You Saved Us, San Francisco

San Francisco, you saved us all.  You granted a wish, and gave an unfathomable gift to one little boy and to the thousands and thousands of people who watched his dream come true.

For anyone who may have been under a rock, or God forbid working, today, for anyone who missed the feel-good story of a lifetime, for anyone who blubbers like a giant size softie on a soggy waffle cone (because I fall in that latter category), this story is for you.

Text below shamelessly lifted from the SF Make A Wish Foundation's website:

Today, Miles is getting his wish of becoming Batkid! Miles may only be 5 years old but he is fighting a very adult battle. Miles has leukemia. He is a bright, positive, little boy who finds inspiration in super-heroes. Miles told Make-A-Wish he wanted to be Batkid, and today is his big day! 

The day begins with a breaking news story. San Francisco’s Police Chief asks if anyone knows the whereabouts of Batkid. The city needs his help to fight crime and capture villains! Our little Batkid, along with Batman, is ready to answer the call. 

As part of his special day, Batkid is driving around San Francisco in his Batmobile, and his adventures include rescuing a damsel-in-distress from cable-car tracks, capturing the Riddler in the act of robbing a downtown vault, and rescuing the San Francisco mascot Lou Seal from the clutches of The Penguin. The day’s final stop is at City Hall where Mayor Ed Lee congratulates Miles on his daring feats of justice and presents him with a key to the city.

(Visit that website linked above.  Heck I'll link it here too.  Tons of additional info on Miles' milestone day, including a tweet from Obama.)

SF natives are falling all over themselves to express their pride and their jubilation over their gorgeous, big-hearted City making this happen.  I shall join them: Batkid stole my heart and left it in San Francisco, where it rightfully belongs.  I cannot rest my head on my pillow tonight without thanking first and foremost the Make A Wish Foundation, not only for granting that kid one hell of a wish but for giving the rest of us a gift we didn't even know we needed.  And there are more people and organizations to thank:

To the San Francisco Chronicle for printing the special edition newspaper…

To the lamborghini owner who let Batkid ride around in a real life Batmobile…

To the awesome Batman escort, who ushered Batkid around SF/Gotham for the entire day and who, among other things, helped Batkid catapult over a vault and do a complete flip into a waiting cushion...

To all of the members of the SFPD, for being Miles' official hosts, and specifically to the SF policeman who put a huge "KAPOW!" sign on the front of his motorcycle…

To the banks and hotels who adorned their Gotham City skyscrapers with Batman symbols…

To the Lou Seal and the San Francisco Giants…

To the wonderful souls who played the parts of the damsel in distress, the Riddler, and the Penguin...

To the thousands of people who cheered and wept and whooped and hollered, and watched SF Mayor Ed Lee thank Miles for saving Gotham…

All I can say is thank you from the bottom of my tear-soaked heart.  This has been a very, very, very good day for humankind.

It sounds so damn trite to say it, but there's no way around it: Wishes can come true.  And when they do for a little guy like Miles, it's just impossible not to feel the swelling joy, the sweet relief, the certain faith that all is right in this crazy, broken world.

Now we just need a Train tribute.  How about it, boys?

* * *

Words

Today, in 6th grade Science class, the esteemed Mr. Underwood had "Ask Anything Day."  I think he means ask anything about science.  But maybe it's really just ask him about anything.  Either way, it sounds fun.

Here's what my daughter did during the entire class: she wrote down the all words she heard.  She did not take notes.  She created:

She filled five sheets of paper with words.  Colorful, funny, gross, serious, silly, boring, nonsensical ("prrrt," apparently when the esteemed Mr. Underwood released a dismissive puff of air or some such) scatological, inspirational words.

I know she's my daughter and all, but I think this is genius.  Who knows what she will remember from the Ask Anything questions and answers, but there is something about the activity of listening to the words swirling around her and giving them life on paper that just tickles me to pieces.  It's like a mind map, a place for ideas to swirl around, a way for future ideas to incubate and multiply.

Or perhaps that's just a big rationalization, because I am a big-time doodler myself; my own notebook pages can look pretty disorganized, but it's the way I think.  My to-do lists are neat and tidy, but the pages that surround them are filled with drawings, slanted off the line writing, circles, arrows, and jumbles that look just a little nuts.  It works for me, in my little corner of the world.

But those pages my daughter filled?  I pretty much think they are proof positive that she is destined for greatness.

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A Refrigerator's Worth A Thousand Words

NaBloPoMo Writing Prompt for November 12, 2013: 

Name five things inside your refrigerator right now 

and how you feel about them.  

Hmmm…fridge contents are like a peek into a person's inner life, don't you think?  I mean, I don't let just anyone look inside my fridge.  But for the sake of NaBloMoPo, I shall share, selectively, a few things you would see were you in my kitchen right now whilst I pull out Item #1.

Item the first: Red Hook Longhammer Ale.  I feel very, very happy about this particular thing inside my refrigerator.  Relaxed and happy.

Item the second: Buttermilk.  I feel good about the buttermilk too, not because I like buttermilk, but because the only reason I have it is so my 9 year old daughter can make her dark chocolate cake pops from scratch, the recipe for which calls for said buttermilk.  These little morsels are dense and delicious, and I derive great pleasure from doing the bidding of a 9 year old who bakes.

Item the third: Applesauce.  I feel guilty about the applesauce.  Because it's a giant, practically full container and it's been in there for ages, since the kids abruptly decided to quit their apple-saucing binge, the same one that not long ago had me scrambling to keep enough sauced apples in the house to meet demand.  Kids.  Their whims are inexplicable.  I am guessing (although I still haven't found the courage to look) that this particular container of applesauce is sporting lots of pretty shades of mold.

Item the fourth: A very large bag of pepperoni.  I feel daunted by this bag of pepperoni.  It taunts me.  It mocks my ability to think of new ways to serve it.  It ridicules me for not freezing it when someone else (not me) brought its girth and heft into our happy home.  So yes, I feel challenged and daunted by a bag of meat.

Item the fifth: Two netted bags of small, yellow roasting potatoes.  I feel excited about these potatoes.  Here's where you learn that, much like my husband can turn any conversation into a soccer conversation, I can turn any topic into a reason to sing the praises of NPR.  And so:

I love roasted potatoes.  But for the longest time, I have been unable to make them as delicious as the ones I've had other places.  Total mystery.  This past August, while visiting friends in Portland OR, my dear friend Kari served the most scrumptious roasted potatoes ever.  I actually FB messaged her after the visit, to ask how she made them.  The answer?  Bite size chunks of potatoes…olive oil…garlic…salt…pepper…hot oven.  Exactly how I do mine.  So I tried roasting them for longer, since she said she just waits till they turn the right crispiness.  Still not as yummy.  I was flummoxed.

Until one day, when NPR came to my rescue, as she has done so many times before.  (Did you know NPR is a girl?  She is.)

My rescue came this past September in the form of an interview with Mollie Katzen, of Moosewood Cookbook fame, who happened upon the subject of roasting vegetables, and shared this gem: You should never salt your potatoes before you put them in the oven, because the salt draws out the moisture.  Voila!  That was my problem!  I had been salting my potates (not a typo) before roasting them, and creating a moist roasting environment instead of nice dry roasting environment.  After my little chemistry lesson, I went out that same day, bought more potatoes, and tried it that night.  Salted them on the back end instead of the front, and ended up in potato nirvana.  Now, I can make those little bits of heaven whenever I want, in confidence that they will be everything I dream of.

(Many people already know this.  I did not.  I needed NPR to tell me.  And like a BFF, she told me what I needed to hear.)

So yes: excited about the potatoes in my fridge.  And by turns happy, ashamed, and daunted by the other contents.

And no, you may not look in my linen closet.

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Where I Improve Upon (sort of) Mother Teresa

It's been that kind of day.

Lots of pep talks (for myself), lots of cajoling (of others), lots of restarts (all of us) and lots of opportunities for forgiveness and mercy.  Which is really code for lots and lots of totally screwing up.  Yay.  Love that.

Family life requires such an amazing amount of do-overs.  How do we keep ourselves motivated for the endless monotonous tasks of domesticity?  How do we keep ourselves from falling prey to our weaknesses, our impatience, our desire for things to be easy?

Mother Teresa knew.  She knew exactly what was required.  "Do small things with great love."

Beautiful.  Simple.  True.  And perhaps not actually uttered by her.  OK, but definitely enfleshed by her.

And on days like today, I just have one minor revision.

"Do small things with great love.  And alcohol."

We aren't all saints like Mother.  But with a little help, we can try.

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All the Proof I Need...

…to keep myself utterly confused.

Proof my kids are going to be just fine.

1. My oldest selected comedy for us to listen to on Pandora tonight, on the long drive home from an away soccer game, and was as excited as I was when Who's On First came up.
2. My other son scoured the movie closet for something to watch on Friday night, and ended up picking Some Like It Hot.
3. My 9 year old daughter expressed dismay when I pulled boxed brownie mix out of the pantry today, to make for a potluck.  "Mom, you should have just had me make something from scratch."
4. Santana came on the car radio the other day.  No one wanted to change the station.
5. One of the biggest reasons they are looking forward to the holidays?  Our annual Christmas Eve viewing of It's A Wonderful Life.  

And just to keep me on my toes, proof that my work is not yet done.

1. My 7-year old drank several shots of peach nectar today, out of an actual shot glass, and referred to it as her "peach whiskey."  She must get this from her father's side of the family.
2. Last week, my 13 year old washed a kitchen full of dirty dishes…without using any dish soap at all.
3. I tried unsuccessfully the other evening to convince one of my sons not to wear filthy pants and a ripped shirt to his Confirmation retreat.  I fear being known by the adult leaders as "that mom."
4. Their bedrooms.  Nothing good can come from rooms like that.  I lie awake at night obsessed with their bedrooms.  And with my failure to get them to be neater, more civilized people.
5. One of my kids unpacked her overnight bag this past Thursday, and put all her stuff away, including her toothbrush.  Five days after she got home.

If this trajectory continues, my children will become total slacker adults who have great taste.  I might be OK with that.  

* * *

Dorothy

Today is the birthday of Dorothy Day, a personal saint of mine, and one entry on the list of people I wish I could have dinner with.  I think we would eat soup and good bread.

Her memoir, The Long Loneliness, is an important book for me.  In it, she describes how she came to Catholicism, how she started responding to the poor and hungry people she saw in New York City, and how the Catholic Worker movement came about.  It is a beautiful, honest account of a woman who was searching for something, for some way to bring about a more socially just world, and about how she did not stop searching until she found it.  She never gave up on what she knew, in her core, was right.

For those who do not know more about her, here is a lovely introduction to her life story:

And here are some of her beautiful words, words to live by.  Words that I want to live by.

“The greatest challenge of the day is: how to bring about a revolution of the heart, a revolution which has to start with each one of us?” 

“We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.” 

“Don't worry about being effective. Just concentrate on being faithful to the truth.” 

“I really only love God as much as I love the person I love the least.” 

“Our problems stem from our acceptance of this filthy, rotten system.”

“You will know your vocation by the joy that it brings you. You will know. You will know when it's right.” 

“The Gospel takes away our right forever, to discriminate between the deserving and the undeserving poor.” 

She shares a birthday with the anniversary of Kristallnacht.  I am thankful that on such a dark and dreadful anniversary, we have Dorothy to celebrate as well, to raise up as an answer to the suffering and evil in the world.

Thank you Dorothy.

* * *

Fill In The Blank Quickly, Please

In a noisy car today, Little T announced:

"The worst smell in the world for me is elderly {word muffled by other children's voices}."

Huh?  What the heck?  My cute little 7 year old is dissing old people?  This is not good, thought I.

In the time it took me to be heard over the fray and ask her to repeat what she had said, all kinds of crazy things ran through my head.

Is she going to say something mean?  Is it just feet?  What might this mean for her visits with grandparents, or with our dear friend Margaret?  How should I respond to this? Ugh, I'm going to have to talk to her about the value of older people in our lives, and how even if they can be a little scary to young children, what with their strange hairs, and shaky hands, and wrinkly skin, and crackly voices, we have much to learn from their years and their wisdom and their lives.  Older people enrich our lives and give us, among other things, history and perspective and reassurance.

Then she repeated it: "The worst smell in the world for me is elderly perfume."

Oh, I'm right there with you, sister.  No big talk or lecture or life lesson required.  Just a fist bump, and a "I know, right?"

Phew!  Dodged a bullet.

* * *

Musings of a Hypocrite

AKA Musings of a Parent

I just listened to my husband interact with my 7 year old daughter in a way I did not agree with; I was of the opinion that he was being irrational, that he was letting his own emotions get the better of the situation.  I was bothered that he was not able to be more detached and calm in the face of her storm…and not 10 minutes later, I behaved in an appalling way with my 13 year old son.  Hypocrisy, thy name is me.

I don't think that makes me wrong about how my husband handled the 7 year old; I just think it means that parenting is pretty much the hardest thing ever, and that nothing demands more grace, forgiveness, patience, second chances, or flexibility.  Nothing.  Ever.

This is why parenting is the hardest job in the world: you screw up every single day and no one fires you!  You still have to get up the next day, look yourself in the mirror, understand full well that you blew it yesterday and that you could very well blow it again today, and that no one will dock your pay, put you on suspension, develop a performance plan, or fire your ass (short of abuse, of course).  Instead, you just get to live with the knowledge that you failed.  That you failed a person you love.

There is a kind of poetry in that failure.  Parenting is an art, not a science.  In raising children, there is more beauty than logic, more gift than explanation, more surprises than rules.

In spite of my daily failures, and the daily trying again, and the daily, the countless resolutions to be better, at the end of each day, there are still five heads on five pillows that I love more than I did the day before, and for whom I would do anything, even on the days when I do far less than I intend.

So why on earth don't they just make my job a kajillion times easier, and simply do exactly what I tell them, every minute of every day????  Because really, I think I'd screw up way less if they did.

* * *

This post brought to you by two generous glasses of cabernet.

 

The Mighty Minion

Minions were hot this past Halloween.

We went to the Boo Fest Halloween soccer tournament in Sacramento, and saw lots and lots and lots of minions.  Mine was the best, hands down, and I am so totally not biased.  It's just a matter of objective fact.  Of course, she had the advantage of possessing that "Minion Personality" before she even donned the costume; those other minions, the ones who merely put on a persona, didn't stand a chance.  This minion was made for the role.  Which pretty much shines through, don't you think?

And really, most of the time, when she talks, this is all I hear anyway:

The best part of this costume is that the Uber Crafty Creative Moms on her soccer team made it.  Prior to the tournament, she wanted to be Wheezy, the squeaky and neurotic penguin from Toy Story.  But with only a few days left before Halloween, I had nothing on hand to make that happen.  After spending some frantic minutes searching for easy-to-throw-together penguin costumes online, I had resigned myself to a trip to Michael's and some time with a glue gun.

But lo and behold, the Boo Fest did come into my life, and the Uber Crafty Creative Moms did bestow upon my child a fully functional, fully kick-ass Minion costume.  In my best, most enthusiastic, most cheerful and "hey, I got a GREAT idea" voice, I suggested maybe she wanted to be a minion instead of a penguin?  Like, HOW FUN WOULD THAT BE?

Totally worked, natch.  She played right into my hands, and I didn't have to do one single damn thing to send her off in style to her school Halloween parade or to trick or treating.  Score!  Thanks Uber Crafty Creative Moms!

* * *

Her brother pointed out to me that between her well-established penchant for destroying the house and her two days of barfing this week, she could have also made a very convincing Wreck It Ralph.  But the minion is way cuter.

Wreck It Ralph will have to wait.  On the morning of November 1, she planned out her costumes for the next decades worth of Halloweens.  "And next year, I'll be a Wheezy…and the year after that, I'll be Jessie…and the year after that I'll be a tree…and the year after that…"  For ten years.

No matter how far ahead she plans, I will always be a last minute lucy, hoping for some Uber Crafty Creative Moms to save me.

And now, it's time to raid the children's candy stashes for Snickers bars…

* * *

Today's Silver Lining

Don't want to fail NaBloPoMo on Day #5, but this is all I have the time and energy for today.

After staying up all night with a barfing 7 year old, after cleaning an ungodly mess in her bedroom at midnight last night, after waging a bleach battle against germs at 2am, after soothing a tiny person who doesn't understand why things are catapulting out of her with such force and violence…

…there is one small thing for which I am thankful.

I am thankful that last night was one of the very, very rare evenings when I overcame my lazy-hair-doing ways, and braided my little minion's long, wild, curly mane.

The braid made the midnight clean up -- and all of the subsequent clean ups -- a kajillion times easier.

* * *

And that, folks, is all I got.

* * *

Our Family History

According to Little T:

Rick and Monica, sittin' in a tree.
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes love,
Then comes marriage,
Then comes a baby in a baby carriage.

That's not all, that's not all,
Now the little baby's drinking alcohol!

That's not all, that's not all,
Now the baby's kicking a soccer ball!

And there you have it.  This is how we ended up with a family full of drunk, soccer-playing babies.

* * *

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