Second day in a row she’s wearing these to school. Does this qualify as a thing yet? Maybe after three days.
She’s been asking for glasses forever. Mama’s been ignoring the request for exactly that long. So Devil Baby took matters into her own hands and converted a pair of 3-D glasses from the movie we saw on Saturday.
Nicely done, DB. They suit you.
This past weekend, Saint James was invited to his first party, with both boys and girls. Supergirl is good friends with the host’s younger sister so to her great joy, she was invited too. By all accounts, it was a blast and from what I hear, the kids just danced and danced and danced. Nanook’s words after sneaking a peak: “they were in full Dougie.”
Am I crazy, or have things changed? Since when does a room full of boys feel comfortable showing off their moves under the shattered light of a disco ball? From what I remember of school dances, it was always just a mob of spazzy girls dancing, the boys shuffling around the perimeter until a slow dance came on and maybe one brave soul would emerge from the pack to approach a girl (sigh, never me).
It appears the kids today have obliterated all such awkwardness. For all the talk of the isolating effects of technology, I would have to say that based on this admittedly tiny sample size, all is well in the social department for our youth. They hung out, talked, laughed, goofed off, included the younger kids who happened to be there and danced. Maybe sixth grade just happens to be a golden window for this kind of freedom and frankly, coolness. But I can’t help but hope this portends of how it’s going to be. Now I just need someone to teach ME how to dougie.
They had a photo booth at that Father Daughter dance they went to. Looking at this picture makes me want to die of sheer joy. In another time and place, the two of them could’ve made an unstoppable mime duo, don’t you think?
I’m kind of the queen of buying gifts for people that I really want for myself. This Saturday night we’re going to an overnight dinner party at Gigi the Animal Whisperer and Ten Gallon’s “farm” with two other families. In addition to bringing fixings for the fanciest salad I can come up with (I’m thinking arugula with shaved fennel and apple, slivers of proscuitto and a champagne vinaigrette), I wanted to give Gigi and Ten Gallon a little token of thanks for hosting so many teens and children when what they were really after was us grown-ups! As they are the parents of three hungry adolescent boys, I stopped in my tracks when I spotted this book at Cooks of Crocus Hill. I couldn’t resist paging through it when I got home and the recipes look abso fabu. Big on flavor, big on heartiness, low on fuss. My kind of cooking. I love what Lucinda Scala Quinn says in her introduction about feeding the men and boys in her life.
Boys and men who grow up eating flavorful home-cooked food are more likely to cook for themselves. A man who knows how to cook is more self-sufficient, is a better roommate, boyfriend, father, and son. And as any wife knows, a husband who can cook is like one who can dance – the deluxe package. Huzzah!!!
Obviously, this holds true for girls too and like this author, feeding my family is one of my life’s great pleasures. It’s a way to be busy with my hands so I can listen to music and think. It’s a way to feel productive when I may be procrastinating figuring out what I’m going to be when I grow up. It’s a way to nourish and teach and share. It’s a way to show my love. And it’s a way for me to stack the deck in favor of ending up with a brood who will enjoy eating the way I do. If it is something we have always done together, it is something we can always do together. As my mother-in-law would say, bon appetit!
Some families are really good at planning special alone time with one parent and one kid. We are not. We’re kind of an all-for-one-and-one-for-all crew. Several times a year, I get a bee in my bonnet about planning something alone with one of my kids, but then I never do it. As a result, my M.O. is to slap a “special time” sticker on an outing should I ever happen to find myself alone with one of my kids. A few weeks ago I dragged Devil Baby to a downright frigid farmers market and when we stopped for hot chocolate at French Meadow on the way back, I tried to act like it was some fabulous special time. She responded with barely more than a skeptical look while she ate her whip cream with a spoon. Apparently, it’ll take more than an errand and a hot beverage to get her attention.
This past Saturday, however, the stars aligned (or rather Doctor Dash decided, against all odds, to take the girls to a daddy daughter dance at our club) and I had Saint James to myself for the night. After watching him order the lobster poached in butter on New Years Eve in Florida and then meticulously inhale every morsel, crumb, drizzle, micro-green, bit and bite of a five course dinner, I knew what I wanted to do with him. I wanted to eat. Somewhere special. He was ready. Ready for Bar La Grassa.
After his hockey game, we scooted downtown and without too much delay, scored a seat at the kitchen bar, so we could watch the action. Sitting shoulder to shoulder we watched while Isaac Becker checked plate after plate of gorgeous food coming off the line. We marveled at the pretty young girl in chefs whites working the salad station. We giggled at the server with the waxed curly cue mustache. We talked about books, movies, middle school and high school. We perused the whole menu, savoring the choosing almost as much as the choices. I sipped my Lambrusco Rose, he sipped his Shirley Temple. And we feasted. Plate after plate, passing before us, forks crossing, words murmured. Saint James was intrepid and curious and a joy to eat with. Here’s what we had.
Belgian Endive, Apple and Orange salad.
Calamarata with Raw Tuna (this is my must have – I dream about this dish)
Pappardelle with Veal Ragu
Crab Ravioli
Pork Ribs
Braised Greens with Ham Hock
I’ve had many memorable and happy meals at Bar La Grassa, but this one, the one with my boy, is my absolute favorite. There is nothing I love more than watching a ravenous kid eat, but watching a ravenous kid eat while his mind is being blown by new foods and flavors is a whole other kind of awesome. One kid down, two to go.
Thank you to Nanook who sent me this blog post by Glennon Melton, a mommy blogger who blogs for the Huffington Post. She takes a stand against the carpe diem ethos we live in. She holds up a stop sign to all those well meaning people who tell us to enjoy every minute with our children, that it all goes so fast. But my favorite thing about this post is that she reminds us of chronos time and kairos time.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, back from the époque of Birkenstocks, flannel shirts and Liberal Arts, I felt a little shudder of recognition. The ancient Greeks had two words for time and the distinction between the two is just so beautiful and true. Chronos time is chronological time, schleppy time, regular, minute-by-minute make the lunches, find the mittens, check the backpacks, drive to soccer time. Kairos time describes those moments outside of time, or in between time, when time stands still, something special happens and we see it – really see it.
We can’t live in kairos time all the time – that’s our lot as humans. But the striving for it, well, I think that’s our lot too. And our blessing. Sometimes we are bowled over by the kairos moments because they are huge and life changing. Take the first time you see your baby. Time stands still and every fiber of your being is attuned to that moment. Your focus is absolute, unwavering and yet effortless. But what about the quiet, small, maybe even imperceptible moments? Perhaps, by holding these two concepts of time lightly in my palms as I go about my day, it’ll help me to make sure I don’t miss those sneaky kairos moments that could so easily slouch by hooded by annoyance, inattention or concentration. Perhaps, the more limber we can be by moving between the two types of time, the more we will see with our hearts. And maybe it isn’t even about seeing the kairos moments, but about recognizing them when they happen.
This morning in chronos time:
7:30-9:30 I worked the concession stand for the school basketball teams. Friendly chatter with the other mom, busy hands making popcorn, coffee, setting out the chips and candy and Gatorade. Sneaking sips of my own coffee to try to shake off the tiredness. Dash arrives with the rest of the brood in time for Saint James’ game and I join them on the bleachers barely noticing that Supergirl has taken a seat behind the concessions table, ready to sell.
This morning in kairos time:
I glance out of the gym toward the concessions table and Supergirl is sitting with her hands on the box of money. She is wearing a fox hat, Carondelet tie-dye shirt, green jeans and snow boots. The second shift of concession workers has arrived and as some mother whom I don’t know is taking her coat off in the kitchen, Supergirl, with her hand still on the money box, quite literally, gives her the total stink eye. You see, my girl has always loved commerce. Ever since she was tiny, there was nothing more exciting to her than using real money to buy a real item. Shifts be damned – there was no way anyone was going to take her seat. I chuckled to myself, turned back to the game, and slipped back into chronos time with barely the flutter of an eye.
I became the mother of a boy who went snowboarding wearing nothing but a short sleeved t-shirt under his coat. I used to see these boys in the chalet, with their wind burnt faces and bare arms, slurping giant sodas, ravenously bent over trays of food or guffawing with their buddies. I used to see these boys and wonder about their mothers. Surely, a thermal under that t-shirt wouldn’t have been too much to ask for. A fleece neck warmer perhaps?
I don’t wonder about those mothers anymore. I’m just happy he’ll wear a coat at all. What’s next, snowboarding in a hoody? Over my dead body.
Then again, that’s how I used to feel about neck warmers.
Where have I been people? I’ve been in Florida visiting my parents with the kids. I got to see Maestro de Bife before he goes to Australia for a year and got to meet his very sweet, very cool lady love. An extremely enthusiastic thumbs up from the peanut gallery on her! We had warm days and cool days, but the sun was always out and we got our injection of family and Vitamin D. Despite the long walks, the great meals, the beach with its constant source of peace and treasures, it was an odd week for me.
My heart kept flying back to Minneapolis. I would be squinting up into palm fronds dancing beneath a blazing blue sky, but my thoughts were with the people in the dark and muddy north. For starters, Dash and Foxy were at home, so there was that feeling of being slightly off kilter that comes from the family not being whole. Then there was the fact that Lady Tabouli and Lady Doctor Poodle’s mom died in the wee hours of the new year after a very long, hard battle with ovarian cancer. As I got to enjoy my mother, bustling around, doing the things she does, I wondered about my girls and how they were faring in Chicago at the end, but in some ways at the beginning, of a very hard journey. On top of that, I heard of Jack Jablonski’s spinal cord injury almost immediately after it happened through the Carondelet grapevine. A sophomore in high school, an alum of our little grade school, he was horrifically injured during a hockey game and will likely never walk again. It seems he may not even have use of his arms. It is heart breaking. It is a tragedy. There aren’t words for this. Again, thoughts of Jack’s parents, their utter agony, kept my thoughts pinned to Minneapolis. I still cannot stop thinking about this boy.
So for this belated Music Monday, a little something from home, from the place that preoccupied my mind when I was far away. Howler is a young band from the hood whom I had heard on the radio but was hugely surprised to see featured on Rolling Stone’s website. Go little dudes! They are darling and, in my opinion, quite good. A couple days before we went to Florida we had a small dance party with some families and after the tornado of goodness had passed, Saint James and I were lolling on the couch thinking about all the songs we wished we had played. It was late, we were tired, but there we lingered, luxuriating in the glow of the Christmas lights and the silently spinning disco ball. Can you find that song by those kids from our neighborhood? he asked, apropos of nothing. Ah, he had heard rumors. I grabbed the laptop and we watched it together, his head on my shoulder – a perfect ending to a perfect night.
Here’s a small reminder that at any one time, in any one place, there are myriad stories unfurling: endings, beginnings, heart break, triumphs and everything in between; a reminder that, for better or worse, the world just keeps on spinning. Enjoy. (And notice the basement of Java Jacks.)
It feels specious to say Happy New Year. But, what else is there left to say?
Photo by Kathy Quirk-Syverstsen
My bubbly little Christmas angel, my wise and funny girl: HAPPY BIRTHDAY. It’s a funny thing to wish someone else a happy birthday, when really, that day, her birth day, has brought me nothing but happiness. In other words, to say Happy Birthday, is more than a wish . . . it’s a fact. Supergirl is nine now and as good of a friend as I could ever ask for. When I went to Lunch Lady Rocker Chick’s birthday party in Madison this fall, some of my friends overheard me talking on the phone with Supergirl from the hotel room. They couldn’t believe I was talking to my kid. Their surprise took me by surprise. She was telling me how the block party was a total bust, how no one showed up, how there was one lonely kid riding his bike back and forth, she laughed and I laughed and it was a moment I wouldn’t have noticed if someone else hadn’t pointed it out. I don’t know what it is about her, but she’s easy to talk to. She’s interested and interesting. And she doesn’t change a thing about herself, whether she’s talking to an adult, a kid, a baby, a dog. She’s just Supergirl, pure and unfiltered, and it has become one of those things I take for granted but that I love so much about her. She is just so . . . true.
Supergirl, of the quirky eye, the big heart and the ever doodling pen. You crack me up, you lift me up, you make the world I live in a much better place. Happy Birthday, sweetness. I. Love. You.
Someday I will miss the dried crusty play-doh stuck in my garlic press. Someday I will miss the dried crusty play-doh stuck in my garlic press. Someday I will miss . . .
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. 
It snowed last night and now our little corner of the world is tucked under a wooly white blanket. As I type, I hear buzzing snow blowers and yelling children from the sledding hill out front. Snowbound on a Sunday (but not really) – it’s a lovely place to be and way to be. I can’t quite decide if I want to build a fire and huddle up in the house for the rest of the day, or run around outside in my pajamas. Likely, I’ll do a little of both. The only thing I know for certain is that I won’t be changing out of the flannel shirt and longjohns I wore to bed last night. So don’t come visit. Or do. I won’t mind.
Today is the day, in fact, that we had planned to kick off our season of merry-making. This is the day I make empanadas and we put up our Christmas tree. Mama Nature just happened to oblige with a little ground bling.
Right around four o’clock, when the last child is home from the birthday parties and soccer practices of the day, we will shut the door, make a fire, crank the tunes and put up our Christmas tree. We’ll eat dinner on the rug in front of the fire while we admire our handiwork and bask in the twinkly glow of Christmas lights. Oh, man. Christmas lights. Just. One of the best things ever. Right?
Enjoy the snow, friends.
Today was supposed to be my day of taking care of business – that is, all the business that needs taking care of before the brood is out of school for the next five days. But Devil Baby is sick, so I’m homebound. So much for shopping for Thanksgiving ingredients. So much for yoga. So much for popping into a store for something sparkly to wear to holiday parties. So much for picking up laundry detergent and toothpaste. Instead, I’m typing in bed next to a fitfully sleeping Devil Baby. She’s got flushed red baby cheeks, a messy pony tail and a lot to say. To call her a dramatic sick girl would be an understatement. Child is one verbose invalid. She’s like Howard Cosell, giving me the play-by-play of her ever deteriorating condition. Every twenty minutes or so she wakes up, feebly asks for a sip of Gatorade as if it’s some magical cure-all elixir, and shares with me the latest and greatest on her suffering, some of which would sound alarming if she weren’t simultaneously extending her pale little fingers in the direction of the plate of Nilla Wafers on the nightstand. So far this morning:
I’m so hot. I’m so thirsty. I can’t sleep. I feel like my eyes are made of glass. I feel like my heart moved into my brain. Something invisible grabbed me and moved me while I was sleeping. I’m going to ask for a bag of air for Christmas to help me breathe better. I’m really worried about myself. What if I don’t get better? Are you worried about me? I think I’m going to throw up. My head feels big. Something is wrong with my fingers. My brain won’t stop talking. I’m really really really worried about myself. My tongue is hot.
Oh, my sweet little drama queen. It is a privilege to hear you weave your tales of woe in that tremulous little voice that you use. Especially, since this will all be a faded memory for both of us by tomorrow.
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.
So hey, looking through my list, I’m thinking not too shabby. We had a great weekend and for the first time in a long time, I feel kinda sorta on top of things, although I’m sure I’ll be back on that hamster wheel as soon as the school bell rings tomorrow morning. The week-end stretched and yawned, accommodating new plans, unexpected rain and the yen to be still.
1. get our pumpkins One is even shaped like a Frankenstein head!
2. go to an apple orchard. We left this until Sunday and it was just too damp and intermittently rainy to go. Maybe next week end. Or next year.
3. rake the damn leaves Go Dash, Go!
4. make waffles
5. square away Halloween costumes for the little peeps. Anyone know where I can get a chicken costume that doesn’t cost 70 bucks?
7. work on Supergirl’s book puppet project Done. Cutest Ralph the Motorcycle Mouse ever.
8. go see the Minnesota Stars play in the Championship Series on Saturday night – along with the pre-game Joy of the People soccer frolic and tailgating. We bundled up, brought tons of blankets and had a blast watching the Stars dominate the Ft. Lauderdale Strikers. Score was 3-1 and the Stars scored all the goals, even their own. Eeek! You guys, there are a lot of soccer people in this town. Lovely to huddle into bleachers with all of them. Shine On, Stars!
9. make pizzas Go Dash, Go!
10. go to the farmers market (always) Since it was so damp on Sunday morning, I buzzed over by myself. Red kale, regular kale, garlic, squash, skirt steak, eggs, spinach, donuts, done.
11. have people over Sometimes a last minute, impromptu fest is the best way to go. Mixed up some peeps who didn’t know each other, included the chitlins, and braised up a big pork butt from Clancy’s. It was a hilarious night (and delicious, I think).
12. go for a hike.
13. pull the dead flowers out of the damn window boxes I was a BEAST in the garden on Saturday. I pointed some speakers out the windows and went to town. Not only did I clean out the window boxes, I weeded the whole garden and planted 70 tulip bulbs. I did it people! I finally did it! But listen, planting bulbs is some hard-ass work! Now I’ll need to watch Bravo TV for two days to recover. Phew.
All the kids got a couple play dates each and we also finally tried out The Anchor Fish and Chips before the soccer game on Saturday night and fell head over heels. Cool vibe, great food. And on Sunday, after a lazy brunch at Sun Street Breads (we are all crazy for the egg, bacon and cheese biscuits) I took the brood on a surprise visit to Sugar Sugar at the suggestion of Supergirlfan. What an adorable candy shop! I’m not even a candy person, but the owner has such a beautiful aesthetic and collection of old-timey and pretty candy, that I was completely charmed. This place is a little jewel, so if you haven’t been, Go! and go often, so she sticks around. Lovely.
Here’s that handsome Ralph.
