cafemama ... lovably behind schedule and out-of-date.
on writing and mothering . june 07 . 2009
I would write, "my feet are pounding," but it is those small bones near the apex of my shoelaces pounding, my feet perhaps throbbing, grasping, down this 'Private Drive' just east of Reed College.
Monroe. Not-quite-two, his bright brown eyes have not lessened their mirth but have developed behind them a knotty repercussion, an instant and magnified requital for any emotion felt in his presence. And today, I think, he has broken bones in my left foot.
I had been angry, just minutes before, and now, I was snatching a near-empty bag of potato chips out of his hand. Lays, the ones I inveigh against on a finance blog, and here, my asparagus-eater, my sharer of salads, is reaching inside for a handful, crumbs of a nation's worst nutritional sins. I tell him, in what I think is a calm voice, to leave garbage in garbage, and he throws a harsh squeal, a tall wooden stool, and it lands there, on the base of my big toe, I coil into myself on the floor, sobbing in pain.
What happens next is not the model of parenting or adult human relationships, in caring for me Jonathan tells me all I've done wrong, lectures, I am sagging under pain and guilt, I swear and put on my socks and shoes, throwing the frozen edamame beans at him in anger. He won't pick them up, so Everett does, solicitous, a model son for the moment. I run, run away. And I am angry, and because of my anger Monroe has broken my foot.
And so I am here, running through pain, stressing my shin splints and my other muscles, already aching from coming back into training just Thursday. I am running and contemplating: passion, art, parenting.
It was last night, listening to Terry Gross in her famously nectared voice quoting John Updike one minute, who was only seeking to "record what seems to me important about my own life, and try to treat this life... as a specimen life, representative in its odd uniqueness of all the oddly unique lives in the world" and another minute saying that she could never have done this, had her own show demonstrating the odd uniqueness of people without having foregone having children. It is anxiousness electronically palpable in a chat with Tobias, who has just had twins come into his life, as he worries about all he hasn't accomplished this spring, and plans for a future of balancing better, of scheduling his writing and child rearing with high hopes he will be neither distant nor resentful. It is Cheryl, whose delicately beautiful children I happen to see at the park with their Dad, chattering about how mommy is away getting so much writing done, and I do not know whether to be jealous of her time alone or sad for how they miss her, and instead see only the loveliness of blonde braids in the hot afternoon sun, the ineffectiveness of my parenting on Everett, who has run away from me to climb a fence he should not be climbing, then to open a door he should not be opening, to go inside.
It is Nancy, who I meet on Twitter and whose storytelling I instantly savor, and who is deeply enmeshed in a story of maternal sins, who must leave her children at home while she drives to the Sellwood Bridge. It is Donaleen, who happens to talk to my pork vendor at the farmer's market of how she wishes I'd write, instead of Twittering, and I think, yes, you are right, but... ? ... I do not have an end to that story. It is Denise, whose sweet son has begged for playdates with Everett, and we go to her house and it is a dark, quiet, high-ceilinged delight, above every doorway and built-in a world of a collection, she tells me how she sometimes copes with challenges by plastering her walls, I see the intricately exquisite craft she has produced while mother of two quixotic boys in spare disbelief. It is Jeff Goldblum's character on Law & Order, saying of a suspect that he has not had enough praise as a child, saying that he had too much praise.
For once I have no judgment because I am asking myself, who am I?, I am wondering if I am artist/storyteller or mother, if I can do two, at once, both well. I do not think I can, and I do not know how to reconcile this with the need to tell these stories: this one, of my broken bones, this one, of art that may not be juxtaposed with excellence in motherhood.
As I run, cringing, I consider the crumbling plaster in the walls of my house which I cannot be bothered to patch, the way I place sourdough toast with marmalade before most all, the ways words scatter through my mind, billiard balls well-shot, dropping one by one into unseen pockets, perhaps to be recovered or perhaps to spiral down, down, down, endlessly in a dream-like chute, goodbye, fragment, I wish I could capture it all, render it all perfect, to give my children just the right amount of praise, just enough structure, an abundance of beauty, prodigal quantities of time.
When I arrive home, Monroe runs to my arms for an outsized squish of love, and the next time I run up the stairs in anger Truman cries, screams in terror, and Everett comforts him: "Mama's just going upstairs, Truman, she's not leaving!" and I am shamed utterly and I still, still have no solution, the universe has not provided an answer key.
paying the bills
a little prayer . june 07 . 2009
I say a prayer for the boys every night, often after they've all fallen asleep, floppy toy soldiers in the battle between night and day. My prayer has a rhythm, an almost constant refrain, though the words change barely from night to night.
Twice in the past several weeks, I've been struck with the thought that I should be investing more into my prayers. Once was on Speaking of Faith, in a show about the spirituality of parenting. Rabbi Sandy Sasso mentions the importance of the nightly prayer ritual, not so much as to connect with God, but to have a moment of silence to reflect on the day and on our lives. The second instance, oddly, was while listening to an agnostic on NPR talk about the importance of prayer, quoting Oswald Chambers: "it's not so much that prayer changes things as that prayer changes me -- and then I change things" and referring to it as a daily reflection and act of compassion.
As I pray at night, I wonder if it is too rote, and because I believe in the power and contemplation of language, I wonder if the act of recording it might not make it more thoughtful, might help me to spend more of my daily measure of presence into the relationship, both with children and with God; with my own turbulent soul. Many nights Truman, who is almost always the last to fall asleep, protests, "no, no prayer!" and I think it is because he wants more of me, more silence, so I whisper the prayer, holding my hand on his head, on Everett's back, on Monroe's shoulder. And sometimes I go down to the living room, praying quietly to myself as I step down each stair.
With this first night's prayer and with this page of collected prayers I will record, whether for a few days or for a compendium of days, prayers for my boys. Use them, or read them, or do not pay any attention at all; for it is not in the sharing but in the creating that I have heaped great gifts of emotional wellness into the space between my heart and my lungs.
paying the bills
asparagus alone . may 18 . 2009
It is late, late at night, and I am scooching a large crock of asparagus spears, in a brine, up onto the high shelf where I let things ferment, and I am thinking about my asparagus plants. How many spears, again, can I expect per plant? I wonder. I have 13 plants, I've counted, from about 40 seeds planted last year, and in my galvanized bucket of seeds is treasure: 50 purple passion asparagus seeds. I inhale the freshly salty harbinger of sour pickles to come. I've combined peppercorns, allspice berries, hot pepper flakes, nutmeg, shoots of green garlic, and nearly six bunches of blanched asparagus from the farmer's market (counting the dollars that will go unspent in years to come as I slice precious purple spears from my back yard, from under the sour cherry tree, and beside my front porch, everywhere we've nestled in a plant) in a brine straight from Wild Fermentation. Sandor Ellix Katz hadn't given me guidance on the asparagus, I had to find it from Marisa and Eric. I am wondering if I will need to buy many, many more pickling crocks, I wonder how much fresh asparagus my family will eat next spring, will we still need to pick up a few bunches at the farmer's market?
It thuds, weighs me down, the realization: next spring, in the late night of post-bedtime, I will be eating asparagus, alone.
It has been a few weeks since Jonathan got the email, he was being attached to a unit, mobilization date in July. July. It took me several days to understand he was headed to Iraq, not Afghanistan, as we had thought at first. It will take me more than a year, a lifetime, to understand that he won't be here this fall. This winter. He will not shovel snow. He will not taste the celeriac whose seeds I encourage every day; he will not dig up the potatoes whose muddy rose-shaped leaves delight me so by sprouting all over my potato hill; he will not help me defend the cauliflower plants from ant attacks. He will not eat pie from our own blueberry bushes and cherry trees; he will not watch with me as the purple tips of asparagus emerge next spring. It will be fall, winter maybe, of a whole different year, he will leave the day after Everett turns seven and will not return until he's fully eight.
I do not understand. I do not understand at all. Though our union has rarely been blind bliss, though I have lived with him far from me, before, I do not understand this, this whole-headed severance of our family, our unit that is only just now learning to stand on shakey foal-legs, that has been struggling up only to fall, hooves akimbo, to much confusion and occasional delight. Though I have carefully attended to the military pay tables, adding up acronyms and dollar figures, basic pay, BAH, BAS, family separation allowance, hazardous duty pay, imminent danger pay, I know how much we will be making and what bills we will pay off, I do not know what this means. Hazardous imminent separation, family, housing, basic basic basic. The words jumble, the numbers collide, July, 2010, $250, 15, E-5, what was five, now four.
As I can do, I make plans, I consider the work, kitty litter, preschool dropoff, an infinity of dishes shelved, eaten from, washed, shelved once more, because I do not think I can do it any other way I gently begin convincing Everett to be schooled at home, I wonder if I ever want to leave my house again.
I do not know what to fear, and so I fear this: not being at home, not being able to get home, to be in our place, even with him a half-globe away. And when I am out, with the boys, I start to panic in strange places, a playground, a sidewalk, I cannot be out here alone, I hurry, hurry, hurry home, I feed him asparagus and green garlic and eggs from our chickens, I try not to count the days on the seed packets, 70 is too many, these jalapenos will not feed him, this spinach, this okra, alone, alone.
paying the bills
proof of parenting . march 10 . 2009
I have tried to explain this new philosophy of mine to Jonathan so many times that its refrain runs in my head, pop song with an anxious rhythm but a true heart, at night as I lay in the children's bed, reading last books and nursing Monroe to sleep. It is the background to my Nikes, pounding the pavement; it is the beat that powers me, zig-zagging up a steep hill on my bike.
I have it figured out, I have it all figured out, I say. I am earnest and desperate. And sometimes I shout in my earnestness, which of course contradicts my message. What I have figured out is calm and peaceful and never shouts. I have found the answer, but the difficulty, as always, is in the proof.
I can't even keep my notebooks straight. (In my mind's eye, I see Mary Louise Parker, holding that slim book of her notes, the light in the darkness of her dead father's insanity.) I have just scribbled in them, concepts leading, not one to another, but in spirals, some darting out into philosophies of schooling, parenting, relationships, sports, then skittering back to the center for a minute. The mad workings of a gyroscope that's lost its grip. But here, here is my thesis, my proof.
We are not drawing lines.
/
Punishment does not motivate, punishment only punishes.
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He sees where the line is, you see, it is the brakes he doesn't have.
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Teach him how to stop.
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They do not know how to stop, they want to slow before the line, the wall, but they cannot, they know that they must, they do not want to slam chest-first into the wall of your limits, your demands, your sand-line, your black in relief against your white, my gray.
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They want what you want.
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They want what I want.
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We all want the same thing, love, peace, calmness, order, respect.
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We all want quiet giggles and sleep at bedtime. We all want no one, ever, to fight. We all want dry sheets and underwear, folded and stacked, we all want dinner at dinnertime, glasses unspilled, plates clean and dripping on the dishrack in the dark.
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They want what you want.
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Attention, love, someone to look in their eyes quietly and with patience, waiting, listening.
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This is all there is: love.
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This is all there is: honesty. A consistent model. Expectations met, promises kept, showing, not telling.
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Parenting is about love, and teaching them how to be calm.
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This is the most important skill: how to find peace on your own.
In my philosophy, there is no preach, there is only practice. Do not practice what you preach; practice what you would preach. In my philosphy, we are teaching skills, and those skills are this: be calm. Be patient. Love each other, see each other, listen to each other. See that we do not beg for love and attention that we do not need. Meet each others' needs.
I must find the links, prove my philosophy, but the proof is far harder than the theory. I must stack one fact upon another, neatly showing how A = B and B = love and respect for all, but first, I must find A within myself, I must straighten every crumpled piece of our relationship's notebook pages, I must lie one upon another, I must organize my thoughts and present them with authority, with conviction, with love.
I have my theory. But the proof is in the parenting.
paying the bills
life with kids, and without a car, ignited . february 20 . 2009
It is for you I pray too.
June will mark the third year my family and I have lived without a car. In June 2006, our tags needed to be renewed and our insurance had expired. One day, miles from home, I watched my tire go slowly flat as I tried to sell little stuffed birds at an arts festival. I sold no birds but I discovered a new way of life.
I would go on to do many things; to go on a car diet; to buy a most wonderful bike; to embrace cycling in the rain and cold. I would go on to, one day, find myself desperate and alone and with a flat tire, and I would not call AAA, but I would write about it late at night and hours later see Todd from clever cycles arrive in my front yard, past midnight, with his folding bike and his tools to get me back on the road.
I have named myself: I am a family biking evangelist. I want to spread the life-change that is giving up your car. I want to help you with tips and how-tos (bring lots of spare batteries for your bike lights; learn how to patch a tire; carry a towel for wiping off seats in the rain; use spare inner tubes for carrying cargo; long laces are your foe; reflective tape is a fantastic fashion accessory), I want to remind you of important stop-gap measures (you may not want to cancel your car insurance unless you have at least one friend or family member with a car large enough to lug your family in a pinch, for instance; failing that, Zipcar is good). As much as I want to do this, I do not want to be the other web sites whose raison d'etre is advertising revenue; the ones which assail you with lists of handy tips for everything. I want you to see the possibility; to embrace the alternative as one without fear, no, instead it is the choice of freedom. It is not just freedom from parking tickets and plugging meters and tow trucks and road rage, though these are wonderful reasons to give up one's car; it is freedom from solitude, from locking oneself in a metal capsule and becoming one with your make and model, one who is separate from thousands, millions of other ones. In solitude and anonymity is your fear, your isolation, your loss of hope. Biking and riding the bus are the controvert.
Last night, I did not speak at Ignite Portland 5. Instead, I led a meditation [pdf link], and if you are a parent who drives a car and I have not changed your life, I pray that I made you believe that change is entirely within your grasp.
Here is what I wish to do for you: to open the aperture all the way into my world. Oh yes, I occasionally feel trapped or hungry or cold, anxious to be anywhere but a smelly overcrowded bus; a cold bike full of flailing little boys; but for the balance of the time, I travel with my eyes wide open, seeing everything so clearly, hearing what they have to say, feeling the little arms of a little boy creep around my waist for warmth and security. Life with kids and without a car is existing in an extended state of dreamtime. You are not en route. You are already here.
paying the bills
peek into the past . of daily apples and pinecones . november 18 . 2008
joy in the midst of the dailiness of life
