Open
On the very edge of darkness
I looked Death square in the eye, and smile.
He points two fingers at his eyes
and then at mine,
to say like a bad comedy gangster,
I’m watching you.
Then with those same two fingers,
he thumps my sternum,
tips me off the edge of the precipice.
I fall into the nothing, into the void,
and back home to my body.
I am home, I have been there
with Death a few times,
and somehow at that crucial moment,
something in me awakes,
shines the light back out
and says, I’m not done yet.
I fall like a meteor,
come back home
To earth
To my body
growing more achy
with the years
but still whole.
The vision doesn’t end
when I open my eyes.
I now know what to do.
I find the knot that stitches
my ribcage together, pull it,
and it comes apart -
an easy bow at the wrist of a boxing glove
the arch point of a sneaker
the back of a laced up wedding gown.
My chest opens like a robe,
and from in me
all the darkness of night
all the stars held in it
come pouring out.
I remain open,
a conduit to the infinite we.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Promises, Promises
It's that time of year. You know, the one having to do with quitting this, starting that, losing this, scrapping that.
So here's mine:
In 2010 I resolve:
to breathe first, yell later, and only if it's absolutely necessary.
to devote myself, my time and my gumption to finishing the edits and that one stubborn hole of a chapter in Felix the Comet.
to seriously rewrite the companion middle reader novel to Felix, starting with an outline. My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Cubelli would be so proud.
to hug my kids more, especially the big ones.
to get outside, even when it's cold and wet.
2009 lessons learned:
Southern fleas are uber SOBs.
Listen to my body. It's telling me important things.
I can do anything I set my mind to, when I don't get distracted.
Stop second guessing myself. I've been around long enough to know better.
NaNoWrimo is a gas, but needs a better engine for me to really accomplish something good with it, like an outline for starters, and for kids and self not to catch a flu from hell.
Here's to new and better things in 2010, and farewell 2009. What are your resolutions?
So here's mine:
In 2010 I resolve:
to breathe first, yell later, and only if it's absolutely necessary.
to devote myself, my time and my gumption to finishing the edits and that one stubborn hole of a chapter in Felix the Comet.
to seriously rewrite the companion middle reader novel to Felix, starting with an outline. My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Cubelli would be so proud.
to hug my kids more, especially the big ones.
to get outside, even when it's cold and wet.
2009 lessons learned:
Southern fleas are uber SOBs.
Listen to my body. It's telling me important things.
I can do anything I set my mind to, when I don't get distracted.
Stop second guessing myself. I've been around long enough to know better.
NaNoWrimo is a gas, but needs a better engine for me to really accomplish something good with it, like an outline for starters, and for kids and self not to catch a flu from hell.
Here's to new and better things in 2010, and farewell 2009. What are your resolutions?
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Names
To protect the innocent and not so innocent in my family, I have been using first initials. I was never keen on it, but at the time I started, I wasn't feeling very imaginative about the kids' names or anyone else's for that matter. We do have a bevy of nicknames around the house, but I knew those would just be embarassing, especially for the teen.
At times, it can get quite confusing what with my eldest child, both my brothers and most of eldest child's friends starting with K. I tried a numbers system K, K2, K3 for his closest friends, and then in some blog post, my brothers entered the picture, and I can't recall what I did with them. Oh yeah, I opted for the three inital mode for them, which never felt right as my older brother is definitely a K name and not a WKC. My wacky parents called him by his middle name. His official first name is his son's name, and... oh forget it!
And Baby C is hardly a Baby anymore. S as a name always fell flat. Honey, however will remain Honey, because he is my Honey, even on days when I am feeling less than sweet toward him.
So I have been considering the options that best suit each child's personality. When Baby C entered the world, S said, Hey Toots! upon meeting her, and it is safe to say that that nickname stuck from the sheer old fashioned, Speakeasy fun of it. My daughter, the toddler gangster's moll. We do call her Toots, among other things, around home. It is a fitting name for her here.
Therefore, may it be proclaimeth that Baby C shall henceforth be referred to and known as Toots. And sometimes I even call her Toots and the Maytals - a throwback to a reggae band I saw in the 80s. Ooooo, I just googled and they're apparently still touring!
But I digress.
Baby C is now Toots.
K has oft prided himself on his cynical nature, which I find extremely amusing, since he's been trying to be a cynical teen since he was about four years old, so he henceforth shall be known as Mr. Cynic.
Ya hear that, Mr. Cynic? yeah, that means you, dude.
(I just wanted to embarass him a little more anyway)
S is the toughie. He has an unabiding love of Godzilla and all things giant monster, especially ushered in from Toho Studios. He has recently declared his adult career of choice is comic book artist, and I've shown some examples here. I certainly do not want to caption him as his Asperger's Syndrome alone, because there is so much more to him than that. Maybe that's it: Captain Comic - to be used thusly as in The Further Adventures of Mr. Cynic and Captain Comic. Sure, that fits. Captain Comic it is. He is a very funny guy, too.
So that takes care of the kids. Mr Cynic, Captain Comic and Toots. They'd make a great alt comic gang, don't you think? But guess what, they're mine. And so is their particular mode of mayhem.
At times, it can get quite confusing what with my eldest child, both my brothers and most of eldest child's friends starting with K. I tried a numbers system K, K2, K3 for his closest friends, and then in some blog post, my brothers entered the picture, and I can't recall what I did with them. Oh yeah, I opted for the three inital mode for them, which never felt right as my older brother is definitely a K name and not a WKC. My wacky parents called him by his middle name. His official first name is his son's name, and... oh forget it!
And Baby C is hardly a Baby anymore. S as a name always fell flat. Honey, however will remain Honey, because he is my Honey, even on days when I am feeling less than sweet toward him.
So I have been considering the options that best suit each child's personality. When Baby C entered the world, S said, Hey Toots! upon meeting her, and it is safe to say that that nickname stuck from the sheer old fashioned, Speakeasy fun of it. My daughter, the toddler gangster's moll. We do call her Toots, among other things, around home. It is a fitting name for her here.
Therefore, may it be proclaimeth that Baby C shall henceforth be referred to and known as Toots. And sometimes I even call her Toots and the Maytals - a throwback to a reggae band I saw in the 80s. Ooooo, I just googled and they're apparently still touring!
But I digress.
Baby C is now Toots.
K has oft prided himself on his cynical nature, which I find extremely amusing, since he's been trying to be a cynical teen since he was about four years old, so he henceforth shall be known as Mr. Cynic.
Ya hear that, Mr. Cynic? yeah, that means you, dude.
(I just wanted to embarass him a little more anyway)
S is the toughie. He has an unabiding love of Godzilla and all things giant monster, especially ushered in from Toho Studios. He has recently declared his adult career of choice is comic book artist, and I've shown some examples here. I certainly do not want to caption him as his Asperger's Syndrome alone, because there is so much more to him than that. Maybe that's it: Captain Comic - to be used thusly as in The Further Adventures of Mr. Cynic and Captain Comic. Sure, that fits. Captain Comic it is. He is a very funny guy, too.
So that takes care of the kids. Mr Cynic, Captain Comic and Toots. They'd make a great alt comic gang, don't you think? But guess what, they're mine. And so is their particular mode of mayhem.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Inspiration deferred
Last night I was popping with Ideas. They were magical, they were inspirational, they were....last night and I didn't write them down.
During the night a stuffy Baby C had to cuddle. Through the night she began to resemble a hot water bottle..which slowly heated itself more and more until she was a wiggly fussy constantly nursing very hot water bottle.
Needless to say, I have not slept. I feel like a wad of cotton has replaced my brain. C's pediatric appointment is scheduled for later this afternoon and with the exhaustion I slipped my disc first thing this morning.
This is what happens when I complain that it is too quiet now that the boys are with their father for the rest of the school break until we get on the road for the long haul to retrieve them halfway up the East Coast from here next Saturday.
C'est la vie. Maybe she'll nap off of me long before her appointment. Though I won't count on it. At least the sense of writing remains. Maybe tomorrow, a poem, something to do with opening my ribcage to find the starry skies within pouring out.
During the night a stuffy Baby C had to cuddle. Through the night she began to resemble a hot water bottle..which slowly heated itself more and more until she was a wiggly fussy constantly nursing very hot water bottle.
Needless to say, I have not slept. I feel like a wad of cotton has replaced my brain. C's pediatric appointment is scheduled for later this afternoon and with the exhaustion I slipped my disc first thing this morning.
This is what happens when I complain that it is too quiet now that the boys are with their father for the rest of the school break until we get on the road for the long haul to retrieve them halfway up the East Coast from here next Saturday.
C'est la vie. Maybe she'll nap off of me long before her appointment. Though I won't count on it. At least the sense of writing remains. Maybe tomorrow, a poem, something to do with opening my ribcage to find the starry skies within pouring out.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Moms who blog
It sounds like a support group for mother's who can't help themselves from blogging, a twelve-step program.
But it's a growing population of those of us who need to tell our stories, lament the woes and record the triumphs of our day in and day out, a way to be creative when we feel we have no mental space for thinking more deeply in order to write our great american novels or capture the image of our masterpieces, like in the days before we had children and we still had brains capable of more than routine tasks and singing Old MacDonald for the 300,000th time, or reading Tikki-Tikki-Tembo until we are blue in the face.
It seems from where I sit anyway, that there are more of us in the blogosphere than most, and father's too, recording the amazing and most common thing humanity shares, the raising of our children.
Some of us are special needs moms, some are moms of teens, tweens or small children, some moms of blended families, some young moms, some who waited until later in life, and some of us are all of the above. And yes, I am talking about me in that last group. :)
We share a lot, with each other and of ourselves with the world at large. I think, besides the outlet for creativity, we do so to say, like the Whos on Horton's dustpeck, We are here! We are here! We are here! To say, we matter, I am doing something with my life, and it's important. We do it to say, I am not alone, are you out there, can you hear me? I want to hear your story, too!
The old trotted out line that it takes a village to raise a child is very true, and one of those reasons is to keep the mother who is caring for her kids from feelings of desperate isolation. It may be the mother who is running from work to home and racing to the store for dinner in between, who is lacking a serious connection with her friends she used to see all the time or stay up all night talking on the phone. It may be the mother who is going mental thinking the last time she had a conversation that didn't involve diapers and their contents in graphic detail was she can't remember when. It may be the mother who seems to have moments of sheer joy at the developmental milestone her child just sailed past, who wants to call out, Hey! Did you see that?! It may be the mother who found a moment of quiet and beauty with her child that cracked her open like an egg to the wonders of the universe.
Some people, even in this day and age, still have their coffee klatches and playdates, some of us don't. In the twenty-first century, we have our blogs. Our neighborhood is the whole world and whoever happens to click in and say hello, I see you, and that sounds just like me! Sometimes readers click in, and if you use a tracker on your blog, you can see them and know you've been visited from Brazil, Ireland, Russian, Japan, or across the the US or even from the next town. I feel validated when I see my tracker or when people, I still haven't met but who feel like friends comment. I feel like what I'm doing matters. That sometimes talking about the tougher stuff helps someone else, or sharing a joy lifts someone's spirit. But mostly I feel like the fact that I am parenting matters. That I'm not doing it in a void. That doing what I can for my kids is the best thing I can do.
I'll just write the great american novel later. When I've had some more sleep.
But it's a growing population of those of us who need to tell our stories, lament the woes and record the triumphs of our day in and day out, a way to be creative when we feel we have no mental space for thinking more deeply in order to write our great american novels or capture the image of our masterpieces, like in the days before we had children and we still had brains capable of more than routine tasks and singing Old MacDonald for the 300,000th time, or reading Tikki-Tikki-Tembo until we are blue in the face.
It seems from where I sit anyway, that there are more of us in the blogosphere than most, and father's too, recording the amazing and most common thing humanity shares, the raising of our children.
Some of us are special needs moms, some are moms of teens, tweens or small children, some moms of blended families, some young moms, some who waited until later in life, and some of us are all of the above. And yes, I am talking about me in that last group. :)
We share a lot, with each other and of ourselves with the world at large. I think, besides the outlet for creativity, we do so to say, like the Whos on Horton's dustpeck, We are here! We are here! We are here! To say, we matter, I am doing something with my life, and it's important. We do it to say, I am not alone, are you out there, can you hear me? I want to hear your story, too!
The old trotted out line that it takes a village to raise a child is very true, and one of those reasons is to keep the mother who is caring for her kids from feelings of desperate isolation. It may be the mother who is running from work to home and racing to the store for dinner in between, who is lacking a serious connection with her friends she used to see all the time or stay up all night talking on the phone. It may be the mother who is going mental thinking the last time she had a conversation that didn't involve diapers and their contents in graphic detail was she can't remember when. It may be the mother who seems to have moments of sheer joy at the developmental milestone her child just sailed past, who wants to call out, Hey! Did you see that?! It may be the mother who found a moment of quiet and beauty with her child that cracked her open like an egg to the wonders of the universe.
Some people, even in this day and age, still have their coffee klatches and playdates, some of us don't. In the twenty-first century, we have our blogs. Our neighborhood is the whole world and whoever happens to click in and say hello, I see you, and that sounds just like me! Sometimes readers click in, and if you use a tracker on your blog, you can see them and know you've been visited from Brazil, Ireland, Russian, Japan, or across the the US or even from the next town. I feel validated when I see my tracker or when people, I still haven't met but who feel like friends comment. I feel like what I'm doing matters. That sometimes talking about the tougher stuff helps someone else, or sharing a joy lifts someone's spirit. But mostly I feel like the fact that I am parenting matters. That I'm not doing it in a void. That doing what I can for my kids is the best thing I can do.
I'll just write the great american novel later. When I've had some more sleep.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Collapse of Christmas Present.
I can't wait to figure out which part of our crazy christmas to blog...it involves candles at church, refused homemade lasagna by rude kids, several declarations of I hate church, and one pyromaniac...or possibly, two, one slippery dress on a wiggly toddler and lots of lovely singing peppered with chasing my family back into the sanctuary while in the choir...and a 5:45am visit from an overexcited kid.
This was a quick note I saved to try to encapsulate all the mayhem that was Christmas Eve and Christmas this year.
Then too much time went by with not enough Christmas Eve sleep, and plenty more mayhem, so for the moment I can't recall a darned thing to write about Christmas 2009 other than the blurr of slightly trying moments mingled with lots of joy.
Although, there was one moment, in church last night, when a few of the choir members were held back from getting to seats with their families, I among them. There we were, in front of the congregation of our little modern church, with my family in the back row by the light switches. The handheld candles were lit all around, the lights went out, and I listened to the other voices, all of my friends and peers, elders and children singing Silent Night, normally so accustomed to hearing my own voice during Sunday hymns or in a lifetime of choruses, and it filled me with presence and memories of my big old fancy church I grew up in, and the other big old fancy church in Harvard Square I was a member of when the boys were younger. I thought, our humble little modern fellowship carries on the same tradition as every church, and every family in a church that night and for many others going back into the past, and more into the future.
Yep, there is something to be said for traditions and the emotions they stir, and then I read e.beck's post and thought, wow, I was thinking the same thing. And though I wanted to write about falling asleep before getting presents wrapped and waking up to the ending once again of A Christmas Story, right about when he shoots his eye out, and how S pounced on us about four hours later and ran up and down the wooden stairs forty-seven times the one morning he actually put his shoes - usually lost before the bus - on, until he woke the whole house, and about how delicious Grandma's lasagna was and how I got to crank the handle of the pasta machine, and the yummy zappoli, and the cookies galore, and the sugar and flour and honey coating every surface of the kitchen and then some, and so much more besides, but I wrote about the candles, too.
And then there was a toddler dancing with the jingle bell rock Santa that cracked me up, which was after the present opening carnage and going to the wrong house on the wrong street because it was the same number in the same place on a street that was parallel to my friends' whose cats I was taking care of...
Hope you all had a very Merry Christmas filled with joy. And that it's so fun, it ends somewhat like this:
This was a quick note I saved to try to encapsulate all the mayhem that was Christmas Eve and Christmas this year.
Then too much time went by with not enough Christmas Eve sleep, and plenty more mayhem, so for the moment I can't recall a darned thing to write about Christmas 2009 other than the blurr of slightly trying moments mingled with lots of joy.
Although, there was one moment, in church last night, when a few of the choir members were held back from getting to seats with their families, I among them. There we were, in front of the congregation of our little modern church, with my family in the back row by the light switches. The handheld candles were lit all around, the lights went out, and I listened to the other voices, all of my friends and peers, elders and children singing Silent Night, normally so accustomed to hearing my own voice during Sunday hymns or in a lifetime of choruses, and it filled me with presence and memories of my big old fancy church I grew up in, and the other big old fancy church in Harvard Square I was a member of when the boys were younger. I thought, our humble little modern fellowship carries on the same tradition as every church, and every family in a church that night and for many others going back into the past, and more into the future.
Yep, there is something to be said for traditions and the emotions they stir, and then I read e.beck's post and thought, wow, I was thinking the same thing. And though I wanted to write about falling asleep before getting presents wrapped and waking up to the ending once again of A Christmas Story, right about when he shoots his eye out, and how S pounced on us about four hours later and ran up and down the wooden stairs forty-seven times the one morning he actually put his shoes - usually lost before the bus - on, until he woke the whole house, and about how delicious Grandma's lasagna was and how I got to crank the handle of the pasta machine, and the yummy zappoli, and the cookies galore, and the sugar and flour and honey coating every surface of the kitchen and then some, and so much more besides, but I wrote about the candles, too.
And then there was a toddler dancing with the jingle bell rock Santa that cracked me up, which was after the present opening carnage and going to the wrong house on the wrong street because it was the same number in the same place on a street that was parallel to my friends' whose cats I was taking care of...
Hope you all had a very Merry Christmas filled with joy. And that it's so fun, it ends somewhat like this:
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Merry Christmas!
This is S's favorite part of Christmas:
http://www.noradsanta.org/
Merry Christmas everyone!
May your gatherings be plentiful and your family be full of peace today and tomorrow. And if you are spending it quietly alone or just keeping it simple for your immediate family, enjoy the simplicity.
http://www.noradsanta.org/
Merry Christmas everyone!
May your gatherings be plentiful and your family be full of peace today and tomorrow. And if you are spending it quietly alone or just keeping it simple for your immediate family, enjoy the simplicity.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
holiday prep
Today is all about rolling out the cookie dough and making homemade pasta for the Christmas Eve lasagna. Yum. I do love the traditions I grew up with, and the traditional foods, too, but I'm sure glad I married into a family that makes homemade lasagna for Christmas Eve and zeppoli for Christmas morning.
Don't worry, I'll still make eggs and grits for Christmas brunch, but who doesn't love lasagna and honey-soaked doughnuts?!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I love my son S
He is highly quotable. For instance yesterday he approached me for a hug and said:
(looks at me sweetly)
"You smell like daffodils....but only when I hug you...sniff sniff...but by your mouth you smell like snickerdoodles. (sniffs my knee) yep. daffodils."
Life is good.
Have you heard anything good lately from your kids?
(looks at me sweetly)
"You smell like daffodils....but only when I hug you...sniff sniff...but by your mouth you smell like snickerdoodles. (sniffs my knee) yep. daffodils."
Life is good.
Have you heard anything good lately from your kids?
Monday, December 21, 2009
quiet before the storm
There is quite a lot I could and should be doing right now, but this morning and much of this afternoon, already, it has become apparent that I seriously need more down time.
I'll start making cookies later.
My famous sugar cookies and gingerbread mini-men get doled out to neighbors and random people like teachers and bus drivers, and brought to my family up north every year. This year we're not heading north, and I do realize that if I make them in the next 36 hours, they'll be late for christmas if I send them, but I'm planning to do so anyway. Heck, I bought the tin.
S is pleading Santa's case for chocolate chip this year, insisting repeatedly that chocolate chip cookies are Santa's favorite. We've always given Santa the sugar and ginger cookies. Trust me, Santa loves those.
S has been informed in the past six months about the whole Santa business that shall go undivulged here in case my savvy toddler goes archival in the next five years or so. But he insists he still wants to believe even though he knows the deal.
He's eleven after all, and the magic of Christmas is in the believing, regardless. I believe, do you?
Do not be fooled into believing that I am a domestic goddess by this post, however. I mean, I am domestic, and I am a goddess, but by no means do I have a spotless house and an A-frame skirt covered by a contrapuntally colored apron. I just love to bake cookies.
Although, yesterday I handed the recipe book to K to make snickerdoodles for his Chorus class and Biology's 'spontaneous cultural gatherings' as holiday parties are forbidden at his high school. Don't you love how his teachers are teaching him to be subversive? I do. I also love that I passed off baking for his classes to him.
I'll start making cookies later.
My famous sugar cookies and gingerbread mini-men get doled out to neighbors and random people like teachers and bus drivers, and brought to my family up north every year. This year we're not heading north, and I do realize that if I make them in the next 36 hours, they'll be late for christmas if I send them, but I'm planning to do so anyway. Heck, I bought the tin.
S is pleading Santa's case for chocolate chip this year, insisting repeatedly that chocolate chip cookies are Santa's favorite. We've always given Santa the sugar and ginger cookies. Trust me, Santa loves those.
S has been informed in the past six months about the whole Santa business that shall go undivulged here in case my savvy toddler goes archival in the next five years or so. But he insists he still wants to believe even though he knows the deal.
He's eleven after all, and the magic of Christmas is in the believing, regardless. I believe, do you?
Do not be fooled into believing that I am a domestic goddess by this post, however. I mean, I am domestic, and I am a goddess, but by no means do I have a spotless house and an A-frame skirt covered by a contrapuntally colored apron. I just love to bake cookies.
Although, yesterday I handed the recipe book to K to make snickerdoodles for his Chorus class and Biology's 'spontaneous cultural gatherings' as holiday parties are forbidden at his high school. Don't you love how his teachers are teaching him to be subversive? I do. I also love that I passed off baking for his classes to him.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
hee-hee-hee
It's snowing.
I've never been so happy in my life.
Oh wait. I gave birth three times and married the love of my life, but this is
Snow.
I've never been so happy in my life.
Oh wait. I gave birth three times and married the love of my life, but this is
Snow.
Second time in three winters here. SNOW! Snow!
Snow!
I love snow.
Friday, December 18, 2009
TMI, Mom-style
It's only a little TMI, but here's an opportunity to commisserate upon one of those universal truths of motherhood.
Sometimes, you need to pee so badly, but you don't move to do so because you finally got the little spaz of a toddler who refuses to nap to nap on your lap because that was the only thing that would work, and you need to get something done that requires both hands but she's warm, she's cuddly, she's snuggled up with one hand firmly planted in her mouth and the other gripping your muffin top because that is what she has chosen to be her ultimate comfort item, and oh to hell with it. I need to pee.
Now that is the sort of motherly sacrifice rarely discussed in open forums.
Sometimes, you need to pee so badly, but you don't move to do so because you finally got the little spaz of a toddler who refuses to nap to nap on your lap because that was the only thing that would work, and you need to get something done that requires both hands but she's warm, she's cuddly, she's snuggled up with one hand firmly planted in her mouth and the other gripping your muffin top because that is what she has chosen to be her ultimate comfort item, and oh to hell with it. I need to pee.
Now that is the sort of motherly sacrifice rarely discussed in open forums.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Proud Mama
My teen, K is a freshman in high school. Today I had a meeting with him and his guidance counselor to plot out his likely course load for the next few years until his graduation in 2013.
He'd already been tracked into the honors advanced classes in middle school, but now he'll be starting AP courses in his sophomore year.
The Virginia state tests are known as the SOLs, which I find highly ironic since if you don't pass you're basically, SOL.
Anyway, the guidance counselor just threw out there for K to hear, "You were one question away from a perfect score on last spring's test. I don't see any reason why we can't keep you going on the fast track to college credits."
Then he pointed out options for just how fast that track can be. It gave plenty of wiggle room for K to decide to take just above normal high school load, the medium setting or the Einstein setting. By the look on K's face, come springtime, I think he's pretty confident about the Einstein setting.
Then the guidance counselor suggested K start considering extracurricular activities. "Now, I'm the last guy to suggest you sign up for five or six activities, but you really should be involved in at least one thing." We ended up discussing K going into theater tech because, while all that brainiac stuff is great, having practical skills is even better. And it's fun with plenty of hang out time with plenty of friends. "They just held auditions for Grease. You should talk with Mrs. M about doing backstage work." K seemed receptive to this suggestion, as he had signed up for the theater tech class but was bumped to chorus because of lack of interest this year.
Tonight is his Chorus concert and he has seemed like he is really looking forward to it. That's a big improvement over his past interest expressed in things. I am a proud mama, indeed.
Just a side note here: in my freshman year in high school, I was in a production of Grease, and I really enjoyed Chorus all the way through college. Now wouldn't that be something if he followed my trail of bread crumbs? NOt that I'm counting on it our anything....but it would be fun.
He'd already been tracked into the honors advanced classes in middle school, but now he'll be starting AP courses in his sophomore year.
The Virginia state tests are known as the SOLs, which I find highly ironic since if you don't pass you're basically, SOL.
Anyway, the guidance counselor just threw out there for K to hear, "You were one question away from a perfect score on last spring's test. I don't see any reason why we can't keep you going on the fast track to college credits."
Then he pointed out options for just how fast that track can be. It gave plenty of wiggle room for K to decide to take just above normal high school load, the medium setting or the Einstein setting. By the look on K's face, come springtime, I think he's pretty confident about the Einstein setting.
Then the guidance counselor suggested K start considering extracurricular activities. "Now, I'm the last guy to suggest you sign up for five or six activities, but you really should be involved in at least one thing." We ended up discussing K going into theater tech because, while all that brainiac stuff is great, having practical skills is even better. And it's fun with plenty of hang out time with plenty of friends. "They just held auditions for Grease. You should talk with Mrs. M about doing backstage work." K seemed receptive to this suggestion, as he had signed up for the theater tech class but was bumped to chorus because of lack of interest this year.
Tonight is his Chorus concert and he has seemed like he is really looking forward to it. That's a big improvement over his past interest expressed in things. I am a proud mama, indeed.
Just a side note here: in my freshman year in high school, I was in a production of Grease, and I really enjoyed Chorus all the way through college. Now wouldn't that be something if he followed my trail of bread crumbs? NOt that I'm counting on it our anything....but it would be fun.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Christmas is coming, the wallet's getting thin...
I bought a big box today. It's not subtle. I had to figure out a good hiding place as my closet is crammed and under my bed is too small.
I won't say what's in the box or where it's hidden because my kids are smart and may come looking here for hints.
HA-HA, boys! Gotcha!
I won't say what's in the box or where it's hidden because my kids are smart and may come looking here for hints.
HA-HA, boys! Gotcha!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Writing, oh yeah, that's what I do!
Since NaNoWriMo ended, and for me a wee bit prematurely, I really haven't written. Just like I really haven't written since my last writer's group meeting.
It was my turn to host today, and boy, did I cut fruit and clean house and make brownies. But write? Naaaaaah. It's the busiest time of year for everything to do with everything else but writing.
The good news is we had a lovely potluck and a lovely chat, and absolutely no critique. Because....guess what?
No one else had written since our last meeting, either.
Well, one finished NaNo, but didn't feel comfortable sharing the draft she had, and the rest just made me feel wonderfully communally human. None of us is perfect, and life happens, and writing tends to take a backseat for lack of concentration when so much else is happening.
So enjoy your holidays, whether Hannukah, Solstice, Christmas, Kwanzaa, or New Year.
If you write, we'll talk about that after January first.
It was my turn to host today, and boy, did I cut fruit and clean house and make brownies. But write? Naaaaaah. It's the busiest time of year for everything to do with everything else but writing.
The good news is we had a lovely potluck and a lovely chat, and absolutely no critique. Because....guess what?
No one else had written since our last meeting, either.
Well, one finished NaNo, but didn't feel comfortable sharing the draft she had, and the rest just made me feel wonderfully communally human. None of us is perfect, and life happens, and writing tends to take a backseat for lack of concentration when so much else is happening.
So enjoy your holidays, whether Hannukah, Solstice, Christmas, Kwanzaa, or New Year.
If you write, we'll talk about that after January first.
Monday, December 14, 2009
thoughts for the week
Toddlers and tree trimming, while cute, are a dangerous mix.*
Please be advised: Do not purchase a new star if you have an aspergian in your family. If you do, make certain he sees the new one lit and changing rainbow colors on the top of the tree before he gets his hands on the old star. This manuveur will save you a lot of loud grief.
The cynical teen may appear from his hovel bearing the greeting, (deeply inhaled squeal intro) "How dare you start decorating without me!"
*No toddlers were harmed in the making of this post. A christmas ball, however, is doomed.
Uberflea update: they are still in residence, though food grade diatomaceous earth has been purchased. Tree trimming took precedence.
Please be advised: Do not purchase a new star if you have an aspergian in your family. If you do, make certain he sees the new one lit and changing rainbow colors on the top of the tree before he gets his hands on the old star. This manuveur will save you a lot of loud grief.
The cynical teen may appear from his hovel bearing the greeting, (deeply inhaled squeal intro) "How dare you start decorating without me!"
*No toddlers were harmed in the making of this post. A christmas ball, however, is doomed.
Uberflea update: they are still in residence, though food grade diatomaceous earth has been purchased. Tree trimming took precedence.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday Funny
This grows on me, very funny:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/awesomer/lady-ga-capella
Seriously, watch through to the end. Then watch it again.
http://www.buzzfeed.com/awesomer/lady-ga-capella
Seriously, watch through to the end. Then watch it again.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sneaky fleabag.
photocredit: S, cropped by mom.
We are still having trouble with the uberfleas.
S and K thought we should take a picture of Babette curled up napping with Baby C. I had been chasing that dang fleabag away from C the whole nap and had recently given up so that I might do something productive with the few minutes of non-toddler time I had left. I pray the fleas aren't hopping for baby flesh.
Caught in the act. Just look at her, smug little fleabag.
She used to sleep with the boys the same way when they were little, but she didn't have fleas back then. When we lived in condos, she was an indoor only kitty. And we didn't live in the land of uberfleas.
Poor cat and Lucy dog. The little fleabags just this week been doused, sprayed, powder rubbed, and herbal bathed on three different occasions. I know we had a freeze two nights ago, so the dang fleas should be gone outside. But these poor furry girls are still suffering. Anymore suggestions before we bring in the big poison guns?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
Oh the weather outside is frightful....but not snowy. We're completedly surrounded on all sides but one by water, and sit at sea level on the Mid-Atlantic Coast. While it seems that the entire country is getting buried in piles of white, beautifying the dead landscapes in a quiet fluffy blanket, we are getting more rain and wind to flood the flood warning areas. Again, I am thankful that the major selling point of our house was that it sits in the middle of the high and dry zone of the tidal flood maps. But being former Miss New England, this no snow business is depressing. I have serious longing for snow, like I lost the love of my life.
3.1.2009, the one snow we've had in three winters here.
I love snow. I miss the bones of the earth and trees covered in a glistening, twinkling white. I love seeing the squirrels zip around and fluff their tails on the branches of empty trees, just laid over in winter white - a lady dressed for a holiday ball wearing a wrap over a sparkly dress. The comforting quiet of a dawn rising, muffled after an overnight snowfall. The way the whole word glows in shades of blue on a crisp night. My favorite playing with my kids is in the snow: the angels, the snowball warfare, the building of forts and castles and snow men and women. I even enjoyed the shoveling the car out or the walk depending upon my urban or suburban living arrangements. I grew up with the neighborhood sled hill as my backyard and we regularly went with a big group of families up to Vermont to ski. Snow just makes me giddy and lights me up.
When I lived my whole life in New England, every year on my birthday, it snowed. Sometimes it was a lot, a solid dumping, other times barely a flake. But each year, I felt it was my special present from the Great Spirit that yes, I should celebrate the day I arrived, that my life goes on. I guess people who are born in other seasons and other climates must find their special gift in a sunny sunny day of summer, a raining bloom filled promise of spring, or a bright leaf of Fall. I've begun to watch for snow reports in New England on my birthday, just to be sure that yes, it is snowing once again, just for me. Even if it can't where I live now, the beautiful hills and trees of Connecticut and Massachusetts still get a pretty dusting, and old Commonwealth Ave is blanketed in quiet over it's majestic trees and Victorian architecture in the city I love.
I know that all the lush and stark beauty of snow is temporal, and becomes muck and mud and sleet and freezing rain almost as soon as it comes, but that's exactly the reason I love it so much. It's beautiful and surprising, yes. It's also fleeting. Just like the blooms of spring, the bright hues of fall, the lazy heat of summer and the light in the sky shifting at sunrise and sunset and all day and night long.
I've never seen the same sky twice. Nor the same snow. I just wish I saw more of it here.
In the time since I started this post, I paused to give Baby C a bath, and by the time I returned to my desk to continue, that old song line I opened with is no longer applicable. The sun has broken through, the sky is blue, and now I may be able to at least go put the gardening tools away that I left out days ago, anticipating an attempt to finish putting to bed my plots which I should have finished last month.
It is 58 degrees Farenheit outside, and I should appreciate that here it is near mid-December, and I can go outside without gloves, hat, scarf and boots. I was never very fond of the cold.
But Christmas just isn't in the air for me without a nip in air to nibble my nose and a layer of white coating the ground and everything else.
My apologies to the Southern Hemisphere. You'll get yours in six months.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
In need of some poetry, I found
Mary Oliver
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches?
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives --
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like?
Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over the dark acorn of your heart!
No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!
Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?
Well, there is time left --
fields everywhere invite you into them.
And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?
Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!
To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!
To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the night
To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.
Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not,
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe
I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!
A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.
Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?
And I would touch the faces of the daisies,
and I would bow down
to think about it.
That was then, which hasn't ended yet.
Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.
I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches?
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives --
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like?
Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over the dark acorn of your heart!
No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!
Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?
Well, there is time left --
fields everywhere invite you into them.
And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?
Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!
To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!
To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the night
To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.
Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not,
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe
I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!
A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.
Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?
And I would touch the faces of the daisies,
and I would bow down
to think about it.
That was then, which hasn't ended yet.
Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.
I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.
Monday, December 7, 2009
tis the season
At the end of a far too busy overscheduled weekend, we attempted to take our Christmas card portrait. Honey set up his studio equipment in the livingroom. Baby C hated her dress and screamed and cried and pulled at it. K was fittingly teen angsty, barely tolerant at the prospect, and S was in rare form. Aspies can be very exaggerated and funny or crazy looking or deadpan in photos that aren't candid.
Here, C was still screaming, occupied with a cookie and wandering, K & S were starting to snipe because enough with the screaming baby already. I had the brilliant idea to tell them to pretend to strangle each other. Honey wouldn't let me use this for the card, though. Shucks. Both boys are really smiling in this one.
Near the end of the shoot, we did finally get a good shot of all of us, except my mother-in-law, who politedly declined to partake in the mayhem. We just need to fiddle with the light and cropping in Photoshop, then have the cards made.
Friday, December 4, 2009
kisses
Baby C has recently discovered the joys of kissing.
She wanders over to me at the computer, raises my shirt tail and kisses my hip repeatedly, giggling. Then wanders away chuckling to herself.
She stood in the corner of the room the other day and blew kisses to the maddening crowds. That would be Grandma and me. Tossed them through the air like an old Hollywood starlet.
She gets sudden urges to run up and plant one right on my mouth, Honey's or Grandma's. She tries to with the boys, too, but they run screaming. Well one does, the other says, "Nah." She just takes it from him as if she did sneak one in.
But don't try to kiss her. She just turns her head and runs, laughing and saying "No, no, no!"
Could any phase of development be better than this one?
She wanders over to me at the computer, raises my shirt tail and kisses my hip repeatedly, giggling. Then wanders away chuckling to herself.
She stood in the corner of the room the other day and blew kisses to the maddening crowds. That would be Grandma and me. Tossed them through the air like an old Hollywood starlet.
She gets sudden urges to run up and plant one right on my mouth, Honey's or Grandma's. She tries to with the boys, too, but they run screaming. Well one does, the other says, "Nah." She just takes it from him as if she did sneak one in.
But don't try to kiss her. She just turns her head and runs, laughing and saying "No, no, no!"
Could any phase of development be better than this one?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
1st haircut
*Sigh*
I brought K in for a haircut today and asked if someone was available to cut Baby C's.
She sat great for it, eventhough I've been running her around all morning on errands and even woke her mid-nap to take K in for his haircut. In general, she loves having her hair combed and put up in bands or barrettes. Of course she loves pulling them out, too. She has a headful of curls no one can seem to keep from touching.
Dumby mom forgot to save one. I still have both her brothers' first curls. But she loved having it cut. She sat very still, loved being fussed over and with. When she was done, but the other stylist was still working on K, she explored the salon only as a true girly girl can. Who knew? She loved the accessories shelves of jewelry, the little Santa with the bell hanging from his hat who was just about her height, and apparently the spa department. I couldn't keep her out of there. I'm in trouble when she's a teen aren't I?
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
S, the horse expert
Today was the last day of S's class going to horse therapy at Dream Catchers. His school received a grant to send them. The parents were invited to attend and see what they accomplished. I am very proud of him, he did great.
There is very little that comes easily or naturally to S in this world, but when something does, he can do it or know it better than anyone. I was told today what a delight he was to have there in the program, how much he took to the horses and how to treat them from grooming to handling the reins. But the magnificent thing, and what has me in tears just thinking of it now, is they told me he has what is referred to as a natural seat: the instinct of how to ride and move with the horse the proper way. They didn't have to teach him that at all. Usually he rode a horse named Mr. Darcy, but today it was Winston.
My uncle has a ranch full of horses, my grandfather loved horses until the day he died, when I was very young. I've always loved horses but haven't had the interaction with them I've always wished for. Sure I've ridden a handful of times, but I could probably count them on one hand. I've always felt my love for horses and animals in general ran through my veins. Apparently it does through S's, too. If my grandfather is watching, he is at least as proud of S as I am.
There is very little that comes easily or naturally to S in this world, but when something does, he can do it or know it better than anyone. I was told today what a delight he was to have there in the program, how much he took to the horses and how to treat them from grooming to handling the reins. But the magnificent thing, and what has me in tears just thinking of it now, is they told me he has what is referred to as a natural seat: the instinct of how to ride and move with the horse the proper way. They didn't have to teach him that at all. Usually he rode a horse named Mr. Darcy, but today it was Winston.
My uncle has a ranch full of horses, my grandfather loved horses until the day he died, when I was very young. I've always loved horses but haven't had the interaction with them I've always wished for. Sure I've ridden a handful of times, but I could probably count them on one hand. I've always felt my love for horses and animals in general ran through my veins. Apparently it does through S's, too. If my grandfather is watching, he is at least as proud of S as I am.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Too Quiet, or What's that little noise?
Baby C is really a delight most of the time. But I have to remember, she's a toddler, and toddlers are generally up to no good even when it seems they are having a particularly trouble-free moment. That's when we mothers need to pay particular attention.
Take for instance, this morning, I was quietly reading over something I'm working on. She wandered over from watching Sesame Street and very sweetly climbed up into my lap and very nicely entertained herself while I continued to read. Then I heard some small sound in the background, not really concerned, I continued to read. Then I went to type something and discovered this:
I was so sure she had finished the crackers I gave her an hour before, but I was wrong. Last night was not a good one for sleep with her, so that's my excuse for not being aware of what was happening literally right under my nose.
Take for instance, this morning, I was quietly reading over something I'm working on. She wandered over from watching Sesame Street and very sweetly climbed up into my lap and very nicely entertained herself while I continued to read. Then I heard some small sound in the background, not really concerned, I continued to read. Then I went to type something and discovered this:
I was so sure she had finished the crackers I gave her an hour before, but I was wrong. Last night was not a good one for sleep with her, so that's my excuse for not being aware of what was happening literally right under my nose.
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