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July 11, 2007

The Young Man's Leisure Guide, Ch.1: On Enjoying a Driveway, Installment No. 1

Ford is practicing basic board maneuvers. He circumnavigates the driveway in rough squares of measured effort, propelling himself faster each time. His legs are slightly bent and his form conveys assurance and ease, but his arms carry some tension. They coil upwards toward lifted shoulders, bearing fear's weight in two invisible buckets. All the while, joy and satisfaction beams through his proud, young face.

Chas soars above the ground, speeding faster than the sound of his rolling bearnings. He clicks over twigs in the driveway, sometimes rolling over the board as it stops dead beneath him. He laughs, I laugh. His palms are black from asphalt soot and his nubby toes are fearlessly worn smooth and black, too. I can hear him acting out an action scene, his voice trails behind him as he flies across the blacktop, exaggerated cries of help and pleas for mercy, ending with a thud as he slams into the woodpile, throwing himself in a heap onto the ground. He lies spread-eagle beside his skateboard, looking up into the walnut boughs above him, swaying in the hot afternoon breeze.

After a three minute meditation, watching the leaves flutter and sway, he mounts his hovercraft and soars back across the driveway, his own little cosmos

to flail himself into the jasmine, in another utterly romantic gesture of bravado. His heart just couldn't beat any louder.

Ford and I laugh again. We follow no particular path, only minding not to run in to each other. Sometimes we glide just so close, knock knuckles, smile again. There is no two o'clock school traffic on our street to mark our passage through the afternoon. Chas is in his own world but he sometimes shows us where he's been. Sometimes he shows us where he's going. And then, like us, you can catch him just gelling with the afternoon. At that moment you know he's off any agenda and he's just somewhere in the middle of a summer afternoon in the driveway.

Posted by Steph at 06:38 AM | Comments (1)

April 18, 2007

Easter weekend

It rained last night, throughout the night and into the morning, until the sun poked through the snivelling stratus and proclaimed that it was no longer a time of grieving. So the rain packed up and moved eastward, I'm told. And in its wake, the starlings came back out of hiding among the ivy boughs, and the quail promenaded atop the dewy lawn, properly.

For the past three weeks we have had occasional rains, and each time the pitter pattering begins above our heads on this old roof, we tell ourselves, "This is the last rain of the season." That was the last rain of the season.

Speaking of proper, this is a blog where I am obliged to to log a chronicle of events, and I missed the holy weekend of Easter. I've been called on this, so let me indulge you people on what you missed, heretofore two weeks.

Alis threw Seth an Easter rager. Thirty-odd toddlers turned every stone and log looking for eggs and chocolate on the Whitman commons that straddle Skyline ridge. She spent the week beforehand sewing fleece easter bunnies and dying eggs in pots of boiled beets and onionskins and cabbageleaves. On other nights, she wrapped heirloom seeds in tulle and tied them to colorful tongue depressors, and when she was busy wrapping little pots of violas and wheatgrass with tissue paper and hand-painted yarn, she enlisted friends to string wooden beaded bracelets into the wee hours or, as in my case, stand in her kitchen, slackjawed and dumbfounded, to gawk at all the hard work she really put into this fete while she dyed yet more gorgeous eggs.

Which is all to say that my boys cared neither here nor there about any of this, on that particular day, the day of the hunt, as they poked and prodded through the Lamb's Ears and Lilies until they found all forms of chocolate, but that we girls, and by that I mean me( because I was trying not to notice my younger competition) secretly dashed through the garden like a pixie, collecting shiny glass beads and seed packets, purple-and-orange violas and wheatgrass pots, slipping them inconspicuously into Chas' easter basket while he gorged on his gold, his precious chocolate. Occasionally I'd urge him to pick up a seed packet that I'd found, and he'd probe the entire area first for chocolate, certain that I had scouted for nothing other, and finally reach for the only thing hidden in the foliage, which was indeed the seed packet and which he indeed picked up. For me!

And so, with seeds to plant, I'm faced by the bare patches of three quarterempty flowerbeds, spared just for such purpose, and the blank face of a front and back yard, freshly plowed by a thirty year-old and rusting tractor with a likewise rusted and ringing plow, just days ago before the rain fell. I see mounds upon which to plant two to three ppumpkins seeds apiece. Give or take a melon.

I have tenacious, hard callouses on my hands from three weekends ago, when we spent the rest of Easter weekend in Pebble Beach, playing drunk barefoot tennis doubles into the black of night. I'm not sure how I didn't bleed through my feet by bedfall, on those heavy, luxurious sheets; on the contrary, my feet tingled as if they'd been freshly shorn of three old inches of thick hide. Perhaps they were?. Indeed, the rest of me felt that idyllic; it's fun having rich friends with third homes nestled in the surreal beauty of California's monterrey bay peninsula. We drove home along the coastal highway bisecting the prim acres of golfing lawn and the rugged, emerald blue jumble of ocean and guano-stained rock and the white froth of my amazement. Acres upon acres of blooming artichoke and fruiting strawberries, laborers scattered along the endless rows that stretched inland, hunched over the produce like props. Surreal produce signs with enormous specimens that seemed to shine from the light of the sun itself, which glared down sternly upon us as we shook off the two day hangover that only an irresponsible weekend in someone else's mansion in someone else's neighborhood could bring.

Posted by Steph at 06:45 AM | Comments (0)

March 13, 2007

SPC: Flickr tools #2

With little difference to the stiff neck I felt yesterday morning, I drove the kids down to the beach. All the elation that nearly winded me on the drive down to Half Moon Bay fizzled once I started lifting Chas out of deep tide pools and stretching to capture fossils embedded in the rocks. I remember the swirling panorama of beached seals and hungry surf, thinking, This is a very bad place to be with a stiff neck and two exploring preschoolers.

So I let both of the kids clamber their way back to the beach on their own (Chas is getting surprisingly nimble) and then rested in the tent while they bouldered and threw rocks at the incoming tide. This overexposed shot is taken from my little infirmary. I like the way it captures the heat, unforgiving light and pain (although I might be the only one to look at this picture and feel it). It also has a nice retro tint. What's your impression? I'm obliged to use these flickr tools for SPC's current challenge but I'm not sure I'd use these tools in my own. It lacks authenticity. Not sure I like that, although it has a home somewhere.

My advice to anyone waking up in the morning with a stiff neck is to traction yourself to a board for the rest of the day and hook yourself up to an IV and catheter. Don't drive a long, winding road to the beach, set up a tent, wrangle children across the rocks at low tide and then press reverse. That was a recipe for disaster. Damon says it wouldn't matter; that the muscle would spaz no matter what.
I wonder if he's right.

If you want to learn more about online photoediting tools , check out a gallery exhibiting some at SPC.

Posted by Steph at 07:32 PM | Comments (0)

February 27, 2007

Composting in the Rain

Despite my occasional irritations with way the boys continue to remain so close by my side, there are upsides to their lingering dependence on me. I can still redirect muddles between them by simply leaving the room, a perfect curveball. This morning, I quelled an escalating feud between them in the living room, one I was almost ready to fuel with my own frustration, by halting mid-step, turning round and retreating to the mudroom, where I silently baffled them as I put on my socks and boots and headed out into the yard. They watched me from the stoop as I opened the shed door, near the garage, and began excavating hoes, cultivators and shovels from an ethereal matrix of dusty cobwebs, spreading them like battle artillery, single-file, to rest along a low-lying branch. And within minutes, both were eagerly digging into the understory of a giant oak tree in the front yard, heaving shovelsful of composted peat into random piles around me.

Chas soon began to look for earthworms. Crouching over the dugout, in the space I'd carved beneath the tree, he picked fat glossy creepers between his fingers and carried them around the yard, through the house for a little while, taking them on a helpless tour of distraction before returning to my side. As if he'd forgotten it was still in his hand, Chas would ask to take another bath (perhaps his third?), doe-eyed and head tilted, and I'd look down at his hand to find another gleaming, limp, pinched annelid. "I wanna put him in the bathtub," he'd say, quite matter-of-factly. And I'd have to disagree, smiling apologetically, as I turned the compost in the drizzling rain.

Posted by Steph at 11:14 PM | Comments (0)

October 22, 2006

Pumpkin Patch

Posted by Steph at 05:10 AM | Comments (1)

October 16, 2006

"Mom? Did You Like My Song?"

It took me a half hour to post my last entry because Ford was singing really loud downstairs in the garage with Damon and I kept turning an ear down the hallway and laughing. I wish I were this uninhibited:

If It's Nothing

Posted by Steph at 03:28 AM | Comments (1)

Elgin Sausage Stampede

On Saturday morning, we rediscovered our old college schedule of getting up early and hauling ass to class, except this time we went to Elgin for a Sausage Run. I loved the morning drive, creeping out of night across the hills, still blanketed in fog. It's so breathtaking, this yawn of daybreak. I usually sleep through it, as do my children; we are a family that wakes up twenty minutes before school starts, and somehow this works for us. But to see what I've been missing makes me want to curb my nocturnal habits. Passing by our neighbors along the road, little glowing windows inside each shadowed house reminds me of forgotten habits: frosty morning jogs along Balckburn avenue in Providence, cats on the prowl in driveways that I pass, concert flyers waving on telephone poles, and showering before breakfast; the opposite sequence to my current routine, a thousand miles south.

Ford, quietly pouting in the center of the universe, was disappointed that the race didn't include him. So we pulled back, letting him sprint every now and then through the old town streets and across train tracks. I even gave him my number, and trailed behind him through the finish line. I want to be the family that runs together. It's a lifelong sport. And my hip was killing me so this made good pretense. He ate it up.

A proper fun run, this race divvied up a kegger at the finish line along with steaming pork sausage (note: the best in Texas) and while I dislike eating pork, I couldn't resist pints of beer and hot sausage to follow the trail of woodsmoke that carried me from start to finish along the uninspired smalltown route. Even better: a bounce house for the squirts to decompress while we shotgunned refreshments.

Posted by Steph at 02:43 AM | Comments (0)

August 30, 2006

Sidewalk Circuitry

Ford is really, really into circuit boards. Sadly, I'm not. But his father steps up to the plate in my stead. When I walked outside before dinner, he and the boys were elbow-deep in chalk dust, reviewing their designs. So pervasive is the circuitboard concept in his everyday speech that I'm unsure where to begin elaborating on this current fascination. (oh, I just did a funny, did you get that? Because I just did) And, seeing as I've already had a day chock-full of the stuff, I must admit that I really don't want to discuss it any further. Maybe another day. Or maybe I can transcribe something from the engineering mini, himself?...

At any rate, I thought the grandparents would really love to see some of Ford's creations and I wanted to mention that I, for my part, am thrilled that he's finally beginning to enjoy drawing and sketching more than he used to. This is so important to me, that he always feels comfortable letting go with paint or pen, whatever medium. You see, for a long time he seemed to have little interest in this kind of activity, preferring to flip through books or pretend he was blowing things up. I tried never to push it, while always having accessible materials. Somwtimes I'd try getting him to work through a freeform "assignment" but it still didn't break any barriers (of course, knowing me, you'll understand that I'm certain it only made them!) I think that his seeing me spend more time at the desk doing my own work (which has been more frequent lately, as well) may have something to do with his increased comfort in expressing himself on paper.
Whatever. This just made me smile.

Posted by Steph at 08:29 PM | Comments (2)

August 28, 2006

School Blues

As it turns out, Ford hates school. He dreads it like a fat set of immunizations, asking every night whether the next day is a school day, telling me that he’s already feeling sick; he asks me every morning if it’s a school day, and tells me that he’s not going to school; he runs away from the classroom on some mornings, bolting back towards the car. This is a lot to pay, on top of tuition, for the three hours each morning that he is in “school.” In his defense, Ford says he’s “bored,” and that he doesn’t like the teacher, and the schoolroom “sucks,” along with the toys.nThey, apparently, “really suck.” Straight from the horse’s mouth, four going on fourteen.

And I just don’t know what to do about it. I thought this would do him a world of good. After all, I loved my Montessori years: feeding the animals, teaching myself to ride a bike, learning about different countries and fiedltripping to cotton gins and post offices. In fact, the only school years I like to reflect on are those freeform, user-paced, friendly three foot-high days. Really, my heart is in unschooling him and raising him on experience and one-on-one “lessons.” But we aren’t able to freewheel it around the globe for years at a time, immersing ourselves in the daily rhythms of various cultures, learning to make our rope hammocks in Bali, build fishing boats in New Zealand and forge our own stainless steel toenail trimmers in Germany. Who has that kind of independent wealth? If you’re in this group, don’t bother raising your hand because it’s already pressing my angry buttons.

I also don’t know whether Ford is telling me the whole truth. When I ask him,
“Ford, what did you guys do in circle time, you know, right after I dropped you off?”
“We didn’t do anything. We just sat there and stared at the walls.” Is his immediate and nonchalant reply. And when I asked him about the red bump on his noggin, he told me he got hit with a rock, “and no teacher noticed. Nobody cared.” Yeah. And when I asked him whom he sat with at lunch, on the second day of school, he replied: “Nobody. I didn’t sit next to anybody. Nobody cared about me.” Uh, huh. He follows with this raised eyebrow, sideways-glance. It looks like this: C’mon, Mom. Buy it! I’m so convincing! And you’re soooooo gullible!
For the record, I sat in today and watched the little rugrat in circle time. Lo! He did sit and stare at the wall. Complete disinterest! And I’m beginning to see why. He’s the eldest in his class, eccentrically focused on resistors, capacitors, stratacone volcanoes and molecules. He could care less about “learning to roll a rug” (which, according to Ford, he has practiced in circle time three days in the past week) and “how to walk in a line” (today’s lesson—something I thought he’d learn if he ever entered public school).

So, I’m in a conundrum about what to do with him. I’m a neurotic, borderline schizophrenic parent who plays devils advocate with herself and her decisions. I can’t decide what’s best for Ford. I think I’m deciding for my own reasons, at this time, since those few morning hours are well-spent laughing uninterrupted with Chas, helping him learn to pour rice down a funnel and into empty cups, feeding the chickens, reading books and brushing little teeth. I like this time alone with him. But the situation is not ideal for all of us, and I’m left feeling guilty at the end of the day that I just can’t figure out what’s best for my child. After all, isn’t this really my job? I can’t seem to get the hang of parenthood; it constantly throws me curveballs.

I wonder, staring across the house while I do dishes: how do some parents exhibit such
conviction in their decisions? What makes me so neurotic? Is it all a matter of self-esteem, for my part, or is it just pigheaded perfectionism? With the huge parent market out there, it seems that keywords such as “THOSE CRITICAL FIRST YEARS” and “HOW TO BUILD YOUR BABY’S BRAIN” and “DON’T YOU WANT WHAT’S BEST FOR YOUR BABY?” have anchored in my brain, flailing wildly around the canyons of doubt, to echo, “DON’T FUCK THEM UP! IT’S ALL UP TO YOU! DON’T FUCK THEM UP!” Even though my teeny rational brain, tucked away in my frontal lobe somewhere in a fold, is meanwhile repeating the mantra in a soft whisper, “It’s not up to you, how the kids turn out. I mean, it’s your job to give them security and love, but they will evolve for themselves out of experience—it’s not what you hand them, it’s how they process what they’ve got to work with.” Or something like that. It's hard to tell, because I can't really hear it under all that screaming.

So...I guess the pivotal part of my job becomes clearer amid the conflict: staying sane.

Posted by Steph at 10:29 PM | Comments (11)

August 15, 2006

First Day of School!

Ford recognized our car as it idled in the parking lot. He raced towards me, half-smiling with uncertainty-- was I was in the car? or not? But when I arose from the car, his expression relaxed into a joyful open smile, his stride lengthened, and this all released with a spring the bundled cords of my anxiety. He was happy!!! He rmet me at the fence, and I hugged him, holding him snug even in the hundred-degree heat. Behind him: two tentative little girls. One came forward and tapped my arm, with eyes on Ford, and asked me if it were okay for her to kiss him before he left school. I didn’t give Ford a chance to answer for himself; I was too amused with the cuteness. Another girl stood patiently in line behind her for a kiss, I think. But Ford squirmed out of all this loveliness and bolted towards the gate.

Getting in to the car, he told me this was “the best school ever” and asked to return tomorrow. And then began to eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he'd forgotten to eat when he was at lunch.
…and there’s a whole hour of writing I’d love to indulge myself in, to sort of respond to all of this on my own time. But I’m about to pass out. How did I ever find the time to write, months ago? Where is my time going? There’s a black hole in my schedule…

Posted by Steph at 11:33 PM | Comments (6)

August 03, 2006

Garden of Earthy Delights

The chicks are hardy in the heat. This has been the hottest week this summer and they've spent the whole time outdoors in their new tractor. I'll return home at noon from the gym, walk barefoot to the edge of the deck, and peek down on them. Looking back at me are three chicks that are always an ounce heavier, more feathered and panting with open mouths. Every few hours I give them cooler, fresher water. I love the way they peep quietly as I move about, rinsing and rearranging.

We've been terrestrial lately, despite the heat outside, tending droopy plants, cultivating the soil, digging. We have a few good books to inspire more curiosity and garden-play: Diary of a Worm, by Doreen Cronin, and Thumbelina, by Hans Christian Anderson. Ford digs Thumbelina. Yak yak. We haven't yet made it to Microcosmos yet. Then, of course, we have all the nonfiction we could need at home. The huge sci/nature nonfiction library in our bedroom: that would be my fault.

This afternoon, Ford and Chas helped me pin together a 3x4ish compost bin out of some remaining galvanized builder's cloth. Once we'd finished, they helped me rake leaves and pile them into the compost bin. Somtimes they'd run through the piles and the lawn would look no different than it had before I'd organized the chaos, and a fuse would blow in my brain, but I've been more mindful of my wiring today. I'll have to write more about that later, about what it's like lately, ramming horns all day with the four year-old rebel. But right now I'm slipping like mercury through planks of burnout. And I'm falling asleep. But god, he has his Hallmark moments, too:

Posted by Steph at 11:35 PM | Comments (2)

July 22, 2006

You'll Never Guess Who the Mother Is

On the drive home, as the kids fought over who would hold the chicken box on his lap, I began to doubt the success of the kids with the chicks. I figured it was a good idea I'd arbitrarily chose three versus two chicks: one would certainly meet its fate under one of the boys, and being left with two chicks is far better than being left with one.

But I may be wrong. In fact, the prognosis is GOOD. I watched them with a smile all day long, as they gently trod around the garden, the chicks weaving in and out of their footpath. They encouraged us outdoors the entire day, and I found time to rearrange the rosemary and trim the papyrus, harvest parsley bolts and this and that. Ford mentioned "I never knew there were SO MANY BUGS in our yard!" because the chicks: they never stopped harvesting them, too.

Ford is, to my surprise, the new mother hen. And he's a natural. To watch him cradle the chicks, or sprawl across the grass while the chicks scramble over him, for hours at a time, and compare this sight to the same child in a playdate full of little boys: one would never suspect the two images belonged to the one Ford. But it's true. He's come into his new role with all the fever of a new mother. Periodically, I'd have to come outside and feed him a yogurt or a half-sandwich because he was so preoccupied with shepherding the chicks.

But, as it turns out, they follow Ford everywhere; there's no need to chase them down. They believe that Ford is the mama hen and will run up to his feet, peep imploringly with pinched eyes, and all he has to do is pick them up before they drop their heads on a thumb and fall asleep. Ford looked up at me after his pullet, Abby, fell asleep this way. He had reddish purple circles under his eyes, his face flush with afternoon sweat, dry grass dangling from his knees. "Don't you just love the baby chicks? I'm not going to let anything happen to them."

He is drinking water from a glass right now, pausing after each sip to raise his chin to the ceiling and gulp it down, just as he's seen the chicks do when they drink from their shiny metal tray. He licks his lips and smiles, and I wink back. As I read him a new book at bedtime, he reaches over and pecks at my arm with his fingers. He's just so impressed with his new brood. For fun, I paint little glittery dots on his finger- and toenails, and we'll wait to see how the chicks respond tomorrow. But the young Mama Hen needs to go to sleep. And so do I. Tomorrow we build the coop!

Posted by Steph at 10:58 PM | Comments (11)

July 06, 2006

Sunprints

There's a Storm Trooper maintaining his aquatic fleet.
Waiting for Chas to finish napping so we can go out to play. These short, quiet little projects are sweet fillers in a day jammed with chaos, amped-up play and an onslaught of noise.

Posted by Steph at 10:31 PM | Comments (5)

July 04, 2006

Post-Finale Depression

On bikes, we sailed past the footed caravan of quilts and igloos into Zilker park, where the symphony began playing William Tell overture. Chas clapped, mimicking the shiny brass cymbals on stage before him. When it began to rain, a crowd of families followed us under the Riverside bridge, and as we waited for the lighting to pass, floodlights illuminated wet spiderwebs along the handrails and the smoke from the cannon drifted through drizzle. A religious fanatic brayed like a jackass through a megaphone, but we escaped that, too, once the thunder abated: across the meadow we found the perfect place for firework-watching, and I stood grinning and wet in the rain as I watched Ford and Chas gape at the spectacular display. And when it was over, Ford was left completely devastated, sunken and slouching in disbelief. How could it ever end?! How dare they?! HIs reaction was so cute I could hardly stand it.

Posted by Steph at 11:57 AM | Comments (4)

July 02, 2006

Ford,

While I'm not happy about the fact that you watch Chicken Little three times a day on occasion, I can at least smile knowing it slowed you down enough for me to paint your portrait. Also, thank you for letting me paint again today while you watched the movie. Again. I'm trying to be the artist who can write a check for a trip to the Cascades so you can finally see Ranier and Hood and St. Helens in person. Because you are so so so worth it. And because I love you so so much. Well, I'd better get back to work. xoxo, Mom

Posted by Steph at 04:46 AM | Comments (7)

June 10, 2006

While I Was Painting With Chas

Ford doesn't share my love of painting, but he is creative in other ways. Here is an arrangement he called me to see, the creation of which he narrated for five minutes to an imaginary audience. When he was finished, he held it in place and sat back, stratching his arm, so that he could get a different perspective on the piece. I told him that it was important to take a picture of it, so that he could look back and appreciate it after he did the inevitable: take a sip, then throw it across the room, pretending that it was a spaceship with attached spacecpod sailing through space.

Posted by Steph at 07:58 PM | Comments (0)

My Toys Are Your Toys

I made this aluminum starfish at RISD when we were told to design a toy. I'd just returned from a weekend at Narragannsett, where I'd found a scattering of beached brown sea stars. Inspired by the way they clung to my hands (I'd never before felt one) and their bumpy texture, I immediatedly brainstormed a way to recreate one (or a scattering of them). And because I couldn't get enough of the oily sharp smell of metalshop in winter, I HAD to make one out of aluminum. My favorite memories from school there are from this project.

And what a pang I felt when I looked up this morning to find Ford playing with it! He was whirring and buzzing it all over the house, pretending it was an omidriod robot, for HOURS. It was so rad. I almost cried.

Posted by Steph at 07:29 AM | Comments (2)

June 08, 2006

7 of 8

Our seventh morning in the hot natatorium. I sat in a white plastic chair above Ford, my sundress sticking to my legs while beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks. Meanwhile, naked with resurfaced anxiety, Ford threw pleas of desperation at me through chattering teeth and purple lips. And I could immediately identify with this feeling of his. I disappeared into my mind, where an abysmally blue open ocean dropped beneath me. I remembered looking down beyond my suspended feet at a shipwreck, one hundred feet below. I remember the way panic feels in a racing heart, chattering teeth, trembling body , and a wild shallow breath that I couldn't uncoil.

I coached him at breakfast, an hour before class. He bent my positive vibes backwards and refused to go. Today I decided not to talk so much, but to firmly remind him of the challenges and the fact that he was, indeed, going to face them. Still, there he was in the water, panicking.

One boy floated on his back, waiting for his turn to swim in the deep water. He spat a stream of water towards the ceiling. The girl beside him made ape calls to an elderly man running in the next lane. The third girl silently stared at Ford. And Ford, for his part, was negotiating as best he could in a frenzied squeal: "Coach Heather? Coach Heather? I'm scared! I want to go to the little-deep side! Please can we go to the little-deep side?"

I wanted to have magic hands to rest on his shoulder and ease his fright. Instead, the best I could do was clench my fists and shove out my thumbs, pinning my grin from one ear to the next, shouting "That was even better than the last time! Way to go!" It was agonizing for me to watch him worry, though I knew his pain, in the face of all my applaud. As if I owned part of the problem. Did I do something wrong? When, of course, the very real fear is his own acquisition, because he is his own person and he is four. I can't blame myself for everything, as hard as I try and as egocentric as I probably am.

But he did it. He jumped into the pool today, smack onto the pool noodle and splashing the teacher's wide smile. I was suddenly able to breathe, and the world started turning again. I wrapped him with praise in a warm white towel and for the rest of the day he greeted everyone, everywhere, by inquiring,
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT? I HAD MY SWIM LESSON THIS MORNING AND I JUMPED INTO THE DEEP END!"

Posted by Steph at 04:17 AM | Comments (4)

June 06, 2006

SPC: Pop Art: week 1

Summer is saturated with mass-production. The sun destroys anything left outside. So after lingering twilight, chasing fireflies and each other around the flowerbeds, toys stay outside night and day. Our home has stretched out onto the lawn. Plastic toys will only last a few months in this climate.

This is an inflatable swimming pool that I bought last summer. I also bagged sand toys, beach balls and a Slip and Slide, but these have all been shuffled into the other toys, buried in sand and punctured by piercing UVrays. This pool has lasted longer than I imagined, knowing when I bought it that it would destruct by Fall, like summer plastic tends to do.

It's beginning to get a fair amount of use, now that we're baking our way towards the double digits. And every day we drain it, like I'm doing (with Ford) in the photo above. I don't have time for stylized puns on Pop art. Take this as a nod to mass production. We like it. Well, maybe not, but it's convenient and cheap and beautiful when you're short on cash. And who isn't, when you majored in Industrial Design in school?

And you can see more Pop art self portraits here.

Speaking of mass-produced: balloons. They are in high demand at our home. Chas loves them. We can drive by Blockbuster (our fallback now that all of our Netflix movies have gone awol) and Chas will scream for boobahs. BOOBAH!!?!? BOOBAH?! BOOBAHH?! like some heroin addict. JUST! ONE! FIX!!!
We brought home two of the Blockbuster balloons with us on Friday, and Ford picked one up to practice the properties of static electricity.

So he rubbbbbbed the balloon on his nappy hair a minute and then I watched him hold the balloon over a small mount of sugar. The sugar flitted excitedly on the table. "A sugarstorm, mom!" He passed the balloon over a pile of punched paper holes: "Dancing dots, mom!" and then he passed the balloon over an ant trail in the kitchen: "Mom! Check it OUT!" And, sure enough, the ants were flicking up onto the balloon. Can you see them? They're tiny pharoah ants (otherwise known as 'Piss Ants' by my father in-law, the entomologist). Science is so funny.

Posted by Steph at 06:57 AM | Comments (4)

June 03, 2006

I, Cattleprod

I sat on a little wooden bench this morning, Chas on my lap, beside the swim class. I decided that Ford needed a nudge. He wouldn't get away with negotiating or opting out of the coach's instructions. It took preparation, but I was ready for the work.

So we took a jog this morning, both kids in the twinner, and I coached him on the challenges he'd have to face. I told him it would be difficult, but that he would do it anyway. After all, that's the definition of a challenge. We talked about all the things he could do once he was able to swim: we could kayak on Town Lake, ride in Papi's pirough in the bay.

Lo! Did it help. Spastically joyful after each effort, Ford squirmed all over the pool steps and shouted silliness. He made me so proud, I think I wore a smile for hours afterwards.

Posted by Steph at 07:07 AM | Comments (5)

June 01, 2006

The Blanton

Ford, 5.28.2006. Blanton Museum of Art; Austin.

Ford is so challenging. He was the only kid today with dry hair at the end of swim class; he refuses to bob underwater. Through the glass door I watched him dismiss the coach's instructions with a wave and an upturned nose. I wanted to step in and dunk him, myself. This is why I'm paying someone else to teach him to swim; separating my feelings from the task is difficult. All I want him to do is try. But the child just doesn't want to swim yet.

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May 31, 2006

Breakfast Fuzzies

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April 28, 2006

Studio Friday: PLAYTIME

Put a paintbrush in your mouth for family art time. Take a deep breath. No matter how many times you've cleaned up today, this will be the biggest mess. I can't wait to see more fun at Studio Friday.

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April 26, 2006

Back with a Bang!

He's back. He's finally back. I am picking up plastic pretend syringes off the floor, the ones the pharmacist gave the kids for their pretend medicine chest, and removing them out of sight along with all other bottles and measuring spoons. I've placed them in a wicker basket and set it all high on the shelf in the bathroom.

I have packed a picnic bag, loaded the bike and trailer, applied sunscreen and breathed a sigh of relief into the mirror. My reflection reminds me that it's time for some self-maintenance: a brush and lip gloss will do, for now. We are off to the veloway, to weave in and out of the post oak savannah and meadows laced with wildflowers and a fresh litter of rain lilies. It's gorgeous out there!

So how do we warm up for a day away from home? We try on the pants that Kath sent us. The cuffs encourage lots of kicking and running. I love them! Thanks, Kath.

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April 25, 2006

We have been battling Ford's immune response since late Saturday night, alternating doses of ibuprofin and acetominophin, but his fever is stubborn. I'm watching him toss, waiting for a drop in temperature (without relief, it has climbed as high as 106 F). He is frail and hot. As if laboring in his sleep; his breath has a heavy effort, and occasionally he will mutter dreamspeak: stifled pleas dampened by the weight of sleep. All I can do is lay beside him, sleeplessly rubbing the deep furrow in my brow. These are long nights, half slept with the lights left on. All countertops are cluttered with discarded plastic safety wrap, barely-sipped glasses of water, sticky syrup syringes, half-empty analgesic bottles. In limbo, I'll eventually round up and declutter, after I spend ten minutes trying to focus my thougths, after I'm convinced the fever is low enough to condone sleep.

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April 20, 2006

I Have Cabin Fever and I Need to Vent

It's a crapshoot, this pediatrician's office business; in my experience, one visit to the doctor's office has the power to precipitate subsequent visits in the following weeks. Still, I had two kids with a high fever on Tuesday morning and I was forced to take them in to the pediatrician; Chas boiled in the bed at 105.4 F the night before. Still, take one immunocompromized child to an infirmary and he's bound to pick up another bug. Which is why this visit to the doctor's office on Monday was not the first visit but our third in the past week.

The previous Monday, I brought a happy, robust Chas into the office for a well-child visit. We walked around the huge lobby aquarium while we waited, patted the glass, scrambled over magazines, dumped jars of otolaryngoscope tips, pocketed tongue depressors for our garden (they make good labels) and dug through the children's books before receiving a clean bill of health among those agonizing tears of hurt and betrayal that accompany immunizations.

Three days later, Chas was drowning in phlegm, trying to cough it all upwards yet forced to swallow it back down . After dropping Ford off at a playdate, Chas and I kept driving down the road towards the doctor's office. Presenting with nothing but a happy disposition and a chunky cough, we returned to our car after our quick visit with a prescription for an antibiotic and meds to treat acute bronchitis.

My brother John's wedding and Easter Sunday came and went, and so busy we were with all the drinking, barbeque-feasting, egg-dying, visiting and mayhem that it was hard to notice both kids getting progressively sicker. On Monday, we were all slumped over. I tripped three times while jogging, and nearly fell over in yoga while trying to find a focal point on a bleak, gray wall. Atticus spun in circles around Ford at the lake, as my poor kid sat on the diving platform, it seemed the entire neighborhood had converged at the lake to revel around him and his blah expression. By Monday night at midnight, Chas had developed the high fever to push us near the edge, on splinters, until morning came and we could take him to the doctor.

Dragging Ford along was difficult, more so than usual. But we made it through the door of the lobby, and Ford found the nearest bench on which to lie. I suggested the nurse to pull both kid's charts.

This technique works well with siblings: I told Ford to demonstrate for Chas how to cooperate with the doctor's exam, even though we were at the doctor's office "only to treat Chas." And do you know who had the fever? Who tested positive for influenza? Ford. Chas' results were difficult to read, but we were intructed to treat both kids for the same thing, the flu.

I think I was wiser when I used to take Ford to the Texas Department of Health & Human Services for his routine immunizations. For one, it's cheaper. The wait is usually less than twenty minutes. The nurses are always efficient, soulful black women with impeccable technique. And the best part? No sick kids to bump into. As for the "well child" portion: who can't measure their own child's dimensions and follow a developmental checklist?

It makes sense: $15 for immunizations at a clinic, with a 15 minute wait
vs.
$20 copay + ($100 abx & esoteric meds+ $20 copay) + ($40 copay + $40 addition meds) and HOURS lost. Am I right?

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April 04, 2006

5 Minutes ago, 5 Minutes Past His Bedtime

Mom, I want to play PBSkids.
No, it’s bedtime. And I’m writing.
Why are you writing?
Because I want to remember.
What do you want to remember?
I want to remember you, and all the little things you do.
I don’t do little things, I do BIG things. (frowning)

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While My Battery Was Dead

I just got a new battery for my Powerbook. Damon stood in line for service while Ford played a video game. I stood over Chas while he stood bouncing on one of the black ball-shaped seats at the kiddie table.

Friday morning we took a hike along the creek. We chased a young bullfrog, who teased us along a stretch of cattails at the bank before disappearing into some brown muck. Ford was so eager to catch him, standing there with his little plastic red bucket. Chas only wanted to shout and jump into the water. We had to retreat into the woods to keep everyone safe.

I stopped to inspect the mustang grapes, and Chas disappeared. I felt my heart in my thighs ten seconds later, when he reappeared uphill about thirty yards; he had found a loop and had come round to surprise us. Mind you, we were walking along a twenty-foot precipice that overlooked the creek.

Chas is a bushwhacker, both on and off the trail. We put him point blank, while Ford trailed behind, scouting for honeysuckle. He managed to find four blossoms, and gingerly dissect them for the four drops of nectar among them.

On saturday, we biked along the lake. Though the landscape is vibrant and the wildflowers are in bloom, people were the life force along the lake, running, canoeing, parading, strolling. Winding through the trees, we trailered the boys and their havoc, like a small zoo train with a cage of crackhead chimpanzees. I wore a constant smile; for one thing, I wasn't the one hauling the trailer, and for another: it really does sound cute. Despite the mayhem, I like robust, vibrant kids and my kids are anything but reserved.

Some jocks were playing kayak polo under the MoPac bridge, the ball barely clearing the beams beneath me as we rode over them. A Pug meetup and show along the waterfront, one was wearing a pink tutu. A birthday party for a resident goose. The swallows are back. Wisteria and Chinaberry blossoms made the air heady and seductive. I am in love with Austin.

Dinner with friends Saturday night at a neighborhood dig, margherita pizza under the oaks with good wine while the kids scrambled on the lawn and playground. A two-man blues band played in an alcove on the patio. Sunday morning completely disoriented me. The blazing heat, with the loss of an hour, drove me straight into summer. Jogging through our barely-rural neighborhood, grasshoppers zirred past me across the blacktop. The only thing to ground me in April was the fresh, green terrain, littered with half dollar-sized white flowers; everyone's yard looked like a driving range. Wooly bear caterpillars marched across the road, and a brown tarantula stood paralyzed as I passed it on the curb.

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March 25, 2006

The Butt of My Brain

We meet our friends every afternoon to play at a playground. It's a standing date: around 4pm every day. By that time, at least one of the toddlers has taken a nap, and the big boys have built up considerable steam. They scamper, laugh, and shout potty talk like nobody's business. Polly and I stand, exasperated, torn between roles of shadowing the little ones as they teeter on the edge of tall perches and jumping into the storm to interrupt the trashy talk. We wonder why they can't just use other words, when quiet time at home consists of lengthy discourse on subatomic particles and static electricity. Why Ford can't make any word substitutions when he's so clever to point out that "I don't like to snuggle in the bed like a pack of batteries." Instead, we hear endless "BUTT-HEAD!" and "BOOTY BUTT-HEAD!" and "PENIS HEAD!" in the drone of play combat that orbits around the playscape following a stampede of little feet.

To make matters worse, Chas loves to follow them around the playground, bouncing and roaring, tumbling every now and then as he tries to keep up, but occasionally shouting, "BUTT!!!!" He bends forth with a red face to proclaim the profanity as loudly as possible. It's hard enough trying to get him to say normal words, like "sock" and "help" and "horse," but I get so irate when I catch Ford leaning into Chas' face, to teach him to properly pronounce "BUTT." At the playground, when people hear "BUTT-HEAD" coming from Chas, they turn to me, surprised and amused. At these times, my eyes try rolling back into the nether region of my skull, to a place where fading dreams linger: where my house would always be tidy, where I'd ride horses while the kids napped, and where my boys would grow up perfect.

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March 24, 2006

DFW Intl. Airport

Into the relentless sunny wind, Chas ran towards the distant airplane as it lifted off the tarmac. "DET! DET!" he shouted, pointing, and Ford translated it for me: JET, JET! HE reached the end of the berm and stopped still, apprehensive, as the jet loomed closer. But the roaring became intense, and Chas turned round and trotted back to me, quietly frowning to the ground, pink cheeks bouncing. I scooped him up and together we tracked the gleaming silver jet as it thundered over us.

Ford is into jet turbine engines. He likes to describe their operation, and tell stories involving turbines. He will pick up a gall off the curb and tell me, "Mom, do you know why this gall is so fast? It's because it's a jet TURBINE-powered gall that shoots through the sky and into your eyeball!" or "I'm so fast because I have two jet turbine engines, spinning like huge atoms, on my sides." He has been into jet turbines for while, but I can't remember what set it off, this fiery interest. These days, he's all about atoms, particles, molecules, jet turbines, and electromagnetic forces. I'm not cut out for this.

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March 08, 2006

SPT: Week 1: Time

In 2000, the experts told us it would take on average about one year to conceive, after throwing the pills in the trash. I googled (on Yahoo, at the time) "trying to conceive" and followed my nose to babycenter, which suggested the use of a basal thermometer to predict the time of ovulation. On the way home from Point Reyes, I stopped off at the Long's drugstore in Mill Valley and found a ten dollar basal thermometer on the bottom shelf. Smiling at the clerk, I stepped back out into the rain and into the world of possibility. I felt control and the hand of science on my shoulder.

Some mornings I awoke at six, to journal, and I'd forget to take my temperature until I was already comfortable on the sofa. Irritated, I'd drag myself back into the bedroom and wake Damon up with the tiny BEEP BEEP BEEPing. Then, I'd turn the corner, reach into the medicine cabinet, and pull out my chart. I'd have to squint my eyes to plot the coordinates.

Other mornings, I'd open my eyes to bright sunlight, staring at the ceiling with fatigue. The chart made its way to the bedside table, out of convenience, and the beeping and recording would commence. Those were dreamy mornings, before children, when the sun could rise up high in silence. When the scrub jays would wake me up, rasping among my zoo of potted geraniums, spilling over the balcony.

It only took one month, one spike. One night? Clockwork. Looking at Ford, as he sleeps with rosy red cheeks and a tangle of blonde curls beside me, I can't say I wish it had taken longer. But it was a year-long program, and we took the weekend workshop. It wasn't supposed to be this easy, and I, torn between pride and guilt, hysteria and fear, stood there staring at the pink line in the bathroom for ten minutes. The countertop was cluttered with tears and cosmetics, the pregnancy test commanding my focus. I looked up, smiling with red eyes and a wrinkled forehead, naked in every way, and carried the test to Damon. And the last thing I remember from that night was him, holding me and laughing, wondering why I was crying, running his fingers down his chin as he does when he's trying to make sense of someone else's imperfect logic. This time, however, with a hint of pride. We'd done good.

SPT

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March 06, 2006

The Brutal Curiosity of Youth

The lake today breathed a joyful sigh of peace before spring break arrives, next week, to slosh her with boat fuel, beer and music. Polly and I stood thigh-deep in the cold water, prattling about this and that, while Atticus and Ford rollicked on and off the diving platform. Chas and Tabitha teetered chest-high in the wakes from the occasional ski boats, the water slapped playfully against the banks and the youngsters, who didn't seem the least appalled. What I thought was a minnow and then maybe a tadpole turned out to be a mayfly larva, swimming like a snake an inch below the surface. As I lifted it out of the water atop my palm, it walked along walked along my hand with surprisingly deft strength against the water's surface tension. In order to take a closer look, Ford did something I cannot do anymore: he lifted the insect between his fingers and carried it away.

Most children enjoy letting slugs wander across their arms, caterpillars creep over fingers. Dad brought a jar of grasshoppers for the kids to play with last summer. Chas sat and picked them, one by one, out of the jar, letting them crawl all over himself. When I was Ford's age, I remember picking up insects in this matter-of-fact way. I had Stag beetles, tarantulas, and pet grasshoppers, large, shiny red-on-black grasshoppers that I kept in mason jars. And then one day, I picked up an earthworm. It was cool, pinkish-brown and very long. I wondered at it's sleekness, imagining that it could stretch to great lengths if it wanted to. So I pulled it gently between my fingers until it cracked in two places, exposing its tragic red insides to me. I remember dropping it, as I have seen Ford abandon his kill, only I felt sick. I still feel sick. I wonder what Ford feels, when his fingers erase another small life. Lifting him over the bank, as we were leaving, I noticed a very small gossamer wing on his arm.
(Sigh.) The mayfly?

It is midnight in early March, and I'm hearing what I can't bring myself to believe: a mockingbird serenading outside on the telephone pole.

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The Validator

"Mom, where are we going?"
"We're going to the store, so you can get a new hat and so I can get some yoga pants."
"Why are you getting new pants?"
"Because Daddy says I look silly in those grey lounge pants, you know, the soft ones."
"YOU DON'T LOOK SILLY! YOU LOOK AWESOME!" he yelled from the backseat. He yelled!

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March 05, 2006

Pedernales morning

We drive to the Pedernales River this morning for a hike. It is quiet around 11:50 except for the last of the churchgoers leaving mass. We cruise under a weary, overcast sky that echoes a landscape hardly awake from winter, except for a lone quince tree blazing pink alongside a truckstop. 290 is growing. What was once a frontier escarpment of limestone and prickly pear is now claimed property of "Muirwood" and "Oak Haven" and the mycelium of other residential real estate developments. But the road itself is still old. We climb and descend each hill like a motorboat on choppy water, tossed about by the scars of traffic and extreme temperatures on the road, our eyes following the varicose veins of long asphalt-filled cracks in the pavement. Scores of Open House signs are everywhere, in short trains of five or six (per builder) they picket the shoulder. There's a balmy southern breeze and the American flag at the Pulte Highpointe Information Center is at full-mast, waving gloriously. I wonder how many prospective homeowners will visit this trailer today. A part of me can understand how a person would appreciate a home, like the ones I see beyond the trailer, sitting on two green acres and surrounded by white ranch fencing. Perfect for your one-horse family and sidekick goat.

People driving along this road must buy a lot of pottery, rustic metal art and deer antlers; every other store has a side yard filled with chimineas and yard art. Sheet metal silhouettes of cowboys leaning against imaginary walls are among them, so you could (if you wanted to) lean one of those buckaroos against the entrance to your ranch, right there next to the gate. So everyone would know your home was cowboy-friendly, supporting all cowboy-related endeavors.

Damon used to work on the King Ranch. When he was in high school, he had many different roles on the ranch, and his least favorite was the caballero duty of processing freshly-purchased cattle for their new life on the King Ranch. And since he worked during the summers, I'll begin the description of setting to include blistering heat and dust. Add to that, a two-foot layer of bull shit to stand in (and I mean literally), the smell of burnt flesh, the bustling sounds of hydraulics and metal and groaning cattle.

There's a short list of duties to perform on the newly-purchased stock: a bloodbath of dehorning, branding, castrating and immunizing. You corral cow into the chute with a cattle prod. If it's female, the most effective way to move her is to stun her with a cattleprod to the clit (I kid you not). If the cow has horns, you take a large pair of tree pruners and slam, slam, slam them together until the horn lops off, trailed by a river of blood from the marrow (since the horns are, after all, a part of the cow's skull). While the cow is bleeding out, you take a branding iron and burn the famous running W onto its hide (a cow may have many brands over the course of his or her life). Then, if it's a bull, you have to castrate it. It's a systematic thing, really: you slice with a razor blade, pull them out. Period. Lastly, you immunize. If you look up occasionally while injecting, you can pound the huge hypodermic needle accidentally into your own leg, as Damon did. While all of this is going on, the Mexican laborers will take a few testicles and fry them over the same fire that's heating the branding irons, a sort of freak show snacking. And at the end of the day, the laborers will often take a long latex rubber glove, the kind used for artificial insemination, and fill them with the leftover balls to take home. They'll leave, smiling and proud, holding a bloody bag of bluish-pink cow balls to cook up later, for themselves? For their family?

Yes, we are in the middle of country with a capital K, as in Kountry Kitchen, Kountry Klutter and Hill Kountry Kabins. I had to retype these names a few times to get it right. It was difficult.

The river is low. The river bottom is worn smooth, and deep crevasses bore through the bedrock like swiss cheese. I hold my breath as I boulder with Chas in the backpack over deep divides, and gasp when Ford leans over edges, peering into the whirlpools. We stop to investigate fossils, embedded everywhere along the riverbottom terrace.

On our walk back up the trail, I stop in my tracks to listen. I hear a slight symphony beyond our parade of noise: Ford is belting out more White Stripes, while Chas is simultaneously repeating Dvorak's New World Symphony (to the three syllables "Hi Daddy, Hi Daddy," over and over again--amazing in itself!). Everyone stops, and we all hear it, the distant sound of geese underwater. Looking up, we see birds flying in V-formation, due North, but they are clearly not geese. In a less-focused, more carefree jaunt, these are actually Sandhill cranes flying at about 2000 feet. We watched as they flew over the river, paused, and dissociated into a flowing fabric of cranes, wafting upwards on thermals in freeflowing spiral, resting their wings as they ascended. For about three minutes or so they did this, until one set course and the rest followed, straight into V-formation once more.

We learned three new things on the longish return hike uphill:
1. open-toed sandals and sand do not really mix well, according to a 4 year-old.
2. Ford will knock down any structure, no matter how sacred, to prove his power over inanimate objects.
3. Chas will always attempt to get in the water, so never take him out of the backpack without preparation.

Posted by Steph at 11:56 PM | Comments (2)

February 21, 2006

Something's Gotta Give

The house is thick with testosterone, even when they are all sound asleep. At night, the clean scent of my lotion cuts through it like a warm knife through butter. In fact, I can barely smell a thing, it's that subtle. But Damon will sit up in bed, half asleep, and declare, "I can't take that smell! You don't understand, it's killing me."

I'm outnumbered by men, three to one. And that's not including the dogs, who (for the love of God) are not here right now. The boys are getting older, though, and more willful. Chas is already throwing flailing tantrums, of the head-bashing variety, when his brother takes the basketball away from him. Ford, for his part, is already a little man.

I was carrying my open laptop into the bedroom today and found him lying on my bed, watching some afterschool, non-PBS-type, commercial-interrupted cartoon show. I stood there, frozen in the doorway. And he just lay there, staring at the tv, oblivious to the screaming going on in my head. And I couldn't help notice that his hand was, as usual, in his pants.

"Ford, this show has guns. You know how I feel about guns! I hate them. Guns and greed are the root of all evil." Well, except testosterone, right?

"Well, Mom, you'll just have to keep your eyes on the laptop, then, okay?"

Posted by Steph at 12:05 PM | Comments (1)

February 17, 2006

Little Theories

Ford was his usual, curious self today, with the questions about Black Holes, wormholes and portals, wanting me to read A Brief History of Time to him so that we could dissect current knowledge together over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And then he sat still for a moment at lunch to ask the question,

"Mommy, does the sun love me?"

"Of course it does," I replied cautiously, "Does the sun follow you around all day?"

"Yes."

"And does the sun go to sleep with you at night?"

"Yes."

I thought about this all day. How he takes apart our concept of the universe into fragments and puts the pieces back together (Big Bang theory, bits and pieces scattered, cooled, then formed planets; the sun is a dying star, etc) and reviews it out load (he did this with the digestive system to his pediatrician at his second annual checkup). I thought about the frequency of questions, these days, that I am unable to immediately answer. I thought about how uncomfortable I feel, anthropomorphizing the sun. I took a deep breath and started to paint. In a few minutes I felt much better.

As I pulled out of the parking lot tonight, I noticed the moon on the hill, squinting through the atmosphere in a sleepy haze. As I kept driving, damned if it didn't surprise me in the way it followed me home. There was nothing usual about it. The sky was the color of the asphalt under my high-beams. Nobody else was on the road. The air, balmy and warm, smelled metallic and a light southeast breeze blew into the car at the stoplight. Winding my way home through the hills, the moon swung playfully left, and then right. It followed me out of my car and down the driveway and up to the stoop, before hiding behind the junipers. It tucked itself in, an hour ahead of the rain that followed. And then, Ford's naive question made perfect sense.

Posted by Steph at 12:42 AM | Comments (7)

February 15, 2006

My Son, the Hit Man

At the park, Ford helped himself to another child's sand toys while I was spotting Chas on the gym. I watched him engineer his play and block out the rest of the world, as I often try to do when I'm, say, typing on my laptop. So serious! I stood there smiling at him.
The other child's mother, when I glanced up at her face, was smiling down on him also. Then she bent down to hand Ford a shovel.

"What's your name?"
"That's not important." he responded, like a calculator.

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January 25, 2006

Concentration

A perfect fit into this week's theme for Studio Friday: "PLAYTIME." Even if it's posted prematurely.

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January 24, 2006

DJ Ford at the Westbank this Tuesday, no cover

I am sitting atop a five year-old blue area rug as the timid, gangly librarian greets us with her friend, the fifty year-old once-purple spider puppet. Her eyes are so tiny that I find myself searching for the person beneath them, and out it peeks with a nervous giggle as she shifts her weight in the chair. Awkwardly, I encourage Chas to sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider; it's surreal to be repeating this same archaic fingerplay with my children. I'm tired of this, and I'll not reminisce about this moment when I am sixty-four. The Itsy Bitsy Spider has hung around the waterspout way too long, it needs a new venue, to broaden its horizons. I suggest setting sail for the Spanish riviera.

Ford is being patient as I tolerate the spider song. He understands the pain; I think he feels it himself. He tumbles in breakdance acrobatics around the three other mother-child pairs, threatening their two year-oldness with his four year-old rebellion. One mother flinches as Ford jumps in her face. What is he doing?! But wait! This is his method, and it's difficult being completely objective when reacting so easy. But I call him closer. He jumps back in my direction, clearly to tell me off, and I find myself flinching.

"These songs are not my kind of songs. My kind of songs are...," his straw-colored curls bounce and his eyes flare, "the White Stripes, and the Strokes, and Beck, and Kings of Leon....,"
Blood flushes to my face, and I find relief when I realize these mothers probably have never heard of Kings of Leon, much less trained their ears to understand the slurred lyrics (not that Ford has),
"...this music is na-nee na-nee BOH-ring..."

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January 20, 2006

Ben & Jerry

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January 16, 2006

Defiance

I just walked downstairs and caught Ford dipping his grubby little fingers into the cake batter. Notice that he doesn't look spooked or guilty. He's not trying to hide a thing.

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January 12, 2006

Astro

What more can I say? The kid just rocks. And he's got it all figured out.

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January 11, 2006

Butterflies in the Treetops

A giant live oak tree stood in arabesque on the hill above the creek, a proud centenarian but with arms so long and weary they dug back down into the earth for relief. While the sun sank behind it without saying goodbye, as it does on these arid, cloudless days, Ford and Chas cavorted among the branches. Ford wanted to climb higher than possible, satisfying each inch up the tree with laughter and a hearty jump back down. Chas, for his part, interested himself mostly with the mulch around the base, a dusty combination of dead leaves, acorn bits, bird guano and the small particulates of decomposing plastic gelato spoons from the chi chi grocery store nearby. I cringed as he faced the wind, gleamed with joy and flung a handful of detritus into his face by accident. Mycoplasma, Avian flu, corneal scratches buzzing through my head while Ford demanded "Look at me now, Mommy! Look, Mommy! Mommy, look at me!" I quickly scan Chas, while Ford hops back down to the ground.

No harm done, no tears. Ford looks back up at the heart of the tree, a perfect vortex of boughs and tailored for sitting, tempered and rounded from a century of children. He turns to me with raised eyebrows, and asks me to lift him up to the top. I remind him of my jammed thumb, my short height, and promise that Daddy can help him up next time. A couple walks by, the man understands Ford's gesturing without hearing a word. I tell Ford that I approve, the man can help lift him up to the top of the trunk. As the man lifts him, I watch every ounce of Ford's enthusiasm diminish instantly in proportion to height. Tenatively, the man releases his hold on Ford, and enables him feel his presence atop the grand oak, above our heads. Perched so high, he claws that trunk like a castaway cat riding dark seas. While his eyes help round out the terror, his voice says it all, as he quivers his shaky plea,
"mommy can you please get me down?"

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January 10, 2006

Fun Fridays

Friday at Bull Creek. Cattails.

Scientists.

Philosopher.

Thrill seeker. (Fording the frigid stream in mocassins)

Considering Botox.

Posted by Steph at 11:36 AM | Comments (4)

January 01, 2006

2006

It's New Year's Eve in Houston, and over the buzzy drone of Chas' snoring I hear little groups of people hollering one block away, the rat a tatting of firecrackers and guns, and the horn of a freight train downtown. Our house and much of our block is asleep. But if you walk barefoot out onto the front porch, and sit on the swing, you can see Christmas lights smiling at the raucous din of nearby celebration. The turning of a new year unfolds as I swing back and forth in the stillness. The family of gliding squirrels is probably shaking on one of the grand oak boughs above me as bottle rockets whine above them.

Being a homebody on New Year's eve never felt so luxurious. I think I got over being homebound on New Year's eve four years ago when we made Ford.

Cheers to that and a new year!

Posted by Steph at 11:59 AM | Comments (0)

December 30, 2005

What is it like having a four year old boy?

For starters, you get interrupted quite a bit when you read to them. And it's not always the "Why?" kind of questions. Sometimes, you have to play dictionary. If you read "The Night Before Christmas" to them, you might get a "What the hell is a sugarplum?!" or a "Bloody Hell! How do you know what the elves know?!" Other times, interruptions are more the result of commentary, which is endless, throughout the day and every day. Try reading the Grimm classic tale, "The Bremen Town Musicians," as I did the other morning:

A certain man had a donkey, which carried the corn-sacks to the mill indef-
"Nutsack!"
-indefatigably for many a long year; but his strength was going, and he was growing m-
"Nutsack!"
-he was growing more and more unfit for work. Then his master began to consider how he might b-
"Nutsack!"
-He bagan to consider how he might best save his keep; but the donkey, seeing no good wind was blowing
(snickering from Damon across the room, acknowledged)
ran away and set out on the road to Bremen.

"Nutsack!"

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December 29, 2005

Pho

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December 13, 2005

Pictures of Ford That Aren't of the Back of His Head:

He's so miserable in the other room, with his flu. I feel horrible about not being able to comfort him. So while he rests now in his bedroom I thought I'd share a few moments of Ford (over the past couple of months) with Linda, my mother-in-law, who remarked that she's only been able to see the back of his head.

Posted by Steph at 02:35 AM | Comments (2)

December 12, 2005

We Didn't Get the Flu Shot

Ford endured an hour of driving in the cramped back seat of the puny Golf car, ready to puke out his heart, when we stopped in Smithville and paused before turning around and returning home. We were driving to Houston for the annual Lights in the Heights, which is a Christmas tradition in my old neighborhood. Mom and Dad had a bell choir on the front porch. The street was closed off. We looked forward to bundling up, boozing up, and towing the kids in a red wagon through the neighborhood, saying hello to old friends.

Poor kid. It broke my heart to watch him tough it out. He is the bravest little boy, so careful not to puke anywhere but into his little yellow bowl. Remembering to say please when asking for a towel. It reduced me to tears when he asked whether the pediatrician's office that we were taking him to this afternoon was "the one with all the toys where we went when Seti (our old Jack Russell) bit me when I was trying to keep him off the bed because mommy was nursing Chas?"

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November 14, 2005

Sunday Sound Quilt

Chas has been playing with words. He watches my mouth pronounce his favorite words, and he is eager to repeat adn repeat:Ball, mamamamamama, dee dee (which means "baby doll" to him), dog, hieeeee (hi), bye-eeeee (bye), bah-bah (basketball), and various barn animal sounds. His favorite monologue is the repetition of the word "hot." He repeats, "Haaaa-Tuh, haaa-tuh, haa-tuh" for himself to hear. He enjoys the way it feels. It's sweet to watch him circle about the house, signing and saying the same word in a happy, meandering trance. It's a layer of music.

The other layers include the IndiePopRocks simulcast, set on low. I think Damon enjoys the living soundtrack. It's mellowing.

And then there is Ford on electric guitar and Damon on Ford's classical guitar. They sit beside one another, playing guitar-babble of their own. Of course, it sounds nothing like babble, but it's the same little dance. They are feeling out for sounds they like. Ford has the advantage of not having to develop and fortify his ego right now; he is at a wonderful stage in his life where these things are already robust. So he sits there, exploring the sounds that he makes without the want to play like another, or sound like another. At this point, it is only sound. It's like learning how to talk; he and Chas are very much on the same page, in that respect.

Posted by Steph at 06:24 AM | Comments (0)

November 12, 2005

In Case I Forget to Mention It

With the return of daylight savings, preparing dinner is a delicate but manic dance around a demanding and danger-prone toddler and the fact that Ford leaves school at dusk, right about the time Chas turns into a werewolf. It's a crazy juggling act trying to get dinner, or something that resembles dinner, on the table for everyone. It's even harder trying to get the boys to eat it. But that's another story. Tonight there's one thing I want to remark on, because I know Ford is getting older. This cute little thing he's done all year that has been so fun to watch will, most likely, eventually phase out:

I love the moment when the plates are all on the table, and everyone has a glass and a fork and a knife and a spoon and a napkin, and the burners are turned off and we finally begin to eat. It is at that moment, when we take our first bite or have our first sip of wine (after an obligatory "Cheers!"), that Ford always begins, in upright posture and a tilt to his head,

"So, how was your day, Mommy?"

See? Small talk never sounded so good.

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November 10, 2005

Speed of Sound

Click on the photograph below and wait eternity for the movie to download, but it was my moment of zen today and I thought it was fun enough to share.

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November 09, 2005

SPT: Self-Documentary Series #6

I am his teacher.
From birth, I have helped translate the world to him.
And now, the world is not enough;
he wants me to explain the universe, and death, and subatomic particle behavior,
and my mind is getting tired and feeling ignorant.
I need someone to translate these things for me.

Posted by Steph at 08:44 AM | Comments (0)

November 06, 2005

An Interview with the Emergent Illustrator Ford M. Sicore

Ford wants to be an illustrator. I interviewed him this morning after he created this elaborate scene:

Stephanie: (holding my invisible microphone) So Ford, the world wants to know more about this young illustrator named Ford. Can we begin our interview with the question, "When did you decide to become an illustrator?"
Ford: (With a mouthful of sandwich) I decided to become an illustrator when I was playing the guitar upstairs with Daddy.
S: I see. Did something or somebody inspire you? What I mean to say is, did you read a book, or watch a television program or watch somebody else illustrating when you decided to become an illustrator, yourself?
F: Yes. I was watching television on the channel they call (pause to chew sandwich) K..L...R....
S: Oh, our local PBS station called "KLRU?"
F: Yes.
S: And what show were you watching?
F: The show with the books, you know...
S: Oh, Reading Rainbow?
F: yes!
S: Well, that's all the time we have for today, Ford. Thank you for the interview. Now let's hear the story behind this piece you just finished. Would you do the honors?
F: Sure!

"Next to these mountains right here are some caves, do you see them? People lived in these caves and slept there. And next to the caves, next to the mountains was a huge, huge pool of water. Actually, a huge pool of atoms. And the atoms are so small, they are this small (demonstrates with his fingers, the space between his pointer finger and thumb, pressed together). The atoms bounced together so furiously that they made noise that actually woke up the people sleeping in the caves. So the people went outside the cave, and they found a portal. The went up to the portal, but the portal sucked them inside. Suddenly, suddenly, they found themselves taken by the portal to that place called...New York City. And they looked around and saw what was there. Then they went back into the portal, and the portal took them back home to their caves."

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October 30, 2005

First Place!

We had to leave home without finishing the costume. Seventeen papier mache quills left to tack on but I ran out of glue for the glue gun. When we arrived at the lake for the carnival, we stumbled onto the costume judging stage. Around forty children were decked out and fidgeting in their seats. We coaxed Ford onto the stage and he just stood there when the the kids began to parade in a circle around him. But following Ford were many ooh!s and aa!s, and he ultimately won first place! Twitching those creepy claws of his. He is so proud.

Honorable mention goes to Ford as Samurai. Here, searching for treasure in the hay. School Halloween party.

Posted by Steph at 09:35 AM | Comments (0)

October 29, 2005

Studies reveal that girls are getting dumped earlier in life than in previous generations.

I walk Ford to school every day. School's been going great.
Today when we rounded the corner of the playground, the boys yelled, "FORD'S HERE! FORD'S HERE!" and stampeded to the fence to wait for him. Closer to where we walked was the little playhouse, and a cute little girl in pink and white, with straight blonde hair heard his name and walked out towards us. Ford lurched forward from the jogger so he could annunciate through the veil of chain-link:

"I'M *NOT* YOUR FRIEND!!!"

She heard this, didn't flinch, and turned right-side-round back to the playhouse. I watched her tell the other girls what happened. Or that Ford is a little prick and I hope he never calls again. That bastard.

UPDATE: It has been over a week since I last posted this, but I forgot to mention that, on the following day's walk to school, Ford picked yellow wildflowers for this sweet little girl. When he arrived at the gate, Ford climbed over his friends to hand-deliver them. Alas, she didn't want to hold them all afternoon, and Ford wondered why not. Still, they are new friends.

Posted by Steph at 12:13 AM | Comments (0)

October 17, 2005

Inquiring Minds Want to Know....

We were shuffling through a lazy night of low-IQ tv with the kids and landed on E! during an episode of The Girls Next Door. Because it was too mature for the children, we kept oggling for a while, long enough to pique Ford's interest. About ten minutes into the show, Ford ultimately broke down and asked us, in response to the selective digital pixellation,

"So, are we having satellite problems or something?"

Posted by Steph at 05:30 AM | Comments (0)

October 13, 2005

Crawfish are fun! And did you know? They're tasty, too!

Mom places Ford's lunch before him: several boiled shrimp, some fried rice, and a crimson red crawfish, and Ford looks at his plate with proud disbelief and surprise.

"Is this a crawfish?"
"Yep."

He sits there, peering into the crawfish's tiny boiled black eyes, examining it like some Edwardian curiosity.

"It's so cute!"
"Want to touch it, mommy?"

"Is this his thorax?"
"Yep, it's in there. I think his abdomen is in there, too. Well, part of it. Anyway, you eat the tail."
"Like a shrimp?"
"Yep, like a shrimp."

"Can I eat it?"
"Sure can. Here (I break open the tail, pull out meat, God this looks disgusting, and hand it to Ford)

"Mmm! I like it!", grinning. "Can I have some more crawfish?"
I look up at my mother with a faint look of "WTF?" and then we both laugh at how cute this really is.

She tells him, "Ford, I'm so impressed with your adventurous palate!"
"I know," he tells her into his plate quietly.
And while she and I eat and chat and wrestle Chas through the rest of lunch, Ford continued to eat crawfish. Periodically, however, he obliged the technicolor carcasses to duels sur le table, narrating as he went along.

He's becoming a very interesting narrator.
Like today, when we were reading the book I Be You and You Be Me by Ruth Krauss and Maurice Sendak, there was a page in the book tenderly illustrating a boy standing on a quaint little hill overlooking a small town, with birds flying overhead and trees in the valley...the words go:

I love the sun
I love a house
I love a river
and a hill where I watch
and a song I heard
and a dream I made

I asked Ford, without reading this charming passage, to narrate this picture himself. Just to compare. Here's Ford's rendition:

There was this boy,
on a hill,
and somebody PUSHED him over the hill,
and he crashed onto the town
and shattered in a million pieces
and broke his eyeballs all over the place.
That's it. That's what happened. (grinning)

Posted by Steph at 05:02 PM | Comments (1)

October 11, 2005

MY martini

Trust me, he wasn't thirsty; he's just discriminating.
Which reminds me: Today at lunch, when mom placed a plate of lentils in front of Ford, he shot me doe eyes from the table and fawned, "Aren't we having wine with this?" We laughed at what he might be asking for during snacktime at school a few hours later. Mint-infused sippy mojitos? Icy Kool-Aid cosmopolitans?

School. It has been a very good thing. We start the day with breakfast and either go somewhere for the morning or have fun at home when he's fresh. Then we lunch, read and rest until 3pm, when off we walk to the schoolhouse. When we arrive, he lurches out of the jogger onto the playground, dismissing the teachers and plunging into play. I chit chat with faculty, and leave to run errands with Chas. All the while, Chas is either asleep or restful, engaged and content; it's a lot of fun having the one-on-one time with him. Three hours pass, we return down to the school, and Ford pours bubbly bucketfuls of enthusiasm in my ears. I give him a juice box, we walk home, eat dinner, clean up and read Harry Potter. It really has been that perfect. The best of both worlds: having him home when I'm at my best, having a break when I'm more tired in the afternoon--he benefits from having playpals and square footage when he's his most physically atomic, and time with me when he's most quietly engaged. Way cool.

Posted by Steph at 05:46 AM | Comments (1)

October 05, 2005

On Saturday, a trip to the music store to get strings turned into a trip to get 6 more: Ford asked for his own guitar and we flat out bought him one. And do you know what? He's picked it up like a natural. Here he is playing Mozart's Minuet in G. Minus the Mozart. And the minuet part. But the G--he's got that,, and I can't believe how his fingers are already able to wrap themselves around the fretboard to play a chord. It's amazing.

Posted by Steph at 03:21 AM | Comments (0)

September 30, 2005

Fall

Austin awoke and fell back to sleep again tonight under the clouds; it was invigorating. It was the first noticeable cold front of the season. Please do not notice that I was taking this picture while driving.

Ford has a new piece of jewelry, the hydroxide molecule ring. Actually, it's a small keyring with, oh, I don't know, some sort of ball attached to it. Something like that. And I wasn't driving when I took this picture, I was at a stoplight. Anyway, he removed it from a little chotchkie that Damon brought home, put it on his finger, and asked me what kind of molecule it looked like. Ford is into molecular models, atomic models, skeletal models. I can thank Bill Nye. Thank you, Bill Nye! You rock! Except when Ford is bouncing off the furniture at