...well, the Huntin' Holiday, that is. All of my kids were home from school today and we had so much fun (I did anyway). The house is a pigsty but I woke up this morning and committed myself to overlooking the filth and letting my hair down a bit. We played cards, bingo, a "Cranium" game- slightly modified for my preschooler. I baked chocolate chip cookies (and didn't burn them, thank you very much). I already miss them and wish they didn't have to go back to school tomorrow. :(

...I don't know where this road
Is going to lead
All I know is where we've been
And what we've been through.

If we get to see tomorrow
I hope its worth all the wait
Its so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

And I'll take with me the memories
To be my sunshine after the rain
Its so hard to say goodbye to yesterday... G.C. Cameron

I believe that a major source of turmoil in my mind and in my home is due to clutter. One may also call it gluttony or the American Way. No matter, if you ever sink your teeth into a little Feng Shui philosophy, you'll know that you can't live in peace when your abode is strewn with stuff. I have learned the hard way that holding on to items which are not necessarily purposeful, but somehow guilt inducing, has consequences that are wide-ranging and painful. The frustration of having too much affects everyone around you and causes stagnation in your emotional and spiritual growth. So, today, Tom and I got brutal with the containers and piles of junk in our garage. Things we've sworn that we wanted to save, for years now, were, without debate, deposited into the "go" bag. So, it was with great trepidation that I bid goodbye to an old friend- my beloved teddy bear of twenty-three years. He was a gift to me from a "mentor" I had been partnered with through a girls club in middle school. I remember opening the big box from her at Christmas time, finding, to my delight, a big brown fluffy bear. He became my better half of sorts, accompanying me on overnights with girlfriends, to camp, to college, to my first apartment, and to each of the homes I've lived in after that. Even once I'd outgrown the need for him, marrying my human "better-half," I kept the bear around, horrified by the thought of getting rid of him. He'd seen me through many of the difficult periods of my teen years, and then some, and, worst of all, the woman who had gifted him to me, died, shortly thereafter, of leukemia. Yet, recently, I've had to come to terms with my need for organized, meaningful spaces, and how keeping things which harbor only sentimental value, must be well-thought out and very intentional. Other than the people in my life whom I love so dearly, the things I hold most valuable are my photos and letters, my Colorado pottery, and certain books. Using those categories as a gauge, I knew that the bear, with the matted fur and flattened body, should no longer be hanging around, gathering dust. Its so hard to cope, sometimes, with moving on, even from objects. But, if by doing this today, means that I will have to spend less time cleaning and reorganizing, and more time with my family, it is worth it. And the bear, along with the memories associated with him, will live on in my mind, where he belongs.

Lily displaying the creative work of her father- her coveted birthday number pancake, now a double digit.


Ten years ago today i was alternating between screaming and crying, as I labored hard for over twenty-three hours (42 hours total) to bring my first child into the world. I can remember, as if it were yesterday, how amazing she looked to me, when they laid her on my chest, her familiar face and not-so-familiar curly black hair. It was in those moments that I was reborn- where all my disappointments in life suddenly disappeared, and I was given a second chance to shine. I had been granted a soul transplant, of sorts, where my primary source of life and meaning was suddenly circulating outside of myself and into another being.

And if I had any clue as to the painstaking hours, days, weeks, months, and years that were to follow, I may have at least thought twice about my decision to tread down this path. Though brilliant by virtue of its miraculous beginning, giving birth to new life and then holding it close, as it unfolds, is without a doubt, the toughest act of one's existence. Much like organ transplants, mothering involves a constant battle to keep the most selfish crevices of your person from rejecting this most selfless mission. Like a lioness with its infant cubs, you, guided solely by instinct, envelope your child, both physically and spiritually, protecting their well-being, while leaving that which is yours, so vulnerable and endangered. Sometimes it means walking closest to the curb next to a busy street, in case a wayward vehicle should hit the sidewalk. Sometimes it means sacrificing things that promise to bring you joy in order to fulfill the needs of your child. Sometimes it means sleepless nights while they scream from the pain of new teeth, tummy aches, or nightmares. Sometimes it means risking your reputation as you parent in ways that others may find radical or ridiculous. Sometimes it means you lose some friendships you counted on and family you trusted. Sometimes it means you cry for hours, wanting to ease the turmoil of your child who's been hurt by the insensitivity of others or by the expectations of our school system. Sometimes it means that you have a filthy floor, dirty toilets, and unmade beds, while you turn sommersaults on the grass. Sometimes it means that you eat chicken nuggets instead of chicken marsala for dinner and popsicles instead of creme brulee for dessert. Sometimes it means that the stack of books next to your bed were all written by a man named Seuss and the art on your walls is from crayon. Sometimes it means you wear thrift store shoes instead of Kenneth Cole's from Nordstrom, like you used to. And sometimes it means you must embrace letting go.

I watched my ten year old girl get dressed for school today. She had on slim designer jeans, a Hollywood jacket, and some Inuit inspired fashion boots gracing her legs just below the knees. Her curly hair, now a beautiful strawberry blonde, shone, as she brushed it without even a wince. And for nearly a second or two, I held her, smelling her skin, as my lips brushed her forehead, wanting to, once again, have the time to take all of her in- her life in my arms.
But she walks her almost seven-year-old brother to school every morning and she hates to be late. So I let her go...out the door...gazing at how her long legs take to the pavement...feeling no sorrow in my heart that she is no longer a helpless newborn at my breast...only pride that a fallable spirit such as mine could have turned out an amazing spirit such as her. She is all of my good intentions in life. She is all the beauty I ever hoped for. She is all the love I always hungered to feel. She Is, and I am forever a richer person because of this day, a decade ago.

Liam, Seth and I, outside of Dinardos Candy Store.
Lily and her buddy Rachel, chillin' at the pizza place.




Well, I figured it was time for me to post again- I've been in a creative rut as of late, most likely due to the barage of germs encircling every member of my lovely family. I have a fantasy that big men in white suits and gas masks will invade our abode to halt the contamination. soon. and they aren't necessarily cute men- they just promise me that none of my offspring will have even a sniffle for the rest of the winter.

There have been a number of things on my mind lately, concerning my children and a variety of contraband. It all began, really, when I met Liam up at school, last Friday, and took him to Mineos for lunch and then to Dinardos for an after-pizza treat. Lily and her friend Rachel showed up and I noticed that both she and Liam were aiming to purchase some candy cigarettes. My first reaction was of horror- and I immediately told him to forget it- he was not going to be buying those. But then I had a change of heart, and instructed them to go ahead and get whatever they wanted, that I didn't care. So they did. Do I care? Of course. No person in their right mind wants to even envision their kids pretending to participate in an activity which will inevitably lead to their suffering and early demise. Those days were over decades ago. But, I do know this....the fascination with such things as smoking cigarettes seems to go hand-in-hand with parents' disapproval of the behavior. And I don't believe, for a minute, that just because the kids stuff their mouths with candy shaped like Marlboros that they are going to turn into chain-smoking thirteen year-olds. I have seen, in my experience at a parent, that talking to my children, very casually but intentionally, about controversial issues, and being very straight-forward and honest with them, offers the best armor against the vast array of dangers in the world. Lets face it, most of us, at one time or another, picked up a cigarette, probably at a bar, while drinking, took a puff, maybe inhaled, maybe did this more than once, but we aren't smokers. Why? Not because our parents said "you can't do that because I said so" but because we know it makes you smell bad, turns-off anyone who might still want to lock lips with you, costs way too much money, and eventually kills you. And I am deciding, for now, to trust that Lily, Liam, Benjamin, and Seth will take the same information and form the same conclusions. If not, well...then I'll be wrong.

This leads me to another subject that I have been battling within- that of video games. I don't own a game cube, a playstation, a wii, or the like. I've, in the past, vowed not to purchase these entertainment devices, mostly because I liked my children for the creative ways they chose to play, while here at home, and I didn't want them to become so enamored with gaming that they stopped indulging in more natural forms of interaction with one another. However....here goes...video games are fun. I know because today, while Lily was home sick, I played a couple, on the computer, with she and Ben. And the best part, was that we were laughing and I was stepping into their world and enjoying it. I want to have fun and I want my kids to have fun and I do believe that there are many ways of achieving joy in our relationships with one another that aren't necessarily my first choice. I'd like my world to appear more like a page out of Walden by Henry David Thoreau than an hour on The Disney Channel. But when I chose to have children, I invited into my life, four distinct personalities, who define happiness in a completely different manner than I do. And it is my job, I think, to create an environment where there is honor given to everyone's desires, no matter how silly they seem at the time. So, in keeping with that principle, I'm thinking it may be time to seriously consider a move in the virtual direction. Even if it only involves the purchase of a playstation and five electric guitars for us all to rock on together (with the game "Guitar Hero.") Now that could be fun.

I ain't going to lie to ya folks- its been a harrowing coupla weeks. But as I lay here, wide awake, next to my restless four month old son, I am finding myself smirking at some of the ways my daily existence plays out. I've been brooding a lot lately, mostly to Tom, though I've been venturing on to other victims such as Donna, my next-door neighbor, Nancy Sanders, my long-time pragmatist bud from Virginia, and Marie, a woman I barely know but who has a self-proclaimed struggle with ADD, which automatically makes her a target for friendship with me. Anyway, my husband has always been one to say that there's nothing wrong with me, per se, except for the circumstances of my existence as a full-time mother of (first it was one, then two, then three, and now...four). Sometimes, this helps, though when I'm feeling particularly morose (i like that word), I argue with him that he just needs to cart me off to the psych ward (that actually sounds rather restful...hmmmmm). But he does have a point. For example, is it any wonder that the human race continues? To have a baby, many people, like me, spend the first twelve weeks of pregnancy on the gourmet diet of saltines and ginger ale, preferring to die a slow death at the hands of a hardened criminal rather than spend one more minute in a nauseated stupor, then its on to the "honeymoon" phase where you supposedly feel pretty great (i think you are just grateful for the stomach to finally ingest real food), then its onto the duck phase, where you waddle around town pulling up your pants because even the biggest maternity jeans can't possibly cover your rotund belly, then you sweat and grunt and scream and cry through labor, looking much like a drowned cat or homeless person, then you have to nurse a floppy newborn around the clock with nipples that are aflame, all the while your belly is empty but still rotund and now covered in stretch marks, and after a period of months, your body decides to do some major hormone rearranging and you are left weepy as you watch your hair fall out in piles around you. Yep, friends, I'm currently a cross between Sinead O'Connor and Telly Sevalis (now there's a mental image for ya). Surely you have to laugh at that. Then there's how I don't go potty by myself- which to most women may be a right of humanness, but for me is an unrequited luxury. While my darling hubby reads newsweek and enthralling novels while on the can, I get to read, aloud mind you, to Benjamin, things like "How Are You Peeling" a book of moods, illustrated by vegetables and fruits carved into faces of varying contortions (happy, excited, scared, angry- really onions just should never have bucked teeth, people- its not attractive and it would lead any normal person into a state of psychosis in a minute). Now that is funny.