Gifts DO Grow on Trees

One of the most special gifts we received this season was a bottle of olive oil from some good friends of ours. The oil itself is wonderful -- pungent and piquant. But what makes this gift so exceptional is not just the product, but the love, thoughtfulness, and creativity that went into the making of it.

Aidan(4) and Elena(2) helped pick the olives off the trees on their property in Fairfax. Mama Superior Deb figured out the how, when, and where of getting the olives pressed. Deb and her husband Eric, both amazing designers, created the label together. A personal family effort, with all their devotion and imagination squeezed directly into the charming bottle.

Our hard-to-impress kids were wowed by this touching gift. We have been showing it off to anyone who comes by our house. It really is true: the best things do come in small packages. And we are duly grateful.

This Is the House that Jack Ate

Building gingerbread houses is a long-standing tradition in our family. Each child gets to make his or her own house, and their personalities come shining through in the finished product every time.

Chloé's house looks exactly like the one in the demo picture, meticulously completed, as though a hundred tiny elves used laser levels to apply the frosting and nonpareils to her exacting standards.

Claire's end product shows an attempt to follow the directions which quickly gives way to creative impulses driven by a predictable onslaught of impatience. Cute and quirky.

Wynham's architectural approach leans toward Bauhaus as he, using the same cutout pieces as everyone else, creates a two-story townhouse complete with a triangular atrium entryway and a gingerbread man (the Gingerbread Man?!?) sunning himself in the rooftop garden.

Jack is willfully unclear on the subject. Why would anyone fiddle around on a plate for so long with something that tastes so good and was obviously meant to be eaten? I love the holidays, but not nearly as much as I love my kids... Merry Christmas!

Scary, Scary, Scary Christmas

(sung to the tune of Carol of the Bells)

Hark! How the bells,
Screeches and yells,
Ring through the room;
What just went “BOOM”?

Christmas is here,
bring me more beer
‘Til I have drowned
Out all the sound.

Chloé’s the worst,
My eardrums burst.
“Look at my hair!
What will I wear?”

Wynham's berserk
How can I work?
Presents to wrap;
I'm gonna snap.

Jack and Claire squeal;
What is the deal?
They're so wound up
They want a pup.

Ding, dong, ding, dong,
That is their song
On without end
I’m ‘round the bend

Scary, Scary, Scary, Scary Christmas
Scary, Scary, Scary, Scary Christmas

Poor inner ear,
Gone by next year.
All of the noise –
My Christmas Joys!

Ding, dong, ding… dong!

Mistletoe Monkey Business

Claire is the lucky kid who gets to bring the "class pet", Julio the Lar Gibbon, home for the winter break. Each child gets to take Julio home for a week and make entries in Julio's journal, but he'll get to stay with us for three weeks! There's already been a great deal of monkeying around, and last night I came in to find Julio swinging from the dining room chandelier (at least it wasn't Wynham this time). Stay tuned in early 2008 for the Complete Adventures of Julio's Holidays...

Deck the Halls

It's official: Jack got his first (but undoubtedly not the last) shiner just in time for Christmas, and it's a doozie. He had a big run-in with the piano and of course the piano won. The very next morning, he got decked by the deck when he did a full frontal face plant after missing the last step (his winter coat is so puffy, he can't even see his own feet). Well, at least the Rudolf-like red nose shows his holiday spirit...

We Wish You a Berry Christmas

Okay, so I am WAY behind on all things related to the holidays, and everything else to boot (blogging included). With four kids at Christmastime, peak levels of insanity are to be expected. I try to remain calm and give myself a hall pass for the stuff I won't get done in the midst of all this hoopla. As always, Jack puts things into perspective, reminding me to stop and smell the raspberries...

The Intentional Tourists

“Ah, silence,” sighs James as we head into San Francisco, and nothing more is said until we reach our destination. We could be crossing an international border instead of the Golden Gate Bridge, for all the distance it puts between us and home (where we’ve left my dad and Debra holding down a raucous fort).

It’s no accident that we’ve chosen Hotel Vitale* for the latest installment of our S.O.S. Plan (Save Our Sanity); it’s a jewel in the diadem that is the Embarcadero Waterfront. We can practically see our house from here and still feel as though we’re worlds away. When we arrive, we discover that we’ve graciously been given a circular Panoramic Suite in lieu of the water view room we reserved.

In our spacious Room with a View, we're treated to a welcoming bottle of champagne accompanied by fruit, chocolates (Rechiutti!), and a personal note from the managing director. On the desk is a large bouquet of pink peonies (in December?), one of my very favorite blossoms. We put up our feet, raise our glasses to every perfect detail, and enjoy being pampered tourists in the City by the Bay without having to move an inch.

From this marvelous vantage point, we can see the San Francisco Ferry Building, the Bay Bridge, the Port of Oakland, and the Audiffred Building, circa 1889. There’s an outdoor art museum at our feet, including Cupid’s Span by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen and the newly installed Crouching Spider by Louise Bourgeois. And for a little karmic irony, since we’re here to spend time off from kid-related chaos, there’s a giant Gap baby staring straight at us…

We don’t leave the hotel except to enjoy dinner at Boulevard, where Franco-Californian cuisine is served in a setting of pavonian splendor. The rest of our brief getaway is spent practicing the Art of Doing Nothing. Ahhh… It could be (should be) habit forming.

*A note on the Hotel Vitale: it’s a Joie de Vivre hotel, related to a number of places
we recommend to our visitors, including the Waters Edge and Acqua Hotel.
Come see us; what are you waiting for?

No Quiero Nada

As part of our Advent tradition every year at St. Stephen’s, we erect a Giving Tree in the parish hall. There are different paper cutout ornaments for different age groups at the Canal Street Mission; on the front is a child’s name, and on the back they write something they would like for Christmas. I always try to pick cards for kids that parallel the ages of my own children, the better to imagine the child we’re buying a gift for.

But it’s hard to imagine the five-year-old little girl who wrote on the back of her card, “No quiero nada” – I don’t want anything. I wonder what her life must be like, to make her want to give up on the joy that is Christmas, and it makes me feel so sad. I anguish over what to get her, and then decide that every child needs magic, so I choose some fairy wings and a sparkling musical wand. I wonder if they’ll do the trick.

Maybe, though, just maybe, young Noemi is wise beyond her five years. Perhaps when she wrote “I don’t want anything,” she was really saying “I want for nothing.” It’s possible, that in a life with so little wealth, she’s already discovered that the greatest gifts of all don’t come wrapped in tissue paper. And that idea, that hope, is a gift I’ll carry in my own heart all season long.

God Gave Me a Cookie

Recently, I was reminded of a saying that a friend of mine likes to use: "God gave you a cookie," meaning that something sweet, wonderful, and unexpected has happened to you. It popped into my mind the other day as we drove through the densely wooded area from the Huntsville airport to the south end of town.

Fall colors usually come much earlier in the year here, but the rain in September and a later-than-usual cold snap meant the autumn spectacle was perfectly timed for the day we arrived. I've missed this particular beauty so much in temperate California. The palette was stunning, from green to yellow to gold to orange to magenta to deep red and finally, brown.

The colors don't last long and neither do the leaves, now scattered on the ground like so many million crumbs. But God gave me a cookie. And it was good.

Sweet Home Alabama

Circling for a landing at the airport of the town where I grew up always gives me the same lump in my throat. If you haven't seen it, you would never believe the clay dirt could be so red. I feel like I have this iron-rich soil running through my veins, and I realize it's true: you can take the girl out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the girl.

The older kids have come with me to celebrate Thanksgiving with my grandparents, and my brother and his wife will arrive soon, too. A real family homecoming. Family is what brings me back over and over, but I have to admit the countryside calls to me, too, in a way it never did when I first left for California twenty-five years ago.

The changing seasons, the cotton fields, the magnolias, the biscuits with ham and red-eye gravy, the slower pace of things, and the genteel way of most Southerners -- I miss them all; they're part of what makes me who I am. And while I wouldn't trade the life I have now, it's good to know that whenever you really want to, you can go home again.

For the Love of Chocolate

Claire was allowed to order a hot chocolate when we went out to breakfast on Sunday morning, and the delight on her face lit up the whole dining room. I’m generally a staunch opponent of sugar in all its evil forms, but I lay down my arms when it comes to chocolate. Not just any chocolate, mind you; it has to be credentialed.

Apparently, this is an inherited trait. My grandmother adores the stuff; I think it’s one of the great joys of her slowly turning days. My mother took my father to Angélina on the day they were married in Paris. The hot chocolate there is so thick you can stand a spoon on end in the pot; it's not for the faint-hearted.

Chloé, who hasn’t been to New York but is eager to go, puts Serendipity III (home of the famous Frrrozen Hot Chocolate) as her first stop when she hits the Upper East Side. Claire isn’t so particular about her chocolate yet, but she will be.

I’ve moved on from the liquid form myself, only indulging in the finest, darkest variety, one small piece at a time. Rechiutti is my current obsession, and how convenient, his shop is only a short ferry ride away. At Christmastime, we hand roll our own truffles at home. They’re supposed to be gifts, but most of them never make it out the door.

The history of chocolate is fascinating, with earliest records of cocoa consumption dating back to traces found in Honduran terra cotta pots from 1100 B.C. It wasn’t until the 19^th century that chocolate was eaten in solid form, but aficionados have sure made up for lost time since then. You can read a more in-depth story of chocolate in all its guises in a great online article, The Sweet Lure of Chocolate.

As for me, I have to go now. I’ve got a craving, and it won’t be denied.

Don't Break My Heart

It was bound to start sometime. Last night I went with Chloé and a couple of her friends to see a student production of “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.” The show was great, but it was hard to concentrate on what was going on onstage when the real drama was unfolding in the audience.

We were sitting in our seats before the show when another of Chloé’s friends appeared behind us with a cute curly-haired blond boy in tow. She whispered something in Chloé’s ear and darted away, leaving the boy to sit next to us. He was staring intently at Chloé and she suddenly sits ramrod straight in her seat, looking at a faraway speck on the ceiling.

The tension is thick and it’s painfully obvious what’s happening, but I innocently ask, “What’s going on?” “That guy likes me, Mom, really likes me, and he came tonight just because he new I was going to be here, and I don’t like him back. It’s so embarrassing!” It’s humbling to have the laws of attraction explained to me by a 14-year-old, but then again, I asked.

At intermission, Chloé leaps out of her seat, runs down to front of the theater to talk to the girl who brought the boy over to us, and darts out the side door. The girl comes over to whisper to the boy and he slinks away, hands in pockets. My heart goes out to this kid.

I’m trying so hard not to be a sticky-beaked mother, I’m actually perspiring. I can’t stand it any more, and I say to no one in particular, “You know, in my experience, it’s better to give bad news in person, rather than send a messenger to do it.” All Chloe’s friends nod in fervent agreement, and I feel vindicated.

After the show, the crowd surges out the door and Chloé is nowhere to be found. We wait in the car. She finally appears, and tells us that she talked to him, and told him that she just want to be friends and that she’s just not interested in boys right now. I feel mixed emotions: sympathy for the cute blond guy, but pride in Chloé for being grown up and doing the right thing.

Next time she goes to the theater, I think I’ll stay home. I don’t think I can handle all the drama. And it’s only just begun.

It's a Scream

Jack is usually the happy-go-lucky, laid-back one of the bunch, but everyone has his limits. For the last couple of days Claire has been home sick with a cough, so the quiet routine of Jack’s normal business hours with his Mama’s undivided attention have been decidedly disrupted.

When the rest of the clan gets home, the tension starts to mount and things can turn on a dime. The escalating high-decibel mirth of their rambunctious play suddenly screeches into high-pitched, bloodcurdling cries for help.

Jack is a little man of few words, but in this impromptu photo he’s clearly saying, “I can’t take it any more!” I can relate. His way of retaliating against all these daytime bombardments of noise is to get up at three a.m. and quietly practice his ABCs. As cute as this is, I have to say, it makes me want to scream.

(painting: The Scream by Edvard Munch, 1893)

Steppin' Out

Contrary to current speculation, you still can dress us up and take us out – it’s just great deal more effort than it used to be. Since outings without children only happen two or three times a year at most, you’d think we’d have time to plan ahead. Think again.

Fifteen minutes before we are supposed to leave for a fabulous 50^th birthday party, we’re looking up “cocktail attire” on the internet because James is afraid that fashions might have drastically changed since the last time we actually went out. He can’t find his shirt, tie, or cuff links (right where they’re supposed to be) and I’m frantically searching for my shoes (they’re in Chloé’s closet). This leaves us about four minutes to shower, get dressed, and get out the door without getting covered in the mac-and-cheese the kids are eating.

In the car on the way, we try to decompress from a kid-packed day and stay awake at the same time. James says, “I can’t believe I used to like going out.” I say, “Yeah, my feet hurt already.” Sheesh. We are way too young to be acting this old. Somehow, in our rush not to be late, we pull into valet parking five minutes early. It’s embarrassing, but we figure if we’re the first to arrive, we can be the first to go home.

The party, held at Bimbo’s 365 Club, is really spectacular, and beautiful 50-year-old Kate looks like she’s turning thirty-seven. I try not to be jealous. We see a lot of family and have a great time enjoying delectable dishes amidst cascades of gorgeous fresh flowers. At 11pm, when the band starts singing “Get Down, Boogie-Oogie-Oogie” we hesitate, fearing that if we get down too far we might have trouble getting back up.

Getting to bed sounds like the most realistic plan. It’s a good thing that we set the clocks back to Standard Time, because we’ll need that extra hour to recuperate from all the excitement. Boogie Wonderland will have to wait until next time we go out. Which may be awhile.

King for a Day

Wynham’s soccer season came to a close yesterday and it couldn’t have ended on a higher note, with a win in triple overtime. Wynham acted as goalie for the final penalty kicks, and they won on the last kick. Talk about pressure; wow! It was an exciting finale, to say the least. I was still trying to savor the thrill of victory on the way home from the game when he said, “Mom, let’s stop on the way home so I can buy a football.” And wait, doesn’t basketball season start in two weeks? No rest for the weary…

Sweet and Low

Jack is up early this morning (long before the sun) and following the usual ritual, James brings him upstairs to snuggle. While I’m sorry to be deprived of the sleep I was enjoying, I wouldn’t trade for anything these quiet little tête-à-têtes before the day cracks open and everything becomes distraction.

He’s particularly chatty today, carrying on a monologue about everything and nothing that I can only sometimes comprehend. As he tries out his ever-growing repertoire of words and inflections, I try not to giggle too much in the hopes that he’ll drift back to sleep.

It happens in an instant. He rests his cheek against my shoulder and nestles his golden downy head under my chin, grasping my clavicle with his dimpled hand. And the silent whisper, sweet and low, of his breath upon my skin moves me with more force than a hurricane ever could.

Happy Days

Wynham and Socco: A Mutual Lovefest

Forever Miss You

Your adorable little mooshed-up face,
That wiggly walk so full of grace,
Trying hard to always please;
Forever miss you, Socrates.
(with love, from Claire)

They Go Together

Anyone who was acquainted with my mother and her dog Socrates knows that they were inseparable. Wherever Marmay went, Socrates went too. So it stands to reason that he’d follow on her heavenly voyage as well, and he took off yesterday in his own noble way.

A sweeter, gentler, more loving and less imposing creature, there never was. We’ve known Socrates (Socco, for short) since he was a puppy and Chloé was not quite one year old, but when he came to live with us ten months ago, he stole our hearts completely. We were pushovers from the moment his white-socked paws crossed our threshold.

He gave us so much joy, and I hope we gave him a measure of the same. He had a special bond with Claire, and James, and Chloé and Wynham, too. It’s not an exaggeration to say we’re feeling quite heartbroken today.

It seems fitting to say goodbye on All Saints Day, because he was truly a saintly little fellow; never barking, always happy to see you, doing a frisky jig to demonstrate his excitement. I can smile when I envision him on the ultimate joyride in Mom’s purple car, eagerly looking out the window and wagging his tail for all it’s worth. We miss you already, Socco, and we know it will be a wonderful journey.

Jack-O'-Lantern

The Sky Is Falling

I’m starting to wonder about my husband. Last night I found him sitting on the closet floor attaching bits of Velcro to his new combat backpack, the same one he was wearing when he fed the dog. Either he knows something about Doomsday that the rest of us don’t, or it’s a prolonged midlife crisis. His stash has been growing increasingly strange over the last few years, and I think I’ve narrowed it down to three contributing factors.

1. Too Much Talk Radio. James listens to talk radio from the time he gets up until the time he comes home in the evening, and I get the sneaking feeling that it's addled his brain. While he’s driving to work, he might call me once or four times with salient tidbits of news – such as Tom Cruise building a 10-million-dollar shelter to protect his family when the aliens invade the planet.

2. Hanging Out With Bad Influences. James and his friend Ken go to the electronics flea market every so often and come home with things like Russian spacesuits and Geiger counters and items that every family needs. They are, I think, trying to “outgear” each other, even sending pictures of their collections of stuff, like proud parents. It’s funny, how with 200 flashlights in the house, we can never find one when we need one.

I tried the can’t-beat-'em-so-
join-'em approach and went to Disaster Preparedness training and got my 72-hour earthquake survival kit, but I can’t possibly keep up with these two guys. When they go on an overnight camping trip, it looks like they’re building a refugee camp for 10,000 people. Every unimaginable necessity is provided, including the martinis. My portable potty simply can't stand up to the competition.

3. Reminiscing a Lost Childhood. Turns out that James spent a great deal of time in his youth hanging out at his Uncle Val’s Surplus Store, stocking up on every possible piece of army gear. I think James is trying to relive his childhood, because he now owns enough camouflage and equipment to hide and defend a small country.

I only got a little bit upset when I got a camo scarf for Valentine’s this year; I thought it was just a joke and James assured me it wasn’t: “It’s Multicam, honey, it’s been featured at the Museum of Modern Art.” What, is he hoping I’ll disappear? I tried to explain to him that raw diamonds blend nicely into their surrounding environment and make a much better gift, but I don’t think he got the hint.

Whatever the reasons for James’ never-ending acquisition of survival gear and combat fashion items, one thing I’m sure of is that we’ll have to build a bomb shelter just to store all this stuff, because the basement and the garage are already completely full. At the very least, when the aliens do come to inflict the End of the World, we’ll be ready.

The Great Pumpkin

Halloween is one of those over-the-top-in-America holidays that I just love to hate. Anyone who has seen four kids in action after all-you-can-eat candy can empathize. And I think life is already scary enough without adding more ghouls, goblins, and horrific monsters to the mix. But I do love the pumpkins.

In past years, the kids have gone to the pumpkin patch on a farm up in Petaluma with their grandparents for a day of frolic in the corn mazes, with hay rides and hot dogs and pumpkins for miles. Sadly, the place has gone downhill, so this year we resorted to a couple of local sources.

It’s such a delight to see the kids ponder their jack-o'-lantern designs and to have the whole family around the table having fun and enjoying each other’s company. Last year’s designs were all elaborate works of art, but this year everyone opted for traditionally simple. Claire picked a pumpkin that is the largest one we’ve ever brought home, and it weighs as much as she does (40+ pounds!).

Luckily, I know a lot of great pumpkin recipes.

Tiny Talk Show

The kids like to sneak off with the camera to make pictures and videos of their own, and I often don’t discover them until I’m uploading things to the computer. This one really tickled my funny bone. The guest on this tiny talk show didn’t actually do any talking, but a picture is worth a thousand words, they say. And yes, he does know all the body parts, he was just a bit groggy from his nap…

Sunset Serene

The hour before dinner is the craziest time of day at our house, no contest. Tummies rumble, the little ones are tired and cranky, and everyone anxiously awaits James’ arrival. Getting us all around the table at the same time is becoming a challenge, but it’s the unspoken rule; you eat dinner with your family unless you have a really creative excuse.

Last night I was in the kitchen battling with a partially frozen fowl that finally acquiesced, and I could tell by the lengthening shadows that the sun had dipped behind Mt. Tamalpais. I went to open the front windows and was greeted by the stunning sight of an evening sky strewn with color.

“Come look at the sunset!” I said, and they all came running. We went out on the front porch for a better look, and the cool air seemed to calm everyone on contact, even the antsy almost-two-year-old. The western horizon puts on a brilliant display almost every night at this time of year, and none of us ever tire of watching the show. No one ever wants to go back inside, either.

There’s magic in these moments, so hold on tight
As day gives way to starry night…

All Upon A Saturday Night

Chloé had her first performance at a real “gig” on Saturday night, singing a cover of Norah Jones’ Don’t Know Why. She had backup from James on keyboards and a handful of professional musicians from the headliner band, the Water Brothers. Not only does she have an amazing voice (and that’s not just a mother’s pride speaking), but she blows me away with her poise on stage. She’s just got it so together for someone her age (please don’t tell her I said that; she’s already impossible to live with!).

It was a real family affair, with Wynham in charge of video; I was assigned to get the still shots. That didn’t work out too well because I had a couple of adorable but very persistent groupies hanging off either arm, but the video work was great. Needless to say, the crowd went wild!

On the long road back, we passed a Coco’s restaurant and made an impromptu stop for a photo op (Coco is the nickname that Claire gave Chloé, and it stuck). I’m really glad I didn’t mention that they make the most wonderful chocolate cream pie (childhood memory peg). If I had, we might still be there…

Kodak Moment

Getting everyone appropriately dressed and ready to go out the door in the morning requires clockwork timing and good delegation. Chloé had just combed Claire’s hair, and then Jack’s, and he must have been thrilled to be looking so spiffy. He's always been an affectionate little guy, but he's only now figuring out the hug thing, and loves to sneak up and bestow them on folks. He just grabbed Claire and squeezed her with all his might. There are so many times when I wish I had a camera around my neck, and in this instance, luck was with me. Click!

Run, Run, Run

It's true, there were some pretty long faces in class the day the Gingerbread Man ran away. Luckily for the kids, Mr. GM is a reliable correspondent and has been sending postcards from each stop in his extensive travels. There have also been a few sightings, but no one even gets close before he's off and running again... Every day Claire comes home with a new installment of the Continuing Adventures of the Gingerbread Man, and most recently he wrote from Outer Space! His progress is being charted on a big world map in the classroom, and they're running out of space for all his missives. What I would really like to do is climb into his suitcase, but I guess I'd have to catch him first, and he's a very elusive character...

(top photo graphic design by Debra Turner)

Boyz N Da Hood

Jack is reaching an age now where he wants to do everything like his big brother Wynham. They growl, they tussle on the floor, they won’t stop playing ball in the house (for heaven’s sake!), they leap fearlessly off the furniture, and they’re wearing a trough in the carpet where they run circles around the living room and dining room chasing each other.

Jack hangs adoringly on Wynham’s every word (and all the other noises he makes, but never mind…). And Wynham has found the perfect rapt audience for all of his shenanigans. It’s a match made, maybe not in heaven, but for the long run.

You can't top the delight on Jack’s face when his brother comes through the door after school. And there’s no joy greater than watching Wynham get down on the floor to play with little Jack. If it gets a bit loud and rambunctious, well, we wouldn’t really want it any other way. There’s simply no replacement for their brotherly love.

Artist In Residence

We ended up having take-out burritos for dinner last night because Wynham had soccer practice, Chloe had choir rehearsal, and I bought everything but the chicken for the chicken stew I was planning to make. These things happen.

In the middle of eating, Claire leapt up from the table, and said, “I need tape! I’m making something!” She definitely gets points for creative use of plastic utensils. I can’t remember now whether this is an alien dude with tentacles or a ghost with a rad Mohawk, but I can assure you that dinner is never dull around here.

The preferred medium for most of our mealtime artists-in-residence is usually food, and there have been some real pièces de résistance, let me tell you. But I particularly like this masterpiece for its ingenuity, its simple lines, and best of all, no clean up required.

The Aftermath

Our home is generally pretty tidy, but on a weekend with a full house it’s another matter altogether. I always start our days of togetherness trying to clean up after everyone as I go, but I’m outnumbered and they all seem dedicated to the task of trashing the place (or at least burying it under as large a pile of stuff as possible). My adorable weapons of mass destruction, they are.

Somewhere around 4pm on Sunday afternoon, my eyes simply glaze over and I no longer see what’s going on around me. This is when Claire and Wynham usually kick into high gear in an attempt to “outmessify” each other and gain my attention. Yesterday, this was the moment one of our neighbors decided to drop by; I’m pretty sure I didn’t even say hello to him, I was so dazed.

On Sunday nights, I always go to bed hoping that I’ll wake up in one of those fairy tales where the Brownies come and clean everything up while the household is fast asleep. Mother Goose never seems to get the memo.

When the garbage trucks go by at 5:15am today, I stumble out of bed and into the darkness, ready or not to face what I call the Monday Morning Aftermath. It’s not pretty. It will be hours before the order is restored. But as Claire would say, that’s the way life goes. Now if you'll excuse me, I’ve got some cleaning up to do...

Birthday Greetings, Bottle of Wine

Dear Mom,

If you had stayed among us mere mortals, you’d be 64 today. I imagine you’re cavorting with the angels and having a grand fête of your own – you never did go anywhere without taking the party with you – and I’m sure your brand of heaven has Original Wheat Thins and spreadable cheddar, too.

Well we don’t want you to celebrate without us, so first thing this morning we’re going to blast When I’m 64 really loudly on the stereo; I hope you can hear it because I know it’s one of your favorite Beatles songs.

When we get to church, I’ll light a candle for you; I do that almost every Sunday now, but I’ll make a special wish today. Right before communion, your grandkids will put a dollar in the offering plate in your honor, since that’s the birthday tradition at St. Stephen’s. After the service, we’ll go to Guaymas and order those grilled shrimp you always loved.

I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but we have a dozen Sterling roses for you. Can you smell that amazing scent from where you are? Your whole paradise is probably filled with that fragrance. To top everything off, we’ll pop open a bottle of White Star, your bubbly of choice. I’ll probably have your glass if you don’t finish it.

And one last thing, just in case you were wondering about the answer to that question the Beatles keep asking in their song, we DO still need you…

Happy Birthday Marmay, with love,
MH&Co.

Stolen Moments

I confess: I was trying to steal a moment for myself. Chloé has an early rehearsal this morning and there isn’t enough time to make it worth driving all the way home and back, so I go to the local boulangerie for a café au lait and a tartine, hoping to sneak in a few pages of my current book.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Are you going to get out and enjoy it?” The man sitting at the table to my right is obviously hungry for conversation. Yes, I tell him, there will be a soccer game and a jaunt to the city and a dozen other things, what with four kids to amuse. “I hope you make the most of it. I wasn’t there for my son when he was young; I was working too much. Now I spoil my grandson instead.” I wonder, in his grown son’s mind, if that really makes up for lost time.

On my left sits a family of three, round and perfectly matched like a set of Russian matryoshka dolls. There are so many pasties on their table I’m afraid it might capsize. The well-dressed boy asks his mother, “Mommy, why are there pickles on your plate?” She feigns a European accent and says, “They gave them to me because I am so pr-r-r-e-e-e-ty!” She’s not what you might consider attractive, but the mirthful expression on her face and the way she trills her “r” make her beautiful.

Suddenly it’s time to go, and I haven’t even cracked the cover of the novel in my bag. The man next to me says, “Do me a favor, will you? Have a wonderful day!” I smile. My pilfered time has been snatched away from me, but I’ve received something in return: the gentle reminder that the numbered days with your children should never be taken for granted, and that life is exactly what you make of it. I can always read later, if I can steal a moment…

The Way Life Goes

Now that the rainy season has installed itself in earnest there’s an additional layer of aggravation to this gig called Parenthood. Mostly, it has to do with wardrobe issues.

Claire won’t wear a hood, Wynham has put on a sweater and windbreaker with his shorts and flip flops, and Chloé, well, she’s a fashion crisis unto herself. Picture the wooly boots and jeans, so far so good, but that’s topped with a tank tee and a light cotton cardigan and she is NOT going to wear that hideous poncho, even if it came from Ann Taylor.

Then there’s this insanity that takes over the drivers on the morning school route. We’re supposed to be teaching our children the simplest common courtesies, but you’d never know it by the way these folks are behaving behind the wheel (No, honey, that man was not waving hello).

While I’m sitting in the kindergarten car line considering all this, Claire says, “Why is there a big line of water down your window, Mom?” I explain that it’s where the windshield wiper stops. She wants to know why they don’t go the other direction, so the line isn’t right in the driver’s way. I marvel at her observation, and tell her that maybe she should be a car designer when she grows up. She replies, verbatim, “Oh, leave that to the silly engineers, Mom. I’m going to be a horseback-riding veterinarian. That’s just the way life goes.”

Although I question the need for such a broad rationalization for her narrowly defined prediction, I smile at the bigger message. When it comes to the inconveniences of parenting in the rainy season, well, that’s just the way life goes!

Life in Non Sequiturs

Once, when I was twenty, I spent an evening in a café in Amsterdam waiting out a fierce thunderstorm and to pass the time I wrote down everything that came into my head without stopping to ponder. It was an interesting list and a revelatory experience, as I realized that minds like mine never really travel in straight lines. This is great if you’re working in advertising, but it’s bound to drive the people who have to keep up with you every day completely bonkers.

I was reminded of this in the middle of the night when I sat up with the lyrics of Kingston Trio’s They Call the Wind Mariah running through my head. Don’t ask me why because I couldn’t tell you. Anyway, it made me want to try the Train of Consciousness experiment again, just for fun. Here are the results from fifteen minutes before breakfast:

Escargot, Camelot, volcanic craters, Houdini, flower bulbs, egg salad, Aristotle, Xania, iPod playlist, raspberry preserves (maybe I shouldn’t sit in the kitchen to do this), soprano, batteries, mildew, Albert Camus, Thomas Edison, drag racing, Kleenex, widdershins, gravitas, Fibonacci, raw diamonds, home remedies, Scarlett O’Hara, catechins, microscope, almond butter toast (maybe I shouldn’t do this when I’m hungry), sea urchin, otters, gas cooker, castle, hemostats, soy sauce, existentialism, plastic plates, drain pipe, laundry soap, throw out the dead plant, wash the sheets (NO! This isn’t a TO DO list!), Switzerland, condensation, healthy soil organisms, magic markers with no caps, shearling, pizza-pizza-pizza, orthodontist, ranunculus, smell of a burning soccer ball, tropical vacation, geometry, egrets, guitar lessons, Kermit Lynch, Topher Delaney, Shakespeare, cable, quantum mechanics, this list was much more interesting last time, crispy English muffins for breakfast, yay!

Okay, now you try it; come on, you know you want to see what happens. Then post your results on the comments page if you’re brave enough to share. Just don’t over think things or you’ll start to actually make connections, and then you really will go nuts…

After the Rain

There’s a euphoric feeling in the air on the crisp, cool mornings that follow a night of rain. The air smells clean and everything glistens. Birds bathe in the shallow puddles that formed in the hollows overnight, twittering more cheerfully than they did yesterday.

Last night was the first real rain of the season, and now it truly feels like summer is over. From the kitchen window we see an ever-changing tableau of our microclimate, and I can tell it’s going to be a “cardigan day”. For me, the weather is perfect when it’s cool without being too chilly.

Jack sleeps on the couch; he’s had a rough night of urping from the flu he seems to have caught just as I’m finally getting over it. Socrates isn’t feeling well, either. I know that’s the flipside of the seasons changing, but fall is still my favorite. I miss the intensity of the changing colors of autumn that I grew up with, and hope when the kids are older we can get back east one year for “the show”.

I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, though; I love being able to depend on rain that doesn’t start until October and can usually be counted on to end in April. Cuddling up as it pours down is a treasured pastime in this household, and the whole world seems brighter when the sun peeks through again. Even the hummingbirds act as if the salvia’s nectar has been sweetened by the downpour. Everything’s better after the rain.

Yo, Ho, Ho, and a Bottle of Milk

Don’t let the Dotted Swiss dress fool you, mateys, Claire is a swashbuckler through and through, with enough swagger to put five hardened sea hands in their places. Just ask James about the black eye she gave him at the beach when she was only two. And he wasn’t even talking back.

Claire is one mighty personality. At preschool graduation the teacher gave her description of each child, and Claire was dubbed “the little adult who uses big words and knows what they mean”. Well, this could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the word of the day. Just watching her commandeer a play group is enough to leave any parent shaking in their boots.

James wonders out loud how she got so strong willed. Hmm, maybe something to do with her gene pool? One thing is certain, though; with Claire in the mix, there’s never an uninteresting moment. The second day of kindergarten, she said, “Just drop me off at the curb, Mom; I know where I’m going. And I’m done with that hug and kiss stuff, too.” Whatever you say, Captain. No need to ask who’s running this family…

Yesterday as soon as the sprinklers went off, Claire ran out to the back yard with Jack in tow. I went to the kitchen door and said, hands on hips, “Claire! What are you doing?!? You’re going to get filthy, and your brother’s eating dirt!” Jack said “Uh-oh…” and immediately dropped the trowel while Claire threw down the gauntlet with her ditty of a response: “Getting wet and dirty is what we love to do, and then we come back in the house all sloppy just for you.” I surrender in a fit of laughter. She may be a bit of a pirate, but she’s a real treasure, too.

(photo by Debra Turner)

Of Aliens and Onions

My family says I have no sense of humor, and I want them to know they are seriously wrong. A humorless gal wouldn’t put herself out there for the whole world to see looking like a roast suckling alien (more on the goggles later).

First, you can’t change up to 32,000 diapers in your lifetime and not have the ability to laugh in the face of Der Poopinator. Call it bathroom humor, if you will, but you’ve got to focus on the amusing aspects of the situation when someone pees (with amazing accuracy) all over the shirt you just ironed.

Now, the slapstick routine of picking up the same shirts, hairclips, smelly shoes, wet socks, toys, sippy cups, bits of food, underpants, lip glosses, book bags, text books, magic markers, blankies, fur balls, marbles, Legos, spare parts, curling irons, dishes, and I-don’t-know-whatzits from the same places around the house seven times in the same day – that most certainly requires a funny bone. My feng shui got up and feng shwent a long time ago, but there’s still some sort of harmony in the hilarious.

Then there’s kitchen comedy. Last night for dinner I made what I’ll call Parody Pot Roast. This took seven hours to make, required a special trip to the Spanish food shop for smoked paprika, and tasted like, well… I’d say the dog’s food gets higher marks. Ha ha, ho ho, hee hee, the joke’s on me.

But a little side note on those glasses: they’re called OnionGoggles, and with the dense foam that encloses the eye socket, they guarantee tear-free onion slicing (and I slice a lot of 'em). Plus, they look pretty darn funny, especially with a color-coordinated apple. So you can’t really say I don’t have a flair for the farcical…