Refresh Yourself

Aah.

A breather.

Just the thing for today.

I may be projecting, but I seem to sense a little ennui around blogdom this week. November is two-thirds over, we're all writing (and reading) our hearts out.

Time for a Coke and a smile. Make mine diet.

***

What's your favorite way to rejuvenate?

No Cocoa At Bedtime -- Today

You know how they say children thrive on routine? Consistent, predictable routine?

Yeah, not so much with us.

Today we fed the animals and had school in the morning. Quick! Who can finish their math first?

Then Laura and Grace went to stay at the neighbor's house while Sarah and Madeleine joined me in a drive to town.

Sarah had a clay class and Madeleine has been doing a writing group. Gee, I like their lives.

I had to fight with a dinosaur bookkeeping program in a somewhat lame attempt to be helpful at the EGE's work. It's sort of like wearing flip-flops to a softball game. You know, so no one asks you to fill out the team roster. What I'm trying to say is... I am uniquely ill-equipped to perform bookkeeping tasks. This is how I know God has a sense of humor.

Then I ran errands while the girls played on the computers at the office. Bank, post office, bagel shop. I excel at errands.

CRUD! In the middle of lifting a 50-pound dog food sack into my cart I remembered: VOLLEYBALL.

I called my husband, the Eng-Gen-Eer, also known as The World's Most Organized Person, and asked him to please push the girls out the office door as the Suburban careened past.

Twenty-five minutes of driving like a maniac, or mom-on-a-mission, and we then threw Madeleine out at the gym. In a great arcing move I also picked up Grace and Laura, heated up leftover pork fried rice and wrapped it in tortillas (multicultural too), called the EGE to remind him that he needed to drive home in a hurry, loaded everyone back in the Suburban fully fed, picked up Madeleine, allowed the EGE to enter the Suburban while we slowed down for a split second, and

then

arrived

at

friends'

house

for. social. visit.

I'm not sure I breathed today. I do know that Sarah asked me whether she could have cocoa at bedtime, and I answered that the sugar wasn't a good idea right before sleep.

It's entirely unclear where that parenting moment came from.

When I Woke Up Today I Had A Neighbor

There's gold in them there hills.

Not far from our home is a hill filled with gold. It's been mined for nearly 100 years by methods high- and low-tech alike. Once a year we attend a small-town summer festival commemorating local mining history. We pay $5 or $6 for each girl to sift through a colander of dirt to "find" some gold nuggets. Then a man in grubby Levis will use calloused hands to deposit the gold flakes into a tiny vial of water that's exactly like perfume samples used to be on my neighbor lady's Avon catalogs. Only not stinky.

The girls keep track of their gold nuggets for a while, but the experience of sifting through the sand and gravel and dirt to find something shiny and valuable is living history. They hang on to that for longer, I hope.

I've been living some of that history over the past several months. And as I drive the back roads (way too much), I sift over and over the dirt and the gravel of disappointment in hopes that I'll have a nugget to display. Or to deposit in my bank of faith in humanity. I may need to draw on that account every once in a while.

Neighbors are problematic. Neighbors are just so -- human. To tell you the truth, so am I.

We moved to this idyllic, storybook setting more than two years ago after years of dreaming of living not just in the country, but right here. Our community is legendarily desirable. The land is gorgeous, the commute is decent, and the people are incredibly diverse in the best possible meaning of that word. We live side by side with ranchers and fiber artists and loggers and yoga teachers.

The Grange is the epicenter of a rural arts society where I can learn wreath making and woodworking and quilting ... and where we can watch films on a snowy winter evening during a potluck. The church reaches out to our area's families with sweetheart dinners and free babysitting services. The school hosts a spring carnival that draws all 400 people in a 10-mile radius... and some from further away... to play games that have no electronics in sight.

Nurseries and vineyards and community-supported agriculture are all within shouting distance of our old church-turned-farmhouse. And it's so very quiet here. On any given day, I swear the loudest noises are children playing a mile away and Canada geese honking in the next valley. Because there's no other noise. No traffic, no media, no hustle of commerce.

But the trade-off that comes with all this utopian village life is that we are all up in one another's business. We all know whether the bed-and-breakfast owners like horses (or not), whether the new gal on the road picks her kids up at school on time (or not), whether those other neighbors' dog slaughtered my chickens in broad daylight (oh, he did).

We all get to live side by side. The big front-porch movement in urban planning over the past decades? It's exactly based on our village, I'm pretty sure. We watch our neighbors walk on fine evenings. We ride our horses on the lane and wave to others sipping iced tea on their porches. We help when a widow needs a new foundation (literally, we dig under the piers with a dozen shovels and as many local men replacing concrete blocks at their own expense and while the big game's on to boot). We mow the elderly folks' pastures and we bring food when someone's sick. Oh, man, do we know how to bring the food.

But then, on the less-picturesque flip side, we know intimately who's been drinking too much. Who lost their temper one too many times. Who feeds their cattle moldy hay. All the togetherness turns judgmental and mean sometimes. I hate that part. I hate feeling scrutinized and I certainly don't want to sit in a judgment seat or the gossip booth. Ever.

Yesterday, when those dogs massacred my hens, the neighbor voted least likely to like me came and helped me in the rain to scoop up all seven. She refused to listen to my protestations that I could handle the job alone (I don't know how I could have). She ushered my children inside as we arrived home because she had witnessed the end of the tragedy and didn't want them to see the carnage. And then she helped me with one of the worst farmgirl chores I have ever had to do. She was gracious, and kind, and a gleaming example of the best of country life. Or neighborliness -- anywhere. I am humbled.

Yesterday my neighbor helped me. I feel a little as though I've been through a barn fire, and the chaff of personal opinions and prejudices burned away to reveal this nugget of truth.

Yesterday my neighbor helped me. And all the dirt and grit of a couple of years sifted away, washed away, to reveal a new porch in the neighborhood. A stunning deposit in my faith in humanity account.

Daily Dose Of Spending

A month or so ago, I threatened -- nay, planned -- to sneak in an extra spending hiatus this year. I even invited you to join me. THEN I went so far as to set a date range, because I thought it might help more of you play along if you could stock your pantries before swearing off spending any money for 10 days. Ten long, frugal days. Ten days of testing our willpower and resisting our natural urge to spend.

Why did I ask you to play along? Weren't you just dying to see how it would turn out for you? Would you make it through a week and two weekends without any three-dollar lattes? Would your planning and thrift match that of our grandmothers'?

I've been there. I've done that. I sewed the t-shirt.

But this November, despite my plans, I am NOT doing it. I just can't. We've cut back so far, and so deep, that I just couldn't face 10 days of giving up the occasional paperback book. We don't even have television anymore, people. No HGTV. No RFDTV. And no other strange initial TV either. It's raining outside (I know, I know, I asked for it.) so we can't play horses. The garden is done so I can't mess around in the dirt. It's reading or board games or nuttin', honey.

So, instead of embarking on the "bonus" spending hiatus, I went and bought a thermos. It's a little ironic, since I own a fairly impressive collection of vintage thermoses (thermi?). But this one is brand-new, with no one else's coffee schmutz inside. It's cheerful red gingham with a glass liner. The stopper and cup are pristine. Because, you know, they're new.

Every morning since I bought it at an overpriced gift shop in a college town near me, I make myself some of my favorite espresso. I warm some milk on the stove. It's doesn't take any longer than the microwave, and it's just essentially better. Then I further splurge on a splash of hazelnut syrup.

I think I've paid for my spendy new thermos in money saved at Dutch Brothers. But that was not the intent. I went to spend a little. To feel spoiled for just a minute. I walked into the overpriced gift shop with the goal of blowing some cash on me. Me me me. I spent some money, and it wasn't on groceries or auto insurance or Osh Kosh or animal feed. Is that called retail therapy? Because I think I like it.

Anyway it's cute and it makes me happy. And ... all the other volleyball moms wanted to know where I got it.

National Scrabble Day

I just made that up.

Is anyone aware of an actual National Scrabble Day? Because that's a nonsense holiday I could get behind.

Here's something else to get behind:

My 9-year-old is driving. This weekend she learned to drive the lawn tractor and she had the audacity to do it when I was inside. I just barely hustled myself out there in time for a photo.



It's good to know that even though she's driving, she's still firmly planted in childhood:
Oh, yeah, and the dog thinks falling leaves are a huge threat to Suite security. An actual threat is greeted with a lot of slobber, but the leaves get a full fang treatment.

The rest of our weekend on the farm was a little bit tradition and a little bit groundbreaking.

For the traditional part, we made chocolate chip cookie dough:

As soon as the dough was done, Sarah, of course, had to ask: "Are you going to make cookies too?"

Madeleine said it was against the law to eat cookie dough. Then she revised her statement upon realizing how easily that could be refuted. She said that she had meant that it was unhealthy. Sheesh.

For the groundbreaking part, Madeleine had her first-ever competitive sports event.

I'm going to pause a moment for some well-earned tears over the passage of time. You go right ahead reading.

Day In And Day Out

Are you a night person... or a morning person?

If you're a mom, and you're anything like me, you may not remember the answer to that question. It's all a blur, really.

The single girl in me has a carton of yogurt in the fridge and a huge chrome wind-up alarm clock that makes sure I don't miss the sunrise.

I jump out of bed after a luxurious stretch. The covers are nowhere to be found because I kicked them aside in my joy at seeing the morning. I have a little notebook by the side of the bed where I wrote down strange things in the night. I train myself to do so without fully awakening.

The coffeepot is programmable. The morning is fantastic. Don't call me after 10 p.m. unless you're bleeding, but anytime after 5 a.m. is fine. Okey-dokey. Wonderful. Oh, you say you're a late riser? You are MISSING OUT.

***

Fast forward a few years and four babies.

The mommy in me doesn't own an alarm clock (and my fridge is full of string cheese and applesauce). I am so grateful for any sleep, at any time, that I refuse to purchase anything that might limit said sleep. When I really, truly need to wake up (and only if there's some outside chance that the children might sleep past dawn), I ask my husband to set the alarm on my cell phone. Oh, yeah, the single girl in me doesn't have a cell phone either.

I can't really say that the mommy in me is a night owl, but I do appreciate the wee hours more than I did pre-parenthood.

It's just so quiet in the house after the kids are in bed. That certain kind of quiet makes me want to put on a pot of coffee and write all night.

Except the morning will come around. And the phone will ring, and the children will expect, you know, interaction. Nourishment. Clean clothes. At least two out of three of those require me to be semi-conscious.

So, are you a night owl or an early bird? Have you always been that way?

Daily Freak-Out

I'm going to start a new blog. It'll be called "Freakworthy" and everything on it will come directly from my life. Except when I'm too busy with a freak-out session to sit down at the computer. In those instances I'll have guest writers, but only when they can top my personal freak-outs. They'll have to pitch me their posts and then I'll judge them thusly:

"You're FREAKING ME OUT, MAN."

Or,

"What the heck are you freaking out about?"

Guess which writers will get to guest post? If you'd like to apply, send me an email. My email box is just full of garbage from other Realtors (yes, I'm selling houses again, dang it all anyway) and pesky reminders from the FlyLady (I do love her, but I'm a little overwhelmed by the volume) and the occasional doctor appointment tickler.

(The "doctor appointment tickler." Now THAT could be a good children's book. Or maybe a horror novel. OR a hip chick lit novella where the heroine falls for a gynecologist and places all her friends in full freak-out mode.)

(You knew I was coming back around to the freak-out, didn't you?)

Some folks you know just seem to thrive on drama. I might know some of them too. But me... I like my life uncomplicated. I like to wake up in the morning to a hot cup of really, really good French Roast freshly ground organic coffee with half-n-half. If it's bad coffee I won't drink it. But I don't freak out about it. I just have some tea.

Similarly, I like to sit in the corner and read. This was the main impetus behind my decade-long career in editing. Ah, the sitting. Ah, the reading. (There may have been the occasional conversation, but it was mostly the sitting and reading, red pencil in hand, power and glory.) If I have something good to read, I'll wait until I have at least a metaphorical quiet corner in which to read it. If I am so unfortunate as to be required to read among noise, I am equally fortunate to have been given a very good (you might say freakishly good) ability to tune everything else out. So... no corner, no quiet, no freak-out.

(I often ponder the irony of a girl who craves quiet like fresh air and chocolate... deciding to have a lot of children. I think it's a whole Alanis Morrisette song already.)

There is a pattern here. I don't think I'm being vain when I say I don't freak out easily. AND YET. My life is so full of the freakworthy. The unexpected traffic stop over a burned-out headlight can give me a full-on panic attack. Oh, yes, it can.

Last week I was stopped in just such a manner by a young gun, I mean cop, I mean OFFICER, who openly laughed at my freak-out. First he noticed my quaking hands as I searched out my license. Then he commented on my quivering voice as I nonstoptalkedgibberish. The nice young man told me it was all going to be okay and backed away slowly from the car as though he might have to call in backup to perform CPR.

I think I actually told him I'd have my husband "Fonzie" the headlight. What. On. Earth.

The panic attack wouldn't stop for the rest of the evening. I couldn't calm down to salvage a much-needed night out. So what's up with that? The palpitations, the sweating, the eyes rolling back in the head (okay, not really that last part)... it becomes clear to me that while I rarely exhibit drama-queen tendencies under truly stressful life situations, the mundane unexpected can make me a little whirling dervish of freakiness.

Daughter with two broken arms is burned by novice doctor? I'm cool as a cucumber. Husband working triple-time? All clear here. Three real estate deals threaten a domino effect that'll lose four people's dreams and a half year of income for me? Never let them see you sweat. However, walk down Pier 39 with your skirt caught in your underwear (oh, yes, I did)... obsess about it for days. Make your husband tell you your undies were cute that day. Make your friends tell you your cellulite isn't too noticeable in the San Fransisco fog. Make your daughters triple-check your hem for months. In short, FREAK OUT.

Are you tired of the word "freak" yet?

So...
Until I get around to starting this hot new blog, which is sure to grab the attention of all late-night cable show producers, leave me some freak-out comments.

Come on, impress me with your freak-worthy stories!

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!

Everyday View

Nearly every day I drive past this exact view.

Or, more days than not I drive past this exact point on the Earth.

And the view is different each time.

I love grapevines. I love the grapevines that grow on our little farm -- three ancient vines that twine together and whose grapes are unidentifiable but delicious... mine in their tart-sweet imperfection. I love the grapevines at the wineries that dot our local landscape -- thousands of vines pruned to precise standards by hundreds of hands. I love the way those workers know how to preserve exactly the right number of leaves on a vine to shade the grapes without starving them. I love the way the leaves turn colors in concert as though a conductor told the strings to whisper while the brass section has a turn at glory.

I love grapevines, and I love that the view from that point is different every day.

And there's this easy parallel to make between point of view and point of reference. We know that the exact same circumstance in our lives can look infinitely better or worse depending on which way we view it. We know that a glass can be half full or half empty. I can (and often do)turn myself in circles looking for a better perspective on the same situation. I can take the high road, if you will, to look at my troubles from afar. But that's not the point I'm thinking about today.

The thing I am thinking about today is... why do I keep coming around to the exact same location? Do you ever feel like that? As though your life orbits a planet of your problems, and those challenges present themselves in different moon phases so as to render them nearly unrecognizable? They're grapevines dressed in different color leaves and perhaps a cloudier sky one day from the next. Do you feel, every once in a while, that your life lessons keep re-presenting themselves at work, at home, in the books you read?

Oh, and in the people you meet. Some days it seems that everyone I meet is lacking patience. Gee, it couldn't have anything to do with me, could it? Some years it seems that I have worked for the same boss in different skin and in different decades... the same unreasonable, demanding person expecting me to change for him or her.

At first glance it may seem as we drive by that we're viewing a different landscape. But when we examine the topography we see that we might be passing that same point, exactly, right there. Did I circle around again? If I'm lost in the woods, it's best to leave a marker so I know whether I'm passing the same point again, just with different color leaves.

So I want to look at the topography of the problem. I want to see past the changing foliage and take a different road every once in a while. Or lay asphalt for a new one if need be.

It might be obvious to everyone but me. It probably is. I once read in Madeleine L'Engle's published journals that a close friend of hers had wounded her pride by judging that L'Engle's writing was stating the painfully obvious. All I know is that there is power in saying it out loud, in clacking the keys to make a point that may finally get me driving in a new direction.

I have three grapevines to care for. The field hands at the big vineyards have thousands. Once I get my brain wrapped around the problem, I will prune mine with as much precision as the pros do. My grapes will get precisely the right proportions of shade and sun. I'll type up my points, and they'll sometimes show up on the same corner of the map as they did before. But that's okay, because I'll recognize the lay of the land. They may come dressed in different color leaves, but they'll still be grapevines. A little bitter, a little sweet. That's how I like my life lessons too.

Every Day, Baby

This morning we woke to a houseful of five girls. What's one more? Actually, five usually works out to be easier for me than our own four. They entertain one another. I wouldn't want any of the moms who give me kudos and props (there's my one and only attempt to use 1990s lingo... moving on to current slang as soon as I learn it) for keeping "extra" kids so often to figure out my secret.

Was it way too far from the beginning of that sentence to the point? I think so, too. I backed into the point for a REASON, though. I really do feel guilty. We have extra children over all the time, and the other moms in our circle marvel at me.

It feels kind of good to be the recipient of blatant awe. And disbelief. But the truth is out now -- I get more out of the sleepovers and all-day play days than my children do, probably. Worse than that, when a friend asked last weekend if she could take my girls to a large wild animal park or just "away" for the day to help me with my writing deadline, I turned her down. Am I cracked? I just don't like to be without my kids, even when the other person is a long-trusted friend. Even when my own kids beg to go.

I always wanted to have a tribe of children. I grew up with just one brother; we were both teenagers before my sister was born and then we were young adults when we were joined by stepsiblings. So the big-family mystique was strong with me. I often want to snatch other peoples' children on the street. But only when they look like they don't appreciate or feed or bathe their kids often enough. Don't worry... I'm not after yours. Except maybe for a playdate.


In a related matter, I'm signed up, committed to NaBloPoMo and NaNoWriMo this month. We have an extra child this morning... two extra last night... and it helps me get stuff done and still have my babies around. Mercenary, maybe. But it works for me.

Every day, baby.

Dear Me

Oh, Dear ME,
Hold still.

The smallest of personally performed motion might make you throw up at any moment. You are in the vortex, I'm sure, of a storm the likes of which we'll never see again. Or possibly we'll see it every day until the children leave for college. But don't think about that now.

Three days ago our eldest daughter was in hysterics because the dog might die... in the next five years or so. "But that means he'll be gone by the time I'm 14!" she wailed. She has had tears for too many reasons to count in the ensuing days, and you know you are supposed to have some mommy wisdom for these 'tween crises: "Zoe made fun of my jump rope trick." "Mr. Robertson made the timed test harder for our group!" "I have more chores than the others!" Her highs are nearly as stressful as the lows, because her normally adorably gravelly voice goes shrill with excitement while her Mary Lou Rhetton-like body becomes a 60-pound ricochet of joy.

Today the normally sunny seven-year-old has some sort of hypochondriaical tummy ache so severe that she's walking around at a perfect 90-degree waist bend. She can't ride bikes or run down to fairyland or check on the chicks, of course, due to this tummy ache. She probably expects you to do something other than Pepto-Bismol and water and a suggestion to use the bathroom. You cuddled her, you soothed her forehead and suggested she watch a movie and let the other girls stick to the rowdy outdoor play, and all you got for your efforts was a wailing protest that they shouldn't have fun *without* her.

Couldn't you think of a way to make everyone happy? Probably your motion would fix it, but DON'T GIVE IN TO TEMPTATION.

Don't move.

Yesterday the four-year-old changed clothes not fewer than six times, with several layers of clothing each outfit, and threw the discards in Mt. Washmore for your laundry enjoyment. At this moment she is hiding in the corner of the office mumbling "I still feel angry. There's no way to stop the crankies." Over and over again. Her five-year-old playmate refused to share a Barbie something or other and she quite understandably lost her temper. You want her to take the time out somewhere out of earshot, but the chaos out there is too much for her preschool self. She, like the others, changes moods even more often than clothing.

Take a cue from this. Hide out in the office as long as you feel is appropriate. Or legal.

Thankfully the baby is sleeping peacefully. Do not be lulled into believing it's a sign of peace and order to come. Today is bound to be your undoing.

So hold very still.

Sincerely,
Speaking from Experience

National Blog Posting Month April #2

Hey, 30 letters in 30 days. A snap. I am writing letters I should've written.

December 20, 2005

Dear Sir:
Please accept this resignation in the sincere manner it is intended. As much as I have enjoyed working as an independent broker at your family-run company the last four years, it is past time for me to go. In my experience, staying longer than I know I should will not serve either of us well. I have learned much from you and I appreciate your willingness to share from decades of experience.

I also recognize that you have made huge efforts to accomodate me and my quirky desire for mentorship. I appreciate the yearly goal-setting lunches. I appreciate even more the times when you were truly too busy for me but took time to hear about my deal anyway. I know once I had your attention it was your full attention, and you attacked the challenges as though they were your own.

You often asked if there was anything you could do to help me be more successful. My answer was consistent: please help me figure out a way to be with my family more. It wasn't fair of me, of course, to bring it up so repeatedly. So I can't blame you for never having an answer to that particular request. Along these lines, I ask your indulgence one last time. I am leaving, and I hope to do so gracefully. I am really leaving, and I need you and your family business to realize that I am at last recognizing that what you have done is put your family first. You did answer the question by example, and so I hope you can respect my decision as a choice you might have made.

Sincerely,
Finally Found Courage