Most years I dread August. Beastly-bored children languish and lash out at me, at each other. No one willingly packs for the beach because they’ve just been to the beach. We lock ourselves in with the air conditioner blasting, with dark curtains over the windows in our third-floor southern-exposure condo. And even with the air conditioner on, we feel as though we are roasting. We avoid any chores that increase indoor heat, so the laundry waits. We avoid cooking. We melt. That is August for us, most Augusts.
But now I am writing in the middle of a three-day cool rain, a steady downpour again this morning, a rain we need. I traveled to the Glen Workshops for the first week of summer in Santa Fe. My excuse was to see the graduation of the last of my writing classmates, but I went to find respite, to be with friends. When I returned, my family was house-sitting in a spacious, gorgeous home with a pool. Dear friends visited. Then I attended a three-day yoga retreat in the Berkshires, which helped with my achey back. We are now home again and it feels like I’ve vacationed for the entire month of August.
I can’t recommend rest enough. I can’t remember the last time I felt so deeply rested. This is the nicest August I can remember since my college summers in Colorado.
Now I’m off for my first day of teaching, in this fall semester. It’s work I enjoy. I wish you good fall beginnings, too.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
unfinished note from mid July
Each evening, I gather stalks of spearmint, and the last of the raspberries, and a handful of nasturtiums. The spearmint leaves, I stuff into a large pitcher of chilled water. The raspberries freeze on a cookie sheet. The nasturtiums fill a small pear-shaped vase for the table. For tomorrow. Before bedtime, I gather the frozen berries into a bag. I pour lemonade and juice into popsicle molds. The mint tea tastes mild, but it will taste even better tomorrow.
In the morning, I fill the old glass milk bottle with fresh water and two packets of hibiscus and passionfruit tea, and the tea trails red streamers through the pretty bottle on the windowsill as it brews. I hate to cook when it’s hot, and none of us likes to eat much. We live on cool drinks and ice.
Children are home for the summer-- home in earnest, now. Little League play-offs finished two weeks ago, and the first flurry of playdates has passed, along with our summer ambitions for projects and gardening. We slow to the molasses-pace of hot July days, days mostly too hot even for the beach. Children sleep late in the morning, then adhere themselves to the furniture—they adhere themselves with books, books, books, and I find it hard to complain about their love for reading. Brendan devises new self-powered competitions each week, races between marbles or plastic baseball caps or fantasy baseball teams, all on the living room floor. Madeleine takes up a sewing project or two, as long as it doesn’t require too much concentration. Brendan decides he will become a professional smoothie maker when he grows up, as well as a professional ball player. Madeleine cares nothing for growing up—but the paper dolls she designs look more like teenagers, these days, long necks, narrow waists, modest bustlines, short skirts. The child could not care less about her own hair, but she is picking clothes more carefully.
In the quiet hours while the children become reading-fossils, I am working to buy a house: filling out forms, gathering facts, checking with mortgage people and real estate people, making notes for Scott while he works.
I know we need to get ready to show the condo. We puttied the crack in the windowsill, Brendan and I. Madeleine left her chair to clean and organize the kitchen cabinets, which she loves to do because she can stand barefoot on the counter and examine the dark recesses. I will organize a top-to-bottom deep cleaning, soon enough, but today we remove the surface dirt from the stove and counters, and from Brendan’s workbench.
At some moments, I convince myself the whole house-buying process is a house of cards and surely all this work will be for nothing. At other moments I remind myself this is what financial life feels like for so many of us, and what it felt like for our parents and our grandparents. We will stretch ourselves and our resources and our hopes as far as we can. I continue to juggle my jobs as part-time nanny, part-time professor, freelance writer and summer mom.
I slip outside to water the poor withered lettuce plants, and the breeze cools the porch. Off with the air conditioner. We open the windows and doors to the fresh air, instead. I offer the kids popsicles, mango and lemon, and decide which glass of tea I’ll drink first, mint or hibiscus.
In the morning, I fill the old glass milk bottle with fresh water and two packets of hibiscus and passionfruit tea, and the tea trails red streamers through the pretty bottle on the windowsill as it brews. I hate to cook when it’s hot, and none of us likes to eat much. We live on cool drinks and ice.
Children are home for the summer-- home in earnest, now. Little League play-offs finished two weeks ago, and the first flurry of playdates has passed, along with our summer ambitions for projects and gardening. We slow to the molasses-pace of hot July days, days mostly too hot even for the beach. Children sleep late in the morning, then adhere themselves to the furniture—they adhere themselves with books, books, books, and I find it hard to complain about their love for reading. Brendan devises new self-powered competitions each week, races between marbles or plastic baseball caps or fantasy baseball teams, all on the living room floor. Madeleine takes up a sewing project or two, as long as it doesn’t require too much concentration. Brendan decides he will become a professional smoothie maker when he grows up, as well as a professional ball player. Madeleine cares nothing for growing up—but the paper dolls she designs look more like teenagers, these days, long necks, narrow waists, modest bustlines, short skirts. The child could not care less about her own hair, but she is picking clothes more carefully.
In the quiet hours while the children become reading-fossils, I am working to buy a house: filling out forms, gathering facts, checking with mortgage people and real estate people, making notes for Scott while he works.
I know we need to get ready to show the condo. We puttied the crack in the windowsill, Brendan and I. Madeleine left her chair to clean and organize the kitchen cabinets, which she loves to do because she can stand barefoot on the counter and examine the dark recesses. I will organize a top-to-bottom deep cleaning, soon enough, but today we remove the surface dirt from the stove and counters, and from Brendan’s workbench.
At some moments, I convince myself the whole house-buying process is a house of cards and surely all this work will be for nothing. At other moments I remind myself this is what financial life feels like for so many of us, and what it felt like for our parents and our grandparents. We will stretch ourselves and our resources and our hopes as far as we can. I continue to juggle my jobs as part-time nanny, part-time professor, freelance writer and summer mom.
I slip outside to water the poor withered lettuce plants, and the breeze cools the porch. Off with the air conditioner. We open the windows and doors to the fresh air, instead. I offer the kids popsicles, mango and lemon, and decide which glass of tea I’ll drink first, mint or hibiscus.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
lucky me!
Hey!
I've been writing for some publications this spring! I'm investing much more time in revision and polishing, and volleying notes with editors. Although I'm happy about these opportunities, I feel frightfully out-of-touch with you, beautiful readers.
So. I'm writing. If you know my full name, go ahead and Google it (don't be shy). I'm still not comfortable with my full name being here, on this blog, while I write about kids.
Anyone want to help me set up an author website, with links to my published stories? Like, anyone want to do ALL THE WORK for me and then let me okay the final result? I am SO swamped with work.
Meanwhile, it's a frightfully-hot day. The air conditioner is chugging, and fans are blowing. Girls have spread sewing materials over the entire living room, and Brendan is brainstorming his next sewing project, jealous of tools and feats of engineering-- the sewing machine is officially Madeleine's, though we all use it, just as the toolkit is officially Brendan's. Fear not, though, egalitarian parents everywhere-- Brendan also begs me to attend Knit Night with him, so he can work on his yarn projects. Merry is sewing right now. My favorite three-year-old will arrive in a few minutes. We can all hover near the air conditioner.
I hoped to post a photo of my new old-fashioned peasant blouse, but when I flipped on the laptop camera I screamed and ran at the sight of me: I look just like my mother. Time to go work some hair and makeup magic, now, even if I am entertaining kids all day.
Happy summer. I wish you a cool swim.
I've been writing for some publications this spring! I'm investing much more time in revision and polishing, and volleying notes with editors. Although I'm happy about these opportunities, I feel frightfully out-of-touch with you, beautiful readers.
So. I'm writing. If you know my full name, go ahead and Google it (don't be shy). I'm still not comfortable with my full name being here, on this blog, while I write about kids.
Anyone want to help me set up an author website, with links to my published stories? Like, anyone want to do ALL THE WORK for me and then let me okay the final result? I am SO swamped with work.
Meanwhile, it's a frightfully-hot day. The air conditioner is chugging, and fans are blowing. Girls have spread sewing materials over the entire living room, and Brendan is brainstorming his next sewing project, jealous of tools and feats of engineering-- the sewing machine is officially Madeleine's, though we all use it, just as the toolkit is officially Brendan's. Fear not, though, egalitarian parents everywhere-- Brendan also begs me to attend Knit Night with him, so he can work on his yarn projects. Merry is sewing right now. My favorite three-year-old will arrive in a few minutes. We can all hover near the air conditioner.
I hoped to post a photo of my new old-fashioned peasant blouse, but when I flipped on the laptop camera I screamed and ran at the sight of me: I look just like my mother. Time to go work some hair and makeup magic, now, even if I am entertaining kids all day.
Happy summer. I wish you a cool swim.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
cold and rainy June day
The misty rain comes as a surprise. My messenger bag is still stuffed with swimsuits and sunscreen from last week’s heat wave. I fill it instead with warm slippers and a sweater for the high temperature of 55 degrees, an illustration of June in New England. Perhaps the child and I will build a fire today while I’m babysitting.
Can my children’s school possibly end for the year? For their sakes, the time is ripe for vacation. No longer do they wake eager—they barely wake at all, sleepwalking through the grim mornings. The days stay light until 8:30 or 9:00, and a good night’s sleep seems impossible. Gone are the evenings when Scott and I had a few hours to ourselves. The blond ones grow taller, though not as tall as they would like.
A Wednesday passed yesterday, and I forgot to pick up Merry! I catch myself after thinking it: she is gone, graduated from eighth grade, away on her class trip and then moving to boarding school. She began spending one afternoon a week with us in her fifth grade year, four years ago. How strange, this leaving.
The children are ready for long lazy days with books, sitting in the window, playdates with friends. I will still be providing childcare for my favorite three-year-old, a few days each week, and I’ll be working for a travel agency, organizing trips. Organizing from my home? I can’t say yet. I hope so. Kids are growing more independent, but I can’t leave them for more than a few hours at a stretch, yet. A working summer will feel odd, but it might also have its benefits. Kids will need to leave their reading chairs to come with me to the office, now and then, and kids will not be left alone by a three-year-old in my care. They will need to build with blocks and race marbles and cars.
News: when I started writing, I sketched a story about baking a pie for my friend Hank. Recently I adapted that three-page story into a history of how I learned to cook and how I learned to eat. The story will be coming out in an anthology of spirituality and food writing, coming out in September. It’s been fun to work with several editors, to get the best out of this story.
I’ve also been working on two magazine stories, one on afternoons with Merry, and one on my current roster of work: juggling three paid jobs, two freelance jobs, and my unpaid work. At some point I’ll need to work up an official website with links to my stories. Soon? We’ll see.
Sorry I’ve been a sleepy blogger! I am posting this boring piece, written far too much in the passive voice, because my brother checks my blog approximately every day, and I’d better throw some news out there.
And now it’s time to pack up my messenger bag to go play with the little one on this chilly wet day.
Can my children’s school possibly end for the year? For their sakes, the time is ripe for vacation. No longer do they wake eager—they barely wake at all, sleepwalking through the grim mornings. The days stay light until 8:30 or 9:00, and a good night’s sleep seems impossible. Gone are the evenings when Scott and I had a few hours to ourselves. The blond ones grow taller, though not as tall as they would like.
A Wednesday passed yesterday, and I forgot to pick up Merry! I catch myself after thinking it: she is gone, graduated from eighth grade, away on her class trip and then moving to boarding school. She began spending one afternoon a week with us in her fifth grade year, four years ago. How strange, this leaving.
The children are ready for long lazy days with books, sitting in the window, playdates with friends. I will still be providing childcare for my favorite three-year-old, a few days each week, and I’ll be working for a travel agency, organizing trips. Organizing from my home? I can’t say yet. I hope so. Kids are growing more independent, but I can’t leave them for more than a few hours at a stretch, yet. A working summer will feel odd, but it might also have its benefits. Kids will need to leave their reading chairs to come with me to the office, now and then, and kids will not be left alone by a three-year-old in my care. They will need to build with blocks and race marbles and cars.
News: when I started writing, I sketched a story about baking a pie for my friend Hank. Recently I adapted that three-page story into a history of how I learned to cook and how I learned to eat. The story will be coming out in an anthology of spirituality and food writing, coming out in September. It’s been fun to work with several editors, to get the best out of this story.
I’ve also been working on two magazine stories, one on afternoons with Merry, and one on my current roster of work: juggling three paid jobs, two freelance jobs, and my unpaid work. At some point I’ll need to work up an official website with links to my stories. Soon? We’ll see.
Sorry I’ve been a sleepy blogger! I am posting this boring piece, written far too much in the passive voice, because my brother checks my blog approximately every day, and I’d better throw some news out there.
And now it’s time to pack up my messenger bag to go play with the little one on this chilly wet day.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
on beginning a semester asking 18-year-olds to write about love
A rant scribbled in my notebook in Starbucks, last September at the beginning of my first semester of teaching.
If love is so great, and love is what everyone wants, then why doesn’t everyone run out and give as much love as they can? If God has provided everything we need in this big gorgeous creation, and endowed us with God’s likeness and spirit, why do we fail to love? How could we? What prevents us from love?
A drop of oatmeal falls cunningly between the wires of the spiral notebook of my journal, and I can’t easily reach it without destroying my journal—my only journal handy here at Starbucks. Already I’ve drawn quizzical arrows, corrected spelling and in short I’ve broken the spell of that intense question from the class I’m teaching. In all likelihood I’ve broken the spell because I can’t bear another round of another day of confession of my sins of omission. How do I not love thee? Let me count the ways.
The oatmeal gives me something to do. I think of the box of tea to buy, here at Starbucks. I think of the beautiful faces I dropped off at the school door. I think of school’s opening assembly. I don’t know my own work schedule yet—I hardly know anything.
How do I reconcile love and parenting—brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, are those shoes too small? Really? That seems impossible—they are still so beautiful, so perfect for you. Except they are not perfect, now. Did I take time to kiss the girl-foot, before it grows into a woman-foot? Not today. Brush your hair. Pack your lunch. Don’t tease me for making a wrong turn, I need coffee… Three hours later the coffee has grown cool, and the brew I’ve chosen is bitter and dark against my favorite oatmeal second breakfast.
I love Starbucks. I love oatmeal. I love the classical music playing this morning. In order to love these students I need to go to Staples for a giant sticky pad, on which to write Shakespeare, Donne, Browning, I Corinthians 13.
An informal baby shower emerges in the small circle of cushy chairs: three couples, two infants. Packages of baby gear are sorted one-by-one. The group talks excitedly in a mix of English and some Asian dialect—I hesitate to guess. Rattles are demonstrated. Baby bottles.
How mercilessly easy it is to love infants—simply put aside all else, and pretend you exist only to make the child healthy, whole, settled. Only live for that smile. I cross the “l” accidentally and spell “smite,” good heavens. How they smite us with love, these small and delicate creatures! How motherhood smites the self for a few years, until there is nothing left but the stump of Jesse. How blessed are those of us God gifts to grow again, smitten, decimated, and ready for what’s next.
If love is so great, and love is what everyone wants, then why doesn’t everyone run out and give as much love as they can? If God has provided everything we need in this big gorgeous creation, and endowed us with God’s likeness and spirit, why do we fail to love? How could we? What prevents us from love?
A drop of oatmeal falls cunningly between the wires of the spiral notebook of my journal, and I can’t easily reach it without destroying my journal—my only journal handy here at Starbucks. Already I’ve drawn quizzical arrows, corrected spelling and in short I’ve broken the spell of that intense question from the class I’m teaching. In all likelihood I’ve broken the spell because I can’t bear another round of another day of confession of my sins of omission. How do I not love thee? Let me count the ways.
The oatmeal gives me something to do. I think of the box of tea to buy, here at Starbucks. I think of the beautiful faces I dropped off at the school door. I think of school’s opening assembly. I don’t know my own work schedule yet—I hardly know anything.
How do I reconcile love and parenting—brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, are those shoes too small? Really? That seems impossible—they are still so beautiful, so perfect for you. Except they are not perfect, now. Did I take time to kiss the girl-foot, before it grows into a woman-foot? Not today. Brush your hair. Pack your lunch. Don’t tease me for making a wrong turn, I need coffee… Three hours later the coffee has grown cool, and the brew I’ve chosen is bitter and dark against my favorite oatmeal second breakfast.
I love Starbucks. I love oatmeal. I love the classical music playing this morning. In order to love these students I need to go to Staples for a giant sticky pad, on which to write Shakespeare, Donne, Browning, I Corinthians 13.
An informal baby shower emerges in the small circle of cushy chairs: three couples, two infants. Packages of baby gear are sorted one-by-one. The group talks excitedly in a mix of English and some Asian dialect—I hesitate to guess. Rattles are demonstrated. Baby bottles.
How mercilessly easy it is to love infants—simply put aside all else, and pretend you exist only to make the child healthy, whole, settled. Only live for that smile. I cross the “l” accidentally and spell “smite,” good heavens. How they smite us with love, these small and delicate creatures! How motherhood smites the self for a few years, until there is nothing left but the stump of Jesse. How blessed are those of us God gifts to grow again, smitten, decimated, and ready for what’s next.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)