And then again...

Y'all know it's not truly a calendar that saves the day nor a 'smart'phone that simplifies your life. Right?

I'm just late to this party, this realization, this evolution of humanity, and I want to be clearer than I was in my last post: I only write about my calendar because it's a breakthrough for me. All of you, dear readers, are waaaay ahead of me in figuring out that I am a flake-with-a-capital-reschedule when left to my own brain's ability to multitask.

(Have I mentioned that multitasking is the evil of our generation?)

Until a couple of years ago, I thought the calendar and the electronic gadgety things that start with "I" or that have a name that came from Startrek or Star Wars (or was it Dancing With the Stars? Android? His quick step was ah-MAY-zing.) were fine for people with high-pressure, deadline-oriented lives. In fact I lived by my Daytimer (TM) and my pager (ha!) while working in publishing and this is a gift to you, this giveaway about how long it's been since I was a professional person. And my years in real estate sales (shudder here) were ruled by a cell phone and the electronic mail, the fax machine, the clients' calendars, the banks' calendars.

So I know from schedule stress and I thought my stay-at-home, homeschool self should just be able to keep it in my head. You know? The lessons and doctor appointments, the veterinarian and farrier visits, the gym times and my husband's duties on local committees and commissions.

I thought pretty highly of myself and I feel better now that I've reduced that opinion. I sleep better. It's simpler, even though it's a crazybusy life we lead.

Thanks. I needed to post that.

Meanwhile I must take the applesauce out of the canner because one of my four timers went off while I was typing. And case in point: I have four timers while only three calendars (wall, phone, purse). I have four timers because I am easily distracted and things can burn and a timer means "pay attention," it's time to [use your imagination, something urgent usually, or else just the end of someone's screen time or the dog's outdoor 'bathroom' break]. I have four timers because my memory is fallible, short-term and long-term. I forget. It happens.

And skirting and the edge of my no-politics-on-interwebs rule: Please remember to vote.

Perhaps put in on your calendar.

When I think about the mixed-up bag of emotions surrounding our move further into the wilderness, I find it funny that I ever have thought I knew what the future held. I thought I was rooted. I did.

Living here fulfills so many lifelong dreams. We actively sought this solitude, this woodsy hideaway. I dreamed of a place with year-round creeks, woods, pastures, a big weathered barn. My son climbs to the top of his own personal mountain and throws rocks. My daughters fence-sit in the best possible way: on ranch fencing overlooking their ponies' fields. So you can see, even I can see, why my sadness (grief) in the course of this move has surprised me.

Transplant shock.That's all it is.We spent our weekend in the creek and in the woods and in the garden. Spreading new roots.

If wishes were horses

Writing, like playing, is daily. Change is not as predictable but it is inevitable.The odd drive to clear one's head.

A trip to campus to goof off in the halls of learning.

A lifelong dream - a century barn - within my reach. Written on my calendar no less.

Grace, as my friend Heather put it, can really rock a hat.

"Millions" of crawdads at our new place.

More University photos with our two exchange students... borrowed from down the road for the period of 8 a.m. until 2 p.m. or so, every school day.

Just one funky sign on my fantastic new barn.

While we lived a little bit of a dream here in this 1880s church-turned-farmhouse, it turns out there is a surprise chapter to the book of my life. (What? I don't control everything? And, furthermore, God's plans are better than mine? Whodathunk.)

So November first we will turn the page and move to that three-story barn (well, into the creekside house, which is at this point not so picturesque) and to that creek and to a mature orchard and a little more remote rural existence.

A dog's life

Bonnie Belle wouldn't move off the couch. She'd lived too long to be denied.

Plus she was just cute.

I am beginning to understand that I could easily become a purse dog person.

Please don't be offended if you currently have a teacup dog in your handbag.

There's something so portable about a smaller dog. I truly enjoyed being able to bathe Bonnie without a forklift or a garden hose. I loved how she never brought home large unidentifiable bones from the woods across the road. And I liked having her on the front seat of the Suburban as we went to town. She asked so politely for treats at the coffee drive-through. She never pulled on the leash and she usually didn't smell too eau de dog like some other outdoorsy canines I've known.

And don't tell anyone but I kinda liked watching a movie with a dog by my side on the sofa. It turns out I'm not so much the go-out-and-play-ball kind of dog owner but rather the sit-by-the-fire-and-read kind of dog owner. You know, where a dog appreciates good literature and is basically a cat with a wagging tail who (bonus!) doesn't get on the counters.

Recently I got in big trouble, and by that I mean Luuuu-ceeeEE, for attempting to rescue yet another and even smaller spaniel. But who could blame me? (My long-suffering husband, apparently.)

I'm on dog begging hiatus. There's an amendment to our pre-nup and everything. (Joking! Joking!)

But I miss Bonnie Belle. She went to puppy heaven far too soon. The fact that it coincided with postpartum whatever notwithstanding, I'd love to love another Bonnie Belle. (I was planning on naming the new spaniel "Maybelline.")

We will likely have a large, farm- and ranch-appropriate dog again. Don't get me wrong; I did love Jake with all my heart. That was a DOG. All Golden Retriever and golden boy, he was a great, athletic, supersmart dog's dog. Police officers were known to compliment him (and my husband) on Jake's manners. Heeling without a leash? No problem. Saving random children's pool noodles from the treacherous lake wakes? He was on it. Command of "sit," "stay" and "spot" in three languages? That was one smart dog. (Plus he hardly ever got on the couch unless he was sure we weren't coming home before he could vacuum it off.)

Our next dog may be another Golden and may be a Bernese Mountain Dog (even bigger and doggier I'm sure). But there will always be a place in my heart for the little Springer Spaniels and the way they look like they're straight out of a Dick and Jane reader. It's a simpler, gentler dog. Mostly understanding only single-syllable words. But still.

Thank the El Nino for yesterday's fun

I have an embarrassingly slight understanding of weather patterns and may, come gardening time, rue the day of my great joy over our sunny, warm and dry February. El Nino, La Nina, La Pinata, whatever it's called, I love that sunshine!

Yesterday we had finished school when I threw aside all manner of goals and said, "let's go outside!" The girls fought tooth and nail to stay upstairs sorting Laura and Grace's outgrown clothing into "keep," "toss" and "pass on" boxes. (Not really. They beat me to the back door by a mile.)

Madeleine administered the ceremonial hanging of the swings and then seat belts were on but all bets were off.


I sat in an Adirondack chair soaking up sun like the lazy, I mean pregnant, mom that I am.

As for the school part, we started a new Friday routine (called "Funbrain Friday" because I love alliteration and nonsense words). It's likely copyrighted by someone and if so, I'm sorry. On Fridays we practice music and have messy art time and play math and word games. Scrabble and Sodoku for school? That's my kind of Friday!

Honestly it's half empty

Don't give me any of that mumbo-jumbo about the sunny side of the street, the glass is half full, the grass is always greener (okay, maybe that one's true).



I read yesterday an AP story in which it's predicted that the economy will recover in the next nine months, indeed has begun recovering, but that consumers may not begin to act differently for decades.



No shirley Sherlock.



I think this predicted reluctance to return to our spending ways may be because consumers have recognized our greed and Westernized sense of uber-entitlement and sent those qualities (a-hem) to a good long time-out (if not the sweat box it belongs in). These "consumers" are overfed, overfull and overly exhausted of being defined by how much they do or do not purchase at Home Depot on any given weekend.

Another Most Embarrassing Moment... Courtesy of ME

Here at the Suite, we strive to catalog at least three or four humiliations per quarter (Would that be approximately one a month? Oh dear.). It's small service but one we perform with a degree of... we can't say pride... with a degree of panache, if you'll agree. In fact I'd venture to add that we are nearing professional status with our (and I'm speaking of course in the Royal We which is a fancy way to say all the humiliation is mine, mine, mine) ability to turn a blush at any given moment.

Important but not embarrassing update interruption! Yesterday was a VERY big day. Sarah has a diagnosis. Hallelujah! We now know she has a twelve-syllable autoimmune and auto inflammatory condition that is exceedingly rare (one in a million: I always have said it and now it's medically true) but not as scary as some diseases the doctors flirted with and even name-dropped to similar effect as, oh, a visit the Dread Pirate Hemophilia would have on a ship of weary and perpetually seasick immigrants.

In defense of our team of specialists, I must say that Sarah's other known genetic anemia conditions somewhat obscured their view. Also in their defense I must add that they had to consult Harvard. If you want to feel special, and I guess in a good way, have your state's best pediatric disease specialists send all your images and labwork across the country to a place covered with ivy and high IQs.

In fact our favorite doctor on the team attempted to call us yesterday afternoon but hung up in the middle of the first ring from nerves and had to call back later. I love her because she admitted this. Sarah loves her because she has Wyandott chickens. We all have our reasons.

The worst part 'bout Sarah's diagnosis is that she may have periods of "moderate-to-intense" pain from benign bone lesions interspersed with unpredictable but long remissions. The best part about this disease is that it goes away in puberty. Can anyone say SILVER LINING?

Okay, now back to your regularly scheduled vicarious embarrassment.

After months of doctor, lab and imaging appointments for Sarah, yesterday was for some reason my turn. I had a long-scheduled mole check and a piggybacking knee injury to follow up on. Hey, oops, that made it sound like I hurt my knee in a piggyback incident. What I actually meant was that I had the mole appointment but hurt my knee (yeah, yeah, another joint bites the dust) and so snuck it in under the scheduler's radar. And after months and months of juggling to find someone to watch the baby and/or Grace and Madeleine while Sarah and I memorized eight-year-old copies of Golf Magazine in interchangeably plastic waiting rooms, I just couldn't find anyone to watch the baby for my mole appointment.

It was mid-afternoon. I left Madeleine and Grace glued to the Webkinz site at my husband's office. I took the baby, because she's not so much into the computer. Give her time. I took Sarah, because this is my family doctor. The doctor who's known us for years. Who lives for my kids' visits (alright, that might be overstating it, but I kinda believe him when he says so). Who kindly looked aside in my most recent [if you're only counting incidents at doctors' offices anyway] wardrobe malfunction.

Sarah and Laura and I went through Dutch Brothers. Don't tell their sisters. We bought: a split-shot mocha (two shots caffeinated, two unleaded, steamy dreamy bittersweet chocolate milk = heaven in the cup holder), a blackberry Italian soda (Sarah's treat of choice) and a whole milk, straight up (Laura needs the extra fat for her brain cells I'm told).

I am getting to the most embarrassing moment.

Usually I try to pick up an Irish cream latte for my doctor's nurse. This is one way we remain the favorites. But yesterday I forgot. Because I'm clearly not invested enough in the process. Or else because I wasn't sure I could carry my mocha and hold Laura's slippery chubby fingers adequately in the parking lot (notice the order in which I sadly described the priority there) if I was also carrying a latte for the nurse.

My doctor doesn't drink coffee. Because he's superhuman, that's why.

His nurse sweetly overlooked my lack of gifts and oohed and aahed over Laura's chubby legs in a Lulu dress just made for chubby baby legs. Sarah did the Highlights puzzles in her head because it annoys her when there are marks in magazines and she can't contribute to the madness.

We waited a while. Don't you always?

We waited a while longer. The natives were restless. I let Laura climb around on the exam table. (Foreshadowing alert.)

The nurse poked her head in to say the big chief was held up on a phone call.

"We're fine!" After all, I am adept at juggling four children. How could a mere two, one of whom is buried in books, be too much for me?

Twenty minutes later Laura knew every no-no in that exam room by name. She could climb up onto the exam table and shimmy down, hanging from her fingers while her toes barely barely touched the step and her tummy provided friction for a slower descent. It was an art form, a gymnastic toddler treat.

Finally! The doctor was in!

He greeted us all with hugs. I took my hand off Laura's back to shake his, basking in the glow of being called once again his favorite family. Prolly he says that to all the farm mamas, but I just don't wanna know.

Of course the very moment I wasn't looking, the very moment I was feeling all uberproud of my cute little brood, THAT was the moment Laura did a FREE FALL from the top of the exam table onto the top of her cute little ponytail. Her adorable little Lulu of a dress flung up to reveal the matching bloomers and cover her eyes.

First the clunk of baby hitting floor. Then the horrible silence of a child who's about to scream bloody murder ("Wait. Wait. My mother was holding on to me a minute ago!").

Then, of course, the screaming did commence. And it did us proud.

The doctor elbowed me aside to pick her up. I'm not kidding. He even apologized later. "I didn't mean to elbow you in the teeth."

Well, I didn't mean to allow for the brain damage. ("All of her kids are really cute, but that smallest one? A little off.")

Sarah (ever quick-thinking) ran a Dixie cup of water and immediately distracted Laura from the goose egg growing on her head. Meanwhile I just collected my pride in another Dixie cup and remembered that pride always goes before... what?

I think we're either (a) finding a new doctor or (b) bringing a lot more lattes to buy some nursely silence. Because at this point they've seen my nursing bras and they've avowed their love for my children, I think it's option b. I think.

The Older I Get

As I was driving through the city this morning, I passed a white van pulled in at an odd angle between a barbecue stand and a used car lot. It was a large square white van with flashing lights on the top and big blue letters on the side: Crisis Intervention Team.
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I thought about stopping to chat with them, sort of as a drive-up window for life coaching. Wouldn't that be awesome?
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Anyway they might've been busy. So I kept driving. But I wonder whether they take appointments.
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Right after that I saw a young couple walking down the street. It's a busy city thoroughfare with five lanes. It's raining sideways in a way you only see in Oregon and in the movies when there's a bad scene coming. Umbrellas are useless around here; most Oregonians under the age of 70 eschew them in favor of Columbia jackets.
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Both of the young people had their raincoats zipped up past their lips. Their hoods were drawn tight, exposing only noses and eyeglasses. They were holding hands and leaning into the wind.
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He had a huge blue loop of Cat5 cable over his shoulder. Ah, modern love. Let's trek over to your apartment and set up a network. Maybe a whole-house system.

Does anyone else see the ghost of Christmas future in that picture? I'm not sure how far to go with this. Grace in her dress-up best, Headlong in his dress shirt and camo. The look on her face. The look on his face. The clinging pose. This, my friends, was Gracie's idea of a red carpet pose at a family Oscar party hosted by good friends.

Mostly the party was just a chance to dress up and eat delicious foods. It wasn't even on the same day as the Academy Awards. Sarah does love a twirly dress.

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And I believe she could work a red carpet:

So I attended my first-ever yoga class this morning. Last night my husband observed me reading in my favorite chair. My feet were on the ottoman and completely flexed. This is my default foot position for some unknown reason. It may be the decades of dance that my feet and ankles are trying to counteract. It may be some inner tension pulling my toes artificially tight back toward the ceiling. Who knows. It's weird. It's not flattering. My little battered ballet toes, pudgy and flat-topped as can be, curled back in tension toward the ankle.

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Picture it if you will. Or if you want to.

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My husband thinks yoga will relax me. As he said, "Maybe yoga will stop that toe thing you're doing."

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Hmm. I hope so. But from here, where I sit reflecting as the girls attend archaeology class, it was a not-the-slightest-relaxing hour and a half of torture, people.

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Everywhere around me in the woodstove-heated converted barn were otherwise nice, normal women (no men in today's class). One "community supported agriculture" farm owner. One daycare provider. Two horseback riding women. A vineyard owner. A 20-something deeply tanned mom driving from Mexico to Canada with her 2-year-old. All hard bodied and hard breathing, sweating to beat the football team.

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And of course me. A mom of four, sometime hip-breaker, one-time ballerina, farm girl wannabe, somewhat dumplingesque and completely new to yoga. Because I'm a tiny bit competitive, and also because the teacher kept acting incredulous that it was my first time (fake it 'til you make it?), I did three minutes of the "frog" something-or-other, which if you know yoga maybe you know is also used to break people in half. If you know ballet, think of a plie' on crack.

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Yoga relax me? Maybe my big toe. Maybe as relaxed as a girl who considers stopping to consult a crisis intervention van. Who sees young love flourish in a driving rainstorm. Who sees her daughters growing up too fast. Who needs to stop typing and get back to work (on her breathing) now.

Everyday Sneakiness

The rain I was wishing for has finally begun. I can't tell you what a relief it is to finally spend some time indoors without guilt. The garden is put to bed, the chicken chalet is finished (complete with a cleverly engineered chicken-only door that appears to also have potential as a plywood guillotine, should the Cuckoo Maran roosters really get on my last nerve). The garlic and daffodils are in the ground and the orchard is planted too -- all just in time for torrential downpours that make me ever-so-glad to have a cozy little office and a teakettle at the ready.

The girls are all set for the season with Legos and schoolbooks and Breyer horses and art supplies. We were even blessed by the gift of a microscope with about 25 prepared slides. Oh, the joys of seeing butterfly wings magnified 100 times.

And since it's raining now, and I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations is up, I thought I'd share the photos from my latest expedition into sneakiness. Yes, I made my kids trespass for the sake of a photo shoot. In my defense, I didn't see the "private property" sign until after Grace was already climbing through the field fence:

Sarah was a little worried about getting caught. I was on the other side of the gate. Hey, I couldn't leave Laura asleep in the car and trek into the field with the big girls! But I couldn't pass up that light either. And especially I had to shoot the way Sarah's hair matched the overripe hay:

Grace had absolutely no compunction:

But Madeleine was fairly certain we were going straight to trespassers' prison:

I used to be really afraid (all the time) to get in trouble. Even well into my 30s, when I ought to have known better, or had more gumption, I worried a lot about obedience and the letter of the law. Maybe I've lost my mind, and maybe I've been let off easy by state troopers a few too many times, but I don't have time to worry about stuff like that anymore.

Besides, who's gonna arrest the mother of four for taking a few pictures in a field? Or driving with one headlight burned out? Or moving the furniture compulsively? Or "borrowing" WiFi on a road trip?

Did my moral compass get lost or did I just get better stuff to worry about?

I think the pictures were worth it!