SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME: WINNER!

And the winner is. . .
Anonymous...
babe: Dada. Look. Me float!
pops: Holy *#&%!

Your reward is. . .well, we have nothing for you but love. But since you can't buy love, that's a pretty good reward, wouldn't you say? To claim your reward, write your name and address and the reasons you should be loved (in alphabetical order) on the bottom of a pint of Haagan Daz Five Chocolate ice-cream and hand deliver it to: Wazoo Farm, Pennsylvania. We will then consider your qualifications and radiate some love your way while we eat the Haagan Daz ice cream. Thanks for playing!

I just got one of my favorite stories accepted at a good journal. . .after over 300 days Pending Response. Usually I think really that patience is for the birds, but the wait was worth it this time, I suppose. Tornado and Flooding Watch sent the school kids home early, but inside, it's all sunny with a gaggle of kids doing puzzles on the floor and eating peanuts.

Get your smart captions in by 11 tonight!

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME

You know the rules, you adorable craniums. Go for it.

Goin Back, Goin WAAAAY Back

This afternoon at lunch, I tapped the black, deep-dish pizza pan with my fork and reflected, "I feel as if I'm returning to my childhood--the part in the US, anyway."

Martin took a sip from his tall, cloudy plastic cup of root beer. "These cups haven't changed much since I was a kid," he said. I agreed. Though they've done away with the pitcher of pop on the table, and the colored glass hanging lamps were gone, there were still some reassuring Old-School Pizza Hut details. The scrape of the metal server on the pan, the same stringy cheese and buttery crust, the same solid square-shaped ice cubes. No crushed ice and Coke products for Pizza Hut. It's always been Pepsi. The jar of red pepper flakes with the perforated top that my sister once told me were bacon bits. I spent most of that particular meal with a napkin plastered to my burning tongue.

There were no PacMan games silently running in the front, though, and I think I remember that, though I was never allowed to play, of course--a total waste of money. I'm filling my old-school video game longing by an occasional dabble with our friend's old Atari. It turns out, I stink at PacMan, though I think it's all the fault of the sticky joystick.

And Martin and I have been watching The Cosby Show from the beginning, and unlike most TV shows I thought were funny and now seem embarrassingly awful, The Cosby Show still makes me laugh. It's a pleasure, actually, to watch Bill Cosby now that Martin and I are parents--it's all funny from the other side. And there's always the sweater vests and stretchy pant/baggy shirt combos to marvel at.

All these allusions to my childhood have prompted me to choose a venue for my upcoming birthday party in April: RollerRink. Maybe I'll finally fulfill my fifth grade dream of skating forward in a boy's arms as he skates backward. Unfortunately, the boy won't be Martin--he's like a drunk spider on anything with wheels or blades. Maybe I'll take the backwards role and I can pull him along.

Don't forget, dearies, that the Sunday-Add-A-Caption Game--the highlight of your week!--starts at a few minutes before midnight tonight. . . .

My friend Sal took this picture. Does it make you curious? Find out more by clicking HERE.

Bicycling With Children

Staying up late feels so wonderfully secret and quiet at night and then I crash about 3:00 the next day. Then I must either steal some sleep or stoke myself with strong tea for the rest of the afternoon.

Elspeth and the girls performed a play for me this afternoon that mostly consisted of endless costume changes under the table. Elspeth was terrifying as a wicked witch, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears in a self-conscious way and grinning: "I'm bad," she said, "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" Two of her friends took up the cry and sang a snippet of Michael Jackson. Then there was yet another interminable costume change.

Let me tell you all something: this period of highly concentrated children in my life is all good and happy except for the noise, noise, noise. . .someone is constantly at my elbow asking me a question or telling me something charming. Occasionally I want to gag them, not because they're being bad but because they know a language and facilitate it often. Writing has become the flag behind my old banana-seat bicycle, tattered and worn and familiar. I pedal furiously around another corner and another and another. My wrists are strained by the handles of grocery bags. And my bicycle basket is full of children, legs akimbo, eyes squinting into the wind, teeth plastered with flies. We're moving THAT FAST.

Better wrap up. Merry's home.

Martin just sent me a link to a very entertaining Washington Post article about the author of The Hardy Boys books. Click HERE.

I Feel Nice

. . .like sugar and spice

This song is stuck in my head at the moment, and the only reason I can think of for its entry is that I FEEL GOOD--I knew I would as soon as the sun came out again. I feel so good that I hammered the car (kids giggling inside) with as many snowballs as my bare hands could stand before driving off home from Sal's house through the sunshine today. In my refreshed state, I can muster some praise for snow: it's fun to throw and it is a wonderful catchment for light. I didn't need the lamp last night to find the bed after I finished flossing, and today the bits of sun that break through clouds illuminate the white yard. The birds are like confetti blowing in the warming air--dun and cherry red and licorice black.

Elspeth sits at my left, creating a picture of a cat chasing flying cupcakes; my charge E, is sound asleep on the couch, and Bea has curled around her three Lightning McQueen cars and fallen into sweet afternoon slumber (remember how deeply satisfying that was?). The water is hot for early afternoon tea and my column for the week is safely with my editor, the house is dirty and there's no dinner but all is well, all is well.

Speaking of columns (wait for it. . .here it comes. . .) I am particularly fond of my last column and would love for you all to take a peek; check it by clicking on the geranium to the right of this ramble.

girls, sleepy me, and just pictures

Sorry, y'all; I'm beat. I feel I cannot summon the power to take all the events of the past days and blend them into a perfect cocktail. I will do it later. Martin's late night and the girls aren't quite in bed; Bea's wailing up a storm because her sisters are still up; Merry's stacking books for late-night reading, and Elspeth is cleaning up the doll house. . .We had a crazy snow last night, the sort that felt like someone was shaking an open feather comforter all over us. I am on strike; the weather is just acting silly and I will not tolerate it. I am tired of being cold and refuse to be cold anymore, so the weather will just have to cooperate if it wants to see my sunny face singing anthems any time soon. The weather became childish last night, when I was called away out of my pre-p.j. shower by a command that I show up at I. T.'s house. Over the phone, I. T. informed Martin, "I would like Kim at my house at 7:15." So I went because I was intrigued, only to be served wine, salad and homemade pizza. My hostess, I. T., told all her guests (I was the only one who found out at the last minute I was going) that she loved and hated her little dog and would have the little dog stuffed when it died and then she would love it all the more because she could pet the little dog and not have to care for its capricious needs anymore. After dinner, I. T.'s husband literally blew in the door and told us all we'd better go home because there was a horrible storm outside (we laughed; we thought he was joking) but then someone remarked he was serious and we all left in huge, tea-saucer sized snowflakes.

I didn't suppose I was going to write much and I shan't write any more, since Bea is terribly and horribly put out.

WINNER: SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME

The winner is. . .Anonymous, who wrote two simple but devastating words:
FOOD POISONING!

The judge would also like to give a special shout-out to Jenna and Lauren for their captions, so appropriate to their own context: parents bathing children and big dogs. Nice job!

Winner, assuming you are overage, please write your special winning serial number on the bottom of a hot plate of freshly made enchiladas and come to Wazoo, where we will present you with this:

Wazoo Farms does not guarantee the Malbec unless you guarantee enchiladas are of superior quality and cheesiness. Please note that food poisoning of any kind, whether intentional or unintentional, will be persecuted to the nth degree: you will scrub our tub, and it's not a pretty sight.

Bea and Bobby McGee

*
Right before bedtime last night, Bea said in a sing-song: "Take a piece of my heart." We don't know where she last heard Janis Joplin, but we're satisfied that her musical education is progressing so well.

Add your caption to the game, below, by eleven tonight! It's a fun thing to do on a rainy day or a Monday, and today fits both those descriptions.

*Pic is not mine; it belongs to Rolling Stone, but I don't think I needed to tell you that.

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME

Get your game on, Sunday players. Add your caption!

Tea is on, house is empty

Party: accomplished. It all felt like a big success. Hearty thanks to everyone who jumped in to make it wonderful. Seventeen children played games for an hour, ate and opened presents for an hour, and then watched a movie while the adults feasted on chicken tikka, homemade garlic naan, three-cream brie, salad, chili, a bottle of Malbec, and performed stupid human tricks. Grossest had to be the eyelid turner-outer. The evening was a lovely mix of children and adults, sophisticated food, and silliness.

Now, the furniture is back in place, the floors swept and vacuumed, trash tied up, dishes cleaned and leftovers stored. The girls fell asleep as soon as their heads touched their pillows. All that is left is a long, gangly red garland that slowly turns above Martin's nose as he screams out an unwinding song on his guitar.

Dear friends who appeared and flew about our house like sparrows, filling this place with great love, thank you.

And P.S., don't forget: Sunday's Add A Caption Game for this week makes me laugh. It starts at one minute 'til midnight tonight!

It's beautiful outside, and the girls and Martin are off somewhere bike riding. I am rearranging furniture and otherwise preparing for Elspeth and Merry's joint birthday party. We are expecting almost thirty people and seventeen of those people are children ages 2 to 9. So far, I've baked two sheet cakes, filled the dining room with tables and seating, and made the kitchen grown-up friendly. Still to do: cook, favors, games, fruit and vegetable platters, decorate, with time to spare to split a beer pre-party with dear old Martin, who is co-charge of the games with Sally. Brave people.

I'll try to take pictures. Hmm. . .maybe I should delegate that task, seeing as I won't be here due to a last-minute duck-out to the local, (nonexistent) pub. Just kidding. I wouldn't miss all those happy delightful people for the world.

Happy Friday Thoughts

Oh, my dears, a beautiful, clear day. Through my open window there's a whole cacophony of bird chants, the sound of wind blowing through bare branches and evergreens, wind chimes. It's the kind of day that makes me remember what all my bright childhood was, how it felt to be in college in the spring, falling in love with Martin, and how it feels to lie in the sun with my children's faces moving above me like clouds. In short, it brings me peace and softens my winter self. I know it won't last; still I'm tempted to pack away all the winter coats, just out of faith in the wonder of this brilliant day. Yesterday, Bea was driving me around the bend, and today she is my softest petal. (Neurotic parents? Underrated.)

This afternoon, I could roll down our hill in a fit of sun fever. Instead, I sifted through my spam box and found a favorite: "In every man's mind there is a want to enlarge his nose. Many search out ways to do this and sometimes it works and sometimes not." (I changed one word for kicks--can you imagine what it might be?) I may just slap a bit more blue paint on the front gate (it's been half white and half blue all winter long; I imagine it's caused our neighbor across the street, who keeps her house pristine, a twinge of pain). I may climb on the roof with my bridal veil on and see if it blows like a sail behind me. I will probably shake out the porch rug. I will never, ever put away laundry. It would be an insult to the wind and the sun and the song of the wind chimes.

Y'all make sure to have a happy hour today, you hear? You've earned it.

BEA IS DRIVING ME CRAAAAAAAZY

February Crazies

Plan for the next two hours: make like Beatrix, grab the tupperware of eclairs off of the top shelf of the refrigerator, and hide under the dining room table. Proceed to stuff eclairs into my mouth at an alarming rate.

Plan for the next two days: make myself bright red wings. With much flapping and flying feathers (like a burlesque dancer with boa), take off from my office window, circle around the sleds lying in mud, and take off for east Africa. Children stare, agape, from windowsill. "Come back!" they cry. "We need a drink of water!" I hear: the rush of wind in my ears, the distant hum of a jet engine, the rumble of distant thunder.

Plan for next two years: Pile all our possessions on the curb, five things each evening, until our house echoes. Sleep on grass mats on the floor. Hire someone to clean the bathtub. Let the children paint bright murals on the walls and floors, until the soles of our feet are covered in rainbows. Dance to guitar music with no socks, shirts, or medicines of any kinds. Eat peas from the garden for supper.

Recommended actions for next two minutes: Throw phone out door down the hill. Hold white conch shell to ear, wait for music.

balance (again)

Bea, who is supposed to be sleeping soundly, yells upstairs from her crib. I am trying to turn her off so I may enjoy the sunshine filling the room, the shadows crisscrossing across the rug. A rumor of warmer weather is cheering us a bit out of our February blues--we hear about 60 degrees and sun on Thursday. I'm hoping to take children up to our friend Mike's farm, to see his newborn kids (goat kids, that is). And I feel like Frog, from Arnold Lobel's story, who keeps walking around corners, trying to find spring. One happy day, he rounds the corner of his house and finds his parents out in the garden, planting seeds. The sun warms his amphibian neck and he announces that he's found spring after all. Soon Martin will be thinking about ordering pea seeds, and we'll be tucking away hats and boots and all the bulk, and the weary world will glow again.

I spoke to my mother this morning, and during the course of our conversation, she asked me about my writing. "I'm sort of on hiatus right now," I said, "But I feel happy." "Hiatus" means blogging, my weekly column, and an essay or story every few months. The great novel will have to wait.

Next year, Bea will attend preschool two mornings a week (I just found out I will teach a class those two mornings), Elspeth will be in kindergarten full time, and Merry will be in (gasp) fourth grade. I want to enjoy this last spring with children as much as I can, and then move contentedly on to a new stage in our lives together. Though I've struggled with great frustration and morose days, I've never regretted choosing to stop teaching to be available to the children, and as every parent predicted, the time has flown by. I've managed to tuck in quite a bit of writing despite the girls, or maybe because of them. All the things I love dearly feed each other, and all those things in balance ring with more happiness than I deserve. Everything slips into harmony just often enough to let me hear and appreciate the music of my existence, our own family and community. Most of the time, "bungling" and "muddling" are more appropriate words, but the flashes of rightness convince me that we are where we are supposed to be. And that is a good feeling.

Bea's continued screaming? Not producing good feelings at this juncture. An essential to finding balance: being able to ignore noise. I'm working on that.

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME: WINNER

We'd like to heartily congratulate the winner of the Valentine's Day special. Hurrah for anonymous!

Sissy: Hooray, the Gilmore Girls marathon is starting!
Biff: Yeah ... I gotta go re-paint the fence.

And your prize is. . .
A POEM, composed for you by the famous poet, Humphrey R. Snodgrass, who wrote such immortal odes as "To My Seasick Love, on a Stormy Sunday" and "Missing My Mistress Missing Me," and "Chow, You Sassy Thing."

My love, whose eyes are nothing like the waxing moon,
whose nose is like the tower of Babel
before it fell, sending people scattering like chaff
on a stormy Sunday,
whose lips are as soft as marshmallow cream,
whose breath is like the breeze from a hot dog cart,
but a really great one, with Chicago-style dogs and homemade buns,
and whose belly is like a heap of creamed wheat,
You inspire me to greatness, to haul myself off the couch
as on a stormy Sunday.
Oh, Love!
May I ever say,
Oh, Love!

R. Snodgrass begged us to relate that this poem could be utilized for many different occasions, but warned that such poetical words are full of power and must not be used lightly or while operating heavy machinery.

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME: VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL!!!

It's a very special dynamics-of-the-heart edition of Add-A-Caption Game. Play because you've loved, because your heart is 'a fire. Play because you're lonely. Play. . .just play.


To further your understanding of the vital body language that makes or breaks our relationships, you may need to click on the photo to see it better.

At exactly 11:59 tonight: it's a brand new game of Add-A-Caption. You won't want to miss the subtle but fascinating tribute to Valentine's Day. . .

Say WHAT?

Near the end of our waffle consumption this morning, Merry (who had finished first) breezed into the kitchen and said, "Mommy,can I be a Cover Girl?"

Martin's and my heart almost stopped. "What?"

Merry repeated herself. "Mommy, can I be a Hover Girl?"

Well, that was a different matter entirely. Earlier, sitting next to my oldest child, who was dressed in a 1982 striped exercise suit with a skirt from the dress-up box, I'd noticed her humming in a high and awful manner. "Merry, please stop that noise," I said. "It sounds like you're a bug."

"That's what it's meant to sound like," she answered, with a faraway look in her eyes.

All morning, we've had two girls and Hover Girl, who zooms around the house whining like a mosquito. There are three specific hover-moves: upwards hover, downwards hover, and side-to-side hover. Despite great protestation, I made her change out of her exercise suit into regular clothes, and now she's Purple Hover Girl, charged with bringing peace to grocery stores (apparently, our local market is currently overrun by robbers and desperately in need of a visit from P.H.Girl) and spreading goodwill everywhere.

Martin and I discussed the problems of hovering, including not being able to stay put on a toilet seat and hovering at other awkward moments--at school, for instance--but overall, it seems like a good thing. We're just grateful Merry isn't pining to be a Cover Girl--anything would be better than that: Sewer Girl, Rock-Splitter Girl, Drainpipe Girl, anything. Even insect noises.

Beautiful and Safe

Those of you who know Elspeth, our middle child (now five), either through this blog or in person, know she's got her own since of style--she swings through life to her own fantastic rhythms. Often, we have no idea what her secret music sounds like until she looks up from seemingly manic scribbling and shows us a complicated picture, embellished with unexpected details. Unless you have a weak heart or become nervous easily, Elspeth will charm you with her quirky creativity.

Lately, I've felt like short-order cook in the mornings, armed with hairbrush instead of spatula. I survey three little girl heads and whip up some order with bows and bands. Elspeth has very strong (but inclusive) opinions about what is beautiful, and I try to accommodate her bordering-on-crazy notions when I can. Yesterday morning, she asked me to braid her hair in four plaits around her head. Later, on the way to a playgroup, she burst out: "I have four braids and I feel like the most beautiful girl in the world!"

My mother left a book behind for me to read, and a few nights ago, I finally cracked it open, a little wary of the serious and potentially depressing content. I was surprised to feel not only burdened but also inspired and completely enfolded by the stories of girls around the world, particularly in developing countries, who are victims of trafficking and forced prostitution. As I read the stories, I couldn't help but feel that those girls were my girls--or me--in a different country, with a different history. I highly recommend the book: Half the Sky, by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, winners of the Pulitzer Prize. Last night, I told Martin, You have daughters; you must read this book. But if you know a woman or a little girl, you must read this book.

This Christmas, I noticed my dad tearing up at one point as he looked at our three daughters. He observed how happy and secure they were, and I thought of his work in relief, preventative health and development (through World Concern--look them up--their projects are tremendous) in countries where sex trafficking and the forced slavery of young women and girls is much too common. (So common, in fact, that there are more enslaved women and girls worldwide today than there were slaves in the 1800's in Europe and America). Often, these women suffer not only the abuse of their forced work but also a death sentence from AIDS. It makes me look at my girls with gratitude and humility and then look from them to the thousands and thousands of girls who suffer around the world. How many, like Elspeth, do not feel the security and happiness of feeling as if they are the most beautiful girls in the world, loved by many?

Come On, Baby, I'm Not Serious (nictitate, nictitate)

In telling you all that February was a giant joke and that the snow and below zero temps at night were just an illusion, I nictitate. And then I nictitate again, like a robin with a secret.

Yesterday, I told Martin that when he reached home, I would look saucily across the room and nictitate at him. "Then I will turn my head," I said, "And nictitate again." (HINT: I could be hanging upside down, playing the accordion, or skiing, and still I could nictitate at you in a variety of different manners. Martin said it sounded like something an animal, possibly of avian persuasion, might do, and he was one the right track.) When Martin came home, I nictitated at him, and sadly, I think he was underwhelmed, maybe even a wee bit disappointed. But, really, what does he expect at the end of the day?

Sal and I are trying out one new word per week in order to furrow some new paths in our winter-weary brains. Kevin, Sal's husband, who can recite pi, chose this one out of the dictionary. I nictitated at another woman today, and she responded, "Oh! I nictitate all the time!"

At whom will YOU nictitate today?

Zen Rocks

Those of you who have had the great privilege of sitting in our kitchen among the crumbs and chaos with a glass of red wine know all about my zen rocks. Four stones from the Puget Sound, resting one on the other in a perfect stack, reside always on my windowsill, reflecting the balance I would looove to achieve (as long as there's still room for neurotic outbursts, which I also loooove). Am I just in a fairly good place in my life, with wonderful friends, a supportive community, sweet children who are growing more and more independent, a husband who likes to cook and edit, and low-stress, high-rewards, work--OR is it the zen rocks?

I brought a few extra home with me, and the beach behind the last-day Seattle/Edmonds photo shoot was the setting where I picked them up and slipped them into my pocket. My friend Sal has a tiny stack on her windowsill, and woe to the woman whose zen stack slips (see her post here).

Look at the girls. The beach full of zen rocks seem to have had little effect on them.

My parents need no zen rock stack, apparently. They are joyful/grateful/at peace even when vomiting. . .

and. . .here are the king and queen of zen. Drum roll, please.
Helps to achieve zen include a our favorite new wine, Malbec, from Argentina, a loaf of fresh bread, and some gooey brie. Not sure this is what the zen-masters had in mind, but it works.

Flashback to Friday Harbor

So your beautiful sister and her husband handed you an envelope with reservations and a map, and it's time to take your trip. First, drive toward Canada among mountains rising above green farmland. Park your car in a wooded lot and linger in the tiny gift shop, browsing through books and studying your fellow passengers.

Then it's an hour long ferry ride among the San Juan Islands. Stand at the prow of the ferry and watch the water churn away toward an expanse of blue water that laps at the banks of countless islands. Watch the water too long and when you look back at the table between you and your sweetheart, the mottled surface will move like waves.

Pull into Friday Harbor, where masts of sailboats rise like a white forest in the docks. There's a lovely little used bookshop run by a British woman up the street--remember, you're on foot and without a car--and after that you can wander over to the coffee shop that overlooks the harbor. The woman pouring your latte will tell you how she and her husband sold everything to live on a boat. They spend the summers sailing to Alaska. But she doesn't have kids, she adds. You can't have everything.

You have three children who are home with their grandparents, and today you feel like you have everything: your feet to take you up and down streets and down to the docks, into shadowy restaurants and little shops, back to a cozy room with a fireplace and hot tub where you can eat gingersnaps and drink champagne.
But for now, it's time to scope out a good restaurant for dinner. You'd like seafood since you're by the sea, and you'd like a place with candles and a good beer list since you're childless for the night. You settle on a little place that serves buttery mussels in the shell. Then there's fish and chips and another pint of local beer,

and you're happy enough to feel as though you're sailing, not walking, up the street to your little room, your little room with the chocolates and tea waiting for you. When you awaken tomorrow, there will be a gourmet breakfast followed by creme brulet for dessert, and then it's a fast run to the ferry (you've lingered too long at breakfast), and back among the islands and maybe you'll get a glimpse of a whale but probably not at this time of year.

Then off the warmth of the ferry--you notice the mainland, so close to Canada, is much colder than Friday Harbor. Pull your carry-on down a path to your car, and when you sit down behind the wheel, you feel as though you drove a car in your past life; is there a need for a car now? You feel as though you've been gone a week because it was so lovely but later, in your cold office in the middle of a gray February with the snow blowing outside your window, the San Juan Islands will be a dream of warmth, of sunshine in sails, of foaming ferry water, of the islands that seemed to move past you like whales.

WINNER: SUNDAY ADD-A-GAME

AND THE WINNER (picked by Martin) TO THE SUPERBOWL SPECIAL IS. . .SALLY!

Chuck and Jeff of the US team diligently practice the "soaring bald eagle" section of their synchronized hand shadow routine as the sneaky Russian coach looks on.

* * * * *
Your reward is. . .this little square of thin yellow towel improved when it was passed among the Pittsburgh chapter of Moose Club section 34 to wipe off anxious perspiration, icing, mayo, Cheeto powder, and the disappointment of our state's hopes. (Warning: Disappointment is rather gooey and smells odd, and Wazoo Farm is not responsible for any stains, discoloration, or bug infestations in yellow towel scrap).

To claim your towel, please write your name and address on a crate of extra-cheesy Cheetos and send to Wazoo Farm, Wazoo Wazoo Wazoo, Pennsylvania. Congratulations!

PS. I'd like to give a special shout-out to Myrtle, and thank everyone for playing. . .Wazoo Farm enjoyed about 70 visits today, so your captions were appreciated by many.

FYI: We are, and always will be, a family of big noses.

And. . .a few more hours remain in the Sunday-Add-A-Caption Game. Oooo, we'll have a winner soon, so enter your brilliance before 11:00 or so, or whenever I get through the big laundry fold/Psych watch tonight. . .I meant, my nightly, challenging reading and reflection.

Sunday Add-A-Caption Game: Superbowl Tribute!

In the spirit of male aggression, here's this Sunday's photo. Add your caption and WIN!!!

Superbowl and My Dad

My Dad came back from a trip to Haiti just in time for the Superbowl, and I chatted with him today about many things, including the illness he picked up in the Miami airport, the cholera epidemic in Haiti, and family news. And the Superbowl. Even the most globally minded American gets pretty excited about football. As we spoke, my mother returned from Trader Joe's, where she'd been stocking up on Superbowl fare.

One of Martin's favorite parts about being at my parents' house this past Christmas was watching football, Sunday and Monday, with my father. My Dad's the calmest man I know (he reprimanded my sister after she almost broke a plate glass window by folding his newspaper, leisurely getting out of his chair, and telling her, 'Not smart'), but even he gets somewhat excited over a really good run or an excellent pass. And after my parents' stint in Baltimore, he's suddenly a Ravens fan, which colors his opinion of the Steelers.

You can't live in my town without being a fan of the Steelers, at least by appearance. I'd probably be beaten to West Virginia if I were stupid enough to slap a Packers sticker on my window. But it does make the game tomorrow more exciting to know that up in Washington State, my Dad, purely from bitterness over the Ravens game, will be rooting for the Packers.

And for the first time in my entire life, I will actually make a cake with the name of a football team written out in black icing. The background will be gold, and maybe I'll even watch more than the advertisements this year.

Excitement Out the Wazoo

Last night, the girls were exhausted, so Martin and I plunked them into bed early and settled down for a "Psych" marathon, a big laundry fold, and ironing fest. We consumed cookies, tortilla chips, and multiple cups of tea. It was a party of sorts--tomorrow was Friday, an easy day for both of us, and we were going to have a great night's sleep. We finished watching a third episode of "Psych" at around 11 and dragged ourselves up to put the house to bed before heading up for toothbrushes. I tidied and started the dishwasher, and Martin, feeling tired and a bit grumpy, headed down to the basement to start the dryer.

It was after he came upstairs and shut the door that I heard a dull thunk, thunk, thunk sound, followed by the click of the door reopening and Martin groaning in disbelief, "Oh, NO."

I had a pretty good guess as to what had just happened. I hoped I wasn't right, and so I said pleasantly, "What happened? Is everything okay?"

Martin confirmed my fear. Now, before I describe what happened and admit that the blame lay mostly at my feet, let me just point out: the accident involved Martin's big feet, and the existence for months of two paint cans at the top of our basement stairs, one with the lid not quite tamped down, is indicative of a larger, more widespread problem at Wazoo Farm, which is not putting hardware-type things away properly.

If you'd been at our house last night just after 11:00, this is what you would have seen (and smelled): thick, exterior-semigloss blue splattered down our basement stairs and across the carpet at the bottom landing; Martin heading toward the epic mess with two measly paper towel squares, and me, (trying to see the humor in the situation while not setting off Martin, who is feeling grumpier than ever), looking in the refrigerator for my blue-paintbrush (yes, I'd wrapped it instead of cleaning it, knowing I'd need it again--and see, I did).

I encouraged us to count our blessings: what were the chances that Martin would have kicked down a can of paint in exactly the same shade as the stairs? Instead of cleaning it up, I explained, trying not to scoff at Martin's paper towels, let's just give those stairs a new coat of paint! This sounds easier than it actually was, since the paint was glopped all down one side of each stair, rendering the space where we could balance to paint very small and awkward, especially in our big furry slippers and jammies. Martin took the bottom landing and I took the stairs, carefully painting just half of each stair so Martin wouldn't be stranded, until I forgot and painted two whole stairs in a row. My careful resistance to laughter began to waver when Martin, paintbrush in hand, had to heave-ho up the flight of stairs with only four inches to rest his right foot at the top. At one point toward the end of the escapade he squatted like a frog, grasped the railing, and leaned down several stairs to finish painting the stair I'd also forgotten in what I'd mistakenly thought was fairly good logistical planning. Then he squatted for a while longer, as if meditating. "You're making me nervous," I said finally--I'd struggled against the urge to leave him for a moment to retrieve the camera, and now I stood behind him, ready to grab his p.j. shirt in case he suddenly lost balance and careened into the abyss.

"I'm not going to fall down the stairs," he assured me, and then he performed yet another yoga-like balancing trick to even out the paint several steps down. The fact that we weren't both covered in blue ("lupine" is the shade, by the way, and a very nice one) was miraculous.

That night in bed, Martin sat there reading (he'd gotten a second wind with all the painting). He was beyond accusations ("How long have those paint cans been at the top of the stairs?") and past grumpiness, and could finally see the humor in such a momentous accident. He stroked my shoulder lovingly and said, "I guess, considering we painted a flight of stairs tonight, that going to bed at midnight is pretty remarkable." And I concurred--it could have been so much worse--the ceiling could have fallen in, a pipe could have burst, our stove could have exploded. We'd gotten a little exercise to even out the cheesy tortilla chip consumption, too, and we wouldn't have to do laundry for another few days while the stairs dried. All in all, the great paint spill of 2011 turned out for the best.

Writing, Reality, and the Whole *&%$ Process

I finished tinkering with my essay yesterday--this is the second stage of a writing process I've fallen into. First, I sort of vomit words for a hours (this used to take one big block of time for a first draft but now takes several days or weeks, depending on children), and then I leave it for a while to cure. . .I return to find it stinks far worse than I thought it did initially, and then I begin cleaning. I clean, clean, clean again. I chop it up and add things and throw pieces in the garbage, and then I step back. This takes me through multiple drafts. At this point, I either think it's pretty good and am proud of myself, or (what is more likely), I'm completely bewildered, lost in a familiar neighborhood. Then I pass it on to readers.

There are two sorts of readers: readers who give me fairly minimal but important feedback, questions or points of confusion or overall impressions. My mother, for instance, either announces that she likes something or doesn't, though she gives me more specific details if I ask for them (she was very helpful in one of my last short stories). The second sort of reader is Martin. He is a sort and he is an individual. He reads something as objectively as he can and then he gives me an honest critique, which usually involves heavy scissoring, tiny, painful tweezering, and maybe an explosion or two. And while this process in particular can be a little wearying, it is so vital to the life of whatever I've written. I produce the body, Martin's the surgeon, I'm the stitcher-upper. After years of repeating this process, Martin will often point to something and I'll sigh and say, "Yes, I know you were going to pick that out. I knew it shouldn't stay but I kind of liked it and I thought, just maybe. . ." and then we'll blow it to smithereens and I feel better afterward. Writing is a good exercise in radical letting-go: releasing yourself, your expectations, your most treasured sentences and descriptions, the parts that you wished were beautiful but, in the sunlight, are flat and one-dimensional.

And then I do several more rewrites and by the end of the entire process I'm so sick of the piece I want to stitch it up, package it in ice, and send it on its way. The reality is, of course, that it mostly gets returned-to-sender and I have to open it up for more surgery again.

The children are restless at the moment and they're driving me a bit crazy. Altered voices, sudden lurches, repeated movements, pounding footfalls, spontaneous crying and begs for attention--all these charming things abound. Beatrix peed in her crib, cried, and wouldn't go back to sleep, and there's been no settling and silence of any one body in the house. Looks like the next step of the writing process will have to wait. I'll gladly trade it in for an hour of peace and quiet.

Winds from the Midwest

I'm listening to the sweet strains of a child sleeping, the rhythm of intake and expelling of breath. My occasional charge, little E, seemed to have been waiting for me to come down and take my accustomed spot on the flowered chair, whispering my regular lines: "I'll just sit here until you fall asleep." And then, five, four, three. . .he was out, just like that. Bea is still chatting to herself up in her crib--she's got some habitual alternate world going these days at nap time, launched today by the exclamation, "Oh, no, someone is in trouble!" (She's waaay into animal rescue shows).

The little ones should be exhausted. Personally, I'm struggling to keep my own eyelids at the alert at the moment. We had a big morning, delivering homework to the elementary school through warm gusts of wind that made us so happy we danced in the car, followed by library time, capped off by a brisk run through the park and pbjs back in the library. My intent in packing a lunch had been that we'd settle down in the unseasonably balmy sunshine on a park bench to chomp our food, but that was not to be. The lovely spring-like morning gusted into a zephyrous, snow-blowing monster that sent us scattering for shelter and pulling our collars up around our ears.

The harrowing wind from the midwest is finally reaching us, but the sight of trashcans and empty sleds blowing across streets is marked by intermittent shafts of warm sunshine, so welcome and unusual in early February. In fact, this morning, little E looked up, surprised, when the sun burst from behind a cloud, and asked, "Who turned the lights on?" And I found myself double-checking bedrooms for burning light bulbs before I left this morning, so blinded are we by natural light.

Upstairs, Bea's game has suddenly escalated into a shouting match. Perhaps a baby hippo is in distress, or a goose has a pot on her head, and Bea's coming to the rescue just in time. As long as she does it all in her crib, I'm happy.

Images of Texas: Can You Guess?

Since this post got buried a bit in the Sunday festivities, I wanted to give people--especially the kiddos--a chance to check out the Texas wildlife.

All right, detectives. Can anyone guess what the girls (our girls and their cousin, Isabella in Brookshire, TX) are studying. . .

in this picture?

And here?
This sleek green fellow actually changes colors like his African cousin (I'm not sure about the actual connection as far as genus or whatever goes, but they have the same common name).

Now, what about this handsome devil?

Thing, thing! What IS that thing? (Here's a hint: in this pic, it's dead.)

It actually belongs here in the waters of Iron's Creek, but an animal had decided it would make a tasty snack.

Probably not Nino, the cat, who hunts more for birds and snakes--and there are plenty of the reptilian family in this part of Texas. If only I'd captured a picture of the nutria (think Rodent of Unusual Size) this Christmas, too!