Big Shot Writer.

Déjà vu.

2012-01-14T08:08:00.000-08:00

I am nine years old and sick. My mom is holding a cold washcloth to my head and I am holding her in my sight like she is the shore and I am at sea, a nasty, turbulent one that is trying to take me into its depths.

It is the middle of the night and she doesn't leave my side.

Now it is the middle of the night and my daughter is sick. I have changed her, cleaned her, spoken soft words into her ear and I am holding a cold washcloth to her head and I see her looking at me, holding me in her sight. A lifeline.

I have become my mother. A buoy. I am grateful for the opportunity. I am grateful to my mother, who taught me how to be steady in the storm, how to make everything good again.

Springing though January.

2012-01-07T17:20:00.000-08:00

It's in the 60's here in Northern California right now and it feels like we're getting away with something.

It's days like this when I can see them aging in front of me, feel the time flying by underneath me, the sand between my toes while the tide rushes out. The days are long, the years are short, the saying goes and on days like these, the days aren't nearly long enough.

Go with your strength.

2012-01-04T13:10:00.000-08:00

From a letter my Dad wrote to me when I was 23 and afraid, wondering where my future would lead - how I would make a difference in the world. His words, as always, inspired me, reassured me, challenged me.

OK, Dad, I will go with my strength. Because of your strength.

Thank you for believing in me, for loving me.

A bag of memories.

2012-01-01T09:28:00.000-08:00

After my Dad took his life, there were a few mementos that really brought him back for me: his letters, his green fleece sweatshirt and his leather work bag:

What I clung to a decade ago when it happened - and even now, really - were his scents: Polo cologne, Marlboro cigarettes, Trident gum, fresh oranges, fireplace fires, the ocean. In the beginning, this bag smelled of most of them, his everyday-liness. Now it disappoints me regularly in smelling simply like a bag. I can still hold it though and with it, the memories; I can imagine him carrying this bag over his shoulder into the Carmel house and tossing it onto his desk, rifling through bills and looking up at me sideways, not really paying attention because we had all the time in the world.

A slip of beauty.

2011-12-29T19:43:00.000-08:00

My friend Heidi asked me to draw a 1940's vintage slip for her; it was given to her by a friend of her mother's years ago and Heidi says she wore it on her first job, underneath the sensible work dresses she once donned each day.

I asked her, remind me, why did women wear slips back then?

For modesty, for comfort, and because it was what you did, she replied.

After I saw the picture of the one she was thinking of, I added another few reasons to the list: for beauty. For the power of privacy. For the knowledge that no matter what "you" the world saw that day, there was an entirely other side to the story - one that may or may not be revealed.

Thank you Heidi, for introducing me to this sweet little gem. I hope it's a bit like you remember.

Reese is magic.

2011-12-23T08:47:00.000-08:00

Reese wanted me to draw her a fairy, but I can't draw people - even imaginary people. So I drew her wings and she melted in that sweet Reese lovely way. These are them:

I think they fit nicely.

When your child is your boss.

2011-12-22T09:38:00.000-08:00

The kids have been asking me to draw for them. I fulfilled Finn's request for a dragon last night. He is displeased; he says it needs to be fire-breathing. He insists on making this modification himself. Here it is in its pre-fire-breathing form.

Here it is with Finn's cloud and fire modifications added:

I like it. I'm remembering something Bill Bernbach, a great advertising mind, once said about clients: remember, they might be right. Children, too, I'm guessing.

We are already planning our next collaboration: a whole book of reptiles, Finn says. Reptiles are cool.

Oh Fall, I miss you already.

2011-12-14T14:17:00.001-08:00

"Will it ever stop hurting, Mama?"

2011-12-13T09:37:00.000-08:00

That was Reese's question to me after her holiday performance last night - the performance she had been looking forward to all week, the one where she would have the honor of ringing the "D" bell.

The bell didn't ring. It might have been operator error.

Afterwards, she folded into her Dad's arms, sobbing. She had failed at her task. She was mortified. The mortification lasted well into bedtime, after both Chris and I had regaled her with our stories of holiday shows gone wrong, our own prior embarrassments - a trumpet performance with no trumpet, a dance show where the dance was forgotten. Still, she was crushed, whispering into my ear as I tucked her in bed:

"Will it ever stop hurting, Mama?"

Yes it will, Reese, I assured her, as I know it will. But I also know that we never forget our first failures, our first public embarrassments. And I also realize this is only the beginning of so many hurts I won't be able to prevent for my children, that forming resilience begins now.

As she stood up on stage last night, ringing that unringing bell, I was powerless to help her. I could only be there, witness to her pain, ready to console, ready to remind her that mistakes are only part of this ride. That she is strong enough to try again.

Not sure when the next bell ringing opportunity will present itself, but boy will she be ready to take it by storm.

Happy Holidays. Part II.

2011-12-11T15:46:00.000-08:00

Totally different coffee shop. I swear.

He's wearing Sperry Topsiders. His socks don't match - one is a long sock and one is a shortie. The wife has a pretty sizable rock on her ring finger. He has a ring with no rock.

They both are wearing smart-looking eyeglass frames. The kind that say, "We look smart and we're cool with that. We may not even need these glasses, that's how OK we are with wearing them; we could have 20/20 and we'd still wear them."

She's the first one I hear. Her voice is pretty whiny. I should know - I'm a born whiner.

"It's not like I don't want to get your family stuff. I just don't want to feel guilty."

Topsider Boy tries to keep the peace: "Can't we get them something small?"

Big Rock Girl: "Then I feel like shit."

TB says something soothing I can't hear when I hear BRG say:

"I don't really like Christmas in the first place. I'm trying to like it; I'm trying to get into it."

"Maybe we should get them a fire pit," TB says, in what I assume to be a total panicked brain fart.

I can't help but support her with my own response in my head: Is that something you buy someone, Topsider Boy? Merry Christmas: burn the heck out of your fingers on this baby. Let me help you huck it into the freezing backyard you won't be venturing into until May.

I am all in my unspoken mental tizzy with TB, so much so that I don't even hear what BRG has to say about the fire pit suggestion. For all I know, she may love the idea. By the time I tune back in, I hear TB say:

"Your parents do a lot for us, honey. I think we should get them something nice."

"We don't have money for something nice," BRG answers sharply.

"OK, let's go get them something mediocre, alright?" TB is ready to go home it appears. Alone.

BRG has no verbal response to this. Perhaps she's imagining how the fire pit will go over. Perhaps she's imagining purchasing said fire pit and parking it on his side of the bed tonight.

They leave and the folks that take their place seem remarkably like my own family, especially the little boy who the entire time complains to his mom that he wants to go home and then spills his hot chocolate all over his shirt and then loses his mind. The oldest child is set on making his little brother look worse by sitting perfectly and saying things like "I can't wait to get home and do my homework!"

Meanwhile, Grandma is trying to force feed a scone down the throat of the little guy while he keeps saying, "I'm tired" and sliding off his chair like there's butter on it.

That's it, Grandma's done with this grinch crap. She puts her foot down, saying with don't-screw-with-me holiday cheer: "No one is going anywhere! We've got Christmas shopping to do!"

Both boys burst into tears simultaneously.

I feel the mother sigh. I realize I am sighing with her. I hear her thinking: "Lord, let us just make it though Christmas."

Yes, let's, I think to myself.

Right then, the little brother, his face all snot-streaked, starts making farting sounds with his mouth which makes the big brother start giggling which makes Grandma and Mom start smiling which makes me realize we will all make it through Christmas. And Chanukah. And Easter. And life.

Ah, Happy Holidays everyone. Comfort and joy and all that.

(Seasonal) marital communication in progress.

2011-12-08T09:16:00.000-08:00

I am two tables away from them at my local breakfast place. I am working.

"So on Duncan's list, there's a crossbow archery set," the Wife begins.

"He's not getting that, " the Husband responds, muffled by the sound of what might be a bite of eggs, but I don't know because I'm only eavesdropping, not actually staring.

She pauses for a moment and continues:

"There's also a camera."

"He already has a camera."

Uncomfortable silence that jostles me. Now I am not working; I have escalated from mere eavesdropping to fervent listening/note taking.

"You know," she says to her husband softly, "When I was a kid, I never got anything on my list. I want our kids to get what's on their list."

"What else is on there, Liz?" the Husband asks, trying.

"Legos."

"Done, let's get those. Hey, do you have a list going for my brother?"

"No, do you have a list?"

"Now why would you ask that question? I was just asking you."

"Sorry. I figured we'd get your brother a few tools and a microwave for his new apartment."

"I want to get him a tool kit, like my folks got me when I got my first apartment."

"We don't have money for a tool kit; I said a couple tools. Besides a microwave is more useful than a big old tool kit."

"What is the man going to do, walk around his apartment with a chisel and hammer and no place to put it?"

"Shit Roger, he can put it in the microwave for all I care."

Silence.

Laughter.

Tension dissapates and drifts over to my table, over my head and out the door.

"This was a really good omelette," she says.

He agrees. It was a really good omelette, he says. They kiss perfunctorily over dirty plates and crumpled napkins.

Happy holidays. May the merriment begin.

In the spirit of kvetching.

2011-12-01T18:00:00.000-08:00

Thank heavens, my dear, hilarious friend Jen has finally started a blog and it has inspired me and my inner kvetchiness like nothing else.

Like at this very moment, my five-year old son is calling me from inside the clothes dryer. This is because, generally, it's where we keep his clothes.

Because folding laundry makes me kvetchy. And so do children who yell my name repeatedly instead of coming to find my actual person 200 feet away from them.

My eight-year old daughter just came in to sit on my lap and ask me my least favorite question in the world, right after "Which of your veins are good ones?": "What's for dinner?"

I reply pasta, which merits this response.

"Whaaaaaaattt?? We had pasta the other night!! Can't we just have cereal?"

I want to say, with all my heart: "YES. But your father would kill me. He insists on things like an actual meal at mealtime unlike me who would be happy with a square of cheese and a hunk of bread, maybe a couple apple slices and a square (or four) of chocolate."

Because cooking makes me kvetchy. Not just the cooking part but the planning part and the having to figure out what my children will actually eat that will also make them grow past four foot four.

When my daughter asks to be on the basketball team and I think of the gobs of money it will cost and all those practices and the games on Saturday mornings when my son will also have games and how we will have to shop for basketball shoes (whatever those are) that are girly but not pink, it makes me kvetchy.

When I realize that despite our best efforts to raise non-materialistic children, my son has conned his best friend into buying and bringing him a new pair of Vans to school upon his request, it makes me kvetchy.

When I realize no one cares about hanging up a dish towel or a bath towel after they use it, it makes me kvetchy. When I realize how lame this is of me, it makes me kvetchy.

When my daughter, at this very moment, begs me to watch our DVR'd show "The Sing-Off" for the millionth time and I say yes, because I actually like it and how she refers to all the singers by their first names and critiques their performances just like the judges (Shawn, Ben and Sara) do, it should make me kvetchy, but it doesn't.

Especially when she says things like "The Dartmouth Aires are really just a choral group. I think Pentatonix has the chops to really make it in this business." That does not make me kvetchy. It makes me worry for her future, for her cultural taste, and for the music blasting from her room that I will most certainly be cringing from over the next ten years, but kvetchy? Not one bit.

Thanks Jen. I feel much better now. I'd better go make cereal. I mean dinner.

Save the libraries.

2011-11-29T18:51:00.000-08:00

McKinley Park, just outside the library.

Our local neighborhood paper arrived just after Chris had been hosing down the porch from all the fall leaves, so when I got it, the headline on the cover was mottled, the ink running down the front, streaking through a picture of my beloved tiny local public library:

ARE CLUNIE AND THE MCKINLEY LIBRARY WORTH SAVING?
See page 27.

I saw page 27. Page 27 was horrific and so was Page 28. It detailed the facts: our 75-year old library and community center was being threatened by budget cuts and might close come June.

Unbelievable. Horrible. A nightmare.

My adrenalin started pumping instantly. I ran out to the porch and grabbed Chris, knee deep in Christmas lights, off the roof.

"They are closing the library!" my voice was shaking, as though there were a fire at our feet.

He had to talk me down but I was too far gone into panic. I did what I do when crisis arises: I made plans. We'd have fundraisers. Bowling nights. Cookie sales. We'd do - I'd do - whatever I could to save the library.

After all, I thought, what would we be - our lovely little neighborhood - without our dusty, pulpy library?

Where would I be today without the existence of a public library?

My childhood refuge had been my neighborhood library: San Pedro Public Library. I had sought shelter in its shelves, comfort in it's endless card catalog; every Saturday morning I took the bus thirty-two blocks to its doors carrying with me a stack of books taller than my torso, only to return on the bus with a similar stack of Judy Blumes and Laura Ingalls Wilders later that day, relishing the idea of a whole week to escape into their yellowed pages. The plastic cover crinkling as I opened the newest treasure - all mine for a week - was a sound I cherished. The library was home.

I assumed, as I often mistakenly do, that everyone else would feel the same way.

Of course, that wasn't the case. I emailed everyone I knew, calling on us to organize, to strategize, to philanthropize.

I heard from about three people. None of them seemed panicked.

I know I'm a bit of a weirdo. A worrier. Maybe it's just the cap on a series of events that have me disliking the new reality surrounding me: university students twenty minutes away from my home being pepper sprayed during a non-violent protest; shoppers pepper spraying other shoppers to get a deal on a piece of plastic destined for a landfill in a few years; a list of presidential candidates, each more disappointing than the last; a public school system in shreds; a public health system that's been all but forgotten; our elderly living longer and living worse than ever before.

This next generation is the first in years destined to fare worse than their parents.

Maybe. But I am not giving up on the library.

Will you please join me?

Join me in not giving up; go here and donate now: www.friendsofeastsac.org/

Becoming middle-aged in the middle of a coffee shop.

2011-11-19T16:01:00.000-08:00

From the second I walk in, I know the couple right by the glass display case - the one with all the muffins and whatnot - is on a first date. They have that awkward, straight backed way of sitting that you lose after date three or four. They are also talking quite loudly, as though perhaps the other one is deaf or maybe that they are on stage playing the part of "The Attractive Potential Partner."

I don't think they will go out again.

I hear her telling him, a guy in Doc Martens and a grey short jacket, that she doesn't want kids. He seems to take this in stride but it seems premature to me. They haven't even discussed the fact that Indian food gives him gas or that she likes to vacation in warm climates; now he knows her reproductive plans. I can only imagine it's too much, too soon.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he doesn't want kids either. Maybe at this very moment they are in the coffee shop parking lot planning their non-reproductive next date. I don't know.

Listening to them made me feel like they were from another country - the nation of single folk. It made me feel a million years old.

After they left, the two older ladies next to me turned up the volume. They were discussing their pains. Their body parts. Their kids.

"Well, after you've had seven kids..."

"My knees, they don't stick out too bad. After doing hair for six, eight years, something's going to go."

"I hope I go fast, I'm not sick, when I go, I want to go fast. I don't even have someone to take care of me if I have to have some kind of surgery."

"I'm not alone but I don't want my kids to have to take care of me."

"My daughter offered to take care of me but that girl isn't in one place longer than a gosh darn second."

These two had short, sensible hairstyles and the shoes to match. They never took off their coats. One held her purse on her lap, like someone might steal it.

"My daughter is 42 - some guy wants to marry her - I told her you'd better grab him with both hands! She isn't getting any younger!"

These two, with their disappointments, their loneliness, made me feel - not young, just naive, I suppose. Knee deep in young children and a loving marriage, I am blind to their perspective; I am not in the THINGS DIDN'T WORK OUT THE WAY I PLANNED phase. And I am grateful; I still have no idea how things will work out. My children are still scabbing their knees and working their math facts, my pains are still limited to post-workout achiness and PMS. I am not where they are, these two ladies, not yet.

This must be what it is to be middle aged. Truly in the middle. Seeing it from both sides now. And I feel the opportunity for me to do right, to do better, hanging in the air like a promise. Or a peach.

My life's road is quite past the new couple and yet, I am not the old ladies either. I am busy firming up my inner humanity, working on my patience, my gratitude, my kindness; I am working on a life that includes anything but ending in a coffee shop, holding a purse full of regrets.

Freeze.

2011-11-14T18:51:00.000-08:00

This is my five-year old son Finn and his best buddy, Nick. They are stormtroopers and I am the "Evil Princess Leia"; Finn crowned me this so I could be a one of them, "but a girl."

"Don't shoot my Mom, OK? She's the 'Evil Princess Leia' - she's with us!"

"OK!," Nick agrees.

They storm the slide. They overtake the monkey bars. They infiltrate the wood pile. They fashion guns from yarn and sticks and they are happier than anyone I've ever seen.

"Tonight, when I'm sleeping, I'm still going to be a stormtrooper!" proclaims Nick.

"When I'm sleeping, I'm going to still be Darth Vader!" adds Finn.

It starts to get dark. I have to refashion their guns because the yarn has unraveled.

"This was the best day! So fun!," they tell me.

I totally agree with them: it was the best day.

And then, when you kiss, your cheeks explode.

2011-11-09T06:34:00.000-08:00

Finn is turning five tomorrow. I wrote this when he was three and it's all still so true. And it just keeps getting more and more lovely.

This is what it is to have a son, I think. A three-year old son. Or maybe even a forty-year old son.

When I put Finn down for bed tonight, we were kissing good night and he instructs me to fill my mouth with air, cheeks puffed out, and we crash our inflated cheeks into one another crazily. We both fall over laughing on the bed and I wonder where the heck that one came from. So I ask Chris.

"Oh yeah," he tells me laughing a little bit, folding laundry, not in the least bit surprised, "that's the kiss where when you hit, your cheeks explode."

Oh, that one.

This is me in the Country for New Men. I am a visitor here, me a woman raised by women, the mother of a daughter, the sister of one sister, the friend of a hundred women, a girl's girl. I am traveling in a foreign country and I had no idea this place would be so, well, foreign. And so beautiful. As well as fart filled.

Boys are all about farts. There is no conversation with a small boy that does not involve some sort of potty talk.

And when we are not talking about farts, things are exploding. Things are flying. Things are running. Things are being stopped up and stopped down. There is water in places there is not supposed to be water. There is hugging that is really, really tight and looks sweet but might not be. There are a lot of corndogs. There are eight million balls, never ever enough of them though. We need more balls. Many many more are needed.

There is also so much sweetness. Infinite sweetness, but to catch it and hold on to it is impossible; it's in and out like light. Try holding onto light. You can't. You must just watch and remember.

There is also singing. He is standing in his bed, on his stage, lit only by his nightlight, his mouth and heart wide open.

"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. This little light of mine. I'm gonna let it shine. This little light of miiiiiiinnnneee. I'm gonnnnnnnnaaaa let it shiiiiiiiiine. Let it shiiiiiiiiiiinnnne. Let it shiiiiiiiiiinne. Let it shiiiiiiiiiinne. "

It's a shooting star across my sky in my new country. My Country of New Men. Where both men and mothers are being made daily.

What, October? Already?

2011-10-04T10:56:00.000-07:00

Well, hello there. It's been awhile. I've made a few changes lately, some of which I wrote about on my new blog with SaveMart here. There's a lot going on, all good and more will be revealed soon.

No, I'm not pregnant.

Anyway, I would love it if you would check out the new blog and share it. And then comment. And then share it again...OK, I might be overstepping.

All my best and more soon.
G

Sending a message.

2011-06-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

Heidi says every year we will release a balloon on the anniversary of Frank's passing. The kids say this one is going straight to Frank in heaven and I believe them.

This is Frank and Heidi.

2011-06-30T07:03:00.000-07:00

They just celebrated 44 years of marriage but Heidi had to celebrate alone this time because Frank passed away a year ago today - of a horrible cancer that kept coming back throughout the better part of decade, like the most unwelcome house guest - the kind that leaves wet towels on the bed and toothpaste on the sink and then has the nerve to keep showing up more annoying and painful than ever.

They knew one another for over 53 years.

Heidi remembers his paper route. His time in the military. His mother. They raised two wonderful children. Grew a garden. Remodeled a home. Heidi says Frank had lovely hands when he died - perfect hands; she had never noticed them being so lovely before. Instead, she says, she had chided him about not keeping them nicer, more cleanly. It was all the work he was doing around their life together that made them that way, she realizes now: edging their grass, mending their fences, being a checker for years and years at the little Lucky Supermarket. When he lay on his deathbed, she noticed his hands, as if seeing them for the first time: they were beautiful.

This is what Heidi wants people to know about grief, about comforting the survivor.

Just because I am grieving, please don't assume:

That I have nothing to do.

There is one of me now in this household, doing what two did before.

That if you ask me how I am and I tell you I’m OK, that the next moment I won't fall apart.

That telling me what I should or should not do is helpful.

That I have the energy for you.

That I don’t have the energy for you.

That I no longer need you because it’s been a year.

That I need you because it’s been a year.

That because I say no, I don’t need the help you offer.

That I want to read another grieving widow's book.

That you will be different when it’s your turn.

That you will be the same.

That I should volunteer.

That because I don’t cry as much, that the hurt isn’t as deep.

That because I want to sit in a chair and do nothing, that I’m always that way.

That I don’t want to listen to you.

That ignoring me is kind; if you don’t know what to say, a smile or hug will do.

Heidi has taught me a lot about grief and she wants me to tell you that if you are grieving, her house is open if you'd like to come and sit out back, in the magnificent garden she and Frank created, and talk awhile. You will be stunned, as I am daily, by the hundreds of bricks Frank laid by hand over the past thirty years, the hydrangeas they planted together, which right now are blooming like never before.

What I have learned most from Heidi and Frank though, hasn't come from his passing, but from their lives and learning together. How they struggled to love and appreciate one another, to do right by one another, to be real. I see how much Heidi is still learning and growing in her love and appreciation for her husband of 44 years and it makes me stop and hold the hand of my own - of just barely a decade now - all the tighter. All the more lovingly.

Thank you Frank and Heidi for teaching us all with your journey, with your brave example.

Scenes from a wedding.

2011-06-15T07:02:00.000-07:00

Rachel and Daniel. 6.11.11.

It was perfect.

Full of fairy princesses.

And eager young princes.

Everyone was under the spell of love and understanding.

It is going so very fast. All of this loveliness.

Read more about this magical day at today's column.

There is a McKinley Park in every town.

2011-06-14T06:23:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's not called McKinley Park where you live.

Where I used to live, when I was a skinny, awkward teenager, it was called Point Fermin Park and it wrapped around a cliff that plunged into the sea. And when I was just a tiny thing, when my parents were still married and played Carly Simon on the stereo so loud you could feel her warble in your ribs, it was called Roxbury Park. No matter what the park in your town is called, the characteristics often remain the same: it's the park everyone migrates toward - it's the nucleus of the town, it has gravitational pull and a cast of characters a mile long. There is the big man that walks the tiny dog; the homeless woman who yells out repeatedly at passersby: "You know Darla, she sleeps with everyone!"; there are the moms willing their bodies back into shape, pushing jogger strollers while the children inside them wolf down Cheerios and stare unblinkingly at the scenery; there are the dog walkers whose charges wag tails and fraternize, breaking the ice for the people behind the leashes. There is the young couple on the benches in the Rose Garden kissing sweetly.

At our park, McKinley Park, there is also a big public pool that promises relief from the Sacramento heat for just a buck or two most summer days. There is a library that smells like your grandmother's house with cherry wood bookshelves and dusty displays in glass cases and storytime for sticky tots. There is a garden center which I have never entered because, even though I want to garden, I fear being confronted by a geranium expert or someone who wants to know what I think of potato blight.

I love McKinley Park like I have loved the parks in my life before it: I love it because it's benches, it's shade trees, it's water fountains say to me: you are welcome here. They say to me, you are home. I do not have to buy anything here. I do not have to make small talk. I do not have to decide if I want a grande or a venti. I do not have to tweet or text or check-in. From the moment I step on the grass, I am just another citizen and there is nothing more expected of me. I find that the McKinley Parks of the world, in all their quiet grandeur, their relaxed loveliness, are more relevant than ever. In the 24/7 world that surrounds us, having a place to fold into, to lie beneath, to get lost in, seems to be a gift of extraordinary proportion.

Suicide is not a four-letter word.

2011-06-12T17:30:00.000-07:00

This week, it will be ten years since my father's suicide and - like I tell my friend Jen, who just lost her mom to cancer - it gets different as time passes. The sharp pain that used to tear through me is duller now, a bone that was set badly and acts up in poor weather. My father took his life on June 14, 2001: a month after my love and I were engaged, before our move to Northern California, before the birth of our two sweethearts, before I wrote a little book, before, before, before. During the million moments my father has missed in the last decade, the wishing he were here has been so strong, the wishing I could pick up the phone and hear him say, in his gravelly, lovely voice: "Well, if it isn't Geralyn Michelle Broder!"

Oh, how I wish. How I wish.

Over all this time, I have thought endlessly about what I can do to honor him, to keep his him-ness alive in the world that needs it so badly right now: his humor, his sensitivity, his good soul. I think: Should we do a walk? Should I rent a hot air balloon and release doves at ten thousand feet? Should we have eggs benedict - his favorite - on the beach in Carmel - also his favorite - and call it a day? I know, living my life, giving life to my kind children, loving my lovely husband, is enough. It's what he would want, for me to be happy. For me to live. And I am living so well.

But still.

This year, this week, I think I came up with it - and I hope you can help me. Through the power of the Internet, through a million connected human hearts, we can spread some words I think might have helped my Dad once, and definitely would have helped me ten years ago. It's this:

Suicide can be prevented. Suicide is not a four-letter word.

If you have a loved one, a friend, a parent, a child, a sister, a cousin who seems hopeless and lost, depressed and isolated, who is showing the signs listed here, then please read on at that site, or go elsewhere for information on how to help. Read about how you can ask a suicidal person if he or she is considering suicide and it won't make them suddenly consider suicide if they're not, but instead, if they are, might make them feel less alone. In fact, it may actually help prevent them from taking their life. Isolation breeds hopelessness and shining a light on this issue, still rife with stigma, may indeed save someone. And so can getting help from a professional, getting on medication, going to the ER, and a dozen more prevention measures listed here. Any or all of these may help save someone you love.

I didn't ever think my Dad would take his life. I didn't really know the signs nor did it ever enter my mind he would do this. I ask that you let the possibility enter your thoughts, that people can do this, that suicide happens to people you never think it would. Normal people. Know that you can make the difference by being aware of the warning signs, by not being afraid to reach out, by extending a hand into the darkness.

When I think of all my father gave me, his greatest gift of all was convincing me that my words had the power to change the world. And right now, in his honor, I'm going to let them.

Please share with someone you love.

Good link for more info: National Institute of Mental Health

Right now, you are flying. Right now, your job is to hold your breath.

2011-06-09T21:35:00.000-07:00

Those are Annie Dillard's words about writing: Don't think too much about it. Aim past the wood, aim for the chopping block beyond the wood. Catch flight. Catch light. This is my light; as I watch her personhood unfurl before me - her goodness - I am holding my breath. I am watching her fly.

The other day she literally took flight. From here:

And ended up with a date with Elmo and a fat lip to boot:

Just moments before, when she was in the tree with her dearest friend and Finn was in the garden with Lulu, his bestest gal, and it was the first day of real sun, I sat on the grass listening to them chatter - happy, portending nothing. When she fell, it was silent: she was on the ground stunned, blood running from her lip, smeared on her forehead and her wrist. She was fine but still, it seemed so unfair, that the ground remains so close and unforgiving, not caring about a seven year old with the purest heart soaring above it. And I blamed myself, for not seeing it coming.

Trip for Two to the City of Love? Oui!

2011-06-08T13:22:00.000-07:00

I adore Jordan Ferney's blog. And now my love has grown even larger, considering she's giving away a trip to Paris, the beloved location of our honeymoon nine years ago. Go here for your chance to win and taste the best crepes in the world (actually, maybe the best everything in the world):
http://ohhappyday.com/2011/06/goes-to-paris

Even better than the real thing.

2011-06-08T08:28:00.000-07:00

After a long day, I sat in traffic for several hours to go see a band I like, but a band my love, loves. It was so worth it:

I don't know how long it had been since I'd seen a stadium show, a real show, the kind where your heart is overtaken by the sound, the crowd:

Thousands of people singing the same words together, jammed up like sardines but everyone nicely saying "oh, excuse me" and being their best selves, singing to the stage and to each other:

One man come in the name of love
One man come and go
One come he to justify
One man to overthrow

In the name of love
What more in the name of love
In the name of love
What more in the name of love

One man caught on a barbed wire fence
One man he resist
One man washed on an empty beach.
One man betrayed with a kiss

In the name of love
What more in the name of love
In the name of love
What more in the name of love

I took a moment to look around at the crowd, at how powerful and wonderful humanity can be; I marveled at the ability of five talented musicians on a stage to soften us so, to turn all of our heads in the same direction, toward peace, toward love. Thanks U2: I won't forget seeing the world this way, even for just a night.

It's lucky number 6!

2011-06-07T14:42:00.000-07:00

The selection process was very scientific:

I had a helpful assistant (dear friend Darcey) who kept the process unbiased:

And it was Kristina, with this gift recommendation who won the $100 gift card from Goores:
"I have two favs, aden + anais muslin swaddle blankets for everyday use and woombie for swaddling at night. Not only do woombies keep the most advanced escape artists contained, it's much easier to zip up instead of swaddling in the middle of the night :)"

Congratulations Kristina!
And to everyone else, thanks for all the great suggestions; what a bunch of gems you are!

Here to win the Goore's Giveaway?

2011-06-06T06:25:00.000-07:00

Welcome! If you caught me on KCRA this morning - or if you're here via Facebook or some other social networking loveliness, thanks for stopping in. I'm Geralyn Broder Murray and this blog is my spot for all things motherhood: writing, drawing, and today, giveaways!

This morning's segment was all about great shower gifts for new moms - items they might not even know to ask for! After all, as an expectant mother, you're asked to register for all the baby"essentials" - before you've even held your baby. That's why I do this segment: I get the scoop from brand-new moms on what items are bringing them - and their babies - the most happiness right now. Then I work with Goore's (http://www.goores.com) - the largest independent baby specialty store on the West Coast - to make sure I know everything there is to know about these products, so I can pass along the knowledge to "the motherhood."

To be entered to win a FREE $100 gift card from Goore's (a randomly selected comment will be chosen), here's what you need to do: 1) "Like" this site on Facebook (top right corner of this page) and 2) Leave a comment on this post with your favorite baby shower gift and an email address to get in touch with you (just in case you win, no SPAM.) That's it!

Full disclosure: I am not being compensated by Goore's (other then them lending me the goods for the segment, but I do include below links to their site because I always think it's nice to buy local (Goore's is a Sacramento store.) Of course, most likely, you can get these products at your local baby retailer.

So, just in case you missed it, or want another gander, here are the products from this morning's segment (by area of new mom's concern).

SLEEP
Any parent of a newborn understands why sleep deprivation is a torture technique; I profiled two products this morning that promise to help get the whole family more zzz's.

Graco Sweet Slumber Sound Machine ($39.95) (http://www.goores.com/goores/product.asp?s_id=0&pf_id=PADCAAELOPDOIGIE)
This sound machine has a night light, continuous sound options to keep the little one snoozing and it runs on batteries, if desired. Even has an mp3 player in the bottom - you can make a sleepytime playlist!

Sleep Sheep ($24.95)
(http://www.goores.com/goores/product.asp?s%5Fid=0&pf%5Fid=PAOHADAFNBKAJFEI)
A cuddly version of the product above - but baby can snuggle him anywhere. Comes in a smaller travel size as well so car trips can be less traumatic (for everyone!)

TUSH
So much time is spent on this area of baby, it's no wonder there are hundreds of products available to deal with it. Here are a few that handle the bottom line well.

Bum Genius Cloth Diaper ($17.95)
(http://www.goores.com/goores/product.asp?s%5Fid=0&pf%5Fid=PADCAAFKEICJGFIK)
Cloth diapers are making another comeback; Bum Genius is setting the standard by being adjustable to up to 35 pounds and coming with two inserts - plus, the whole thing, including the cover, is machine washable.

Boudreaux's Butt Paste ($8.99) and Mustela Diaper Creme ($9)
Desitin is no longer the only game in town.

TEETH(ING)
It seems that the moment you find your way out of the newborn haze, you're in the throws of teething. These two products are bringing relief in spades, according to those on the front line.

RaZbaby RaZberry Teether ($4.50)
(http://www.goores.com/goores/product.asp?s%5Fid=0&pf%5Fid=PAOHADDMFLKOALFF)
BPA-free. It's not just a binky, it's a teether too. Plus it has it's own adorable clip.

Vulli Sophie the Giraffe ($21.95)
(http://www.goores.com/goores/product.asp?s%5Fid=0&pf%5Fid=PAOHADFOEIBFNIEG) Sophie is rocking the drooling set: made from 100% natural rubber and food paint, she is safe and adored for minimizing the teething pain - and she squeaks.

COMFORT
There are some baby items that love in long past babyhood: my seven-year old still sleeps with hers.

Little Giraffe Blanket ($59)
(http://www.goores.com/goores/product.asp?s%5Fid=0&pf%5Fid=PAOHADFOEIBFNIEG) There's nothing more cozy and colorful.

CHILLING OUT
Babies get fussy after awhile in one spot: here's a new option on the baby swing, bouncy seat circuit.

Bumbo Seat ($39.99)
(http://www.goores.com/goores/product.asp?s%5Fid=0&pf%5Fid=PAOHIDFPGOHJMDFF)
As soon as he can hold his head up, he's ready to Bumbo.

ROCKING AROUND TOWN
Pregnant mamas eyeball fancy strollers like they're shopping for luxury cars. The truth is, who knows what kind of stroller you'll really need in a few months? While the baby is in that infant car seat, it makes great sense to keep it easy with this:

Baby Trend Snap N Go
(http://www.goores.com/goores/product.asp?s%5Fid=0&pf%5Fid=PAOHIDLGOJILELDE)
It's light, opens easily and you don't disturb a sleeping baby. Just pop the entire infant car seat right inside this and go. When the baby outgrows the car seat at six months or so, then you can get your real wheels.

Hope this list I curated from the wisdom of new mamas - and those experts at Goore's - helps you select the perfect gift for your next shower. Or the right product for your new sweet one. And, I look forward to reading all of your wise suggestions!

Shallots and the great unknown.

2011-05-31T07:49:00.000-07:00

For two creative folks, neither my husband or I can cook very well. I'm not saying we can't put a decent, healthy meal on the table every night, one that is tolerated by our mostly not picky children; what I am saying is nothing we have made over the past few years has really tickled our fancy - or our taste buds.

I realized this a few weeks ago when we were over for dinner at our good friends, the Foleys. My kids asked for seconds. Seconds. Personally, I could barely stop inhaling my steak with fresh potato and arugala salad long enough to oblige them; I happened to glance over at Chris who had - dare I say it - the look of love on his face. A home cooked meal that tasted wonderful. We were all in a food stupor.

Driving home, Chris said: "It can't be that hard, right?" We both looked at each other like newcomers in a foreign land, one that encompassed a wider range of options than Trader Joe's pre-made lasagnas and Costco chicken. Yes, we would mine this new frontier together.

Over our anniversary weekend, it was decided.

A new dish every Sunday night, Chris proclaimed bravely. We could do that, right? Each Sunday we'd take a turn manning up to the stove. We would make this happen. We are professionals, parents, civic minded people: surely we could show a roast who's boss.

The first night was fish: I made it exactly as prescribed. It came out decidedly fine. Edible. The second week, I was feeling my oats - give me another turn, I begged. Chris wasn't about to stand in my way; a recipe for asparagus risotto was procured. I went looking for shallots in the canned goods section, the dry foods; a helpful checker pointed me toward the onions.

"It's an onion?" I asked nervously. I don't do onions.

He was kind enough to look away before snickering.

Four chopped shallots and a bucket of tears later, we were in business. (By the way, if you're going to make risotto, plan on wearing your comfortable shoes and using your good arm; that dish takes vigilance.) It was only an hour or so until we had a pretty delicious dinner.

I didn't want to bring it up - since it really was tasty - but risotto is just rice, right? We both agreed it would taste exceptional with a good steak, something neither of us has perfected the making of. Oh well. there's always next week, I suppose. This time, Chris is up at bat and I'll watch from the sidelines with a glass of Pinot.

I do have to share last night's wonder: baked pasta with fresh mozzarella and homemade sauce. Not a huge stretch from our usual fare, but it did have a little extra magic about it; I got it at this inspiring, lovely blog.

We all cleaned our plates; at one point I looked up at Chris and there it was, the look I'd been going for all these weeks: love.

Now truly, that was bon apetit.

Little things.

2011-05-27T21:13:00.000-07:00

My four-year old was destined for that show "Hoarders." Maybe they would do a "Mini Hoarders" show with kids, you know Hoarders With Potential. But instead of stocking up on 100 cans of tuna, they would have armies of superhero figures, garage fulls of tiny cars, buckets of plastic snakes and dinosaurs.

OK, perhaps not riveting televsion.

Chris, my husband, is not one to take rampant materialism lying down.

"Perhaps he just needs a collection," he said, suggesting bottle caps, mostly because we had a bunch laying around. And because they are, theoretically, free.

Finn loved the idea and already has quite the stash - I mean collection - going. Coca-Cola, Bubble Up, even a few Dos Equis (he doesn't drink them first). But today, nothing could cheer him, even his beloved bottlecaps. He was miserable with strep, which came on like a windstorm at 5am this morning and left us both blown and weary. He's always up for sketching - both of us are. I suggested we draw this bottle cap. He couldn't do it; he was in pain and now, one dose of antibiotic in, he sleeps. So, tonite, I did it for him, hoping in the morning he will be better. I am hoping he will rise bright and early, feeling himself again. I hoping to hear, "Mama, I just wish I could have..."

Then I will know he's OK.

All I have to give you.

2011-05-23T17:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Reese and Finn,

When my father died ten years ago, what was left behind - other than me - was this: a dining room table, a collection of music CD’s, a rocking chair and a stack of typewritten letters.

The letters were ones he’d mailed to me throughout my life. Essentially, they were letters of instruction. In one of them, contemplating his own mortality, he mentioned the letters he had sent, saying: “This might be all I have to give you.”

When he died, those letters were everything to me. They are proof I was loved. I can brush my fingers across those vellum pages and know how much hope he had for me. How he worried I’d be too scared, or too lazy to do much of anything. I can look at those typewritten pages and learn from them - I can read the lines, and between them, and know I won’t make the same mistakes: I’ll make different ones.

A recurring theme of my Dad’s letters was maintaining one's reputation. Having a good work ethic. Remaining in a state of inquiry. Taking responsibility for a better world. These were items of fascination for him. He wanted them to live on in me and, perhaps because they were documented in black and white, they have.

I got to thinking – you two should have a letter of instruction as well. You know, just in case.

So, if you remember nothing else from your mother, remember this:

YOU ARE LOVED.

And, if you can remember something else, remember this:

Wear a jacket. Chew with your mouth closed. Hold the door open for the next person. Don’t only talk about yourself. Try something new. Think before you speak. Make your bed. Respect your family. Respect yourself. Show up. Send a thank you note. Keep your commitments. Know that you have this one precious life. Eat what you want, just not too much of it. Exercise. Know the value of friendship. Be good to your father and each other. Get out in nature more than not. See good movies. Read good books. Don’t waste time being angry: be done with it and move on. Wear comfortable shoes. Open your heart. Ask for help. Expect the best from people. Get enough sunshine, but wear SPF 30. Do your homework. Tell the truth, unless it’ll only cause pain. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Make your own way. Always bring something when you’re invited for dinner. Hang up the towel up in the bathroom nicely. Go online, but remember, there’s nothing better than face to face. Do what you love. Trust and be trusted. Apologize when it’s your fault. Recognize the value of hard work. Lead with kindness. Have grace. Clear your plate. Ask old people questions. Keep flowers in the house. Stay away from left turns. Travel. Be a good sport. Listen. Open the windows. Recycle. Keep your curiosity. Eat fresh bread. Turn on the music. Dance. Always know that you are loved.

- Mom

Polaroids.

2011-05-22T06:43:00.000-07:00

She whizzes by me, all teeth and purpose. A delight.

I am holding onto these moments, turning them over and over in my mind like a stone. And yet, despite my care - my endless Polaroids - the moments pass.

And I don't want them to. No, really I don't.

I want it to stay like this: him coming into our bed in the early morning, hair sticking up in all directions, lifting his arms and knowing he'll be lifted into warmth. Her reaching out for me on her wobbly rollerblades, confident in her mismatched outfit, her perfect self.

They are doubtless, still.

I want it to stay like this. Let the pimples and insecurities, the slights and the mean girls and boys wait; we will be ready for you one day. Right now, we frolic and we dance and we whiz past without care.

And I hold on.

Nine years.

2011-05-18T17:02:00.000-07:00

May 18, 2002

I was not nervous.

I was smiling so wide I thought my face would crack in two. They made me wait for you inside while everyone we knew marched out to a song I can't remember; I was in the doorway pining, waiting for permission to leave - my long white dress the cloud that would carry me to you.

You stood at the end of the aisle next to the rabbi, a good Catholic boy standing at the beginning of our life together. I had to keep myself from running to you in my off-white heels, from trampling the rose petals, from embarrassing myself with my love for you.

Even now, I run to you.

You say "there she is" when I walk in the room. You kiss me like it's the first time. You take me to lunch and when you pull away from the curb afterward, you pull away slowly, waving.

Neither of us wants to say goodbye.

Happy anniversary, my love. To many more.

Maternal instinct.

2011-05-18T07:44:00.000-07:00

"...how when we’re at our very best as parents, our most comforting, our least neurotic, our most lovely, it seems to be when we’re working closest to our gut, to doing what feels true for our child."

click here for this week's she knows column.

Now I understand why people reverse vasectomies.

2011-05-14T12:15:00.000-07:00

We were at the dentist yesterday, Reese and I. She had to get her first (two!) fillings and I somehow picked the short straw and, despite my fear and loathing of all things dental, I sat by and held her hand while she lay prone for a good 45 minutes without complaint. With all that time, and nothing but the sound of drilling to block out, I was able to take in the length of my daughter. Her face was obscured from my view with all the tooth-related gear; all I could focus on was truly how long she has become. Her big tennis shoes, worn in good from her soccer playing and her tree climbing. Her knobby knees, dry and chapped from the long winter. A thin little string bean. Not my juicy cherub from this picture - the one I carry of her in my mind - but a real, seven-year old, gorgeous and growing girl.

Oh my, I thought. Who is this big child in the chair, lying so patiently, trusting that I won't let anything bad happen to her? And why am I letting them stick sharp things in her mouth? And those big, first-grader teeth! They are enormous; the baby teeth beside them are dwarfed, inferior - they seem embarrassed and get loose as soon as possible, the tooth fairy summoned regularly.

After the fillings (and the pulling of one of those impatient, loose baby teeth) we were off and soon enjoying ice cream at the park, just the two of us. It was a sunny day, warm and windy. We listened to the trees blowing and watched their rhythm to and fro, so comforting and before I could think twice I said what was on my mind:

"When I'm gone someday Reese, and you see a tree blowing in the wind exactly like that, know it's me thinking of you and loving you. Whenever you see a tree blowing in the wind, remember how very much your mama loved you."

But I don't want you to go, ever, she said, her eyes welling up.

And I don't want you to either, I thought, not saying it. But you will. And I want you to know this: I want you to know that as time is flying by I am seeing it and I am seeing you and I am holding on to these moments knowing how lucky we both are.

When I go to pick up dinner that night there is a little girl in front of me in line, she's maybe four or five with curls like my Reese, but the texture of them is different, it's little girl hair. For a moment I think: maybe we should have one more.

Instead, I order extra cookies.

The future groom.

2011-05-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

http://www.sheknows.com/parenting/articles/829951/dreaming-of-daughters-in-law

Just because they're so adorable. And a new column.

2011-04-28T16:56:00.000-07:00

Presenting the lovely flower girl and handsome ringbearer. Who I worry about ridiculously. Read about it here:
http://www.sheknows.com/parenting/articles/829401/will-the-worrying-ever-end

Father of the year.

2011-04-17T21:56:00.000-07:00

The newest column is up and it's all about these lucky two.
http://www.sheknows.com/parenting/articles/828331/father-of-the-year

The age-old school age debate.

2011-03-09T10:11:00.000-08:00

Check out today's column on how much of a role I should play in charting my children's course:

http://www.sheknows.com/parenting/articles/825857/should-you-push-kids-forward-hold-them-back-or-simply-fly-alongside

And now they are four.

2011-03-06T17:06:00.000-08:00

Finn and beautiful E met when he was four weeks old, she seven. She's since moved away, but Finn hasn't forgotten her. He brings her name up randomly: there is grass here at the park. E likes grass.

Yesterday, E and her little sister A came to visit and it was heaven to have all four kiddos together again - a loud, boistrous heaven. Finn and E were in their own world walking ahead of us to the park. Finn kept trying to impress her with his fashion sense: Did you see my new shirt my cousins gave me? She would answer kindly, sweetly: Yes, Finn. You already told me about that. But she held tight to his hand and us mothers followed behind like paparazzi, smiling all the way.

I am trying to remember how small you are.

2011-03-03T07:27:00.000-08:00

Especially when you act so big. And then I come to pick you up at big kid school yesterday and your eyes are full with tears.

"I have to go to the bathroom," you say, your eyes spilling over.

And I take you and the door is so heavy I have to push it open for you and I have to wipe you because that's still a bit hard for four-year old you and then the soap dispenser is so high and the faucet is squeaky and hard to push and I see the big world through your small self and my heart breaks at the time I am away from you and cannot help you navigate the largeness of everything.

This morning, you roll out of bed and into my lap and we finish this drawing together; you decide the stars should be yellow and so they are.

New column is up: SIBLING RIVALRY/REVELRY at is finest!

2011-03-02T11:30:00.000-08:00

CHECK OUT THE NEW LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHERS, CLICK HERE.

My view of the world is better because of you.

2011-03-01T16:44:00.000-08:00

All my love, G

A pear tart kind of Sunday.

2011-02-27T12:14:00.000-08:00

It is a lovely day here, even though my big one is sick again and it is cold enough outside to make your nose run, even if you weren't sick. It is sunny though, and that makes all the difference.

I bought this glorious pear tart the other day from one of my favorite places on Earth - Freeport Bakery. I bought it to sketch, but then, of course, we consumed it immediately and with gusto; it was delightful - not too sweet, overflowing with firm nutty pears on a buttery crust that makes you wonder if miracles are possible.

I hope that is your kind of day today - one filled with ordinary, extraordinary miracles.

Tee Vee Fun.

2011-02-24T14:12:00.000-08:00

CLICK HERE TO SEE MY APPEARANCE ON KCRA (Our NBC afilliate)

Chatting with Deirdre Fitzpatrick about the new LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHERS column for she knows.com...check it out. : )

(Warning: My mother says it's not my best side: I have to confess, I don't know if I even have one.)

Why so blue?

2011-02-21T20:56:00.000-08:00

My dear sweet Finn:

If you would nap, you wouldn't be so incredibly, undeniably cranky. And therefore Mommy wouldn't be cranky either - or at least if I were, it would be for other, more important reasons like us being out of chocolate or something equally devastating.

You don't want to nap, you big four-year old boy - I know this, I know this because you tell me this over and over and so now you don't - unless, like yesterday you go into your room for "quiet time" and your dad notices it's more quiet than usual and goes in to find you passed out in your bed - sleeping against your will, your little fists balled up underneath you.

Tonight you melted down over not being able to stand on top of our chairs at the dinner table, over yelling at your sister, over having to take a bath. You were in your room so much I almost forgot you were in there one time - I didn't realize it but you sent your own self to time-out; perhaps you know what was coming on your behavior playlist.

Finn, I love you so dearly. You had me draw this bear, your special bear, when you saw I had drawn your sister's bunny; everything must be exactly fair with you two. Tit for tat. Yet it isn't. It can't be; nothing is fair when you are both loved so wildly and beyond measure.

Sweet dreams, my baby boy. Sweet dreams.

Mama

103.6

2011-02-17T20:33:00.000-08:00

That was Reese's fever at the pediatrician today; of course, I had panicked, given her history of pneumonia and other awful bronchial-ness - and made her an appointment this morning even though she'd really only been unwell since last night. And then the nurse took her temp and and shot me a look like how is she walking around with a dose of you call yourself a good mother?

This whole thing is just so precarious - these loves of our lives - how are we to be trusted with something so huge and so tiny all at once? Her gorgeous hazel eyes looking straight through me, knowing, just knowing I can fix it and with all my heart wanting to. Needing to. The worst part was the whole time her graciousness covering the exam room like a warm blanket - thank you Mama - for wiping her forehead, for blowing her nose.

I know you are my Mama, but this is so nice of you.

You're welcome, sweet Reese. You are so very welcome I say. And then tonight when I tuck her in I will kiss her feverish head and I will give up everything, as I do every night for her and her brother; may they be well, may they be well.

Not all hearts and flowers over here.

2011-02-15T07:10:00.000-08:00

Picked up the kids late on Valentine's Day and they were already fried from too much chocolate and excitement; we had big plans for burrito take-out and a fire in the fireplace. We weren't even past the chips and salsa before tears were being shed and tantrums were being had. In my finest hour, I announced:

"Valentine's Day is over!"

Not my best moment.

Today is much better already: Reese and Finn are making Reese's bed while listening to Paul Simon's "Cecilia." There is laughter and stomping and love and it is Valentine's Day here finally, a day late.

V-Day.

2011-02-13T21:29:00.000-08:00

We've been getting our crafty on over here.

Everyone made their own Valentines this year, being that we're a house of big kids now.

Even this big kid.

Traditionally, Valentine's Day has been one of my less faves; this year somehow, it's growing in my affections. I think it may be all the glue stick we used.

Love to you, wherever you are.

xoxo

Looking for you in the cracks.

2011-02-13T07:45:00.000-08:00

My dad died ten years ago this June. I tell my friend Jen losing someone gets easier and it does, but what gets harder is the losing of the memories of them, the details. I hold onto them and still they slip through my hands like water so it is to this poem by Mary Frye I cling:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow;
I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain;
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush;
I am in the graceful rush.

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.

I am the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.

New shoes. Big steps.

2011-02-12T15:37:00.000-08:00

Reese got new tennis shoes the other day. They are, of course, mostly pink. They are huge: size 1.5. Big kid shoes. This seems amazing to me. She also, in other maturity related events, asked me about the birds and the bees last night, in a way a direct and truthful answer could not be avoided. And so it wasn't.

After I was done explaining, there was a long pause:

"Do you think you can walk me through that again Mama, when it's time?"

Yes I do, Reese. Yes I do.

The girls are riding high today.

2011-02-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

Attended a friend's launch party for Tank Essential last night and got this free tank.

Loving it. Custom fit. Shelf bra. Wide straps. Long-ish enough to cover the squishy parts. Girls are feeling oh-so-supported.

Go here and check it out:

Tank Essential

The end of babyhood?

2011-02-09T05:48:00.000-08:00

This week's LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHERS column: why is the end of colic, dirty diapers and sleepless nights so sad?

Please weigh in with your thoughts here:

The end of babyhood?

PS: This is US, circa 2007. How are we looking so well-rested? Happiness, I suppose.

Is there a "me" in "motherhood"?

2011-01-26T15:18:00.000-08:00

Please go check out this week's column at www.sheknows.com and weigh in with your thoughts! Would love to hear your perspective with a comment on the site, or here! Thanks.

Is there a "ME" in "Motherhood"?

And...we're up.

2011-01-21T06:29:00.000-08:00

Check out the new weekly column - LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHERS - would love it if you'd add your perspective and help spread the word.

LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHERS

Weekly column launching 1.21.11

2011-01-19T21:43:00.000-08:00

Thrilled and excited to announce LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHERS, a weekly column launching this Friday at www.sheknows.com. Come together with the ones who understand the maternal struggle and joy best - in the hopes of turning the motherhood into one, strong sisterhood.

I'll be linking here for the first post. Please "like" it, comment and help spread the word!

Where the Santa interrogation brings me to my knees.

2010-12-24T12:50:00.000-08:00

It's bedtime, thank goodness, when she chooses her moment to pin me down. Even though it's dark, I can see the index finger of my seven-year old pointing up at me from her twin bed.

REESE (accusingly): Mommy, do you swear that it's not parents sneaking presents under the tree on Christmas and not Santa?

ME (bewildered): Huh?

REESE: Do you swear? Pinky, pinky swear to me that it's not the parents that do it?

ME (flailing): Who told you that?

REESE: Some kids at school. Do you?

ME (sounding exactly like my mother): I'm not talking about this.

Dear reader, I am so unprepared for all of this. Eleven years ago, on our first date, I sat across the table from my beloved, a former Catholic, and shared my desire for Judaism to be a part of my life, the lives of my future children.

He said he was cool with that.

We hadn't even kissed yet.

A decade plus later I'm being grilled by said future child about the Santa Claus I have told her exists because it turns out that my beloved is like everyone else in the world - religious or not, he wants the same hooplah for his kids that he loved as a kid. Which means we have Bloomingdale's first floor in our small living room right now - a menorah, some dreidels, a Christmas tree, stockings and a primer on Kwanza for good measure. It's all just so much. It's Christmas Eve and I'm telling you, halfway through Hanukkah I was ready to chuck all of it.

And now this.

I can't tell her there's no Santa. Not now. Not after the other night when she was making her list with her brother - for socks and Pillow Pets and American Girls and Spiderman sheets - and when I asked for clarification on what kind of American Girl doll she had in mind, after all Santa might need specifics, she replied, as earnest as you can imagine, in just a whisper, her eyes all sparkly:

"Santa knows. Santa knows everything. He's magical."

She believed. And now, last night, when her belief was wearing thin, I didn't have the heart to say yes, it is us, my sweet. Because this time is still magical, how much we humans do for one another. How the spirit of the season makes grinches less grinchy, how it makes a Jew vouch for Santa, because of her love for her husband and children. How even though there might not be a fat man coming down the chimney tonight, I do believe that most anything is possible. And I want my children to believe that too.

And you have to start somewhere.

Right?

Happy holidays to you. Wherever you are and whatever that means to you and yours. May it be bright.

On (and in) memory.

2010-12-09T07:30:00.000-08:00

I know what it's like to lose someone.

The morning and days after when you realize that this one person who meant everything to you is gone and yet the world is continuing, seemingly without a blip: the line is still long at Starbucks, traffic remains trafficky, the woman at the dentist office wants to know when are you coming in for your cleaning and you want to say:

Fuck off. Don't you know I just lost someone?

But the world doesn't know and, for the most part, doesn't care. And you wonder, how will I survive this?

But you do. The searing pain and shock of the first year transforms slowly to a rough, jaggedy ache, like a broken bone that healed badly, that flares up on wet days. And then, one day, it occurs to you, I haven't thought of this person, this landmark of a person, in a whole day, a whole week.

And it takes you down like a wave; the betrayal of you, of your heart, of your memory. To forget, even for a moment, or a week, the magnitude of this person who the world may have forgotten, but never you. Never you.

So you hold on tighter to the memories, determined not to lose them. It's a whole person stuffed up inside your head: the exact pitch of their laugh (was it deep throated, or more like a muffled hurrumph? you wonder), their greeting on the phone when they knew it was you (was it a soft, knowing, just for you "Hey, there" or a more business like, appropriate for anyone "Hello?"), their mundane preferences (Marlboros in the red box, steak medium rare with a baked potato, eggs benedict, the coast not the beach, Hunter Thompson, Ring Lardner, Maria McKee, Zachary Richard, Costa Rica, Smith-Corona, fast cars, beautiful women, golden retrievers, good chocolate). There, in the many compartments of your brain, is the treasure box rolling tapes of THIS IS YOUR LIFE, but it's their life, with all the shiny souvenirs you know will keep their memory alive.

And to you, I say: I understand. And I will help. For the three people who passed away in 2010 who I have loved dearly, I say to those closest to them, I will remember too; I will remember Greg's passion and Brona's strength and Frank's integrity. I will remember too. You will not be the only ones holding the candle, the treasure box; I will help carry it. We all will. So if you forget for a moment whether he was a wearer of aftershave or not, whether she liked roses or lilies, whether he was a Sierra Nevada or a Guiness kind of guy, I will be here holding my side of the box.

Just so you know.

Home is a chocolate chip roll.

2010-11-27T23:21:00.000-08:00

We were home for Thanksgiving in Los Angeles - at the home of my mother - when Reese asked as we got ready one morning: was this house the house you were born in?

No honey, I said. This is Mimi's house; I wasn't born here.

Well, where then, Mama?

I could have said I was born at Cedars Sinai, the old Cedars in Hollywood, before they tore it down and built the new beautiful one the celebrities frequent for their births and lipos.

I could have said I was born on Edris Avenue, a cute little apartment my young parents brought me home to in 1970, me riding in a car bed, them equal parts thrilled and terrified, I imagine.

I could have said I didn't really have a home, a family home. My home was wherever my mother was, my grandmother. Now my home is where you and your brother and your Dad are.

Instead, I took her to Beverlywood Bakery.

Beverlywood Bakery is where my grandmother and I, my Bubbie, stopped off the public bus on the way home from shopping at the May Company on Saturdays. I always got a free rainbow sprinkled cookie if I was quiet while Bubbie selected her goods: challah (medium sliced), marble loaf, rye bread (thin sliced) and always, chocolate chip rolls. We had so many chocolate chip rolls, Bubbie would freeze them by the dozen; it was a sure thing one would fall out and hit you in the head if you dared go looking for ice cubes in the middle of the night.

Beverlywood's pink bakery boxes decorated Bubbie's kitchen counters every day of my childhood and there was no injury - physical or emotional - that their contents could not cure.

"Some mandelbroid?" Bubbie would ask the moment I walked in the house from the school bus and later, from college. "A chocolate chip roll?" she would offer, like it was an aspirin, an ice pack.

And how could I say no?

We would sit together at the breakfast table, our yellow vinyl chairs pulled together closely and over slices of challah toast or rugalech or, my favorite, a chocolate chip roll, we would talk. She would drink her tea or decaf and I would drink juice out of a jewel tone plastic cup shaped like a "V".

This morning, Reese and Finn and Chris and I walked into Beverlywood Bakery together and it hit us at once: that smell of everything good and wonderful in the world. It still made my head all tingley, just like it did when I was six. They picked out treats; I explained what this place was to me once, how it was special.

They looked back at me blankly, but with big chocolatey smiles.

This is where I'm from, I said, motioning to the loaves of challah and then later to my grandmother's house as we drove past, now that it belongs to someone else. I said to them, this is where I'm from, over corned beef at Factor's Deli and in the arms of my mother and my aunts and my cousins and uncles.

This is where I'm from, my loves. And it all felt true. All of it.

Viral thankfulness: let's spread it.

2010-11-24T15:23:00.000-08:00

The kids are bringing home fistfuls of artwork these days: mostly construction paper turkeys and crayoned pilgrim hats - and then the other day this piece from my almost seven-year old sweetheart, Reese lay waiting for me in her art file - so especially heartfelt and pure and true, a real gift, it rocked me right back to the reason why Thanksgiving is my very favorite holiday.

Sure, it's the stuffing and the candied yams and the turkey and the cranberry sauce, but it's also the forced reminder; every forkful drives home how very lucky we are, how our cornucopia of everyday gifts is overflowing. Somehow, in normal, non-Thanksgiving life, that opportunity for gratitude often slips by me, getting lost in the nooks between the errands and the work and the soccer practice and the homework.

But not today.

Here are my ten what-I'm-thankful-for's - not much thinking - just right off the top of my head:

1. Reese, Finn, Chris: healthy, happy, kind and funny. And all mine, sweet mine.

2. The freedom to choose everyday what I want to do with that day; no one forcing me to do anything against my will, my ethics; I am my own girl, even if my choice most days is to be a company girl.

3. A washer and dryer - and the option not to iron.

4. Friends I would pick again and again.

5. A husband that was kind enough, gracious enough, to pick me.

6. A house that rose up and forced itself upon me and made me fall in love with it. Deeply. Truly. Forever.

7. Neighbors - and a neighborhood - that make that house all the more loveable.

8. A pediatrician that called twice last weekend (from her home) to check on our sick child.

9. The ability to (somewhat) afford the astronomical medical insurance it takes to see that wonderful pediatrician.

10. Books. And a beloved library card that's back in use.

So that's my gratitude for the moment. Care to add one or two of yours? Even better, care to spread it?

It's good to be weird.

2010-11-21T09:47:00.000-08:00

FINN: So, the picture is the monster playing tic tac toe. They are using their claws on their feet to grab the o's and the x's.

ME: Why did you draw this?

FINN: Because I thought it would be funny.

ME: Do you like monsters?

FINN(laughs hysterically): Yeah, yeah, yeah!!!

ME: What else do you like?

FINN: Alligators, tigers, lions, frogs, flies, skunks. And Spiderman.

ME: What do you think of this picture Reese?

REESE: I like this picture because Finn is learning a new game. And because Finn is weird. And so am I.

ME: Finn, are you weird?

FINN: Yes.

Hardly elementary.

2010-11-20T07:41:00.000-08:00

Reese is just days away from turning seven, but it feels more like she's turning seventeen. Her concerns are many and intense: she can't watch movies because they're too emotionally wrenching (even Herbie Fully Loaded), she has moral issues with tardiness and wasting water and vanilla cupcakes. But she's conflicted too - despite an adoration of all things pink and frilly and matched with tiny high heels, she's not really into princesses:

"Mom, why do all grown-ups think little girls want to be princesses?"she asks after a friend's recent birthday party, where much Disney princess loot was raked in by the birthday girl.

"I like math," she offers up as proof.

"Reese, you were a princess for Halloween the past three years," her Dad points out.

True that.

I tell her that it's OK to dress like a princess, but grow up to be a math teacher instead of say, a mermaid. She looks at me like she's not sure she believes me.

And really, I'm not sure I believe me either. That's because the lines are so blurry these days; all of these options we lay out for our daughters, for our children, yet no mother I know can honestly say they are not struggling with all the roles they want to play. There is guilt everywhere, even in this conversation where I want to be unwavering in my answer - "Reese, you can have everything" - because I know there is gray around each corner. It's more like: "Reese, you can have everything at different times and in different measures and it really depends on what you think is everything."

Or maybe, as usual, I'm overthinking it. Regardless, it's a little much for an almost seven-year-old.

It comes down to this, motherhood as I never imagined it - completely flying by the seat of my pants. On the drive home from school yesterday, there is outrage: everyone in class got punished for the infraction of a few. Well Reese, I say, maybe the teacher thinks you all should be responsible for the behavior of the class, that you will help the others behave.

No, she says, that's not right at all Mama. If I'm yelling at everyone to be quiet, I'm only part of the problem. My job is to be a good example and others will follow. I was just doing my job and I got in trouble and it's not fair. It's not fair at all.

Oh.

You're right, Reese, I say, that doesn't sound fair. I've got an idea: you could write a letter to the teacher. You can stand up for your yourself, for your feelings. I will help you. I will stand behind you.

OK, Mama, she says. I look into my rear view mirror and there she is, smiling back at me.

For the moment, we are both sure of something.

Fall for beginners.

2010-11-13T23:55:00.000-08:00

I'm an L.A. girl, so this fall business knocks me silly every single time: the trees are on fire here in Northern California, they are changing from green to yellow to red right as you stand there watching them. They dare you to look away for a single second but you can't - they are that breathtaking.

Just today, Finn and I took a walk to the park and laid under this one for awhile; I whispered to him, my sweet four-year old, "Finn, the tree is on fire, it's so red and beautiful."

"It's not on fire, Mama," he said, looking back at me as though I might be coming down with something, "But look," he said, pointing to the sky, "there's Africa!"

I looked up and he was right, there it was: Africa, in cloud form.

"Woooooowwww! Look at it, Mom! Look at it!" He was yelling and screaming as though he were discovering the continent itself. And, I suppose he was.

I couldn't help but think of Frank, our neighbor and adopted grandfather who recently passed away. This will be our first fall without Frank and I can just hear how his voice used to boom out to Finn from down the street, "Finnie, what are you doing?" And Finn wouldn't bother answering, but would just go running to him, full-speed, tiny Converse flying, knowing a big bear hug was waiting. Before long, the two of them would be down on the ground, examining snails and bugs and plants, digging in the dirt together, nature boys, kindred spirits. The first weeks after Frank passed away, Finn kept walking around the house in disbelief, asking me over and over, "Frank is died?" He would bring it up at odd times; we would be making food for Heidi, Frank's wife for over forty years, and as we'd walk it over to her, Finn would tell me that Frank wouldn't be eating this, since he was died. We wouldn't be seeing Frank at Fourth of July he would remind us, since he was died. And then, of course every snail Finn saw, he would go on about how Frank had always found the most perfect snail, just for him.

Today, when Finn discovered Africa in the sky, he didn't mention Frank - he didn't have to - their shared enthusiasm for nature, for wonder, for joy was all across his face, his heart. And I am finding that joy has become infectious - from Frank and Finn to me, this former city girl, my heart now leaping at these seasonal changes; it would appear that Frank lives on not only in Finn, but in me as well.

I heard a story on NPR the other day, about how rock is actually changed by the existence of life, so as we die and become rock again, our aliveness has changed the material itself, which then changes the lives that are led around it - one day, the lives of our children and grandchildren. I believe it and today I could feel Frank's aliveness in my world, in this tree, in this cloud, and in Finn holding my hand all the way home.

Fabulous Four.

2010-11-09T20:50:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow, my son Finn will have been in the world for four years, just forty-eight months; I have had car payments that lasted longer than this. I was in college longer than this. His whole life has spanned the length of a presidential term, and yet, his presence inhabits my world so fully, I simply cannot imagine any world without him in it.

Motherhood keeps knocking me upside the head with how much it has reoriented my heart.

Yesterday was exactly one week since Finn joined his sister at "big kid school". He is the youngest student in a school that goes all the way to the sixth grade; Finn still has the distinct whiff of diaper cream on him and yet he is rubbing elbows with boys on their way to needing aftershave. It is a delight and a confusing sight to see him here: he is a hit. Everyone loves him and he them, especially the older kids. "Hey, Finn!" the ten and eleven-year olds call to him, patting his little hooded sweatshirt, his 4T pants rolled up so they don't drag on the ground behind him in the cafeteria. He swoons over the girls twice his height and tries to match the stride of the big boys, joking with them, teasing them, and they return his affections in that way that boys do, making crazy faces and grunting like small mammals, which they are. Everyone is pleased with this situation, save Finn's sister, my sweet girl and soon to be seven-year old, Reese, who is completely mortified by the antics of her little brother. And, in addition to being mortified, is also, loving and worried and overprotective. She tells me lunchtime is stressful, at least for her; Finn won't eat enough and he keeps raising his shirt up and dancing at inappropriate times. She doesn't know if she's up to the challenge of maintaining the force that is Finn. And I tell her, she doesn't have to; there are teachers there, aides and helpers, all she has to do is be his sister, his friend, but she looks at me as though I have no idea what I am asking of her. And maybe I don't. Or maybe I do. To love Finn is a full-time job, even for Reese, I guess.

Like yesterday, when I picked them up from school. Reese was in her class getting her things and Finn and I were in his; he wanted to show me his art work but as he went to turn on the lights in his classroom, he accidentally set off the fire alarm instead. It was instant: the deafening sound, the blinking lights, the kids running all throughout the school thinking there were flames brewing somewhere behind them. At the moment his hand hit the panel, his panicked eyes flew to mine and then he was on me, his head buried in my shoulder, the tears flowing: "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." He would repeat it over and over as I ran out of the room carrying him, trying to flag down a teacher to explain, chaos rampant, lines of kids forming the way they'd been taught to in the countless drills they'd practiced. Finally I got the word through that it was a false alarm, but no one could shut it off; the lights and sound continued as Reese made her way to me, clutching her homework and lunch pail, her face confused and scared. I explained what had happened, but she couldn't comprehend it; her do-everything-by-the-book self could not process this huge misstep of her best friend, her shadow.

She'd left him alone, with me, for a moment and look what I'd let happen.

Everyone would think it was her fault. That he was bad. Worse, that she was. The entire evening was spent discussing that Finn is only, just barely, not even quite four and that people understand that accidents happen.

Finn would pipe in intermittently with "accidents happen, Elmo always says."

And then Reese would say, "Finn, this was not THAT kind of accident."

But today was better; I picked them up and we did not set off the fire alarm. Reese reported that he'd eaten his lunch and hadn't flashed anyone the entire day. Finn announced that Reese will get the biggest cupcake tomorrow because she is his bestest friend and her smile told me that she believed him, that she agreed. That she deserved it and more.

This boy, this girl. How lucky I am. How very, very lucky.

Happy birthday, my darling Finn. You are fabulous. I love you madly.

Riding high.

2010-08-15T22:39:00.000-07:00

When Reese was younger she would have nothing to do with the horses on carousels. She still loved carousels, mind you, passionately. She would see one, her little legs would pump furiously to get there as quickly as possible at the zoo, the park, the mall and then as soon as we would get to the line, pay our money and step onto the platform, she would demure. "Not the horse," she would say, absolutely, dictatorially, "the bench!" And then, the three of us, pre-Finn, would steady ourselves on the tiny bench that I bet you didn't know most carousels have. They're not the most popular spot, the bench, and are usually open to last minute selection, thank goodness.

Now Reese gets on carousels and beelines to the best ride, unafraid. She doesn't remember that she once was afraid, that she confined her sights to the bench seating. I tell her and she looks at me as though I am spinning one of my wild tales, as though I am talking about someone she remembers not at all. "Really," I say, "you were so afraid," and as I say it, I can barely believe it myself.

It's because she's so different now, this girl of mine, than the shy toddler she once was. She navigates school and the hoops of social engagement and academics with ease; she smiles often and indiscriminately, bringing the most stalwart curmudgeon to their knees; she works the soccer field, the library, the dress-up box with equal fervor; she is at once strong-willed and tender-hearted and she said to me just yesterday that she is planning on living a block away, that we will run to the gym together when she grows up and that her brother can live with her, at least until he gets married. Finn, the practical three-year old said no thanks, that he's planning on moving to New York, but don't worry, he'll visit every day.

The days are flying past exactly like the view from the carousel - I'm doing my best to slow down the ride, to not make a million plans so I can focus in, so I can time-lapse watch these children of ours blooming wildly, not stopping for a second. Before you know it, Finn will be done with Spiderman and Lightening McQueen and onto something else; he'll forget that he said "hangaburg" for "hamburger" and that yellow was his favorite color and that he peed on the tree in our front yard a million times before his fourth birthday. Reese will continue unfolding right through Harriet the Spy and Superfudge and multiplication and piano lessons; she will forget about being scared in movies, only because she's worried about the characters being sad or disappointed. This might be the last summer of playing in the blow-up pool with our neighbors and building forts and having tea parties on the front lawn and not going in until dark; I hope it's not, but I'm not taking a chance, I'm watching. I'm paying attention Reese, I'm watching Finn. So if you forget, I can tell you all about it. I can tell you about the wonderful ride it's been.

6.

2009-12-20T07:41:00.000-08:00

Reese,

Happy birthday baby, just a few days late.

We were watching "Charlie Brown Christmas" the other day and you asked me why Marcie calls Peppermint Patty, "Sir."

I answered, absentmindedly while I was cleaning the kitchen:

"Because Peppermint Patty's the boss, I guess."

"But she's a girl," you replied.

And I said, my feminist feathers all in a flutter, immediately thinking you were questioning whether girls could be bosses:

"So?"

"Well, if Peppermint Patty's a girl, Marcie should call her 'Ma'm'."

Yes, Reese, that's right. Ma'm.

As always, you teach me. From the minute you arrived, I have been learning from you. Mostly learning that my agenda is unimportant. That my expectations are off. That what's in my head is not necessarily important or relevant to your well being. That parenthood is so humbling and fluid.

I have learned from your voice how to quiet my own. I have learned from your kindness how to grow mine. I have learned to sit down when asked. I have learned to color. To not force it. To laugh more. To be messy. To wait. To challenge my patience. To look not my best for days on end. I have learned how to hold both you and your brother and eat popcorn simultaneously. And, I have learned this:

In a day filled with parties and lights and latkes and chocolate cake, true joy is being curled up with you, beautiful Reese, you and your brother and your Dad on our cozy couch, eating peanut butter sandwiches and watching Polar Express, the whole time you asking is this the scary part yet and me answering, no, it isn't. There is no scary part, it's just an adventure, my girl.

I love you so much, my sweet six-year old. Thank you for choosing us.

Mama

Perspective.

2009-11-23T06:58:00.000-08:00

So yesterday we found out our Kindergartner is reading above grade level.

Way above.

I was elated for her. I was worried too, of course. Are we doing enough to keep her interested? Is she bored? Should we be doing something to support her growing brain, other than our decidedly un-academic family addiction to Sid the Science Kid and Honey Nut Cheerios?

But, as always, Reese taught me. I asked her how she felt about reading so well. She said good. But what she was REALLY excited about was having completed her long pined for goal: getting all the way across the monkey bars, achieved just yesterday as well.

What feels better, I asked, curious.

The monkey bars definitely, she answered.

"The monkey bars are my life."

Well, okay then. I guess we're good.

In loving memory.

2009-11-18T08:19:00.001-08:00

I wanted to know more about marriage, about couples who've made it work for decades. I wanted to write about it. And I was lucky enough to be introduced to my dear friend Kim's grandparents: Earl and Geneva Ringness. They astounded me with their humor, their insight, and most of all, their love.

Geneva passed away late last night. This is for her. And for Earl, who loved her so well.

---------------------------------------------------

The first thing I notice about Earl and Geneva is that when they both start talking at the same time, Earl always says sweetly, “No, Geneva, you go on ahead.”

The second thing I notice is how beautiful Geneva still is, a silver haired siren at 84.

If I hadn’t noticed though, Earl would have surely pointed it out.

“From the first time I saw her, I thought she was beautiful. Look at her now, she’s 84. I mean, really, people keep commenting about how beautiful she is.”

Geneva tells me Earl’s always going on like that.

They were married during the war, WWII that is. March 27, 1942. She was seventeen and he was twenty; she says they met at church.

He swears he found her in the orange groves.

Well, that is where she grew up, Geneva concedes, on an orange grove in Southern California. Her parents had moved there during the Depression, she tells me. It was her and her three siblings, one of whom died before his second birthday.

“My brother had told Mother he was thirsty and she went to get him a drink of water and she came back and he was gone. Just broke their hearts,” she tells me with her head bent low.

Earl, his eyes far away, is still off in the orange groves, remembering their courtship: “Yep, she was washing a car out there under the trees; I had to ask her mother if she could go out with me. She said I’d better have her home by nine. But then she changed her mind to ten.”

They had gone to the state fair. I ask about their chemistry on that first night and Geneva lets out a whoop and a huge smile.

“We went on the Tilt ‘O Whirl and he put his arm around me and it was such a thrill. I thought ‘This is great!’”

They both came from close families that had suffered hard during the Depression. But the way they tell it, it feels more like “A Wonderful Life.”

“We didn’t know we were poor,” Earl tells me. His father, a streetcar conductor in Minneapolis, would show up at work early and wait for his assignment, his car, number 709 ready and waiting every cold Minnesota morning. A cold you just get used to, Earl explains.

“That’s how things were back then. You just made do. We worked hard. When we were kids, we had jobs, we delivered papers, everybody pulled their weight, it was tough.”

Geneva thinks a lot of it has to do with the spin her family put on things.

“We wouldn’t have food for dinner and you know what Mother would do? She’d tell us children in the most exciting way, that we were going to have cornbread and milk for dinner. How exciting was that! Cornbread and milk! She’d set the table with a pretty linen and some flowers from the garden and we’d just have a great time.”

“To this day, you know, I love cornbread and milk.”

---

Did I mention how much Earl loves Geneva? Well the feeling is definitely mutual.

“Earl’s sister Anne, she was the oldest, she’d say to me, ‘Geneva, Earl is the most considerate person I’ve ever known.’ This was from a sister, mind you. And I’d say, Anne, he’s always been that way. And he always has.”

Still.

In the midst of our talk, Earl jumps up to refill Geneva’s water glass.

“Oops, I keep forgetting to get her water,” he says to me and skips off to the kitchen like a first grader on a mission.

Along with consideration, it seems faith, too, is a big part of their relationship. They pray together every night. It’s something they’ve both been born into, praying. Geneva says:

“When I was growing up, the minute the biscuits were in the oven, Daddy would call out to us and say, ‘time for family prayer’ and we’d all get around the table and pray. That’s how we did it.”

They say their faith has been there for them along the way; Earl resigned from his job during WWII so he could serve his country. Geneva, alone with their brand new infant daughter, Jeanie, moved in with her parents and, when she could, would follow Earl from base to base with the baby. She’d work for a few months and save enough money to get to him, wherever he was. This went on for the length of his service - almost three years.

She makes it sound like it had been an adventure. And more, a responsibility.

“My mother told me: your job is to go where your husband’s job is, make a home and be content.”

I see her look at Earl and they both just have the tiniest of smiles. Their selflessness with one another is so huge, it’s like a whole other person in the room, taking up space.

“When I’d come home from work,” Earl says proudly, “she’d have the kids all shined up and ready for me, with the meal on and everything.”

About their devotion, Earl tells me, “I made some bad decisions, moved us when we should have stayed, changed jobs when I shouldn’t have; she never once said a word about it. She propped me up and that’s what I needed.”

“You just have to roll with it,” Geneva says to me, waving off his compliment, “I took it in stride and did just fine,” she says.

---

When they first got married, both under 21, Geneva says she knew two things: how to cut up a chicken and how to bake a cake.

“Oh, I thought I was so mature. I’ll tell you though, we had a lot of fried chicken,” Geneva laughs.

They don’t ever go to sleep mad at each other, they tell me. But once, long ago, they had a fight and Geneva marched out of the house, announcing she was going to throw herself in front of a train.

Then, when Earl didn’t come after her, she really got angry.

“Ooh, was she mad! Makes a good story, though!” Earl tells me, grinning.

I ask about failure and success, money and accomplishment. Did they achieve their individual goals? Did they succeed?

Earl says he made a living and raised wonderful children.

I can answer the rest for myself, just from an hour in their company:

They accomplished everything they set out to do. Their goal was to live. To have fun. To travel. To work honestly, to make honest money for an honest life. To raise good kids who had more good kids. To love one another. And also, Geneva says:

“You have to respect one another, if you don’t have respect, you don’t have much of a relationship.”

I ask Earl if he realizes what he has, how special a 67-year-old marriage is these days.

“All I know is I have her,” he says quietly, appreciatively, “That’s what I have.”

They have gone where the other has gone, they have made a home, they have been content.

And I notice one last thing about Geneva and Earl, right as we’re wrapping up. He corrects her about something and she responds so nicely, “Really, is that right?”

This is when I realize, I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone more successful than Geneva and Earl.

---

I don’t find out until after we’ve sat together and laughed together that Geneva is facing her third battle with cancer.

It will also be her last, I’m told.

It’s terminal, it’s in her lungs now and there’s nothing to do but wait and see. No one knows how long she has. As Geneva would say, “It’s in God’s hands.”

Her granddaughter Kim, a good friend of mine, delivers the news. She thought I knew.

No, I didn’t, I say, saddened and shocked. How could a dying woman and her husband of sixty-seven years seem so absolutely OK? So happy?

Why do I ask questions I know the answers to?

I will believe Earl’s version of the story:

They met in the orange groves almost seventy years ago. She was washing a car. He never saw anything more beautiful. They drove off into the moonlight. He put her arm around her on the Tilt ‘O Whirl and she’d never felt anything quite so wonderful.

Shock and Awe.

2009-11-16T14:32:00.000-08:00

It's not really news, actually. But still it hits me from behind every time.

"What should really shock us is that almost one in four children in our country lives on the brink of hunger," said David Beckmann, the President of Bread of the World, an advocacy organization.

How can this be? How can we, the richest country in the world, be so very poor at providing for our future? Our babies? How can I be looking at a bigger house, a better car, a nicer anything when there are toddlers going hungry right outside my door? How can I reconcile this with my trip to Target last night, me wheeling my cart filled with early holiday gifts and snow boots for my kids, an extra pair of tennis shoes for my son, me wheeling right past a woman pushing her infant son in a broken down stroller asking me for money. Telling me she meant no harm. She saw I had a child too.

But I went right past her, thinking as I always do that I don't give to people on the street, that I give to the organizations that help the people that go through the "proper" channels for help. I tell myself this is how I know the help is arriving, is being used in the ways I feel, in all my wisdom, it should be used.

But how much do I really give?

With this recession hitting home so pointedly this past year, my donations have been few and now that I'm working again, I embarrass myself with how quickly my new security, or the idea of it at least, has put me right back in the market of want. Wanting the new whatever. Our house is on the market. And my newly found security is not creating any newly discovered generosity. What I could be doing to help that woman in the parking lot and her child, or the thousands, the one in four children out there that might be going hungry every night, is going instead, to fund my new kitchen. Even though I already have a perfectly nice kitchen. One that happens to also be warm and full of food, where my children's only hunger dilemma is whether to have mac and cheese or turkey corndogs.

This absurdity, my selfishness in the face of so much need is hard to bear. How can I believe in my ideals so wholeheartedly, yet refuse to sacrifce for them? Even the tiniest bit?

But friends, I really, really want a family room, a big yard and somewhere to host Thanksgiving. This is important stuff, right? Wars have been fought over so much less.

Nevertheless. Heartbreaker of all: I am actually evolved enough to see how truly lame I am, standing blindly, wanting what I want, when there is great suffering, great actual need, on every corner.

But am I evolved enough, brave enough to do something about it? To want less, so that others can want less, need less, too? Now, that is the question.

Three, oh my!

2009-11-10T14:21:00.000-08:00

Finn,

I can barely take it right now, your beauty and heart and ferocious ways. My baby. Today, on your "real" birthday as you call it, you are sick with the gross nose cold and the fever and the overall streaming gunk that comes with it, which means you are home and so am I. And for the first time since I went back to work two months ago, it's just the two of us. And it feels like a gift.

When I was home over the past year, unemployed mostly, we were constant companions, you and I. You gave me the chance to really get to know you and see the boy behind the baby. When sister was at school and dad was at work, it was you and me at the park, making waterballoons in the backyard, eating yogurt on the steps, going to the library, playgroups and preschool, watching the rain outside the front window, racing to pick up sister at the end of the day. As I think back my heart squeezes with all the bittersweetness of it.

I just can't get over how special you are, Finn. How clever and intuitive; it's as though you were just dropped into my lap from a passing crane. I can take no credit for your bravery, your keen wit, your scientific mind and driven curiosity. Just as I can lay no claim to your sister's enormous compassion, fiery imagination or dogged like determination. And when it comes to either of your prowess on the soccer field, we know I had nothing at all to do with that.

I just bear witness in wonder.

And today, with it so quiet here, we are right back in our little cocoon of two and it is precious. We start out with a trip to the doctor to make sure your cold is just that and when it is, we celebrate with a still warm strawberry birthday scone, of which you eat in all of about three seconds, crumbs down your thermal pjs, strawberry jam on both cheeks. We come home and snuggle watching Sesame Street AND SuperWhy and you can't believe your luck, "More TV!," you exclaim, amazed. "I am so cozy," you tell me and I am too. We lay in the spot right by the window where you slept on my chest as a newborn and now, only your head can fit, with my arm underneath you, tightly wrapped around your growing, exploding self.

More the same than different.

2009-09-18T21:12:00.000-07:00

How much we want to spare our children pain of any kind. Particularly the kind we pass on unwillingly, through our fierce DNA. Our buck teeth and our bad noses, our ineptitude for spelling, our fears. When we see those characteristics, the ones we thought we fixed years ago through braces or spellcheck, therapy or denial, there they are on the sweet faces of our little ones, staring back at us.

Nah nah nah nah na! They shout right at us. You thought you got rid of us, but we're back and it's worse this time. It's not your overbite or fear of heights, it's your kid's.

It's your daughter's. Your son's. Your baby's.

The very person you tried to be your best for. The one you read fifteen books on before they arrived. For whom you bought eleven different types of pacifiers, even though you were against pacifiers. The one you stayed up with all night for a week straight because you were afraid that nose cold might actually be pneumonia, or worse.

Very early on, too early, it's apparent that none of this preparation, this excess of what Joan Didion calls magical thinking where you worry about things so they can be checked off knowing that the pre-worrying has cancelled them out, none of this is really worth much at all. Still you end up, like me, your brand new kindergartner collapsed in your arms like a toddler, wailing and begging you not to leave.

Because for her change is oh so very hard.

And because really, she is on the shy side.

And, truth be told, the ham that she is, the singer and dancer and joker, has to feel completely comfortable in her surroundings to be free to be those things. Without that safety net firmly underneath her, she is so very afraid in her five-year old skin, the one with the purest of hearts inside.

And then I remember, oh yeah, I was like that. I suppose, for all intents and purposes, I still am.

Not good with change.

On the shy side.

Need my safety net to be the joker, the goofball I can be.

Oh yeah. Like my thighs and my curls, I have also given my sweet Reese what I forgot somehow I had: my fear.

It lasted for about the first week and instead of her beautiful brown eyes rimmed in blue, I saw my girl simply glazed over, somewhere else completely. Reese, even in this state, collects friends like I collect pet hair: in large amounts and completely without intent. Other people, adults and children alike, are simply drawn to her, like a vivid painting or musical performance: the pureness of her, the openness of her heart draws you in like a moth to the light.

She has found her feet once again, her net finally feeling in place I suppose, and today when I picked her up from school she announced this was the fourth day in a row "she didn't even cry." She had a field trip and held her Dad's hand the whole time. But Chris reported that several times during the excursion kids would come up to her and take her by the hand, not really going anywhere, but not needing to either, just locked together for a moment or two.

As we were leaving a couple of kids were shouting "Bye, Reese!" to her and she looked back over her shoulder like the gorgeous teenager she will be, hair blowing behind her, and waved to them. I wanted for all the world to freeze that moment for the baby book, for the history books, for myself, to remind us all that we can overcome our stumbling blocks, again and again and again. And seeing her today, vaulting over the one we share felt a lot like flying.

Parenting as Creative Inspiration.

2009-09-02T14:49:00.000-07:00

http://issuu.com/kidaround/docs/kidaround_sept09/31?zoomed=true&zoomPercent=100&zoomXPos=0.038274605103280734&zoomYPos=0.2518691588785047

Copy and paste into your browser for the newest Kidaround Column.

This is Finn, your grandson.

2009-08-31T21:21:00.000-07:00

That's what I wish I could say to my Dad. I want to tell him about Finn peeing in the tiny toilet this weekend and all of us singing the "Pee Pee in The Potty, Pee Pee in The Potty" song a hundred times and how now Finn keeps saying he has to pee so he can get more M&M's. I want to tell him that Reese is scared to start Kindergarten next week and I am scared too because there is no place on earth like her preschool, where they make you feel really great about exactly who you are and they have a million shady trees in the yard and naps and snacks like cream cheese and graham crackers; I want to immerse her in this world for the rest of time and never have her go anywhere where she will have to fit in and be "normal" and start worrying about her legs being fat or her nose being big. I want to say to my Dad, come over this Friday so we can all have movie night and lay on our totally uncomfortable hardwood floors and eat popcorn and sing all the songs from Sound of Music really, really loud and listen to Reese and Finn laugh like hyenas and roll around on the floor like tiger cubs, all giddy and sweet. And then try push each other down five minutes later and start crying and telling on each other insisting for all the world that it's the other one's fault completely.

I want to say to my Dad, wow, I married this amazing man who makes me laugh every single day, even when it's against my will. That I'm so incredibly lucky in love. That we own 1625 square feet of Sacramento. That we have a peach tree in our backyard and that I grew my first tomato this summer. That I wrote a book that did badly. That I'm riding my bike again. And learning how to cook and no one's gotten food poisoning - yet. That I've been to Paris now, like he told me I should and that I still will get to Italy and Ireland and Israel too. I want to tell him about 9/11. And Obama. And that Hunter Thompson died. And Ted Kennedy. I want to tell him he was right about the Internet. And Google. And Apple. And miniature golf. But maybe not about the 49ers.

I want to tell him how very much I miss him. How there is no replacement for a father. And how he should have never, ever left us.

I want to tell him I love him, just one last time and hug him tightly around the neck, not letting go.

Lame times a million.

2009-08-18T21:24:00.000-07:00

OK, so I'm in L.A. this weekend for my dear cousin's wedding and I'm at the rental car counter just as calm and easy as can be when the rental car guy informs me very politely that my driver's license is expired and did I know that? And did I happen to have another, non-expired version on my person?

Um, no I didn't and no I don't, says my formerly easy, breezy, now panicky and wheezy self.

It takes about thirty seconds for both of us to conclude that yes, I did turn thirty-NINE a month ago and therefore passed my expiration date - and not just on my youth- but apparently on my driver's license as well. There it is, in bright orange: EXPIRES 7/18/09. I am all aflutter with apologies and true surprise. I never got a single notice, I say and mean. I am a responsible person, I think. A person who is on these orderly kind of things, like dirt on a toddler. I am detailed. Organized. I am a Virgo in a Cancer body. My lists have lists.

THE DMV NEVER SENT ME ANYTHING, I proclaim. Rental car guy and I are both baffled.

That's when I realize that it's my old address on my license.

OH. I never got anything about my impending expiration because I never changed my address with the DMV when we moved to a new house, FIVE YEARS AGO.

OK. Lame. So lame.

Husband arrives and saves the day by proffering up his correctly addressed, non-expired license. Wedding and fun ensue.

Today we are home and I am determined to clear this whole mess up. I call the DMV early and get to speak to an actual person, a nice one too. She pulls up my license number and asks if I was aware my license had been suspended.

SUSPENDED. I, nerd girl, have never, ever been suspended. From anything. It seems so very bad, so standards on the chalkboard fifty times bad, that I whisper into the phone, completely mortified:

"Suspended? What do you mean, suspended?"

It turns out it had to do with this totally LITTLE accident that was completely my fault last December - no injuries, just a tiny fender bender - and it had been all settled with the insurance companies and I guess there was an accident report that I failed to fill out in all the hubbub and over at the DMV, they like their accident reports and, just a word to the wise, if you don't fill one out, you will get:

SUSPENDED.

Three hours later, down at the DMV office (which was actually a not horrible experience) I got it all straightened out. But it did cost me $28 and the ultimate punishment: having to take my new license picture IN MY SWEATY GYM CLOTHES, SANS MAKE-UP. I'm not sure what was more terrifying, the photo taking or having to endure the eighteen question written test about important driverly things like divided highways and blind spots and parking on hills.

Anyway, luckily I passed the test, the photo was taken and I was grateful to no longer be an unwitting fugitive from justice. Hopefully every time I look at my new license picture and wince, I will learn from this experience and the pain it caused me. Not to mention every future poor innocent sales clerk who asks to see my I.D. and is subjected to my foundation-free face smiling back at them.

Mad Men.

2009-08-09T14:16:00.000-07:00

So it's 7:35 in the morning and for unknown reasons, I'm at Safeway buying the ingredients to make a peach pie. Well, the reasons are known I suppose: we have a peach tree in our backyard and each year it catches us unaware and just starts SPEWING peaches everywhere.

Might I add we've been in this house for five years and yet, we are still markedly surprised when this happens every August, right around, well, now.

Usually we just scramble around and give the peaches to everyone we know and people we don't too, but this year, being the year of the TIGHT BUDGET, I decide to get my Martha on and bake us some peach pie. Or cobbler. Or muffins. Or tarts. Or bread. Because if there's anything worse in a recession, it's seeing once good food on your lawn, now decaying all brown and ugly when it could have been a perfectly delectable peach salsa. Or peach ketchup. Or peach upside down cake.

Anyway.

So I'm at the Safeway and I'm in a hurry because part of the fantasy of baking the pie, or pies considering I have on my kitchen counter a bounty of peaches, part of the fantasy is baking them with my children and since Chris is leaving at 8AM for a bike ride, I need to move my culinary tush and get home pronto. I'm thinking all this as I'm in line behind a woman who seems to be having an issue with her bacon purchase. There is a lot of discussion with the checker about whether this bacon is the best bacon and whether bacon, as a concept, is even good or not. A bag boy is summoned for his opinion and he goes to check with perhaps, the butcher or maybe the farm where the pig was slaughtered. I don't know. This goes on for about six minutes while I wait my turn.

During this entire time, I never once bellowed out loudly, crudely: CAN WE GET SOME SERVICE OUT HERE???!!!!!!

Which was what a man two people behind me began doing, sweat dripping from his brow, pooling up in his armpit creases, a leg brace on his knee (probably from kicking some poor innocent schnauzer), and a cart in front of him full of steaks ON THE BONE. Like maybe he just eats them raw for dinner. That's how crazy this guy is.

Anyway, checkers run from all quadrants of the store to help CRAZY MAD GUY and we're all relieved when he directs his anger at the one hapless checker who is made to help him, probably her first day and all. I feel terrible as I make my way out of the store, ingredients in the bag. That poor girl, being harassed by this massive sweaty dude for fourteen bucks an hour. I should really go back and give him a piece of my mind. He should be quiet and wait his turn like the rest of us schmucks and not scare the heck out of the entire store.

But I don't. After all, I've got peach pie to make.

Mean Girls.

2009-08-06T15:14:00.000-07:00

I was a bookish, skinny child, not particularly cute or confident; a perfect target for your average grade-school bully. And there were a parade of assailants: the girls who would taunt me on the school bus, replaced by ones that would tease me in class, and one in particular - Cassandra was her name - who informed me one afternoon in 5th grade that we would be fighting after school.

She and I. In a "fight."

I did what any self-respecting, 35-pound, terrified but quick thinking geek would do: I begged to reschedule.

I told her: actually, I was busy that afternoon. My mom was picking me up, I lied.

Well, she said, if your mom's not here after school, it's you and me sister. The words dead meat may have been used.

Or something like that.

Anyway, come three o'clock and there's no sign of my mother anywhere. Just lines of school buses with kids hanging out the windows all waiting for THE FIGHT. Rumors of any sort of humiliation or possible violence spreads through elementary school like a brush fire. So, there I am, leaning back against the chain link fence hoping for a miracle, or at least my mother when Cassandra, a tiny thing herself really, tells me my time is up. There's no mother, that means there will be fists flying. At this point, Bianca, the hired gun apparently, steps out from the crowd, a ginormous sixth grader who is obviously being paid good money, or Now 'N Laters, to fight for this Napoleon in knee socks.

Bianca steps forward and I look up, WAY up into her eyes, but the sun blinds me and before you know it I'm being pummeled back and forth between her forearms like a rag doll, to the chorus of the bus kids yelling, inaccurately, "Fight, fight, fight!" Because, as opposed to an bilateral exchange of blows, this scuffle is more of a triangular motion: me bouncing off her left forearm, back against the chain link fence, then off her other forearm. I'm not being beat up so much as tenderized.

Fast forward three decades and it comes as no surprise that yesterday when I was in the park with my five-year old and two-year old and I witnessed four long-haired tweens hazing one unsuspecting, awkward looking ten-year old , I was suddenly filled with a familiar emotion: anger with a generous dollop of sadness. They were calling her a loser, saying she came from STUPID WORLD and letting her know they could see her underpants.

Really, "I can see your underpants?" I mean have bullies not come up with anything novel in thirty years? "Underpants" is so 1979. Or maybe even 1959.

So, like the true rat fink I was and still am, I went straight to the camp counselors responsible for this crew and reported the violation I saw in action. They intervened and all was fixed for the moment. My five-year old stood listening to my report to the camp staff and asked me for explanation. What was I all in a uproar about, anyway, she inquired. I told her what had happened and about how I hoped than when she got older, she would never join in that kind of thing, picking on other kids. She should stay clear, or if she wanted, jump in and tell the offenders to stop.

"But that WOULD BE joining in," she pointed out, smartly.

True, I told her, but it would be OK, because she would be joining in an effort to protect a friend's feelings, to salvage some poor child's raggedy self esteem; she would be heroic, really.

But then it occurred to me that it could be MY child that is picked on a few years from now and I might not be there to protect her since we cannot be there every moment of our child's life and keep them and their sweet natures safe. One of the real daggers in the heart of anyone with a child: preventable suffering that you can't prevent.

It is then that I devise two bully prevention plans: home schooling or karate lessons.

Considering my math inabilities, it's really looking like karate at this point.

Wow, a degree and a bunch of really nice friends too?

2009-07-02T13:48:00.000-07:00

One of the things about complete failure is it gives you the opportunity to consider other paths: cross-country travel by train say, or the dreaded cliché - GOING BACK TO SCHOOL.

Let me just say, going back to something you weren't all that hot at the first time might land squarely in the not-a-great-idea camp. And I, speaking with complete honesty and not a scrap of false modesty, sucked at school. Well, I sucked at showing up at school. In college, I majored in Sorority and man, was I good at it. If they had been handing out grades in Exchanges with Fraternities, Freshman Girl Drama or Puffy Paint, I would have been a 4.0. Easy.

Alas, no.

Fortunately, it has been SO long since I somehow managed to cobble together enough credits to scurry across the graduation stage, I had actually forgotten HOW BAD OF A STUDENT I WAS. To prove it, here is the phone conversation I had a few weeks ago with the Admissions and Records Lady from my alma mater regarding my college G.P.A.:

ADMISSIONS LADY: We really can't give out student's GPA's over the phone.

ME: Pleeeeaaaaaseee.

ADMISSIONS LADY (obviously knowing she's dealing with a basket case): OK, what are you looking for?

ME: Just tell me, was my cummulative G.P.A. over a 2.5? That's the requirement for this graduate program I'm looking at...

ADMISSIONS LADY (uncomfortable silence while she looks at computer, stifles laugh): Um, no sweetheart, it's not.

ME (in denial, in dementia): At least is it over a 2.4, a 2.3 even??

I AM GRASPING AT STRAWS WHEN I HEAR THE ADMISSIONS LADY FLAT OUT BURST INTO LAUGHTER. I have never, ever been this funny.

ADMISSIONS LADY (clearly enjoying herself, imagining how horrible my uneducated life has turned out): No, dear.

Ultimately, we negotiate down to the bargain basement number of a 2.2. I think that was it. I may have blacked out, actually.

Anyway, I am no scholar. Nevertheless, something needs to be done, right? Failure has occurred. The recession is upon us. I need to acquire some new job qualifications pronto. This leads me to my next phone conversation, this one with the Program Coordinator of my local university's Masters in English Program.

She is returning my message, the one I left before I found out that a Masters degree in English is considered as marketable a degree in Astrology, or more appropriately, Print Journalism.

The Program Coordinator tells me all about the lovely Masters Program, how it's not competitive at all, how everyone is so nice and supportive of one another.

I try not to worry to much about this Kumbaya approach and ask her about the marketability of the MA in English versus an MFA in Creative Writing. She tells me the MFA is terminal.

She says this like it's a bad thing, but I know different. I know it might actually qualify me to teach somewhere other than at the play-doh table at my daughter's preschool.

She tells me that with their program I'll have so much time to write, two years in fact. I tell her I love to write, but what I REALLY love to do is get paid.

There is uncomfortable silence during which I swear I can hear her drawing a red line through my name. I ask about the well known writer who heads the department. I am told she is taking a year sabbatical; she is on her ranch in a midwestern state.

The writer, the head of the department, is very tired, the Program Coordinator tells me. I wonder what it would be like to have a ranch in a midwestern state and how tired it will make me. I am guessing that I will not find out by getting my Masters in English.

But what I will get, the Coordinator reassures me is a really supportive environment.

This is when I tell her that I already have a social life, thank you very much. What I need is ANY MARKETABLE SKILL, ANY AT ALL.

OK, I'm not really ballsy enough to say anything near that, but the dial tone at the other end of the phone sure got an earful, I can tell you that.

New skill sets, they are a bloomin'.

2009-07-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

The thing about Life on the Least Selling List is that you don't have all those pesky media appearances clogging up your schedule. No long stays at fancy hotels doing book tours. No public clamoring for your autograph. Actually, now I might be thinking more of American Idol than actual book publishing, but whatever. How would I know, right?

Anyway with LOTLSL - baby, you've got nothing but time. And when I'm not freelancing or changing diapers or making art with my five-year old or doing what feels like infinite loads of laundry, I'm adding a few notches on my tool belt of life.

Just in the last six months, my abilities have soared:

Horticulture
Two tomato plants alive and well, one cucumber, one basil and one thing we're not quite sure the identity of. Hey, if things really get bad, we can go Herbivore.

Cycling
After an estimated 29-year hiatus, I am back in the saddle, wind in my hair and all. Turns out riding a bike really is just like riding a bike.

Entomology
I assist the Head Bugologist around here, two-year old Finn, with his studies. We favor rolly pollies and worms. We dig and we investigate. We deem who is cute and who is not. Granted, there are some unintentional casualties but it's all in the name of science.

Education
OK, I did this one before, but now I am 24-7. And not just answering the why mama why's but also the why did the girl at school hurt my feelings and why is this not fair and how do you make a baby, which at the moment was answered satisfactorily with a small but exact portion of the truth. I am teaching all the time now and sometimes I fear I am teaching by example more than I'd like, what with my impatience and my habit of eating cereal for dinner. But mostly, I stumble my way through, uncoordinated maybe, but with good intentions all the same.

Now that's the kind of stuff you don't get from room service at the Four Seasons, right?

Wendy's Shift Supervisor, anyone?

2009-06-30T22:12:00.000-07:00

So, it turns out this whole writing thing I've been doing for the past fifteen years or so does not prepare you in any way to get a real job.

Who knew?

I have been freelancing over the past six months - since losing count 'em TWO contracts with ad agencies that were super sweet and oh so regularly paying - and the freelancing has been pretty good actually. Someone always comes out of the woodwork and needs a website written or a brochure or a radio spot on clean water or something. And BAM, I am still bringing home the bacon, but lately it's been more like Baco's. Or Bacon Crumbles. Or whatever you call a bit less bacon than before.

Thank goodness for Chris who has a real job with medical insurance so today I could take my two-year old Finn to the doctor to find out he had a fever that was totally unrelated to the cough he's had for the past two months but is probably actually something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, SYMPTOMS TO BE DETERMINED LATER. I couldn't wait to watch him develop like a Polaroid over the next 12-24 hours to see exactly what sort of viral strain we're in for. Let the roulette wheel spin: will it be explosive poop? Gooky nose virus? Or, please do not even think it, throw up-itis? Please God, no.

Anyway, back to the real job thing: I'm home with my son full-time right now, save the occasional babysitter, and my daughter's in her beloved Pre-K program and BABY NEEDS NEW SHOES and the freelance thing, though it's worked out so far, is something best done in small doses. Because really, when I say baby needs new shoes I mean me and I like the Nordstom variety.

So, I've been looking around at other employment opportunities because let's face it, in this recession, a writing career isn't exactly one you can count on. Now I've got my CareerBuilder. My Monster. My Indeed. And essentially, it appears I may be completely unemployable. But just so that you can get a feel, here are just a few of the positions I am remarkably unqualified for at the moment:

Seamstress
Bus Driver
Dental Assistant
Egg Donor (over 35, thank you very much)
Swimming Pool Salesperson
Dryer Vent Technician
Hot Yoga Instructor
Nail Technician

Apparently, even though I can drive, procreate, swim and sweat, I am cannot do so and also get paid.

Indeed.