August 2008 Archives

Jenny is coming into the office today, so I made sure to wear cute shoes.  (Must be a BlogHer thing.)  While I was driving, singing along to Folsom Prison Blues, I remembered that my shiny purple three-inch high heeled pumps had muddy water spots on them that I forgot to wipe off.  So, that is how I found myself at 8:30 a.m., driving down the freeway barefooted, with my left foot up on the seat, my left arm resting on my knee, singing I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die at the top of my lungs, while using my own spit and fingers to clean my shoes.

I think they might smell like bad coffee breath now, but they're far away enough from my nose that it doesn't matter.  I'm going through peppermints like crazy though, so if I start to catch an unpleasant whiff later, I can just discretely spit on my feet. 

see you at Beauty Hacks.

august 2005

august 2008

Last night I took the boys to the office supply warehouse store to get binders and colored pencils and red pens and notebook paper and stuff.  The place was crammed full of kids with crumpled lists, bemused parents, and very busy employees.  Even though I bitched and griped about the long line, and had to tell the boys to chill out at least thirty times, I secretly had fun. Even the kids who don't like school seem to appreciate a fresh and empty notebook and a box of unsharpened pencils.  They all had this look as they wandered the store looking for rulers and glue.

I walked the kids over to the school on Sunday afternoon late, the evening before the first day.  They wanted to see the lists, see who was in their classes.  On the way there was a section of sidewalk with nice crunchy leaves and we all walked over them, celebrating the beginnings of fall.  It's sort of odd to be crunching leaves under your feet when it's hot and you're wearing flip flops, but unusual and unpredictable are usually fine by me.

I wasn't going to cry yesterday.  I didn't in the morning when Lex walked over to the middle school with his best friend, or when Nate wandered off to find his fourth grade classroom without saying goodbye.  Not even when Sophie got a little nervous before going into her class and pulled me close and said, Come in with me?  I didn't go in.  I just gave her a gentle push and said goodbye.  She can show me her desk later on.

Later in the day Willow lined up outside the kindergarten door, the very same one that Sophie did two years ago and Nate two years before that.  And one of my favorite moms at the school was nearby, her youngest child a few kids ahead of Willow.  She got teary, and then I did, and then the teacher did.  The kids were all fine, though.  As Willow walked through that door the last almost twelve years of my life walked in with her.  And I cried because it wasn't long enough, and I cried because sometimes it was too long, and I cried because this love that I have for my kids is the biggest thing I can imagine. 

I had a couple of hours to spend alone today, so I went to photograph a train.  What's more lonesome than a train?  (Nothing.  That was a rhetorical question.)  I wasn't really feeling lonesome.  I was just diving into the time to myself by doing something different.

John took Willow to a wedding, and the big kids spent part of the day with their dad and his family.  After they were all gone, I went to church, where practically everyone said, Wow!  You're on your own today!  Truth be told, I missed having the kids there with me, but at the same time it was a different experience to only have my own self to be looking after.   Today's sermon was on life transitions: beginnings, endings.  Our minister, Victoria, is not only a great public speaker, she's an amazing storyteller.  She talked about driving home one day and seeing that a train was parked on the usually deserted train tracks in her neighborhood.  When she realized what kind of train it was

she was flooded with memories of going to the circus as a kid; all the smells and emotions and excitement came right there into her car and rode home with her. 

Course, she did a much better job of telling the story.  You really ought to come to church with me sometime.  Not only do we not pray (but you totally can if you want to), you don't even have to believe in god.  Or God.  Anyway.  Something to think about.

She talked about how much the circus has changed.  It's not at all the same show that made memories for her.  The rings, ringmaster, sideshows, and leisurely pace are gone; instead there is a fast-moving, high tech, arena show.  A show with rap music, laser lights, and extreme whatever-is-popular acts.  They still have the elephants, and you can still get popcorn, but the circus that used to pull into town on the long, long train doesn't exist anymore.  She wasn't lamenting that fact, but rather talking about how everything is always changing all the time.  If the circus didn't get modern, it would likely be gone entirely.  By evolving, but hanging on to just a few of the old pillars, the train still runs and the circus still travels from town to town. 

Like, Austin, for example. 

And, now is as good a time as any to bug you to read this book if you haven't already. 

So, transitions.  I have been giving a whole hell of a lot of thought to transitions lately, as my life is chock full of them.  Tomorrow all four kids will be in public school for the first time ever.

I repeat: Tomorrow all four kids will be in public school for the first time ever.

It's been a long time coming.  Somewhere along the way I left behind my tendency to cling to my kids' babyhood and pine for the days when they were tiny, and now I'm all for the aging.  It's totally fascinating to watch them grow and become themselves.  I love the ways that they are different from one another, from me, from their fathers.   And?  The last few times I've been around toddlers, I've come away exhausted and wondering how the hell I did that for so many years running.  Honestly, I am not sure that I could take care of an 18 month old for a day now.  It's suddenly foreign and unthinkable again.  Who'd have ever thought. 

Tomorrow as Lex heads off to middle school and Willow starts kindergarten, I won't be crying.  I'll be happy and proud for them, these incredible people who I'm lucky enough to get to call mine.  And, since I'm working from home tomorrow, I'll mix up a batch of cookie dough between emails and have warm gooey cookies and milk on the kitchen table by 3 so I can watch them smiling and listen to them tell me about their days. 

Guess what I did yesterday.

Need another hint?

I know I'm a priss, but it really, really nearly did kill me to wear those shorts out of the house.  The shirt, eh, whatever; I'm not above a loud shirt.  I am kinda liking the socks.  It may happen sometime in my life that I wear them with boots and a short skirt.  But, those shorts?  They are of. the. devil. and I defy anyone to wear them and not look like a total doofus.  Just ask my bloggy friend who I ran into at the field.   It was funny, because my eyesight isn't 20/20 and before I quite realized who she was I saw her Superhero necklace and thought, Hey! I bet that is someone I know.  Sure enough.

I wasn't planning to actually ref a game on the first day.  I was just going to watch the pros and see if they called things the way that I would have.  Kind of test my instincts.  But, a few people who'd signed up to be assistant refs didn't show and so I stepped up and stepped in and walked up and down the sidelines hoping that no one would be offside.  (At ref school I learned it is offside, not offsideS.)  The guy who taught ref school was hanging out to watch me, because I told him I was completely nervous, and I also had some help, nice help, from parents in the bleachers.  Near the end of the game, there was an attempt on the goal that didn't quite make it, and while the center ref wasn't in a spot to see who last touched the ball before it went out, I was right there and called a goal kick.  I even made the right signal with my red flag.  And several dads behind me were all, Good call, Ref! 

Last night I went to the referee picnic with Willow, and I got to hang around at the park, swatting the yellow jackets away from my plate while listening to the refs tell funny stories.  One of them, I think he's the main guy in charge of ref stuff, was telling me how happy it makes him when women sign up, because he wants the kids to see that women can be coaches and refs and anything else.  He's right, and so I will add Kids' Soccer Referee to my feminist resume, and seriously consider becoming a center ref later in the season when I'm more comfortable with it all.

While I was out getting sunburned at the soccer field, the big kids' dad was getting married.  I'm so happy for him and his wife.  Yes, really.  She has been so gracious and amazing from the beginning (which was when Sophie was a baby) and she's awesome with the kids.  She even comes to parent teacher conferences when she can get away from work.  She invites me in for a glass of wine when I drop the kids off, and I really, really like her. 

The kids came home late last night after the wedding reception, happy and exhausted, Sophie in a gorgeous blue dress with her hair all beautiful, the boys in tuxes and fresh haircuts.   They went right to bed, but I had to help Sophie stop into the bathroom to pee and get the bobbypin out of her hair.  Mom, she said, tomorrow when we brush my hair, we have to be careful, because I've got a ton of product in there.  There's shampoo, conditioner, and gel from when you washed my hair this morning, and then the stylist put in hairspray like six times.  That's A LOT of product!  A lot.

This morning I got up before anyone else, and came into the living room.  I hung up Sophie's dress last night, but the boys left their tuxedo parts strewn all over the floor and couch.  I'm really emotional these days (oh, the shit that doesn't make the blog) and there was something about seeing their clothes there in the sunrise light.  Just a reminder of how much I love them.  How fast they are growing up.

Thanks, Jenny!

Thanks to Jenny for linking to this via Twitter.  I really don't get out on the internets enough these days. 

All of the stories are devastatingly sad, but Ethel's really got to me.  You can find her by going to the menu at the bottom of the page and looking for "the suitcases."  Then, click on her name.  Of course there's no way for me to know, but it sounds like maybe she was just depressed.  Rightfully so. 

I'm not sheltered enough to have not known that things like this used to happen frequently, that they still do happen now.  But it's shocking.  It's unimaginable to me that the consequence of not getting out of your bed because you are depressed could be forty three years in a mental hospital, the loss of your children, dying alone. 

I think I take far too much for granted.  I think we all do, those of us who are lucky enough to. 

Last night I came home after yoga to find Willow playing outside after supper, squatting down on the sidewalk near our front gate.  The skirt of her new school dress covered her knees, and even though the soles of her new tennies were flat on the cement, her bottom almost touched the ground.  She saw me coming and looked up, smiling. Mama! she sang, pulling the hair out of her eyes and rocking back and forth on her little feet, I'm makin a rainbow rock store.  See?  In front of her were five little piles of rocks, sorted by color.  She picked up a smooth river rock and got back to work, pounding the small rocks into little dusty pieces, and scootching the piles back into place.   

I walked past her, Wow! That's really cool, honey, and into the house to shower. 

Later I wished that I'd stopped to play with her for a few minutes. 

I need to slow down a little.

I got up a little before 6 this morning and walked into the quiet of the kitchen to make some coffee.  Just off the kitchen is a sliding glass door that faces east, so it was light enough for me to see what I was doing without the overhead light on.  I heard a metallic ping come from the vent over the stove and for a second I thought that maybe it was raining.  When it does rain, the sound of the drops is broadcast from the stove exhaust.  It's like we've got a little six-inch tin roof in the kitchen to make nice rainy sounds.   It makes great howling wind sounds, too. 

It's not raining, though, and probably won't for another couple of months.  But, for the fraction of a second that my mind was thinking "Rain!" the rest of my body relaxed a little. 

I'm ready for a good rain, the kind that starts near the end of a hot day.  The kind that announces itself by the smell in the air, by catching the corner of your eye as darker grey spots appear on the sidewalk, by a swell in the wind.  The kind that starts off gently enough to get the bikes put up and roll up the car windows without having to run around.  Then you come inside and take off your shoes, open all the doors, sit and watch.   Growing up in Texas meant a lot of thunderstorm watching.  In Houston, especially.  I remember sitting in the front yard of my dad's house, sometimes stretched out on my back on the hood of the car, the neighbors in lawn chairs, watching the lightening make its way across the sky and always, always counting the seconds until the thunder came.

I'm ready for it to start raining; to watch the kids step out of their boots on the front porch, shake their heads, hand me their wet jackets as they come inside looking for something to eat.  I'm ready to wake up early on a Sunday to the rain, and to bring blankets to the couch and curl up with the kids and just listen.   

Today when I was walking up the stairs to my office I passed by an older man slowly walking down to the first floor.  He smelled exactly like my grandfather.  I think it was his shaving cream.  I walked the next flight up, carrying my laptop bag and my purse and a latte, and I was crying a little (god, do I ever miss both of my grandfathers) but I couldn't wipe my eyes because my hands were full, and I couldn't even get a sleeve to my eyes.  When I got to the top of the stairs, I set everything down and stood there for a second, breathing in one last breath of that smell, wishing I knew what, exactly, it was. 

It's so powerful, isn't it?  That smell memory?  It's different than any other memory trigger for me.  It doesn't matter where I am, if a smell comes along that reminds me of something I miss, I totally lose track of where I am and I'm completely lost and useless and sunk in memories.   It just barely edges out music on the heartstrings factor.

I've been listening to and reading lots of stories lately: The Sun, Bust, and The East Village Inky all came in the mail within a couple of days of each other; and I've been listening to podcasts of my boyfriend's show, and also stories from The Moth ( I CANNOT recommend this highly enough -- please go and listen.  It's super kick-ass!) and The Sound of Young America.  And I can see how it can sometimes be enough to not bother with making your own stories when there are so so many other good ones to absorb.  That's foolish, of course, and as wonderful as it is to hear someone else tell a great story, there is nothing quite like going out and making one of your own.

Tonight I took Lex shopping for school clothes.  He starts middle school soon, and he's really excited.  He got red and black checkerboard Vans, black skinny jeans, a couple pair of regular jeans, shorts, a Who tshirt, a seatbelt belt, and a few other things.  When we left Hot Topic (where I felt old as dirt but also kinda liked a lot of what they were selling) he grabbed my hand and we walked through the mall, talking about how fun it was going to be for him to be in a new school.  To be older.  It's the same mall that I went shopping at for school clothes with my mom.  I even got Vans one year -- though I was in high school, not jr high.  And we walked through the crowds of people, carrying the bags holding his new clothes and shoes and he looked at me from under that long hair of his and he smiled and said he was having a great time.  I was, too.  I'm so nervous about this next phase of his life.  I mean, seriously, I *just* mastered the care and feeding of small kids and now he's a big kid.  And, he's much more outgoing and popular than I ever was, which leaves me feeling ill equipped to help him navigate the social life he's going to have.  I mean, I can tell him about how it's not wise to sit up against a brick wall at lunch, because the jocks will throw chocolate milk cartons that will explode above your head, but I don't know how to help him be a popular kid other than take him shopping at the cool stores and talk him into the red and black shoes over the shiny black and grey ones.   These days I think that he is teaching me more than I am teaching him.  We're stumbling forward like colts, and even though I should be steady by now, I am just as wobbly as he is.  I'm so grateful that he will still hold my hand.

I don't have a full-length mirror.  If I need to see how something I've decided to wear works from about the waist down I have to go balance on the side of the kids' bathtub and slightly duck under the shower curtain rod while checking myself out in their mirror from just a little bit further away than is truly helpful.

Twice this week I have worn very old summer dresses over jeans, because they're too short to wear with just my funky knees showing.  And, when I say "old," I mean that one I had in high school (my 20th reunion was last month) and the other I bought on my honeymoon the first time I got married which was 17 years ago next month. 

So, yeah. vintagewear in my own closet that I bough my own self when it was brand spankin new.

Anyway, this morning found me balancing on the side of the kids' bathtub, trying to decide which shoes to wear with my jeans and dress combo: the black Kenneth Cole square-toed Mary Janes (from the mid 90s, yes), or the new red suede open-toed kitten-heel pretty shoes.  I went with the square-toed ones (because I am feeling witchy), but as I was wobbling on the edge of the tub trying to make up my mind, I had a moment where I was grateful that Susan is all the way in China, because I worry she could reach over from Oklahoma to smack me upside the head.  For the dress over the jeans OR for the not having a full-length mirror mirror in my house.  Either one deserves a smack. 

So today, 08.08.08! was supposed to be lucky, and the little kid in me was sorta hoping that maybe something spectacular would magically drop into my lap.  This morning I checked in on one of my email accounts and found that there were 888 unread messages in my inbox.  That had to be a sign, and not just of my laziness toward clearing out my inbox.

Nothing has dropped in my lap yet, but Good Things happened today: Squid made me breakfast! bacon, eggs, and French press coffee, and I got major snuggles from Leelo; I got to visit a little with Seymour and my new friend Lea before we all headed out to work and/or play; my hangover was not fatal; I made huge strides in catching up with some work stuff; I had an awesome lunch date; I thought I lost my debit card (that works like a credit card, too, so is not good to lose) but it was in the back pocket of the jeans I wore last night; I went to pick up my kids from my mom's and got there ten minutes after they were dropped off, so we all - me and the kids and my mom and step-dad - sat and watched The Witches.  Then, I left my mom's house with a bag of rice pasta she got for me, and a big bag of clothes my sister was giving away.  The pasta was so good I had it with just olive oil and herbs (oh, baby, it has been a loooong time since I had pasta with olive oil), and I snagged a red Paul Frank hoodie with a monkey face on it, and a purty sweatshirt and warm sweater (both from Delia's) from my sister's castoffs.

I am about twenty years older than Delia's target demographic, but I never let that stop me.  The only rule I have that involves my age influencing what to wear has to do with keeping your tender, innocent eyeballs safe from my knees and midriff.  But, I did order a bathing suit from the internets that will show both, so, um, I guess I'm full of it.  My new swim suit is going to be a pair of as-long-as-I-could find black board shorts and a pink bikini top with white polkadots and green trim.  I haven't bought a new bathing suit since before I had kids.  Last weekend I took the girls to a swim party and decided it was time to get over myself and fix that so I can swim, too. 

I sat and ate dinner with the kids for the first time in ages, and we were all happy and chatty and glad to be hanging out together.  I wasn't thinking ahead, or at all, so we had a pasta course followed by a roast about 45 minutes later.  I didn't have any veggies that they all like, so I just gave them each a chewable vitamin for dessert.  After the kids and I had supper, they hung out looking at a cookbook while I cleaned up.  Every two minutes they were shouting from the living room things like, DO WE HAVE ANY CHOCOLATE CHIPS?  CAN WE MAKE THIS FOR MY BIRTHDAY NEXT YEAR?  I NEED COLORED SUGAR SO WE CAN MAKE THIS PUNCH!

Finally I started the dishwasher and threw in a load of laundry and got into bed with my girls.  They went straight to sleep, almost, and are now right next to me.  I can hear them both breathing over the quiet music coming from my laptop.  (Hey Rockband people, want some Kristin Hersh and PJ Harvey on the next release.  I'm telling, not asking.  Thanks!)  The boys had a friend come over to spend the night, and I can hear them in the bedroom.  I catch a word or two, hear them all laugh.  I love the sounds of my kids just being in the house.  Usually.  You know what I mean. 

Anyway, nothing really dropped into my lap, but I am here to acknowlege my excellent luck today all the same.  I am so lucky.  And grateful.

Every morning around 3:30 I wake up.  Apparently, some part of me just needs to stare out the window at tree silhouettes until 5 rolls around and it's almost time to get up.   Then my alarm goes off at 5:30, and I'm so wiped out that I have to go through a few snooze cycles before I even know who I am. 

Almost every morning around 3:30 one or two of my daughters will appear at my bedside, usually after I've already woken up.  They hate sleeping on the edge of the bed (scary!) so I scrinch to the side and let them in.  Arm around, they'll say, because they like me to hold them when they fall asleep.   With their fear of the edge (scary!) and the wanting to be the one next to mama, the choreography can be impossibly complicated, but generally they are sleepy enough to settle in and fall back asleep even if they aren't exactly where they want to be. 

And then, just as I think to myself, Hey, I feel sorta floaty like I'm actually about to fall asleep!  Oh, shit.  WAIT!  Don't acknowledge that or you'll wake up.  Think of something restful like your fantasy trip to Mexico in January.  Be sleepy, Jen, that is when the kicking begins. 

The kicks aren't usually quick like soccer kicks, they are more like slow, purposeful bulldozer legs.  There I am, trying to sleep while defying physics and good sense by occupying a three-inch strip of mattress edge, when a little foot will find my back and start pushing.   Even in their sleep, they know where to locate a kidney or tender muscle with their heel.  And my girls are like me: on the small side, but mighty as hell.  I take the leg and move it, and then reposition myself.  I start to drift off, remind myself to not recognize the drifting lest I suddenly become wide awake again (that's hard work right there), and then, just when I start dreaming about trying to carry several bags and a red cowboy hat while riding a 1970's ten speed in San Francisco in search of the Howard Johnson's that is at the intersection of Howard and Johnson (that was this morning's actual dream, but I left out the part about the swim meet and the foreign exchange students), I will get a foot to the neck.  Or the gut, which is worth bonus points to them if I have to pee. 

This morning I gave up and got out of bed even though I was hoping to sleep just a little longer.  There wasn't much light in the room, enough to make out their peaceful faces, their heads close together, their hair all mixed up on the pillow (my pillow, which they stole, leaving me with no pillow).  It's not often that I see them still and relaxed, and even though I should be crabby, I can't help but watch them sleep for a minute.  Their breath is matched, inhales and exhales perfectly in unison.  Sophie has her hand stretched out, holding onto Willow's arm, just below the elbow. 

My minister was at church on Sunday, even though she's supposed to be out on vacation.   Most Unitarian Universalist ministers take a break in the summer, and the congregations have guest speakers.  But, along with probably every UU minister there is, our minister was back in her church on Sunday because of the shootings at the UU church in Knoxville on the last Sunday in July.  The kids in Knoxville were performing the play Annie for their community, and a man walked into the sanctuary with a shotgun and opened fire.  He killed two people, wounded others.  Here's an interview with a man who helped stop the gunman that's definitely worth reading.

Lex always stays with me during church instead of going with the other kids to the children's classes.  He doesn't do it for any other reason than being genuinely interested in the sermons, whether it's about Pagan rituals or Buddist principles or social justice.  He likes to talk about them with me afterwards, and he always participates by lighting a candle and sharing a joy or a sorrow from his life with the bemused congregation.   Still, I was a little bit apprehensive about having him stay with me on Sunday.  It's so hard to let go, to let him go, into this world where shit like that happens in schools and churches and shopping malls.   I was glad to have him next to me, though.  We had a guest speaker who transformed her original sermon on Lammas into a lovely tribute to the congregation in Tennessee.  It was a hopeful talk, and inspiring, but so very sad as well. 

Probably all the UU churches in the world found a few minutes on Sunday to sing Tomorrow from Annie.  The day after the shootings when everyone was gathered together, the children sang that song as a way to find some closure to this terrifying event they'd experienced.  They'd worked for such a long time, practicing for their play, and they never got to finish it.  You know how important that is to kids, especially when everything else is turned upside down.  So they chose that song to give to their community.  And, oy, did Lex and I ever cry and choke our way through it.  We sang, though.  Afterward, he looked at me, crying and gave me a long hug, and once again I was reminded how having children is really like having your heart walk around outside your body. 

If you are interested in what I think of The Jawbone, click here. 

A must-read, and I'd say that even if I weren't in one of the photos! 

My first post is up!