We had a visit from one of my oldest and dearest friends and her family today. (And I am not just writing this because I know that you're going to be reading my blog, C.
They have a five-year-old boy who is stunningly beautiful and brilliant, and the two best tempered more adorable one-year-olds I've ever met. We had such a good time hanging out together.
Before and after the visit, D. worked on the front yard (otherwise known as the front construction zone). I cannot believe how hard my husband is capable of working. He's like a machine. And he was gushingly grateful for my help when I did very little apart from provide moral support and dig out about a sixteenth of the area he's dug out.
Tomorrow we get a dumpster and gravel. We're well on our way. And in the meantime, we're giving our neighbors something to talk about.
R. is off at camp again. I drove her out this afternoon.
S. turns 5 on Wednesday.
D. is soaking in the tub.
The dog is asleep in the hallway.
I am practicing short, declarative sentences.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Saturday, July 24, 2004
July 24, 2004
We now have a sizeable hole in our front yard, and the rose bush has been relocated to a spot in the back yard next to a couple of its distant cousins. The driveway looks like a significant but sloppy burial mound. I’m considering absorbing some of the cost of this project by charging admission to see the Holy Hillock, the final resting place of Sweaticus Alotium, patron Saint of Home Improvement.
The street in front of our house looks like flood waters have receded, leaving only a thick coating of mud and detritus.
My husband is exhausted.
The bobcat doesn’t even look winded.
Tomorrow friends are coming to visit, so I’ll rise early and do what cleaning I can after having run to burn off all the calories I consumed at a co-worker’s housewarming party today.
And somewhere in there, I’ll pack up R. for 4 more days of camp and drive her and a friend and the friend’s mom to the retreat center/campground at 2pm.
Next week is Sophie’s birthday party. We’re having a party here. Mostly the kids on the street and my in-laws – in other words, people who already know we’re insane, so when they see the state of the place they won’t even blink.
I’m so glad I dropped out of church so I could slow down the pace of my life. (ha!) Space abhors a vacuum, and I have a hard time with down time, obviously. The glass of wine today did help, but alas, the effects of alcohol are temporary. The problems brought on by over-committment are harder to coax out the door.
The street in front of our house looks like flood waters have receded, leaving only a thick coating of mud and detritus.
My husband is exhausted.
The bobcat doesn’t even look winded.
Tomorrow friends are coming to visit, so I’ll rise early and do what cleaning I can after having run to burn off all the calories I consumed at a co-worker’s housewarming party today.
And somewhere in there, I’ll pack up R. for 4 more days of camp and drive her and a friend and the friend’s mom to the retreat center/campground at 2pm.
Next week is Sophie’s birthday party. We’re having a party here. Mostly the kids on the street and my in-laws – in other words, people who already know we’re insane, so when they see the state of the place they won’t even blink.
I’m so glad I dropped out of church so I could slow down the pace of my life. (ha!) Space abhors a vacuum, and I have a hard time with down time, obviously. The glass of wine today did help, but alas, the effects of alcohol are temporary. The problems brought on by over-committment are harder to coax out the door.
Friday, July 23, 2004
A Bobcat in the Front Yard
There's a bobcat in our front yard.
My four-year-old called it a "wildcat," as in,
"Wow, Papa really is moving a lot of stuff with that wildcat."
But really, it's a bobcat.
And we're completely tearing up our front yard, and in a few hours have ripped out plants that have been there since we moved in ten-and-a-half years ago. We'll carefully dig out more tomorrow, like a rose bush that I estimate to be about 15-20 years old.
When I say "we" I mean the corporate, spousal "we." But since I've done my share of picking adobe in the last few years, I don't feel too much like just a spectator.
The plan is to put in a courtyard off the front of the house, with a very tasteful fence separating it from plants that are as carefully planned as a Japanese garden while still being indigenous and drought tolerant. The nice thing about plans is they're plans - they're not yet realities that didn't live up to expectations.
But I think this really will be nice. It's one of the first home-improvement projects where D. and I share the same vision of what we want. He envisions a much thicker slab of concrete than I would have thought one would ever need (except to dispose of nuclear waste), but it's all right.
I just have to find a good new home for that rose bush.
My four-year-old called it a "wildcat," as in,
"Wow, Papa really is moving a lot of stuff with that wildcat."
But really, it's a bobcat.
And we're completely tearing up our front yard, and in a few hours have ripped out plants that have been there since we moved in ten-and-a-half years ago. We'll carefully dig out more tomorrow, like a rose bush that I estimate to be about 15-20 years old.
When I say "we" I mean the corporate, spousal "we." But since I've done my share of picking adobe in the last few years, I don't feel too much like just a spectator.
The plan is to put in a courtyard off the front of the house, with a very tasteful fence separating it from plants that are as carefully planned as a Japanese garden while still being indigenous and drought tolerant. The nice thing about plans is they're plans - they're not yet realities that didn't live up to expectations.
But I think this really will be nice. It's one of the first home-improvement projects where D. and I share the same vision of what we want. He envisions a much thicker slab of concrete than I would have thought one would ever need (except to dispose of nuclear waste), but it's all right.
I just have to find a good new home for that rose bush.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Madeleine L'Engle
I only really have one thing to say tonight. I really like Madeleine L'Engle.
I stumbled across this
interview today.
More about her tomorrow, about how she and I met years ago and what happened then....
I stumbled across this
interview today.
More about her tomorrow, about how she and I met years ago and what happened then....
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Breaking the News
As I was saying, I just told my daughter about menstruation.
She took it pretty well. Except for when she said, “You have got to be kidding,” and ‘Okay, now you’re really grossing me out.” and, “You mean this still happens to you?”
She’s only nine. I hadn’t planned on talking to her about all this yet, but a friend of hers (who is ten) just started, and I’d rather have R. hear about it from her own mother than from someone else. I’m trying to break a generation-old family tradition of disseminating this kind of information “too little, too late.”
And besides, I didn’t have a copy of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret handy.
We had our conversation in the pantry. I hadn’t expected to tell her all this in the pantry, but that’s how it worked out. Part of my oh-so-clever strategy was to keep the conversation light. (You can stop laughing now.)
I thought that a big sit-down lecture with a scientific book would make the whole thing loom too large in her sensitive pre-adolescent brain, and that it would be better to say, “Oh by the way, you should know something…”
We were only near the pantry at first. But then when I said it was something that her 4-year old sister shouldn’t hear, she moved us farther next to the spice rack and shut the door so S. wouldn’t find us.
Years from now, I expect that the setting will be prompt much eye-rolling when she tells the story to friends or her own daughters. If she gets over being grossed out and has any daughters.
I didn’t go into too much detail. I didn’t discuss sex. I know it’s too soon for that. I just explained that when a girl’s body starts to get ready to someday be able to have a baby, the uterus, which is where babies (when there are babies) grow, needs to have blood in it to help the baby grow. This is where her exclamations started.. And then I said that when there isn’t a baby – as is usually the case – the body doesn’t need the blood, and it comes out.
She really did accept it pretty well, considering. I’ve assured her that she probably won’t need to worry about it for a couple of years at least. She’s had some follow-up questions. Her first was, “Does it change how you feel or how you act?”
I told her it doesn’t have to, and it doesn’t always, but that for some people it does. Sometimes. And I also said that other people say it does more than it really does. But we don’t go too far down that path. There’s a balance to maintain for ya. How to allow her to feel it’s okay to be emotional because of hormones without giving her another big gun in her already well-stocked arsenal of reasons for wild mood swings?
When R. was about 6 and a half, she burst into tears one January afternoon because, as she put it in a wail, “Now I know three people who have died! Nana, Abraham Lincoln, and that other man!”
It was Martin Luther King Day.
And now, she’ll have to bleed once a month on top of all that.
Last night, though, she said, “Mom, about that period thing. Do men get it?” And I said, “Nope.” and bless her little heart, she said with obvious pride, “Oh, cool. It’s just a girl thing, then.”
Yeah. Cool. I hope she can keep this positive attitude. I think attitude counts for so much.
Today in the car (before we got her sister), she said, “Mom, about that period thing. Do you think I’m the kind of girl who will be able to handle it? Or do you think I’m the kind of girl who will freak out?” I assured her that based on everything I already knew about her, I was sure that she would be just fine with it. I almost said, “You know how you clean out the bottom of the bird cage without making a fuss about it?” but I caught myself in time.
Sometimes analogies are better left unsaid.
She took it pretty well. Except for when she said, “You have got to be kidding,” and ‘Okay, now you’re really grossing me out.” and, “You mean this still happens to you?”
She’s only nine. I hadn’t planned on talking to her about all this yet, but a friend of hers (who is ten) just started, and I’d rather have R. hear about it from her own mother than from someone else. I’m trying to break a generation-old family tradition of disseminating this kind of information “too little, too late.”
And besides, I didn’t have a copy of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret handy.
We had our conversation in the pantry. I hadn’t expected to tell her all this in the pantry, but that’s how it worked out. Part of my oh-so-clever strategy was to keep the conversation light. (You can stop laughing now.)
I thought that a big sit-down lecture with a scientific book would make the whole thing loom too large in her sensitive pre-adolescent brain, and that it would be better to say, “Oh by the way, you should know something…”
We were only near the pantry at first. But then when I said it was something that her 4-year old sister shouldn’t hear, she moved us farther next to the spice rack and shut the door so S. wouldn’t find us.
Years from now, I expect that the setting will be prompt much eye-rolling when she tells the story to friends or her own daughters. If she gets over being grossed out and has any daughters.
I didn’t go into too much detail. I didn’t discuss sex. I know it’s too soon for that. I just explained that when a girl’s body starts to get ready to someday be able to have a baby,
She really did accept it pretty well, considering. I’ve assured her that she probably won’t need to worry about it for a couple of years at least. She’s had some follow-up questions. Her first was, “Does it change how you feel or how you act?”
I told her it doesn’t have to, and it doesn’t always, but that for some people it does. Sometimes. And I also said that other people say it does more than it really does. But we don’t go too far down that path. There’s a balance to maintain for ya. How to allow her to feel it’s okay to be emotional because of hormones without giving her another big gun in her already well-stocked arsenal of reasons for wild mood swings?
When R. was about 6 and a half, she burst into tears one January afternoon because, as she put it in a wail, “Now I know three people who have died! Nana, Abraham Lincoln, and that other man!”
It was Martin Luther King Day.
And now, she’ll have to bleed once a month on top of all that.
Last night, though, she said, “Mom, about that period thing. Do men get it?” And I said, “Nope.” and bless her little heart, she said with obvious pride, “Oh, cool. It’s just a girl thing, then.”
Yeah. Cool. I hope she can keep this positive attitude. I think attitude counts for so much.
Today in the car (before we got her sister), she said, “Mom, about that period thing. Do you think I’m the kind of girl who will be able to handle it? Or do you think I’m the kind of girl who will freak out?” I assured her that based on everything I already knew about her, I was sure that she would be just fine with it. I almost said, “You know how you clean out the bottom of the bird cage without making a fuss about it?” but I caught myself in time.
Sometimes analogies are better left unsaid.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
July 20, 2004
Yesterday, I told my daughter all about menstruation.
This will be the first line of my post tomorrow, too. The post where I actually tell the story. Those of you who don't want to hear rite-of-passage stories, don't read tomorrow's post.
Tonight's post is just to say that I am asleep and somehow still writing, having been awoken by my husband while I slept in my younger daughter's bed. ("Mommy, sleep with me just for a little while?!")
If I couldn't touch type, there would be no readable blog post at all today. There would still be a post of some kind, because Julia "Mwah Ha Ha" D. cursed me with this post-every-day curse. It's like the friggin' red shoes story only slightly less gory and religious and I don't think I'll have to cut of my hands to keep them from typing. Let's just say that they're doing their work without much else of my brain being engaged, and with my eyes closed while I sleep-blog.
If hadn't taught myself to type in college with a stupid computer typing game, this post would just be whatever random characters blind hen-pecking would yield. That, and whatever might be put on the screen by the force of my drool hitting the a random key on the keyboard.
Good night.
This will be the first line of my post tomorrow, too. The post where I actually tell the story. Those of you who don't want to hear rite-of-passage stories, don't read tomorrow's post.
Tonight's post is just to say that I am asleep and somehow still writing, having been awoken by my husband while I slept in my younger daughter's bed. ("Mommy, sleep with me just for a little while?!")
If I couldn't touch type, there would be no readable blog post at all today. There would still be a post of some kind, because Julia "Mwah Ha Ha" D. cursed me with this post-every-day curse. It's like the friggin' red shoes story only slightly less gory and religious and I don't think I'll have to cut of my hands to keep them from typing. Let's just say that they're doing their work without much else of my brain being engaged, and with my eyes closed while I sleep-blog.
If hadn't taught myself to type in college with a stupid computer typing game, this post would just be whatever random characters blind hen-pecking would yield. That, and whatever might be put on the screen by the force of my drool hitting the a random key on the keyboard.
Good night.
Monday, July 19, 2004
A Road Not Taken
I haven't yet gone to see King Arthur, but I know I will have to soon. I may not like the film, but I'm compelled to see it in the same way that I've been compelled to read everything I've ever found about Arthur even when it was the worst kind of schlock ever printed.
In a parallel universe somewhere, I have a Master's Degree in Arthurian Literature from the University of Wales in Bangor. (Here's a link in English for those of you who don't read Welsh.)
After I got my BA in "English Literature with a Writing Emphasis" (and a minor in Philosophy), I was all set to go to the very tip of Northern Wales to study something that would have qualified me to do not much more than teach nutcases like myself in turn all about Arthurian Literature.
I was accepted to the school. I even had a dorm room assigned. I didn't go.
What happened? 3 things, I think:
1 - I did not get the financial aid I needed and did not want to be fiscally irresponsible and take out a loan just to get a degree that would not have made me any more money than I could have made by having a job where I had a nametag and asked repeatedly, "Would you like fries with that?"
2 - I realized that Arthurian Literature was just that kind of vicious cycle I mention above - what would I do with the degree? Would it change the world? No. Even worse, would it turn the legend that I so adored into something sprawled and wriggling on a wall like a bug? Would it kill my love for the story? Would I become one more person who had turned a hobby into a chore?
3 - I didn't want to be that far away from my boyfriend.
I'm sure you can guess which of these reasons most influenced my decision.
The summer before I would have started the Masters program, a friend and I spent 3 months traveling from Britain to Greece via Eurail and Youth Hostels, and one of our first stops was for me to tell the Dean at Bangor that I would have to back out of attending the school.
I took a picture of the dorm where I would have stayed.
Okay, and I just have to add this. You know that many of King Arthur's men would have been Welsh, right? And that Lancelot (a much later addition to the legend) would have been French? So before I even see the film, I am really irked by the fact that the only Welshman in the cast is playing Lancelot. What's up with that? It's like Highlander, where they had an American-born, Swiss-bred actor playing the Scot, and the Scottish actor playing a Spaniard (with a rotten accent). Hollywood. Sheesh.
I'll probably see the movie this weekend.
Because I have to.
Even if my blog spellchecker wants to substitute "Arthurian" with "earthworms."
In a parallel universe somewhere, I have a Master's Degree in Arthurian Literature from the University of Wales in Bangor. (Here's a link in English for those of you who don't read Welsh.)
After I got my BA in "English Literature with a Writing Emphasis" (and a minor in Philosophy), I was all set to go to the very tip of Northern Wales to study something that would have qualified me to do not much more than teach nutcases like myself in turn all about Arthurian Literature.
I was accepted to the school. I even had a dorm room assigned. I didn't go.
What happened? 3 things, I think:
1 - I did not get the financial aid I needed and did not want to be fiscally irresponsible and take out a loan just to get a degree that would not have made me any more money than I could have made by having a job where I had a nametag and asked repeatedly, "Would you like fries with that?"
2 - I realized that Arthurian Literature was just that kind of vicious cycle I mention above - what would I do with the degree? Would it change the world? No. Even worse, would it turn the legend that I so adored into something sprawled and wriggling on a wall like a bug? Would it kill my love for the story? Would I become one more person who had turned a hobby into a chore?
3 - I didn't want to be that far away from my boyfriend.
I'm sure you can guess which of these reasons most influenced my decision.
The summer before I would have started the Masters program, a friend and I spent 3 months traveling from Britain to Greece via Eurail and Youth Hostels, and one of our first stops was for me to tell the Dean at Bangor that I would have to back out of attending the school.
I took a picture of the dorm where I would have stayed.
Okay, and I just have to add this. You know that many of King Arthur's men would have been Welsh, right? And that Lancelot (a much later addition to the legend) would have been French? So before I even see the film, I am really irked by the fact that the only Welshman in the cast is playing Lancelot. What's up with that? It's like Highlander, where they had an American-born, Swiss-bred actor playing the Scot, and the Scottish actor playing a Spaniard (with a rotten accent). Hollywood. Sheesh.
I'll probably see the movie this weekend.
Because I have to.
Even if my blog spellchecker wants to substitute "Arthurian" with "earthworms."
Sunday, July 18, 2004
July 18, 2004
Maybe not the final draft, but enough for now.
I am in Love with Old Men
Not just the idea of old men,
but the men themselves,
stooped and faded, mottled skin
loose at the elbows like the sweater
I’ve never quite been able to throw away.
The shorter, the better.
You don’t have to tell me
they were taller once. I understand
that before they began to walk
with such care, they strode
like giants over the land.
I want to swim in their Summer
memories. Men who once knew
how to tie seamen’s knots, how to whittle.
They were engineers, and drew
the world the way they saw it,
and only gave up the pipe under duress.
They may use canes now,
but when they were cowlicked boys
with tadpoles and muck in paper cups
they once, on a dare, burned something
alive with a glass and the sun.
Whatever life has done to them,
I want to eat it up.
Each old man who waits on a bench
for the bus to come – does he know
how close he is to having me
stop for him instead?
There beats a heart, still.
I want to cut it out
give it back to him and say,
“Look, how beautiful.”
6/04-7/04 RBP
I am in Love with Old Men
Not just the idea of old men,
but the men themselves,
stooped and faded, mottled skin
loose at the elbows like the sweater
I’ve never quite been able to throw away.
The shorter, the better.
You don’t have to tell me
they were taller once. I understand
that before they began to walk
with such care, they strode
like giants over the land.
I want to swim in their Summer
memories. Men who once knew
how to tie seamen’s knots, how to whittle.
They were engineers, and drew
the world the way they saw it,
and only gave up the pipe under duress.
They may use canes now,
but when they were cowlicked boys
with tadpoles and muck in paper cups
they once, on a dare, burned something
alive with a glass and the sun.
Whatever life has done to them,
I want to eat it up.
Each old man who waits on a bench
for the bus to come – does he know
how close he is to having me
stop for him instead?
There beats a heart, still.
I want to cut it out
give it back to him and say,
“Look, how beautiful.”
6/04-7/04 RBP
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Here's a good test of what a dare will do for me. I am so tired I can't really see straight let alone focus, but I'm writing.
After doing chores around the house in the morning, I did food delivery, then took R. to riding lessons. Then it was home for 10 minutes to get D. & S., a quick trip to the grocery store for salads, desserts, and a housewarming plant, and then to Walnut Creek to spend the day at my father-in-law's.
Here's what I'm too tired to write about:
* The food deliveries I've been doing for two and a half years
* R's riding lessons
* How children's lesson times are good for balancing my checkbook and paying bills
* How we forgot to eat the salads but remembered the desserts
* My father-in-law
* Company coming tomorrow
* What I expect to do in the 4-5 waking hours I'll have before they get here.
* Gwen the tooth fairy and remembering the right font in Illustrator
I'm falling asleep at the keyboard. The week of sleep depravation is hitting me with a vengeance.
The next intelligent step in my writing daily process would be for me to make a practice of posting before 9pm.
After doing chores around the house in the morning, I did food delivery, then took R. to riding lessons. Then it was home for 10 minutes to get D. & S., a quick trip to the grocery store for salads, desserts, and a housewarming plant, and then to Walnut Creek to spend the day at my father-in-law's.
Here's what I'm too tired to write about:
* The food deliveries I've been doing for two and a half years
* R's riding lessons
* How children's lesson times are good for balancing my checkbook and paying bills
* How we forgot to eat the salads but remembered the desserts
* My father-in-law
* Company coming tomorrow
* What I expect to do in the 4-5 waking hours I'll have before they get here.
* Gwen the tooth fairy and remembering the right font in Illustrator
I'm falling asleep at the keyboard. The week of sleep depravation is hitting me with a vengeance.
The next intelligent step in my writing daily process would be for me to make a practice of posting before 9pm.
Friday, July 16, 2004
Bring a Bum to Your Birthday & Letters Home
Ah, yes. I realized yesterday that in typical fashion, I went off on a tangent and never finished the bring-a-bum-birthday party story. (And that phrase is *not* a judgement. It's just alliteration. I'm a sucker for sound-binding.)
If I remember correctly, R. went on to tell him when her birthday was and that we lived in the green house (did he know the one?) and that there would be a cake. And I think he sort of mumbled that he probably wouldn't be able to come. And I agreed that he probably wouldn't be able to come. I confess. I am not as enlightened as I'd like to be. I'm working on it.
I don't recall for certain, but I think that R's parting comment as he shuffled off was, "Maybe next year?"
Here are the letters she sent home from camp this week:
"Dear S.,
How are you? I
miss you alredey.
Write soon. Right now
I'm in my cabin listen
too the two most
anowing grils. Well I got
to go. Bye!
R.
P.S. Send some more notes."
- and -
"Dear mom and PaPa
I made a friend
Katie as sone as
I got Here. she is
so nice. She has
Dirty Blound hair.
And Blue eyes.
Heres wate she Looks Like."
...complete with a sketch of Katie, who D. said was fortunate to have R. for a friend, because judging by the picture, she had some serious anatomical challenges, such as her right arm being attached directly to her rib cage.
I love my kids. I find this amazing, considering the fact that even though I pushed them out of my body and they're flesh of my flesh, and I know that I'm responsible for their well-being and for raising them to be good, strong, loving people, they are really just strangers who happen to live in the same house where I live and who deplete my energy and time on a daily basis.
It's maybe more amazing considering that even though I have a great capacity to think well of pretty much the whole world, I have a very limited capacity to express love.
I'm working on that too.
And you know what? My kids are teaching me. I think it's no accident that, frigid detached soul that I am, I have been given two of the most affectionate people on the planet as daughters.
See? See? There's a reason for everything.
If I remember correctly, R. went on to tell him when her birthday was and that we lived in the green house (did he know the one?) and that there would be a cake. And I think he sort of mumbled that he probably wouldn't be able to come. And I agreed that he probably wouldn't be able to come. I confess. I am not as enlightened as I'd like to be. I'm working on it.
I don't recall for certain, but I think that R's parting comment as he shuffled off was, "Maybe next year?"
Here are the letters she sent home from camp this week:
"Dear S.,
How are you? I
miss you alredey.
Write soon. Right now
I'm in my cabin listen
too the two most
anowing grils. Well I got
to go. Bye!
R.
P.S. Send some more notes."
- and -
"Dear mom and PaPa
I made a friend
Katie as sone as
I got Here. she is
so nice. She has
Dirty Blound hair.
And Blue eyes.
Heres wate she Looks Like."
...complete with a sketch of Katie, who D. said was fortunate to have R. for a friend, because judging by the picture, she had some serious anatomical challenges, such as her right arm being attached directly to her rib cage.
I love my kids. I find this amazing, considering the fact that even though I pushed them out of my body and they're flesh of my flesh, and I know that I'm responsible for their well-being and for raising them to be good, strong, loving people, they are really just strangers who happen to live in the same house where I live and who deplete my energy and time on a daily basis.
It's maybe more amazing considering that even though I have a great capacity to think well of pretty much the whole world, I have a very limited capacity to express love.
I'm working on that too.
And you know what? My kids are teaching me. I think it's no accident that, frigid detached soul that I am, I have been given two of the most affectionate people on the planet as daughters.
See? See? There's a reason for everything.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Benign Neglect
Today is R's fourth day at Girl Scout camp. I pick her up tomorrow morning. She went last year too, when she was only 8. But even then, I felt only a vague and nonchalant, "Oh I hope she has fun and doesn't get hurt."
A preschool teacher I know has called this behavior letting my children have their independence. I call it highly developed benign neglect. Child Protective Services might have another name for it. Maybe I shouldn't be a parent.
But really, I would worry if it weren't for the fact that R. makes friends with almost everyone she meets, everywhere she goes.
For example, when she was about to turn 5, we were walking to the local swim center, and we passed a man who looked like he'd been wearing the same clothes for a year without coming anywhere near a Laundromat or a shower. He was unshaven, and listing to starboard, and I'm pretty sure he was shy some teeth. He was also carrying a paper sack that was suspiciously bottle-shaped.
But other than that, he seemed like a nice guy.
I have this policy of treating human beings like human beings whenever possible. But I'm also not an extravert. While he and I politely nodded a hello (abiding by that unspoken social contract that keeps so much genuine interaction between strangers from happening), R. skipped up to him and said enthusiastically, "HELLO! Would you like to come to my birthday party?"
I felt several things at once. I was secretly hoping that his dance card was already full, but I also didn't want to be rude and un-invite him. (I mean, if vicious bug-eyed aliens invaded the earth, I'd probably try to figure out how to say "Begone foul creatures!" in just the right way so they wouldn't be offended.) So anyway, I didn't want him to feel uncomfortable about turning her down, which is what he and I both knew he had to do. And I wanted R. to continue to be friendly to the world, but I wanted her to learn that you can't invite a total stranger to your birthday party.
Or can you?
I tell you what; she's going to have one interesting life. She's got the angle on entertaining angels unawares. Or inviting bug-eyed aliens to tea.
...I just read this post to four-year-old S., who has been patiently waiting for me to finish - having only said, "Are you done yet??" twelve times in two minutes.
And she said, "Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?" and I said, "What?" and she said, "I want you to be a parent."
So I also just read the last bit to her too (to stall more), and she said, "I did not say it twelve times."
I'd better go now.
A preschool teacher I know has called this behavior letting my children have their independence. I call it highly developed benign neglect. Child Protective Services might have another name for it. Maybe I shouldn't be a parent.
But really, I would worry if it weren't for the fact that R. makes friends with almost everyone she meets, everywhere she goes.
For example, when she was about to turn 5, we were walking to the local swim center, and we passed a man who looked like he'd been wearing the same clothes for a year without coming anywhere near a Laundromat or a shower. He was unshaven, and listing to starboard, and I'm pretty sure he was shy some teeth. He was also carrying a paper sack that was suspiciously bottle-shaped.
But other than that, he seemed like a nice guy.
I have this policy of treating human beings like human beings whenever possible. But I'm also not an extravert. While he and I politely nodded a hello (abiding by that unspoken social contract that keeps so much genuine interaction between strangers from happening), R. skipped up to him and said enthusiastically, "HELLO! Would you like to come to my birthday party?"
I felt several things at once. I was secretly hoping that his dance card was already full, but I also didn't want to be rude and un-invite him. (I mean, if vicious bug-eyed aliens invaded the earth, I'd probably try to figure out how to say "Begone foul creatures!" in just the right way so they wouldn't be offended.) So anyway, I didn't want him to feel uncomfortable about turning her down, which is what he and I both knew he had to do. And I wanted R. to continue to be friendly to the world, but I wanted her to learn that you can't invite a total stranger to your birthday party.
Or can you?
I tell you what; she's going to have one interesting life. She's got the angle on entertaining angels unawares. Or inviting bug-eyed aliens to tea.
...I just read this post to four-year-old S., who has been patiently waiting for me to finish - having only said, "Are you done yet??" twelve times in two minutes.
And she said, "Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?" and I said, "What?" and she said, "I want you to be a parent."
So I also just read the last bit to her too (to stall more), and she said, "I did not say it twelve times."
I'd better go now.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
July 14, 2004
Okay, credit where credit's due: last night, Julia challenged me to post daily. So I am. So there.
The big news is that, just when I was starting to believe it wasn't going to happen, I received the premier issue of the American Poetry Journal in the mail.
It's glossy, and has a price on the cover, and an ISSN, and my name is listed on the back and also inside, and a poem that I wrote is in it. In print. On paper. Paper that people (besides the poets in it) will have to pay money for.
See Rebecca.
See Rebecca shamelessly self-promote.
Now how do you really feel about people who refer to themselves in the third person? Don't you find it strange? Rebecca finds it strange.
I have a co-worker, for example, who regularly sends email - from his email address, which those of us who know how to read can recognize as his email address - that he will be in late, or out early, or is on a break.
Let's call him Sparky. Just because I'm in that kind of mood.
So a typical email from Sparky might go
To: everyone@theplaceiworkthatwillremainanonymous.com
From: Sparky@theplaceiworkthatwillremainanonymous.com
Subject: Sparky will be in at 8:00 this morning.
To which I think, "Okay, Sparky. Thanks for the head's up. Now learn how to use the first person singular pronoun. It can come in so handy."
Sassy when I write after 7am, ain't I?
The big news is that, just when I was starting to believe it wasn't going to happen, I received the premier issue of the American Poetry Journal in the mail.
It's glossy, and has a price on the cover, and an ISSN, and my name is listed on the back and also inside, and a poem that I wrote is in it. In print. On paper. Paper that people (besides the poets in it) will have to pay money for.
See Rebecca.
See Rebecca shamelessly self-promote.
Now how do you really feel about people who refer to themselves in the third person? Don't you find it strange? Rebecca finds it strange.
I have a co-worker, for example, who regularly sends email - from his email address, which those of us who know how to read can recognize as his email address - that he will be in late, or out early, or is on a break.
Let's call him Sparky. Just because I'm in that kind of mood.
So a typical email from Sparky might go
To: everyone@theplaceiworkthatwillremainanonymous.com
From: Sparky@theplaceiworkthatwillremainanonymous.com
Subject: Sparky will be in at 8:00 this morning.
To which I think, "Okay, Sparky. Thanks for the head's up. Now learn how to use the first person singular pronoun. It can come in so handy."
Sassy when I write after 7am, ain't I?
Okay, so it's after midnight, so this blog entry counts for tomorrow 7/14, right? But really, I'll be posting another entry then, so I'm considering this a late 7/13 post. So there.
I will need to leave for work in just under 5 hours. I have not slept yet tonight. I tell you what, sir. Either Lady Grey Tea has a heck of a lot more caffeine than one would think, or I'm still soaring from tonight's Writer's Group meeting. (Thank you Julia & Suzanne!)
It may be the adreneline from booking a hotel room in Japan in the middle of the night has something to do with it, too.
Very exciting stuff.
I really should sleep.
Really.
I should.
I will need to leave for work in just under 5 hours. I have not slept yet tonight. I tell you what, sir. Either Lady Grey Tea has a heck of a lot more caffeine than one would think, or I'm still soaring from tonight's Writer's Group meeting. (Thank you Julia & Suzanne!)
It may be the adreneline from booking a hotel room in Japan in the middle of the night has something to do with it, too.
Very exciting stuff.
I really should sleep.
Really.
I should.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
June 29, 2004
I think I've spent most of my life walking back and forth on a rickety vine bridge between love and duty.
And I hate heights.
A week ago, I resigned from my responsibilities as a Presbyterian elder and told the new pastor that I'm going to step away from the church for the foreseeable future. This comes after months of soul-searching and days of working up the nerve to tell the key people at the church about my decision. I was the co-chair of the Nominating Committee (who must now find my replacement), and the co-chair of the Adult Education Commission, which was just ramping up for a huge church-wide campaign to revitalize the spiritual life of every member of the congregation (no pressure there). I was also an active part of the women's retreat committee – a retreat that, ironically, made me tired just thinking about it.
And it's not just that I didn't want to do all of those duties. In the end, I didn't want to do any of it. My theology does not match the church’s doctrine, and maybe that didn’t matter for a while, but it matters now. I can’t get behind all that work when I don’t agree with the reason for it. Presbyterian’s aren’t typically very evangelistic – which suits me fine. But the new pastor believes (and I can see why) that being a Christian means being evangelistic, going out and making disciples of everyone, etc. Well and fine in theory. In practice, I can’t do it. Okay, won’t do it. Choose not to do it.
Does that mean that I’m going to Hell? Is there a Hell? Or a Heaven?
Hmmm...that’s another blog entry all together.
Regardless, I don’t feel that I’m turning my back on God. I feel that I’m turning my face to my own spiritual and psychic needs, and the emotional and physical needs of my family.
The pastor and other people I've spoken to have taken the news graciously and are supportive. I don't expect anyone to show up at my door with a Bible and Holy Water any time soon. And every day, I take off another layer of guilt and let it float into the ether. I feel liberated and energized. It's amazing the toll stress will take on you.
Last night’s writer’s group meeting was good. After the obligatory catch-up period, we wrote. And wrote and wrote.
I also sent 3 poems out to a poetry contest yesterday. Back in the saddle again.
And I hate heights.
A week ago, I resigned from my responsibilities as a Presbyterian elder and told the new pastor that I'm going to step away from the church for the foreseeable future. This comes after months of soul-searching and days of working up the nerve to tell the key people at the church about my decision. I was the co-chair of the Nominating Committee (who must now find my replacement), and the co-chair of the Adult Education Commission, which was just ramping up for a huge church-wide campaign to revitalize the spiritual life of every member of the congregation (no pressure there). I was also an active part of the women's retreat committee – a retreat that, ironically, made me tired just thinking about it.
And it's not just that I didn't want to do all of those duties. In the end, I didn't want to do any of it. My theology does not match the church’s doctrine, and maybe that didn’t matter for a while, but it matters now. I can’t get behind all that work when I don’t agree with the reason for it. Presbyterian’s aren’t typically very evangelistic – which suits me fine. But the new pastor believes (and I can see why) that being a Christian means being evangelistic, going out and making disciples of everyone, etc. Well and fine in theory. In practice, I can’t do it. Okay, won’t do it. Choose not to do it.
Does that mean that I’m going to Hell? Is there a Hell? Or a Heaven?
Hmmm...that’s another blog entry all together.
Regardless, I don’t feel that I’m turning my back on God. I feel that I’m turning my face to my own spiritual and psychic needs, and the emotional and physical needs of my family.
The pastor and other people I've spoken to have taken the news graciously and are supportive. I don't expect anyone to show up at my door with a Bible and Holy Water any time soon. And every day, I take off another layer of guilt and let it float into the ether. I feel liberated and energized. It's amazing the toll stress will take on you.
Last night’s writer’s group meeting was good. After the obligatory catch-up period, we wrote. And wrote and wrote.
I also sent 3 poems out to a poetry contest yesterday. Back in the saddle again.
Monday, June 21, 2004
So I had to squeeze the weekend into one day because I worked Saturday. Squeezing the weekend into one day included a very long run, household chores, skipping church, digging more of on the ditch in the front yard, taking the kids on their bikes to the park, grocery shopping, and making sure that the Father of the house got to do pretty much whatever he wanted all day. What he wanted to do is further purging of the contents of the garage.
I'm not sure how D. has gone from being such an avid packrat to someone who throws away everything with abandon. It's almost like a little switch in some gene has been flipped and now he takes things apart and stuffs them in the trash can in a state of manic glee. (I'm anticipating a letter from Empire Waste Management about the weight of our trash can breaking their truck's mechanical arm even though D. assures me this won't happen.)
I am almost there - having fantasies about throwing away the minutes from church session meetings from 9 years ago, for example. But to date, I have only successfully gone through belongings and thrown them out when I'm alone in the house and can concentrate. Apparently, I need silence to properly bid goodbye to old crap.
And time away from work to write a blog entry - this one has taken hours, ten seconds at a time. All for now.
I'm not sure how D. has gone from being such an avid packrat to someone who throws away everything with abandon. It's almost like a little switch in some gene has been flipped and now he takes things apart and stuffs them in the trash can in a state of manic glee. (I'm anticipating a letter from Empire Waste Management about the weight of our trash can breaking their truck's mechanical arm even though D. assures me this won't happen.)
I am almost there - having fantasies about throwing away the minutes from church session meetings from 9 years ago, for example. But to date, I have only successfully gone through belongings and thrown them out when I'm alone in the house and can concentrate. Apparently, I need silence to properly bid goodbye to old crap.
And time away from work to write a blog entry - this one has taken hours, ten seconds at a time. All for now.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
June 15, 2004
Last night, I gave the girls foot massages and painted their toenails while we listened to Welsh harp music with the lights low - although not too low, or I would have ended up painting their feet too. Then we read a short story for Sophie, and continued with Chapter 3 of A Wrinkle In Time for Rachael and me. It was all going very smoothly. They were almost tucked into bed. There was a knock on the door.
It was a friend picking up a book she'd loaned me two years ago. A great book, I'm sure - but in all this time, I'd only read about a paragraph of it, and I handed it back with the relief of someone finally paying a library fine in full.
I could have shown her out and still taken advantage of the peaceful momentum I had going with the whole bed-time thing. But instead, she and I got to talking -- who am I kidding? we always get to talking --- and an hour later, we had almost solved my problem with finding meaning and balance in my life, while meanwhile, the girls had become completely wound up by tickling one another and doing cartwheels and wall-climbing without the appropriate shoes or locking carabiners in the fully lit bedrooms. The only thing they were missing was a brass band.
None of us got to sleep before than 10:30pm. Of course, now my husband (who does, thank you dear, read my blog) knows how negligent I am. But since he (whom I adore) didn't get home until sometime after 2am, I doubt he'll be hunting around too hard looking for that first stone to throw.
Besides, I think the girls had a lot of fun, and I don't have too many footprints to clean off the walls.
I didn't write. I didn't walk on the treadmill. I didn't get a full night's sleep. I didn't figure out the itinerary for my overseas trip. But I almost solved that problem of finding meaning and balance in my life. Wait a minute...balance...children doing jumping jacks at 10pm...there's an irony here, somewhere.
It was a friend picking up a book she'd loaned me two years ago. A great book, I'm sure - but in all this time, I'd only read about a paragraph of it, and I handed it back with the relief of someone finally paying a library fine in full.
I could have shown her out and still taken advantage of the peaceful momentum I had going with the whole bed-time thing. But instead, she and I got to talking -- who am I kidding? we always get to talking --- and an hour later, we had almost solved my problem with finding meaning and balance in my life, while meanwhile, the girls had become completely wound up by tickling one another and doing cartwheels and wall-climbing without the appropriate shoes or locking carabiners in the fully lit bedrooms. The only thing they were missing was a brass band.
None of us got to sleep before than 10:30pm. Of course, now my husband (who does, thank you dear, read my blog) knows how negligent I am. But since he (whom I adore) didn't get home until sometime after 2am, I doubt he'll be hunting around too hard looking for that first stone to throw.
Besides, I think the girls had a lot of fun, and I don't have too many footprints to clean off the walls.
I didn't write. I didn't walk on the treadmill. I didn't get a full night's sleep. I didn't figure out the itinerary for my overseas trip. But I almost solved that problem of finding meaning and balance in my life. Wait a minute...balance...children doing jumping jacks at 10pm...there's an irony here, somewhere.
Monday, June 14, 2004
June 14, 2004
It was a good weekend.
We went to Monterey a little later than originally planned, because S. was sick Friday, and it didn't sound like a good idea to spend hours in the car with a feverish "four-and-free-quarters" year old and her bucket. But we left early Saturday, and made good time, and she was well for the whole weekend.
We went to the Aquarium both Sat. and Sunday. We've been members for 11 years now, and still are not sick of it.
We ate at the restaurant at the hotel, and had room service in the morning, and the girls swam in the pool - all compliments of the gift certificates the company had given out as a bonus last year. Very very nice. I even managed a 7 mile run yesterday along the beach. It's not every day that I get to jog down a well-paved path just a few yards from seals and otters.
(Friday I signed up for a half-marathon that I'm far from being ready for. But the run in Monterey was a start.)
Today it's back to the grind but fortunately I really do feel pretty recharged and ready to take on some of it, anyway.
We went to Monterey a little later than originally planned, because S. was sick Friday, and it didn't sound like a good idea to spend hours in the car with a feverish "four-and-free-quarters" year old and her bucket. But we left early Saturday, and made good time, and she was well for the whole weekend.
We went to the Aquarium both Sat. and Sunday. We've been members for 11 years now, and still are not sick of it.
We ate at the restaurant at the hotel, and had room service in the morning, and the girls swam in the pool - all compliments of the gift certificates the company had given out as a bonus last year. Very very nice. I even managed a 7 mile run yesterday along the beach. It's not every day that I get to jog down a well-paved path just a few yards from seals and otters.
(Friday I signed up for a half-marathon that I'm far from being ready for. But the run in Monterey was a start.)
Today it's back to the grind but fortunately I really do feel pretty recharged and ready to take on some of it, anyway.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
June 10, 2004
A good friend pointed out that I hadn't posted anything here lately. So here.
Two more days until R. gets out of school. I'm more excited about it than she is. I've been counting down daily. Last week, I said, "Just think - Monday's the last Monday!" and she gave me a look and said, "Oh really? Is the world ending? Are there no more Mondays at all?"
We have no one but ourselves to blame for her sarcasm.
Today I have the usual all-consuming day of work, a Kindergarten checkup (and shots) for S., and then Kindergarten orientation that starts half an hour before a Church Elders meeting. At the Elder's meeting, I need to pitch a major church-wide program that would be starting in the Fall. I'll have to explain where the money will come from and who will lead all the aspects of the program.
I don't know yet whether my faith will be strengthened by all of this - because I can't possibly do it alone, and for me to be any kind of effective committee chair practically takes a miracle - or whether I'll just decide that it would be a lot more convenient and less stressful to be agnostic and leave the church entirely. How heretical is that ?
In the meantime, I'm back to writing more poetry more often. I prefer to succeed or fail in more solitary pursuits. Running, writing. No one but myself to blame and no one but myself disappointed if it doesn't work. Or at least I like to think so.
Aha! Just had a thought I should have had long ago. Why I haven't really put a book of poems together yet : it would introduce a whole new level of responsibility and accountability that I haven't had to face before. How cowardly is that?
Two more days until R. gets out of school. I'm more excited about it than she is. I've been counting down daily. Last week, I said, "Just think - Monday's the last Monday!" and she gave me a look and said, "Oh really? Is the world ending? Are there no more Mondays at all?"
We have no one but ourselves to blame for her sarcasm.
Today I have the usual all-consuming day of work, a Kindergarten checkup (and shots) for S., and then Kindergarten orientation that starts half an hour before a Church Elders meeting. At the Elder's meeting, I need to pitch a major church-wide program that would be starting in the Fall. I'll have to explain where the money will come from and who will lead all the aspects of the program.
I don't know yet whether my faith will be strengthened by all of this - because I can't possibly do it alone, and for me to be any kind of effective committee chair practically takes a miracle - or whether I'll just decide that it would be a lot more convenient and less stressful to be agnostic and leave the church entirely. How heretical is that ?
In the meantime, I'm back to writing more poetry more often. I prefer to succeed or fail in more solitary pursuits. Running, writing. No one but myself to blame and no one but myself disappointed if it doesn't work. Or at least I like to think so.
Aha! Just had a thought I should have had long ago. Why I haven't really put a book of poems together yet : it would introduce a whole new level of responsibility and accountability that I haven't had to face before. How cowardly is that?
Friday, June 04, 2004
June 4, 2004
Tuesday night I met a friend at a lounge downtown to hear another friend of hers read poetry. It turns out that I'd seen her friend at church a couple of times. I live in that kind of town. There were seven poets reading, all of them students of Terry Ehret. Terry is Sonoma County's Poet Laureate, and a founding member of Sixteen Rivers Press, which is a poetry collective for women poets in the Bay Area. When I grow up, I want to be a part of Sixteen Rivers.
The poets were good - some of them, including the woman we went to see - were very good. I went home and started work on two new poems and went to sleep far too late for someone who's been battling a head cold for a week. But it felt great to start something new.
Wednesday I squeezed in ballet class for one daughter, open house at the other daughter's school, rehearsal for a gymnastics show for the first daughter, and Japanese class - all within 2 and a half hours while my husband lay at home with a fever until he dragged his darling self out of bed to get the kids so I could learn how to buy sake in the native tongue.
I don't exactly remember yesterday, which may be a good thing.
I'm glad it's Friday.
The poets were good - some of them, including the woman we went to see - were very good. I went home and started work on two new poems and went to sleep far too late for someone who's been battling a head cold for a week. But it felt great to start something new.
Wednesday I squeezed in ballet class for one daughter, open house at the other daughter's school, rehearsal for a gymnastics show for the first daughter, and Japanese class - all within 2 and a half hours while my husband lay at home with a fever until he dragged his darling self out of bed to get the kids so I could learn how to buy sake in the native tongue.
I don't exactly remember yesterday, which may be a good thing.
I'm glad it's Friday.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Michael McNeilley Poem
A poem by the late Michael McNeilley.
morning becomes you
since you have to
start somewhere
honor the morning
choose your ritual
exercise or a cigarette
coffee tea or milk
meditation or simply
time at the window
make it your own
no need to look ahead
empty into the moment
some day the day
will end abruptly you
can count on that
let the morning open
like a crocus through
snow all beginnings
are precious
know the first step
whatever the
direction
you can never be sure
you are headed
the right way
but one step may be
all you have left
make it light
mcn
morning becomes you
since you have to
start somewhere
honor the morning
choose your ritual
exercise or a cigarette
coffee tea or milk
meditation or simply
time at the window
make it your own
no need to look ahead
empty into the moment
some day the day
will end abruptly you
can count on that
let the morning open
like a crocus through
snow all beginnings
are precious
know the first step
whatever the
direction
you can never be sure
you are headed
the right way
but one step may be
all you have left
make it light
mcn
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