Clarity in the Chaos

Detour

2011-12-22T14:05:00.000-06:00

...because at some point, we all venture off our course.

The path is packed with dirt, winding slow and steady up the hill. Fist-size rocks peek out from the edges, lodged in place, ready to trip you up if you're not paying attention.

I'm running uphill, feet on the path, soles connecting with the earth beneath me each step I take. Contact -- I make it, my feet gripping the surface beneath and so I correct, I compensate when I hit mud or slippery pine needles, my body holds form and I run, slow and steady, up the path, breathing in and out, heart pumping, pulse thumping. My body pulses with each step, and I'm working.

There are sections of the trail, impassible. Downed trees, branches too big, too spread and spiny, to scramble. I pause, and I'm scanning. I can scramble straight up the hillside, through the brush and the trees, but it's going to be dirty and slow-going. I won't make it back to the path without scratches and cuts to show for it.

I go. I take my detour, leaving the path, the work of the predictible, and I venture off course. It's steep, and so I'm crawling as much as climbing, knees dampened by wet dirt, rocks embedded in my palms and knees as I'm reaching, pulling, grabbing at roots and rocks to anchor myself.

Some of them give way, and I backslide, losing as much ground as I've covered, but gaining, too: appreciation for not falling hard or further, knowledge of consequence, wisdom to spot a better touchstone, to I.D. a foothold before I step ahead.

I'm clutching, pulling, pulling myself up, branches giving way, leaves in my hand as stems slip through my palms, an empty grip. I make it to a tree and I swing my body around, resting back against the trunk, back to the downslope, looking up at where I'm going, not back at where I've been.

I catch my breath and power on. My thighs are burning and my chest stabs sharp. I bend, hands touching down to the dirt with each climb, toes digging in deep.

I raise my head high, and I see it. I can see my path where it winds around and switches back, further up the slope. I can see myself back on track, but it's the getting-there that's hard work. I need to keep my head down, my eyes focused on the slope to make it through my detour. If I get too hungry for the path, for the ease of the trail, I'll miss the obstacles in front of my face and I'll slip, kicking up rocks and catching on roots and I'll slide downhill, tumbling out of control to where I started, but more battered and bruised.

So I will move. Head down, eyes focused, body burning, muscles moving. I will scramble and climb, digging toes in deep, securing footholds and holding strong to the rocks on my course. (We all need those rocks.) And I will make it. Will get there, to the top of the hillside where I will lay palms flat on the path and swing my knee up and over, then another. And when I'm there on all fours in the dirt, catching my breath, letting my heart rate steady, I'll look ahead on my path, still uphill, but marked and clear. I'll cast a glance down that slope I'd scaled, seeing from this vantage point above just how treacherous it was, just how bad it could have been, and I'll offer up a prayer of thanks for making it through.

And then I'll stand up. Knee to foot, hands to knee, pushing up and rising tall. I'll raise my arms above my head and breathe deeply, inhaling fresh starts and gratitude. I'll brush the dirt off my knees and clean the rocks from my cuts and I'll step forward. I'll pick up my pace and add spring to my step -- and I'll run. Heart and arms pumping, soles touching down, making contact with the earth beneath me, head held high, eyes and mind determined, and I'll continue my climb, set out to make it.

excavation/emanation

2011-12-14T21:49:00.000-06:00

I want to reach inside with both hands, fingers digging in like I am gutting a pumpkin. I want to excavate and unearth and pull that sloppy mess right out of my core and lay it out in its beautiful, complicated messiness and spread it out -- fragments and connections and fibers and seeds, and take a long beautiful look at it.

And then, from that deep place where the wisdom lies, I want to stir up compassion and gentleness, kindness, forgiveness and love, and let it generate, grow, well up and emanate so that it fills me, my hollow core, and let it become who I am -- for others and for myself, so I can walk through life and let it sing out from my cells and breathe out from my pores.

So I can release it while holding it within, so I can give it away and keep it for myself.

So it can become who I am, and I can let it go while cradling it safe within me.

[untitled]

2011-12-06T11:05:00.001-06:00

"I know how to calm myself down," Eli tells me. "Pizza breaths."

He breathes in slowly through his nose. "Smell the pizza," he says. And then, "but it's too hot, so you have to blow on it." And he slowly exhales, blowing breath through his pouty little lips onto his imaginary slice of pizza. A little glimpse into one of the many skills he's learning at school.

It's crazy trying to get them out of the house and off to school each morning. So much harder than the last couple years, when only one kid had to be up and fed and dressed and out the door.

Today we woke up and there was toxicity in the air. Whining and fighting and yelling and rushing and I don't have any sweatpants without a hole and stop staring at me and put on your freaking shoes this second I'm not saying it again and

I don't have time for a shower so I grab a barrette and no breakfast, just my coffee and mascara to go and the phone rings and there's pain and hurt beyond my home but just this second I can't listen because we're going to be late and then get off your brother we do not wrestle in coats and backpacks and I hit my head on the piano you're the worst mom in the whole universe and I hate this family

and yeah, so do I

but I don't and either does he and we're off and driving, too fast and jerky, and I lecture and I cry and they sit quietly and then we're stuck at a stoplight for 5 minutes behind someone trying to turn left and now we're late and I have to walk them inside and I toss out a hasty but heartfelt I love you have a good day

and then I make it to the bus station with one minute to spare and as I collapse into my seat with my coffee and my bags my phone dings and it's John with a text saying

Pizza breaths. Love you.

:::

because sometimes I need to take 5 minutes and just write.

but i like to keep some things to myself*

2011-12-01T21:28:00.001-06:00

I sit on my couch listening to this song on repeat tonight. Everyone is sleeping. Illness has swept the house and people are tired. Even the dog has passed out on the rug in front of the loveseat across the room from me. I sit with my laptop and my glass of pinot and, thankfully, I feel peace.

I have a swirling mind. It goes and goes and goes and rarely stops. I analyze. I ruminate. I obsess. It's difficult to turn off, and it explains my proclivity to depression, I think. Which I'm not, currently. Depressed, that is. But I have had a lot on my mind and it has been of the write-in-the-journal variety rather than the share-on-the-internet sort.

So I've logged quite a few pages in the notebook this month, and I've been giving my whirling mind rest with my trail running and piano playing. They are the two activities I have discovered that can switch my brain out of ruminate-mode. When I'm playing my piano, my mind is occupied reading notes and all of my excessive emotions can channel into the keys and the pedals. I can feel my emotions through the sound and the touch and the sight of it all without having to sort and name them. When I'm running on my favorite trails, I focus on moving my body, over the roots and rocks and twists and turns. I feel my pounding heart, my pulsing blood, I hear my breath, my soles to the earth, feeling the firm and the soft and the sharp and the slippery. I'm right there, where I am, feeling so much without having to figure anything out.

I've toyed with shutting this place down, wondering if it has served it's purpose, but I think I'll hang on to Here, knowing that life ebbs and flows and that when the tide rolls out I'll have a lot of debris to pick through and treasures to turn over in my hands. I might want to share that here.

So we'll see. It could be another month. I could be back tomorrow. I'll figure it out as I go.

But before I sign off, here's a little gift for you.

title from lyrics to Shake It Out by Florence + the Machine

because sometimes you need to just write.

good life

2011-11-02T11:28:00.001-05:00

34, baby. So far so good, this life of mine.

My birthday present to you: a bit of outlook and perspective wrapped up in catchy little tune.

We've all got our stories but please tell me what there's to complain about.

:::

full

2011-10-16T21:11:00.001-05:00

It's bedtime, and I'm singing peace like a river... love like an ocean... and they interrupt with cries of TSUNAMI! and they wave and crash their arms, jumping and flopping on their mattresses in the dark.

It's 7am, and one boy drags another through the livingroom by a rope around his ankle while the third pulls on the arms of the captive, tugging in the opposite direction. They all laugh and shriek and I have not yet had my coffee.

It's 5pm and the chaos devolves to mayhem. I shoo them outdoors and they rip stems off new pumpkins, wielding woody daggers in front-lawn battle.

I watch only intermittently from the window -- I can't hack it all, have to turn away and trust they'll be fine. It's like Baby Jackass up in here, mini-Johnny Knoxvilles running rampant, belly-down on skateboards zooming straight for the crash.

I'm fine, Mama. I got it. That was awesome.

My hands are full.

:::

A month ago I had lunch with a friend and her beautiful 4-month old baby. I held her son, ooohing and ahhhing and snuggling and kissing his fuzzy little head, and when our lunch came, she ate while I held him and I had this small but really huge moment when I realized that, as cute as he was, I would really rather be eating my sandwich.

I'm on the other side, and it feels good. It feels good to know full when I feel it.

...
linking up with heather.

paper dolls

2011-10-10T22:45:00.000-05:00

The path looks a lot different than it did as a kid. My perspective is different walking the two blocks from my parents' house, down the hill, through the field, into the woods, down the ravine and out onto the rocky shoreline as an adult returning home than it did as a seven year old playing runaway or a ten year old watching boys launch their BMX's off jimmy-rigged jumps on knotty dirt trails through the trees, or on the beach as a 13 year old trying to fool an 18 year old that she was a 16 year old, or as a 16 year old night-swimming in her underwear with a gaggle of girls and few lucky boys, or as an 18 year old saying goodbye to the western shore of Lake Michigan only to put down shallow roots on the coast across that lake.

My perspective of that homestretch of beach has changed, but the space has changed, too. It's much less hidden with so many of the trees now gone. The ravine is still there along the drainage route, but those BMX trails and secret forts are gone. I think a lot of the trees had died so they cleared it out. Now there's just an abbreviated corridor of forest on either side of the wide gravel path leading from the park down to the lake. It's open and inviting, offering no promises of concealment or camouflage anymore.

But it's a refuge, nonetheless.

I walked down there alone this weekend. When I step out of the trees and onto the rocks, something shifts for me. I lose my words, the wind and waves like an energy vacuum - I'm there and immediately I'm open - transparent and raw, the thoughts and prayers that float and churn inside me -- acknowledged or not -- blast out through my pores by the power of that shoreline.

That space is sacred, no doubt.

It's as if the old Me's are still there on that beach somewhere. Huddled around a makeshift bonfire of driftwood kindling ringed by stones, or standing in the woods, exhilarated and intimidated by the energy of youth and hormones, or sitting on a rock heartbroken and alone, or walking the shore with my first baby, with my boys. We're all there at once, populating the beach like little paper dolls.

I don't go there to pray, but there's no hiding on that beach. There's magic there. There's spirit there, and when I step foot over foot on those stones that are part of something bigger, I feel myself - my soul, mind, heart - open. They open because that shoreline exposes it all.

I turn and start up the slight incline, back to the park, the street, and I'm coming out of savasana. There's a sense of peace, but of vulnerability, too. Did anyone else feel that? What else did that energy pass through? Was I naked on that beach, exposed to the world or was that really just between me and God? How could an exchange so huge, so powerful and exquisite, have transpired undetected to those around me?

I think the forest knows, holds a lot of things for a lot of people. All that gets blown up and out on that beach makes its way, wind-tossed, and catches in the trees. Those trees must hold a lot people's secrets. I know they hold mine.

But the beach is different -- open and exposed. The wind and water, the ancient stones, the lake lapping up and washing over and over and over.

to mark my territory

2011-10-04T12:51:00.000-05:00

I dig through a tangle of necklaces and shake one free, draping it around my neck. I find a forgotten bottle of nail polish under the bangles and earrings and I slap on a coat of espresso to mark my fall mood.

Heels with jeans and lipstick always in bag, I mark the contrast to my little tribe of men, growing more feminine with each son.

My inner hippie laughs and reminds that there's nothing wrong with enjoying eye makeup or skinny jeans. I remember how my mother asked me to please shave my legs for my wedding day, my cousin told my sisters to make me tweeze my eyebrows, my friends wondering why I grew my hair so long if I only wore it tangled in a bun on top of my head.

Going back further and farther, I wore t-shirts and jeans, a little brown bowl-cut more than a bob. Not a stitch of makeup for most of highschool and college, bright red lips, excepted.

And now I embrace the girly, knowing I can be smart and strong and silly and fierce, even in lipstick and a dress. Nothing wrong with eyeliner on a hike, yet still no problem heading out to the river without a mirror. It's all in fun.

Growing up as one of five girls, the feminine was intrinsic.

Now, amid my boy-clan, I wield pink to mark my territory.

[5 minutes on lunch break, - just write]

and a tiny hole in the right knee

2011-09-27T09:35:00.000-05:00

I have faded spots on the knees of my jeans. I went through a phase when they all wore straight through to my skin, days spent on the ground with little boys. My mom said there were years for her when all her jeans had holes in the knees; another of the many marks of motherhood.

I stood at the sink peeling eggs last night. The shells wouldn't come off cleanly, and chunks of the egg crumbled into the sink, holding tight to the shards of shell. There's so much satisfaction with a clean-peeled egg. But what can you do.

I snuggled Axel on the couch with two books before bed, 30 minutes after he should have been sleeping, now that he's resisting his naps. It was dark outside, and I saw the mailman at our door, stuffing our box with a letter, picking up our Netflix envelope. I felt so bad for him, still out on his route this late. I wondered if he'd had a bad day. It was certainly a long one.

This morning I threw on boots over leggings and called it business casual. I got out to the car and noticed a peanut butter mouth print on my thigh, and a tiny hole in the right knee.

(four minutes between email and a meeting -- just write.)

wean

2011-09-18T22:25:00.000-05:00

Today I dug through a box of old photos from the summer we worked on a dude ranch. We were 23 and newlyweds - John got a gig as a fly fishing guide and I figured I'd do whatever. It turned out 'whatever' was a combination of bartending, cleaning cabins, and running the kids program. Funny, because I had never before tended bar, I was horrible at making beds, and I didn't really even like kids. Fake it 'til you make it, I suppose.

It was a stellar summer in the Bighorn Mountains, and when the guests retired to their cabins after a full day of fly fishing and horseback riding, the staff sort of transformed the saloon into a scene from Dirty Dancing. There were always those couple of guests like Baby who lingered long enough for the after-parties with the staff, jukebox crankin', boots kickin' and shot glasses clinking.

I look at those pictures and can't believe how young I was. I want to yell into the photograph to that girl mixing up drinks and chasing chickens and leading pony rides -- do you know how beautiful you are? Will you stop thinking you're not thin/pretty/whatever enough, you silly little girl? Oh, what the 33 year old mother-of-three me would give to look like she did when she thought she was fat.

That was 10 years ago. We left that ranch in September and road tripped until we ran out of money. We hunkered down in the Tetons for the winter to ski and snowboard and cocktail waitress and sell hotdogs at the base of the mountain to get free staff passes for the lift, and wouldn't you know, that cozy little cabin on the confluence of the Snake and the Hoback rivers was just the right atmosphere for making babies. And so it was that 9 years ago this winter I was pregnant with my boy, named for Mt. Owen of the Teton Range, the peak behind the Grand.

He wasn't planned, but we rolled with it. And we kept on rolling, adding Eli and then Axel. And this past August was just four months shy of marking nine years straight that I was either pregnant or breastfeeding, and at times - both. That's right. On Aug. 10, Axel nursed for the last time, at 33 months old. This last month has been one of physical transitions, and it's surreal to think that my body is done with that phase of my life. No more pregnancies, no more babies, no more nursing. I'm surprised that I haven't cried.

I miss my youth and my days of ease and minimal responsibility. I miss my pre-mama body. But I also miss having newborns and toddlers and being pregnant and giving birth and I am so, so good where I am right now. I think this is what happens when you love your life. You love it and you miss it when it's gone even while loving the very new thing that is just beginning.

We were camping in Yellowstone.

2011-09-11T09:02:00.000-05:00

I breathed in the morning mountain air, sipping my coffee on my walk through the campground. We were 23, a couple of weeks into our months-long road trip to celebrate our one-year wedding anniversary, and we were camped out in Yellowstone National Park with some new friends we had met a couple of national parks ago. Mid-week and off-season, the park was quiet, but as I walked past a middle-aged couple a few sites down from us, they called out to me.

The World Trade Center has been attacked. The towers were stuck by planes. They've collapsed.

It wasn't registering. I didn't understand what they could be talking about, but I ran back to our site to relay the news. John turned on the radio in our old Honda wagon to get word. The details are fuzzy now, but I remember sitting in the passenger seat, stunned and confused, door open, listening to the car radio with a sickening feeling in my stomach.

No television. No internet. No smartphone. I don't think we even had cell reception out there. It was just us and the mountains and our two new friends, one Australian and the other a Brit. They were already talking about getting out of the U.S. They didn't want to stay if shit was going to go down.

It was days before we saw any television coverage. We stopped in Idaho at John's aunt and uncle's, and after weeks of camping and road trips - only having been in the company of the mountains and trees and rivers and each other and our Aussie and British friends - we reeled from the culture shock of 24-hour coverage airing replays from the attacks and immediate aftermath.

I wonder, still, how differently I have (or haven't) processed what happened that morning, having heard hours afterwards rather than as it unfolded. Watching re-run coverage, as if it was a movie. Having soaked in the news prior to watching the images. Living those early days in relative isolation, as opposed to surrounded by the immediate solidarity of communities around the country.

There's a lot to think about surrounding 9/11. Ten years out, the day can't be remembered without stirring up conversations that lead to politics and war and questions and not enough answers. But I'm going to hold off on those conversations, and instead I'm just going to remember the lives that were lost that day, and the many, many, far too many lives that have been and continue to be lost in the ten years since.

Will you share with me here? Where were you, who were you with, when you heard?

at the same time

2011-09-01T22:20:00.000-05:00

I ask him: Are you excited to turn 8 tomorrow?

Yeah, he smiles. But I'm also a little sad.

Why?

Because I'll never, ever, ever, ever be 7 again.

I know, Honey. I really do.

:::

My Owen turns 8 tomorrow. My Eli started kindergarten today. And yesterday? Was three weeks since Axel last nursed.

Tomorrow also happens to mark 11 years since John and I stood in front of a sanctuary and promised til death do us part.

How does it keep getting better when it's all so good to begin with?

:::

I had told Axel: ...and then you'll get bigger, and then you won't nurse anymore.

And he said, And then when I get littler, will you nurse me again?

Oh, if only it worked that way, buddy.

:::

Sometimes things are happy and sad at the same time, said my birthday boy.

Because, like, something changes, and then it never happens again....

I just want to be seven and a half for *one* more day.
.
.
.
.
I know, honey. Me too.

big sigh

2011-08-29T21:47:00.000-05:00

I have a thousand posts half-written in my head, but I can't seem to get here to this space very easily any more. If I am not working, I am soaking up every last drop of time with my boys before this delicious summer comes to a close in just a couple of short days. So much happens all at once this time of year, with school starting and birthdays and anniversaries and so many memories rising up amid it all. I hope to get some of my thoughts and stories down, but tonight, after working and going for a run and having dinner and playing with the kids and snuggling them into bed; instead of writing, I looked through my photos from our camping trip a week ago (last one of the summer... :sob:) and my heart, once again, is full to bursting with joy and riches.

Look at these people. Would you look at my gorgeous little people?

I love them so.

And by the way, I love Madison with all my heart, but I do believe the shores of Lake Michigan will always be my home.

:Big sigh:

because you asked...

2011-08-17T00:21:00.001-05:00

I'm usually not quite this self-indulgent on here, but hey. It was a pretty self-indulgent weekend.

So, for all you sweet friends near and far who have been asking how the rare kid-free weekend in a party dress turned out,

highlights include:

Friday night dim sum and cocktails at a hip little place in a low-lit back room (Nat Spil)
Watching the thunder clouds billow and the full moon rise over Lake Monona from the roof of the terrace.
Indulging in beers and the dankiest dark chocolate cake for dessert at our favorite pub (the Weary)
Meeting up with old friends and new for late night drinks on the patio on a gorgeous summer night (Great Dane, downtown)
Sleeping in and lounging in bed for the whole morning with my man. (no link for that one! *wink wink*)
A gorgeous wedding at our beautiful State Capitol building.
A chance to wear my yellow dress!!!
Dancing and dancing and dancing the night away, song after song after song. Hubs and I ruled the dancefloor.
Hilarity with college friends, in town for the festivities.
Sunday morning table for 8, bloody mary's, and the best brunch in town (Sardine)
Reaffirmation that we are not only kick ass partners in parenting, but we're a kick ass couple.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Tightly wrapped hugs from dirty little boys who missed their mama, watching them play in the waves on a summer Sunday evening, and a drive back from Grandma and Grandpa's campsite with a pink-latte sky that looked like Mother Nature dipped her finger right in and gave it swirl.

It was a good weekend, friends.

And now... (because you were sweet enough to ask)

... the yellow dress.

Now when do I get another chance to wear it?

(thank you to my social media friendlies for helping me figure out shoes and accessories that work with banana bright!)

and i bought a new yellow dress

2011-08-12T15:31:00.001-05:00

It is 3:00 on a Friday afternoon and my husband is coming home from camping with the three boys for two days while I stayed home to work, except he has dropped them off with my parents for two more days and he will be home in two hours and we will have the whole weekend to ourselves in our own home and we have college friends heading into town for the wedding of an old friend and we will stay out late and sleep in and go out for breakfast and get dressed up, which is so fun to do, and I bought a new yellow dress to wear just because it has been too long.

Source: christytomlinson.typepad.com via Jessica on Pinterest

here, there

2011-08-10T22:26:00.000-05:00

I'm curled up on the couch with the window open behind my head, dog sprawled out on the rug in front of me, listening to the cicadas and the whoosh and drone of traffic in the distance. I can hear the muffled sounds from the baseball stadium a quarter mile away; a car door slams and a dog barks once, but mostly it's cicadas and cars.

John and the boys took a spontaneous camping trip - his first time taking them camping on his own. They've never gone without me before. But I am here because I need to work, and they are there because we only have a few weeks left of summer freedom, and these boys need all the time -- outdoors, free-running and unscheduled -- as we can give them.

I imagine right now they are all three snug in their sleeping bags, lined up in a row of red, orange and gray. They took the little tent - the one we got when we were first married - because it's just the four of them - one big and three littles. I'm sure John's sitting around the fire right now, probably missing me. And Wilson. But I needed Wilson here, my pal and protector.

I'm glad they went. I'm glad they're there. But I'm feeling a little lonesome right now, wishing I had a way to peek at them right here in this moment.

there's just something about a river

2011-08-01T22:29:00.001-05:00

Summer Sundays on the Wisconsin River. No better way to beat the heat.

If you live in Madison, the river is only a half hour away and a great alternative to swimming in the lakes.

(You should really get out there.)

We had the beach to ourselves on our sandbar of choice, and the water was the perfect temperature.

I love the lakes, but there's just something about a river.

Sandy and sunkissed... the perfect way to top off a lovely July.

because I'm not writing...

2011-07-29T22:13:00.000-05:00

...feelings and moods meld, muddying colors into indistinguishable pools of gunk that glob together and splotch up my view.

...the nagging murmurs remain within earshot but too garbled for me to understand.

...the random bits of information I do blurt out are only those bubbles that float to the surface, and the underlying denser things stay hidden below, in the dark under-waters like shadowed blobs where I can't make quite make out their shape or size.

...all the little things I'm thinking/worrying/bitching about fill the space around me with lights flashing rather than reveal themselves as stars in a constellation. I see them scattered but the big picture doesn't emerge.

...I'm stuck up here at this discursive level, this choppy surface where I bob about in the waves, and I can't sink down to the lakebed to see where the wave starts rolling.

Because I'm not writing, I'm not connecting the dots or following the spiral and I'm not making sense of anything and so what's here instead are just unarticulated feelings and senses and a whole lot of restlessness.

Writing would help. Sleep, too. And yet I surrender to resistance one more night and go to bed with it all swirling madly, none of it making particular sense.

juicy drops of goodness

2011-07-27T22:08:00.000-05:00

I'm one of those too-rare people who actually uses all of her vacation time. And when I'm not at work, you can find me out here.

I hope to find the time for telling stories sometime soon, but I've been too busy living them to get anything down.

:::

Hope you're enjoying your July. I'm squeezing every last juicy drop of goodness out of each and every day.

twenty years from now maybe we'll both sit down and have a few beers and I can tell you 'bout today*

2011-07-21T17:23:00.002-05:00

I'm headed to my family reunion this weekend. Meaning, my children and my parents and my siblings and my cousins and their children and their parents. I will see "little cousins" who are grown men and I will be a grown woman to those cousins who saw me as their "little cousin" and my dad and his siblings will look at the crew and think, when did this all happen? weren't we just here on these beaches as kids ourselves?

And I'll swim in the same lake I swam in at 5 and 10 and 16 years old, and I'll watch my boys play with their cousins and my cousins' kids, and when we hear Mom and Dad it will be me and my sisters and cousins turning our heads because our Mom and Dad are now Grandma and Grandpa and before we know it these little people of ours will be the ones that are grown up and looking around wondering how that just happened.

::

A friend posted this video on facebook and I bawled my eyes out. I love Ben Folds, and I hadn't heard this song before. It just hit on something in me that I've been thinking about a lot lately - this wish for my boys - for me and all of us really - to be able to hold on to the very best parts of being a kid. That uninhibited urge to run and jump and spin and laugh, the wonder and the straight-up joy and delight in just about everything. Being small enough to be picked up and carried when you just can't keep at it on your own, and the uncomplicatedness of love. Oh, wouldn't that be good?

My mind has been sitting there in that place for a week now, after camping with my family and my parents and my sister and her boys last weekend, sitting around the fire with my 13 year old nephew, listening and talking honestly with each other, remembering what that felt like, thirteen, and being able to zap myself right back to that wonderful-horrid spot of not being a little kid and not even being close to a grown up. Oh, my heart.

Anyway, this song is so good, and I'd pull out my favorite lines from the lyrics for you, but just listen and tell me your favorites, instead.

*title from lyrics of Still Fighting It by Ben Folds

I wonder if anyone would notice if I just stole him....

2011-07-20T20:11:00.000-05:00

My baby sister and her little family were here for a very brief visit on their way to see my parents before heading to our ginormous family reunion next weekend. It was my first time meeting Jude, my sweet little 2 month old nephew, whom I pretty much want to steal and make into my fourth son. Isn't he darling?

so squishy

Honestly, I'd have another son in a heartbeat, if only I could get God and my husband to agree to my terms and conditions.

seriously. that face.

I snuggled him and smelled his milkbreath and kissed his fuzzy little head. The boys all waited patiently for their many turns to hold him, and when I asked Owen, Babies are nice, aren't they?

he nodded,

Yeah. But you have to be careful not to crush them.

If I were really a blogger...

2011-07-08T10:00:00.000-05:00

...I would be writing about

how I am flying solo through the boystorm this weekend while John's in Door County teaching people how to kayak. I'm taking all 3 boys to Cars 2 in a couple hours, and while I'm excited and think it will be fun, I'm conflicted about how I've caved my principles between Child #1 and Child #3. Really? I am taking my two and half year old to see a movie with cartoon vehicles shooting and bombing each other? Wait, he's seen Kung Fu Panda and knows all the characters in Star Wars? Oh. Crap.

how the boys and I will meet John up north on Sunday for four days of camping at the same state park at which I grew up camping with my own parents and sisters. How much better of a place I'm in mentally and emotionally than I was last year at this time, how grateful I am for that.

how I am struggling with weaning my littlest (he's 31 months old, I just realized I've been telling people he's 28 months. How did that happen?). It's been a gradual process because he loves nursing so much, and I had it down to just the early-morning-back-to-sleep moments, and then I tried to cut that out and boy-oh-boy it has been sucky. It's either a 5a.m. start to the day or a 5a.m. tantrum to nurse, with fights between tired parents and toddler a given. How long will this last? Is this my fault? Is he going to keep asking to nurse for months after I'm done? [Insert additional self-doubt and insecurities about decisions and methods here.] Add to that the guilt/feelings of failure of giving in a couple times, and you've got yourself [I've got myself] a mess.

how the transition to working full-time with John at home full-time is going. This one is loaded. Overall positive, but I won't lie. There's a whole host of things this transition has stirred up for me. Mother-wise, wife-wise, kid-wise, career-wise, does-this-mean-we're-done-having-babies-wise. This could be a 2,000 word essay. Or a freaking book.

how lately I feel simultaneously apologetic for my boys behavior and defensive/protective of them when confronted with [my perceptions of] other people's perceptions of them. Three boys is a very different dynamic than two. Or than three girls. Our a combo of boys and girls. It really is, and I have to say only those with three boys really truly get what I'm saying here, and I walk that tightrope between letting them be who they are, expend their energy, test their physical and behavioral limits, yet teaching them to respect themselves, others, property, and societal expectations.

how I've finally decided to do something about these extra 15lbs of "baby weight". I have a closet full of clothes that don't fit and I'm supremely out of shape. I don't want to jinx it, but I've started something I always thought I hated, and it turns out I love it. It starts with an R and rhymes with FUN and thankfully I've found a program that's helping me stick to it.

how a new tube of red lipstick can make a world of difference for girl's mood.

how I find myself questioning my online writing/social media. I google the people I hire, I can count on the fact that people I work with and encounter professionally will stumble their way over here. I already made my facebook and twitter private, and I certainly don't share anything too personal here, but context is everything. I feel weird and a little vulnerable thinking about certain people 'overhearing' my online conversations with friends.

how tired I am of being tired. Why am I so sleep-deprived if we don't have a newborn?

(Leaving those blank for the points I'm not even going to allude to out of respect for the privacy of my children/family. Nothing dramatic, just not anyone else's business.)

...but I'm not really very good at this whole blogging thing, so I'll just leave it at bullet points. Or maybe I should just leave this post as the permanent homepage for this blog. Anyway, thanks to my sweet friend for her advice to just start typing and see what comes rather than wait for the time and energy to come up with something that will be "worth reading".

10 things that made me smile this weekend

2011-06-26T22:02:00.000-05:00

1. That I have become spoiled by my husband's scratch-made bread to the point where I pass rather than have a slice of store-bought.

2. Playing baseball in the front yard with my three boys, even though I'm a crappy pitcher and my two year old freaked out and ran away with the bat every time his turn was through.

3. The fact that we are done with diapers. Oh yeah, baby. Not much cuter than tiny little spiderman undies on an itty bitty booty.

4. My husband. I told a friend the other day that I'm hard on myself as a mother, know I could always be doing more at work, but that I actually feel like I'm rockin' it in the marriage department these days and that feels really, really good.

5. Dropping by a friend's house to check out the remnants of her garage sale only to let the visit morph into a backyard catch-up while five boys ran around feeding chickens and eating watermelon and climbing treehouses and aiming wooden weaponry at each other. And leaving with a freshly laid egg and some tasty garlic scapes.

6. Garlic scapes and goat cheese in my scrambled eggs.

7. The guy rocking out hard while holding the "9.99 Car Wash" sandwich board outside Octopus Carwash. I love that guy, and he makes my day on a weekly basis.

8. Attending a baby shower with a bunch of strangers and realizing that I am so over defending my parenting choices. It feels really damn good to get to the place of not caring what other people think about how/where/when your baby sleeps/eats/etc.

9. Realizing, in the company of strangers at a friend's baby shower in the 'burbs, that I live in a very comfortable bubble and that I like it that way. I forget that many of my parenting/lifestyle choices are not exactly mainstream because where I live, in my little subculture in this city I love, they are. My eyes were opened to the criticisms and challenges that many (new) moms face about the way they raise and care for their babies - even just the assumptions that come up in casual conversation -- and I am grateful to be part of a supportive community.

10. Another short work-week ahead. Taking off Friday to celebrate my Middlest turning 5 (!!!) and a weekend of sunshine and fireworks.

:::

BONUS #11. That feelings of inadequacy and half-assery, worry and anxiety, and general melancholy are usually fleeting. And that a change in attitude or perspective, coupled with the practice of selective memory can go a long way for a girl.

Enjoy your week, friends.

Can I tell you a story?

2011-06-21T13:32:00.000-05:00

The videos from 2011 Listen To Your Mother are online! Here's me reading my piece at the Barrymore - if you have the time, click on over and watch the whole show. (90 minutes total, split up piece by piece. The Madison show runs from Confessions of a Cribaholic [hilarious] to 35th Trimester and is followed by a tear-jerking rendition of Lily Allen's Chinese sung by a Madison girls youth choir. Oh, my heart.)

This is a piece I wrote a year or so ago about an experience I had about a year before that. I'm no longer in that same place, at home full-time with three little kids, but I think the core message still holds.

We need each other, mamas. We really do. Hat tip and a thank you to my friend Maria for summing up the heart of my story so succinctly back when I first wrote it. I grabbed her comment and wove it in to the out-loud version, to hit home the moral of the story with a little more clarity and strength.

(Nice freeze frame, eh?)

:::

related: more thoughts on sharing our stories

secrets to success

2011-06-16T23:13:00.000-05:00

Mom, you are still eating. Correct or Incorrect?

Mom, I get ice cream when I'm done eating. Correct or Incorrect?

Mom, you have red cracks in your eyes. Correct or Incorrect?

(answer key: correct, correct, correct)

I've been busy. And tired. And wishing I could connect with other full-time working mamas to talk about how they do it. But guess what. They're all too busy to connect and if we actually did, I would probably fall asleep before I learned their secrets to success.

But I'm taking off work Monday and (cue trumpets) we're going camping this weekend! A little late for the first camping trip of the season (we're usually out at least once by the end of May) but we're going! With canoe and bikes and our giant tent with no floor and our dog and I think just maybe that this year -- with the baby two-and-a-half going on eight -- might be the least work yet. (Watch that last one come back to bite me.) A few nights in the woods and the water always sets me right again.

And I have nice friends. (Whom I never see in person.) The other night on facebook in an unfiltered moment I blurted

feelings of inadequacy and half-assery

without really giving any thought to the fact that people would read and respond. And the next day, midway through the afternoon after a rough and unintentional coffee-free morning (good lord that was rough) I opened up my account and actually cried at my desk reading the little mini-peptalks from my friends. My favorite was Erika who told me that I exude adequacy and full-assery! Best affirmation ever. Thanks, friend.

Anyway, life is good but I'm just wishing I could be and do everything I want to be and do when I want to be and do it.

(Maybe the trick is to look at it not as just half-ass, but ass-half-full?)

I don't know... I think it's time for bed.

fiction freewrite: morning scene

2011-06-04T22:00:00.003-05:00

She shuffles towards the kitchen, leaving the lights off. She doesn't want to wake the baby and besides, she was already squinting from the faint light peaking around the edges of the shades. When the robins started singing, she figured she might as well get up. Morning is here and any shot at actually getting some sleep is futile.

She fills the kettle at the sink, blinking hard. Scrunching her nose and squinting, she strains to make out the numbers on the microwave without her contacts. 4:45. She groans. Good lord. I couldn’t even it make to five.

She sets the kettle on the stovetop and turns the dial, listening for the click click poof of the flame. She tugs at the curtains above the sink, pulling them back, popping off the safety lock on the windows and sliding them wider than the two-inch opening.

From rote memory, she opens the bag, pours the beans, clicks the lid in place and grinds, wincing at the volume, prematurely cursing herself for waking the baby. She freezes and waits, but nothing.

The sky creeps, pulling light through navy, bleeding oranges and pinks across and outward, a silent show she takes in, waiting for the water to boil. The heaviness settles low in her belly, like it has for weeks. It almost carries the comfort of the familiar at this point, a constant presence filling her, filling the spaces of lost appetite.

He’s been gone three weeks. The planning and the rituals are over, family has flown back home, friends are busy at work and the calls have dwindled. The flowers have died but they’re still in their vases, the pungent odor of decaying plant matter emanating from the murky water, but she can’t muster the psychic energy to toss them.

He’s gone. He was here and then he wasn’t and now he’s gone. And she is here, here with her babies, yet very much not here and it’s only the drudgery of the mundane that gets her through. Get up, make the coffee, wake the kids, nurse the baby, dress, feed, shuttle, read, snuggle, feed, bathe, tuck, repeat. The oldest one knows that Mommy is sad, and she tries to compensate with perfection, but her fragility is all too clear. The baby is still oblivious. He still babbles Dadadadadada and he doesn’t seem to notice when the tears fall, when her shoulders heave with sobs during their mornings together, when it’s safe while his sister is at school and it’s just the two of them and the suffocating silence of the house.

The kettle whistles, jarring her back into the kitchen, the sky the palest of blues and the sun bathing the tile in its morning’s glow. She pours the water into the press, watching it seep into the grounds, saturating the dark layers and filling the pot with a rich murkiness. The steam rises as she pours, scalding her hand as it holds the kettle handle, but she leaves it there, tears brimming up and over as she realizes she is still making coffee for two.

:::

A little fiction freewrite, just for fun. A year ago I brain-dumped the first 1200 words of my novel and then I let it sit. Scenes pop into my head all the time, but I rarely get them down. Figured this time I would free-write whatever came, whether or not I ever get my butt in gear and bring this baby to fruition.

And hey -- please take it easy on me... I spent about 5 minutes making a couple of minor edits so this isn't at all polished. It's a little scary throwing something out of the norm out here in public, but I'm trying to push myself beyond my comfort zone and focus on generating ideas rather than on achieving perfection.

living full, living well

2011-05-31T22:43:00.000-05:00

Happy Wednesday, friends. Hope you're living full and well.

on memorial day

2011-05-30T22:32:00.001-05:00

It's 10pm on Memorial Day. I should be drifting off in clean sheets, breeze dancing through the open window, but instead I can't sleep, a ball of anxiety settled into the base of my belly.

It's illogical, irrational, unreasonable, but I sit with a dreaded feeling that something bad is going to happen to my kids. I realize how dramatic it sounds, how silly and even sort of crazy it is, but undefined thoughts and worries swirl around and mash up into a nebulous ball of yuck, and here I sit.

It's the tornadoes ravaging towns and families, it's wars raging in Libya, Afghanistan, Iraq. I think of the mothers. I think of them all -- all who are touched -- but it's the mothers who spring to the forefront of my mind - the mothers trying to comfort through the storm, the bombs, the fear. The mothers whose lands are ravaged and war-torn, the mothers whose sons and daughters fly off to combat, the mothers of the innocent and the guilty, the mothers of the fallen and the fighting, the hungry and the hurting.

I feel too lucky. And my naivety has worn thin; I know we are not immune to pain or tragedy. I feel simultaneously lucky and guilty. Who am I to sleep soundly in my comfortable house when storms and bombs rip families and life apart?

I can't keep them safe. It's not in my hands. I think of them growing and gone, on their own and me giving it up, giving it up to God and fate and prayers for good choices. I remember my mother worrying when we were late for curfew as teenagers, when we didn't call and she worried to the point of feeling sick to her stomach that we were "dead in a ditch". And she did - she held those fears in the pit of her stomach and the back of her brain, and really, she probably still does. I rolled my eyes then but I get it now. I get it now.

Today I couldn't find Eli. We were visiting friends, and hoards of children and several adults were sprawled out and filtering in and out of their beautiful home, wandering the property, coming and going. I could hear his scream coming from far away, and I couldn't place it. I scanned the crowd and saw all of the other kids, saw my husband, and no Eli. He was alone, that much I knew, but I didn't know where he was. Was he stuck somewhere? Trapped somewhere he couldn't escape? Was he hurt? And then I couldn't hear him, and keeping the panic from my voice I made it clear that Eli was not with us but that I had heard him screaming and we needed to find him NOW. And we scattered and searched, and I called for him everywhere and heard nothing echo back, and then I ran down the stairs and I found him in the basement, trying to get out a door to where he thought the other kids had gone, and he was fine. Of course he was fine. But of course he might not have been, and it's that knowledge, that acceptance, that looking lack-of-control in the eye that does me in.

It's the releasing, the letting go of the illusion of control that is at once freeing and terrifying. And I have no closure here, no wrap up or lesson learned at the end of this, but I knew that I needed to write it out, to get it down, and put it out there because facing fear head on is the only way to take away its power.

I will go upstairs to my older two and kiss their cheeks and tuck their sheets and feel their chests rise and fall before I head back to bed, to my sleeping littlest and my husband, sprawled out in our king with the breeze dancing in through the open window. I will lie there and watch them and rest my hand on my baby's back and tuck my feet between my husbands knees and I will let go and I will sleep.

And to all the mothers who are hurting because your children have been hurt or are in harms way, my heart holds you tonight. And I think it probably always will.

bloom on, sweet Eli

2011-05-28T09:53:00.001-05:00

Not sure how it happened, but this little guy has BLOOMED.

Not sure why seeing my second son "graduate" from preschool was more emotional than my first, but man-o-live have I been a pile of mush.

Congratulations, Buddy.

Bloom on.

:::

[self] perceptions

2011-05-27T10:37:00.000-05:00

Originally published last August, I was reminded of this post this morning and dug it back up to revisit. With new roles and transitions at work and home, and even the issues I face as I realize I'm no longer my pre-kid 22 year old self, I need to remind myself of these things. A quick read could lead you to think this is just about the physical stuff, but I'm really talking here about more than that -- about how we perceive others' perceptions of us. About who we are and who we've been and who we want to be, inside and out.

:::

I head down to the dark, musty basement in search of a bin. I was looking for two specific pairs of pants that I had stashed in the skinny bin -- the one full of clothes that fit when I wasn't gaining or losing pregnancy weight. I needed to dig out some pants for work, and I hit the jackpot. I had completely forgotten about this skirt, this shirt, until I went in there looking for the pants.

When I peeled back the blue lid from the rubbermaid and dug my hands in, rooting through the jumble of clothes, a familiar scent wafted up. Is this what I smell like? I know we all have our own personal scents that we just can't smell ourselves, and I always wondered what mine smelled like -- wondered if I would like it or be embarrassed that all these years I'd been walking around smelling like that?

When I opened the bin, it was familiar. The smell I smell when opening drawers that have been closed a while, or bins like these, stashed away until my body hit pause on its morphology. And I was Ok with it. I didn't like it, but I didn't hate it. I didn't wish for a sweeter aroma, or one more earthy or woody or floral. It just was what it was, and I was Ok with that.

I used to cringe when I heard my voice recorded. I really sound like that? What an awful voice. How do people listen to me? But when I heard it last on my voice recorder, playing back an interview for a story I was working on, I realized I was fine with it. I didn't love it. It isn't sweet like a singer's high soprano, or sexy like a raspy radio girl. But it was my voice, and I was fine with it.

It reminds me of a chapter in one of Pema Chodron's books, on making friends with ourselves. On how if we were to play back a video of ourselves we would cringe all the way through, seeing and hearing all that we do and say, observing ourselves the way others experience us, seeing all that we're blissfully unaware of in action.

I remember in about fifth grade our class went to Discovery World, an interactive science museum for kids. There were mirrors in one installation. They probably distorted reflections in different ways, I don't remember. But there was one mirror with a sign that said, "See yourself the way others see you."

I didn't want to look.

I don't know what mystic power I thought that mirror had, what unsightly image full of physical flaws and character faults it would shine back at me. But it turns out it just showed us what we looked like to other people. Rather than reflecting a mirror image, when I raised my right hand, so did my reflection.

It was nothing scary. It was just me. But man, I didn't want to look. It's hard to swallow how others perceive us -- how they take us in in ways unaware to us.

I have a favorite pair of jeans. I love how they feel after an hour's worth of post-washing wear. They're snug with stretch, dark blue, and as comfy a pair of jeans can be. I'd wear them every day if I could.

But I'm not really sure how they look. I don't have a full-length mirror in the house, and I find that when I do catch my full reflection out and about, I'm always unpleasantly startled. That's what I look like?

Apparently, I feel better than I look.

It's ridiculous, really. This overly-critical voice in our heads that we reserve only for ourselves. We'd never be so hard on somebody else. So I finally realized, I just need to stop looking -- stop looking at myself through the distorted hall of mirrors where I perceive the way others perceive me, and instead go with how I feel, with what fits, whether it's old and familiar or brand new.

I'm coming to accept myself with more kindness. All of me -- I am who I am, and the so-called negative can't be stripped away from the positive or I wouldn't be me.

There was something comforting about rifling through those bins. The familiar smell and feel of bits of me and who I've been. I paw through, in a search for one thing but discovering more, perfect fits all but forgotten. I dig out a few and I carry them with me. I try them on, slip into a few more layers I had forgotten all about, and find they fit just right.

I'm surprised by how it easy it is, how natural it feels, how comfortable a fit is the familiar when I see it without judgment, and just let it be what it is.

turn the dial

2011-05-23T07:46:00.001-05:00

The other day I wrote on facebook:

Thank you, Ke$ha, for taking my mind off the heavy things of life.

(Dudes, sometimes you just have to turn the radio dial.)

I am politically aware and engaged in politics at the local, state and national levels. I read the news, I discuss with friends and family, I listen to progressive talk radio every morning.

But sometimes I can't hold the weight of the world before I'm fully caffeinated and so I turn the dial on my drive to work from the latest antics of our state or federal representatives and the havoc they're wreaking to the hip hop/jams station, which our beloved nanny programmed into our presets. (One of the longest lasting unintentional gifts I've received.)

Usually a distraction and even an energizer, sometimes there's a gem that pops up in rotation that hits that perfect mix of what I would be listening to if I left it to the politicos and what I'm needing in the release of music.

And it's not even the first time Will.i.am made me cry.

weekend

2011-05-21T21:00:00.000-05:00

The day started with John heading out to paddle and fish with a buddy, the big boys munching dry cereal in front of cartoons while the baby and I slept in until 8:30 (!!).

Eli and Axel never made it fully out of their pajamas, and I sipped my coffee all day long.

This evening we all hung out in the front yard and I marveled at how completely Axel can hold his own with these guys.

Bye-bye, Baby.

I'm thinking it's a good thing John's the one home full-time now... I honestly don't know if I could keep up.

always swingin'...

always running....

hug/wrestle/hug/wrestle

(notice the fist)

omg his face.

cheeks and lashes

that smile....

that grin....

the thumb...

A full-time job has taken working for the weekend to a whole new level.

I am relishing these lazy, boy-crazed days.

Happy weekend, friends. I hope you're out there doing what you love with your people.

time-lapse

2011-05-18T22:10:00.003-05:00

I snuggle in bed next to him and he knows I'm too tired to tell a story tonight so for once, for once, he lets me off the hook from the usual magic metal pipes hiding under chimney bricks that lead alternately to underground lairs or to Mars. I curl into a parenthesis around his comma and I am bursting from my heart, out my eyes, through my arms -- none of me can contain the simultaneous blend of joyful-love and inexplicable longing. Longing for the impossibility of letting them grow while holding them here, longing for them to always feel this safe and this happy, longing for them to always love me as much, as fiercely, as fully, as uncomplicated-ly as they do right now. It's a drink that puckers my lips but leaves the sweetest aftertaste, this conflicting concoction of sheer joy and crushing weight.

I tell him a couple minutes more and he says count to 200 and I tell him I'm too tired to count out-loud and he says I will. And he does, this the first time I hear him soldier on past one hundred and I remember my father telling me how he remembers the moment in which he realized that he could always add just one more number and keep counting on and on as high as forever, and I think of my four-year-old and wonder if he'll remember these quiet nights in the dark, the swell of pride, the welling up of confidence, the delight of discovery as he counts in his perfectly articulated one-hun-dred-and-twen-ty-two, one-hun-dred-and-twen-ty-three, one-hun-dred-and-twen-ty-four....

My oldest son doesn't sing, he claims he can't sing, and three nights ago he laid in the dark and let melody spill out from his soul. They are learning Woody Guthrie in music class, and this seven year old boy was smitten with the redwood forests and the Gulf Stream waters. We blended voices and sang verse after verse back to chorus again in the dark and I told him it makes me so happy to hear you sing, and he said I really like the song and I like the way the guy's voice sounds when he sings it, the guy who wrote the song and I smile in the dark remembering that I played the guy's music for him as a toddler at naps and bedtime and I wonder if somewhere in his subconscious he remembers this, and I ask him why he wouldn't sing before and he says that this is the first time I like the way my voice sounds. I like how it sounds when I sing this song. And he tells me how another seven year old complains when the class sings that they are off-key but my boy tells me as sure as he's ever been about anything that it doesn't matter if you know the tune, it only matters that you're singing loud and having fun. We talk about how music touches our hearts, he tells me how it makes him feel good to sing, how the music is like a good kind of poison and when I tell my husband, he says like a drug? and I know that what they've said about music all of these years is true and I feel the swelling and the tightening, grateful for teachers and music that touch the hearts and souls of little boys.

My littlest calls to me in the depths of my sleep and I go to him, lifting him up and close, tucking him in beside me and he whispers roll over and I do, as I have done since he was the teeniest of babes, but this time without nursing him first, and my back is to his tiny body, his little fingers twirling my hair until his fist is at my scalp and thumb in mouth he mumbles I love you, Mama and together we drift, weightless.

They bloom before my own two eyes, in all their time-lapse brilliance.

story

2011-05-07T21:56:00.001-05:00

It's 9:00pm. I just read through my piece for Listen To Your Mother in front of the mirror, and then again for my patient husband. I finally picked out something to wear for the show that won't make me either disappear into the dark background of the stage or create the illusion that I am naked behind the podium. I'm think I'm good to go.

I'm really excited for the show -- to share my piece and its message, to listen to my fellow cast mates, to listen to the audience, three or even four generations of (mostly) women, as they laugh and cry and sigh with the recognition of seeing themselves in the stories that pour out from the microphone.

I'm excited for the show because it is so important, so valuable, for mothers -- for women -- to share our stories with each other. For us to reflect light into the shadows, the hidden or forgotten parts of each other's lives, for us to start seeing our commonalities and our uniqueness, for us to stop judging and start remembering that every person out there carries a story with her everywhere she goes. For us to realize that we each have a story to tell. One worth telling. Worth hearing.

I think that if we were all more open, more honest about what we carry around in our heart's pockets that there would be far less judgment, less envy, less hurt, less worry. If we shared our vulnerabilities and our humanness, our unpolished, imperfect selves; then we could all stop trying to measure ourselves against the false ideal that is really just a conglomerate of the best parts of every woman.

The most gratifying part of writing publicly is the notes or whispers that tell me, I feel that way too but never had the words to describe it, or thank you for articulating something that I hadn't even realized I was feeling, or I feel so much better knowing I'm not the only one.

This phenomenon is not unique to me. If you start sharing your stories, you will understand and be understood. You will relieve and feel relief. You will feel less alone and help someone else realize that she is not alone. You will give and receive so much more than you ever expected.

Sharing stories is an act of empathy, of joy, of validation and compassion.

That's why I'm so excited for the Listen To Your Mother Show. I cannot wait.

Me and my mama, who I always listen to.

:::

A couple of things - two friends of mine wrote honest and beautiful posts about motherhood on their blogs that I want to share with you. While I am in a different place in my life, working full-time for over a year now and so not feeling like I need or want a break from my kids or the never-ending work that comes with being the full-time at-home parent, I do understand and appreciate (and remember) what they're writing about, and I think it's so important that other mothers (especially those who stay home full-time caring for really little kids) have the chance to read such honest portrayals of the feelings and ambivalence that often comes with that phase of life.

Tracey on Some Mother's Day Ambivalence

and Jo at This One's For the Mom's Who Fake It 'til They Make It

Also - if you feel compelled to write down one of your stories about motherhood -- being a mother, having a mother, losing a mother, longing to be a mother, anything -- share it on your blog or even write it as a note on facebook and link it up to the virtual Listen To Your Mother Show. Mothers and other women from around the world are sharing and reading each other's stories, and we'd love for you to be part of it, or at the least, check it out.

Happy Mother's Day, friends. Now go listen. Go tell your story.

Listen to Your Mother

2011-05-05T13:01:00.000-05:00

I can't believe that I haven't mentioned it here yet, but I am thrilled to be part of the cast for LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER:MADISON this weekend -- Sunday -- MOTHER'S DAY -- May 8 at 3:00pm at The Barrymore. Billed as 'readings by local writers on motherhood', the show is so much more than the feel-good mushiness of a greeting card. Creator, director and producer Ann Imig explains it beautifully on the Listen to Your Mother Show blog, and I share a few of her words here below:

LTYM, like motherhood, is about process over product. It is not about polish, but rather about that unfinished, unvarnished, authentic beauty that happens when you make room for something bigger by letting go. The spirit of LTYM exists all around us—in that one friend you tell how you really are today, in an experienced mom leveling with a new mom about how NO ONE really knows the answers, in that moment when you understand for the first time why your Mom was tense so much of the time, because now you are too. The task of the LTYM shows is to provide the space where we can live that energy, that commonality, and those moments together out loud.

As bloggers we’re inundated with stories of honesty and vulnerability. This dialogue does not take place with such prevalence--and out in the open for all to see--in our real parenting lives. Many people who will come to see an LTYM show or watch the videos online do not have people in their life who will offer up their truth as a gift for anyone willing to listen.

Like life and motherhood, LTYM’s light is in the cracks—at this jagged edge--that vulnerable space we don’t plan for, and maybe even try to erase in pursuit of perfection. We’ve all done our work. Now let’s go give this gift, and leave that package split wide open, rough edges exposed, bow untied--ribbon unfurled, splayed and split--fragments weaving from the stage, up and down the aisles, to every person and out the doors and into our cities.

Our communities need it, and so do we.

Happy Mother's Day, Mamas.
If you're local, I hope to see you there.

(click here for ticket info)

the world is watching

2011-05-02T21:07:00.002-05:00

"Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

I understand the range of emotion. But I am uneasy by some of what I have seen and heard. Patriotism skates close to the edge of something scary. And there are questions, hard questions. About justice and revenge, wars still waging, accountability.

I had lunch today with four colleagues in our office break room. One from Denmark, another from Spain, a Canadian woman, and another American.

The world is watching.

I am uneasy with what are giving them to see.

...

"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy." - Anonymous

markings

2011-04-26T16:22:00.001-05:00

I've had bangs for the last two years, and lately I've been lazy about keeping them trimmed. They've gotten to a length where I can't really wear them down, even to the side, and so the other day I pinned them back in a barrette and when I leaned forward towards my reflection in the mirror, my jaw dropped when I realized that silently and stealthily during these last two bangs-covered years my forehead has developed wrinkles.

Had I known, I would have gone bangs-less a little longer to soak up my last days of forehead-smoothness.

I work at the university and so I am surrounded by students. I don't really feel much older than them, my years in undergrad - and certainly grad school - don't seem that long ago. But it struck me recently, this realization that when I am talking to a 19 or 20 year old boy that instead of relating to him as a peer I am relating to him as a mother. Instead of thinking, wow he's cute, I think, awww he's cute. Rather than flashing back to my husband at 19 or 20, I am flashing forward to my sons at 19 or 20. And when this struck me as odd, I realized that this particular age - these darling 20 year old boys I encounter - they mark exactly the halfway point between the ages of my son and my husband. Our in-between days; post-childhood, pre-children. It's really thrown me for a reality-checking loop as I realize that I am getting older.

This really isn't or shouldn't be news to anyone who operates within this plane of reality, but man-oh-man it was something that knocked me off balance for a few.

I'm getting my bangs trimmed tomorrow. But I'm leaving them long enough that I can still pin them back.

...

snap snip

2011-04-15T20:54:00.000-05:00

I love Two.

I cut his hair about about a month ago -- I snapped these shots just before I snipped his fine strawberry locks for the first time in his life. I'm so glad I took the pictures, my little Shaggus.

My Dad said every time they had a two year old in the house, they wanted another.

(They had five kids.)

We're probably sticking with three.

Oh, how I love two year olds.

Writers are great lovers*

2011-04-08T23:08:00.000-05:00

"Writers are great lovers. They fall in love with other writers. That's how they learn to write. They take on a writer, read everything by him or her, read it over again until they understand how the writer moves, pauses, and sees. That's what being a lover is: stepping out of yourself, stepping into someone else's skin. Your ability to love another's writing means those capabilities are awakened in you. It will only make you bigger; it won't make you a copy cat. The parts of another's writing that are natural to you will become you, and you will use some of those moves when you write. But not artificially. Great lovers realize that they are what they are in love with....

...And don't be be jealous, especially secretly. That's the worst kind. If someone writes something great, it's just more clarity in the world for all of us."

- Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

She's here in town. I attended her reading and book signing tonight, and for the next two days I have the privilege of attending her writing retreat. I am so energized and inspired after far too long a hiatus from writing creatively.

Tell me, who do you love? Whose mind do you study through their words?

I think back through the years, and just a few spring that spring to mind: Blake, Thoreau, Robert Frost, Jane Austen, Annie Dillard, Barbara Kingsolver, Wendell Berry, Anne Lamott, Natalie Goldberg... the list is deep and wide.

Even our contemporaries, writing I have discovered online -- I read their poems and essays and the poetry that sings through their stories and I come away gifted. Amber Haines, Krista Knott, Kate Ingles, Maggie Ginsberg-Schutz, Amy Turn Sharp, Bon Stewart... again, just skimming the surface of the ocean of inspiration out there.

So tell me, what writers do you love? Whose words lit you up as a child or teen or for the first time last week? Who should I be reading, whether novels, poems or even blogs?

*title of post from "Writing is a Communal Act", an essay in Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones

revisiting

2011-04-03T16:10:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about my kids - how we click, how we clash. I struggle sometimes with one of my children, floundering because my instincts, which have served me so well thus far, seem too often to be staring at me apologetically with eyebrows raised and palms offered up. So I've been talking with friends, reading up a bit in search of strategies and perspectives, and somehow I ended up following my mind's trail back to something I had written about a year ago.

So here it is again, a reminder to me and to you, about us and about these little people we have the privilege of raising up and guiding.

All Wrapped Up

Our wisdom is all mixed up with what we call our neurosis. Our brilliance, our juiciness, our spiciness, is all mixed up with our craziness and our confusion, and therefore it doesn't do any good to try to get rid of our so-called negative aspects, because in that process we also get rid of our basic wonderfulness.

- Pema Chodron, from Satisfaction in The Wisdom of No Escape

You're so sensitive.

You're too sensitive.

You obsess about things.

You over-analyze everything.

You have a 'strong' personality.

You're so opinionated.

You talk too much.

You're feisty.

I've heard them plenty. Sometimes said with love, other times not so much.

For most of my life I've seen these traits of mine as negative.

But Pema's right.

I can see it about myself because I see it in my friends (eta: and my kids). What makes us crazy is all tangled up with what makes us wonderful. What makes our friends and family love us. What makes us us.

So yes, I am or have all of those things on that list. But you know what else?

I'm empathic.

I'm creative.

I'm passionate.

I am warm.

I am nurturing.

I'm a thinker.

I'm an advocate.

I'm a storyteller.

and more.

And so are you.

(And your kids. Tell me about it?)

still crazy but....

2011-03-26T21:52:00.001-05:00

Happy Saturday, friends. Just a quick note to let you know I've officially changed the title of the blog from:

Boy Crazy [finding clarity in the chaos]

to:

Clarity in the Chaos

I know Boy Crazy was cute and incredibly appropriate, but over the last two years I've realized on many occasions the awkwardness that can come with the connotation if someone reads the title without knowing the context. (And a certain male friend of mine was embarrassed to list me in the sidebar of his blog. Heh.)

I'm only mentioning it because I will pop up in a different spot in your blogrolls, readers, and other subscription places and I didn't want to confuse. My url remains the same, so no worries there. Just a different title on record. (And maybe changing it in the header if I can find the time to play around a bit.)

That's all for now. Happy weekend.

integrate

2011-03-24T21:34:00.006-05:00

We sat with our eyes closed in a circle on the floor and we breathed and what came to me over and over was that this was not just a writing practice it was a compassion practice.

Every week for a year and a half

I go to my practice and we shed the day and the to-do's and the busyness

and we close our eyes and breathe and clear our minds

and then we write.

And then we share,

reflections casting light in all our shadows.

Listening without judging, receiving gifts through words, bearing witness and studying the movement of others' minds. We all strip raw, exposing soft undersides unguarded and in doing so, spines lengthen and weights lift and fog clears and from scattered stars constellations appear.

We all have stories.

Every person has a story.

The surface hides the buried, the unearthed.

This is a compassion practice.

I am practicing compassion.

Learning the minds of strangers and friends through their stories.

Everyone has a story.

How can I carry this with me --

from this pulsing room in a shared space where permission to live unedited cushions our step and bolsters our back --

out the door and into the bite of the wind and the glare of the sun?

I have been holding a lot of anger. More anger in five weeks than in my whole life long. My shoulders are tight and my mind is a carnival ride, flinging me forward and jerking to a halt, shooting me sideways and lurching me backwards and making me sick.

I've shed it, at least for these precious two hours.

How can I carry this with me?

Everyone has a story. If we could share our stories, if we could listen without judgment to each other's stories (not rhetoric), if we could carve a space for vulnerability and watch strangers and friends discover constellations from scattered stars,

if we could show compassion....

We open with mediation, and we close with meditation.

To integrate what we've written and heard and shared

So we can walk out from here and let compassion

sing out from our cells.

speaking up

2011-03-18T13:49:00.003-05:00

These protests are not just Madison liberals.

Please, listen to Wisconsin farmer Tony Schultz explain how this bill will affect farmers and rural communities. Seven minutes of your time, and I promise this clip is worth it.

catching up

2011-03-09T14:04:00.015-06:00

Hi.

I'm still here (not sure if you are! ha!), but I have set up quasi-permanent residence on facebook (I'm /elizabeth.kattreinders if you're an avid facebooker) as the political battle continues to rage here in Madison. (watch this if you have a couple minutes. These are my people.) I've intended a thousand times to lay it all out here, just what I'm fighting for, what's lit the spark in the masses; but there are so many articles that articulate it already, that with such limited time I'm just linking and posting like crazy over there, rather than spelling it out in my own words here.

In other news, I started another new job -- this one will be long term, though, and big news.... after almost 8 years at his job, John resigned his position so he can be a full-time stay-at-home dad. We feel really lucky to have the flexibility over the long run to switch it up like this. I got to be home with the boys (a combo of full and part-time) when they were babies and toddlers, and now that they are full-fledged little boys, always on the go and ready to rock and roll, John gets a chance to be the primary at-home parent. (Although I'm guessing they'll be home rarely... probably more likely you'll catch the four of them plus Wilson in the canoe most afternoons.)

We have been really fortunate to have an incredible nanny and then a wonderful "manny" (great fit, by the way, for a family with 3 active little boys) to care for our children while we were at work, and I do believe strongly that it takes a village. That having another caring, loving adult in my children's lives is always a positive influence. That it teaches them that the world is a good place, that people are to be trusted and relied upon, that we work together, that families come in all shapes and sizes and extend beyond those who share your house. That being said, both John and I are really excited for him to switch things up and be home with the boys.

I had a great time in Denver with all of my sisters, and the break from protesting and facebook politicking was probably healthy for me. I did, however, come back home with a killer sore throat and fever for my first day on the new job, but somehow I managed to pull it off.

i got all my sisters and me

And: we're putting our house on the market in two days. Anyone who knows me is painfully aware of my tendency toward slobbery. Not an organized, neat, or clutter-free person am I. But dudes. We kicked some serious house-cleaning-de-cluttering ass, and my house looks like someone else's right now. Fingers crossed we can keep it that way until we sell it.

Lastly, remember the project that launched me back into the workforce a year ago? The one that was awesome but stressful and that I mentioned was finished a couple of months ago? Well, the book is out, baby. And it looks incredible. I'm so proud of it, and honored to have been a part of it. I'm thrilled to have some of my photos published inside and to have had the privilege of helping to shape the look and feel of the design, but my real sense of accomplishment comes from this:

See that? It says "Lead Author" and then... my name! The entire publication is available for free download here, but I have to say the actual printed, published book is gorgeous and I'm happy to finally have it on my table.

OK, friends. I have to run. I'm home with a sick baby today. Can I just add that I am so grateful for extended breastfeeding and babywearing? Without nursing and my BabyHawk mei tai, this gig would be a lot more difficult. I am so grateful for simple tools for providing comfort and security, at 27 months and counting.

I hope you're well. Back again soon....

hear our voices

2011-02-24T20:46:00.005-06:00

It's been 10 days strong. I'm exhausted physically and emotionally.

I've been meaning to come back here to this space to lay it all out -- not necessarily for you, but for me to get out it, to articulate it all and make sense of what is happening and what it all means and how I feel about what I'm seeing, what I've been so honored to have been part of....

But I'm beat. And I have a deadline for work and my kids are getting sick and I'm hopping a flight to Denver tomorrow night for a sisters weekend away,

but this --

this,

weighs heavy on my heart.

a mini-documentary on why Wisconsin is protesting

Please watch. The video above was made by a friend. The one below by a stranger. They're both incredibly moving and illustrate exactly what it is that we have going on here in Madison, Wisconsin right now.

Whether you consider yourself "Political" or not, please just take eight minutes and watch.

soundtrack by Mumford and Sons

reposting this one for the Arcade Fire fans among you.

solidarity

2011-02-18T16:32:00.016-06:00

I've been a little quiet around here (making up for it on facebook), but in case you haven't heard, we've been a little busy here in Madison, Wisconsin.

Please. Inform yourselves. You may come away still disagreeing with me, but I implore you to do a little research rather than accept the rhetoric.

My 7 year old and his 1st grade teacher at the rally outside the Capitol on the first day school was cancelled due to teachers protesting.

Wisconsinites: call your Senators and Reps.

Friends from other states: please contact your Senators and Reps and ask them to stand up for Wisconsin's Democratic State Senators. And if you're close enough for a road trip, come and join us at the Capitol.

We'd love to have you.

The Madison Police Department estimates that 35,000-40,000 protesters gathered outside the Capitol today, while Capitol Police estimate 5,000-8,000 crowded inside the building, according to the Department of Administration. No incidents or arrests were reported. 2/18/11

Overheard:

"They underestimated a protest by people who are used to standing on their feet all day."

reflective drops of awesome

2011-02-12T22:29:00.003-06:00

Those icicles and these boys of mine are still morphing before my eyes. That's life, I suppose. I'm not sure why I'm surprised when I can repost something I wrote almost exactly one year ago and have it read like I wrote it today.

from Feb. 15, 2010

It's taking a little more effort to stay in the moment amid the busyness of our new schedule. I work so hard at paying attention. Being where I am, fully. If I open up all my receptors and I receive the moment with all of my senses, life becomes so much more vivid.

I'm not getting it down on paper or in print as often as I had been, but I'm writing it down at the cellular level -- letting it become part of me, so when I move on to the next day, or even the next moment; I go with an added layer of texture.

***

"I like how the highway sounds, Mom."

Tires rumbling over road, on our way to my sister's, he notes his observations along the way.

He notices everything, that kid.

A green semi cab parked next to a purple one, down in a parking lot beyond the exit ramp.

"Those colors look nice together."

His stuffed dog clutched in hand, resting on his quilt at kindergarten.

"My giraffe feels the same as my quilt. I like bringing Baby Dog because he feels different from my quilt. I like how they feel together."

Laying on his back in a pile of snow in the front yard. All by himself, watching the clouds race across the sky.

He pops inside to tell us,

"It's really nice out there. I like how the Quiet sounds."

I'm writing it down, because he's too little to see his own gift.

I want to see life like he does.

***

Have you ever watched an icicle melt? There's this moment, when the ice is still ice but it's moving towards water, it's morphing before your eyes, and then the instant it crosses that threshold -- a most incredibly perfect round reflective drop of awesome.

You see it coming, and for a moment it's there, suspended, and then gone.

***

I feel like I've dropped off the face of the Internet. The days I'm home with my boys, I am home with my boys. I'm appreciating them so much these days. Their stories, soft cheeks, and brand new words each and every day.

I'm learning a lot about this business of life-living from watching them in action. I'm trying to pay attention to the details.

When you're looking for them, there are always so many little gifts waiting to be unwrapped.

five minutes between chaos and mayhem

2011-02-07T15:18:00.003-06:00

Life is in the waxing phase around here, and so I need even more to be here, right where I am, when I am.

Lots of transitions and decisions in the works. I'm grateful for the blizzard, for the piles and heaps of snow. It feels good to trudge through, to flop back and sprawl out in the powder, eyes up to the big blue sky, and just lay there, not thinking.

I swear, it is just as much fun to play in the snow as a grownup.

Taking Wilson in for a follow-up vet visit soon. It's been over 6 months since the Lyme's diagnosis. He's ok, but not great. It's sad to realize I've gotten used to the new him.

Hoping for good news.

These guys are getting so big. Talk about transitions and decisions....

:::

Going tidbits-and-announcements style for the near future. Maybe some reposts, we'll see.

Gotta run. In the time it took to type this up, we have officially devolved from chaos to mayhem.

(Hope you're all well, friends. I miss our banter.)

postscript

2011-02-06T20:41:00.004-06:00

To my friends who subscribe in a reader or by email: I edited that last post to add a postscript pretty much immediately after publishing, and I wanted to post it again here so you'd catch it, too.

**edited to add** After a long conversation about this very topic with a musician/writer friend tonight, I feel compelled to clarify that I absolutely see the beauty in each individual taking away something different from a piece of writing or art. That's how it should be. This post is about me - checking my own intentions when I write. Like my friend and I discussed, it's hard sometimes to write your truth or your heart and be misunderstood for being unclear or too 'cryptic', and it can be easier - but less satisfying - to write to please other people, to write what you think people want to read. This was me working that out.

To be clear, any tone of frustration that rings through is with myself and my internal tug of war, and is no way directed at anyone reading what I write - here, or elsewhere.

(closing comments here, they're open on the last post.)

on writing, and my relationship to it

2011-02-05T23:22:00.003-06:00

I looked at that clearcut snowy white path shooting diagonally across the page, flanked by planted forest, sparse enough to see the snow on the ground and I thought - yes, I can write about that. About life and how sometimes we shoot straight down the mountain, fast and clear with no obstacles but our own speed, but all the real fun is hiding in the trees. It's where the powder lies, the pockets of fluff that promise thrill and exhilaration as you make your sharp turns to miss the trees and launch off an unexpected jump before spitting back out onto the main run. Yes, life is like a ski resort, blah blah blah.

I could write it, but it would be reaching. It would be contrived and obvious and some would oooh and ahhh and oh how you see the world but those who get it can spot a 'trying too hard' a mile away.

The picture with the roots -- I was drawn to it but didn't really want to write about it because it would be too hard. I didn't know by looking at it what it held for me, what it could hold for me, what it could hold for you. But the contrasts and colors and textures and energy of the picture tell me yes, indeed, it is full. Full and rich and murky and earthy with aromas and textures that would evoke -- that would unearth -- something for anyone who sits and tells Resistance, Not tonight, old friend. I'm writing through.

This is where the treasures lie. This is where we find them. In the rocks and roots and woodchips, in the peaks and crevasses, and you bet your bottom dollar that not everyone will see it through your lens. Even if you pull them up to your vantage point or pull them down so they're there on their bellies with you in the dirt. They may still only see the tree and the rocks and the sky, and they'll recognize it as beautiful, maybe even sense that there's more to the picture they aren't seeing, but not all of them will see what's on the undersides, in the cracks, in the curve of the roots. They may not share your vision.

But that's ok. Because it is worth it to pass over the ski trail than to come away empty as the masses sing your praises. It is worth it to push through the pain or the work of word-painting the way sun falls on the root tendrils, to painstakingly detail the lines in the bark, when to most it will only be a pretty picture, but to you -- to me -- to the rare and treasured few who share the heart and eyes that see this way, it will reveal the truth.

for my Wednesday night sisters. I value you more than I express out-loud.

cannonball!

2011-02-02T21:43:00.003-06:00

So, it snowed.

deep

ready...

set...

go!

where'd he go?

good times.

do it again! (and again...and again...)

wheeee!

uh oh... (brrrr...)

not amused.

what works for me

2011-01-28T07:12:00.001-06:00

I'm not big on unsolicited advice, neither getting nor giving. And 'expert' books, with a few exceptions, are for the birds. However, I certainly appreciate the shared experiences of those mamas who have gone before or are going alongside me, so when my long-time friend Jill of the style blog Good Life For Less started her new blog, good tots! {for stylish moms and their kids}, I was happy to share my top 5 (actually 6) 'what works for me' tidbits with her readers for her mom says series.

Reposting here today from good tots! back in November.

(A little variation from what I usually write here, but keepin' it real, nonetheless.)

Mom Says

1. Say yes as often as possible. Kids have very little that is actually up to them to decide. It may get old for us to hear “Mom can I…Can we…Will you…?” but you can bet it gets old for them to hear “No…not now…we’ll see…” day after day. It is far too easy to make ‘no’ the default response, and from my earliest days of parenting I have made it a goal to say yes as often as possible. My take is that if I can say yes to most requests and permissions (Is it really going to hurt anyone/thing if they launch matchbox cars down the stairs? Is there really any reason they can’t bring their light sabers along on our nature hike? Is there really anything wrong with letting a 3 year old spend the occasional day in his pajamas?), then the rare ‘no’ will be easier to swallow, and hopefully will lead to less resistance because they know I must have a real reason or I would have said yes.

2. Use humor to diffuse anger and tension. My kids are 7, 4, and 2. Between brotherly interactions or battles between parent and child, tempers can flare and wills are at odds. When I feel my frustration growing, my jaw clenching or my shoulders rising to my ears, it can be hard but it is oh-so-worth it to take a deep breath and crack a silly joke, make a funny face or do a little crazy dance. It catches the boys off-guard, and once someone starts laughing it’s almost impossible to stay mad. (My husband uses this trick on me sometimes, and I have to admit it always works.)

3. Let go of the illusion of control. “If you hold on to the handle, she said, it's easier to maintain the illusion of control. But it's more fun if you just let the wind carry you.” [from Story People] In other words: lighten up! Example: When my oldest son was about 8 months old, I made the mistake of reading an expert guidebook on sleep even though up until I read the dumb book I didn’t consider my son’s sleep problematic. I suddenly convinced myself I needed to get him on a nap routine, and I spent three days wasting hours of the beautiful afternoon trying some new process that wasn’t going to work for my son or my family. By trying to cram him into a mold I had read about in some book that I didn’t need to read, I was frustrating myself and setting both myself and my son up for failure. I remember agonizing to my mother about my self-created problem, and she told me, “Honey. Having kids is supposed to be fun. If you’re not having fun, you’re doing something wrong.” It was all I needed to hear. Our time with little kids is brief, and enjoying it is a priority. I have found that accepting that my kids are individual people with unique personalities, needs and desires, and that I cannot control how they respond to my ideas about *sleep (*in place of sleep, substitute any of the following: eating, potty training, clothing preferences, social tendencies, or reaction to grandmothers wanting kisses) has been freeing.

4. Set them up for success. A little forethought goes a long way, and I have learned to rely on my gut for this one. For example: I know getting dressed in the morning can be contentious. So I started dressing one son in his clean clothes for the next day before bed at night and letting him sleep in them. Mornings just got easier. As far as behavior goes, in the case of my boys, it is most certainly asking too much to bring them on errands when they haven’t had a chance to expend their physical energy first. It isn’t reasonable to assume they will tolerate more than two stops on an errand run before starting to whine, fight or wrestle. It isn’t practical to take them to a park near a lake and expect to get out of there without them getting drenched and sandy. It isn’t smart to haul them off for a hike or a long drive or a run of errands without snacks and water. I do my best to create a kid-friendly culture in which they can thrive. I try to make it easy for them to succeed by recognizing their needs and anticipating the potential scenarios that may play out. There are choices I can make that empower them to behave within the realm of acceptability for their environment. (And choosing the environments to which I introduce them is part of the equation.)

5. Carve out space to let their stories surface. I have three kids, and both my husband and I work outside the home. We are a busy family and there is always a lot of activity. But my personal tagline is ‘finding clarity in the chaos’ and I put that into practice. Creating small blocks of time for uninterrupted one-on-one conversation with my kids is essential. They don’t all get it every day, but over a week it balances itself out and we find the time and space. One of my favorite rituals is crawling into the top bunk with my seven year old, after his little brothers have gotten their snuggles, and letting go of my awareness of time or post-bedtime to-do lists. We lay there in the dark, and in that stillness, the stories from his day that have been churning and bouncing around inside float up to the surface where he can see them clearly. If I rushed him through or cut him off, I would be missing these little glimpses of his life. I’d be missing out on the view through his lens. I wouldn’t see the connections he’s making or the lessons he’s learning or the confusion he’s working through. Some of my most profound parenting experiences and teachable moments have happened during these bedtime conversations.

6. Take care of yourself – and ditch the guilt while you’re at it. (I’ll keep this one brief, since I went over my 5-item limit.) It took until my third kid to accept the value and necessity of taking care of myself in order to be happier, healthier, more centered, and more present with my family. For me it’s a regular yoga practice and time to write or do some other creative work. You know what recharges you. The time to do it won’t surface on it’s own – you have to choose how to prioritize your time. I vote that self-care ranks pretty high on the worth-the-time list. I hope you do, too.

How about you? What are your top tidbits of advice or experience that you'd offer up to new or fellow mamas? What's the best advice you were given as a new mom?

:::

I'm also excited to share with you that Jill has just released her new e-book, 50 Things Every Woman Simply Must Own. Jill writes, This e-book started as an inspiration for myself as I desired to depend more upon timeless classics in my wardrobe than flash-in-the-pan trends. Trends are fun and definitely have a place in our personal style and in our closets. However, the items featured here are staples to your style and wardrobe that will last and inspire for years to come.

I have to say that even though Jill and I have pretty different personal styles, I am consistently inspired by her suggestions and examples, and I've found new, fun ways to style items I already had. I've also picked up versions of things similar to pieces she has featured on her blog from the thrift store or at clothing swaps, so fashion is very doable, even on a super-tight budget. Fun stuff. Check out Jill and her new e-book. She will not disappoint.

reincarnation (a conversation with a friend)

2011-01-19T12:03:00.002-06:00

Where do ideas go when they die? Do they linger in our subconscious until their time comes? Or do they dissipate into the ether?

Ether, I fear. And then someone else grabs them and runs.

I don't know. Maybe they reincarnate and come back to us when we can use them. Just in a different body than in their first life. I bet they give us another chance.

:::

So much going on, I'm sure I'm not the only one. I hope to surface sometime soon.

stowaway

2011-01-13T21:11:00.010-06:00

Dana died. She died nine days ago and I'm crying for the first time tonight.

She was a really good friend -- we were all good friends. We were The Girls. I don't have a The Girls anymore. I haven't since then.

We lost touch in the years after high school, sometime during college. Time passed, people change, almost shape-shift. When I heard of her passing, I felt like I was hearing about someone else. A different Dana than the one I know. Than the one I knew.

So I was numb to it for a while there. It didn't sink past my information-processing brain receptors down deep into my heart. But today, it hit.

Dana died. I will not see her again. Will not hear her laugh. She is gone.

I feel this tug between those of us who were there then, who were with her when we were all in the very first part of becoming who we are, and those who know her now. Who were in her life during these recent years, after some of us had lost her.

We had something special in those high school days. A friendship so much deeper, richer than our young years could explain. Back when we were all in the same place, five days a week. When we had nothing else pulling our time and energy, nothing else drawing from our reserves and so everything -- everything -- could go into our friendships.

I haven't had a circle of friends like that since. I have had, and have, dear friendships and close girlfriends, but nothing like the dynamic of, the entity that was, The Girls.

We loved. We loved each other so much. And I believe we still do, that we still carry each other, tucked into hidden pockets of our hearts, crouching in the dusty corners and resting in the little cracks and grooves that form through life; that we still hold each other and those memories and take that love and have let it become part of who we are so that no matter where we go or how much time has passed, we still have each other in there, somewhere. That's what happens when someone helps shape who you are.

It's not just Dana. It's all of my Girls. We have grown and drifted and traveled and wed and partnered and careered and mothered and the big pot of energy and time we all hold has more straws pulling from it now. And so we drift and let drift.

But Girls -- my Girls -- if you are out there somewhere, I send this little note up with a balloon and hope that it reaches you, send it singing on the breeze and I hope that you catch it, I hope you feel it brush your cheek or the back of your neck while you sit by the lake or hike your mountain or dance a thousand pirouettes across the floor or pour over the paper on a sunsoaked couch or sip your coffee at the kitchen table, and I hope you sense it and feel it and know it and remember that

you are loved.

And you are remembered. I carry you with me even when I don't see you there, tucked away in my heart's pockets. And I want to be a tiny hidden stowaway in your heart, too. I want to jump in and hunker down and ride along on your journey.

I love you and I miss you so very, very much.

fare thee well, sweet friend.

bawk bawk

2011-01-10T19:07:00.003-06:00

oatmeal bath.

calamine lotion rubdown.

One-sie.

Turtleneck.

Sweatpants.

Kneehigh socks.

Teddybear under one arm and a

daddy-built super-cool Lego gun under the other.

Equals: a recipe for an itch-itch-scratch-scratch-free night.

(I'll be back when the spots are gone.)

twentyten

2010-12-31T09:12:00.009-06:00

A couple of days ago I was cleaning out a sorely neglected closet full of jam-packed paper bags that were stuffed with papers and envelopes. I think at least one of those bags was filled with whatever had been on my counter in our last apartment when we moved out and into this house almost 7 years ago. Among the legions of paid bills from 2005, grad school papers, and some old lip gloss, I discovered the title to our house and Eli's ultrasound pictures, mixed right in there with all of that old business.

It's incredible to me that one year ago I was still home full-time with the boys, that my dad had not yet been diagnosed with cancer, let alone treated and cured. It's been a year in which we went from having two boys and a baby to three little boys. In which I leaped back into full-time work and accomplished a project I'm very proud of.

There are truths and beauty and meaning buried in the day to day, even when from the outside it might just look like a very full grocery bag. Twentyten will be tough to beat, but rumor has it Eleven is up to the challenge.

I'm hastily typing this up as my little boyband races up and down and back and forth with swords and shields and plastic horseshoes, so I'll wrap it up -- it's been a pleasure, friends. Cheers to year full and rich, and hope and intentions for a new year even better than what's passed.

My 2010 footprints:

and sometimes beauty comes in the dark quiet of the night

very merry

2010-12-23T17:14:00.009-06:00

I'm taking some time off work to be home with the boys on their school break. Oh man, do I love it. I think I'm the only woman I know who loved being a full-time stay-at-home-mom yet went back to work full-time because I chose to, not because I had to. Ahh...complexity.

When I'm home with them on breaks like these, I feel a twinge of sadness spiked with guilt as the very act of being here for it all illustrates to me in bright bold colors just what I'm missing when I'm gone.

Yet.

It doesn't actually work like that. Because the experiences they have with their dad and with their nanny and with teachers is different than what they have with me (different, but still positive. it takes a village, yo.) And I know -- in my heart and my brain -- that the time I do have with them now is high-quality, super-concentrated, fully-focused chunks of love and attention. I am soaking them in and fully enjoying our time together. Of course they still fight and I still yell sometimes, but the exasperation has been sliced and diced and the connection amplified.

We've been playing and creating and getting ready for Christmas. Owen used regular old generic legos to build his own Transformers. I love the way he creates what he wants out of what he has. (I hope he can carry that with him through life.)

We made paper snowflakes to decorate the house. Eli snatched one out of my hands and turned it into a gun. Of course he did. He can't help but see the familiar hiding there in the new, letting his own little light shine shine shine as he shows us the way he sees the world.

Axel has been asking me to sing more than usual. Sing, Mommy. I yike it when you sing. I sing in the car, in the kitchen, lying down with him before his nap. All of the Christmas songs I've ever learned, have even known, those buried in my brain-grooves -- they all come out and I sing and sing all day, and then I walk into the room to find him keeping rhythm with a couple of blocks and singing in his two-year old sugar-voice, Dashing through the snow...

I'm really happy. I'm so ready for Christmas. This year we're slowing down, staying put. It feels really good, a welcome change of pace from stressful, hectic travels or preparing for guests. As much as we love our extended families (we love you guys!) and the time we spend with them, this year we're trying something new.

Our own traditions, in our own home, slow and small and peaceful. Connecting as a couple and with our kids, which is hard to do in a houseful of people. You can kind of lose each other in the noise of it all.

This week has been truly delightful, sharing with the boys the stories of Christmas -- both the fun and the magic of Santa Claus and stocking surprises, and also the gift and the joy of a baby's birth - of Jesus loving us enough to meet us where we're at, slipping into the world, into people-skin, in the dark quiet of the night.

We seemed to have lost the Baby Jesus. I told the boys, it's a good thing he lives in our hearts! Can't lose him if you got him in there!

Eli was playing with the Nativity nesting dolls today, and when he opened up the Shepherd he cried out, delighted -- Hey! He ripped the sheep's head off!

:::

Merry Christmas, friends! May this season be full of joy and love for you and yours.

spirals

2010-12-16T13:06:00.000-06:00

Another bedtime whispered conversation, and he tells me about Casey's funny joke, a silly story and he laughs telling it. And then he's on to another story about Mekhi and how he couldn't find the hidden key even though it was right in front of him, and that he was laughing so hard his chest hurt, that he had never before laughed so hard that his chest hurt.

And then he stops and says -- when I think of things, it always makes me think of other things.

When I was a kid I would sit in church and let my train of thought chug on down the track. After ten minutes or so, I'd stop and wonder how on earth I got there. Then I'd backtrack, thought by thought, until I got back to whatever started the whole thing off. I loved it when I could trace it all the way back, it was fun to see those connections, to notice the movement of my own mind.

It's like a spiral, he told me. In my head, this is what it looks like: the thing I'm thinking of is a line, and then the next thing I think of spirals down from the line like this, he tells me, drawing in the air. And then another thing spirals up from the line. That's what it looks like in my head when I think of things. I wish I could connect a tube from my head to your head so you could see exactly what I'm seeing in my head.

He doesn't have to. I know exactly what he means.

I've never told him about spirals, about how in my writing practice we talk about how that's the path our brains take when we ruminate or tell our stories, when we let them run their courses without our resistance or inner-editors getting in the way. That we start close in, and we go, we travel out far and wide, spanning out to the reaches and then without even trying, we cycle on back to where we started, yet we're in a different place. Sometimes we spiral out, gaining a wider perspective as we go. Other times we work inward to the heart of things. The point being that our stories aren't linear. Sure, there's a beginning, middle, and end; but the ending is really just another beginning, and it often looks a whole lot like the place from where we originally started.

A couple of years ago, before I was blogging, before my writing practice, I was reading an essay on writing and the arts, and the author remarked how even when writers aren't writing, they still think like writers. They observe themselves having a thought, there's a narration of sorts running parallel to their experience. When I read that, my heart zinged. I hadn't known that anyone else's brain worked that way. The only way I had ever tried to describe it to anyone was almost confessional. Wondering if I was a weirdo of some kind, I told my husband, Sometimes I think like I write. I just start describing things in my head - my setting, my thoughts and feelings -- with words I would never use in conversation, but rather the way I would write it. It wasn't until that moment when I read the essay that I realized that that's how writers think. How our brains work.

When I was a little kid, I often heard voices. They weren't scary, because they were my voices, and I knew they were mine, even at 8 years old. But I knew it was weird and I think I only tried to explain it to someone once before I realized that perhaps that was something I ought to keep to myself. I had forgotten about the voices until just now, as I write this post.

That he recognizes the way his mind moves, that he observes himself thinking, that he can track it, that he visualizes the path as a spiral, makes my heart zing. He is not a mini-me, he is himself. But I understand him, I get his brain. And I absolutely delight in his beautiful spirals.

a ten second conversation between him and me

2010-12-13T19:52:00.002-06:00

All of my friends are writing books. It's ridiculous, actually.

All of my friends are paddling, he says. I know how you feel.

And we look at each other, seeing dreams and potential and abilities and passions and

reality and constraints and

choices.

And we are happy with ours, and we are working full-time and raising three boys and full-to-bursting with joy and delight and contentment and blessings

but we still wish we could be writing our books and paddling the Boundary Waters.

comma

2010-12-12T20:46:00.003-06:00

Tonight I held Eli.

He fell asleep sitting up, curled into me like a comma, chin tucked and arms gathered to his heart while I read. And when I finished and the littlest left my lap and the oldest my side, I shifted just slightly and lying down, pulled my middle child onto my chest like I did when he was a baby.

A moment so precious I feel I am stealing.

Oh, stay mine, little one. Grow and thrive and learn and bloom but first just pause for one small breath and let me hold you just a little while longer.

and sometimes the beauty comes in the dark quiet of the night

2010-12-04T18:18:00.012-06:00

I whistled for the dog and propped open the backdoor to let him out, dangling a full bag of garbage in the other hand. I stopped -- a thin fluff of snow layering the car, the steps, the ground. I don't know why it caught me by surprise. I knew it was coming.

I guess because it's quiet, because the magic happens without a sound, I didn't notice. I hadn't looked out the window - I didn't hear it falling out there in the dark quiet of the night.

:::

He called for me, crying, and I found him horizontal in the bed. I turned him right side up and tucked him in, nursed him for a minute before sliding his little body up so his head rested on the pillow. Forehead to forehead, cheeks on pillows, I stared at his little face in the dark. He's two, my baby. And there he was, but there they were, too. In the dark right there, at two. On that pillow I could see them, resting in the dark; little lashes falling on cheeks.

They were there, I saw them there in him, and in that moment I knew what I had always known - that he would grow bigger, too.

It happens, quiet and in the dark and it catches me by surprise even though it shouldn't, but it's beautiful nonetheless.

:::

We got a few inches of snow last night, enough that I had to take some time to brush off the van before heading to the co-op for groceries this morning. I bundled up in my winter coat for the first time this season, and when I slipped my hand into my pocket I found the rock.

I grasped it in my palm and smiled and said a little prayer of thanks that this winter, I'm not carrying a heavy load or holding close a painful story. It was almost a year ago my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Six months or more since his surgery. Three since he finished radiation, retired, bought a giant RV and started Road-Trip-USA-ing it with his beautiful bride of 40+ years. Clean bill of health, grateful heart; an inspiration to his daughters and so many more.

Sometimes it's rocks in pockets and other times it's a quiet snow falling in the dark to remind us that time passes and life happens and beauty is always there, sometimes surprising us even when we should have seen it coming.

soft morning sun streaming yellow through translucent white window shades

2010-11-29T23:24:00.007-06:00

Two years ago, I woke up at 4 in the morning with a smile on my face.

I knew he was coming, was on his way, and I was oh-so-ready to meet that little guy.

I stayed up late a few nights before his birthday last week and I wrote

and wrote

the whole story of his birth

and how I felt and what it meant.

I poured through photos of me dancing in the doorway and kneeling over a giant blue ball, hands clasped in my husband's. Of me on my knees in a tub of water in my living room, soft morning sun streaming yellow through translucent white window shades on a cold, quiet Friday morning in November.

Of my morphing face, frame by rapid frame, as my midwife lifts him from the water

and rests him in my arms, against my chest

wonder and joy, captured in dots per inch.

My husband peering over my shoulder, reaching past and lifting one chubby pink leg to get a peek, and our dropped jaws, our smiles.

I can hear the laughter through the photograph

A boy! Another boy!

He's here!

He's here. My baby is two.

Happy birthday, my Axel, my love. We are so, so happy you're here.

:::

I had intended to share what I wrote of Axel's birth story, but when I sat down at the computer, I never looked back to my notebook and this is what came out instead. Who knew. But I do know that when I was pregnant with my boys and planning my homebirths, birth stories were encouraging and empowering for me to read. So if you have any questions about homebirth, or just love reading birth stories, please feel free to email me at clarity.chaos at gmail.

DISCLAIMER

2010-11-21T11:23:00.010-06:00

Evenings like last night remind me sharply of the disparity between my reality and the persona I may unintentionally present online, in this space here where I ruminate and reflect, sharing my favorite photos to evoke a feeling or sentiment, or just to illustrate the boyfulness of my life. Occasionally I get emails from a reader or a comment from a faraway friend who reads my blog telling me 'what a great mom' I am. While I appreciate support and think, in general, that people should express kind words towards each other more often, I cringe a little when I get these kudos for my mothering. Because frankly -- I feel a little fraudulent.

To clear things up, I offer up now a little disclaimer: I, for one, most certainly do not have my shit together.

I love mothering, I enjoy most every aspect of it, and frankly I think I do a pretty good job overall. But I have plenty of faults and flaws and insecurities. For starters: I yell too much, I'm always late, I tend toward laziness, I'm terrible at returning calls and emails, my house is always messy, I'm the only mother on the east side of Madison who has kids that won't eat raw vegetables straight from the garden without coercion. (Or dip. Lots and lots of dip.)

And my kids are crazy. While this is in no way a fault or even a complaint, it is occasionally a source of insecurity. I have three very physical, very loud, very active boys and when we venture out to parties and potlucks and events, they are still physical and loud and active. Inevitably, raucous devolves into mayhem, often resulting in wrestling, spinning, or random and unintentional kicks to someone's face. Even among the most supportive and understanding of crowds (like last night, at our beloved semi-annual preschool art show and stone soup party) I walk away feeling slightly deflated, wondering if silent judgment passed through the minds of friends and acquaintances, or whether I left anyone baffled by my seeming ineptitude in the child-control department. My exhaustion and doubts climb their way to a seat of power, stepping on the heads and slouching shoulders of my confidence and intuition. Is this just how it is with three kids? With three boys? Or is it me?

Point being - I'm not perfect. Anyone who knows me in person or finds themselves in my company for more than 2o minutes can attest to this. (Or you could ask my family and they'll tell you sight unseen....) We measure ourselves against the best of another mother, rather than the whole. It is a dangerous path to tread because we will never measure up to the composite of the best of every other mother.

In these online spaces where we select which pieces of the whole to share, which stories to tell, what photos to post, it is easy to give the impression of having it all together. Which I don't. And I just wanted to make that clear.

So to you - far away friends and online strangers - especially the new mamas among you -- please remember not to hold yourself in comparison to the facade you perceive as the ideal, the Perfect Mother -- here or on other blogs or at the grocery store or in the school pick up line. Because she doesn't exist. I'm not her, you're not her. (There is no Her.)

Thus ends my public service announcement.

I wrote a little piece last week on my struggle with ambition and passion and faith over at In the Hush of the Moon. I wax a bit poetic, so if that's not your thing I did leave a bit more of an explanation in the comments. The post is here if you'd like to read it.

And finally, for a little glimpse into the chaos that is my daily life, here's a little clip (below) from a perfectly normal, run of the mill evening in the Clarity-Chaos Household. Watch, then please tell me - in all honesty -- is this level of volume and activity the norm in your house too? Does it seem so MUCH just because our house is tiny? Am I scaring you away from having more children?

Oh, and be sure to head over on Tuesday to good tots! a new blog "for stylish moms and their kids" by my friend Jill of the inspirational fashion/style blog good life for less. She'll be publishing a piece I wrote for her mom says series where I share my top five mantras for mothering. Please check it out if you have a minute!

Over and out friends. Have a fabulous Thanksgiving.

note the minivan captains chair masquerading as furniture. and the sweet dog, immune to the mayhem.

expos(ur)e

2010-11-17T23:22:00.006-06:00

I can't help but picture people as babies. Little kids. It instantly makes them seem vulnerable. It exposes the insecurity that hides inside, buried under the finish we wear on the outside. As a mother, I see it all the time. Any stranger walking down the street, the grouchy man at the post office, the infuriating colleague. I see them as babies, traces of childhood peaking through, the features their mothers must have loved, the mannerism or the posture or the gait she could recognize from across the schoolyard. It softens people. It turns them back into someone with feelings and needs and trouble with communication and it's easier for me to extend that benefit-of-the-doubt, to search for their good intention amid the conflict.

I stare at the faces of my boys and I catch glimpses of who they'll be, how they'll walk, what they'll look like when they smile. I can see how their babyness will shine through, not lost on me. I get glimpses of who they'll be as young men, as old men. I think about what our relationship may be. How we'll spend our time together -- I need to foster that now. I'm laying the stones in place now to build that foundation so we can grow up and expand and still have that familiar place to land our feet, so we can have a relationship when they are adults that will look very different from this one we have now -- but will retain the essence, will hold those features from babyhood, childhood.

So I can look closely and with enough lighting and from the right angle still see them in there, see us in there. Recognize what we were and what we built and where they came from and who we are.

seasons

2010-11-09T22:57:00.004-06:00

A little leaf turns

and a beloved season hints of coming to a close.

I'm reveling in what's in front of me,

what's in my arms.

I breathe it in

bowled over by the fullness.

I want to hang on.

[you know I'm not just talking about the great fall weather, don't you?]

I'm here for each step, looking back with affection

but moving forward all the same.

:::

unwrapping the gifts of being present, of hanging on while letting go, of living a life of boyfulness.

more at emily's chatting at the sky.

a reminder to myself on this, Nov. 3 2010

2010-11-03T07:40:00.002-05:00

Reposting from about 7 months ago because oh how I need this reminder this morning, waking up in a Wisconsin that I'm disgusted with this morning and trying to remember that it's ideas and philosophies with which I'm [strongly] disagreeing -- as opposed to people who I am not liking. (But oh, it can be hard when emotions run high.)

:::

They were talking politics, and I heard him tell her, "I think it's good for parents to give their children something to believe. They can always change their minds later."

And I thought, what about teaching your kids how to think, not what to think?

I don't need my kids to grow up agreeing with me -- I want them growing up knowing how to think. To form their own ideas, to question pat answers, to want to know the why's behind thewhat's and how's.

This is what I want for my kids:

For them to learn that everyone has ideas. That we will like some people's ideas better than others. And that even if we don't like someone's ideas, that we can still like them, still respect them as a person.

For them to question good guys and bad guys. To accept that if we try hard enough, if we approach people with open minds and ears, that we can find common ground somewhere.

That we should listen, rather than wait to speak. That we must always be open to changing our minds when presented with new information. That there's no shame in recognizing we were wrong.

I don't want to give my kids something to believe. I want to support them in their process of discovering what they believe.

(And I want to follow my own advice.)

:::

Keep comments civil, people. I get caught up in political nastiness pretty easily, so I could use your help on moving forward here.

score

2010-10-31T23:22:00.003-05:00

It was a great weekend.

rake jump rake jump rake jump repeat

St. Vinnie's score, hand-me-down treasure, and long underwear with a cape and boots

"Nurse me in the penguin."

And now I discipline myself to refrain from raiding the plastic pumpkins that sit atop the fridge.

(I sense a fall-themed photo-heavy post coming soon to a blog near you. As in, this one. Just so you know.)

found me

2010-10-30T13:32:00.003-05:00

I've been acting like a silly girl all week

when people tell me

peek...

you're much less stressed
I can feel it in your energy

and I think
(with a pout)
so you're saying I've been a crab?

a...

I think from now on I'll just smile and say
Thank you.

boo!

:::

By the way, I've only got one more month with a one-year old in the house. Although Mr. Axel Levi has been telling us he's two for months. Thankfully, the older boys and I are in cahoots to keep him a baby forever.

(you're welcome)

2010-10-27T23:14:00.003-05:00

There is only one me, I am it.

for my boys. and myself.

(and you.)

where I've been

2010-10-24T16:16:00.009-05:00

I feel like an evergreen amid the maples, I told her. While it seemed everyone around me was heading into new seasons and blazing brilliant yellows and reds, I felt a steadfast and sturdy green. All my creative energy has been honed in sure and steady on one focal point for months, and certainly weeks, so that at the end of the workday when I'd sit with notebook or laptop open, I came up empty.

What a difference [the meeting of] a deadline can make.

:::

There is a grey leather captain's chair in the corner of my livingroom. It's been there for a month. (In related news, my dog has been riding in the cabin of the minivan.) Finally, last week when my family was visiting, I opened it up and we started using it as additional seating. We don't have a garage, and it hasn't made it's way to the basement, but it may now have a new home.

Today I put away the laundry and suitcases that have been stacked in the back of the hall since...I honestly can't remember when. Months. (That's plural.) An hour later, Eli walked past and did a double take: "Mama, why does the back of the hall look funny?"

I cooked dinner last night - from scratch. I used to cook most nights of the week. But since June? I could probably lob off a finger or two and still count on two hands the number of evenings I've broken out the cutting board and chopping knives. It was good - my famous 'Blast Your Head Off' Mexican Casserole. It's not really a casserole, but I don't know what else to call it.

Owen in October

:::

I turned it in. 250 pages+ over to the copy editor and graphic designer. I cannot believe how many words I have read, written, and edited over the last several months. How many checks and double checks and revisions and new sidebars and case studies I have pulled together. But last week Tuesday I pulled a deep, wide breath through my lungs and when I let it out the weight of the world rose off my shoulders and blew off into the wind. I'll be working minimally - consulting with the designer until this baby is released in a few months, but for the most part - my work on the project is complete. I am tired, I am proud, I am glad I've made it through.

I'm thrilled to have landed a new gig - 60% time at the university managing a really sweet program called the Climate Leadership Challenge. If you're interested in green or sustainable innovation, check it out. I even have an office with a door! I like to leave it open.

Black-eyed Baddass

:::

Can I tell you how lovely it is to leave work at work? To put the kids to bed at night and snuggle up with my husband and a movie? We've been loving our Netflix 'watch instantly' feature, and I know I haven't been around lately, but my husband is a hell of lot sexier than this laptop.

Today felt like a down comforter. I spent the morning with my oldest - he came with me to teach the kids program at church (while daddio stayed home with the snot-machines) and then we grabbed lunch, just the two of us. We popped into the Co-op, and he requested sushi and a bubble water (raspberry klarbrunn, to be precise) and I had a coffee. He let me have all the wasabi. We sat at the counter looking out the windows at the rain and topped off our date by sharing the mint fudge brownie.

I sidled up to Eli in the giant corduroy beanbag to watch Cars. Just the two of us. I squeezed and smooched him the entire hour and a half. I love that movie. I cry every time I see King flip and crash and McQueen stop short and go back to push him across the finish line. Every time. I absolutely revel in having the time to waste away an hour or two with a spontaneous afternoon movie. Eli's getting a little cold, and he watched the whole thing with his head on my chest and his legs draped over my lap. That bean bag has got to be the best furniture investment we've made.

I took a break from putting away all of the laundry (from the hallway) to play hide and seek and pretend sleep with Axel. He's such a chatterbox. All of my boys have spoken early and often, but Axel is speaking in paragraphs, with near perfect grammar and proper pronoun usage. It bowls us over. He continues to be a dreamy little delight of a child. And the kid can wield a light saber with incredible balance and precision. He'll be two in one month and four days. My baby.

Axel in the afternoon

:::

I have several friends who had their first babies when I had my third. And surprise surprise - they're announcing pregnancies left and right. I get a bowling ball drop-to-the-gut on a monthly basis (hello hormones!) as it hits me that we're [probably] done. (See how I qualified that?) I cannot see a baby boy without my heart simultaneously rising to my throat and plunging into my belly. But today (shhh...don't tell my husband) as I watched Cars with Eli, the animated landscape of the southwest reminded me of all the amazing camping trips and mountain biking trails John and I took on before kids. And it hit me how fun it will be to get our boys out there on more strenuous trails and harder-core camping trips than the in-state, car-camping excursions we take now. I saw us. The five of us, and it made me smile. We are full, so so full. I would welcome another in a heartbeat, but if I don't, I will still be full.

:::

During my little laptop hiatus, my hubby and I have been doing a little plotting. Now I just made it pretty clear there won't be a pregnancy announcement coming from me, but we may be working on birthing something else in a couple of months. Let's just say I am now calling him my creative co-conspirator and business partner. We've taken some first steps and I can't wait to be able to tell you more. (how's that for a teaser?) So stay tuned.

Good stuff, people. Real-life in this incredible physical world I'm living is full of good, good stuff. I hope yours is, too.

(p.s. I'm honored to have one of my essays featured on Story Bleed. They have recently made-over their look and brand [formerly Blog Nosh] and will be putting out a quarterly print version of their magazine, too. Check them out and dig through the archives for some of the best writing you can find online.)

part of us

2010-10-11T11:39:00.007-05:00

The big picture is always more than we can share in these spaces,

and so what we reveal instead

is just a tiny little part of us.

Army of Women - for Shirley

2010-10-07T21:08:00.007-05:00

On July 22, 2008 my Aunt Shirley died of breast cancer. She was my mother's older sister. She was a very gifted artist, watercolors were her specialty. Not only was she gifted with this talent, she had the spunk and sense of humor to teach middle schoolers how to paint and draw and create all sorts of art themselves. Aunt Shirley had a fabulous sense of humor, with a knack for reducing anyone in her presence to belly laughter, complete with tears streaming down their faces. She particularly had this effect on her sisters, her mother, and her daughters.

She loved her native Rocky Mountains, and was treasured by her husband - Uncle Roger; her daughters Ali, Kris and Katie; her sisters - Renie and Susie; and her mom, my Grandma Flo. (Not to mention a pile of nieces, nephews, extended family and friends.) Her father, my Grandpa George passed a decade before her, and the rest of us all are still missing both of them today.

Shirley's passing inspired my mom -- her sister -- to move beyond the symbolic support of pinning a pink ribbon to her coat and actually do something to contribute to the fight against breast cancer. My mother - Lorene - signed up with the Army of Women to participate in a study, and she shares her experience with us here, as an encouragement to all of you reading to SIGN UP TODAY to help make a difference in this fight for a cure, the fight for prevention.

:::

Lorene's story:

After my sister died of cancer, I happened to be watching TV and saw an interview with Dr. Susan Love. She was asking for volunteers for certain studies to help conquer breast cancer. I went online and applied to take the "sister study". They have several studies going, but I qualified for this one since I was healthy and had a sister who died from breast cancer.

They sent me several forms to fill out and instructions on what would be done. Many of these questions had to do with my environment while I was growing up. This of course would have been the same as my sister. I had to take dust samples from various places in my current house and a few other chores. Nothing was hard to do. When a nurse came to the house, she took a blood sample, and did a few other tests. They sent some followup questions, and once a year I get a questionaire to fill out about my health.

It was easy, and hopefully helpful.

:::

Please head over to Army of Women and check out their current projects, make a donation, or sign up to participate in their studies. From their site:

"There are many different types of studies. Some might require you to complete a questionnaire, while others might need a sample of blood, urine, saliva, breast fluid, or breast tissue. Some studies might be clinical trials testing a new detection marker or drug. You decide which studies you want to take part in."

carry [on]

2010-10-03T18:57:00.003-05:00

There are times we may look big and strong and tough

[at least big and strong and tough enough]

to handle life on our own two feet.

But some days are harder than others.

And I don't think

that we ever get so big

that it doesn't feel good

to be

picked up

and held close

and carried for as long as it takes

to feel right again.

me & my big lug 3.5 year old

(mei tai by babyhawk)

:::

Although this post is about much more than actual babywearing, I'm reposting (from 2-1-10) in honor of Steph's call to action in response to the recalls by the CPSC and subsequent spread of misinformation about baby carriers. I've worn all my babies well into kid-hood, and I'm happy to do my part to help other new moms choose safe, comfortable (and cute!) carriers to enrich their days/weeks/months/years of raising babies. I've used slings, pouches, wraps, mei tais, and soft-structured carriers, so feel free to pose any babywearing-related questions in comments and I'll get back to you if I can. Steph is also a good go-to. Just click over and poke around her site to find answers to the questions you have. She's hosting a link-up for people to post their favorite photos or stories about babywearing. These are some photos that came to mind immediately.

#WritePink

2010-10-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

Gramma Tuts

It's my only memory of her, and she's lying on the couch. I walk up and stand as high as the armrest. A short time later (days? weeks? months?), I walk into our family kitchen and see my dad, her son, sitting at the table. It's the first time I see him cry.

Aunt Shirley

I have her watercolors hanging in my livingroom. My mother's sister. Her contagious laugh, her quirky sense of humor, her kind heart and her artistic gifts. She fought, won, fought again, and we lost her. Survived by daughters, sisters, mother, and many more.

Aunt Mary

She always wore the greatest lipstick, and taught her daughters to do the same. My father's sister, lost decades after his mother. Her poems touched us all with humor and reflection through weddings and funerals alike. I can still hear her laugh if I close my eyes and listen.

Cousin Amy

A life lived far too briefly. Fight battle rest battle rest battle fight battle. Rest eternal, sweet cousin. Beautiful inside and out. A wife, a mother three times over. She was far too young.

***

I wanted to pour so much into this post, but I'm at a loss for words tonight. I've committed this month to Write Pink - I'm joining a host of bloggers today and many more over the course of the month in writing about breast cancer and how we can each play a role in preventing it and finding a cure.

I've signed up with Army of Women - a collaboration between the Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation and the Avon Army of Women - to help recruit ONE MILLION HEALTHY WOMEN to participate in research studies aimed to prevent breast cancer and to find a cure.

Signing up does not commit you to participate in any specific study -- instead you will receive information about studies for which you may be eligible. I urge you to sign up. Together, we improve breast cancer prevention and work towards finding a cure for this disease that touches far too many women.

I'm honored to be a part of the Write Pink campaign, and I'll be linking up with the ladies at Bigger Picture Blogs a few more times this month to spread the word about the Army of Women initiative.

Please do your part - sign up or spread the word.

blast off

2010-09-21T20:03:00.005-05:00

I'm laying with Owen in the top bunk at bedtime and he tells me about his crazy dream.

Owen:

I had this dream that I went outside and you were getting into a space shuttle and it was called the Alone Shuttle. And you were going to this place called the Special Woods where all the animals were really nice and would help you with all your stuff.

I asked you, "Do you have to go Mom?" and you said "Just for a couple hours, Buddy."

Dad pulled me inside because it wasn't safe to see the launch, and when I went back outside, you were gone. So I went back inside and I went through my secret lair and came out in the driveway and I was hiding by the flowers and I saw you in the Alone Shuttle and I asked if I could come along and you said, "I have too much work to do, Buddy."

But then I got in my Secret Mobile and I was driving on the highway and I went past the Special Woods and I thought, hmmmm. So I parked on the side of the road, and then someone woke me up.

I wish I could have more of that dream.

me:

Even though I was leaving in it?

Owen:

Well, you know my lair? It was really cool and had really cool computers and stuff in it. I wish I had one.

:::

I love my job, but it has been really stressful lately. I met one deadline and I'm up against another, and I've been working too much for the last couple of weeks. During the day, at home after the boys go to bed, pretty much constantly. I knew the project would be like this for a stretch when I took it on, but it doesn't make it any easier. I really do believe in the value of what I'm doing, and my boys know that my job helps people learn how to take care of the planet and keep it healthy and keep us healthy, and as I've said before, they have been doing so, so good with the new schedule of more days with Dad and a few days with our beloved nanny. But it has been hard for me lately.

I had a meeting yesterday at which I burst into tears in front of a conference table full of scientists, many of whom could be my father or my grandfather. I was incredibly embarrassed and they all looked like they wanted to hug me. Some of them did. I work with mostly lovely, brilliant people, but when collaborating with hundreds of people and dozens of committees and a handful of egos, there is bound to be a stink bomb airlifted in at some point in the process, and when it detonated, it knocked me on my ass. Unfortunately (or not), my anger/sense of being wronged manifests in tears and when I tried to rationally lay out my feelings about a particular situation, I found myself with the tell tale shaky-voice/blinky-eyes, and before I knew it I was sniffling my way through my harangue. Yeah, I know. Awesome.

I was going to leave the meeting and finish out the day at the coffee shop, but halfway there I took a hard right and drove home to my boys instead. I rattled into the driveway and there they were - all five of them: three littles, light sabers drawn and ready for battle; one big, sipping a hoppy ale and smiling at my early return; and one hairy, lazily raising his head to check me out before resuming his afternoon snooze. Coming home to my boys...I can't even find the words. My boys are home. Their munchkin voices peppering the afternoon air, their sticky little hands and their dirty feet and their bruised foreheads fill me back up, swelling my heart and tightening my throat, and this time -- when the tears pricked my eyes, I was only feeling love.

:::

I had a yoga class tonight. I raced home from work to join the boys at the elementary school for literacy night for what was going to be a brief drop-in before class, but we stayed and then came home together. I needed to be here with them tonight. Eli and I have been collaborating on a new bedtime story.

Once upon a time, Mama was captured by the bad guys and put in jail and her hands were tied and she was calling for help. Eli the Brave heard her, and he came to the jail and he tricked the bad guys by pretending he was old and had a cane so they let him in. But once he got in he said 'Ha! I tricked you!' and he wielded his blaster, which they thought was a cane, and he blasted everyone with sleeping gas and they all collapsed to the ground. And Eli untied Mama and they hopped in the rocket and blasted off together, away from the jail. The End.

We lay on the bottom bunk and I tell him the story and touch the little glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs on his pajamas. I kiss his impossibly, ridiculously soft cheeks.

I do it again before I go to bed. I sneak into their room and I kiss their cheeks and I whisper that I love them so very, very much and then I slip into my room, and lift the baby from his crib when he calls for me and I snuggle him close and we nurse and I kiss the top of his head, and John joins us soon after and I drift off with my feet tangled in his legs and tiny fingers tangled in my hair and two chests rising and falling in the room across the little hall and a big hairy beast keeping guard at the door, and my heart is so full that it comes out my eyes and I thank God that I have these boys and that they have me and that we are together. Not alone.

on accepting truth

2010-09-16T10:57:00.000-05:00

Pema writes that "the truth sinks in like rain into a very hard earth." Perhaps Pema was not a hydrologist. When the earth is very hard, rain doesn't sink in; it runs off.

I think sometimes this is how it goes with accepting truth when our hearts are hardened. Maybe a little sprinkle will find a crack to seep into. But a downpour of truth when we aren't ready to take it in?

Flash flood.

INCOMING!

2010-09-14T08:03:00.007-05:00

You know you're a mother of boys when....

...you land the soft underside of your bare foot on a playmobil skull.

...while laying on the bottom bunk with one boy, you hear from above through the crack between the top bunk and the wall, "INCOMING TOOT!" followed by a stinky stench wafting.

...you don't visibly flinch at livingroom light saber battle before 8 am.

...your turn.

(I'm not one to perpetuate stereotypes, but I have been particularly enjoying the boyfulness of my life lately, and I know some of you hear me on this. Join me in the comments below? I have a feeling this could get funny.)

i took a moment from my day*

2010-09-09T19:29:00.002-05:00

Tonight when I gathered my things and breezed out the door to pick up at the coffee shop what I didn't finish at the office, I had this *flash* and I was leaving my dorm room for a night of studying [socializing] at the library. (4th floor, tables by the window.) Maybe it's the chill in the air or the anticipation of nighttime coffee or maybe it's all the old photos I've been pouring through.

John and I just celebrated 10 years of matrimonial bliss. [Last week, on Owen's 7th birthday.] This month also marks 13 years since we've been an item (Although the date is marked via hindsight, as it took me months before I let him call me his girlfriend, silly me.) And this month also marks 14 years since we've met - on a late summer/early fall night before classes started. He was there early for soccer practice, and I was there for some pre-freshman orientation thing that I don't clearly recall. But my friend Jamie and I and a couple of other girls were roaming the halls of the dorms, looking for boys, when we came upon an open door and a tiny room full of *cha-ching* SOCCER PLAYERS. (yep.) I sat down next to that shaggy blond-haired baby-faced Beck-look-alike boy and probably didn't turn my eyes elsewhere the entire night. And while it was an entire year before we actually started dating/hanging out/making out (whatever), it was that night, that very first night that we met, when he vowed to his buddies ala Wayne's World (it was 1996, yo.) She will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine. [true story.]

So we've been together for a while. And there are many more stories between there and here, but I'll save them for another time. Because tonight I think of our college days. Pre-kids. Pre-marriage. Pre-anything-other-than-the-self-absorption-that-comes-with-being-a-college-kid-and-following-the-Phish-tour. And thanks to the thoughtful 10 year anniversary gift of my sweet husband [a photo book - complete with captions and messages all bound and hard-covered!], I actually have a stash of old photos scanned in, at the ready for sharing.

So here we are, in our early days. And I am grateful to God and the series of events that have played out through the universe over the last decade+ that I can say today with all my heart that we are even happier, even more in love, than we were then.

[I love you, babe.]

the evolution of us...

the dorms circa 1997: New Love, complete with college clichés i.e. grateful dead poster, guitar, and an ugly couch

1998? '99? Some summer, some Phish show. Deer Creek maybe? (anyone recognize this?)

In Belize 1998 - he came to visit me during my semester abroad

January 1, 2000 - in Florida after seeing Phish at Big Cyprus for NYE'99

September 2, 2000 Four months after graduating college, at 22 yo, we tied the knot!

Our one-year anniversary, backpacking in the Porcupine Mountains of Michigan's Upper Peninsula

Sept. 01, 1 yr married and road-trippin' to Rocky Mountain National Park

November 2002, biking slickrock at Moab. That beard? A product of 5 months without shaving or trimming. He went another two before he buzzed it off. My grandma told him he "looked like a trapper."

Our 3yr anniversary, in our upper flat with our hours-old firstborn. I know, I look 12. And I'm red and blotchy from hormonal happy crying, and my husband has a farmer tan. He was holding the baby skin-to-skin, people! That's why he's not wearing a shirt in any of those early-days pictures.

Our 4yr anniversary, camping at Minnesota's Whitewater State Park...our 1 year old birthday boy was asleep in the tent.

2005 So happy together... family of 3 with a bun in the oven

Six years married, with two month old second child at Wolfman Triathlon

seven years down! a night away from the boys for the Wolfman triathlon

Eight years of wedded bliss...we're growing! (check out that belly) 2008

Axel's first Phish show, summer of 2009 @Alpine Valley

fall of 2009, nine years married

2010 - a decade of marriage! here's to many more decades to come.

*title taken from the lyrics of Wading in the Velvet Sea by Phish

morsels

2010-09-07T22:58:00.001-05:00

:: For Owen's birthday, he had a mini-party with his brothers and his best friend, also named Owen. The Owens were sitting side-by-side eating their sandwiches when friend Owen remarks to my Owen "Reading is so fun! In books without pictures, you get to make up your own pictures. In your head!" To which my Owen replied, "I know! It's awesome. You can make the picture however you want to. You can make the guys look like anything you want!" My heart burst. They naturally spent the day playing Star Wars legos, and we even played Pin the Tail on the Tauntaun, at Owen's request and thanks to John's mad drawing skillz. A great time was had by all.

:: All of Wilson's tests came back negative. So they think that he's still fighting the Lyme's. We've got some stronger antibiotics and some pain meds, so hopefully another month and we'll have a recovered pup. It's been super sad to watch him in pain, losing weight and energy for months now. We're really hopeful about this treatment. We love him so.

:: My dad spent all summer enduring radiation five days a week, following surgery last spring to remove his prostate [cancer]. Good news. Big news. PSA scores of ZERO. That's good. Very good. We are thankful and grateful and relieved. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your prayers, thoughts, concerns and well-wishes.

:: I am in the final stretch of the crazy at work. It has been intense and challenging and hard and rewarding and interesting, and I have learned a lot. About climate change impacts in Wisconsin, of course. But also about family and balance and teamwork in marriage and support systems and the Village [that it takes to raise children]. And I am looking forward to going back to part-time hours once we move from writing/editing mode into layout, come October. Like I've mentioned before, I have so many ideas cooking in regards to my creative work and I really look forward to the time to put some of them into action.

:: Thank you all for reading. To those of you who I've never met but who pop by to read my stories anyway - thank you. I'm sorry I'm horrible at reciprocating. I spend very little time on the internet; and unfortunately, I can't keep up with the funny, thoughtful, beautiful blogs that so many of you write. I'll have to do another link up again so you can direct me to some of the gems I've been missing. To those of you I know in the flesh? Thank you for reading, too. I'm always surprised when I bump into a friend or acquaintance around town who mentions they read my blog. People I never would have guessed would read this are out there reading, and I am humbled by and grateful for the time you take out of your day to read the words I string together over here. I started this thing as a place to practice my craft and play around with words a bit, and the fact that people read [and dare I say enjoy?] what I spin out is a huge gift to me. So thanks, friends and penpals alike.

The Wilderness Downtown

2010-09-03T19:31:00.005-05:00

Have you seen this yet?

If not, check it out. A little interactive art to start your weekend off right.

[The Wilderness Downtown - an interactive film by Chris Milk featuring 'We Used to Wait' by Arcade Fire.]

seven

2010-09-01T22:41:00.005-05:00

Seven.

I'm feeling the pull to hold his stories close, to share just his essence and keep the rest for us.

He's turning seven. The boy who made me a mama.

Who cracked my heart wide open, who softened my edges and blurred my borders and peeled back the veil that hung over life, exposing the layers and layers of texture and color and smells and sounds that I hadn't even known were there. He handed me a key and we threw open the door, bursting through together, him pulling me by the hand as I gazed in jaw-dropped wonder at the marvels around me - the scary, marvelous world with more beauty and heartache than I ever, ever could have imagined or believed in, no matter how strongly you swore it was true.

He's got a poet's eyes, a golden heart. This boy is such a gift.

Happy birthday Owen, my boy. I love you so much.

Bad Guys

2010-08-27T20:45:00.006-05:00

Eli and I have a little routine. It's one that, as a New Mom, I wouldn't have expected myself to adopt. But as Now Mom? I couldn't really imagine it any other way.

When I put him to bed, he always asks me to tell him a story. And it's always, always got to have Bad Guys.

(Except for right around his birthday, when all he wanted to hear was the story of when he was born.)

Our usual routine involves a variation on a recurring theme. There was this crazy one about me stealing him to make him mine, fending off laser beams and sundry threats. John told him one about a helicopter that swooped down and dropped out a giant claw that snatched me up. (WTH?!) My most recent tale has been basically a telling of the running of the bulls, complete with an evil bull that goes rogue, chases down our family while we run in terror until the Hero (Eli himself) swipes a conveniently located red blanket from the ground to hold in front of a brick wall (there goes me, ripping off every cartoon from my childhood....looney tunes? I can't remember...) until THWACK! CRASH! THUD. the bull falls to a heap of ruin and Eli stands victorious, having saved us from our fate of death by trampling.

(I know, a very soothing bedtime story.)

Tonight I told him I wasn't up for story telling. He wanted bad guys, but after spending a half an hour playing lego star wars with them after work (I really did! I usually don't play with them in that way, often preferring to watch them play or hang out with them while they play, but I went for it tonight and it was actually pretty fun and it made them sooo visibly happy) I had had enough of Bad Guys.

He told me I could just say Once upon a time there was a Bad Guy, The End.

But I decided to take a different tack.

I told him that Once upon a time there was a Good Guy and a Bad Guy, and the Bad Guy was trying to fight the Good Guy but the Good Guy shot the Bad Guy with a Laser of Love that beamed love and kindness onto the Bad Guy and turned him into a Good Guy and everyone lived happily ever after The End.

He seemed to have bought it for a minute, and then he adds: And then the Bad Guy shot out a Mean M and it got the Good Guy and made him Mean!

Oh, how New Mom Me would have furrowed her brow at Now Mom Me. The shooting. The blasting. The Bad Guys. Yes, I am trying to raise kind, peaceful children. Yes, I am teaching them that it is unacceptable to hurt others. And yes, I believe that there are fewer differences between little girls and little boys than we assume there are, but oh yes indeed there is something in a little boy that loves Bad Guys. And this boy of mine is evidence of that.

He's the boy, who when asked what he was doing when caught squishing soggy cheerios between his fingers at two and some years old replied, "Killing things." He's the boy who wants to be a tornado when he grows up. The kid is a force. He always has been. And if he loves explosions and blasters and harmless destruction and Bad Guys

then I guess that

I can, too.

Once upon a time there was a Bad Guy, and his mommy loved him very much, no matter what, forever and ever. The End.

Sponsor Highlight: GlassesUSA

2010-08-26T20:28:00.013-05:00

Today, I bring you a sponsored post from GlassesUSA. Having spent some time checking out their website, I can tell you I am honestly impressed with their selection and prices on eyeglasses. Their customer service page also promises a no-questions-asked return or exchange plan in order to keep their customers 100% satisfied.

They offer discount prescription glasses in a wide variety of styles, including designer frames, classic, fashion, and -- my favorite -- retro. I've narrowed my favorite pairs down to two - I like the Yoshi Ayaka (left) and were I feeling bold - these black Tommy Hilfiger's (below right). (I told you I like the retro look.)

Personally, I phase in and out between reaching for my contacts or a pair of glasses. And I definitely think the right pair of glasses can be a great accessory (a functional one, at that) and add a little funk or fashion to an outfit. Honestly, I was happy with the two pairs I already have until I started poking around at GlassesUSA, and now I'm itching for another pair.

Now the only problem with shopping for glasses online, is that you can't exactly try them on. BUT - GlassesUSA has this really cool feature called a 'virtual mirror' where you can 'try on' different frames - either using your webcam or an uploaded picture, you can overlay the glasses on your picture to get a feel for how the shape will look on your face! (John and I played around with it for a while, and I'm slightly embarrassed by how much fun I was having.)

Anyway, check them out. And if you find a pair you like, GlassesUSA would like to offer you 10% off your purchase - simply enter the promo code mommy10 when prompted during checkout. (I know, a little cutsey. But it's the code they gave me for my readers.)

(one for all the new mamas out there)

2010-08-24T22:44:00.005-05:00

Owen has his first sleepover this week. He's so excited - he has his special stuffed giraffe packed, he'll bring his water bottle and his pillows and his sleeping bag.

What I would give to press my ear to that wall, to crouch outside a door cracked, to listen through vents at the back and forth between two buddies. One seven, and mine turning seven in a week.

When Owen was a baby, people asked me why I never put him down, wondered why I held him non-stop, whether he lived in that sling, didn't I want to foster independence?

I told them this is how we do things, this is how we like it. I had to answer that a lot.

He was a cautious kid, even from the start. Cautious and observant, wide-eyed from birth, taking it all in, more than many realized. He felt most comfortable, happiest, most secure on my hip or in my arms. He rarely cried as a baby, and when he'd start, I'd go to him, no matter who was holding him or where we were.

"He's fine." "Let him fuss." "I've got him," they'd say, turning slightly away with my baby. And I'd politely insist (or ignore) and I'd pick him up or take him back and he'd stop, back with Mama where all is right.

I knew what he needed, what he wanted, even when no one else saw it. When they quite possibly (probably) saw a young, controlling, new mother -- I stuck to my gut, my heart, and I did what I knew my baby needed.

As a toddler, he never ventured far. At the park with friends, other two year olds would escape the parental grip and flee, free to roam and climb and play. But my boy would happily sit with me, my lap his perch, for the entirety of the playdate, only venturing across junglegym bridges and down slides with his hand wrapped in mine. He wasn't afraid, he just didn't want to explore alone.

"Doesn't he want to play?" "Well someone's a mama's boy." "He's going to have to learn to leave your side at some point." I'd smile and nod. Yep. At some point.

We were a team, a package deal. I heard many well-meaning (and plenty of mean) comments about needing to let him go, to encourage his independence, to push him to try things on his own. I heard that this was all because I held him too much. Because I never put him down. Because he lived in that sling.

But I let it slide. I knew my child. Who he was, what he needed. And I didn't see the rush in pushing him away, in placing a disproportionate weight on the virtue of independence.

He was close to his dad, too; and to his babysitter when we were at work or class. But he continued to shy away from crowds of kids. He'd rather lay claim to a quieter space, one with plenty of room. He didn't like being crammed into close proximity with a cluster of kids, had no interest in joining a group activity. He had a big personal bubble, and he'd rather hang back and watch than participate.

He was an early talker, and he felt more secure talking with adults. If a grown up walked towards him while he held a ball, he knew they understood him when he told them it was his. But when another two year old approached, arms flailing, babbling excitedly, he grew scared and frustrated that they didn't understand his little sentences: "This is my ball. I don't want you to take it." And he'd freak.

Years passed, preschool and playdates continued, and the kid-to-kid communication gap shrunk. And in his own time, this boy became more comfortable with elbows bumping, with clusters and groups. Bit by bit he ventured further, running across parks and playgrounds, but always coming back to check in, to refuel with a snuggle from his mama, and I was always there waiting with open arms and a spot on my lap.

And then kindergarten: a teacher, a class, a school, a bus. A half-block walk home on his own, feet skipping and backpack bouncing. He makes new friends everywhere he goes -- at the park, the pool, the playground. He waits in line, he takes his turn, he jumps feet first and arms to the sky, straight into the boy-piles of life.

We never forced it. We never rushed him. We never worried. Even when other people did, when they thought we should.

There is no one way to do it. There is no ideal timeline for independence. There is your child. And his own needs. And his own self. Honor it. Trust your heart. And your gut. Be firm but polite. (Or not-so-polite, if need be.)

Because we are the ones who know our children best. Who know what's best for our children.

He's turning seven next week, and he's going on his first sleepover. He's so excited - he can't wait to venture off. He'll bring his stuffed giraffe, and his pillow. They'll stay up late and talk and giggle hard from inside sleeping bags, behind doors cracked.

And we'll be here when he's ready to come home.

building blocks

2010-08-22T12:19:00.004-05:00

I watch these boys building with their legos, and I marvel at our differences. At their ability to visualize something and then pick out the pieces to create it in 3-D. They see a tractor, then run to a bin of cogs and sprockets and build a model that actually looks like a tractor. They watch a video about ships or read a book about trucks, then come blazing down to the giant wooden blocks, and out of huge squares, rectangles, and cylinders, they fashion a tugboat, a cruise ship, a dump truck, cement mixer, a fork lift.

My mind doesn't work that way. Legos, blocks -- I can follow instructions, pictures guiding me through. But building from scratch with only a vision? Finding the right shapes and forms to piece together, making something new and whole? Not a chance.

I build with words. I see pictures in my world or in my mind, and I recreate them on the page in a form recognizable to others. I gather bits and pieces, those that when scattered on the floor around me or jumbled in a box may look insignificant, unrelated or even useless, and I fit them together, playing around, trying this here, that there, my picture becoming clearer and clearer as I go, until I've created something new, something whole built from pieces. Sometimes it's sturdy and playful, ready to share. Other times so fragile that I have to gingerly place it high on the shelf, out of reach of fumbling or careless hands.

We all build, we all fashion our own versions of what we see, feel, or dream. I'm grateful for the chance to study another way of thinking, close-up. To have this perch on the couch where I can observe the movement of little minds, the different paths we all take to make sense of our surroundings, transforming our visions -- our dreams -- into something tangible we can share with the world.

the movement of my mind

2010-08-20T20:26:00.008-05:00

(or disconnected ramblings at the end of a very long week.)

:: He's been doing this thing where he plugs his nose and says "I sound weird." It's really funny coming from a 20 month old. It's painfully obvious the kid has older brothers. He's a mimic, and he nails it every time. And it's horribly funny to hear a baby cracking jokes or tossing out phrases you'd expect on the school playground.

:: The two older boys - especially the almost-7-year-old, have become OBSESSED with Star Wars. And they've never actually seen the movies. (I'm still debating whether they're too violent for my boys at this age. Leaning towards showing my oldest the original trilogy....) I have, however, let them watch the little animated movies on the Lego Star Wars website and they can't get enough. Even the baby ends up sauntering up, watching for a minute and then pointing out "Yodtha! Yodtha! Yodtha cute." They also hear about it in great detail from their friends, many of whom have all the toys, the movies, et cetera. Today the boys and our beloved nanny picked me up from the bus stop because a thunder storm was threatening to crack open the sky at the precise time I get to my stop. They watched as I waited for traffic to clear before darting across the insanely busy (6-lane) road. When I hopped into the van and the rain drops started pelting the windshield, they told me, "Mom, if you were Asajj Ventress you could have gotten across the street easy." And then when we walk in the door, my 4 year old says, "Mama, if you were Asajj Ventress you would have to show your breasts." Me: eyebrows rise. Followed by almost-7-year-old: "Yeah, her bra must be too small or something." Oh, the perspectives of little boys on the cleavage of female bad-ass action heroes. Or villains. I really have no idea.

:: My 6 year old dog is really sick. I'm in tears about it. He was diagnosed with Lyme's disease over a month ago after I brought him in due to crazy stiffness and general living-in-pain-ness. A month of medication, and he still looks terrible. More tests. X-rays and even more tests coming Monday. I'm so sad about it. I know most people love their own dogs, but everyone loves Wilson. Even people who hate dogs love Wilson. He is 95 pounds of hairy coolness. He's the icon of our neighborhood. He's regal looking, chill as can be, but he rules the dog park and can catch a frisbee like nobody's business. At least that's who he used to be. I miss my dog. And I feel so bad for this big lump of an animal that's taken his place.

:: I am fending off the sick. All three boys had fevers and sore throats, swollen tonsils and overall miserableness for a week straight, one right after the other. I powered through on no sleep, like you do when you're a parent. But for the last two days I've been trying to ignore the pain that comes with swallowing, and I keep my distance from everyone else in the office. I can't afford to get sick right now. My deadline sways ominously overhead like a Looney Tunes anvil. Two.More.Weeks.

:: I am realizing how drastically I mis-characterized full-time, out of the home employment. I used to think, what's the point of having kids if you're never going to see them? Ahhh...but I do see my kids. And so do other working parents. Thankfully I was never obnoxious about it, so I don't really feel like I have words to eat. It's more of an eye opening. A good reminder that we really can't know someone else's situation until we're in it ourselves. So perhaps we should keep our bright ideas about what they're missing or how they ought to do things to ourselves, so it's only ourself that we have to face when we realize we didn't know shit about what we were talking about. Yes, I have less time with my boys than when I was home full time or part-time. But the time I do have with them is high quality. I'm fully there mentally, emotionally. I enjoy them. I enjoy watching them, talking with them, listening to them, snuggling them. It's good. My house has gone to hell and I haven't cooked in months, but my kids are doing great. I can't keep this up forever, I do miss them -- like many working parents do. But for now, it's working for us.

:: As busy as I am, I have so many ideas cooking, so many projects I'm starting or plotting on. I have a feeling that October is going to be my month. Things will slow down for me at work as we move from writing and editing into layout mode, and I anticipate a major decline in stress levels and an increase in creative energy. I can't wait to get started.

himself

2010-08-16T20:54:00.010-05:00

The screen door creaks and slams as he walks in from the dark, calling out thank yous and goodbyes, cicadas the soundtrack for a summer night.

Clutching a half-eaten box of popcorn, he plops down on the rocking chair.

He tells us about the baseball game, the kid who got to run around the bases, even though she wasn't racing anyone, how a weird band performed between innings and how it kind of creeped him out.

I can't stop smiling and staring at this kid - this kid who is turning seven in two weeks - casually curled up in the glider, one knee up and the other tucked under, munching on popcorn.

I see him as a baby - skinny little thing with wide open eyes, soaking in his surroundings, sending out a vibe much wiser than his size.

I picture him as a teenager, coming home from a night out with friends, and plopping down as comfortably as he did tonight, just chatting, snacking. Being himself, much to our enjoyment.

The summer before kindergarten, his preschool teacher took him out for ice cream. As they sat eating their cones, a couple was exiting the shop, one of them on crutches. Without hesitation or cue, he hopped up and held open the door for them, then sat back down, oblivious to the thoughtfulness of his own gesture. He was five.

Oh, how I hope I can hang on to him, even as I let him go.

...

in motion

2010-08-12T08:33:00.002-05:00

Me: He's giving me a heart attack!

Him: He's a boy, honey. And there's something to climb on. We're hosed.

:::

new beginnings

2010-08-11T12:47:00.003-05:00

I just discovered this today, and wanted to share it here with you. I think I'm going to snatch one up to send to a friend who is embarking on her very own new beginning.

Embark by Linda Stanek of Steinvika Designs

I am Optimus Prime

2010-08-07T14:25:00.009-05:00

I ran to Target - all three boys, on a Saturday morning

on the way to a birthday party because

obviously

we had not yet bought a gift

But we were running late, as always

So we fly through

but first! A stop at the bank! to deposit the checks from last month, that were buried on the counter beneath drawings of monsters and sharks and robots, obviously.

So dumdums in mouths, we raced through the store

Dragging them past

Optimus Prime. I am Optimus Prime. One shall stand and one shall fall. I am Optimus Prime

And giant!starwars!legos!

And we grab a gift and a gift bag and a pad of colored construction paper

And we borrow a sharpie from the barista while she makes mommy's

tallmochafrappacinowithespressotogo

And right there in Target we stuff box into bag and scribble notes - genuine, though rushed - and thank the caffeine gods for starbucks-in-target

(even though i am oh-so-pro-local)

and the boys hold hands as we run to the car and I notice the extra chocolate swirl on my whipcream, a nice touch - above and beyond, are these target baristas -

and we make it to the party on time, and I think --

these things would probably not be all so different even if I was still home with the boys.

:::

This morning I dreamed,

after I had woken up and fallen back to sleep while the house buzzed on without me,

that my neighbors had a moving truck parked outside their house,

and they sat on their steps all the while --

scurrying back and forth, carrying their furniture and belongings,

was a little monkey.

I watched out my front door, thinking How funny

that they have a monkey to do their heavy labor!

And I ran to my computer to tweet in 140 characters all about my neighbor's

moving monkey

but when I tried to type the words came out like

yjod odmyrdsyr smf zo yvpi;f hoiyt rojyo piy.

:::

This week I missed them so much that it stung my eyes

so I slipped out the office, down the elevator, to the midweek farmer's market

just off the square and

I bought myself some gladiolas for my desk.

I put them in a pitcher I swiped from the conference room

and I wrote a chapter and revised another

and I still missed my boys but my desk sure looked prettier.

I am Optimus Prime.