peevish mama

I’ve got a thing for knives. I love and require a good, sharp knife in order to be happy in the kitchen. I often travel with a knife if I’m going to a rented cabin or home. Supergirl got mad at me once because she found a paring knife in her backpack – I had brought it along to cut an apple at a soccer game and forgot about it. Ya, I know. Not good. In addition to knives, I like things that are handmade, I like writers, I like people who talk about their art, I like the communities that spring up out of unlikely common interests, I like people who lead an examined life and all of that is wrapped up in this very cool short film about Brooklyn knife-maker, Joel Bukiewicz, of Cut Brooklyn. You need a few minutes to watch this, but it’s very inspiring and makes me feel hopeful.

that causes people to see a mitten lying on the ground and pick it up and hook it on a branch? It’s such a small and hopeful gesture. Up here it won’t get trammeled and sullied. Up here it might be seen. Up here it might find its rightful owner. Whatever the impulse (and this impulse is alive and well around our muddy little city), it makes me feel a little happy, a little sad – sappy. Yes. That’s exactly it. I love that people do this, I really do, and yet the image of a baby bootie swaying in the chilly air pinches my heart a little too.

On Friday night there was a collision – the girl in me who wants to fly around in the dark and hear loud live music, feeling it in every cell in her body, ran up against the mother and wife that I am on the outside and in the present. Mostly, these two pieces of me can co-exist peacefully. Mostly, I find that one actually helps the other. After I get to see something that moves me, that opens my mind and my heart, I think I’m actually a better mother. The next morning, my kids come down to breakfast and I’m usually playing whatever it is I heard the night before, all bright and happy, savoring that shimmer left behind, and they ask questions and they listen to the music and I tell them everything. Perhaps I am rationalizing, but my kids’ take-away might be this: art is one of life’s priorities and live music lifts up everyone in the room, the performers and every last person in the audience. I swear, First Avenue is like OZ to them. When they finally get to go, it’s going to be epic. But, as I’ve said before, this town is so chocked full of good music that Dash and I have to turn a blind eye to many many things we would like to see. And even with that kind of triage, there can still come a night when you look at the ticket, sigh and decide that staying in is the right thing to do.

I fell for Doomtree a couple summers ago when they played at the Lake Harriet Bandshell during the Music and Movies Series. We went with our neighbors on a beautiful August night and while the girls stood in line for free t-shirts that were being silkscreened on the spot, our boys stood on the benches and watched, rapt. How cute are they?It was a joyous rapping free-for-all and our guys were drinking it up. (I bet that’s what spawned their careers as Lil’ Ziggy, G-Dog and TNT.)

Doomtree is a Minneapolis collective of seven musicians who each go out and do their own thing, while coming “home” to collaborate with the each other in all sorts of different combinations and constellations. It’s so cool. They’re so cool – super talented, hard working, smart, honest. Dessa, beautiful, bad-ass Dessa, is the only woman. And I didn’t go to see their Blow-Out on Friday night – my sad little ticket is sitting on my bureau. I’m a little bitter, of course, but I snuggled on the couch with my monkeys and watched TV. And that kind of night, as we know, possesses its own kind of magic. But I’m still bitter – Nanook calls it FOMO (fear of missing out). I’ve got IKIMO (I know I missed out). Watch this for a little idea of how they work. So good.

OK, so maybe I was being a titch dramatic. It’s like riding a bike, hey! Shreddy and I had a gorgeous day. I have officially taken winter by it’s cold little balls. ROOOAAAR!. Now begins the time when I begin to shadily blow off all housely, wifely, motherly duties and blame it on snowboarding.

You guys. I am TOTALLY freaking out. Later this morning I’m meeting Shreddy Betty at Buck Hill and I am DYYYING right now. My hands are shaking, my knees are quaking, I am completely petrified, and yet I’m so excited, I can hardly stand it. Will I remember how to board or break my neck on my first run? Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus. I knew I’d be like this after a whole springsummerfall off. Hell, I’d even get squirrely after not boarding for a couple days. Shit shit shit. Wish me luck. Poor Shreddy. Little does she know the state of affairs heading her way this morning. SHIT.SHIT.SHIT. There is a lightly falling snow. That can only be a good omen. Right? RIGHT?????

I love this band, although I don’t think you’d really call it a band. More of a French dude. And you all know I happen to have a thing for French dudes – French Canadian dudes, anyway. This song is Midnight City off the new album, Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming. It’s the perfect music for tiny dancing, the season for which is fast approaching, so get ready. The night before Thanksgiving, I went to Transmission with my dancing girls and, in a brilliant move, DJ Jake busted this song out. Heaven. The top of my head popped off and out blew reams and reams of confetti. Really. Ask anyone. It blends seamlessly with 80’s new wave, which is probably why I like it so very much.

A beautiful video of a beautiful natural phenomenon for you on this beautiful holiday. Thank you to Mamarstiste for sending it to us.

Also thank you to Lady Homeslice and Mr. Lady Homeslice for folding my little vagabond family into their celebrations on Thursday night. It was truly delicious in every way. You all know how much I love living here – how I very much feel like we choose this city, every single day. But our families aren’t here, and sometimes I wonder if that’s a huge mistake, especially around the holidays. I don’t know the answer to that – it is something that I struggle with, for sure. I miss them deeply. But I do know that we have friends here in this little apple that feel like family – no, that are family.

And today I’m thankful for that.

So, tonight there’s a kindergarten party for the parents to get to know each other, hosted by a few families. It’ll be nice. You know, scratch out a name tag, grab a glass of wine, mingle and probably end up migrating toward the people I already know. Problem is, I don’t want to go. I just don’t feel like it. But I feel like I should. And this morning, as I contemplate doing something sweaty that’ll ruin the awesome blowout I got after my hair cut yesterday, I am truly of two minds on this. That, in and of itself is hardly interesting – I’m of two minds about lots of things. The thing is, I used to love these yearly gatherings. I used to organize and host these parent cocktail parties. What happened to me? Here are my two minds, going at it:

Mind 1: I don’t feel like getting gussied up.

Mind 2: Bullshit.

Mind 1: Doctor Dash can’t go. I don’t want to go.

Mind 2: Since when has being solo ever bothered you? You hate to miss a party.

Mind 1: I do hate to miss a party. But this isn’t really a party. It’s a school party.

Mind 2: You love school parties. You might meet some nice cool new people.

Mind 1: I know enough nice cool people. I don’t need anymore friends.

Mind 2: You can never know enough nice cool people and your future BEST friends might be hidden in this kindergarten class.

Mind 1: Doubtful.

Mind 2: You’re an ass.

Mind 1: Possibly.

Mind 2: You know what’s happening don’t you? You’re turning into one of those old parents – one of those old mommies who are just too cool for school.

Mind 1: Possibly.

Mind 2: You’re not that cool.

Mind 1: I’m a little cool.

Mind 2: It’s those young mommies, isn’t it.

Mind 1: Yes. They’re so . . . perky.

Mind 2: And clueless.

Mind 1: And wide-eyed.

Mind 2: And clueless.

Mind 1: And enthusiastic.

Mind 2: And clueless.

Mind 1: And young.

Mind 2: Perhaps this is your opportunity to take them under your wing – be their wise elder.

Mind 1: Comforting.

Mind 2: You can’t avoid them forever, you know.

Mind 1: I can certainly try.

Check out this cool graphic depiction of the evolution of music. It’s sort of mind boggling and I can’t help but think of the spread of contagion – of the musicians, elders, kids and dj’s carrying this music from place to place back when music had to move physically, if it was to move at all. Heady, no?

Also, on this very tired Monday morning after a late arrival from Boston last night, I just want to curl up with the musical equivalent of a warm fuzzy blanket. Enjoy Lykke Li’s cover of Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow – so pretty, as is she. I’m intrigued by her because she’s quirky and weird – the kind of girl who would put bells on her ankles and sing a cappella in a public square. She played to a sold out First Ave last night while we were on an airplane hurtling through the night. I would have liked to have seen her, but I wouldn’t have traded this weekend for a hundred shows. We went for Dash’s cousin’s wedding, and in an absolutely jam packed weekend, we got to squeeze in lots of fiercely lovely time with our family and all of our East Coast peeps. It was intense, fun, and as always, bittersweet. I miss everyone.

Paul loved to sleep with his mother. Sleep is still most perfect,
in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.
The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from
the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body
and soul completely in its healing. Paul lay against her and slept,
and got better; whilst she, always a bad sleeper, fell later on
into a profound sleep that seemed to give her faith. Ch. 4, Sons and Lovers, by D.H. Lawrence

I read Sons and Lovers years ago and have been carrying this quotation around ever since. I even figured out a way to shoe-horn it into a terrible short story once. I think the sentiment is lovely and so true. When my kids were babies, I was never too quick to shoo them to a crib. I always knew their time sleeping with us was finite, making it ever the more warm and delicious.

During the weeks that Doctor Dash works nights, the kids have started a sleeping-in-my-bed rotation. Aside from the squabbles about who gets to go first in a given week, I have to admit that I like it. They all sleep so differently, my children.

Saint James always reads later into the night than I do – sleep plays hard to get, but then keeps a gauzy hold on him late into the morning, leaving lingering yawns and puffy eyes. Supergirl is such an early bird, she falls asleep pretty much as soon as her head hits the pillow. It’s like a little switch gets flicked and she’s out. In the morning, the opposite is true and she’s bright eyed at the word go. In between, she’s as still as a stone. Devil Baby fights sleep, but once it claims her, she sleeps a long time. She seems to go on epic journeys in her sleep – her legs fluttering through water, climbing rocks, running on dirt roads. She’s the hardest one to sleep with, but the one I need to do it with the most. After a fraught day, with too much yelling and stubbornness on both of our parts, sleep washes it all away and we find our peace, deep in the night with her little legs strewn over mine.

Just like when they were babies, I know this is temporary. At some point Dash will stop working nights or they’ll just get too old to want to come to my bed. But for now, I do so love waking to a skinny bum in the small of my back or a little hand clutching mine – and hearing the murmurs and sighs of their secret sleep lives.

I’m a lover, not a fighter. Except that I’m a fighter too. Who isn’t? I love this piece in Esquire by Tom Junot on the role of fighting in a marriage. It’s a wise, blunt, realistic and in the end, romantic essay. Dash and I fight (sometimes epically) about stupid stuff and as Junot points out, the same stuff as always. I’m no walk in the park, I tell you. Often I think it’s because we’re lucky enough not to have more serious issues lurking, making us feel like we’re on thin ice. The house is solid, so we have a certain degree of freedom to stamp on the floors and pound the walls. But it’s good to be vigilant, to be careful, to make sure to keep it clean – even at its dirtiest. This was a good reminder that we can fight for all sorts of reasons  - but not to win.

Y’all know I love street art. This is a neat peek into the work of two ladies (Olek and Swoon) who are pushing the boundaries of contemporary art. I especially love what Swoon says about her art being an attempt to construct a space for a certain kind of connection, a certain kind of wonder, a certain kind of unlikeliness and for the things that you think that there isn’t room for or time for in the life that we’re living.

So picture this. A bare bulb – the old kind, with one of those little metallic pull strings hanging down. As I watch this, it’s as if someone reaches into the dark space above my head and pulls the string. Maybe it’s because I’m such a word person, but to me, listening to artists talk about their work is equally, if not more, fascinating than the work itself.

Connection. Wonder. Unlikeliness. For the things we don’t have room or time for in this life.

Amen.

Isn’t this such a kick? Street artist, Slinkachu, sets up and photographs these fanciful little scenarios that play with perspective. I found this on Unearth, a site that collects street art from around the world. I really dig this site. It’s thought and wanderlust provoking – an antidote to boredom and cynicism. When I feel sick in my gills from what I’m reading in the news and media, a little shot of art is a no fail way to restore my faith in us. All is not lost. Our kids are not doomed. The earth is not screwed. There is beauty, whimsy, humor and heart all over this hot little planet if we’re just willing to look. And even if we are screwed and doomed (which we are, holy shit, we are), it’s good to put that away and see the good, only the good, from time to time.

I found these pictures late this summer when the coalescence of my anti-climactic 41st birthday, Devil Baby’s impending leap into kindergarten and a general end-of-summer antsiness sent me into a tailspin. If you were anywhere within a two block radius of me the last couple weeks in August, you would have been alarmed at my state: alternatively weepy and manic, confused, verbose, morose, fretful, paralyzed, nervous and freaky. Deaky. Apparently, this identity crisis of mine was like a far off train whistle rapidly approaching over the last few months. Lady Tabouli reminded me that I was having these – um – thoughts back at our book club weekend in February. After too much wine, I confessed my angst to the ladies and said something about the fact that I can’t just be this aging party girl who goes to see concerts to feel alive. I needed a PLAN. I had completely forgotten. The ladies don’t forget.

Months, weeks, days. The words weighed heavy on my chest. Bounced around between my ears. Spelled themselves out behind closed lids like Sesame Street letters: WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO NOW?

WHAT THE FUCK?

DO I DO NOW?

So here’s what I know: 1. I don’t know the answer to that question, 2. I am not alone – many of us are wondering the same thing, 3. It is ok to take a moment, take a breath, take some time to figure some things out.

You see that number 3 there? That’s where Slinkachu’s pics come into play. Little does he know that a Minnesota mama saw his pictures at a time in her life when the confusion and angst rivaled that of her early twenties. I was amused by them. They stayed in my head. I went back to look at them a couple more times, showed them to Supergirl early one morning and finally found my message there. I felt it open like a flower in my throat: perspective.

Take a step back from your damn self, sister! (This is me talking to myself in my best Florence from The Jeffersons voice.) Get your head outta your fanny and open your damn eyes! You still the mama and those babies need you more than ever. Step back, girl. Step back.

And so I am. Trying.

Oh wait! That’s not true. Thank god for Foxy Brown. My Devil Baby went to kindergarten today and as you can see, sister was ready. She was more than ready. It was hard to boohoo this because she was just so very excited. Plus I happen to think kindergarten is pure magic, so what’s not to like about your baby finally being able to put on a cute jumper and her new kicks and walk through the front door of school, ready to play and learn and make new friends? The world cracks open like a juicy melon for kindergartners.

And I really was believing my own hype. My lady buddies, Crackerjack and Nanook, reached out to see what I needed/wanted on my first day as a mother of all grade-school children a.k.a. a freebird. My response: hip hop and lunchy, please. In my email I also said that I was so excited for Devil Baby, I wasn’t going to be feeling like a freak-a-deak. Well.

I set aside extra time to help Devil Baby get dressed and braided her hair. We took tons of pictures and did a quick stop by Red Vogue’s house so she could see her all dressed up. By the time we got to school, Devil Baby was ready to fly. We took one last picture with her teacher (who I requested because she’s wonderful, totally old-school, loved and ‘got’ Supergirl and is just the kind of tough but loving lady who should be escorting children into their school lives) and as I hugged Devil Baby one last time, I could feel her little body straining to get away. You see, there was this whole bright sunny classroom! FULL of kids! FULL of intriguing objects and toys! She really had to go.

So I put on my sunglasses and walked out the door, turning around for one last look. I was fine. I forwent the back to school coffee because I was dressed for hip hop and I didn’t feel like meeting any bright and shiny young mothers with toddlers hanging around their hips. Done.

I got in my car and I drove away. I was fine.

Really.

And then at the corner of Upton and 50th, it hit me like a wave. Slowly, slowly, the feeling washed over me.

All of my little people, my children – in school. Me – alone.

The wave. It pressed on my chest, so heavy, I gasped. And the next exhalation, a wail. And I cried all the way home. The silly tears of the woman with the shortest memory in history. Was I not JUST bitching about how ready I was for my children to be in school? Weren’t they JUST driving me bananas, like two days ago?

Waiting for me at the back gate was the wriggly, panting Foxy Brown. Wagging with her whole body, squirming so hard to get closer, she kept sliding through my legs as I tried to walk. Thank god for Foxy Brown. Did I do this on purpose? Because this was a really well-timed pet, people. My savior and side-kick and I went for a brisk walk and then it was time for hip hop, which, as Crackerjack would say – makes me happy in my heart. And then lunch with my girls, a little wine and a lot of laughs and a couple hours later I’m feeling almost normal. Better than normal.

Really.

that I find myself typing in a dark sunroom in the wee hours of the first day of school. I can’t sleep. In a few hours this house will spring to life and I will have little choice but to put on a pot of coffee and spring with it. It’s not typical for me to be up so much earlier than the rest, but after Devil Baby bashed into a door on her way back from the bathroom at 4 a.m., there was no getting back to sleep. And why not just get up, tuck the laptop under my arm and tip toe to the downstairs sunroom? Quietly. Quietly. Don’t wake the dog.

I feel like I spent all summer trying to wrap my head around summer. It was so odd, starting out cold and then getting unbearably hot, and then, just now it seems, falling into perfection. August was a gift this year. We rode our bikes, licked melty ice cream cones, scooped up countless outdoor concerts, lingered at farmers markets, swam in lakes, walked the dog in clusters of twos, threes and fives under streaky darkening skies. We packed up the minivan and spent a week on beautiful Spider Lake, just us, no phone, no internet. My family fished, I swam and read and cooked. Foxy morphed into a proper wild country dog, flying through the woods and into the lake.

It seems a pity, to have to put everything in a box just as things are getting good. Which is to say, I am sorry that my kids have to go to school today. Which is also to say, they are ready. I am ready. But I still feel a sharp pang at the thought that many many hours will go by without my seeing them. I will go about my day, my thoughts straying to one or the other of them, pretty certain (and honestly, glad) that they won’t be thinking about me.

It’s kind of lonely to be a mom on the first day back to school.