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.