Toddler love
Just now as I sat down to write, Bean came up to me with a dishtowl. He'd been playing with his digger in the kitchen. I'm in the livingroom, sunk deep into the comfy white armchair, my feet up, sun slanting in through the bay window where I keep all my potted plants. He said, "I gonna clean your feet, mama."
And then he gently wiped down my feet and legs with the towel. He then proceeded to tenderly kiss my legs and ankles. Hovering especially over my 'owies'--the small scars from recent and not so recent encounters with blackberry bushes or bike pedals.
I had no idea love could feel like this.
Stupid deleted post.
Stupid tabbed browser windows. A whole post deleted. Full of good sentences, including cookie crumbles and random ramblings. ARGH!
Spontaneous delight
Spent some quality family time the past few days. Downtown, eating nutella & coconut crepes on a park bench, people watching yesterday evening. The day before we were there running errands, and ended by ordering iced chocolates from the local chocolatier shop, and then stopping to watch a motley group of b-boys (break dancers) put on a show. Totally awesome. Bean loved every minute. Today we passed more than an hour of time in a local greenhouse/garden center that has a lovely little cafe with tables among the greenhouse plants. Nothing like eating a fresh mozzarella, basil and tomato sandwiches under hanging baskets of bromeliads by a quoi pond. Made a mental note to self: go here in the middle of winter, often!
I love days like this where we’re all together, getting things done, and then we tangent off into something unexpected. Little spontaneous bursts of delight. Most of the morning was spent at the tile store—we’re building a hearth for our new woodstove, to be arriving in a few weeks. It will be fire-engine red, and toasty. Cannot wait.
What have you all been up to? Do you have any favorite little places to go that bring you delight?
Here goes...something
Every year the fledglings learn this: at some point the nest of twigs and thistle down and the blue ribbon from last year’s presents is not enough. The dappled rustling shade of further branches beckon. The wide arc of sky, streaked with wind and sunbeams becomes a daily siren song. And then the day arrives when they must make a willing leap into the empty air despite having never flown before.
It feels like this, linking my writing over at Parent Dish to here. At once both terrifying and certain, it has always been the natural order of things. The work of showing up at the page here was always with this is in mind. Writing here was an attempt stake out a claim on behalf of my writing within my own heart. A way of saying yes, this is possible, this is the future of my longing.
You have to start somewhere to get to somewhere, and this is where I began, words running long across paragraphs, photographs, no-post days.
It’s incredibly vulnerable to think that more people from my ‘real life’ and my work life will inevitably find me here and find the archives of fights with my husband, the heartache of winter longing, the sallow listless words just before spring, and the posts filled with poop and wonder and breastfeeding that have been my personal history as a new mama.
I didn’t have to link here. Yet not doing so felt like it would be a cop-out. The finch opting to hop about on the forest floor instead of taking flight. It would have reeked with self doubt, not to stand by what I’ve written. The many thousand words here are deeply personal, but also good. I’m proud of how this almost-daily practice of finding something to say here has shaped my writer’s voice in a new way. Your comments, and the emails I gratefully receive, have given me the first inkling of audience, and also courage to say more. No point stopping now. No point hovering at the edge of the quivering twig.
Ready, get set...
In nineteen different places today, all at once. The sky is blue, but winds are roaring up our valley making the birch leaves show their silver underbellies. By my computer on the bar in the kitchen are a row of ripe peaches. Outside hawks are calling. It's getting ready time: laminating folders and organizing books, every random hour spent at school in preparation for a new passel of kids. Also trying to find the right things to say to Bean so that he understands that our routine will be changing. We've had such a fun summer: taking rambling walks and playing on the back lawn. Here are some pictures from our walk yesterday evening.
Chicken coop in the evening light.
Goldenrod is waist high in the fields now.
Bean & his red wagon.
Wild grapes, ripening.
Slug love.
I love ferns.
Overgrown mailbox.
Bean in the green.
Jewel weed.
Autumn's first red.
Tuesday Notebook
Kneel down, hold the ground in your hands
or reach up and hold meteors in your glance
as they plummet through the dark night.
Be thankful.
***
Simply: I spent the weekend house hunting with my inlaws and the experienced left me awed, drained, curious. People live their lives in so many different ways, and their homes carry the expression of their lives so deeply. The timbers gradually soak up the emotion of day to day interactions, the windows, the corner tables, the hues on the walls all start telling a version of the life story of the people who dwell there.
But mostly, I left grateful that we've found this place up on our hill. I stand at the window of my studio looking out and my heart fills. The ember red of the little barn/chicken coop we just renovated; the dusty ocher of the blowing meadow grasses; the first hint of red at the tips of the maples; the sweeping view. I feel at home here in a way I never have felt anywhere before, and it is a hungry feeling of wanting to sink in. Be more present here. Take more walks. Notice.
Two nights ago we sat in lawn chairs on the driveway looking up at the bowl of stars, partly obscured with stars. Meteors with glimmering tails streaked across the dark. It’s a place I could be for a while, I think. Among the maples and the beeches and the goldenrod that has grown chest high in the lower meadow, where the coyotes and the owls nightly call.
Do you have a place that makes you feel at home like this? A park, a city street, a vast swath of land that's yours? Or are you thirsty with longing like I was for years before here?
And also, who wants to do some art with me every day this week?
Sunday doings
Eating french toast, house hunting with the inlaws, listening to the crickets, chasing the chickens (we think one is a rooster) out of the flower beds, counting down the days (eight) until I go back to work, planning hikes, planning big art pieces, thinking of tie-dying (has anyone done it? tips?), thinking of re-painting my studio (again), and scheduling a massage. What are you doing?
Tumbling towards start
The last few weeks of summer before the start of the school year make me feel like a tumbleweed; aimless and windblown, with so many things up in the air, and without the routine of work. I laugh, realizing that I’ve arrived at this point: ready to go back. I miss a routine, even though I’m not good at exacting one upon my cantaloupe eating summer days. Over the vactation I’ve managed to slow down enough, unwind enough, to start missing the days of waking up early to sip something warm and write before heading off to work. Now more than ever I need that structure. I need to get started on the forty pages I’ll be exchanging with my writing group in December, and starting this week I’ll also be posting over at Parent Dish.
I like the tingly feeling I get contemplating how with each progressive step I’m sinking more deeply into my commitment towards writing. And also, trepidation.
There’s no better way to get started than to simply sit down and get started, this much I know. But I have a particularly hard time with this. Introductions. First days. First words on the page. First weeks of a new routine. The beginning of anything is something that time sets me on edge and makes me resistant. I drag my feet. Think up every reason in not to jump in. And then, invariably, I finally do.
But what is it about starting that’s so hard? There’s something in those first moments that’s raw and unpredictable. It’s an act of throwing yourself off the cliff, of leaping into the blue space of air and unknown. My heart thuds in my chest when I sit down, poised, ready, my fingers hovering above the keys. Does this happen to anyone else?
A dare
Here’s why: You will not always be the age you are today, and someday you, or someone who loves you will want to look at these pictures, lingering over the way you looked so beautiful right in that moment, in good light with the wind in your hair.
This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. How life moves at an exponential speed. When you’re two, one year is half your life. When you’re thirty—a year is one thirtieth. Time compresses, blurs, flutters, but always moves forwards, and with it, you. Always changing. Who you are right now will be a smudge on the window of memory in a handful of years. Take some pictures. Like a watermark or a timestamp. Something to remind you. What are you like, right now?
I’m at this point in my life where I’ve just started to notice that I’m aging. Tiny crows feet dance at the corners of my eyes; a furrow between my brows forever marks the way I frown. Some days, when I kneel in front of the mirror with my little boy, his skin fresh and flawless, I am startled by how changed I am. How old I look. Of course, I know that for someone a dozen or two years older than I, nearly thirty is spring-chicken young. But that’s what I mean: sometimes in the moment it’s hard to just appreciate.
So go do it.
Back from camping
Perfect weather. Fun in the water. Beach reading. Stone skipping. Sticky marshmallow fingers. Rowdy neighbors (totally annoying.) Stars above us. Campfire smoke in the air. Pancakes with fresh raspberries. Time out on the water canoing. (Bean FELL ASLEEP in the canoe~ twice!) Overall, a wonderful first camping adventure with the little guy.
The start of August
With the first of August I slipped back into accomplishing mode: tearing through lists of things that have been lingering all summer and forcing myself to return to the page to edit work that has been lingering, troublesome as a hangnail since June. I also snagged a fun writing job I’ll be telling you more about very soon; and am crossing my fingers that another piece of mine will be showing up in Mothering in a month.
More good news? My inlaws sold their house—and will be moving up to take care of Bean in a few months. Whenever they’re around, I always notice Bean’s language skills skyrocket: Nonna never stops talking to him, and he’s smitten with the both of them.
To celebrate, we’re going camping with Bean on Saturday! His first real trip. We’re packing life vests and sunscreen, marshmallows and hotdogs. In the mail, a glorious four-person tent arrived and when we set it up on the lawn, Bean was ecstatic. Of course I will take nine-million pictures and foist them on you.
The crickets have started their tremolo, indicating that summer really is winding down. August is the hottest month here, but already the first yellow leaves have appeared, and monarchs are gathering on the milkweed, roadside. Next week I’ll head back to my classroom, painting bookcases, sorting papers. I had my first classroom dream last night. I always have them in August before I meet my new class.
What’s in store for you this August?
To hold the moon...
Bean was nearly breathless, “It’s so bea-u-ti-ful!†he exclaimed.
And then, “I want to hold the moon, mama!†His voice full with urgent longing.
Tagged: 8 random things
• My first true crush (in fifth grade) was a boy who now plays in this band. We wrote letters all summer the year I moved away.
• I am obsessed with the “sticky note†widget feature on my computer.
• I cannot currently picture loving a second kid as much as I love Bean; cannot fathom my heart being big enough to contain this love, times two.
• People think I am both taller and older than I really am.
• If I were single and childless I’d be living in a funky little apartment somewhere with Salvation Army chairs painted wild colors and chipped china teacups. My bohemian side is somewhat subdued, what with all the toddler things around the house, and a man with contemporary good taste.
• I am currently obsessed with this Greek yogurt + honey.
• I am an INFJ.
• I could survive the rest of my life without coffee or wine, but not poems; without chocolate or television, but not music; without money or things, but not good friends.
I'm tagging: love squalor, la vie en rose , so the fish said, hula seventy, and rosa murillo
Time outdoors
Soaking up summer. Taking walks at a two-year old's pace. Noticing the minute beauty of things. Splashing water. Throwing pebbles. Picking wild raspberries and licking the juice off my fingers. Rediscovering how much I love my camera.
Bee & queen anne's lace.
Milkweed blossoms.
Bee & thistle.
Bean exploring at the neighbor's pond.
Self Portrait Challenge: Elements (Water)
Sun high on the meridian, humidity making my hair curl and the cat nap, a sprawling stripe of fur on the windowsill. Reason enough to head down to the local hardware store for a blue plastic kiddy pool. Cold water splashing on our sun-hot skin, and Bean's delighted laughter. A perfect afternoon.
Each day, this:
The way the orchid on the windowsill sends up a new stalk bravely into the warm light by the glass, buds swelling with the promise of waxy petals, even though the ceramic bowl of moss and soil that hold its roots are all it has.
The way the sun comes up all over again, spreading the yellow paint of another morning across the sky, even though the night was long. Even though the clouds obscured the stars and the coyotes woke me, howling, and in the morning the neighbor said he’d lost another lamb.
The way my small boy goes, lips stained red with berries, running across the lawn to play contentedly with his chickies, while I sit on the stoop with my laptop and type unencumbered, watching. Even though an hour before he was glued to me, whining, tantruming, irrational.
The way there is always grace, even though the world is a place of anguish and everywhere my glance falls, text leaps from the page telling of another way that devastation happens. And it does.
I feel so lucky.
All month I've been feeling the pressure of lists of things I should be doing: making dentist appointments; editing the final draft of a piece and sending it off; finishing the half dozen books I've started this month; running more. Then, when another blue-skied summer day passes and I've done nothing from the lists, surliness spreads across the surface of my mood like an oil slick. At night I toss in bed, piecing together bits of plot for stories I can�t bring myself to write; then I wake exhausted. Short fused. Critical.
But today it dawned on me that I don't have to get anything done for these few short days of summer that are all mine. All year I zig-zag through the day at a breakneck pace, waking up before the sun climes through the bare branches the silver birch outside my studio to make coffee and write, before heading off to a classroom full of lively, scrabbling kids. My days from September to June are oversaturated with accomplishment. I multi-task until the moments are frayed. I get things done.
Summer is the only time I can ever lick homemade raspberry popsicles, fool around with Wordpress themes, or spend twenty minutes with Bean on the looking -for four-leaf clovers. It's the only time I can read the New Yorker at the kitchen counter over toast and an iced latte for breakfast without having to be anywhere else. The only time I can spend the afternoon with DH, pulling down a dilapidated shed or stretching garden fencing. Summer is the only time when the hours swell with fragrance and the lazy hum of bumble bees; when words fall short.
So this week I've been trying to exhale and forget my damn lists. Forget arranging words into neat paragraphs. Forget the voice in my head that keeps whispering that I'll fail if I'm not throwing myself at everything I want, right now, with the fierceness of a matador.
I'm not sure where I got this voice. Or when I started letting it have such power over my days: staining perfectly good moments black. But I'm ready to try to be less complicated for the few remaining weeks of summer. To try, at least, to remind myself that if I spend a whole afternoon flicking through the Wordpress theme browser, and making an utter mess of things, it's okay.*
Right?
Two and a half
Dear Bean,
I've missed five months of letters, and somehow you're two and a half and an utterly different little boy than you were. Here are the things I want you to know about yourself at two and a half:
You talk, all the time. You wake up in the morning, pressed into the nook of my neck after having pitter-pattered into our bed in the middle of the night, and you immediately start talking about diggers, or trains, or whatever fascinating thing it is you were dreaming about. After fetching your own underpants and t-shirt and shorts which I help you put on, you trundle downstairs, talking a blue streak. You help us make breakfast, talking. You know how daddy's espresso machine works, and you always want to press the buttons. We let you, most of the time, and I have no doubt that by the time you're tall enough to use it, you'll be making better espresso than I can.
Because you're always underfoot, always wanting to help, we regularly offer you the option of vacuuming the kitchen while we make buttered toast and porridge. You are an expert vacuumer. It was an early love. Remember?
You never miss a beat. You listen to us talk, and you pipe up with entirely relevant bits of information, often startling us, because we don't expect you to be paying any attention at all, fools that we are. You know when we're talking about something that might involve you getting a treat or a toy. You know when we're upset. You remember everything we promise.
You know every possible kind of construction vehicle, and have radar vision for spotting them blocks away, through thickets of trees, on side roads, wherever. You daydream incessantly about "getting in da digger and turning it on." And you tell me often, "Mama, I want a digger and a biiiiiiiig road to drive da digger on."
When we found a Mighty Motorized Tonka backhoe at the second hand shop for $8.50, your hands could not be pried from it. When we brought it home and as it moved slowly across the wide expanse of our living room floor, its little red light flashing, its engine whirring, your eyes grew wide and a slow, exquisite, mischievous grin spread from ear to ear. You played with it all night.
You love books. You sit for long stretches of time (long being an utterly relative term, especially when you are two; but twenty minutes is a fair stretch of time by anyone's clock) and 'read' books. You look through each one cover to cover, sometimes telling yourself the story, sometimes telling other stories to accompany the pictures on each page. You recognize many letters, and you know that the words are those black inky squiggles that move across the page. You point out the letters you know on shop windows and signs. You beg to be read to. When I say I'll read two, you say "Maybe three?" When I say, "Okay three," you say "Four?" When I cave, you get that sly look on your face and say, "Five books? You gonna read five books!"
Right now you really like Blueberries for Sal , and the other day when the two of us were furtively filching berries from the neighbor's raspberry patch, I realized you were sing-songing, "Kerplunk, kerplunk, kerplunk," as I dropped each berry into our little purple pail. You also like Hugs and Kisses, which has become a regular naptime read, and Dig, Dig, Digging.
You love to paint. A week ago you painted your first representational drawing: of mama. A wide sweeping round circle. Two red dots on either side for ears. A mess of blue for my eyes, and orange for my mouth. Wild bits of yellow and brown for my hair.
I love that you like painting. That you ask to sit in my studio with paper spread out about you, and you get quiet and thoughtful and have real ideas about which colors you want to use and which are your favorites (yellow and orange, currently.) You also try to pretend write. You tell me you are writing your name, and Mama and Daddy and Bandit. You draw perfect circles, straight lines and elaborate squiggles. Perspective in your drawings does not exist. The broad brustrokes of cat, a chair, and a face are piled atop one another.
You are a runner, a climber, and most recently a serious biker. A few months ago we picked up a two-wheel bike with training wheels. So tiny, it doesn't even have back breaks. It took you about a month to get the hang of steering AND pedaling, and then off you went in a whiz. Now you ride down our dirt road in a snap, and on tarmac, you're lightening. I have to jog to keep up.
When daddy and I are working you're always close by: climbing as high as we allow you on the ladder (to the third rung) and balancing on the newly nailed joists. You love the highest twisty slides at the playground. You dream of being able to hang from the monkey bars like a "big boy," and you have better balance than I do, when you fall. Especially when you tumble off your bike, you fall with grace, and rarely get hurt. This, my dear, is something you most definitely did not inherit from me. I was the kid who, if my small high school had had such pages in our yearbook, would half received the title "most likely to trip." Your daddy on the other hand, is the hottest thing in the world on ice skates.
You are potty trained. It's been almost a month of dry in the morning diapers (except for on the mornings when we keep you up late, and then you sleep in later than usual) and the rest of the day you wear underpants and tell us when you need to go. You went through this brilliant phase a while back where you were pretty into the whole idea of going outdoors. Often it was the only way to convince you to go, and sometimes you'd take it to the next level: leaving poop for daddy on some interesting locations (On top of the lawnmower in the garage. Yes you did.) But now, at two and a half, you're done with diapers and you know when you need to go, and you can hold it while we do the mad dash for the potty.
It is divine. The whole poop wiping thing is a zillion times easier. You do a lovely little yoga pose, presenting your bottom to be wiped, and I adore you because of this. I was never one for the whole poop-up-the back adventure that diapers were so fond of creating. And the best part? Now before naps or bedtime I tell you to go upstairs and go potty and climb into bed, and you do it, without help. You put your underpants back on and everything. Okay. I know. Not even you will be remotely interested in this by the time you can read about it, but wait. Someday. When you have a kid. You'll know why I've devoted a rather lengthy paragraph to this accomplishment. Basically, you totally rock, kiddo.
You, my sweet boy, are thoughtful, kind, and heartfelt. When daddy or I get hurt, you run to us with kisses. You tell us "I love you," us twenty times a day. You want a million hugs. You are a snuggle bug. You are still an awful sleeper, but it's significantly better than it was. Every night you wake up around midnight or a little after, and for a while it was really killing us: having to stagger into your room to comfort you and eventually haul you back to our bed. But then we put a little star light above your bed, with a switch that you can turn on yourself, and now at night when you wake up, we here you whimper and then sigh. And then click. Click. As you try to turn the switch on. And then a sudden pale glow coming from your room and a pitter-patter of feet, and then you're crawling into bed all sweet smelling and snuggly, and it's perfect. Also, you've been sleeping until 7:30 which is quite nice.
If I could, I'd keep you at two-and-a-half for another whole year. People warned about the terrible twos, but I love you this age, when a count to five ends most tantrums and the thing you want most in the world is to understand how everything works. Thank you for being who you are. Every day, you make me smile, you make my heart feel like it is made of helium, you make me grateful.
Love, Mama
A welcome
Welcome to mamahood, Sam! Welcome to the world, little one, you’ve got an amazing mama!