Randomness

1) This week-on-week-off thing isn't working for the children or me.
2) Ruthie is amazing. With her, my heart becomes open, I accept myself, and I become more centered.
3) Something has happened since last weekend. I am more relaxed, more comfortable. My health is better, I like myself more, and I'm craving comfort food. The very fact that I can eat more than once every few days is a miracle, but now not only am I eating, I'm eating hearty meals twice a day! My soul needs nourishment from all directions: food, friendship, love, children, everything. I'm as hungry as hungry can be.

This is disjointed, and I recognize that. So I will end on this lovely note by Dorothy Parker, whose acidity suits me to a tee these days.

"Triolet"
Give back the heart that I gave;
Keeping it never can mend it.
See, I can smile, and be brave,
Give back the heart that I gave,
Hold it no more as your slave--
I've got a new place to send it.
Give back the heart that I gave;
Keeping it never can mend it.

O Karma, Dharma, pudding and pie,
gimme a break before I die:
grant me wisdom, will & wit,
purity, probity, pluck, & grit.
Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, kind,
gimme great abs & a steel-trap mind,
and forgive, Ye Gods, some humble advice-
these little blessings would suffice
to beget an earthly paradise:
make the bad people good-
and the good people nice;
and before our world goes over the brink,
teach the believers how to think.

-Philip Appleman

For the record, I hate children's shows, including SpongeBob Squarepants

Ben was loading himself up with books on his way to bed. He doesn't complain about bedtime, and only sometimes tries to postpone with pleas of "hungwy! hungwy!" No, as long as he can say ni-night to everyone by name and fill his crib with books and the occasional firetruck, he's quite happy to go to sleep.

On his way out, he happened to grab a little plastic Spongebob, left over from a bubble bath bottle. Halfway down the stairs, he stopped, put down his books, and gazed lovingly into Bob's eyes. Here is what my little 2 year old said to Bob:

"HI SPONGEBOB! (whispering) hi, bob.
You funny. You funny.
Ha ha ha!!!
Bob funny.
Ben funny.
Katie ni-night?"

And he continued on to bed. I love seeing the glimpses of the world he has in his mind. Language limits what we all imagine, but sometimes we get little peeps into our children's minds. Seeing my little man develop an emotional vocabulary with words like "funny" or earlier this evening, "scared," strikes an ever deepening chord in this mother's heart. He has an entire life going on in there, and I am charged with nurturing and guiding it. I find it endlessly fascinating.

Venting

I hate colds. I hate this cold I have now more than any cold that ever walked the face of the earth. It makes my head hurt, makes my nose hurt, makes my throat hurt, gives me a fever, and makes me want to lie on the couch and do nothing. This, however, is not possible. I have two children who rely on me for food, clothing, baths, entertainment, channel-changing, and everything else. I just want to curl up and be a blob, then wake up and feel all better. Could somebody please arrange that for me?

Update: 11/29/08
A) All loved ones, take notice: It is a mere one month until my birthday. I arranged it that way so you could hit all the good sales after Thanksgiving AND the day after Christmas. Aren't I thoughtful?
B) The cold seems to be on its way out! Forget soup, vitamin C, and Sudafed; I recommend complaining in a public forum. Worked for me.

Kathryn's First Poem

"Friends"

I know that we are happy
We both think we are just like our great pappy
Being friends though is tough
But you and I do it even though it is rough.

Once Upon a Time...

... there was an ill-fated baton twirlers' convention. You see, the event planner was not familiar with the very specific needs of baton twirlers. Not the least of these were the need for high ceilings. The venue was not well-equipped for this group of people, and the ceilings were a mere 15 feet high. However, many of them had traveled great distances, and, being expert at their craft, did their best to work within these limitations. Baton twirlers are known far and wide for their cheerful nature and this was no exception; they were optimistic about the convention ahead of them.

The week went on, and the baton twirlers attended their sessions, listened dutifully to the keynote speaker, and took copious notes. They were inspired. As the week came to a close, these peppy ladies became more and more excited to put what they had learned into practice. Now, it had long been planned that on the final day, there would be a choreographed mass performance. Just walking through the crowds one could sense the energy building. Everyone understood that they could not toss their batons high, but other than that they would be giving their all.

At long last, the moment had arrived. The twirlers' teeth glistened white, their ponytails swung happily, and the ladies twirls their hearts out. In a fit of exuberance, all 200 twirlers tossed their batons in the air; in their minds, they saw batons flying skyward. In reality, the batons were rocketing dangerously toward the low ceilings. At this moment, fate must have been on their sides, for instead of the weapons ricocheting off the ceiling and raining down on the optimistic group, the batons tangled in equal groups and affixed right there on the ceiling. Here is the result:Thus the convention came abruptly to a close. The 200 in attendance were heartbroken at their failure. They each swore on that day that they would never raise a baton again. In their many small towns across the country, parades would pass with no baton twirlers. Daughters were raised never knowing the joy of twirling. Once a year they return to the site of The Incident and set flowers in memory of the life-changing day, then they return home again a little less perky, a little sadder. In time, the site would become a restaurant, but so that we would never forget the sacrifice of these women, tiny lights were placed on the ends of each of the batons, reminding us of the everlasting light baton twirlers everywhere bring to our lives.

The next time you see a baton twirler, please thank her for her service. When your eyes meet, there will be an exchange of understanding: she will know that you, too, have learned of The Incident. The two of you may never meet again, but your lives will have been enriched.

An Observation

From my earliest days I have been a watcher. I was a very shy child, and was much more comfortable sitting back, gathering information, so that if the need arose for me to join society, I would know just what to do. I did not have a marriage to observe close-up, but I've always been a romantic. For that reason, I've taken special interest in watching what couples do, how couples interact, and from there I could decide what I wanted and didn't want in a relationship.

Older couples, those who have been married for their entire adult lives, are the most interesting to watch. Fortunately, our parish has plenty of older couples. There is one couple, Brad and Liz, and they have been married forever. They're the kind of couple that is so intuitive around one each other that they have grown to even look similar. I don't know either particularly well, but I've been on some committees with Brad. Liz was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. I don't know the prognosis, but I do know that Brad was scared, and together they were scared enough to stop postponing a cruise they've wanted to take. They returned home a couple of weeks ago.

This morning I sat 2 pews behind them. I happened to catch a glimpse of something that looked so personal and meaningful, I was ashamed to be peeking. I love our old, Episcopal hymns. This is probably the legacy of being raised by a minister of music. To me, they are a prayer, a kind of communion. Our second hymn today was "Come Labor On." I was singing away, frustrated at my poor tone on D's all morning, when my eyes rested on Brad and Liz. They were standing arm-in-arm, slightly turned toward one another. Two short, stout people with very good, thick hair. Then Brad looked at Liz, and she at him, and they were singing to each other with the most tender expression on their faces. There they were, these two people who reach for each other without even a conscious thought. They were singing a love song both to God their Savior and each other. In that moment, I imagined all the ugly, mucky things that happen in a marriage: facing illnesses, disagreements over money or children, sorrow in losing loved ones. And yet, somehow they kept a purity of heart that reached me, two rows back. I'm so glad they did.

Halloween

I have nothing brilliant to say today. I just love my kids so darn much. That's all I got, folks.

My Son the Sculptor

My child has a gift. I order him food at a restaurant, and he turns it into a masterpiece.

Observe exhibit #1: He has taken an ordinary cheeseburger, and inserted into it two straws, a celery stick, and a green crayon. Voila: genius!




Exhibit #2: What was once ordinary macaroni and cheese, is now a straw-and-saltine feast for the eyes!

Car Conversation

When the four of us are in the car, Baby Boy has this charming habit of calling everyone's name, just to check. "Mommy!" "Yes, honey." "Daddy!" "Yes, boo." "Titi?" [insert the 9 year old's growl here]. We call it Roll Call. Daughter explains her reaction this way:

"I don't want to be unsupportive, but I'm not a fan of the Roll Call."

That girl slays me.

Dear Baby Brother,

Thank you for my eggs tonight. I now officially amend my scrambled egg rule to include yours.

Thank you for your support during hard times.

Thank you for laughing with (at?) me. I think.

Thank you for all your help around the house and with the children.

Thank you for loving my children the way you do. They adore you, and I can see that you adore them. Love lasts; this time together will stay in their hearts for a very long time.

Thank you for being the best brother a woman could ask for. I love, value, and appreciate you.

Love,
Aimers

I'm not that kind of girl

Last night Daughter attempted to go to yoga with me. I prepped her ahead of time saying that it's a whole hour long, there's no talking, I'd love to be with her but be forewarned. On the way there we went over the "rules" again. She was unyoga-ly hyped for the task ahead of her. Can you tell where this is heading?

Halfway through the practice, she sweetly asks, "How much longer?" Uh-oh. Every mom knows what that means. Still, I give her the benefit of the doubt. A few minutes later she whispers, "I'm bored." I gave her a "good luck with that" sort of shrug from my downward dog position. Then I slowly took compassion on her and asked if she wanted to go. Pretty darn nice of me, huh? She declined. Another sun salutation for me. Dang, I'm doing great tonight, I think! This is wonderful! Next thing I know, I look upside-down at my girl, whose head is on her knees and whose shoulders are shaking. This is getting serious. She says she's hungry and bored and wants to go, but doesn't want to interrupt what I'm doing. I remind her that she is more important than yoga (but only barely... don't want her to get a big head, you know). We quietly slip out of the room.

Walking down the hallway I have my arm around her and reassure her that it's not a big deal, that it's totally ok, that we really need to go get a snack. A few quiet moments pass, and I venture,
"We learned something tonight, didn't we?"
"Yeah," she responds. "I'm not a sit-and-wait kind of girl."

I'm glad she's a woman of action, not a sit-and-wait person. It's a quality that will serve her well in life. I adore this child.

Dear Santa,

I have now returned back to earth from heaven, and have landed square in the Land of Dirty Dishes. I could segregate my dirties from my cleans, as most normal Americans do, but alas, my dishwasher and my husband are conspiring against me.

As I turn to my stack of so-called Clean Glasses, usually when I have guests over, and begin to pour them a nice refreshing glass of water, I notice flecks of yucky stuck to the inside of the glass. Upon further inspection, I see that many of my other glasses are similarly afflicted. My heart begins to race, smoke streams from my ears, as I think, "Who didn't rinse the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher?! Moreover, who put unclean dishes away?!" I go through the mental list of everything I do, how much work I have anyway, how unreasonable it is that I should have to wash these dishes twice, for God's sake. This is unhealthy.

Rather than fume about the situation, I choose to research a solution. I call the dishwasher repairman, who tells me that my filter was dirty, and that will be $150, thank you very much. The dishes are cleaner, now, but not for long. Soon the dishwasher leaves them bespeckled once again. I beg Steve for a new dishwasher, but he claims he can clean the filter. And he does. The dishes wash cleaner... for about a day. He cleans the filter again, and notices that the water isn't draining. I get on my knees and plead with him for a new dishwasher. Nope. He will figure out the drainage issue. Eventually. And maybe clean the filter every 3rd day. In the meantime, I remain dubious about how clean our dishes really are.

Santa, if you have a heart for a poor mommy, please bring me a new dishwasher this Christmas. Please have your elves install it while I sleep. I don't need a bow or any wrapping paper. I don't need new clothes or pretty shiny things under the tree. I just want clean dishes. Oh, and you might want to double-check the plate your cookies were left on and the glass your milk was served in. I'm just saying.

Where Heaven is Located

I am in heaven, and it is located in Santa Cruz, California. My aunt recently finished building her dream house, here. It is in a secluded spot (I didn't realize there was any seclusion left for sale in California!), overlooking a little valley with big trees and a little river, and in the distance is the Monterrey Bay. It is quiet, except for the crickets, has a beauty that has no choice but to provoke peace within, and soon it will be filled with my extended family, whom I love so much. Not to mention, the cooking here is to die for.

The peace and quiet I am now enjoying will soon be replaced by frivolity and joy. My son will wake up from his nap, and in the next few days our number will reach 19, all here to celebrate Marce's 50th birthday. I am so fortunate to be from a family that loves each other enough to gather like this. We are a spirited group, a little shrill when excited, but that means we are passionate about our convictions, including devotion to one another. All that said, by Sunday I'm sure I'll be really ready for those marguaritas that Uncle Dean makes.

Pool Time

KED






Bro and Sis






PJBD






Uncle Peter





No, he's not drowning; Daddy is helping him learn to go underwater.



And my personal favorite photos (Mel, this one's for you!):




Gracie right side up...







...and upside down!

An Out of Body Experience

I am not myself these days. Two years ago I was preggers with our son, and eating two bowls of ice cream every day. I figured that this was most likely my last pregnancy, so I was darn well going to enjoy the heck out of it. Looking back, I must have thought that the baby fat would melt off, as it did with my daughter. However, I did not count on two factors this time around:

1. That I am 7 years older than I was with Kathryn and weight is a little harder to lose.
2. That I would be more tired with two and therefore less excited about exercise.
3. That when the baby was 5 months old, I would break my leg, have surgery, be on 7 weeks of bedrest, and be weaker ever after.

I look at myself in the mirror, now, and it's just not my body. I'm not supposed to be this size. My tummy has always been flat and now it's not. And back fat? Puh-lease!

For whatever reason, God has given the gift of motivation to two of my favorite people. My brother, Peter, who is currently living with us, is in training for running a marathon. And my oldest, dearest friend, Ruthie, is now seriously working toward being a yoga instructor. And believe it or not, they inspire me! I don't know what this will lead me toward, but I've had it with this wretched body of mine. Getting up early is out, and I'm beat by dinner time, and it's hard as all get-out to get out of the house without my children, but maybe there's a routine I can establish that will help get me back in shape. Send me happy exercise vibes.

To My Daughter on her Ninth Birthday

You, my girl, the child who made me a mother, are nine years old today! We have had such a wonderful day together today, with our traditional birthday girls' day out. You are so excited about the flower they painted on your big toenails at our mani-pedis. You waited to find just the right outfit at the mall. You were thrilled to see our new housemate, your "Uncle Pizza," at lunch. My cheeks hurt so much from all the laughing we did today! You held my hand in every parking lot we were in today, and each time, I savored the moment, knowing they are limited. Please don't grow up so fast. Here are some other things I love about you at this brief moment in time:

1. You are so earnest when you talk about very grown-up things, such as the fashion choices on "Project Runway" or "What Not to Wear." You don't sound at all like a little girl, so to hear the utter sincerity of your opinions coming out of that be-freckled little face is marvelous!

2. You make no apologies for your talents. They are just a fact, like your clear blue eyes. Today as we made your Birthday Calzone, you put on your new apron and sighed, "I love to cook. I have several different gifts. I can't choose just one." You are not yet at an age where you have to prioritize.

3. You love God, and you love to learn about Him. When you took your first communion, you exclaimed loudly, "That was GREAT!" You feel short-changed when we can't make it to Sunday School or we miss church. One time you were so upset that we were missing Holy Eucharist that we had to run to the grocery store and get some port and mazzo bread, pulled out the Book of Common Prayer, and fudge communion as best we could, just to calm you down. Needless to say, your first experience at church camp was a raging success. May this bring you a lifetime of peace and joy.

4. Your freckles are so incredibly beautiful! I love every single one--especially the family freckle. You know the one.

5. Your compassion blows me away. It's not the sappy kind of compassion, although a cute puppy will invoke an appropriate "Awwww, cute!" No, yours is Action Compassion. [I'm going to trademark that, I think.] You do chores to buy a CD to bring to a sick friend. You enjoy helping at the homeless shelter, and are willing to donate your backpack and supplies for the homeless kids. You, my darling, have a generous heart. I credit your father's influence.

6. You are so blessedly snuggly. We complain about what a flopper you are in bed, but secretly I enjoy how you smash your whole body right up against mine all night. Even though you are long and lanky, it's still wonderful to hold you on my lap in the evenings.

7. What a funny child you are! You use a hint of sarcasm and a marvelous vocabulary. Together, they absolutely slay me.

8. You are perhaps the most loving sister I've ever seen. You are so patient with your baby brother. You never complain about the compromises we all must make by having a little one around, or some of the added responsibility. You are a help to your father and me, and a model to the baby. He is such a fortunate child to have you to look up to. I hate to think that this is a side of you we almost never saw.

9. I take great joy in your antiestablishmentarianism. You prefer to be just a little bit on the edge of popularity. When we went to the Jonas Brothers concert, you rolled your eyes at how frenzied the other little girls were. When the crowd was wildly and loudly applauding, you lightly tapped your fingers together, saying you wanted to show your enjoyment but not add to the noise. Please always feel free to color outside the lines.

10. How on earth can I possibly stop at 10? You are smart and reasonable, super silly, clutzy (like me), so very strong. You are focused and pay attention to details, and seem to remember everything. At the same time, you never seem to be able to find whatever you are looking for, and will forget something you're told 2 seconds after you've heard it. You are unselfconscious, full of enthusiasm, and springy! I love every little cell in your being, and am so happy I get to be your mother.

Happy birthday, my precious one. May the year ahead be your best yet.
Love,
Mommy

These are the Thoughts that Occupy my MInd (what's left of it)

Daughter's 9th birthday is a week from today. Nine years ago today I went into labor. She was born 7 days later. (A story for another time.) Since I am a winter baby, planning her summer birthday party has always been a source of fun for me. Not so much this year.

Because of camp last week taking up 98% of my brain, we put off planning her party until she got back on Saturday. Here is the series of events:
Sunday night: Spoke with the pool's party planner. This is now the 3rd year in a row she's had a pool party. She confirms that we can have her party at 1 pm on Saturday, August 2. We order her invitations.
Tuesday: We mail the invitations, saying that the party will be on Saturday, August 2 at 1 pm. You see where this is going.
Wednesday: Ignorant bliss.
Thursday (today)--9 days before the event: Party coordinator calls and says that I cannot have the party at 11 am on Aug 2 because there's a swim meet scheduled. I say no problem, we had requested 1 pm anyway. She says that's a no go, since someone else has the pool from 1-4.

In the estimable words of Bill the Cat, ACK! ACK ACK ACK! Invitations are out, and there is no party place. If we do the party after 4 pm, baby boy may be too tired to be much fun at the party. Any other options for party days are also reserved until 4 pm.

Dear reader(s), if you've been holding off on commenting before, now is the time to dive on in. I sure could use some ideas. By the way, hosting at our house isn't really an option.

Short and Oh, so Sweet

The boy-child is always learning new words. We heard a new one at diaper-changing time tonight. As I was trying to wrestle him into a clean nappy and pajamas, his little voice squeeked, "Help! Help!" We laughed so hard we had to let him run around naked for a while.

An Open Letter to Doctors' Offices*

Dear ones, since you are always dealing with people who are nervous, or hurting, or somehow uncomfortable, please do not add to the anxiety by tuning your radio station to abrasive music. I like Aerosmith as much as the next girl, and I had many of my happiest moments with 80's hair bands in the background, but when I am sitting in your waiting room, guitar riffs are the last thing I want to hear. I am partial to classical music; no matter where I am, I can settle into myself with a symphony in the background. I know I am not like everyone, though. Waiting room music should be not-noticeable. Just something creating an ambient atmosphere, conducive to relaxation.

For example, yesterday I was in urgent care with my back hurting so badly I was near tears. The radio in the office was loud, tuned to a 70's/80's station with static. Static, I tell you! It's very possible my ears started to bleed. On top of that, the nurses and office manager were opposed to looking anyone in the eye or speaking kindly. By the end of the visit, my nerves were frayed and I was weeping. Weeping, I tell you! Two summers ago I had the distinct displeasure of frequently visiting the obstetrician, where the music over the loudspeaker was tuned to a different station than the little radio the receptionists kept behind the front desk. Warring music! It was my own personal hell.

So, friends and colleagues, take heed. Some of your patients are already a little wound up and are quite noise-sensitive. Please don't make it worse by embracing static or choosing music that is too noticeable. I beg of you, use your powers for good and not evil by choosing unobtrusive music.

*Disclaimer: I am the office manager at a dentist's office, and often in control of the music, unless a certain doctor is in the office, in which case we have no choice but to listen to Clint Black or Kenny Chesney over and over. I probably frustrate our patients with my music choices, and I accept that. Moreover, I live with a non-noise-sensitive man who has no problem having the TV on, the radio on, and playing the ukelele AT THE SAME TIME. The moral of the lesson is that familiarity breeds contempt.