Friday, February 25, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, February 21, 2011
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.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
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!
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.
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.
Friday, February 18, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
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.
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.
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