Get Ready to Ramble

I feel a rambling, unfocused post coming along…

I received an honest to goodness piece of mail on Friday, a card from a good friend.  Tears, people.  I shed tears.  She wrote such lovely things about our friendship, such good reminders to me of what really matters, and what really doesn't, and she wrote in an actual card, not in a Facebook post.  Such novelty!

So the front made me laugh and the inside made me cry and all at once, she made me want to be better.  A better mom, a better friend, a better calm (let's make that a noun, shall we?), a better presence, a better Lover of Life.

But then I woke up on Saturday morning and I. Was. Daunted.  I was the very picture and definition of Daunt.  I desperately wanted a lovely day, a love-filled day.  I wanted to be grateful and peaceful.  Oh, and I wanted to shop at Costco, do all the laundry, clean the bathroom, fix Little T's scooter, buy myself some new clothes, read my New Yorker, and take a looooooong nap.

None of that got done.  Exactly NONE.

One small thing did happen: I took my kid and my dog for a hike, and tried not to let Little T's rastafarian hair (fine on an actual rastafarian) chastise me.  We had a delightful time.

We ate apples.

She contemplated life with her dog.

I stared at her a lot.

And I got a little taste of that woman I want to be.

Later in the day, I drove all over creation, to futsal games, and play rehearsal, and birthday gift shopping, and birthday party drop offs, and Awards Night dinner…and there were clashes at home over bedrooms not cleaned and plans not communicated and feelings being hurt.  There were defensiveness and pride and laziness.  There were large hair tangles and larger laundry piles and no moments to read my New Yorker.

In other words: family.

* * *

Her rastafarian hair does, in fact, chastise me, and makes me cringe when she takes that head of hers out in public.  But apparently, it does not chastise me so much that I actually do much about it, at least not as often as I should.  This is an interesting lesson in chastisement.  Because I think I chastise my children rather a lot, about those bedrooms not being cleaned, for example, and I freak the f*** out when the behaviors in question do not change.

What makes behavior change?  What makes a mother better?  What makes a kid do what his mother says?

I'm not sure about the kid.  But for me, words written on a card and sent through the US Postal Service seem to work quite well.

I found a little slice of peace and gratitude this weekend, under the many layers of life that usually clamor for my attention.  I hope this is the beginning of a habit of being peaceful and grateful.  I hope I get many more reminders and that I pay attention to them.  I hope to lose myself in reminders of what really matters.

* * *

Thank you, Philip Levine

On Valentine's Day, Philip Levine, our 2011 Poet Laureate, died.  To mark his life and the small but significant impact he had on me, I am re-posting a reflection I originally posted back in 2011, shortly after his appointment as our nation's "First Poet."  I still think about this post, and its impetus, frequently.

* * *

from The Poetry Foundation's website
biography of Philip Levine

Written August 11, 2011. Yesterday, the Library of Congress announced the appointment of Philip Levine as the new Poet Laureate of the United States. The job of the Poet Laureate is "to raise the national consciousness to a greater appreciation of the reading and writing of poetry." (Taken from the website of the Library of Congress.)

Prior to that announcement, I knew little to nothing about Philip Levine, although his name was familiar. But the news came to me yesterday while I was lamenting the quality of my children's exposure to arts and culture, at least any arts and culture that doesn't make my ears bleed. So when, in the car on the way to camp this morning, our local public radio station KQED aired an interview with Levine, I turned it up. I wanted my kids to hear this guy talking about poetry. I'm sure my intended audience was more attentive to his/her electronic devices, but I turned it up anyway. I paused to explain to my captive audience what a Poet Laureate is, and was greeted by blank stares.

But I, for one, thoroughly enjoyed the interview. I liked what he had to say about teaching at Fresno State, where he has been for 30 years: 

"I've got these students, who are capable of learning, gave themselves the freedom to learn because they gave themselves the freedom to fail."

He goes on to say that at other, more prestigious schools where he has taught, like Yale and Vanderbilt, "students had a lot of trouble being told that their poems were no damn good." It seems that education, for these high achieving students, is more about being brilliant already than about expanding one's mind and possibilities. (You can access the whole interview here.)

What an important concept to keep in mind. Amidst all our striving towards excellence and achievement, it's easy to lose sight of real learning. We can forget the importance of failure in shaping our minds, our hearts, who we are, and how much we grow, in intellectual and in more personal or creative endeavors.

While we may want our children to work hard enough to go to a good college or university, what we want for them even more is the freedom to fail, the freedom to find more and better paths for their creativity and innovation to flourish. Maybe in art or poetry, maybe in engineering, maybe on a soccer field or in a medical lab, maybe in their personal pursuits or in common cause for others. 

Maybe in family life and raising children, too. Maybe parents need the freedom to fail, in order to grow and get better at crafting children, the way a poet crafts his poems. Perhaps it's not about being perfect already, but about keeping ourselves open to the possibilities before us, to directions we aren't expecting to go.

Leave it to a poet to remind us how our hearts and minds expand.

* * *

Read more about Philip Levine in his biography on The Poetry Foundation's website.

Don't Miss This Opportunity

Yesterday, I found out why I've been experiencing muscle pain and muscle fatigue for the past several months: turns out I have a pretty severe Vitamin D deficiency.  How delightful that my inability to move is not a character flaw!  How delightful is health insurance!  How delightful that, with Vitamin D supplements on board, my children might remember me for something besides collapsing on my pillows!  I am so looking forward to feeling better.

This discovery is a good reminder that we should listen to our bodies.  I've been ignoring my collection of symptoms for a long, long time, assuming that it was just a matter of not getting enough rest, or just because I'm getting older, or just not important enough to pay attention to.  I would never have ignored the ongoing, chronic aches and pains of one of my children; why was I willing to ignore my own?

Think about your own body: are you ignoring anything that you maybe should give a little credence to?  Anything worth asking a doctor about?  Anything worth feeling better for?  Don't miss this opportunity.

* * *

Yesterday, I read a New Yorker essay by Roger Angell* that moved me to tears.  (Updated: The link will take you to full article; The New Yorker posted it in its entirety today.)  So much of my day is occupied by keeping up with my computer and responding to my smart phone that I think some of those tears were due to spending a few minutes with the slick, weighted pages of a good magazine, but most of them were because Angell's writing is exquisite.  His ability to weave back and forth between the personal and the universal is captivating.  I miss reading and I miss writers, and I can't wait to read more and more and more.  Why and how did I ever lose that habit?

Think about your nightstand: does it hold books and magazines you have been meaning to read? Are you making time for Downton and Duck Dynasty but putting off Didion, Diaz or Dos Passos?  Is there anything there worth spending time with?  Don't miss this opportunity.

* * *

Yesterday, while I was ranting on Facebook about mistakenly buying cilantro instead of parsley and being severely disappointed that I couldn't make the dinner I was planning, a family in San Diego was mourning the loss of a 20 year old son, killed while skateboarding by a young drunk driver who fled the scene.  I heard about it, mere moments after my silly FB post, from a friend of mine who knows the family.

There aren't really words for losing a child.  It's too painful to imagine or express.  So many things are unimportant, so many daily annoyances and inconveniences distract us from what really matters.  I read the article about the family: there was a photo of 7 or 8 of them, gathered on the beach facing a makeshift memorial of balloons and flowers.  They stood in a group, shoulder to shoulder, leaning and holding on to each other, keeping each other upright in their grief.  One of them was missing.  One of the people who belonged there was not there, could not help with the holding.

Think about your family and friends: who belongs there?  Are any of them missing?  Can you go grab one and hold him up for awhile?  Can one of them do the same for you?  Do you need to leave aside minor annoyances and tell someone you love them?  Don't miss this opportunity.

* * *  



*Thank you Kelly Corrigan, for the Twitter recommendation for Angell's essay.

Ya' Hear That? Yup. It's Angels.

I did it!  I did it!  I got up before my family and did my morning routine!

Wait -- does one morning make a routine?

Doesn't matter.  I don't care.  I did it.

And it was, and is, glorious.  I'm sitting here sipping my 2nd cup of joe, having been awake for 2.5 hours and I haven't had to interact with a single solitary soul.  Which is a very good thing for my single, solitary soul.

So here's what I did.

I woke up around 4:50 and struggled to keep my eyes open for 15 or 20 minutes.  Then I stalled a little by playing scrabble on my iPhone.  Finally, I got up and started workin' my list.  I folded laundry, put it all away, rode the exercise bike for 20 minutes while listening to NPR (total NPR geek here), ate breakfast (Fruit Loops*. Can you believe that?  And a banana.  And water and coffee.), quick cleaned my bathroom, took a shower during which no one knocked on the door, prayed pretty much the entire time (please God, let this getting up early thing not be a huge freakin' waste of time), and now, I am happily blogging away in a still quiet house.

I think I hear angels singing somewhere.  That's how awesome this is.

Mentally, the whole process was a little easier since we only had four people sleeping under our roof last night.  Our three olders got to go to Sonoma yesterday (although not to Seth Rogan's wedding) to see this show with Grandma, and then to have dinner here, and then to spend the night.  Grandma is bringing them all back home around 1pm.

More angels singing.

I like angels!  Why didn't I do this ages ago?

* * *

*My kids get to pick a sugary cereal on their birthdays, and my son's birthday was Saturday.  They are always so excited about this little perk, but then since they aren't used to it, the cereals are always too sweet for them.  How else would one box of fruit loops last three days in a house of 7 people?  Back to Kashi for us.

Ridiculous, But I'm Going For It Anyway

My whole nutty life could be summed up in one phrase: Attempting the impossible.

I'm certainly not the only one for whom this is true.  But I put it out there because really, I spend precious minutes being utterly flabbergasted by the truth: I can't do all of the things I am being asked to do, and I can't figure out what to delete from the list.

Take, for example, my morning routine.  My morning wish routine, as in, I wish it was my routine.

A few months ago, I decided that I needed to give myself a morning routine that would prepare me well for the day.  You know, as opposed to dragging myself out of bed at the same time as the kids and needing to hit the ground running over gritty floors in bare feet and then not stopping the running until hitting my pillow many, many hours later.

So a few months ago, I came up with my dream morning.  It goes like this:

• Get up around 5am.
• Ride the exercise bicycle OR walk the dog: 25-30 minutes
• Pray: 15 minutes
• Shower: 20 minutes
• Fold and put away 1 load of laundry: 10 minutes
• Quick clean the bathroom: 5 minutes
• Eat breakfast: 20 minutes
• Write: 30 minutes

That adds up to around 2-2.5 hours of stuff to do before starting the job of momming people and teaching people.

Crazy, right?  Who does that, beside fictional characters and people with OCD?

Well, not me.  For the past few months, it's been my plan to make this routine part of my daily life.  And I haven't done it once.  Not once.  I do bits and pieces of it, jamming this or that into spare corners that pop up in my day.  I realized the other day that I actually told someone that I clean my bathroom every day.  I didn't mean to lie, I just forgot that no, I don't actually clean my bathroom every day, I plan to clean my bathroom every day.  (We've just got the one bathroom, for all 7 of us, and making cleaning it a daily thing -- which at one point I was doing successfully -- saves me from that livin' in a frat house feelin'.)

So I haven't actually ever done that routine.  But I keep writing it down on my daily to-do list, keep saying it's a good idea, keep hoping that magically, someday, I will begin.

I know it's a crazy list and I know that reasonable people will tell me to throw that plan out the window and come up with a simpler one.  But the thing is, those things all need to get done.  And the earlier in the day, the better.  And without ball, ball, chain, ball and chain around to weigh me down.  It's not easy, it's not pleasant, it's a little like climbing Everest without an oxygen tank, but it all needs to get done. I just have to face it: raising 5 kids isn't for wimps, and neither is that list.

So here it is, blog peeps.  It's new month, and I'm giving it a try.  Again.  I need to realign my relationship with my life and start doing things I know (or think) will be good for me.

What's the worst thing that could happen?   I could try it out for a week or two and decide that it really was a ridiculous plan that doesn't make a difference and doesn't make me feel better about anything at all...and then I can stop.  But untested, that Morning Routine is simply mocking me, taunting me, blowing raspberries at my head.

So let's give it a whirl, shall we?  And with that, I must go to bed, because as you can see from the above list, I must get up very early.

* * *

Full Heart

I have lived a lifetime since my last post.

Halloween in all its glory.

The San Francisco Giants won the World Series, which, in this house, was attended by mayhem, chaos, joy, and madness: the full range of crazy, beautiful baseball emotion. And baseball is nothing if not emotional.

The loss of a pet. A small, jumpy fire-bellied toad named Bella, who escaped her terrarium and upended my entire afternoon. The last hour of my day, between 11 and midnight, was spent soothing the young man who fed and cared for dear Bella. He was distraught over her loss, and his young heart was breaking with grief right there on my couch.

And then.

Today. A greater loss. Today, the world lost a wonderful woman to cancer. She taught my four older kids in their Kindergarten year, retired this past June, and discovered two and half short weeks ago that she had cancer. Her family was probably still getting used to the diagnosis, just starting to figure out how she (and they) would fight the disease. Instead, she passed away in her sleep last night or in the wee hours of this morning. Gone before we could all get used to the idea that she was sick.

She was dear to me. She always made me laugh and smile, and she, having raised 10 children, always had the right perspective on my modern version of a large family. She hugged me and told me she loved me every single time she saw me. She also swore like a truck-driver, not a common characteristic in a woman over 70.

She did more than make me laugh and smile. She made me relax; she was proof to me that love is strong and powerful and greater than any suffering. She told me I was doing a good job as a mother, and she is perhaps the one person on earth who could make me believe it.

I am fairly overcome with sadness at the prospect of a world without her in it. It is not right. It is not fair. It does not make sense.

Last night, while I was soothing my son over the loss of his beloved pet, I tried to answer his repeated question: "Why did this have to happen to me?" Feeling the weakness of the only answer I could provide, I told him:

Sometimes, things happen that are so very hard, and so painful, and they don't make sense. There is no good answer to why this happened. It didn't happen because of anything you did, or didn't do, or could have done differently. It was just an accident, a plain old bad luck thing that no one wanted and everyone is upset about. And it really, really hurts right now, but someday, you will think about Bella and you won't think of how you lost her. Instead, you will think about what good care you took of her, the joy she gave you, how wonderful you felt when you got her for your birthday, how proud you were to show her to friends, and how special she made you feel. Right now, just let yourself be sad and mad and upset, and don't talk yourself out of any of that. It will get easier, I promise.

Little did I know I would need those words myself today. Like my son last night, I feel this crazy incoherent, unacceptable scream inside, a righteous objection to events that take away the ones we love. It's a terrible place to be.

Bad things do happen, and they hurt like hell. I love you, Pat, and will miss you. You better keep watching out for me from Heaven, because even though you are gone, I still need you every bit as much as ever.

* * *

Life is a Mystery

This weekend, I stayed cheerful and energized despite the fact that I was subjected to these and like-minded comments for two days straight:

We have the most boring tasteless breakfasts. Everyone else eats better food. Why can’t we have better breakfasts? I eat toast every single morning.

Are you serious? Why do I have to clip my nails? You make us do the stupidest things.

This is going to be the worst day of my life.

Has dad ever cleaned up around here?

I hate this. I’m going to be basically cleaning the house all day. This is so stupid.

We never get to do anything fun. We need a better house.

I have to do everything around here. You never tell anyone else to do anything.

* * *

Three different kids said that last one to me within an hour of each other, which provides you with all the evidence you need to take absolutely everything my children say with one large dose of salty salt.

How is it possible that I love them more than life itself, these people who harangue me at every turn, who pile disgust on top of ingratitude on top of narcissism? How is it possible that I am still feeding them, doing their laundry, and finding their soccer socks on game day?

This is truly one of the great mysteries of life.

* * *

7 Quick Takes: Volume 14, The Crazy Saturday Edition

Welcome to Friday everyone! We made it, more or less, itchy, irritated skin and all. Please visit the birthplace of 7 Quick Takes.

My quick takes for today come from my calendar. As it happens, tomorrow's docket contains 7 bright, shiny items. I've just spent the last 20 minutes staring at those seven items, pondering how it's all going to happen. 7 arrival times. 7 little deadlines. 7 chances to get it right. 7 chances to crash and burn.

The real question is not will everyone get where they need to be. The real question is: Will Rick and I still be speaking to each other by the time everyone rests their heads on their pillows? Leave your best guess in the comments.

~ 1 ~

8:30: Son #2's soccer game; arrive at 7:45. This week is our family's snack duty. Oh, joy.

~ 2 ~

9:00: Daughter #2's soccer game. Cutest thing on a pitch. Plus, she's got a cracker of a kick.

~ 3 ~

10:55: Son #2's soccer picture day appointment. I still need to find and complete the order form. Or not. Don't get me started on picture day. It will unleash my natural cynicism.

~ 4 ~

Noon: Daughter #2's soccer picture day appointment. OK, I can't hold back anymore. Picture day is a racket. Buddy pictures, buttons, calendars, every conceivable items the kids can beg me to purchase...yet another opportunity for them to let me know how mean and horrible I am when I say no we are not going to buy a mouse pad with their cute little faces on it...and yet another envelope of photos to be stuffed in the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet.

~ 5 ~

2:30: Son #1's soccer game. Arrive at 1:30.

~ 6 ~

3:00: Get Son #2 to a birthday party. Pick up at 6pm. (Still need to get a gift.)

~ 7 ~

5:oo: Son #1 is the Altar Server for the 5pm Mass. Drag the exhausted family along and hope they don't disturb the folks who attend the 5pm Mass so they can avoid all those little kids who usually go to the 9am Sunday Mass.

* * *

Seven chances for greatness: bring it on.

* * *

Snippets

I don't even know why I'm sharing these little gems. All of them are embarrassing or somehow unseemly. Please, please, tell me these are normal. Please. Lie to me, if you must.

OK, so first, my 3 year old is quite a little singer. She is forever making up little songs and boring the rest of us with them. My personal favorite goes something like this: "I love my mommy. She's so pretty. I love my mommy. She's so pretty." Repeat. Seriously, this one has an emotional depth to it that just knocks you off your feet. Or maybe that's my feet. Another popular one features Bob Dylan, her stuffed monkey: "Bob likes pickles, and climbing in trees." At least, I think it's about the monkey; I don't know how in the world she would know if the real Dylan actually likes either of those things. Anyway, the point is, she sings.

And she's the youngest of 5. So she hears a whole lot of stuff that's far more appropriate for kids who are older than she is.

So today, I was doing important things like seeing which of my Facebook friends had posted the most annoying status and watching my blog hits, when I overheard her singing to herself in the bathroom. She likes the bathroom. Loves brushing her teeth. Likes to make goofy faces at herself in the mirror. So she's in there singing in a soft, sweet little voice: "My brother really sucks...my brother really sucks...my brother really sucks."

Just gets you right here, doesn't it?

* * *

My nine year old attempted to spit on my from his perch high in our Magnolia tree tonight. He thought this was funny. I narrowly escaped the glop with a nimble, hearkening-back-t0-my-in-shape-20's hop. When we were both on the ground a few minutes later, his only defense? "But I didn't get you!"

* * *

My eleven year old was at a friend's house the other day. He told me that he and "Johnny" were watching the Kim Kardashian reality show (WTF?) and they paused it just so they could look at her for longer. Can someone please come install a filter in this kid? I mean, I'm glad he feels comfortable telling me stuff, but can we talk about discretion, maybe? Being his mom has shattered any sentimental notion I may have had about wanting my children to discuss everything with me. I'm fine if they hold back a few things.

I think after my tirade about celebrities who are only famous for being socialites or wealthy and how the way a person looks mean absolutely zilch about who they are on the inside, he was probably wishing he'd held that one back as well.

Yup, I pour it on thick and serve it with a side of The World Is Going To Hell in a Handbasket. I have come to realize that I am fine with being that mom, the one whose kids roll their eyes when she gives the What's Really Important in Life speech. And they have given me copious chances lately.

* * *

One of my kids asked me the other day if sex is the one and only way to have children. As in: "You mean, if I want to be a parent, I have to do that?"

* * *

I spend half of my time trying to figure out how to respond to their various mind-benders and the other half of my time sweeping the freakin' floor. It's a glamorous life I lead.

* * *

Is That So Wrong?

We've kept up our reading of Where the Red Fern Grows; we're about half way through. I'm just thrilled with how into it the kids are. We watch a lot of movies around here, so I was especially psyched when, on the way home tonight, one of the kids asked if we could watch a movie, and when I suggested we read instead, they were all way excited and abandoned any thought of a movie. I was happy, since this meant that I would not responsible for the death of a single brain cell under my roof for this night.

One problem. Little T.


She's too young for this reading-a-real-book-out-loud business. She gets too squirrely, needs too much attention. Earlier in the day, when I was thinking about reading later, I remembered how great reading had been the other night when she landed herself in bed early after being a Royal Pain in the Arse. She got her 1st and 2nd warnings, and then got herself a one way ticket to an early bedtime. She crashed and slept hard. The rest of us got to read in peace. So...I was wondering to myself...would it be really bad to sort of taunt her into misbehavior? You know, sort of poke the bear until the bear predictably lashes out? Could I get her to disobey me, or bug her brothers too much, or jump on the furniture as she knows she mustn't, or draw on a wall or something? If I could somehow find a way to get her in big enough trouble to send her to bed early, that would really make reading easier.

I had my little chuckle about this idea. A mom can dream, can't she?

Well, I should have known that Little T needs little to no encouragement for misbehavior. I hadn't made it past the first page of Chapter X before she disobeyed her dad three times in a row, and voila! She went to bed early.

Sometimes, I just love how awful and how predictable she is! Win-Win for everyone! It worked out beautifully.

We read the chapter tonight about the Pritchard boys. I won't spoil it for anyone. Suffice to say, this one packs a punch. I made it through with nary a tear, but I did get choked up at one point.

* * *

And in other news: it seems we are forever in need of learning the value of Simple Things. This past week, we finally managed to take care of two very small home projects that have made a world of difference in our quality of life.

First, I finally hung a window shade in my kitchen. The window is at my sink, so I spend a fair amount of time there. In the morning, the sun streams directly in the window and beats down on the opposite counter, where we keep our wine and spirits, for lack of a better place. In the evening, the setting sun reflects off of the large white wall of my neighbor's house and blinds anyone standing at my sink (that would be me about 99.99% of the time) and slams more heat and light on our liquor. Heat on wine and spirits is very dis-spiriting indeed, and Rick has been after us for weeks (OK, months or years) to hang a shade or a curtain or something already. I went to Home Depot. I forked over $15 bucks for a cheap shade and the stupid little hardware set. I came home and hung the damn thing. The entire process took less than an hour. The kitchen is now comfortably bright instead of blindingly so. We have a touch more privacy. And the liquor: friends, the liquor is safe. That is a quality of life issue.

Second, Rick cleaned out our shower head. Oh my. What a difference. We've noticed for months that the once robust spray had become mostly one thick deluge of water, lacking force and oomph. Again, we've been meaning to take care of it for the longest time. I saw Rick fiddling with it the other day, and got positively giddy about my next shower. Sure enough, that first "new" shower made me feel like I just had a spa day. After Rick took his shower, we were marveling at the awesome-ness of the spray and he said he felt like he'd just had a vacation. Definitely a quality of life issue. I love that shower head, and I love the man who cleaned it out.

So why do we take so long to do these simple things that make such a difference? I've been on the lookout all week for more of these little jobs that improve life so much. I wonder what will be next. Organizing and hiding the cords behind the TV? Cleaning out the school backpacks that are still on the vent by the front door? Making it possible to close the linen closet without having to slam the door and lean into it fast so nothing falls out?

We are unstoppable. Who knows what we will conquer next.

Every now and then, domesticity makes me feel powerful.

* * *

Dizzy

Yesterday, my day consisted of getting new tires, searching for live crickets, buying live silkworms instead, trying to talk to the rackin-frackin insurance company, dealing with a daughter who keeps pooping in her underwear, working on art projects for Father's Day, watching part or all of three world cup games (we're sad Cameroon lost), going on a handful of errands (including one that earned me a beer with a favorite family), completing and mailing next school year's enrollment forms, and feeding people.

No wonder I am dizzy.

This past Sunday, we drove five hours, 2.5 hours into the foothills for a birthday party and 2.5 hours back. Once again, my love for farmland and foothills was re-affirmed and strengthened. It's absolutely beautiful out there in the middle of nowhere.

The linguist Geoff Nunberg, a professor at Cal, did a radio essay yesterday on the NPR program Fresh Air about how haiku has been all over twitter. You can listen to it here:



I do not twitter, but I like playing around with haiku. So here are two, inspired by my last couple of days.

Haiku for a Busy Day

Much to take care of:
Bank, friends, forms, art, food, futbol.
Done. Good and dizzy.

Haiku for a Road Trip to the Countryside, Where I Wish I Lived

Miles take me there.
Landscape lulls me to silence.
But I don't sleep there.

* * *

Join the Haiku party: post yours in a comment!

* * *

The Idiot's Guide to Knowing When You Are Really, Really Tired

You might think that being tired is fairly obvious. You might think that only an idiot would not be aware that she needs more sleep. Such is the nature of sleep deprivation, that those who suffer from it for long enough forget how important sleep is or how much they need it. But then, something usually happens to break that cycle and bring home the point that we mere mortals do need to sleep.

Here's how it happened for me:

My son goes to soccer practice in Alameda, a good half hour away from our home. Getting him there means hanging out in Alameda for two hours, rather than heading home only to turn around and go back when it's time to pick him up.

Which is how I found myself last Friday afternoon in Alameda, toting my 5 and 3 year old daughters with me, after dropping Sam at practice. I was looking for a Chase Bank, so I spent the first 30 minutes or so driving around, passing several watering holes and watching with envy all the after-5-on-a-Friday revelers, talking, laughing, drinking and relaxing on one of the first nice evenings of the Spring. In contrast, I was trapped in a mini-van with two complaining, restless girl-children who were picking at my nerves with abandon.

I finally found the bank, hauled myself and two wee-ones in and back out, loaded 'em back in their seats (my most favorite thing to do 10 times a day!), and started looking for a place to get them something to eat. I ended up, somewhat unimaginatively, at Starbucks. I got myself a tea --BOOOOORING -- because I really wanted a latte, but it was, after all, 6:30 in the evening and that would have been nuts. I got the girls some fruit and cheese trays and some chocolate milk boxes, and we set up shoppe at a little round table with a cushy bench.

The warm, yellow light of the April sunset streamed through the wooden blinds of the west-facing cafe windows. My two tired girls were mellowing, with food in their bellies and sunlight on their feet. One sat heavily on my knee, leaning comfortably into my chest; the other curled on the cushion next to me, her head resting on my unoccupied knee. All three of us sat hypnotized by the sunlight, the half-empty cafe, the lateness of the afternoon, and the soft music wafting over our heads. We sat for awhile in a very peaceful kind of state.

Which is what got the water works flowing. The very unfamiliarity of simply sitting and listening to music made me absolutely wistful for days gone by. (Even piped in Starbuck's music!) Rick and I really used to enjoy listening to music at cafes and bars, especially our very own Murphy's Irish Pub, back when my parents owned it. I have great memories of taking the boys there when they were babies. We were so much more mobile when we had two kids; now, the younger ones have no idea how much fun we used to be.

That made me sad for them, and sad for us, that we don't or can't make time for those kinds of simple pleasures any more.

And then, through the Starbucks speakers, came this song, one I have always, shamelessly, loved with that crazy sappy folk-music kind of love. And I started to weep. Couldn't stop. I buried my face in Tallulah's mass of curls, and let her hair soak up my tears. I'm sure I looked like quite a sight. Two strung out little toddlers in need of baths draped over me...crumbs splayed far and wide from their less-than-civilized eating habits...kid blankets, backpacks, books, detritus everywhere. I may have looked like a woman who grabbed her kids and the clothes on her back, and fled a bad scene, using Starbucks to plan her next move, figure out where to crash, or where to drive the camaro for the night.

This is how I came to realize how numbingly tired I was. Am. I'm a sucker for sappy music, but this was ridiculous, even for me. Right out there in public, I let memories, regrets, hopes, fears, a lilting guitar and some wicked harmonies get the better of me. A little time and space and quiet came up behind me and knocked me off my game, rendering me defenseless against the possibility that I'm not a perfect mom. Somehow, in that little world, all of the things I want to give my children seemed fleeting, like the afternoons spent watching Sam dance to fiddle music at Murphy's, gone and not appreciated nearly enough when they were here. So I cried and cried, and sniffled, hiding behind Tallulah and listening to Emmylou.

It went on for awhile. The girls were so sleepy themselves, I don't think they noticed. Or else they were just all "Oh, mom's crying again. Who broke something?"

Pretty soon, one of them had to pee, and the trance was broken. But the mood stayed with me for the entire ride home and on into the rest of the evening. I was suddenly, acutely aware of just how exhausted I was.

And that, my friends, is how you can tell when you need a little sleep. Or at least, that's how I was finally able to tell. I refer you to the title of this post.

Maybe I should go get some sleep?

* * *

Weeds

When I was a child, I did a lot of weeding.

When I became an adult, I put away weeding-ish things.

That lasted for over 20 years. But now, I have come full circle, and have become, to my surprise, a weeder. Dad, if you are reading this, I do apologize for not ensuring you were in a sitting position from the get-go.

* * *

I recently left my part-time job at a wonderful landscape architecture/design-build firm, primarily because it was too far away from my home and was therefore not proving to be worth the drive and being away from home and our home-based business two to three days per week. So hubby and I conferred: if I started doing some of the maintenance work for our clients (read: WEEDING), and if I had more time to devote to running the day to day office operations of our fledgling (but shouldn't be fledgling because we've been at this for five years now) business, then I could very likely help bring in at least the same amount of money as I had been making at this other job.

So I left.

Which is why, on a sunny Thursday afternoon a week or two ago, I had the great good fortune to be weeding a client's garden overlooking San Pablo Bay, with water lapping against the beautiful houses, boats motoring by, sea gulls calling overhead. There I was, doing the work I hated doing as a kid, and enjoying it. Not just enjoying it, but discovering an entirely new experience in it. It was glorious and peaceful.

And extremely satisfying. You see a weed. You pull it. it is gone.

This is quite different than, say, seeing a stray pair of shoes in the living room and asking the person whose feet fit in them to put them away. You see the shoes. You ask a kid to put them away. The shoes stay right where they are. You ask again. The shoes remain. You raise your voice, aware that it is taking some effort to mask the building rage. The kid skitters by, ignoring the shoes and the mother. You expend precious, un-renewable energy screaming at the kid about the god forsaken shoes. The shoes do not move. Exasperated, and convinced of your abject failure as a parent, you storm over to the shoes, pick them up with a ferocity that unnerves you, and blindly fling them -- hard -- into the kid's room, unsure if you care if anyone is in the path of the projectile footwear.

See? Very different.

So now, I have become a weeding fool.

Our annual garden tour is in 2.5 weeks. But that weekend is huge for a handful of other reasons as well: family visiting from out of state...three soccer games on Saturday...an annual and absolutely not-to-be-missed party at the San Francisco Exploratorium, hosted by a company we do lots of business with...and the father-daughter dance at the girls' school. So we cannot, as in years past, be gardening by head-lamp the night before the tour. We must be done by at least Wednesday of that week, which means we have TWO WEEKS.

In times such as these, it's helpful to have a weeding fool in the family. I have been doing so much weeding lately, that when I close my eyes, I see weeds spiraling around in pretty, dizzying patterns. When I am running errands, I notice all the weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk, or in a store's planter boxes, or even on the side of the freeway, and my fingers itch to pull them.

I have discovered that weeding suits me. I sit down on my gardening cushion, armed with a small trowel, and give a long hard look to the patch in front of me, messy and overgrown as it is, weeds taunting me, boldly defying that they can be conquered. But give me enough time, and the weeds are defeated. What is left is a clean patch of dirt, or a clean bed of gorgeous and varied California native plants: rosy buckwheat, California poppies, Douglas Iris, salvia.

For those who complain about the Sisyphean nature of weeding, I say that for mothers, repeated weeding is no burden. The amount of things I have to repeat in a day, or even in a hour, have forever changed my perspective on things I need to repeat once a week or a couple of times a month. Give me a house full of kids who listen to me the very first time I say something and then MAYBE weeding will seem like a chore.

But no. Tending our garden is a joy, one that provides me with a little time and space to think and breathe fresh air. And maybe that's the biggest reason I have enjoyed this new task so much: it's been a long time since I had time and space and fresh air, and I have welcomed them all back with open arms.

I leave my thoughts on weeding as life metaphor for another time...they are far too deep and profound (or is it murky and unformed?) for current publication.

Happy Spring everyone!

* * *

What Ails Me?

I have lost the ability to see my crazy life as humorous. Hopefully, this is temporary. I read other blogs, and laugh at the antics, or the craziness, or the stinkbugs, and I think: "Wow, my pink eye, barf, broken appliances, broken bones, flooded garage, and garden-that-needs-a-radical-transformation-before-our-annual-garden-tour-in-3-weeks could be funny too! Why can't I find the funny? Why, instead, do I feel the need to bury the details of this miserable happy life so far from view that they all might just disappear if I wish hard enough?" I think this is why I haven't been blogging. I start to write, and then I hit the delete button very hard about 200 times, curse at the computer, curse at the laundry, and go feed people instead. Because I can always count on someone needing to be fed, or wiped (as in as I type this right now).

But as Spring Break limps to a close, and I'm both more than ready for the kids to go back to school AND not ready because uniforms aren't clean and backpacks from 10 days ago still hold lunch boxes from 10 days ago (one smells extremely citrus-y), I would like to get back to this blog.

So, as Spring Break limps to a close, I will limp back to my blog...hoping to find the funny, and the sweet, and the beautiful.

Right now, I am going to go out in the rain, to clean toys off our lawn, so that Rick can re-seed it and put down a layer of soil. This must happen in the rain, because we have to have each and every day of the next three weeks bring us closer to a show-ready garden; rain cannot stand in our way. If I find anything funny while I'm out there, I'll be sure to write about it.

* * *

Good For What Ails You

God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference.

* * *

And There Was this Girl Named Rosa

Breathe. On a day like today, I need to remind myself to breathe.

On a day like today, I will repeatedly need to tether myself back to earth, to prevent myself from completely flipping out over the competing interests pinging around in my head.

On a day like today, I should keep a picture of my five treasures close at hand, to remind me what all this craziness is all about.

Because today, here is what life looks like:

To baseball or not to baseball? Competitive soccer? Which level? Which kid?

Our 7 year old is making her first confession tonight. I love this first sacrament -- I think its lovely and holy and, well, sacred. It's a big moment for her, and for us. She's not even nervous about it, or so she says. I'm nervous for her, so we've got the nerves thing covered. Oh, and "parents are encouraged to show their children a good example and go to confession as well." So maybe I'm not really so much nervous for her as for myself.

To Avatar, or not to Avatar? We are naturally suspicious people, especially when it comes to popular culture. Do we let the boys go see Avatar? Normally this would be a no-brainer: we wouldn't even consider it. But a friend has offered to take them, which has me thinking about my naturally suspicious self, and reconsidering my non-consideration of this movie. Always good to check those assumptions.

Our 9 year old is starting an art class today. Not such a biggee, right? Well, our 9 year old hates his 4th grade life these days, so this will hopefully be some kind of balm for his 4th grade wounds. He is crazy about art, loses himself in art, comes alive in art. I'm totally excited for him. It's a biggee.

Our van needed a bazillion dollars of repair this month. That just completely threw a wrench into our world. Actually, it threw an entire toolbox right at our heads. That's been a hoot. Still working out the details...still existing on cars that don't actually fit all of us. More hoots.

Oh, and our 11 year old has a basketball game tonight. Routine stuff, except: is it our turn for snack? Excellent question. Must find answer.

Work decisions. Many, many work decisions. What will or should our working life look like? How should we set up this whole self-employed thing so that it operates more smoothly? It's time to think about this: we've been self-employed for almost five years now. We can't be rushed.

Oh, and did I mention potty training? Yeah! With some actual success, though, so that's HUGE. Incredibly time-consuming stuff, this potty training deal. But off she went to daycare today in underwear. What do I care, someone else will be handling the accidents, and she gets one more day under her belt of being a big girl. It's all good, and exhausting.

And the conversations! Oh, the conversations: "No, junkies are not called that because they, as people, are junk." "No, homeless people are not, in and of themselves, scary; they're just poor. Some of them are sick, some are addicted, some are just dirty because they have no place to live. You can't always tell by looking at them. And there are plenty of very rich people who are scary as all hell get out."

Highlight, from the 5 year old: "Mom, did you know that a long time ago, black and brown people couldn't sit anywhere on a bus, but they had to sit in the back? And there was this girl, named Rosa, and she was really tired, and all the seats were taken, and she didn't want to stand up, so she sat down in the front, and she wasn't doing anything wrong at all, and the police arrested her? Did you know that mom?"

Logistics: How to feed seven people, and get them all where they need to be: 3:45-5:30 for one kid...5:30 to 7:00 for another kid...7:30-9:00 for another kid...throw in one 3 year old who morphs into Linda Blair past 5pm, and one trooper of a 5 year old who will do her best until she can't take it anymore and ends up openly weeping because she can't find her straw. Plus, we'll have to make sure four of them do their busywork homework.

* * *

And on a different plane of existence: Yesterday, a dear friend of ours lost her mother to a long battle with cancer. I am overwhelmed with thinking about this loss and about what this day must be like for her. If you see this, my friend, please know that I am so honored to have been able to hear your stories from this past week, and that I hold them close to my heart. I met your mom just once, but was delighted with her, and enjoyed so much seeing her have fun with my girls. She was lucky to have you; I'm certain that you made this past week a blessing for her.

* * *

So there is much in my mind today. A day like this, well, it's what life is all about, I guess. People growing up, people dying, people needing to be fed while all the rest is happening. Cars crapping out and children learning about civil rights. Little kids peeing in the potty and a child making confession for the first time. Bills that need to be paid and friends that are calling and emailing. Always, work to do to feed the family, and loved ones to stay present to.

I'm not a fan of the word intense. But find me another one that captures this day. This day, that finds me holding on by my fingertips and hoping I land in my own bed, underneath warm blankets, by sometime late tonight.

Breathe.

* * *

I Hate Yellow Day

Argh! It's freaking Yellow Day! That totally sucks.

Why the antipathy towards the color of the sun?

Because last night, in preparation for "free dress" day at the kids' school, I asked every single one of my school-going offspring what they wanted to wear to school instead of a uniform and they all brought me their choices, and I did the freaking' laundry, down to underwear and socks and was totally prepared for the morning and went to bed under the illusion of being ready, for once. THEN, at 5am this morning, my brain finally decided to WORK for one damn time, and reminded me that when it's free dress day, it's a COLOR DAY for Kindergarten, and I had forgotten that and didn't check the Kindergarten calendar and was therefore most definitely NOT prepared.

And now, it's Yellow Day. WE DON'T HAVE YELLOW! At least not clean yellow.

Just once, I would like a morning with no surprises. Just once, when I go to the effort to be prepared in advance, I would like my brain to cooperate and remember things in a timely fashion. Just once, I would like to show up at school and NOT feel like a careening clown car, screeching up to the curb with ungodly sounds emanating from the interior and resentful children pouring out with messy hair and frayed pant legs and forgotten lunches and unfinished homework and someone just remembering at that moment that if he doesn't bring in his library book TODAY the entire class gets to throw spit wads at him and his life will be ruined.

I hate Yellow Day.

I'm trying, Ringo; I'm trying real hard to be a shepard. That's not working out so well for me.

* * *

Edited to add a follow-up:

The Kindergartner arrived in yellow, thanks to a Sponge Bob PJ top, loaned to her from her older sister. And I got to watch my three year old march across the school yard with a tootsie roll wrapper stuck to her butt.

* * *

Remember Her?

Note: I originally wrote this post back in April, but never posted it. Now, with this NaBloPoMo craziness, I'm pulling it out of its holding pattern. The time references don't make sense; everything else does.

I received one of the greatest gifts on Friday: a visit with an old friend I have not seen in over 10 years. It was truly fantastic to see her, and it's had me thinking about what happens over time.

Kathy and I went to high school together, and there are few people in my life that I've ever had as much fun with or shared as much of myself with. She was intelligent, funny, sweet, and slightly geeky (sorry kath!), and I was at least two of those things as well, and we hit it off. We weren't in the "party crowd" but we sure enjoyed our wine and 7-up mixers, served on multi-colored square-patterned carpet of her older brothers' room (who was away at college) because his room was detached from the house and we had more freedom out there. We were tipsy to the Beatles and the English Beat and the Rolling Stones. We spent lots and lots of weekends together, sleepovers at each others' houses. We grew up together. Few friends have ever known me as well as Kathy did.

We stayed in close touch during the first few years of college; I even flew out to Virginia to visit her at the College of William and Mary (I told you she was smart!). We shared long letters back and forth between our dorms, as we both adjusted to college life, to growing up and away from our families. I was particularly miserable in my first year away, and she was a rock of support for me in the hardest year of my life.

Somewhere along the line, we drifted. Unlike other friendships that drift because people lose that sense of the bond they once shared, I think Kathy and I drifted only because we both got busy. I have never forgotten the bond we had, never felt it lessen, but we still somehow lost the "habit of being" good friends. We attended each others' weddings, of course. But then we drifted even further away.

And then, some genius person came up with this crazy Facebook thing!

And we found each other once more. Just in time for her to be one of the few people I spoke to on the phone when my dad was recently in a terrible accident. She responded to a facebook post about my dad (posted by someone else) and then sent me an email with her phone number, and I called her. Hadn't talked in years and it was like we talked just yesterday, and I was telling my good friend about my idiot father riding his idiot bicycle and getting slammed into by an idiot truck driver. (Life is generous that way: plenty of idiocy to go around.)

Kathy brought me back to who I was as a teen and young adult. I liked that person. She was funny, quirky, independent, and bound for greatness. She had no clue that "greatness" meant raising five people, but for now, this is where whatever greatness I have resides. But Kathy reminded me of the joy we experienced, the pure, giggly fun of two smart teenage girls who were loved by their parents and had just enough freedom to get in very, very little trouble, enough to feel like we were getting away with something.

Remember her? Remember me? Remember us? Friendships like that raise us, as sure as our parents do. Thank you Kathy, for helping me become the person I am today, and thank you for the "meet and greet" at Noah's bagels that reminded me of where I have come from.

So all you Facebook skeptics out there: join. If only for that one person you'll find who will make your day and take you back to a place you'll love to visit. Facebook is weird, but it brought my Kathy back to me. You'll find your Kathy too, and you'll be so glad you did.

* * *

I Miss My Pillow

I read a short article in the New York Times today about sleep deprivation. Nothing new, just depressing. Here's a quote:

In a study at the Walter Reed Army Institute of Research in 2003...scientists examined the cognitive effects of a week of poor sleep, followed by three days of sleeping at least eight hours a night. The scientists found that the "recovery" sleep did not fully reverse declines in performance on a test of reaction times and other psychomotor tasks, especially for subjects who had been forced to sleep only three or five hours a night.

Read the article here.

This is bad news for someone who routinely gets about 5 hours of sleep at night, often less, sometimes a little more. Rarely do I ever get more than 7 hours of sleep. Rarely do I sleep without interruption. My kids do not keep my up for long periods of time at night anymore, but they do wake me up to crawl into bed beside me. Or someone is coughing. Or someone wants a drink of water. Or someone is snoring like a crazed warthog. Or life has my brain cartwheeling and somersaulting and hoola-hooping.

Sleep has been elusive for such a long time that I have utterly forgotten what it feels like to be well-rested. My baseline is sleep-deprivation. I don't remember not feeling groggy. This is just not good.

I wonder just how many nights in a row of enough sleep (at least 8 hours) it will take for me to catch up, for "the cognitive and physiological consequences of poor sleep to wear off." However many it might take, those nights are not in my immediate future.

I watched my three-year old asleep in her car seat today. She was yelling her head off at an intersection near our school, and by the time we got to the school, she was OUT. I was dripping green with envy. I wanted to be her. She stayed asleep for two hours, four older siblings climbing over her repeatedly, driving to and fro with mom on several errands, with the very essence of peace lying across her face like a baby blanket. Sleep, like youth, is wasted on the young.

How much sleep are you getting these days?

* * *

Rain on the Roof

I have learned my appreciation of poetry from my husband.

Being a lover of books and literature in general, I've always liked poetry well enough, but have never really delved into the genre with enthusiasm. That is, until meeting and marrying the father of my children.

He loves poetry. He loves the art, the craft, and maybe most of all, the marriage of sound and meaning. I had never really thought about the sounds of poetry before hearing him wax eloquently about the repetition of consonants or the rhythym of iambic pentameter. I just thought poetry was nice and rhyme-y. Except for the stuff that didn't rhyme, which I admit baffled me a bit.

But Rick has introduced me, and our offspring, to the pleasure of sounds -- and really, sounds do take us places, don't they? I think of the deep delight I take in the sound of rain on the roof while I am cozy beneath blankets...or the rush of the creek next to my girlhood home after a big rain...or the crunch of car wheels pulling up my mom and dad's driveway. Sounds are evocative, and poetry is their expression.

I am thankful to have learned this from Rick. And he is raising our children to hear poetry around them everyday, too.

The other day in the car, my nine-year old opened a glass bottle of carbonated pomegranate cider, and was delighted by the PFFFT-sound released by the twist of his wrist. He told me he liked to close the bottle, let the bubbles build up, and open it again so he could hear that same sound over and over.

Which led us to think about what other sounds we love. The conversation went something like this:

7-year old: "You love rain on the roof, mom!"

9-year old: "I also love that steam-y sound that trains make when they start and stop!"

7-year old: "You love hearing us laugh, mom!"

9-year old: (because we were now in a parking lot, on our way to watch Sam play soccer) "I love this sound, mom!" At which point he put down the drink he was carrying, placed a soccer ball on the ground, backed up, and then kicked the ball using the exact sweet spot on the top of his foot to produce that beautiful "thunk" of a well-placed shot.

This was one of the most fun conversations I've ever had with my kids. I was so delighted to discover that they listen, maybe not to me when I'm asking them to put their shoes away, but to the world around them, to the train going by, to the laughter that makes me smile.

I worry so much about the damage we are doing to our children when we fail, when we yell too much, when we aren't nearly patient enough. I know parents who are able to shrug off this complicated, crazy-making anxiety: I am not one of them. I worry. Because we are all they have in terms of parents, and sometimes, we fall miserably short.

But after conversations like this one, my heart soars because I think to myself that they are going to be fine, even better than fine, because they can hear things around them and describe the sounds they like the best, and because I hear some of the good things we do for them reflected back to me.

Their words and observations are rain on the roof: in the midst of a storm, they help me know that we will all be OK in this difficult and beautiful world.

* * *