Honorée presented Laura with an impromptu gift this evening. “This is from me and Nathaniel.”
She opened it.
“It’s my mom!” Honoree said. Indeed it was. She and Nathaniel crafted a 3-D portrait of me out of construction paper, yarn, bottle caps, tape, and a toilet paper cylinder. It’s so becoming! I actually blushed. Of course you want to see it…
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They are striped. You can see if you look on the bridge of my nose…otherwise, the stripes are more subtle. Which is probably a good thing! Hurray for glasses with lenses that aren’t scratched to kingdom come. I can see at last. Now if only that Surya henna in Chocolate would arrive…I’d be set.
What else is new? Nathaniel’s teacher let me know that he was bandying about the word, excuse me, term, “butt crack.” He didn’t get it from me. It must be all this talk about plumbers…so this morning, I had to remind him to please not use that term at school.
Potty humor never fails to make most of us laugh. I try to strike a balance between not reacting overmuch to the words when they come up, so as to minimize my child repeating them incessantly. But when it starts to get him in trouble with third parties…I wouldn’t want him to get mad at me for never correcting him. “It totally blew my college interview when I casually dropped the term ‘butt crack.’ Why on earth did you never tell me that was off limits?”
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where x = (I was overcome and found myself on a)
then y = seventy-some bucks deducted from my checking account, and z=satisfaction that comes from eating the foods that make my kapha-pitta body sing.
I have been so bad over the last few months. I am old enough to know that if I eat certain foods, my body purrs like a performance machine. If I eat certain other ones, I am a bloated, backfiring
jalopy. Wheat is not my friend. My body loves iron, but if I have more than a little beef, I get all backed up. Cheese? Definitely not the kind that melts in burritos. One spoon of sour cream or ice cream can shut me down instantaneously. But it’s not lactose intolerance across the board. I’m actually more okay with say, a shmear of Brillat- Savarin or St. André than shredded bag cheddar. I could go on and on. Anyway, I’m doing a bit of a “I give up, you’re right, I want to come home to you, black beans, red lentils, chard, kale, acorn squash, eggs and millet toast…” because I want to feel awesome again. Not logy and puffy!
I’m refocusing on ayurvedic guidelines for my kapha-pitta constitution, but also kind of checking out the eating by blood type thing…very loosely…as soon as I feel like something is too restrictive and limiting, I’m so turned off. But, happily, most of the foods on my ayurvedic list are the ones I like best, and the no-nos are the ones I can do without, but once told myself I should like, because my parents did, or because, like olives, they seemed sophisticated (and I do like olives, after I got over the initial ick–especially Nicoise olives. But I digress).
So, long story short, I ate millet and red lentils (with shallots and broccoli) last night, and some steamed acorn squash. I have chard in the fridge, as well as a new jar of Udo’s Blend Healthy Fast Food. According to my blood type guideline, I’d be best off as a vegetarian, and to be honest, I am not feeling much need for meat, chicken, fish at the moment…it’ll be there. For breakfast, I had an egg poached in Imagine Bistro black bean bisque, with millet bread toast, and spicy roasted pumpkin seeds sprinkled on top.
The paradigm shift: Laura and I were at Annapurna Wednesday night, and I ordered the special, half a roasted acorn squash loaded up with kitchari, with vegan gravy on the side. Total earthy autumn yum.
The kids are doing extemporaneous yoga in the hallway. Honorée needs to work on her yoga teacher affect…she’s being a bit of a terror. Must intervene.
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Note to self: ingestion of large cup of coffee plus half of mascarpone super-rich brownie makes your eyes vibrate in their sockets. Who sold you on that plan?
Today a friend told me that she had heard that my kids now lived with their dad full-time. That threw me.
We share the kids 50/50, in a very modern arrangement which gives their dad time more than “Disneyland Dad” lip service (and praise be that he is such a committed dad that he would want nothing less). I certainly feel torn about it sometimes, but in many ways, I feel like I am a better mom because I get a little time to recharge my batteries. In an ideal world, we would all share a perfectly designed two-family house and the kids could flow back and forth while the sets of adults had their privacy from each other. But, we don’t…and I bet it would have its own set of issues, like, “I’d rather eat dinner at dad’s/mom’s house because your food is yucky,” or whatnot…lest I lose my (vibratory) train of thought, we don’t all live together slash apart, and we do privilege each parent’s role…and I guess sometimes that reads as a little confusing.
I asked the friend who heard that,”Who said it and how did they come to that conclusion?” She said that the person visited the kid’s dad and his partner at their house, and the kids happened to be there that day. She assumed that meant that the kids lived with them full-time. So it’s not some wild and crazy rumor, just a misunderstanding. Well, phew. And, it pointed out to me how tender I feel about it, in some hard-to-reach part of my mama heart. Not what we had intended…but, what is. Here’s where I want to come up with something really sage and surrendered to say in closing, but all I do have is a lot of gratitude that I love and respect every member of our unconventional, yet uber-operational family.
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Yes, the back to school thing did kick my butt. Can you tell? Sheesh. I think things are mellowing out now.
My daughter loves first grade, although her front-row desk spot got inexplicably switched with another kid’s, and now she’s in the second row, which irks her to no end. “I can’t see because of all of the heads, mom!” she griped. I emailed Teach…maybe she can get back into that front row. I know I always liked it…I guess we share that dexter gene. Her first day of school outfit was so darn cute–she dressed herself and chose very bling-y sequin-encrusted mary janes, argyle knee-socks, and a dress. Can’t remember the dress right now…it’s been all of a week…but I just popped three thousand mgs of Nordic Naturals Omega-3 supplements so it might actually pop back into my head, maybe tomorrow. And, I can ask her.
Nathaniel is loving being one of the bigger kids at Waldorf preschool. His nemesis has moved on, so they won’t have to duke it out in the “who’s the alpha blond curly top” game.
Right afterwards, we drove over to Tara’s Organic Ice Cream shop, and H. enjoyed a blueberry mint ice cream cone. I shared the hibiscus agave sorbet with Laura, and Nathaniel royally lost out, as he fell asleep on the ride over. Sorry, little man! He’s lactose intolerant, anyway…one less bowel blow-out to “come see!”
What else…hmm…am I loving anything lately? I love Froose juice boxes. It’s juice sweetened with rice syrup and containing organic rice flour, so that fiber and complex carbs are folded into the mix. Cherry is my fave. The kids like ‘em all. We enjoy them around the house, as we are into the waste-free lunch thing. So hey, Froosers, serve it up in big recyclable glass bottles, so that we can enjoy it guilt-free!
I bought bulbs for the first time…some white and peach Narcissus Bell Songs, peach-colored tulips, and crocuses with dark purple and white pin-striped petals and bright yellow pistils. Can’t wait to get those babies into the front yard! We also planted a butterfly bush and have some Russian Sages and a hyacinth plant to install…I may have a ton to do these days, but if I plant one thing, I feel like I’ve accomplished something.
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Taller, I think. Both of them. Lovely and happy and squishable. They were in good spirits and I didn’t need to lie on the floor and sing falsetto.
We ate mac-n-cheese, breakfast sausages, and fresh-made fruit smoothies for dinner (and why not?). That was after we went to Tar-jay to buy Honorée her birthday bike, compliments of my dad. She picked out a purple one with streamers and hand-brakes and a butterfly theme, right down to purple butterflies affixed to the wheels’ spokes. I bought her a tennis racket, and I got Nathaniel one too. That way, we can start whapping the ball around the back yard, and maybe even at one of the nearby public tennis courts.
I remember when I got my first big-girl bike. It was a fabulous piece of seventies triptastic. A banana seat that featureed a MURAL on it…of bell-bottomed kids dancing in a swirly world, overlooked by a giant, smiling, setting sun. The bike frame started out red by the front tire and moved through ROY G BIV all the way to violet, one happy rainbow on wheels. I was so thrilled, until the bike department dude brought up the bike from the back and it was in a box, in pieces. I burst into tears. “It’s not put together! It’s never gonna be put together!” My dad was kind of taken aback. He put it together that very afternoon. The next day I pretended to be sick so I could stay home and ride my bike. And my parents were feeling so magnanimous that they teased me about having “bicycle-itis” and let me ride it anyway. Almost thirty years later (ack!!), my dad, on the phone, was like “Make sure you have someone at the store put it together for you.” He was so fixated on that and I think it’s because of my own long-ago reaction…or maybe it’s because I still haven’t put together the red wagon that my brothers got Nathaniel back in April. I plan to do it this weekend. Because I feel like a butt about it, big time. We were moving…it’s in the garage. I am ready to take it on.
The kids were VERY happy that I unpacked and reorganized their room. They got to rediscover all of their forgotten toys, and are sleeping blissfully with their Bamboletta Waldorf dolls as I write. I was short a few drawers before I did the grand purge in their room (I pulled out a ton of too-small clothing and passed it along to favored moppets), unpacked about 12 boxes–sorted them into bins by theme–it was a Virgo day for this sloppy Sag, I tell you. After I emptied the closet of boxes, I moved two awesome blue night tables into the closet, and used the drawers and shelves within them to accommodate the socks, underwear, pajamas that were sort of needing a home. I love repurposing things found in my garage. I had put them on craigslist and didn’t get any takers…boy am I glad about that now. I originally got the pair of them at a yard sale for $15, and then the kids’ dad sanded them and painted them a really great shade of fun-tac blue. So, it makes me happy that they are now back in use.
I don’t think I could have overhauled Honoree’s and Nathaniel’s room if they were around…there would have been way too much strenuous bemoaning of things headed out the door. I’ll tell you what: they will not stand for it when they’re older, so I may as well get it out of my system now.
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1. Honoree had to show him her favorite hiding place, which happens to be the spaghetti-narrow side yard, where all of my broken down boxes from the recent move sit, looking trashy, but otherwise out of sight.
2. Nathaniel pulled down a book from this certain wobbly bookshelf and the whole darn thing came crashing down.
3. The book was a random sample that came in to work, which I brought home without scrutinizing, and it’s like, the equivalent of the Garbage Pail Kid alphabet book. Horrors!
I think that’s it.
At Claire’s birthday party afterwards, I chatted with a mom who had also received Mr. O. She confided that during the visit, her son had asked, “Can we watch a movie?” and also, when Mr. O. gave him a piece of wax to mold into a sweet little woodland animal, her son molded it into a gun. “He doesn’t even have a toy gun!” she exclaimed.
I guess there’s just something about having a home visit that brings out the devilish from all corners. Good thing I was so exhausted (it was the morning after a late opera night) that I couldn’t bring myself to get worked up about it.
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So first my tire goes flat on Siringo Road. I’m on my way, with the kids, to Claire’s birthday party. We’re late, because Honoree’s Waldorf teacher came by at the same time as the (pool) party started. We are really wanting to get there, since we’re already an hour and a half late. Hope it’s not one of those 2-hour parties with a “here’s your goodie bag, what’s your hurry?” vibe. Nah, Claire’s parents are supremely cool.
Tire blows. “Mom, our car sounds like a choo choo train!” I wonder where I should pull over. What’s safe? What are my choices? Turn here, into a neighborhood? Or…and no, I don’t have AAA (I didn’t on Saturday. Laura heroically added me to hers a few hours later). I pull into an entrance of the gigantic Santa Fe High School property.
Okay, I can change a tire. I’ve watched every time I have a flat tire and someone helpful comes along before I can figure it out. I used to just call Peter when we were married…and I still could, because we’re amicable like that, but he’s in an all-day meditation thing. I open up my manual and get out the tire-changing tool kit. I have a nice, burly spare. Not a doughnut. I can do this. The first bit of instruction asks me to take out some kind of hubcap remover that looks like a long twirly wire. That is not in my pouch. The last time I got tires (at the VW dealership’s shop), they must have neglected to put it back. &O#$O#O#%&&!!! That’s when I start to cry. Which freaks out the kids. “But how can we get to the party?” Honoree wails. “I don’t know if we will get there before it’s over…” More noisy dismay ensues…where’s the Calgon? Or, forget the Calgon, order me a whiskey sour, to be sunk after this is all over and I can partake.
I call Laura…she suggests that I call friends with VWs because they probably have the tool. That is a very good idea, but involves calling two people who I haven’s spoken with in MONTHS. “Hi! I’m in a crisis and you should drop everything and help me because I’ve been so incredibly present in your life over the last few months…yeah…that’d be grrrreat.”
I suck it up and do it. G. isn’t home, J. looks in her car’s trunk and doesn’t have a kit. Hmm. Glad I didn’t get a bug. As J. rattles around in her trunk, a white van pulls up with a Santa Fe High School insignia on the side and a dude jumps out. He looks like a slimmer Yosemite Sam. Before I even get off the phone, he’s crouched next to my tire. Hi, angel!
So, this extremely nice stranger has taken it upon himself to solve my horribly upsetting problem, and I am FINE with that. He has a van filled with tools. Tools that can fix this missing tool problem. It takes him about six Allen wrenches, but he gets that trashed tire off, and pops on my new one. “I don’t know how to thank you,” I said. “You’re a lifesaver.” He is completely humble about it…all in a day’s work kind of shrug…
Honoree calls me over. She hands me a note. “Give this to him,” she whispers. “Because you said you didn’t know how to thank him.” On a little piece of paper, she wrote [sic], “Think You. I love you.”
“And give him this, too,” she said, and handed me a little blue crystal.
“Okay,” I said.
“Thank you so much, I’m Candace,” I said, offering my hand for a handshake.
“I’m dirty,” he said, laughing.
“So am I,” I said, and we shook anyway. “I’m David, I work on call for the Santa Fe school district,” he said.
“Well, you really helped us out…I’m so grateful. Here’s a note my daughter wrote you, it says, ‘Thank you, I love you.’”
“I love you too, sweetheart!” he called out.
So we got in the car and drove to the party. It was still going on, and there was one beer left, which so had my name on it. The kids got into the pool, I got to catch up with my friend Ro, and all was well.
Thank you, universe!
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Sometime just before dawn: Mr. Nathaniel, four-year-old Aries boy, of popcorn ‘do and cherubic mien, comes half-asleep barreling across the house and into my bedroom, and approaches my side of the bed. “Mommy,” he says. “Other side,” I shlur into the pillow. “Go aroun thother side.” It’s our routine, just like it used to be our routine for him to root around with small starfish fingers outstretched and flexed, baby bird mouth grasping at air until I sleepily slopped my boob out of the neckline of my nightie and he latched on, and grasped the sides of my milk-heavy breast. We would then lapse back into full slumber, though his jaws worked while he dreamed. That could explain why he was so adept when he was two at doing the same thing (he fell asleep in his stroller at the farmer’s market, but continued to eat his brownie in between snores while I watched for signs of choking and wished I had a videocamera).
So now, same thing–a reaching out in the dark, not inches apart, but across my compact house. Somehow, he finds me without careening into an ottoman.
Except this morning is different. After we both fall back asleep, he starts to make retching sounds and I instantly wake up, bench-press him up and over me so his feet land on the floor, and we jet into the bathroom. Thus begins the process.
(He’s at his dad’s right now, while dad gets ready for a home visit from our daughter’s soon-to-be 1st grade Waldorf teacher–I hope N’s bowels and belly have settled down for all of their sakes. My visit is Saturday. That’s not stressful at all…because, I’m like totally a neat freak and my house is always immaculate (not!). I guess he may as well see Honoree’s actual environment, and note that I am a bit freewheeling on the domestic front, so he can draw whichever conclusions and take them into account as part of his accurate picture of us. As much as I want to buy some wool clogs and a hempen jumper for the event, and just happen to be carding wool when he comes to the door…he may as well meet the real me.)
I don’t know if it was the goat milk Nathaniel drank so happily last night (he and dairy are iffy) or some random germ…but luckily, it hit Nathaniel and not his sister, Honoree. She is a very operatic sick person. She needs to express herself through back-to-back moans and keening wails…which makes sense, since she’s a Leo.
I think Honoree would be beside herself with joy (or at least quieter) if a Greek chorus materialized whenever she was sick, to narrate her journey with sufficient gravitas and focus. “Here is this young blonde moppet of a girl, going on seven…her innards are writhing within, feel her pain, all ye earthly beings…!” (cue renting of sackcloth). Instead, this trait of hers coincides with my lifelong personal lesson in working on my patience, which means meeting her where she’s at to comfort her (which I usually remember to do), so that, according to a theory that I really hope pans out, she won’t do it her entire life long.
Nathaniel, on the other hand, is so full of vim and vigor that when he has a stomach flu, he plays the entire time, nonchalantly jogging to the bathroom for sick pit stops before resuming his fun.
I’ll be back to report if it is a catching kind of germ or just a random digestive misfire (or I won’t, if I’m totally sideswiped by it). I have to open mail, read submissions, check my voicemail…and my bimonthly facial scouring, by the lovely Marise, is at 2pm. Bummer: I’m on my second day of Aunt Flo’s visit–which I always find makes me more sensitive to any kind of pain…but at least we spend most of the time cracking up over our joint witticisms.
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Tags: bedsharing, breastfeeding, cosleeping, facial, farmers market, goat milk, Greek chorus, patience, stomach flu, Waldorf
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