind of violence anymore or I just wasn't in the mood to be up half the night with questions swirling around my head.

I respect good direction, cinematography, acting and dialogue. Parsed out, each was brilliant, and I pointed them out while we watched. But I couldn't ignore the blood enough to appreciate them, and ended up disagreeing with the movie's Best Picture win. In my frustration I even thought that if a movie has to resort to that much violence to entertain the audience, it lacks creativity and doesn't deserve to win. Then again, The Departed is one of my favorite movies and Sweeney Todd didn't bother me. Is it because Javier Bardem was so convincing a psychopath? Probably.

I know my aversion has much to do with being a mother. Before I had little ones I had a stronger stomach for violent movies. But when you spend all your waking hours trying to protect children, you're repulsed and angered by anything that threatens their safety, even if that threat is remote or only in the form of a nightmarish image. Maybe I should accept that I'm no longer the target audience.

Some say these types of movies are cathartic, and I was going to dismiss that, but then realized my kids looked a bit different this morning. Their toothy smiles took on an extra significance - innocence emblazoned across their fresh faces. Sometimes you need to see the devil to appreciate the angels.

My opinion of No Country for Old Men might be simplistic because it ignores the movie's heavy undertones of human nature and our helplessness to prevent it. So be it. Maybe I'll rethink my opinion by discussing it. I'm open to suggestions.

2 Days in Paris

2008-03-13T14:23:00.002-07:00

I had planned on watching 2 Days in Paris by myself, but ended up with two charming dates.

My first date was H, who I couldn't get to go to sleep. He kept walking into the living room, looking at me with his big, blue, bewitching eyes. Actually he was looking at my salad, so I let him sit with me and pick at my croutons. I figured there was no violence in the film, so it couldn't hurt. He sat with me for about ten minutes and through three curse words, after which I made a better effort to coax him to sleep.

But before putting him to bed, he made two comments. The first was when Adam Goldberg's character says, in reference to some American tourists, "They voted for Bush." H turned to me with the most perplexed look on his face and questioned, "They VOTED FOR BUSH??, as if to say, "How crazy are they!?"

He's four, so I don't think he really knows who Bush is, but the comment couldn't have been delivered any more appropriately. Like he needed another reason for me to think he was cool.

The second comment was when Julie Delpy and Goldberg go into her parents' Parisian bathroom and Goldberg points out the dangerous mold on the wall, while Delpy tries to convince him that it's perfectly harmless. H turns to me, holding his nose closed with one hand and simulating hand-washing with the other and says, "Oh, so they (French people) have to wash their hands with only one hand." I lost it.

Right as H fell asleep, R came home from running and looked curiously at the TV. So I let him catch up and we watched the rest of the movie together. I don't remember the last time he and I laughed so hard watching a movie. We had to pause repeatedly to get the giggles out. Even if you don't have French heritage, there's lots to laugh at. Julie Delpy wrote, directed and starred in it (how sexy is that?) and Goldberg plays his character spot on.

It's one of the funnier romantic comedies (I think there are ten total), so I'd recommend it as a treat to enjoy over champers and nibbley things.

Toast

2008-03-10T22:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight while watching No End in Sight I had the craving for some tea and toast made with a dense multi-grain bread I'd never had before. When I used the bread to make lunch for H earlier I thought, "This is going to make the best toast ever."

I paused the movie and went to the kitchen. I toasted the bread and laid three thick pats of butter on top (I like my butter partially melted, but still visible in its creamy form). Then I spooned the freshest tasting cherry jam on top. It looked good. Next to the toast I placed a ceramic saucer which would hold my tea bag.

Since my tea was still steeping, I decided to prep for breakfast. This may sound nerdy, but I'm telling you that making pre-coffee breakfast while a child is screaming for food is disorienting. It's nice to have things laid out in advance.

Anyway, when I reached up in the cupboard for the kids' melamine plates, the plates slipped and fell onto the saucer, shattering it into pieces. Something about the way the plates fell made the saucer shards fly up and land on my toast, sprinkling it like powdered sugar. It was toast.

So I tossed the shrapnel'd toast and made a new one. It was indeed the best toast I have EVER had. Later I made another slice and called it a night.

Sprechen Sie Roach?

2008-03-08T14:51:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I spotted some ants in the kitchen. The sight of them made my body so tense that I hurt my back picking up G. With the exception of spiders (who eat evil flies), the sight of bugs within the walls of my home puts me beyond edge.

I pretended to be an ant myself and crept along the kitchen floor hunting for where their lair might be. After finding it in the space between the wall and the chopping block cabinet, I promptly got rid of the visible ants.

Harrison caught me stepping on a crunchy one and gasped, "You're killing NATURE?!" Uh-oh.

I explained that sometimes nature invades a space that should have nothing to do with nature. The inside of a suburban kitchen is one of those spaces.

Actually, I simply said, "Ants in the kitchen are yucky. I'm just going to tell the ants they'd be happier outside." He reluctantly accepted that answer.

Then I disinfected the floor and the cabinet under the sink and inspected all other spaces for drops of anything sweet.

Online we learned that boric acid is effective in getting rid of ants. It liquifies their insides after they eat it. So I called our local mom and pop General Store and asked if they carried it. They did.

When I got to the General Store I searched for the stuff but couldn't find it. It took three employees to figure out that although their computer system listed boric acid as an inventory item, the product they actually carried had other ingredients in it and was displayed under a different name.

Product:
Safer brand Roach & Ant Killing Powder

Ingredients:
Boric Acid - 40%
Inert Ingredients (Flour, powdered sugar, release matrix) - 59.995%
German Cockroach Pheromone - .005%

Umm, I want German Cockroach Pheromone in my home be-cause WHY??

All I could think of was dabbing the powder behind my ears, then lounging around sipping a cocktail, waiting for a troop of studly, stern-faced roaches wearing shiny black boots to pick me up.

I bought it anyway, desperate to get rid of the ants.

At home I banished the kids to the other end of the house, put on my long gloves, held my breath and squirted the powder into the crevice that harbored the army. Then I waited.

The next morning I saw one large ant limping pathetically in plain view of my slippered foot. He was a strong one I guess. No roaches demanding schnitzel, thankfully.

Probably not a story to be read over breakfast, but I thought it might provide some useful info should anyone find themselves eye to eye with the buggers.

Parlez-vous Enfant?

2008-03-07T17:01:00.000-08:00

The mom's group I've been a part of for almost a year has been dwindling steadily, so it was serendipitous that I stumbled upon a new group during one of the last meetings of my old group. I overheard the moms chatting in French, which immediately piqued my interest. A French-speaking moms group? Could it be? Parfait!

You see, I've been trying for years to become more (at all) fluent in French. And after the kids were born, the effort started feeling more like necessity than indulgence. It could be something I'd teach them in addition to the lessons in manners and not biting kids smaller than yourself.

I've made a handful of efforts over the years. When my mom visits I vow to converse with her only in French. She humors me (thanks mom), but after a few hours I just feel silly starting a new habit to replace an old one that's 35 years strong. So the effort once again lazily shies away.

But with strangers, it's more natural to start a habit because you're starting from scratch. Also, because there's more social discomfort with strangers, there's more of an impetus to practice and get better. I attended my first French-speaking moms meeting this week and plan on being a regular. Maybe this will finally provide the motivation I need.

To help things along, R burned our dusty Pimsleur French CDs to our computer so I could put the lessons on my Shuffle and listen to them at the park while pushing the swing (or doing something equally challenging). No more excuses, right?

Bonne chance a moi!

On it goes

2008-03-05T13:41:00.000-08:00

A big part of me wanted it all to be over after yesterday's primaries. I wanted to move on and focus on the Democratic win in November. I wanted the Hillary bashing to stop and the Republican debating to start. I wanted to see the Democratic party rally together for one person and forge ahead.

The negativity coming out of the Hillary and Obama campaigns is counterintuitive. They're pointing out to the whole country their opponent's flaws and lowering their own respectability at the same time. Maybe it gets a few votes, but it also seems to give the Republicans talking points to use in the near future.

I was especially disappointed to see Hillary's Red Phone spot. That kind of fear-mongering should be left to the Republicans. They own it. Maybe Hillary also ran it in the hopes of seeming tough against McCain. In any case it was in bad taste and I'm sorry she had to resort to that.

If what they say about the math is true - that it is impossible for her to regain the delegate lead needed to take the nomination - it does no good for Hillary to continue her campaign and could further divide the Democratic party.

While she may be more qualified than Obama, most of what I'm hearing and reading points to the fact that that's not enough. It may be enough to be President, but not enough to beat McCain. I'm terrified that there are many Obama supporters out there who would rather vote for McCain or not at all than vote for Hillary. That scares me enough to let her go, and I'm thinking there are super delegates who feel the same way.

Live Your Way to The Answer

2008-02-28T12:09:00.000-08:00

Everyone should get a yoga gift certificate for Christmas. Particularly in winter, when frigidity and tenseness go hand-in-hand, the warmth and serenity of a yoga studio is the most perfect respite. I got a punch card as a gift and it has indeed kept giving.

There's a yoga studio four minutes from our house, so the convenience eliminates the excuse of distance. It's clean, the instructors are amazing and the class times are practical. Wednesday night is sacred yoga time for me. My darling husband knows this and sends me off with a smile despite the screaming, half-dressed children circling his legs.

My compulsive punctuality delivers me early to class. This allows me that coveted back corner spot with a Feng Shui view of the room. I can be clumsy without fear of embarrassment. I select my block, bolster and blanket from the shelves and take my own mat out of its woven carrying bag.

I use the time until class starts to lay down on my mat and appreciate the luxury of having responsibility for nothing and no one but myself in these moments. No one's going to cry or whine or scream at me. I have nothing to pick up or wipe down or load or unload or plan or check off. It's just me and my body.

The buttery walls emanate calm. Soft moons on the ceiling gently illuminate the room in a flattering light. Carefully placed potted trees fill in any sharp corners. Emptiness fills the rest.

The class starts with meditation and breathing and maybe three OMs. Then warm-ups and stretches and poses and reminders to pull shoulders back. I can never remember the names of the poses. I often promise to become more serious about practicing yoga, but who am I kidding. It's fine for me as it is. Don't try to make a happy baby happier.

Yoga is usually more strenuous than I think it'll be. I challenge myself, but that's only apparent when my limbs start trembling or a pained grimace appears on my face. Or sometimes a barely audible "Oh shit" whispers out in an exhale. This is no time to back down, I tell myself. You may not get another chance to work out until next Wednesday.

No matter how tough or tame the session might be, it's certain that at some point I'll gratefully proclaim, "This is awesome." Last night I thought that twice. The first was during a rest after a challenging pose. The second was at the end of class while our eyes were closed in meditation. The instructor was reciting some spiritual phrases which ended in: "Live your way to the answer."

Live your way to the answer. It's deep. I love it.

But wait. I don't have a question. Why don't I have a question? Doesn't everyone have a question? The meaning of life? The existence of God? Slingbacks or mules? Surely I must have something. My eyes popped open, meditation over. I was stumped but somehow reassured that when I did have a question, I had a plan. I rolled my mat into its bag and limply noodled my way home.

This morning I awoke with the blissful soreness that comes when your muscles marinate all night in lactic acid. So satisfying. I did something good for myself that made me happy. Now if I can just live my way to next Wednesday night.

The Countdown Starts Today

2008-02-25T16:44:00.000-08:00

George Clooney opened the night for me with his dependable charm. When Regis said to him during the red carpet show, "It used to be everyone wanted to be Cary Grant. Now they want to be George Clooney," Clooney instantly responded, "That's because Cary Grant is dead and no one wants to be dead." You never disappoint, do you George.

The night could have gone downhill from there had it not been for Jon Stewart. I laughed his entire intro and I think he did a fine job interjecting much-needed comedy relief throughout the show. My favorite joke might have been when he pointed out that Jessica Alba was pregnant and Cate Blanchett was pregnant but the night was still young and Jack Nicholson was here, so there would be a re-tally at the end of the night. Ha. Also, Gaydolf Titler. It's funny.

I had to chuckle when The Rock came onstage to present because he reminded me of something Harrison always says when he hears me talking about our presidential race. He says, "I want DeRock to be president." He means Barack, of course. So I laughed because Harrison would be the youngest campaign manager ever if The Rock was actually running for anything. He'd settle for payment in gum, I'm sure.

I love this picture of the Best Actor and Actress winners. They look like old friends having fun. The kind of fun you can only have if you've earned it. I'm thrilled Cotillard won and got the recognition she so deserved.

The surprise of my night was when Tilda Swinton won. She did a decent job portraying an uneasy, amateur villain, and I've appreciated her in past movies, but I didn't think anyone would ever truly notice her. Good for her and her interesting love life.

Not the most scintillating Oscars ever (I used all the song performances to do dishes and loads of laundry) but I did get excited adding a few movies to my Netflix queue. Also, I noticed botox isn't nearly as popular in Hollywood as one would think. Thank you HD for that unairbrushed boost of confidence. Just 364 days til the next Oscars.

Anticipation and Atonement

2008-02-22T12:51:00.000-08:00

I love movies. I grew up loving movies and my love never wavered. I use movies to laugh, cry and learn. I use them for emotional release and emotional numbing. They are my favorite escape and I'd rather watch a good movie than do almost anything else.

So it goes without saying that when the Oscars come around, I get giddy. I get so giddy that I have to restrain myself because if something prevented me from watching the Oscars, the disappointment would be unbearable. Or rather, I would be unbearable to be around. Take away my TV for the other 364 days, but give it back on Oscar night.

Every year I try to watch as many Oscar movies as I can to build on the excitement. I never get very far unless most are already out on video, but I try nonetheless. This year, I've been most successful in catching the performances of the nominees for Best Actress. This is my favorite category because I love watching women act. I love that they don't have to hold back emotion as they are required to in real life. I love watching the dramatization of unmedicated reality.

This year I've seen four of the five best actress performances. I haven't seen Laura Linney in The Savages, but I'm anxiously anticipating it. Here are my mini reviews of the other leading ladies:

Cate Blanchett - Elizabeth: The Golden Age
She was the first I watched, so my memory is not as sharp, but she did well. She's so spectacular in everything she's in, that the expectations are high. Unfortunately the rest of the movie wasn't great, so I think it dulled her golden performance.

Julie Christie - Away From Her
Christie plays a woman who is losing her mind to Alzheimer's. She is convincing, absorbing and lovely. She made me grateful to have my mind intact (most of the time) and even more grateful that my husband is still all there. I think losing your spouse to dementia would be worse than losing them to death.

Ellen Page - Juno
I suppose for a girl her age she did fine. She was given an ingenious script and was perfectly cast. I was more impressed with Jennifer Garner as the adoptive mother.

Marion Cotillard - La Vie en Rose
In my post about La Vie en Rose I didn't go into much detail about her performance, simply saying it was brilliant. But now that I've seen the other contenders, I believe it was more than that. Cotillard put her soul into Piaf and pushed the boundaries of exertion to bleed her life to us. She deserves to win.

Of the Best Pictures I've only seen Juno and Atonement so I can't make any comparisons, but I have to say Atonement was one of the most precisely directed movies I've ever seen. I thought for sure it was nominated for Best Director, but it's not. The flow and pace made beautiful love together. There is one long, uninterrupted scene of hundreds of WWII troops on the beach that is drawn out with such perfection and attention to detail that I was completely blown away. Even Keira Knightley was directed away from being annoying. Bravo.

I want to see the dresses and the perfect skin. I want to hear the cheesy pre-show interviews and the commentary. And HELLO Jon Stewart! I've already stocked up on the salami, cheese, dip, crackers, champers. Bring it on.

Farewell Ms. Gladiator?

2008-02-13T15:46:00.000-08:00

It has been thrilling to see Obama maintain his momentum, picking up supporters wherever his aura emanates. At this moment he looks poised to take the nomination and debate McCain. Cool. But I can't help feeling a little sad for Hillary. Now that she's qualified for underdog status, I feel more permitted to talk about her kindly.

I'm dejected not because she's on a losing streak, but because I think she's been overly criticized for someone so respectably qualified. It's impossible to dislike Obama, agreed. But why is it so difficult to like, or even respect Hillary?

Is it because she has so many political years and decisions under her belt that it's easy to find something to pick at? Or is it because she's been picked on for so long that it's just become a habit?

I often hear the criticism over her vote on Iraq, which is valid to an extent. But I was under the impression that Obama was never in the exact situation, so the comparison doesn't seem entirely fair.

Joseph C. Wilson (husband of outed CIA officer Valerie Plame Wilson) posted today with an explanation about that vote, as well as the claim that Hillary is "Battle-Tested". He says her being battle-tested gives her an edge over McCain. Well, I thought that before too, but at this point the argument seems outdated. So much of what I'm hearing and reading (about the independent vote, support from unexpected people and sheer mobilizing inspiration) indicates that he has a better chance.

While I revere Obama like everyone else, it still aches a bit to see Hillary crushed, not just in polls or caucuses but in hearts. I'll still cheer her on, albeit quietly, as so many Clinton supporters I know did by not attending their caucuses last weekend.

P.S. Thank you Robin for encouraging me to have and express my opinions, however much I fear being wrong. Expression is part of my learning process, and you're my favorite teacher. Thanks.

Chrysalis

2008-02-11T12:21:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling out of sorts and all I want to do is be a chrysalis, buried in my bed, finishing my three books: French Women For All Seasons, The Audacity of Hope and The Complete Stories of Truman Capote.

I just started The Audacity of Hope yesterday, how could I resist any longer. It had been sitting on my shelf for months, occasionally touched by the duster and my line of vision. So far it's a pleasant read, but I'm only on page twelve.

The Complete Stories of Truman Capote was a Christmas gift and it didn't take long for me to start it. Short stories are a practical option when you never have longer than fifteen or twenty minutes to read. The stories aren't all that exciting, but his composition and creativity flow so beautifully, you almost forget the content. He could write about fish guts and you'd fall in love with them.

French Women For All Seasons is a mini vacation from the bad habit of misery. Mireille Guiliano, who also wrote French Women Don't Get Fat and was CEO of Clicquot, Inc, presents the seasons as wondrous gifts that deserve our active appreciation. She offers recipes, tips and personal anecdotes to enhance the unique pleasures of each season. Even winter has its charms, but perhaps I need to try one of the recipes to be convinced. I'm two-thirds through and I've ambitiously placed post-it tabs on half the recipes.

I'm not asking for a full winter hibernation. Just a few days in my cocoon after which I would emerge bright and colorful.

Caucusing is Cool

2008-02-09T21:04:00.000-08:00

Last month I had no idea what a caucus was and linked to a critique of the ones in Iowa. Today I experienced it firsthand and rather liked it.

The plan was for me to go alone while the kids stayed home with Robin, but after reading that kids were welcome, I suggested he come with me. If the kids acted up, one of us could take them outside so the other could continue to participate.

I was determined to get to the church where the caucus was held right at 1pm or a few minutes earlier, which we did. I made the mistake of bringing the double stroller with us. I thought it would give the kids a place to sit if there happened to be lots of standing. The building was so packed that I nearly knocked over a few walking canes with the stroller, so I parked it in a hall and carried G so I wouldn't lose her in the swarm.

We signed in and were directed to "the choir room" that held our precinct. Since we were early we found seats, but by the time all eighty people were in the room, it was standing room only. I chatted with a mom who lives on our block and we vowed to finally get the kids together to play.

After about five minutes Harrison asked, "So when will the president be here?" I wasn't sure he'd make it the whole time, but there were about ten other young kids there so I was in good company. He got very wiggly about twenty minutes into the reading of the rules, but once he started flirting with a ten-year-old girl, I knew we'd be fine. She had braces, so he was immediately attracted.

After the rules were read the floor was opened up for commenting. There were an equal number of pro-Clinton and pro-Obama comments even though the tally at the end was 2-to-1 for Obama. Almost twenty people spoke. I was mesmerized.

One woman asked which candidate would do more to deal with climate change, another asked about health care. Clinton came out ahead for both of these, according to the comments. She came out ahead for pretty much all the issue matters. These folks had an understanding of her plans and promoted her expertise on the issues.

The comments for Obama were more emotional and centered on change and inspiration. A couple college students talked about being inspired and moved to action. The older supporters spoke compellingly about his ability to win the election and bring people together. No one was swayed to the Clinton side, but a few undecideds were swayed to Obama.

The discussion was fascinating to me. Here I was sitting with my closest neighbors, listening to them passionately air their opinions. I could have sat there all day, but right as the leader was reading the final tally Gigi started fussing LOUDLY so I tripped my way through the crowd and out the door and strained to hear from the hall.

I thanked the woman who worked for the EPA for her Clinton comments. Robin thanked and shook hands with the man who gave the most moving speech for Obama. We both felt really good about being there and taking part. I know absentee ballots are easier and probably more accurate, but I have to say I appreciated being forced to have the physical experience. It was a family moment, it was a neighborly moment, it was a community moment. I can't wait to see what happens next.

Follow-Up

2008-02-04T14:57:00.000-08:00

Thanks for your great comments on Electability. I SO appreciate learning from friends. Thanks, Amy for "reminding" me that my primary vote won't count. Only the caucuses will count.

Here's a follow-up to my thoughts on electability, posted today: McCain Has Some Questions For Obama.

Now I'd like to lighten things up with Sarah Silverman. I know most people have seen it, but if you haven't, you're welcome. (Mom, you don't need to see this.)

Electability?

2008-02-01T20:09:00.000-08:00

I tried to watch last night's debate, I really did. To keep the kids from biting my ankles I put on some PBS in the living room, which meant I'd have to watch the debate on my laptop in the kitchen while making dinner.

I struggled to hear the dialogue over the sizzling in the pan and the bickering from the kids, but from what I did catch, I thought they were both incredibly strong. Of course I'd be thrilled if they could take turns in the White House. But since Hillary is no spring chicken, might I suggest age before beauty. I do still think Hillary is more electable for now. I could be wrong. Am I?

But here's the new thing: with McCain closer than ever to the nomination, I'm not sure electability matters as much as it did before. Because who in their right mind would vote for McCain? And it's not all the same ones who voted for Bush because I've heard even conservatives don't like him.

While my gut tells me electability matters a little less now (meaning Obama and Hillary might have the same chance of beating McCain), this guy says it's ALL that matters. And it sounds like he's in the Obama camp, though he doesn't admit it by name.

I've heard so little debate about all this from people I know, and I know everyone has an opinion.

On a related note, my friend told me about this quiz (there are others like it) that calculates which candidate fits you best. I thought for sure I'd fall in line with Kucinich or Obama, but Hillary turned out to be my best match (Kucinich and Edwards are no longer part of the quiz, but they were when I first took it a couple weeks ago). On the one hand I felt validated since I'm uncomfortable with the accusation that the only reason I support her is because I'm a woman. On the other hand, I must be more conservative than I claim to be. And guess who came in last as a match for me? You guessed it - McCain.

Things I Will Remember

2008-01-28T21:10:00.000-08:00

The things about today I will forget:

G waking up at 5:15am, per usual.

Struggling with the kids to get them dressed, only to have them soak their shoes and pants in the snow on the 10-yard walk from the front door to the car.

Waiting at the pediatrician's for over an hour with two hungry kids, the younger of which made such a spectacle that I couldn't decide whether to cry or run away.

The doctor telling me my son has a ruptured eardrum. I don't care if it's not as bad as it sounds. It sounds bad.

G whining incessantly for eight hours and refusing to take a nap.

Asking, then begging, then pleading, then yelling, and finally screaming to the kids to "Stop fighting! Stop wrestling! Share! Don't go out the door! Don't throw the flour!"

G tossing her used diaper onto the kitchen floor then running off in the other direction to hide, while H runs through the house with handfuls of plastic forks.

The things about today I will remember:

G throwing her arms into the air and shouting, "Yay Mommy! Yay Mommy!" after I gave her a potato chip.

H spontaneously giving me the most sincere smile I'd ever seen and saying, "You make me so happy."

You make me happy too.

My Conversation with Spring

2008-01-27T10:35:00.000-08:00

I called her up the other morning.

Brrrrring.

Spring (in a groggy, sleepy voice): Yeesss?

Me: Oh I'm sorry, were you asleep?

Spring: Uh, yeah, it's January.

Me: Well it's time to get up. I need you.

Spring: What are you talking about? It's the middle of the night.

Me: Exactly. It's cold and dark and I need you now.

Spring: Can't a girl get some sleep?

Me: I'm sorry, but no. You need to get up, put on your best floral dress, and get your blossoming butt over here right now.

Spring: It doesn't work that way.

Me: I don't care, I'm desperate. And cold. (sobbing) So...very...cold.

Spring: Have you been drinking?

Me: Well what do you expect, I'm depressed!

Spring: There are things you can do, you know. Make a comforting soup. Call a cheerful friend. Read an entertaining book. I don't even mind if you cheat on me and buy some daffodils out-of-season.

Me: It's not the same and you know it. I beg of you.

Spring: You'll just have to be patient. Now if you'll excuse me, I need my beauty sleep.

Click.

You can't say I didn't try.

A Swinging Good Time

2008-01-26T09:30:00.000-08:00

Many early childhood milestones are expected and predicted with reasonable accuracy. They're the ones you read about in What to Expect the First Year: rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, first words, etc. After about the 14th month of life, when new milestones slow down, you stop waiting and watching every movement. So when something new happens long after you've been paying attention, it's a beautiful thing.

One of these sunny days I took the kids out in the backyard to get some wiggles out. Harrison hopped on the playgym swing and started swinging, by himself. He leaned forward and back in overextended motions, but managed to lift himself higher and higher. Nowhere in the books does it say that at 55 months your child will swing by himself. This is HUGE.

If your idea of a good time is pushing a swing for half an hour, then maybe it sounds like I'm exaggerating. But if you'd rather be digging for worms with your teeth, then you'll understand my excitement.

Watching it happen before your eyes is positively thrilling. The swinging starts with barely perceptible movements, like the click-click of climbing to the peak of a roller coaster. The increments continue and show definite progress in the right direction; you're rolling over the coaster's peak and can see the precipice below. The swinging gets higher and faster and you can hardly believe what's happening; you're barreling down the coaster, letting out your giddiest scream. I whooped so loud I'm certain the playground three blocks away heard me.

It was one of those exhilarating moments that makes every day so worth it. Thanks, Harrison.

Pierre Robert

2008-01-22T08:10:00.000-08:00

Cher Pierre,

I'm terribly sorry it has taken me so long to express my love for you. My mind has been elsewhere and I now realize the error of my judgement.

When I first saw you, you looked like all the others. You had no distinguishing marks, your dress was unoriginal, you didn't even smell pungent. Why should I have paid any attention?

I let you wait, day after day, which only allowed you to age that much more delicately. You were patient and kind. You did not sour, you did not grow bitter. Then finally, on a lonely night, I thought of you. Yes, the time was now. I needed you.

I held you for a moment and admired your creamy flesh beneath your wrap. Then I slowly undressed you, careful to keep your shape intact.

At first, I was too distracted to notice how incredible you were. So I tuned out the rest of the world and focused all my attention on your taste, texture and decadence.

It is hard to put into words the excellence that you were. Your masterfully subtle scent allowed the magnificence of your texture to reign. Buttery like no butter could be. Creamy like no cream could dream of. A veritable taste bud's fantasy.

There should be a new name for something like you. For you are so much more than cheese. You began as a simple thank you gift from my husband, but became the love of my night.

Forever Yours,
Me

The Berger Flip-Off

2008-01-20T18:52:00.000-08:00

There's a scene in season six of Sex and the City when Jack Berger (Carrie's boyfriend at the time) gives his answering machine two middle fingers while his ex-girlfriend is leaving a message on it. He lifts one hand, then the other and says, "Fuck you and FUCK you!"

When you're really mad at something, doing a Berger Flip-Off is about the most satisfying thing you can do. It makes you feel good because you've let off some steam, which sometimes only a Fuck can do. But it also makes you laugh because it's so dang funny. Try it sometime, it works.

This weekend while struggling with my awkward double stroller in the freezing, pouring rain, I did the Berger Flip-Off in the direction of the sky, careful to hide it from Harrison. It worked. I gave the rain a piece of my mind and went on with my cold, solo afternoon with the kids.

Don't get me wrong, I normally love the rain. It cleans the air, makes our beautiful city green, is an important part of the ecosystem, blah blah blah. But when you're a parent of two small children and you're laboring to get through January, it takes on a different meaning. It means we become progressively more insane the longer it rains.

But there just isn't much you can do. We have memberships to the Children's Museum, the Science Center, the Aquarium and the Museum of Flight, but none of them adequately replace a little kid's need to be outside. Kids don't care if it's cold. They don't even care if it's raining and cold. They're just glad to be outside instead of in a dark, stuffy house.

So after I cursed the rain I thought, if this isn't bothering the kids in the least, why am I letting it bother me so much? Why is it so hard for me follow their example when I need to the most? So that's what got me through the afternoon. A little attitude change and a Berger Flip-Off. You do what you need to do.

The Lazy River

2008-01-18T21:14:00.000-08:00

The second-story view of the Lazy River is really the best view. From the ground floor, your view is obstructed by the black iron fence that runs the perimeter of the river. From the third floor, you're too far away to have that sense of tactile proximity that makes the river so tantalizing. But from the second floor, you're close enough to be hypnotized by the water as it swirls around in a counter-clockwise direction, meandering in a wavy oval around the man-made island.

Just one floor down, past the tennis courts, into the gate, and there you are.

You expect the water in the Lazy River to be cool, to give your body a mild shock. After all, that would follow every swimming pool experience you've ever had. However refreshing those pools were, the first few seconds were always a tad cooler than your skin was cozy with. Not so with the Lazy River.

Upon dipping your toes onto the first step, you're delightfully surprised that the water is somewhere between normal pool water and a hot tub. In fact it makes sense that the water isn't too cold because the purpose of the Lazy River is not to swim, but to drift. Lazily.

You ease into your large inner tube, careful not to get too much of your body wet. You don't want to feel a single chill from the gentle breeze that comes from moving along the water. You push off the concrete side with your big toe. The jet-propelled current floats you along, ever so gently.

You smell the desert air as you glide past the local flora that is symmetrically planted along the island. Some of the shrubs have bright fuchsia flowers, others are shades of green that shimmer in the sunlight.

You pass the hot tub nestled in the island, surrounded by small trees and chaise lounges. A young couple relaxes in the bubbles, chatting, holding cups with not-so-mysterious liquid inside. You're saving the hot tub for later, when you get chilly.

As your tube turns your face towards the sun, you close your eyes and keep them closed. You're still moving, but your eyes are closed. It feels a little reckless. It feels as though you're moving much faster than you really are. You take a peek with one eye to make sure no one is nearby that you could bump into. The coast is clear so you close the eye.

You feel the sun's warmth travel along your skin as you revolve like the earth. First on your nose, then on your left ear, then on the back of your neck, then on your right ear, and back to your nose. You open your eyes to observe the shadows of your head and strands of hair as they creep along the front of your legs when the sun is at your back. You just remembered the pleasure of slow-moving things.

The voice of Lily Allen sings faintly within the hidden stereo system as you pass an older man lounging in his chaise. You imagine that in the summer, the man's belly is a shade of crisp bronze, but so early in the year, his rounded paunch resembles the subtle golden brown of a raised calzone during its last minute in the oven.

Two boys, about 12-years-old, pass you by. They don't have inner tubes. Rather they like the feeling of swimming effortlessly yet speedily along the river. They've been doing this for almost two hours. Later you'll challenge them to a race.

Right before you're back at the steps, you pass under the small bridge that leads to the island. It's only a couple seconds of shade, but you can't wait to feel the sun again.

As Seal starts crooning through the speakers, you decide to stay in the Lazy River indefinitely. Because there's nowhere else you need to be.

Okay, now I'm ready for the year

2008-01-14T13:12:00.000-08:00

I spent a wonderful few days away from home this past weekend. I started the trip feeling guilty that I was leaving my husband and kids for no other reason than a little R & R. Did I really do enough to deserve a vacation? Some days yes, other days not really. But that's not the only point.

Being away not only gives you lucid appreciation upon your return, but allows those you're away from the chance to breath without your help.

The kids were thrilled to see me last night, and I was delighted to see them. After only three days Harrison seemed to have matured three years. And Gigi had apparently earned a degree in English. They were all hugs and kisses. All charm.

But it wasn't simply the short passage of time that changed them. It was that Mommy wasn't there. The routine was changed. The vocabulary used was a little different (Gigi kept saying, "It's just gas." I don't say that). The snacks were slightly new. Maybe Robin, being the creative one, even dressed them in something other than jeans and a turtleneck. Change is good. Like most new experiences, it leads to growth. So having Mommy gone for a short time gave everyone a chance to experience something new and become a better person for it.

How do you like that for guilt-relieving rationalization?

And to top it off, Robin was the happiest of all to see me back. The house was immaculate, much cleaner than I'd left it. Everyone was bathed and fed and in a good mood. Any guilt that remained was gone, replaced by a fresh determination to get back to work, supporting my family in all the ways they need. What a great way to start the year.

Happy Birthday Love

2008-01-06T19:12:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday to my little essence of joy. After two years I still can't believe you're mine. Please be mine forever.

Lady Chatterley

2008-01-05T20:03:00.000-08:00

When I picked up Sons and Lovers ten years ago, I knew only one thing about D.H. Lawrence: he wrote about sex. After reading about twenty-five pages, I discovered another thing about him: he wrote about coal miners. I lazily lost interest (just what was I expecting?), put the book on the shelf and forgot about the writer.

A couple weeks ago my friend Mick recommended Lady Chatterley, a French film based on the second version of another D.H.Lawrence novel, Lady Chatterley's Lover. Although the movie is almost three hours long, I thought surely a French film about sex wouldn't lose my interest, no matter what book it's based on. Over the course of three nights I savored this movie.

The story is about an aristocratic wife who has an affair with the gamekeeper who lives near her mansion. The story itself is beautiful, but the way it was shown in this version was enchanting. It unfolded ever so slowly, making full use of the countryside paradise where it was filmed.

The movie begins near the end of winter, when Constance (Lady Chatterley) first finds interest in the gamekeeper. As their relationship blossoms, the seasons change with it. Her walks through the French forest, complete with the sounds of gurgling water and chirping birds, are meditative. You just want to be there.

As if the feast of nature wasn't enough, we're given an absolutely charming love story played by equally adorable characters. Their respect for one another is complemented by their playfulness. Their time together is so honest and tender, you can't help cheering for them, hoping there's a happy ending. I even giggled a few times at their innocent dialogue. And since I'm trying to sell the movie, I'd like to add that there is some full frontity noodle, but it's very tactful, I promise.

With the weather here being what it is, and the cluttered rush of daily life, Lady Chatterley is a welcome respite. If you get bored, just finish watching it the next night. Or...I'm sure you'll think of something to pass the time.

What the Hell's a Caucus?

2008-01-03T12:19:00.000-08:00

And why should we care about Iowa's?
I was annoyed with myself this morning because I had no idea what a caucus was and why the media was making such a big deal about it.

So I made a feeble attempt (in between taking apart and cleaning the puke off Gigi's car seat) to understand what a caucus was. There's a PDF you can open from this page that has a diagram about the Iowa Caucuses.
It did not help me.

Thankfully, my pal Hitchens wrote an article that not only gives some understanding, but criticizes the Iowa caucuses as "undemocratic."
Much more helpful.

Here was the most useful section for me:

It's only when you read an honest reporter like Dan Balz that you appreciate the depth and extent of the fraud that is being practiced on us all. "In a primary," as he put it, "voters quietly fill out their ballots and leave. In the caucuses, they are required to come and stay for several hours, and there are no secret ballots. In the presence of friends, neighbors and occasionally strangers, Iowa Democrats vote with their feet, by raising their hands and moving to different parts of the room to signify their support for one candidate or another.

This multi-step political dance is for the Democrats. The Republicans vote in one step by ballot or poll. So it seems the Republican results would be more accurate than the Democrats' results. Which should mean we can't take the whole thing very seriously, right? But should we still care because of the potential of its results affecting national opinion and predicting future outcomes?

Still a bit hazy for me. Correct me if I'm wrong.

Dinner Party

2007-12-19T19:49:00.000-08:00

While reading another article by Christopher Hitchens today, I remembered a daydream I had months ago. You know that old question that asks if you could invite anyone over for dinner, living or dead, who would it be? Some might choose presidents like Lincoln or Kennedy. Some might choose spiritual figures like Gandhi or Jesus. Or perhaps just da Vinci, by himself, because that's a lot for one evening.

Me, I just want to laugh. Isn't that what a dinner party is for? Laughter interspersed with mock conversation?

Clearly I must leave a spot for Hitchens at the table, complete with an enormous glass of scotch and an ashtray (pretend the party's in the garden). He writes regularly for my favorite mag, Vanity Fair, and now I've noticed often on Slate. I don't follow his every word, nor do I agree with all of his ideas, but I've enjoyed everything I've read from him so far. He writes smart, funny and in a brave style that's not common. I have to invite someone to dinner who can so easily write (from Slate):

"However, what Article VI does not do, and was never intended to do, is deny me the right to say, as loudly as I may choose, that I will on no account vote for a smirking hick like Mike Huckabee, who is an unusually stupid primate but who does not have the elementary intelligence to recognize the fact that this is what he is."

I'm not sure who he would sit next to, but he'll have to find a place among the rest of the guests:

Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, for a continuous stream of commentary that straddles intelligent and hilarious.

Oscar Wilde and Dorothy Parker, for their legendary wits.

Sacha Baron Cohen, for his remarkable chutzpah.

Dave Chapelle, for that "oh my god, did you just say that?" factor.

Groucho Marx, so that no one takes themselves too seriously (like that would happen).

Camille Paglia, so that everyone else looks normal by comparison.

And Ellen DeGeneres, for when we need a break from the sarcasm and profanity.

The physical bodies would fit at the table, but it's doubtful the egos would. And would they fall into cliques once the appetizers were served? Would Jon and Stephen be unable to resist talking about their next shows? Would Oscar and Dorothy want to engage in a battle of the wits (this is where I would hang out)? Would Camille and Christopher find it irresistible to discuss atheism in politics (the lack thereof)? Would Sacha and Dave try to sneak out to go to a party that wasn't so stodgy? And what of poor Groucho and Ellen? Surely they would find common ground, though I haven't the faintest idea what that might be.

Or would everyone mingle ebulliently, resulting in a raucous party lasting well into the next day? I can only dream.

Who would you invite?

Paris, Je T'aime

2007-12-15T17:57:00.000-08:00

Love it. Along with inducing some genuine laughs, Paris Je T'aime really made me want to go to Paris. Then again just hearing the word "merde" can make me want to go to Paris, so maybe that doesn't mean much.

Paris Je T'taime is a compilation of eighteen short films that take place in Paris. Some are by famous directors, like the Coen brothers, Wes Craven and Gus Van Sant, others are by lesser known directors. But nearly every short was more entertaining or inspiring than many of the full length movies I've seen this year. And I could watch the stories in the span of three days and not miss a beat because I was never cutting any of them off.

The stories were about love of one form or another. Romantic love, parental love, love lost, then gained, love of the city. Some were ingenious in their ability to tell so much in so little time. Some held mysteries, but only for so long as it took to tell a 5-minute story. You only had to hold your breath for a fleeting moment before a satisfying exhale.

With a well-known cast (including Juliette Binoche, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Steve Buscemi, among others) a few of the shorts were sure to be hits, while a few others fell flat. For instance the one with Nick Nolte was uncomfortable to watch simply because he acted like he'd just downed a handful of pills and three carafes de vin rouge. But the one with Binoche was so heartbreaking I had to stop the movie at the end of that story and bawl silently at my son's bedside. I love movies that make you do stuff like that. It's such a release.

Could be a date movie, or just something a little different, but with heavy doses of instant gratification.

I'm Going to Let Myself

2007-12-06T08:17:00.000-08:00

This December, I'm going to "let myself" and not feel guilty or uncomfortable about it.

I'm going to let myself agree to the tree that's bigger than I think necessary.

I'm going to let myself have another eggnog latte.

I'm going to let myself enjoy Christmas shopping without being turned off by the consumerism.

I'm going to let myself buy a toy that's not educational.

I'm going to let myself send a few cards with no personal message.

I'm going to let myself send a few cards with personal messages that are too mushy.

I'm going to let myself not care that we won't have Christmas lights up.

I'm going to let myself put a little more on that gift card.

I'm going to let myself say what I'm really thinking when we're driving around looking at Christmas lights: "Oh my god, isn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever seen!!"

I'm going to let myself say no to an obligation.

I'm going to let myself put money in the Salvation Army buckets every time I walk by them. I'm going to let Harrison do it too.

I'm going to let myself cry when I hear the choir singing a mile away at the church on the hill.

I'm going to let myself listen to WARM 106.9.

I'm going to let myself doze off while watching A Charlie Brown Christmas.

I'm going to let myself taste all the good food instead of devouring it.

I'm going to let myself relax when the kids: attempt to decorate the tree, eat too much sugar, open their gifts too quickly.

I'm going to let myself bask in the glow of their excitement.

I'm going to let myself enjoy the season.

I'm going to let myself feel joy.

Thankful for the week

2007-11-29T12:32:00.000-08:00

With each day of Thanksgiving week such a departure from routine, I've been procrastinating reporting it since there are so many little details. I want to remember them all. Except for the part about me thinking "something bad is going to happen, something bad is going to happen," it was all so peacefully sweet.

Robin's parents came up from Portland the Thursday before Thanksgiving to take the kids back home with them. Robin and I would drive down the following Tuesday. Alone at home, the two of us enjoyed a four day honeymoon that rivaled the one in Maui nine years ago. Might I recommend this for anyone with young children.

Being together without the kids is so much better than being together before having kids. Back then, we really had no idea how relaxed we could be if we just exhaled or how much time we had if we just turned off the TV. We took time, freedom and sleep for granted. But after years of babies, you can't believe the fortune of having a few days off.

I spent all day Friday washing and scrubbing the house so I could relish the sparkles all weekend. I cleaned out the kids' rooms (even under the beds) so I could walk in every few hours, grin, and walk right back out. If anyone was going to spread crumbs over every inch of the floor, it was going to be me, carrying a baguette smeared with brie. That night we watched La Vie en Rose and went to bed really late. Because we could.

Saturday was indulgence dotted with a chore or two for good measure. After working on a bathroom re-grout (not as fun as it sounds) I got my nails done in preparation for the thoroughly delightful engagement party of our friends Rebecca and Jascha. It was held at Marco's Supper Club, which we hadn't been to in years, but had fond memories of. Not sure what I'm looking at in the picture.

We spent the rest of the weekend reading, running errands (the fun kind) and lunching out. I was treated to sushi one day, which despite Wasabi Bistro's cold ambiance, was about the most agreeable lunch I could remember having. It was incredibly luxurious to eat without having to get up every 10 seconds to give in to a demand or clean up a spill or get that thing that you forgot to get so everyone could start eating already.

I must admit I spent a few moments every day wandering through the impossibly clean house, wondering what exactly I was supposed to do in the deafening silence. I suppose I was feeling what most mothers feel when their last child goes away to college. It was an early but melancholic taste of Empty Nest. I was glad I had more time.

We arrived in Portland Tuesday evening and the kids were happy to see us. Cuddling is different when you've had time to hunger for it. Yummy hugs and scrumptious kisses.

On Wednesday we met our friends Chelsea and Brian's new baby, Clark. Gigi was especially enamored and figured out on her own how to interact with a baby. She spent much time gently caressing his head and touching his leg. She did try to feed him a strawberry when no one was looking, as was evident by the red juice around Clark's mouth. Oops. I hope their Thanksgiving travels were as tranquil as they could be with a newborn.

Thursday was lounging in jammies followed by lounging in gravy. Our contribution to supper was our annual pumpkin gruyere soup. It's really Robin's dish. I just grate thousands of tasty little strands of salty gruyere. Sometimes I chop the chive garnish too.

Right before everyone sat down to eat, cousin Ian puked at the kiddie table. Then again on the way to the kitchen while his mom carried him. Then again in the kitchen. I felt sad for the little guy, but it did add a dash of excitement to go with the first course. My appetite was not diminished in the least. (In later days both Harrison and Gigi would prove the tenacity of tummy bugs. The rugs needed to be cleaned anyway.)

Friday we visited Pittock Mansion at the top of a hill near downtown Portland. I'd never been there before and I don't know if it was more of a treat for me or for Harrison. His face was lit up the whole time.

It was decorated floor to ceiling with themes from children's stories and Disney movies, all with shimmery Christmas magic. There must have been thirty Christmas trees throughout the mansion. I do want to go back when it's not decorated so I can admire its architecture and decor.

The view of the city was spectacular.

After Pittock we met our friends Chris and Bev who had arrived by train to spend the weekend shopping. Robin and I tried to think of a fun place to dine and found out that our favorite Portland restaurant hadn't closed 5 years ago as we thought.

Montage was open and even livelier than we remembered. They specialize in mac n' cheese, but they make it as interesting (and surprisingly inexpensive) as it can be. See menu here. Eating there felt like having dinner with an old flame you thought you'd never see again. Or, uh, like dating your husband as though you were ten years younger. heh.

Saturday morning we went to a community theater to have "Breakfast with Santa." A group of high school students does a little holiday show with songs for the kids, then you get to sit on Santa's lap, played by Robin's dad. When Santa came out on stage to read The Night Before Christmas, Gigi eyed him for about five seconds before yelling "Bumpa! Bumpa!" for everyone in the audience to hear (Bumpa means Grandpa). I had a hard time muffling my laughter. She can't be fooled.

I made her dance with one of the actors and you can see from the picture how happy she was about that.

The house was still clean when we got home but not when we all went to bed. That's okay because I got my break. Getting back into routine is always easier when you haven't seen it for a while.

Evening Movie

2007-11-26T21:44:00.000-08:00

Having read the book, I had to see the movie. Although I probably would have rented the movie anyway, not wanting to miss such an impressive cast all in one place:

Toni Colette - POW!
Glenn Close - POW!
Claire Danes - POW!
Meryl Streep - POW!
(plus her daughter, Mamie Gummer, playing her younger self)
Vanessa Redgrave - POW!
(plus her daughter, Natasha Richardson playing her movie daughter)

Turns out five rights sadly make a wrong. Not sure how this happened since Michael Cunningham (wrote The Hours) adapted Susan Minot's book, which was a best seller. How could that get screwed up?

The script was awkward in many places and the movie didn't flow well. It could have been an epic with notable Oscar performances, but it just fizzled. I even fast-forwarded through some parts because I either lost interest or felt uncomfortable about the bad acting. I felt sorry for these incredibly talented actresses. With the exception of a heart wrenching moment from Glenn Close (thank you for throwing her a bone), the actresses weren't given a fair chance to shine. Neither were the male roles, played by Hugh Dancy and Patrick Wilson.

If there was any reason to rent the movie, it would be to admire the magnificent coastal mansion that half the movie is shot at. It doesn't look real until you step inside and gawk so hard you can almost touch the dreamy murals. The decor is perfection and the view is sublime.

Other than that, the movie is mediocre and soporific at best. The book is definitely the better bet.

Evening

2007-11-22T21:43:00.000-08:00

I've only imagined myself on my deathbed a handful of times. I see myself - a shriveled old Italian woman - lying on a rickety bed surrounded by my large, loving Italian family. Not sure why the Italian thing, maybe it's some reference to The Godfather, maybe I was Italian in a past life, who knows.

Anyway, I see myself from the outside of my body looking at it. I never considered looking up through my own eyes or inward to my own thoughts until now: I just finished Evening by Susan Minot.

It's a story about the last thoughts of Ann, an old woman dying of cancer. She remembers her past in between bouts of present time. Her four grown children have conversations in the house, but mostly the reader is living in Ann's memories, some of which are happy, most of which are not.

At first I was annoyed by the way the book is written. It jumps around and I was having trouble figuring out who was being remembered or when it was happening or if it was actually the present. About a quarter way through I settled down and accepted that this was the best way it could have been written. How else was I to internalize the fragmented thought process of a dying mind?

After all, there are millions of thoughts to sort through. With only days to live, where does one begin? Do you try to re-live the best moments as much as possible? And how can you do that with those nagging tragedies and years of habitual drudgery taking up space in your deteriorating mind? The author does an interesting and commendable job of showing us how.

I know, where can you sign up to read this delightfully uplifting tale. Yes, there's the part about the certainty and sadness of death. But I think it's more about the bittersweetness of memories and what could have been. For me the story was another reminder to live my happy moments as though they were already long lost memories that I wished I could live again. Maybe if I live each happy memory instantaneously twice, they'll end up taking all the space in my old muddled mind.

La Vie en Rose

2007-11-17T08:35:00.000-08:00

If I measured my favorite movies of all time by the number of tears lost in the viewing, La Vie en Rose would have to be in the top three, and I can't think of the other two. But don't let that dissuade you from renting this intense biopic. Marion Cotillard gave a brilliant performance and the direction was superb.

It served Robin and I well that we didn't know anything about Edith Piaf's life except that she was one of the most, if not the most, beloved singers in France. She was a tiny woman with a monumental voice that came from deep within. That I knew. What I didn't know was how painfully tragic her short life was. I won't go into details because I'm recommending the movie and I don't want to ruin it, but we were continually shocked by the sadness of her life and her ability to make the most of it.

Children with difficult lives can be incredibly resilient even if they only have one or two angels in their lifetimes who raise them up over dark times and nudge them in a brighter direction. Or maybe their difficult past is an asset that motivates them beyond what a happy person is capable of. I've actually been thinking about this lately:

At what point do your hardships become assets instead of hindrances in your life?

For Piaf at least, it seems she was more adept at the transformation than most of us can hope to be.

Slo-Mo

2007-11-13T11:50:00.000-08:00

I've come to the realization that to get through a full day alone with the kids, I need to work it out in slow motion. Everything has to be done with the restrained diligence of brain surgery on a deadline. You need to move faster, but you just can't or someone will get hurt.

Yesterday Harrison had the day off from preschool. I was going to spend the morning working while Robin watched the kids, but I powered through work on Sunday instead so he could get a good start at his own job (you know, the one that pays the bills).

With ten hours ahead of the three of us, and windy rain outside, I set the morning free with uninhibited mess-making. I almost took pictures. There is no human alive today that could clean up as fast as the kids make a mess. But I figured, the bigger the mess, the longer it will take to clean up, the more hours will be used up. So I slowly folded five loads of laundry, trying to ignore the hurricane behind me.

Walking from room to room with the speed of viscous lava, I had that tunnel vision experience, where whatever’s in front of you keeps moving further ahead, even as you’re walking towards it. Must keep walking to get ... what did I come to this room for?

Whenever I talked to the kids, I made a real effort to enunciate and get all the words out, despite their shrill screaming and repetitive questioning. They want the answer NOW, not when you’ve had half a second to think about it. They want the juice NOW, not after you’ve thought about which drawer the cups are in. They’re never hungry except RIGHT THIS MINUTE, so feed me or I’m going to tell everyone you starve your children. It’s really in my best interest to have a cup of every possible liquid at the ready, and breakfast/lunch/dinner waiting with no heating required.

All said and done, with the right attitude, the day went by quite pleasantly. I was surprisingly productive and the kids were incredibly cooperative. Gigi even napped while Harrison watched A Bug’s Life so I could work.

I guess looking towards a long day with no help (even from the sun) resigns you to making it work no matter what. Sort of like finding out you’re pregnant. You just give in to the helplessness right at the start to conserve energy and prevent from going insane. It’s really the only option because like pregnancy, the day after is when you really need your reserves.

Chlorine

2007-11-09T09:09:00.000-08:00

Last night while hanging up Harrison’s swim trunks from his lesson earlier in the evening, I caught a whiff of the chlorine emanating from the damp suit. I leaned in for a stronger sniff. I love that smell. It conjures nostalgia and relief at the same time.

I spent nearly every day of thirteen years - from age 10 to 23 - inhaling that scent. Too often, twice a day. They say the sense of smell brings up the strongest memories. It's true. Every time there’s chlorine in the air I’m back inside my two suits (one for drag, one to hold everything in), swimming miles in the training pool or stepping up to the blocks for a race. 10,000 hours condensed into one little smell.

One of the first memories that always emerges is morning practice at an outdoor pool in Simi Valley, CA. At 5am we’d walk out of the locker room and onto the cold cement deck, the sun still under the horizon. My teammates and I would stand along the edge of the pool and stare out into the fifty meters of water that was covered in shiny black beetles.

Someone would have to dive into the frigid water first, cracking the surface of bugs as if it were dirty ice. I’m fairly certain I was never that person. Maybe once to impress a boy. Over the course of our twenty-minute warm-up, we would only part our lips ever so slightly to breath so as not to let anything inside. The critters would eventually disappear until the next morning.

Another memory is that of boys in speedos. Back then being thisclose to so many was as natural as showering by yourself. But thinking about it now feels a little obscene. I used to be so immodest. What happened.

But the memory taking up the most space is one of the endless back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A typical day included 10,000 yards of swimming, divided by the usual 25 yard pool, so 400 laps per day, times 5 days per week (I’m not including Saturday morning practice for averages sake), times 52 weeks per year = 104,000 laps per year. You can’t talk while you’re swimming, you can’t look at the view. There’s just you inside your little head and the black line on the bottom of the pool and the constant sloshing around your ears. It’s a wonder not more swimmers are insane. Maybe they are.

I can’t say I’m super fond of that memory, but if I think about it enough, it serves me well in my current life. Being jolted awake at 6am, relentlessly every morning, is still better than waking up at 4am with the dread of two grueling workouts still ahead. Instead of cold water, I get hot coffee. Instead of an unforgiving swimsuit, I get jeans and a hoodie. Instead of goggle eyes - red and burning with a used-up shade of black below, I get glamour eyes - shimmery pink with a fresh coat of concealer below.

I wouldn’t give up the experience of course. It instilled tough discipline, paid for college and gave me terrific friends. But I wouldn’t do it again, that’s for sure. As for my own kids, of course we'll be encouraging some sport that requires more energy and endurance than even they have. Because they'll never truly realize how hard they've worked until it's over.

Anniversary Date

2007-10-29T12:33:00.000-07:00

Part I - Movie

Ahhhh. We sat so long at a small Starbucks table waiting for our drinks that we forgot what we were waiting for and that we had a movie to catch. The theater was two blocks away, so we made it with time to spare, but we had to conspicuously sneak our drinks in with us.

I'd been practically holding my breath to see Elizabeth: The Golden Age. The reviews weren't good, but what do they know. In fact, they did us a favor because the film was slightly better than we expected.

Yes, there were moments duller than the executioner's blade during Henry the VIII's reign, but there were an equal number of gems grander than a royal ruby.

Just when you thought you might yawn or start to daydream, someone would recite an eloquent set of phrases to grab your interest. Or Clive Owen would float into the screen and grab your, uh, attention.

The story turned out to be an old-fashioned one about unrequited love. I won't give it away, but let's just say the "love" scene (between Blanchett and Owen) was the best romantic on-screen moment I'd seen in a very long time. Yeah, I cried.

I can't say much for the battle scenes, and there was definitely something lacking in parts of the script, or the editing, or the direction, I'm not sure. But the sumptuous costumes, attractive leads and swoony, moony romance made up for it.

Part II - Dinner

We saved $4 by going to an early movie, so we took that cash to Edgefield to celebrate our ninth anniversary. This isn't the first time we've celebrated there, and it won't be the last. We got married there after all, and being there feels like being at an old friend's house.

We started in the wine cellar for some wine-tasting, as we always do. We already know (in the biblical sense) most of the wines there, so it's fun to taste the different vintages as the years go by. The cellar is cozy and there are always gregarious folks to chat with. A group of three guys guzzling wine across from us looked like they may have tried and failed to be accepted into a community college frat. I was about to make a comment to Robin when he told me he overheard that one of their parent's owned a winery. I guess that would explain their loud critiques of each wine they tasted. Every time I come to Troutdale I'm reminded of how much more in common I feel I have with its inhabitants. There's something about their easy going lack of snobishness that makes me feel so comfortable. I guess that's why Robin and I got along so well right from the start (Robin's from Troutdale). Anyway, we came home with a few bottles that are now tucked away for "special occasions."

About half the time when we visit Edgefield, we eat at the Power Station. It's cheap and yummy. But this time we received some gift anniversary money, so we splurged at The Black Rabbit, which is actually very reasonable compared to anyplace in Seattle.

We started with our favorite appy - the Poor Farm Platter, a collection of cold cuts, cheeses and pickled veggies that alone could have served as dinner for the both of us. We ordered entrees anyway and saved some of the appy for later.

I had lamb (which I only eat about twice a year, I promise) and Robin had venison. Not bad either of them, but mine could have used way more sauce, and not nearly so reduced. I offered my suggestion to the waitress of course. They packed my leftovers with gobs of sauce.

I think we just wanted to sit at the table for longer and enjoy our talk because stuffed as we were, we still ordered dessert and decaf. I had a sampler of three yummy desserts, Robin ordered a thick slice of apple pie.

It's so very nice to reconnect with no distractions. To have a conversation instead of a daily recap or agenda meeting. The family life can sometimes seem more like running a business than living a personal life. It's nice to be able to sit and appreciate the investment, uh I mean the many years you've put into a relationship. Here's to nine more happy years.

How do you raise a Queen?

2007-10-28T21:14:00.000-07:00

Is there a way to skip from being a naive girl to being a wise woman? A sort of stepping stone that crosses over the useless flowing stream of pre-teendom that trickles obediently downward towards a lake of conformity?

After being inspired by Queen Elizabeth yet again, this time in The Golden Age, one can't help having a nagging urge to burn all things Bratz, or anything else antithetic to the advancing of the young female mind.

When I think of all the media and consumer clutter that battles for attention inside our own adult heads, I wonder how kids can learn anything useful at all these days. How can they get language, science and history organized when there are so many merchandising arrows being thrown at their undeveloped minds?

How do you raise a Queen? A fearless adventuress of spirit? An independent pioneer of truth? An enlightened leader of love?

I really don't know, but I'm guessing it involves an able mentor or two. Where to find one...

The Feminine Mystique

2007-10-24T11:19:00.000-07:00

Betty Friedan's 1963 The Feminine Mystique is said to have launched the modern feminist movement. It's easy to see why. When Friedan likens being a housewife/mother to living in a concentration camp, it no doubt lit a fire under the feet of many a housewife as she scrubbed her floors or changed the tenth diaper of the day. This is an extreme and repulsive analogy, and starkly unfair to those who lived and died in that hell, but the mothers who stayed home with their small children day after day, month after month, could make the connection.

I'd seen references to the book a few times over the years and decided there was no more pertinent a time than now to read it. If I could ever internalize Friedan's ideas, it would be by reading her book in the brief breaks from cleaning, cooking, laundry, diapering, consoling, feeding and picking up.

Friedan starts her book by describing the "problem that has no name." Through research and interviews she uncovers that most upper middle class housewife/mothers (what we call "Stay at Home Moms" today) suffer from a neurosis involving anxiety, depression, boredom and desperation, among other things.

These housewives had been raised, trained and educated to believe they'd find ultimate happiness and fulfillment in the housewife role. They were told it was a role of equal importance in society to that of their working husbands. It was respectable, it was feminine, and it was their destiny.

So from early on, women made it their only goal to get married and garner that beautiful suburban home, overflowing with children and things. They married right out of high school or in college, and attempted to live the dream that we've seen depicted in glossy 1950's advertising spreads. Only once they lived this life did they realize it wasn't the dream they expected.

The next chapters provide historical perspective. At the turn of he 20th century during the women's suffrage movement, pioneering housewives fought hard for equal treatment and their right to vote. When they won, there was a period of liberation and women became more involved in the world outside their home than ever before. This was helped by the need for women laborers during WWII.

We generally think of "Women's Lib" as taking place in the 70's, but as modern women I think we forget how much effort and courage was put forth to gain the emancipation we enjoy today. I'd never paid attention to any feminist movement, I just took them for granted, as most women my age do. Now I feel the gratitude.

The chapters on Sigmund Freud and Margaret Mead conveyed their influence on the Feminine Mystique. I rolled my eyes through the Freud part because it's too much to take him seriously, seeing how far the study of psychology has come. But he apparently made a big impact by heralding the importance of sex in psychology (to an absurd extent, if you ask me). Anyway, their sexualization of psychology and sociology didn't help women de-sexify themselves in the least.

Then came the influence of the educators and universities who guided women further into the Feminine Mystique by pushing marriage and relationship classes on girls while neglecting to encourage curriculum that would lead to careers outside the home. Girls were not taken seriously. Why make the effort to study for a career if you'll never pursue it?

After World War II there was the big surge in housewifery that led to the baby boom. "After the loneliness of war and the unspeakableness of the bomb, against the frightening uncertainty, the cold immensity of the changing world, women as well as men sought the comforting reality of home and children." (p.174) Men wanted it, and women were happy to comply.

This mass movement back into the home was further helped by the advertising industry. "Properly manipulated, American housewives can be given the sense of identity, purpose, creativity, the self-realization, even the sexual joy they lack - by the buying of things." (p.199)

We've all seen the shiny images of the smiling, happy housewife in her gingham apron, fully made-up, taking a caramelized roast out of her oven. She was beautiful and sexy and if she was in a magazine, it must be true in real life.

We started watching Madmen recently and it's become my favorite show. It's well-made and exposes truths about that era, some of which still apply today. The timing of our introduction to the show coincided perfectly with my reading this book. It put some of the words into pictures, which benefited my visual learning preference. (Read How to be A Good Wife for some tips from that era.)

Friedan goes on to explain the way "housewifery expands to fill the time available." Essentially, how women forced themselves to have more babies and do unnecessary housework so they could feel and show their worth. Ironing sheets or cleaning an already clean house are two examples I can think of.

Before the final chapter, Friedan warns of how detrimental this life is for women. A woman who is not allowed to continue her personal growth ends up neurotic. Remaining a housewife/mother stunts the innate human nature to grow, resulting in frustration and resentment. This, compounded by the stress of child-rearing, creates an environment that affects the rest of the family.

"It is urgent to understand how the very condition of being a housewife can create a sense of emptiness, non-existence, nothingness, in women. There are aspects of the housewife role that make it almost impossible for a women of adult intelligence to retain a sense of human identity, the firm core of self or "I" without which a human being, man or woman, is not truly alive." (p.293)

Yikes. If you thought you were happy, think again!

The last chapter offers "A New Life Plan for Women." She suggests women find a career at any cost and no matter how long it takes. Not just a job, but a calling that gives their life purpose beyond the confines of their home. If they need to hire help, they should. If they can only take classes in the evening, they should. If their entire paycheck goes toward childcare, so be it. Friedan claims that in the end it will be healthier for her, as well as for her husband and children.

Friedan's ideas and sense of urgency in her message "ignited women's liberation," leading to the move back into the workforce in the late sixties and seventies. The Feminine Mystique was one of the most important cultural books of the last century. Does it still apply today? I think parts of it do, and it certainly made me think of the modern Stay at Home movement. I'd recently read a few blogs from SAHMs who seemed perfectly fulfilled staying home, and in fact were opposed to mothers working outside the home.

My immediate feeling when I started reading The Feminine Mystique was validation. So I wasn't crazy to feel restless and anxious picking up toys and crumbs all day. Duh, I was educated to use my brain behind a desk and in meetings, sipping coffee and sharing jokes with my officemates. Not that it relieved much guilt or made me jump into a job interview, but at least I knew someone understood.

In some ways much of The Feminine Mystique is irrelevant. If they can afford it, all girls go to college with the expectation of having a career. It's only after they have kids that they realize they can't "have it all," or at least not the way they expected. Quite possibly more women have a hard time with staying home today because more women are educated not to. But those same women have also started careers they could return to if they wanted. And many do, though not at pre-kid levels, and for less money.

I think the difference is the type of career that Friedan encourages, which is a career that has the possibility to make a difference in the big wide world, like politics, law, science, medicine, education. For that, I give Friedan props. She takes women seriously and wants them to realize their potential as much as she realizes their potential.

Lastly, throughout the book I couldn't help hearing the little nagging woman in my head saying to the desperate housewife of the 50's, "Shut your whiny trap, you spoiled brat. I've got three kids and I have to work two jobs to support them. I clean houses for people like you. Don't you think I deserve to 'grow' too?" And she's right. This book is about upper middle class housewife/mothers. What about all the women who need to hang on to any job just to feed their families? I thought about them quite a bit. They like cleaning toilets as much as I do, and they deserve a break, don't they?

I think women over 35 should be able to pursue different things in their lives, no matter what their socioeconomic level. The world needs a variety of women to manage it. Maybe every person (boys, too) between the ages of about 15 and 25 should be partially responsible for keeping house and caring for children, in addition to keeping at their education. (I believe this is an old tradition -for girls at least- in most cultures anyway.)

This solution accomplishes a few things:

1. It frees up mothers (outside school hours) to continue their growth and contribute to society in ways that fulfill them.
2. These young adults would learn firsthand how much work raising babies is, which is far more effective at curbing teen pregnancy than abstinence education.
3. Cleaning house and changing diapers all afternoon would motivate them to study extra hard so they could move on when they reached the right age.
4. They'd be too busy to cause any mischief.

I haven't thought it all out, but it's what I have right now.

If reading this book didn't change my outlook on staying home, it certainly gave me perspective and motivation, as well as a primer in women's lib. I'm no Gloria Steinem, that's for sure, but that doesn't mean I can't do a little bit more than I think I can, whatever that may be, and whenever that may be. For now I'm just grateful for the brave women who know their potential and actively realize it. The choices they make mean mine are still open.

On the Farm

2007-10-22T13:42:00.000-07:00

Harrison's preschool had their annual field trip to the pumpkin patch on Friday. I looked forward to being there with both kids without an ounce of trepidation because I knew Robin was taking the morning off so I wouldn't be outnumbered. Thank you Robin.

This year we visited Fairbanks Farm, which is a smaller farm than the one the school chose last year. They chose a smaller farm partly to contain the children more successfully, and the plan worked. Our large group followed one of the farm's owners on a long tour in an organized, educational manner. Pumpkin Hill was our final destination.

The start of the journey to Pumpkin Hill began in the African Pygmy goat petting area. Gigi felt it her duty to get the most out of the opportunity by touching every single goat within the fence. Harrison made sure all fifty of us kids and parents knew where the goats' anuses were and that we should avoid what comes out of them. Thank you Harrison.

Then on through a sample garden that showed how about a dozen vegetables grew - beans, squash, zucchini, etc. I was impressed by the enormous zucchini, but not so impressed by the wafting, rotting smell that I couldn't quite place.

Next we visited the chickens, geese, peacocks, turkeys, ponies and GIGANTIC pigs in about that order. My, those were some pigs, with their many, many piglets and many, many nipples. One of the mothers next to me counted the nipples on one of the pigs for her son: sixteen. I didn't know that was possible! Is that normal? They looked red and swollen and gave me uncomfortable flashbacks of those first weeks nursing my own babies.

On Pumpkin Hill, Gigi and Harrison picked their pumpkins within seconds, then Gigi walked around looking appropriately cute in her hand-me-down wool jacket, and Harrison raced around looking inappropriately like someone else's child.

Then we walked back toward the muddy gravel parking lot, passing some more stinky pigs (Gigi, please take your lips off the pig fence, Gigi, Gigi, GIGI!), and passing the farm's caretaker, a caricature of a man, perhaps in his 60's, wearing a conical wool hat and black eye patch, pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. He appeared now and then like a ghost, never smiling or acknowledging the children passing by. Perhaps this was not his lifelong dream.

One has to be thankful for the innocence and excitement that children bring to every situation. The grown-up in me could think of more than one better place to spend the morning than a cold, muddy, germy farm, but with the curious little ones, it practically glowed as a sunny spot at the end of the rainbow. Thank you kids.

Eve's Quote

2007-10-18T13:49:00.000-07:00

The other day when I read this quote by Eve Ensler (of Vagina Monologues) from her TED speech, it made me wonder what I do want the most and how I could give that to others:

"When we give in the world what we want the most," Ensler says, "we heal the broken part inside each of us."

I don't think you need to be "broken" to want to give to the world what you want most. Maybe it helps, I don't know. Anyway, a few days later I had a nice conversation with the older mother (that's how she described herself) of a little girl Harrison befriended at the park. I saw that she was reading Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America, which I had read, so I jumped at the chance to have a bookish conversation.

The book is about a journalist who goes undercover to work as a waitress, a maid and an employee at Wal-Mart. She set out to see if she could survive on the wages she earned. It turned out she could barely sustain a livable life. The book was extremely interesting to read and changed my perception of not only the people who work in those industries, but the industries themselves.

The mother said she could relate to working in a job that doesn't go anywhere; she drove a metro bus. But she didn't always do that. She took that job for the benefits and the higher pay that allow her to care for her daughter mostly on her own. Before being a driver she was a baker at a bakery in our neighborhood for fifteen years. I felt sad that she had to give up a creative job for one that didn't fulfill her in the least.

So of course I immediately prodded her about whether she'd open her own bakery and she said if she was going to do it, it would have been years ago. She thought she was past that point since she was nearing fifty. I wanted to tell her she was way too young to give up a dream, but I had been nosey enough already, so I made some dumb comment like, "Well everyone eats bread everyday."

Is it ever too late to follow your dreams? I don't think so.

My conversation with this mother made me realize how often I'm butting into other women's lives, telling them they should follow their passions if they have the slightest inkling to do so. Is that what I want the most right now? Is that why I keep pushing it on others? I'm not sure, but I certainly understand the feeling that it's too overwhelming to do a single thing more than you're doing right now, and of course there's the old fallback: I already have the best that life can offer - a healthy family - so I should just be grateful for what I have and shut the hell up.

Eve's quote was thought-provoking in any case, and I hope that someday I can follow its lead. I'll try to lay off of others in the meantime.

Batboy and Catgirl Find True Love

2007-10-17T13:38:00.000-07:00

Me, Myself and I

2007-10-12T17:11:00.000-07:00

I have mixed feelings when Robin goes out of town. 90% of me thinks, "Please sweet Jesus, no!" The other 10% schemingly taps her fingers together ala Burns from the Simpsons and thinks, "An evening to myself - Exxcellent!"

Last weekend pretty much followed that ratio. 90% of the time I was in semi-panic mode, afraid I'd either crumble to the floor or self-combust and evaporate, leaving my poor, helpless children to fend for themselves. I'm happy to report I held it together the entire weekend, entirely alone.

I can't quite remember everything we did (my calm, motherly, alter-personality took over at crucial times), but we spent as much of the weekend out of the house as possible: park, Science Center, Children's Museum, grocery store. I played games! I read stories! I baked cookies! I was ON!

So by Sunday night I was ready for a giant pat on the back, in the form of a date with Me, Myself and I. I love these dates. The three of us always get along, we always want the same thing to eat, and we always agree on just the right movie to watch. Trying to clink three glasses of wine simultaneously is a bit of a challenge though.

Since I didn't have a fluff movie at home via Netflix, I braved Blockbuster with the two squirmies and rented Factory Girl.

Back at home I calmly fed the kids dinner, gave them a bath and we all got jammies on. Smooth sailing except...

"Harrison."
"What?"
"What's this in your pocket?"
"Nothing."
"Candy. You stole candy from Blockbuster."
Silence.
Big, deep breath.

I got dressed, put shoes and jackets on the kids over their jammies, and back we went to return the candy and apologize to one of the male employees who, judging by the smile on his face, I'm sure was brought nostalgically back to his own childhood.

Harrison was sent to bed with no stories and Gigi finally crashed after the long day.

Big exhale.
Hello Me, how are you?
Hello Myself, how've you been?
Hello I, buy you a drink?

I made my favorite dinner - an extra large salad with all the fixings: romaine lettuce mixed with some baby greens, cucumber slices, diced red pepper, plump cherry tomatoes, shredded mozerella cheese, bite-size turkey slices, toasted pine nuts, avocado slices, homemade vinagrette, and cheese and garlic croutons.

The movie was swell and taught more about Warhol than Edie Sedgwick, I thought. I was hoping for a sort of biography of an interesting woman, but Warhol came across as far more interesting, of course (Dear God, please make more interesting women). Plus, he was played by Guy Pearce, an actor I've been sorely missing over the past few years. A fun movie in any case, and just what I needed.

Me, Myself and I sweetly kissed ourselves goodnight. Then we kissed Robin when he got home late. He wasn't jealous of our date.

Strategy

2007-10-01T21:03:00.000-07:00

I'm getting the feeling that my favorite polyblog site does not support Hillary. Either they aren't condemning enough, or I've already made up my mind, because my opinion, however muddled, does not seem affected by their jabs.

For instance, this post claims that it doesn't make sense that Hillary ever supported the war (or voted for it) when she full well knew there was no reason to invade Iraq. He says the reason she voted for it was a 2008 campaign tactic.
(Note: her website says if she is president, she will end the war. Like many who supported the war before, she has wisely changed her stance, though I haven't watched enough debates to know how strongly she opposes the war now.)

Supporting the war at any level is a risky campaign tactic, seeing as thousands of American lives are at stake. Since for a time she supported the war, she potentially alienated the millions of voters who opposed the war, and those numbers haven't been on the decline in some time.

BUT, she also potentially gained the approval of the millions who did (and still do) support the war. And, something tells me that the gains through this group outweigh the losses from the other group. She's playing a smart game because she wants to be President of the United States, not just a democratic nominee who lost. Again.

Didn't Rove play a similar game in the last election when he put the constitutional amendment banning gay marriage in the spotlight and dug up the evangelicals who took the bait at the polls, leading to the election of a man they thought represented them?

From the looks of the polls now, her strategy is working. I'm not yet saying she's guaranteed my vote, but unlike in 2000, when I naively voted for Nader because "I wanted my vote to count for the truth" (whatever that meant), I'll be more careful. I now know what immoral consequences await when a winning strategy is not used, even when the tactics are not entirely moral.

P.S. I wish I had a fact-checker, but I don't, so if my memory on any of this is off, please correct me.

My Little Gourmet

2007-09-27T10:06:00.000-07:00

Although we cleared our pipes last week, our plumbing issue turned out to be a bigger problem. So this morning Harrison watched in awe as the plumbers worked in the garage. He asked what they were doing, so I gave him a brief lesson in plumbing, which ended in:
"We have a leak in our pipes."
To which he replied:
"We have onions in our pipes?"
"Huh?" Pause.

Then I laughed hysterically, realizing what he was talking about. We had leek soup last night.

The End of the Nap

2007-09-24T13:48:00.000-07:00

It's official: my 20-month-old angel has stopped napping.

Having gone through the process of nap cessation once before, I fully expected to have another six months to prepare for it. And by prepare, I mean arrange for her to be with someone else during the time she'd normally be napping. Perhaps I could get a job digging ditches or something otherwise more relaxing than entertaining a toddler when she shouldn't be awake.

Anyone with small children knows exactly what I'm talking about when I say naptime is sacred. When God made Sunday the day of rest, it was an afterthought to making naptime the daily moment of cherished tranquility. Without it, humankind would surely exhaust itself to death, and all his work would be for naught.

Over the past five months or so Gigi maybe took one day off a week from napping. Robin always knew when that was by my subtle screams and threats to leave the family. It was not pretty. I could easily have become addicted to some delicious mood-altering drug, had I a therapist. Lucky for me, there were six other days in the week to recover.

I know that sometimes when babies and toddlers learn a new trick, their sleep habits are disrupted. (For instance when Harrison learned to fall out of his crib, it would wake him up completely.) Gigi has been learning at least two new words every day since she stopped napping. However, since there are over 171,476 words in the Oxford English Dictionary, at what point will she be satisfied to start napping again?

You may be wondering how I could possibly be writing coherent sentences seeing how traumatized I was by merely one napless day per week. Well, coinciding with staying awake all day, she has agreed to spend some of that time watching TV. (If you're one of those parents who pooh-poohs children under two watching TV, read no further.) All I can say is whoever invented Elmo is a fucking genius. I remain sane, Gigi gets some downtime, Robin keeps the mother of his children from running away.

I think something a parent never accepts is how unpredictable your child can be. You really want them to be predictable, and you wish upon every star for it, but it rarely happens. The only thing certain is that tomorrow they'll try something new. And the only thing worth wishing is that they'll survive doing it. I at least hope her crush on Elmo lasts longer than the time it takes Netflix to deliver the next distraction.

Cafe Presse

2007-09-19T14:16:00.000-07:00

Going to lunch alone with my mom is a rare occasion (and may possibly have never occurred), so when I read about Cafe Presse last week, I decided it was the place I'd take her for a quiet meal while Gigi hung out with Robin's parents.

Really the only reason I was bent on going was their "menu of casual Parisian cafe classics." With a grilled sardine baguette sandwich on their menu, I figured they knew what they were doing (or had better).

When we got there I parked right in front of the cafe. I meant to ask whether or not I was allowed to park there, but forgot once we were inside (I didn't have a ticket when we left, but the meter maid was three cars away, so I couldn't say for sure if my parking was legit).

We dined in the cafe's front room, which despite its smallish footprint, felt spacious due to the high ceilings and natural light. The sparse, hip decor added to the openness with simplicity. I didn't know there was a back room (see photo) until I came home to write this.

It was 11am, so we were the first ones for lunch. I chose a table midway across the single row of tables lined up against the wall. My mom picked up a Seattle Weekly and a Figaro newspaper before sitting down.

One of the six beautiful people on the floor brought us menus and cool tap water in a clear wine bottle, no ice. Very French except for the fact that in France you'd have to beg for it and get it half an hour later.

We shared a spicy tomato soup with slices of goat cheese, then my mom had the grilled sardine baguette and I had a Croque Madame, which is a Croque Monsieur with a fried egg on top. Satisfyingly crispy in just the right places and Bechamel-gooey in all the others. Delicious! With two cups of coffee our bill came to under $25, plus tip for very pleasant service.

Over the hour we were there the rest of the place (the front room at least) filled up easily. Two men sitting next to us were French, judging by the way they spoke the language - rapidly and peppered with slang. They ordered beer and seemed to be waiting for a soccer match to start (the TV only plays foreign sports I think).

I will surely take Robin there to enjoy a carafe of wine and Steak Frites, one of his favorite dishes. I may be craving another Croque by then too.

Vacay at Molbaks

2007-09-18T20:00:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, Robin spent much of the weekend working in the garage. And though my mom is visiting and helping with the kids, my two darlings still managed to overwhelm me.

Every weekend must begin with a minute-by-minute agenda, preferably planned on the Friday evening before. If there is not a plan in place, by 11am everyone (except Robin, curiously) is clawing at the walls, leaving bloody nail fragments wedged into the paint, like the scene in Silence of the Lambs when the girl in the pit realizes how desperately others like her had tried to escape. This is what happened Sunday morning.

At around 11:30am, I hastily and begrudgingly dressed the kids and headed to the park. Five minutes into swinging, it started to rain. Already in a pissy mood, I had no desire to be pissed on further. Back in the car, the kids fussed and I decided the only safe place for them at this point was strapped into their seats on a drive long enough to conk them out.

I'd been wanting to use my Molbaks coupon for a few weeks to refresh my sad-looking deck pots and garden bed, so off to the Eastside we went. If they didn't fall asleep in the car, at least they might be distracted by the fountains while I raced for the annuals like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep.

G & H simultaneously fell asleep halfway across 520. Like a junkie, I felt an all-consuming injection of relief. I was a different person now, in control of my emotions. (Oh, did I mention Gigi stopped taking naps last week? Me thinks that's a factor in my mood?) When we parked at Molbaks I left the kids in the car with my mom while I shopped.

Molbaks is one of my favorite places on earth, but in those twenty minutes, it was possibly my favorite place EVER. The freshness of outdoor trees, the coziness of indoor plants, the serenity of quiet flowers. I kept thinking about the dreamy-eyed speech Andie MacDowell's horticulturist character made in Green Card when she was interviewing with landlords to get an apartment with a greenhouse. It all made me wish I liked gardening more.

By the time I paid for my pansies I was rejuvenated. I didn't even mind getting soaked on the way back to the car. It's amazing what a few quiet moments can do for a mother. It did take me three days to plant the damn flowers, but no matter, it was worth it.

Drain Cleaning Tip

2007-09-17T08:20:00.001-07:00

Saturday morning while Robin was in the garage working on our new door (never attempt to paint and install your own front door. It's not worth it) he called me downstairs in a hurry.

I gasped when I saw the garage wall - the one with dozens of electrical wires poking out of it - dripping water like blood in a gratuitously gruesome horror flick. Slowly oozing in some spots, dropping rapidly in others. Fuck.

I called our plumber, but since these things always happen on a Saturday morning, I knew we wouldn't get a return call until Monday morning (he called at 7:09am this morning, and despite not working weekends, he is honest and reliable).

In the meantime, Handy Robin installed a rain gutter directly beneath the leak to divert the water into a bucket instead of into the wiring. This story could've gotten worse, and we fully expected to be $1,000 in the hole by Monday afternoon. But I thought I'd try something in case it helped.

Whenever one of our drains is slow or clogged, I use a technique I learned years ago when I was researching how to maintain a non-toxic household. It works every time. Here it is:

1. Shake a cup or two of baking soda in and around the clogged drain.
2. Pour a generous amount (3-5 cups) of white vinegar in and around the drain.
3. Marvel with satisfaction the smoking, bubbling science experiment in action.
4. Boil a large kettle of water.
5. Pour the large kettle of water in and around the drain.

These three simple ingredients work to strip the pipe of grease, thereby loosening whatever was stuck to the grease. Sort of like treating Atherosclerosis.

Sure enough, the method worked and the leak vanished. High fives all around.

Carkeek Park

2007-09-16T20:48:00.000-07:00

We in Seattle are lucky to have so many gorgeous parks within a short drive (or walk).

As a full-time mom I spend LOTS of time at parks, usually alone with Gigi, but sometimes with other mothers. The real treat is having a family outing where the four of us can appreciate the beauty together (insert cheesy smile here).

My all-time favorite nature park is Carkeek. We try to make it out there at least once a season, but we have yet to explore all the trails that weave throughout.

My first visit there over a year ago, I was in awe. I thought it might be where I'd go to die. Maybe that's a tad dramatic, but I did enjoy myself. The peaceful stroll, the scent of moist greenery, the cool trickling streams - heaven.

You can choose to walk the trails, have a picnic, or head to the playground up the hill from the flat expanse of grass in the middle (where we had our picnic). From the playground area you have the view and the smell of the Sound. I think you can even go down to the water, but we haven't done that yet either.

While we ate our sandwiches, Robin had the idea to organize a Picnic Club each summer. Once a month we'd send out an Evite with the location of that month's picnic. Whoever wanted to be on the email list could join. I LOVE the idea. A party a month at virtually no cost and no clean-up! Stay posted for next summer.

When we left the park I imagined how incredible it will look in the next couple spectacular autumn months. We will surely be back. Maybe with soup in our basket.

On Creativity

2007-09-12T14:50:00.000-07:00

When you have a "spirited" child (and doesn't every exhausted parent have one), it's nice to hear someone say it's okay, and could even lead to good things. So when Robin urged me to watch this short video from the TED conference, I came out of viewing it relieved and inspired to be more effectual in my children's holistic educations.

Excerpt from the TED website:

Sir Ken Robinson makes an entertaining (and profoundly moving) case for creating an education system that nurtures creativity, rather than undermining it. With ample anecdotes and witty asides, Robinson points out the many ways our schools fail to recognize -- much less cultivate -- the talents of many brilliant people. "We are educating people out of their creativity," Robinson says. The universality of his message is evidenced by its rampant popularity online. A typical review: "If you have not yet seen Sir Ken Robinson's TED talk, please stop whatever you're doing and watch it now."

It's worth your time. Watch and laugh here.

Less babies, more gays

2007-09-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

Not a diaper change goes by that I don't think about the impact my family has on our environment. Sure, we use efficient bulbs and appliances. We recycle. I use non-toxic cleaning products. Some of our food is organic. Robin buses to work.

BUT we have two kids.

Pretty much nothing green we do will make up for that. I just read this article that supports that assumption. While you can make the argument that raising green kids could make up for the damage, (which the article mentions), they would need to become Leonardo DiCaprio or Al Gore to make up for it.

Babies use lots of diapers. Because they poop a lot. Because they eat a lot. They get lots of clothes very dirty. They require a heated space to sleep and play. They require space in the car, which easily turns into space in the van. That guzzles lots of gas. They have plastic toys. A buttload of them. It's impossible - if you have half a conscience - not to feel a little bit guilty.

I admire people who have chosen not to have children, or to stop at one, or to adopt. I believe they're good and selfless, even if their reasons have nothing to do with the environment. Also, it makes me feel less guilty when I have friends who devote their lives to something other than child-rearing, be it art, literature, non-evil business practices, education, whatever. Because my kids will need interesting, inspiring role models when they are ready to decide about their own lives. (I'm not saying people with children can't be interesting or inspiring; we just have much less time to be.)

This is why I propose MORE GAYS.

Most gay people don't have children, which probably makes them the greenest people around. They contribute to society in important, smart, beautiful and admirable ways. The ones I know of (famous or not famous) make this world a better place in just about every way. I never met a gay I didn't love.

I want my children to live out their lives on a healthy planet. It's sort of a paradox to purport being a "green parent". I guess the onus is on us to make even more of an effort than others.

Sigh. Anyone know how to use cloth diapers? I bet if Ellen and Portia ever decided to have a baby, they'd use cloth.

Note: You can read a chat about the linked article here.

Mm-hmm

2007-09-09T19:49:00.000-07:00

Harrison and I were cuddling on my lap when Robin walked in the room and started telling me about his issues with the paint sprayer he was using in the garage. He was going on with the technicalities of this and that when Harrison leaned in close to my face and said to me in a low voice, "Just say Mm-hmm, mommy."

I just about fell off the chair laughing. He was quite proud of making me laugh so hard. Robin wasn't so amused.

Picture

2007-09-09T19:46:00.001-07:00

Thank you Chris for providing me with a picture so I can finally have one in my profile. Now the three people reading this can see who I am.

Gratitude: The shortest path to Happiness

2007-09-07T13:38:00.001-07:00

I'm currently reading Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique. If I can gather my thoughts upon finishing it, I hope to deliver some sort of report. In the meantime, the chapter on women's suffrage has made me realize how fortunate we women are compared to women only 100 years ago, who didn't have the right to vote (among other things). Such a given nowadays, but fought so hard for back then.

My head spins after reading almost every page. In this instance, I thought of some of the things I take for granted on a daily basis.
A short list:

1. My right to vote.
2. Modern contraception (the Pill).
3. Immunizations for my children.
4. Our high efficiency washing machine (hello nine loads of laundry/week).
6. Our dishwasher (one reason I am able to write this right now).
7. Unlimited healthy food options (and clean water from the tap!).
8. My modern husband.
9. I'm not a mother of five fatherless children living in Darfur.
10.My children's health (a toddler of someone I know was recently diagnosed with a terrible cancer and is currently undergoing massive chemotherapy. The treatment will last a year. A year of fearing for your child's every breath.)

Things were so different 100 years ago, and will likely be just as different 100 years from now. I just hope I don't go a day of my own 100 years ungrateful in any way.

Mellow Monday Morning

2007-09-05T09:13:00.000-07:00

Monday morning began warm and slightly humid, just the way I like it. I had decided to accompany Robin to his half-marathon in Woodinville (Robin's parents were watching the kids). It started at Red Hook Brewery, which is next door to Columbia Winery and across the street from Chateau Ste. Michelle. Not a shabby part of town.

The drive was relaxing as we went in search of coffee before going to the race. We parked in the Ste. Michelle parking lot and walked over to the starting line. I had brought along my book to read for the hour and half race, but it was such a gorgeous morning I started on a walk instead.

Just a few yards from the start was the Herbfarm Restaurant, which looks like a French countryside cottage surrounded by lush gardens and green lawn. Even more enticing when you know what culinary magic goes on inside. It's on our list for a (very) special occasion.

Across from the Herbfarm is Willows Lodge, no doubt providing the perfect bed after a long evening of wining and dining. The picture shown here was taken from a small bench in the lodge's garden. You can see the Herbfarm in the background.

I sat on that bench for some time admiring the view, the quiet and the morning, then continued on, passing two pigs in their luxury pen, being trained to be truffle hunters.

I strolled across the street to Chateau Ste. Michelle to drop a few things off at the car. There were some vines with small grapes on them, but I wasn't sure if they were Champagne grapes or if they were just nascent wine grapes. The other set of vines had larger, ripe grapes.

Back in the race area, I laid on the warm grass underneath a tree. It wasn't hot out, but it wasn't wet or brisk either. I didn't read my book. I didn't even think.

Robin finished his race a few minutes slower than he wanted. The route was hilly and undesirably warm for a race. Still, he did fine. I got to laze around for another half hour while he chatted with fellow runners.

It was a wonderful morning. I will be dreaming of the Herbfarm until that much-anticipated special occasion.

What Happened to Funny?

2007-08-30T14:24:00.000-07:00

I don't care if you're an immortal film critic, Grandma's Boy is a monumental waste of time. If it's on your Netflix list, remove it immediately.

It was on my list, then off my list after I thought better of it, then back on in a desperate attempt to rent a laugh. I planned a little date with Robin that included frozen lasagna, cheapo wine and the movie. I looked forward to it all day.

After five painful minutes of flat jokes and awkward acting, I said "If I don't so much as smile in the next five minutes, I'm turning it off." Ten minutes later I couldn't take it any longer.

It was the worst fifteen minutes of television I have ever watched. A 30-something-year-old video game tester pot smoker moron who has to move in with his grandma because his roommate used their rent on erotic massage. Maybe you could do something with that if you used real actors? Or a real script? I don't think anyone could smoke enough pot to think this movie was funny. Sigh. What a disappointment. Guess I'll just rent Forty Year Old Virgin again if I want a laugh.

Death by Dip

2007-08-30T14:15:00.000-07:00

If you ever find me tipping the scales at 1,000 pounds, fused to my couch from not getting up in over a year, it will be because of this evil, evil combination: Stonemill Kitchens Artichoke Jalapeno Dip and Stacy's Pita Chips. Both found at Costco.

God forbid these two ever find their way into my home again.

Oh, is this what it's about?

2007-08-27T15:15:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I think I got why some moms wouldn't give up the SAHM title.

I awoke to sit with Gigi and Mister Rogers. She demanded I sit right next to her and eat her cheerios. So I did, except I was the one who actually watched the show, she wandered off after a few minutes. The characters sang a song about being glad they were the way they were and being pleased with themselves. I tried in vain for almost an hour to find the song online. I found similar songs, but not that one.

Anyway, it made me feel so good about myself that I cried. Only Mister Rogers can work that kind of magic.

Later that morning I called a mom in my group who lives down the street to see if she wanted a ride to Seattle Center to see The Green Sheep. Another mom had arranged for a group of us to get a discount for the show.

We had a nice ride downtown and made it to the theater with ample time (always a good feeling when kids tend to slow you down). The waiting room before the show was crazy. I was drowning in children, yet I was calm because my child was so well behaved. Gigi weaved around the kid-packed room a few times, checking everyone out. When it came time to move to the show room, she reached for my hand and we followed the crowd like, um, sheep.

I didn't know the story of The Green Sheep, but no matter. It was splendid! And, I cried again because of the experience. I was a little embarrassed. No, I'm not PMSing. G was in wide-eyed wonder the entire time. I stared at her and grinned some silly grins.

At home I put her down for a nap, but after almost an hour of her playing and singing in her crib, I tried reading her a few more stories with warm milk. It worked, even though I had to wake her up to pick up H at school.

That evening we went to Harrison's Montessori Last Day of School picnic. At the beginning of the picnic, the music teacher led the students in a round of songs, starting with My Country Tis of Thee (just the first verse). And yes, I cried again. Harrison stood just a few inches in front of the others and enunciated, with active lips, every word. Then they sang all the songs that Harrison had been sharing with us over the last month. I loved it.

Spending a day like this, uncluttered with thoughts of another job, makes me truly appreciate the opportunity to do this full time. Most days are more challenging, with tears not of joy, but thank goodness for these brilliant few that compensate for the rest.

Pirate Joke

2007-08-26T10:42:00.001-07:00

Robin made up a very, very nerdy joke:

What did the pirate say when he overfilled his ship with loot?

"Argh-a-mateys!"

Dogville

2007-08-18T21:04:00.000-07:00

I mentioned to a friend that I didn't particularly like Nicole Kidman as an actress, yet I liked many of the movies she's been in (The Hours, The Others, Birth, The Human Stain). He said I might enjoy Dogville then. While I appreciate something different and unexpected, I wasn't quite expecting this film.

It opens with an aeriel view of the set, which is a lone street in a tiny Rocky Mountain town. The minimalist set looks like a stage production might before the props are put in place. Bright white painted lines outline the houses, storefront and church. Within the outlines are written the names of the inhabitants. For instance the names "Chuck and Vera" are written within the outline of their small house that they live in with their seven children. The name "Elm Street" is written along the street where the action takes place.

The set feels bizarre, yet seems to serve a purpose. Perhaps giving the town a transparency removes its mystery. You can see what's going on in whatever building is nearest to the action at hand. Rather than this being distracting, it permits greater focus on the dialogue and characters. It's more like watching a live play than a movie, and were it not for the all-star cast (and a few shocking moments), one might keel over into a coma due to the slow and sometimes repetitive pace.

A wealthy-looking woman, Grace (Kidman), stumbles into this town while escaping from gangsters. The suspicious townsfolk allow her a two-week trial period to show her worth. She helps each household in earnest, and at the end of the trial, the people vote to keep her as a resident. But as out-of-town officials start pasting Wanted posters in the town, the townsfolk start demanding more of her in return for their silence. They figure she's lucky to be there, so she should pay for the privilege.

The disturbing demoralization of the townsfolk reveals their true human natures, including their ugly desire to command power over someone more helpless than themselves. It's as though Grace's time in the town was their time in purgatory; their chance to prove themselves as good people. As much as she forgave them, they failed.

The theme of morality underlies the film and is philosophized by the main male character. The brutal ending leaves it up to the viewer to think about and determine whether any of the characters deserve the title of Moral.

Apart from the gift of thought provocation, Dogville offers unique presentation and all-star performances. Not for everyone I'll admit, but a good break from the cookie cutter fluff of most summer flicks.

Little Old Me

2007-08-17T13:31:00.000-07:00

Boy, was I good today. With the exception of needing a little rock-rock at 3:30am, I was a stellar child.

Woke up just before 6:30am, allowing mommy nearly 30 extra minutes of sleep (minus 15 minutes at 3:30am) than normal. She still begged, "Here's your milk, please sit here," and crawled back into bed while I chilled with Mr.Rogers. Luckily I woke up to miss that inane Teletubbies show. Who writes that crap? Clearly Mr. Rogers is the one with the brains - someone I can learn from. I'm going to marry him.

After the show I pitter-pattered (I purposely make the pitter-patter sound because I know how freaking cute it is) over to mommy's bed. Usually she's annoyed when I yank her out of bed by her hair, but this morning she was cheerful and didn't look nearly as ragged.

She "made" my breakfast: cheerios with sliced bananas. Real creative, mom. I could feed a third world country with the number of cheerios I've eaten. Wait, are those blueberries in your cereal mommy? Where's the love.

Then Harrison got up and was oddly cheerful as well. While he took an hour eating his breakfast, I held back torturing him with my razor-nails. The mellowness of the morning felt kinda nice and I didn't feel like starting a ruckus. Yet. Maybe after school.

After dropping H off at school we went to the grocery store. I always learn something there - usually what buttons to push to make mommy cry - but this morning I learned that mangoes don't make much noise when they hit the floor. Way less noise than the glass did when I broke it on the kitchen floor last night. Must try this experiment with melon next time. We did get more blueberries, so maybe mommy will share tomorrow morning.

At home I helped with laundry, then we were off to the park near our house. The stroller ride was particularly nice today because the sun was out but it wasn't too hot. A nice breeze blew my curls to and fro. I looked damn cute I must say.

For lunch I had leftover pork chops with a mashed potato/broccoli side. Did mommy add more salt? Somehow it tasted better than it did last night. Or maybe she put extra butter? Or maybe I was just starving since I wouldn't eat my snack at the park.

What a treat: Elmo's World is all about babies today! I just started saying "baby" last week, so here's my chance to shine. "Baby baby baby!" Oh look how proud mommy is. Sucker.

Naptime was pretty boring as usual. Dreamt about those animal crackers from last night. Why can't I have those flying dreams I keep hearing about? Maybe if I try falling asleep thinking about jumping off the jungle gym at the park, I'll end up dreaming about flying over to the swings. That would be awesome.

Woke up and did yet more laundry. Seriously mom, get a life.

Since Daddy flew someplace on an airplane (yeah, I know what those are, but I can't for the life of me imagine how he gets small enough to fit in one), mommy said we could have McDonald's for dinner. I sucked ketchup off of about 20 fries before I was full. Mommy tried to stuff some of those nasty nuggets into my mouth, but I'd rather chew on Harrison's lead-painted trains than ingest that poison.

Harrison and I tried our regular evening ritual of screaming and fighting until mommy loses it, but apparently she was prepared with Finding Nemo, a delightful and mesmerizing film about sea creatures who eat other baby sea creatures. And giant scuba monsters who steal fish children. That's as far as we got so I can't wait to see if there's a happy ending to this nightmare. Mommy promises it's THE BEST animated film ever made, so I'll give it a shot.

Had a relaxing bath with bro, then warm milk (gosh I miss those bottles) and stories. Not a bad life I guess. Maybe I'll let mommy sleep in again tomorrow. She might need it.

The Happiest Years of our Lives

2007-08-14T14:31:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I hear older parents say that the happiest years of their lives where when their children were very young. Never mind the exhaustion, sleep deprivation and sheer relentlessness of children, it's all downhill from here.

I thought this sentiment might only come from dads who slept through year after year of middle-of-the-night feeding-changing-crying. No, it's moms too. Were they just lamenting their final days of being young? Maybe. Or perhaps it was the last hopeful pause before their marriage fell apart? Who knows. Why weren't the years when the kids were older just as happy?

Whatever the reason was, I turned to Robin the other night right before falling asleep and said, "If these are the happiest years of our lives, I want to acknowledge it right here, right now. Because when our lives are in shambles, I need to know that we didn't take what we had for granted."

Then last weekend I may have had the best day of my life. Maybe there's truth in what they said.

We woke up at the usual time of 6am (thanks to Gigi, aka Cock-a-doodle-do). Breakfast was a spinach quiche I'd made the day before. The kids love quiche, so there were no arguments getting them to eat. With a solid protein breakfast in their tummies, we treated them to donuts from Top Pot up the street. I had my usual iced soy latte, which I sipped for three hours.

Then we were off to Annie's Playground, the neatest playground in Seattle. Someone who loves to climb surely had a great time designing the play structures. Harrison kept saying, "Awesome!" as he ran from rope climber to climbing wall to ladder to hill. Gigi's new thing is hanging from bars, and there were plenty within her reach, which thrilled her.

The playground is as beautiful as it is fun. The walls surrounding it are covered in sea-theme mosaic art. It was obviously well thought out and built with love. You can see that even without knowing the reason it was built. It's called Annie's Playground because when Annie died suddenly and inexplicably right before her third birthday, her parents had the playground created in her memory. I thought about that as I pushed Gigi on the swings and couldn't help tearing up for a grateful moment.

Back at home Gigi napped while Harrison watched some TV and I read. Robin left to finally order our new door (which we promised to do after Josephine died, since our current door, in addition to looking ragged, has a giant kitty door sawn out of it). Nothing like sitting back while someone else takes care of a long-awaited domestic chore. Ahhh.

We spent the afternoon in the backyard playing on the jungle gym (kids) and cutting spent flowers (me). We BBQ'd burgers to look identical to the PCC newsletter picture that had been posted on the fridge for two weeks. The picture showed a perfectly grilled locally-farmed beef patty topped with blue cheese (possibly roquefort), lettuce, tomatoes and red onions. I chose the smallest whole wheat buns I could find so that the bread wouldn't overpower the meat. It was the best burger I'd ever eaten.

The evening was mellow with baths and stories before the kids fell asleep. All-in-all a perfect family day. If you only remember days like this, of course they're the happiest years of your life. And I suppose when children are innocent, uninhibited and bursting with a love of life, you can't help but live vicariously through them, which is probably a happier life than your own.

It's their joy that makes it the best years of our lives.

I just hope we can make them as happy as they are now for the rest of our lives. Then wouldn't every year be the happiest year of our lives?

Some Uplifting News

2007-08-06T11:42:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when we sat in a dark closet, cloaked in a dark mood, suffocating in fear that the planet was speeding towards an overpopulation that would devour itself? I do. Which is why last week's Economist cover story made my day. The title read "How to deal with a falling population."

Huh? That wasn't supposed to happen. That's far too optimistic. For years I remember hearing about the dangers of overpopulation and the resulting scarcity in resources that would kill every living thing.

The article explains that for thousands of years the world's population steadily inched up until the industrial revolution, after which it quadrupled between 1900 and 2000. But now women around the world are starting to have fewer children than necessary to keep the population steady. It's estimated that the world's average fertility will fall below replacement by 2025. (But the population will still peak around 10 billion by mid-century.)

So now, and I still can't believe it, there is actual concern that the population will fall too much or too fast, which could pose problems for each country's workforce, and therefore their economies, not least of which includes paying for the care of their elderly.

After a biting remark about women choosing to "go clubbing" and "buy handbags" in their 20s instead of raising children, the article ends up recommending more support for working mothers, because "in societies which make breeding and working compatible, women tend to do both." This would be one solution to the problem of women having fewer babies. I'm all for that.

But for now, I'm just going to breath a sigh of relief for this one bit of good news. With all the other global bad news going on, it's a needed respite.

The Bottle

2007-08-04T14:00:00.000-07:00

Of the many milestones that mark the passage of a child's growth, I think potty training and giving up the bottle most decisively leave behind the baby days. Since potty training is still at least 6 months away, I'm happy to accept the latter for now.

If it weren't for the books and experts admonishing the bottle past 18 months of age, I'd probably let Gigi have it indefinitely, as long as she promised not to take it to prom. The bottle has been our best friend since birth (with daddy and brother tied for second). Yes, the bottle has been good to us.

It offered respite from the pain of breastfeeding around the clock in those early weeks.

It was my ticket to freedom when I needed an hour or two away from home to cut my hair or date my husband.

It allowed us the satisfaction of seeing exactly how much our baby was eating, because you never know with those tricky boobs.

It bought us precious extra minutes of sleep at five in the morning, when we could give her a bottle and put her back down.

It provided short but essential breaks from unexplainable fussing.

It was the surest way to get her to sleep at naptime or bedtime.

But things had to change, or I wasn't doing my job. She was two months past the cutoff date and besides, sippy cups are just easier to clean and easier to substitute for, say, a to-go cup from Starbucks, not that I ever need that option, but in an emergency, it'd be handy.

So I started weaning her from the bottle a month ago; only bottles at nap-nap and nigh-night time. Not a problem, as long as I kept the bottles hidden when it was sippy cup time.

Last weekend as I was handing her a sippy cup with warm milk, she freaked out. "Nyooo!!" she said, pointing above her head. There on the kitchen counter, sparkling in a ray of evening sun, was a bottle. Uh-oh. I panicked for a moment, but didn't give in. I deftly distracted her with a banana, and when she was out of the kitchen, I packed up all the bottles and put them out of sight, forever.

Now that they're gone, we do have to get up a bit earlier, and at bedtime she demands we show her that Harrison, as well as the baby in her Leslie Patricelli books, are going nigh-night too. But I have to say it's gone better than expected. She doesn't do the excited bottle-laugh and bottle-dance when I hand her a sippy cup, but she does take it.

I thought about this milestone later in the week when I went for a walk. Alone with no distractions, I thought I might get a little choked up. She was no longer a baby. Instead I smiled, knowing that potty training was still on the horizon.