Things I want to know:
... If every 3 ½ year old goes through a phase of DISAGREABLE that involves rejecting every choice and every option presented to him, and also often involves throwing himself to the floor in sobbing dramatics when told that those are his only choices, or even, at his very worst, saying, No Mommy! You listen to me! when told to listen. And also…
If the rest of the world really thinks Palin is a charming and gorgeous as Pakistan’s president does (ick.)
Why anyone in the world really thinks Palin would make a good VP, or, god forbid, the president.
Why McCain thought smirking endlessly during the debates would make him come off as anything other than an ass.
Why anyone really would vote for someone who has voted for 90% of the things Bush has voted for. Seriously.
Why I am still feeling indigestion/nausea/ridiculous unpleasantries when I am 18 weeks pregnant.
cool kid
Tonight we went on a run. As a family. All three of us. Granted, my current version of running is more of a run-walk-galumpf than a real run... Still, Bean was thrilled. He put on sports socks and sneakers and kept up a good pace for almost a half mile before he needed a rest in the running stroller. DH went on ahead of us for a while, but I was content to slow-jog with Bean as he spent the next mile and a half periodically resting and clambering out to run along side me.
Once while he was sitting in the stroller slurping water he said, "Mommy, did you know that tummies make water into blood for our bodies?"
"Really?" I asked. "Who told you that?"
"No one," he said confidently. "I just figured it out."
Pretty cool thinking for being three, huh? And so fun to run with him. So fun.
Surly.
I have been in a catastrophically bad mood. All day. I have tried, desperately to shake it, but it seems to still have the better of me. I convinced DH to haul Bean on a hike up the mountain through the first fallen red leaves. I took note of the bright blue sky. Munched a fresh-picked apple and ate potato chips on the bank of an old beaver pond. Watched the light angle through the quivering leaves. And still, I felt like crying. Everything makes me cry. Everything makes me surly. Every word angled carelessly in my direction. Everything, including the bin of maternity clothes DH fished out of the basement for me, and all I could think as I looked through them was, "dear lord, these are all hideous fat clothes." Even though they're not. Even though there are some pants in there I entirely forgot about that are not half bad at all.
To make matters worse, Bean has been a monster today. There have been maybe five days in his entire life where I didn't like him very much, even as I love him desperately to bits, and today was one of them. Everything I asked him to do was met with tantrums. Sweatshirts have become a heated issue. He hates them. Yet he must wear them. It makes going out of the house a royal pain.
The only redeeming thing about Bean's mood (which matched mine, I know, this fact is not lost on me) was that he drew a picture of a monster today on his easel, and the picture could just as well have been a self portrait with three googly eyes, a whole mess of teeth, a big slobbery tongue and four ears. Oy.
I have resorted to ice cream. I have not yet eaten said ice cream, but it is my only hope that any small shred of the day might be salvaged.
Tuesday, Tuesday
I come home with a sore throat. Tuesday. Every week Tuesday seems to day that kicks my butt the most. I feel like a rug worn to the weft. Like the delicate filigree of a leaf’s veinwork—all that’s left after a season of snow. Or like the gray goose feathers scattered about the yard, down torn along the quill. My small boy is waiting for me, playing in the backyard in the slanting sunshine, his hair lit gold, his face smudged with a mustache of dirt. He burrows into me, a full body hug. He hands me a bottle of bubbles slick with soap, “Blow bubbles for me mommy!†he instructs, then waits until I fill the air with transparent rainbow spheres that float up towards the blue sky, cloudless and bright.
We walk down the driveway, the geese following us, a rumpus of flapping and honks, they think we’re Mama. Anyone with two legs. Mama. The leaves have started to turn, though for the most part everything’s still lush and green and the air, until today was warm like summer. But today we can feel a crispness.
Suddenly I’m craving grapefruit and apples. Peaches and watermelon seem like afterthoughts. In the garden, potatoes wait to be dug, and pumpkins have grown fat.
It’s Tuesday and my throat hurts and I want to curl up and make time stand still so that I can catch up with myself. I lie in the grass after Bean goes indoors with DH. The evening sun is falling towards me. The grass is cold. I can here an owl, the baaing of sheep, the twitter of birds. The geese settle in next to me, preening. They nibble at my hair. I try to let myself sink down into the moment, noticing. Noticing layer upon layer of sound, of smell, of light, of hue.
Then they’re at the doorway wanting me for dinner, and I go.
For the record
I’m not sure why I feel compelled to write about the messy sharp-edged rawness; skies the color of cement, thunder storms, evening clouds ripped to shreds and stained vermillion with the setting sun. Except to say that I write because these things matter, and my words are like the layers of snow buried within a glacier of all the winters that have come before. Maybe it’s because I want to know that I was here, that we were, again and again. I want others to know this too; perhaps to offset the Hollywood happily ever after we’re all fed as teenagers.
As a culture we spin so many myths and prick ourselves in the process like the princess in Sleeping Beauty. We easily fall into a slumber of illusion, the roses growing thick around us, all those velvet petals and sweet fragrance blurring our view of the thorns that grow there too. We lie about our happiness, over and over again. Perhaps we cannot help ourselves.
Flip through any magazine, and without fail there are the glossy images of women defying death: skin taught and unwrinkled, eyes bright as they stare dreamily into the eyes of some muscular man poised to sweep them off their feet (or at an equally dreamy handbag.) The illusion is complete: beauty, possessions, money—these things make you happy.
I remember when my husband and I were camping in Puerto Rico long before we were married. We were both in college still. It was spring break. The sand was like sugar and flecked with shells. The water bluer than blue. Every evening postcard perfect clouds in rose and choral decorated the sky just for us. We were in love. Naturally we decided to spend a night sleeping under the stars right there on the beach, without a tent, just us, and our sleeping bags zipped together and partly open to the warm night air, our naked bodies tangled and salty from playing all day in the waves.
How many times have you seen the image of lovers sleeping on the beach—or making love for that matter, hip deep in salt water, her shirt white and wet hugging the alluring curves of her firm round breasts? Enough times to believe it, right? Well it fucking sucks in actuality. Sleeping on the beach feels like being rubbed down with sandpaper. Sand in every crevice: eyelids, nostrils, ears, unmentionable places. There are also sandf flies and the endless worry of an unusually high tide.
Sometime after midnight when the full moon was directly above us and we both finally stopped pretending to be blissfully asleep, DH turned to me, “Wanna go back to the tent?†he asked. Hell yes. Still we kind of felt like romantic failures--until we burst into uncontrollable laughter, and rolled together into a heaving heap in our tent.
But isn’t that what we learn? That true love, true happiness, and a real romantic marriage is always happy and glamorous and exquisite. The beach is never really sandy. There are never any sand flies, or sunburn or yeast infections or heartache or ego.
So I write about the days when things are tense and the friction feels like the sand felt on my sunburned skin.
Maybe by circling back to these moments I create a different illusion—that my marriage is fraught with conflict, which is hardly the case. There is so much sweetness between us, so many moments jam-packed with goodness like this morning, when we went to the farmers market and wandered around grinning at each other licking cinnamon and sugar from our fingers. So many hours, days, weeks even, when we fit together like seals basking on salty rocks: effortless in our play and our contentment.
But I want to record the other times too, because they are hard. Because growth never comes from the moments of easy pleasure. Growth comes when the ache is greatest, when wanderlust and terror swell equally in my chest and I choose instead to stay, to say I’m sorry, and to grow with this man at my side. Again and again and again.
One of those days
This morning, racing to the toilet in an attempt to avoid vomiting all over the floor, I ended up smacking myself in the face with the toilet seat cover. Hard enough to bruise myself.
Crying + vomit. What could be better? Sigh.
Milestone
The end of moments where his orbit is only family; the arc of his moods, willy-nilly with glee or tumbling with gloomy sorrow at some slight wrong, only ours to witness.
Now he's out there in the world, navigating friendships and expectations and the contents of his school lunch box. And it makes breath catch in my throat.
He has the sweetest teacher imaginable (who, by the way, volunteered to email me every single day to let me know how his day went--because I can never come to pick up to read the daily journal. How awesome is that?) And on his school days he wakes up early and full of smiles like bright slices of oranges.
Still.
And also, I think I'm feeling flutters of the baby kicking--but not regular flutters---and I am wondering when it's normal to start feeling regular movement? I can't remember what I felt last time--in fact the only thing I remember about my last pregnancy was my gag reflex in response to the smell of catfood; my hatred of maternity clothing, and very little else.
finding my way back...
I can't say why or when I stopped. Just did, and then the weeks became months, and my soul was elsewhere. Maybe with words on the page? In any case, it felt good to slip back into paint and glue and ink and graphite, making something without editing; the inexact phrase of the image.
What have you left off or forgotten or taken a break from?
I want to remember this
As I'm working in my new studio, Bean is in his new room playing with his new trains. He's been playing for the past 45 minutes. From the hall I hear is soft little voice floating towards me, as he talks to himself, and sings songs about trains to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. He's gotten so big and independent suddenly, with this shift to sleeping in his big-boy bed all through the night. Now he runs down the hall to tell me that the "engines are all in the roundhouse and the cars are all outside." Then he adds, with a sneaky little grin, "one of the engines can fly!"
Seeing my paints set up on my workbench, he says, "I want to paint!" I remind him that I've set up an easel in his room, taping a large piece of butcher paper to the floor with painters tape to make a kid-friendly workspace. "Oh yeah," he says, and runs off to fill up a jar of water. The next thing I hear is him singing, as he puts bold brushstrokes of purple and turquoise onto the paper.
This new maturity and independence makes me think that yes, possibly, I will be able to parent two. I'm still terrified of it, even as I feel the first fin-fluttering kicks of the baby in my womb and grin. It seems so three-ring-circus. So non-stop. So topsy-turvy to have two. But then, watching Bean, I know he will be a great big brother--and he's so thrilled to be having a sibling soon. He draws pictures of our family "and the baby."
Things will be different this time, for sure. We're not newbies. We're parents already, comfortable in our roles. When Bean was first born for the longest time I felt like I was an imposter. Especially pushing his stroller. This is not my life, I'd think. Still, I can hardly imagine those first months again. Those months where sleep is a mosaic of fragments. Where the days are blured and sharp edged. Moments of milky breath, dolphin squeaks, and gummy grins.
Will I ever feel ready before it happens? Or is it like diving, you only know you can do it, after you've leapt, sailed through the air, and broken the surface of the water below.
Small big things
It was our unnoficial anniversary yesterday (first date.) Nine years. We ate Mexican on the waterfront, with a perfect sunset and perfect weather. Now the remnants of hurricane Hannah bring rain and thunder. I'm so in love with my man. Still. More than ever. He's like good wine.... He's aged well. He's hotter, more confident, kinder, and more thoughtful than when I met him. In other small big news, we just got back from buying lots of track and trains to add on to Bean's collection--a reward for the momentous milestone: he's slept in his OWN BED all night for the past five nights. We moved his room--and his new room (my old studio space) is so cozy and snug and fun. He loves the bright sepia walls, the gabled ceilings, and a new soft rug to play on. And remarkably, he was game to sleep in his bed the whole night--waking up to check that his nightlight was on, and then going back to sleep.
This is huge. This is beyond huge. At the beginning of the week, after his first successful night, we celebrated with cupcakes (homemade, from Nigella Lawson's How To Be A Domestic Goddess) with purple frosting. I figured: anything to sweeten the deal. And it seemed to work.
But perhaps underneith it all, he was just ready. He was like that with all his milestones: throwing out his pacifier for good at 10 months; weaning at 16 mos; potty training effortlessly at about 18-24 mos. It's something to remember about him--when he's really ready, it won't be a struggle.
Isn't this true for everyone though? So much of what makes things a struggle daily is that we don't feel ready, we feel rushed, croweded, over-booked, over-worked, frazzled. If we have adequate time to wrap our heads around things, it's not so hard to get everything accomplished, and then some. Or at least that's how it is for me. And this is partly why I took a blogging break. I needed more time in my days.
Time to just be with my guys, and to settle into the pace of teaching again. Time to treat myself gently (I'm still feeling iffy, the nausea still creeps up every day at some point.) Time to make purple cup cakes and redecorate and take naps with DH while Bean is at his grandparents house. And it's been good. I needed to slow down, though it's not something I do naturally.
Still I missed blogging. Missed teasing out little snippets of my day into the yarn of sentences, the fabric of paragraphs. I missed the quirky dialogue that takes place here in the comments (the Internet = my only source of parenting advice, for one.)
And today when we hauled a huge bag of clothing to Plato's Closet to try and sell them, we were told, "These [five items] are the only ones we could take. The rest are too mature in style." And immediately, I thought of you. Because who else can I go to and whimper: THE LADY AT PLATO'S CLOSET JUST CALLED US OLD.
Am I old?
Damn. I guess I am. Old enough that my bag of cast-offs (lots of unwanted gifts from well-meaning relatives) aren't trendy enough for a second hand store. Oh well. Goodwill was happy for them, and either way, my closet has way more space.
I'll stop whimpering immediately if anyone has any good tips on where to buy maternity clothes that don't cost boatloads? Because my belly is popping out (way faster than with Bean) and even the Bella Band I'm starting to feel like a sausage.
I'm not gone...
... Just taking a break. So much to tell you about. I'll be back by the end of the week (if not before.)
xoxo!
Saturday ::
Went to sleep last night with the dizzy images of the Olympic opening ceremony.The awe-inspiring precision, the vastness, the almost eery unison of the performers left me feeling both wonder-filled and anxious. The little children, handing the Chinese flag over to the soldirers... shivers. Woke up to sun. The twelfth day of sun all summer. For real.
French toast and a iced latte. I may be turning a corner (though I feel queasy right now.) Then I finished painting my new studio space upstairs, before dinner with freinds downtown. Play in the fountain. Street artists. Good times.
Friday ::
* An iced decaf latte tasted good today. This is miraculous.
* Bought orchids for my new studio space (we're shuffeling rooms, repainting, etc.)
* My pants no longer fit, but I'm not really showing. In other words, I look chubby around my middle. So attractive. It's all about the bella band now.
* Am excited to watch the Olympics tonight. They always get me motivated to do sports and to take better care of myself. Ironically--last time I was watching the summer Olympics, Bean was in my tummy.
* Bean used the words "actually" and "absolutely" in the same sentence today. It made me giggle. Now he's digging gravel on the driveway with the geese looking on.
* I've decided all the little things matter. In a year from now I'll forget what being pregnant was like. For the next little while, I'll be focusing on minutia :) and perhaps starting to draw every day objects again. It's somehow very grounding to bring my attention back to the little things. To take notice of food, small moments, errands, conversations.
Thursday ::
More thunder. The kind that rips things. That takes your breath away. That follows the same jagged streak through the sky that the lightneing took.
Feeling slightly better today, but terrified that if I say so the horrible morning sickness gods will smite me down.
Watched the end of So You Think You Can Dance tonight, and every bone in my non-dancer body wishes I were a dancer. People tease me for loving the show--but they can only be people who haven't watched. Because it's not just entertainment, it's art. Some of the dance pieces tonight made my breath catch. Its one of the few things I'd do differently if I could do my life over again. I'd dance. Instead I grew up in a very quiet home without any music that even remotely had a beat (read: my parents only played Vivaldi) and hence I have zero rhythm. Yet watching dance makes my heart sing.
If you could do something differently--if you could do your life over again--what would you do?
Wednesday ::
I felt reasonable today, and as a result accomplished seven times what I have been typically accomplishing every day. As in: completed & turned in 2 manuscripts, finished an article, and completely set my classroom up. That last part took me almost the whole day. My back is rediculously sore from pushing metal desks and bookshelves around. I snagged to boys on custodial duty to move the really heavy stuff, but the rest I did myself. It's too hard to try and visualize classroom feng shui with two teenage boys gawking about.
While I was sorting books rainclouds gathered. Suddenly it was ominously black out my window. Then the rain came pelting down in sheets. The smell of ozone came through the open windows, and then a crack of thunder so close I jumped. On the way home I passed the tree the lightening had hit. A huge branch had cleaved off an old maple--and had wrapped itself entirely around an electrical line. One thing New England weather isn't is boring.
Also: Bean just went and got his shoes and then left the house with his guitar (an old beaten up acoustic guitar we've had around forever) saying "I'm leaving to go to a concert so I won't be able to go to bed tonight. The concert will be really really long and I'll be out really late."
I have absolutely no idea where he got that idea.
Micro blogging
So I've been both rediculously busy and rediculously sick. Still. Isn't that sad? But in my state of near dispair I came up with a good idea: micro blogging. Of course twitter already came up with the idea, and I'm just a lame copy cat, but I decided that I'm going to try this month to blog as much as possible, about all the little things that I keep saying "I should write this down or I'll forget," and then I promptly forget. Like this: Bean, in a conversation about how you can tell the difference between boys and girls said: "Girls have hair that goes flowing down. Boy's hair mostly flows up. Occasionally boy's hair goes flowing down too though." Direct quote. Yes, he used the word occasionally. Can YOU think of a better three year old definition?
Or this: It is thundering every single minute right now. Not big huge cracks of thunder, but little bursts. The sky is pale and overcast, and of course, it has been raining. It has so far rained every single day in August.
And also this: for two days I felt better. I had an iced latte (tall) made by DH with maple syrup. It was divine. He also made biscuits (from scratch) and eggs. Everything tasted rediculously good. I was heady with the possibility of feeling like myself again. I accomplished eighty-nine things including starting to paint my new studio/office space (deep blue.) And then crash. Yesterday I was a miserable ball of ick. Beyond depressing.
Alright. That's it. I'll be back today. See, micro blogging means I am basically going to write everything down in little bursts like the thunder. We'll see how long it lasts. A month? Maybe? (If I have internet in Colorado.) Anyone want to join me?
what do you do?
What do you do when your kid is over tired. You know this as surely as you know it's raining. He skipped his nap. Falls apart before dinner over a cracker, over putting his sweatshirt on, over cleaning up his blocks. What do you do when you make every attempt to put him to bed early on time, and you give him an extra long bath because it should calm him down...but by bedtime he is tightly wound. Over tired. Stubborn. He doesn't like the songs you sing. He kicks his legs in your general direction. He wails when you leave after your promised one song and a snuggle. He gets up and follows you to the door, screaming, sobbing. Do you give in? Do you go back and calm him because you know he's tired? Or do you insist, and not give in--this tantrum likely to lead to others. Bedtime already prolonged enough. What do you do? Because I don't honestly know lately. He's at this new stage, and its requiring all the patience I've got.