Flux Capacitor

One Night In November

2012-01-26T05:00:00.000-08:00

Scenes From A Marriage: January Kill

2012-01-24T05:00:00.000-08:00

All day is rains. The light on our town is blue and as limpid and secret filled as the down bed of a teenage girl. I remember twenty four. I remember young. I feel Mr. Curry's mouth over mine, the kissing penetrating the light, the day, the night, the lonely solonely childhood left hanging on our fingers and heads like cobwebs we walked through to find one another. I remember hours of alone together inside this light and this rain and the entire world shuddered on the top of choppy water and wewerenotalone and we were drunk and slow and in love. These are our roots. The hours, days, months, even years before we had to pay dues, when we were still inside the rain.

Lately I have moments where I miss that thing we were so impotently, so swiftly and so painfully that it arrives in a physical, chemical blow: in the second brain, they call it, in our guts, where our immune system and our hormones churn. Complications, the doctors say with their mouth so very still despite the words, we were almost there but there were complications. Baby complications. Hospitalization. Money. Moving. Teenagers. And now; January complications.

I want the bedroom to still. I want my sons to move quietly and my daughter to stop talking and asking and claiming and my baby to stop begging for breast every half hour and I want to lay on the mattress and feel adored and adoring. I want the mean slow freeze of January to release my husband. January is hard for him. Which makes it hard for me. I watch his angry, frustrated face, tired of being exhausted and struggling against himself. Sometimes I want to throw something at him, at his arm, where it would hurt but not kill, hard enough to make him furious, to break the ice and bring the entire river to a boil and release us from winter. During a quietly furious ten minute argument I am horrified to find myself thinking I hate you I hate you I hate you. I want to run away. I want to say something so final and so hurtful we could never recover from it. I want to so badly my arms are trembling. I am resentful and furious and cannot stop the potent adjectives hammering my brain: stupid miserable fucked up I think of how happy I have been alone, before. How easy it is to make your own happiness alone. It all feels so forever.

I trace my finger over our baby's face. It's been one month, I say in a whisper to myself. One month. I am confused. Why does one hard month feel completely unacceptable and undoable? Then I am ashamed. Why can't I wait just a fucking MINUTE? Why do I have to be so demanding, so greedy with happiness? But pain and struggle and distance makes me feel like a failure. Like our marriage is a failure. If this is all true, then what about the other 11 months, before this one? What were they? Just pretend, just play acting, just rehearsing before the big reveal, the truth?

No. I think about the famous divorces now, crawling over the computer screen like a virus. The Katy Perry, Russel Brandt. Heidi Klum and Seal and their four children, like our four children. From celebrating their anniversary every year with a spectacular, blowout celebration of passionate love, to divorce. In between, four children, years of a life. I watch them implode on msn.com one by one and drink my coffee with a stern face. What do we expect when we get married? I ask myself. That it fails us so soon. That we let go so quickly. When there is not abuse or chronic abject neglect, when the problems are so human, so late night dishes and dirty floors and crying babies and insecurities and relinquished dreams and mental illness and the messes and faults we collect along the way as we try to raise families: addictions, secrets, desires, impulses both repressed and explored.

My husband sweeps the kitchen floor with a face so exhausted and shoulders so bent he could be Robert Parker's protagonist: world weary and eagle eyed and fighting demons inside. He reaches out and touches our daughter's head as she toddles by and I suddenly see him as he is so often: lit from within with his quiet way of loving, eyes connecting, shoulders straight and strong from manual labor, and I am suddenly gripped with a ferocious loyalty and panic that I could ever, even in my unasked for thoughts, consider hating or leaving this man who is only fighting his own demons along side me, a thing I agreed to do when we took hands on the beach in La Jolla nine years ago. Without seeing I feel a collection of our years together take its place where my anger and frustration at his disease was just a moment ago and again I am simply a wife longing for her husband, instead of one bent on destruction. It's just so hard sometimes. It's just so hard sometimes. Because it's not just about him and his demons- of course not. It's me. It's my own. And when he is struggling like this, I have to struggle too, because it is the nature of my faults and anxiety that I react to this with chronic anxiety, with a knotted stomach, with loss of appetite, with almost zero patience for how he is like this; he doesn't think the same. I want to talk to him, not this stupid disease. Can I have my husband back now?- a thought, a million times a day.

I have no illusions of perfection or forever. I know we could lose our marriage. In our best moments I am most afraid of the specter of divorce: when I am so in love and so enthralled that I cannot imagine life on this planet without him. In our worst moments, like now, something wounded, angry and afraid inside of me wants to label us with every rotten branch down the tree. I want our marriage to be wonderful, and when it's not, I want our problems to be acceptable, things you can joke about over lunch at work Haha he's such an ass, he wouldn't watch the baby while I worked out, not Sometimes we get mentally fucked up and one of us can barely do family life and goes through the motions while the other one tries to wait it out.

Patrick Swayze's wife just wrote a memoir of her marriage; she says they separated once, and had hard, rough patches in their long marriage. But he's still my fairy tale, she says.

I lean forward into silence. I lean into patience, humility, forgiveness, a life outside my marriage, my parenting, my writing. I wait quietly for him to come back to me. I work my resentments like tight muscles. I try to be better.

Downsized: A Photo-Memory of the First Week Move-In

2012-01-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

Ever played with Lola and the new friends outside. She's yelling at the dogs here. Maybe she's yelling " Hey, don't poop there, we have a Homeowner's Association that will, within one week of us moving in, call and 'report' that we did not clean up our dog poop, even though we TOTALLY DID EVERY TIME, and Mom can prove it if you want to see the bags of crap!!! "

My baby.

What is cuter than a squatting one year old?

Lola is nine and more radiant every day. Also VERY SASSY. And talkative.

"What? I just learned how to walk."

Moving in a new, smaller place is really, really, really busy. Doing it with a sick baby is... laundry that desperately needs to be done but doesn't get done.

The dogs were surprisingly cool with it all. I read up on how to handle it with them and followed instructions and they've done really well.

Stuff. Everywhere.

More everywhere. More stuff.

Smile, Ever!

Ever ate it at my work. Her poor noggin.

Skinny jeaned baby bossing two oversized mutts.

People In Your Neighborhood: Sassafrass & PunditMom

2012-01-22T10:40:00.000-08:00

take a seat and read!

Sassafrass- besides having an awesome name!- is run by Jessica, and it's full of shoe obsession, funny stories, and some touching revelations, like this post about her Grandmother's gifts left behind after her death.

PunditMom is a political site for women with easy to read political gab, opinion and facts. Pundit also has a book out called Mothers Of Intention , and is gathering a ' Mom Vote ' tutorial with all the information you need to know for the vote.

For Everything, A Place & Everything In Its Place: Downsized and Organized

2012-01-19T05:00:00.000-08:00


Since we've moved, I'm happily obsessed with re-decorating our home into a beautiful machine of organizational aesthetic. The kitchen wall shelving above is exactly what I hope to duplicate in my own ( all white! ) new kitchen.

We don't own this many cups or bowls!

Adding plants and photos all over

I"m using a lot of gold frames, stacks of books and magazines, and careful tabletop arranging

Ever Everything

2012-01-18T05:00:00.000-08:00

Time is that it was not long ago I held you as an infant, but it feels so long ago to think of you without teeth, without words, without your strut. I am incoherently, passionately and devotedly yours, in love with you from the smallest particle of your body to the intangible of your soul. I sleep with your body next to mine, often pressed between my breasts, feet tucked in the hollow of my thighs. You breath quick little breaths randomly, in some dream. You nurse possessively, one hand milking the cow, the other across the unused breast. My chest is riddled with the chicken scratches of your pinching. You are at work with me, in the car with me, in bed with me, in the bath. You and I are still coming apart, a process began at your birth. I would chop off my arms and legs to save your life. I would clean the bathroom every weekend and fold laundry every day to make your home. I do my best and when it does not feel good enough, I fumble and cry and fight until I find a way to do better. I think you are the smartest, funniest, cutest, most interesting, sweetest and best baby there ever was. These are the things about you in your 13th month of life:

You walk like George Jefferson, with your arms at your side, hands cocked backward, fingers curled up, and a strut in your legs. I often hum the Jefferson's theme song when you are toddling around. Sometimes we say Oh here comes Mr. Jefferson! when you peacock in a room. Man, you've got swagger.

You sign for 'more', for 'all done' and for tootsies (nursing). Your sign for tootsies is THE CUTEST THING EVER. You pat your little chest with both of your hands. That's it. But it breaks my heart in the best way.

You say these words: Momma, Dadda, Lola, Dakota, Ian (you try!),Ever, woof woof, tootsies (nursing), all done, and good girl.

You began saying 'good girl' every time we buckled you in your carseat, and I realized it was because you always hold up the buckle for us to pop the clasp into, and we always say 'good girl!' in a certain intonation, so you began telling yourself so. Now you say 'good girl' in that same intonation whenever you are doing something you think is good, or when you are doing something you know is bad. It cracks me up.

You eat avocado, tomato, veggie sticks, chicken, fish, soft carrots, yogurt and bananas. You prefer boobs.

You adore your sister like no other at the moment. You scored the big sister lottery with Lola. She is only a small notch below my devotion to you. When we pick you up from school every day, you yell 'Looooola' the whole way there, and when you see her running down the hill, you laugh out loud in delight. You hug her with both arms around her neck and your face pressed into hers. You follow her everywhere, and she looks for you to be following. She carries you and sits you on her lap. She shares everything with you, even things she swore she wasn't going to. She lets you drag her American Girl dolls by their hair out of there carefully made beds on the floor, and poke at their fake eyelashes. She calls you 'Kinny'. She is the one, the only one, who could get you over your fear of our new bathtub in the new condo. Finally one night you sat on her lap in the tub and laughed and let me wash you without crying. She now asks to bathe you every night. She asks to sleep next to you, and when a friend sat next to you in the car over the weekend, she almost had a little fit- VERY unlike Lola. She sings to you, she dresses you, she makes you laugh when you are crying, sometimes she makes you cry because you are happy playing and she picks you up. She feeds you, she shares every treat with you, she spends more time playing with you than her toys or her friends.

You DO have two different color eyes, to answer the question we get everywhere we go, after they exclaim ' Oh what beautiful eyes! ' One eye is blue, like Momma, and one eye is hazel, like Daddy.

Lola and I have two songs we sing to you all the time. One is the song Oh Christmas Tree, but with the words Oh Everkins. We even do the high voice part. Every time. The other is the classic Asian tune that we sing ' kinny kin kin kin kin kin ' We also sing ' My kinny went over the ocean / my kinny went over the sea / my kinny went over the ocean / oh bring back my kinny to me ' ... you get the idea. We sing all of these daily. Very daily.

You just found your vagina today. Congratulations! As Sarah Silverman would say, ' your pussy is magic. ' And now you know your mother has a sailor mouth and a dirty sense of humor.

Lola decided at age 3 that our vaginas are called 'niney' and our butts are called 'buttina' and a gross smelling fart is a 'sewer smoothie'. So yeah.

Your ears smell DELICIOUS. Lola calls earwax ' wax sacks '. You can see what you are up against in this family.

Your dirty feet smell DELICIOUS. You think it's hilarious when I sniff them and shriek 'ewwwww'

You boss our gigantic dogs around. You aren't as tall as them, but you push them out of the way, or pet them, depending. It's really cute. They lick your face and sometimes accidentally knock you over with their big fat butts.

You just cried a little sobby cry in your sleep right now. Sniff.

In case you missed it, Momma loves you. Momma loves you. Momma loves you.

People In Your Neighborhood: The Happiest Mom & Mamapundit

2012-01-16T12:00:00.000-08:00

pull up a chair and read

The Happiest Mom reads more like a magazine than a blog to me- I love the organization and options! This post on cleaning actually did motivate me to clean, which is a rare and fantastical quality, like unicorn bunions- AND it gave me a mundane but helpful tip from the comments: if you have a pan that is horribly hard to clean, fill it with water and bring to a boil. Whala!

Mamapundit is brimming with the hilarious exploits of Danger Baby as well as socially and politically charged essays from Kate Granju, the Babble blogger, mother and activist for drug addicted teens.

The Good Enough Mother

2012-01-14T17:06:00.000-08:00

When people talk about young, single mothers, I think something along the lines of ' I do not think that word means what you think it means '; the hot button words attached to young single motherhood are adjectives like stressed, exhausted, overwhelmed and immature. I had my son Dakota at 20 years old- unmarried, unattached, and completely unplanned- but my experience ( outside of the first, colicky months ) was one of complete and total rightness. A depth of competence, creativity, patience, love and selflessness that I never knew I possessed was born in me, and I saw our journey together as almost romantic: the two of us began Friday Family Night ( which carries over to this very day with our much expanded family ) took long walks together, had private, inside jokes, visited Borders no less than four times a week for hours at a time, worked through his fits, temper, fears, and talked endlessly about Pokemon, ninjas, night creatures, magnets and skateboarding. I delved into his interests with him, exposed him to film, music and culture that coincided with his interests, bought and read endless books, came up with fun projects for us to do. I made sure that every day held time- at least a half hour of 'floor time' as my mom suggested- that I focused on just him: no chores, no phone, just child led play. And he thrived. He was one of the best behaved, most interesting, thoughtful, charming and wonderful little person any mother could ever hope to love.

Three children and a husband later, I look back on those years with great joy and pride, and some consternation. I am not the mother to these children that I was to that one little boy. As a single mother, I devoted myself to two things: Dakota and my writing. I worked part-time, went to school at night, and kept Dakota with me at work until Kindergarten. As a mother of four, I am a wife in a marriage that at times has been very hard work, but even when our marriage is wonderful and easy for long stretches of time, it is still something that requires- of course- my attention, my devotions, my energy. I am a writer, a serious and life long goal I am also devoted to. I am a full time employee, and take Ever to work with me every day. I also have a larger home to attend to than the days of a one bedroom apartment, and two dogs, and four different children with different interests, personalities, needs and desires. And of course, the largest, most significant change as far as my energies- both spiritual and physical- go, is the addition of Ever. A baby- especially perhaps a baby who is nursing and co-sleeping- is a never ending well of need. I don't sleep through the night- ever. When Ever is teething or sick, I get woken up as many as five or six times a night. I'm exhausted. That's one thing.

I thought I understood when mothers said ' by the time you have your second child, you don't change the baby every hour ' or ' you let them eat off the floor if they're quiet '... but I didn't understand the deeper implications behind these jokes- the trade offs that you make in your ability to mother in order to have a bigger family. Or I need to say: the trade offs that I make. Another person- one who doesn't struggle with anxiety, like I do, or one with a marriage that hasn't had real rough patches, or one who doesn't struggle with endometriosis and hypothyroidism and their related issues like fatigue and migrane- perhaps that person could continue being constantly calm and thoughtful in the face of the most irritating stages of childhood, or coming up with creative solutions to problems like whining, or spending 'special time' ( as we call it ) with each child individually, daily, or continually ensuring their cultural enrichment- but I can't. I work as hard as I possibly can- I really, really do- to be the best me that I can be for my children, but really... she's still not as great as the old me.

I believe that to this day- Dakota is seventeen now- he holds a small, hurt spot in his heart because I married Mr. Curry and had more babies. He's told me You weren't the same after that, Mom, and the tone of his voice and look on his face is what made me pause to think about all this at all. Then I wonder if perhaps, that kind of devotion and focus has it's price, as well. Anne of Green Gables didn't suffer for it- but she was pretend. A made up idea of an only child. I suppose it's pointless speculation, but I'm constantly wondering now how being just good enough is affecting my children.

Our society doesn't allow for good enough, not really- with all the studies and articles and discussions constantly bombarding us with how what we were doing last night at dinnertime is going to put our kids on the therapist couch ten years from now, how we are helicoptor moms or neglectful, how we overstimulate or under challenge- it never ends.

The trade offs of a larger family unit are clear- the expanded ability to foster intimate relationships with various personalities, the shared secrets, joys, failures, the 'always have your back' of siblings, the packness that children enjoy together, the mentoring of the older ones to the littles, more love! Still, the other mother I used to be would be horrified to know though that last weekend Lola stayed up to 2am watching T.V. because I fell asleep with Ever and didn't put her to bed, or that she eats a school lunch every Friday instead of home made, or that I can't remember the last time we had a huge creative mess in the house because it's just so hard with the baby around, or that I snap at the kids sometimes for things I should be calm about, or that sometimes when I'm having alone time with one of them I can't stop fantasizing about a stiff drink, a good book and silence.

I'm always working to improve, but I think this is- for now- as good as it gets. As my Grandmother used to say, That'll have to do.

101 Ways To Smile: Spongebob on Laundry

2012-01-12T14:41:00.000-08:00

Member of A Secret Society { Wherin Breastfeeding Mothers Are Heroic and Good, and Babies are Not }

2012-01-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

Participants:

Ever Elizabeth, 1 year old.

Maggie May, 36 years older than EE.

Applicable Quote:

" Don't hate the player, hate the game "

Tools necessary for implimentation:

Milky breasts, hungry baby

Location:

All

Time:

Any

Reasoning:

Health of infant ie brain development including nervous system including emotional structure based on affected hormones

Health of mother's breast tissue ie tissue protected from hormonal aggressors during period of breastfeeding ending in smaller possibility of breast cancer ie possible protection of ovaries

Bonding between mother and child

Emotional development of infant

Because that is the way it's done in our family

( Applicable quote from my deceased Grandmother Elizabeth:

' Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer ')

Pros:

Deep abiding connection between infant and mother which delves into a primal biological satisfaction of meeting the life need of infant
Love

Also; availability, lack of cost, portable.

Health ( see 'Reasoning' )

Cons:

Availability, portability, accessibility. Destruction of all boundries during times of crisis: ie: serious teething, illness, stressors in which infant demands breast. Pressure to be totally groovy with breastfeeding at all times. Pressure to continue breastfeeding. Pressure to stop breastfeeding. Teeth. Discovery of infant, while nursing, of other breast, with pincer like fingers; the concurrent obsession of infant with pinching, as hard as humanly possible with fingers the size and shape of small, delicate baby pig sausages, the unoccupied nipple. The further discovery of said infant of the ability ( and apparent burning desire ) to pull nursing nipple outward as far as humanly possible with miniature, razor sharp teeth until a siren like wolverine howl emerges from the mother, followed by an unceremonious dumping of said infant onto floor with a stern admonishment, followed by infant not giving a shit.

Applicable Quote:

' Why does mom drink so much? '

Possible Outcomes:

Scarring

Bonding

Deepening love

Health

Savings

Weaning

Triumph of motherly stockholdings of future guilt inducing statements: ie: ' You wrecked my tits, get your damn ass in the car, NOW! '

A Fantabulous Essay In Mamalode: ' Listen '

2012-01-09T19:09:00.000-08:00

I'm so proud of Stacey at Anymommy Out There- she's my friend ( so proud of her for that great achievement :)- and a truly moving and funny bloggist who is pushing herself and her writing to new heights: her essay Listen has been published in Mamalode. Go Stacey!!

Bank Account

2012-01-07T10:40:00.000-08:00

via allons y allonzo

A Strange Time

2012-01-06T09:34:00.000-08:00

There are times when the fragility of life is so vivid that it lays on the surface of everywhere you look, trembling like a membrane in String Theory, waiting to be pressed, passed through, and revealed for the tiny and delicate place it truly has in the universe.

Ever has been so sick the last few weeks, a doctor appointment ended with asthmatic complications from a chest cold, so we began her breathing treatments. When days later that worsened, we went back and were told she had a double ear infection and sinus infection, and amoxicillan was prescribed. Wednesday, Lola was holding her outside the house when she tripped on her shoelace and they fell; Lola broke the fall the best she could ( scraped her elbow and knee ) but Ever's head hit the pavement. Thursday Ever was walking with a piece of pastel chalk gripped in each hand, so that when she fell she could not brace herself, and her face and head met the concrete with a thwack. Her forehead, skin around her eye and nose bled and scabbed up. And then last night she threw up. It's the mucus, I thought, and everyone at work agreed. But when she continued to throw up, I called the nurse line, and after discussing her various symptoms, Mr. Curry and I left Lola with Dakota around midnight and headed to the ER with Ever. The parking lot was full. The ER was full of people vomiting, moaning, sitting with masks over their faces and hands over their eyes. I kept Ever's purple heart blanket over her head, praying she wouldn't pick up anything new. After waiting- but not nearly as long as we had feared- we found that she also had a fever. The doctor wouldn't give a recommendation on the CAT scan. It could go either way, he said. But based on the fact that she has a fever, is throwing up, and the fall was X amount of hours ago, it's much more likely she's sick, isn't it? I asked. He agreed. We took her home without the CAT scan. She's lying in my arms now, recovering from an illness she's still taking medicine for, now recovering from another. She hasn't thrown up again. She's alert when awake, but sleeping, exhausted from a long night.

This season has been very rough for many. I know of three people whose children were hospitalized with pnemonia over the holiday, and an extremely stubborn and strong chest cold and stomach flu has repeatedly swept through my preschool.

Monica of The Girl Who had just moved six months ago with her family, and their house burnt down this week.

My friend Carrie has had repeated complications from her ovarian cancer surgery, and began chemo yesterday.

The strangeness of moving, the constant lack of sleep, the constant illness of everyone in my family, missing so much work, so much money, a house in disarray, a job that while including lots of joyful moments also includes eleven babies in one room, including my own, fussy and not feeling good girl, the kids various school demands and paperwork and meetings... I am barely me right now, barely here.

I am here enough to be grateful. To be aware. To feel the winds blowing and taking cover and working to strengthen my spirit, my resolve, my grit. In the car, I turn off the radio. I listen to Ever babbling and watch Lola's blonde head in the rearview. The wind and traffic rumble outside.

"To stay with that shakiness - to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge - that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic - this is the spiritual path."

~Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times

Downsized: Top Ten Reasons We Are Glad We Moved

2012-01-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

10 This neighborhood has awesome landscaping. It's a very small condo complex, gated, and inside is a little wonderland of curving, interlocking sidewalks with tons of trees and grass. Our dogs now have about ten thousand places to leave their poop, and we have a lot of grocery bags we'll be using.

9 Our internet line works. So every half hour, I won't have to turn the fan on high, unplug the cords, wait thirty seconds, replug, and reboot. I predict a lot less cursing, in general.

8 Our oven works. Hello pizzas, cakes, cookies, roast duck! Goodbye Lola's Easy Bake being the closest thing to home baked we can produce.

7 Our neighbors are nice, and there are a thousand girls here for Lola to play with. OK, seven, but still- SEVEN? On the downside, every afternoon after work there are the hoofbeats of wild herds of prepubescent girls thundering up and down and up and down our stairs.

6 We don't have to landscape. No more agonizing over the broken sprinkler system, mowing, cutting, hedging, trimming and watering. No more patchy brown grass.

5 Dakota moved back in, and said he always wanted to live here, and if he had to live anywhere in this shithole of a town, it would be here! Oh son. A ringing endorsement.

4 Our heater and air conditioner works. Less frying in the summer and freezing in the winter.

3 DISHWASHER. Less water used, cheaper water bill, and less work.

2 Hardwood floors all downstairs equal= our dream. On the downside, Lola has already slid Kevin Bacon style, in socks, and landed twice on her hip and elbow. On the upside: Swiffer!

1 Goodbye mice, ants, drafty windows, leaky roof, malfunctioning garage door, bathtub with a big hole in it that our landlords themselves came and 'fixed' with ( and I'm not kidding ) duct tape and a placemat. And all this for hundreds more a month! You can't imagine how happy we are to be here. I cried leaving, because we have raised our kids there for six years. But the tears are gone. It's a New Year, baby!!!

Downsized: Happy New Year!! We Moved!!!

2012-01-04T05:00:00.000-08:00

Everkins at our old house :)

Oh MY GOSH! I miss you guys so much. I feel weird without my blogworld, like part of my brain that is plugged in here is like Um, who turned off the lights? No Facebook, no blogging, no emails, just sick me, sick husband, sick baby, and moving moving moving. We are here! We are in the state of shock called New To The Neighborhood where our stuff is still in boxes all over the house, and we collapse in bed at the end of the night completely and totally exhausted from working full time to come home to unpacking, dinner and baths and bed. I have not french kissed my husband in weeks, people. WEEKS. This is unheard of for the Currys. I don't even want to go near our sex life. In fact, we haven't!! Get it! Get it! OK, really bad joke brought on by moving psychosis. Just now as I type this post, the fire alarm went off downstairs because Mr. Curry is attempting to bake pizzas for dinner. Who puts a fire alarm in a kitchen? We have an oven!! We haven't had an oven in two years. So Dakota is back at home, and that is awesome, he and Ian back to sharing a room (sniff) and Lola Ever Mr. Curry and myself have slept together in the master bedroom the last couple nights. The girls are sleeping much better because this house is not cold and drafty, and Ever's breathing is much better at night- I can't tell you how happy that makes me. She's on antibiotics and a steroid and breathing treatments after getting very sick last week, and doing much better. I feel really really weird. This happens to me whenever major change occurs. I get a little dissociative. It's unsettling and unpleasant but I handle it better and better as life goes on. I can't wait to finish packing and get back to your blogs and see what is happening in your worlds. We did it!!! xo

I Knew Her For 9 Years Before We Ever Met

2011-12-29T14:37:00.000-08:00

...such is the strangeness of the Land Called Internet

We traveled a while back to L.A. and stayed in a hotel to meet up with my long known but never seen friend, Maura, from APU. Her daughter Eva ( we were pregnant with Eva and Lola at the same time ) was dancing in an Irish clogging competition, and so we drove to L.A. and they flew from Denver, to meet.

Lola and Ian were awesome to Ever and incorrigible to one another. Ian relentlessly poked at Lola and Lola persistently overreacted. It was so meta.

Ever had fun, though. :)

Mr. Curry drank too much and passed out.

I drank a little. Enough for this to happen.

And here we all are at Downtown Disney, after a delicious pizza and beer meal where Maura and I finally got to catch up. It was truly magical to meet someone I've cared about for so long but never seen face to face, and Lola and Eva connected right off the bat. As we left, Eva bought a friendship bracelet and gave Lola half. Life is kind of awesome.

Sick Girls

2011-12-29T10:38:00.000-08:00

Christmas Dream

2011-12-28T05:00:00.000-08:00

This Christmas was not one I could hold in my mind. Lola says Mommy look at me, take a picture with your mind and I blink, but this was not a Christmas I could hold. It slipped by me in tumbling piles of wrapping paper, laundry, sleeping bodies, my two girls in their matching pajamas I was so excited to pick out, to order, to have them wear on Christmas and then I never took a single picture. Blink.

Ever sick, her little chest out and in and out and in like a body builder, the pediatrician, the breathing treatment, the steroid I don't think she will need it but just in case, the next day, the steroid, necessary, a modern marvel. Every night is Ever's body on top of my chest, her head turned sideways, her mouth open and on one of my naked breasts, breathing with the fever's own pulse: hothothothothothothot Lola sleeps at the end of the bed horizontally, like a faithful dog. I put my feet across her abdomen. Snuggle me, Mommy, she asks at 2am, after Ever falls asleep during her breathing treatment. I was supposed to have Lola go to her own bed, but I didn't. We all fell asleep to the Kardashians. I think of my mom You let her watch that? I lie with the baby over me and the machine in my hand, holding tubes with one hand and Ever's head with the other. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I can't, I whisper to her. I love you, I tell her. I love you too, Mommy. After Ever's treatment ends I pick up Lies Chelsea Handler Told Me and my reading light blinks off and on every odd page.

Christmas Eve we eat an early, amazing dinner at my mom's. Shrimp with sauce, gluten free noodles underneath, an amazing salad, avacado chunks, champagne, freezing cold, warm wheat bread with butter, and pie. At home we pile on the bed and watch Miracle on 24th Street. I cry. Dakota falls asleep in his room, Ian is at his moms. Mr. Curry and I stay up late wrapping and walking Ever. She breaths in raggedy humps. Momma, she says in her sleep. She loses her voice and tries to cry for me.

After all the presents were open, after Mr. Curry and I watched Rise of The Planet of The Apes, Lola and I carefully wrap up each ornament off the tree. We've been to our new place three times, we love it more each time. This is sad, Mommy, she says. I know, I say, but it's exciting too. I am so tired now that everyone speaks from a different level. I am 5D. You are 3D. I am asleep. You are awake. I am too tired to even feel guilty that I have spent Christmas week in a daze. At least we saw the lights, got hot chocolate, decorated, had a tree, I count to myself my maternal accomplishments. We sang, we listened to Christmas music in the house and the car, we shopped, we had fun. Mr. Curry is a machine of moving: he makes boxes, he talks to his dad in the important, strident way that men do when they are organizing something, he speaks louder. I want to tell him shhhh. I want to tell him a long list of things he is doing that are annoying me. I am very, very tired. Mr. Curry wakes at 5am to go to work, and sleeps alone in a child's bed because one of us has to get some sleep and he is the one. I hate him for this. I would also kill him if he tried to take my baby from me at night. He can't win. I am very, very tired.

Tomorrow I go back to work.

Friday, we move.

Lola's Musical Theatre Night

2011-12-23T11:10:00.000-08:00

Lola took a musical theatre class downtown; Grandma Mary took her every Wednesday and afterward, they grabbed a burger together. Lola's last class, all of us minus Ian came to watch her dance and to celebrate.

Ever was so thrilled during Lola's dance with her friends that she couldn't sit still- she kept squealing and dancing in my arms, until everyone watching was giggling.

They love music and dance so much!

Smile!

The burger place is right down the street, and man, they make a mean burger.

Blurry, but heartfelt, love.

Cupcakes!

We Love Grandma

2011-12-22T05:00:00.000-08:00

Downsizing: Found Our Home, Moving In January 1st!

2011-12-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

After tears, a few fights, a near miss collision, crazy laughter late nights and passive-aggressive derision, after financial ruin and verging on despair, we came close to a home- but no- not there. Day after day socked in the gut, bad credit from medical bills, we are fucked. But keeping on, keeping on, fighting the good fight, we talked and we planned and we drank heavily. { Wait, that didn't rhyme, did it. } We found ourselves an adorable three bedroom condo, for rent we could afford, and did the walk through looking casual and bored. Oh well, we tried to project, it's cool if we do or we don't get it, What liars! We sweated and planned and worked for two weeks, until finally the damn realtor stopped dragging her feet, and turned our application in to those with the say, and they said YES! Hooray! So we're moving soon to this charming 'Maine cottage' styled condo, with all wood floors downstairs, a brand new all white kitchen, beautiful white wood plantation shutters on the numerous windows, a patio, a garage, deep bathtubs and a large white wrap around porch on the front of the house, big enough to put two chairs, a small table, and a wicker basket with the girls outside toys, and everything works, and it's adorable, and across the street from our large community park where those last set of pictures took place and a block from the markets so we can walk the girls to pick up milk or whatever, and we are SO HAPPY. Oh my God, this month isn't even over yet.

I Do Believe In Conan O'Brien, I Do Believe In Conan O'Brien

2011-12-20T04:00:00.000-08:00

Old Poway Park at Christmastime!

2011-12-19T04:00:00.000-08:00

Freezing cold and with Mr. Curry and I struggling to be cheerful, { this month is kicking. our. asses }

we arrived at the Old Poway Park Christmas Celebration, jam packcd with peoples and foods.

We had hardly been there a moment when I heard Mr. Curry?! and turned to see a beautiful, beaming face that turned out to be Darcy, of 365 Degrees ! She recognized my husband first ;) who as I have mentioned in past posts, is a very sweet guy, easily approachable. It was awesome to say hi to her and meet her husband and their cutie boy, Dax. I think I look like a chipmunk in this picture, but the court says it must stay.

The Santa Claus'

Lola was a little anxious from the crowds, and Ever had this kind of stupefied, overstimulated look on her face, while Ian was relaxed the whole time- I think they all managed to have fun though.

Us. Hanging in there, together.

All of us, minus Dakota, who at 17, is slowly becoming harder to find at family events. Sob.

Lola held a thrilled Ever while they listened to the choir from Lola's school. By the time we left, after the snacks, coffee, running into friends, watching crafts and roaming, I was at 100 on the Christmas cheer meter. I'm such a HUGE Christmas dork. I love it!!

As we left the crowds, these girls held up a FREE HUGS! sign. I couldn't make a shy Lola do it, but I gave them a grin and a photo, which they giggled wildly at. Good times!

I've Got A Crush On: Leslie Mann

2011-12-17T10:05:00.000-08:00

Leslie Mann is a comedic actress and she makes me laugh my ass off in every movie she's in. She's brilliantly unique, her own wry, quietly outrageous way; black and dirty humor sneaks up on you in a pretty and sweet spoken package with a baby girl voice, until she's doing something that catches you off guard and makes you laugh out loud. Even her smaller roles are memorable, and her marriage with Judd Apatow has provided her with opportunities to work with some of the funniest scripts of the last ten years. She was wonderful in Funny People and Knocked Up, and I hope she keeps pushing until she gets her own starring role. I'll be watching.

People In Your Neighborhood: Essays

2011-12-16T04:00:00.000-08:00

{Take a Seat, For Your Reading Pleasure....}

Year Two: The Henry Granju Christmas Tree Project by Mamapundit

For Bee by Sweetney

Not a Crafty Mom by The Happiest Mom

I hit our Car With a Shovel. On Purpose. by The Girl Who

cookies! by fever

blindness isn't a tragedy _guest post at_ Rage Against the Minivan

The Working Poor: Our Numbers Increasing: 99%

2011-12-15T13:16:00.000-08:00

A big flashy study I found here tells us that the working poor are increasing, that the amount of money made by both the lower income bracket and working poor is edging toward the lowest end, and that some politicians are afraid we are going to suck the life out of 'the government' by taking money while we hang around with our large houses, big TV's and easy lives.

Let me tell you something. You can have a huge TV, two cars, and a big house and be broke as shit. Your "huge" TV can be from the dark ages and obtained free through a gift, so old that you can't sell it on Craigslist, your car can be 1. bought from relatives at a very cheap and kind price and 2. given to you through your employeer: and your large house? Can keep you scrambling to keep up, taking in roomates, letting go of many things, until finally you just can't do it anymore, and you have to move. And let me tell you something else!: Your husband could have worked his ass off, 60-80 hour weeks with labor and paperwork, building a new business, only to lose the entire thing because his workman's tax went up threefold! in the span of one month, and running his kind of business became a lost cause. And like that, your entire life- his wife, staying at home with three kids went back to work, his truck repossessed, affordable health care- changed. The numbers showing that way, way to many Americans- 62% of lower income families- are using one-third of their income for housing cost alone. Do you know how much full time infant daycare costs? Here, in California, it is around $1,100 for a center, and a few hundred less for a home daycare. And you have to be really, really poor to get government help. If you aren't poor enough, but teetering in low-income bracket, daycare will push you over the edge.

Politicians that speak about the working poor taking advantage of any help the government gives- or, as some crazy people like to call them, tax provided programs that we poor people pay into our entire lives- are so unprofessional, so embarrassing, so ignorant. Do your research. Take a class from Eleanor Roosevelt and get out there, mingle with the common man ( I know, scary, you might catch THE AIDS or THE POVERTY ) and closely observe those living a life you know nothing about. Read a few stories about how hard working Americans lose everything and keep going. Study not just statistics, but the entire ecosystem of those stats: how do the statistics relate the actual experience? What is cause, and what is effect? Who are these people?

I am the 99%.

Ever's First Birthday Party Slideshow

2011-12-13T04:00:00.000-08:00

Blue Collar Christmas Love Letter

2011-12-12T04:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Curry,

I am driving. I stop at a red light, and to my right is a Christmas tree lot, surrounded with white twinkling lights and populated with a few straggling couples and families, making shapes and measuring with their hands, cold in the December evening air. I watch their breath go in and out. The wind blows in gusts across the tops of the palms and the firs, and Christmas music plays from our local radio station " Christmas Music Around the Clock ", the tagline. The sky is silver and blue and white, and a small flock of common birds move up and down in formation over cars. We have to move, and we have little money. You lost your business years ago, and it still hurts you. It hurts you that you lost something you fought and worked so hard for, because you wanted to give it to your family, like a gift in hand. You wanted to take care of us, like all good men want to do. You want to protect our children, and I want to protect our children. We want them to have dental work, and tutors so that they can catch up in subjects that are difficult, so that they can get good grades, so that they can get scholarships and go to colleges and grow up to be able to pay for good dental work. We want them to have health insurance that doesn't break the bones of our family budget, we want them to thrive. The Kaiser ads: THRIVE. We count the four beautiful heads of our children, and each Kaiser ad that demands they thrive but omits the cost, $200. each head. We want to protect ourselves, too, from the weight and stress and fears that keep us awake at night; but we will not move our children from here, from this town, where they have the best schools and the safest neighborhoods and most importantly and significantly, Grandma and Grandpa and Grandma. Those older and kinder and doting faces of the family that loves them, that watches them in hourly timed increments from the time they are in size 2 diapers and cut their first teeth. We will, at almost any cost, find a way to stay here. Your business, my faulty hormones and three surgeries, medical debt, and choices we made and didn't make, long ago- here we are, with so little. We might argue about the cost of Christmas presents, or who will make dinner, or the lights left on, we are moving in less than a month and don't know where we are going or what will happen, we might be dancing around each other, or screaming silently, or holding our breath in separate rooms. Lola chips a tooth. As I hold her and look at your face over her sobbing, I know we are both thinking about that dental bill. We might fight about it all until each of us has torn down everything best in the other. We could, but we don't.

The sky darkens while I wait for the light to change and in the back of my mind, behind the music and the bells, and inside the shadows that fall across my swollen hands on the cold steering wheel, I hear Ever's cry. She is with my mom, but I can hear her, miles away. I'm coming, I think.

And that's it. That's all, I just think this one thought, and I am filled with joy. It hits me with a force as palpable as your hands raising Lola higher, higher, higher to see Santa walking the line last night, that I am blessed beyond all measure, that I am in fact, filled with abundance. You and I, honey, are always there for our children, and they know in their filament and molecule, that they are safe, and loved inside our family. Abudance. Our children are with us. they are safe, they are healthy, they believe in our eventual ability to solve all problems, even the older ones!- and the more we rise to the occasion, every time we find a way, every time we love gracefully, every apology, every moment that could have been lost but is instead embraced, we become stronger, and more of a pack. Our pack is together. This is the meaning of the holidays. We say words that are gold emellishments on greeting cards we send other people and we forget their absolute integrity, power and truth. Peace and love are not a greeting card, or a present, or a diamond ring, or even, my sweetheart, a big house in the suburbs.

Peace and love are our two daughters watching Christmas carolers last night, in the park of our town, surrounded by other families, cold faces and hands, coffee, hot chocolate, lights, lights, and music. Peace and love are the two, three, no four times we ran into people we know and care for who care for us, and greeted with smiles and hugs. Peace and love are Ever's face watching Santa for the very first time. Peace and love is our family all together Friday night, stuffed onto couches, watching a movie and laughing and then crying and then laughing because we are all crying. Peace and love is the tickle war between our kids that ended with a chipped tooth. Peace and love is your body on mine our couch late last night, next to the Christmas tree, after rum and eggnog, while our girls slept. It is Lola's faith You and Daddy always make everything good, it Dakota's choice to be with us, at 17, on a Saturday night instead of with friends, it is our family bed, it is our inside jokes about poop ( Lola calls them butt guts! ) and the tender words we all write on cards for birthdays. It is our family chore day, it is our constant refrain to be kind, to be honest even- especially- when it's hard, to think of the group and not just yourself, to give, to pray even if maybe faith is short or prayers feel silly, it is the small- Lola's love notes for us- and the large- Ian's special birthday present to you. It is you working Saturdays for extra money, and me giving up new clothes so Lola can have a Girl Scout trip. Nothing can ever, ever duplicate, replicate or equal the importance and meaning of our family and how we choose to live our life. We can go anywhere, we can live anywhere, but we cannot love like this with anyone. It is us, it is you, and your strength over the years, your steady work, work- you work harder than any man I've ever known- your dedication to us, you pushing yourself beyond personal limitations and making new of yourself.

We have everything we need or could want to be joyful this Christmas. We will stress, we will worry, we will fret, but we will not feel lack. So darling, for Christmas, I want to give you the safe and sheltered feeling you have given to me, when I had surgery, when I was afraid of flying, when I struggled to sleep, when I mourned my Grandmother, when I feared for our eldest, when I doubted myself. I give it all back to you now, when you need it. Everything irreplacable is here. Christmas is you picking up our daughter's from my Mom, and Ever's jubilant jump into my arms to nurse, and Lola's long scarf tangled around you as you hug. Christmas is Dakota's long lanky arms hugging us, Ian's tucked head grin while we laugh, it is our stupid dogs, barking. I love you. I love you.

Merry Christmas, Baby,

Mrs. Curry

magical distractions Christmas hair

2011-12-11T12:30:00.001-08:00

via allons y allon-z

warrior spirit

2011-12-10T10:23:00.001-08:00

We are moving by January 1st.

We still don't have a place locked down.

Shit?

We can do this!

It will be great in the end.

Lola chipped a tooth last night.

Her front, adult tooth.

A big chip.

Shit!

She was wrestling with Ian.

Ian felt horrible.

Chip.

Grow Up, America

2011-12-08T04:00:00.000-08:00

If Alec Baldwin can't get by on Sex and Awesomeness, then what is left for the rest of us Shmendreks to hope for? I wouldn't kick him off a plane. For playing a rip off Scrabble game on an Iphone? I'd pat his thick thighs beamingly and ask him if he wants a vodka, stiff. It's Christmas ladies and gentleman, anyway- It's the Christmas season, fine. same/same Either way, we should all lighten up. Light our menorahs, loosen our tightened, penny pinching grimaces that brighten into painful half smiles when we are being viewed. We need to live like adults, real adults, back when adults knew how to be properly adult: Drink, Screw, Entertain, Work, Family, Sleep. Repeat. We need more sex, more drinking, more sleeping, more loud sweaty working, more loud and obnoxious gatherings of people we aren't sure we really like until we're all drunk, checking on the sleeping kids down the hall nights! Grow up America; have some booze and sex already. Think Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Parker Posey. Think A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. Think True Grit. Wrap gifts from the dime store in brown paper and string. Belch during Church. Play Christmas music. Play jazz, old swing, the blues. Unfold the Sunday paper and look through with your kids. Drink hot chocolate. Drink coffee. Curse. Give away the ten dollars in your wallet you were going to buy lunch with, and eat a sandwich. Invite your cranky neighbor over for coffee. Carol. Make an enormous breakfast and eat it with everybody while you watch cartoons. Stay up late making love and then shout at the kids to be quiet already while you try- and fail- to sleep in. Moan the state of the country over the paper and then cry with your hand over your heart while you sing God Bless America. Watch a sport. Play a sport, and spit, profusely. Hit your kid with a water balloon. Bring your elderly neighbors home made cakes. Bitch about your boss and your job, make circles with your thumb and thank God for your boss, your job. Wear belts, suits, dresses, heels, ties, and hair gel. Wake up and face the day. Pretend you are the one in charge, then hide and smoke a cigarette. ( you quit years ago! ) Break something and throw it away. Tell no one. Slap your significant other on the ass. Stop paying someone to mow the lawn and mow it yourself. Give toys to needy kids. Tell your kids to expect less and give more. Give money every time there is a box asking for it. Read grave, important news and pray, even though you don't really believe in praying and in fact, tell everyone you never pray. Spend time with your family, all of them, even the crazy ones, even if the crazy ones are your only family. Wear clean underwear. Brush your teeth twice a day. Swish with vodka, count it. Repent. Water things that need watering. Cook. Get a signature swear word. Wear cologne, perfume. Be gracious in defeat, humble in victory. Except for video games, then scream, either way. Play checkers. Drink while you play checkers. Have sex four nights in a row. The last night, get really drunk and cry when you orgasm. Tell your partner a secret, and watch it absorb into his skin and become part of the ties that bond. Watch his face transform, feel a love so powerful you close your eyes. Wake the next day and brush your hair. Scoot your kids around playfully. Smile. You have a secret. You are an adult.

Grow up.

The True Knot: The Birth Of Ever Elizabeth

2011-12-05T04:00:00.000-08:00

One year ago, almost to the day, on December 2cd, 2010, Ever Elizabeth Ethridge Curry was brought into this world via C-Section. Do you all remember how she had been turning, and turning...and turning? My doctor said she had never seen a baby flip like that, right up to the actual moment of her birth. Our other children were born vaginally, and Lola, our last birthing, came into this world completely naturally, in a tub, in a simple bedroom after a hard but relatively short labor. Ever wasn't having it. She turned like a ballerina, and turned like a water baby, and turned like she was determined to find a new way out, until finally our doctor gave up trying to decide what position this little girl would end up in, and scheduled a C-Section. I was overdue the date of her C-Section, enormous and swollen to 184 pounds of water, blood and baby. My anesthesiologist wore gold chains around his neck and had a bristle mustache that moved vigorously when he talked. Your husband can be there, he said. You'll be fine. So Mr. Curry was there while the needle pierced through my tattoo into my spine, and my body went numb from breast to toe. While the cut, Mr. Curry told me memories of our life together. I cried a little, panicked some, breathed, breathed, breathed. Feeling numb while bringing a baby into the world was completely contradictory to every experience I'd ever had or come to expect of childbirth, and it's still not something I'm happy about, but as it turns out, it was a miracle.

I felt the great tugging, tugging, tugging, as they yanked her gently from my womb, and then waited, holding my breath, until I heard her cry- a cry I can recall with clarity and joy to this day. She sounded like an angry kitten, a scratchy, beautiful calling out that brought tears to my eyes. I kept my head up and called for her as Mr. Curry talked to her while he cut the cord, while she was weighed, and bundled, until finally, finally, they placed her next to me, and I could kiss her face, her tiny, perfect, adored face. I think the pictures tell it all.

Mr. Curry kept his head next to mine and hers, as we all kissed each other repeatedly through tears of joy. After a moment, he kissed my cheek. Maggie, I want to tell you something, he said. The tone in his voice alarmed and confused me. How could there be any concerns? Here she was, safe and healthy in our arms! It turns out, he went on, that Ever had a knot in her cord. And the knot she had is actually rare, it's called a True Knot, because instead of a kink in the umbilical cord, or a loose gathering, she had an actual sailor's knot, tied up tight. Do you want to see?

Look at it! A true knot! All that turning that Ever did, all that ballet, led to this amazing creation in my- our- umbilical cord. According to the nurses, it was a blessing that we had the C-Section, because labor, especially with my scar tissue ( from surgeries for Endometriosis ) would have been dangerous for Ever, and most likely would have ended in an emergency C-Section. When deciding if we should OK a C-Section, I kept coming back to one thing the doctor had mentioned during a checkup. Sometimes it seems the baby keeps turning because something is wrong, and they know it, she said. But who knows? Maybe this baby knows, I thought. Maybe she's trying to tell us, and we're not listening. I'm so glad I heeded that voice- her voice.

She was brought into the world safe and sound, and her Daddy could hold her and kiss her face.

I began nursing her immediately, and she latched on like a champ- a champ who needed a little help, but still, a champ. I wish I had known that C-Section moms often have a delay in their milk let down, because mine didn't really come in for three days! I was starting to worry about my ability to nurse Ever, when really, I just had to keep nursing and send those signals to my body, and sure enough, the milk came in.

I felt dazed and already a bit anxious, the beginning of a long ordeal of post partum anxiety for me, but I could feel still the world shifting in my cells, the way it does when we fall in love with our children.

This is one of my favorite pictures of the entire day, because it captures the exact first moment the kids walked in and saw their baby sister for the first time.

Lola was immediately terrified ( by me, swollen and dazed ) and completely in love ( with Ever, tiny and perfect )

Dakota was soft voiced and tender handed. Later he said he was surprised how emotional it was for him.

Ian surprised me most with the depth of his tenderness. He is so, so attentive and loving with Ever.

Suddenly, we had FOUR KIDS!!!

My mom and her second granddaughter. Ever's middle name- Elizabeth- is after my Grandmother, my mom's mom. We miss her so much.

My mom teaching Lola how to hold Ever. My mom took care of the kids while I was in the hospital, which meant lots of really good food and presents! We waited so long for Ever. We went through so much, including the loss of a baby at 13 weeks that we still all mention, love, and think about. Ever truly completes our family. Happy Birthday, baby girl!!!!

night sky

2011-12-04T14:39:00.001-08:00

via into the surreal

worst case scenario

2011-11-29T18:38:00.001-08:00

Lola leans into me in bed, her blonde head shining in the T.V. light. Mom, can you cuddle me yet? I look at Ever, mouth still and open ovaled against my breast. I nod yes and slide Ever free with my pointer finger inside the corner of her lips. She sleeps with her arms above her head, mouth open, milk across the side of her face like time lines across the globe. Mr. Curry leans over us, warm masculine smell and bristling chin. He puts his hand down the cover, up under my shirt, cups my breast. We look at each other in silence. Lola turns over and sighs. Romantic, guys. Mr. Curry runs his fingers free and up out of the covers. I was squeezing your mom's belly, he says in a silly, sing song voice, because I love it. Lola groans; I can see her smiling while she spins a catch of hair between her fingers. I rest my hands against Mr. Curry's back, feel the thick ropes of muscle run from his neck to his ass. His back makes me feel safe. He makes me feel safe. I think of Dakota, and Mr. Curry and I talking about him last night, I imagine Lola remembering us during these years sometime as an adult " My parents were always talking in private, in hushed, worried tones " I imagine her listening to us, ear against wall, like I did with my parents as a child. I wanted the details, the particulars, especially with the fights, until I was older, and suddenly I wanted to know nothing, to un-know. I picture Dakota's face, his beautiful, intelligent eyes, and I am suddenly hit with an adrenaline sickness, a rush of fear, a free falling of thoughts and past and phrases from books and images from documentaries all falling together in a horrible tangle of leg and arm and I wish so badly, my arms actually ache, I wish..... I see Dakota's curly head at six years old, and his face now, and I feel that my arms, legs, my head are cold and prickling, my mouth is numb around the edges, my heart is skipping, a strange current of warmth is running through my arms. Mr. Curry turns to me. Hey, what's wrong? I shrug, gesture toward Lola. He kisses me on the forehead. Everything I can do, I will, I tell myself. Everything I can. Let go. Let go. I breathe and repeat and search for whatever infinite or finite knowing I have kept inside of me. The fear ebbs from me into the large bed of my family and their beautiful spirits, and I am for that one moment, letting go.

'If you live in fear of the worst case scenario and then it actually happens, you've lived through it twice.' -Michael J Fox

things people will recommend you blog about

2011-11-29T04:00:00.000-08:00

Why don't you put up that really weird 30 Rock clip?

Lots of pictures of me where I tell a story about me?

Those goat shoes?

How awesome of a lover I am? ( Haghamm. Hmmm. Hm. )

Kevin Smith's new reality TV show Secret Stash?

The history of Santa Claus?

Why grandparents are the most important members of society?

Pictures of candy? ( ? )

i thought about you all the way to Target ( so much better than thinking about my haircut )

2011-11-26T15:18:00.001-08:00

and all the way back home

last night i cried and felt guilty about crying

because i don't have cancer ( that i know of ) and our kids are healthy and we are together

and so really, there isn't any excuse to be crying over hair.

i'm just so tired of people being shitty.

the lady who cut my hair? she was shitty. she talked ( read: lectured ) to me the entire time she cut my hair about how long hair really just doesn't work when you are a mom. she tried to get out of shampooing my hair. she got out of blowdrying it. and she cut, instead of the 2 inches I asked- and showed her with my fingers at her request- I'd say about 5 inches of my hair off. All the golden blonde at the end is gone. And then she charged me out the ass for what took her not 15 minutes to do.

And I"m the idiot. I tipped her.

I kept thinking about her kids, and how she said she couldn't afford to visit them, and how she was probably angry at me for walking in beaming and happy with my baby and husband when she was divorced and alone during the holidays. I think she wanted to cut me down a size. So she cut me down about 5 inches.

it's just HAIR, Maggie. i know! but-but- my hair is the one thing I can depend on to make me feel pretty. i'm underslept and haggard looking, i don't have time for makeup right now, i don't have hardly any clothes that are cute and fit me, and my hair is the thing that I would use when I felt like a sloppy tired looking mess: Oh well! At least I love my hair!

it's not a 'big' deal. it feels like one to me, because it's the one more thing.

i've had a few rough experiences lately with grumpy, unhappy people who don't know how to sit at the grown up table and talk politely when they disagree. i'm tired of raised, angry voices and sharp, dented faces.

sometimes the world feels so unfriendly and lonely.

thank God for you.

Iconic

2011-11-25T12:21:00.001-08:00

andbaman

a beautiful mind

2011-11-24T12:51:00.001-08:00

by Matthew Kavan Brooks

Lola, Ever & Mommy

2011-11-23T13:51:00.001-08:00

I've Got A Crush On Demi Lavato and Selena Gomez

2011-11-22T04:00:00.000-08:00

Because they've both made my Lola smile so big, so often.

Because they are living the dream.

Because Demi Lavato got help when she needed it, and then went public with her Bipolar diagnosis = COURAGE

Because they both can act and sing and work hard to earn what they have.

Because they are adorable!

Because Demi has said that Selena was the first friend to call her in the institution she went to for help, and one of her only celebrity friends to do so at all.

Because we love Demi's voice and Selena's show. Rock on girls!

A Few Things Off My Back

2011-11-19T11:00:00.001-08:00

1 When you speak to me, be sure to turn away and walk out of the room, or I won't know you are talking to me. My family has trained me. I no longer respond to directly facing, eye contacting communication. Also, please turn with an annoyed look on your face when I ask you to repeat what you were saying, because I couldn't hear you, maybe because you were IN THE OTHER ROOM WITH YOUR BACK TO ME.

2. It doesn't matter if socks match during winter. Abandon caring, planning, trying, sorting, caring, because you won't find more than one pair of socks that match. Let go. You're wearing pants. Jeans! Let go. No one knows. Except for all of you people. And you're my people anyway, so you don't care either. Where are the socks? Why aren't they in the sock & underwear drawer? Who keeps socks there! That's so 2010! All socks are to directly report to the baby's crib.

3. Stop arguing over the television. Lola, Ian, I'm talking to you. STOP.

4. Mr. Curry, I appreciate that you were trying to feed our baby when she was hungry and fussing. If you could attempt next time to take off her brand new adorable jacket she was supposed to wear today on our trip to LA, that would be great. Even greater, don't hand the squirty pouch of food to our nine year old daughter to feed our 11 month old daughter who promptly turned to our 11 month old daughter and said Here! and let her take it and feed. herself.

5. OK that's it. The TV is off. Now no one gets to watch it! And, added bonus, I sound just like my mom! ( ps This is the real reason most people have like ten televisions. I'm on to you. )

6. Ever, have you ever heard the phrase Don't Bit The Boob That Feeds You? No. No you haven't.

7. I never knew the keyboard was meant to be a drink holder! Thanks Ian and Lola! I can't believe how much better our computer works now that it has baby tangerine juice, Root Beer and some unidentified veal colored substance stuck between the keys! Who uses a capital z anyway!

8. On that note, cribs are not meant for babies. Cribs are sold for babies, but meant for socks, old Halloween decorations, an empty oversized bag of chocolate covered pretzels, a giant rainbow colored Hello Kitty doll, teenage boy deodorant ( meant to seduce girls, assuming you can get them close enough to smell your armpits ) wooden blocks, one earring, Pet Shop toys and a really, really, really used nursing bra.

9. Sex is also so 2010, according to Lola and Ever. One whines, sulks and exhibits Freudian behaviors when Mr. Curry gets within a one foot radius of me, and the other wakes suddenly in a start, wild eyed with apparent shock and fear that mom and dad were going to TOUCH. O. M. G.

I'm convinced this is some kind of biological protective measure that children exhibit to prevent further competition in the family unit.

10. If I'm relaxed for longer than one minute, something extremely loud and incredibly close will happen. On like donkey kong. So far I've only been relaxed longer than one minute twice, but both times, there were immediate consequences. Constant vigilance!

Lola you know how you keep repeating, in a high high voice like a balloon letting out air, that Ian or Dakota is doing this just to annoy me? I know just how you feel.

Bad Baby

2011-11-16T04:00:00.000-08:00

Just because you say Mama and it sounds like banana? Doesn't mean you can do whatever you want...

...at least not all the time

Ever don't eat that mum-mum off the floor! Oh well. Eat it.

Ever....

I hope you aren't going to....

Dig the dirt out of the pot!

Oh dear.

You think you're hard. Just because we nicknamed you Biggie Pea.

You know you aren't allowed to climb in the fridge Ever Elizabeth!

Where is Ever? Ever!? Ever? ..............

Oh THERE she is.

Mommy and Daddy won't let me!

Grandma and Dakota will let me!

The dogs will let me too.

( BTW I have your keys Grandma. Sorry! )

Luke Lipscomb

2011-11-15T04:00:00.000-08:00

Today Luke died. I didn't know him, I never met him, but my heart is breaking for the loss of his beautiful young life and for his parents. His parents. His parents. Our Dakota moved from Rancho Bernardo High to Poway High with Luke; they were casual friends but friends And today, Luke died. The day before today, he turned 17.

Dakota is 17. All of you parents know that without wanting it to be so, without meaning to, when a child dies who is the same age as one of your children, you feel it differently, a slight shift in the plunge of empathy and you are caught a little deeper off guard, a little closer to the vortex, the unimaginable vortex of losing a child.

17 year old boys are light, but light's movement- they are light moving through the world, they are at once energy's greatest release and the longest sleep of weekend days. 17 year old boys are arrogant, prideful and still the tenderhearted little boys of seven years ago. Seven years ago they were ten. 17 year old boys are brightness of mind and quickness of tongue at the same time they are stumble mouthed, they are beautiful youth, Adonis, they are working tendons and lean armpits filled with hair that still feels new, they are sexual charges and random bursts of rage, they are catapults for joy and creative forces. 17 year old boys are long striding runs through back alleys and jumps on skateboards through parking lots, 17 year old boys are climbing fences and driving cars. 17 year old boys are brilliant smiles and sweaty shirts and stink pit rooms and guzzling water and slamming heads to music and shouts, shouts, and 17 year old boys are the promise of tomorrow, they are just begun.

How can what just begun be ended?

I know it is not a new question. But it boggles my mind the same. How can a light so bright as the one from a young man's smile be extinguished forever because of one stupid night? However long I live, I don't expect to ever get used to the random nature of life and death. It is heartbreaking.

My son is sad tonight. I am sad tonight. Luke Lipscomb, I'm so sorry you lost your life sweet boy.
I am praying hard for you and your family now.

EDITED

Etsy Christmas Gift Guide for Babies, Toddlers and Young Children

2011-11-14T04:00:00.000-08:00

This is amazing! Vintage Japanese wooden block set.

Hand made vintage style wooden block shopping set from 1950's ads

Gracious May shoes are always on my favorites list

I ordered a wooden baby spoon for Ever from here a while back, and they make these teethers

These pillows are all adorable, from the mustached toast to this pink cassette player

I love this wooden puzzle set, which can be used in so many ways, including stacking in a pyramid

This is such a beautiful mobile

Waldorf toys, mushroom counting and sorting

This post is created simply for my own amusement and blog, I'm getting nothing from it but my own satisfaction! :)

Stationery card

2011-11-13T13:05:00.001-08:00

Retro Reindeer Christmas Card

Shutterfly Christmas cards.

View the entire collection of cards.

Undercurrents

2011-11-11T10:49:00.000-08:00

Suddenly it's been 11 months since I had this baby girl and I treasure every moment with her at the exact same time as I'm barely here, barely in this body, just floating around doing my job, dressing children, making dinner, cleaning, laughing, showering, whatever I'm doing has a vague sense of unreality about it. This is dissociation, by the books, and it's unpleasant and slightly terrifying, like hanging off the edge of the rope one minute longer, looking down, gauging if it really is safe to jump. This is the crux of daydreaming about sex with my husband. It's the only time I feel real. Here is a hand, on my ribs. Here is his mouth. Here is his breath. I look at him and I see simultaneously the face of my youth at nineteen, the face of adulthood, the face of my future in the glint of greying hair in his beard, along the hairline.

I feel incredibly blessed to have this line down the rabbit hole; to have this safety net, at the same time I know there is something dangerous about it, something unhealthy. When I was alone I found my own strengths cleaner, closer to the surface. It's harder to discipline myself when I can put my head against his chest and find the centre.

I am weak for months and months, years really, after the birth of a baby. I have never been able to do a momentous life transition without completely gutting myself, inside out, examined, shaken in the wind, refitted. I lose myself. Around the second year after, I begin to resurface. Everything stirring so deeply in my subconscious comes to the surface shining, clean, silver and blue sterling, strong as oxen steel, and it's like I was standing in the room surrounded by you all and dying of lack of air and suddenly my hand finds the window and slams it open and with a great gasp I am Breathing Again.

Meanwhile my husband has never been so strong, so sexy, so manly, so loving, so in his skin. The prime of his life has begun, and the strength of his arms as he swings our children or a piece of furniture is a mirror of the strength inside of him: the patience with Lola, the endless inventive intuitiveness with Ever, the sober steadiness with the boys. He is thick and healthy with manual labor, at ease with anyone he meets, the calm and assured look on his face and in his body language draws perfect strangers to strike up conversations with him. I stand next to him, ill at ease, nothing to say, sleep deprived and wonky, but safe, and knowing he will wait for me, to come back.

So much is unsure, so much is not the way we want it, so much is scary and yet so much is full, abundant. With Ever our family was completed, and that feeling is incredible, for Mr. Curry and myself, as we are both painfully aware of how precious and random it is to have this, how we did nothing to deserve or not deserve this, however here it is, what we wanted, and we are never unaware. Our family, the six of us- it is the undercurrent that carries our life.

Remember Punky Brewster?

2011-11-10T19:08:00.001-08:00

She's all grown up, with kids and a book and a website: and I'm a guest blogger today!

Check me out at moonfrye

My Friend Carrie Brown

2011-11-08T21:34:00.000-08:00

Carrie has been my friend since 2002 when I met here online at APU. I've talked about APU here before, and Carrie was one of the first girls I chatted with there. Over the years we've talked about everything from mental illness, birthing, parenting and tattoos. She's a single mom to Gabriel, and I had the pleasure of finally meeting her in person a few years ago when her and Gabriel came to SD and our home. We hung out, we barbecued, we finally hugged! Carrie and Gabriel had a close, simpatico connection that I recognized from my days of single parenting Dakota. Carrie is 41. And last week, Carrie was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian fucking cancer.

Tomorrow, Carrie goes into surgery for this beast. If it goes as well as it can go, she can start chemo in four weeks. If you have a spare moment, can you please say a prayer for Carrie Brown's physical and spiritual strength and healing? Thank you.

ps What Carrie wants is for every woman to be familiar with the symptoms of onset ovarian cancer. If you are experiencing constant need to urinate, digestive problems and unexplained weight gain, please consider requesting a simple ultrasound. My ultrasound years ago led to the detection of a 6 cm. cyst on my left ovary, originally concerned to be ovarian cancer, and luckily for me, turned out to be endometrioma instead- still surgery required, but nothing life threatening. Carrie wasn't so lucky, but I know she has the gumption, energy and resources to beat this thing down. We love you Carrie <3

Lola's Lunches: Kid Lunches Bento Style

2011-11-08T04:00:00.000-08:00

I wanted to make Lola's lunches easier on the environment this year, having massive guilt attacks every time I unsealed the millionth plastic bag to stuff in pretzels and gummy peanut butter celery. I found these lunch boxes here at goodbyn, and they've been great. Lola loves hers because it's cute and she got to decorate it with the stickers that come with purchase, and I love it because it makes making her lunches more fun AND is better for the Earth. Ever loves them because they are her sisters. Inside: Penguin shaped sandwich, tangelos, chocolate covered pretzels, almonds, carrots and flavored water

Downsizing: Green Lighted & Pinterest-ed

2011-11-07T10:37:00.000-08:00

@ Dwell

We decided that we are definitely moving. After a family meeting in which everyone was ( surprisingly ) positive about the idea, Mr. Curry and I began making small motions forward. We participated in a block yard sale and got rid of four pieces of furniture and other smaller odds and ends. Mr. Curry made plans with Grandpa Curry for a dump run next weekend, ridding the house and backyard of even more excess, and I'm going to have Lola go through all her clothing and toys soon- which we usually do before Christmas anyhow. There is no exact move date because saving for a downpayment and first month's rent is daunting.

We haven't decided firmly on two or three bedrooms, although deep down I can't see us doing two bedrooms right now. If it were just a little further down the road- the boys would be say, 19 and 17- then yes, but right now, probably not. If we moved in a two bedroom we'd be moving again within a year, and I don't feel up to that. We are definitely doing either a small house or a condo, not an apartment. I am gravitating toward a three bedroom condo. The idea of not being responsible at all for a house is really exciting after so many years of renting a house, I'd be thrilled to have a gym ( so would Dakota and Mr. Curry ) and the whole family would use a pool all summer long. Not having to do any upkeep on a home and yard is exactly the direction I want to move us in: more about living, traveling, being out in the world, experiencing things as a family, and less about fussing over a home. Much less space equals much less house to clean which equals way more free time. I get giddy thinking about it! Added benefits are having our water and trash paid for, saving us even more money. There are charming three bedroom condos five minutes from where we live now, with wood floors, and I keep imagining the Woody Allen stuffed with books kind of space I could put together.

I made a Pro and Con list and the Pros are fat and blessed, so it's an easy decision, despite the few lingering doubts or challenges. Finding a place with our dogs? Hard. Giving up our master bedroom, my favorite room I've ever had, painted the just right color of blue with our beautiful fluffy bed and armoire and TV and...? Hard. Giving up our neighborhood? Really hard. But giving up an Internet connection that goes OFF every fifteen minutes or half hour due to old, old lines under the house that our landlord won't replace? Easy. Giving up a huge yard that we cannot keep up with and is dead because our sprinklers don't work and our landlord didn't want to replace them? Easy. Giving up our water bill, trash bill and large house cleaning weekends? Easy.

I'm on Pinterest, ( like everyone else on there, obsessed ) and it's really nice to have a specific place to put all my ideas for our new home. I started a board called Downsized: Our New Home and all the images of small space living I find and love are placed there.

This Is Halloween!

2011-11-04T04:00:00.000-07:00


I am totally and completely gobsmack in love with this here baby pig.

She's just as cute upside down

Every year in October Lola begins to have some generalized anxiety. Around Halloween it attaches itself to the thing of Halloween: the spooks, haunted houses, bloody faces, things that go boo in the dark. Every year we dutifully take her to her Boogie Bash as school, and every year she trembles and quakes and can't make herself enter the Haunted House. A few days later, Ever year on Hallows Eve, she cries and says she's not doing it. Not trick or treating. Not going! And every year we listen and nod as we help her into her costume, cajole and get stern, love and reassure. And every year she gets better at understanding anxiety as a creature outside of herself. Not who she is or what she thinks, just a thing that happens to her that she has to work with and around. And this year she did the best of all, marching happily and proudly around our extremely busy and decorated blocks, with people around fires in front of home and bright orange and purple lights and spooks and decor. It was awesome. I am so proud of my girl.

Here we are, getting ready to leave. Dakota is seventeen. Seventeen! Sob. Look at my beautiful boy. I kiss his face just like he was still my baby. (he's still my baby. shhhh)

And with Ian's arrival, we were all together, as it should be. Grandma Mary comes every year and takes photos. Ian was so terribly sweet with his sisters. He held Ever for a few houses, and gave Lola a truly enthusiastic hug. Dakota too. It's the most deeply satisfying feeling I know, to see my children happy together.

The candy! Oh the Princess and the Pig were so happy

( the pig had no candy, sadly. she had nursies that probably tasted like candy, though! )

Even the dogs like candy. Bodie came over to lick some chocolate. Lola, Ever and I headed into bed to watch Dancing With the Stars Halloween style and Mr. Curry finished the recorded football game with our very frustrating Chargers. Yay Halloween!

nine years { scenes from a marriage }

2011-11-02T22:30:00.001-07:00

(you were the boy with the Nova
i was a writer. a teenage girl. i saw
a story in your enormous brown eyes
and with the prescience of authors,
knew that i would be part of it.
my best friend. three words that
remind me less of Pablo and Frieda,
more of Anne and Gilbert.
i always wanted to be Anne.)

you are my open door,
my plot line, my writing device,
the slender thread around my wrist
reminding me of the true religion.
you are my own possible heartbreak,
my wildest sex, the arbiter of life's trades.
you are my ride to the ER,
the name the nurse leaned in to hear
when I awoke from surgery.
you are my champion.
you are the capable hands of fatherhood,
the protector, guidance, alliance.
you are the den in the hillside of grief.
you are the under me of underneath,
the mate i meet in the woods.
you are the face of the stranger
i thought i knew, and meet and meet again.
and still (you are the closest I've ever been.)
you are drunken fucks, racaous laughter,
adult conversation, political debate, Irish lust,
you are the eyes that keep me from across the room.
you are the warm mouth of intimacy,
the cradling arms of safety
you are the great lion of loyalty.
you are my slow river and my safest shore
darling you are the one i built the treehouse for,
the one i waited for (the beach, white dress.)
you are the infuriating, adoring, adored.
the best. the best. the best.

Happy Anniversary my sweetheart
yours forever KOHM

I've Got A Crush On: Joan Didion

2011-11-01T19:03:00.000-07:00

I had a slim novel of hers on my shelf for years, something I had picked up because I had marked her as a writer I needed to read. I would leaf through the pages, the sparse writing, finding a dryness that I could not understand or embrace. I love writing enough to know that what a person cannot understand or love about a piece of work can, later- sometimes much later- turn into the very things that we value most, so the novel stayed in its place.

Years later, I read The Year of Magical Thinking. This is Mrs. Didion's horrifying- it is, to me- true life story of the death first her beloved best friend, writing partner and husband of a million years to a heart attack, followed by the sepsis induced, months long hospital ordeal death of her 39 year old daughter Quintanna Roo. In short and merciless order she loses her entire family. The Year of Magical Thinking is written from two exceedingly important points of view not typically brought together for the creation of a book: that of an experienced and deeply talented writer, and that of the in complete flux mind of a person in the trenches of shock and grief. The fact that Mrs. Didion wrote this memoir in bits and pieces and then later, as a whole, during the worst of her grief is important to the final story. The words and sentences on the page are transmitting from the jaws of the dog straight to our reading experience, letting us in on the repetition, delusions, warps of time, denial and teetering horror that is a person in the grips of shock and severe grief. These merge together into a piece of experience expressed so finely, so cleanly and dispassionately, that I was at once completely fascinated and totally in awe.

Of course I went back and read Mrs. Didion's novel on my shelf, and have sense read much more by her. She now has a work out chronicling her daughter's life and loss, written up here in the New York Times. I plan on reading as soon as possible, and look forward to more work from Mrs. Didion. Her life has been fascinating, including a long, loving and productive marriage to the writer John Dunne, screenplays written and movies made, travel, relationships with fascinating writers, actors, politicians, political reporting- Mrs. Didion has lived large. I hope she is finding some safe place in this world without them.

I Want To Be The One To Walk In The Sun

2011-10-31T04:00:00.000-07:00

Kinky { Scenes From A Marriage }

2011-10-28T04:00:00.000-07:00

We are eating big, dripping burritos filled with the meat of an animal and tangy tomatoes. The baby is pointing her finger with one hand and raising flat, palm up with the other. We look to see where she is pointing, what she is asking. We speak her language. Her sister comes in and pulls the baby to the floor, giggling. Mr. Curry puts his hand on my waist, spreads his fingers, cigar like in their width, thickened by years of manual labor. A slender and vulnerable thread of desire runs the left side of my body. He puts his mouth close to my ear Let's go in the bedroom. He leaves first, then I, and next door to our older daughter and baby we do the kinkiest things we've done in two years- two years long enough for me to get pregnant, have a baby and bring her to the end of her 10th month. Later that week I arrive home and when I want to argue with him about some issue with the kids I suddenly remember us in the room and I no longer care about my argument, I only care about that intimacy. That closeness. That safety net underneath the entire rest of the fucked up world: mean old ladies in Starbucks, child molesters, crazy making co-workers, old family pain, new family pains, broken down cars, industrial parks at twilight, the eyes of teenage boys with broken spirits, the eyes of teenage girls with broken hearts, babies who cry and cry alone in the dark hours, friends who only kind of care, friends who care but only to a point, acquaintances who don't, old apartments with orange carpets soaked with tears. His body, face and gaze, the vulnerability of sex, the human creature, the time together we steal.

10 Things I Love About My Mommy ( Guest Post by Lola Moon )

2011-10-26T04:00:00.000-07:00

Number One My mommy is funny. And random.

Number Two My mom laughs at all my jokes even if they aren't funny.

Number Three She is loving supporting and always there for me.

Number Four She's very helpful. She helps with homework and dealing with my life.

Number Five My mom is really trendy. ( I am? ) I borrow her shirts.

Number Six Mommy doesn't pressure me into doing things. She doesn't pressure me on tests just supports me and tells me to work hard and relax.

Number Seven She's very creative. Like the games we play, like making up a row row boat game where we hold hands and press our feet together and go back and forth and sing Row Row Your Boat.

Number Eight She is an AWESOME WRITER. ( emphasis hers! )She's good at making poems too.

Number Nine She always makes time for me.

Number Ten She tells me all the time she loves me more than anything in the world.

Bates Nut Farm, California

2011-10-24T04:00:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Bates Nut Farm, 1,000,000 degrees

Ancient Chinese Beard of Cotton Candy

Ever waved her little hand off at all the animals

This guy had a crush on me. His Flock Of Seagulls hair had me on my knees.

Did I mention it was a bagillion degrees? Lacking a back up outfit, we slathered ee in sunscreen and took half her outfit off. I felt so bad for all the children in big hot furry costumes.

Lola did spin art and made a frisbee

The key to getting good family photos: Ask a flamingly gay man to take them.

Ever's little witchy hair clip sat jauntily as she explored the pumpkins

Lola couldn't find us, and she did what I've always taught her- found a woman with children and asked her help. Good job Lo!

Mr. Curry carries Lola's pumkin pick back to our truck. And it was two bagillion degrees by this time. All in all it was an awesome day. Lola had burgers, sprite, cotton candy AND ice cream, and didn't barf. The boys were sweet and fun and did not spend the whole time moaning or being too cool to hang. Ever was blissed out and talked to her balloon as she decided if it was more fun to hold it in her little sweaty hand or let it go. She held on.

10 Things I Love About Lola Moon

2011-10-21T04:00:00.000-07:00

She cuts her shirts up and makes leg warmers and gloves

Her last haircut was a gigantic FAIL ( in her mind, I love it ) and so she now wears a black beret ( the very one pictured above ) every single day every single second.

She sings in the shower, like full on American Idol busting out trills and deep growls and high notes. Example from today Oh love, everyone neeeeeeds ( think windows shattering ) love baby, you and I must work this OUT OH BABY ( think angry bull moose )

She went from Ever to Everkins to Kins and now calls our baby Kenny. Yes, the same name as some undead kid on South Park.

She believes in the power of a booty shakin dance to raise the spirits.

I have never heard her talk badly about anyone, except to say that a girl was not nice to her specifically. She doesn't gossip and she doesn't have a mean bone in her body.

She takes a musical theatre class once a week and is killin it. Making friends and having so much fun.

She gets giddy over decorations, and is completely crafty in a way I have never been and never will be. She made awesome Halloween decorations out of thin air. Think a glass full of weird objects used red marker to bleed into the water and make it red, then wrote DRINK ME on the outside. Think plastic lizards she cut in half and lay on a tray with red ketchup in between. Think fake fingernails in front of our fake gravestones outside, and ghosts made of tissue. She's crafty / she's what I like / She's crafty / And she's just my type ( Beastie Boys, anyone? )

She's a girl, with a girlish heart and girlish observations. By that, I mean that as my first girl, Lola has shocked me this last year with her evenly and matter of factly laid out observations on my behavior and life. Daughters observe you in a way that sons do not, they see the inner workings of your heart and objects and motivations. Daughters SEE YOU. When I was pregnant, Lola was the first one to ask how I was feeling, and had the baby moved that day, and to remark how tired I must be after taking care of kids all day. The other day she told me that although I had been snappy ( I had just apologized ) she totally understood because things with Dakota are hard right now, and she knows your heart is hurting, Momma. He's your son, and you took care of him like you do Ever, and you love him and of course you are missing him like crazy right now. That's part of what makes you such a good Momma, you love us all the way.

All the way, Lola.

She still sneeze farts. :)

Swagger

2011-10-20T17:46:00.000-07:00

Downsizing: Could My Family Move Into a Small Space & Be Happy?

2011-10-18T04:00:00.000-07:00

Alexandre Bailhache

Six years ago, my husband Logan and I, lived a normal middle class lifestyle. We were newlyweds with flashy rings living in a two-bedroom apartment, driving two cars, commuting long distances to work and living well beyond our means. At this time, we were living in Davis, California, which is notorious for expensive real estate and a negative vacancy rating. We were living a life with too much stuff and stress.

Initially, we resisted the idea of moving into a smaller one-bedroom apartment because we were more concerned about appearances and space for guests than for our financial well-being. We decided something needed to change once we realized our debt was causing us so much stress. This change began by defining our values and prioritizing our needs versus wants. *bold my addition

This is the opening quote on Rowdy Kittens page 'Our Downsizing Story', This kick ass, smart and quirky couple moved to a smaller space and eventually became enthralled with the Tiny House movement. Now they are building their own tiny house, due to be done next month.

Mr. Curry and I live in a four bedroom house with four bedrooms ( two master bedrooms, one is connected off the kitchen area and was a remodel, both have their own bathrooms ) a ridiculously large and badly planned use of space next to the kitchen ( tiled floor and off side of house, we spend next to no time there ) a living room and a large sunroom attached to the living room. We could easily afford this house when we moved in, and Mr. Curry's business was thriving. Before it all collapsed. The last year we have turned a conversation that was at first a joke into a more serious and pressing discussion: Would be we happier living in a smaller, more affordable space? We barely make it, and when something difficult happens, we don't make it. For instance, right now.

Our roomate moved out ( snuck out like a teenager out the window ) and shafted us the entire month's rent she owed. Then we had to pay registration for the car, with late fees. Then, then, then. I won't bore you with the details, but we are fucked right now. And being fucked before the holidays, when you have four kids, can get a girl thinking. I'm thinking: there has to be a better way. So we are talking about trying small space living. If we hate it, it will be temporary. If we like it, we can do it for a year or two and be much, much more financially secure, save money, and maybe live more. Spring for the bigger pumpkin in the patch. Travel with the kids. Be able to help out others financially when we want to so badly.

It's complicated as far as the space. We're thinking things like: Are we insane? What about the dogs? What about the boys? ( D. is currently living with my Mom, ten minutes from our house, as you all know, and I'm not sure what is going to happen with that, I'm being very cautious, slow and careful as we move forward and make decisions, and right now D. is doing well - Ian we have two overnights Fri and Sat and he leaves later Sunday ) How would we delegate the space? Mom/Dad/Ever, Lola/Dakota/Ian another room with a pull out couch in the living room, which considering the ratio of days Ian is here and the unsure nature of where D. will be at any point (here or moms) ... and are we insane?

Also thinking things like: We've done this before and we were really happy. We are the kind of family who is all up in each other's business. Mr. Curry is my best friend and I never get tired of him until I CAN'T STAND HIM FOR ONE MORE MINUTE ( when we are fighting ) and then what would I do? It is exciting! It's an adventure! We could really do some awesome things with the extra money, like breathe. And buy a new bra for me. And if Lola needs braces... And Lola is totally up for it, she says it would be awesome, and Ian would be because Ian is awesome like that and a trooper and can adapt to almost anything, and I haven't talked to D. yet so I have no idea what he'd think. And Ever? Would follow my breasts anywhere. Same with my husband. I'm almost finished with my novel ( STOP LAUGHING! I REALLY AM! ) and this could be an amazing opportunity to freaking relax about work and focus more on my writing career and finishing and editing and sending out my novel. I'm used to writing around babies crying, kids playing, my husband cooking. I write from my bedroom with the baby pattering around and Lola in and out.

We could downsize and still live in the same area, and the kids stay in their same schools.

IT MIGHT BE AWESOME.

Here's a family of three who were entrenched in the appearance of the American Dream. The theme of a family's actual needs and desires versus what they feel is socially expected of them is again reflected in Debra's words:

Speaking about making the move, Debra said: 'It was not a simple idea, this of scaling down. It was even more difficult to execute, and required mountains of courage, and truckloads of patience.

'I was worried about what my family would think, so after making the decision to downsize, I decided I didn't want to tell them. It's just not what people do. They don't live in 320 square foot homes.

Fascinating Links of the Small Space Movement*

This article about families fitting themselves into small spaces, the manager of Apartment Therapy talks about fitting his own family of five into a small space A fellow blogger moved her own family of six from a large home into a three bedroom bungalow This woman moved into a Tiny House, Here is an awesome slideshow of some very small apartments making a very big impact This contest for Cool Small Spaces is inspirational as far as making the 'stuff' work, but what concerns me more is making the 'us' work- how to keep a diverse age of people happy in a small space? Readers, what do you think? Any experience with this? Downsizing? Small spaces? :)

* I just made that label up. As far as I know.

Baby Bed Head Pumpkin PJ's

2011-10-16T11:40:00.000-07:00

People In Your Neighborhood: Swonderland

2011-10-15T11:36:00.000-07:00

In my last post I said this: I think of the power and assuredness of the parenting of small children. I think of the insecurity and doubt and helplessness of parenting teenagers

And in her newest post, Erin says something very similar, and a lot more. I love this post. It's the kind of truth telling I look for every day online.

Have Mercy

2011-10-14T04:00:00.000-07:00

All around me there are the endings of life. A small conversation with Lola, in the cup of sun on the patio, explaining the Buddhist story of the tree that loses a leaf, the leaf falls to the base of the tree. Slowly, dirt absorbs the leaf and it's properties until it is 'gone'. The tree absorbs the soil, and so the leaf becomes part of the tree again. It's a simple, simple story that is an enduring comfort for me. I think of it, turn it over in my mind during fear, like a wishing stone. I imagine the unknowing peace of a leaf. The unconscious death and life and death and life. I think of my Grandmother Elizabeth, Ever Elizabeth's namesake, buried ten minutes from here, in a small rolling hill next to trees and a horse farm. All the leaves that fall onto her grave, and my Grandfather next to her. I think of ' energy does not die '. I run my fingers over Mr. Curry's stubble, watch his eyes flicker behind the lashes as he watches T.V. The light from his eyes, where will that be? Ever's tiny body, the ridiculous miniature of the anklet of a ten month old baby. The shooter in the hair salon, eight dead. The sweet eyed Jack of Charlotte's Inch Of Grey blog, drowned weeks ago in the rushing darkness of a storm down the street from his home. Twelve years old. I think of my mom's brother David, my Uncle, drowned in the nearby lake at fourteen years old, long before I had ever been born or imagined. I think of my oldest son, his intelligent, tender and prideful spirit, the incredible plunging into my heart that happened when he was born, the immersion like a baptism, eternal. I pray for him because at seventeen there are not so many object forces and subtle guidances anymore. I pray for myself because I feel so weak inside. So tired. So scared. I feel so inadequate to the job I myself took on! Mothering these four children. I think of ' took the wind out of her sails ' and sigh, a long motherly sigh, deep inside the dark quiet of my slumbering kitchen, where only the cold noses of my dogs rest on my lap or hear me cry. I think of ' warrior spirit ' and ' women who run with the wolves ' and rise in the morning like it is every other morning and not like my heart is trembling in my hands like a rabbit's heart, cut out after the arrow made it's mark. I think of Kate McRae and her mother, always her mother, waiting for the next set of MRI results that will show her the tumor in her daughter's small brain, and how it has or has not grown. I think of the power and assuredness of the parenting of small children. I think of the insecurity and doubt and helplessness of parenting teenagers. I hear Lola saying ' Momma you are the best Momma in the world. There is no one like you in all my friends moms, and I never want you to be like them, or anyone else. You are my strong and loving Momma. You make everything possible. ' And I hear my oldest son telling me these same things, not so many years ago, who is now both strangely closer to me and further away than ever before. I think of Caroline and the depth and spirit and strength I feel whenever she speaks of mothering, and how comforting that is to me. How comforting is real. How comforting is honest life and love from another. How comforting to know we are not alone. I think of the leaves on my Grandmother's grave, the hands of my daughters on my knee at night, the faces of my sons, the spirit of my husband with me in the dark. I think of prayers, of churches at nighttime, of knotholes in trees, of leaves on mountainsides, of the rain, I think of the first time I held my firstborn, and I am weak in the knees and the heart. I think of the first time I held my lastborn, and I am strong. All around me are the beginnings of life.

Abide With Her: Stacey Connor Writes

2011-10-13T14:35:00.001-07:00

My blogger friend Stacey has always been one of my favorite writing voices online. She's honest- you can feel the weight of it, sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes hilarious, sometimes inspiring, always good- in her posts, and she's terrifically intelligent (used to be a lawy-yah *as we say in the South) as well as the mother of four children. I feel very lucky that she wrote on her blog Is There Anymommy Out There about the e-book that I contributed to- Welcome To My World- as well as including some of her own story as a work at home mom who eventually became a stay at home mom. I hope you take a look at her blog. You won't leave without bookmarking her.

The Day, The Place, The Time

2011-10-11T22:26:00.000-07:00

Driving in Julian, coming back from the cold mountain gold mines and their ghosts, our car full of family was motioned to the right by a policeman with a flash light. We banked right and followed the other cars moved off the road, drove up and through winding stretches until delivered back onto the main road. Mr. Curry driving. I craned my neck around, stretched to see, and saw. A body, lying in the middle of the road, covered in yellow tarp. I turned back quickly, met Mr. Curry's eyes. Lola, ever vigilant of the slightest change of atmosphere, peered at me. What is is, Mom? I replied A car accident, sweetie. That's all. That is all. A body in the middle of the road. A cop so shaken up that he screamed angrily at a woman driver, near tears as she maneuvered her car from it's accidental wrong turn, back to the path. I watched the breeze blow gustily over scattered weeds on the dirt parking lot to our right. I looked up at the sky, the brightness and boldness of the sun. Heard the shouts of happy tourists visiting the town of apple pie. Listened to Lola humming and Ever babbling and Ian talking quietly to Mr. Curry. The hot seat of the car on my back. The warm cotton squeeze of socks against my soles. The smell of mountain air. The feel of cold air and hot sun blowsing across my arms and face in a prickling pleasure, the feel of my hair against my ears. The dry skin of my top puckered lip. The pressing of jeans into my stomach. The weight of my breasts against shirt, ready to nurse my baby. The clamor of a flock of birds over our heads as we left the car. This is the day and place and time that a man's life ended, just now, I thought. And I get to go on living.

I keep thinking about that.

Case Number: 11-02174
Name: Rogelio Malihan	City of Residence: San Diego
DOB: 02/07/1958	Gender: Male
Place of Death: 2900 block of SR 79, Julian CA	Place of injury: 2900 block of SR 79, Julian CA
Date/Time of Death: 10/8/2011 12:16:00 PM	Date/Time injury: 10/08/2011 1150
Summary: The decedent a 53-year-old Asian male who resided in a home with his wife and son in the city of San Diego. On 10/08/11, the decedent was riding his motorcycle southbound on the SR 79 along with his son and close friend. The lead bike stopped due to traffic and the decedent had to slam on his breaks and went down, ejecting him into the northbound lane of the highway. Motorcyclist traveling northbound, tried to avoid him but he was struck by one of the motorcyclist. 911 was called and police responded to the location along with medics. Upon arrival, the decedent was found pulseless and apneic with severe trauma. Advanced cardiac life support was initiated but to no avail and death was pronounced. This office was notified and the section of the highway was closed and the scene secured pending my arrival. The examination will be tentatively scheduled for 10/09/11.
Cause of Death/Updated Cause of Death: Blunt force head and chest injuries
Contributing Conditions: None
Manner: Accident
Investigating Agency: CHP - El Cajon	Next of kin notified? Yes

I've Got A Crush On: Hanna

2011-10-11T22:07:00.000-07:00

Ian, Mr. Curry and I watched this last Friday night
It is AWESOME
The End

Julian, CA Gold Mines and Mountains

2011-10-09T11:34:00.000-07:00

Welcome To My World

2011-10-07T14:37:00.000-07:00

Welcome To My World is still selling away at Amazon's Kindle and B&N Nook, and has been
plugged today in Forbes
and here is a review of an essay inside by a fellow blogger and essayist

I hope it keeps selling
It means good things for me
And like everyone
I could use some good things

xo
Maggie May

Being In Love Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry, Johnny Depp

2011-10-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

Johnny, I don't think you should have apologized.
You used the word exactly the way it's supposed to be used in inference. To infer.
To infer the idea of being raped,
which does not only mean raped as in physically penetrated
but raped as in pillaged, stolen from
. You said what you meant. You said it like a writer. With passionate description.
There is nothing wrong with what you said,
only that some very vocal and well intentioned people insist that
the word raped is theirs now, and they claim it to mean one thing only,
hands off the word raped, apparently.
Hm. The sentence I just wrote was inadvertedly meaningful.
And I'm not sorry.
I'm sorry women are raped every day
and that this world is so confused and scared about what happens to us
we use our emotional and physical energies making a big shitstorm over nothing
when there are somethings that could use our attentions instead.
Like actual rape.
And actual assholes.
Which you are not.

10:00 PM

2011-10-05T04:00:00.000-07:00

the evening turns to night.
a tangy darkness, a touch of aubergine.
shadows move richly on soft, deft strokes
into the places most lived on my hands.
i am sitting awake,
in the deeply sleeping home of my family.
my body flutters underneath me.
i run fingers through my hair,
touch the bruise across my thigh.
the heavy root of milky breast
hangs dense and fat over my abdomen.
i sense that i am not my own,
that my body still is hers.
the breeze moves from our screen
across her mouth,
open like the tiny sail
of a boat across the sky.
my baby cries so quietly.
she knows i am already there.

maggie may ethridge
one woman, telling the truth about my life

10 Things You Should Know If You Have A Child In Preschool

2011-10-04T04:00:00.000-07:00

1. The number one thing you can do to ensure your child is well taken care of at preschool is to be generous, communicative, patient and kind to your child's preschool teacher. Especially- but not only- when your child is non-verbal, a good relationship with the teacher is essential to understanding your child's day at preschool. Mistakes and miscommunications and problems will happen, but it's how you deal with it that matters. Lead with a smile. Or at least a friendly expression!

2. If you want to know if anything 'important' happened during your child's day at preschool, you have to a) define important to the teacher: tantrums? sleeping/not sleeping at nap? hitting? crying? moping about? Be specific. b) ASK. When a parent day in and day out comes in and out of school not asking how their child's day was or never asking follow up questions to a response of 'mmm OK', we mostly assume you don't really want to know.

3. If you want a complete answer to how your child's day was, be politely receptive to the truth. If every time we tell you, for example, ' She cried a lot today ' you get defensive and angry and blaming toward us, it makes it very hard to give you the whole picture when we talk.

4. Remember that the answer to ' But she/he never does this at home?! ' is almost always
' That's because they are at home. ' Not at preschool, in a much more demanding, noisy, and little people populated environment. Unless you happen to kick it like the Gosselins, you can't expect your child to act the same at home as they do at school. They will likely nap, eat, play and express frustration differently at preschool.

5. If you want us to change something for your child, like a rule, an environment or a response, please do it with the expressed understanding that things can only change so much for one child when there are so many, and offer up a solution that doesn't put an unfair burden on the rest of the class. IE: If your child won't nap at nap time, asking if he/she can silently read while laying down is OK, asking if your child can be taken outside to play is not.

6. Please don't ask us to work on something with your child that you can't or won't back up at home. If you want the paci gone, please don't pop it in their mouth to keep them from crying on the car ride home. It sucks for us, but most importantly, it sucks for your child. They can't adjust to inconsistent rules.

7. Realize that your child is special- just like every other child in the preschool.

8. Your child is going to get bothered by other kids occasionally- a biter, a pincher, a face maker- and at some point, be the one bothering someone else. Remember this when you decide how angry you are that Johnny hit your baby on the hand with a plastic truck. It's crazy humility making when the parent you were hating on in the preschool yard because their child hit yours is now the same one eying you because your child gave them an eighties asymmetrical haircut at nap time.

9. LABEL EVERYTHING

10. Remember to laugh. It's preschool, not college, not even middle school. They are babies, really, so let them be silly and exasperating and energetic and fussy and make mistakes, because that's how they roll. *Down the hill, ripping a big one in their pants the whole way.

Welcome SPONSOR: Novembrin Hand Made Felt Objects of Desire

2011-09-30T04:00:00.000-07:00

SO, the whole reason November is a Flux Capacitor sponsor is because I saw her store on Etsy, and fell in love. Her skill is undeniable. She takes felt and makes it into objects- usually animals- that positively brim with personality and charm. The details are gorgeous. I traded a mama and baby elephant set and gave them to Lola, who adores and plays with them. They aren't meant to be man handled played, but Lola is nine, so she can gently play. I mean, look at these--

I mean, COME ON. Look at this hedgehog. So cute!!!

Pumpkins for Fall decor

...and this little pair that I want! She also takes requests

Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

2011-09-28T04:00:00.000-07:00

Can I have a safe word? The weight too heavy. There are weights we carry that by their very existence hone and strengthen inside of us a place of resilience we never believed we possessed. I have always been resilient. I remember being Lola's age, in the back of the car as we drove, and my mother telling me I'd worry about Lura if I died, but not you. I know you'd be OK. Since then I have weathered many hardships, sometimes horribly gracelessly, but still- I did it- and found each one- Mr. Curry's bipolar, my horrific panic attacks, my medical ordeal and surgeries, subsequent bankrupt debt, Mr. Curry's loss of business- truly did strengthen me, teach me about navigating pain, fear, relationships. Life. With Dakota I feel only the weightlessness of a void below me. The whistling of air past my face. Having small, happy children apparently made up more of my self-esteem than I realized. Now that I have a tall, unhappy 17 year old, it feels as much about me as it does about him. I say feel. Because I don't know. I'm smart enough- at least- to know I don't know. Nothing else I've encountered- my marriage problems, financial hardships, physical pain- has undermined my sense of self so neatly and cleanly, so simply and swiftly, as my son's struggle. I keep thinking lately about how much shame is attached when we don't feel or think the way we think we should. I am ashamed that what is happening to my son feels so much like it's happening to me. That's not healthy. It may be motherhood, though. It's real. Maybe it's the exact reason why my son is now staying at his grandmother's house, 15 minutes from where we live.

Flesh of my flesh.

I have scribbled down and recorded many of the sweet and loving things my son has said to me as he grew up. I have loaded books of photos of the two of us, laughing, kissing, hugging. I wonder if I did something so crucially wrong for his temperment and needs that he could not keep his feet on ground. Perhaps another mother- one less loving, maybe, but more beautifully organized, more constant in routine- not! a writer- might have served him better. Kept him safe. When he was small, and then even not so small, and something was scaring him, he would come to me and tell me about it, and we would have a huddle. The two of us would sit and talk it out, and afterward he would tell me, with supreme confidence, Mommy nothing will ever be too much for me, because I have you. How can I let go of that? Where is the letting go door? How do I walk through it?

Sometimes I say as many as six impossible things before breakfast, and here is one: I will let go of this pain. It's not supposed to be mine. It's not happening to me.

A door through a door. I step through his eyes and into him, a particularly female act, and believe I know how he feels, what he thinks, who he is. I do, I do know what I know, and I know it well. It's the rest, the landscape that has formed privately without me over the last few years, that I do not know that I must accept. This is a person now, completely separate from me, and were he safe, were he OK, I could let go perhaps, at a more timidly scheduled pace. But this thing he's struggling with is breaking up all the scheduled stops, and I am not damn well letting go of him while his legs dangle over this void. I am his mother. What that means when he is 17 and fighting something dark, I don't know. I'm learning it.

There is a whole family here. Two daughters, another son, a husband, a wife. All here too. I love them. I don't want to and will not allow myself to abandon joy in them; abdicate a 'normal life'. But what is our life then, carrying this with it? How do you make room for something so hard in the pace of a day: the teeth brushing, driving, homework, work, baths, dinnertime talk? Is there room for both pain, fear, hurt and the routine of family life? I don't know what that looks like. Now it seems this bleeds into the most unexpected moments, and suddenly I am crying, and there is the rest of the family, looking at me. Crying, again. In this way I am beginning to feel myself failing, flailing. My husband is tired of this. Cracks are forming in our marriage. The weight. When you don't know what to do, do nothing? I'm quiet now. Waiting for signs, a hand of God, the right book, the right person, the right article.

ps
My husband....a note on him. Sometimes I stand back, and look at him through the years, the changes he's made, the progress, his steady, quiet way of changing, so different than my mad flailings, his introspection so slow and constant at times that it seems infuriatingly still- stagnant, I think meanly at times, when I'm hurt or scared- but it's not still. It is his way of moving forward in life, not mine, and at times when I can get the perspective to stand back and see how hard he's worked on bettering our family, our marriage, then I am deeply touched. I try hard to see what love looks like from the other people in my family, because it doesn't come out the same for each person. Seeing how each person expresses love can be the key to feeling deeply loved. For Ever, it's an open mouthed tongue thrust or a smile so large it looks like it's eating her face. Love!

One woman, telling the truth about my life.

This Picture Makes Me Laugh

2011-09-27T04:00:00.000-07:00

every time i see it
l to r: ever, evan, dakota and ian

A Dream Come True: Published on Amazon 'Welcome To My World'

2011-09-26T11:10:00.000-07:00

A dream of mine has come true in one more step: I've been published on Amazon in this e-collection Welcome To My World, edited by Sarah Bryden-Brown, an extremely social media savvy writer, editor and curator. The collection is as its subtitle indicates: essays written by mothers about being stay at home moms or working moms, and despite the 'vs' in the title, this isn't a clash between us but an honest and interesting look at how 13 modern day mothers make their lives work.

For the price of a cup of coffee and a bagel, you can read this collection on Amazon's Kindle, Barnes and Noble Nook, or if you don't have this options, download a free application:

Kindle for PC
Kindle For Mac
Nook

It is because of this blog that I have been able to doggedly and persistently attempt to turn my writing into something more closely resembling a career, and I am thanking all of you most sincerely for coming here and reading what I write, and for (mostly:) keeping up your own blogs so I can continue to learn about your lives and read your writings.

A big shout out to the awesome GIGGLE, the book's sponsor. Their clothes and toys are really, really cute. One of my favorite baby shower gifts for Ever came from Giggle- a pink and orange striped footy sleeper.

Feed the Writers

2011-09-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

via Wendy MacNaughton @ New York Times

The Things That Come Out of That Child's Mouth

2011-09-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

Mom you can't be naked except for your bra in suburbia. And eating watermelon!

When I was doing my homework you guys would not stop talking. Married people!

The world can be a hard place. That's why we're so lucky to have our family.

When I nurse my baby, I'm going to get one of those bras that pops your boob open.

Sometimes I fart so hard my underwear bunches up in my butt.

love you Lola :)

Architect

2011-09-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

Dakota 17, Ever 8 months

I try to focus on the larger issues, and instead I see toes. Baby toes. His baby toes. The curse and blessing of a parent: we see the vulnerability, innocent core, love, the challenges and hardships that have landed their blows one by one, carved their place and carved the face of a child into a young adult- we struggle to squint and find the place where the soft skinned hand of a teenage boy comes to rest on the door handle of our house and say I'm going to Grandmas, and I'm not coming back for a while.

Some of you know what is going on with my oldest son. Some of you do not. But all of you, I'm sure, know what this agonizing feeling is: helplessness in the face of your child's suffering. We can fix, mend, comfort, argue, provide supports, guidance, there is so much we can do, and much of the time, I'm in that place. But sometimes, I look at Ever's little self, and I see Dakota's littlest self, and I am crushed with my love for him and all I cannot do- the letting go to do. It is a labor in it's own right.

The panicked worry that you, the centre of everything that happens to your child ( via society and your own secret beliefs ), are responsible for what is happening can be either completely reinforced ( by the angry teen, a scared loved one ) or quickly negated ( an emotionally detached therapist, a loving husband ) but ultimately you have to come to terms with yourself, not your child, the therapist, the loved ones.

Did I do the best I could? Can I do better?

Yes, and surely, life's work, yes.

The age old question that strangles me is that perhaps my best was not enough.

I have always been a fiercely felt believer that parenting is absolutely exhausting work that pushes you to the brink of your personal end zones, if done well. Perhaps this is a self flagellating American belief, but even if that is part of the truth, it's not the whole. A 'hands off' approach works well with a small particular of littles. Benign neglect is a concept that even if it is to work well, requires a smooth and humming engine of parenthood running underneath the nonchalance, one that still requires effort and thought and discipline. Nothing good comes easy. Even ease requires a graceful architecture.

I have done nothing since the day Dakota was born more than I have worked on myself as a human being and mother. And still I cannot say that I do not doubt myself deeply as he struggles so hard.

The beauty of "spacing" children many years apart lies in the fact that parents have time to learn the mistakes that were made with the older ones - which permits them to make exactly the opposite mistakes with the younger ones. ~Sydney J. Harris

Published: Far Away Literary Magazine

2011-09-20T04:00:00.000-07:00

Visit the beautifully rendered Far Away magazine and read the wonderful essays,
including our own Mary Moon
I'm happy to have my essay included!