fresh milk delivered daily

i've looked around enough to know . . .

2006-04-07T23:33:00.000-05:00

after a month of digging around in dark corners and clicking (switching and stirring) gadget and gizmo, i give you this:

www.molliegreene.com

if you've been visiting greenemama.blogspot.com via molliegreene.com then you're probably already in the know. . .

appreciez!

self-portrait tuesday -- fool

2006-04-04T12:30:00.000-05:00

breezy and blue with a green and a golden and here i sit indoors at a computer, no less. fool, this girl would be had she not the excuse of sleeping boys in upstairs rooms and the necessary looking and listening after of them.

The first sparrow of spring! The year beginning with younger hope than ever! The faint silvery warblings heard over the partially bare and moist fields from the bluebird, the song sparrow, and the red-wing, as if the last flakes of winter tinkled as they fell! What at such a time are histories, chronologies, traditions, and all written revelations?

"can be undesirable for early risers like schoolchildren"

2006-04-03T12:38:00.000-05:00

thanks for nothing, willett, franklin.

self-portrait tuesday -- time

2006-03-31T12:43:00.000-06:00

the days blew by and, having missed a few pics of the kitchen and her terrible dishes that ever need doing, i've not a full month of self-portraiture to document here, which is probably for the best. sundays were hard to remember as we were at church at ten a.m. saturdays were hard, too, because at the promised time, i was whirling a scarf around and jingling bells with kindermusik students. other days were just busy and though we certainly ate, the sight of the kitchen was more than the camera could handle. therefore, i've got a week's worth of dishes to represent the month entire. most of them are dirty, because, well, in all honesty, most of the time the sink is full and waiting for someone to come and clean it.

the dishes and the doing of them are a very real part of me. they may not define me as a person, but the hours spent in thought, a kind of post-dinner rumination, have birthed ideas and plans rising up through steam and bubble that may not have come when i was applying myself to more studied, more valuable work at my desk, in a chair, nose in book, fingers clicking the latest spinning of story.

if the kitchen is not clean then the rest of the house seems to me to be a hovel, the clutter pillaring around us, necessity pooling at our feet as we frantically search for waders. as freakish as it may seem, though, if the kitchen is clean, the dishes washed, the sink shining, the floors crunch-free (no thanks to jude . . . ), if everything is put away and ready for the next round of buzzing, then the rest of the house is liveable, though perhaps lived-in, and living in it without constantly thinking of cleaning it is possible.

one would think, given this admission, that the kithen would be cleaner more often, no?

"if like a crab you could go backward."

2006-03-30T12:23:00.000-06:00

kai was my friend, too. we ate breakfast nearly every morning for a year or two. the group grew and shrunk, but kai was always there, bowtie carefully tied and twisted under his chin, a wooly sweater tied around his neck like a ralph lauren advertisement.

noel and i used to study in the same section of the library so that we could walk by and drop notes on his textbooks. he was too much to resist, accent and all, his ferocity about studying, his confusion as to whether we were serious or not.

today, when i read this admonition from joy regarding taking care to speak (or type) carefully, to consider your audience and the possibility that your words will not be taken as you intended them to be taken, i thought of two things: kai and the way that he always walked too fast, looking at the sidewalk, thinking in hebrew, relishing the next few hours in the library; and the power of words, their ability to tattoo themselves to the most tender skin of our memories (right on the ribcage, under the arm).

thank you, joy, for the gentle reminder to take care with what we say (and, perhaps, to stop skimming!).

trois raisons . . .

2006-03-26T18:47:00.000-06:00

. . . to love weekends . . .

maverick

2006-03-25T20:53:00.000-06:00

"what's an adventure, mama?" he asks, sloshing bubbles across the tile. he's wearing a bubble beard and his brother is pouring water on his head.

"an adventure is something that you do that's exciting, maybe dangerous, something that you've never done before," i say to him, wondering what he's thinking about as he swims in circles in the tub. "when you take on an adventure you have to be determined and brave."

"i'm brave, i want an adventure," and his true blue-green eyes twinkling assure me that he's sincere.

he's an adventure, something exciting, dangerous, unknown. everything he does is plucky, brave, buzzing. he's a crusader, a gambler, a marvel, a marvelous.

some might say that the only thing to do with his kind of spunk and spirit is to beat it down, break it, crush it until it's a fine golden powder that blows the way it is breathed upon. it seems to be the simplest way to master his energy: turn it into something easy to manage, to manipulate, to dominate. and it certainly seems to be much easier than constructing with slivers and needles a smooth and shining silver conduit for the ocean of his volition (that swirls in waves and whirls in pools) to travel safely until adulthood.

if his will is broken and he is easy to manage, then how will he say, "no!" to folly? if he is taught that children do not have a voice and that authority is little more than domination, if he does not know what it means to one-another, to disciple, how will he then be empowered to lead his own?

"i want an adventure!" is what i say beneath the water, above, and over the water. and i want an adventurer, a maverick, a boy whose will is strong, who leads and does not follow, who not only knows that which is right, but is brave, determined, and defiant enough to do it.

history of weather

2006-03-23T13:02:00.000-06:00

bromidic, with nothing to say. sigh.

a cardinal has flown into the same window in my study two times in an effort to breeze through to the front of the house. perhaps it is the same cardinal who flew into the kitchen last spring, on a rainy day when i opened the windows for some rainy inspiration. he crashed around in the dining room trying for the glass. joe blocked the gap and i went out in the mud to take down the storm window. gliding out of the window he zipped up to a tree and watched as i changed the screens on the north side of the house.

it's almost screen changing time again this year. i tried to use my wiles on ernie last weekend in hopes we'd have some fresh air coming through the curling iron of the front door screen. "maybe we should change out just the screen doors," i suggest wistfully. "hmmmph," he retorts. "we've still got cold weather coming our way."

he was right and come tuesday morning there was more snow, six inches in all, on trees, house, lily of the valley shoots. i suppose the screens will have to wait but i refuse to pull out the flannel sheeting again.

to resist it is useless, it is useless to resist

2006-03-14T07:52:00.000-06:00

the weekend was breezy and sunny and called for short sleeves and open windows. i wanted to get into the yard and rake at the leaves blown against the house, but i didn't.

sunday night there were tornadoes around, even blowing through our town, though we didn't hear the sirens and slept high in the house through the night. the lightening flashed silver and the hail pelted against the metal, the slate, the brick. as i fell asleep i picked out percussive patterns, counting them in pings and marbles. in the morning there was water splashed in the kindermusik room but no real damage was done. the grass is greener today, yesterday, highlights, frosted, green spears in the mud. tornadoes are a sign of spring around these parts.

we spent the weekend as we should: working, playing, worshipping, resting. we ended the thing with a terrific surprise: the dream has opened early for the year! most likely in anticipation of profit losses that are inevitable as soon as the brand new dairy queen opens. the girls in their white pants rushed around making cheese balls, dipped cones. everyone in town had ice cream on saturday. i will be sad if the dream has to close due to the shiny-ness, year 'round openness of the DQ.

we went to lakeland park for awhile until some little kids were vulgar and their parents didn't care about it enough to stop it. we drove with the windows down, of course, a recent discovery that keeps our children engaged in the car for longer than usual, their fingers stretching out the edges of the windows, the wind blowing their hair high, their cheeks rosy.

the moon roof, cloud roof, is my favorite part about the new car. soon we'll whiff at the springtime as the wind whips and swirls through the roof during our long drives over countryside and cityscape.

self-portrait tuesday -- time

2006-03-08T07:14:00.000-06:00

sometime this week marks the eighth year anniversary of "the accident." the accident involved a late dinner, a silly race over carpet, between tables, a plate glass door that didn't open with the trigger of the handle, smashing, crashing, screaming, puking, blood, ambulance, morphine, surgery, prescription drugs, rubber bands, blue plastic, dr. millon (ooh, la, la), shellye, therapy, tears, organist cookies, a new cellist, left-handed scrawling, excessive amounts of free time, and the surprise of fingers that still worked, strong hands, strong mind, strong heart.

everything i remember about the accident comes in patches, flashes, the colors swirling in saturated colors. the sounds are echoes, underwater, slow, the swish and gurgle of something unintelligible. time didn't stop, it flickered its no vacancy light as my world crashed down with the shards of glass.

quincy was there. shortly after i looked down and stretched my fingers long and open and saw the bone of my arm squinting in the light, shortly after i screamed like a girl and melanie threw up on the sidewalk, quincy sat on the "do not sit on the umbrella stands" stands that were better as benches. he sat there in his white shirt, his black hands holding my head so that i'd stop looking at my arm. i bled all over him and told him that i loved him. jamie came around with her big lips and i screamed at her and told her to get away from me. she was embarrassed and shirked back into the bushes. "don't cut my velvet jacket," i squawked. surreal, the things that seem important when you're not quite thinking straight. my brother dashed over and we rode away in the ambulance where he pretended that it was all cool, calm and collected as always, making the necessary phone calls, telling me i'd be okay.

it wasn't really okay. the tiny ER doc said i just needed stitches and then he looked and accidentally exclaimed, "things are falling out of here!" i was loopy, the room bright and strange. i didn't know my social security number, they had to call my dad. i could hear the man on the other side of the curtain trying to use someone else's number as his own.

i certainly don't remember surgery, only the sad expression of the doctor who said we'd talk about the piano, about music later, not to think about it too much right now. i remember having my hair washed by the nurse, having a friend slip into the hospital to hold my other hand and cry with me, rebekah calling from chicago, exclaiming how deeply this hurt her and how she didn't know how to feel or what to say as she screamed in my ear.

my dorm supervisor came and told me not to worry, that i wouldn't be getting demerits for any of this. "now we know not to run," she said smugly, her collar buttoned tight around her aging neck, her raincoat hanging smoothly over her arm. i was too tired to engage so i looked the other way until she left. surreal, the things that are more important than compassion to some people.

later, shellye took off the plaster and my arm was limp and like a shining white fish under the fluorescent light. the scar was long, stretching out, curling around, from my wrist nearly to my elbow. it was red and the skins were apologetically smooshed up against each other. my fingers wouldn't move, the tendons, nerves had been severed. "it was a clean cut -- it wasn't hard to see what went where," the doctor said cheerfully, mapping out the atlas of the insides of my hand, my wrist, feeling the thrill of his job, the rush of a job well done.

time passed. soon the nerves would zap at each other, electric life telling me where to feel, sometimes mistaken, the cuts not as clean as promised, the rewiring a bit off, turning on the kitchen light when i was flipping the hall switch. the fingers were weak and weary. it didn't look like the other hand as much as it used to. i spent the summer at the piano teaching the hand to play, to think like it used to think, teaching it to remember.

the scar was bright for a long time after that. shiny, purple in places. "did you try to kill yourself or something?" will asked bluntly, his sad eyes, pouting lips and weak chin looking the arm over.

this morning the scar is nearly nothing, a faint white line with new freckles in places . "i knew a woman would want her arm to be pretty -- i did what i could," the doc boasted of his stitching skills, a tailor working invisible stitchery with living, growing things. even to take a photograph the thing is barely there, the light of the sky, the flash, the ceiling bleaching it white as before.

eight years is nothing, just as the whip of the moment as my hand punched through the glass is nothing, the hollow crack as the door spat me onto the sidewalk, the punctuated seconds of realization before the screaming began, is really nothing at all. the blank stare of the scar tells me that the magnitude of the moment disappears with time, it becomes silver and forgetful with a wink and a sleep.

keepers of the gloom

2006-03-06T10:16:00.000-06:00

irregular pings on the roof of the air conditioner that we didn't store for winter, gray light sneering his way through the curtains into slushy puddles on the floor, the birdless quiet booming through the house: sunday mornings should always start that way. i thought it was raining, an early springy rain that would bring some green back to this squirrel-brown world of winter.

"it's raining outside henry -- move the curtains, have a look." he jumps up to move the curtain. jude says, "oh, wow!" henry bursts, "it's not raining, it's snowing, mama."

as human as it sounds, i must grumble a bit about it. snow should say goodbye with the last leap of the month of mud, cabbage, love. when march rolls around there should only be rain, sunshine, crocuses. there shouldn't be furry jackets, fuzzy socks, insulated glovage. especially when the snow of march is not sled-worthy and is mostly ice and slush-ball.

the days are dark and ordinary, stirring all of us crazy. i buy a small fern and blacken my fingers with soil from a bag. the dirt is cold because it's been sitting in the garage, but the process is cathartic and spins a kind of hope that magazines, reruns of the victory garden, and the anxious stirring of dead leaves in search of green just don't proliferate.

march up a hill and stop awhile

2006-03-03T12:00:00.000-06:00

the weekend comes with a blue sky and sunshine. at last this week is over. monday gave us the flu and the excitement that spews from that. tuesday brought new teething woes for jude (!). wednesday was better, but the kids were napless, crabby, depressing. thursday was the Worst Day of my mama life Ever. everyone cried, all three of us, for hours on end. my students probably went home and cried after the endless parade of my sarcastic comments, my ferocious conveyance of disgust regarding their terrible lack of musicality and slovenly practice habits. jude's teeth, henry's three-ness, and my inability to be patient, kind, and motherly sent us over the edge.

a hot-dog octopus (that brought a smile to henry's tear streaked face) made by my mother, a hearty dosage of tylenol and teething tablets, and early bedtimes made everyone happier. except, perhaps, the students, who are most likely still confused and who did not get to sit on the couch eating peanut m & m's during survivor.

today is brighter on all horizons. the whirr of the dryer and his last load of laundry spins up through the radiator, the floor. i've had moments to sit and read, to the amazement of all. the boys are snoring, snoozing, dreaming of today's walk to the park, apples for lunch, a weekend of days with poppy, who is ever patient and understanding and altogether much more fun than this mama, particularly this week.

like a tea tray in the sky

2006-03-01T08:52:00.000-06:00

master stacker of clean dishes that i am, i'd still like a dishwasher. our cool old kitchen has the not-so-cool impractical cabinetry and counterspace that will not house a dishwasher unless the kitchen gets a complete overhaul.

my mother tries to convince me to get a portable dishwasher to stick in the corner. the only people i know who have (had?) one of those scooted the thing around the kitchen to gather the dishes. they also piled the thing high with stuff (recently delivered mail, baseball gear, papal pamphlets) that would teeter on the edge and fall off onto the dirty floor while they were scooting the dishwasher around the kitchen to gather the dishes.

my mother insists that "yours doesn't have to be that way (first of all, we're not catholic) -- they (meaning ernie and my dad) can make it stay in one place." she promises that my life will be easier, that i will kick up my heels and dance each time i enter the kitchen, that i will be inspired to prepare more than ice cream sandwiches or pizza for dinner.

when i was in grad school i'd pack my dirty dishes in a cardboard box and take them to dixie's house and run them through her dishwasher (not portable) while i took care of (feeding, medicating) her dogs, bosco (deaf) and spencer (the favorite). it was worth the box, the stacking, the careful transport of everything, to simply not have to stick my hands in a sink of water.

i guess that i'm as portable as they come, though i don't provide more counterspace, more time, more energy, and, as far as the price of the thing goes, although i certainly cost less than five hundred dollars, i may spend close to that much annually in lotion purchases to keep my hands from shriveling prematurely.

all that to say, in unofficial participation with the self-portrait tuesday blog, i'm taking pics (and documenting them here) of my kitchen sink and my sorry dirty dishes every day for the month of march, at 10 a.m. fair warning.

self portrait tuesday (february)

2006-02-28T16:35:00.000-06:00

not an official member yet, but . . .

here i am, wrinkles and all. not sure how i feel about prematurely wrinkling so deeply. not overly terrific, i suppose. if only i didn't squint and smile so much.

put on the day, wear it 'til the night comes

2006-02-28T09:55:00.000-06:00

breezy saturdays may be my favorite sort of day. after naps the boys ate outside, cold as it still was with the breeze and all. we pretended to picnic and then dug through the yard for something metal down in the ground to tell us something of where our property ends and the neighbors' begins.

i find myself obsessed with the borders of the yard. the trees are tall, a leafy fantastic for spring, summer and fall. come winter they telegraph wooden messages (di di di, di dah dah di, di dah di, di di, dah di, dah dah di) to one another since there are no leaves for gossiping together. there is a possible confusion with the neighbors as to who is responsible for the trees, although they are clearly in our yard, and were i to come home one sunny afternoon and find the neighbors' garage lined with stacks of fresh wood and the trees on the north side of the yard chopped into splinters and kindling i would seriously become violent. something must be done before they tire of raking the leaves that drop down into their grass and purchase red shorts and a chain saw.

henry with a fever is certainly not himself, falling asleep on his own on the couch while watching star wars, incredibles, lady and the tramp. needy and flushed he's a hard day and night job. we're exhausted and look forward to the return of his bounce. jude is fascinated with henry's permanent post on the couch. he climbs up the back and jumps onto henry's head, laughing all the way. he turns off the tv and runs to hide.

february, this short month of long winter is almost over. three cheers for the coming of march!

running on tiptoe

2006-02-23T16:03:00.000-06:00

i don't know the family, i didn't know the baby. ernie works with her father, this is all that i know of them. they didn't expect her to live to be older than ten, but dying at three was still unexpected. can a mama ever expect her baby to die? and seven more years of life has to seem like a century compared to the last few minutes of breath.

i tried not to think too much about it, stopping to whisper a prayer for their family here and there throughout the day seemed enough. i didn't want to look at my own three year old and all of is glow and spark and put myself in hannah's mama's funeral shoes. but i thought about them a lot, about the crater of emptiness that would bore through my chest, through the chambers of my heart, were my own child to experience death before i do.

i thought about the quietness of their house, the empty feeling the rooms have when something isn't right, isn't the same. i thought about how weird dead people look, weirdest most to those who knew them best, and how utterly terrible it must feel to see your child looking that way. i thought about how people never know what to say to those who experience this kind of loss, at least how i never know what to say, how i avoid having to say anything at all because i am not brave enough to shoulder some of their pain and grieve with them.

henry snoozes upstairs, a late afternoon nap for a boy who is fighting a cold. jude snores alongside him, one arm over his head, just like ernie sleeps. i stare at them long and hard before i walk downstairs to make a congratulatory "welcome to the world" call to my sister-in-law who has recently given birth to a baby girl.

i take my children for granted, i realize yet again. their liveliness, their tenacity, their persistance, their independance, their dependance. i find myself often annoyed by the very things that make them living people. it's ridiculous to promise against the repetition of being annoyed so, but if it were possible, i'd do it in a flash. it's all too short, these minutes we're given, to be taking them for granted the way that i do.

"like uncut jewels, dull and rough"

2006-02-22T09:46:00.000-06:00

jude's gum loving has gone too far. hooray for olive oil! i was anticipating a terrible first haircut (mullet?) but a teaspoon of olive oil made the glob (and the little chunks, too) slide right out of his shiny hair.

one would think we'd stop giving the kid gum but we don't. at least, i don't. i think it helps him keep his mind off of his teeth. he loves every aspect of gum, from wrapper removal, to the gradual biting of it, to the long chew, the long stretching strand, the lumpy swallow. frost knew, and we know!

besides, and after all, we've the surety of olive oil.

"why is it so cold in here?" we sniffed as we muffled our mouths and noses with mufflers. "the house is old, it's windy and frigid outside. it's winter, buck up."

upon further investigation we realized, with much groaning about the impending CIPS bill, that someone (little fingers fidgeting with the thermostat. . .) had set the thing to turn down to 50 degrees at night. we slept with hoodies, thick socks. the house refused to warm up, the water refusing to charge through the pipes.

thanks to a free moment in the midst of the insanity to discover the mischief, it feels nearly too warm this morning.

the sun is now shining as i squint to type. jude has wet hands from playing at dishes in the sink. henry is practicing his olympic somersaulting. the second brew of coffee is about to whistle on the stove. this is a week without regularly scheduled students and we're all feeling it. too bad the week is half over already.

white horses, red hill

2006-02-16T20:25:00.000-06:00

grass grass grass
tree tree tree
leafy leafy leaf
one, two, three
birdy birdy bird
fly fly fly
nest nest nest
high high high
cloudy cloudy cloud
wind wind wind
rain rain rain
mud mud mud
doggy doggy dog
run run run
quicky quick quick
home home home
beddy bed bed
sheety sheet sheet
sleepy sleep sleep
dreamy dream dream
dance-y dance dance
sing-y sing sing
grow grow grow
biggy big big -- woody guthrie

how long will this misery last? jude's four molars are nearly through, each one only four corners with gumminess in the in betweens of them, sixteen little islands in his crying mouth. and cry he does. he doesn't care to sleep, doesn't care to eat. and he's really really spastic, tripping over himself all day long, most likely due to the drunken stupor of his sleepless state. when will it end!

2006-02-14T13:19:00.000-06:00

must have been a wonderful child

2006-02-12T21:40:00.000-06:00

henry is building things across the room. he's serious about his work, stacking, pulling things off, knocking things down. i'm watching him work and he looks up sideways at me and winks.

he smiles his extra-delicious smile at me and gets back to work. i'm smitten and try to imagine him giving love with a wink and a grin to any other girl. it won't be long, they say, so as he slips into sleep tonight i take an extra deep drink of the smell of his hair and squeeze him close, the kind of close that seems to be as close as possible and yet still seems to be not quite close enough. he wiggles away and burrows down under the covers.

invocation

2006-02-08T15:24:00.000-06:00

please pray for my friend troy. he's very ill (cancer) and it's really scary for him and his. his wife is my dear friend noel and their three precious babies are sadie, gideon and rivers. no details because i don't know any.

pray to the Healer for healing and peace.

tip of the tongue, the teeth, the lips

2006-02-07T21:32:00.000-06:00

does this look like a smile with a cavity? of course it does not!

and yet, just add "three year old with a filling" to the box, the u-haul, the cavern that houses my mothering (among other) failures. if you can manage your way past the racks of too-often-worn fuzzy sweaters and green lounge wear and beyond the drawers of my impetuous and over-zealous haircuts, and if you can make it without tripping over the tangle of unfinished endeavors that clutter the floor to the cobweb dusted shelving, you can stick the cavity (and the check i wrote to fill it) in line next to the box of "didn't hear the baby crying while she was watching something forgettable and probably bad-for-her on the tv." you can place it slightly below the buttered paper bags of "fed children popcorn for breakfast. more than once." and you can cram it in directly above the jar of "shares toothbrush with both offspring and spouse on occasion." you'll have to ignore the too-embarrassing-to-talk-about clinkers marinating with fishy oil inside cans with screw-on lids because i'm not going to talk about those, not today.

henry was a champion dental patient, though. he sat, spat, winced, yawned for the drill, the fill, the super-scary sucker thing. he said, "thanks guys!" to the assistant and the tanned dentist who certainly had to notice my own pearly whites as they chomped on sugar-filled gum, who was most assuredly thinking phrases such as "mothering failure" and "bob dylan t-shirt = trashy mom without dental floss." in the end we came away with a star in henry's tooth, a dinosaur glider, and a resolution to brush jude's teeth all the more vigorously.

the most noteworthy, perhaps, is that the procedure itself took the dentist approximately six minutes to accomplish. the star was sixty one dollars even. so, one can deduce that the dentist makes just over ten bucks a minute, six hundred dollars an hour. at that rate i should have been a dentist, we all should have been orangely tanned dentists. too bad people value their teeth more than their musical educations, that's all i can say.

yes we're going to a party party

2006-01-31T08:08:00.000-06:00

happy birthday, little blog! it's too bad this mama is sore of throat and head or she'd write something to swirl for you.

a thousand, a hundred more, cups of coffee later (the occasional sugared tea, the paunchy, steaming cocoa), sipped while writing to the zing of too many cars on the should-not-be-so-busy street, to the bark of the neighbor's dog (the dog who rounds the corner and pees on my mother's flowers each morning as his owner pockets her hands and yawns at the day, that dog), with the early morning lazy clicking of keyboard, with the late night urgent zapping of keyboard, with child in lap, child at feet, with sun shining on (variety color) hair, shining in squinting eyes, with silver rain on glass, grass, falling slowly, storming black; all this and here i am with much to say and nothing with which to say it. maybe we need some sort of cake to celebrate? frosted cake with a candle and an ice-cream option.

i'm glad it's your birthday, happy birthday to you.

moons and junes and ferris wheels

2006-01-30T12:49:00.000-06:00

who is this boy fantastic? it's a good thing that he's ever cute and delicious because the whine that goes along with his mouth, his running nose, his independent need for speed would make him otherwise unlikeable.

and, at long last, we've got some hair to stand on end!

better that i break the window

2006-01-24T09:12:00.000-06:00

it's cold, but we try anyway. henry warns me to "watch out for the creepy man behind you!" and the man, who was nearly past me and barely behind me, chuckled and walked on.

the sun shines this morning. my desk needs attention again, the strange collection of paper and coffee cup piling up already. if i take care of it now, today, this minute, i may develop tidy habits and possibly win some sort of tidiness award. but we've got this sunshine and a relatively new box of crayolas and a string of paper to roll across the floor so it's hard to commit to things menial like the rearranging of paper and the washing of cups.

more lovely, more temperate

2006-01-20T14:52:00.000-06:00

since the business and confusion of our holiday season yielded a stack of unsent christmas cards sitting in dust on the sideboard, we decided to toss the tired, golden greetings and look ahead. it's early yet, and even though it costs thirty nine cents too many to stamp and send love cards with the knee-socked swarthy mail delivery man to be postmarked and flown across the country, we're planning and smearing, and yes, we're early, which means there's a fat, heart-shaped cookie chance someone will feel a flicker of love warming in their mailbox.

valentine making without chocolate is impossible, no? "bon-bon!" jude chirps as he peels off the foil wrapping. henry drools some chocolate onto his paper: "i'm making paint mom! chocolate paint!" if you receive a cocoa scented valentine it will be quite by accident -- i don't believe those made it into the stack.

perhaps most interesting today is the clean surface of my desk! not a piece of misplaced importance to be seen!

ink

2006-01-17T13:39:00.000-06:00

perhaps it's because, this way, i drink nearly ever drop brewed and feel no guilt since i'm not pouring it down the drain. or it could be because it's ever more so delicious made this way: hotter. stronger, certainly. not too far down the list would be the freeing up of coveted counterspace in the kitchen now that the behemoth krups is stashed away in the lower cabinet in case of glass shattering coffee innoculation emergencies. it could be the whistling teakettle and the measuring of tablespoons that never came with the quick gurgle of the auto-drip percolating percolator.

though the most honest excuse probably has something to do with obsessive addiction and insatiable craving, whatever the reasoning may be, the french press is my new favorite household accomplice!

silverfishes

2006-01-16T08:33:00.000-06:00

the long wait for the paint to be dry and beyond stickiness is at last over. what they lack in order, they make up for in niftiness. wonderful, white, they are still yawning in places for more books to take up lodging.

they look like they came with the house. they draw the curious who share our drive closer, the slowing of a truck, a shiny suv, the slow, palpable steps of a dog walker as they peek in through the windows into the lamplight and at the newest deliciousness in this household.

i think we should have a book shower and those who love us most should bring books to the shelves, to us, so that we can eat them and store the bones of them in long lines, waiting to be picked at again for a later re-read.

sensational idea, no?

silly, i feel. silly and sheepish. but my mother mentioned it, too, so, it's not just me. i was looking at the sunlight on the taffy color of the floor and was thinking the only thing my study needs now, aside from a desk dusting and a gigantic fern, is a purring cat snoozing the afternoons, the mornings away. maybe we could get a cat from a shelter this time, from people who have evaluated the kittens for mental and physical health. . . pathetic, this mama, yes?

"her brain is badly battered"

2006-01-13T20:14:00.000-06:00

ernie zips away through the dark for chinese. the long day is over and a long evening has begun. hoorah for friday nights and all that comes with them.

jude was crabby all the day long. he seems to have a harder time about the teeth than henry ever did. poor baby can barely smile. he doesn't even try to speak, puling out his demands while pointing with his fingers. he wanders the house with an ever-present whining sound coming from his lips. i don't think he even hears himself.

after much deliberation it has been decided that, unless we cannot prevent it, or unless the only other choice is to run through the town screaming and crying and ripping out our curling tresses, henry will no longer nap. if he naps, regardless of the time of day, he will not be ready for sleep until well after 10 o'clock in the night, which is far too late for these owls to handle. we need the dark, the night to pull ourselves together, to fold laundry without being helped, to sit in silence for more than four seconds. in addition to late nights due to daytime nappage, he still wakes up at the freaking crack of dawn. it doesn't matter to him that he's not had a full night of sleep. he wakes up anyway, bucks off the covers, and maneuvers his way through the day, all day, never stopping. he never stops moving. ever. seriously. we're talking constant movement for all waking hours, here.

when he does not nap he sleeps by 7 and most days until 7. we'll eat that sandwich, no?

however, eight hours, ten hours of daylight to endure these sounds, to meet needs constantly, to teach them to love one another, to know empathy, to sacrifice, has sent this mama into crazy land.

and, as crazy as i feel, i am also humbled: God never yells at me to stop being childish because He "just can't take it anymore." God doesn't complain about losing sleep and creative "me" time. God meets my needs with love and joy, patience and ever-so-longsuffering. in a way it's clear to me that i worship myself when i think i am entitled to more from my children than they are always able to give, demanding more of them than God demands of them, than he demands of me, me in all of my (ahem) maturity. and yet, though i see this, i can't seem to pull myself together, shut up my mouth, and serve with gladness. thanks be to God that He is longsuffering towards us, towards me!

january reading list

2006-01-06T14:47:00.000-06:00

call me inspired.

in an effort to keep organized and to keep track, i'll be listing books i'm reading (ummm, or hoping to read) each month and (hopefully) reviewing them the following month.

the five love languages of children (chapman, campbell)
the secret of childhood (montessori)
blue like jazz (miller)
a way of seeing (schaeffer)

suggestions?

laugh, sit still, run away

2006-01-06T13:06:00.000-06:00

coffee: you can sleep when you're dead

2006-01-05T20:42:00.000-06:00

life returns to normal again. paranormal. i made dinner and cleaned up the mess before we ate. outlandish, i know. the christmas tree is shedding on the curbside, graciously tossed there by brother will, who spent many a january as a boy dragging the discarded christmas tree through his own backyard. the house is clean, the laundry is done. my study is still waiting for paint so the mess is messy, not unusual, only multiplied. i hope nothing important is buried and forgotten.

a newer student in a gigantic shirt and a ski mask informed me today that i looked like i had to be "at least thirty-seven years old!" since it's probably unprofessional to discuss my students on such a public place as this, i'll refrain from saying how i felt and what i wanted to say to him. it's a good thing that he's cute and does endearing things like pop tic tacs and bring good luck charms ("i'm really gonna need this tonight!") to lessons, that's all i can say. did i mention the hintings of a mullet on his freckled neck?

henry's awana teacher told me that henry was "such a delight." and no one can disagree. i am more delighted every day, and i get to see him at his worst, so, that's saying something.

jude snores in red jammies, a tummy full of lasagna and grape tomatoes. henry fights sleep while ernie holds him in a poppy lock: tight and fast and near-inescapable. oh, to be given the sleep thanklessly allotted to henry! to sleep and to drool on clean sheets stretched over and under down, snuggled beneath heaps of covers and comforter, for hours on end. uninterrupted dreams, until late in the morning, waking slowly and blinkingly with stretches and thoughts before thinking of slippers and the cold of the day! when i was in college i set my alarm on saturday mornings for seven, sometimes earlier. what a freak! those days of irresponsibility are long gone. we wake, all too soon, to bouncing and chirruping and altogether too much chipper cheerfulness. of course, one day, not too far from now, we'll be alone in our bed in the quiet and dim and will be sorry we were so crabby in the yesterdays that were this morning, are tomorrow morning, are next monday morning. sigh. a little contentment goes a long way. it just doesn't let you sleep in.

kisses, kissers

2006-01-05T17:47:00.000-06:00

baby love. dowen's deliciousness is missed by no one.

when i looked to the moon it turned to gold

2005-12-31T22:49:00.000-06:00

out with the old, in with the new. we sit, fighting sickness, in our cozy house enjoying silence, the hum of the computer, the swish of a car, the driver lonely and forgotten on this celebration night, the sniff of congestion, the blow of a nose. the neighbors' blue lights twinkle at me through the glass from their twining spot on their front porch. it's chilly but not cold.

my mother and i spent the day prematurely discussing potted plants and the placement of bricks as we sipped tea and watched the gilmore girls, disc after disc after disc after disc.

tonight the boys are sleeping, snoring, dreaming of tomorrows as we all do night after night. i had hoped to have them stay awake tonight with handmade noisemakers and party hats, sipping sparkling grape juice and munching on salty snacks in the living room. grumpiness and exhaustion took over, though. not to mention the sad failure on my part to construct noisemakers and party hats, to purchase salty snacks. next year, perhaps. we pray and hope for next year, for many more years with boys that sparkle with sunny smiles, boys who fill our hearts with pride and joy and remind us to follow paths of righteousness so that we can show them the way, the path, as well.

my study is a pile of books and paper, the 2006 resolution towards organization clearly overly ambitious. "we're about to paint, no use organizing the place today," i sniff, digging for a pencil, the address book, the ringing telephone. "tomorrow!" says the old me, the new me, the 2006 me, all of us.

nearly a year of blogging wrapped up (un)tidily in this last post of 2005. wrapped in golden paper with twirly ribbon glittering on top. happy new year, to the friends, the foes, to the bewildered, to the astonished, to the fantastic and to the dismal. take a cup of kindness . . .

more blessed to give

2005-12-26T12:24:00.000-06:00

"amazing!"

fantastic wooden castle with beautiful wooden royalty (and others . . .).

possible favorite (rivals the yet to be photographed cowboy rifle).

jude's favorite part of the celebrations.

ernie's wassail.

"death by pork."

***

you're all i want for Christmas,
and if all of my dreams come true,
then i'll awake on Christmas mornin,
and find my stocking filled with you . . .

Nous attendions cet heureux temps

2005-12-24T10:12:00.000-06:00

it's soggy, ready for a christmas rain. the vines of henry's dead zinnias, snapped in twos, threes at the first winter frost are now visible, the snow gone, the mud black beneath them as they wither in a quiet tangle. the street is a mirror, hazed as though the metal is chipping from the back. the drive is slush, gray, black, white in places. a gloomy eve of christmas, certainly. all of this winter weather and now we're in a melancholy; no sun, no snow sparkle.

fitting weather, perhaps, to contemplate the birth of the Saviour, the Christ, the Son of God who came to deliver us from darkness, to save us from our own gloom, doom, ourselves.

(lorenzo scott "ordained holy family")

what was the sky, the air, like for mary, for joseph as the first pulses of birth began, as they worked together to welcome Life to the world? was the world heavy and damp, waiting for something, for Breath and Light? did the star pierce through a haze and a darkness as the shepherds gently watched over their sheep, waiting for the Dawn, for the long arms of the sun to reach out and over the sleeping, dying world?

what did mary see in those eyes as they looked at her in the night, the morning, the afternoon? as she smelled his newborn head, counted the pudge of toes, wrapped him tightly and kissed him hundreds, thousands of times, did she understand, as i cannot, the magnitude of the wondrous gift she held in her feeble human arms?

what wondrous love is this? that the God of the universe who needs nothing of me, the wretched useless being that i am, reaches out and loves with depths of love that cannot be measured? that the beautiful Christ would descend to this darkness, and, seeking and saving, would beautify us for Himself?

***

I wonder, as i wander out under the sky
How jesus the saviour had come for to die
For poor orn'ry creatures like you and like i
I wonder as i wander out under the sky

When mary birthed jesus, 'twas in a cow's stall
With wisemen and shepherds and farmers and all
And high in the heavens a star's light did fall
'twas the promise of the ages, it then did recall

If jesus had wanted for any wee thing
Like a star in the sky, or a bird on the wing
Or all of god's angels in heav'n for to sing
Well, he surely could have had them, for he was their king

I wonder as i wander out under the sky
How jesus the saviour had come for to die
For poor orn'ry creatures like you and like i
I wonder as i wander, out under the sky.

"unseen and unseeable"

2005-12-21T14:52:00.000-06:00

the house is nearly ready for christmas, another vacuuming or two (or five or six most likely), a little more organization, and we'll be ready for company, for more snow, for turkey, for fruit slush, for santa. i'm still in the midst of a sewing frenzy with hopeless hopes of finishing tonight. i hate it that i put things off until the last minute.

the front garden is a pumpkin graveyard, full of the sorry things, once autumnal, earthy, etc., they sink heavy and frosted, a little bit squished looking, in the weirdly drifted snow. having been gleefully flung (frozen) from the balconies by ernie and henry when they were putting the storm doors on the house i was sure we'd have a splattering or two in the yard below but there was only a dent here and there. we really should bag them up and put them at the curb since we've no compost pile, no garden to speak of in the works for spring, summer. and yet there they sit in a sunlit sparkle of snow as i put off the clean up. i'll be sorry, waiting until the last minute, when they're mush and pumpkin water on a warm april afternoon, stinking up the yard, the neighborhood, sending the neighborhood association, the city council storming up my sidewalk, kerchiefing their noses as they demand we dispose of the rottenness. certainly i'll be sorry and muttering as the the pumpkins bleed and ooze on my birks, my pants, my winter white hands. and yet somehow there are too many other things to do, like stitch and [complain], brew espresso and squeeze too much chocolate syrup into the thing, read old stories to new boys, wrap presents until they shine and dazzle, utilize mistletoe, bake cookies, stuff stockings, multiple viewings of the polar express, etc., etc.

"the most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see."

be intimidated by smart women

2005-12-21T11:59:00.000-06:00

our criticized, yet fantastic, blog, got me a college girl, on which we discuss the need to formally educate women, whether they intend to choose a career as a homekeeper or not (among other things!), has just gotten a pretty good shout out from the online periodical salon.com.

thanks, emily!

more rapid than eagles his coursers they came

2005-12-14T08:00:00.000-06:00

early, henry wakes and, using his sweet voice, asks for play and toast.

there's a new snow over everything, just as the curb was becoming black from the traffic and the grass, embarrassed, was apologetically, soggily, smeared in patches in the yard, a few new inches drifted down in the night while we dreamt, not yet of sugarplums, jingling bells, scratching hooves, a jolly old elf.

the house is cozy at last! puzzled, frozen, we began bumping the aged thermostat upward towards 90 and, though the boiler, the great green philistine in the belly of the house, was still growling and firing and hot, the house was cold and terrible.

once again, a handy, loves-to-be-schocked-while-rewiring-stuff father to the rescue, and we've been digitized! at last the house stays warm -- all of the house, even the lonely and iciciled guest room which (nearly) formerly housed drifts of glittering snow who had, most assuredly, long worn out their welcome.

in an effort to truly become midwesterners (read: keep our feet from losing toes to a frozen blackened gangrene) we've purchased new boots. we bought them at farm king. we wear them proudly and, though this mama in particular looks most ridiculous in them, does she care? no, she doesn't. because while all of you titter and snigger, her feet (cushioned in an indubitable pink cloud) are smug (snug) as they are understanding of your inability to express your jealousy properly.

jude has two new words: "yes!" fomerly communicated with an exaggerated nod of the bald head; and "ho! ho! ho!" which he exuberantly laughs after being asked, "what does santa say?" such cuteness should be outlawed -- nothing is accomplished with constant entertainment in the house!

if you've not raced to the theater to purchase your ticket to narnia, do so today! a few minor disappointments (mostly favorite lines from the book that were not included in the script) and an altogether too short experience, but we were happy for the most part.

most fabulous was the white witch -- she was perfect, cold, hard, and wore the most wonderful costumes. henry did not move in his seat (save to drink coke and eat popcorn) for the duration. children with weaponry of all kinds -- what more could henry want in a movie? he's been aslan all week -- "listen to aslan roar!" "watch mom! aslan's going to eat the bad, creepy witch!"

lastly, the students are ready for their recital! if you're local, come and support them (and us!) in their musical endeavors.

"get up . . . be inspired"

2005-12-06T07:54:00.000-06:00

winter, white. the snow falls again. the street stripes in gray and white, not yet black, the new snow is gracious and forgiving of the grime from the cars that zip by without caution or care.

dressed warmly, or attempting to do so and not quite succeeding, we chop down our own christmas tree and drag it through the snow to the wagon for a necessary ride, standing behind the tractor towards to the shaker, the workers, genderless, models for carhartt, rosy, though chapped, cheeked, unsmiling. they yank the trees from the wagon and shove them into the shaking machine. wordless, they carry the tree to be measured (where we are greeted by a toothless bleached blonde woman passing out candy canes) and then, effortlessly, with ungloved fingers, they twine the tree to the top of the car. we drive away, looking twice, a slow drive over ice towards grandmama's and hot chocolate.

the tree, undressed, stands in the corner. throughout the day we toss on a few more ornaments, the twist and sparkle of garland, the twinkle of lights, a glitter of mirrored ball. the boys are gentle with the tree, touching carefully so as not to be pricked and scatched, removing ornaments for close inspection, carefully, though haphazardly, replacing them and running off to the next thing that needs doing by little hands and feet.

my bones are cold. i spend the day consuming many cups of tea, coffee, cocoa. in between the whistles of the kettle, i'm not sure what goes on. the fruit of my hands hibernates, or so it would seem. the laundry is not caught up from our recent drive southerly. the upstairs of our house is a stunning series of piles, the homes for which sit empty, lonely and waiting. duty overwhelms creativity, i'm afraid, and, feeling lost, nothing is accomplished but that which is necessary. so sad to have no time for "reflection, immobility," for bouts of inspiration and symphonic readings. someday, perhaps. hopefully sooner rather than later.

i'm closing my chocolate factory forever

2005-12-05T10:48:00.001-06:00

delicious. and too large for the page. and mama doesn't have time to figure out shrinkage today. enjoy.

the goose, fat

2005-12-01T13:14:00.000-06:00

at long last the hours of enslavement inside the otherwise fantastic new vehicle are over. it was dark when the car was unloaded and the floors of the car have yet to be vacuumed of crumbled goldfish, crayon paper peelings, sorry shrivels of frenched fries. we all question the family road trip ideal: how is it possible to do this harmoniously? the crying, the thrashing about in seatbelts, the endless readings of a spiderman comic book, the broken record playing of the title track on the ever-favored yellow submarine album, the constant chewing of straw and jerked beef to stay awake to track over and under hill and mountain, to cross the bleakness of a harvested november, muddy, brindled fields abandonded for the winter.

we're not planning any more road trips any time soon.

warning: graphic pictures to follow. seriously. scroll with caution.

henry placed the faces with the names of cousins, second cousins,

roasted marshmallows and hot dogs over fire, lost his new gloves, acquired new dragon boots (via a much kissed and hugged grammy), learned that he is too young to drive a golf cart by himself.climbed atop a tractor,

zipped around on a four wheeler with his pop, clambered atop a fortress of hay bales, petted a murdered "rein"deer (much to the horror of his mother), and watched the dog eat pieces of said deer as they were tossed to him (!).

jude was overwhelmed by new-faces, ate pecans that he found all over the farm, gathered sticks and leaves, mooed at the cows, screamed at the site of his namesake (?), hated the "firepoppers," learned the meaning of despair as he rode across country in a car seat for what felt like forever, and was hailed as the spitting image of his handsome father (lucky boy) by multiple family members.

shortly after we pulled into town and released our children from their straighjacket seatbelts we walked into our house, turned up the heat, and caught the delicious whiff of new wood. puzzled, we began a search and, upon further inspection revealed a fantastic surprise -- the construction of new bookshelves in my study!

thanks to a handy father (delighting in giving good gifts to his children) who spent his holiday measuring and wiring and sawing out a surprise for his favorite daughter, yours truly, this mama is obsessing over paint and general bookshelf-coolness-overload.

and we've a snow! the house was silent and smelled like snow (most likely due to drafty windows in the bedroom) this morning. we work to clear space and place for celebratory christmas gear. list making, cookie baking, et al. expect fewer words.

to buy a fat pig

2005-11-18T08:19:00.000-06:00

we're driving off into the cold and blue for celebrations and other family whatnot. we've not yet traveled by daylight for such long distances with wee ones in tow. one can only hope for the best: long naps, early bedtime in carseats, and low energy for children, high energy for parents.

it's too bad we don't have a private jet that could zip us there and back in a fantastic flash of silver stream and wing. and it's too bad we don't have our own pouches of floo powder to snap us there in a dusty chim-chim-iny sort of way. and it's too bad that we don't have enough vacation days to take the trip in three days each way, stopping at hotels to swim early and breakfast late as we made our way southerly, northerly.

we are thankful, nonetheless! we've family who want to see us, reliable transportation, junky snacks for the ride, and, most importantly, the beautiful each otherness of we four.

happy thanksgiving, friends.

free tea for me (we'll see)

2005-11-13T22:46:00.000-06:00

thanks, tulip girl! how exciting!

not only does this tea company sell tea, but they blog about it, too. note that i've added both links to my sidebar.

i'm hoping for some free chai. oooh.

"you and i are going to have one more fling"

2005-11-12T14:56:00.000-06:00

we have our very own purchased copy today! fantastically, upon opening the thing, we discovered a delicious chocolate aroma emerging from within! a scratch-and-sniff variety chocolate, but fun and smile-supplicating nonetheless.

buy yours today!

dreadfully savage

2005-11-10T11:30:00.000-06:00

i've discovered the deliciousness of half & half swirled cloudy in black tea!

"yes, that's it,' said the Hatter with a sigh: `it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles.'

good morning starshine, the earth says "hello!"

2005-11-09T12:07:00.000-06:00

henry watches the newly released charlie and the chocolate factory. hooray for quick releases! the special features teach you how to dance like an oompah loompah. hilarious. i need to video henry following along.

henry has been regularly waking up at 5 a.m. blasted time change! he gets up and the chatter begins. too bad this early rising does not make for an early bedtime -- of course not! he will be the world-record holding sleep withstander. he will accomplish much because he does not care for "a little sleep, a little slumber."

jude whines and cries and is a regular crab. he has had the worst time welcoming the teeth. he doesn't see the use of them, methinks, having not yet experienced teriyaki beef jerky and sunflower seeds on long road trips. things are looking up, though, as he's sleeping more and spends this morning entertaining himself watching the birds and squirrels in the front garden.

we took a windy walk to the park this morning. the ground is covered with acorns and their lost caps, pinecones, the crunchy remainder of leaves. jude is learning about the ample storage of pockets as we walked and gathered.

the park was abandoned to my relief ("where are the kids!" henry mourns) save for a few hooded walkers, one with an ugly poodle, another with an interesting fringed poncho over swishy exercise pants. they were all elderly, walking their hearts into youthfulness.

to whom does one complain about the narrowness of the swing seats? surely they have replaced the old seats with something in which only skinny little girls and boys can sit! i jumped from the swing and seriously (not really) injured my apparently wide bum. how horrific to be too wide to swing without injury! who would have thought after one glance at my duff? not me, and i'm my bum's biggest critic. sigh. one would think that with the growing sadness of childhood obesity there would be complaints and petitions regarding the width of the swing seats. although, since most of these neglected children are obese due to prolonged stints in front of the television, remote or controller in one hand, greasy bag of popcorn in the other, perhaps they don't make it to the park to try and shove their seats into the seats enough to warrant a complaint, perhaps they don't even know that they are so discriminated against!

"mend your ways, everyone, and take your philosophy with a grain of salt."

silliness, etc.

2005-11-09T11:38:00.000-06:00

first things first -- the first tag i've actually responded to (no offense, former taggers!)

Camille tagged me! The rules are:

1. Search your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (this is meant to say something about you).
4. Post that sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five people to do the same.

well, my twenty-third post only had four sentences so i used the fourth. oddly, this post had a mystery comment, probably the only post in the archives with mystery, for what it's worth.

anyhow, this is what i said in sentence four:

even now as i type i can hear this wind up, over the roof and down the long channel of driveway, whipping and whistling between the trees and bushes and grapevines.

and this is who i'm tagging:

husband without twenty three posts (i guess you pick your last post?)
mother with new glasses
joy joy joy
mr. imagination
lady jenn

secondly, here's a fun quiz to take!

i took the quiz and was happy to be dubbed prince caspian:

"As Prince Caspian you are a noble, goodhearted but mischievous scallywag! Fun loving, you are admired for your easy going nature."

hmmm . . . not so sure if it's me or not, but i'll take it! we can't wait for the movie here. i'm a little concerned because the books are near and dear to my heart. peter jackson, don't let me down!

leafy leafy leafy leaf

2005-11-02T13:04:00.000-06:00

Play leafy leaf leaf

tricks, treats

2005-11-01T12:49:00.000-06:00

drizzling, gray, puddles for splashing on a dark walk for chocolate and others. boots for both zorro and rooster.

jude was sick and crabby but interested nonetheless. he snoozed before we went out in the cold and seemed to feel better. poor baby doesn't know how to blow his nose yet and, thus, has a terrible time with this cold.

henry honestly thinks that all who saw him believed him to be zorro. he stood, unsmiling, hands on hips, the stance of a hero. he unsheathed his sword and snarled. he was fabulous.

jude, molting, was annoyed by my dressing him up in a feathery jacket. henry wore the jacket two halloweens ago and jude will be the last to wear it as the thing is falling apart.

i am forgetting what henry's face looks like as he's sported a handsome moustache and black mask to two days straight. he looks cross eyed through the mask. his hair is flat and golden when he whips off his hat and rides into the sunset on scout.

we've a bag of candy in the kitchen that no one but mama has remembered. the cape is all that is thought about. the cape, the mask, the sword.

and, now, november is here. the trees still undress and leave their laundry on the grass for someone else to pick up after them. we've new flannel sheets and furry socks, cocoa and hot cider, green hoodies and variety corduroy, to bring us into winter.

"the cows will [pretty much] soon turn into meat"

2005-10-28T09:44:00.000-05:00

this is pretty much the best thing since the movie himself.

the video clips are pretty sweet, but "pedro's song" is the pretty much the sweetest. please enjoy them all. seriously.

appreciez mes petits choux.

be not so pale

2005-10-25T07:27:00.000-05:00

if we ever so choose to sell this house of greene methinks we should only have it on the market in the glory of the fall, only after having raked the golden plunder from the grass so as not to overwhelm. the trees are outrageous -- thanks to the locksmith and his wife who, being born a long time ago, they grew up and, childless, built and planted together in the spring or fall, perhaps, lining them up along the north side of the house dreaming of generations of hammock swingers to come, plunking bundles of roots and earth into deep holes, pushing the blackness over them, perspiration glittering on the upward turning of lips.

the sugar maple in the front of the house is undoubtedly the best tree in the entire county, perhaps in the land of lincoln altogether. gather your trees of illinois and we shall see, yes we shall. bring them on over and line them up down this street, their roots gnarling over the curb, the cars, the sleepy houses, for a good comparison. we'll have a panel of judges with clipboards and pencils, tweeds and wool, scarves of maroon or gold, silvers of hair or no hair at all, pince-nez, binocular, spectacles for the spectacle of your tree next to mine.

does your tree ignite with a mere matchstrike of the sun (sunstrike? sunstroke?) in the early glimmer of morning, sending prismatic flames across the front of your house, shooting through glass and screen, a light display on wall and floor, a nameless color to blaze and brindle you through coffee and breakfasts of waffle and jam? do you feel as though you're ready for launch and flight as you skip beneath the cloud of it, atop the ocean of it?

gooses, geeses

2005-10-21T12:21:00.000-05:00

cold fingers, hands, toes. the boys warm their hands and feet by sticking them on warm parts of my body, a practice slightly encouraged by their mother, never by their father. ernie hates the "cold hand shock," as do i, and yet i grit my teeth and wait until their hands and feet are as warm as i once was, making for more of the warm to go around.

when we were children playing in the snow my dad would let us warm our red and raw fingers on his belly. we could almost hear the "tssss" sound and see the steam rising from his skin. he would make faces and tortured sounds but would let us do it, anyway.

this warming tool is only to be used by children, however. there is nothing worse than adults, who are able to warm their own hands on their own bellies, to inflict cold hand shock on another adult, no matter how much love is going around.

this boundary is occasionaly crossed by me and i am told by my husband that i "will be sorry" and that i "will pay for that" which means that there will be an occasion on which he will come in from the cold having shoveled snow, perhaps, or scraped ice from the windshield, and i will, unsuspecting of his evil motives, be offering him hot cocoa or steaming espresso and, as i put his hot mug on the table and turn to the counter to retrieve my own, he will place his utterly frozen (not just cold, mind you) fingers on the small of my back or the nape of my neck invoking screams and failed attempts at running away.

does it not seem utterly unfair to be so shiveringly castigated, though? to "be sorry" and have to "pay" in this frostbitten way for my slightly chilling assaults on him in the mere cool of autumn?

"when the trees bow down their heads"

2005-10-20T09:19:00.000-05:00

the world, golden, has begun to fall in a flutter down and around us. happily, it is not yet cold enough to prefer the indoor life so we walk and kick our way down the bricks, around the yard, the neighbors' yards.

in the gray of this morning's rain we are still flushed with orange, gold, unstoppable autumn.

jude is sick, a fever, crying out over the wretchedness of his teeth. he sleeps early this morning, his fuzzing head peeking out from the comforter, the quilt. the front tree is like a gigantic ball of sun, closing in on the window, blazing, breezing, empowered by the water, the sky. and still jude sleeps, sleeping off his woe.

the rain brings on my favorite weather. when i had a child who began to run, who needed sun and grass to suck his never-ending energy from him, i reevaluated this rain love of mine. but i prefer it still, it's black and green wash is cleansing. i feel dark and know more about secrets, i can see more clearly, when water falls from the gray billows into pools sending a hundred concentric circles ringing for each droplet in each puddle that grows in the cracks and dips of the sidewalk.

who has seen the wind? neither you nor i.

not the way you wear your hair

2005-10-14T08:41:00.000-05:00

two days ago he sauntered into the locker room with a towel on his shoulder. he looked in a little mirror as he took off his tie, his shirt. he unabashedly donned euro swim wear and, with a poise that only he could have, slipped into the olympic pool and cut through the water with white, skinny, hairy arms.

yesterday he twirled on the ice with a sweat-pant-capri'd (?) peggy fleming. the camera work makes me teary eyed - the zoom on his skate as he slips his beige socked foot into the thing and begins to thread the laces. i cannot describe my emotions at moments like these, something between feeling really special, which is the intent of rogers, i believe, and really gypped, something like, "why didn't i ever become a figure skater?" i feel a certain sadness and an unsatisfied feeling of wishing when we take these outings together, only not together. up close and real, only not close at all and utterly not-for-real.

henry freaks out and cries, "mr. rogers, i want to swim with you!" he touches the tv and is completely saddened that we are in our living room and not swirling about beneath the surface, kicking our legs into a spin, our own bodies washed whiter and smoother in the water.

"look at his hair! look at his face! i want to swim!" shrieks henry.
"it looks like so much fun. we need to go to the Y to swim." i say.
"where is poppy! poppy will take me to the Y!"

mournfully we discuss that poppy is at work, that the Y is not open for free swimming at that particular time of day, and that mr. rogers is not at our Y right now.

he touches the tv and whimpers something to mr. rogers who smiles and displays his perfect, imperfect, "breaststroke, sidestroke, fancy diving," etc., his hair stuck to his smile wrinkles.

"i want to skate! i want black skates and ice and i want to hold his hand!" he shrieks the next day.
"it would be fun to ice skate -- look at how they spin together!" i commisserate, wondering if peggy annoys herself with her long hair whipping across her face as she flits across the smoothness.
"i want to do that! help me, mr. rogers!" he cries, zapping his fingers on the fuzz across the surface of the tv.

mr. rogers pretends to nearly fall down. peggy tells mr. rogers that she is still learning, that she is learning every day. mr. rogers smiles at us and the two of them glide to the wall.

i realize that i would make any number of sacrifices to pay for a mr. rogers to be a neighbor for all of us, to take us to caves with blind saxophonists, to teach us to sniff the waxy smell of crayons as the colors flick across the conveyer belt, to loan us snazzy zip up cardigans, to hold our hands as we cross the street to yo yo ma's house of cello.

i'm used to four seasons, california's got but one

2005-10-10T19:49:00.000-05:00

i should be cleaning up the chili mess that is smeared and flung about the kitchen. but my hands smell like baby soap and i can't bring myself to make them smell of anything else. i love boys in the bath and just out of the bath, the after-bath. they giggle and shiver into jammies with feet, then jump to cuddle under newly cleaned quilts and down comforter. jude snores away his teething grumps. henry has seen "prince of egypt" and is obsessed with the young moses nearly as much as he is with the boy david. he's watching a tamer version of the story (i hate the prince of egypt's vivid heiroglyphics of the babies being thrown to the crocodiles) in which, sad to say, the mother of moses looks like a man.

at long last ernie has come home to us. the boys spent sunday afternoon leaping over him and showing him old toys and new tricks. a man of surprises, ernie showered us with gifts, henry's favorite being a whoopie cushion. he laughs hysterically and blows it up again. who would have known -- he's only three!

"i have a whoopie cushion in the car!" henry tells the near-snoozing man in the chair at borders.

"you do?" says the man, chuckling, literally, and looking at me, a mom who certainly doesn't look like an encourager of whoopie cushions.

"yes. do you need a whoopie cushion?" henry asks, seriously pondering.

"no, i really don't." says the man.

"whoopie cushion!" henry exclaims, elongating the "oo" as if shouting a hooray, trotting off to the next thing.

on saturday my mom took us to mt. pisgah to see indian teepees and to eat fair-type food. it was good but terrible. a sure sign that i'm old -- i felt sick saturday night from grease and onions! i'm so sad. henry, the ever observant, said of the midget (is it okay to call him a midget? is there a better term? little person?), "LOOK at that LITTLE MAN! he's so LITTLE!" and of the extremely obsese man, "LOOK at that fat man in the blue pants and red shirt -- he's REALLY, REALLY FAT!" it was terrible. it was worse to shush him, really. i'm really at a loss as to how to teach him not to blurt out observations pertaining to stature and size.

well, moses is trudging through the desert and henry is leaping from the coffee table to the couch shouting, "let my people go!" in an altogether too loud manner. ernie rehearses with the good doctor and i've a few new things to read waiting for done-dishes and perking coffee.

a friend of mine i chanced to meet, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho

2005-10-06T11:11:00.000-05:00

i can't seem to warm up. henry, on the other hand, runs around in his underwear (which is normally full of all sorts of treasures -- sword, hippo, eye-patch, coasters, etc.).

i was sad to hear a sister tell another sister (in a kindermusik class) that they "weren't friends, sisters aren't friends." some aren't, i suppose, and i've no sisters to speak of, but siblings should be friends, no? i tell henry and jude that they are best friends daily. they kiss each other, help each other, play together as best friends do. doesn't the idea of a "friend who sticks closer than a brother" imply that brotherly closeness is comparable, and is indeed greater, than ordinary friendship?

i suppose i'm no one to ask or analyze -- my brothers and i fought like wild dogs, but we still loved each other. and as far as friends go, well, i've few friends in this world who are not blood or bond relation, and no true friends closer than chicago, no one that i see regularly, anyway. and while i do hope that henry and jude will make friends in this life i really hope and pray that they will be friends with each other.

in my experience friendships are often based on similar circumstances in which the two people exist: college, work, camp, etc. and when the circumstances change: graduation, change of jobs, the bus ride out of the woods and back to the city, the friendships dwindle down to nothing but a christmas card, if you're lucky. no one person is really at fault, it's just the way it works. we're bonded by similar joys and struggles and commiseration, not by anything truly real that makes for something substantial. and that's okay. i really don't mourn any friendship that has faded into nothing. but i think i'd mourn a brother that i didn't recognize on the street.

the wind blows cold so we're off to shut the windows and steep the tea.

never jump into a pile of leaves with a wet sucker

2005-10-03T21:56:00.000-05:00

a week of insanity and more to come.

on a colder day we bought pumpkins and squash, crunchy not-too-sweet apples, and cider that tasted better this year than last. last year jude rode in my pouch and peeked out at the wind from beneath a hat, rosy cheeked and baby-eyed. henry ran around crazy and repeatedly dropped his pumpkin.

this year was sunny but sweater cold (or we'd not have gone).

jude ran from pumpkin to pumpkin saying, "oh, wow," and screeching screeches that were lost in the noise.

henry ran around crazy and pulled the wagon, pushed the wagon, filled the wagon with ugly pumpkins that i put back when he wasn't looking.

the fleas are dying like flies. dave has given detailed instructions involving the too-frequent vacuuming up of the flea corpses. every day i spend half an hour with the shop-vac.

after a nightmarish vacuum kerfuffle involving the turned-on vacuum (newly purchased in july) at the upper landing on the stairs, the hurried jump down the stairs to unstick the extension cord from beneath the door, and the subsequent unfortunate jerking of the cord that pulled the new vacuum, still whirring, down the stairs opening up at the half-way mark spewing the wretched contents of the vacuum over the steps, railing, doors, horrified woman, shoes and turtle step-stool, then screaming at a frighteningly high pitch and letting out a horrible burning metal odor, we have purchased a new shop-vac. i need one that straps to my back. happily i am the lucky winner of a husband who does not scold nor shame his spastic wife for her irresponsibility but instead says, "it's just a vacuum." i don't deserve such grace.

october brings to our yard a leaf fantastic. when henry was falling asleep this afternoon he looked out of the window and said, "the leaves are turning orange," and yawned. i'm happy he's a noticer of orange leaf turnings.

he laughed and took my money

2005-09-28T11:45:00.000-05:00

twenty one. it's almost too cold for ice-cream, now, which is probably for the best.

kindermusik classes are off to a good start. saturday was busy and i felt a little overwhelmed. we just need to buck up and not be so lazy on saturdays, anyway.

jude took a thirty minute nap today and woke up grinning. ugh. he's going to be a crab later, will sleep in the car at the wrong times, and be a total crab at church tonight. looking on the bright side, henry is napping perfectly. amazing what sleep will do for everyone.

berio is gone. the fleas are not, however. did they come from the cats? from the yard? did ernie drag them home from secretly flea-bearing people at his workplace? did a student bring them in on white socks, releasing them onto the mashad, never to look back as they jumped from place to place? one will never know. dave is coming friday to rid us of these pests. and the ants in the kitchen, too: their trails from the trash can, across the wall, and through the window will be no more. one can also hope for the spiders in the windows on the sunporch to curl up and die a miserable death by poison. i cannot believe what has to be done before dave can spray. honestly now, does everyone do it all? mortified at the presence of fleas we will spare no expense or exasperation to be flea free. they could charge double and we would pay for it, they could insist we move every stick of furniture from the house and we would do it.

that wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her . . .

paper cat rider

2005-09-26T20:30:00.000-05:00

yet another reason, perhaps, for berio to move on along.

and a sweet hooray for orange corderoy! at long last we've several days in a row of gray cold and a flutter of red on a leaf who leaves rain stains and memory on the sidewalk.

where have you been?
i've been to london to visit the queen.
what did you there?
i frightened a little mouse under her chair.
oh no!
oh yes!

you've nowhere to hide: she's asking you why you think it's funny

2005-09-23T07:42:00.000-05:00

waiting for a ride jude stands in a jacket poking his finger through an unfortunate hole in the screen door. his eyes shine blue and long-lashed. he dances in place wearing shoes. he walks to grandmama's house too, now, stopping often to gather sticks and stomp on leaves. he's a baby and a boy all at once. so fast, this time with jude. much faster than with henry. a woman at church has a tiny baby who seems impossibly small. a swirl in the air is all that's left of jude's tiny-ness. if i swing my head around quickly towards the swirl i get a glimmer of it before it's gone.

this studio is serious business! two kindermusik classes have made and start tomorrow. the kindermusik room sparkles. the instruments are cleaned and organized. there are new materials waiting to be carried home by little hands worn by smiling children. i can only accept four, maybe five, more private piano students before starting a waiting list! ernie has room for a few more students, but those he has are minds of which to be proud. in one year we've been blessed more than our stupid little faithless selves imagined. perhaps we'll boom enough to quit any other money-making endeavors and just be musicians and live well off of that. someday.

and a special awe-struck thanks to the ever-fabulous tim as, because of his genius and insane ability, our greene bird studios is on the verge of reaching even greater heights of serious business-ness. patience: such secrets to be unveiled at a later time.

once again a breezy cold rain, happily plunking down after henry and i (as jude napped) spent the morning cleaning up the yard, planting mums, running with sticks.

henry sports a new "captain's sword" purchased in the "creepy place" (halloween central) at walmart. it's chintzy and plastic with overly-shiny golden paint, but it comes with a sheath and, in henry's eyes, it's a serious golden treasure not to be taken lightly. "there be the chest and inside be the gold!" he shouts, a one-eyed wonder who blows his mama a kiss on his way up the stairs. sweetness indeed.

2005-09-21T21:08:00.000-05:00

maybe we'll be caught for hours (waiting out the sun)

2005-09-16T23:58:00.000-05:00

last night while in and out of sleep in the midst of helping boys to sleep we heard the horrible shriek of a car accident right in front of our house. it was loud and terrible. people were screaming in the road.

jude was drooling and long gone but henry was all about the further investigation that followed. ernie took his flashlight and we all went out, henry waiting with me on the front steps. two fire trucks, two police cars, one ambulance and one tow truck, all with lights flipping over and around in a flash were cause for great excitement for our underwear clad three year old.

thankfully, no one was hurt. a car flew up the hill (one of many in day) and smashed our neighbor's parked truck. just before the tow truck pulled the car away the owner popped the trunk and retrieved his golf clubs. we need more stop signs on this road! or speed bumps. or flower and tree filled planters!

we've another chewer of gum in this house! an extremely cute one at that. he chews the gum with his front seven teeth, sticking it out with his tongue to blow bubbles like mama. so smart, he is.

ernie plays late tonight, a gig with the doc who delivered me of my gum chewer many moons ago. we're wondering if joining the band will provide us with maternity benefits.

the boys sleep. the house is a wreck. we scattered kindermusik fliers and studio fliers and cool metallic pinwheels over the crowds in the local parade this morning. we wore cool shirts and walked alongside a white truck. for under a hundred bucks we got a lot of good advertisement. any other ideas for effective yet cheap (or free) advertising of our booming business?

berio the black has got to go. i'm furious with myself. i could have had an ergo for the cost of this wretched cat. i need a comfort corner and i need it now. the cat has not stopped crying since his sister was adopted. he has peed and pooped in terrible locations. i just can't deal with potty-learning three year old pee and poop, cloth-diapered one year old pee and poop, and anxious neurotic seven month old feline pee and poop. is this justified frustration or sadly poltroonish?

like an ocean, mysterious and dark

2005-09-14T11:23:00.000-05:00

the living room air gypsy gave out on us. just when the heat was rising yet again. but it rained again last night and aside from giving the ferns new spindly fronds it delivered us from perspiration and sent a cool breeze winging her way through the house.

the neighbor's back tree, tall and glorious has begun to release leaves across their backyard, golden and crunchy. we've trees everywhere. we need to buy a blower. a cordless one. raking is for people who live in new subdivisions with miniature trees bearing two hundred and eight leaves a piece.

little brother played a gig in elmwood last weekend.

i forgot to take pictures of him (?) but did manage to guffaw and take a few pictures of enthusiastic cloggers.

it was hot and the audience was lame but they smiled and whooped just the same. (note: little brother and friend setting up the stage behind the smiling, "northern-ankled" dancers.)

even though it means that winter and the cold slushiness that comes with it is coming all too soon, the changing of colors and breezes and temperature making up that which is autumn is, quite possibly, my favorite time of year. when i was a young and silly college girl i couldn't concentrate for the weather and color. we were girls escaping in cars with windows rolled down and jackets pulled tight, we'd drive away in silence, feeling fragile and yet so alive. we knew something mortal about the lonely trees, the blueness of sky pole-vaulting above us, and it made us live a little bigger, a little more haphazard, than perhaps we should have.

today's twenty things i love about autumn:

the cessation of involuntary sweating.
the purchase and wearing of sweaters and corderoy.
crunching over crispy leaves and brittle sticks.
cold wooden floors under first-thing-in-the-morning feet.
hot coffee mugs in cold hands.
early darkness.
boys with rosy cheeks.
piles and piles of gold, worth nothing but good jumping, scattering, hurled high, wide.
halloween and everything creepy about it.
fall festivals, mostly the food, fried and frittered and caramel dipped to perfection.
long scarves wound around necks!
the library.
the sky through leafless trees.
pumpkins and squash, gourd and berry.
cold sand at the playground.
cuddling up a little closer.
new books.
kneesocks.
ant hibernation.
long drives through the country.

"i did love you once."

2005-09-12T09:18:00.000-05:00

finding ourselves overwhelmed with cats who are no longer cuddly kittens i place an ad in the paper:

free to good home, cute gray tiger-striped 7 month old female kitten; litter trained; good with children.

saturday morning a woman called from a pay phone and asked if she could come by. she and her husband walked slowly, sixty years slowly, up the steps into the living room. i handed them the beautiful ophelia. the man says, "look what i brought you!" and pulls a rhinestone collar from his pocket. he takes the cat from the black-toothed woman (seriously, yes. those teeth that were left in her mouth were black. and pointy-sharp.) and tells her, "you're gonna have to drive home!" they limp (seriously, yes. there was limping involved.) away and i wave berio's paw at them (not really). she'll be renamed as her new owners could not pronounce "ophelia." she'll be crowned royalty, spoiled and pampered and bedecked in (fake) jewels. berio is probably jealous.

i predicted that henry would say, "where is mine other cat?" when he came back from swimming, that ernie would shout, "hooray!" as he danced a jig on the mashad when he came home from swimming. but they did not. henry has hardly noticed. i told him we were "sharing" one of his cats with people who did not have any cats at all. berio searches the house for his sister, meowing at all of us.

i felt dramatically sad and called my mom, who reminded me that ophelia peed on the floor. "think of the pee!" she says. ernie and i feel relieved. having one cat napping in the sun, frisking and batting at our feet under the table, is better.

firmly, AWANA stands . . .

2005-09-09T11:20:00.000-05:00

he knows the cubbie motto. he recites the first verse he's learned for next week. the vest is worn on and off again throughout the day. he struts into the gas station on the way home from church, vest on, his bag waiting in the car. he knows he's hot stuff and he likes it.

"it's too much," ernie says and we both feel a little sad. jude snoozes on the drive through the end of summer haze to "mine home," as henry calls it (mein hof?).

19 and 20. i think we'll be under the 25 mark by the time the dream closes her doors for winter in mid-october. not bad, not bad at all.

it rained a bit last night sending a damp, earthy vapor rising up from the earth for the few moments of storm. wind in the trees, the patter slap of rain on leaves and slate and pavement, and a gray green starless evening sky made for an early bedtime after toast and chocolate milk for dinner and a quick bubbly bath for two pairs of sticky dirty grass dancing feet.

"X is the mark cowboys make to get paid." not this cowboy. henry writes H and E, on the way towards writing his own handsome name. he works dough and dirt, he paints with precision, we read together, glue together, work together. "let's do school," he says and he's serious.

does anyone have a copy of demarest's Cowboy ABC that they'd be willing to part with and send greeneward? we're in love and it's out of print. be on the lookout. seriously, now.

A is for Appaloosa, a trusty steed.
B is for Buckaroo, who rides at top speed.
C are the Cattle that follow the trail.
D is the Dog, wagging his tail.
E is for Elk, majestic and fleet.
F is the Farrier, who shoes horse's feet.
G is the Guitar strummed late at night.
H is the Hat that's pulled way down tight.
I is for Indian paintbrush in bloom.
J are the Jinglebobs, jingling a tune.
K is for Kerchief to keep dust away.
L is the Lariat that brings back the stray.
M is for Mesas that rise up so high.
N are the Nighthawks that circle the sky.
O is the Oilcloth, slick when it rains.
P are the Prairie dogs; they live on the plains.
Q if for Quirt -- give a crack of that whip!
R is for Reins -- Hang on tight! Let 'er rip!
S is for Saddle, mounted with ease.
T is for Tumbleweed, tossed by the breeze.
U's Union Pacific, its steam whistle sings.
V is for Vest that can hold many things.
W's the Wagon where all meals are made.
X is the mark cowboys make to get paid.
Y is for Yearlings, by their mothers they stay.
Z is the sound at the end of the day.

i don't know that i've ever been so tempted to steal a book from the library . . .

"though she was born a long time ago, your mother should know."

2005-09-06T08:40:00.000-05:00

paint in the hair, the mouth, the navel. paint to sqeeze, squish and smear. anything to clean the kitchen without interruption. they paint themselves, the table, the chairs, the paper. they use brushes and fingers and rollers and spoons. henry is proud and insists on hanging them up. jude hurls his paper to the floor in true artistic disdain and starts over. we love paint!

we love paint because it cleans up so much better than marker, particularly when applied to the skin. marker tattoos on hand and arm, tummy, are fun to show-off at sunday school and supermarket. but the paint turns the blueberry bath water into colors that swirl into gray before tornadoing down the drain.

paint is also better than crayon as it is extremely difficult to misplace bottles of paint, at least in my limited experience, but crayons roll away and are found and eaten later, found and used on walls and floors later. crayon is terrible to clean without a mr. clean magic eraser. marker, too. paint disappears with a little soap and water. paint is cold and messy. paint also costs a wee bit more than various sticks of color, except for chalk, which breaks and crumbles and melts on the tongue. so worth it for the paint, though, for such saturation and splatter.

henry starts awana tomorrow night! i held back tears when i took him to his big-kid sunday school class -- the three year olds. oh my gosh, he's in there sitting on chairs and singing and playing and seeing the bible come to life by way of the flannelgraph. his sunday school teacher is also his cubbie leader for awana, which is good for all involved. i'm nervous about awana! what if he can't handle it? how is it that he's old enough for such things? is he old enough?

i can't wait to buy the vest, i really can't.

zydeco et moi

2005-09-02T12:18:00.000-05:00

the streets are quiet, the skateboarders and trampoline jumpers are in new togs sitting in old desks writing old things with new pencils. some glimmers of the yellow to come in a month or so flash as the wind streaks by. the house smells cold in the mornings, and some afternoons, most evenings.

the weekend blows down the drive in a hurry, twisting the leaves to show yellow and green streaks,too. although i don't normally teach on fridays, i also am not teaching on monday so students who were going to miss two mondays in a row of lessons are coming today instead. i loathe the first lesson after a long vacation, fingers fumbling, eyes glazed over with forget so, partially out of the goodness of my heart (the mother doesn't lose her twenty-five bucks) but mostly because i want to avoid a glazed-over lazy lesson, i'll be sitting inside teaching as the weekend mutters in the driveway.

henry will spend the night with grandmama and grandpa. i think he must have been hungry when i asked him what he was going to do at grandmama's house because he said that he "wants to eat a really good sandwich, chicken, fries, ketchup, pizza and coke." he will pack his bag and will run into the house shouting, "henry's here!" jude will come with his mama and will pass out due to good music bouncing off of the water, the people, the fat-fried-five-dollar "really good sandwiches."

hooray! i love the weekend!

I keep six honest serving men
(they taught me all I knew);
their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.

I let them rest from nine till five,
for I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
For they are hungry men:
But different folks have different views;
I know a person small --
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!
She sends 'em abroad on her own affairs,
From the second she opens her eyes --
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!

kipling, just so stories.

"i've got a blueberry for a daughter"

2005-08-30T21:15:00.000-05:00

the boys sleep. at long last. ernie pulls into the drive with something for dinner. i had plans for dinner but, amazingly, i forced a confession out of ernie tonight: he does not like the vegetarian burgers that i concoct and smoosh into patties in the kitchen. and all of this time i've been on the search for the perfect glob of grain or bean or both to bake or simmer or fry into something bun and ketchup worthy. sigh.

i thought that i'd found it when i discovered the fantastic oatmeal walnut burger. he wasn't too keen on those but we'd only been married for about a year so he didn't want to say anything. i could eat oatmeal walnut burgers daily. they are drool-worthy. i'm telling you. i should post the recipe. no, you should all buy the book. do it.

several cooked bean burger failures (too runny) and one scary ground dried bean burger disaster (the whisper mill *is* the champion of the grain grinders! it grinds dried kidney beans and other rock-hard substances into a find powder!) later, i came up with something interesting and pretty: the parsnip patty. as one who has never shaved a parsnip and fried it with onion and tarragon before, i was pleasantly surprised that the whole house smelled fantastic and earthy for the rest of the day (i made the stuff at lunchtime to make dinner after students and during crabby time a better thing for everyone). and then the kids are crying and grumpy and ready to eat. they're filthy from playing outside with the favorite ben. we feed them their own quick supper. we bathe them. we send them to dream, to wish, to grow.

at about this time the parsnip patty has just about zero appeal to ernie and since he's suggesting that he'll cook, they're losing their rooty sparkle rather quickly (immediately) to me, too. "we'll have them tomorrow," ernie says, knowing that he'll be eating supper elsewhere tomorrow night. "i'm sending them in your lunch," i say, turning off the oven, putting the parsnip mush away. as if.

and now i sit here in the dark glow. the desk is a mess of small piles that have shifted into each other, on top of each other until they're no longer piles but one large mass of paper, book and folder, colored pencil, glue and sticker. my darling dearling fries chunks of a dead animal in the clean kitchen. and i will eat it and it will taste spicy, terrific, etc., and i won't feel badly, exactly. mostly i'll be glad i didn't touch the thing all raw and bloody in the foam packaging.

and there are pringles to eat, too! one artery at a time. sigh. what are we doing?

these boys are beautiful! amazingly these ordinary people gave birth to extraordinary fantasticness. on our early sunday morning walk to grandmamas in fancy duds with hair smelling of blueberries (blueberry soap, not berries themselves . . . ) i coerce them to sit on the steps for a few pics before they're dusty and grass stained. together they are growing strong and brave. the world is new to them and i forget this too often. "give me the grace to give grace!"

nature's candy in my hand or can or a pie

2005-08-25T16:56:00.000-05:00

i watch the neighbor squeeze a fresh peach to see if he can eat it. the peaches sit on the bricks of his driveway near to his truck. on his way to the back porch he picks one up and, sniffing it, says, "oh yea, this is ready," and does not put it down but swings it up the stairs with him. i hear the screen door bang shut. later, his wife fills a bag full of the peaches and hands them to me with a laugh and a boast about her son's green-thumb-luck. she waves at a waving jude and rushes into the house to finish something made of tuna. the boys and i walk home to wave sticks, to run crazy, in our own yard, gently placing the bag of peaches on our own driveway. the peaches on their bricks look over at the peaches in the bag on our concrete. they wave and roll their eyes about something made of tuna. the peaches in the bag try to see us with our sticks, to see the other peaches on the bricks, but cannot for the density of the bag and the crowding of the other peaches. later, much later, after dinner and baths and stories and bedtime, i remember the peaches in the bag on the step and retrieve them, piling them over the tomatoes and sweet potatoes in the bowl on the counter. i squeeze them, sniff them, but they are not ready.

a rainy day again! it's nice to not have to water everything that needs watering. the summer was dry and dusty. the topiaries died, much to my frustration. during a nap i victoriously ripped them from the pots and threw them in a pile of sticks under a tree. orange mums to take us out of summer and into fall, hopefully golden and healthy through an orange halloween.

jude's feet are too small for the yellow boots that henry wore at this age. but he wears them anyway, walking a funny walk and sliding in the grass. they wear raincoats and slide through mud.

puddles are for splashing and, as busy as it is, i feel my irritations of the day wane as we splish our way to grandmama's house. henry sings, "i'm singing in the rain!" with his umbrella, twirling it and trying to kick up a good jump. who knew gene kelly would be so emblazoned on his brilliant little mind?

our fabulous house continues to surprise us. i peeled back the funkily disgusting carpet in the downstairs bathroom (who carpets a bathroom? seriously, WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? to those who are contemplating the laying of carpet in a bathroom: don't do it! but if you must, please DO NOT GLUE the wretched thing to the floor!) and, to my delight, found a hard wood floor (covered in the hideous glue) like unto that which sprawls from one end of this place to the next. who knows what is hiding under the kitchen linoleum?

and, speaking of household stuff, our shop-vac is fixed! thanks, dad. you and your large nimble fingers, electrified mind, and box of strange tools came to the rescue, yet again. my first shop-vac died by strangulation when henry's supersilk (cape) was caught in the fan of it after henry stood too close in front of the vent in order to get a little cape-wind. i love to vacuum. something in this house is vacuumed at least every-other-day, sometimes every day. how can i resist?

henry is nap-free today. i debate the goodness of this. the day is rough but the nights are bliss when he doesn't nap. when he does nap the evening is long and chatty. i say it daily and i'll say it here and now, it's hard to know what to do, particularly when it comes to routine and slumber. it makes me tired just thinking about it.

on the shoot

2005-08-23T07:26:00.001-05:00

a squeak and a bounce and a few dollars (of course) and we've the ultimate in cowboy gear. he's been fed and watered and covered in a blanket to sleep. he's been named scout.

he's galloped from "bad guys" with a gun toting unmasked rider who is shouting, "look at me!" and, less frequently, other cowboy lingo, such as "whoa!" and "heigh-ho, silver!"

two can ride but one falls off and there is always a fight for the front-most spot -- grasping reins and mane are better than tail, apparently.

we discovered a delicious cookbook to enjoy with henry (and jude of course). the illustrations are terrific and the food (thus far) is delicious. henry loves to cut and shred and pile and smear and butter. and jude loves to watch and listen to henry's running commentary while munching on pieces of sweet red bell pepper. this food slump dissipates and i buy food that takes longer than twenty minutes to prepare. a re-read of certain chapters in laurel's kitchen and the discovery of the fantastic crescent dragonwagon has inspired and has pulled me out of the "i wonder what my mom's making for dinner" (read: "let's walk down and see if we can eat with them.") funk. henry made quesedillas with spicy beans, cheese and peppers. he assembled. i cooked and flipped. we all ate it. it took about eight times as long to make lunch as it would have had i done the work but he loved it and wanted to help came dinnertime, too.

the sun backs off a bit and the night air chills the house. the green pants were giddily pulled from the bottom of the pants pile in the closet to wear this morning. the coffee was perfect. the cats are not annoyingly sticking their fur to my arms when i pet them. the boys wear jeans. the water in the shower is twisted into the hot position. tempers mellow along with the temperatures.

the school bus roars by and i pour more coffee and settle in with something new to read. something little and pleasing to hold in the hand. barnes and noble has a whole collection of books in this size and shape. they even smell read-worthy. and for under six bucks can one go wrong?

star-crossed

2005-08-18T17:31:00.000-05:00

happy anniversary to us.

"if you wanna dance, find you a big fat man"

2005-08-17T16:10:00.000-05:00

a late afternoon nap overtakes us all. dreams of an early childhood bedtime shattered and i snuck away for a few minutes of quiet to find the latest and greatest rendition of the greene bird studios web page (thanks, love!) register! enroll! everyone should be musically educated!

we missed a pic of a dairy dream during the heat of july (17). two (three?) nights ago (i was not at a disco) we dairy dreamed again (18), having taken an "ice cream really sounds terrible tonight" break until it sounded good again. i think we've learned that there can be too much of a good dream. today is the first day of school and the dream will now close at nine instead of ten at night, the first sign of winter pushing her way once again through the cracks around the doors and windows. we ate this last bowl of melting cream wondering why 1% milk can't taste like cold, melted vanilla soft-serve. can anyone tell us this?

a new pot of coffee perks in the kitchen. a day of laziness is catching up to us so it's time to vacuum the crackers off of the kitchen floor. something so simple and yet so unappealing at the same time. we've new books to read and an evening walk to meander, making such crunchy trivialities as crackers on the floor seem impudent. sigh.

perchance to dream

2005-08-15T08:18:00.000-05:00

rain at last. a weekend of cold nights and soggy grass. we had a wet, dead bird, mirage like, on the front steps. somehow ernie disposed of it appropriately when no one else was looking. how does one do this? before i checked to see if it was still there this morning i wondered about the location of rubber gloves and black garbage bags, disinfectant and wire brushes.

the boys boast green gooey coughs throughout the day, ever constant in the dark of night. they drink juice and take vitamins. some nights we dimetapp them into a hard, cough-less slumber and everyone has relief.

we are all behind on sleep and have stupid and critical conversations, grumpy and sleepy. and yet, when the boys sleep, we, their parents, do not, trudging on through projects that are difficult to accomplish with small children lending (dragooning?) helping hands. i do believe many people sleep more than they need to sleep, letting something opaque and murky wash over them as they lie still under the sheets, mouths hung open, a navigable cave of gums, the teeth stalactites, stalagmites; cavities, dried out tongues relaxing until breakfast, eight or more hours of dark dreams to think about, to forget completely until the buzz of a new morning yanks them out and up, up and out, once again. and although i do not wish to sleep too much, i need more of the wretched thing or the days go badly. "a little folding of the hands to sleep," ruinous poverty or not, i must have, kicking and screaming all the way, if need be.

berio, the black and shiny, is scheduled to be clipped and snipped and neutered into tame-hood next week. with a $25 purple animal fixation voucher from the humane society and grandmama's cat carrier on loan we will take this recently-started-peeing-on-stuff cat to be emasculated. do they care at all, cats? would it matter if they did?

henry has discovered the insatiable deliciousness of being a yard sailor, purchasing this and that for spare change and a smile. we hit the shark-lover, crocodile-hunter jackpot last week, books galore we gathered together and marched down the street. hours of toothy enjoyment, a noisy godzilla, spikes and all, a croc that has already eaten toast and string cheese, melting ice-cubes at a slow and steady puddling speed on his ruby red tongue. hooray for the end of summer and other people's junk!

"that old musty cheese that we are"

2005-08-12T08:39:00.000-05:00

the last bits and pieces of family reunition have driven off into the sticky haze of morning. weeks of cousins and a few days of uncles and aunts, people who look like us and yet no longer seem much like us come and go. we feel as though we are ever the same, wrinkling here, there, hands that look older, smiles that crinkle a shadowy recollection of the children we once were. and yet we all are not the same, not at all. bitter? sweet? ever so.

henry wields new light sabers, the purchase of which became necessary as we realized that henry believed we had lied to him when we were merely pretending to order light sabers by telephone. he diligently watched for the mailman on a near-daily basis. "the mailman is bringing light sabers -- grandmama called on the phone." such faith should not be squashed. so we who love the internet purchased two, a red and a blue, so that the fighting could be force-fully fabulous.

in other news, thank you, america, we had faith in you! go kaysar! as we sit late in the night in the cold drinking limeade we rejoice in your good grooming and subsequent eyebrow perfection. we realize that you would not be as appealing were you abandoned in guatemala unless you were allowed a complete waxing system as a luxury item. we are rooting for you and your winning smile!

welcome friday and the weekend that follows. this morning we woke cold, with noses that crackled from the extreme change of temperature. the synthetic air for which we will pay dearly is not our panacea, it's good for sleeping but not much else as we lousily start the day only thinking of coffee, something hot to remedy our habitual late nights and early rising.

let me have a draught of undiluted morning air. morning air! if men will not drink of this at the fountainhead of the day, why, then, we must even bottle up some and sell it in the shops, for the benefit of those who have lost their subscription ticket to morning time in this world. but remember, it will not keep quite till noonday even in the coolest cellar, but drive out the stopples long ere that and follow westward the steps of aurora.

i'm not the only one staring at the sun

2005-08-06T11:41:00.000-05:00

the heat wave has broken. we don't understand the mechanics of the heat wave. when the sun beats down on us we do not care to find the why, we only care to run from the product of it. when the sun is gentler, when the breeze of summer sneaks on tiptoe through the shade-giving trees that surround the house, the yard, the neighborhood at large, we find it near-shameful to even consider the recollection of the sun's wrath.

we've yet to be billed for the recent usage of our air conditioning units. i really feel nearly sick about it. on a morning like this one, the robin singing "cheerio!" outside the study door, the sounds of the house breathing in and out, creaks in the floor, and cicadas and their shick-shick-shick pulsing in the trees and the leaves and the hedge, the steady flow of saturday traffic zipping down the street, no fans or motors white-noising a buzz throughout the house, one can only feel that the usage of air the past week or so, on and off, here and there, through speech and snore, was entirely an unfortunate, impatient, blunder on our part. how can it have been necessary when the sun burns a silver shadow-dance across the yard, the windows, the car asleep in the drive? was the need to enjoy the morning coffee, the afternoon espresso, in the cold of the house worth it? was the hot itch of the wooly mashad on the bottoms of my feet bothersome enough to merit an outlandishly large cips bill? were the damp hairs of jude's head, the sweating curls of henry, the sticky purple strands on the back of my neck, unbearable enough to justify exchanging cash (that could have been blown on books or cds) for cold?

of course we shout yes! it is august, after all, the month of poppy and peridot. school starts in a week and a half. we will once again enjoy excursions to the park, as the parentally unattended, cursing and fighting children will be bussed off to school and i won't have to worry about henry picking up undesirable behavior or language from a seven year old smoker. we will remove sweaters from the closet, shoes will again be somewhat desireable, socks, jeans, and other autumn whatnot. a week or two of air-conditioned living will be nearly forgotten by both body and book.

fresh milk delivered daily

2005-08-03T21:44:00.000-05:00

it's world breastfeeding week, huzzah! in celebration i will be breastfeeding all week long!

although i do not consider myself an expert on either the subject or practice of breastfeeding, i have breastfed for what sometimes seems like a very long time, from henry's first mewling, through jude's first fluttering and (gasp) beyond. and because i continue to deliver fresh milk daily to boy and baby i give you, "what we believe about breastfeeding."

breastfeeding is normal.
in a country and culture that is obsessed with the bosom, where flaunting breasts is acceptable for fashion, fun, and folly, and where children are recognized by many as bothersome and manipulative, claiming that breastfeeding is the most normal, most natural way for babies and small children to find nourishment and comfort is no small claim! down with the horrible tent draperies (no matter how chic!) that mamas and babes have endured in this generation! away with all hiding away in bathrooms (eating anything while in a bathroom is revolting!), back-bedrooms, and hot, parked cars! a woman should never have to hide herself and her babe because some other person is so breast-obsessed that he or she is offended! i've gone to other rooms, gone to the car to nurse before. but only because i felt uncomfortable, not because i didn't want someone to feel weird because my baby was eating. breasts are first and foremost for breastfeeding. and people need to recognize this! educate your children, educate yourselves!

breastfeeding is best.
apart from the extremely rare occurence that a woman and her babe are unable to enjoy a breastfeeding relationship, breastmilk is the best for all babies. we believe that it's not only the best right after birth, but is highly beneficial through the toddler years and beyond. studies have shown that babies who are breastfed longer are smarter, healthier and more attached than their bottle-fed and prematurely-weaned peers.

additionally, breastfeeding is best for mama! studies show that breastfeeding not only reduces the risk of post-partum depression but also reduces the risks of ovarian, uterine, endometrial and breast cancers and osteoporosis in women.

breastfeeding is wonderful.
in our house breastfeeding is a cure-all. it soothes wounded spirits, it calms restless, wild bodies, it lulls babe and boy to sleep, and it primarily nurtures a healthy attatchment between all of us.

for more information on breastfeeding and extended breastfeeding, read!

john daker jingleheimer schmidt

2005-08-01T08:18:00.000-05:00

exactly WHAT is going on here? musicians everywhere can thank reva unsicker for something that astonishes us all.

download. wait. laugh. cry. enjoy.

thanks, camille!

i shake you warmly by the hand

2005-07-30T16:43:00.000-05:00

willy wonka!
willy wonka!
the amazing chocolatier!

if you've not seen it buy something scrumdiddlyumptious and go. do it tonight. we've taken a family-wide trip to the garden theater (read: sticky local theater with night-lights that are too bright and regular, non-surrounding sound) twice. jude fell asleep within minutes due to overstimulation and the convenient portability and coziness of mama milk. henry sat in his seat sipping his own coke, laughing at the appropriate times, whispering, "she was unkind!" at the appropriate times, singing at the appropriate times.

wonderful. and chocolatey. as one who loves gene wilder in the original movie, i could not help but fear feeling otherwise as johnny depp (ooh la la) donned the velvety jacket and welcomed us to his factory. but the two movies are completely different and really can hardly be compared to one another.

the mother in this movie wears the most fabulous shag-ragged clothes. i love her. the mother in the old one was sweaty and shiny and wore that ugly, blond pony-tail wig.

the new charlie is cute and sweet while the old one was crusty and just really quite yucky. i was happy to like the winner of the lifetime chocolate supply.

my lone criticism regarding this new wonka bar is the choice of musical accompaniment to roald dahl's fantastically witty lyrics. half of the time i could not make out the words being sung. henry is running around singing, "augustus gloop" but i think that's all that we were able to hear through the accompaniment. perhaps it was the theater in which we heard the movie? ::shrugging:: and perhaps it is just because i believe that i'm going deaf! what?

how used they keep themselves contented before this monster was invented?
have you forgotten, don't you know? we'll say it very loud and slow:
they used to read!

full of strange oaths

2005-07-26T08:49:00.000-05:00

we lost the battle with the sweat and swelter. we gave in to temptation and flipped the air conditioner to her onward position. trivoli's bank boasted the temperature to be 107 degrees the day before yesterday. it was time. we were hot and crabby. amazingly, the world is a few shades rosier when it's not so darned hot in the house. we woke early (of course) friday morning feeling cold (not cool), cold and shivery. i was giddy and laughing and leapt to the closet for a wooly sweater. it was a good dawn of the new decade, friday being my birthday and the day on which i left my roaring twenties behind me.

GOSH. this girl is thirty. i don't feel any differently than i did on thursday night. i have a new hair color due to the unfortunate distraction of the internet as i sat conducting important research with my hair soaking in the colors, forgetting to watch for the twenty-five minute mark. i have new books, i have cool new stuff from a chicago-land shopping trip taken saturday. i have a new appreciation for the handiwork of the Creator after a fascinating trip to body worlds on saturday morning. and yet i feel no older than i am. my real age, according to the calculator, is 24, but that is because do not smoke and do not sit on my duff eating cupcakes all day long. perhaps when my "real age" turns thirty i'll feel it?

birthday skirted feet.

birthday meat.

celabrators.

locale.

"the time of life is short!" hotspur

mortal once more

2005-07-19T10:27:00.000-05:00

so all of last week was spent anticipating the saturday release of harry potter and the half-blood prince. i was extremely excited to pick up my hefty copy (though not as hefty as the order of the phoenix . . .) of the thing. the weekend was spent devouring the delicious-smelling, perfect-paper-feeling book. were it not for the frequent interruptions (children!) the thing would have been read in less than a day. as it was it took me two days and, as with all of the others, i was a little sad that i just had to read the thing so fast, that i was finished too soon, and that it will be at least another two years until the next one is out. perhaps this week will bring a re-read of the series?

for the harry potter nay-sayers among us, here's an interesting interview with john granger about the possible christian allegorical elements throughout the harry potter series. i'm eager to read the book that granger wrote on the subject. (thanks, kristen!) perhaps with birthday moo-la-lah coming this weekend?

birthday! oh my gosh, i can't write about this, i just can't, not yet. age! slamming at me from all sides. celebrate life, yes. but even at the minute of the commencement of life we're just that much closer to the end of life. aargh!

these boys grow too fast! one moment they're babies with baby breath and scent and quickly they're here moving in a blurry swirl. give me a minute to suspend it all.

beneath the stains of time the feelings disappear

2005-07-12T22:15:00.000-05:00

it's ezzo week at tulip girl. so, as much as i hate to, here's my two hundred dollars worth.

certainly, from the beginning, all parents are, at the very least, a little bit selfish. the human desire to have children, bringing to a man and a woman a certain immortality with the birth of "a tender heir." possibly, these are the first selfish glimmerings in the hearts of ecstatic parents welcoming new, colorful, life into their own graying lives.

after this, parental selfishness manifests itself as, perhaps, the need for love and the need to be needed by someone other than ourselves. i remember worrying that henry wouldn't love me when he was born, mostly that he would be indifferent. hormonal worries, no doubt, emotions that sometimes manifested themselves as worry, others as the necessity for hot french fries. so completely ridiculous were these apprehensions! to this day i am the favorite person on henry's planet, and jude's to boot, a title that is often worn wearily but one that i would not relinquish without a really good fight.

and after these -- the need for legacy, the need for love and appreciation -- these make way for something darker, something precarious and sometimes scary. the need for control. certainly history screams of nefarious examples of selfish parents seeking their own advancement through the production of Offspring. and who will soon forget the angry king lear as his favorite daughter fails to flatter his need for Love? "better thou, hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better," the rash man had the gall to say! terrible as such things can be, i think that truly, i am the most fearful of being obsessed with the need to perfectly control my children.

i do want them to respect me as mama. i want them to know that ernie and i are the leaders, that we will lead the team in the best direction it should take. we are in charge and they must know that we mean what we say. if our household is in chaos then something must be done, the leaders must have things under control. but i refuse to succumb to the selfishness of being a controlling parent.

i'm not talking about doing things "decently and in order," of course. when i say "controlling" i really mean "manipulative." i'm talking about those parenting "experts" (and others) who promote the needs and wants of the parent over the needs and wants of the child.

one such sorry example of an "expert" is the horrible, nay, the odious gary ezzo. the man has as much business claiming that his dangerously strict baby feeding schedules, his weird and distorted views of sex, and his punitive, developmentally inappropriate, and borderline abusive discipline methods are "God's Way" to parent as thomas kinkade has rights to laud himself as the "painter of light."

the darkest aspect of the teachings of ezzo and the like is not in the abandonment of babies and small children to cry themselves to sleep, not in the slapping of infants and toddlers for acting on God-given curiosity, heinous as i believe those abuses of power to be. these are only glimmers of the scariest thing of all, the obsession with having control. the need to look the part of the perfect Christian parent, to never be embarrassed by a disruptive toddler, a goofy looking teenager. the need to have every moment a picture of perfection, with children who do not express any emotion other than smiling compliance at every command, the family climate set at a breezy sixty eight degrees year 'round.

establishing this kind of perfection can only be done through instilling a strong fear of the parents in the hearts of the children. "if they fear you, you will have control."

perhaps gary ezzo, michael and debi pearl, richard fugate, and [insert your favorite manipulative and ridiculous parenting guru here] the rest of them promote the "poisonous pedagogy," the manipulation of children through fear and brute force while rationalizing that it is for the child's "own good," hitler-style, but certainly Christ does not.

does Christ demand perfection of me? no! my only perfection comes from Christ alone, not from orchestrating a perfectly regimented lifestyle. why would i expect more of my child than Christ expects from me?

does Christ taunt me with sin and then slap me down and manipulate me and punish me every time i disobey? no! he covers me with grace and mercy for every minute of my life. when the King has forgiven my debt of "twenty years' wages", why would i in turn expect my child to pay to me the debt of "one day's wage?" (matthew 18:21-35)

does God answer me when i cry out to him, my father? yes! there is comfort and healing found in Christ. why would i then not answer the cries of my infant?

why would i not do everything i could to parent my child in the way God parents me?

so, there. my slightly unsolicited tribute to tulip girl's ezzo week. unselfishly do your research, you owe it to your children. you can start here, but be sure to check out tulip girl's terrific mountain of ezzo research.

admit you're a lucky dog.

2005-07-11T08:35:00.000-05:00

our days are flying by summer-style. the boys grow along with the garden, the sun comes up too fast and does not go down soon enough. summer is half-way over and i've yet to have a sweet-corn dinner or take my crunchy saturday morning self to the farmer's market.

henry paints while jude snores upstairs.

i'm told this is a trombone, this spattering of paint.

and these are fireworks. i think they really are.

my neighbor packs her truck with plants and weeding equipment as she readies herself for work in some lucky dog's yard. her short hair pokes out and about from the far side of the truck and i know it's her and that she's already working hard, early as it seems.

explosions of sorts. we worked-fire, fireworked twice in honor of the holiday. the first time we sat on blankets in the dirt in front of a tree (read: "a beautiful tree when there are no glittering stars to see behind her.") near the water.

henry bounced bubbly on the trampoline, his hair still flying when his feet were stopped. the ground show, water show at the works were fabulous, great balls of fire ("goodness gracious," the song screamed from the enourmous speaker standing behind us), sprays of pyrotechnics the likes of which henry and the other children had never seen.

it was hot and everyone looked it, most notably the shaven head of seth, the sticking golden hairs of jude and the seriously dripping brow of the unknown woman sporting too-tight blue-jean (light, stonewashed -- chic?) cutt-offs, sitting in the lawnchair a group or two over, drinking something iffy, telling her curious and excited little kid to, "sit down and shut up."

conversation-wise the evening was limited to, "it's almost time for the fireworks!" (repeated over and over and over and over) and "i can't hear you over the blasted music!" and "have you seen my other book?" noisy. and dangerous -- not a place you can just sit back and "keep and eye" on your children while chit-chatting. water, thousands of people, busy road. but it was worth the long walk in precarious shoes (why are you wearing such shoes, mama?) and the many trips to the trampoline. and the dust and noise. fantastic. "go green!" shouts henry before he runs off in the darkness and is nearly lost by his frantic parents.

the second round were small-town, run by the "jaycees." we park by the high school and sit on the lawn. every year we get there about ten minutes before blast-off and always get a prime park and a terrific spot to park it -- clear sky and open space for grass glitter dancing. not too long, not too short, not too sporadic. we return home to find neighbors blasting their own cheap variety late into the night. we wake up in the morning to find shrapnel and rocket nose-cones all over our yard. we shake our fists launcher-yard-ward. we continue to find pieces as the week goes on.

two minor annoyances: we were tee-peed last night, white streamers breezing in our fantastic tree. punks! ernie lost sleep and wished he'd been down there to beat the kids with a deadly african (?) weapon. i heard the kids cheering as they ran to their car. we're old now! we called the police!

and secondly, we've a creepy cat that comes and sleeps in our garden! get out, cat! it looks sick or something. please don't crucify me, but i let henry squirt it with the hose when we were watering the drought and came across the creepy thing. "scat, cat!" he echoed as the thing ran away.

i've lost count. does anyone even care?

these trees shall be my books

2005-07-02T07:37:00.000-05:00

the button mother-load. for a little bit of money i was able to bring them home. fabulous. many black and white variations on the button. i'm ever-so-excited. something must be done. something with buttons. i'm inspired to string and stitch.

places selling plants are practically giving them away -- go out and be given (in exchange for a few pennies, i'm serious, not much at all). a few more things added to this year's project. my ten year plan (!) is to become a master gardener and be a stop on the garden walk. my neighbor has the most glorious shady yard with mysterious minatiature gardens here and there. a woman around the corner has a huge garden that honestly looks like it crept from the pages of a magazine and took up residence on the two hundred block of elm street. last weekend ernie, my mother and i took the garden walk maps and walked around them. more inspiration. my neighbor's yard is liveable, especially for children, with sturdy plants that won't fall over in a wilted heap if they're stepped on by bare little feet. i didn't know this was possible, imagining glory gardens to be like the one around the corner, fancy and fragile, beautiful yet stressful if little ones are around, asking for punitive shrieking at the slightest ramble off of the path. and yet it is possible to have children and plants in the same place, stray balls and water guns notwithstanding. and so we begin . . .

we've the good fortune of inheriting bricks that were taken from the road in front of my parents' house before it was covered smooth in black. there are more that need wheel-barrowing down the street, but look at what we (read: henry and mama) tested last night before dark! with the rest of the bricks, some sand, hard work, more plants, time and water and we're there!

"he hath a daily beauty in his life."

hey, i've got nothing to do today but smile

2005-07-01T09:41:00.000-05:00

ernie and i finished (finished because we'd tried several times only to be overcome with sleep) watching "chuck close: a portrait in progress." fabulous. we are both completely inspired. ernie had watched the thing before but inspiration comes in waves and we've been drowned in said waves.

if you live nearby one of these exhibits (touring) go and see. astonishingly perfect, the little parts masterpieces themselves, coming together to make something rather unbelievable. go. do it.

the weekend comes, july comes, and a cool morning breeze has found her way here again. everyone is decidedly happy now that the heat has dissipated. next week brings posts on "fireworks and other explosions." the weekend brings paint and the installation of locks (for safety primarily, for sanity secondarily). july brings a foreboding birthday. it brings a trip to see "body worlds" in chicago. it brings family from afar. i wish it would bring the chuck close exhibit to peoria, or chicago at the very least. and of course, it brings limeade in a sweating green pitcher.

happy booming holiday, friends and fans!

did i say i liked it?

2005-06-30T07:41:00.000-05:00

a sorry sixteen. ernie was feeling sick so joe and i creamed ourselves.

i've been roped into working as rehearsal pianist for the community theater's last summer 2005 performance. ugh. i feel pressured to play for performances as the director cannot find anyone else. this is not the season of life for me to be doing this -- everyone is just too darn needy. not to mention that the playhouse is in the middle of nowhere. "it's too much work and time for you to work on it when it's not going to be your own," says ernie, and he's right. who knows that the thing will be like in the end? it has "that was really good!" potential.

here's a sleepy view from our wake-up posts each morning. helps get us out of bed and get working! "who makes the morning fabulous?"

air conditioned gypsy

2005-06-29T09:10:00.000-05:00

we sweat and swelter. henry's hair twists something glorious. with the purchase of seventy five feet of rubber hosing, a medium sized wading pool and a bulk package of tea bags, we brave the heat. we stubbornly refuse to flip on the air-conditioner that sits dark and teasing in the window. "our bodies are meant to sweat!" we say. and sweat they do. henry does not seem to notice as he dons his lined yellow raincoat and coon-skin hat, making my skin crawl at the mere sight of him.

admittedly, when the going gets tough, we, the other-wise tough get going on over to grandmama's 68 degrees cold and frozen house. henry sits on the living room floor wrapped in a blanket, a boy who takes after his mother, who spent her summers home from college wearing turlenecks and wooly socks, velvet jackets and cashmere scarves, holed up in the cold, writing and reading and practicing the solar shine away.

so we've become anti-airconditioning snobs, the nice kind of snob, of course. and although we're completely appreciative of the cold and dark of the artificial summer environment, we are also taking a strange delight in not feeling perfectly dry and cold all of the time. take joy in this season of heat!

two more dreams, fourteen and fifteen, non-descriptive. perhaps it's old hat?

look at these boys at their new table! happy birthday from the pennsylvania relations! jude attempts to climb into his seat himself, unsuccessful and frustrated, so i swing him up onto the seat and all is well. dried black beans are not delicious (as both children soon found out) but they provide a good many minutes of fun while mama does something other than play. and then the fun turns into a frenzy and the beans are flung about the green room with much laughter. another twenty minutes or so of enjoyment at the vacuum and everything is back to normal. it's really a nearly mess-proof activity, as henry enjoys the clean up as much as the mess-making!

here's a little something smart and fun to offset the puzzling belief that college is not for women, from the fingers of four (and soon to be five!) women who promote formal education in the lives of Christian women.

contributors include two women with college degrees, myself with a master's degree, and another with a phd. if you'd like to be a contributor, request! the requirements are as follows:

you must have a college degree or be actively pursuing one
you must be a woman!
you must have a blog, or at the very least, a blogger profile
you must "celebrate formal education in the life of a Christian girl"

jude sleeps his blues away (teeth yet again!) and henry wraps himself in the newly purchased hose while wearing goggles and singing happy birthday. the morning sneaks away from me and there is much to be done with happy heart and hands. glory in it.

the latin names of flowers

2005-06-22T12:31:00.000-05:00

it's official: we've another walker! no longer is the crawl the second-best (*the* best being slung about by mama, of course) form of transport. the perfect form of his crawl will soon be left to memory as jude is now everywhere on soft dirty feet. congratulations are expected!

it's hot again, the sun sneaking in the house through the cracks between the curtains. our bodies grow accustomed to feeling hot and, suddenly, it is not so bad. to feel a little sticky and a little hot has become "okay." i think we're designed to feel this way come summer sun and sweat. with bodies that are not used to the cold of central air no one is completely wilted when playing outside. everyone shouts, though, shouting over the loud spinning whirr of the fans of the house.

henry has, for the most part, stopped napping. we mourn this loss. without a nap we've a long day of three year old effervescent energy, no break for mama, and several hours of wearisome grumpiness, from both mother and child. but today is a day of surprises! henry passed out during rest time and as i went to fetch the camera he scootched over and held jude's hand. so beautiful and sweaty in our room of blue. of course, he'll be bouncing off of the walls until well after eight. it's hard to know what to do!

and an altogether too-rich heath-in-chocolate-soft-serve number thirteen, eaten while sweating on the couch and watching the aviator.

attention all shoppers

2005-06-20T07:49:00.000-05:00

we've discovered the deliciousness of the heath candy bar shake! additionally we have found that purchasing the large size (as pictured below) provides more than enough dream for the both of us to share, and at a reduced price!

twelve! in a large, heavy, paper cup, held by my one and only. and also dribbled down my shirt in my haste to taste.

does anyone appreciate (nay, enjoy?) these dream-creams vicariously through us? we hope so! it was recently suggested to us that we discuss dairy dream compensation for the free advertising we've been doing! perhaps free ice cream. daily. nightly. "whatever you want, on the house!" they'll shout as they fill the large, heavy, paper cups. we will look at each other with surprised elation and talk excitedly about our good fortune as we walk to the car. if (when?) such a thing happens we will extend the offer to the faithful readers and fans of fresh milk delivered daily and treat you all to free ice cream, compliments of hannam's dairy dream themselves.

how altruistic of us!

proud of my lilt through the sky

2005-06-15T22:54:00.000-05:00

we've planted something shady and secret. my mother-in-law will be glad to know that the plants she gave so generously to us did not sit in their plastic pots and die of dehydration. rather, while henry took a surprise nap and while jude played silly with joe in the yard, i dug and watered and plunked the things into the earth and stood back with arms crossed to survey the job well done.

henry has figured out how to use the screen on the back of the camera to get the shot he wants!

not bad, considering the breaking in two of the trowel midway through the project. astonishing what can be done with a jagged piece of metal, blood-sweat-and-tear determination, and a little slice of precious time.

two new dream creams. one (ten!) eaten off of a stolen spoon. another (eleven!) brought late in the evening by my parents to share under the backyard's tree of light. jude slept on the couch. the listen-for-the-baby monitor was plugged haphazardly into the lights on the tree making us just a little less cool than we are perceived to be at first meeting and glance.

the weather has cooled, slowing the production of greenemama freckles. my arms are browning and i seem unconcerned. methinks the former slatherings of sunblock (spf 50) may not be repeated this summer. i'm not sure why this is, i know that the sun can kill me, that these tanned arms could one day look like red and wrinkled hot dogs. somehow, today i'm shrugging my light brown shoulders at this. a kind of liberation.

well it's my birthday too, yeah

2005-06-13T09:53:00.000-05:00

jude has an ear infection! poor baby! we celebrated his birthday nonetheless. he is feeling better since we started the antibiotic. the doctor thought i was joking when i asked what he thought about putting breastmilk in jude's ear. why hadn't he heard of that? my father in law says that the ear won't let the breastmilk get to the place of infection.

it was strange to take jude to his one year doctor visit. the nurse assumed he wasn't still nursing. perhaps i'm just way out there, but i assume that breastfeeding isn't a foreign, obsolete practice. innocent weirdo that i am. every visit so far starts with "what formula is he drinking?" is it right to assume that breastfeeding is in the minority around here if formula feeding is the assumption of the doctors?

i was nursing at the park one day last fall when jude was still exclusively breastfed and a little, sparkling girl kept trying to see what was going on, asking me what the baby was doing and "where is his bottle?" i had mixed emotions: do i let her see "(by just sitting there and doing what we're doing) the mechanics of it since "that's what breasts are for" or should i hide from her since her mama obviously hasn't educated her about the varying ways babies eat? henry knows that some babies eat from bottles and others from breasts, is it the norm that bottle-fed children are not educated about "the other way?" i told the girl to take her pigtails over and ask her mama what my baby was doing. i figured it wasn't up to me to decide. call me chicken, i dare you.

so the sad baby cried when we sang happy birthday to him. he threw globs of chocolate ice cream across the table. he smeared cake on his chubby thighs. he had a bath and then came down for presents. he watched henry "help" him open his presents. he chewed on the fabulous haba wooden animals. he went to bed early and slept long and hard. his nearly four teeth gnash together and he cries.

but he is one, full of speed and spree. i look at his long legs and remember the tiny little thing whose diapers wouldn't fit, premature yet without flaw, the miracle of life in my hands and arms. "he is perfect!" exclaimed the neonatologist through the white mask, his black eyes and indian skin crinkling up in a smile, his face a mere kissing distance away from mine as everyone rushed around with relief, with vindication.

barefoot to the ice cream truck

2005-06-10T07:37:00.000-05:00

it's hot! (sail on, silver girl)

for some reason, jude likes to try to sneak away henry's ice cream. but henry is quick.

for some reason, to jude, henry's ice cream tastes better than jude's.

for some reason, henry knows this.

for some reason, these boys are ever-delicious.

so long, frank lloyd wright

2005-06-08T07:24:00.000-05:00

bits and pieces as a red jeep drives by. he passes a man cruising the morning street on a red lawnmower and the red sedan parked sleepy across the street. jude kicks back on a red chair munching oyster crackers. henry sleeps late (!) beneath a red summer blanket upstairs near the fan. a new concentration of tea sits steeping a redness atop the kitchen counter. new modes of caffeine during the red heat of summer.

two more dreaming delights. spaced out, of course! if i blogged more frequently it wouldn't seem so bad . . .

eight!

nine!

sick children, crunchy eyes, running noses. jude was so crunchy and sad and sleepy that we postponed his birthday celebration until this weekend. terribly sad to have a crabby baby at his own birthday party.

something must be said for the fabulous barb and her stunning and super supersilks. they are the toys most favored in this house of greene. they are capes and knapsacks, tents and slings, skirts, long hair, curtains, bullfighter capes, snakes, oceans, sharks, wings, scarves, babies, and of course, much, much more! buy some! today! they are gifts that give back (as ridiculous as that reads). and they're beautiful pieces of art created by a beautiful mama, too.

if you're trying to stay cool the old fashioned way, might i suggest cool drinks? icy and blendered made by a man wielding strawberries and limes.

and on the same subject, staying cool, that is, i cannot sing the praises of covering the windows enough. i'm kind of a no-curtain, shades, blinds kind of girl -- i like the openness of the glass, the trees peeking in the windows. but the summer sun is too hot! we closed the blinds in the living room and set a fan to swirl and the place is a lime-ade oasis. something must be done upstairs. the sun wakes us up bright and early, bright eyed with a fire tail, sending us down to the dark and cool and out to the splashing and cold.

bend low again, night of summer stars.
so near you are, sky of summer stars,
so near, a long arm man can pick off stars,
pick off what he wants in the sky bowl,
so near you are, summer stars,
so near, strumming, strumming,
so lazy and hum-strumming.

you say it's your birthday

2005-06-03T20:05:00.000-05:00

and the fabulous henry turned three.

three! how is this possible? i'm still just a girl! and now i'm the proud mama of a boy who pumps a tricycle to grandmama's house. a boy who flings his arms around my neck and loves me the most, more than anyone worldwide and universal. a boy who sparkles and flies, whose grin shoots moonbeam and firefly fire.

truly, it is better to give than to receive. never have we enjoyed birthday (and all that comes with it) more.

to the chagrin of this mama we've a barking dinner of hot dogs (with ketchup, of course). sometimes a hot dog sounds so good, though. sometimes.

and cake-wise, i've found my forte (and i still went to college! and grad school!). the illustrious cupcake. the form of which is fluffed perfection. the frosting rises in a spiking swirl of minty delight. sprinkles partly sprinkled by the birthday boy extraordinaire.

and jude is growing, too! he's drinking from a juice box without assistance (in fact, insisting on the withdrawal of assistance) and peeking under the table for something mysterious. peeking for his own birthday, perhaps, which comes fast and flashing and furious on monday.

these boys! all bloodied and red, screaming out their liveliness with first breath. what is this life that sends us soaring with youth and zip into motherhood, fatherhood, parenthood, all in an electric swirl? all at once we're here when we once were there, and we don't want to talk about it because it's all so frightening and fast. lickety split.

paperback writer

2005-06-01T08:18:00.000-05:00

weeks of business and busy-ness. we're allergied out here. somebody cut off this head of mine!

lady jenn and family spelunk-ed with us at the dream. i think they were unamazed. particularly when the strawberries were not fresh when we were told that they were. nevertheless, six!

perhaps when i describe the dream the place comes across as a fabulous marble-slab-esque confection? not so!

she's really just a teensy, golden place with girls in chocolate spattered white t-shirts and white short-shorts, girls with smooth hair slipping out of haphazard ponytails, girls throwing together cream of all kinds into cups of large sizes for small town customers standing outside or inside in lines and crowds, looking for something soft served up just right for a few dollars here, there, everywhere. it could be argued that half of the deliciousness of the place is the atmosphere, the smell of the busy cigarette-butted street, the rush-around, shout-out of the kitchen, the ashtray vocals of the owner as she sings a scream to, "hurry!" the digging around the bowels of the car for a buck ninety in silver.

although, of course, i think the dream cream is delicious standing alone!

memorial day of shish kebobs and master grill-masters.

and then seven. an almost forgotten pic, too! eaten during the inspirational "i am david."

the sea, all water

2005-05-26T11:57:00.000-05:00

does it get much better than this? five-alive.

fabulous sunshine, sneezes and all.

life ain't easy for a boy named sue

2005-05-25T20:55:00.000-05:00

two new greenes!

berio (the black) and ophelia (the gray) joined our family last saturday afternoon. they've been living in the laundry room because they're scared of us, mostly scared of the ever exuberent jude. when the kids are sleeping i bring them out to scratch. i think i'm experiencing the beginnings of purrs. they sneak through the house and look for places to hide. i spend a series of minutes crawling around looking for them in each crack and crevice.

ernie likes them too. he's more than a good sport about it (good sport -- i really don't like using that phrase, it seems belittling, really. i was once called a good sport by a well-meaning boyfriend and let me tell you, that was the beginning of the end...). actually, it is apparent that he has some affection for them. he was looking at collars for them at hot topic last night. for berio, at least. "if i'm going to have a cat, it's going to be cool."

berio is boy, named for a favored composer of the one i love the most. and ophelia, (named for, well, of course for hamlet's girl) well. we thought she was girl. but i'm thinking maybe i missed a little something something. "so sad to be a boy named ophelia."

my daddy left home when i was three
and he didn't leave much to ma and me
just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.
now, i don't blame him cause he run and hid,
but the meanest thing he ever did
was before he left he went and named me sue....

monday night: our students were fantastic! i was totally beaming -- my face was hurting from the beams that were shooting out of the corners of my mouth. there is so much energy with a job well done and everyone was feeling it.

afterwards we had to celebrate so we dreamed, of course. something more serious. the inclusion of fat frenched fries will not be discussed as i tally the nights we've had ice cream (four). the camera was not among us (?) and being serious about a photograph collage of dairy dreams i brought the trash home with me! and took photos atop the dining room table! i did not save ernie's malt container. nor did i save henry's little cup ("my little cup! where is it?" he shouts as the goods are being divvied out...). only the containers pictured below. i love the fry cup. who thought of that? if you know, please comment!

the neighbor girls have at long last gone inside. they screech and giggle at each other all afternoon. they sit in the yard and make sarcastic comments with each other. some nights, late, they scream and giggle more as they make their way to the car. mornings are quiet because they're sleeping late, a summer long slumber party atop a trampoline, dreams of stars and faraway places and someone to blush and butterfly for. i hear their chatter and smile even though their ebullience has woken the baby.

what will i do with my baby-o?

2005-05-23T12:19:00.000-05:00

keeping busy: students to perform tonight, mollie and ernie to perform tonight. beginnings and endings, the summer, the school year.

and something fantastic and minty brought to you by a sleep starved husband who loves me the most.

(and if you're not the type to click on each and every hyperlink, i'd encourage you to reconsider and click the minty fantastic above....)

strange to be so professional here and there.

briefly, some extraordinarily cute pouting and slurping at a recent wedding celebration.

two by two

2005-05-21T23:57:00.000-05:00

embarrassing? perhaps it should be.

like animals to the ark. . .



take three.

wonder flying machines

2005-05-19T20:44:00.000-05:00

a few things brewing in my cauldron of late. surprises and silliness.

we planted zinnias by seed today. we've been trying to do it for weeks. there's too much going on. they're muddy and secret off of the back step tonight but soon they'll be there to greet us, and those who share the drive with us, when we step out and when we drive in. something sunny and pink and pick-able.

ignorantly, i am astonished at how long it takes to do such simple tasks with fingers grabbing and mouths eating and feet stomping and sliding. it's enough to bark at and complain about but we made it without anything of the kind. maybe a little bit from jude who was very put out that we wouldn't let him eat soil or seed.

and then it rained. we came inside and cleaned up. dinner was eaten and the place was cleaned up. the kids were crabby so the book we're reading together was nearly shouted. brushed teeth and pyjamas and then the rain. dark clouds and puffs of wind, nothing spectacular. "oh no, it's raining!" henry said as he went up to bed, as though we were dressing for a long walk or swim.

early this morning in the midst of the first storm henry rolled into a curl next to ernie and hid his face with his hands from the thunder. so much to learn about for one so small and beautiful.

tonight i felt a swell of sea-sickness while helping jude sail off to sleep. the maple outside the window, the pride of the town, the enormous tree that shades the street, the yard, the house, that paints golden glitter through the windows in autumn, the tree of all trees whose bloom came sudden and serious, the tree who was late this spring, late and lonely all bare among the flowers and fronds, this tree that i had been imagined dying from old age, wrinkled and crusty, having men in yellow boots and orange vests in cranes chopping down for us, one hair and arm at a time with a crash to the street, this same tree all leafy and green was swelling itself sea-sick and i had a flash for a split lightning strike second of dizziness. fall over and try to stand up again dizziness.

the fan was blowing in the back bedroom and our windows haven't had the screens swapped out for summer yet so we've been keeping them shut due to a unanimous fear of bats among the captains of this team. and all of these blocked out the sound of those clapping leaves in the tree so they were moving in a silent swell below the black of the storming sky. jude was humming to sleep as he does each night, cozy beside me. i wanted to start off the same direction myself, humming, perhaps, but henry was next on the to-kiss list so i kept myself from being swung dizzy to sleep.

now ice cream man (ice cream man) ring your bell (ding ding)
play your music i've learned to love so well
ice cream man (ice cream man) ring your chimes (ding ding)
in the afternoon so fine.