Its Saturday morning, Matthew and Dory are playing in the living room and I am tucked up in bed, with this laptop, a stack of books, a candle burning and I can see about two inches of Knoxville snow* out of my window, an occasional flurry sweeping in another handful of snowflakes. And for some reason, I have the song from Sesame Street ("sessy street" as Dory calls it) in my head. This version particularly. We are thoughtful and limiting on what Dory watches, but Sesame Street is still a classic to me. Especially scenes like this one.
I have no special blog to write today, except for working to build a habit. So I'll mention the books by my bed right now.
Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach
Coop: A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting by Michael Perry
All New Square Foot Gardening by Mel Batholomew
You Are Your Child's First Teacher by Rahima Baldwin Dancy
I also have the Winter 2010 of Interweave Knits
Also
Angelina on Stage and
Llama, Llama Red Pajama
And I've just been invaded- time to read those last two books! Will write more about my reads later. Definitely a theme developing though... What books are you starting this new year?
And I'll mention, just now Dory thrust a crayon and piece of paper at me to make our grocery list. She said we need; Bread, Eggs, Cheese, Blankets, Sofa, Pillows, and Curtains. Sounds like an ideal list for a wintry Saturday to me.
Happy snowy Saturday to you!
*Knoxville snow: an inch to three, melts fast, rarely stops up traffic or sticks on roads, but sends our whole town (myself included) into a frenzy for bread and milk. Everyone goes to get bread and milk. Gluten-free, dairy-intolerant people race to the supermarkets for bread and milk. Causes me to wonder, is this some strange plot by our local grocery stores to sell more bread and milk in these crazy diet days? Just a thought...
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Saturday, January 1, 2011
What's Your Word?
Join the caravan of those who have turned their faces to the sun.~ Rumi
What a beautiful quote. Perfect intention for the New Year. I fell asleep last night- drifted, finally, after hours of being awake, buzzing with the understanding we just entered a new phase, a new time, a new what-if, what-could-be, what-will-be- and I thought, "Wife, Mother, Writer, Nanny, Gardener, Homemaker, Leader..." In front of each title, I placed this word: passionate.
That's my word. This is my year of passion, to act from this place. I want to make choices fueled by passion. No perfection needed. Rediscover enthusiasm, burn my energy brightly, let go. Just passion!
I've got a slew of books to read and re-read. I'm firing the blog back up. I've got a set of gardening gloves just waiting to be broken in, a stack of beautifully framed photos to hang around the house and remind me of all that I have, a new stock pot already broken in with the last batch of homemade chicken stock for 2010 (a revelation in and of itself)- that list alone shows what a lucky, lucky lady I am.
I ask you- what's your word, your adjective of the year?
Wishing you a happiest of New Years.
Perhaps, a second intention- to find my own "bangerina" skirt...?
Thursday, June 3, 2010
We watched a friend's little girl today. In an effort that all we mothers constantly strive to achieve, my friend wanted some balance and so planned to take a yoga class, a little patch of time to herself. As her daughter is beautifully attached at her age, we both knew this might prove tricky for said little one. They came over early, to settle little daughter in, and after a bit, my friend left and her daughter (a lovely, lovely girl who is only a few weeks younger than Dory, is even slighter than our girl with that blow-away-in-the-wind delicacy and has the soulful brown eyes of a poet) did exactly what you might expect and dissolved into tears.
For a while she was inconsolable, sitting on my lap and crying, and saying "mama, home, mama home," in that way that could actually break your heart in half if I didn't know what's she's starting to learn which is that mama will come home again. Mama will come home, hurrying, rushing, speeding, so glad to be home and so incredibly refreshed from her two and a half hours of time on her own. Mama will come home, there is little in the world as certain as that. In about two hours. Two hours is a hard thing to explain to a person who has no concept of anytime except Right Now.
Off and on this little girl cried and I would hold her while she did (I actually held her nearly all the time- she recognized, I'm quiet sure that, my possession of breasts meant sitting in my lap put her in much closer proximity to the good stuff than, say, sitting at Dory's baby piano. Sure it wasn't her good stuff, but- it's still nice to be close.) Dory played around her, sometimes engaging me or both of us and other times just playing and occasionally shoving her friend enough to the side of my lap to get her own good stuff ("the bobos" as they're known around here). And sometimes this little girl would watch, would look up, interact, and seem to have a very good time. And then something would remind her of mama and she would dissolve into tears again.
And it reminded me of anytime I've ever seen any friend with a broken-heart. The way you sort of limp along, and then slowly start to get your step back and then- bam!- you drive past the diner you always ate at or hear that song you both used to laugh at, but secretly loved and suddenly you're weeping on the kitchen floor. We were on a little walk in front of the house, Dory in diaper and shoes, marching along with purpose (remember, she knew exactly where her bobos were) and me holding our little friend on my hip, following, talking about leaves and sticks. And this girl suddenly said "stick!" with such enthusiasm I picked one up and held it out to her. At which point she melted in my arms, sobbing, "stick, mama, stick," in a way that said clearly, "this is just like the stick mama and I once picked up." And I did what I think most good friends do- I validated her feelings. "Yes, I know you miss mama. And maybe that stick makes you think of her. It can be tough when mama's not here. Even hearing she'll come back doesn't always help. Yes, I know. I hear you."
Off and on all morning, this was the experience. And then mama came home and it was exactly what you expected- daughter lights up, beams, than cries a little more and then it's done. The emotions are out, expressed, mama's home, she survived, and everything is right with the world again.
Mostly it made me realize/remember/get hit with that bolt of lightening- what's so bad about treating our children the way we treat our friends? If you go to a friend and say, "I've experienced this loss that I'm not sure I'll pull through or even how to start..." would your friend reply "oh, it's fine, get over it"? Or "stop crying! he'll be right back!" The emotion is the same for them as it is for one of us when we've been romantically wounded, only, I expect it's much worse. They don't yet understand permanence, impermanence, a run to the store, time to one's self. Yet how often do we dismiss their hurt because we (big, wise, moon-faced grown-ups that we are) can logically see the other end? Maybe its not treating our children as our friends (though that doesn't seem so bad either) but treating them like our friends that might make these relationships run a little smoother. And letting them know, they're worth the same respect as someone more than three feet tall seems like a good place to start.
For a while she was inconsolable, sitting on my lap and crying, and saying "mama, home, mama home," in that way that could actually break your heart in half if I didn't know what's she's starting to learn which is that mama will come home again. Mama will come home, hurrying, rushing, speeding, so glad to be home and so incredibly refreshed from her two and a half hours of time on her own. Mama will come home, there is little in the world as certain as that. In about two hours. Two hours is a hard thing to explain to a person who has no concept of anytime except Right Now.
Off and on this little girl cried and I would hold her while she did (I actually held her nearly all the time- she recognized, I'm quiet sure that, my possession of breasts meant sitting in my lap put her in much closer proximity to the good stuff than, say, sitting at Dory's baby piano. Sure it wasn't her good stuff, but- it's still nice to be close.) Dory played around her, sometimes engaging me or both of us and other times just playing and occasionally shoving her friend enough to the side of my lap to get her own good stuff ("the bobos" as they're known around here). And sometimes this little girl would watch, would look up, interact, and seem to have a very good time. And then something would remind her of mama and she would dissolve into tears again.
And it reminded me of anytime I've ever seen any friend with a broken-heart. The way you sort of limp along, and then slowly start to get your step back and then- bam!- you drive past the diner you always ate at or hear that song you both used to laugh at, but secretly loved and suddenly you're weeping on the kitchen floor. We were on a little walk in front of the house, Dory in diaper and shoes, marching along with purpose (remember, she knew exactly where her bobos were) and me holding our little friend on my hip, following, talking about leaves and sticks. And this girl suddenly said "stick!" with such enthusiasm I picked one up and held it out to her. At which point she melted in my arms, sobbing, "stick, mama, stick," in a way that said clearly, "this is just like the stick mama and I once picked up." And I did what I think most good friends do- I validated her feelings. "Yes, I know you miss mama. And maybe that stick makes you think of her. It can be tough when mama's not here. Even hearing she'll come back doesn't always help. Yes, I know. I hear you."
Off and on all morning, this was the experience. And then mama came home and it was exactly what you expected- daughter lights up, beams, than cries a little more and then it's done. The emotions are out, expressed, mama's home, she survived, and everything is right with the world again.
Mostly it made me realize/remember/get hit with that bolt of lightening- what's so bad about treating our children the way we treat our friends? If you go to a friend and say, "I've experienced this loss that I'm not sure I'll pull through or even how to start..." would your friend reply "oh, it's fine, get over it"? Or "stop crying! he'll be right back!" The emotion is the same for them as it is for one of us when we've been romantically wounded, only, I expect it's much worse. They don't yet understand permanence, impermanence, a run to the store, time to one's self. Yet how often do we dismiss their hurt because we (big, wise, moon-faced grown-ups that we are) can logically see the other end? Maybe its not treating our children as our friends (though that doesn't seem so bad either) but treating them like our friends that might make these relationships run a little smoother. And letting them know, they're worth the same respect as someone more than three feet tall seems like a good place to start.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Knees
Here is Dory the morning of the 'incident':
And here are her knees after:
Those are scratched, bloodied knees if I've ever seen them. At the duck pond, in total joy, Dory dashed around the perimeter of the pond, across the uneven pavement, took one misstep and... sprawled out on her knees and hands. A full-out whack! to the pavement.
She cried openly. I cried internally. She's had any number of bumps and bruises since she started walking, but this was easily the worst. There was no catching herself before she fell. There was real blood. There was even the icky sound of a schmack! when she hit the pavement. This was her first in earnest childhood injury.
I held her and she cried and I tried not to. My mother was at hand and she was calming for the both of us, commenting we could take Dory home, give her a bath, those scratches would be gone in a week, tops. After a few minutes, Dory seemed calmed down. We didn't rush back to the car, but lingered a little longer, looked at the ducks in the creek next to the pond, even spotted a mama and her baby ducklings.
It's tricky to see here, but that Mama Duck is in a protective posture. Next to us, on the bank of the creek, a woman had a dog and, seeing the ducks, he hit the end of his leash, barking madly. At first, she and the ducklings took off at full waddle through the shallow water. Unfortunately this took her right past the dog and on recognizing his nearness, she stopped, posed and four baby ducklings hid behind her. I don't know if Mama Duck had a plan, but her feathery body language communicates one clear statement: do not mess with me and my babies. After a little more "ooing" of the ducklings, the dog's owner moved on and Mama Duck and ducklings proceeded down the creek, ruffed only in spirit.
My duckling came to harm, through her own activities, and there was no one to blame. Rocky pavement? Sun in her eyes? Trippy kids' shoes? Maybe, who knows, and that seems a stretch. I still wanted to puff up, make my stance and just dare anyone to mess with my child. And like the dog leaving and the ducks waddling away, the moment passed. Yet just that quick flush of protective instinct reminded me how far more linked we are to our animal nature than we might normally realize. And that whatever enemy, be it leashed dog or old, cracked concrete can bring out the mama bear in all of us.
Or in this case, the mama duck.
And I'm glad to say, more than a week later, Dory has only the faintest signs of knees scrapes.
And here are her knees after:
Those are scratched, bloodied knees if I've ever seen them. At the duck pond, in total joy, Dory dashed around the perimeter of the pond, across the uneven pavement, took one misstep and... sprawled out on her knees and hands. A full-out whack! to the pavement.
She cried openly. I cried internally. She's had any number of bumps and bruises since she started walking, but this was easily the worst. There was no catching herself before she fell. There was real blood. There was even the icky sound of a schmack! when she hit the pavement. This was her first in earnest childhood injury.
I held her and she cried and I tried not to. My mother was at hand and she was calming for the both of us, commenting we could take Dory home, give her a bath, those scratches would be gone in a week, tops. After a few minutes, Dory seemed calmed down. We didn't rush back to the car, but lingered a little longer, looked at the ducks in the creek next to the pond, even spotted a mama and her baby ducklings.
It's tricky to see here, but that Mama Duck is in a protective posture. Next to us, on the bank of the creek, a woman had a dog and, seeing the ducks, he hit the end of his leash, barking madly. At first, she and the ducklings took off at full waddle through the shallow water. Unfortunately this took her right past the dog and on recognizing his nearness, she stopped, posed and four baby ducklings hid behind her. I don't know if Mama Duck had a plan, but her feathery body language communicates one clear statement: do not mess with me and my babies. After a little more "ooing" of the ducklings, the dog's owner moved on and Mama Duck and ducklings proceeded down the creek, ruffed only in spirit.
My duckling came to harm, through her own activities, and there was no one to blame. Rocky pavement? Sun in her eyes? Trippy kids' shoes? Maybe, who knows, and that seems a stretch. I still wanted to puff up, make my stance and just dare anyone to mess with my child. And like the dog leaving and the ducks waddling away, the moment passed. Yet just that quick flush of protective instinct reminded me how far more linked we are to our animal nature than we might normally realize. And that whatever enemy, be it leashed dog or old, cracked concrete can bring out the mama bear in all of us.
Or in this case, the mama duck.
And I'm glad to say, more than a week later, Dory has only the faintest signs of knees scrapes.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
A Post in Pictures
In the words of Paolo Nutini, "I put some new shoes on/And suddenly everything's right..."
Story hour
What is 'Things You Find in Your Refridgerator When You Have a Toddler'
Baby Napoleon
The latest art house film: "Diapered Dollies, Pantsless Baby"
The latest hit song from the '30s: Walkin' My Monkey Back Home
Silly face kind of day
Story hour
What is 'Things You Find in Your Refridgerator When You Have a Toddler'
Baby Napoleon
The latest art house film: "Diapered Dollies, Pantsless Baby"
The latest hit song from the '30s: Walkin' My Monkey Back Home
Silly face kind of day
Monday, April 26, 2010
POV
Dory is asleep and this is our living room right now:
And instead of doing anything about that, I'm going to direct you over here to check out two new Dory videos- one of her and her dad, the other (and pretty darn interesting, I think, though you might attribute that to me being her mother) is a little video she took when I (please don't tell my husband) let her carry around our Flash recorder yesterday morning.
I can't remember if this is the one or not, but if I'm singing in the background, forgive me. And if Matthew asks, she overpowered me, stole the camera, figured out how to work it by herself and that is definitely, 100% not me singing in the background.
And instead of doing anything about that, I'm going to direct you over here to check out two new Dory videos- one of her and her dad, the other (and pretty darn interesting, I think, though you might attribute that to me being her mother) is a little video she took when I (please don't tell my husband) let her carry around our Flash recorder yesterday morning.
I can't remember if this is the one or not, but if I'm singing in the background, forgive me. And if Matthew asks, she overpowered me, stole the camera, figured out how to work it by herself and that is definitely, 100% not me singing in the background.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Open Doors
This morning, while using the bathroom, I heard Dory bust into a wail and a chorus of "mommy-mommy-MA-AHmee!" I, many parents with toddlers understand, had the bathroom door open (oh, yes, not-yet-parents, there will be a time, no matter what you might say now, when you poo with the door open- just wait) and could hear her clearly. So I called to her, coaxingly, "Mommy's in the bathroom! Can you come in here with me?"
There was a brief pause in the cry, and then a moment later it was taken up again, with even greater gusto. This wasn't the all-out, full-lungs, lusty yodel of a newborn baby, but more along the I'm-exasperated-with-you cry, or I-really-expect-better-service-than-this cry. So while I sensed the need wasn't urgent, (this wasn't an "a piano just fell on me!" yell or, more likely, "I've shut one hand in a book and with my other hand am squeezing it closed because I don't yet understand the physics of the situation!" yell) I found myself hustling to get to her.
I found a very sad-faced baby standing in front of the other bathroom, the half bath we almost never use, where the door was, in fact, closed. And, even after she saw me, and I picked her up, she insisted we open the door to make sure, I assume, I wasn't somehow in there still...
I wish a good Sunday to you all! And here are some Easter pictures from, oh, only a month ago, where I can't help but think she looks like she wandered off the set of The Sound of Music...
There was a brief pause in the cry, and then a moment later it was taken up again, with even greater gusto. This wasn't the all-out, full-lungs, lusty yodel of a newborn baby, but more along the I'm-exasperated-with-you cry, or I-really-expect-better-service-than-this cry. So while I sensed the need wasn't urgent, (this wasn't an "a piano just fell on me!" yell or, more likely, "I've shut one hand in a book and with my other hand am squeezing it closed because I don't yet understand the physics of the situation!" yell) I found myself hustling to get to her.
I found a very sad-faced baby standing in front of the other bathroom, the half bath we almost never use, where the door was, in fact, closed. And, even after she saw me, and I picked her up, she insisted we open the door to make sure, I assume, I wasn't somehow in there still...
I wish a good Sunday to you all! And here are some Easter pictures from, oh, only a month ago, where I can't help but think she looks like she wandered off the set of The Sound of Music...
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