I survived

Okay, that's not true: I thrived. Driving home from Tahoe, I had on a mixed-up playlist, and a Pretenders song came on where Chrissie Hynde sings, "You've changed... your place in this world" and I sang along really loudly.

So here's what happened. After a bit of dithering, I got on the road just before 4, and I made excellent time. Really, like "was I speeding?" kind of excellent. The cabin was easy to find, and I could see by the GPS map that it was very close to the lake itself. It was a charming little place, and I parked, grabbed my bags, and knocked.

I was warmly welcomed, and I soon sat down to talk with the other three women there. I don't think I need to hide their first names, so I'll just use them. Jennifer is the woman whose cabin it was, and she set the tone and the agenda. She was a lovely blonde in her fifties with two teenage sons, and when I Googled her later, I learned she had been in the publishing industry for years, written something like fifty books, and been an editor. Pam was in her late sixties, had nine children, and wrote mostly journalistic stuff -- articles on parenting and the like -- but was working on a sort of memoir about her childhood home. And Colleen was ten years younger than me, but quite successful. She had gone to film school and works for the company that made The Lorax and Despicable Me in their development department. In fact, I promised that I wouldn't tell, but she shared a file with me of a novel that hasn't yet been released. The author is someone that several of my friends would absolutely pee themselves over. She's writing and illustrating a children's book that I found charming.

We drank wine and ate crackers and cheese while getting to know one another, and then we had a late dinner of a frittata and homemade bread. After dinner, we walked to the lake. It was only a few blocks away, and although it was dark out, it was nice just to smell the air and hear the gentle lapping of the waves. We then walked back and re-convened around the wine to set official goals for the weekend. I thought about writing for a bit then, but it was actually quite late, so I retired to an upstairs room with a daybed and a small desk. I wrote down a couple notes, then read a couple pages of "Beautiful and Pointless" and went to sleep.

In the morning, we enjoyed coffee and a light breakfast (cereal, yogurt, bananas), then did some writing to two prompts. I ended up with a very short story that Jennifer encouraged me to submit somewhere right away. Then we were free to write for a few hours. I had been so nervous about not being able to write anything, but in fact, I wrote three poems in that time. Lunch was curried pumpkin soup and cheddar-apple panini. Jennifer apologized for the soup -- it hadn't blended quite smooth -- but everything was delightful. She then walked us to the meadow. I was thinking, "meadow? Meh." But in fact, it was a lovely windswept amber expanse with views of the mountains and the lake, trees turning yellow and red in the distance. And we followed the path all the way to the lake, where there was a very narrow strip of sandy beach. The water was cold, but I can't resist getting my feet wet. We walked back and wrote for a few more hours until dinner. I spent some time outdoors in the backyard, but it was a little windy and sap was dripping from the pines. I also walked once more to the lake via the street, but it was cold and I thought of something I needed to write down, so I wasn't gone long. And I actually completed my goal of six poems early!

That night, Jennifer told us that at our cocktail hour, a friend of hers was stopping by. I actually found that a little odd. Wasn't this our writing retreat weekend? But as it turned out, not only did I genuinely like her friend Kim, she is the owner of a small press, so we got to talk about both sides of publishing, and we questioned her at great length about what she did and what her upcoming projects were. Dinner was getting very late, and at length Jennifer walked her out to her truck (she declined to stay, as her dog was with her). She came back in and reported that Kim had a lovely time, and was surprised that we didn't have a hidden agenda in inviting her. And although it doesn't seem to be something we could, in fact, capitalize on, I think it added to the overall interest of my weekend. And I got a chapstick with her press's logo on it!

Dinner was pot pies from a local bakery, plus a nice salad and more wine (her pillows on the couch read "Write by the lake" and "drink by the lake," and they weren't kidding!). Again, it was quite late, so I just read for a bit and went to sleep.

Sunday morning I slept quite late (well, for me). I had awakened in the night and couldn't get back to sleep, especially after I discovered the cool light-up blanket on my bed! It sparkled when you moved it. (I realized in the morning that it was static electricity.) We had coffee and breakfast, and then writing time. Of course, I had actually finished what I wanted to write*, so I instead decided to do part 2 of my organizing project. Part one was taking the mishmash of unnamed and duplicated files from three different places (an app I use, my Word program, and Google documents) and giving everything a discrete file name in a folder called "writing." I at that time also created within that folder four others called "works in progress," "ready to submit," "submitted -- pending" and "published." I felt good about being able to drop ten files into that last folder right away, but the others I hadn't touched. So part two was moving things around a bit. I knew that some could go into "ready," and all the rest should visit "in progress" for a while. But once I did that, I started opening up and polishing some of the "in progress" ones and moving them into "ready." And at that point, I still had some time before lunch (I could smell something wonderful, but I could also hear Jennifer periodically informing Pam, who was also downstairs, that the vegetables were taking much longer than she expected), so I went ahead and submitted a few poems.

At that point, I shut down the computer, packed my things, stripped the bed, and brought down a glass and a mug and the sheets. Lunch was on -- some lovely roasted veggies with apples and grilled cheese sandwiches. We shared a few of the things we had written, said our goodbyes (and our keep-in-touches, which I hope we will), and I packed the car. It was only two, but I had nothing I needed to do, and I missed my family. I drove the short distance to the lake, stood for a minute and took a couple pictures, and then I hit the road.

And so I'm always a teacher and a mom and a wife, and those things are important, but I'm a writer too. For real. I've changed... my place in this world.

*For reference, I was working on a series of thematically-linked poems called "Eleven or so songs for a disorganized mind." It just struck me as funny to use such an un-round number as eleven, undermine even that by adding "or so," and have the theme be disorganization, then write all the poems in strict form and meter. It is probably remarkably stupid to have written eleven poems as a series, because nobody publishes more than about five or less than a book. Still, that's what I wanted to do and I did it, so if I want to market it, I'll have to be creative. 

Fingernail-biting-time

So... I read about this writers' retreat. And before my rational self could talk me out of it, I asked Sweetie and emailed the lady and wrote a check.

And it's this weekend! I leave in two days! And I'm FREAKING THE HELL OUT. Because I'm not a writer, I'm a teacher. I'm a mom. I don't deserve to spend a weekend in the quiet, scribbling in notebooks. How ridiculous. What nerve. What gall to even fancy myself a writer.

I started organizing some of my poems for submission, and I put the published ones into their own folder (most places won't take previously published work). And I realized that of the things I submitted this last year or so, I actually got more published than were rejected. And I did win a contest put on by the Sacramento Poetry Center. Okay, actually, I won both first and third prize in that. I've given multiple readings and had positive receptions.

Maybe I'm a real writer, maybe I'm not. But the check is written, the childcare is arranged, and I'm going.

Coffee!

I love coffee. I actually started drinking it in junior high on a semi-regluar basis (if you don't count the kid coffee I was occasionally allowed). Back then, I'd get it at the McDonald's by my junior high. In high school, I drank my first good coffee, a Sumatran, from the Java City downtown, and I was soon drinking cafe mochas at the Village Express coffee and doughnut shop by my house.

 In college, I had an espresso machine, and I would basically make four shots and call it a cup of coffee. I soon realized I needed to cut back, and by my late twenties, it was an occasional thing, but I didn't have a coffee habit. I had actually moved back to my old neighborhood and was still grabbing a cup at the Village Express a couple mornings a week.

Then I met Sweetie. He is a coffee guy, and sometimes I would wake up at his house to the smell of bacon (what can I say, even some vegetarians can understand the appeal of that smell) and toast and coffee. I've been a regular drinker since with a brief caffeine-free interlude while I was pregnant.

We used to use a French press, and then we got an AeroPress. It's a little tricker, but faster, too, and it makes great coffee. Our regular beans are from Naked Coffee, a roaster in Oak Park. I used to buy the beans at a coffee shop called Tupelo, and one day I saw a sign indicating that their coffee was half off on Mondays at the roasters. Ever since, I've tried to make it a point to get a few pounds when I have time on a Monday. It used to be $6 a pound, and now it's $7. They're nice guys, and pre-baby, I sometimes took a book, let them make me an Americano, and read outside on a dingy thrifted couch.

We've always gotten occasional bags from elsewhere, including Temple, which is highly regarded for their beans. But Naked Coffee is our staple coffee. The owner also owns a cafe called Orphan, and there, they have a couple different coffees on the menu. I'd read the descriptions and tend to go for ones that said things like "warm and nutty with hints of chocolate." But I never liked them as much as the ones that said "citrusy and bright." I decided I'd set myself a taste test: I'd try coffee from every local roaster, and to keep the comparisons among fairly similar coffees, I'd try to pick South American ones with "citrusy" in the description.

I began with Capricorn Coffee, which actually isn't that local -- it's from San Francisco. But they sell it two blocks away from here, so ya know... It was $11 a pound, and I found it very smooth and tasty. We were off to a good start. They only sold half-pound bags, so it didn't last long.

I bought a bag of Naked Coffee, at $7/lb. It is perhaps my ideal coffee. It has a rich aroma, is a little citrusy without being at all acidic, and tastes like I think coffee should taste.

Then we went to Insight and tried their Guatemala. It was very acidic and fruity. It had a great flavor, but it was so overpoweringly acidic that I thought it would be a better occasional weekend coffee than an everyday brew. Sweetie noted that it wasn't a good match for his preferred cup -- which is white with half-and-half.

Then we tried the Orphan Columbia. I loved this one. I found it both citrusy and bright without being acidic or bitter.

Next up was Chocolate Fish. I got their Panama, and it was one of the more expensive ones we tried, at $14.95 for 12 oz. I find that 12 oz bag thing to be a little deceptive, even though it's clearly labeled. I mean, usually a BAG is a pound. So it takes a little math to discover that a pound of their coffee is actually about $19.95. OUCH. I wrote in my notes, "very tasty, light citrus, not at all acidic. Great flavor." Sweetie disagreed. He was on about week three of coffees that he thought practically curdled his cream.

I then picked up a bag of Old Soul Guatemala. I thought it had good flavor and a nice balance. Sweetie thought it very acidic, but I was shocked. Acidic? This one? No. But the next day, I had to agree. It was quite acidic. I wondered what the difference could have been and realized that on the first day, I drank it while it was still hot, and on the second, it had cooled off. Sweetie always drinks his cooler. So I mentioned it to him and the next day, he drank his before it cooled too much and had to agree -- the acidity was much more pronounced when the coffee was cool. For whatever that's worth.

Next up was Temple's Brazil. Temple makes a delicious coffee. I haven't had a bad one from there. They're expensive, too, but good. It's $14.50 for 12 ounces, too, and they have even more expensive roasts than that.

Finally, I went to Coffeeworks. I go there a lot for a cup on my way to work if I have some spare time, $2, and it's a second-cup day. I actually don't like a good number of their coffees: I think they're over-roasted. The French and Italian are right out, and their signature blends, like Dark Star and Jump Start aren't my favorites either. On the other hand, I've enjoyed an Ethiopian Sidamo from there, and I always look forward to the day they have Nicaragua brewed up. I was hoping to buy a pound of the Nicaragua, but they were out, so I opted for Honduras. They don't have descriptions of the coffee up there, but I'd venture a guess that this'd be on the "warm and nutty" side. I thought overall that it didn't have much character. It was... just fine.

I made a few other observations: Chocolate Fish, though I probably wouldn't buy their beans regularly, seemed like a really pleasant place to sit. Old Soul had GREAT food and terrific people-watching, too. They also sold coffee in Mason jars, and you could re-use the jar for a discount. Temple was crowded and was the only place they didn't ask how I wanted my beans ground (that's not to say that every other place offered to grind my beans, just that if they did, they asked how fine). Insight offered me a free shot of espresso with my beans, which I took them up on. I like the decor, but their furniture seems like they went to Intentionally-Uncomfortable-R-Us. I really like Orphan's breakfast and lunch food, so it's worth it to go there for a meal and pick up some coffee, since their deal is that if you buy a pound, your cups of coffee are free (well, two cups).

I als
There was no need, really, for me to declare a winner. I was on an exploration more than anything. And yet, there was a clear winner. Not only was their coffee good, not acidic, full of character and great for every day, it was the cheapest by far -- half as much or less than almost every other place. Naked Coffee, Monday at the roasters. The taste test is over, and I bought two bags today. Can't wait for my cup in the morning. It will feel like an old friend.

Fall

Hi all, I'm not entirely ready to let go of this blogging thing yet, although it's definitely taken a back seat to other things. But sometimes I just want to tell people stuff, and also to write it down so that I can go back and look at it later, so here it is.

I love summer. It is far and away my favorite season. So fall kind of gets the shaft in my affections, because it's the one that replaces it. I'm sad when fall comes. But there are things I love about it.

• Going to the apple orchard.
• The smell of the leaves.
• Hot tea.
• Re-introducing winter foods like squash and soup.
• 75 degrees. 

As much as I love summer and the heat for the things you can do in it, like swimming, there's almost no better temperature for just existing than 75 degrees. A little too cold? Stand in the sunshine or grab a cardigan. Been on a bike ride and got sweaty? Just stand still in the shade. That's what this weekend has been like, and it's delicious. 

I took out most of the summer garden, rescuing a few green tomatoes in the hopes that they'll ripen in a box lined with newspaper. I also granted one plant a reprieve, as it still had quite a lot of fruit on it (plus, it's my favorite one, the black cherry tomato). I also gave the eggplant a reprieve, as it has one itty-bitty fruit left, and I want to see if it can get bigger. I harvested the other two. 

I also planted stuff -- lemon balm and lemon verbena, a cauliflower, six broccoli, a cabbage, and 12 chard starts, plus twelve sugar pea starts and a bunch of nante carrot seeds. 

I took out a basil and am drying the leaves in the dehydrator right now. 

I think all this gardening and canning and such has changed me a little. I am appreciating fall a bit more  because I'm intentionally living more seasonally. We put up tomatoes and pears for winter. We foraged plums and made jam, and then ate the jam, but that's okay -- I saw the first kiwis at the market today. Just a couple years ago, if I saw a recipe that called for oranges in May, I wouldn't have hesitated to just go buy oranges. Now, I may still buy some things that aren't local or seasonal, but it's not my default. I am looking forward to oranges because they will be most delicious when they're actually ripe and fresh and from my mom's backyard. So there's an excitement in the change of seasons. There are things to anticipate. 

Another change is that I've never been exactly wasteful -- I mean, I read "50 Things Kids Can Do to Save the Earth" before the term "climate change" was on everyone's lips -- but I did take things for granted. You do just have too many grapefruits on the neighbor's tree, so they get chucked into the yard waste pile. No big deal. But today I drove by a big cactus I always have my eye on, and the plentiful cactus fruit is starting to shrivel, and I thought, "Are you people crazy? Are you not going to pick that and use it? You can make JAM out of that, folks!" And I even very briefly entertained the thought of asking them if I could pick it. But I haven't changed that much... yet. 

Camping 2012

[There are a billion photos at the bottom. I won't be hurt if you scroll there first.]
As you can tell, I've really been procrastinating on this post. For one, as you know, I've been posting a lot on Facebook. For another thing, I didn't take very many pictures, as my phone (which I use for a camera) was sucking up battery charge. And finally, there was something a little harder to explain.

We had the best camping trip I've ever been on in my life. And we also did almost nothing that was noteworthy. Part of me wanted to keep it to myself and those that were with me as a private, lovely memory. And part of me couldn't figure out how I could say something like "then we just lolled about on a rocky beach for five hours" and have it sound as wonderful as it was.

But someone has been bugging me to blog about it, so I'll do my best.

Our days followed a routine pretty closely. We woke, made breakfast, cleaned up, had a little quiet reading time or a hike, made a simple lunch, went to the river, came back, made dinner, had snacks and played games, and went to bed.

There were exceptions. The first two days we were there, Zadie and I went to Junior Rangers, a free program for kids seven and older. Of course, I didn't know that (and apparently, neither did many of the other parents), so I took Zadie, and after I realized it, I asked if it was okay, and the ranger assured me it was fine. That program is fantastic. The educators are great with kids, and the activities were lots of fun. One day, they made plaster molds of animal feet, and they studied tracks. Then we went for a walk down to the river and saw some tracks there. The next day was about the water table, so they learned a little song and dance about it, then did a project with paper, pens, and spray bottles to see if they could predict where water would run.

One day we went to Garberville, and that was a funny experience. I remembered it from my early teen years, and in my memory, it was a small throwback hippie town where I once found a beautiful, wrap-around raw silk skirt. And there were things that had changed, and there were things that hadn't, but I realized there were things I had forgotten, too. For example, I really only remembered the main drag, but the town itself was more than that, and I had completely forgotten that. It was still kind of a gift shop-laden tourist trap, but I still loved it, too. It has more than its tiny share of toy shops and places to get handmade jewelry. It reminds me in some ways of Santa Cruz' main drag, but smaller and with a smattering of bait shops run by hoarders.

On another day, we hiked across the river, farther than I remember going, and found an abandoned homestead in a sunny clearing filled with wildflowers and poison oak. It was marked only by a rusted bedframe and the stones of a fireplace.

We went to the nature center on one day, and I bought some postcards and books, plus a fun game Zadie and I like to play now. I saw from across the room a postcard of a fireplace, and I wondered if it was the one we'd discovered in the woods, so I asked about it, but it was actually something else -- a Julia Morgan designed monument only a mile away! Now, I am not exactly an architecture junkie, but there are certain architects whose work I enjoy, and Julia Morgan is one of them. I could not leave there knowing I'd missed a change to see something she had made, so Zadie and I drove there and took a few pictures on an afternoon when I'd had enough sun.

So what was our routine like? Well, we generally woke when the sun was up and the birds were chirping. Some sounded like an electronic alarm. Then we ate our cereal, danishes, coffee, and most importantly, whatever my dear sister-in-law made. Pancakes, French toast... Oh, she makes the BEST pancakes. If you're not a camper, you may not be aware that something about the fresh air and your hunger makes camping food taste better than the same food at home, but it does. Beyond that, though, M makes her pancakes in about half a pound of butter, so that the edges get crispy, and that fat salty flavor infuses the whole pancake. Delicious.

Doing dishes while camping can be a pain in the ass -- you have to boil water, be careful to not get the water too filthy, dump the water later -- but it wasn't on this trip. First, as there were a number of adults there (it's funny to think of my nephew as one, but he is), we easily took turns without even discussing it. And better, there was a big sink with hot water right next to our campsite.

Our quiet time was nice. Zadie often went exploring with her auntie, and they found a big tree and named it Fort Zamale. They went there almost every morning with the dog, and were sometimes gone for an hour. I read a thick book.

Lunch was a little haphazard. Sometimes we made sandwiches, and sometimes we just grabbed granola bars and apples and water and took them to the river. The walk through the woods to the river made me feel ashamed. When I was a kid, we rushed through it, eager to jump in the water. I didn't appreciate how utterly beautiful the landscape was -- tall redwoods, fallen trees covered in moss, light slanting through the trees, horsetail growing tall...

At the river. The river may have been the best part. It wasn't too cold, it didn't move fast, and there were swimming holes everywhere. Each day, we walked a little further and found an even better spot -- more private than the first day, more comfortable than the second, more fun than the third -- until we settled at a big tree with a rope swing. It was a terrible swing. To get there, you had to shinny two ways up a steep, wet log, and then, the rope was hanging almost vertically already, so all you could do was swing out a few feet before you hit the water, lost momentum, and went straight down. Nevertheless, it was great fun. We also ran into the same funny, toe-nibbling fish I remembered from 20 years ago. We found out they are called the Sacramento pike minnow, and they're the same invasive species they've been trying to eradicate near here. In fact, there's a bounty on their head! Fishers are encouraged to catch as many as they can, bash their brains out, and throw them onto the shore for the birds. This pursuit entertained much of our party for many hours.

Zadie did a little fishing and a lot of floating in a tube. I did no fishing, a tiny bit of floating, a bit of swimming, and hours and hours and hours of reading on the beach. The single drawback to the beaches there is that they are rocky and therefore not particularly comfortable. Sometimes you can find a sandy spot, but it's mostly closer to the plants, which means there are a lot more bugs. But it didn't really bother me. Other people I loved and trusted were watching my kid, and I got to read in peace, uninterrupted, in the sunshine, and with a soundtrack of laughter, for a long time. Basically, it was heaven.

When we got back, we started cooking dinner. We had pasta twice, chili once, "Yum bowls" once, lentil tacos once, and burgers once. My two favorites were the Yum bowls -- basically a rice bowl with avocado, cheese, tomatoes, and tahini sauce -- and the chili, which I made in a cast iron pot and which was perhaps the best chili I've ever made.

A few nights, we made either s'mores or popcorn. Sometimes we had time before bed to play a game called "Hiss" with Zadie.

In the evenings, we'd put Zadie to bed (Sweetie was reading her Fellowship of the Rings), then generally the grown-ups would play Uno or a game called Munchkin, which is both very silly and very fun.

And that is basically that. There were episodes that stood out, of course. One morning we got to watch a garter snake eat a fish. We saw a trio (I think) of otters in the river one day. We watched with bemusement as the campers across from us put their tent in a hollow tree. We let Zadie wake up our nephew, which is always funny.

And beyond that, there wasn't much. Weather was lovely, not too hot, and barely too cold at night (I was comfortable, but I had a nice sleeping bag, so Sweetie, who only had a blanket, was cold).

The game we got.
Sweetie grew a beard.
Zadie really enjoyed getting some auntie time.
Most ginormous banana slug I've ever seen.
Trees are tall.
The Julia Morgan monument in the Women's Grove, commonly referred to as the Four Fireplaces.
Z climbs a tree.
The beach at the river.
Sorry for the fuzzy picture, but it still captures perfectly Z's joy at getting to hang out with J and L.
Some people felt it was chilly in the mornings.
We did exactly one tourist stop on the way back from Garberville. I would have done more... I actually like driving through trees and buying postcards made of wood and junk like that.
One of the Junior Ranger programs.
At fort Zamale.

If you're a longtime reader (I'd guess my mom, dad, and husband), you may remember the colleague of mine who I consider an arrogant bastard. I don't now remember what pseudonym I gave him here on the blog, but Know-it-all Napoleonic Obnoxious Bastard, or KNOB, will do nicely. Last semester, KNOB and I listened to our students' recorded tests together to submit grades that we both thought were accurate and fair. We worked hard on it, and we put in several hours' work. Normally, we submit our scores and someone else, usually in another country, reads them, grades them, and then moves all our scores up or down a point or two to reflect what THEY think is the most accurate score. We hate to get moderated, especially if the scores go down, and we almost always do to an extent. That's what we were working to avoid. Well, we got an email showing all our kids' scores, and to my delight, out of 38 students, only one kid got moved 1 point. I sent him an email congratulating him and saying thanks for the hard work, because it had paid off. He never responded, but it was work email, and not everyone checks it over summer, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. This morning, I saw him, and I delivered basically the same message out loud. He replied, "Well, it's because they pulled all *my* kids for the samples." Essentially, he's saying he still thinks I graded them poorly and gives no credit to the work we did. Now, for one thing, that's an utter, outright lie. They asked for eight samples, and six of them were my kids. But second of all -- eat a bag of dicks. I was trying to be friendly and fucking collegial. You can't muster up a "yeah, nice work"? And third? Oh, don't worry, KNOB; I know why you're pissed at me. It's because you still think I'm an inferior teacher, yet 94% of my students passed the exams to get college credit, and only 33% of yours did. And don't worry, I don't plan on mentioning it to anyone. I'll keep it to myself and this fairly anonymous blog, but there it is. You're pissed because I seriously out-performed you. In fact, I kicked your lily-white ass.* *And as long as I'm not mentioning stuff, I did it with a handicap -- KNOB had two years with his kids, and I only had one, the first year having been taught by a teacher who basically abdicated the job, so the kids had to make up the LAST year's work, too. That's cool, though -- we did that.

Long day, short form.

Hey, so I did take a break from Facebook all day. And guess what? I got a lot of stuff done. I bought some things to donate to the women's shelter. I took care of something I needed for work. I fixed the washing machine.

The other day I needed the washing machine paperwork. Luckily, I found it easily in my file cabinet. But my file cabinet is a mess. So tonight I've been going through it. I'm ruthlessly throwing things out. Can you believe I have the first paycheck I ever got as a teacher? I didn't save it as a relic; I just save my pay stubs, and it was in there. Anyway, organizing this cabinet is going to free up some space, and since storage in this house is like one of those 9-tiles-with-one-empty-square puzzles, that'll help.

I messed up the Mom Cave big time. About a month ago, I set aside the paint to patch the Mom Cave. Yesterday, I decided to paint. (The guys who did the work had to put a big hole in the wall, then patch it, so there was about 1/3 of a whole wall that needed it.) Yeah, so I looked through my paints, found one that looked right, and painted. And it was a little darker, but I figured it would dry to match. It didn't. I cursed myself, realizing that the paint I had was actually the bathroom color. They're almost the exact same shade, but different tones -- a purplier vs/ a bluer.

I went back to the paint closet. I grabbed another can, and this time I stirred it carefully and held it up against the wall in the light. That one was definitely it. I painted the wall again. It wasn't it. It wasn't even almost the same shade; it was precisely the same shade. It was just a little more teal.

Sigh. Okay, fine, I prefer colors in one wee little part of the spectrum. Anyway, while I was in the garage getting our ten-year-old paperwork, I saw a small stack of two cans. Right in the damn open. In the WAY, in fact. The cans I had carefully picked out and set aside.

I guess what I'm saying is I'm a fuck-up, but I'm not a TOTAL fuck-up. I have the paint! I found the washer paperwork! I haven't gotten audited by the IRS, so I can throw away my 2002 tax paperwork! Can I get a whoo-hoo? I may not be organized, but I (eventually) get shit done.

The internets have gone crazy with meanness.

I might need a little internet break. People have... just lost focus on what's important, and that's fine for them, but I don't need to fill my leisure time with it.

To wit: Olympics coverage. Gabby Douglas is an amazing athlete. And I have now seen her picked apart for her hair and her outfits.

Breastfeeding. A feminist-leaning web site I usually enjoy regularly seems to attack motherhood, particularly natural parenting choices. It really blew up this week with an article that began thusly;"If you don't breastfeed your child (exclusively, and for a very long time) then you are an uneducated, selfish piece of shit who sucks at being a mother and doesn't love her baby enough to not bottle-feed it the equivalent of rat poison. Or at least, that's the way all this pro-breastfeeding sentiment is beginning to feel." I'm sensing some anger there. And having read people's stories in the comments, I understand the anger on both sides. But seriously, are we tearing each other down over this Breastfeeding was important to me, which is why I went to such great lengths to do it. But if some other woman chooses not to, it's not the end of the world. People make different choices. If we are busy loving our children and trying to make the best choices for our families, can't we all just get along? I mean, as far as I'm concerned, the fact that the U.S. has such piss-poor maternity leave policies compared to other countries is a much bigger deal. Can't we address that?

And then this morning on Facebook my cousin wrote a vociferously-worded rant against people with disabled placards getting free parking at the meters downtown. Initially, I agreed. A woman she cited said she would have to retire if they made her pay for parking. But probably thousands of other people work in Downtown Sacramento, pay for parking, and can still afford to work. Why not her? Well, I let it sit in my brain for a minute, and wondered if paying for parking also meant running to the meter every two hours. For me, that's a (somewhat annoying) cinch. If the elevator's slow, you dash downstairs. If you're really close to your two-hour limit, you jog the block or two. And you could certainly opt to take public transit -- that's what I did when I worked downtown. Of course, from my house (which is close enough to light rail for real estate ads to include it), it's still about an eight-block walk, plus however many blocks from the stop to your workplace, and today it's going to be 104 degrees here. You know, all of a sudden, instead of feeling angry about someone sucking off the public teat, I'm feeling very thankful for my good strong legs and feet and hips.

And there it is in a nutshell. The internet, lately, seems like a place for people who are cranky at the world or have a personal beef to shout about it, and no one seems interested in walking in the other guy's shoes. And it's making ME cranky, too.

Deep breath.

Those of you complaining about Gabby Douglas's hair probably didn't mean it in a cruel way. Perhaps you noticed her glowing smile and thought it would be complemented better by a recently-relaxed 'do. You wanted to see her look her best, because God knows her performance was among the best. And perhaps you have insecurities about your own hair, and if you had taken a minute to think about it, you never would have transferred those insecurities to a 16-year-old girl.

And the ladies who said they would formula-feed their babies just to spite the "breastfeeding Nazis" will likely look into their baby's face someday and do whatever they think is right for their child, and if they stopped to reflect on the horrors of the holocaust, they would take back that word and never call someone a Nazi lightly again.

And the breastfeeding advocates who do think formula feeding moms are selfish would probably keep that sentiment to themselves if only they knew how hard it was for the moms returning to work, or the moms who have trauma associated with their bodies, or the moms who are just too scared to not know exactly how much their babies are getting or the moms who are in physical pain.

And I think if my cousin thought of our charming uncle who walks with a cane after hip replacement surgery, pictured him walking a block or two to feed the meter every two hours all day, she would have a little more sympathy for those with disabled placards.

And you know, maybe there's a different way to pay for disabled parking. A sticker, or a FastTrack-like box. Perhaps it shouldn't just be free.

And I believe breastfeeding really is best for babies, and my belief is based in research. But maybe instead of bashing individual moms, we should work towards getting maternity leave for everyone. Maybe we should work to re-elect Obama, whose health care program just made breast pump rentals free. Maybe we should find other ways to support that choice, rather than insulting those who don't make it.

But attacking each other, calling each other Nazis and freeloaders just shows a lack of charity.

Oh, and speaking of the Facebook? I swear to god, if I get another "click like if you shopped at Woolworths/recognize Captain Kangaroo/know what an 8-track is" I don't know what I'll do. Seriously, when you were shopping at Woolworth's twenty years ago, did you imagine you'd feel nostalgic for it in the future? No! Because shopping at Woolworth's gave about the same amount of warm fuzzies as shopping at Rite-Aid today. Bah.

Mom Cave!

You may remember back in January or February that we had a realtor come over and look at the house. His recommendation was that we not move, but find a place to make better use of the space here. One suggestion was that if we needed to use Sweetie's office as a bedroom, we could move the laundry to the garage and use the laundry room as a small "man cave." Well, Sweetie balked (and not unreasonably -- he has WAY more stuff than could fit in that little room). But it got me thinking... I wouldn't turn down my own space just because it was small. Heck, I don't have ANY space right now. To do a craft project, I have to haul all my stuff out of the garage or a closet, then put it all back before breakfast (as my crafting space is usually our table) which means I sometimes just don't do it.
So I sat on it until summer, when I knew I'd have some time to meet workers at the house, but here is summer. And here is my mom cave in progress.

The first thing I realized I'd have to do is find an alternate place for the food and appliances we have stored in there. There's a small broom closet in that room which was mainly being used to store re-usable grocery bags. Really. It was stacked with bags full of other bags. And there were a few odds and ends besides, but basically it was dead space.

(This is a dramatic re-creation, as I had actually already cleaned it out.)

I cleared it out and added shelves, so now we have a wee pantry.





Step two was to make room in the garage for the washer and dryer. There was a large storage rack there with my craft stuff on it, so I just move that out of the way, figuring that I could empty most of it into the house once the mom cave was complete. We have nearly filled the perimeter of the garage with these racks, so I was lucky that we still had a space for one, but we did. I move it nearer the door, and it was out of the way for a while.

Step three was to find a new place for our cleaning supplies, most of which lived in the laundry room. After talking to the contractor, it sounded like the washer/dryer would have to be closer to the center or the right side of the wall, but that left the left side free. I moved the rack from the laundry room in there and filled it with cleaning supplies. I also mounted the stick vacuum and moved some things from a less-accessible garage closet onto the rack.

I forgot to take a "before" photo, so here's an "in progress" and an "after."



Step four! I needed a place for my craft stuff in the Mom Cave. This was a bit of a misstep on my part. Okay, a couple missteps. First, I was going to get a small rack from Ikea, and I actually went there, put it on a cart and everything. But there's an as-is section near the front of the store with some good bargains, and I saw a unit that would fit in the space (tricky, as it needed to be fairly narrow) and was much taller, plus it had a drawer. It was more money ($90), but 40% off its original price. The mis-steps were as follows: First, I was kind of stoked that it was already assembled. But... I drive a station wagon. That was a fiasco. Second, I was kind of stoked that it was already assembled, but... it's 9 feet tall. I couldn't get it through any doorway in my house. So I stuck it in the garage and had to de-assemble it to get it inside. Third, I figured that since it was so narrow, it wouldn't interfere with the guys' work on the cave. But it did, so they had to move it several times. Loaded with stuff. One thing Ikea furniture is not is sturdy. If it survives another couple of scoots across the floor to patch the drywall behind it, it will be a small miracle.



Step five: Get rid of some of my shit. You know, if you make a glittery John Deere square-dancing skirt to wear when you are in a riot grrl band in the previous decade, no rule says you have to keep it forever. I sorted, I tossed, I gave away. I still have too much stuff, but I'm working on it. And I freely admit I have a problem.

Step six. The dudes come! It was a lot of work we were talking about, so I was amazed they got almost all of it done in a day, but they did. They had to knock holes in two walls, close off plumbing in one room, add a drain in another area, run electrical to the garage, add a 220 outlet, move the actual appliances, hook them up, create a vent, and patch and mud the two wall-holes.







I just realized I haven't yet photographed the new laundry area, so I'll do that soon. Maybe when I can post pictures of the finished Mom Cave!

Happy Anniversary

Today is my and Sweetie's 7 year wedding anniversary. In many ways, it feels like we just got married. It has been the easiest 7 years (and 9 years together) of my life. Here's why. You know all that stuff I've enjoyed doing in the last nearly ten years? Ripping out the lawn to put in a garden, learning to bake bread, to can, to pickle, creating a Mom Cave, kayaking, having a baby, buying a new home, making changes to said home, traveling, going camping...? Well I may seem like the Dharma of the Dharma & Greg equation, but I'm not some sitcom lady who does crazy stuff while her husband looks on disapprovingly. In fact, I usually have the germ of an idea, talk to my Sweetie about it, and he says three things: "Cool. I think you should do it. What can I do to help make it happen?" And whether the answer to that last question has been "use this kick-tool to tear out the lawn" or "agree to use our tax money for it" or "be patient with my kitchen messes" or "go get a sperm motility test" or "feed the cats while I'm gone," the answer is always yes. He's not only my sounding board, but he's my constant support and encouragement. And even though I sometimes mess up and measure wrong and leave messes and do things in a half-assed fashion, he almost never laughs at me or tells me "I told you so." In short, just about everything cool about me is because he's standing beside me. Thanks for standing beside me for nine years, including up there at the altar. My life is better because of you all the time.

Hot town, summer in the city

Well, not today. But it's really summertime! I've been off for a week. Can you feel me reconnecting with myself?
I always swear that I'll try to keep it brief, but I never do, do I?
So... The garden is a delight. My tomatoes are tall, and the two biggest ones turned yellow today. There are about sixty growing thus far, and they've just begun! We also have cukes, zukes (two harvested already), pumpkins, eggplant (got its first flowers yesterday), onions (harvested yesterday), mint, artichokes, peppers, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, echinacea, chamomile, fennel, lavender, sage, and a newly planted watermelon. With the exception of a pepper I had to give up on and an artichoke that didn't get enough light, everything is thriving. The tomatoes are about up to my chin. Having a small home garden is much more enjoyable than I ever thought it would be.
I'm a little bummed that I seem to be sick a lot this Spring. I had the mastitis, a sinus infection, the flu, and now pinkeye (which is going away quickly without medication). I also have a lingering cough for some reason. I'm on the world's slowest losing-weight schedule, but I am still doing that. I'm starting to really see the results in the way my clothes fit and in the way my body looks, but I'm also not hung up on the idea, either. I've been trying to get the most out of my gym membership, so in addition to my usual routine, I have added a few yoga and Zumba classes here and there. I also changed up my usual routine just a bit, adding some more weights/machines for my upper body, and I can feel the shape of my arms changing, too. Michelle Obama arms, here I come!
Zadie and I have been very busy. At the moment, she has swimming Monday through Thursday and karate on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Add to that some socializing, some gardening, some chores, and suddenly we have a very full week! Karate is going great. I told someone yesterday that Zadie is the last one standing, last one kneeling, last one to shout "yes, sir!," and she wiggles in line. But for Zadie, the fact that she's kneeling, standing, shouting, and lining up is pretty great! (And today she actually wasn't the last one... she's improving every time.)
Swimming is not going quite so well. Suffice to say, Zadie has used up her bravery elsewhere. We're going to stick it out through next week, then maybe try something else like the Y. My dad also agreed to teach her, and thus far we haven't gone over there. She might feel more comfortable with him.
Well, I'm exhausted and heading for bed. Take care, CM

The pictures..

Zadie loved the Mission playground.



So did Reza.


Saturday at the beach. He found several whole sand dollars.

With the Sutro Baths behind us.

Heading in to the Conservatory of Flowers.

I liked this one.

Zadie liked this one because it is purple.

Sweetie liked this one because it looks like a monster face.

Their special exhibit, Plantasaurus Rex, was pretty cool.

Her appetite wasn't all the way back, but it was good enough for some ice cream.

She loved this thing. Look at the other people on it -- it's mostly teens and adults.

One more for perspective. There are other kids on it, but none as little as her.

Day three -- the sucky trip home

We got up and went to Beachside, where we had a lovely breakfast. In an odd coincidence, the proprietors of Old Soul, a Sacramento coffee roaster, were there. We thought about taking a cable car, but in the end just decided to go home, with a stop in Berkeley first.

As it was only ten, absolutely nothing in Berkeley was open. We're not sure what early risers do there. We headed back to the freeway.

Before too long, I realized my stomach was feeling pretty touchy. I was having waves of nausea, and I tried to breathe deeply to help it pass. We stopped and got a Sprite and I went to the restroom to see if I could vomit, but nothing happened.

No, it waited until I was driving in West Sacramento at the interchange of about three freeways. Naturally, I couldn't pull over, so I just kept driving and hurling. Sweetie tried hard to catch it in my McDonald's cup, but it was much, much worse than the wee cup could hold. I actually called Kaiser later, and they asked how many times I vomited, and I had to answer, "Well once, basically -- it just went on for several minutes."

We finally got home, I stripped my clothes off in the garage, left the car in the driveway with the windows open, and then I spent the next seven or so hours lying down, then slowly sitting up, then lying down again. And sipping water. I felt like SHIT. I'm actually starting to feel a little better, because I took some Tylenol for my headache, and the headache had really been the icing on the shit cake.

But enough of that. I'm going to leave the sick talk as its own post and start a new one just for photos of us having a great time in San Francisco, because we really, truly did.

Day two

I really got some great pictures today, but I'm having trouble syncing them, so some brief verbiage, and a longer post later.
We wake up too early for most cafes nearby, so we found the sole open one, Java Beach, and went in, it was fine,but nothing to write home about. Zadie's appetite was still a little off (and we had one midnight vomit episode), so she picked at a bit of bagel and then a bit of croissant and was done.
Then we went for a walk on the beach. I'm not sure exactly why (although my guess is that we went overboard on the ocean safety talks), but Z is now scared of the ocean and repulsed by seas foam. She refused to walk near the tide at all, so it was kind of a rough walk, as the adults both wanted to enjoy the waves and cool washed-in things (including whole sand dollars and jellyfish!). At one point, we had walked so far we were almost to Cliff House, so we just went up there. It was too early to see the camera obscura, but there were lovely views. I would have liked to walk down to the sutro baths, but I had to pee like crazy, and there were no restrooms anywhere. We walked instead through Sutro park, then a neighborhood, then through Golden Gate park towards the hotel. That was where the day took a bit of a downhill turn. I don't know whether it was remnants of illness, a side stitch, or just general crankiness, but Zadie just did not want to walk. She's already stubborn as a mule, so getting her to walk another mile when she didn't want to was just torturous. (I know we sound like slave drivers, but she loves to walk and can usually walk miles without complaint. It didn't even occur to us that the walk was too far.)
When we got back to the hotel, she was happy to rest and watch Mr. Rogers, but we had no plans to do that all day. I had seen signs for a park shuttle, so I looked it up and found that it was free, came every 15 minutes, and went everywhere we wanted. We walked to the shuttle stop (2 complaint-ridden blocks), then stopped at the Murphy windmill to wait. The ride was great: we were the only ones on almost the whole way, we saw waterfalls, the bison paddock, lakes... Our first stop was the Conservatory of Flowers, which I thoug I'd been to, but I was wrong. I've been to the botanical gardens. The conservatory is a big glass building with microclimates inside that showcases all kinds of different plants. Some were incredibly beautiful. Their special exhibit was on plants from the Paleolithic era, and Zadie loved that display, which featured a simulated volcanic eruption.
Next, we went to the area where the DeYoung and the Academy of Sciences is, because we had seen several food trucks parked there. We got Indian, and it was as good as any I've ever had in a restaurant, particularly the succulent pakoras. Zadie nibbled a bit of rice.
She said she really just wanted to see the fountain, so I went to throw away our trash and Sweetie walked her down the steps. It took me about twenty seconds, and before I had made my way back to them, she was crying piteously. She had tripped and had a skinned knee and scraped up arm. We gave her band aids and cool water and gum and sang "Everybody Hurts," but nothing improved her mood, and she burst into tears periodically for at least half an hour (the REM actually made it worse).
We went next on the shuttle to the children's playground, which is great fun. It has a huge rope climbing structure and a concrete slide that you go down on a piece of cardboard. Zadie started to show a bit of her usual fearless nature, and when some other parents told her she was a good climber, she said, "I know!" For the record, she was probably the smallest kid on the rope thing the whole time we were there, and she was a badass about getting around on it.
Then we got an ice cream and went on the carousel, and finally back to the shuttle stop to head to the hotel. We accidentally got off at the wrong windmill and had a long walk home, which caused Z to be none too pleased. But we went out again for dinner next to the hotel (Beachside, this time), and we got treats. She pecked at macaroni and some fries, complained that Sweetie's fish tasted like pee and shark, and then perked up at her first cotton candy.
We decided to take another beach stroll, but she could not be convinced. In fact, she was such a pill that we just came back to the hotel and instituted a quiet reading hour. Now everyone but me (and the incredibly loud barking dog next door) is asleep, and I'm turnng in, too.
It has been an odd trip. Zadie declared today the happiest day ever, then thirty minutes later, she said it was the worst day ever. I am sure she was still feeling sick, because she never loses her appetite. On the other hand, it was the most beautiful day, we got to do things we never have, the shuttle was really convenient (and the drivers friendly and blasting the classic rock), and in many ways the day was actually much more kid-focused than some of our outings. I finally saw the bison! And when I'm on a real keyboard, I'll give a few more details (and the pictures), but suffice to say, it was a good day in many ways. Still, I think I'll be ready to go home tomorrow. Well, assuming the car doesn't stink too badly of vomit.

San Francisco day 1: craziness!

Since I'm out of school and it's Father's Day, we decided to go to San Francisco. We spent the early morning having breakfast, cleaning, and getting some laundry done, then about ten, we hit the road. Zadie, true to form, had two breakfasts-- toast and jam, and cereal with milk. The first thing we did in the city was check out Triple Aught Designs in the Dog Patch area. We poked around for a long time before we found a suitable Dad's day gift. Then it was one, and we were hungry, so we stopped into the first decent- looking place we saw. On the way theere, Z grabbed her stomach and announced that it hurt because we hadnt fed her. The restaurant, Just For You cafe and bakery, ended up being quite charming and tasty. There were both cornmeal pancakes and Mickey Mouse pancakes on the menu, and Z couldn't decide, so the waitress helpfully offered a hybrid. Zadie went to the bathroom three times, but nothing much happened. She only ate one pancake ear before insisting she was done. We hopped back in the car for our next stop, the Mission. We took a couple wrong turns, and traffic was heavy, but it didn't take us too long. We were already on Valencia when we heard two noteworthy gas-passing episodes, then a quite unusual noise that had us asking, "was that from your mouth? Seriously, where did that sound come from?" And then we heard the fountain of puke start. Luckily, I was a few seconds from a parking spot, so we moved her to the trunk, wiped her down, changed her clothes, gave her some water, and then Sweetie took her to a park for a few minutes while I used several hundred baby wipes to try to address the car interior. She actually said she felt much better, so we walked down the street, mostly without difficulty, although she did stop numerous times to hover over a gutter or planter to mime puking again. She was a little slow and grumpy, though, so I took her to get her first ginger ale while Sweetie did some shopping. Then he took her into the park again while I peeked into a few shops. It was a great park, and she was having a delightful time, including on some spinning, sick-making things, so we figured she was okay. We checked into our hotel, then we wandered to the Haight for some more browsing. We never found anything that looked too appealing to eat, so we went back to the hotel (in the Outer Sunset) again. I had read good Yelp reviews of a place just a few blocks away, so we walked there, but there was a long wait, so we went into a Mexican place next door instead. It was fine, although Z did not eat a single bite of enchilada (and trust me, it is not like her to miss a meal). Her energy and attitude are good, so we're hoping for a fun day tomorrow exploring Golden Gate Park. Cross your fingers for no more vomit! And that we find some Febreze or something for the car.

Timing!

So, I mostly just brag about how awesome my kid is, and she totally is. But there's no doubt that there are a few things about her that are different than other kids, and different in a way that are likely to cause her some problems. She's exceptionally high-energy. She is very physical (she'd much rather have a "love-attack" than a hug). She is kinetic -- she never stops moving until she falls asleep at night (and frankly, sometimes it's hard for her to fall asleep because she's moving so much). And while those things are great in some ways -- I can't imagine her ever having a weight problem -- they do make sitting quietly in circle time a bit of a challenge.

We tried Daddy and Me soccer. She sprinted at every opportunity from the field and towards the edge of the park. She really never got the concept of the games and just preferred to run at full speed, leaving her ball behind. We tried it for, I think, three six-week sessions, and then we gave up.

I took her to a ballet class at a nearby community center, but it was quickly apparent that wasn't going to work. The teacher would demonstrate fifth position, then walk around to each child to check and give corrections while the others waited. Zadie would wait for a short while, then run to the front of the room to hang from the barre and ham it up in the mirror.

When another year had passed, I signed her up for ballet again (at her request) at a different studio. This, I thought, would work better. The teacher kept the class moving quickly, Zadie was older... But it was still only a very moderate success. At the dress rehearsal for the recital, she nearly dove off the stage (literally -- several moms jumped forward to catch her) because she was less interested in doing the dance than in exploring and jumping.

At that recital, though, was a hip-hop group for 3 and 4 year olds. They were moving vigorously, jumping, etc. I asked Zadie if she'd like to try it, and she said yes. Well, we did it for about three months, but last week when I picked her up, Mom said that not only was Zadie running around, not doing the routines, etc. (she'd had a few time-outs before actually getting kicked out of the class for the day), she was disrupting the other kids and interfering with the teacher's ability to teach.

I'm not unrealistic. I know who my kid is, and I don't expect her to be perfect. If she had simply enjoyed it, even if she wasn't exactly on point with the routines, I would have kept her in there. But if she's disrupting the class and the other students, that's another matter. I knew it was time to take her out of hip-hop.

Through pre-school, the kids had all taken a single karate class, and then the instructor had offered a free month's classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays after the initial class. Mom had been taking her, and it sounded like she was enjoying them. I actually liked what I was hearing from the class, that there was a focus on self-discipline, and Zadie was really taking that in. The free month was ending, and we were debating switching times and paying for it. It costs more than the other activities we'd had her in. But Mom was willing to pay for a month to see how it went, and she and the instructor talked -- he wasn't 100% sure Zadie was ready for it, either, so they agreed that she didn't have to buy the outfit or anything yet, and they would decide at the end of the month whether she was ready.

Tuesday was the new class at the later time, so Mom had told me she would just bring Zadie home. That gave me a little more free time than I usually have, so I went by the dance studio to withdraw her. The guy at the counter had me sign some papers, and I walked out. Then another woman came out the door, calling me as I walked away. She tried to convince me to stay -- I had already paid for the rest of the month, I had bought the costume -- so I had to voice what was wrong. My kid, beautiful and smart and strong and loving and creative as she is, is also kind of hyperactive, and she has trouble listening, and she was disrupting the whole class. When I walked back towards the car, I surprised myself by saying out loud, "I'm sad."

I was, too. I didn't want her to have challenges like this. We had now gone through quite the series of classes that she wasn't well-suited to. I didn't care if she was the uncoordinated chubby girl in the ballet class (there's always one) as long as there was something she enjoyed and tried hard at. I don't expect her to be an Olympian, just to get some exercise and have some fun, not constantly get in trouble. Why would I pay $70 a month to have her put in time-out?

I went home still feeling really blue. I talked a little to Sweetie about it, but I had barely been home five minutes when Mom came over with Zadie. "We had a great day at karate! She did very well. Zadie, show them your Tiger roll."

And my daughter stood with a strong posture and a focused look in her eye, executing a series of moves and saying the instructions at the same time. "Attention stance! Thumbs on top! Catch! Triangle on the floor! Isa!" She stood, moved her arms into place sharply, did a perfect roll, and stood at the end and finished.

Karate it is.

I don't care if she never gets a black belt. I don't care if she decides to quit and take up the oboe. I just want her to find something to do that she's crazy about -- crazy enough to be a little less crazy for a half-hour twice a week. I liked the focus I saw on her face. I liked the control she had over her body. I hope she liked the feeling, too.

(Un-edited because I'm currently being used as a jungle gym.)

Say a little prayer?

So... I have a student who is very ill and maybe dying, and I'm not sure what to do. I mean, I know what to do; I sent a gift to his hospital room, and if the worst happens, I'll send a card to the family, attend the service, and, if the family needs help, donate for the service. But I still don't know what to do... I kind of hoped I could slide through thirty years of teaching without this ever happening. And all my kids are special, right? But this kid is pretty special.

Happy Mothers Day

I watched this video earlier, and, as I often do, imagined what I would say in their place. Six or so seconds to sum up how awesome my mom is? Unpossible. I mean, would I say...

That she taught me about the Puritan work ethic (no, not just about it -- to HAVE it).
That she gave me a sense of fairness and equality.
That she taught me not to judge people.
That she taught me that the only person whose judgment mattered about me was myself, and that pride in myself had to come from what was inside, from doing good and making good choices.
That she taught me how to cook, sometimes by letting me experiment in my own hard-headed way, and letting me fail (my improvised peanut butter and jelly cookies come to mind).
That she let me make messes and taught me how to clean them up.
That she swing-danced with me in the living room.
That she sang to me, all the time (even though we both know...)
That I had freedom, but necessary limits as well.
And that she was able to ease up on those limits when I needed it, too.
She taught me to have a positive attitude.
She both taught me and modeled for me the importance of exercise and healthy eating.
She taught me the difference between fashion and style.
She taught me to read, a lot, for information and pleasure.
She instilled in me my love for the movies.
She taught me the names of plants.
She told me I could always come to her about anything, and then proved it was true when I came to her.
She never freaked out about my hair, because hair grows.
She forced me to take on mature tasks that I was scared of, so that when I left the nest, I could handle them.
She told me a thousand times that she would love me no matter what and I could be anything I wanted. She wouldn't be disappointed if I became, as she often said, a ditch-digger.
That she had a policy of transparency about budgeting and bills, and that to this day, I am probably better at household finance stuff than most people I meet.
 That she taught me that saying I love you is important, but not as important as showing it.
She taught me restraint.
That she helped me with the downpayment for my first house, without which I wouldn't have this nice house in this nice neighborhood today.
That she has donated, oh, 6,500 hours or so to care of my child, which she provides with loving grace and patience.

Could I tell a story instead? About how, after she found out I was skipping school, she came down to the school EVERY. SINGLE. DAY, made friends with the attendance lady, and checked to make sure I'd attended all my periods, despite the fact that she worked full time.

About how, when I actually got kicked out of that school, she picked me up, drove without speaking to a bookstore, got out and slammed the door, came back several minutes later and tossed a book on my lap. I looked at the title, Dibs in Search of Self, and the category, "child psychology," and snapped at her: "Psychology? What, do you think I need psychological help?!" She gritted her teeth and looked straight ahead. "No," she said. "I read it years ago, and when I saw it, I just thought you'd like it." I knew she'd always love me no matter what, but I was feeling a little touch and go that day. But on one of the roughest yet days of our life thus far, she bought me a present. Just because she thought I'd like it.

After I had started my new school, I had it pretty rough. Think of going from "Fame" to "Stand and Deliver" and still having your gothy-hippie-blue-haired-drama-nerd thing going on. Yeah. I went home one day and cried to my mom that the other students hated me, made fun of me for how I dressed, and that I felt so left out and alone. She reminded me that I was choosing to dress that way. She could, if I wanted, drive me to the Gap right then and suit me up like all the other kids. I just had to decide what I wanted. And you know, my mom is kind of a Gap woman herself -- well, Ralph Lauren, really -- but I knew it wasn't that she was harboring some secret desire for me to change and fit in. She was challenging me to accept myself as I was, to see my own role in my challenges and my life, and to decide how I was going to move forward. I decided to be myself. And even though it would have been easier for both of us, at times, if I wasn't so weird and hard-headed and flamboyant and outspoken, I also know she loves me just the way I am. So even though in some ways we are very different, in my heart, and in her heart, we are just the same. Strong. Good. Caring. Mothers. Thanks, Mom.

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us/ To see oursels as ithers see us!

So Robert Burns was talking about not embarrassing ourselves by being able to see ourselves from others' point of view, but I've always wished I could see myself as an outsider might. Sometimes I feel they've got it quite wrong, but do they?

Today, for example, I saw the guy at the gym who hands out locker keys and whatnot. I always joke with him, and he's been giving me a bad time for losing my membership card. He razzed me today, and I said "Oh yeah? Guess what... 135500." "What's that? Your membership number?" "Yup!" "How'd you get it?" I CALLED AND ASKED, SUCKA!" "But... did you memorize it?" "Yeah, but it was hella easy. It was the prime numbers, plus the numbers at the end are repeated." "Whoo... somebody's got a head for math!"

That tickled me. Math was always my worst subject in school. I never liked it. On the other hand, I am actually pretty good at grasping concepts about things like my personal budget or the cost efficiency of one plan vs. another. In short, I'm pretty good with numbers, which is, I guess, being good at math.

Even more staggering, last Saturday, I was at a birthday party for one of Zadie's little friends. The parents live in a place with a small kitchen, so they'd ordered a cake from Whole Foods. (It was delicious, incidentally!) The mom turned to me and said, "You probably made Zadie's cake, didn't you?" I nodded, and she added, "One of those supermoms."

I thought it was so odd that it's been bouncing around in the back of my head for several days, and I brought it up to some other mom/teacher friends today, thinking they, too, would think it was silly that someone thought I was a supermom. Heck, three of them actually only work part-time so they can go home and be with their kids. But to a one, they were like "No, that's pretty much how we think of you, too." And, you know, it was weird. I mean, I curse myself all the time for all the things I DON'T do for Zadie, like stay home or work part-time or do art projects instead of dragging her on my errands. I feel like a pretty shoddy goddamn mom sometimes. I'd love to do enrichment and reading and nature walks a lot more often, but when it comes down to it, I have about four hours with her on most days, and I usually burn more than an hour of that getting her ready for bed and getting her home from Mom's. Then another hour and a half is preparing and eating dinner. That leaves precious little time to really hang out, and sometimes I'm just exhausted. The last thing that looks like to me is a supermom, and I sure as hell don't think being able to bake a cake makes me one.

I think what I am is sort of domestically inclined, and also sort of a cheapskate. But what I wish I really had more to spend was time with that kid. And no matter what I think of myself or my friends think of me, what really matters in the end is what Zadie thinks. I hope I'm good enough as I am.

Small changes, big effects

[I apologize in advance: I believe in the value of white space, but Blogger has made some changes and I can't figure out how to put space between my paragraphs. I'll work on it, because I know big blocks of text are intimidating.] So, I am almost out of salt. I buy the canister of Morton's salt with the little girl on it, and I was kind of shocked to discover that I needed another -- this will be the third in about a year. I used to go through one of those far less frequently. They probably lasted more than a year. I briefly panicked, thinking that perhaps our sodium consumption was way up as a family. Of course, then I realized that part of it is that my husband uses salt for a saline nasal rinse, and I sometimes use it as an abrasive cleanser, so that alone changes things a bit. Still, I started thinking about all the things I cook with salt. A tablespoon and a half goes into by bread recipe (which makes four loaves). Two tablespoons go into the water to cook the beans each week. I add it to other food, but not in mass quantities. Still, tablespoons seemed like a lot. I did some math and learned that actually, everything I make from scratch now has less sodium in it than all the stuff I used to buy. The bread has less than the sprouted wheat I used to buy. The soup has less than canned or boxed soup. The only thing that was hard to get a good feeling about was the beans, as I add a lot of salt to the water, and the beans certainly absorb some, but I dump a lot of the water off, too. Anyway, we're using a lot more salt, but we're also eating a lot less sodium. Funny. Here's another funny thing. I was talking with someone about TV, and I've never made any effort to watch less -- I didn't watch much in the first place. But I realized if someone asked Zadie, for example, she would probably answer that I don't watch at all. We cancelled cable last fall just to save some money, since we definitely weren't watching enough to justify $120 a month. I knew I could watch my usual programs on Hulu or Netflix, most of Zadie's programs are on Netflix or DVD, and Sweetie watches almost nothing but football anyway, so he watches that on ESPN's web site. Anyway, I realized that whereas I used to turn on the tv to watch, say, Community, if it was not on that week or if it was pre-empted or whatever, I had already planned to watch something, so I would just flip channels and watch something else, like American Idol (I know, I know). I would turn on the Home and Garden network or the Food network just to have something to watch. Now I go to the web site to watch my programs when I have time, and if there wasn't an episode that week, then I just do something else, because the ready supply of alternate crap just isn't there. Between movies, the occasional PBS show online, and a couple TV shows I follow, I now probably watch less than five hours a week. Five would be the max, too. In sum, I guess what I'm saying is I'm happy with the small changes we've made, and I'm surprised at how easy they've been.