Category Archives: Pure bliss

Just what the doctor ordered

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No, not swine flu vax. Still don’t have access. And not a healthy diet or steady exercise. Because I prefer organic unhealthy and sporadic respectively, thank you very much.

No, the Rx of which I speak was a solo trip to New York for personal and professional reasons. Was it a success? Aye.

Seeing old friends has always been my drug of choice. It makes me feel so intensely good I can’t put into words how I value faces and voices that span all the phases of my seriously stunted personal development. It was miraculous to see some of the people I thought had disappeared into the aether. (Yeah, I went Victorian on that one. I debated the contemporary spelling, but I just finished a George Eliot book and am sprinkling my life with the nineteenth century. For fun and profit. Well, really just fun, but you never know.) So it was lovely to see half a dozen people I value above sleep. (Yes, you five, I did just say I value you above that which I’ve dedicated my life to finding, achieving, and relishing. How do you like them apples?) All this in a setting where I wasn’t chasing a small child or trying to keep him occupied with things he likes so I can do what I like: sitting like a lump discussing books and food and politics and life.

It was also a great relief to get in one more conference before the Baby Formerly Known as Vomitron arrives. I had intended to polish and publish as many articles as I could before next fall and to apply to PhD programs as Peanut settled into what I hope will be a better year for both of us. The onset of 15 weeks of nausea made me reconsider, deflate lethargically, then kick the plans into high gear. The conference reassured me that 1)Some of my work makes me a viable candidate for consideration at the journals and Universities to which I’d apply; 2)I must continue to function at as high a level as possible for the next few months, because academia will just not be possible in 2010; and 3)the stuff on which I wanted to focus my scholarship ten years ago may actually start making its way into the mainstream soon, which is freaking awesome timing, all things considered (and Vomitron willing).

But the highlight of the trip was the food. I love good food, and I certainly have access in San Francisco and Berkeley. Really good food. Really, really good….but here’s the thing. Food eaten on vacation with friends in New York City in the just-beginning-to-crisp autumn achieves a whole new level of great over that which is sandwiched in between gulps and eyebrows that remind, constantly, exactly what the babysitter is costing. Some of the dishes in NY (gnocchi alla sorrentina, a grecian omelette, and pret a manger soup grabbed between conference panels) were fine but not spectacular. And some were as well balanced and nuanced as anything I’d had before (a bread pudding of perfect consistency, a brilliant artisan cheese and local veggies omelette, the freaking mindblowing TKO and linzers at Bouchon, and a brie sandwich on cranberry baguette).

But the absolute best time, money, and calories spent were achieved via a raging 25-month sheeps’ milk local artisan cheese from the farmer’s market is still coating my palate with a NYC magnet, pulling me to go back. And telling me that despite my instincts, there need be no punctuation in the above cheese’s hyper-adjectival clause. Cause a pause would ruin the magic, yo.

Believe me, cheese guy, if I could afford to, I would be back tomorrow. Because I have to get more of that cheese and give it to all my friends. Heck, I’ll even bring Peanut this time. Because he should totally get to see NYC at night in autumn. I loved it. Even more delightful this time than it was 13 years ago.

(Holy crap I’m old. Way to kill the mood about a great trip and future successes by recalling how many years have passed since I was vibrant and carefree. Geez. I need more of that cheese to salve my wounds. Oh, look. Brought home a pound. Good thinking.)

Phone calls home

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I don’t think there is anything in this life I love more than talking to my son on the phone. (I realize that sounds cold, since it means I prefer distance to being in the room with those little eyes and lovely curls. But bear with me.)

His voice is positively adorable. I spend so much time with him that he feels quite old. But the phone does not lie—that voice belongs to a tiny person.

And I love his priorities. Ever single phone call begins this way before I even say hello.

P: I love you, Mommy!

Without fail he starts conversations with I Love You. There’s really no beating that. Plus, he always tells me two interesting things about his day and then says, “Bye Mommy, I love you. Good bye. Have fun. I love you. Good Bye.” And then he turns off the phone and moves on with his life.

*sigh*. I kind of didn’t want to come home.

Preschool debut

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Ah, Peanut had a classic, classic first day at the co-op. Major resistance getting out the door. Don’t want to eat, don’t want to dress, don’t want to go. But, little man, I know we’ve only been over this ten thousand times, so I’ll patiently explain as though it’s the first conversation we’ve ever had, that this is a school where you do self-directed play and I’ll be there the whole time if you want me. And you’ve been there three times already for tours and orientation and such and never wanted to leave. Remember? You like this place. And I’m not leaving you there alone.

Oh. Okay.

He was a bit shy when he was in the morning circle, but the very minute we broke into the huge indoor and outdoor play spaces for the daily two-hour free-for-all playtime, he made a bee line for the child who told everyone about his new top that glows when you spin it, and asked the boy if he could try it. Awesome guts, Peanut. I like that. I don’t have that, and I won’t praise it ‘cuz we’re into that whole “narrate it but don’t judge anything they do” parenting style, but I totally dig it.

He tolerated the hyper-whiny kid, he defended his territory when bigger kids wanted to play with his puzzle, he took it well when the older kids wouldn’t let him play in their fort, he successfully diapered three baby dolls by himself in the loft (from which he banned me because I’m too big), sewed four buttons on his quilt piece, ate his tuition’s worth of popcorn at the snack kitchen, read several books with me and then with his freshly nappied dolls, and build some awesome marble roller coasters.

I love watching him from a distance as though I don’t know him. He’s perfect in every way.

Especially compared to *that* kid. And *that other* kid. Thank you, E. and I. and the others of your size and approximate age who wanted to play with him and invited him into your reindeer games. You’re lovely humans.

At song time Peanut was the first to answer at each turn how many monkeys were left jumping on the bed after their ill-advised mother ignoring. And when we celebrated one five-year-old’s birthday, he told me with no hesitation that the donut hole he tried was yucky and I *had* to eat his. He pushed a little shopping cart full of basketballs for more than 30 minutes straight, running in circles until he was flush and exhausted. And five steps out of the gate after it was all done, he completely lost his ability to be a grownup.

So we went home and he threw tantrums and I offered food and he refused to wash his hands and I offered nap and he started to slam the door but collapsed into a heap at my feet and needed a long cuddle to regain any semblance of reason. And we ate and slept and he told me after nap that he would really like me to stay in my room for a while while he played quietly by himself.

“It’s all just too much, Mom. I just need my house back.”

Oh, little guy, I hear ya. Good thing I get to put you to bed soon, because I feel exactly the same.

He was brilliant, school is going to be brilliant, and being allowed to read Mill on the Floss for half an hour while my small creature plays with his dolls alone is totally worth parenting dozens of ne’er-do-wells every Friday, my day to participate at our supportive, respectful, non-authoritarian, play-based, hippie co-op.

Yay, little dude and yay mama.

Marriage of heaven and hell

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Know my idea of heaven? Being away from home, in either urban or rural setting, where my time is entirely my own and the only bottom I wipe is my own. Where I see friends of all sorts for eating and meandering and simply talking, all of which occurs without interruption except by consenting, pleasant adults. In this heaven there is no acting as full time Superego for my Id escapee; no addressing anybody’s sleeping, cleaning, reading, or playing needs but my own. There is intellectual stimulation and quiet in equal measure. There are deep breaths and completed thoughts completely bereft of whining, hitting, screeching, demanding, and throwing. In this heaven there is no Candyland.

Well, erumpent Id with messy bottom and multivalent sleep, cleanliness, reading, and play needs: I get all that heaven and more in one week. Hope the anticipation bodes well for your caretaking for the next seven days.

Praise be cheeses

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Oh, readers, the heavens are on my side today.

Peanut is being adorable.
Snickers, the baby, is being silly.
Long walk resulted in a happy child. Continuation of long walk resulted in errands being completed. Further continuation of long walk resulted in an hour of self-entertained playground operations and a coffee milkshake for me. Continuation of long walk resulted in observation of road work AND a tractor climb for Peanut. Yay water district workers.

Exceedingly long walk rendered me unable to rant at the lazy postal worker or the crappy drivers. And made me even more obsequious in my friendly waves to drivers who stop for us at crosswalks. You people rock.

Peanut has decided he loves spinach. Three meals a day he has raw spinach, with varying dipping sauces. I don’t recognize this kid, but he’ll be strong to the finich.

And Houston, we have preschool.

Paperwork underway, we may begin as early as next week.

Universe, shut the heck up! You’re more awesome than the quantum physicists had me believe!

Super Happy Halloween

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P: Happy Halloween!
Stranger with candy: Oh, what a great costume. Choose a piece of candy.
P: Can I have two?
Swc: Sure!
M: [silently] damn you, neighbor!
P: Thanks! Happy Halloween!
Swc: Bye.
P: Hope you have fun. Bye. I love you!

Just about died with joy at every single house. Cutest of all cute peas, he wanted to go up to the house by himself. He pushed the button, knocked twice, and stepped back, like each door were an elevator. He only told two people he loved them, because that last line is what he says to Dad every morning when he leaves and to anyone who calls and wants to talk to him on the phone.

So it was an awesome night. Much fun. One boy in spider jammies, vampire vest, mardi gras necklace, stuffed ghost tucked into vest, cowboy hat, and construction goggles.

Small beef: Neighbors, please, could *one* of you give out toys or play-dough or crayons or something instead of candy. Come on. One house with a dentist and toothbrush, maybe? One spider ring or yo-yo or plastic skeleton? Please?

Cowboy spider vampire necklace extravaganza

Huzzah for Ben & Jerry’s

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Really, this is a huzzah for Vermont, but I love this symbolic show of support for yet another state making civil rights a reality not just a talking point.

In celebration of Vermont’s new marriage equality, Ben and Jerry’s is renaming (just for Sept. and just in VT) their awesome Chubby Hubby ice cream and relabeling it Hubby Hubby.

I met Chubby Hubby in the mid-90s at Boston’s phenomenal Scooper Bowl (debuts of all the new ice cream flavors by every ice cream company on the planet, filling the Commons with free ice cream and insane amounts of goodwill). I love the flavor, for peanut butter and chocolate and pretzels are my idea of heaven, even though Cherry Garcia often spends more time in my house.

I’m so proud of companies that put their neck on the line for what they believe in. B&J is already doing awesome work for livable wages, poison-free farming and dairy ranching, the planet, and other causes near and dear to me. But it’s just lovely that they are rolling out a line of happy celebration for this new law. What goes on in other people’s houses is their business, and the number of cartons of B&Js now in my freezer, as of today, is my business.

Ladies Night Out

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Saturday started out slowly…went to the wrong birthday party and wound up missing a friend’s son’s big day. Rescheduled a date with a sweet boy who was terrorized by a grouchy Peanut on our last outing. Ate dinner way too late and faced a major meltdown.

Then went out for a night of adult conversation after bedtime with a couple of new friends, and it was glorious. A pan of still-warm brownies, a game of cut-throat cards, and just general talking about topics big and small.

Then I got home, really late on a cold night, to a couple of soft lights, my flannel jammies laid out on the bed, a glass of water at the bedside, and a pre-warmed side of the bed. (Spouse slept on my side until he heard me come home, then he rolled over and let me bake in his 3,000 degrees.)

Lovely night, and even better than I don’t have to choose between friends and Spouse. Three cheers for a great Saturday!

What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks?

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I don’t understand it. I’ve been missing dozens of things lately, and I got them ALL today.

My dream day involves sleeping late, reading a book, practicing yoga, having a fabulous home cooked breakfast, going for a walk on a glorious day in the greater S.F. Bay Area, talking with friendly humans (young and old), eating a fabulous home cooked lunch, more reading, napping, more reading, another venture out of doors, a delightful dinner prepared by someone else, and a chance to put my feet up and write.

I got every single one of those things. No sitter, no bribes, no compromising major philosophies, no yelling, no wanting to knock myself into a coma just to get a break.

Plus, I got the part I never, never fantasized about but will now, every time: awaking from a nap with a small, perfect creature next to me, who then, upon waking and seeing me reading, thinks books are a good idea and (get this) reads to himself while I finish a chapter in my own enjoyable book.

Are you serious? Infinite summer, indeed.

*Oh, yeah, it was hotter than crap today and I felt sick most of the day and I feel badly that I didn’t clean or make the world a better place, but you wouldn’t know it from my already rosy memory of the day.

Thank dog for small favors

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Dear Universe,

Thank you, thank you for making fruit that does not need to be peeled or cut.  Washed, sure, mostly. Thank you for berries and grapes; they make my life so much easier I might actually cry. (All you chocking-hazard types can just get bent because I’m having a freaking moment here, and I sit with him when he eats, and I haven’t cut grapes since he was a year, and I’m bending over backwards here not letting him cry and respecting him so if I want to endanger his life a little it’s my business since I’m the one whose given up almost everything I know as happy and good in the world to give him things that are happy and good so just back the hell up and choose another blog to safetyvangelize.)

Thank you, Universe, for screwcap wine being okay now instead of all box winey.

Thank you Universe for my son’s perspective. On our hike I saw a deer and three wild turkey (not the former because of the latter, though that might be a good story, too) and he showed me a hawk, about 20 feet across a gorge, in a tree. I see stuff that’s moving and blow past things that are still. He sees everything. I’ve never before seen a hawk sitting still, watching.

Thank you, capitalism, for making pipe cleaners so cheap. Seriously. That’s like an hour of free thinking time while we quietly make fake flowers together for the house’s many vases. (Cat bastards make sure no real plant goes unmolested. For those keeping score, cats are more trouble than a fetus; newborns and infants and toddlers are more trouble than cats. Now cats are back on top, causing way more headaches than a three-year-old, even one without child care or preschool or any time away from me god help me don’t know how to make it through tomorrow or the next day.)

Thank you, Universe, for hummus. I would thank you more for avocado if my kid would eat it, because it’s an even more complete meal than hummus. But, we play the hand we’re dealt, and I appreciate hummus.

Thank you, youtube. Just for being you. Except all the creepy parts. I don’t appreciate having to prescreen searches to make sure some Plushy doesn’t pop up when I search for aardwark vids. But, still.

Thank you, England, for losing. We totally dig our fireworks. And the kazoo parade at the Russian River. I’m a total Yankee Doodle Dandy, macaroni and all. Seriously, how would we make it from Memorial Day to Labor Day without an excuse for outdoor cooking and excessive desserts? Thanks, British Empire. Most of the other colonies got totally scrod, but we did okay.

And thank you, Spouse, for the help yesterday. Your willingness to move the dust mop AND the whole pile of dirt about four feet out of the way when shrieks from our child interrupted my progress really helped. I was able to pick up my mopping again the next day, almost as if nothing had happened. You’re a peach.

And thank you Universe, for continuing to throw a freaking bone to the family you keep tossing about like a plaything. Thank goodness the illnesses (times thrity-two, by now, I think) and the car accident and the spitballs of bullshit you keep hurling at them just miss. There, CB. I’m grateful for you.

Carved in Stone

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Saw the opening night performance of Carved in Stone in Hollywood last night and was amazed. I have a crush on every one of the five lead performers. Acting choices were strong, avoiding the obvious risk for overacting that arises when such characters get a new chance onstage. Staging was fine. Script by Jeffrey Hartgraves is great, and although I’d trim a line or two here and there, there are more that I want to write out and paste to my refrigerator. What a monumental effort by everyone, from producers to stage management.

It was beyond fabulous to see old friends. I can’t believe how long it has been, how sweet they are, and how rueful I feel that it took so long to see them. I love those guys.

And I am so amazed that all  three of them are following their dreams and working hard to make their art a reality. Two are just beyond impressive. One, of course, is pretending to be a rockstar dickhead, so I won’t feed his ego by saying anything except that it is quite an accomplishment to get all the cheese stains out of his clothes. That seems like a major achievement.

And only one thing would have made the night even better. As lovely as it was to catch up on old times with my date, and it was, it would have been unsurpassedly cool to be there with Spouse. Yet even without him, as Uncle Charlie says, I wanna do it  again. It was a great night out, raw food vegan cheesecake and all.

and another

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another haiku for my trip back to myself

brain pumps blood to heart
sky lake sun breaths blinks french toast
now I remember

Now I’m going back to the voices on the phone. There are no words to thank her for this…

Sweetest sounds

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I’m taking a poll in my house (unfortunately I’ve only been asking one person, but now that I have you, the pool might expand a bit…)

Which is the sweetest sound:

a) Early morning, birds singing, cats stretching; the bedroom door across the hall opens. Tiny feet pat softly into the bathroom. Lid goes quietly up, and moments later a faint tinkling means the first battle of the day won’t be one. You can hear the sound of your own back cracking as you stretch, sigh, and wait for the feet to continue their journey to you.

b) The din from the next room distracts you, makes you anxious, bodes poorly for your ability to blink much. You’re pretty sure there won’t be a nap. There’s been banging and crashing and yelling and singing and self-negotiating going on in the bedroom ’round the corner as you sprint to check email, write a blog post, proofread an article, find the best price online on organic crackers, and upload pictures so you can make a picture-filled Mother’s Day gift for the five women in your kids’ lives. Suddenly you realize it’s *still* in the other room. Not calm before the storm still, but blissfully, restoratively quiet. Options expand before you and the shoulders you have come to believe are glued to your ears drop, silently, effortlessly to their rightful place atop your clavicle.

c) Large feet stomp out of the room. Drawers slam, a door is swung wildly on its hinges, then all stops. There is a pause. The same feet walk, slowly, placed carefully one before the other until they are quite near you. A gentle voice, disarming in its difference from the hollering nasty voice of moments before, asks, “Please tell me you’re not blogging this.”

As my college roommate purred, “can’t we have both?” Or all three? Do we have to vote for just one?

You’re welcome to add your own favorite sounds. Please do. I’d love to hear them (or, more realistically, read your description of them. Because I ain’t coming to your house to listen to you uncork your favorite bottle of “help me get through to bedtime”. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care.)

Well, nobody is bleeding, so I guess it was a good day

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Spouse gave me a glorious day of writing as penance for the two trips he’s taken this month. I ate, I wrote I breathed with my eyes closed a few times. I got in and out of the car with ease, and managed not to have a meltdown over situations large or small. It was a good day. I hit 80,000 words, and not just schlock. Stuff I could put my name near, if not on.

I came home at 7:30, at which point in a regular day dinner is done, the house is tidied (by a three-year-old, so it ain’t spic-n-span, but still, toys are in their place), bath is done, jammies are donned, teeth are brushed, and stories are underway. Tonight, though, at 7:30, I walked in, and a mud and blueberry smeared boy greeted me, beaming, at the door. He was finishing his cereal, covered in marker tatoos and stamps. The house looked like a bomb filled with puzzle pieces, toy cars, bristle blocks, a miniature tea set, and cat vomit went off. The sheets, which I change every Sunday, were full of sand from a post-playground nap.

To be fair, the bath was already drawn, the kid had a burrito and banana before the cereal, and the cat vomit was all over my stuff, so it’s understandable that it got overlooked.

So I put my happy, smeared, tatooed boy to bed and thanked his father for the day of writing. ‘Cuz if we ever get a room of our own, we’re willing to tolerate an awful lot in the sandy, blueberried, markered, late for bed department.

At least I didn’t come home at 10, like I prefer to on my increasingly frequent days off. They might have been doing shots and playing poker.

And having a damned fine time.