The Edge

I made Brendan drive us all out to Wellfleet last week during our vacation in Cape Cod.  It was out of the way and took awhile to get there, but I insisted and he relented and even agreed that perhaps it was a good idea.  I just felt this strange need to be there, in a place where I had once stood decades before; I felt as though my soul needed to breathe in that particular air and gaze upon on that particular stretch of sand. 
While standing at the edge of the water, at the point where ocean meets land, I was reminded of some things that seem important and noteworthy.  Before me the sea spread out, wide and expansive, reaching as far as nowhere and more powerful than anything.  The sand dunes, like mountains, plunge down steeply to meet it and in between the two I realized this: we are nothing.  Insignificant.  A mere blip on the radar that is this time on this earth in this universe.  The feeling that came with this realization was one of immediate and overwhelming peace: no matter what I do in this life, the world is much, much bigger than my circumstances, choices, mistakes, or ideas at any moment in time.  It will all go on whether I am here or not, wave after wave will pound the shore and grains of sand will move in the water and wind and rain. 
Then I turned around and saw this:

and this:

Two shivering kids waiting for their mama to finish with her crazy picture taking so they could run on the open expanse in front of them; one husband, knowing his wife needed to see this for some reason that stretches back in time to another family trip that was clouded with grave sadness, waiting patiently for the time to be enough, for the ocean to soak into her pores and restore her.
Seeing them there, waiting for me, I realized that we are bigger than the sky, our actions are broader reaching than any ocean, more grand than any sand dune.  The connections we have with the people around us are the biggest thing I know; I remembered that as much as we are nothing we are also everything, entirely significant.  All I have to do is look in their eyes and I can see it:  we are bigger than we know.  Being at that edge, on that particular stretch of sand, refilled my soul and brought back to the forefront all that I know about life and family and friends and connection: slow down and be, give each other a little room and time when it’s needed, live with intention and listen with an open heart.  Allow them to grow and change, and bend like the dune grass in the wind when they need me to change and grow.  Enjoy this push and pull of life.  Dream bigger than the ocean, but remember my own insignificance in all of this. 
Perhaps this is why the ocean calls to me, why it calls to so many people across time and religion and state and country and continent: to realize that we are everything and nothing all at once.  Maybe we need this reminder as much as we need food and  water, air and shelter.    Maybe we just need to be able to stand on the edge of something and find an inner peace and a reserve within ourselves that fills whatever emptiness the rest of the world and life carves out.  Maybe we just need that reminder to be human again. 

Ms. Chilson

The only problem with having best friends visit from faraway places is that when they leave, I feel as though a chunk of my soul has been packed tidily in their luggage and taken away.  The converse of this, of course, is that she left a chunk of her soul with me, for safe keeping. 
The best part of having best friends visit from faraway places is that while we were together, I felt whole in that way that only happens in those odd moments when my adult life slams back together with my childhood, all of the pieces intertwining to a rarely achieved perfection.  The expressions on her face are the same as they were decades ago and I get it, and she gets it, and we pick up the rhythm of conversation and jokes as if a moment had passed, rather than three years, since we last looked into each other’s laughing eyes.  This visit, we had the extra fun of noting that our boys, born on opposite sides of the world and more than a year apart in age, are nearly carbon copies of each other in temperament and nature, and our girls share a daredevil’s spirit. 
It was so, so fun.  Now, if only I could convince her that she should live next door, that would be something. 

The Summer List

“We write things we want to do over the summer.” says Harrison of
The Summer List.  Oh, but it is so much more than that!  The summer list is my saving grace in an otherwise uncharted, weeks long stretch of time that, admittedly, sometimes scares me.  The Summer List has plans to make, ideas to toss around when the inevitable I’m bored! starts to rear its ugly head, and lofty goals that might never be met but are fun and interesting to talk about.  For the past four summers we have brainstormed as a family all of the things we wanted to do over the summer, both grown-up and child friendly ideas fill out the page and we cross off our achievements as we go.  At the end of the summer, we have proof of our escapades and our kids are armed with plenty of ventures with which to answer that classic first day of school query, What did you do all summer?  This is the best sort of to-do list, with only fun things!
Here, the beginnings of the 2011 version, to be updated as we go along:

• go to Crandall Library
• go swimming in our pool
• go to camp (our family’s camp)
• go to the Great Escape (Six Flags)
• another tour of the beaches at different Lakes
• go out for ice cream
• go fishing
• go to the drive-in
• try making hypertufa troughs
• go to the movies
• start a cutting garden for flowers
• dig in Pie and Mike’s compost pile for worms
• learn to ride bikes without training wheels
• go to concerts in the park (Shepard’s Park, City Park, Crandall Park, etc.)
• go to Crandall Park and play
• go kayaking
• go for lengthy after dinner strolls
• Farmer’s Market!
• go to a baseball game
• play tug of war with Ginger (this from Miss Emma)
• go to the ocean…Cape Cod!
• tie dye t-shirts
• make our own hula hoops
• make a worm bin for compost purposes (and little boy worm digging purposes)

Two Months’ Lessons

The last two months have sucked.  There it is, out loud and in print and I am not ashamed to say that is honestly how I feel about that block of time.  
The kids have been endlessly sick with colds and allergies, rashes, high fevers, and strep throat.  They are better now and I am trying to catch up on sleep without developing bad sleeping-in sorts of habits.  Brendan was an entirely different sort of sick and then had an allergic reaction to the medications he was given, winning us an all day trip to the ER.  My husband, in the best health and fitness of his life,  lost 15 lbs. in three weeks…he’s better now, and we’re thinking that the medications that were supposed to help the problem actually exacerbated things, but it was scary to watch him melt before my eyes.  The word “worry” was given new meaning.  As I watched my babies writhe with fever and as I watched my husband’s face unswell and his speech become normal as the anaphylactic shock went away, I realized how quickly and accidentally we could lose it all.  Time is so, so precious and these people I love are so very important to me, my everything.  I will not waste it. 
Our kitchen…oh dear.  We have been waging an epic battle with Sears over a new range.  It’s not worth going into, really, other than to say we lost and now we’re cooking on a propane camp stove propped on an old door from the basement until we can sort things out and find the time to go appliance shopping yet again.  And you should know that Sears does not always think the customer is right, nor will they make grand gestures to help you when they are very badly wrong.  Enough said.  The camp stove was fun for about ten minutes, but now I just really crave some sort of normalcy in our most-used room.  I learned, though, the greatest lesson from this: Shop local, always.  Deal with a company that is in your town, whose CEO is your neighbor.  Deal with a small company that needs your sale, who will defend their reputation because the bad news about one sale gone wrong could sink them. 
School finished up for both children, a huge relief really, but it came with all of those last-minute preparations and gifts for important people and extra obligations that added to an already stressed family’s schedule.  And if you saw my last deleted post*, kindergarten graduation was not the joyful moment we expected, rather laced with anxiety and fear and an unplanned stage appearance.  I learned that my child’s dignity is worth so much more than a teacher’s idea of the perfect graduation performance.  I learned that is it easy to stand in front of a huge crowd when I am aiding my child in avoidance of terrible embarrassment and shame…imagine, the perfect cure for stage fright!
I took a sewing job on commission and got burned.  It was a highly specific and personalized bag which the client raved about, but she also “misremembered” the price I quoted her for the piece.  She stated that she only budgeted for the price she remembered and would not be able to buy the bag if I had to get the price I actually quoted her.  I sold her the bag at her price (cringes) because it was so personalized that I could not do anything else with the bag or materials if I kept it.  I learned, yet again, to always get things in writing.  I learned that I have to value my work in order for my clients to also value my work, and that standing firm on the price I set is a matter of self respect.  I think I also learned that I don’t really enjoy working on commission because to a certain extent I lose creative authority when I am working toward someone else’s goal.  This requires more thought.
I stopped telling people that we are adopting again.  The people we know and love all know, of course, but I’m not telling casual acquaintances anymore.   For some reason it is hard for people to sustain excitement for the addition of a child to our family when they hear that it will take time for our child to come home, and especially when they hear he will be two.  Their faces fall, they cringe in an obvious way, and they whisper questions to us: Are you sure you want to do that to your family?;  Why will it take so long?  Will he really come home?;  A two year old?  I would never do that.  You’ll miss everything!; Did you get your baby yet?  (this one week after I told her we were adopting internationally again). The dentist, the other parents at school, even some friends have said things like this to our faces, boldly questioning our judgment about our family.  It doesn’t hurt so much as it irritates.  I have learned that our joy alone will have to be enough to sustain us through this long wait and we will have to have faith that the others will come around once he is here.  I have learned that other peoples’ fears do not have to be our own.  I have learned, once again, that the general public knows next to nothing about adoption, but I have also reminded myself that I do not always have to be the good will ambassador.  I have learned that I don’t have to share this with everyone, though I want to shout it from the rooftops.  This semi-secret can be so very sweet, if we let it. 
So, two months’ worth of blech provided a few key life lessons and we will be better for it.  We’ll pace ourselves, make better decisions, and I will work hard on that whole creative self-worth thing.  Today is the first full day of summer break and the relief in the room is palpable.  Do you feel it, too?
*deleted because I realized that posting about it would not be conducive to helping our H6 avoid the embarrassment that could have been. 

A Few (Woeful) Things

• We celebrated Joon’s birthday last week.  Without him.  That was hard, but I only cried a little.  You’ve heard of Flat Stanley?  We have Flat Desmond, a picture of our littlest boy that I cut out.  We propped him next to the cake and then we blew out his candle for him.  It was fun in the most bittersweet sort of way.
• Brendan worked nights last week, 6:30pm to 6:30am.  Please, let’s not do that again anytime soon. 
• We all got some horrible fever/head cold/chest congestion thing that has made us miserable.  Or maybe it just made me miserable, working in conjunction with Brendan’s night shift and Joon not being here for his birthday.  I guess I’m just saying that I have been miserable.  And then this happened:
• We found out that our adoption agency’s partner agency in Korea, ESWS, will hit their quota and run out of Emigration Permits (EP) soon, as in any referrals made after December 1, 2010 will not travel until 2012.  This is very bad news.  Long story short, babies must have EP to leave the country.  As So. Korea winds down its international adoption program, they are decreasing by ten percent the amount of EP they give out each year, creating a backlog of babies waiting to go home to the parents they have already been matched with.  The implications of this are kind of huge for us.  When ESWS starts submitting babies for EP early in 2012, the babies from the end of 2010 are all in line before our child (as it should be).  This means ESWS is a full year behind in EP.  Agencies are rumored to be preparing their families for a minimum 15 month wait from referral to travel…if this is true Desmond will be home in July….of next year.  And he will be two. 
• There is a dark side to all of this, which is the possibility that ESWS could run out of EP even earlier next year, in which case our “baby” could possibly not be home until 2013.  (Did you all just feel the miserable meter’s needle screech forward ten thousand notches?)
• I am trying to remain calm.  Keep calm and carry on.  Plant an herb garden, make summer plans, paint a few more rooms.  And update my resume, because I might as well start making a dent in the adoption expenses while both of my big kids are at school all day next year. 
• I’m not really miserable all of the time.  Just when I am alone, or when I think too much, or when I see all of the beautiful babies our friends and acquaintances are pushing around town in their strollers…you know the type, those small babies, the kind that need diapers and aren’t walking and speaking in sentences. 
• At least it stopped raining. 

Fire

We used to joke, back in my art school days, about the day you go home and tell your parents that you want to be an art major.  That instead of  more lucrative degrees like accounting and engineering you are going to spend four years learning how to paint portraits, how to manipulate clay, how to make a block print.  We used to joke about it because it was a way to fight off the internal panic that set in whenever we thought about actually having that conversation in real life.  And once a semester the professors in our art department actually put on a special lecture entitled “How to survive telling your parents you are going to be an artist”. 
Somehow I survived those conversations (which proved less scary in real life than they were in my imagination, but did end in the sad shaking of heads by the four adults that are my parents), graduated with honors, and left college to make a life in the art field…and fell flat on my face.  I never wanted to be a teacher of public education, the obvious choice for artists who need to pay their bills with something else.  I wasn’t particularly interested in marketing.  Truthfully, I wasn’t exactly sure what I would do with my degree, I just knew that what I was good at, what I enjoyed and felt passionate about, was working with my hands.  Taking raw materials and forming them into something functional, useful, beautiful, thought provoking, or at least intentional – this was what I was good at, this was where I felt at home.  This was my fire.
Simply knowing what your fire is or feeling at home in your own skin does not pay the rent or buy a new car or help pay for the paint that you just know will transform your house, and so like many people who identify as artists, I got a real job…or several.  And when people asked me what my profession was I told them “I am an assistant preschool teacher, but I went to art school” or “I am a craft store manager, but I went to art school” or “I am a transaction coordinator for a mortgage broker (and later, a real estate agent), but I went to art school”.  I stopped identifying as an artist and started justifying my current, non-glamorous positions with the fact that I had made a mistake and gone to school to learn about art.  Away from the college setting there was no studio space, no group of fellow artists to support and critique my work, there was no more fire.
Fast forward many years.  We live in a house with studio space, an entire third floor that can be whatever I need it to be.  My hands are kept busy with textiles…knitting and sewing replace paints and pencils.  I feel good.  And then my mom convinces me to take a felt making class at the Troy Shirt Factory Building.  I walk in the door of the Luckystone Studio and I can feel it, that long lost sensation of being at home.  I almost don’t recognize it at first, but I find myself grinning, overly cheerful, my adrenaline pumping at a much higher rate than normal.
Do other people feel this way about the thing they love to do?  Does it make them feel as though they are burning from the inside out?  Does it light them on fire?
It didn’t seem to matter that I had never tried felting before.  The colors, textures, surroundings, and process were so familiar, deep in my bones.  Working side by side with other like-minded people, our work different but our goals the same, brings me such immense joy.  I love the easy camaraderie and chatter of people working at their own pace, trading ideas, offering up suggestions, and just that comfortable silence that comes with mutual artistic concentration. 
The felting process is harder than it looks, takes more patience than I am used to directing at my projects these days, but it was entirely invigorating.  For the first time in a long time I feel like an artist – I think I could even say it out loud with a straight face, without even a hint of apology in my voice.  I came home today with a scarf that is on fire with color…reds, fuscias, and oranges.  I also brought home a huge bag of wool roving, silk, and mohair fibers; my head is swimming with ideas, things to try, places to take color and form and concept. 
My fire, I think, has been rekindled.
_______________________________
It’s Madhouse Wednesday again.  These are the others who participate…check them out!
Allison – Allimonster Speaks
Barb – Spencer Hill Spinning & Dyeing
Batty – Batty’s Adventures in Spooky Knitting
Dave – Notes from the Field
Eileen - Art Deco Diva Knits
Evil Twin’s Wife – The Glamorous Life of a Hausfrau
G – Not-A-Box
Haley - Aimless Tangents
Jennifer – Ask Poops, Please
JMLC – Daydreams and Ruminations
Kate – One More Thing
LC – LC in Sunny So Cal
LeeAnne - This is the life...
Lisa - As If You Care
Louise – Child of Grace
Marcy – Mittentime
Melanie – usually, things happen
Nikki – Land of the Free, Home of the Depressed
Peri - knitandnatter
Sara – yoyu mama

They Found The Webcam

And now whenever I open the computer four little hands start reaching and pushing and edging in to the center of the screen for the best angle of silly face. 

It is only a teensy bit annoying.  Mostly I love seeing the  funny pictures they take when I least expect it.

Act Your Age

I am so cold.  I am cold in the way I used to be when I was little and we spent all day at Hickory Hill, alternating between skiing and sitting on the deck in the sun.  It is a cold that runs all the way through me to my bones, the kind that makes a hot bath sting like pins and needles.  It feels so, so good! 

I am this cold not because of an old house and thin walls, but from hours and hours of playing in the snow, racing down one of the very best backyard hills that I have ever had occasion to ride.  Forget Crandall Park and it grassy stubble, forget Gurney Lane and the lines of children - the backyard slope has so much more to offer: no lines, no waiting, ride as many times as you can bear to climb the hill, the bathroom is only a few feet away, there is probably a good chance of hot cocoa, and even the smallest of slopes can be wickedly fun.  I have not laughed like this in ages, laughs that come not from the belly but from somehwere deeper, perhaps stretching all of the way back to my childhood.  They come bursting out as I lose control and eat a faceful of snow, or as the last jump at the end of the run sends my sled and I flying in different directions and I land with a giant thud in front of my friend who cannot stop laughing, either.  And my bottom hurts and I feel silly but I am having so much fun that none of it matters.

Brendan races down faster than all of the rest of us.  His sled goes further, getting ever closer to the edge of the yard where another dropoff will send you to a watery surprise in the marsh.  He bails at the last possible second, plumes of snow spraying into the air as he flings himself from the sled.  He is buried, but we know he has survived the tumble because he whoops and hollers and quickly scrambles up for another go. 

And my children are fearless.  I get butterflies in my tummy before pushing off, but they run and jump onto their sleds, launching themselves face first down a huge hill, or even a small one, but they do not seem to fear anything at all.  They eat snow, and laugh, and for just a few moments we are all children together and I don't have to be the mom and he doesn't have to be the dad.  It is good. 

Finally it gets too chilly, we all have snow up our sleeves and in our pant legs and down our collars, and the sun is starting to slip behind the trees.  One last run! we call to each other, our friends and our family climb the hill for the final descent.  It is faster than it was earlier, the temperature has dropped and the snow flies in clouds around our sleds.  It is awesome, maybe even better than it was when I was five or seven or ten because I needed, this day, to remind myself of my age.  I needed to know again that we are young, that fun is not something that is purchased or sought out or even acquired...it just is.

So now I am cold, enjoying the feel of my windburned cheeks and the smell of outdoors that lingers in my hair.  And I am scheming for tomorrow...maybe a snowshoe adventure?  Or another backyard slope?  Or even a winter hike around Pack Forest to the Grandmother Tree?

What are you doing to act your age?

***See previous post for video of today's sledding fun! (I can't figure out how to embed within this post)

A Letter To Myself

Dearest Sara,

The new year can only start with a clean slate if you let it. 

You can bring all of that crud from last year with you on this year's journey - it's easy to do.  You can sling it over your back like an old army knapsack and lug it around and let it drag you down.  You can let the self-loathing take over your head before you've even breathed in this crisp January air.  You can let the list of little tasks overwhelm you until they are bigger than the day, longer than the night.  You can let your fears grow until they comsume your joy.  You can compare yourself to those who look like they do more, have more, be more until you seem small and insignificant and boring.  You can lose before you've even started. 

Or you can let it go. 

You can set yourself free of the didn'ts and couldn'ts and should'ves.  You can breathe deeply, knowing that when all is said and done you've got this.  You are capable and strong and imperfect and good enough.  You don't have to doubt yourself, compare yourself, or hate how you look.  You can dance in front of people.  You can sing out loud.  You can walk into a room full of strangers and feel capable of intelligent conversation because motherhood, rather than limiting your sphere, has opened your eyes to an entire world you never knew existed and you are good at it.  You are interesting and that is ever so much better than great beauty and an impressive resume.

And it is ok to be nervous in the same way that it is ok to fail.  The important thing is to try, to put yourself out there with bravery and integrity and to take yourself seriously with a good sense of humor.  Breathe deeply.  Laugh with your crazy, funny family.  Find that peace and strength that resides in your core, find it every day.  Get to know it.

And then get out there and fly.

Happy New (clean-slated) Year,

Sara

In which I take ‘oops’ to a new level

If you are going to accidentally knock over a cup of coffee, spilling its contents all over your husband’s laptop, it seems only right that the blend you were drinking be called “Jamaican Me Crazy”. 

Farewell

Frances Catherine (Martin) Winbauer
December 5, 1920 - May 14, 2008

Dear Grandma,
I will not remember your frailty.
I will remember you cutting through fresh powder at Hickory Hill, your tracks making perfect "s"s in the new snow.  I will remember you sitting with Grandpa on a good bench day, laughing with friends and watching the other skiers come down the face.  I will remember your strength as you watched him leave us, and I will remember the way you began again anew when he was gone.  I will remember your adventurous spirit, the part of you that wanted to see more of the world while you had time to.
I will not remember you in a hospital bed.
I will remember you teaching me how to make a bed with hospital corners when I was ten, the sheets billowing as you shook them out over the mattress and your hands sure in their work and their lesson.  I will remember you cooking big family meals in your kitchen, with grandchildren, daughters, and sons-in-law swirling around you in a constant sea of activity.  I will remember you picking strawberries at Liebig's, where you left with as many wildflowers as berries. 

I will not remember you in a wheelchair.
I will remember your sporty cars, and the time you climbed on my bicycle in your driveway and took off pedaling around the yard just to prove to us all that you still could.  I will remember you wheeling into your 87th birthday party on a snazzy new red scooter, always fashionable no matter what your age.  I will remember you swimming laps with strong, sure strokes, but with your head out of the water because you didn't want to mess up your hair.

I will not remember your shortness of breath.
I will remember your laugh as you sat by your swimming pool with Mabel and Johnny and Grandpa.  Your toenails were painted bright red for summer, your arms and face tanned and freckled by the summer sun.  You swirled the ice in the cocktail in your hand, your sundress lifted on the breeze, and you laughed like a schoolgirl over something one of the guys has said.  You were radiant.

I will not remember your pain.
I will remember the joy in your eyes whenever I came to visit, and the delight you felt amongst your great grandchildren.  I will remember your heart, and the way you loved family and friends and gathered the details of their lives into great stories, each filed away in your mind for later retelling.  I will remember the way your Florida crew would stop by the porch to visit and hear the latest news, the way you stayed connected to people and the world even though your body was failing you.  I will remember that you cared, deeply, about the people in your life. 

I will not remember your arthritis.
I will remember your quilting, knitting, embroidery, pottery, and your lovely gardens.  I will remember that you believed in saving things that could be reused later on for something else and that you were never hesitant to try a new project or craft.  I will remember our shopping trips, during which I was meant to help you but I was really there because you were a cool person to hang out with.

I will not remember your emphysema.
I will remember you smelling the flowers in your garden.  I will remember your grace and your ability to put your best face forward when you were hurt or scared or tired.  I will remember your stubborn streak, your need to be independent and do things for yourself.  I will remember you playing peek-a-boo with Harry and Emma, and that you wanted to take Harry for a spin on your new scooter; your sense of fun never left you.

I will not remember your regrets or your mistakes.
I will try to remember what you learned from them: that even if you live for 87 years it is still not enough time to accomplish all that you hope to, to see all that you want to, or to visit all of the places you've dreamed of.  I will try to remember that it goes by too quickly and that it is never too late to start telling people you love them. 
I am so glad I knew you.  I will miss you terribly, and I will remember you lovingly.
Sara

Boring Rainy Days Call For Impromptu Photo Shoots

First, there's me with my new haircut:


Then with Ems, as Harry calls her:



And then with Mr. Harry:


At this point Miss Ems was crumbling under the pressure of sleepiness and too much camera, so we sent her to bed and got out a big white blanket to take some studio style pictures of Harrison:







It's only 12:45.  What are we going to do with the rest of the day?

Thirty One

1.  I don't have a favorite color.  My favorite color to wear is red.  But it has to be the right red, or I will look like death warmed over in it.
2.  I have brown hair and brown eyes.
3.  My brother's wrestling coach used to call me "M&M Eyes". 
4.  I asked my husband out on our first date.  Sort of.  It was the first week of August 1994, and I was 17.
5.  We went to a concert: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.  Or maybe not Young.  I'm not sure.
6.  Neither of us was really sure that it was a date at the time, but looking back it definitely was.
7.  I drink a lot of tea.  This is our tea drawer:

8.  My favorite teas are Constant Comment and Earl Gray.  Yum.
9.  I also like this tea a lot.  I bought it in Korea and I have no idea what it is:

10.  Before I had kids I was a morning person.  Now I sleep as late as I can.
11.  I miss the quiet of the early morning, the simple thrill of being the only person in the house who is awake.
12.  When I cannot fall asleep at night I imagine myself walking or driving through cities I have visited or lived in, trying to remember the proper streets to take in order to reach a favorite coffee shop, book store, or beach.  It works every time.
13.  The hardest trade-off for living close by our families was leaving the ocean. 
14.  I think that fog is one of the most interesting aspects of living near the ocean.  When the fog pours in off the water on late-winter mornings, the whole world goes milky white and everything familiar disappears.  Sometimes you can even see individual water droplets float by your face, but you can't see your fingers at the end of your outstretched arm.  That is cool. 
15.  I used to work in daycare and I hated it.
16.  I currently work in daycare and I (mostly) love it.
17.  It would be the perfect job if I didn't also have to worry about housework, cooking meals, and letting the dogs in and out 300 times a day.
18.  I wrote my first book when I was in grade school; it was about my teddy bear, who currently resides next to my son's pillow on his bed.
19.  I still wind him up and listen to the plinking tune of Teddy Bears' Picnic when I am sad.
20.  Someday I hope to write my second book.
21.  I am hoping I will have something more universally interesting to write about than my teddy bear.
22.  Yesterday I found two old, junky paintings in the basement and let our kids finger paint over them with acrylics.  I hung them in the living room when they were dry, and I secretly think they are better than any of the works I produced when I went to art school. 
23.  Watching them paint inspired me to try it again, and I have been sketching all morning. 
24.  When I went to college I spent far too much time worrying about the cost of my art supplies and far too little time worrying about my subject matter and technique.  I had all of the time in the world to paint back then; now I have the money for good supplies and lots of ideas, but very little time to paint.
21.  I once dropped a class after two weeks because I hated the way the professor wore her glasses on the end of her nose, such that she was always looking over her glasses and down her nose at us.  My last boss wore hers the same way and I tolerated her for a year and a half.
22.  When I was little there was a field of ferns behind our house that were taller than me, and I used to like to sit beneath them and pretend I was living in the jungle.  They aren't there anymore, but I can still close my eyes and remember what it felt like to sit there and listen to the woods around me, watching the fern fronds sway and lift in the breeze.
23.  One day I hope to visit an actual jungle where the ferns seem just as tall as they did then.
24.  I want to see the world, but if I don't start soon I fear that I will never get beyond New York.
25.  I don't like breakfast foods for breakfast.  I prefer soup, a salad, or leftovers from dinner.  I also think that breakfast foods make a perfectly acceptable dinner.
26.   Yesterday I spent an hour looking at pictures of birds on flickr.  It never got boring for me.  Really.
27.  I want to build a tree house in our backyard for me our kids.  I think every child should have one.
28.  When we do build the tree house I will try really hard not to cringe every time they use the ladder or lean out of the window.  I will also try not to hog the tree house the way I hog the building blocks.
29.  When people ask me how old I am I often have to stop and think about it, because I still feel like much the same person I was when I was twelve, or eighteen, or 21, or 25.  I wonder if everyone feels that way to some extent, like they are still their 5, 7, 15, and 23 year old selves just quished into an older, perhaps wiser body?
30.  The sound of Harry and Emma laughing together is one of my two favorite sounds in the world.  The other is the door opening at the end of the day, which means Brendan is home and we are all together, the four of us.
31.  Today is my birthday.  I am thirty one.

Setting The Record Straight

Brendan pointed out that what I wrote yesterday about the resources page may have come off sounding a little snotty, which was SO not my intention!  Truthfully, I felt a little stupid for not having checked it all out before I posted the site.  I was saying a little "duh" to myself because not only did I not check out the stats, but when I went back to look for it it practically jumped off the screen and bit me, but I completely missed on my first, second, and third visits to the site.

So, for the record, Robyn is lovely and I was not meaning to be snide.  Sometimes I hate that it is so difficult to convey tone on the internet.  I will be more careful to direct my "duh"s only at myself next time.  Sorry, Robyn!

Where Got Their Numbers And Statistics

Robyn asked a good question about The Story of Stuff:  Where did they get their data?
To be honest, I had not checked their site for specific resources of data because I had heard many of those same statistics on the news, in the newspaper, on NPR, etc., but they never had the impact on my way of thinking until I saw them all put together in such a coherent way.  In order to answer her question I just headed back to The Story of Stuff site and found, on page one, a big link to their Resources page, where you can look up each and every bit of data they put in their twenty minute film, including an annotated script that cites each and every reference.  So now we know. 
By the way, the annotated script is easy to read if you don't have time to sit and watch the movie.

Another Way: The Story of Stuff

I've been reading a new blog lately, one that my mom sent me the link to that is hosted by the local newspaper here.  The blog is called Getting Greener (you can click on that title to visit the blog) and the author, Wendy Baird, talks about her family's efforts to make their lives a little more earth friendly. 
Wendy's blog pointed me in the direction of The Story of Stuff (you can click on that one, too).  I try not to ask much of the people I know, but today I am pulling a favor.  Please go and watch the video.  It is twenty minutes long, which sounds like an eternity in this world of fast paced clicking, but those twenty minutes will transform the way you think about our habits, our consumption, and our world.  When you're done let me know what you thought by leaving a comment. 

THANK YOUs and Happy News. Oh, and Turkeys.

I'm back from a very planned (but not very well announced break) due to some stuff that had to be done which involved recovery, on my part.  I am ok, well on my way to feeling 100%, and ready to resume life as normal, with a little less jumping/running/exercise for the next five weeks.  So now you know where I've been, sort of.  I have to say that, having been under the weather, we know some of the most generous people around.  Family and friends stepped up to bring us pre-cooked meals, offers of babysitting and child entertaining for free, and even sent surprise get-well-soon packages in the mail.  Thank you to all of you who pitched in to help us secure some sort of normalcy for our children.  Thank you to those of you who brought us meals so we didn't have to think about dinner.  Thank you for those who took time out of your very busy schedules to hang out with our wee ones, tiring them out so they slept like little angels and allowed me some extra time to sleep and rest.  Thank you to those of you who sent me goodies in the mail and made me rediscover the joy of knitting with yarn I didn't shop for, candy I didn't buy and thus felt guilt-free about eating, and magazines that kept me very entertained.  You are all dears, and you have made me believe, once again, in the goodness of people.  It is humbling to be on the receiving end of such generosity, and I will try my best to be so very good when one of you needs me. 
In other news, a huge congratulations to my cousin Julie, her husband Jay, and big sister Emily on the birth of baby James!  Much happiness to all of you, and please be on the lookout for a box of Harry's lightly-used hand-me-downs. 
This morning as I tried to wipe the grog from my eyes while Harry happily chattered away on the couch next to me, I saw a flock of turkeys walk through my dooryard and pause to eat some bugs and seeds.  To those of you who live in a city, or even a large suburb, this probably sounds ridiculous, but it happens here more than you'd think.  Apparently, for turkeys, my yard offers up some good eats.  Anyway, I whispered to Harry to shhhhh, took his hand and gently walked him to the window, directing him to remain very very quiet as we did so.  He looked at me like I was crazy, but followed my directions and stood next to me looking out at the 22 female turkeys gathered before us.  A big smile spread slowly across his face as he witnessed one of the many quirks of living on the edge of the middle of nowhere, and after the turkeys meandered into the trees he looked at me and said "Thank you for showing me turkeys, Mom", without even being prompted.  Later on he thanked me for making good blueberry muffins.  My boy has manners, complete sentences, and an awed interest in wildlife.  Life is good.

Done.

I just finished Harry Potter.  It was, in my mind, the perfect ending.  I have no unanswered questions, I am not longing for more.  I am now going to dig out the very first voume, start from the beginning, and reread them all again.  Just cause.

Off to bed...been awake since 2 am last night with vomiting boy...very tired and my eyes are aching from reading.  But I had to finish...it was THAT good!

Not Quite Yet

I haven't actually started the new Harry Potter yet.  I read about two pages into it when I realized that I had completely forgotten what happened in the last book, aside from one major thing, so I am spending today's naptime refreshing my memory about that before I dig into the new book.  I will begin it tonight, more than likely.  I am almost a little reluctant to begin because this is the last book, and finishing books or series of books that I have loved makes me very sad, as if I am saying goodbye to a good friend.  You can't read it again for the first time, you know?

Best Husband Award

Goes to Brendan, because while running an errand (buying a wireless Internet card for the computer) he thought of me, and brought home the new and final  Harry Potter book. 
I'll be reading for a few days now.  See you on the other side.