And Another Thing:

Here I am!

2011-02-10T15:13:00.002-06:00

Were you wondering if I'd left?

Well, I did.

I'm over here now.

It's a different place, because I'm in a different place with blogging and life-sharing, but mostly in a different place with time and writing. I have two kids now, y'all. And I write all day to help put food in their sweet and loud little mouths. So sitting down in front of a blank slate to figure out how to document this crazy life-- what to say, how to say it, how to be honest, how to not be too honest-- became a chore. I had to give myself a format (you'll see when you get there). And I had to find a new home for it that I could easily tap into from my iphone.

I have loved writing this blog and I appreciate every reader and commenter. The transition into parenthood is a weird thing, and it has been a lovely journey to document here. But I can't keep up with it in the same way anymore, and this blog sitting here unattended feels burdensome. The meat of this story-- "the sweet and clumsy life of a new mama"-- has been told, and it's time for a new one. It's still sweet, still clumsy, but so different. For one, I don't have even have two minutes to myself in this big life, let alone the time to compose long, thoughtful posts about it.

So, head on over to the mailroom if you're so inclined, and I hope we'll see more of each other there.

xo,
mama

What the Pediatrician Said:

2010-08-20T13:30:00.002-05:00

Do you want me to hold her so you can put your shirt on right-side-out?

Hot Baby in the Summertime

2010-08-19T15:06:00.004-05:00

Poor little Gopher is home today with a fever.

Poor little mama has nothing to say except "Poor Little Gopher."

I am working from home this afternoon, otherwise known as Livin' the Dream.

Also, I am hungry. For the past few weeks, I've been trying to follow the rules of the No S Diet, which is both difficult and easy-- and so ridiculously straightfoward it makes cheating difficult to rationalize. Finally, a worthy adversary to my superhero rationalizing powers. Dammit.

Just returned from a truly lovely weekend at a cabin in the mountains with Mr. and Mrs. Littlebrother and their sweet little Izzy. Could have used, like, 5 extra days. We had pool access, a gorgeous view, a raccoon visitor that both terrified and delighted Birdy, plenty of food and drink, and nothing to do but be together. Much needed, much appreciated, much much much. I/ we are lucky.

Ah, the being lucky. Something I am so acutely aware of lately, as I respond in my puny human-logic way to the big and non-specific brewing change I've been feeling the last few months-- this low thundery thing in the distance.*

What I have is lovely. NOW is so good. I've worked hard for this-- to be able to do the things we do and have the this lifestyle-- this non-extravagant thing, this vanilla-with-just-a-few-sprinkles life. This security and safety (relative to the salad days). This alignment with "how it's supposed to be/ look/ work." I envisioned this. I have this (mostly) under control. The bumps in the road are few and mild these days, just daily non-drama in our happily predictable little world.

So, naturally, it's time to turn the canoe toward the falls, right?

*totally not pregnant, btw.

Now I've really done it.

2010-08-12T16:41:00.003-05:00

I need to be better about recording things in this space. Gopher is a chubby, flappy, screechy 8 months already and I have very few words about her here-- I reported on Birdy's every move, remember? There will be more time soon, I hope. I've done something big-ish but still quiet and gray for the moment. Something that is freaking me out. That is my quietly freaking out at work face up there, in case you were wondering. Stay tuned.

(here are my sweethearts, by the way, being sweet):

Reminder: change contact lenses

2010-07-16T14:03:00.002-05:00

Today, I drove past the driveway sign for Catholic Charities.

For a moment, I thought it said "Catholic Critters."

Just imagine.

Penmanship

2010-06-25T16:05:00.002-05:00

I just signed the customary "Happy Birthday from the department" card for our CEO.

I wrote "Have a lovely birthday."

Despite all efforts to fix it, it still looks like:

"Have a lonely birthday."

****

Confirmed: Bird is Southern.

We were having a conversation the other day and when I was joking around about how stinky Gopher's diaper was, she said,

"Oh, LOWER."

as in,

"Oh, LORD."

But with the Southern bonus syllable.

****

We visited our picture-perfect Indiana college town for our 8th (!! ) anniversary, leaving the sister babies with my folks.

The weather, it was perfect. The sleeping in, it was heavenly. The husband, he is my favorite. The town, it loved us back.

And just as we suspected, Mike still works the door at the Vid. And remembered us by name after TEN years, which I'd like to attribute to his insane steel-trap memory and not our (ahem) frequent flyer status at the townie bars. In any case, that guy is a freaking legend and seems to have acquired more walkie-talkies as the years have progressed.

****
You know when you re-hear a band you love but had kind of forgotten about and you air-drum on your steering wheel and kick yourself for not listening to that album every waking minute since you got it two years ago or whatever?

That's how I'm feelin' about the Features these days.

Got to tip on the tightrope

2010-06-12T22:56:00.004-05:00

That's us, tippin' on the tightrope, always.
It is crazy here. As Bird recently declared, "This house is nothing but babies and crazy people."

Well said.

Work is nuts, A's work is nuts, kids are nuts, social calendar is nuts, weather/ heat is nuts, dogs are nuts, family is nuts:
IT'S A DAD-GUMMED PARTY MIX, Y'ALL.

And on Friday, we all (except Gopher) woke up with some kind of awful stomach ick which passed-- violently-- in about 24 hours and our tiny one-man bathroom saw A LOT of action.

In the past few weeks, I've been on two bizarre work-related road trips, one in which I saw a sign by the side of the road that said "Twenty Kinds of Cheese" and I actually got to stop, and another in which I drug my friend T. along and visited the most delicious-smelling Mennonite grocery in all of West Tennessee, plus saw buzzards, plus saw a goat standing on top of another goat (!), plus drove a Grand Marquis all over the countryside, plus visited a very creepy home/ museum or two, plus plus plus. This project, it wears me out in a good way, and it beats the hell out of writing healthcare marketing copy day in and day out behind a desk, so I'll take it.

Also watched the LOST finale, and I have one thing to say: pbbbbbbffffttt. Way to waste a few years of my life, LOST. It was as if the writers showed up for the final exam but hadn't really been doing the reading all semester, which is something I wake up in a cold sweat over, still, 12 years post-college. So in essence, the finale of LOST was my recurring nightmare.

Plus, it was lame.

There is more, but I am tired, and A. is at Bonnaroo doing some supercool work opportunity fun creative project stuff, and I'm supposed to be doing actual work-work (sewing machine marketing, anyone?) that I promised to do for Monday since I had to leave the office early on Friday on account of a guts-puke-out. Because I'm dedicated like that.

I'll leave you with our latest favorite dance party:
Me: What do you think those guys are?
Bird: Mirrors with coats on. (duh).

Water, water everywhere.

2010-05-04T22:17:00.006-05:00

Rain this weekend.
Lots of it, straight down, days and nights.
Pound-y rain. Thunder.
Weather radio bleeping and blooping, us joking about how the little man inside it kept telling us what we already knew: it was raining. We GET IT, little guy. Clock out.

We cleaned out closets, I dragged Bird along on a thrift store outing, A. did some wet grocery shopping, we all spent Saturday evening on a friend's porch to celebrate a birthday in the deluge. When it came to shoes, I chose poorly-- cheap purple flats that felt like wet socks on bare feet. Clammy ick. Reached for the pull-chain in the bedroom closet upstairs and drip, drip, drip down my arm from around the light fixture. Rats. Fix it later, oh well. Slept with the windows open and listened to more more more more rain. Woke up in gray light next to a fat, bare baby nursing in her sleep, rain pounding the roof, house completely silent, breezy. Lucky me.

Watery garden in the morning, got in the car and set out to church solo through the downpour, turned around to fetch a forgotten coffee mug from home and stayed. More closet cleaning, making up songs with Bird, scheming with A., making pizza dough, pinching the baby.

Meanwhile, 18 blocks away, the river was escaping its banks, and downtown was drowning. The Opry was drowning. The symphony center was drowning. Opryland Hotel. Lower Broadway. Entire neighborhoods. Schools. Businesses. The mall. History. People were evacuated. People bailed water and watched their keepsakes and furniture float out into the street. Uncontrollable water washed around street corners and flowed in through windows and doors. Cars were carried off. The stranded were rescued from their homes by boat. People lost power, phone service, each other. Roads and bridges crumbled while we ate our pizza and Bird declared her distaste for the crust, again.

The last two mornings I have driven across the bridge over the obscenely swollen river, over three-day-old lakes littered with parked cars, past the now-waterfront intersection of 8th Ave, through clouds of diesel fumes from the generators. I've passed over the waves on First Ave, driven my 4 miles over high ground, parked my car in the bone-dry lot behind my office, and spent large chunks of time obsessing about commas and capitalization rules as I proof a complex and frustrating piece that is set to print tomorrow.

Completely spared. Lucky, lucky me.

Hey, guess what I can do?

2010-04-16T14:06:00.001-05:00

ANYTHING I WANT.

Welcome, dimentia

2010-04-14T11:24:00.002-05:00

At my office, every person has a small bulletin board next to their office door to post clippings, projects, quotes, whatever.

There is a moon-shaped, wire-and-bead creation hanging on mine. It is about 8 inches tall and hangs from a shiny pink and purple ribbon.

I noticed it last week.

I have a vague sense that it was a gift, but I have no memory of it past that.

I have no idea how it got there, how long it's been there, where it came from, or even if I put it there or it was put there for me.

****

And would you like some losing-my-mind related TMI?

Every time I use the restroom at work, I return to my desk and cannot for the life of me remember whether or not I flushed. So I return to the bathroom to check. Every time.

That's it. Carry on.

Scenes from a Marriage:

2010-04-13T10:33:00.002-05:00

Me: Know what would go great with this salad?

A: A bottle of booze and a day off?

Mistakes I Have Made, March 2010 Edition

2010-03-29T21:14:00.002-05:00

1. Emailed the circulation dept. of a magazine I love to tell them, in response to their subscription renewal reminder, that hey! I ordered this subscription in September and I haven't received any issues! And they sendt the 3 back issues I've missed and will be sending everything first class from now on, yadda yadda terrific customer service yadda. Fixed. And then. On my bedside table (ok, old tv tray, but whatever, it sits by my bed with a lamp on it), I happen to notice the Winter issue. Of the magazine. Which I now remember reading cover to cover. Oh, and on the shelf by the window is the Fall issue. So I've been getting it, reading it, and forgetting all about it.

2. Bought a semi-gnarly booster car seat from a woman on craigslist, primarily because I had already written out the check before I met up with her in the parking lot and for some reason felt the deal had already been set in motion. It will do, but in hind sight... eh.

3. Pumped breast milk like a dedicated mama-mammal at the office, washed and sterilized all of my pump parts, and promptly left my baggies of nutritionally perfect and hard-won milkiness in the car all night. On at least three separate occasions.

4. Came within a millimeter of dumping a scoop of baby formula into an open jar of olives.

March, is it?

2010-03-22T21:09:00.005-05:00

So, here it is, the Monday of my 4th week back to work full time, with Gopher in daycare full time.

And you know what? It's going just fine.

Sure, I miss my days of working from home. Mostly the parts when I was baby-snuggling and coffee-getting, though, which meant that I spent a lot of nights working from home to meet my deadlines. And as fantastically snuggly as that Gopher can be, I don't miss working FT with an infant and no childcare.

The month of February was a great opportunity to live the dream, refine the dream. What was once "I want to work from home" is now the more specific "I want to work for myself." Which is good to know. And what was once "sooner than later" is now "when the time is right," which is not now. And what was once "I could totally handle it" is now "I would really, really have to work at time management and give up on perfection."

And for whatever reason (maybe the refined and less urgent dream), I am much more comfortable where I am and I'm realizing that I really like what I do, that I get to do some really interesting things with interesting people, that I am treated with much kindness, and that I am really, really lucky when it comes to my job and many, many other areas in my life. I mean, I knew that before Gopher, but coming back to work was a nice reminder that everything is FINE. GOOD, even. That there is no need to reinvent everything, all the time.

The mornings, though. If I could just fix ONE thing, please. The fucking mornings. The racing around, the unpreparedness, the madness. The limited baby-snuggling, lack of patience-having. The feeling like I've been clawing my way out of a deep, dark pit for hours upon hours before I even hit the office door. That I could do without.

***

Spring must be hiding and giggling and almost peeing its pants somewhere, waiting to jump out and be all "Bloodeedoo!" because I have been feeling CRAFTY and RESTLESS. I've been knitting washcloths like your Granny, I made Birdy 4 little belts to hold her jeans up (bless her heart), and I've been threatening for three weeks to leave this damned house with no children strapped or otherwise attached to my body to go to the fabric store and purchase one of about 8 dress patterns I've had my eye on. That's right, I said it. DRESS PATTERN.

Which is funny, right? Miss jeans and solid-colored t-shirt over here? Well, despite my legendary * ahem * simple fashion sense, I spend a weird amount of time thinking about clothing, partially from a nerdy construction angle and partially from an "I'd like to be in over my head on a project" angle. Plus, dresses. I mean, how much easier does it get? One piece of clothing + shoes. Tights if it's cold. No finding multiple clean pieces. And in my current body shape, no waistband, amen. What may seem like a move toward the fancy is actually a move toward the lazy, and I am totally cool with that.

***

Bird and I ran into one of her former daycare teachers at the hotdog stand a few weekends ago. She's a lovely person, mid-twenties, who has recently become a police officer. She spends her working hours patrolling on foot in the projects. Which is, as you might have guessed, is totally hard core.

I realized as we were talking that becoming a cop is one of the most unsettling things I could imagine. In my life now, with my constantly humming little brain thinking up bizarre scenarios in the background of my actual, valuable thoughts, there are plenty of situations (plausible and implausible) that I am able to dismiss with "I would call the police."

But for Laura, holy shit, she IS the police. Which, for some, might feel empowering. To me, it seems terrifying. To know that this idea of an all-seeing protector is truly just a human, with no superhuman powers and no more magic than anybody else. That since Joe Policeman visited my 4th grade class, I've had this imaginary army of officers who totally had my back and really? There's just ME. I'm IT, and I know just exactly how un-magical I am. And there are a bunch of people out there who think I'm capable of being not only a badass, but a superhero badass.

And really (this is my point), it's kind of the same thing being a parent, isn't it? Those moments when you say to yourself, "Holy shit, I AM the mom. And I don't have a clue what I'm doing."

What I just said to my friend on the phone:

2010-03-06T20:00:00.001-06:00

"I'll give you that crochet hook at church tomorrow."

Old. Lady.

Today, remember:

2010-03-04T08:21:00.001-06:00

You're Awesome at Life.

I'd like a slice, please

2010-02-20T21:33:00.004-06:00

What my husband said in a pretend conversation with the guy who almost ran him over during his run downtown this afternoon:

"You want a slice-a this beefcake? You're gonna need a fork, buddy."

I thought it was precious.

Also precious:
Birdy doing several "silly walks" all around the wide ledges of the Parthenon, including a totally kick-ass robot walk that would make the Beastie Boys stand up and cheer. Intergalactic, planetary! (that is not Bird in the photo. That is not even my photo. But that is the Parthenon.)

And precious-er:
Lunch time, Bird and I standing at the edge of the duck pond at the park, sans bread, when a sweet little girl came over to us and offered Birdy the top of a hamburger bun from her duck-bread stash. We said thank you, the girl moved on, and Birdy sat there for a second, staring at the bun.

She looked up at me and whispered, "Mom, can I eat this?"

Less precious:
20 minutes spent staring at, wondering about, and discussing in great detail a dead squirrel on the side of the walking path.

And most wonderful:
My Bird can read!
Fat Cat Rat Hat Splat! Can Ran Stand Pants! Hop Pop Stop!

Thoughts on giving and receiving

2010-02-17T08:07:00.003-06:00

After a grumpy little incident involving my Bird, my mom, and a pair of brand new jeans, Bird and I had this exchange at bedtime.

Mama: You know, when someone gives you a gift you don't really like, most of the time you just say "thank you" and move on.

Bird: Why?

Mama: So you don't hurt the person's feelings. Think about how you would feel if you gave someone a present and they said they didn't like it.

Bird: Oh. It would hurt my feelings. Ok.

Mama: So... what if I gave you... a hat you didn't really like?

Bird: I would say "thank you."

Mama: What if I gave you... a really ugly shirt?

Bird: I would say "thank you."

(( long pause ))

Bird: What if I gave you a fart?

Mama: Well, I guess I'd have to say "thank you."

(( long pause, giggles))

Bird: I just farted, mom.

I once got busy in a Burger King Bathroom

2010-01-25T12:35:00.006-06:00

Working from Home:
WOW, my friends. It's everything I dreamed it could be. And I just learned how to nurse in the moby, so YEAH. One sweet month of livin ' the dream before I'm back to wearing real pants, remembering my key code and doing my designated week of office kitchen duty. That's gonna hurt.

She Has a Home
Mystery solved: neighborhood-wandering chicken (who survived the cold snap! aw snap!) is the tragic result of a chicken escape that happened to my corner neighbors. Except the chicken was to be a gift, so the neighbors aren't exactly eager to get her back, as they never intended to own her. They tell me that the only way to catch a chicken is to wait until it's asleep and then sneak up on it and grab it, so... not bloody likely. Looks like I'll be cleaning chicken shit off my sidewalk for a good long while, or until the chicken meets with whatever natural predators a chicken might encounter 18 blocks from the smack-middle of a major metropolitan area. I must say it satisfies my country-livin' yearnings to see her pecking and scratching around outside the kitchen window every morning.

And speaking of urban living:
My friend J. recently tried to help me understand why in the holy hell one would live 30 miles away from one's workplace, explaining that he really didn't mind his super long-ass commute to work, or the traffic, or the fact that he puts in the equivalent of almost one extra work day each week just getting there and back. He said that on that very morning, he had left his subdivision and continued his commute through a stretch of hills and farmland, where a light morning fog was just beginning to lift over the giant, stoic hay bales dotting the fields. And something about a deer or a fox or a magical unicorn that inspired him to turn up the Dave Matthews, sip his Starbucks Mochachino and really JAM.

Well.

One morning, I saw a dude gracefully drop trou and take a shit in a garbage can on the Main Street Bridge, like it was nothing. Salut!

Things go missing sometimes:
I almost surely popped a box of granola bars in the library drop box along with my library books by mistake. (Hey, it happens.) Later, there was some discrepancy at the Library about books I had not returned, which I swore up and down I had returned. I defended my honor by stating that I absolutely remembered returning those books, because I returned them with a box of granola bars! See!?! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER MY GRANOLA BARS, LIBARY GUY? WERE THEY DELICIOUS? HUH? WERE THEY?
And then, I found the books under Birdy's bed. And the granola bars in the car.
And showed my true crazy to the library guy in one short vignette.

Pretty Much What I Expected When I Said I'd Bear his Children:
This weekend I walked in on A. in the living room drinking a bloody mary, dancing around with Birdy and watching the Humpty Dance on YouTube. A true peach, my friends.

Letter to a 4 year old

2010-01-24T16:29:00.002-06:00

Dear Bird,

You are driving me nuts.
I love you, lovelovelovelove you, but damn.

xo,
mama

U and I make a difference

2010-01-12T12:50:00.003-06:00

The other day, I heard Birdy in the parlor playing with some shoddily-made Christmas crap and doing some loud, frustrated growling that sounded like it would soon become frustrated throwing.

"Bird," I said, "Maybe when you're frustrated, you could find something else to say, like 'RATS!' "
"Yeah," said A, how about 'aw, nuts!' ?"

She thought for a minute and said, "Or I could say... SHUT!"

I'd say it's about time you met the Gopher.

2010-01-06T10:05:00.016-06:00

There she is, sweet Ophelia Rose. Born at the beginning of December by c-section, 10 days early.

FAQs:

What is the Birth Story?
This could be a long one, due to some medical weirdness in my blood requiring a lot of doctors and a bonus captive period in the hospital a few weeks before she actually came for infusions and other excitement. Boring. Here are the parts that count:

1. Ringalingaling!
Surprise! I know we're catching you at the end of your work day, but just wanted to let you know the stars have aligned and your platelets are up and you're having major abdominal surgery to produce a human tomorrow morning at 9am! Be there or be square! Oh, and don't eat or drink anything after midnight! Tell your boss! Bye!

2. It turns out that while you lie there on the table, nice and sliced wide open, the hot topic of conversation is Types of Salsa in the Hospital Cafeteria. The anesthesiologist likes the fruity salsas. Turns out there are far more choices since Baja Fresh opened. Residents are all about the roasted corn, and the nurses dig the green chile business. What's that? Oh, shit! A BABY!

Also, being conscious through surgery in a teaching hospital means listening to the surgeon grill observing students about your innards. "What is this?" is not something you expect to hear from someone who is elbow-deep in your abdominal cavity. Even for the sake of education.

3. ...And truly miraculously, it happened again: a perfect baby girl. Generally grunty and squeaky with a bad-ass hunger cry and a voracious appetite, big blinky eyes and a nice baby smell. Oh, we are lucky.

What does Bird think of all this?
Where to begin? She's huge, for one. A gigantic, sweet and bumbling monster of a child, doing her very very best to not crush or eat this baby out of love or frustration. Always in her face, nose to nose. So much adoration for this tiny new thing, so much curiosity and, alternately, boredom. So much sharing of attention to be done, so much change. Trying so hard to be the big sister we all made such a big deal about. We congratulate her on her kindnesses, on sharing, every victory we can find. We try to be gentle with redirection, give her a little wiggle room. But we also get annoyed. She gets annoyed. We snap. We all act out. We reconcile. We say to each other, "I love you very much, even when you are DRIVING ME BANANAS." Permission to say that is worth its weight in gold, for all parties involved. I hear it just as much as I say it these days.

Goodness, though. It's complicated. Sometimes I want to set her out on the front porch and lock the door behind her, sometimes I literally cry over her sweetness and the hard, clumsy work she's putting into her part of becoming a family of four. Sweet Bird. Oh my.

Are you getting any sleep?
Am I supposed to? Stop asking silly questions. Are you winning the lottery? No? Did you expect to?

How is A. holding up?
Wow. The most wonderful husband/ father/ friend. I hit the spousal jackpot, y'all. This man was born to be a daddy of girls and a partner to a lunatic like me. He is incredibly kind, patient, and so easy to love. And damn cute, eh?

Can we bring a casserole?
And oh, the friends! The best in the whole dang world and beyond. We have eaten well and been so loved. Who says we don't live near our family?

How were the holidays?
The first in nine years without a single trip to Indiana. Plenty of visitors-- two separate shifts of grandparents and family before and after the Main Event, full of joyful company and personal quirks and general holiday drama. But Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were just ours-- free to sit around in our jammies and gaze at the baby and play with our (modest) Christmas loot and eat nachos and watch Mary Poppins. I never knew Christmas could be so lovely. Best. Gift. Ever.

How is Maternity Leave?
Oh, man. Livin' the dream most of the time. Sometimes feels a little solitary, sometimes wonderfully so. Adjusting to the pace of home, re-working my definition of urgency and daily accomplishment, trying to keep the dishes done and the laundry caught up, trying to work in a shower once in a while.

But also: YOU SHOULD SEE MY LIST, Y'ALL. Budgets, closets, books, sewing, projects, purging, thrifting, cooking... half of me fighting for long hours of napping and dreamy baby-gazing and the other half barking tasks like a drill Sargent. This is the last maternity leave I'm likely to have-- and possibly the most time away from work until I retire*-- and both of me (dreamy mama and taskmaster) just want to make the most of it. Sometimes it is an ugly fight, but everyone eventually gets their say, and it tends to cost me my nap.

And what else?
Ran over my own keys in the pet store parking lot this weekned. And you thought it couldn't be done!

The neighborhood free-range chicken has taken a particular shine to our front yard tree/ garden. As her shitting place.

Lovin' the MOBY.

Contemplating a haircut like this one, as a sneaky growing-out tactic, considering going back to Shaky Hands. I know! A gamble! But she is so cheap! And I know better!

And up to my general scheming, as usual. Wheels turning, turning. Always.

*OMFG

I'm not gone, I'm just...

2009-11-12T15:37:00.004-06:00

Pregnant. Still.

Don't forget about me. I have things to say if you still want to hear them.

But right now I have to pee. Again.

31 days to go, btw.

Can I get a HOLY SHIT?

Listen alla y'all

2009-09-11T12:00:00.000-05:00

Today, I am naming a line of household garment care appliances. Finding and combining words about trust and value and the desire to be the kind of woman to whom pressed drapes and tablecloths are a given. I'm a little out of my element. The only iron I have ever owned is the one I own now, and it was left behind by a previous tenant in a house I rented in 1998. A discolored, renegade college iron. Even then, it was somebody's mom's old cast-off. I'm not getting very far. I am skilled at assassinating the creative process. Sabotage.

Why do I do this? I babystep into the word-world, do some research, find some images that get me to that place where people press (shit, OWN) tablecloths. The lines get wavy and I get into that person's head, start to understand how "Classic" differs from "Essential," how that feels, what combinations of words resonate, fit, complement. And just when I start to see the words and feel them and they have color and weight and texture to me, and they start to interact and kick up some good homekeeping-vibe momentum, I kick out a word. And another word. And they kind of work, no, wait, rearranged they COULD work, and I step back and take a look and say, "that might just be okay." And then I say, "That is a damn fine start." And what I should say next would be something like, "now what if..." but instead, my brain says, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" and I do this ultra-quick zoom-out thing, and if you were sitting here I'd make the noise that I think goes with it, and make some wild gestures, but you're not here, so imagine the face you would make if you were asleep and you woke up and realized you were driving down the interstate, because that's the face my brain makes. I HAVE to check email! I HAVE to check facebook! I HAVE to call the pediatrician, HAVE to make a note to call the countertop guy! And we should have a pumpkin party for Birdy's fourth! And I need to look up the Swine Flu! It's like trying to fall asleep and waking up suddenly every time you start dreaming. It is not a good way to work. And it's not getting any irons named.

Looks like we're going with "the Flattenah."

5:25 Sunday afternoon:

2009-08-09T17:21:00.004-05:00

Reclining on the couch with one foot on the ottoman and my belly hanging out of my shirt, talking to Bird about spiders and letting the dog lick a pile of potato chip crumbs from my already-filthy pants.

And that ends our latest trip to Indiana.

Pothole O'Reilly

2009-08-06T22:14:00.003-05:00

Those were my two wavy words to type when I ordered my 7,000th bridal shower gift of the summer on Amazon. Pothole O'Reilly. Sounds like a scruffy little pickpocket.

I was explaining this at the dinner table, and Bird said, "who is Paco O'Reilly?" And yeah, even better.

Bird has been doing this weird exaggerated Southern accent lately, and I can't decide if I love it for its cleverness and her ability to notice and modify language, or if I hate it because it's obnoxious and loud and usually repetitive. Both, I guess.

I'm in the middle of a huge project at work. A project which involves a lot of pressure, and a deadline, and a lot of research. And truthfully, I should be at the END of this project, but I have grown to dislike it very much and spend a lot of my work time searching for distraction. Like the Seinfeld episode where George and Jerry sit down to write the pilot. In any case. This project. Kicking my lazy, pregnant ass all over the room.

Things we have recently prepared and liked, which involve minimal stove time: Mango Avocado Rolls, Edamame Hummus. Yum on both. Go try.

Currently reading: Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc. The library sent an email saying the book was overdue. So I went online to renew it, naturally. And it is ON HOLD for another patron, and therefore un-renewable. But! I am loving this book, in a sad and curious way, so I keep making reading promises and making more headway, racing to finish and return just a little bit late. This is my public apology to the next reader: I do hope you are a hopeful and disorganized library patron like me, that you use the hold list as more of a wish list, and that you will be pleasantly surprised to learn that it's your turn, instead of sitting in your reading chair in the dark all alone, tapping your fingertips on the table until I'm done. Because dammit, I have to finish this book.

Vocabulary Police, Dawdling, and Over-thinking

2009-07-23T16:27:00.001-05:00

If you had been at our house this morning, you would have seen me standing over the washing machine with my arm in almost up to the shoulder, frantically fishing through cold, dark water for my drowned cell phone. Already late for work, you would have heard me say a lot of things to myself. And you would have heard me end with "FUCKING STUPID."

And then, you would have heard a firm little voice in the kitchen say, "Mom. We don't say 'stupid'."

--

Ah, my Bird. She is a piddling, dawdling, piddledawdler in the mornings. A. puts up with most of it since I (theoretically, anyway) start my paid workday earlier than he does, and it is more frequently becoming a power struggle/ battle of wits/ tangle of wills between the two of them. They argue like teenagers. He asks her to put on her shoes, she puts on five finger puppets. He askes her to go get dressed, she spends her time jumping on the bed. He asks her to brush her hair, she ends up in a puddle of tears because she's found her winter coat in the too-small box. He asks her to put on her listening ears, and she says, "I left them at school." He counts to three. She complies at the final second. And more than a few times, Bird says, "Daddy. Settle down." Which, if you know my mild-mannered A., is especially funny. Except not to him.

--

So, about that too-small box. Looks like it's going to be seeing a lot of action starting this winter-- baby #2 is officially a girl. Time to start naming, sorting, wrapping our heads around what's going on around here. Two girls. Yay and yikes.

--

No time like the pregnant to over-think some shit: In halfway following a discussion board comment thread, I read the words that push the overthink-buttons of WOH mamas around the country: "evaluate what you give up to go to work and decide if it's really worth it." I'll spare you the details of my rabbit-hole thinking-- my ever-changing and always hazy list of gains and losses that never declares a winner.

All this talk of giving up and gaining. Of worth. How much of it is truly about the benefit to the child and how much of it is about having sorted laundry and clean sheets and time to slow-cook a meal? How much is about parenting and how much is about physically being in and keeping up a home? How much is just straight-up personal, on both sides of the decision?

I have wrestled with internal and external voices that both encourage and challenge my choices as a working-away-from-home mama, and I can tell you with complete honesty that sometimes, the desire to be home with my child during the day really does boil down to having naptime to myself and getting some flowers planted. Running an errand in the middle of the day without paying for it with my lunch hour. Spending enough time in my house to clean it and enough time in my neighborhood to enjoy it. And having time for actual, personal, non-facebook connections with my actual, personal friends. That is what I am missing-- or feel like I've given up-- the most right now. I have time with Bird every night, but I haven't seen some of my dearest friends in months.

Makin'

2009-07-13T14:57:00.002-05:00

I made this, and I made this.

The first one, simple/ fresh/ delicious and still yum on day 2-- though if you are going to carry over into lunch territory don't mix the roasted cherry tomato mix in with the soup. Keep 'em separate and mix up bowl by bowl, ya dig?

And the second one, HOLY HELL elastic thread, first my enemy and now my friend. Pics and pattern review to come soon, maybe. The dress turned out nice and light and summery, just the right shape for my getting-bigger belly but also the right shape for my non-baby body. Versatile.

In the garden

2009-07-10T23:20:00.002-05:00

"Hey Bird, try one of these tiny orange tomatoes. They're sweet, like candy."

"This one has a butt."

Well, well, look at THIS! She decides to just SHOW UP again, eh?

2009-07-02T15:59:00.001-05:00

I do have an excuse. I haven't been writing because I haven't really been awake for 3-ish months. Completely exhausted and sick as a damn dog and hardly able to construct a quick email sentence about whether or not I am available for a conference call. I mostly needed to be in a quiet and more private space for a bit while I wrapped my brain first around surviving the day and on a bigger scale, the impending whiz-bang close to 2009. At which time, I will be a mama to TWO. 12/13/09, baby. I can't (and won't) say we're ready or that we know how we're going to swing this, but it's what we want and it's good. We'll know what to do when we do it. Things always come together and I'm just trying to pay attention to the signs and opportunities. The excitement is different and more peaceful this time.

:::
One of my to-do lists currently includes the item, "list of demands." I have no idea what I meant when I wrote that, but I like knowing that, at some point, my demands may be met if I would only submit them in list form.

:::
I shopped at a grocery store in the college neighborhood on Monday. It was heaven: clean, bright interior, landscaped parking lot, well-stocked shelves and Fage yogurt availability. I was asked --MORE THAN TWO times-- not for change or cigarettes but if I could be helped in my food search (the staff must have sensed my wide-eyed wonder). There was actual eye contact as my food was passed over the scanner by the kind hands of a Harris Teeter associate, and polite conversation, even an offer to help me to my car with my seven very manageable bags-- an offer that, admittedly, first tripped my initial "DO NOT follow me to my car, M*f*kr" defense before I realized there is also a HELPFUL kind of following, not just the creepy, "can I have a ride" kind. The icing on the cake? This particularly well-lit, friendly grocery is open until ELEVEN o'clock-- hardly noteworthy to some, but the dingy yellow ghetto groceries close at 9pm due to the sometimes unsavory late night patrons, and visiting at 8:30 leaves you waiting to pay for your mealy, pink tomato in the one open checkout lane, inhaling the scent of a 7-pack per day smoker as she unloads an entire cart of Hungry Man dinners onto the belt while behind you, a ferociously strong person gives you the crazy eye, all of us prepared to accept complete indifference from the disgruntled check out girl with tattoos on her neck who will hear the sound of a dozen eggs being crushed under a watermelon as she bags your items, and throw your tortilla chips in the mix, just for good measure.

Shopping until eleven, like it's the most normal thing in the world. The luxury of it! After a lovely dinner out with old friends, I entered the friendly and well-lit grocery at 8:30pm, childless and free to roam about among the micro-brews and the bok choy, the non-sticky floors and pleasant, non-gaggy smells. It was like a past life. It was like checking into a spa. A spa with more than one kind of yogurt.

Still here, ya'll.

2009-05-25T21:36:00.002-05:00

Quietly cookin' up a big thing over here, hush hush for now.

Getting ready to go on vacation, so so so so ready. Except for packing and getting physically ready. We will do that poorly and at the last minute and it will not matter one bit.

Birdy is a big kid. Unbelievably big. She uses words like "beverage" and "interrupt."

I have been eating an awful lot of cereal.

I have been sewing a little, cursing a lot. Jersey fabric is not for beginners. Also, wingin' it without a pattern-- not for a freshman like myself. A bit of an epiphany today-- that I may enjoy sewing more if I used an honest-to-God PATTERN, instead of trying to hold things up to my body in front of the mirror and guessing. Birdy's skirt turned out super-cute, though. And Venture Alivans got a matching one as well. Photos as soon as I can get her to sit still.

... because our camera just completely sucks. It takes fabulous photos of still subjects in broad daylight, but not active preschoolers. Anxiously awaiting the freeing up of the Panasonic Lumix inventory from backorder.

Got my kitchen painted (by A.) for Mother's Day. S'nice. Again, pictures soon.

Everyone is sleeping at my house, I'm up waiting for a lentil bake to cool so I can fridge it to take to a new baby's family tomorrow afternoon.

Not thrilled about my return to the office tomorrow. Not thrilled.

Storm a-brewin'

2009-04-23T21:37:00.004-05:00

I have 70 lbs of shaking, drooling, clumsy dog trying to fit under this desk with my legs tonight. Who needs the weather man when you've got this guy?

I realized this week that I have been misusing (and misunderstanding) a common business term for about five years now. C-suite. Who knew it actually meant people whose titles start with "C"... CEO, CFO, COO, whatever. I thought it meant "C" suite. Like, not quite "A" suite, just down the hall from "B" suite. Like a C-list celebrity. A C-list executive. As in, probably drives a Taurus.
Fortunately, I discovered this on my own, prior to making an ass of myself, though I might have said, "aaaaaah!" under my breath in a meeting when my own personal lightbulb finally went off.

Also at work this week, the bug guy showed up in his poisonous metal backpack, wearing a tie with illustrated bugs on it. Dude. Way to get into it.

I picked Bird up from daycare and she wanted to show me her "ant hill"-- a paper plate painted green, topped with a paper cup painted brown. I found the one with her name on it, sitting in a row of identical creations, drying and waiting to have fingerprint ants applied in the morning. Walking home, I told her I really liked her ant hill. "No, mama" she said, "Ant Heel."
"Oh," I said. "I always thought it was "Ant hill."
"No. Ant Hee-Yull. Like the Hee-Yull of your foot. Hee-Yull."
A. and I are Midwestern to our core, but that girl is all South.

Would you like to read something today?

2009-04-07T11:47:00.002-05:00

Here is something I read and liked very, very much just now.

Enjoy this Tuesday, will you?

Woo Hoo Saturday Night + hummus

2009-04-04T20:56:00.004-05:00

"Mama, ask me what I'm eating."

"What are you eating?"

"Nothing."

^^^

Estate sale and yard sale today. Bought about a third of a collection of the Sweet Pickles books for Bird, some "fancy dance" recital-type outfits, a sweater (for me), a small ceramic coyote* a whole mess of other crap, and a round table and 4 chairs. Which are in desperate need of a paint job and a little sanding but which will fit so much more comfortably in my kitchen than the big rectangle obstacle we currently use. I chose the kitchen set over a super awesome rocking chair, which was the same price and which I will probably always think about, dwelling on how freaking awesome it would look in the living room. And if not freaking awesome, at least freaking okay. Freaking better. All it needed was a simple cushion recover. Damn.

And really, the table will be very, very nice for us. I promise pictures.

* Bird says "cahita"

^^^

I have decided to think of the last week as a small vacation, where I was not productive anywhere in my work or home life, where I ate a lot of bullshit and used the "old shoes" excuse to keep my feet off the pavement. Well, welcome home! And still not getting new shoes! Bought ceramic wildlife and sequined leotards instead! Put down the baguette and run anyway!

^^^

Big dog ate 1/2 a can of chickpeas last night, right off the table when nobody was looking. And let me just say that whatever a bean overload can do for you, it can also do for your dog. Loudly.

^^^

So, the hummus. Here's the recipe I used. Like the author, I found it to be over-olivey compared to the Bobbi's (because you know I went out and got a tub to do a side-by-side taste test). Next time I'll use a little less water and probably Safflower oil in place of the olive oil. (this time I used 2T olive oil and 4T canola). And I used pre-minced garlic instead of crushing a clove because I didn't have any intact garlic handy. So that probably would have made a difference. But all in all, damn close. And if I hadn't gone all perfectionist on this project, I could have fooled myself into believing it's exactly the same. Considering that making it at home costs about $1.50, it's close enough.

Somethings

2009-04-01T21:22:00.003-05:00

Something I actually said today walking home from daycare:

"We are not going to go back and put that poop in your bag. And I am done talking about it."

Something that actually happened today:
Home appraisal for the Great Refinance of 2009. Felt super weird sitting on my couch pretending to read my new Vegetarian Times while the (very kind and fatherly) appraiser took a picture of the World's Tiniest Bathroom, clunked down the basement steps, peered into the guestroom/ graveyard of bullshit. And after he left I realized the toilet lid was up, prominently displaying a nice big wad of TP (thanks, Bird) floating around in there, with maybe some... is that pee? Cheers! Thanks for checking out the house! Maybe the memory of the toilet paper floater will erase the memory of the plaster cracks and weird wet spot in the basement!

Something I'm wondering about:
How many pounds of chickpeas can one family eat in a year? Because seriously, we are chickpea-heavy for at least 3 meals a week, and one of which is always Mediterranean Night.* Do other veg families lean this hard on the bean?

Something I'm loving:
Veganomicon. OMG. I've said it before, I'll say it again. Even if you are a raging carnivore, this book has the potential to rock your world or at least your side dish reportoire. A. has developed an addiction to the chickpea cutlets, which we now make in double batches and freeze half for quick & easy deliciousness, though they never seem to stick around long. Tonight's dinner: chickpea cutlet sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, avocado slices, Vegenaise, dijon mustard, red onion on homemade (thank you trusty little breadmaker) french baguette, served with roasted potatoes, onion, and asparagus. And yes, Bird will even eat a chickpea cutlet. This book is magical, I tell you.

Something that did not work:
We were on such a streak with Veganomicon that we branched out to try the Tempeh with broccoli and whole wheat rotini last night, which was under 45 minutes in prep and cook time as promised, but it was an intense 45 mintues. And the verdict? A. started out with, "yeah, I don't know if we should make this again, it seemed pretty complicated." and on to, "Maybe it would be better with a little more vinegar" to "I don't think I'll eat the leftovers, probably" to scraping the pot out into the garbage and saying, "That was disgusting." Should have known by the tablespoon of fennel seeds. I hate fennel. And yet still remain a little shocked that I hated this dish. That's how magic the V-con is. It romances you into thinking you might even like fennel in your tempeh, and you don't hold a grudge when it's gross.

*Mediterranean night = one tub of Bobbbi's Your Favorite Hummus + homemade pita +red peppers, carrots, olives, red onion. One plate, almost no dirty dishes. WIN!

** OMGOMG tried to find a website for the very yummy and insanely garlicky Bobbi's Hummus and came up emptyhanded. I buy it at Turnip Truck so go find it there. BUT! In my search, I ran across a random discussion board post that claims to be the Bobbi's Recipe. I. do. not. jest. After tomorrow (when we are scheduled to have Mediterranean Night, so lookout vampires) I might be the most-seven-dollars-savin'-est mama in the 'hood.

@wakeup

2009-03-20T13:36:00.006-05:00

This morning I woke to a gorgeous, crisp spring morning. A dark 5:30, still early enough to be that cozy, blue half-awake time, tucked in under a nice fat blanket with the bedroom window open and twenty more minutes to sleep before the mandatory wake-up and hustle. The world was fresh, peaceful, and willing to wait a few more minutes. I snuggled in to savor it. Birds were chirping. Mostly one bird. Chirping and chirping and chirping. Just singing his chipper little avian song out into the world, to no one in particular, without need for response, right outside my window. Chirp! As if he was chirping inside the very bedroom, perched on the night stand, chirping away. Look here! Chirpchirpchirp! I am awake! I am going to try to find a worm later! I'm thinking about making a nest! My @bird friend said chirp cheep -- hilarious! Chirp! I'm going to shit on your windshield in a bit! Chirp chirp!

I am learning to twitter. I am tweeting. Trying to figure out what it is and why it's appealing. Trying to care enough to keep up with it. Trying to figure out how and why the Tennessee Aquarium is following me. It's all work-related: somebody needs to know how to do it if we're going to be buzzing the buzz words of marketing, I suppose. Chirpbuzz.

LOOKOUT, I just posted yesterday

2009-03-16T13:48:00.005-05:00

And now again today, what is up with that??

If you know me in real life, you know I'm a big menu planning/ grocery shopping/ budgeting nerd. I just used my very last menu/ grocery worksheet (I made 52 copies this time last year, so that's about right, I reckon) and now face the task of creating an updated version. So when I came across this post today, I squealed with glee, pushed my dork-glasses back up on my nose, and adjusted my pocket protector. I am inspired to create a prettier, bad-ass-er version of my tried-and-true system, and more than anything, happy to know I'm not alone when I spread out my cookbooks and tattered recipes on a Friday night and start mapping out my grocery run, aisle by aisle.

Anyway, if you know me in real life, you know I am a clumsy human, both socially and physically. On the physical side of things, I regularly discover small bruises in unexpected places and never think twice about it, as it would be an all-day activity to try to recall the many things I've bumped into, tripped over, or smacked against in the last few days. But in the last week, I have discovered four bruises on the front of my upper thigh, all in a cluster, and I'm now on a fairly passive hunt to find the offending table corner or piece of furniture and move it out of my path once and for all. I will let you know how that goes.

Also, I am going to sew something. Soon. I also need some black flats, because the birthday shoes I loved in July are feeling all clompy and stompish. And I just ate a salad with too much red onion for most people, but exactly enough red onion for me.

*Edited to add:
Also found this post about using Google Calendar to menu plan. It blew my mind. I don't think I'm ready, but I'm intrigued.

Oh, hello, it is March, I am still here

2009-03-15T22:57:00.005-05:00

Lyrics to the song Bird sang to me this weekend, with gusto (and wild hand gestures):

I am going to the DOCTORRRRR
And I am bringing my PURRRRRSE!
And in my PURRRRSE
I have some doctor STUUUUUUFFFF!

My brother in law and his fiance visited this weekend, lovely time, etc.
Took Bird to the "Slumber Party" at daycare (Parents' night out, WOOT!) and finally made it out to this place, which was delightful, and then on to other places closer to home where I ordered additional fine beverages crafted by the first place. We saw friends, we shouted over the crowd, we spent some money. We were OUT and ABOUT, dammit.

When we got back at 11:30, the floor of the daycare was dark and lumpy with sleeping children. And my Bird was the only kid standing up on her mat in her sad little mismatched jammies, watching the door for us to come back. Ouch.

And today, my dear sweet husband has alternated between writhing around in cold sweats and sleeping like a rock. I gave him a mild level of shit about it (attributing his illness to his sinful livin') until I realized he was burning up with fever and probably dealing with actual illness. Since then I have been really, really nice. And Bird has been even nicer, stroking his hair and bringing him saltines and using every giant plastic tool in her doctor kit. I can't wait to see which one of us will be the next victim of the sudden puking fever illness!

I have no idea how old I was, but I remember very vividly one night when my brother and I were left in the care of a high school-aged babysitter, staying up (!!) until my parents got home, which probably really peeved the babysitter who, I'm sure, would have preferred to yap on the phone to her BFF or watch one of our four luxurious television channels, or any of the things high school kids did before texting and reality TV and the internet. But we were up. And I remember mom and dad walking in the front door, surprised to see us, and me hugging my mom through her taupe-colored trench coat, and her clothes smelling like smoke because they'd been to a bar. Which I didn't understand at the time. But I knew when I hugged her this was no church meeting they'd been to-- that they were out having some kind of fun that did not involve me in any way, in a place I had never seen or visited, and I felt a little "WTF" about the whole thing, clearly, because I remember it now, in my mid-30s. Mostly I was just happy they were home, and a little weirded out about this secret life of theirs. Which is probably how Bird felt when I zipped up her jacket and put on her shoes and she said, "Mama, what did you do?"

In other news, I am trying to complete the paperwork on a refinance, because DAMN interest rates are low. But I can't fight the feeling that I'm signing over permissions I don't understand, like maybe mistakenly joining a cult, or the circus, or becoming an exchange student, or donating my live body to dangerous scientific testing. When they come to collect me and put me in the experimental colony under the volcano, you'll hear me wailing all the way down the block about how I thought I was dropping a whole point.

If your kid puked in the car on the way there, would you still take them to the dentist?

2009-02-26T21:21:00.004-06:00

No? Oh. Um. Okay.

But what if the dentist was 30 minutes away, and you got really lost so you were already 15 minutes late but really almost there and still kind of lost, and you knew you had to find the dentist before you could even begin to find your way home?

And what if the puke wasn't like real puke, but just a little bluecch -- watery nothing that didn't even get on the real clothes, just the jacket? What if it was erasable puke?

And what if she perked up right after? And said she still wanted to go to the dentist?

Still no?

Yeah, well, I totally did.

And she was completely fine at the dentist, puke-wise, but notsomuch look-at-my-teeth-wise, when faced with lying down on the dentist table, which, WTF, we had been talking for a week about the cool dentist chair and that little plot twist totally mucked up the plan. There was much wailing and pulling on mama's clothes and exposing much mama skin and jiggle in the flabdomen and boobular area. And then there was the flossing. Flossing! At three and a half!

Emotionally, it was like taking our old cat to the vet, for both of us: me feeling helpless over the terror of this thing I love, and the subject of the examination coming very close to doing some actual biting. And then she got a treat, all was right with the world.

There was also me lying down on the table like a goof ball and letting the hygenist poke around in my mouth while I, in exaggerated happiness, brushed the very large teeth of a stuffed purple hippo. And Bird sat in a chair against the wall with her arms folded across her chest, giving me and my shenanigans a look that could not be mistaken for anything other than "Surely You Are Not Fucking Serious."

There was also the part where I thought I had locked my keys in the car, but didn't, and the hygenist found them at the front desk while I rooted through my cavernous bag like a raccoon going for the banana peel at the bottom of the garbage can, all grubby wild-eyed and hissing.

And there was also the part where we waited for a long time while they sorted out Birdy's heart murmur history with our pediatrician, and everything was totally fine, just a CYA thing involving possible antibiotics and more drama than I was prepared for at this, our first dentist appointment.

This sounds so traumatic-- Nobody got hurt or permanently emotionally scarred, the whole thing just felt a little more like a pediatrician's visit with shots than the happy fun denist time that this particular practice advertises in their tv commercials.

And then there was also the part where Bird looked really, really tall to me today, in her new dress and "no-feet tights," puke or no puke, with this suddenly big kid face, saying big kid things and asking me to turn off the radio, please, because she was "constentrating."

So yeah. We went to the dentist.

And this evening I made homemade pretzel dough in the bread machine and brushed some egg on top and baked 'em up and OMG.

I am crossing some shit off my list:

2009-02-23T21:33:00.003-06:00

Tonight: Taxes!
Tomorrow: The rest of the shit on the list! *

And just so you know, I never intend to neglect this blog, though I do admit it is often first on the chopping block since I am spending my days clickety-clacking out words in various persuasive and illustrative combinations so as to earn the money to pay the mortgage, buy the toilet paper, etc. Makes the pulling-together-the-words thing a bit less appealing after coming home, cooking/ eating, Bird-ing, bedtime-ing. Seems there is less to write about now, even though there is just as much as ever, and I think it's because I no longer spend hours alone in my car thinking about weird things, encountering fascinating tribes of rural humans, and generally twisting my brain around however I want. Instead, I am flattening it out like a pancake and writing very informative and detailed web sites about technology and services within the healthcare industry. Yes, I know. Maybe I should start smoking again, just to spice things up. Or maybe start drinking. Around noonish.

* Okay. At a minimum, one of the things on the list. And let's be honest, it's probably not going to be "organize photos" or "guest room closet." That is the kind of shit that I am leaving for Bird and any subsequent children to deal with after I pass from this world at a ripe old age, finally tired from my many years of not really organizing anything, ever.

Sweet Sounds of Southern Indiana

2009-02-13T20:50:00.004-06:00

A list of things my Granny says:

Cheekin (chicken)
Marnin (morning)
Caish (cash)
Schnoe (snow)
Boosh (bush)
dreckly (directly)
downtha (down at the)
deeshis (dishes)

(3/15/09) Edited to add:

Warsh (wash).

Thanks to Mr. Littlebrother-- can't believe I forgot that one.

Placeholder

2009-02-07T14:03:00.003-06:00

There's been a lot going on around here. Tons of work, a little accomplishment, not much balance, more family loss, a sense of things totally falling apart (and also-- weirdly-- coming together), and really, not a minute of time to myself. A lot going on, for sure.

So instead of talking about any of that, I'd like to tell you about a sandwich-- on homemade whole wheat with peanut butter, bananas, thin apple slices, a drizzle of honey and cinnamon, toasted--the very one we just ate on this gorgeous 65-degree Saturday in February.

And now, off to make: pita bread, a shopping list, a trip to the grocery, sense of everything.

I'll open with a quote, then there will be eleven things:

2009-01-26T22:38:00.005-06:00

mama: Bird, which coat do you want to wear?

bird: My pink coat.

mama: Good choice.

bird: I love this coat, in spite of everything.

1. After the holiday feeding frenzy, A. and I gave up cheese, large portions, and junk food. We gave up laziness and tight pants. We bought a bathroom scale and a pedometer, fired up the ipod and started exercising. It's been about a month and we are still, for the most part, on the wagon. The wagon that is full of sunflower seeds and carrot sticks. The wagon in which we sit and stare wistfully at the other wagon, the one full of feta crumbles and sour cream and stringy, gooey lasagna.

2. I have discovered some super kick-ass vegan cookbooks, and have gotten in over my head on occasion but for the most part have learned that there is life after cheese. And that things actually have a taste when they are not covered in dairy products. I'll stop short of calling myself a vegan because I'm just not ready to be That Girl, but it has been a satisfying road so far. Highly recommend Veganomicon and the Vegan Lunch Box, both of which were available at my local library, and that means FREE for all of you playing along at home.

3. Also, I have started running. First on the elliptical machine at the community center, then on the treadmill at the community center during the commercial breaks on Oprah (walking the rest of the time) and in the last few days, running on the actual sidewalks in the actual neighborhood. It is not graceful, and it sure as shit is not easy. And it hurts like the devil, but I keep doing it.

4. A. is doing great with the running, the bastard.

5. We quit smoking a little over a year ago. WOOT!

6. Who the hell do I think I am, anyway?? 13 months ago, I was gnawing on hunks of cheddar and the only place I was running was into the 4-stop to buy a pack of smokes. And look at me now, with all of this bothersome health crap. Apologies. If it makes you feel any better, I am farting like an aging dog with a belly full of pinto beans. On that topic, we are trying to dissuade Bird from saying "fart." She now says she "has the vapors." Ah yes, much better.

7. Job. I like it. Being a mom. Like that, too. Not as mutually exclusive as I once thought. Either I'm getting better at balance or numb to the guilt and the second-guessing. Both, probably.

8. To the person that told me to clean my cast iron skillet with vegetable oil and coarse kosher salt, avoiding water unless it's a true stuck-on emergency: Thank you, kitchen wizard.

9. I hate playing "school." I get put in Time Out a lot. And then there is a version where there is a "teacher" and a "mama" and we replay a dropping-off-at-preschool scenario until I can't remember my own name. This is Bird's favorite thing to do-- she starts insisting on playing school before we even have our coats hung up in the afternoons.

10. I think it is time for a blog diet to compliment my new healthy eating plan. I have, like, nine thousand jillion blogs on my Google Reader. That link over there to my bloglines? Ancient. I've moved on to the Google Reader, and I will subscribe to anything. Everything. Cooking blogs. Mama blogs. People I Know blogs. And all of this blog checking has become a task, a pain in the ass, and it keeps me from writing here. There are things! Out there! That I haven't read yet! So I'll just read one more!

Mostly it's this: I subscribe to a lot of very beautiful blogs where people take pictures of their morning cups of coffee or write essays about their cherubic children weaving on looms in the wilderness or their gorgeous collection vintage dresses and heirloom quilts and and perfect crafts made in their tranquil, sunlit rooms before they prepare beautiful homemade meals for the family they love so very much, and it is all just such a huge load of bullshit. Obnoxious fiction. But I get sucked in, I scroll through these perfect little fantasies and they cast an ugly little shadow on my real life until I snap out of it and feel disgusted that I've just spent a very real part of my very real life looking at pictures of white curtains and whitewashed floors and reading about peaceful mornings spent playing with blocks in front of the fire or stitching up aprons or other such nonsense. So I am going to unsubscribe to these blogs very, very soon. Or at least put it all in one folder so I can avoid it as if it were cheese.

11. My mom is totally on facebook.

Brought to you by the numbers 8, 53, and a number between 6 and 10

2009-01-19T21:44:00.008-06:00

8:
hours in the car again this past weekend (hey, it beats our usual 10), up and back to E'burgh for the last of the'08 Christmases. It was an especially difficult one, as everyone is still so raw from A's Mamaw's death in November, but everyone kept their shit together for the most part and a good time was had by all. And as a bonus, I passed on my 24-inch Dancin' Singin' James Brown to a STOKED ten year old in the (lively) gift exchange. DSJB was originally a wedding gift from my brother, who reads this blog, and dude, before you get all hot under the collar about it: the Godfather of Soul was scaring the crap out of Birdy and he had to move on to a place where he would be loved. Okay.

53:
Degrees in our house Thursday night, even though the thermostat was promising 72. Ice on the insides of the windows and sub-zero toilet seats. Frozen pipes to the washing machine. Wearing several pairs of socks over my tights, under my jeans. Birdy's icicle fingers.

It got very cold in Tennessee-- the coldest in 12 years or something crazy-- right around the end of last week. It wasn't any colder than what we knew as "normal" in Indiana, but we have softened up and thawed since then and DAMN, single didgets are brutal. And it seems our little old Southern heat pump agreed with us. The heating repair guy came out in his van and spent some time in the scary dirt basement region while I ran up and down the steps to flip breakers on and off (more responsibility than I was prepared for). He delivered a sorry prognosis.

Replace this whole part, he said.

$700, he said.

Wait, he said.

They don't make that part anymore, he said.

Replace the whole thing? I said.

Yep, he said. Ob$cene amount, he said.

Wait it out? Miracle recovery? I said.

Take your chances, lunatic, he said.

Sounds like a plan, I said.

And lo and behold, when the temperature started to feel more like a Tennessee January than a Siberian one, the Little Heat Pump That Could? Totally DID. And we took off our coats and hats and thanked God above in advance for Birdy sleeping in her own warm toasty bed and not digging her little toes into our ribs.

The moral of this story: Sometimes old shit still works, but just part of the time and probably not when you really need it. But old shit does not require financing, just extra socks and sweaters and a decent space heater where you sleep.

A number between 6 and 10
percent paycut. Announced last Friday, the freezingest day, just before I left work to meet the gentleman about my failing heat pump. Asking your child to take off her mittens to eat dinner makes you feel one step away from the poor house, and doing the paycut math in your head while you serve the beans and rice* makes your kitchen feel even colder.

But! I have a job! And the people at that job are optimistic, positive. The cut is promised to be temporary. Kind things were said to me about the way I do my work, and truly, I am feeling quite happy there, finally comfortable. And hey, the heat came back on. Just put on another damn hat and wait it out, right?

*that's not for dramatic effect, we just happened to be having beans and rice, but it did make things seem a little bit more desperate in my moment of hand-wringing.

You set 'em up, babe, I'll knock 'em down.

2009-01-10T22:58:00.003-06:00

TV commercial: That's right, CASH for your GOLD!!

A: They smelt it.

B: Aaaaaand they dealt it.

A. That was the Best. Joke. Ever.

Time for a little game called "Past Life or Accurate Mimic?"

2009-01-09T15:53:00.004-06:00

Bird extends her hand to me, like she's going to shake it.

I shake her hand.

"Hello," she says.

"Hello," I say back. "It's nice to meet you."

"We've met before," she says. "In college."

"Oh?" I say.

"Yes, in Memphis." she says.

Dear 2008,

2008-12-31T16:56:00.004-06:00

What a year you've been, 2008, my first year without cigarettes since 1994. I certainly wasn't expecting you to come along when my coping skills were so scratched and raw. Under your watch, I've lost my charming granddad, lost a child I'll never meet, lost a powerfully loving mamaw, lost a dusty old cat. My dad fought cancer and my dog had surgery. You obviously had something to teach me-- that is to say that I prefer to think you weren't just fucking with me.

But I have learned, have let go, have wrinkled, have fattened, have picked myself up (and let myself be picked up) over and over. Sometimes I felt like I was just weathering the crashing waves of you, 2008. And I'd like to think I gave you a run for your money. Finally, the days are getting brighter and longer, and you're on your way out.

But listing it out like that isn't really fair. I don't want us to part this way, me having dragged out the facts to build the case for your good riddance. Let's not have an airing of grievances.

2008, you weren't so unbearable. The guy I voted for won-- about damn time-- and I'm still adjusting to my own optimism. You brought me a career change and a kick in the ass. You gave me time to shake my own expectations about balancing work and life. You gave me another year with my perfect match of a husband and a priceless stretch of time to watch Birdy work on becoming herself. You were my eighth year in this city, knitting me closer into my precious little circle. Indiana seems more like a pleasant place I've been, and this feels more and more like home.

So goodbye, 2008. At the stroke of midnight, I'll you a hug-- and mean it-- and then flip you the bird as you walk out the door.

On our terms

2008-12-29T22:00:00.004-06:00

You may not have known this, since I was totally not posting for most of the month of December due to a mighty brain-sucking work project and holiday obligations and lack of daylight making me hibernate, but anyway: Little Miss Preschooler? Totally not down with Santa in 2008.

As in, persona non grata.

As in, mumble in his general direction at the Christmas tree farm, but HELL NO he is not coming in our house, no matter what he's slinging in that sack. She even went so far as to say, "Mama, you and Daddy can get me the easel. I don't want presents from Santa EVER OF MY LIFE." (plus a lot of hand gestures).

It was looking like a blacklist year for Jolly Old Saint Nick.

But, in a surprising turn of events in the final hours of Christmas Eve up in Littletown, Indiana, a deal was struck. We would leave Santa his milk and cookies. And a carrot for the reindeer. And he could leave presents to his heart's content. But he was not, under any circumstances, to enter my parents' home office where Bird slept on an inflatable mattress. Make no mistake, Cringle. You've been warned.

Merry

2008-12-23T22:46:00.003-06:00

I'm still alive out here, very much so, but I happen to also be in Indiana doing the Hoosier Holiday Hokey Pokey, eating cheese balls, a collection of spreads, and a wide variety of other bullshit non-foods.

It is colder here than my southern pansy-ass can handle, and there is ice and wind. But also, gin and tonic.

I got my hair cut very, very short right before we left home, and I'm having some difficulty adjusting. It looks different in my head than it actually looks on my head, if that makes sense. I am satisfied but not convinced I made the right decision. SO WHAT'S NEW.

And Even More:

We saw the Hoosier Dome collapse on the news, took Bird to the Indy Children's Museum. I might also have started minor shitstorm or two, Birdy has started exclaiming, "Mercy!", and a Goodwill sweater will always smell like a Goodwill sweater, no matter how long you own it.

And Still You Want More?

Road trip made possible by Drive By Truckers, Glossary, Modest Mouse, Band of Horses, and a departure time closer to bedtime than usual. Also the most silent, most freezing, and most questionable Waffle House on I-65. I have been sleeping with Bird for 4 days, and she kicks and wakes up totally fucking early, but she also snuggles and says weird things in her sleep. I received a lovely collection of Burts Bees products today, I haven't owned a proper winter coat in years, I am typing this on a borrowed laptop in my in-laws' living room where the Weather Channel is positively blaring some dramatic thing about the Titanic, and I have no idea how to work the complicated panel of remote controls here. I just realized I might be the only one still up, and it feels very, very peaceful to be alone, even if I can't escape an old fancy ship in trouble with the weather.

Thomas

2008-12-16T20:40:00.002-06:00

WOHM

2008-12-05T16:01:00.000-06:00

You know, some days, this work/life balance thing comes pretty naturally. I get up on time, I make Birdy’s breakfast, give her a big snuggle, blow her a kiss and head downtown to my office. I work in peace and quiet, I think interesting thoughts, I take an hour for lunch, I am challenged, I create. I make the grade and I meet the expectation. I receive a pat on the back. I have this thing and this time that is mine. I get my work done, it is good work, it puts food on our table. I pick Bird up on time, she runs to me and tells me about her day, about the special snack for somebody’s birthday and using the big-kid scissors and how she shared with this kid or that kid, how they all played a game together, how she loves her friends and teachers. We go home and everyone behaves, Birdy coloring at the kitchen table while A. and I make a dinner for which we already have all of the ingredients. It’s bath time, then bedtime, then I take a few hours to hang out with A. or catch up on the Stuff That Must Be Done. The laundry makes it into the drawers, the bills are paid ahead of schedule, the dog hair tumbleweeds are minimal, thank you notes get sent, emails get returned, bread gets baked. It is busy, but it's joyful, manageable. I crawl in bed after eight and before midnight.

On these days, I am much more than a mama, but I don’t feel like less of a mama, if that makes sense.

And then, there are the other days, the days when Birdy shouts at me while I’m in the shower about the new coat she got in the mail from her Granny, and stick my head around the curtain to see a big girl, MY big girl, joyfully trying to jam her arm through the hood of her coat, and realize just how fast it’s really going, how distracted I can be, how I am spending my time racing around the lobby trying to buy popcorn when the show is already starting inside. There are the mornings when she is rude to me, that devastating preschool-rude, pushing me away, hurting my feelings, and there is no time to fix it because I’m out the door. There are the days when her willfulness clashes with my own willfulness, and I’m at a loss so I flip her the middle finger behind her back. There are the days when I fight back tears when I get in the car and for the better part of the morning, knowing that she’s pissed off at me because I leave her, because I don’t have time to find matching socks for myself let alone sit with her for two minutes when she says, “mama! I need some company!”, don’t have time to watch her stand on one foot, balance a lump of playdough on the dog, don’t have time to be her mama until much, much later in the day and by then, it feels like it’s too late.

And those are the days when the balance is gone, so lopsided, when the laundry spills out of the bedrooms and into the kitchen, when the to-do lists are scattered around the house like breadcrumbs I think I’ll be able to follow later to find my balance again. Those are the days when the dinner hits the table late, when I hit the bed too early, when it's hard to be kind, when the calendar is too full and the bank account is too empty. The days when I feel like my whole relationship with this Bird of mine is to prepare food, feed, and hustle her off to sleep, to some commitment, to another place so I can get on with the business of the Not Very Important But Very Necessary Things.

Days like today, for example.

Chat from a Marriage

2008-12-02T21:58:00.003-06:00

What you need to know: A. chose and purchased a deodorant stick at the grocery store labeled "The Official Scent of Confidence."

8:38 AM

a: so you are going to the gym today

me: As Sarah Palin would say, "You betcha!" (wink) "Maverick!"

a: don't do that anymore

me: sorry

a: but good for you

me: yes, I am doughy around the middle, need to cook

a: you will feel so much better if you go regularly

me: I really think so

8:39 AM a: I think I am stinky today

as in

me: oh, nice

a: dog slept on my pants

me:how did that happen?

andy: not sure

but not good

me: yeah, not good.

a: at least I have the scent of confidence

8:40 AM me: yeah, confident that you smell like a dog's ass

a: zing

ok then

me: ok then

Thanksgiving post coming soon. Like, maybe probably tomorrow.

Aller-geez-louise

2008-11-20T21:36:00.002-06:00

You know that feeling when you're about to sneeze? When you say, "hold on, I'm going to sneeze," and the person you're talking to waits, and you stop whatever you're doing until it happens? That Ah-ah-ah before the CHOO?

That's pretty much my life from 5pm until bedtime, the ah-ah-ah part plus itchy throat and watery eyes. Can't think, eyelids at half mast, bumble and run into things. Plus violent bouts of sneezing that cause uncontrollable Springsteen-leg.

Allergic to the house.

If anyone would like to adopt an aging cat with health problems and a shitty attitude, let me know. I think (okay, I know) he is a major factor. Also, if anyone would like to buy me a house built after 1990 that does not sit on an open dirt cellar and possibly has central heat on both floors, please step forward as well.

So, a Mama walks into a Gymnastics Birthday Party...

2008-11-16T21:00:00.003-06:00

... and joyfully shouts "Happy Birthday, Marshall!"

to the wrong kid.

(It was a party for someone in Bird's class. I get the boys mixed up, you know?)

Reality-based play

2008-11-14T22:45:00.004-06:00

So, my Bird. She is a born caretaker.
If she's not taking someone's temperature, she's putting someone down for a nap, or feeding them, or disciplining the dog, or-- as is most likely the case-- she is changing her baby's diaper.

Bird is also the oldest kid in her daycare class (thanks, October Birthday, for ensuring that we pay for daycare for as much time as mathematically possible before the free public school days begin), and one of the only ones completely potty trained. Sometimes, she pretends to change some of her classmates' diapers.

Do I have to tell you where this is going?

This week, we had a little pow-wow about how we don't take our friends' pants off at school.

Because I needed another thing to keep up with

2008-11-14T22:30:00.003-06:00

I have joined facebook. Which is weird and very non-anonymous. Non-onymous? It's like being AT the party, where people can see you from across the room as you're catching up with your co-worker from your very first big girl job at the mental health center million years ago. And then hey! There's that guy that worked the night shift at the group home and he wants to know your daughter's name.

But you know about Facebook. Apparently everyone knew about Facebook except me.

It's overwhelming, the activity level and the live action of facebooking. I feel like I'm playing whack-a-mole, monitoring all this action. I mean, yeah, I had a myspace, and yeah, I started this blog there, but it felt a little more "yearbook" and a little less "Reunion," if that makes sense to you. I'm used to a different level of anonymity when I go about my business here on the internets.

I know, you're all like, "Whatever, not only do I know where you live, I have used your bathroom." And now I'm all like, "oh geez, sorry, was there underwear on the floor?"

Good Thursday Morning

2008-11-13T10:22:00.001-06:00

Had that dream this morning-- the one where you get up, get in the shower, start breakfast. Everything normal, even the laundry is where you left it on the table. And then, you really wake up. And it's been 45 minutes since your alarm went off. And you shout obscenities and throw yourself at the shower, because it's the one day you have an outside meeting, and you have to find some un-embarrasing pants. And that can take a minute or two.

And your daughter, she wants to wear spooky socks. But mom? Not THOSE spooky socks. Those have SPIDERS on them, see? Not spooky. She needs the green ones with TWELVE PUMPKINS on them. TWELVE! She's holding one green sock, and the other? Well, anywhere. Your guess is as good as mine. But miraculously, you find it, in the bottom of the clean laundry. And honestly, if you'd found it in the bottom of the dirty laundry? Same result. Here's your sock. Please put it on. PLEASE. PUT IT-- hand the marker to me, please-- ON. And we have socks.

And then, shit, it's picture day at school. Let's have a look at you... bedhead, weird black and white hoodie and too-big pink cords, and the aforementioned bright green and orange spooky socks with TWELVE PUMPKINS. And you know the photographer brings "fancy clothes" for the kids, but last year the proofs of your simple girl looked like "trailer park pageant princess," dress too big and outdated, ruffly, falling off her shoulder. You know you're not buying photos anyway. But you dig around in the closet and find her pink and brown polka dot dress from your cousin's wedding, shove it in her bag, along with the Morningstar nuggets you'll be sending for lunch for the third day this week.

And we're off.

Rollercoaster

2008-11-12T22:24:00.000-06:00

Sunday, lovely Sunday:
A. played basketball for a couple of hours, Bird took a long (and necessary) nap, and I spent two and a half hours in my sunny little kitchen making food for the week (bread, paella, lentil casserole, edamame-corn salad) and thinking about nothing in particular. I listened to the end of A Prairie Home Companion (which I find more enjoyable as I grow old and weird), cranked up some Stan Getz for awhile, and finished the dishes with All Things Considered.

Mmmmmm. Content.

And then, by Tuesday:
I started laughing over my dinner and pretty soon, I was crying big clumsy tears, shaking shoulders and the whole bit-- crying from laughing, crying from sadness and worry, crying from grief, crying from anxiety and fear, crying from relief, crying from being completely overwhelmed. Bear's surgery finally over. Midwife appointment today that made me remember. Birdy's bird-ness. Rushing off to an afternoon meeting before dinner. Out of onions. Out of money. Out of clean clothes. Holiday plans and guilt coming from every direction. Suitcase still packed from the funeral in Indiana 2 weeks ago. Staying tired. Staying behind. All of that. Plus the good things, the Bird things, the A. things, the roof-over-my-head and food-on-my-table things. All of it, too much sometimes.

Title, Schmitle

2008-11-08T21:15:00.005-06:00

THE FUNERAL:
beautiful. A. played guitar and sang during the service with his cousin and uncle, and the funeral procession took the long way through her small Indiana town, with people standing at the sidewalk outside of their homes in respect as we passed. Side streets were blocked off with banners, and the flag was at half mast. People were kind, others behaved poorly, it was crowded, it was joyful, it was mournful, it was family. And it was good to be in Mary's house, though we'd never been in it without her there.

THE SIDE STORY:
We slept at Mary's house on an air mattress in the back room in the freezing cold, under quilts we scavenged from the upstairs closet that may not have been unfolded since 1974. And no surprise, slept terribly and battled stabbing sinus pains and cement-quality congestion during the visitation and funeral the next morning. So imagine my relief when I found-- and swallowed-- a friendly Tylenol Allergy Sinus I discovered in the bottom of my purse while standing on the front porch of the funeral home. And imagine my horror when I turned the package over and read "nightime." The rest of the day I was mildly stoned and not too upset about it.

OUR HOUSE:
Is a shameful mess, suitcase still loosely packed in the living room (where I've been putting on deodorant by the front door for a week), dishes in the sink, clothes everywhere. We're replacing the kitchen faucet tomorrow if we can muster the energy-- the faucet slowly disconnects from the sink every couple of days, the hot water handle is broken off and the sprayer is stuck at "on." Also, the toilet is running, the back door frame is getting weirder, and I can't even begin to list the other 80-year old elements of this house that could use some love, and yet still get none, as we have spent 8 of the last 12 weekends with one of us on the road to somewhere.

But damn. It is so good to be here. This morning I started and abandoned a grocery list, ended up dumping dried beans from one jar to another in the parlor with Bird. There are still beans all over the floor, and that was over 12 hours ago. And guess what? There they will stay, along with the laundry and the pet hair tumbleweeds, junk mail catalogs and piles of things I intend to read, renegade socks and shoes, all of it. To quote a friend, "I prefer to waller in my squalor." At least for this weekend, while I celebrate what looks like the (at least temporary) end of our two-state commute.

MY FRIEND:
is having surgery on Tuesday. We came home to find him-- my 11 year old Bear Dog-- with a very swollen ear, like some kind of poofy filled pastry attached to one side of his head. Turns out he has a hematoma-- which would be a bruise on any other part of his body but on his little old ear there is no tissue to soak up the blood, causing this big pocket. The vet also pointed out a dangerously infected/ rotting tooth that has to go, so we will be spending our entire Christmas budget times two next week taking care of Sir Rottentooth Puffyears and his stinky old body. That sounds resentful, but I mean it with affection. He is both stinky and old, those are facts. Plus, he is family.

MY BIRD:
has had the two worst tantrums of her short life -- and I do not exaggerate, I say WORST and I mean WORST-- this past week, a result of 4 days of scanty parenting, absent bedtimes and a steady diet of crackers and bullshit during our trip to Indiana. I think she is back on track, but DUDE. I have seen the dark side, and it is terrifying.

THE GOOD NEWS:
Yes, we did! We came home from Indiana Tuesday afternoon and I went straight to work, then home to the demon-posessed version of my child, then onto the couch with a bottle of nyquil and only the strength to stay up long enough to see Ohio go blue on the map. And then, several hours later in the deep, deep dark of my cold medicine slumber, I received a "YES!" text from my friend Jen, and went back to sleep relieved and hopeful. The next day, my crushing head cold symptoms showed marked improvement. So yeah, things are lookin' up all over the place.

Haircut: Fixed.

2008-11-01T22:42:00.002-05:00

Hello, $30 haircutter lady with the good-smelling shampoo. I have learned my lesson.

Yep, that's a picture of my haircut. I don't usually post photos of my own damn self here. But it's late, A. is out playing loud music in a sketchy neighborhood somewhere, and I thought it might be a good idea to take a photo of myself at 11pm in my raggedy-assed Vandy sweatshirt with no makeup on. And oh, hey, is that a 2006 calendar displaying the month of December hanging on my bathroom door? Yes! Yes it is!

Happy Happy Happy

2008-10-30T21:18:00.009-05:00

... That's what A's sweet Mamaw's been repeating since September. "Happy Happy Happy. I'm SO HAPPY!"

We lost her tonight to a swiftly growing brain tumor, discovered just over a month ago.

We saw her last weekend for her "Celebration"- a party she dreamed up on her own, right down to the music and balloon launch, when she learned about her cancer. When she addressed her crowd on Saturday, she said, "I just come here to LOVE somebody. And I just love you all SO GOOD!"

Yep, that pretty much says it.

We'll miss Mary's kooky stories, her open door, her kindness, her no-nonsense advice, her Christmas celebrations in March and her overall Mary-ness... if you knew her, you know.

Tonight, Bird said, "When Mamaw stops feeling sick, I want you guys to stop crying. Because I don't want you to be sad."

*sigh*

What a year.

Peace, Mary. We love you so good.

Scenes From A Marriage

2008-10-29T22:05:00.000-05:00

"It seems like it might need a little more... something."

"Something like what?"

"Rice, maybe?"

"We're out of brown rice, but I bought some white rice this week. It's in the pantry."

"You are such a ricist."

And some more about my hormones

2008-10-28T22:00:00.001-05:00

Also, as my hormones level out, my skin is freaking out a little bit, and I have a giant zit just under the outside of my right nostril. Like GIANT giant. So giant that when I told A. I was meeting two friends for lunch, he asked if we would be getting a table for FOUR.

I've taken to calling it the Zit Mustache, and making feeble attempts to cover it with makeup, which I am not so good at, and which you might think I might be good at having spent so much time in the fine arts department with paints and such, but no. I cannot successfully cover up a zit on my own face. I must have completely skipped that lesson in Junior High—when all of the other girls my age were learning how to convincingly apply cover-up, I was probably practicing for the Spelling Team. (You think I'm kidding. I was a competitive speller. Explains a lot, no?)

But the zit. It will go down in history along with the monster zit that appeared in the middle of my left cheek a week before my wedding, the one I fiddled with and poked at so much that I actually had to wear a band-aid over it. And apply Neosporin.

We will mark time by this zit. When I am old and gray and I drag out my ancient crock-pot to make some spicy black bean soup at the holidays, my adult children and their spouses will gently joke with me about how old that crock-pot must be, and I'll turn to A. and say, "honey, how old do you think this crock-pot is?" And he will say, "Well, you got it the year you had that zit mustache. That makes it thirty-four years old this October."

$15 well spent

2008-10-27T21:45:00.001-05:00

Well, it's finally caught up with me. The fifteen-dollar lady gave me a really shitty haircut. Maybe the worst haircut, actually.

As in, visibly uneven.

As in, may have forgotten to work on ONE WHOLE SIDE OF MY HEAD.

I didn't notice it when I left-- she doesn't really blowdry/ style much (hello, $15) and we were chatting away about something or other and I was excited to meet my friend J. for dinner and drinks afterward*. So I guess I just didn't see it then, but holy shit, my friends. Holy Shit.

And do you know that for a second, I considered trying to fix it myself? Both for the sake of immediacy and because I didn't want to hurt her feelings? Because it is totally sane to walk around-- and go to one's JOB, live one's life, be photographed with one's relatives at significant family events-- with some kind of bizarre experimental and asymmetrical hairdo. As if my crap-tastic highlights weren't already winning the beauty contest, now I have to sit with my head cocked to one side until I can get in for a rematch.

* because I'm the kind of cheapskate who will meet you for dinner with a damp, uneven haircut.

Cry Baby

2008-10-26T21:33:00.004-05:00

So, apparently my hormones are not completely leveled out post-miscarriage.

A list of things that have left me fighting back tears:
Stories on NPR
Any hymn, even the ones I don't like
My dog's morning arthritis
My sleeping daughter
An awkward, socially needy waiter at Waffle House
Postsecret
Many, many blogs about having babies and losing babies
Some blogs about cooking
A high school marching band

Things that have reduced me to weeping:
Making a grocery list

What a crock

2008-10-25T21:25:00.000-05:00

I bought a crock pot from a woman in my neighborhood for $35. I looked it up new. She used it twice before selling it.
ahem.
I have scored.

And I almost brought the seller half a two-liter of diet coke when I went to pick it up, because it was sitting around my house and I didn't want to drink it, and I figured that hey, while we're in the swapping spirit, you know, she could have my diet coke because maybe she really likes diet coke? A. said that was weird. He was right.

So far I've made spicy black bean soup out of dried beans and a few spices and next to nothing else, but it was delicious and ready to go when we fell in the door at the end of the day. And friends, I would eat broken glass with cinnamon on it if it was ready to go when I got home from work, so you can imagine how excited I am about this crock pot of mine.

Oh, and when I say, "made soup," I mean "made an ass-load of soup."
And when I say the second part, I mean that maybe we shouldn't have been eating spicy black bean soup for so many meals in a row.

2008-10-24T14:45:00.001-05:00

Today it is gray and raining, fall-feeling but not too gloomy.
I got up early and left before it was really light out to get to an early meeting about a tv ad script. I attended the grand opening of the new bus transit station and took some pictures. I wrote rationale for my recommendations on the longest tagline project ever. I put what I hope is the final polish on a big chunk of web content. It's been a productive day, I've enjoyed it. And now I'm staring at an ad in need of a headline and nothing. Nothing.

And what I'd really like to do? Is throw on a sweater and some thick socks, make a cup of coffee and sit on my front porch with a good book while the leaves drop. And I haven't thought about this for a while, but I as long as I'm dreaming I'll take a few cigarettes with that coffee, thanks.

About the getting up early: Bird has been waking up these dark mornings and coming into the kitchen squinting in her wacky-print jammies, saying, "too light, mama." And I have been trying my best to be more conscious of taking the time to sit down in the parlor and rock her long-legged sleepy self for a bit vs trying to speed everything up so I can get out the door on time. I'd rather miss ten minutes of work than ten minutes of my real job.

Thanks

2008-10-23T20:27:00.001-05:00

Thank you everyone for your comments, your emails, your kind words, your offers of food, your not getting offended by me not taking your food. Thanks for knowing when to hug and when not to hug, for your sweet phone messages and for letting me not call you back, for telling me your stories, for taking the time to read mine, and everything else that comes along with you being your awesome selves. I mean that.

One in Four Pregnancies

2008-10-18T21:48:00.004-05:00

I miscarried.

And I waited and waited to write that here, because I wanted to say it right. I wanted to write it well. I wanted to really capture it for myself for later, so it doesn't get shuffled around and dismantled in my own memory, bumping against board meeting dates and grocery lists until it's just a few little bits of deja vu and a blip in my medical history. I wanted to write it as I felt it, the realities of it, the physical pain, the emotional process, the concerned friends, the crazy dreams. If I couldn't give this baby its life, our love, and a closet full of hand-me-downs, I at least wanted to hold some space around the short time it was with us. After all, I was the closest person to it. I at least wanted to give it a decently-written story. But I can't.

Our baby died, and I didn't know it, and my body stayed pregnant for weeks. And then my body figured it out and a few hard days later, I wasn't pregnant anymore.

I started spotting the day before my 12 week midwife appointment, and I knew.
The bleeding got heavier the next day, and I knew.
I laid down on the ultrasound table in the dark and held A's hand, and I knew.
The technician couldn't find the heartbeat, had to do an internal ultrasound, and I knew.
She told us the baby had died, and I was surprised anyway.

She left us alone for a minute in the dark, next to a bulletin board full of photos of newborn babies, and then led us out the back door instead of through the waiting room, where other women were waiting for happier news.

We met with my midwife directly after that, agreed that my body could handle losing this baby without a hospital D&C (thank goodness), returned home with a bottle of painkillers and cleared our schedules for the rest of the week. Birdy went to daycare as usual for a few days and we stopped bracing for the worst and started to let it pass slowly through our house.

That Tuesday was hard, and the next day horrible. By Thursday I was feeling stronger but not ready to be alone, so we splurged on take-out, cleaned out closets, mopped floors, and made a Goodwill run. We kept our plans to travel to Atlanta for my cousin's wedding over the weekend, and it was good to celebrate something, to balance again.

Not the right time to have a baby, not the right baby, not something. I don't know, and I haven't spent much time wondering. What I do know is that our plans changed, and I'm newly reminded that my plans don't really belong to me in the first place. That I don't control very many things after all, and there is relief and comfort in that knowledge. It wasn't the right time for us to have another baby. If it was, I'd still be pregnant. It's that simple. Simple, but not easy.

Good Grief, it's already October

2008-10-03T21:51:00.005-05:00

Pumpkin Spice hershey kisses? Exactly how I would imagine a softened "Fall Spice" scented Glade plug-in refill might taste.

****

A.'s words of wisdom about the EastSide softball league:
"It takes all kinds. But mostly, rednecks."

****
Honestly, there are more desserts in my office building on a consistent basis than any place I have ever worked. And I have worked in a wine + dessert bar. I will be 300 lbs by Christmas. I will have this baby in April and you won't even notice anything different about me.

****
I've kept quiet about the details and shared only the vaguest of stories and whiniest of attitudes with you for the past month or so, but what ended up finally happening this past week is that I almost left my new job for my old job. And then I realized that would be a really, really bad decision. And since my moment of clarity and closure, my current job seems about 300% better.

****
Fall weather is upon us, thankfully, even with its dark mornings and earlier sunsets. I'm getting up way too late in the mornings-- what I need is my dad, circa 1992, to walk into my room for the third time at 6:00 am and just flip the stinkin' lights on and walk back down the stairs. I would be pissed, sure, but I would be on time.

****
Big dog can open Bird's door if it's not latched just right. He can open a lot of doors, actually, with a combination of turning the knob with his teeth and ramming his body against it. But Bird's door is one of his favorites, because she has a rug in her room, and it's the only rug in the house. He likes to curl up and get comfy and commence making a calamitous noise chomping his own ass. Anyway. More than a few times, I've been climbing into bed and hear him bust into her room, all legs and stomping and clumsiness and clanky collar. So I curse under my breath and stomp down the stairs to find him not curled up with his ass in his mouth, but rather standing in her doorway wagging his tail furiously. And then I look at her sleepy little self, about a half inch away from falling out of bed. And he looks at me like, "see?"
So add that to his predictive abilities-- thunderstorms and little kids falling out of bed. We all have gifts. His are just unexpected.

Bird needs a haircut and other bits of information

2008-09-26T22:19:00.004-05:00

So, after another trip to Urgent Care and many, many hours waiting to see a bona-fide opthamologist and a series of three waiting rooms full of elderly people with cataracts, my husband is fine, his sight has been restored, and the eye patch has been retired until the next ocular tragedy or costumed holiday, whichever comes first.

I'm still looking for the camera cable so I can share a photo or two. Our little catch-all office area is still a shambles but a more, uh, planned shambles, as we now have some actual piles of things that might really go together after we build the shelves we've promised ourselves. A. has separated all of "his" stuff from "my" stuff... editing and video and random cables and hard drives and nerds-only equipment over here, teeming piles of shit to be shredded, shit to be reviewed, shit to be paid, and general miscellaneous shit-- oh, and the massive collection of daily finger paint masterpieces on thick construction paper--over there. Seeing as "my" computer doesn't have internet, or electricity at the moment, I'm typing this on some kind of bozo keyboard that has editing symbols and colored keys instead of letters, and I must say I'm faring remarkably well. Mrs. Gibbs (high school typing teacher-- we actually used typewriters. And corrective tape) would be proud of my mad blind typing skeels.

Anywho, just thought I'd share that I didn't make bread this week and didn't buy any either, and yet we have miraculously survived. I received my political bumper sticker of choice and continue to race home to check for my t-shirt daily, but alas, it does not arrive. I made a delicious thing from the October VT tonight that I didn't expect to be quite so delicious, but hey, we were pleasantly surprised (served it over cous cous). Birdy has declared a tolerance for cous cous, and the new kid in her class at school seems to cause her mild stress by simply existing to this point without a working knowledge of the rules and culture of her beloved Red Building. I just spent an outrageous amount of money on 2 new dog beds and the big guy still insists on sleeping in his stinky old chair, which I have a desire to un-stink and about which he has a fierce re-stinking agenda. He is more underfoot than usual tonight, like the worst version of a needy, underfoot cat, if that cat weighed seventy pounds.

And another thing: I'm pregnant. You may know that already, because you know me outside of this blog or because I've not exactly been NOT hinting about it. We're excited, we're terrified, we're freaking out about the cost of dueling childcare. We're savoring the tail end of our three-pack days and preparing for a new life-- both the literal human one that will keep us up all night and smell like a heavenly human biscuit, and the new life we'll be navigating and fumbling with as everything changes in all six of the lives that are currently being lived under our little roof. I'm due April 28, almost ten weeks along at present. I'll keep you posted.

Yahrrr

2008-09-21T20:41:00.005-05:00

HI, excuse, excuse, eleven days no post, yawn, hello.

Friday night A. took a wicked (and completely accidental) finger jab to the eye from a certain pre-schooler I know. Over the last few days it's worsened-- ending in a trip to Urgent Care this afternoon, some magic goo, huge eye bandage and a nice black pirate-style eye patch.

This evening, making dinner, I was chopping broccoli, all like, "blah blah your mom probably just couldn't hear the phone..." and I look up and A. is looking at me like I've sprouted an extra head, so I asked, "why are you looking at me all weird?"

"Because I'm wearing an EYEPATCH."

He seems to have confused "eyepatch" with "permission to look deranged" Which, I suppose, is better than confusing "eyepatch" with something more dangerous, like "cloak of invisibility."
I would love to post a photo, but a pirate seems to have reconfigured the PC/ Mac hodge-podge up in here and I can't find the cord to make that work at the moment.

More soon, promise-- big work, big thoughts, everything big. Bigger! Better! Later!

Hi. I'm still here.

2008-09-10T17:33:00.000-05:00

There are big things happening, y'all. I've been a bit preoccupied, a bit tired. So much to consider, so much ahead. All good things, but so complex.

Also, we've been carting our happy little asses back and forth to Indiana for all manner of family events, and we're road weary. We're deep in a laundry crisis with no way out-- let's call this a laundry quagmire-- and we've stopped unpacking suitcases, treating them like special floor storage for the clothes we wear the most. We're over-committed after work to all kinds of worthy and unworthy causes, we're spending an ass load of money on groceries because we don't have the time to be smart about what we're buying. I feel like we're living event to event to event and we're facing another trip to Indiana this weekend. Fortunately, the last until the holidays, but damn, our (paid) dog sitter is LOVING us.

Does that sound a little down? I know. It is. I'm a little down, a little overwhelmed, a little pissed off and a lot emotional. We've made some decisions I certainly don't regret but now that we're at a no-turning-back place, I'm seeing more clearly how other things (job, for one) don't fit the way I thought they could. My math isn't working out and I'm feeling so disconnected from my real life-- the lively, interesting one-- spending all this time here in my box with my tiny window. I'm itching for a change again, even though change is barreling down the path, coming right for me.
Nothing is WRONG, but still, things don't seem quite right. The nudges are becoming shoves.

And to counter all of that moping, here are the things that are oh-so-good: my funny, funny Bird becoming more herself every day, doing awesome Bird things like hollering upstairs to A to make sure he doesn't forget his "deenerant." Saying, "Let's rock out" when she's got her shoes on and ready to leave the house. Reading her books to us, teacher style, slowly moving the book in front of her body in an arc so we can see the pictures. A's startup business taking a little more shape, gaining a little more momentum. Cooler weather, a heavy garden, never needing to buy tomatoes or peppers. A house I love that is patient with me and all my neglect. Little things like new tupperware. Constant things like old smelly dogs that tolerate being covered with stickers and friends who don't care if you don't call.

A word about Pandora

2008-09-02T21:36:00.006-05:00

I've been listening to Pandora every day at work. There are times it's like a fortune teller-- the spooky kind that tells you pieces and parts of your past with time-machine accuracy.

Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead
This song brought me to my knees today, left me sitting in my gray, boxy office catching my breath. Had to stop working and close my eyes, remember flying along a country road thick on both sides with tall, tall green Indiana forest in a truck with the boys I lived with, tossing seeds out the window, breathing in fresh air and freedom with nowhere to be, 21 years old and so colorful. Feel like I'm going to throw up, maybe cry. Squeeze my eyes tighter.

And then tonight, this song socked me in the stomach for a hundred other reasons.
Sunken Treasure - Wilco

So, if you are turbo-emotional like me at this particular crossroads of life, and don't have your wits about you enough to navigate your own ipod, I highly recommend the creepy-fabulous fortune teller Pandora for a nice, cleansing cry at a moment when you are less than prepared.

Cat Box: Non-Transferable

2008-08-22T10:34:00.000-05:00

So Wednesday, as I pull in to my driveway and prepare to unload the massive amount of shit necessary to sustain me at work and Bird at daycare, my 10-year-old neighbor, Littel, comes running into the yard.

"You still got my litterbox?"

I don't even have one foot out of the car yet.

"What?"

"I need my litterbox back. I'm getting a new cat next week."

Oh, right. Littel's former cat, Brownie, ran away last fall. Being a sweet kid at his core, he brought over Brownie's litterbox, all cleaned out and ready to receive more disgusting cat shit.
He wanted to know if we might need it for Thomas.

Having used the same litterbox for nine years, we accepted.

"Littel, that litterbox is full of poop. I don't think you want it."

"Can't you just clean it out?"

"Do you have the cat right now?"

"No. My friend has it. I'm getting it in a couple days."

"I'm just going to have to get a new one for you. I'm not cleaning that thing out. Besides, we don't exactly have another litterbox on hand."

You know, since I wasn't aware this was a loan. CAT BOXES ARE NOT LOANER ITEMS in my world.

"Well, okay, but I need that litterbox back."

Littel ran back down the hill into his house. I got my nine bags of various shit plus preschooler plus the day's preschool artwork out of the car.

Two minutes later, he was back, knocking on our door.

"I need my scooper back."

"Excuse me?"

"My scooper. I need it back."

"Littel. I'm telling you. It's covered in poop. I don't think you want it back."

"Wash it off, then. I need it."

"DO YOU EVEN HAVE A CAT??"

"Not right now, but I'm going to. My mama says she can't find that same scooper no more at KMart."

I tell him to hold on. I grab the shit-covered scooper and hand it to him as-is, caked with stinky, vile cat shit.

"There's your scooper. I'll get you a new litterbox tomorrow."

"Well, I'm not getting the cat for a few days."

"DO I OWE YOU A LITTERBOX OR NOT"

Littel shrugs.

I close the door. I tell A. to buy the f-ing kid an f-ing litterbox, and vow never, ever to exchange goods-- even shitboxes-- with a ten-year-old again. And the thing is? It was undoubtedly Crazy M that sent him over to take back his litterbox in the first place. This is the same woman that sent him over to bang on our door at 11pm because someone was parked in "her" parking spot on the PUBLIC STREET, the woman who "gave" A. a pair of sneakers for Birdy, which were ugly and unsafe but which A. accepted so as not to hurt her feelings, and then sent Littel over the next day demanding $10 for the f-ing things. Gah. I could go on.

I know, I know. If we lived in nice, sterile, non-ghetto suburbia I'd still have a crazy neighbor, probably some busybody all up in my business or ferociously wanting to sell me some Mary Kay or wanting me to remove the one-winged gargoyle from the front porch (true) or getting all concerned about my country backyard clothesline*. But I live in a colorful little "emerging" neighborhood, and I have Crazy M and Littel, Drunken Teacher, Big Marvin, Friendly Hispanic Mechanic, and the Flower Sisters. And truthfully, I'll take them over a buttoned-down cul-du-sac any day of the week. Even if it costs me a cat box every now and again, I guess. But I'm going to be pissed off for a while. And it doesn't help that Littel just picked about 8 gorgeous-but-still-very-green tomatoes from my garden.

*Still diggin' the clothesline, by the way. Most people I've told about it seem very excited, though maybe they're just being kind. When a very senior-level person at work heard about it she said, "like, in your backyard?" Like I was slaughtering chickens in a voodoo ritual in the alley or something. Which I am not. Because I am vegetarian, and because I would not risk getting chicken guts on my crisp, clean sheets as they're hanging out to dry.

Where's my Ouija

2008-08-21T11:32:00.001-05:00

I had a nice little chat with my friend Stingray today on IM, following up on the progress of his house-buying adventures. I suggested that a previous offer that fell through was meant to be, because the house was built on a Native American burial ground. He said he wouldn't mind a mild haunting, a little blood on the walls, whatever. I said I'd like a poltergeist that folds laundry. Hello, friendly, helpful haunts! Find me on the Eastside!

Recipe Corner: Tomato Pie

2008-08-11T20:55:00.003-05:00

I made this for Sunday Dinner last week. No idea where it came from... wish I could give credit but it's one of those things I think photocopied from a library cookbook when we still lived in Indiana and waited eight years to try. But it was worth it.

2 frozen pie crusts
Grated swiss cheese (I grated about a pound? Yeah, probably a pound.)
4-ish ripe tomatoes, sliced about 1/4 inch thick
Dijon mustard
about 10 Fresh basil leaves

Spread a thinnish layer of dijon mustard all over the bottom and sides of the pie crusts. I used a basting brush and it worked great. Kept it kind of thick-ish, like you're spreading it for a dijon mustard commercial.

Put the cheese in the pie crusts.

Arrange the tomatoes on top of the cheese. You will have to cut some of them into smaller pieces to achieve maximum tomato coverage.

Bake at 350 for 45 minutes or until the crust starts to brown.

top with basil after it comes out of the oven. I just washed the leaves, made a little stack and cut strips with kitchen shears. Sprinkled. Worked fine.

Yum!

Best Most Productive Simplified Dream Life Forever

2008-08-11T09:58:00.000-05:00

Look out. Mama's been reading the Life Coachy blogs again. And thinking about work and what I want for myself and my family.*
(here, here, here)

I wrote a long post about my job just now, about work and time and money and what is most valuable, and then deleted it. I have google documents filled with the detailed ins and outs and pros and cons and goals and dreams, questioning and second-guessing everything. I talk openly with friends and family about my wrestlings, but I often forget to remind them that this constant verbal self-debate is my process for figuring things out, and I end up sounding either depressed or whiny or lost or some combination of all three. I start talking about it and I wear myself out, hang it up, and just go to work in the morning. I have a good job. It's very different from my old job. And I'm adjusting.

*My typical blog reading alternates between beautiful design-focused art and home inspiration blogs and frugal/ non-consumer/ budgeting/ quit your job articles. Good things cannot come of this combination.

Punch, Cross, Hook, Upper

2008-08-08T17:54:00.000-05:00

There was a staff picture today at work. It was emailed to everyone. It wasn't my prettiest day. Ill-fitting clothes, dough-white legs, dried strawberry smoothie in my hair that I wouldn't find until about 4:30. The smoothie didn't show up in the photo, but the ill-fitting skirt really, uh, highlighted the ole midsection.

Reminding me why I've been getting up at 5:30 and doing a kickboxing workout video* in my garage for the past week. And damn, am I uncoordinated. But I'm doing it alone, before anyone is stirring, and when that little muscle-bound Australian smiles at me from the screen and says, "Yew deed grite!" I'm all like "F-YEAH I DID EFFING GREAT" and my mornings start to feel a little bouncier. Hopefully my midsection will soon feel less so.

And now, the story you've been waiting for
I've started buying dried beans instead of canned. And when you eat as many beans as I do, that's actually worth mentioning. The thing is that I've been buying them, but usually bail out or plan poorly and turn to a can in a pinch. I finally had the foresight to soak 2 cups of black beans all day yesterday only to realize as I started dinner that I was looking at another couple of hours to COOK the damn things. I ended up going to Ghetto Grocery (which smelled suspiciously pukey) for a can of beans, and all told, the big pot of beans caught up with the pot of canned beans and they all finished cooking at the same time, which is to say that I have a veritable shitload of black beans in my refrigerator. And which is also to say that while you may pay half as much for dried beans, they're going to require a nice, clear page in your planner.

* I let A. preview the kickboxing video with me. The line I hear about a hundred times a day, in an exaggerated Australian accent? "Yer riddy feh anything. Lit's jump some raope!"

Paul

2008-08-07T21:58:00.006-05:00

And now, my other grandfather has become more and more sick, upsetting the delicate balance of health conditions that have somehow kept each other in check and allowed him to have pieces and parts replaced along the way without missing much more than a beat. But there's been a decline, and a rapid one. He's been in the hospital all but three weeks since January. All I'm hoping for is that he can come home to his house and sleep next to my Granny for just a little bit longer. Kind thoughts, please. It has been a rough year in the grandparent department.

Summer Dress

2008-08-05T21:03:00.003-05:00

My big girl, in her sweet new dress from Great Grandma O.

*sigh*
Three is only about two months away.
Looks like I'm going to need another one of these.

City Mice

2008-08-03T13:15:00.005-05:00

Okay, can I contradict that last post? Yesterday we woke up and got to cruisin' before the Tennessee heat sat it's nasty, humid self down on the rim of the bowl where my city is nestled.

With Birdy strapped into her "drive bike" we pedaled to the library to pick up a book A. had requested, to the bike shop to get a new helmet for the now-preschool-sized head, and to the old-timey hardware store with the lazy cats in the window for a big honkin' bag of clothespins. And that was a pretty good time.

During one of my epic whines to A. about moving to the country, he explained that while he loves the big green leafy peace of the rural midwest/ southeast as much as the next guy, he feels more comfortable as a part of a big living breathing community where the constant motion and contact of the parts keeps the whole thing sputtering along, taking care of itself. And you know, I agree with that just as much as I want to can vegetables and let my dogs and children run their little legs off without a fence or a sidewalk in sight. And yesterday satisfied my need for urban opportunities and small-town insulation, all within 7 blocks.

Welcome to my life: it's all indecision and restlessness and greener grass just around the corner sometimes. Admittedly, it's when I've got ants in the pants about some other, separate issue.

AND. To the anonymous donor who turned over his/ her bread machine to the Goodwill where it was sold to me for $12 :

Thank you, thank you, thank you for donating the instruction manual as well.

Indiana, oh Indiana

2008-08-01T22:57:00.000-05:00

I have been having more stirrings recently about moving out of the city. And the thing is, I love living in the city. I love living in MY city. We have the best friends in the world here, we love our Prius-and-Shitty-Cadillac neighborhood, we have short commutes and a fabulous public library, excellent daycare, progressive church and miles of greenway right outside our door.

But still.

I'll be going along minding my own business, doing my dishes or something and then WHAM! out of the blue I almost can't even see straight because the call is so strong for me to move my family out to the country and wear an apron and can what's left of my tomatoes, or rock a baby on my front porch and listen to the rain with nothing else on my agenda for the afternoon, plant lettuce in the fall, slow it all down, focus in. Let go of my urgencies, have some space to breathe.

In my head, this happens in Monroe County, Indiana, and when I listen to Bonnie Prince Billy, the need sometimes becomes an actual pain.
Have a listen.

Today is my Birthday.

2008-07-28T20:41:00.005-05:00

Yesterday I was toasted by a handful of my nearest and dearest and given a composter (thanks, y'all!). Today, I received a staghorn fern from my in-laws (photos coming), a non-enormous bathrobe from my parents (yay), and tickets to see David Sedaris read here in October from my husband. So far, 32 is spoiling me.

We also took our very first post-bird camping trip over the weekend, which turned out really nicely. Hot, to be sure, but fun. Bird was a trooper, as always. There will definitely be more of that in our future. I mean, look how cozy they are in that little tent? You totally can't tell it was 600 degrees in there.

txt me bk

2008-07-25T22:37:00.000-05:00

I have a lot of friends with the same name as my husband.

When I send A. a text message, there is always a fair chance I am going to select a different A. in my address book on accident, telling an unsuspecting friend that he should pick up some sour cream on his way home, that the cat did not get meds this morning, or that we should try to stay up past 8pm tonight. (wink, wink).

It is really going to freak someone out or, better yet, cause a nice, uncomfortable miscommunication in the future. I hope all of the A's are looking forward to it, because I know I am. Game On!

Hanger

2008-07-24T13:19:00.001-05:00

As I write this, I am finally emerging from the murky depths of a fierce hangover, which I earned 100% last night on the back porch with A., flipping through a calendar and having a nice tense conversation about where to be and when over the Holidays. It’s an annual discussion I like to call, “Who will be disappointed the most?” and it most certainly flows better with an adult beverage or four.

And for the record, the reason I don’t usually drink white wine (ah, yes. NOW she remembers) is because it goes down a little too fast, a little too easy. And I end up with a wicked case of the bedspins and, eventually, huddled around the upstairs commode (which is gross by itself) assuring Andy that I’m fine and making wild arm gestures, waving him back to bed and saving him from the wretchedness that is me.

And so, today. I have worked very hard at nothing except sitting completely still and trying not to move my eyes. It has been exhausting work. My mouth tastes vaguely metallic and my body aches. My brain feels cold and my thinking is slow and sticky. I was asked to proofread a booklet with unimaginably tiny type and tedious subject matter, and that hurt me everywhere. For lunch, I dragged my sorry self over to A’s office and sought shelter in a warm, white Jimmy John’s sandwich eaten in a sort of upright fetal position next to his desk. He showed me recently unearthed home videos of us seven years ago, when we were skinny and lively and able to bounce back from two bottles of Chenin Blanc without incident. He rubbed my face to ease my headache, and only laughed at me a little bit, because he is a kind man.

Behold, my laundries:

2008-07-19T21:29:00.014-05:00

Look what came to my backyard this weekend!

Finally putting that hot Tennessee sun to work for us.
Love this thing. Just one step closer to living that country life I babble on and on about from time to time.

Want to hang your spouse's skivvies up for your neighbors to admire? One super awesome feature of this little beauty is that you only cement a little plastic sleeve in your yard, giving you the option to pluck the whole thing out of the ground and store it when you're not using it. Also awesome: comes fully assembled. Thanks to my most greenest C.S. for the recommendation. (And to my most helpfulest A. for the cementing.)

***

Conversation with my nine-year-old neighbor from across the street:

Mama:
Dude, did your uncle just drive up and give you money?

Littel:
Man, that's the easiest two dollars I ever made. All I had to do was get up early and pee in a cup so he could take it to work.

***

Conversation with my daughter over breakfast:

Mama:
Birdy, watch out! You almost spilled your milk.

Bird:
Mama, don't freak up.

***

What I saw today down the street at Wayne's Unisex, the haircut place that hasn't changed one bit since, oh, about 1979, and is probably the last place you'd think to take a two-year-old for a haircut, but it is so cheap and just so awesome in there:

Skinny old droopy guy, pretty tall, with paper-white hair.
Cut in the most fabulously long mullet I have ever seen.
A six hundred year old woman was trimming the "party" part straight across, which came almost down to his non-existent old-man butt.
I do not kid.

***

You know, for being a pretty handsome guy, he's not very photogenic. So I picked the most bizarre shot (a little Picassoey with all the legs, right?) to give you an idea of the Bear's new summer 'do and the distinct line between head (not shaved) and body (totally shaved).

This guy, on the other hand, is a bit more handsome. In a crazy, anxious, reclusive movie star kind of way. Tragically handsome, tragically a few horses shy of a library.

This is a somewhat terrible photo of what we like to call "the curler." When Big D gets nice and worked up, like during a thunderstorm as in this case where he nearly tried to climb into the bath with Bird, he curls his ears up in this super bizarre way, like little bat wings. The vet says he's never seen anything like it.

And how 'bout this haircut?

Finally, a non-vacation post

2008-07-18T20:10:00.004-05:00

We had a slew of people visit us from Indianapolis for a few days over the 4th, effectively filling our little house to noisy, joyful capacity (total bodies: 8 adults, 2 toddlers, 2 dogs, 1 cat, 1 fish. Plus 6 additional dinner guests on Friday.) Birdy had a fabulous time with her small friend P.,we laid on old blankets to watch fireworks in the park in our neighborhood and Bird spent half the time with her hands on top of her head, afraid the fireworks would fall on her. She and P. ate popsicles that stained their skin green until morning, despite heavy scrubbing. We all stayed up too late and ate too much. We talked about old times and how much things have changed. We laughed at my dog’s haircut. We waited in line for the one shower in my 80-year old house. We braved the heat.

I love to be the host of that kind of party. It was perfect.

I read something in a glossy home magazine recently about a woman who, of course, had some fabulously rustic summer home in, like, France or something, and it was all about her laid-back style of hosting (she doesn’t match towels!) (Mama says WTF, do people really match their towels?) and how she hosts these lounge-y weekends with fabulously simple dinners at an enormous table probably with fireflies and famously interesting people lolling around on hammocks with candles hanging from the trees, smoking fancy cigarettes and having a few too many glasses of wine, everyone jolly and singing a little too loudly and helping cook breakfast in the morning.

Well. Our style of hosting is more of a fend-for-yourself, you-know-where-the-band-aids-are, if-you-want-a-clean-shower-here's-a-sponge model. And yet, we still have loads of guests year-round, so that must be somewhat appealing. Or at least not completely revolting. Anyway.

This woman in the magazine was talking about her steady stream of summer guests and how she felt it was good for her children as they grew up, that it encouraged spontaneity and joy de vivre, that observing an unscripted, uncensored moment around the grown-up table was healthy and made kids feel included, valued, one of the pack.

Recently, someone I respect very much wondered aloud if our constant visitors were causing stress to our little Bird. It was a part of a larger conversation about attention-seeking behaviors that really made me feel helpless and honestly, hurt my little feelings as a full-time worker bee who’s just trying her damndest to be a good mama.

Uh-oh. Shake it off.

Anyway. I believe that yes, Birdy does need very special one-one-one attention from us. And she also needs to be left alone (within earshot) to get lost in her little world of babies and songs and playdough pancakes. And I believe it’s good for her, on occasion, to be a valued member of a raucous bunch of good-natured and treasured friends, where everybody cooks and everybody parents, where people aren’t hanging on her every precious word and she can gain the confidence to strike up conversation with anyone, even (gasp) a grown-up, or feel loved enough by a non-family member to snuggle on the couch with her favorite grown up friend A.L., or discuss scarecrows in-depth with a plentifully tattooed photographer friend, or rub a pregnant guest’s belly and ask two hundred questions and never feel embarrassed, or too young, or insignificant. It's good for her to have structure, yes, but it's good for her to learn that you don't always have to give a shit about bedtime. That sometimes things not going according to plan is the plan. That friends can be family and you can never be loved too much.

(Wish I would have thought to say that then.)

Vacation Thought No. 11

2008-07-16T09:07:00.000-05:00

My mom is a born Granny. She’s a really wonderful mom, too, first and foremost. But Granny-ing is where it’s at for her. She and Bird make each other so happy that I don’t mind when she lets her put lip gloss all over her face or feeds her a thousand Fig Newtons for lunch. Because most of the time, she’s careful to respect our parenting, and all of the time, she respects Bird for the awesome human she is. No baby talk, no obnoxious permissions (the perfect storm for a wicked tantrum), no spoiling with presents. Just the pure and loving one-on-one attention that makes really, really good buddies. I have a lot to learn from Mom about letting Bird lead me when I can, about setting my laundry-folding or dinner-making agenda aside, about climbing into her world and being more present with her. I’m so proud of both of them. Together, they inspire me to be a better mama.

Vacation Thought No. 10

2008-07-16T09:05:00.000-05:00

I was invited and un-invited to Bird’s birthday party about seventy-two times during the week of vacation. She also told my family that “After my birthday, I will have a SISTER.”

So yeah, we’ll see about that. Kind of a big gift.

Vacation Thought No. 9

2008-07-15T09:03:00.000-05:00

We used my brother and sister-in-law’s new house in North Carolina as an overnight layover in our travels. They have a lovely wooden chess set on their living room coffee table, as well as a perfectly Bird-sized dog, the largest ottoman known to man, cold diet cokes in the fridge, the biggest master bath I’ve ever showered in, a seven-thousand pound cat with a tiny mustache and many, many catalogs.

In Bird-land, that chess set became an irresistible tray with drinks on it. She carefully arranged them on the board and spent a lot of her time by herself, serving them in an orderly fashion on the floor, assigning them to imaginary friends ( the great Venture Adivans) and friends back home at daycare.

A few hours before we left for our final flight home, Bird tripped on the rug while she was arranging her drinks and made fierce contact with the edge of the coffee table, right between her eyes. It was a nasty fall, and afterwards she got clammy and quiet and really, really sleepy. We all worried. All of my mama senses overflowed with the primitive desire to hold her very, very tightly or even absorb her back in my body somehow. I felt like throwing up.

The medical advice we sought told us not to worry, and sure enough she snapped out of it on her own in about twenty minutes with a huge bruise in the middle of her forehead that has now faded to bright yellow. I’m so thankful she’s okay, and also so thankful for bangs.

Vacation Thought No. 8

2008-07-14T09:01:00.000-05:00

What a two-year old girl will say at bedtime when there is an air mattress on the floor:

Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? MAMA!!! MAAAAMMMMAAAA! Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay? Watch this, okay?

And then she will jump. Once.

Vacation Thought No. 7

2008-07-13T08:58:00.000-05:00

Bird is an early riser. Fortunately, so is my family. My brother jogs most mornings before even Bird is stirring, my dad wakes up bright and early to open and slam every conceivable cabinet door and drawer in the kitchen, like a wild and ravenous grizzly bear foraging for some Egg Beaters and a cinnamon-raisin bagel. My mom pads around like a little ray of sunshine. My husband and my sister-in-law are adjusting to this early-bird way of life, and they are accepting and mostly pleasant about it.

Bird managed to beat everyone to the wake-up once during the week, so she and I took a special walk to the beach and sat on the hard sand to watch the tide roll out in the quiet. We walked a little, spotted a few early-morning dog walkers, seagulls, washed-up jellyfish. It couldn’t have been a more beautiful and perfect scene, mama and birdy enjoying the ocean and filling up with peace in the early morning.

And once we’d reached that mother-child beach nirvana, we held it for a few exquisite moments and promptly began a quick decent into madness, with Bird brewing up a wicked tantrum about a few grains of sand on her leg – after sitting in sand up to her waist all afternoon the day before and loving every minute of it, with sand in her swim suit and hair and EARS for the love of God-- and me grabbing her hand and saying things through clenched teeth like, “We are having a REALLY NICE TIME ON THE BEACH, Birdy, and your whining is DRIVING ME BANANAS. We are going to WALK in the WAVES because it is FUN.” You know, because it is up to me to tell her what she enjoys and our moment together is all about ME and my picture-perfect moment of mother and child harmony. And it is totally appropriate to art-direct special moments with a toddler. I left the beach with a screaming, kicking toddler under my arm. It was a beautiful morning and I will always treasure the memories.

Vacation Thought No. 6.5

2008-07-12T20:00:00.000-05:00

Bird was drawing with a fat red crayon before our first flight took off.

“What are you drawing, Bird?”

“A corn pipe.”

Naturally.

Vacation Thought No. 6

2008-07-11T08:54:00.000-05:00

My parents bought a special, slightly miniature beach chair for Bird. It was red. She thought it was totally the bees’ knees. (BTW, when I use that expression with her, she looks at her knees with alarm). She spent the majority of her indoor hours putting her babies in time out in a corner and then sitting in it with her legs crossed like a lady and her back to the offender. Or sitting in it with one of my dad’s giant cop-style flashlights, waving it around and having long conversations with nobody, like she was a guest on Invisible Letterman. Or standing up and singing loudly out of the stray detective paperbacks that come with a rented beach house, pretending to be in church.

Vacation Thought No. 5

2008-07-10T20:50:00.000-05:00

I learned that my newly suburban brother is capable of a full and informed discussion on the nuances that separate Crate & Barrel from Pottery Barn.

Vacation Thought No. 4

2008-07-09T20:42:00.002-05:00

Dad likes long walks on the beach. On Vacation, he takes off nearly every day alone (though sometimes with my Mom), his big tall white self moving along, swinging those big arms the way he does, big gentle grin tilted up at the sky, like he’s always giving thanks. This arm-swinging, glory-giving walk is so distinctive we can pick him out even when he’s far away, even when he’s strolling through the crowds of people way down the beach around the resorts. He’ll stop a few times and just walk into the ocean until he’s about shoulder-deep, sometimes float on his back for a while out there all alone.

I think about him more tenderly after certain events: his heart attack when I was in college, his scare with the big C this winter and my Granddad’s death this spring. And I think this is what it will be like when he leaves this world, just getting up from his chair and walking toward wherever he’s led in gratitude.

Vacation Thought No. 3

2008-07-02T20:33:00.002-05:00

If you were on any of our flights, you may have heard:

Bird’s Lyrics to “Frosty the Snowman”

Fros-ty the snowman!

Was a very joyold soooooul

With a corn-cob pipe and a button nose

And a corn made out of piiiiipe…

Vacation Thought No. 2

2008-06-30T20:43:00.004-05:00

It was stingray season at the beach. Did you know there was such a thing? Well, ‘tis the season for big giant sheets with mouths in the middle to slink past you in knee-deep water and whack a poisonous barb at your ankle.

Really, I do love the stingrays. They’re graceful and beautiful and alien, their mouths look smiley and they’re really just a gentle thing looking for little fishies to gobble. They just happen to have this unfortunate Wand of Intense Pain hanging off of their backsides.

We saw a big pack of them flopping around right where the waves were breaking. Their corners flipped up and looked like darty, spooky fins cutting the waves, and tricked us into thinking we were standing ankle-deep in shark-infested waters. It was just the type of nature drama we are thrilled to report when we encounter wildlife found outside of the state of Indiana.

Vacation Thought No. 1

2008-06-29T09:49:00.004-05:00

Can I brag for a minute? My Bird—THE Bird—was the best little traveler on our trip to Hilton Head last week. Three flights, ten total hours in the car, three different beds and a week in a beach house with six adults and no kids to play with and precious few toys and still. She was chipper and good-natured and cooperative. (Only one true meltdown and one major injury, both of which I will describe later.) She pee-peed in the scary/ stinky airplane potty and was perfectly happy to entertain herself with shells and toys when she needed quiet time in the house. She lavished attention right back at my parents and my brother and sister-in-law and was sweet and delicious and funny. She asked to be excused from the table, used her inside voice, and threw please and thank you around like a raquetball.

Not that two-year-olds should be held to adult standards or manners as a measure of good behavior. It’s not like I have a buttoned-up Yes-Ma’am kid. She’s a spirited little bird and a powerful little joy-force that may or may not be wearing clothes at any given moment. But she is so agreeable, so generous, so thoughtful and of such a pleasant disposition. She’s so much fun to be around, and I am more grateful than I can describe to have had a full, uninterrupted week of her silly, loving company.

Back now, more soon

2008-06-24T21:27:00.003-05:00

Birdy's Daycare Provider asked her where she went on vacation.

She said, "We went to LUNCH!"