Please...Just Five Minutes!

On Pink

2012-01-20T11:07:00.000-08:00

This article sparked today's frothy rambling.

I'm getting really tired of the anti-princess movement. This war on pink has got to stop. My daughter LIKES it. I'm not confining her to a lifetime ful of limited choices because she is deeply in love with the idea of big, fluffy dresses, and a vanity table full of makeup. Glitter isn't meant to be artillery. She can be a feminist in high heels and a dress. Being whomever you want to be means just that. Including a princess.

The anti-princess sentiments amongst the parenting community have reached fever pitch. The cries are going up "NO MORE DISNEY PRINCESS!" and the masses are calling back "BURN THE WITCHES!"

Stop for a second.

No more gendering our girls- fine. But when you paint your daughter's room blue on purpose (not because she likes it) and give her a selection of toys from the boy side of Target, put down the dump truck and give yourself five minutes to answer this question.

"Where is the war on blue?"

Why aren't we rallying for tea sets and baby dolls for boys? Okay, that site is a joke, but you get the point.

No. It's totally cool to make our girls into boys, even if they're unwilling. But making our boys into girls? Sacred ground, there, tread lightly.

It seems to me just another incarnation of sexisim masquerading as "forward thinking feminism."

No. Your daughter does not HAVE to be a princess for Halloween, but if she wants to (for the third time in a row) by all means, pull out the glitter and the pink fabric she chose. Go to town. And offer your son some tea and a baby doll, too. Only if he wants to, though.

-B

On Vorism

2011-10-12T19:22:00.000-07:00

If I had a pet lion, I'd walk it everywhere pets can be walked. Imagine that iconic photograph of Dali exiting the subway with his anteater. Except me. With a lion.

Source: divinecaroline.com via Bryna on Pinterest

I'm not exactly certain what TriMet's lion policies are, but you can be sure I'd be seen with my lion.

I'd feed my lion local game. No factory farmed meat for MY lion! No, sir. You know what I wouldn't feed my lion? Broccoli. Kale. Spinach. Walnuts. Why, you ask? You intrepid soul. You ask all the right questions! Because lions are carnivores. They eat meat! Other animals. That probably includes my dog. And chickens... maybe even my kids.

So I don't have a lion (for reasons hopefully obviated above) but I do have a dog. And I walk her mostly everywhere animals can be walked. Particularly because she gets carsick. So we have to walk her pretty much anywhere we'd like to take her.

And you know what I feed her? Kibble! Locally-sourced, grain free, well-formulated kibble. Because she's an omniovore (I know, weird, I thought dogs were carnivores, too). Okay, she's not an omnivore, technically. Specifically (pedantically) speaking, she has a significant carnivorous bias with significant omnivorous traits. Whatevs. I'm calling her an omnivore.

If I had a llama, I'd let it pasture. Because llamas are herbivores. So is my bunny. My chickens are cannibals, so I do the best I can.

I also have children. And while they're not pets, exactly, I still have to feed them. Do you know what I feed them? Non-factory farmed, high quality meat (hopefully raised and/or dispatched with myself), vegetables, grains, and other stuff that grows around here. Lots of fruit. And sometimes chocolate milk (or as I like to call it, KidCrack Lite). Mostly, I feed them what it says to on the care & feeding tag they came with. They're omnivores, if you couldn't tell (or didn't pass elementary biology).

All these names: Locavore, Omnivore, Herbivore (Vegetarian? Why vegetarian and not herbivore?), Vegan (oh, I think I see why not herbivore...), Ovo-lacto vegetarian, pescatarian, freetarian, ~~unitarian.~~

It can get a little ridiculous (okay, a lot ridiculous- what the hell is a freetarian?) I do think it's really important to note the distinction between a local & seasonal omnivore (locavore for the uninitiates) versus a commercial-globalized omnivore (globavore?). And definitely a difference between a locavore and a fast-food loving cornivore (mazivore?). There are a lot of great documentaries on Netflix about this subject, and I'm down to my last 20 seconds, so I'll leave it to them to explain things.

So I have all these mouths to feed, and we can proudly proclaim we're omnivores, mostly. With a strong locavore bias. Except for my imaginary lion.

-B

On Fire Tending

2011-10-05T09:19:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember, I've had trouble sleeping at night.
It's just at night, though, as far as I can tell. As soon as the just barely visible gray streaks of dawn steal up the horizon, I sleep like the dead for the next few hours or so.

I might be a vampire, but probably not.

I do think (after years of late night wondering) that I have some sort of genetic leftover that keeps me up at night. For years we lived in tribes that had to worry about late-night predators. Long ago people developed a watch system, where people took shifts to tend the fire, and be sure it was ready for morning cooking and usefulness.

That's pretty much what I do at at night. I wander around after everyone has gone to bed, getting things ready for the morning, sewing, paying bills online, emailing clients, or what have you. Sometimes I'm cleaning. Usually I'm not sleeping. It drives my husband off the rails.

It burns him up because, come morning, getting me out of bed is hopeless. He doesn't even bother anymore (if he's home). He brings me a cup of hot coffee and does the morning ablutions with the children. Which is so great. I think he comes from a line of the morning-breakfast-cookers.

I'm glad I chose well when it came to husband-picking. If I had chosen another fire-tender, our children would probably sparkle in the sunlight or at least have really dark raccoon eyes. And if I'd chosen an afternoon-hunter, no one would be around in the morning to feed us. We'd all starve until lunch, cranky and crazy-eyed.

But now it's time to move from my blanketed island back to the world of the living. If spending my life on no more than five or so hours' sleep at a time has taught me anything, it's a deep and abiding love of caffeine and sugar. I'm going to indulge in another warm cup of that stuff.

See you tonight.

-B

On the Food Chain (Caution: Graphic. Not for the sensitive and/or vegetarian audience)

2011-09-25T14:55:00.000-07:00

I killed my first chicken today.

I really want to get all dramatic about it. I want to write : "The day dawned cold and clear..."

But it didn't. It's the Pacific Northwest, so it "dawned" by getting lighter gray outside, and threatening rain.

Our chickens were meant to be all females but, as usually happens, we got a rooster in the bunch. For a long time I was in denial that he really was a rooster. Josh decided that that particular chicken was the "Alpha female" and therefore got all the lovely plumage and the big comb & wattle.
That's not really how it works, though. Don't listen to Josh. He likes to make up "facts" and pass them off as true.

Anyhow, I had accepted that it was a rooster, and knew what I had to do. I decided to give the roo a stay of execution until he began crowing in the morning. I also needed that time to learn a little more about what the hell I was supposed to do. I mean, I had a vague idea, as I'm sure you do, about the process. I know what a store-bought chicken carcass looks like. So, essentially you turn a live chicken into "chicken." Got it.

Two days ago, the rooster signed his own death warrant by trying out his newfound ability to crow. At least he was courteous about it. He waited until a reasonable hour.
8am: "Cock-a-doodle-dooo!" or more accurately (as onomatopoeias go, anyhow): "Roo-oo-roo-oo-roo!!" "Damn it," I said to myself. "Now I have to kill the stupid thing."

So after reading my book, and watching several YouTube videos, I was ready. First things first, you have to starve them (water-only) for 12-24 hours. It seemed like preemptively rubbing salt into a wound. I had wanted to give him a great last meal. Oh, well.

Yesterday, I dragged out the dog kennel and put a full waterer in it. Oddly, the rooster walked right in. I shut the cage door. "That was alarmingly easy," I thought.

This morning, I woke up early. I never wake up early. You couldn't get me out of bed early if you dragged me (ask Josh, he's tried). But I heard the rooster's novice crowing, and thought: "Today's the day." It surprised me how seriously and methodically I prepared for the slaughter. I really wanted to do it right. I have a great deal of respect for any animal that gives up its life to feed my family.
I arranged all the materials I needed neatly on the side of the house (photos coming up, you've been warned!). I went and woke Josh, and got the chicken out of the holding pen.

It really gave me pause when I held the chicken's head in my hand to find the artery. It didn't disgust or disturb me, but it was so warm that I had one of those "I'm really doing this" moments. It was probably the most poignant part of the whole experience.

That moment was cut short after I'd slit the chicken's throat and blood was dripping into the bucket while Josh and I stood there, holding the bird inverted. Maia and River came barelling out of the house where I had ensconced them with a movie and snacks to keep them put. Caught in the act! "What are you doing, Mom?" "Is that our chicken?" "Can I try that?" Uhhh...."Kids! Go back inside! Please?" I am pretty sure somewhere in the mothering manual in big, bold letters it says not to let your kids see you kill animals, even for food. We had talked about it at length, but I was never planning on showing them the process.

After the chicken was dead and bled out, and the children were led back inside with promises of more movies and hot chocolate later, the real work began. I think it should be strictly necessary that every person who eats chicken should have to pluck one at least once. It really gave me pause to realize just how much work goes into hand-processing a chicken. It's alarming how inexpensive chicken meat is, considering. I know about the poultry processing automation, but to sit down and really do it by hand was something else. And for the record, chicken picking is an art, a really intricate skill that I, as yet, do not possess. I scalded the bird, and sat down to about 20 minutes of quiet concentration. Also maybe just a little cursing at the tenacity of some of the feathers.
Well, okay. Concentration, cursing, and concern that I had just made a serial killer out of my daughter a la "Dexter." It went something like: pluck-fret-pluck-curse-pluck-fret-pluck-rip-pluck-fret-curse-fret-pluck.

No one wants feathers in their dinner (Or serial killers for children)!

Then a really strange thing happened. Okay, another really strange thing. This was the weirdest one, though. The other hens, who were on the other side of the property when I was killing the rooster, came flocking over when it was time to pluck. I'm not sure what drew them, but it was really surreal to sit there, plucking this chicken that was still warm while the other chickens pecked at the fallen feathers. Some of them they fought over, like treasures. Really, really odd.

After the chicken was plucked as clean as I could get it (untrue, I continued plucking bits of pinfeather throughout the whole process) I had to singe off some of the remaining feathers over an open flame. That was pretty cool. If a little smelly (burning hair, anyone?). Those curious, and mildly cannibalistic, hens cleared out at the hiss-crack of the propane burner lighting. Thankfully.

After that came yet another moment of truth. Cut the bird open and disembowel it. Okay! I did it, but I was really worried about breaking open things I shouldn't.

The process was entirely unreal. I wasn't sure how I'd do when the time came to actually kill the bird. When it came down to it, though, I felt like a calmer and more certain version of myself. Whether that was lack of sleep, divine intervention, lack of coffee- or all three- I'm uncertain, but it was an entirely new experience.

As I was washing up, Maia came up to me and began playing with the chicken feet. "Can I have the leg-bone, mom?" Crisis averted. She's going to be just fine, after all!

Thanks, Roo!

-B

On the Emerging Autumn

2011-09-17T08:52:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here on the hearth in front of my fake-fire, next to my knitting basket, which lay ignored all summer long. We turned the heater on this morning. That's when I sound the death knell of summer in my brain.

I'm sad to see summer go! Even if its passing means the end of field season for Josh, and the end of single mom-season for me, it means also the end of trips to the river to swim, and the potential for camping trips (but not actually camping), and last-minute weekends at the coast. Fruit season is almost over, when the apples and pears are done, winter sets in.

I can feel it looming. Fall is my absolute favorite season of the year, and fall in the Pacific Northwest is something to behold, for sure; It's also the shortest. Winter always hangs out in the corner, ready to quash any illusions of it lasting very long. Scene-stealer!

Winter is frustrating for me. It's cold, wet, and unrelenting at times. It invites you to stay curled by the fire, reading a good book (gasping in amazement at the end of the latest Song of Ice & Fire Series, even), or to try out new chili recipes, make holiday crafts, and other fun-sounding indoor time. But it really is filled with crazy amounts of bundling and unbundling. Putting on and peeling off layer after layer of clothes of varying degrees of dampness. There is the frenzied race to Christmas, which I try to mitigate with celebrations of minor feast days, and other holidays, none of which hold a candle (or 8, or 9) to the man with the bag. And after New Year's there is the inevitable quiet that settles in. A lot of folks call it the post-Christmas let-down. I get it.

I do like that part, though. This year, I'm excited for that quiet. I am imagining it'll be a time to take Winter, lay it out, and pick through it at my pace. Who knows. That does sound awfully prosaic, doesn't it?
I am imagining quiet, early-dark dinners with friends, a snow day here and there, writing thank you notes by my fake-fire, and spending lots of time trying new recipes for chili (I'm really excited about that book of chili recipes I got at the library).

But for now, Fall is here. And I'm in front of my fake-fire, waxing prosaic on my laptop next to my knitting basket.

-B

On Sticky Fingers

2011-06-17T17:51:00.000-07:00

This week, my daughter shoplifted for the first (and I hope only) time in her life.

We had finished up a lunch downtown, and were browsing the local shops before heading home, and I bought a couple of things in an antique store. The shopkeeper even went so far as to compliment my parenting and my children for being so polite, and well-behaved...

When we got home, Maia had something clutched tightly in her hand. I asked her to show me, and she opened one hand to reveal one of her "fairy stones" (decorative gems from the craft store that the "fairies" hide around our house occasionally). But she kept her other hand tightly closed, too.

I asked her to show me what was in that hand, and got a very typical, evasive response..."What hand?" Ha! You only have two, darlin'!

So she did, and it was discovered she had pilfered a rhinestone button from the chest of antique and vintage buttons kept near the register. Gold-rimmed and shiny, I could see why the purple rhinestone caught the eye of my little magpie, but I'd never expect her to steal it!

I was mortified. We got immediately back into the car and drove back to the shop, and on the way there Maia got a long lecture about stealing, and I asked if she understood what it meant to steal something. She really didn't have any idea what the impact was. I know that she's only four, but it's really important that I explain things to my children; Whether or not she groks the concept is unimportant. If you throw enough spaghetti at a wall, some of it is bound to stick!

So I framed it like this: "If your friend came over and liked your necklace, and took it without telling you, what would you do when you found out it was missing?" "Well, I'd yell at the friend." "You would be very upset, wouldn't you." "Yes!"

So far, so good. Next I applied the guilt: "The owner of the shop spends money to buy the things that she sells. Taking it without paying is like taking her money, which she uses to buy food, and pay for her house to stay warm." "Oh. That's not a good idea, Mommy!"

Good.

So then she returned the button, and apologized, very, very quietly. I made her do it again twice until it was loud and clear. I know, I'm terrible, internet. It felt awful. A good 70% of me wanted to just say "no stealing" and have that be that. But it wouldn't have taught her the right thing.

The shopkeeper thanked her, forgave her, and told her she decided she wouldn't call the police, if Maia promised not to do it again. Maia's eyes were as big as saucers. "The police?" "Oh yes, it's against the law, and I could call the police! Some of the other store-owners would have done that." "Oh! Thank you for not calling the police on me!"

Then I apologized and the shopkeep looked at me with tears in her eyes. She said to me: "My daughter stole nail polish when she was that age. And she said it was a gift for me. I took her home and spanked her, but didn't make her return it. I did the wrong thing, and I wish I'd done what you're doing right now. And your daughter is so darn C-U-T-E. You're doing the right thing."

It did my heart good to hear. I wasn't glad to hear it, that's the wrong word. Nothing about me was glad that moment, but it was a relief I wasn't alone.

And then I chastised myself on facebook, with a self-flagellating status update. And I was quickly flooded with responses from friends who had faced similar situations in their own lives.

What a balm for the soul good friends can be!

Maia's continuing consequence for her actions is having to confess to her loved ones what she did. It's embarrassing, yes, but it certainly shows her what her community's reaction to badness is. And when the community reacts negatively to a decision or action, it's far more powerful than just hearing it from your crazy old mom.

So if Maia has to tell you she stole something, please purse your lips for me, and gently wag your finger. It doesn't mean you don't love her, it just helps her to be a better person moving forward.

Thanks, friends.

-B

On Spanking

2011-06-06T13:31:00.000-07:00

I spank my kids.

Okay, well, let me qualify that: I spank Maia. Not in anger, and not every day. But I use it among my other disciplinary tools to elicit a reminder that there are consequences to actions.

I have read a lot, lot, lot about parenting. Spanking included. My daughter is what some call a "High Spirited Child" and what others call "A pain in the ass." I dearly, dearly love my daughter. She has amazing spirit, for good or bad. And I do everything in my power to maintain that spirit, while guiding her toward my idea of a well-rounded and polite, kind, respectful, and most-importantly happy individual. She feels loved, and loves us, spankings and all.

Even admitting this makes me feel the need to explain myself. I imagine myself judged so harshly as a mother who loves, and spanks, her children.

Up until this point, with all my research, I've still continued to use spanking as one of many discipline tools. But today I read something that gave me pause:

"Above all, I believe that there should never be any violence. In 1978, I received a peace prize in West Germany for my books, and I gave an acceptance speech that I called just that: "Never Violence." And in that speech I told a story from my own experience.

When I was about 20 years old, I met an old pastor's wife who told me that when she was young and had her first child, she didn't believe in striking children, although spanking kids with a switch pulled from a tree was standard punishment at the time. But one day, when her son was four or five, he did something that she felt warranted a spanking--the first in his life. She told him that he would have to go outside himself and find a switch for her to hit him with.

The boy was gone a long time. And when he came back in, he was crying. He said to her, "Mama, I couldn't find a switch, but here's a rock that you can throw at me."

All of a sudden the mother understood how the situation felt from the child's point of view: that if my mother wants to hurt me, then it makes no difference what she does it with; she might as well do it with a stone. And the mother took the boy into her lap and they both cried. Then she laid the rock on a shelf in the kitchen to remind herself forever: never violence. And that is something I think everyone should keep in mind. Because if violence begins in the nursery one can raise children into violence."

(By Astrid Lindgren, author of Pippi Longstocking. [From the Positive Parenting Solutions Newsletter] Originally shared by Vivian Brault, founder of Directions, Inc.)

There are obvious differences in my approach to spanking. I only ever use my own hand, and it's never intended (nor made) to hurt. The obvious intention of this particular use of this quotation is to sway a remorseful parent, and encourage the use of other tools to the exclusion of spanking as a discipline. Guilt is powerful. It's not necessarily maliciously guilt-inducing, but is very convincing nonetheless.

I haven't decided not to spank, but I do find the personal experience to be very moving, and it's given me pause, unlike any other piece of anti-spanking literature or media. I'm looking forward to learning more about Astrid Lindgren, though I am not a fan of Pippi Longstocking in the least. In fact, I refuse to allow it in our home. I feel it promotes distrust of "grown-ups," even those who have kids' best interests at heart. It's, I've discovered, an unpopular position; If the subject does come up, I get a lot of eye-rolls. And that's okay! Not everyone's child is as easily influenced by example as mine. And she needs very little encouragement to "be herself" and to "do her own thing" as these are things she does quite well already. Quite well.

Maia is a wonderful, wonderful girl. She is loved incredibly, and loves us immensely. She is also quite, quite different from any child I have yet to encounter. My endless meetings with parenting and child-development experts, allergists, and specialists have afforded me a lot of comfort in confirming that she really is quite unique(Though I can't think of anything more commonly said by mothers).

I have a really hard time when folks assume things about my daughter, and by extension, me. Even those with lots of experience with my child can make incorrect assumptions, or get the wrong idea about her. Or me. We all have to find our own way as parents, and parenting from the heart is the best way I've found to achieve that goal. That doesn't preclude lots of research and (professional) help-seeking, though! My heart gives me pause about spanking after reading this. So we'll see how that develops.

Doing the best I can!

-B

On Horizons

2011-05-12T00:27:00.000-07:00

"The trouble is, some people won't meet you halfway, heart to heart, skin on skin, without you first buying wholesale from the warehouse of their opinions." -Cotton, by Christopher Wilson

There are a lot of things my daughter is not.

She isn't patient, quiet, or terribly kind at times. She isn't shocked by bad language, sensitive to yelling, or hearing the word "No." In fact, I wonder if she CAN, in fact, hear the word "No!"

But there is one thing that she is that warms my heart right up. And it's her genuine love of our species. She considers everyone she meets a "friend" before she even speaks to them. She'll admonish me for not getting us all out of the car fast enough so she can catch up with her "friend" twenty paces ahead of us, going into the sliding glass maw of the grocery store without us. So she can "ask her her name, of course!"

This unabashed love for people knows no strictures, really. She routinely invites the scariest folks home for dinner all the time. I feel like such a jerk when I have to smile and say "Another time, sweetheart." But I just can't take the ranting homeless guy home with us. Maia would, if I'd let her.

I admire her ability to spread love out across all of humanity, and worry, just a little, about what'd happen if she encountered a dangerous stranger on her own. She'd probably hug their legs tight, and kiss them on the mouth (her specialty).

It's heartening to see, though. I'm so thrilled she's not scared by folks who are different from her. Her horizons are already quite broad, I'm going to do my best to keep them that way.

So many folks I've met are very careful and concerned when it comes to picking friends. They're very worried about their friends' political viewpoints, religious beliefs, where they shop, what they eat, how much money they have, and how they raise their kids. And if you're not right in line with their beliefs, they're very quick to let you know, or cut you off.

It seems like a lot of people just don't like to hear different opinions. I'll admit, I have a hard time with it, myself, on occasion. But I can't imagine not becoming friends with someone who is a wonderful person, even if I don't share their Quaker faith, or penchant for yodeling.

I feel very lucky and honored to have lots of friends. They look all sorts of different ways, lead very different lives, and have wildly varying belief systems ranging from Atheist to Extra-Terrestrial Science Experiment, to Fundamentalist Christian, and back again. I know and love Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, Anarchists, and political abstainers.

I run into trouble when I try and host parties with all of these groups together. Things get tricky. Some just can't mix, no matter how hard I try.

Over time I've gotten better about guest lists and such, but I feel like I'm missing a set of blinders that's been handed out to everyone else, to keep you ensconced within your own culture. Thank goodness for that! And I'm pretty glad Maia was born without them, too.

Because at the root of it, we're all the same. Josh sticks to his Atheist beliefs with the same dogged fervor as some of my Christian friends do theirs, and some of the liberals I know are more narrow-minded than some of the conservatives (It isn't fair to paint my friends with such broad strokes, but for the sake of comparison, I'll assume you know these are still my friends, regardless about how they feel about hot-button topics like American Idol).

Maia's unconditional love of humanity serves to prove to me, again and again (and again) that I can't judge anyone by just the few facets of their personality that you get to see on a regular basis. I've learned there is so much more beneath the surface. Which sounds incredibly cliche, when I write it out plainly like this. But it's fully true. You don't know the half of a person's story...best to stop and think before you go barging into their life, knowing what's best.

This is not to say there is anything wrong with sticking to your fold. Everyone needs to do what works for them, be it as it may. And there are benefits to both sides of the horizon. I just really enjoy the experiences I get to have with such a diverse group of friends; And Maia has taken it to the next level. In fact, I have her to thank for many of my friends! The gregarious little social butterfly.

Thanks, friends.

-B

On Judgy Judgment Days

2011-03-30T20:14:00.000-07:00

In our society full of self-righteous assholes (myself included) every single day is "Judgment Day."

We're all so completely convinced that the way in which we choose to lead our lives is correct, that, while we give lip service to the idea that "everyone is a unique individual" and "Diversity is beautiful" and "There are no two snowflakes alike..." what we really mean is "Anyone who isn't theoretical who does it any other way is wrong, bad, or otherwise ill-informed."

Don't believe me? Go read any blog or news article on the internet about anything even mildly divisive. Read the comments section. You'll watch our society (under the safety veil of anonymity provided by the internet) denigrate into name-calling children.

But rarely do we butt up against such open, blatant judgement face-to-face. Not out loud. People allow their faces to do plenty of talking, sure. But rarely do they open their mouths and spit out what they're thinking.

Not today! (Did you wonder where I was headed?)

I was at Goodwill, buying wildly mismatched teacups and saucers, as I've decided to throw a "Mad Hatter Tea Party" for River's birthday on the 9th. As I attempted to do so, my daughter pulled out every trick in the book to get out of shopping. Yelling, screaming, spitting, singing bawdy limericks, throwing things, attempting to break things, climbing in and out of the cart, and I weathered it all, stubbornly persevering until...she tried to breastfeed her brother. In public. With lots of grandmotherly-types standing in full view.
I chided her in hushed tones, I took a knee and had a heart to heart. She nodded, "Yes, Mommy, I won't do it again. Ever!" I turn around, and River shouts: "Nummies! Maia Nummies!" and I turn back to see my daughter- nipples exposed, offered up to her brother in the shopping cart, gleefully clapping his chubby, innocent, little hands at this, fun, new game!

Completely mortified, I left the basket full of a hard-fought 45 minutes' worth of work, grabbed my children, and ran out of the store. I got to the car and was emphatically chastising Maia while buckling her into her car seat.

And up saunters this woman.
She had smug self-satisfaction steaming off of her like fresh horse manure. And she leans close as she strolls by: "Calm down, Mama. Calm down. I used to yell at my kids, too. But they're God's kids (she points skyward)."

I lost it. Who the hell did she think she was? I was nowhere near nuclear. I wasn't spanking them, I was well-within my right as a mother (after I made the right call in leaving the god-forsaken store after such an incident) to voice my displeasure with my daughter for her calculated ill behavior. And to tell me that no, they're not actually my kids, they're GOD'S kids? And to take the egregious leap of faith and assume I believe in the same manner as she does? Rude. Rude, and her inflection belied any actual intention of helping me out.

I completely lost my head, internet reader. I completely lost it. I DID go nuclear, on that woman (Which, thinking back, probably satisfied her just fine, because she felt she drew my "rage" off the poor, abused "God child" she was trying so hard to "save").

I shouted at her (she was getting in her car at this point): "No. They're MY kids. I am an Atheist. There is NO GOD!" To which she calmly replied: "Yeah, I can tell." I shot back (with uncharacteristic alacrity, usually I freeze, speechless): "You're the very best kind of Christian. 'Judge not, lest ye be judged!'"

That woman single-handedly brought me to the brink of so much pure rage that I was wordless and shaking. Unable, even, to correct Maia when she looked at me calmly as anything and said: "That lady was really mean to you. She was a Christian? I don't like Christians. I never want to be one."

Internet, I'm going to level with you. That's not how I want her to think. I work very hard to give her an open mind to use in her own search for the divine. And furthermore I am NOT an Atheist*. I have no idea why that flew out of my mouth!

But I can tell you, I have never, ever felt that much pure, unadulterated rage for a person, before. I had to stop myself from hitting her with my car. Luckily for her, she had pulled her broken-down piece of junk out of the lot and was well on her judgy, self-righteous way before I had the key in the ignition.

I can also tell you with some degree of certainty after 13 years of Catholicism, Catholic schooling, Catechism, and Altar Service, and 12 more of open-hearted searching and study through Unitarian Universalism that Jesus (whether Son of Man or just a really bright dude) would never have approved of kicking someone when they're down. The woman I encountered today was no more "Christian" in that parking lot than I was a "doting mother."

We all have our slips. And I, in my anger and confrontation was brought to this realization, hours later, after wine and calming down. And maybe a phone call or two in which I gave voice to horrible, horrible atrocities I hoped would befall that woman.

We all make unfair judgments. And mine of her were no more fair than hers of me. She decided to see me as "abusive mother" after exactly seven seconds of experiencing me. And I decided to see her (and still do, for purposes of earlier illustration in the writing, internet) as the self-satisfied Evangelical doing some holier-than-thou finger-wagging.

And we have to make judgments daily. We have to decide who to trust and who to avoid, who to speak to, and what kinds of things to say...whether our jokes would be appropriate or ill-timed, and so on. We have to make constant character sketches in our minds without all the information, filling the missing bit in with creativity and conjecture as we go along.

Internet, it's been driving me nuts that this woman forever sees me as the angry abusive atheist she couldn't "save." Truth be told, I'm not all that certain she was interested in trying.
I wonder if drives her nuts that I think she's a batty asshole Christian, vomiting her God-beams onto anyone who is unfortunate enough to cross paths with her?
I'm certain it would make her sad if she knew her actions killed my daughter's recent, budding curiosity with Christianity.

Bummer.

I'm glad of my weird, uncharacteristic experience in the Goodwill parking lot, today, internet. Now that I'm no longer wishing horrible atrocities on this woman (Jesus and Buddha would both be pretty bummed about that) I'm more conscious and mindful of how I paint folks in my head. I was right, in my angry blathering. "Judge not, lest ye be judged."

-B

*For the record, Internet. I don't believe in a patriarchal God, nor that Jesus was "his Son." I file that stuff away as "pretty metaphors" along with the "miracle of transubstantiation." Much to Father Macchi's dismay, I never, ever bought that one. But I do believe in a divine life force. And I am a staunch fan of the interdependent web of existence. That's pretty neat. I don't think all Christians are batty assholes, either. Glad we cleared the air, Internet.

On Birth Days

2011-03-28T18:29:00.000-07:00

I think it's crazy how much emphasis our culture puts on all things age related.

We celebrate birthdays with great zeal, and spend months planning elaborate parties for our children and ourselves...restaurants offer free meals, Borders sent me a gift certificate, this month..."To celebrate YOU!" More like to celebrate my money in your cash registers... Thanks, Borders!

Age plays a very serious role in our society. It's age that demarcates when someone becomes an adult, which, when I apply logical thought to it, strikes me as the most ridiculous way to judge someone's maturity. What a personal, significant achievement "coming of age" is. And it has nothing to do with age!

I spend most of my time with friends who are significantly older than I am, because we are in the same place in life, and have so much in common. We may have had different childhoods, and life experiences, but that (to me) only serves to enrich our friendships.

I don't mind the good-natured teasing for being the baby in the group, either.

I do mind being taken for granted because of my age. I do mind the offhanded dismissal of folks who don't know me well when they discover my age. I significantly mind being called "Young Lady" by store clerks and the like. I don't call you "Old Man!" Ageism is a weird sword that cuts both ways. You have a very thin sliver of time when society deems you "ageless" and it's the slim middle ground between 29 and 50(ish). Any older and the youth population deems you "old." Any younger and anyone over 30 thinks "you'll understand when you get older." Isn't that crazy? My dad is in his early 60's and he slalom waterskis way, way better than I can!

It's very impolite in our society to discuss the matter of age, and at the same time it triggers so much. It's the big old (young) elephant in the room. How weird is our relationship with aging?

You have to be 18 to go to war, but only 16 to drive a car which can kill someone if mishandled. You can die for your country at 18, but can't drink a drop until 21. You can't rent a car, however until 25. Do any of those arbitrary age limits make sense?
I'm not for doing away with any of them, or changing them, but I do think it's really odd.

And children in our society get simultaneously revered and reviled. We nod our heads and understand at child-free restaurants and places of business, but make sure mothers in our country are made to feel guilty if they do anything but give all for their children. And yet they're also supposed to "make time for themselves." And then, when we see a Nanny with a child, we judge that mother so harshly!

Is your head spinning yet? Mine is, contemplating all this!

Add to that the fact that people only see my kids as "half-people." When we go to restaurants with the children, people see River on my hip and say, "Oh! Three and a half! Ha, ha!"

Uh...Last I checked he had all the appropriate numbers of body parts to be considered a whole person, albeit a young one. Thanks, though, all the same!

I don't want the world to change, or anything drastic. I'm just musing about age, as I'm turning 25 tomorrow!

Don't tell anyone I told you!

-B

On Losing You, Ex-Friend

2011-02-27T15:36:00.000-08:00

Dear bloggoworld-

I'm not sure what I'm setting out to accomplish by writing today's post. I really wanted to post about something else, but it's going to wait. Or maybe I'll bury this post with that one. I haven't decided.

I was going to write this as an email; I wasn't certain I'd get the same sort of closure and I'd like to feel heard. Also, email doesn't have an indicator for "read, understood, but purposefully not responded to" vs. "deleted on sight." So here I am.

This is an open letter. And it's easier to write after reading this person's open letter. Whoever you are, thank you. I googled "How to write a letter to an ex-friend" and you popped up first. It was perfect. Their situation is so similar to mine that I considered just posting the link and leaving it at that... this person worded their letter so much more eloquently than I ever could have. Thank you, random stranger, for the little extra bit of courage I needed to do this.

We know (and like) some of the same people and I don't want to cause rifts and issues, so I'm going to leave this anonymous.

____________

______________

To my ex-friend-

There's an empty spot in my life where you were, not that long ago.

And it's strange. It's really weird that you just stopped talking to me.
At first, I thought you were going through something really personal. That's what your email said, when I asked why we hadn't gotten together recently. Then you stopped responding. So I gave you space.

And then I gave you more space. Until finally, I asked what was wrong, and you gave me a non-committal response about things being rough, lately and promising me an explanation soon. I'm still waiting for it. Isn't that crazy and desperate? I mean, logically...obviously it's not coming. I'm waiting all the same.

But that's not the hardest part. The hardest part wasn't even getting over feeling like a really awful person for hurting you so badly that you felt you couldn't speak to me anymore. Racking my brain- replaying every single one of our final few interactions over and over in my mind, wondering which thing I said might have been the thing that drove you away.

I spent months feeling like I was really a bad person, a terrible, selfish friend. Horrified that I didn't even know it. Am I so oblivious? I was (and still can't quite shake the feeling) that you were the first person who's had the courage to say with your actions what all my friends are feeling. Are they next? How can I change? What can I do to fix it? Closure? Closure? Closure!

I know now that isn't true. I'm not a bad friend. I'm not perfect, but i'm not so terrible, either.I still don't want to give up on our friendship, though. At least I didn't- until today.

This afternoon Maia said something that broke my heart: "Mom can you tell me how I can fix what I did wrong to [your daughter*]? I really want to see her again. She was my most special friend."

That froze me. I haven't mentioned you or your daughter in months. That was all on her own. It's been at least six months since we've seen one another, and she is still talking about your daughter daily. She wants to make her gifts, buy her things, and even writes her little letters and asks me to send them to your daughter.

I don't honestly know what I did to make you end our friendship. I can't imagine what it was that you couldn't even bring yourself to talk to me about it. But I am a grown-up. I can handle feeling like this.

My daughter, however, is NOT a grown-up. She feels like she is "less than" because of your cowardice and selfishness. Your choice has hurt her, and that makes me angry. I am surprised at how deeply angry I am. It is not okay to mess with my kid. I don't care who you think you are. I don't care how important your feelings are to you. You've damaged my child. I would rather you slapped her.

I have no explanation of substance to give my daughter. I've explained that it wasn't her fault, that nothing she's done caused her friend to not come around to play anymore, but she doesn't really believe me.

I understand your feelings were hurt. I am really clear about that, now, six months after you've cut off all communication. I get it. But this wasn't fair to my kid.

I've preserved your integrity, just so you know. I didn't blame you when I explained to my daughter that some friendships just end. It would be really easy to vilify you, and to make you a scapegoat for my anger. But I won't. I loved you, my friend. I still have love for you. And sadness, because we can't be friends now.

Whatever it was I am truly sorry it was worth losing a friendship over. I've really treasured you as a friend. I hope you understand that.

But there's nothing that anyone can do to fix this anymore. It can't be saved, because my daughter got caught in the crossfire, and I don't forgive easily when it comes to my children being made to feel as if they are unworthy. I'm not sure if I forgive at all, in fact.

I wish you luck and love in life. I wish you courage in your future friendships. May you find your voice when you feel hurt, instead of the painful silence you left us with.

Love,
-B

---
*Anonymity, remember?

On Your Edification

2011-02-15T20:24:00.000-08:00

I think one of my more interesting social interactions is the one in which folks are surprised by my knowledge about general things. The unspoken line that hangs heavily over my head is "Oh! But you're a mom... I honestly assumed you were quite uneducated!"

The fact that I have a passion for complex chemistry isn't really a topic that comes up often in conversation, I guess! How many people do you know have a hydrometer, and know how to use it? People usually assume it belongs to Josh (if they see it at all, but why would they?).

The fact that I've made the decision to be available to my children has no bearing on my level of intelligence. And, frankly, it amuses me more than it bothers me, but I thought I'd put it out there. It brings to light another more general bias that prevails in our society today.

Since so many more people go to college these days, and since college (your basic Bachelor degree) isn't very difficult, folks have nothing left but to assume you're a total idiot if you didn't attend and/or finish. Or stopped in the middle to make different decisions.

Well I think that's just ridiculous. The market is saturated. College grads are a dime a dozen. This is excellent. It's forcing people to move from: "I'm a college grad, 'nuff said." To having to actually come up with why they're a person of substance, quality, creativity, and generally worth hiring/knowing.

My turn to make an assumption! The fact that someone can get blackout drunk 3 days a week, cram a bunch of facts, regurgitate them for an exam, and then quickly forget them, says nothing to me about their level of intelligence. Perhaps they're the next Einstein, or perhaps they're the next Paris Hilton. The fact is you won't know until you (wait for it) get to know them.

So, knock it off, general public. The shock and awe when you hear that I know more than how to crack an egg or two, and birth a baby (or two).

Incidentally (to toot my own horn, and thanks to a wonderful mentor in my good friend) I hold a credential that takes many and most women 10 years to achieve, and I did it in 4. I run my own business while being very available for my children, run a household that supports a part-time husband (who works very hard, just not at home), and was able to take $2,000 and invest it (self-taught) to create $15,000 in less than 6 months. Suck it, Joe-blow, you don't know me, and your office view is a cubicle wall. Mine is this:

-B

On the Incredible Cuteness of Being

2011-02-06T15:20:00.000-08:00

If you haven't figured it out by now, I have two children. These kids are the stars in my eyes...even if I do want to run far, far away from them, sometimes. Mostly, I think they're pretty cute.

Such it is for most parents. All the parents I know, in fact. The moment you meet your child...that's it, game over. In love.

That being said, I want to get something out of my sleep-deprived brain and onto digital "paper."

As I go along in my mommy-life, and in my real life, I keep bumping up against this ugly reaction in myself. Jealousy? No. Resentment? Not quite. Hurt feelings? Definitely.

Let me clarify-
(At the risk of alienating you due to "obfuscated purpose of blog", let me take another aside to make it clear before I head further down this crazy rabbithole of high emotion that this is NOT tied to any specific incident...it's tied to all of them and none of them simultaneously. It's a pervasive sentiment in our culture, so don't take this personally. Because you probably have children, and are my buddy if you're reading this. So it could be any of you. It's not, though. Or is it? Moving on.)

I really dislike the invitations to publicly exclaim that other children are in any way better than my child. Right? Read on.

This strikes me a startlingly rude...even though it's almost always said in jest and excitement, or in moments of uncontrollable parental pride. I myself am equally guilty of such exclamations. But, seriously. Consider what you're asking another parent to do when you ask for confirmation of your own child's superiority in some way. Consider their feelings...Does that sound too much like Care Bears?

I wish these conversations could go like this (but it would be weird, and I'd have no friends): "Isn't Yohan just the smartest?!" "No, Mary. I happen to think little Janine is smarter, because she's my flesh and blood. Just like you do about Yohan. Let's agree to disagree and keep from bumping up against this awkward wall again, shall we?"

And Friends Without Kids (FWOKs for short) jump in on this, which is what really gets my hackles up. People! Do this in private! It just isn't polite to insult other people's children through omission. Or selection. FWOKs, don't choose between your friends' children in front of them all. It invites this weird competitive vibe into the mix, and everyone gets shoved up against that awkward wall of silently smiling, nodding, and privately disagreeing for the sake of the mood in the room. And then, later, the husbands (partners) have to hear all about it from their wives (partners), over and over again.

We should know by now that all parents prefer their own children overall. That's right and good. It's a terrible catch-22 situation. Imagine this scenario:

PLAYDATE-
Carol: "Oh, gosh, Jeremy read his first book and rode his first two wheeler today!" Rose: "Wow, that's so great! You must be so proud!"
Carol: "I am! Isn't he just the most wonderful little guy?"
Rose: "Oh, yes, Carol. So much better than my Farley."
Carol(appalled): "Well, Jesus, Rose, don't insult your boy, he's very bright!"
(Jeremy and Farley look on, uncomfortably.)
END SCENE

This is really what we ask another parent to do when we make such unequivocal exclamations of pride and superiority AND THEN ASK OTHER PARENTS TO CONFIRM THEM. Even in jest! Make your statement! No problem there! Just don't ask my opinion on the matter!

Now let me close by saying that I know I'm oversensitive (I'm a mom)

and perhaps I'm taking trivialities too seriously. I don't expect some sort of uncomfortable retraction or backpedaling, because that's really ridiculous. But I ask you to consider the feelings of another parent, no matter how mild-mannered and good-intentioned your jest about choosing the cutest baby in the room. You know? We're hard-wired to be competitive about our kids. Also, it's fine with me if YOU say it, about your own kid. Just don't ask me to agree with you- it'll get awkward, because I won't.

Now, In case I wasn't clear, and also because I think it's funny, I'm going to throw one last, weird, analogy your way, reader. I blame it on all the Tom Robbins I've been reading.

You wouldn't walk into a room full of junior high-schoolers and remark about one of them being the prettiest girl in the world, would you?
If you did, would you ask the rest of them to agree with you? Even in jest, I think that action would elicit the sound of the other girls' souls crushing like last week's potato chips in the bottom of a backpack. But you wouldn't hear it over all the noise of their new complexes being formed. Which sounds like 17 teens vomiting behind the bleachers, one after the other, like a bulimic Wave (See? Weird. I know. Who let me have internet access?).

I'm too ashamed to say this to anyone directly- so it's a blog post. I'm also posting this at the behest of my poor, beleaguered husband. He has officially heard enough of my capitulations on the subject (so maybe it's come up once or twice over the past 4 years).

I really do like my kids better than yours. I do. And I suspect you like yours better than mine (I hope you do). So don't ask me to confirm the opposite, and I won't ask you to do so, either. Can we still be friends?

-B

On Retrospectives and Forward Thought

2011-01-03T14:22:00.000-08:00

It's the time of year where everyone around me seems to be hopeful, and I'm noticing more positivity all around. From smiles in the street to status updates on facebook.

I'm looking forward to the new start, as well. But I'm taking time today to look back across this year, which was full of change for our family. Nothing momentous, but as any cash-strapped college student or homeless person will readily tell you, lots of little bits of change can easily add up.

And then I had this big long bit about the past year, but I realized that just the act of doing that has brought me peace and closure for the year. It's all terribly boring to read. So I've deleted it, and now here we are.

This coming year I'm going to invite more joy into my life and ignore all the negative things I can reasonably ignore. I'm planning on bringing new growth to my garden and soul, and doing it myself more around the house. Homemade soap, jam, canned soups and frozen breads, preserved and made fresh, I'll do my best to bring my skills to the breadboard.

My compost overfloweth.

See you in the new year! Namaste.

-B

On Coffee

2010-11-16T11:51:00.000-08:00

I hate going to bed.

I hate it because I love being in bed. I love to sleep.

I know that once I fall asleep, like really truly deeply asleep, I'm going to have to get back up before I'm done being there.

This has nothing to do with being a parent of young children, or anything like that. I could conceivably stay in bed all day, if I wanted to, but I don't. When I do that, it sours the pleasantness of being in bed. I end up sweaty, musky, and with a faint headache from oversleeping.

So I put off going to bed for as long as possible. Then I wake up too early, and spend lots of time trying to get back to those few golden moments when I was completely cozy and comfortable. Then, when I get frustrated with that fruitless effort, I grudgingly get out of bed.

If I don't have coffee immediately after that, well, the whole mess just gets rolling down the wrong hill.

It's not that I can't go without coffee, I do that all the time. I just don't like to go without the ritual (rituals are very important to me. I blame it on my Catholic upbringing).

There's something comforting about the promise of a warm, creamy-sweet mug in my hand to replace the warmth of my bed, and make up for the cold feet I inevitably face by coming downstairs to a kitchen with a perpetually-open sliding glass door. It's good to pour the hot, fragrant liquid into my favorite mug, and watch the curling octopus of cream unfurl, and the scraping of metal against ceramic as I stir the sweet sugar crystals in.

It is so good.

I rarely finish a whole mug of coffee. But taking the minute or so to be silent inside myself while the chaos of the morning blurs and whirls and spins around me is important. So important.

Time stops for just a second and I don't hear anything or see anything, I just feel warm hands and smell roasted deliciosity.

-B

On Spinning Out of Control

2010-10-31T22:24:00.000-07:00

To cap off a rollercoaster week, we went for a wild ride.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Saturday the 30th has been a day I've been anxiously awaiting for the last several months. Not only was it the day after which I would know if I passed the IBCLC exam and cut down the sword of Damocles that's been hanging over my head since July, but it was also the day of my Halloween party.

It had been arduously planned, many dear friends were invited, and I was working together with my good friend Joycelyn to throw a Haunted Mardi Gras party for the ages. Many friends worked hard to make this party wonderful.

On the 28th, my good friends Kate and Dev asked if it would be alright to spend the weekend, since they planned on attending the party, but live in Seattle. Of course I was delighted!

The 29th came, and I discovered I had, indeed, passed my IBCLC exam!! There would be much to celebrate the next day.

The morning of the 30th was exciting. The day dawned wet and cold, but as it was to be an indoor party, it didn't dampen my excitement at all. Kate and Dev set to work helping, and we all worked together to bring the party together. I had some last-minute shopping to do, and so I set out, with Dev and Maia in tow, to get some things for the party. The bulk of the shopping trip passed without incident, and we picked up essentials: crackers, blood-red pomegranate soda, Halloween toys (in lieu of candy), and booze of various sorts.

Then, on our way to Costco (in Portland) we headed onto the 205 bridge. It's notoriously windy up there, and (very) slippery when wet, which it was. While we headed southbound on a bridge I drive across more than six times a week, I hydroplaned on a puddle in the roadway. Not unusual. This IS the Northwest, and I've been living (and driving) my lovely little Vue up here for nearly 3 years, now.

I digress. I hydroplaned, and recovered, hit the brakes, and hydroplaned again, and lost control of the vehicle. We fishtailed into the leftmost lane, and I started yelling.I remember thinking: "This isn't really happening! We have things to do! We are not getting in a car accident right now."

We collided with the left cement barrier of the bridge (that separates the bike path and the opposite lanes of traffic) and continued to careen across the freeway. I remember watching the road fly past through the windshield, and trying desperately to hang on to the wheel. It felt like a huge hand had taken over the car, like we were a toy. I remember my body twisting, not able to keep up with the speed of the spin, and wanting to check on Maia but not daring to take my eyes off the pavement flying past my windshield.

Miraculously, we hit no other cars as we spun across four lanes of traffic, and, thanks to my father (a retired police officer) teaching me to drive defensively, and making sure I knew just what to do in an emergency maneuver, I managed to keep it together enough to turn into the spin, and keep my foot from slamming on the brakes. I'm really amazed at myself, but very proud I reacted well.

We flew into the opposite cement barrier (the one that separates the bridge from a hundred feet of air and then the river) and came to an abrupt halt. The left side of the car was actually up on the barrier.

I was driving. Dev was sitting in the front side passenger seat, and Maia was in the seat behind mine (River was at home, happily).

Maia's window came down on impact, and I looked out of it only to see the water below. I admit I sort of freaked out, and immediately assumed we were hanging half off the bridge, and told Dev something to the effect of: "Do not to get out of the car, or we'll die."

I may have overreacted.

Then Josh called the car phone to ask where we keep the chicken broth. After answering his question, I let him know we'd been in an accident.

"Are you serious, or are you joking?" "No, not joking. You're going to need to go to Costco, okay?"

Then the first responders arrived, and I had them give Maia (who sports a nice bruise on her cheek, now) a neuro-exam, because she'd smacked her head, right behind her ear on the door of the car. No airbags deployed because all our collisions had been at unusual angles.

That's the river, far below us. Inspired a momentary freak-out.

Maia was fine, Dev was fine, and I was fine. We're all in one piece and really, really happy to be that way. The photos don't do the damage to the car justice, but the frame is bent in at least three places, and we're all pretty sure it's totaled.

After the tow truck picked up the car (which took a lot of maneuvering to pluck it off of the barrier), he dropped me off at Costco, where Josh, Dev, and Maia were shopping.

I steadfastly refused to cancel the party. We had even more to celebrate, now. And I knew that, if we didn't spend the evening in the company of friends, food, warmth, and wine, we'd spend the evening scaring ourselves with what might have been.

Right after the accident, a really wonderful good Samaritan stopped to make sure we were all right. He name is Dee. She made sure we were fine before going on her way. We ran into her again at Costco, she was shocked to see us! We thanked her profusely for her kindness. It's not everyone that stops on a freezing, rainy bridge to give assistance if needed. Amazing. People are simply astounding.

Many thanks are needed. To Kate, for babysitting in a pinch, and to Joycelyn for taking over party prep and having a delicious lunch of fried oysters, braised bacon and red cabbage waiting for us when we got home, to Dev, for not blaming me and acting with incredible calm and valor throughout the entire process, even helping me sing to Maia while we sat in our disabled car on the freeway waiting for help.

Thanks to OnStar, for coming over the speakers before we'd even finished colliding with the barrier to see if we needed help, and for sending help as soon as possible. Thanks to the Fire Department, Paramedics and both WA and PDX police for their speedy response.

Thanks to the creators of those barriers, for our lives, to our safe little car, which we miss dearly, but would gladly trade for our safety. To everyone who attended the party for filling our evening with the best celebration of life one could hope for.

I have so much to be thankful for, forgive me for waxing prosaic. It's just how I am, and damn it, I'm just glad to be here, typing this all out.

-B (grateful)

Kaua'i On My Mind

2010-10-22T16:41:00.000-07:00

So I went to Kaua'i, HI for five days, to see one of my best friends get married. It was just wonderful. I went alone, thanks to my very brave husband volunteering (he thought he was joking, ha!) to take the kids. I snapped up that offer before he could blink. Or worse, think about it.

Off I went, backpack loaded, camera in hand. I stayed with some lovely folks in a commune in Kapahi, which is on the central eastside of the island, near Kapa'a. What a fabulous little hippie-town. Everyone was amazing, and it was bordering the Wailua homesteads, and a finger of the Wailua Forest Reserve, according to Google Maps.

The common room, one of the residents, and Lewis, the kitten.

The house was teeming with wildlife. Geckos, kittens, a bunny, dogs, the requisite chickens, wild pigs in the jungle-brush, owls, mice, frogs, centipedes, cane spiders (Actually the last two are just theoretical. I saw no centipedes while there, and the only cane spider-which was more than enough- was up in Princeville)...

Evil incarnate: Cane Spider

House Gecko!

Clark is a happy kitten.

Posing for me.

Why did the...?

It was really fun to see the island by bike, and then scooter. When I was riding the bike, I got mistaken for a local a couple of times, which is a source of pride for me; I hate looking like a tourist. The giant camera gave me away plenty, though.

I learned so much about the local culture just chatting with people. Everyone was so friendly. People would just strike up conversations wherever I went. I was collecting these gorgeous, tiny Ni'ihau-like shells on Anini beach and a guy who was pure-blooded Hawaiian just started chatting with me. He was impressed I'd found so many of the tiny shells, and told me to take them home. I told him I'd rather just have a photo and leave them for the next person. Then he gave me his history, his family history, and told me about the changes the island has seen in the past 50 years or so. He was a pretty cool guy.

I slept in a rustic, but well-built, cabin on the commune, and the eaves were open to the four compass points, so the trade winds kept me cool all night long, along with the sounds of the jungle lulling me to sleep. The last night I was there, an owl swooped down and caught a mouse, right outside my window. So cool.

Right outside my cabin door. I snuck this papaya home to the kidlets.

This guy was my alarm clock. He was sure I caught very Hawaiian sunrise.

I met so many wonderful people on the island. Just like the last time we visited, I came away feeling like I needed more time there to absorb the spirit of the island, and the determination to live there someday.

My friend's wedding was amazing. So gorgeous, simple, yet elegant. It couldn't have been more perfect. It poured rain right up until the time of the wedding, then the sun came out in earnest, and stayed out just until we went to dinner. Then, once we were seated, it rained again (we were under a covered porch) until just before we left the restaurant. The Hawai'ians say the rain is a blessing from Pele. I believe it. No one could be happier than my friend and her new husband, they make a wonderful couple (I secretly can't wait until they have children!!).

It was just amazing. I'm all fired up to learn more about the history of the Hawai'ian culture. I even would love to study the language, it sounds so gorgeous, spoken.

.

Aloha,
-B

On the Subject of Spoiling

2010-09-30T11:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took my little girl to the kids’ salon to get her hair highlighted and dyed purple. She’s been begging and begging for colored hair since she saw a woman in the Pearl with rainbow dreads. I finally relented ( I couldn’t come up with a good reason not to) and made the appointment.

Forty minutes and forty dollars later, my child has purple highlights, silver sparkles, and a new hair clip to boot. Is she smiling? Is she excited? Nope. She’s pouting and sullen because the minute we left the salon she demanded chocolate milk from Starbucks. I guess she was trying to round off her treat-filled day?
I said: “I just spent forty dollars on highlights you’ve been asking for and a brand new hair clip for you. You also got a new bug-catcher, and a new lunch box this week. No more treats.”
Cue the waterworks. In the car on the ride home, she tries to break the new hair clip (Now it’s mine, which is sweet, because I needed a cute, flower hair clip).

My thoughts are immediately: “I give this kid too much stuff, she’s obviously spoiled and it’s my fault.” And then: “I need to pare down her stuff.”

Then I read this and it helped me to realize two things: 1) Yes, it is my fault, but not in the way I imagined and 2) We need to pare down ALL of our stuff. And reserve gifts for birthdays and holidays.

My love languages are doing and gifts. I need to focus more on doing and less on gifts. I tend to entangle the two. This is where the "stuff” problem comes in.

Pantley talks about teaching your kids the value of things, and gives some very good ideas on how to do so. I think we’re going to try a couple of them, as well as pare down our possessions.

My thoughts on the subject now, the next day: “When does one draw the line between the natural arrogance of the loved child and the materialistic perversion of natural wonder?” If that’s too prosaic, well, welcome to my brain-language!

But seriously, shouldn’t I just be thrilled that my daughter is so well-loved and cared-for that she is showered with gifts and expressions of affection? So well showered she thinks nothing of a broken toy here and there? Or should she learn to appreciate and care deeply for each of her possessions? Which is the more materialistic goal? I’m not sure. I want her to treat her things with respect, but I also want to be sure they are just things, inferior to people, and incidental, not integral (to borrow an expression from Maude).

The part of Pantley’s article that really stuck out for me was: “We are always teaching our children—even if we don’t realize a lesson is in progress. Every minute, every day we spend in our children’s company is a demonstration of what we believe, and children learn well by example. “

It’s nothing new, or groundbreaking. But it is frustrating, because I give a lot of my time to volunteering, and pro-bono work for moms in need. I give a lot of our stuff away to those who need it, and I don’t ever ask or expect anything in return (except I do like to hear thanks, which I know I shouldn’t need, but it feels so GOOD).

I don’t think I put a lot of value on the material, but we do have a lot of junk, and I do buy my kids a lot of stuff...
So I think my resolution is to buy less, and play more. If I get the urge to buy my daughter something, we’ll go rent a book from the library instead.

Also, purging the garage this weekend. So there!

-B

On Inner Wisdom

2010-09-21T07:33:00.000-07:00

I was at church a few weeks ago,* and I ducked into the actual service for a few minutes while Josh was occupying River. I sat down next to my friend, and after giggling for a few minutes over the Reverend's highly sexual choice of symbolism, and half-listening, he said something that snapped my head up.

"I should be feeling the same inside, whether listening to criticism of myself, or praise." Well, I laughed, frankly.

Then he said something that clarified that: "It's about living in accordance with your own deepest wisdom." And that really struck me. Because I don't do that. And what's more: It's hard to do!

I spend a lot of time seeing myself as others see me. I tend to define my successes through the praise of others. Or through their critique...but when I have done a really, really good job, I don't need praise. And the critique I get doesn't matter, either, because I KNOW it's well done.

I just wish I could apply that more often!

I really do think that a lot can be done by just checking in with myself frequently. " Are you being a good person, right now, Bryna?" "No, Self, I'm not." "Then knock it off!" "Sorry, Self." "How about now?" "Yes, Self, I think so..." "Then go to, go to!"

So if you see me walking around talking to myself, and occasionally having arguments with myself, know that I'm really just living in accordance with my own deepest wisdom.

-B

*I know, I know.

On Overthought

2010-08-30T22:39:00.000-07:00

Internet, I am an overthinker.

I will think on things, and mull them, chew on them, turn them over and over in my thoughts until they are soggy, thought-out, worn down, and torn apart. I think them until the don't make sense anymore- Like when you say the word "refrigerator" too many times in a row.

I think about things I've said to others, things I haven't said, but should have said, things I wanted to say, things I want to say... I think about the silliest of mundane things: "Who picked these watermelons, and decided they were ripe? How did they decide?"
I think about the big stuff, too: "How can people assume their life experiences apply to everyone else?"

Lately, though, I've been overthinking my parenting choices. This has led down some pretty thorny thought-paths. For example:

I am not the parent I want to be. The parent I want to be is always present for her children, ever-patient, gentle, soft-spoken, and kind. Respectful, and appreciative of any and all impact her children have on her life.

Obviously, I am not her! I am loud, sometimes hasty in my decision-making, distrustful of my daughter's motivations, sometimes cruel. I yell too much, and am impatient with my daughter's personality traits that are dissimilar to my own. I am not always respectful, and I'm easily tired and frustrated.

I do good things, too, but those are the stark contrasts between my desires and my realities.

But I realized sometime between hollering at Maia last night and this morning, that I don't have the kind of child that would respond well to the parent I hold as an ideal. She hates that crap. She likes the chaos and confusion, and thrives on my loud, boisterous, sometimes scary, brand of parenting. She needs those highs and lows as much as I do. It's not ideal, it's nothing to write to Mothering magazine about, but it's who I am. Granted, the tired and frustrated me is not my favorite (nor Maia's), but it's real. Very, very real!

I'm not super-mom, I'm not amazing, I'm not even that great, sometimes. I'm not half-bad, though, and I don't need anyone's approval but my own. I haven't given it, lately, and it's made life harder than any length of time Josh could be gone. I invent a gallery of judgmental onlookers in my head, and give myself over to them to be tortured over every decision, every mistake I make.

To myself:
I don't care if we make different parenting choices, Ideal Bryna. I'm not seeking your approval. I am certainly not seeking your disapproval, either, so can the judgmental,unsupportive crap, imaginary mom jury!

But, being an overthinker, I didn't stop there. Ho, no!

I kept on winding down through that overgrown mental brush, wondering where it would lead. I discovered I have a very definite ideal for my whole sense of self, too. In fact, I have several. I am young, yet. So much younger than many (and most) of my friends. I haven't set in stone who I plan to be forever. Do we ever?

I am not sure if I am that badass, hardcore, cares-to-the wind, beer-at-lunch mom with a soft spot for UU's and my kids, or if I really am a gentle spirit, in-touch with my earth-mama self, chanting my way through my garden and homemade life. Am I that stylish, material-driven, stock-investing, mom? I know I'm a mom. I'm happy that way. I know I love to help other people. I know I love my family and friends purely, deeply, intensely. I know I have the best of intentions. But that's it. That's all I know about myself (This makes so much more sense to me than to you, internet, but that's okay).

I feel like that comic, Rose Is Rose.

There's so much more to think about. I'll let you know if I ever decide. For now, though, I'm back to mulling.

-B

On The Kindness of Strangers

2010-08-12T22:03:00.000-07:00

This has been an interesting week.

Monday, I had a great morning and afternoon at the zoo with a friend. On our way home, my car stopped working, quite suddenly, on the freeway. I pulled over. I tried starting it, and it, happily, started up and drove for just long enough to get off the freeway, but not quite long enough to pull all the way over into a parking spot. While now blocking traffic, I am quite certain I made a conspicuous flashing spectacle on that side street in Portland.

What happened next was the most interesting, though. While waiting for the tow truck to come, not less than 30 people drove or rode or walked past me. Most thought I was turning, and waited behind me for just long enough to get mad at me when I waved them around. Pedestrians were convinced I was diabolically plotting their demise. You know, since a mom with two screaming, zoo-tired kids has nothing better to do.

Not one of these folks asked if I needed help. Plenty of them made delightful hand gestures when they read my hastily-scrawled sign: "car broken!" A few of them told me off for ending up where I was. Another asked why I didn't just move it over. (Really? Maybe if I just want it badly enough, it'll move?)

Luckily, I was on the phone with a very dear friend, or it would have been enough to move me to tears of frustration. What kind of person yells at someone in need of help?!

Finally, just before the tow truck arrived, a very nice passerby asked if I'd like help to push my car out of the way. Yes!! Thank you! Then, up walked a group of three people who also helped. Together, it was a simple shove out of the way of the street.

Saved my faith in humanity (for the moment!).

Then, when the tow truck arrived, no one would stop long enough to let him turn around and tow my car. They honked at him, and drove around him like maniacs ( All of maybe 10 cars, this was not a busy thoroughfare, though you'd never guess by these drivers' reactions to this interruption).

Finally, I get the car seats changed into the tow truck, and get to the auto repair shop. The car doesn't actually get fixed, but that's another story.

Then I met a friend of a friend, Melinda and her friend, Chelsy, who had her 10 month old daughter, Kaia, with her. What delightful strangers! We had a delightful time getting to know each other, with sparkling, funny, intriguing conversation that lasted from that afternnon, into the late evening/early morning, and throughout the next morning. When we finally parted company, I felt like I'd known these "strangers" for years. It's not every day you meet such lovely people.

We spent some time at Voodoo doughnuts (a requisite experience for Melinda's first visit to Portland), and at Laurelhurst park, where almost everyone we met was in a friendly, talkative mood. Plus one for the strangers!

Tonight, I was at a concert in the park with Chelsy. While trying to find parking (downtown was a zoo!), a man decided to block traffic, and let his family out, including all their stuff, and then proceed to make conversation, etcetera. Thinking to myself: "Ah! To be on the other side of the situation! I willl be polite!" I rolled my window down to let him know he was blocking traffic, and ask: "Could you please move your car?" To which this man replies: "Yeah, I know. Fuck off, go around." Minus one for the strangers...

Yikes! When I met up with Chelsy, we both noticed the inordinate amount of dirty looks shot our way. It seemed everyone was in a funk tonight! I don't know how, the weather was balmy and beautiful, the music was good (and free!) and it seemed like a good time! How is it that the general population is so dour?

Later, I was chasing after River, who took off running while I was helping Maia on the playground. I must have run a bit too fast, because when I scooped him up, I couldn't stop my forward momentum, and went ass over teakettle in a twisty attempt not to fall on the baby. He cried (very briefly, out of shock) and I sat on the ground, stunned and bleeding from a skinned elbow and knee.

I was surrounded by people watching the music. Several laughed or stared in surprise, and one gentleman looked down his nose at me and sneered "I suppose you'll want a hand up?" I declined with a smile. And did my best to deflect the wrath of another man telling me off for allowing my child to get the best of me. Not one person asked if I was all right! How odd!

What a strange week, with its polarized social experiences. From unbelievably rude to the serendipitous, it's been nothing if not consistently interesting. And an excellent reminder to be kind to your fellow humans. We are the same species, after all!

-B

On Doing It the Hard Way

2010-08-11T05:02:00.000-07:00

They say you should work smarter, not harder. Efficiency is key. Time is Money. An Ounce of Prevention is worth a Pound of Cure.

I mean, even water follows the path of least resistance, right?

So why do I do everything the hard way?

I don't know. I've been playing scientist for the past few weeks, and observing myself. I tend to choose the most difficult solution to all of the decisions I face, big and small. From choosing to handwash dishes in lieu of loading/unloading the dishwasher to baking things from scratch, or sewing something when the end result from something store-bought would be the same.

No one else would notice, so why do I make it harder on myself?

I keep asking myself the same question! It's not like I don't have enough on my plate as it is. My husband is gone for extended periods of time, I have two small children, a puppy, and a house to take care of. I am trying to get a business off the ground in the worst possible economy (and totally saturated market, I should add. You can turn around without seeing a doula/lactation professional in this town!). Why bother adding work?

The truth is, I don't know. But another truth is that I don't regret it, either. In fact, I kind of like it.

I know, these are my decisions, and I have to live with them, can't complain, etcetera, etcetera. I'm clear on that part. But seriously, I find the busier I am, the happier I am. We all have this ideal of a relaxed, carefree, problem-free life in our heads. We walk around, carrying around this goal above our heads like a Ghanese woman's market basket, constantly comparing our realities to this ideal and being disappointed. Really, we do.

But I find when I spend more time doing, and less time sitting and thinking, I'm a much happier and relaxed person. It's almost the exact opposite of what you'd expect. Sure, I'm tired. Sure, a nap sounds amazing. But if I slow down and take a nap, I guarantee I'll be in a worse mood when I wake up, not a better one.

Who knows? Some of us are just made to be busy, all the time, I guess. I could just buy my cloth diapers, but I like to make my own (it does save money, but not time), I could buy bread, but I bake it instead (even if it means being up until midnight), I like to spend time problem solving, and puzzling things out. It feels like cheating to go with the quick and easy solution, there's no joy in it.

I think that's it. The joy in the finished product. Sure I could pay to have that chair reupholstered, but then I'd have no real pride when I look at that chair. I don't get to glow and say "I did that!" I guess it all comes down to pride. Which makes sense. I love showing off. Isn't that terrible?! I loved show and tell as a kid, I love to craft and say "I made this!", I write a blog, to tell you all what I'm thinking. It's all very self-satisfactory. The pride in a finished product. Hard work makes it that much better.

It's easy to buy cookies from the store, and it's easy to have a pizza delivered, but through a combination of things (Maia's corn allergy, my own pride) we opt for the homemade versions instead. And, occasionally, when I do these things the easy way, it feels so, so good! A huge treat, Ridiculously excessive, even. The way I feel about buying bananas, and hydroponic tomatoes out of season. These aren't local! They're not even supposed to be here. But, oh what a treat!

It's funny how the definitions of exorbitance change when your lifestyle does, isn't it?

So don't mind me, over here, baking my bread for the PB&J (homemade jam, too, of course!), and hand-washing the floor instead of using the mop. Who knows why I make these choices, except that the end result is just that much more satisfying when you work a little harder to get there.

The Sheep on the Fence

2010-06-21T08:18:00.000-07:00

Let me start out by saying I avoid political discussions like the plague, unless I'm very sure I'm in like-minded company.

Discussion is great...for those of you with the idea that maybe you'll change minds. But when I'm in pleasant company, I'm not trying to change the world, I'm trying to drink a glass of wine with friends. I'll save it for the rally. It does no one any good to get all heated up and I just end up angry and resentful, and no one's mind is changed. Clearly, I'm not a politician, or even a very good advertisement for my causes!

What I do know is that, after lots of careful thought, and study, almost all of my opinions and beliefs head straight down the middle! I'm okay with that.

I took this ridiculous political quiz, that was completely subjective, and clearly written by a child. That aside, the result I was given was that I was a "mindless sheep" and that I should throw myself off a cliff. Harsh!

I gave it some more thought, though, and decided I LIKE being a sheep ( certainly not mindless, nor suicidal), and here's why.

You who are radically passionate about your causes need people like me, or the world would be in chaos, constantly. Those of my friends with anarchist leanings may not mind such a world, but the majority of people wouldn't prefer such a state, I think.

I'm the vanilla to your aged balsamic vinegar, the whipped cream to your jalapeno milkshake. The white canvas to your string painting.

This is not to say I haven't, and don't, carefully research my opinions, and decide on my votes and beliefs after thoroughly weighing my options, and hearing both sides. I just happen to fall (most of the time) right around center.

Moderation in all things. Even, if you'll pardon the conundrum, of moderation itself.

And the people like me need those of you who are simply wild about your cause. Living, breathing campaigns for making our world (in your estimation) a better place. Without you, I'd probably do less research, I wouldn't sit up and take notice. I'd sign fewer petitions, and send fewer letters.

We all have our parts to play, even those Westboro baptists. Without extremists like them, you'd have nothing for comparison (for kindness, compassion, goodness, moderation...) without opposites, you can't have the inverse.

But we all know we need people to change the world. We need people to get out and shout. We know! Hear me roar, and all that. But it seems to me there is much derision for those of us who can see equal merit in both sides of the issue. Those unwilling to stand definitely on one side or the other. "On the Fence" is an insult flung at "flip-flopping" politicians. A hefty chunk of mud!

Eventually, I'll make my decision, no matter what's being shouted. I may not like voting along party lines (in fact, I think I've had enough of political parties altogether!) and I may make my opinions known more quietly. If we were all shouting, who could hear anything at all?

That being said (and done to death) I'll relay these events to you:

I was walking through Farmer's Market two weeks ago, getting our groceries for the week. I had just walked past a folding card table with political signage, and was planning on ignoring it, in favor of the sale the fungus guy was having on morels. But The table was hung with what probably were fifteen or twenty large posters of Obama, with a Hitler mustache.

This sheep shed her wool, and jumped off that fence.

I almost decked the woman standing there, with a self-righteous chin thrust out at the curious, and mainly disgusted looks given to her by passersby. We do need people like her in the world. But that doesn't mean I can't disagree!

I was so upset I was shaking. I stuttered that she couldn't possibly believe these pictures were going to advance her cause, nor endear her to anyone besides her own comrades. I told her there was no comparison, and having had family involved in the war, I was deeply offended. She continually cut off my worlds with: "Do you want to keep it from happening again? Do you want to keep it from happening again?" And thrusting a clipboard with a petition to impeach Obama in my face. She nearly beat me over the head with it. I am certain she didn't hear a word I said.

I couldn't help but cursing her out, in german. It was probably less than appropriate, friends, but it felt so good. And at least it finally shut her up!

But it didn't really do anyone any good, except maybe to cement both our respective beliefs. Hers, that I'm a mindless sheep, and mine, that she's a mindless radical. Depending on your political bent, you'll either agree or disagree, and that's fine.

Just don't paint a Hitler mustache on it, okay?

On the Subject of Whelming

2010-03-17T10:31:00.000-07:00

Whenever the baby falls asleep, and lets me put him down, I have this terrible habit of doing nothing.

But it doesn't start out as doing nothing! It goes a little like this:

River: "snore, snarkle, scrmpff...zzzzz"

Me: (to myself) Oh! He's asleep! I wonder if he's really asleep? What stage of REM do you think he's in? Maybe he's in Stage 2 and I can get him down? Best wait a few more minutes to be sure...

I'll go on, mentally that way for a while. Then, I'll start counting my chickens before they hatch, in delirious anticipation of two free hands, and unfettered reign of the homestead.

It's like waiting for Easter, guessing what might be in the Bunny's basket. "I could do some artwork, or paint River's walls! I could finally patch those holes in my favorite skirt, and finish knitting that hat! Maybe I could go and garden while he sleeps, and leave the window open! Ooh, or maybe I could sit and sew some of those projects I haven't finished!"

Now, at this point, IF I can get him down (unusual), inside my head sounds like this:

Me: "Okay! Okay! Ha hah! Two hands free! No baby on my back! Hee hee!!! What do I do first? Oh, right. I should probably do something important. Clean toilets? Wash windows? Dishes? Will he sleep through the vacuum? There is a mountain of laundry to fold, too..."

By the time I finish contemplating, trying to remember all the things I look at all day and say to myself: "Tonight..." or "When the baby is asleep...", I'm so overwhelmed with the things that need doing, and want doing, and the things I want to do that I give up, pour myself a glass of juice, and read a few pages in my book.

Inevitably, 20 minutes later, River's up and ready to discover new ways to potentially maim himself. Off we go!

So, I get nothing done. Every time. Sure, stuff gets done. But I know I could be more productive and save us the money we spend on a housekeeper. I could...

I don't really want to, though. That's the topic for another day.

For now, I'm going to go and try to put this sleeping baby down. Maybe I'll pack those boxes to send, after all!

-B

Things I Will Teach My Children When No One Else Is Listening

2010-02-19T23:08:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up, there were things my mom would tell me in closest confidence. When we were alone together, doing something mundane, like driving to ballet, or changing the bed sheets. Sometimes she would look into my eyes, and even the air in the room held still.

“Don’t ever” she would say, “Don’t ever ask someone how much something cost.”

And just like that, we would go back to what we were doing. These things were not invitations to discuss. Nor would she have answered if I’d thought to ask why.

Every time I see someone commit a social faux pas, I cringe just a little. And thank my mother in my head for her wisdom. Or, if it’s my faux pas, I see her looking across the bed at me, mid sheet-change. Whoops. “Sorry, Mom.” Grace is learned. Usually, learned the hard way, through mistakes. But my mom had a lot to do with my learning of social graces.

These are the things I will teach my children, when no one else can hear us:

One day, you will have a husband or wife. If you do, and they say: “I’m probably just overreacting.” Do not agree with them. Don’t say anything at all.

If you don't know just what to say, don't say anything. Silence is much, much better than saying something you can't take back.

If you get married, and guests come from far away to see you, make a concentrated effort to spend some time with them. Give them 10 minutes of your undivided attention, no matter how busy you are.

Always make a fresh pot of coffee if you take the last cup. Always. Even if it's a waste of coffee.

Take the smallest slice, if you are serving yourself.

Don’t eat until everyone has been served. Even when your company tells you to “Go ahead and eat!” Don’t.

Never comment on anyone’s parenting style. You won’t “fix” their children in a half-hour visit.

Guilt trips, while effective, are a lazy way to get what you want. They usually work, but they leave a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. Forget it.

Every day, do one thing you really, really don’t want to do. It’s excellent practice.

Find something you like about everyone you meet. Compliment them on it.

Ask people questions. This is very important if they’re obviously uncomfortable in a social situation. Don’t leave them out in the cold.

. It matters what you look like. I don't care what you like to wear in your free time, dress appropriately for your social situation. And no matter what you're wearing, as long as it's clean, and ironed, if need be. Practice good hygiene. It does not diminish your character to use skin care products. No matter what your belief system! Your outside is as important as your inside. This certainly should not be misconstrued into "Look like everyone else." That is NOT what I mean here. I mean, simply, that you should take good care of your body.

Nobody cares that you refuse to shop at such and such store for x and y very good reasons. Or that you don't celebrate a certain holiday, or only eat organic. Don't proselytize. It’s not a kind way to treat people. Be diplomatic.

These are things I think about a lot. I should work on taking my own advice. But if I can get two more people to grow up this way, I think I can help make this world a nicer place to be.

Especially this last rule. It doesn’t help you champion your cause when all you do is make people feel bad. I am thrilled for you, that you’ve found a passion. Good! Don’t drive/drink/shop at Wal-Mart/use graphite. But I feel bad when I see status updates like:

“Oh! Thank goodness I’m so great, since I don’t use graphite pencils! I pity those poor losers who do. Don’t they know about all the poor enslaved kittens being exploited to mine the stuff?!?!”

And then I think: "But I DO use graphite pencils! And I like them! And now so-and-so who is my friend obviously thinks I'm an idiot." It's a really icky, pit-of-the-stomach feeling. In other people it comes out as defensive anger. I've seen it. And understood it.
I can't stand the thought of making anyone feel that way. Much less my children making someone feel that way. Or feeling that way. It's just bad to consciously make others feel bad.

In an effort to explain myself, since I realize this very blog post breaks my last rule; I really do mean what I’ve said. These are things I hope to teach my children one day.

They have nothing to do with you. I am not secretly judging, or suggesting you do or change anything. I’m just letting you peek in at me in a few years, when I am driving Maia to ballet. I will say to her: “Even though they say it doesn’t matter anymore, please don’t wear white after Labor Day.”

-B

Hello, My Name Is

2010-02-02T00:16:00.000-08:00

I have got to come clean to you about my addiction.

Its got the best, all-day high, and it is such a fricken' rush.

I am addicted to Yes. Yes! I will do your taxes! YES, please let me do your laundry.

Okay, those are extreme, and made-up examples (Except the taxes one. That one is true). But I just love being available to help when and where I can.

It goes like this.

We'll be talking. I'm enjoying your company. Then the moment of the need comes up, and I can smell it, a mile away. Like any true addict, I know where this is going. Then, I'll volunteer myself, and usually you will say: "Oh! No, it's really okay." Because you are worried about whatever most people worry about when they won't accept help. And then I try again, and in the best-case scenario, I can see you're going to do it. You're going to say yes to my yes and let me help. Yes.

And then I get that fabulous, heady feeling of self-worth and goodness and do-goodness and peace that I really am doing the right thing. Making good choices. Yes.

That high lasts a couple of days, and then I have to have another hit. I need some way to make it last!

Giving money to the needy is a quick-fix, but not as satisfying as helping a friend. Friends, you get to see the results of your help, and it's their happiness that sweetens the deal, seals the high. Keeps me coming back for more.

But not all yesses are good. I hate to say the yes that means I need help. I do. And there are times when it's unavoidable. It's the opposite of the high. It's the slow, thick sludge through the veins, tooth-sweatery, morning-after feeling. yes. I do need help. yes.

But it's okay, because then I have made future securities in getting another sweet Yes out of that person later. Yes, I get to help you again, when you need it. Yes.

This is not a victimless addiction. Though it may seem so. No, the victims are the unfortunate few, who, when I set myself up with too many hits, too many Yesses and not enough Yesser. I have to say No. And No is the worst part about this fickle mistress. No is the crash, the come down, and it's hard and fast and leaves you feeling icky, mildly sick for days. No.I'm sorry.

And I am. There is nothing worse than running out of time, money, energy, resources and not being able to get my fix. To see that smile on a friend's face. and there are always more, more people that need me. For every homeless lady I give my spare cash, leftovers, and canned food to, there are two more with sadder, more gut-wrenching stories. Here, take this, Yes. Don't tell me your story, please, just take it! I get crazy, addled with things to do, people to see, places I just need to be. And the carefully balanced wheel tilts crazy angles and stuff starts flying every which way until I have to bring it all to a freezing, crashing, aching halt with a No. No.

All addicts are selfish. I am no exception. My Yes is an entirely selfish pursuit of the good feeling I'll get from seeing you through to your happy ending. Yes. I will do whatever it takes.

Well, I won't do that. \

But what I will do, now, after one too many, Nos and one too many I'm Sorrys. I can say Yes and just hold space. I can bear witness if I have nothing else to give, I can give you me for the time it takes to listen.

I don't have any more money, but How is your day? Are you doing alright?

I don't get the same high from this yes. It's a new drug entirely. And I like it. It won't replace the Yes. But it can help in the in-between times. A filler-fix. If I can balance the Yes and the yes, I can become a high-functioning addict. I can avoid that No.

So, please, let me know if there is anything, anything at all you need. I'm here.

-B

Who is this?

2010-01-26T21:28:00.000-08:00

I am pretty sure this is a Shel Silverstein poem, but Google couldn't find it. So maybe this just wrote itself in my head. But I don't think so.

I am not a very good poet, as many of my good friends who are good poets will begrudgingly (or maybe not so begrudgingly) tell you.

I'm not feeling like myself today. Who are you?
Maybe I'll be a hippie or a wet blanket,
tomorrow I'll be a poet, a painter, a sinner.
And someday I'll be a writer who writes,
the most significant type!

A follower, a sheep, a visionary.
A fellow, thinking deep, reactionary.

Sometimes I'm environmentally conscious, or fashion conscious,
or just consious, careful, bewareful.
Or passionate, carefree, no small things bother me!

If I can be Alternative on Tuesday, and Pious on Wednesday,
I can be Learned by Thursday, and Jaded by Friday.
I can be tech savvy or Luddite,
I wonder if I can be erudite?

I can be all these things, Or I can be me.
But I am not feeling myself today. Oh, what should I do?
Will you tell me who I should be? Can I Be you?

-B

NOTE: Tomorrow, I will post something noxious. So enjoy this one, and skip tomorrow's, okay?

I'm Gay for God! (Warning! Offensive Material Within!!)

2010-01-26T20:42:00.000-08:00

NOTE: I spent the last few days deciding whether or not to post this. I have fought with what I think I should do, what the logical thing to do would be, and what I feel like doing. Like most terrible decisions, I am going to go with what I feel like doing. My gut says: "Go for it." So, I am. Then let me continue on to say that I usually find people spouting this kind of thing obnoxious, and so don't look for any more gritty, angry, "heavy, deep, and real" posts from here on out. My blog is my five minutes of freedom from everything, so it'll more than likely be pretty upbeat. Whew! With all that said, here we go! Also. I broke my own five minute rule for this one. This took longer than five minutes to write, but I did ony write/edit in five minute blocks, if that counts?

--------

I love my friends and family, truly, I do. You, too. Yep, even you, in the back, with the boogers in your beard.

But I do not love how often I have mangled bible quotes and proselytizing blurbs shoehorned into my facebook newsfeed sounding like my 7th grade religion class teacher, Sister Mary James, letting me know just what I should be feeling guilty for today.

Friends/family, I love you. I do. This has nothing to do with our relationship.

Since moving to the Northwest, I have come way closer to the Christian Right we read so much about in the newspaper down in California. It's everywhere I turn.

I know St. Francis said to evangelize in any way possible. That's great. I was raised Catholic. I know my bible. Both Testaments.
That's not my problem. My problem is the unspoken, holier than thou attitude I find running along with this New Agey, happy Jesus Christianity. "Jesus loves you! Unless you're gay, then He loves you and His forgiveness is always welcoming to you when you are ready to repent your horrid transgressions against Him. It's in the bible!"

Yep, God said we shouldn't sodomize eachother, or animals. He also said you shouldn't wear clothing of mixed fibers. That's not a cotton poly-blend sweater your wore to church with your pearls (A rich man trying to get into heaven is like a camel trying to go through the eye of a needle) is it?

I don't even know where I'm going with this. I'm just sad that this welcoming version of this religion welcomes everyone who is willing to accept Jesus into their heart and be "saved" or "reborn" and to do this, you must deny some fundamental things about yourself.

Jesus never said he was the only son of god. He said we are all god's children. He is the son as you are the son, and we are sons and daughters or whatever. That's great. Equals. Whatever your choices. He hung out with those people you pity, the hookers, the gays, the lepers, the really poor folk, the drug addicts, alcoholics, the half-crazy mom bloggers who like rainbow chalice faiths and give thanks to the universe...moving on.

There are things I do love about Christianity. I love, love, love the beautiful traditions in the Catholic church. Mass is so comforting in any new place because it's always the same. I know all the responses, whether in Latin, English, Spanish, or song (I was an altar server, you know!). I think Ecclesiastes is one of the most beautiful things ever written by human (divine?) hands.

I love the original intended inclusion of the faith. All are welcome here. I love that Cathedrals don't lock their doors to anyone. Or, well, they didn't used to. I love the beauty in the stories and the history enmeshed in the mythology of the lives of the saints. I love the idea of Mary Magdalene, not the whore they later painted her to be. I even love the idea of this traveling carpenter and all his buddies, trying to let people in on this new way of simple living, and loving. Have you ever really loved your neighbor as yourself? Do you realize what that entails?! It's astounding, and so provoking for the time, and even for today, when we have grown farther apart, if possible, as neighbors, not closer together.

That being said, want to hear my thoughts?

Don't pity the gay people, please. They are happy, just the way they are. There is nothing to pity! And please, judge not lest ye be judged, and give them a fucking break and quit quibbling about whether or not they can get married! For real! It's ludicrous that anyone who is following Jesus' teachings ( And Christ! What about the rest of the scriptures? Jesus is only in there for like, a minute. Okay, four gospels.)

Also, let's get real and wake up and smell the pheromones, please. Teens are going to have sex, no matter how much fire and brimstone you spew at them. Let's push for comprehensive sex-ed for our teens and please include information about normal gestation, pregnancy and BREASTFEEDING in there, yeah? They'll all be doing it in the next 10-15 years or so! It's good that they're introduced to it somehow.

And while we're dreaming, let's toss in the whole pro-choice thing, too. I, personally, if faced with a positive pregnancy test tomorrow, would keep the baby. You too? Great. Let's move on. Sheila down the street? She's about a hundred bucks ahead of foreclosure, and really can't afford to keep that baby. Oops. That's not YOUR CHOICE. How dare you vote to put her and her seven children in the street after you instituted that abstinence-only education, so now, as a married adult she has no clue what to do with her own body. (And she can't really afford BC since insurance companies don't cover it. Thanks for that. But it's her husband's god-given right to fuck her every Sunday, so what is she to do?)

Or that 17 year old girl who got raped by her uncle? Nope, she'd better keep that baby too. Oh, or give it up for adoption. Great. Condemn that baby to a life of foster homes and uncertainty. Quantity of life, not quality?

It's not so nice to have someone else's opinions pushed on you, yeah? I am not going to open the comments up for debate, either. I don't want to debate this. It's been done to death, and I'm not an expert debater. I just get emotional and upset. Plus, if I hear just one more person tell me gay marriage is the equivalent to you marrying your dog, I will just SCREAM. These are humans, not dogs. Humans that have advanced beyond embryonic phases, even! Also, polygamy is a separate issue. Gay folks want same sex monogamous marriages, not polygamous ones. So that argument is null and void, too. You're not going to convert me. Don't be sad, don't pity me, either.

I am happy, so happy, in my heathen Unitarian-Universalist-cafeteria-Catholic-buddhist-humanist-scientific-searching for truth, meaning, and social justice-ways.

I am trying, however offensively, to illustrate the point that we should keep our opinions on sensitive issues to ourselves. I want to hear how you're doing, not read a half-misquoted, watered-down bible quote. I'm not a fan.

I spend a lot of time keeping my mouth shut, trying hard not to offend others. I think that's why I am so riled up. Because when I see all this religious babble, I get offended. No one else thought about that, so, for now, neither will I.

But do what you want. I just had to get this off my chest. Still. I love you for who you are. Just don't get offended if I don't love your personal faith, too. I know you don't love mine! And it's okay. I love that we're different and can still be friends. I like your perspective on things.

Love,
-B

On the Importance of Being

2010-01-25T16:01:00.000-08:00

. On a rare moment, midafternoon when I've cleaned the kitchen (well, dishwasher dishes don't really count!), and put away the toys, and the tyrants are asleep, I get free time.

What do I do? Usually I wander around in circles, drinking a cold cup of coffee. I'll stand at the counter and check my email/facebook, and wander in some more circles, and pick at little spots of scum. Sometimes I'll try and train the puppy to do elaborate tricks. Sometimes, rarely, I make phonecalls.

I still have so much to do in the house. Upstairs is a mess, I have laundry that needs changing over to the dryer, and clean, folded laundry that needs putting away. I can think of a billion other small things that need doing.

Why don't I do them? I don't know! I wish I had, come9 and 10 o'clock at night. I really do, because then, another day has gone by with so much undone.

I think I am afraid of finishing it all. What happens when everything is done? What's next?

This is flawed logic. With a nine month old baby and a three year old preschooler, there will always be a sticky spot to wipe, or a head to kiss, or blood or poo or vomit to clean out of the carpet. (Thanks for always being there, Bac-Out!)

But still. When I get a few minutes, I do things like daydream, or sew, or wander in circles, drinking sips from a cold cup of coffee. Hardly productive at all. I guess I need clearer goals, more deadlines, more important stuff to do.

But when else will someone notice there is a beetle stuck inside the screen on the window in the front room? When else do I have time to stand and admire my christmas tree? I'm not sure this menial stuff isn't important. I just can't figure out why it takes precedence over clean clothes to wear.

Obviously, it doesn't, always take precedence. Since no one in this house goes without clean underwear unless they choose to do so, and the rooms are getting painted, little by little, and stuff does get put away. The beds do get made, at least once a week, and the house keepers do vacuum, when they come. It all gets done eventually.

There is just something reassuring in putting these things off, in keeping the revolving door of Things That Need To Be Addressed going in slow, off-kilter circles. Some days are more productive than others. Some days I bake the bread, some days I buy it.

I guess that's just how it goes.

My time is up, though, the natives are stirring, and I was supposed to...what was it?

-B

Are You Ready, Boots?

2010-01-23T18:30:00.000-08:00

I have buried myself in my life.

Not in a bad way, I don't mean to imply I'm stifled, smothered, or buried alive. Rather, I mean buried in the way one buries their self in a freshly laundered down comforter in a soft bed in a pool of mid-morning sunlight on a Sunday.

That being said, you have to get out of bed once in a while. So I skipped out on Pizza and Movie Night in favor of a pro-choice benefit in the city. I got dressed up in clothes I hadn't worn in so long, I couldn't be sure they were even mine. I brushed my hair, put some makeup on ( in the dark, while driving...) and headed out to pick up a friend. She volunteers for NARAL, who put on the benefit, called Chocolate for Choice.

What better way to get a bunch of women to show up than by offering wine and chocolate? Also, I must say I was as pleased with the moxie of these chocolatiers and patisseries to take a stance on such a controversial issue as I was with their offerings. Really. Ancho Chile Red Velvet cupcakes? Flourless malted chocolate sandwiches? Chocolate, chocolate cookies, with chocolate ice cream? Yes! Yes! Yes! Heaven. Bliss. Ganache!

The night just couldn't be over after the Attorney General's speech about the similarities of Roe v. Wade and chocolate...no really. He also admitted to thieving Snickers bars off his coworkers' desks, in case any of you faceless readers happen to work with him.

So we piled into the car and headed off to Wilff's at Union Station to pick up another friend of a friend, and our fun continued. Unexpectedly, we stepped back in time about 60 year when we walked into this lounge. Fabulous place. I was imagining a deli, for some reason and what I got was this gorgeous, red-brick and velvet acoustic heaven, a jazz singer complete with pianist and bassist(upright, of course), and depression-era glass chandeliers. Velvet curtains, high backed chairs, and a wise-cracking bartender. We caught the last 15 minutes of the band's set (This Can't Be Love, Madly Yours) and headed to The Ambassador.

The Ambassador sounds like some sort of French, Napoleon-themed dive to me, but it wasn't that at all. Instead, it was a delicious chinese food restaurant and karaoke bar ( I had been begging for karaoke. No, really)! They even make all their food from scratch as you order it! No greasy, microwaved chow-mein here! What better accompaniment to your liquid courage when at karaoke than a flaming pu pu platter?

At this point the night began taking on this fantastical, wonderland quality. The kind of night where anything is possible and nothing will go wrong. The very best kind of night! We sang and danced and I had a Singapore Sling, and my friend had a Gimlet, and we just generally made merry.

The women I met were fantastic. The barflies who tried very hard to take us home were adorable, if misguided, and the whole night was a smashing success.

Did I mention the last time I'd done that was over a year ago? Because, if I didn't, I'm nuts. The last time I've taken the opportunity to escape housewifery was a long, long time ago. Not that housewifery needs frequent escape. But sometimes you need to put on your good shoes and some red lipstick and pink eyeshadow that doesn't go (it was all I had in the botttom of my purse), and dance. And sing. Also, did I mention barflies hit on us? I guess, underneath the mom-crust, I've still got something going on!

It was like a dream. And not a groggy,half-remembered dream. It was like one of those super-vivid, wild thrill-ride dreams. The kind you wake up missing a little. It was a Magical Night of Nobody Needing Anything At All From Me, and it was divine.

Oh, what did I sing? Nancy Sinatra's one and only, of course.

-B

Buzz Buzz Buzz

2010-01-12T21:37:00.000-08:00

I have had all sorts of blog ideas buzzing around in my head the past few days or so.

I wanted to write about Maia. And then I wanted to write about River, and how he'll only say real words to total strangers, and reserves his secret baby babbles for me. And then I really wanted to write about how nothing you ever start seems to get finished, and when something actually does get finished, it's the most overwhelmingly satisfying experience.

Instead I am going to write about what happened to me today. It's not profound, or anything new, but it was a really, really good day.

Today needs to be prefaced with Last Night. Last Night, I went to IKEA, wandering the passages for hour after mind-numbing hour, letting my ADHD run wild. My children were mostly cooperative and mildly amused by the sheer volume of Stuff One Can Live Without all around. I wandered and wandered. And eventually, waited for Josh to show up after work with his truck, to transport a shelving unit to make better use of our utility room.

So numb was my mind from IKEA's blazing eco-bulb bright tilt-o-whirl of home furnishings that when Josh handed me two 50's (our "incidentals" or spending money we get out once a week, to keep ourselves on budget) I stuck them into my back pocket without much more thought. I was intent on showing him the perfect shelves for the living room. And a matching coffee table!!

So, this morning, when I went to retrieve those fateful 50's, they were nowhere to be found. Yikes! I spent as much time as I reasonably could searching for them before taking Maia off to school. Late, of course. I am kicking myself and grumbling and feeling like just such a heel for losing that money. While not life-changing, one hundred dollars can still buy a lot. It's no small amount! I called Josh, who was, at this point, halfway to Seattle on his business trip. He is kind, and does not ream me like I know (feel) I deserve.
Not satisfied and with more time to drive and feel useless and hopeless about recovering the money, I called my dad, who has given me the all the best advice I've ever gotten in my life. He makes me feel a lot better about the situation. He helps me to allocate the money with everything from "paying a karmic debt," to "repayment for the aerobed we bought you." Such a sweet man. He's the smartest guy I know. But that's another blog in and of itself.

I get to IKEA after dropping off Maia, and search the area around Last Night's Parking Spot halfheartedly. I also needed to return some shelving I'd bought in the wrong size. Oops. Luckily for me, I found someone walking along straightaway. she was a smiling, matronly southern woman. I stopped her and asked, not a little sheepishly, if she'd heard of anyone turning in two $50 bills, folded in half. She looked at me sideways to find out if I was serious. "Honey, are you serious?" "I know, I know," I said, even more sheepishly. "I know, I sound like a nutjob. But I think I dropped it, and I'd be remiss if I didn't at least ask...it is a lot of money." Silence. "My husband will kill me?" I offer, quietly. She laughs at me and calls up to "LP" (loss prevention). She has laughter in her voice and a big goofy grin on her face as she makes a show about calling up there...big, exaggerated gestures like she's putting on a play. Then, the laughter cuts out, like it's been turned off, and her grin falls to the floor, faster, by just a fraction of a second, than her jaw. "Okay," she said. "I'll send her up." No way.

Way. Someone. Some body, some glorious, angelic, do-gooding, munificent, and altruistic body turned the money in. Amazing. Absolutely amazing. I am wondering where, when, how I did anything so wonderful to deserve such fine treatment from the universe. I mean, I am a pretty good person, but I'd say average at best. Aren't we all? On a scale of one-to-ten, with ten being "Archangelic," and one being "Beelzebub." I'd say I'm hovering at about a 6 or so.

She didn't believe it. Neither did I. I had picked her big, goofy grin up from off the floor, dusted it off, and tried it on for size. "Naw. You're puttin' me on!" "No, really, someone turned it in!" She says. Amazing. I could have kissed her. I'm not entirely sure I didn't try.

Slowly, I walked to the Loss Prevention area iside the Staff area. I hiked up this long stairwell past a group of Portland-looking IKEA employees. I know they're talking but I can't even hear them. I just look at them stupidly and walk on. I come to this samll window, half-open, and ask the man seated there...nothing. I stammer incoherently for a few seconds and then just trail off. Unsure of what to say. "Uh. Uh...your coworker called up, about me...I uh, well, do you have two $50 bills?" He looks at me over the tops of his glasses and says, "Yep! Here they are, two $50's as described! It happens all the time," he says. He hands me an envelope and asks me to sign for it. I asked for the name of the person who turned them in. To thank them, reward their honesty. "Nope," he says. "Okay. Well, thank you! Thank you!" "Happens all the time." He says, bearing witness to a small miracle that's just another part of his job.

Really? I'd just always sort of assumed people would take the money and keep it. I always thought those silly test questions, "If you found $100 on the ground would you keep the money or turn it in?" Were just to make people feel bad, or were little white lie questions, where you're societally obligated to says "Of course!" But realistically, you know you'd keep it...

I never imagined there'd be someone who honestly answered: "Turn it in." Let alone someone who answered that, and then found my money! It's different when it's your money!

The events that transpired this morning have restored my faith in humanity. The fact that most people are just mostly good is a nice fact to be reminded of once in a while. And if I ever find money again, I'm turning it in.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my charmed self to bed. Thanks, humanity! And thanks, whoever you are, for turning my money in. If I could, I'd give you half.

-B

The Tao of Children

2009-12-28T11:14:00.000-08:00

Having more than one child is like re-reading your favorite book, and discovering whole chapters you've missed.
Here are some things I've learned:

Give in to co-sleeping. Eventually, it will happen.

Don't get too attached to things, they'll get broken eventually. Or thrown up on.

It's best to keep quiet when you feel like raging ( i haven't really learned that one, but I know I should).

The bathroom is the only place to escape, sometimes. If you want an undisturbed meal, eat it in there. Ditto shower.

If husband is home, get the time you need to recoup your energy lost, soon it'll be all on you again.

Let it go.

No expectations, no disappointments. Don't get emotionally invested in the outcome.

I don't know half as much as I will twice as many years from now.

Don't judge.

Get out of the house! Remaining cooped up with kids is the worst idea you ever had.

It's okay to apologize to your kids.

-I have lots more to learn, and I will, but these have been knocking around inside my head for the last week or so. Christmas was good, but M was sick, poor baby. I have to admit, I don't mind when she's sick, the energy level becomes manageable, and she is sweet and mild-mannered. It's a glimpse into an alternate universe for a moment. It's just sad that the feels terrible.

She's recovering, and we are spending the day watching old Davey and Goliath episodes. I never noticed growing up how heavily God-centric they are. Oh well, it could be worse, we could be watching Desperate Housewives!

-B

അബണ്ടോനിംഗ് ട്രടിറേന്‍

2009-12-23T00:39:00.000-08:00

This year we celebrated Hanukkah.
We are not Jewish, though, we have friends who are. We aren't really anything, as a family. I am a Unitarian Universalist, a religion that people joke about all the time: "You believe in everything, right? Everybody's right?" Well... sort of.
My husband is an atheist. My children attend church with me (as does my husband, every so often) and are really too young to prescribe to any faith beyond the universe within our four walls.

So anyway, this year we decided to celebrate Hanukkah.

We began with a makeshift menorah, and LED candles, found in my doula supply bag, for hospital births (no open flames with oxygen around)!

I set out to make it right, and by the fourth night of Hanukkah, I had explained the story to Maia, and had purchased supplies to make a DIY menorah, with a high place for the shammash ("one who helps"-The taper to light the other candles...one for each night of the holiday), I switched to pure paraffin candles, and I had the supplies to make latkes and matzo ball soup! The rest of Hanukkah went without a hitch, lighting candles and singing our very own blessings over them every evening. Maia was so very excited about it. I'm not sure which part got her so invested, but she was very pleased to be partaking in the festival of light.

I feel I need to admit to the guilty pleasure of enjoying the mix of confusion and concern on folks' faces when you answer a proffered "Merry Christmas!" with a "Happy Hanukkah!"

I wish I could say I learned something life-changing, but I already knew that trying new things is fun. That's why we do it. I guess though, if you pressed me, I would say I've learned we can abandon old traditions without abandoning the memories.

We are planning on celebrating Christmas, too. Maia can;t wait for Santa to come roaring down our nonexistent chimney, through our glassed-in, gas fireplace, and leave her presents under the tree. Which we haven't put up yet...tomorrow, for sure!

It's been a year of changes, and we certainly have not celebrated this Holiday season in a traditional way. I really wanted to be upset about it. I tried to be. But eventually it boils down and boils down and the sauce reduction that remains is that you spend time close to home with family. Or you get in touch with family far away. Or you spend a little time contemplating the year that just flew past.

And before the icing on that gingerbread house dries, it's New Year's, and then the spring will blow through, and you'd better catch up because here we go around the sun again!

But these aren't revelations. It's just nice to be reminded.

-B

I was really going to write this but...

2009-12-15T22:30:00.000-08:00

It's fitting that the moment I decide to do anything remotely productive, like creating this blog (okay, productivity semantics can be argued later), my 8 month old wakes up crying.

Perfect, really.

It's okay. I get time here and there to jot, and jot I shall.

No more will my perceived ingenuity be wasted on facebook status updates! Now my thoughts can amble hopefully around cyberspace forever. For. Ev. Err.

Damn, the clacking sound of the keys keeps waking the baby.

-B