i spy with my little eye

I don't know what it was about July,

but WHAM!

They're growing.

I'm staring extra long,

extra close.

:::

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Good Eater

Remember Greetings From Motherland?

Well after the success of our first exhibition, Welcome to Motherland back in May, the group was quick to embark on another project, this one engaging a multi-cultural community of mothers from around the world and focusing on the theme of food.

Good Eater will be an art installation on motherhood and food, opening this Saturday at the University of Wisconsin's Eagle Heights Community Gardens, and will be up through Aug. 20. There's an opening reception and celebration in the Gardens on Saturday from 9:30 to noon, with a rain date of Sunday, Aug. 1.

Sadly, I was too busy at work to participate in this project, but from what I've seen and heard from my friend and art director Mindy Stricke, the installation is going to be incredible. The women weave their stories together with writing, sewing, and cyanotypes - a type of photographic printmaking using the sun.

If it's anything like the last experience, it's going to be inspiring. I can't wait to check it out, and I hope you will, too. See you there?

:::

Greetings From Motherland is an evolving community art project that gathers women together to make art about becoming a mother through workshops, participatory events, and a web site.

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clunk

Sometimes you try to roll with it

only to discover

your wheels are square.

clunk.

I'm trying, man. But sometimes this is hard.

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flower girl

The other day after work, I trudged to the parking garage

a half hour later than planned.

Ticket, card in and out of slots,

then plodding down concrete stairs to the lower level,

head hanging.

I caught it out of my eye's corner,

as foot went down, then up, then down the next

passing then turning back to look again.

One purple pansy,

blossom pressed to the pavement,

fossil-like.

For some reason the tenderness crushed me,

stopped me in my tracks --

such a delicate little thing so out of place -

having fallen from someone's hands or basket or

maybe a little plastic tray from the farmer's market

and smashed underfoot

in the concrete jungle.

Maybe I'll start carrying pansies through parking garages,

dropping petals in my path

like a grown-up flower girl.

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good answer

me: Ugh. Does this give me a muffin top?

him: It's the best part of the muffin, baby.

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on my mind

(Reposting from July 23, 2009 because it's been on my mind all day.)

***

I'd Rather Be Camping

We have been home for less than one week, and already I am getting the itch to get camping again. (Although considering the poison ivy surrounding our last campsite, maybe 'itch' isn't the right word....)

soccer, anyone?

Three-leaved plants aside, camping seems to actually be easier for me than being at home. At first I thought it was just because we were on vacation; maybe we were all more relaxed and at ease with the pace of camping life. But our life at home is pretty cush, too; so I thought about it a little more and realized that there are few reasons why life feels easier when we are camping.

1. There is no struggle to get the kids outside.
We wake up, unzip the tent, and we're outside -- ready to start the day in the sunshine or fresh air. (or rain. but that's what the tarp is for.) At home, there are way too many distractions between the bedroom and the front door.


2.There are not hundreds of toys underfoot.
When we go camping, we do not bring home with us. Sure we grab a couple of shovels and pails, maybe a dumptruck or frontloader and usually a ball or frisbee. But the kids usually occupy themselves pretty well with sticks, rocks, pine cones, tent stakes, various straps and ties, and best of all -- headlamps. Really, what more can a boy ask for than a flashlight and a big stick? It really gets me thinking about the toy box at home.


3. Bacon and coffee both taste better outside.
It's true. Not sure why, but they do.


4. The dishes do not pile up.
When you only bring 5 plates, 5 cups, 5 forks and5 spoons; there are no dishes accumulating in the sink.


And since the ants or the raccoons would flock to your campsite if you left your syrup-coated breakfast dishes sit out all day, the incentive to wash them right away is pretty strong. (Hmmm...maybe that's what I need to get my butt in gear at home. I'll just get a raccoon....)

5. The dog hair simply blows away.
Nothing to vaccuum. 'Nuf said.


And finally...

6. Our standard for cleanliness is much, much lower.

Swimming counts as a bath, right?

But really, how could I not prefer camping life when this is what it looks like?











Only a couple more weeks....

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hit me with your best shot

I've been busy. We're all busy. But between working full-time and spending time with my boys, I don't spend a lot of time on the internet. But so many of you who read here regularly write your own blogs, too. And I rarely get a chance to click around the internet, discovering and reading the funny and thoughtful words that all of you are writing.

So will you indulge me today? No matter what type of blog you write, link up your favorite post or two that you've written over the last 2-3 weeks so that when I do have an hour to click my way through your stories, I can go straight for the gold. I may not get there today or tomorrow, but I'll get there. So even if you don't usually comment, click over from your email or reader and leave me a link to your recent favorites, will you?

Thanks -- Just enter the permalink to your one or two favorite posts below! I'll even go first: baby (from 6.24.10)

(I hope this link thing works. I've never tried it before. If it doesn't, then leave your link in comments.)

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extreme makeover: minivan edition

I think the Toyota PR peeps must have read my Minivan Convert essay in hip Mama, don't you think?




This had me laughing out loud. I love it. Whoever is responsible for the makeover of the minivan's media image deserves a huge bonus.

(Can you believe Toyota isn't paying me a dime to share this here? Seriously. I'd happily barter blog space for an upgrade from my dented [whoops!] '04 Sienna [see below]. Nope, I wouldn't turn them down...hear that Toyota? I'll take it in silver or black, thank you very much.)

:::

Also: thank you for your comments on that last post. It means a lot to Alison and to me that we recognize these losses, acknowledge those all-to-brief lives, and bring the emotion that accompanies those tragedies into the light so that people can better understand what grieving parents are experiencing. So thank you.

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5am

Saturday, 5am.

"Geggup, Mama. Hungy."

((tug tug))

There was no convincing him otherwise.

So crabby, crabby

I dragged myself out of bed to spread peanut butter on toast.

But then I sat down at the table with him

and he looked so cute with his lug nut bruise and his grin and speckled with skeeter bites

and I realized that I don't get many of these moments,

just the two of us while the house sleeps.

I want to remember these little moments. The ones that can drive me a bit mad, but that make up this life we're living. Because it's actually quite easy to forget.

(**Edited to add: the video cut off when I was uploading it so the cutest part is missing. :( I may get the full version up later. Maybe not.)

The cuteness wore off as the morning wore on and the Tired hit hard, so I capture and post and watch to remind myself that it's worth it. To savor the aftertaste of the good parts instead of the tough.

(Cuteness and coffee go a long way in powering through a bad case of the tireds.)

(It is quite likely that no one but the grandmas cares to watch this. But that's OK. I still think it's just the cutest thing ever, especially at the end.)

(And I know it sounds like I smoke a pack a day, but I assure you it's just the whole just got up and it's 5am voice.)

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on losing a baby

The following is an incredibly sad and intensely emotional story. Three years ago, my oldest friend (and very first BFF) Alison lost her firstborn, a daughter, Annika Beth. Alison wanted to do something to remember Annika on this, her birthday, and to make sure other people remember her short little life, as well.

I wrote this piece to remember Annika, and to honor Alison and her family, the other mothers and fathers who have lost their babies, and the babies whose lives here on earth were far too brief.

I know some of my friends and readers are currently pregnant. This is probably not the best time for you to read this piece.

I share this here with Alison's permission and blessing. I love you, Al.

:::

"Things come close to us and we can almost hold onto them, but then they disappear. Things seem as if they are just about to make sense, then suddenly there is immense confusion and what was about to make sense seems quite remote, a million miles away."*

She said she couldn't feel her arms. They had gone numb. She had no use for them now that she had come home empty-handed.

Empty arms. Empty womb. Leaving her baby, the body of her precious daughter, there at the hospital when the time had come to check out and face her empty home -- it was the hardest move to make.

It pained her, physically. For eight months she carried her daughter, tucked safely away, growing; each slide and kick a reminder of what was coming, what lay ahead.

They planned, they prepared, they prayed, they waited. Decorating a nursery, hanging closets full of clothes. Diapers stacked and ready to wrap around a teeny, tiny squishy baby bottom.

But she didn't come home.

Eight months. Feeling great. One afternoon and she was so very tired. And after a long nap she woke and realized she hadn't felt the baby move in a while. So she called to set up a check-up, to reassure herself. They'd listen to the heartbeat and then grab dinner.

On the drive, she said,"Maybe we'll name her Charlotte." And he said. "Maybe. We have time to decide."

I was standing in the kitchen at my mother's house when my phone rang. It was Alison, and I was surprised to hear from her. We had just spoken days ago. About baby slings and nursing bras.

"I'm just calling to tell you that our baby died," she said.

And we wailed, the pain of every mother's heart pouring down on us and through us and drowning us as we wept and screamed that it couldn't be. That there was nothing worse than this. I passed my baby to my sister, and I listened to her story and I cried with her an ocean of tears with salt that stings and poisons the water so that your thirst can never be quenched.

I went to see her, two weeks later. I left my babies and I sailed across the lake to wrap myself around her and wrap fingers in baby blankets and sit side by side in a chair pouring through photos of a baby lost. A baby beautiful. Her sweet, perfect Annika Beth.

She birthed that baby. She pushed her into the cold of the world from the warmth of the womb two days after her soul left her body. She was gone before her mother ever had the chance to gaze at her perfectly formed features, the vessel for her sweet spirit.

We stood at her grave. And I stood frozen in sorrow, watching my friend drop to her knees and then prostrate herself on the fresh soil, the grass. Face to the dirt, fingers clawing the earth, weeping, pouring her soul-full sorrow and pain and grief out into the world. Surrendering to her body's urge to get as close to her daughter as physically possible. Dirt stuck to her cheeks and she spat grass out of her mouth as she cried - I just want to hold her, to see her. I just want my baby.

That vision will never leave me.

The ferocity of love, of grief. The making and breaking of a mother. The human desire to hold what is ours, to resist the release. To wrap our arms around our children and have them need us. To have them need us.

It changed her, my friend. And my friend changed me. I stand in quiet awe of this woman. Of this mother. Of the strength of love and the fire of passion and the great, great depth of grief.

"We are constantly trying to grasp something, and we lose it just as we think we have our fingertips on it. That is the source of frustration, suffering."*

*quotes from Chogyam Trungpa

:::

It is difficult to know how to support someone who is grieving the death of their child. Alison offers this insight:

When she lost Annika, the people who helped her most were those "who were willing to sit in the dark pit of grief with me and didn't try to make it better, but rather shared my sorrow. I remember getting cards wishing me 'well' and 'better days ahead' and wanting to shred them. I didn't want to be better or feel better...I wanted to experience the depth of my sorrow...I think the best way to 'deal' with grief is to experience it for what it is. People who are willing to come alongside you during those times are the biggest gift, the only gift, in tragedy."

If you are interested in making a donation to support families who lose an infant, Alison recommends the organization Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, a group that organizes professional photographers to take photos for families that have a baby die.

If you wish, please use the comments section to honor a parent who has lost a child or to remember a baby lost too soon. Please feel free to comment anonymously.

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bursting

Make me pick one person out of everyone I know who I'd most like to hang out with - the one I have the most fun with, I laugh the most with, who makes the night out one for the best night ever list?

It's him every time. Every time.

Have you had a date night lately?

Take a date night. (Huge fan of date night.)

I even left the BABY overnight for the first time, ever. And I realized, upon seeing my friend's son - the same age as Axel - just how not-a-baby my baby actually is. He's been running for over half his life now, and he's talking in full sentences (Go away bug! Here ya go, Mommy. Yuv you, Mommy. Do it self. Ax-o do it.)

And Daddy's favorite?

Paddo KAH-noo. Wahwah. (anyone got that one? here's a hint.)

Oh, and look. Someone lost a fight with a lug nut. (ouch.)

One last thing? The scary chocolate cake was a hit. And the birthday boy -- after starting his day with bacon and cake, proceeded to spend his day of honor in his undies and crown (which he decided was a scary crown, because it had 'spikes'). A blueprint for the perfect birthday, if I do say so myself.

It's so easy to find the gifts this Tuesday. My weekend was bursting with them.

:::

head over to Emily's for more unwrapping.

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mine

(For full effect, all italics must be read in a munchkin voice.)

I love you, buddy. I'm glad you're mine.

But what if I wasn't?

I would make you mine.

What if I was somebody else's?

Then I would steal you.

But what if they had laser beams?

Then I would hold up a mirror so the laser beams would shoot back at them.

But what if they shot out spikes that would break the glass?

(silence.)

I'm not sure. I might have to get back to you on that one.

(more silence.)

But what if I was an alien with suction cups? Then you could have me. And what if you were made of metal? Then I could stick to you. Couldn't I?

Couldn't I, Mama?

Yep. You could.

Love you, Mama.

Love you, too, Buddy.

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four

When I grow up, I want to be a tornado.

-Eli, age 3 and 11/12ths

The night he was born, I lay next to him in our bed at home, feet away from where he entered the world,

watching him sleep.

I watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall,

for three hours.

I'm not sure I even blinked.

And when the birds started singing outside our bedroom window,

the sun rising and washing my newborn boy in the first warm, bright light he'd ever seen,

I finally drifted off, feeling somehow

like we made it.

:::

Tell me a story without a book, as I tuck him into bed.

I'm too tired to tell a story.

Tell me a story from your head.

I cave.

[every time.]

:::

Five nights ago, I tuck him under sheets in the cave of the bottom bunk.

I'll tell you a story about when you born.

And I do, skipping over the parts he'd find boring and sharing the grand parts with great enthusiasm

and when we get to the part where I proclaim

how very happy I am to meet him!

how glad I am he's mine!

he smiles huge and grabs my cheeks in his hands

planting juicy lips on mine and telling me

I love you, Mama.

:::

We're leaving my grandmother's house after a visit. She let him take a Batman motorcycle to borrow for the night. (He has no idea who Batman is.)

I wish that was our house.

Why?

Cuz I want that scary motorcycle. I like scaaaar-y stuff. (both hands up, palms out, fingers spread.)

You know your birthday's coming up -- would you like a motorcycle? A scary one?

I would like chocolate cake. Can we have chocolate cake?

Of course. And you could have a toy. What kind of toy would you like? Would you like a scary toy?

Can I have a scary chocolate cake? We could put a mad face on it to make it scary.

:::

I knew he'd be my little firecracker.

From 3cm and the first contraction that reminded me what labor felt like

to holding that boy in my arms,

two hours.

helloooooooo eli!

he's a force, that child.

a muscleman, caveman, tornado of a boy

with the squishiest cheeks I've ever smooshed.

:::

before I sneak off to bed at night, I sneak into his.

I rescue sheets pinned under limbs and

I cover the quiet tornado, the little starfish

And I kiss his pink piggy cheeks

my heart swells in my chest, huge and warm.

he will wake tomorrow with the energy of the fire-hot sun.

:::

it's his birthday. four years I've had with this boy who drives me right up to the edge each and every day,

who keeps me laughing,

who certainly won't let me take myself too seriously.

happy birthday, my boy. My Eli. I love you, buddy.

:::

for those of you who love birth stories, Eli's is linked from last year's birthday post (which actually has some pretty cute pictures and some funny Eli stories, too). Like I said then, the birth story photos are family-friendly, but not for the prudish among you. It ain't nothin' you haven't seen at the beach, but the context is a little different. ;)

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rich

I woke up this morning to an email that my Dad sent out to his friends and family. With his permission, I'm sharing it here today. (for a bit more of the backstory, click here and scroll to #3.)

It's official! I got up this morning and didn't put my work shoes on. I've taken a few minutes to review the last few months. A cancer diagnosis and surgery, radiation all summer, a wonderful family vacation 22 strong including three 3 year olds, and yesterday the signing away of the family business started by Grandpa over 70 years ago. Through all the joys and heartache, trials and tribulation and triumph, one thing remains constant, and that is the absolute faithfulness of God. It brings to mind my favorite Psalm, number 16. God has given me my portion. Every good thing I have is from Him. This includes family and friends, material wealth and skilled surgeons, and a contentment with life as it is. He has put me in a pleasant place. As my Dad said so often that it became a joke, "I am rich, rich!" Thanks to all of you for what you contribute to my life, and especially to Mom for the love that we share.

I love you, Dad! Thank you for letting me share this here, and for teaching me to look at life through the Big-Picture window.

I think some congrats are in order, don't you think?

:::

Linking up to Bigger Picture Blogs because it doesn't get much bigger picture than this.

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