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?