you're a mean old daddy but i like you

papery leaf hurdles for the sunshine make breezy patterns on the floor. there's a shade across the front of the house already, green leaves and and blackly greener grass and mud, the shadows of bush and branch.

we're off to the windy city with hoodies in hands. no laundry or dishes for nearly a week. swimming clothes and a box full of books to stuff in the car and we're nearly there already.



time to play and sleep and read and write.

maybe i'll go to amsterdam, maybe i'll go to rome
and rent me a grand piano and put some flowers 'round my room.
but let's not talk about fare-thee-wells now, the night is a starry dome....

carey, get out your cane and i'll put on some silver....

my soul got happy and stayed all day

here's a little something that is truly delightful, "some magic that will heal my ailing soul." my darling dearling tucked it under his arm and bought it on wednesday night so that i could carefully turn pages and slip paper from envelopes and go birding sans binoculars both yesterday and today and tomorrow for sure.

strange, but true, i have two boys who can eat an entire box of macaroni and cheese (and tell me they're finished, by hand or mouth, one way or another) between themselves. they don't do it every time i whip such a sorry, cheezy, lunch together, mind you. and not without a healthy sprinkle of frozen peas mixed in, of course. but they have eaten the cooked contents of a box themselves only this past week! i'm astonished. one would think they should both be reading and toilet capable in order to participate in a macaroni eating fest. one would think so and one (myself, their mother!) would be wrong.







cold and windy. the doors and windows barred shut. the green is oustanding from treetop to grass bottom. the mud here in illinois is black and then blacker, nothing like the slippery red clay sludge of south carolina. something overwhelming about something so dark and black and quiet.

coffee flows from the shining black pot on the counter. gray days call for tea or coffee and sometimes both. my nose is cold and i'm wearing socks again. it's a welcome sort of cold, though. it's a spring cold, the kind you choose to let in the house through screen and iron or to send in a swirl and a howl around the bricks and glass and prematurely blooming lilacs.

jude is feverish and cries out in the night. i hear him and am cut to the quick. i am tired and bleary and sometimes cry or grump to myself. i can hardly abide a baby crying, a new baby in particular. someone told me recently that she awoke in the night and heard through the open windows a baby somewhere in the neighborhood screaming and wailing and crying. i thought about my jude crying as i bounced and nursed and walked and swayed. i wondered if anyone was awakened in the neighborhood by his crying.

"it cut through me like a knife...i was really, really uncomfortable. maybe it was a baby crying it out? i don't know... i mean, it was eery," she said.

and i know what she means, that uncomfortable feeling. the feeling that you need to get up and slip on some shoes and go to find out what is going on with that baby.

i, for one, do not like to sleep alone. i like having someone (and, most often, three someones) warm nearby, someone snoring, someone stealing covers, someone talking nonsense in his sleep. ernie says that we were not designed to sleep alone and i readily agree. it's interesting that adults, who are, for the most part cognitively responsible and emotionally functional, sleep in a tangle one with another, night after night, until old age and its bodily curiosities move them to do otherwise. but in turn, these same adults expect babies, who are fresh from womb and heartbeat, a cozy place as near to mama as near can be, to sleep alone in their own beds and rooms, "so that they will learn" that they are "not the center of the universe" and other malarkey. it's more than interesting, it's lamentable.

enough! it's friday night, earth night it is, and the birds are sleeping safely and soundly. something must be done to ring in the weekend.

who makes the morning fabulous?

i think there are two things about cake-building that need to be understood.

first, the cake has to look terrible before it can look beautiful. when i'm stacking the layers on top of one another and cutting things off to even things out, the thing is a mess! i terrible mess.

secondly, no matter how terrible the cake looks in the beginning, there is no guarantee that it will ever look beautiful at all.

how did pedro build such a beautiful cake? it must be the moustache. "never trust a man with a moustache."



for some reason my cakes-that-aren't-cheesecake are never beautiful. no one cares as they eat the chocolately wonder, but i wilt and care as i light the candles and carry the thing out to the guests and their sweet teeth. perhaps had i not gone to college for years and years and one degree and another i could have pursued perfecting the art of cake building during those years, instead. one can only wonder.

joe's birthday. grandma told him, "i'm mad at you for having your party outside! i don't want to be out in the cold! i'm mad at you!" and he smirked and called to tell me. but at the end of the warm, though windy, evening and after her fat pieces of ugly yet delicious cake, she declared herself as "having a wonderful time!"



we twinkled the trees starry and i have to say the lights won't be coming down all summer. the lanterns are inside in a pile on the sunporch table, as they will not withstand wind and rain, but the indoor/outdoor lights we bought for our christmas tree are taking an extended camping trip in the backyard. of course, we need more lights! many, many more lights! the tree needs to be ablaze with lights from top to bottom! get this girl some fancy tree climbing equipment and i'll cover the thing with twinkling sensations in no time at all.

who makes the morning fabulous?
who says today's a fun day?
why do i feel like sailing again?
honey, it's you...

who makes the traffic interesting?
rescues a dreary sunday?
who makes me feel like painting again?
honey, it's you...

who has a friend named melanie?
who's not afraid to try new things?
who gets to spend her birthday in spain?
possibly you...

-- steely dan, of course.


let joy kill you

with an itch and a sneeze we stand in the grass under petal and leaf and bud. a swoosh of wind the pollen and petals snow around us in a pink fluttering whorl. when the boys wake me up in the morning my eyes are stiff and burning. it's taking more than coffee to shake the sleepy heavy feeling away.

the fans spin in full swing. the boys wear as little as possible. henry wants to "wear his dress", meaning he wants to get dressed. he plays his harmonica and jumps from the couch to the rug and back onto the couch again and then does a flipping somersault across the couch, dropping his harmonica in the process.

he moves in a golden fluttering whorl, a constant swish of star-spun twinkle and dance.

this morning i sit at this wreckage on my desk and drink the last cup of coffee. henry chews gum after toast. jude snoozes in the sunny blue room upstairs.







today is joe's birthday so we are readying to messy the kitchen as we batter together the makings of cake. a party tonight with lights in the trees and flowers on the table. the first birthday with dreamy weather and glossy green grass.

"i have seen them live long and laugh loud..."

you walked under this tree, spoke to a moon for me

as much as i try to stay awake i fall asleep on the couch and am sent upstairs to bed so that ernie can have the couch and tv and long blanket and cherry coke to himself. if i sit down for more than a moment and even relax one tiny muscle i'm falling asleep and it's over.

jude has discovered that tummy sleeping feels better than back sleeping and no matter how hard i try to keep him on his back he rolls over and crunches up and sleeps for long hours at a time.

henry has new shoes that he can put on by himself. he puts them on the wrong feet and knows to switch them around.





this morning i watched the two of them laughing about cookies. henry was swinging in between two chairs. jude was in his highchair, toes on the table, chocolate covered. their hair sticking up to meet sunlight, their mouths pulled up with a laugh and a song, always a song. henry never quits his singing.

and i stopped and saw them there with that blue tunneling of vision that makes you really see something for what it is. i saw that moment, that millisecond of time and remembered that i will never see it again, it's over and gone and we're doing something else. even seconds later, it's not the same. the sun is dimmer, the smiling is something else, the hair, the chairs, the swinging, the cookies, the toes are all different.

amazing, this "swirl in the air where your head was once, here." it's gone with the glitter of it in a flash. and it wouldn't be the same if we noticed it all of the time, noticed the milliseconds of moments. they only matter when you've missed millions and billions of them already.



if you need a pick-me-up come on over and i will take my scissors to the back corner of our yard and clip some japanese quince for you to take home to your kitchen table.

i like your sleeves

possibly the coolest kid on the planet.

then black and brindle red and brown

fun to chop with a rockin' rocking mincer.

meat in the nude. 

cooking with meat has never been easy for me. i normally don't do it. ernie does it or we eat beans and rice. or pasta. or broccoli. it's not that difficult to understand my aversion to dealing with meat: vegetables and grains don't bleed on you when you're cutting them. but last night i cut and cooked pieces of beef for dinner.

it's not that i don't like to eat meat, sometimes i really like to eat meat. sometimes a hot dog sounds really good. maybe it's the idea of not having anything to do with the killing of animals with eyes and heartbeats in order to eat them that is appealing to me.

i thought that the monumental occasion of my unrequested meat preparation experience deserved documentation. and besides, i'm experimenting with the bloggerbot tool this morning, too.

deliciously scared. 

'cause when you worry your face will frown

there's not an azalea pinking and perky for miles.

we've nothing flowering in our yard save a golden dandelion and something mysterious and purple.

there's a wind brewing. we stand in the drive and the rain spits and spatters.

my mother plucks all tulips from her yard and puts them into a glass where they yawn at each other on the dining room table.

the babies sleep and ernie clicks his way toward a tax return.

headlights stream from one side of the room to the next, long triangles of white light that stretch the shadows of branches across the ceiling and down the wall, over window and wood, reflecting in a flash on my nose and then disappearing a split second over the knuckles of my typing hands.

because i am the one he loves the most, ernie put the screen doors on the front of the house and on the side door. the sun has been hot already and the stillness in the air of the house was beginning to feel itchy and frustrating.

it's tornado weather, gray and windy, the best kind of weather for sleeping with windows and doors pushed open. today i folded footed pajamas and put them in boxes for other winters.



on saturday ernie and i heard and saw the outrageously fabulous bobby mcferrin perform with the peoria symphony orchestra. i love his website, first of all. try the interactive "sing and play with bobby" page while you're surfing the world wide web. secondly, and more personally, i've never experienced anything like watching him perform. i don't recall ever being carried away on the waves of music in the way i went soaring when he first opened his mouth and let out these, well, these sounds. it's really impossible to describe. we came away inspired to be more peaceful, to make more music, to be full of life.

the concert was worth every pretty penny and while it may take some scraping together of couch cushion savings (and, ahem, a little more, most likely) you will not be sorry. i suppose that one could purchase something tangible with the money i'm suggesting you fork over for bobby mcferrin concert tickets. but when it comes down to it, this life isn't about the tangible, now is it?

a song and a sigh for the weary

hard times. perhaps it's daylight savings time. or maybe it's the warmer weather and the skinny remains of sunlight lingering past bedtime. it could be the pushing through of new teeth or the lengthening of bodies demanding more food.

i find myself annoyed.

it's not so much the curiousity of my children, the experimentation they insist upon as they learn about life and living. i can handle gently guiding them towards the right and good. i can handle removing tempting objects and practices from their little fingers, their brilliantly inquisitive minds.



i am a mother, strong, with warm hands and heart, with spirit and sparkle and a ready smile. i feel these waves of light and love and joy come over me and am overwhelmed. my boys believe me to be strong. and when i cry they are confused. henry pats my shoulder and says, "don't cry about it." how can i explain the complicated twists of my grief to a person who crumples at the smallest of disappointments, at problems with simple solutions?

these boys are not overly needy, they are simply children. henry collapses on the stairs on the way up for his nap and cries out, "help me, mommy!" and i push away my feelings of irritation when i see him there, trying not to think, "you have legs -- walk!" i pick him up and he holds me tightly and gently says, "thank you, mommy."

maybe the gratitude of these boys makes it easier. the milky smile and sweaty hair of jude as he snuggles up to me all through the night. the proclamation, "i LOVE you, mommy!" of henry as i help him drift off to sleep. the peace they find knowing that they can trust me to be kind to them. perhaps these make it easier to continue on?

i feel the constant reminder to bear the burdens of my children. to lay down my life for them. to carry them when they are weak. how is it that i am the strong one? this is a mystery to me -- that God has entrusted these lives, these pieces of eternity to me for mothering.

for a splintering moment i want to hide.

i pray daily for the fruit of the Spirit, for love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control, to be evident in me as i work to help these children grow.

perhaps martin luther put it best:

After Christ had redeemed us, renewed us, and made us his church, he gave us no other law but that of mutual love. To love is not to wish one another well, but to carry one another's burdens--that is, things that are grievous to us, and that we would not willingly bear.

special thanks to tulipgirl.

the reason that i fly by night

horribly, jude found a rotting bird in the backyard. “oh goodness!” henry exclaimed. we hid it underneath the red plastic sled for ernie to take care of. we could see the bird’s miniature ribcage, his beak, his feathers, his talons.

“that’s a dead bird, jude!”

"i" said the little leatherwing bat
"i'll tell to you the reason that
The reason that i fly by night
Is because i've lost my heart's delight."

"i" said the blackbird sittin' on a chair
"once i courted a lady, fair.
She proved fickle and turned her back
And ever since then i've dressed in black."

"i" said the woodpecker sittin' on a fence
"once i courted a handsome wench
She got scared and from me fled
And ever since then my head's been red."

"i" said the little turtle dove
"i'll tell you how to win her love
Court her night and court her day
Never give her time to say o-neigh!"

"i" said the bluejay and away he flew
"if i were a young man i'd have two
If one were faithless and chanced to go
I'd add the other string to my bow"

Howdy dowdy diddle-dum day
Howdy dowdy diddle-dum day
Howdy dowdy diddle-dum day
Hey le lee-lee lie-lee low

everything is turning up green. the grass, the front hedge, the tips of the trees. in a few weeks our skin will appear green as we sit outside under the spring.

we’ve new chimes in the tree outside my study. come summer, when the wind is nowhere to be found, the chimes will hang sticky and still and i’ll remember these windy mornings when they swayed with a song and a dance.

henry wears goggles for most of the day. and sometimes he wears a cape with the goggles. i love nearly three years of age!

i sing leatherwing bat to the boys nearly every night. last night henry lay beside me singing it. i heard him sing "heart's delight" and "sittin' on a fence" and "lady fair." how has this happened? how is it that this child is now a singer and a pretender and a wearer of underwear and a teller of stories?

we are thinking of getting henry his own digital camera for his birthday.









some kind of blue

the wind’s been blowing hard and everything seems to bang together with it. the window glass rattles in the frame. the trees thrash against the themselves, the bricks and windows. it’s cold and blue.

with permission, of course, i post photographs of my brother will jumping from swings at the park. he wouldn’t give warning so i never knew quite when to snap, ending up with photographs of his near-launch, his bite-the-dust landing, his dance-move landing.

he was exhausted from the pumping of legs and blood in order to swing and jump for the camera so we gave up and jude went swinging, instead.

cold and blue, henry-blue, not from blue cold, though. just blue. hard, plastic blue.

the wind blew (blue?) hard at lakeland park, whistling through hair and down the corridors of ears, so we buckled into the van and found ice cream.

whatever can be said about the dairy dream will have to be said another time. you know summer is not far away when the woman wearing white shorts and sneakers and ice-cream smeared t-shirt flings open the doors to the dairy dream, wind and tornado not-withstanding.