Book Bag - no. 14

 This year we attempt French. Equipped with my foggy background, family abroad, and a new membership to a too good to be true French cultural center, we are on our way!

Speaking of fog... what a week it has been.   Ever have that feeling when life is so absurdly difficult that you know you must be doing something wrong? I've had the magnifying glass out (which doesn't necessarily help) trying to sniff out the root of my problems.  Of course it isn't one thing, but I did come up with a couple of sources.

A week from tomorrow I run in the Philadelphia marathon.  My sister and I concocted this idea up in the summer and we have been paying for it ever since. It has brought moments of satisfaction and near triumph, but right now it cant be over soon enough.  

Tomorrow my mom would have turned 60.  This day brings deep grief and sorrow. I am going to try to work some joyful remembrances in there too, but I am not sure I can muster it this time around. A cake for her and the kids at the very least.

And finally, general parenting fatigue.  The malaise that comes when it feels that every word that leaves your mouth is met with opposition.  

Thanks for listening. As always it helps to give the clouds a name.  

October Lessons

     This past weekend we celebrated my niece, Verity's second birthday. I love October. It is a wonderful month. The blur of adjusting to new routines has melted away and the air is ripe with the anticipation of cozy evenings filled with stories and firelight. And hope is renewed that maybe some projects might actually get accomplished. 

      Verity is a big Steve Light fan, so this gift was a shoe in. The bag, I made from leftover pieces of linen to help her transport small, stuffed friends. Myles stitched one strap into place, so it was really a "team effort."

However, there was a bit of cajoling involved to make that last part happen. 

     Yesterday evening I watched a friend gracefully parent her son.  We were at soccer practice together and something happened on the field that caused this little boy to run over to us in tears looking for comfort. We didn't actually catch what happened, but as my friend dusted him off, it became clear that he had no intention of finishing out the practice. They went back and forth for a minute, but after realizing the banter was going nowhere, she let him run off and smooth his ruffled feathers in his own way. He played on the playground with the sisters, while she continued to read her book in the same spot, still half watching the practice. What she didn't do was pick that battle and force her child into submission like someone else I know would have done. Gulp.

    After reflecting upon that interaction, I realize that there are too few battles that I don't pick.  Many details of our home life, I am willing to fight for.  The small things are important, Gosh Darnett.  So shoot me that I take things pretty seriously. This is so true, that in quiet moments standing around, people will ask me, "Is something wrong? You look like you're really upset." And then I'll realize that my brow is furrowed thinking about some decision that is lying ahead of me, and try and snap out of it for their sake. (It's not that fun watching someone in deep mental labor.) "Oh, no. Im fine," I will say. "Just preoccupied with creating an unrealistic more perfect existence."  This shows up in my parenting, big time.  Sometimes, I will let things go, like the towel on the bathroom floor, or the lunch sack left to ripen in a backpack over the weekend. But typically I feel like I am in constant parent motion. Listening in, picking up, instructing. Blah, Blah, Blahing.

      I have experienced burn out often enough to realize that I want to try to diversify my strategies. This, letting it go thing sounds amazing. It sure looked amazing on my friend.  Talk about taking the pressure off.  

     I am in the middle of listening to this talk about play and its really making me think and consider how well  I am letting my children experience risk and encounter natural boundaries, while discovering their own inclinations for good and creative endeavors.  I hope that forcing myself to relinquish some control, will also support this aspect of their childhood, and make me a more gentle mother. It is certainly worth a try. 

                                                      

Road Trip and Reality

We drove to Virginia last week. When you start in Massachusetts it is easy to be productive careening through the Northeast. Connecticut then New York, through Pennsylvania to Maryland and West Virginia. Six states in one day causes one to feel triumphal.  A little lake house nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains was our ultimate destination, but on the way down, we had a few things to take care of. It was nearly five years ago when I discovered John Brown: His Fight For Freedom.  As Myles and I sat together reading it for the first time, I was deeply moved by the life of this controversial figure.  Myles was silent as he listened to John Hendrix's artful and compassionate rendering of the tale of a man who was willing to die (and kill) for equality.  I knew then, that I wanted to bring us to this place of history, where the  final, fateful events of John Brown's life took place. Harpers Ferry, WV is a beautiful town overlooking the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers. Thomas Jefferson said that the town, "was worth a trip across the Atlantic." I'd have to agree.

We left Harpers Ferry for our campsite at the Shenandoah River State Park in VA. We stayed for two nights, with relative success. A black bear did stumble into our groomed little area of his backyard. But that was no big deal. I actually slept through the sighting, yet made up for my lapse on the second night when I was on a fruitless, self appointed bear watch. We eagerly reported the event to a ranger who also agreed with us, "no big deal." Just what we thought.  We ate well over the fire, with our tradition of sausage gravy and toast for breakfast and camper's stew* for dinner.

And finally a lake, with cousins, and bunk beds, and life jackets. It was a wonderful escape, to be able to swim, and talk, and swap labors for a while.  Seeing my nieces through auntie eyes gives me hope that maybe one day I will be able to receive a similar big picture parental optimism that I try and share with my sister. It is much more difficult to take your own advice.  Myles is the pioneer of his generation in our family, so everything always seems so huge and horrible when he has a misstep.  It is hard for me to take his shortcomings and lapses in stride. For better or worse, on a road trip you are given lots of time to dwell on these types of things. I was dwelling on a particular interaction he had with his sister, and sharing it with Eric as we both shake our heads, saying "WE never did that as children, what is the deal?" when I was overwhelmed with the notion that maybe he needs a bit more love. Less unnecessary criticism, more gentleness for a change.  For some reason, I keep thinking the job of being a human is going to let up. But, it never does.

So thank God for books. We read Shiloh together on our journey, and it was beautiful. The story is set in West Virginia which made the tale even more poignant. There are few things better than reading a story of a boy and his dog among sleeping bags under the stars, with the Shenandoah singing beside.

And now we are home. Tired and mildly content. Slowly chipping away at lost sleep. I need a pair of those blinders that they give horses to keep them calm, as I try and live beyond the duffels in the kitchen full of things that must find their place again. Maybe by August.

PS.
 If you are ever driving through Scranton, PA with anyone possessing an affection for trains, don't miss Steamtown USA. We stretched our legs and soaked in some good ole' Americana steam history.

Mail Train.

* Campers stew consists of doctoring up some heavily salted lean ground beef browned with an onion, toss in some some boxed vegetable stew and a can of black beans to stretch it out and you have yourself one tasty fire cooked meal. My apologies if this sounds unappetizing, but in the moment, it really cant be beat.

Scattered

You know those moments when you have so much on your mind, when you have so much you'd like to say that all you can do is keep quiet?  

That's been me this week.  I've been soaking it in, reality checking, and just enjoying being on vacation.  Myles is on his first away from family, away from home, sleep away.  He was invited up to Maine by one of our friends, and his, and there was no other answer but yes.  He'll be gone for five whole nights.  In the meantime, Fiona and I feel like we are skippin' town, with no plan to speak of -two nights with my mother's youngest sister near Portsmouth, and now we are in Cambridge crashing with my own sister. I said to Fiona tonight, "Its nice to have some time together, just you and me." Her response was, "Does that mean you don't miss Myles? Does that mean, when I am away, you dont miss me?" Hmmm...I thought, we have quite the row to hoe. Fiona thinks really hard about things, and the implications of things. I told her that I do miss Myles, but that I am happy for him.  I told her that many things can be true at the same time.  I hope she heard me. I know that line of thinking, (the apple doesn't fall far from the tree) and it really isn't helpful sometimes, however thorough it may be. We have since addressed the phenomenon that is Frozen. I could sense she was feeling lonely -being one of the last remaining five year olds that hadn't seen it. Her friends on the playground were singing along and she was trying to catch the drift of the story though osmosis. Last night we watched it, #nobigdeal, and I am glad she can now participate in modern day conversations, but it was a bit depressing watching the animated definition "letting go."  It appears that letting go means changing into a tight strapless dress, adding extra make-up, poofing your hair, and throwing off warm layers. More on that later...

After I handed off Myles I went to Portsmouth by myself in a mild state of shock, coming to grips with my new state of separation, and I ran straight to Bliss. It was full of spring and beauty, and I could have browsed there for hours. I really tried not to try on everything in the store, but I fell under the spell of CP SHADES. The clothes are luxuriously flattering for every age and every woman and I love that.  They are made in California from hand cut fabrics.  You certainly are paying for that sort of quality, but you know that if ever a piece were to make it into your closet, you would be friends forever. It would be your marathon fashion piece, instead of your fifty yard dash fling. 

So here we are: halfway through vacation week in a surreal frame of mind, kind of waiting for the ball to drop, but trying to be present. Tomorrow has a trip in store to our old library, with Fiona and my nieces in tow. We have a few old friends to find. 

 

Advent has Cometh

The pressures that come with the holidays overwhelm me at times. Creating family traditions and imprinting warm memories on one's children are probably at the top of the list.  I ask myself far too often, Will my children look back on these days with fondness or will they foremost remember a grouchy mother who overreacts at the least little bit of squabbling?

I gave an Advent speech last night to Myles and Fiona, and to Eric and I also, that as we have received the gift of peace, we must then give the gift of peace to those within our home and out.  It will be work, I said to be peacemakers this season. And even when we don't feel like it, we simply must. And then if that wasn't inspiring enough I threw in the threat that they wouldn't be able to hang their stockings if there wasn't cooperation to this vision. (I have been using this for years now, and the terror it can cause is rather astounding.)

In my desperation to foster contentment and gratitude throughout our home, I will resist the urge to reinvent the tradition wheel. We will open the doors of our Advent calendar. We will read the liturgy, and light candles. We will build fires, and we will bake. We will read books, and books, and then bake some more. And hopefully throw a party.

I also plan on taking a cue from my mom, who would give beautifully planted paperwhite bulbs in galvanized tins to all her neighbors and relations. I will do this ahead of time, so it is done with joy, not panic.  Picture me raising my right hand here.

Number the Days

There was a time recently where I was feeling very overwhelmed by the task of parenting my children. It was after certain members of the family were asleep and instead of taking my victory lap, I wanted to fall to the ground and cry.  I was told by someone, "You know who Myles really reminds me of sometimes?"  I warily said, "Who?" He said, "Your brother." And despite my recent blog post, he did not mean this in a good way.  Ouch.  But instead of crumbling, I decided right then and there, I was not going to feel sorry for myself but I was going to dig deep.  Well, I did fall a part for a minute but then, I summoned reason and resolution. I went to my online library catalog, (common therapy for me) to request the newest fad parenting books.  And then I went to my bookshelf and picked up one of the most influential books of my childhood. I lerfed* this book with my whole heart.  Yes, that was the answer. We would read it, and discuss virtues like bravery, empathy, and sacrifice. We are currently about halfway through.  I labeled it as a "book club," and we intend to celebrate the conclusion at Myles' favorite restaurant, Windy City Hot Dogs. (He once was given a t-shirt there by the stunned owner after eating two hotdogs smothered in relish, pickles, and hot peppers in a poppy seed bun.)  Wait. Maybe this is the problem. Maybe we should celebrate at MY favorite restaurant. But that would be impossible, because we would have to travel back in time to the pre-rennovated location of Home.  Oh well.

And then of course Fiona and I started The Cricket in Times Square, which I had never read before. Our favorite part so far is when the hero Mario, travels to Chinatown to buy a cricket cage.

 And now for my "pleasure" read.  I was grateful to discover the above title after reading this post.  My home is being turned upside down, in a good way. 

PS. We never made it to Nantucket.  Another day I suppose. Even though at the moment of surrender, I was over-dramatic, and thought to myself, I will probably die before ever stepping foot on that island.  I guess we will have to see.  I am at the spot in my life, that I am morbidly realizing that I will never travel to all the places I hope to see before I leave this world.  It is simply impossible. I am trying to come to terms with this through the lens of gratitude.  I have been given so much.  Instead I will catch Rick Steve's travel videos on PBS, and that will be a certain balm to help me cope.

PPS. It was a goal in life to use that word in context, created by Woody Allen in Annie Hall. There, I did it.

Mainly Maine

There is an overabundance of puns as one drives up the coast of Maine. It is quite fun to count them and read them aloud. Mainely Made, Mainley Vinyl (siding, not records) and Mainely Cuts just name a few. But for every not so clever twist on the state's name, there exists in tenfold exquisite rivers, islands, and brightly painted row boats to woo you.  With sister and cousins in tow we enjoyed a chilly and foggy and lovely time away in this beautiful state.  The home we stayed in was a dream, with old Beatrix Potter books stacked on bedside tables, and Louisa May Alcott classics in the corners of spare bedrooms. May our rector's reward be great for his astonishing generosity.

 On Friday, we turned into 1-800-Maids wrecking havoc on any dust that we saw, hoping that by our voracious cleaning we might be able to secure a future invitation again, and then sadly forced ourselves to leave and curve our way home, down east again.  The kids were terrible on the ride back which left us no other options, but to deprive them of a greasy roadside lunch.  However, my sister and I were able to laugh through their naughtiness and our cruel punishment, as we spoke calmly from the front, "Stop that."  I am pretty sure my two couldn't hear this request as they are used to commands at a much higher decibel.

We came home with the grumps, and it seemed that every word out of Myles' mouth could curdle milk. But there was one small, random comfort today that I latched on to. My kids can appreciate Jim Henson. For some it is, The Ramones, and other's I don't know. But the fact that these two enjoy watching Bob Hope hosting The Muppet Show, brings me a small measure of satisfaction. That maybe things will turn out ok.

And things will definately turn out ok, because Poppy and Ereth survived the wildfire that ravaged Dimwood Forest. Ereth has to be our most favorite character at the moment.  Period. 

Here are my notes to self for next time:
Bring cash. They don't really like American Express in Maine.  The clammers just smile at you and laugh.  Go back to Camden for the smoothie truck who also laughed at my AmEx. 
Go to Saltwater Farm next July to celebrate the storming of the Bastille. 
Hire the poster designer of Bastille Day to run my life. 
Do not attempt glamour shots next to large bodies of water with unattended toddlers. Note the Drama-in-Real-Life about to happen in the foreground.  We can laugh about it now.

Father Fodder

I will not attempt to fill you in on my day, for it dealt with waving broom sticks, slammed doors,  and a pervasive lack of deep breaths. So on to bigger and better things. Fatherhood. Above are some titles that inspire, and one very well could provide a missing piece to lucky dad's book collection. 

Mother, May I?

The mother in this story lives in my dreams.  She is clear. She is direct. "The answer is no."  I am haunted by many things,  but near the top of my list are my blurry moments of parenting indecision.   I will say to myself,  "If only I had said no to this question, and yes to that one, then the day would have turned out much differently.  For the better."  I replay the scenes of the day in my head, tweaking little responses that make me sound like the balanced, sensible, warm, wise, sage of a mom I want to be.

I want to sit down over a cup of tea with Holly Hobbie and say:
 "So Holly tell me, after Fanny's mom tells her that she will not buy her a Connie doll, she handles Fanny's solicitations with such rockstar strength, and also does not seem to be riddled with guilt thereafter. Can you tell me a little bit more about that process and how she arrived at that place of peace?"

After the puzzled look on her face fades,  I will tell her how comforted I was by the mother's response to the question of, "Why?"

It is delightfully vague. "Because I don't like the way Connie dolls look," said her mother. "They're just too...much."

Fiona asked me today, "What does she mean, too much? Too much money?"
I said, "No, not too much money, just, you know, too... MUCH."

"Oh," she said.

 If you haven't read this gem, the ending is priceless.  May we all, in whatever circumstances come our way, have this kind of wisdom.

Curtains, and Cous Cous, and Clara

My kids are creative with the most annoying things possible.  Specifically curtain rods.  I think this is a magical sign calling me to actually put curtains up.  But until that day, which may never come, I swear I will be tripping over them until I am old and gray.  Actually, that saying does not apply to me anymore. 

To combat this, I took Tollipop's  advice and stocked up paper.  

But my excitement comes after I gather all the metal rods off the floor.  Tonight, I am hosting my newly acquired knitting group for dinner.  My friend and I found this recipe at Whole Foods and tonight is the night. 

And hopefully I will graduate from scarf making to bag making. Baby steps.  I can see myself now, beside my non-existent mending table, whipping off a pair of socks. Or even better "darning" them.  What is darning anyway? 

Story time will be spent with Clara the rhinoceros, with a little Alvin Ho thrown in for good measure.

----------------------------
 
On Monday, we watched the race.  But we, unlike so many others were able to attend our festive cook out. We felt somber dipping our chips, and like a jerk thinking about what a fun day it was.  And it was. It is one of the best days to be in Boston ever. But we cheered, and then left.  Mile 24 is our spot, and we have a system now. We go to one of the greatest bookstores in the world, and then poke out to wave the top finishers on.  And then for some strange reason, that I do not understand we got to crawl into our beds and others did not.  It's not fair. 


 PS. The font inconsistencies are not intentional.  Thank you for your understanding.

All on a walk to school

We walk to school every day and note the changes that we see and hear.  "Oh look at that, the Easter bunny ears have blown off of the green frog lawn ornament."  The woodpeckers are out.  How wonderful their knocking is. But as we approach our elementary school and neighbors race ahead, his face begins change.   Paranoia arises in me. I know he is preparing himself for what lies ahead in his day, but is there more to it? Are we approaching the end of a long year?  Is he being bullied? Why does he have a look of dread on his face?  Is this normal? And then, for some strange reason Little Debbie comes into my head.  Maybe she can help.  I know it is nothing he can verbalize, and according the calendar this is about the time when I blow things out of proportion.  But, I will make two stops. The first, to our terrible awful, giant semi-local grocery store, and then the library.  I pick up a box of oatmeal cream pies. I feel ridiculous thinking that this could help.  Back at home, I write a note for the package and drop it off.  I hope I am not making his molehill into a mountain.  I do not want to encourage sore, mopey attitudes.  I really want his life to be much less dramatic than mine. I think.

And for home.  Something new to look at.

The drive to the dreaded, Stop and Drop gave me the chance to listen to the BBC's tribute to Margaret Thatcher. I learned that as a young girl she used to help out at her parents grocery store. One old acquaintance described her by saying, "She's a proper madame, that one."  I loved hearing that.

When You Were Small

Did anyone else get this lovely piece of mail this weekend? I watched it come in through the door and go straight into the kitchen trash.  I dashed over to rescue it, and after some careful cleansing wipes I settled down and became even more conflicted about this store named Target. Some days I swear, I will never enter it again. Other days, I dream about its ottomans.  And then, I imagine every remaining independent retailer going up in smoke as a result of this beast.  Maybe I should just do some heavy duty research and figure out the true collateral damage. Maybe there isn't any? Maybe the new designs really are from heaven? Something inside me says no, but the coupon that came beautifully glued to the back is currently burning a hole in my pocket.

Easter Monday became an official family holiday yesterday. Everyone was exhausted from the weekend festivities and it felt nice be home and quiet.  We found this lovely pair of books. Beautiful and imaginative.

And then, a quick rain shower came early in the evening and left us a rainbow.   A couple years ago Fiona was convinced that rainbows were only pretend, having never seen one.  Ever since then I have been on a mission to prove their existence. This one was beyond our imagination. Huge and giant, blasting out of the sea.  It was a rare moment of wonder.  After a mad frenzy to put on clothes, (Fiona was in the middle of a wardrobe change) and sprinting down to the ocean wall, we were able to snap a picture.

Spring Forward

Spring forward into doom. Or that is how this morning went. Blame it on the time change. Blame it on fear, but this morning I ever so accidentally called my seven year old son "an idiot." I watched the words flow out of my mouth and hang there in a word balloon. The back story was a morning filled with bickering and arguing. We had just picked up Gracie the family dog Sunday night from my dad, and everyone wanted to hold the leash. Fiona was also complaining that we weren't going the route of her liking so when we turned the corner to appease her, Gracie sees another dog tied up in a driveway and she bolts over to get a sniff, Myles dropping the leash in the process. And that's when it happened.  The dog was a pit bull. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But I had had an earlier encounter with this dog unleashed in which he charged at Fiona and I walking home one day. The charge was a bluff, and he ended up just checking out some bushes nearby, but still, I had painted many a harrowing scene with things going differently. I could not remember.  Do you play dead when a dog attacks you? Or do you wave a big stick and roar like a bear? So as idiot left my mouth, what I really meant was that I was the idiot to let Fiona decided which way we walked and to let Myles hold the leash on a street where I knew there was a ferocious dog. As the shock of my name calling echoed in my mind beside the bloody images of a dog fight that I was unable to prevent, (I did know from Henry Huggins and Ribsy that a water hose can work to separate snarling dogs. Beverly Cleary has taught me so much) the dog turned out to be sweet, and friendly, and mildly arthritic. Poor thing. So after my lecture, on how bad that scene could have been. I gathered up my courage to tell Myles that I was sorry for calling him an idiot and that I was just really scared. He accepted my apology like a champ. Replay, after I called him an idiot he quickly retorted in the midst of it all, "I am not an idiot!" You can't get him down easily. In fact maybe I did him a favor. Maybe I have given him an obstacle to overcome. Maybe he will decide to change the world. I hope. The more likely scenario is that he will start calling Fiona that. Steps backward hurt.  I am hoping some butter, flour, and sugar will get things back on track. Baking band-aids I'm really good at.

Victory occured on March 8, 2013 when Myles and I finished The Fellowship of the Ring.  I fought through many nights of, "But I want to read with Daddy!!"  Can't you see we are bonding here! As a result, we grew to love that band of brothers.  Sam Gamgee made us laugh countless times, and Gimli is our bud. Regret: I really wish I had not had Elijah Wood's high pitched scream in my head while reading this. 

In other news I found a poetry book to match my yarn. Beautiful. My awesome neighbor is teaching me to knit. The European way. When you see those colors do you think Italian children? That's what I am going for atleast. Hey, we have a Sicilian great grandfather so its not all a show!