Guten tag! If you’d like to read a post I wrote about German artist, Uli Westphal, get on over Simple Good and Tasty. He’s cool. I dig him. I dig his mutatoes. And it’ll give you a little something to chew on this farmers market season!
If nothing else, this blog is testament to the contradictions and vagaries of my life. It’s amusing to me that a mere couple weeks ago, I was fretting about how it just didn’t feel like summer. Now I have my head so far up summer’s ass, I can’t even see straight. Or maybe my head is up my kids’ asses, or my minivan’s ass. Or maybe Edina Country Club’s ass. Or Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Dry-touch Sunblock’s ass. Whichever ass it is, and pardon the vulgar metaphor, I was under the impression that this summer was streaking by and I was helplessly watching from the sidelines. Same blur as a couple weeks ago, different reasons.
And then I located the little cord that allows me to upload pictures from my camera to my computer and as I scrolled through I was surprised to see not just a blur, but actual moments. Many moments. Lovely stoppages in time where I was actually paying attention, at least long enough to stop and take a picture. So maybe my issue is not so much that I’m missing this breakneck season, but rather that I’m forgetting it the second it passes me by.
So some snaps, as proof to myself that we are enjoying our summer and that sometimes I do manage to take a break from turning my kids into super-athletes and simply . . . live.
Summer started out, as it has the past three years, with Supergirl’s summer streaks at Hair Police. This year she went for fiery red and electric blue. I love this pic of little sis watching big. 
Stumbled-upon forts are pure enchantment – they can be there one day and gone the next. I love the juxtaposition of human tampering in a natural setting, but to the sweetest end. Our Minnehaha Creek sprouts forts like mushrooms.
In early June we went to the end-of-the-year student art show at Off the Wall Studio. It was amazing and I could include TWENTY pictures of all the cool things I saw. There is no doubt that there are some talented kids at this place, but what I like best of all is that it feels like a clubhouse. The kids get to be creative and free and it just seems to create a tangible sense of place. This has been a great joy for my Supergirl and something tells me she’ll be going to this club for a very long time.
After the Pride Parade, Saint James and G-Dog relaxed in our furniture-less living room. For whatever reason, Saint James had changed into his pj’s on the bottom but left everything intact on top – from the superfly pink shades to the stickers on his t-shirt. I have learned not to ask questions.
I went to Michigan with the girls for my sweet little God Baby’s baptism in late June. Daughter of my brother Golden and his wife Delicious Apple, Manzanita is seriously the cutest little butterball on earth. I love the freaky stuffed dog in the background – it actually has puppies that come out of a pocket on the belly and suckle. All of my kids have tried to bring it back from Michigan at different points, but I prefer it living there, sneaking into pictures.
Foxy Brown taking a snooze on the chaise in the backyard. She is getting enviable natural summer sun highlights around her snout. Sweet pooch. 
Last weekend we were invited to a true blue Mexican Quinceanera party and I was still reeling two days later with all that we got to see and experience. It is absolutely touching and incredible how a girl’s 15th birthday is celebrated in Mexican culture. An unforgettable night for all of us.
Man, it feels good to be part of a team.
I took this picture in a quiet moment when Devil Baby was sitting on top of the picnic table eating cereal. I love the fish tatoo and the sassy side pony – her new go-to hairstyle.
In light of New York’s legalization of same-sex marriage a couple days ago, I was feeling extra frothy to get down to the Twin Cities Pride Parade today. As expected, it was an exuberant, silly, happy, naughty love fest. I saw all manner of fabulous drag queens working it out in their fanciest Sunday frippery, old lady lesbians dancing with fluttering fans, guys in black latex kilts and dog collars, a cute and burly rugby team, a group of marching gay Hmong teens, the Minnesota Roller Girls in the flesh, a couple dudes on stilts, rescued pitbulls in tutus and my favorite moment: the mayor, in his little aqua polo shirt, riding on the back of one bad-ass mama’s motorcycle, leading the Dykes on Bikes motorcade.
Devil Baby and I scored a primo spot right across from the Saloon where we got to shake it to the blaring dance music while we watched for Supergirl and Saint James to march by. Yes, they got to march – and I must say I got a little misty seeing them and their buddies bedecked in rainbow tie dye shirts (from Carondelet Catholic School, ironically) and sparkly beads, collecting candy and waving to the crowd like they’ve been supporting gay rights their whole lives.
In fact, they were completely flummoxed by the notion that gays aren’t allowed to get married in Minnesota. They just couldn’t understand why, and Saint James was all about finding the loopholes, asking if a couple from Minnesota could go to New York on vacation, get married there and just come back here to live. They get it and if other kids their age get it, then there is hope that we are heading in the right direction.
As much as there is some serious flamboyance at this parade, I loved being there with my kids. It’s sort of a no-brainer from an entertainment standpoint, with the feathers and the glitter and the rainbows and the dancing! Those creaky old vets from the 4th of July parades ain’t got nothing on a marching band playing Born This Way. Afterwards, Supergirl was tittering into her hands as she told me about the guy who was naked but for a well-placed fig leaf. So she saw some buns, so what? Nothing wrong with an occasional bun sighting, I say.
It all boils down to this: different strokes for different folks – and the sooner we all understand and embrace that, the better off we’ll all be.
For some cool shots after the NY decision, check out this NY Times slideshow. And remember these gals? I wonder what they’re doing today?
Devil Baby is FIVE and I feel like I’ve been hit by a falling piano. I can’t believe it. I simply cannot believe it. My baby is five. I am now standing on a new shore, looking back at the other shore, panting, dripping, not sure how I actually made it here, and not quite ready to turn around and look at the new terrain that awaits me. This feels big.
Not only is she going from baby to full-on girl, but our family is stepping into a new phase altogether: all of our kids are now “school age.” Hell, this fall we’ll even have a middle schooler! Gasp! As a mother, and a mother of this particular girl, I feel like we have crossed hot deserts, climbed ragged mountains and forded angry rivers together. She was a tough one. She would not be named Devil Baby on this blog had she not been. We struggled, we cried, we ranted and railed but I am here to say that we made it. She is officially what I would characterize as a good little girl – made of sugar and spice and everything nice (and a large dose of sass).
She’s five, which is a truly magical age, but in keeping with her extreme nature, she has taken five to a new level even though she’s only been five for a couple days. Lately, when someone new is around or she knows she’s being watched, she goes into what I call “child actor mode”. She gets really perky and loud, like one of the orphans in the Broadway Musical, Annie. It’s like she’s the child actor version of being five – extra sweet, extra happy, extra chatty. But it’s the real deal with Devil Baby. She is feeling the five thing. Boy, is she feeling it. She is five with a vengeance. Five with style. Five with jazz hands and Charleston kicks.
She is thoughtful, helpful, curious and most of all, hilarious. Oh, how she makes us laugh. She is dramatic and girlie, free in her body and light on her feet. Her pre-school teachers tell me she’s unflaggingly polite (child actor mode?). Her legs have doubled in length in the last year and I can’t tear my eyes away from her lithe little frame when she dances or rides a scooter or climbs a fence or jumps off the diving board. She feels her emotions strongly and makes sure we do too. Like her sister, she chafes at having to be alone or hang around the house. Rest time is unnecessary, down time is a bore. She loves to be with people, to play, to be out in the world. This girl is ready to fly.
And me? I look at her and feel a crushing, panicky heartachey kind of love, because if she and I got to 5 and it felt this quick when I know it was that hard, then how is the rest going to go? How do I slow this down? Now that we’ve gotten to our sweet spot, how do I slow this down?
Sweet Devil Baby – my love, my greatest challenge to date. We’ve come a long way, baby. You are truly one of a kind. You have kept me on my toes, on the edge and in tune with every emotion in my grab bag for five years. At your core you are willful. At your core you are kind. You are a treasure and I cannot wait to see what you do, where you go, who you become.
My sweet, sweet baby. My sweet, sweet girl. Happy Birthday and thank you, my little Devil Baby, for being exactly as you are.
If you happened to have watched American Idol last night, you would have seen the premier of Beyonce’s newest video. Possibly, probably, you were completely entranced. Like me. I love Beyonce – she can kind of do no wrong in my book. This song sounds very M.I.A.esque and definitely gets you wanting to put on your fringe sandals and stomp your feet in the sand. And I covet the gold chainmail dress. Oh, and the cropped black fur vest. And the jewelry. I may need a tip-o-the-finger ring soon.
The video follows in the fine tradition of “rumble” songs – like Beat It, West Side Story and Love is a Battle Field. Seriously, wait for the part when Pat Benatar takes on the pimp and shakes her skinny bosom at him like an aggressive hen. It’s awesome. I love nothing more than a choreographed dance/fight scene. I think they are hilarious and a fine alternative to taking up arms, wouldn’t you say?
This has the makings of a girl anthem. Yes, das wat I said.
I’ve decided I’m going to pull up to Supergirl’s next soccer game against one of the giant blond suburban teams and blare this song out the back of the minivan (I may also plug a fan into my cigarette lighter to get the wildly blowing hair effect and lead the girls in a pre-game war dance). I was telling my family all of this this morning while I tried out some of the moves in the kitchen and Saint James just put his head in his hands and croaked MOM, how many times have you watched this?
Only once or twice. I swear.
Red Vogue is an amazing photographer and lately she’s been trying her hand at video (although the word video seems too banal for what she does). They really are moving photographs and to me they possess the same quiet, authentic, purity of her still photos. This video of Supergirl is such a snapshot in time – it captures her right now, age eight, suspended between being a little girl and a big girl. Actually, who am I kidding? She’s a big girl. You can see it in her eyes, her self-conscious laugh – she is no longer a naive baby, no longer an open book. She’s a girl – with all the complex feelings and self-awareness that entails. Supergirl is as open a person as you’ll ever meet, yet in this, I see her safeguarding a little piece of herself. I guess this is what we do as we mature. We gain dimension. We develop an inner life, which, I suppose, by definition, makes us less visible, or rather, less readable to others. Sniff. It squeezes my heart. Oh, how it does.
We did it. Yesterday Doctor Dash and I got a wild hair and we bought a dog. She’s a chocolate labradoodle and oh, Saint Francis, Patron Saint of Animals, is this girl ever sweet! Those of you who know me, know that I wasn’t looking to get a dog. Until all of the sudden, I was.
When Saint James’ second African dwarf frog died a few months ago, something big shifted in me. I realized I couldn’t take any more tears over fish and amphibians. I was done. He just wants something to love, I wailed at Dash. We can’t keep torturing them with fake animals! It’s cruel! It’s unfair! So we started by taking our hayfever guy to the allergist to make sure he wasn’t super allergic to dogs and started looking on-line, clearing our histories after every search so the kids wouldn’t get any ideas. All the labradoodle breeders were far away, so inertia took over and we figured maybe we’d start asking around. Maybe. But the psychic shift had happened and it seems when you open a door, someone is bound to walk through it.
Enter: Foxy Brown
Dash’s boyhood dog was a chocolate lab named Calvin, so when he saw this little girl’s picture in the paper this weekend, it was love at first sight. Still, we didn’t do anything for a day. And then all of a sudden, when we were at the Linden Hills Festival with the kids yesterday, I made Dash call – just to find out if she was even still there. She was. And something about it felt right. Nanook gave us a little prod and by the time we peeled ourselves off the sunny hill a couple hours later and gathered the kids, Dash and I had decided to drive out to St. Paul and meet her. I had heart palpitations on the way there and nausea on the way home. Somehow this felt like a bigger deal than having kids! What the hell were we doing? I must have transmitted my queasiness to Foxy, because she puked on me in the car. Poor little thing. Between the nerves and the motion, she didn’t stand a chance. With that first little accident and the doleful look that followed, however, she basically put her paw print right in my heart. I don’t know what that says about me, but she’s got me.
So far, she’s been a rock star. She slept all night, she hasn’t had an accident in the house (yet), but I’m under no illusions. This is going to be a ton of work, starting with the fact that we can’t leave everything lying around on the ground any more. We had about a nanosecond of peace and quiet as Devil Baby turned a corner and morphed into a chatty, funny, industrious, ready-for-kindergarten girlie girl. I guess that’s what allowed us to jump back into the fray.
Honestly, why did we jump back into the fray? I don’t know. As Nanook pointed out, some people are just open to a certain amount of chaos in their lives. Moreover, every time Devil Baby bravely approached perfect strangers and used her big voice to ask if she could pet their dogs, it used to tweak my heart a little. Watching Supergirl learn how to handle Red Vogue’s strong and spirited golden boy, Patrick, used to tweak my heart a little. And to say nothing of the deaths (R.I.P. Pearl, Pingo, Bubbles, Horace and Messi) – no one boy should be expected to endure so many frail non-mammals.
Needless to say, the kids are over the moon. Especially, Supergirl. Yesterday she said to Doctor Dash You made a good choice here, dad. You know, you won’t regret this. I hope that’s true. And in my heart, I know it is.
We are ready for you, Foxy. Welcome to the clan, sister.
Our school has a variety show every spring – only fifth through eighth graders are allowed to perform, but the whole school gets to watch. I’ve gone every year since I found out about it because it’s AWESOME. As is pretty typical for these types of things, the content and talent level is all over the map. But it’s always fun and sort of heartbreaking to watch these brave kids getting on a stage, in some cases at the most awkward point of their lives, to perform. Sometimes they are hammy. Sometimes they are adorable. Sometimes they are breathtaking. I always imagine the kids feel o.k. putting themselves out there because our school is a trusted little community and it warms my cockles – it really does.
Last year, I remember Crackerjack was a nervous nelly because her son was performing a song with a group of boys. She was totally the mama wringing her hands, hoping it would go ok. I remember being super blasé about it since I love all of it, always, year after year and have yet to see anything that makes me cringe.
Only this year . . . THIS YEAR, I’m singing a different tune altogether.
Saint James and his buddy, Birdie’s Boy, are doing a song and dance routine to Iyaz’ Replay. Apparently, they are singing, but since their “moves” are so complicated, they can’t stand behind a mic, so it’s more of a lip synch slash dance routine. (It’s a little known fact that lip synch slash dance routines were my speciality back in the day, so this amuses me. Only he’s in fifth grade and I was in twelfth. I know, I was so gay.) The two of them have been absolutely mum about the act, accepting no help, allowing no previews, asking for nothing (except for a pair of rapper glasses). When I suggested maybe they should hold their mics so we could hear them sing, I was totally blocked. I’m gathering this act is really more about the moves and the swaggah. Eeeep!
Needless to say, I’m fretting. It’s hard to watch your kid put himself in a position where he could potentially embarrass himself. I know he’ll be great, and even if he isn’t, it doesn’t matter because the two of them are so darn cute they could pretty much get away with anything. But yet – I fret. I am standing right in Crackerjack’s super sexy nervous wedges from last year. Right in them. And I’m sweating them all up.
Today I went to pick Saint James up from the dress rehearsal and realized they hadn’t gone yet, so when they took the stage, I ran out the side door. He has made it blatantly clear he wants to save the surprise, so I wanted to respect that. I could hear the music and see the audience, which was basically the kids in the show and a couple moms. A few girls in his class let out a little fan shriek when they came on stage and one was taping them on a small camera. I wish I had had my phone to tape the girls, taping the boys. Judging from their reaction, it can’t have been bad. In fact, it might have been good. The girlies were all smiles and giggles and clapping after they finished (no eye-rolling) and believe me, I had my x-ray vision trained on them, so I would have seen it.
Until tomorrow, Dash and I are keeping our jitters to ourselves because Saint James seems to have zero qualms about doing this. He is cool as a cucumber. I keep pestering Dash to see if he remembers being more self-conscious as a kid, but he’s not giving up the goods. I know I would have been a little spinning top of nervous energy had I been doing a dance in front of the whole school as a ten year old. But maybe that’s a girl thing.
We’ll see. Here’s to Saint James and Birdie’s Boy ‘breaking a leg’ as they say in showbiz, and their mamas keeping their shit together in the front row (because, you know, that’s where I plan to be!)
Until then, enjoy a little Iyaz:
I hope all my mommy friends out there had a fabulous day yesterday. Mine was busy, filled with my children, who, God bless their hearts, were trying really hard to be good. Doctor Dash is working nights right now, so most of the day, we were on our own. At one point in the morning, after the chitlins had loved me up with hugs and kisses and little wrapped presents of their own creation and I had whipped up blueberry pancakes and Canadian bacon for all to celebrate, the three of them sat down at the dining room table to draw and color. They were laughing and chatting, heads bent to their papers, passing each other markers with pleases and thank-yous. I’m not gonna lie, it was a little freaky. It was as if by some secret prior understanding, they had agreed to keep themselves busy AND get along and set to it right after breakfast. I passed by once. Passed by again. They didn’t seem to notice my stares of incredulity, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and the NY Times and high-tailed it to the sunroom where I got a rare and lovely half hour of paper time. The spell was broken when they barged in to show me their work, so the girls and I took a walk to the store to buy steaks for dinner (because what else would this mama want to eat on HER day?). We stopped by Red Vogue and Salt & Pepper’s for a long overdue chat on our way home.
By twelve thirty, it was time to head out to Supergirl’s soccer game. It rained a warm rain, forcing Saint James and Devil Baby to huddle with me under the umbrella, so no complaints. As if on cue, to make me proud as a peacock, Supergirl scored three goals and got the MVP award from the other team’s coach. Man, her face as she jogged off the field towards us at the end of the game was priceless – all smiles and wet plastered hair – she looked like the happiest drowned rat in the history of drowned rats. Remember last year when she started traveling soccer and I was having my girl power moment? Well, it all still holds. I re-read those couple posts the other day and as I was watching her get carried around piggy-back style after the game by another girl, both of them wet, muddy and jubilant, I felt like all is as it should be. That messy, joyous, well-earned victory is exactly what these little girls need. And the mamas on the sidelines couldn’t have been happier after an hour in the pouring rain. It was the essence of vicarious happiness for us.
After a lazy afternoon and a yummy dinner, we all walked to the lake and hung out at the beach. The sun was back out, just in time to scatter its fading tangerine light over everything. Turns out our whole family can fit up on the lifeguard platform at the same time. I swear, every time I clamber up there, I feel like a teenager. The kids climbed trees, Dash and I watched the water and the planes. I don’t know what we talked about or whether we talked at all. It was just nice to sit together on a perch with our brood scampering around below. On the way home, Devil Baby spotted two owls in a tree, which is cause for major excitement in this family.
It occurs to me that Mother’s Day, like mothering, is an ever changing thing. As a family, we don’t have any established traditions, aside from being together and being outside (and apparently, Dash browbeating the kids not to fight). I like keeping it loose, deciding on a whim what feels like fun. On our walk in the morning I saw tons of dads out with babies and toddlers, no doubt giving their wives a badly needed break. I’m not saying I never need a break, but I think I’m past the years of needing a break on Mother’s Day. My kids no longer physically exhaust me. I’m not chasing and wiping and nursing anymore. I don’t have kids physically attached to me for a major portion of the day. They are most definitely and completely other.
Now, more than ever, I feel like I’m in the gravy years of parenting. My kids actually WANT to be with me and I with them. Soon that will change, and then, when they’re sullen teens, we will force them to be with me on Mother’s Day because it’s the right thing to do. And what of our mothers, I wonder? The mothers whose children are grown, whose children have families of their own? I wonder what it feels like for my mother and my mother-in-law on Mother’s Day. Many of their children don’t live near them and the most they can expect is a phone call on this day. And yet, without them, none of what we have would even exist. Do they feel longing, for the years gone by? Do they feel a bit of the vicarious happiness I felt at Supergirl’s soccer game – only deeper and more well-deserved? Bittersweet, I imagine.
We will all be there some day, on a different point of the arc of motherhood. Bittersweet, indeed.
So, happy happy Mother’s Day to the brand spanking new mamas (Delicious Apple, I’m looking at you!), to the seasoned mamas (all my dear friends, you know who you are) and especially to the mama who gave me Doctor Dash and the mama who gave me my life, my self, my know-how. You both deserve all the love, gratitude and smooches in the world, because as you well know, and as I’m in the process of discovering, this motherhood gig – it ain’t easy!
I never particularly thought I’d say this, but damn! my boy looks handsome in a mohawk! He reminds me of a British soccer hooligan, and I guess I have a thing for British soccer hooligans. Actually, any hooligans will do. We sprayed it hot pink and off to school he went for crazy hair day looking pretty rad, if you ask me. If my family tuned into this blog on a regular basis, you might hear eeking and gasping all the way from Florida right about now. My sister is getting married on Saturday and no, da hawk will not be in attendance. Saint James will be wearing searsucker and a hot pink bowtie (per his request), because he’s a bit of a dandy this one. Go figure. As unassuming as he is, he sure doesn’t mind being looked at. So we’re off to the airport now, freshly spiked and pinked, ready to freak out the grandmothers, get a little sun, meet our new bebe girl niece, kick it up with our families and hijack the DJ next Saturday night for some fresh dancin’. I’m one happy mama right about now. Catch you all on the flip side!
I am so amused. Just as I was fretting about my kids not knowing how to entertain themselves, Saint James and the neighbor boys went on a rap writing rampage. They’ve got 12 songs written and have recorded two. Of course I’m biased, but I think they’re quite good. To the extent rap is a medium for telling your story or a fantasy version of your story, I’d say this is exactly what Saint James, er, Lil’ Ziggy and his posse are doing. They have each written their share of songs, they feature each other and provide the hooks for each other. It’s all very funny and extremely cute. In his song, Mercy, Lil’ Ziggy goes through a long list of mahem caused by the boys, including letting loose, riding a moose, playing ping pong and getting a deuce, spraying graffiti on someone’s hood and stealing fire wood and then the refrain, sung in a high falsetto, imploring the cops: You see those storm clouds above, asking for bloooood, all we want it mercy. Just give us some mercy mercy mercy. Tonight Tonight.
The last verse:
Bring it down!
Officers came said we had one last chance
We don’t care, cuz it’s not fair
We’re not done, let’s have some fun
Up till three hours past one
We put foam in a jacoozi (sic) then everyone else went snoozy
We posted on youtube, got a million views
We were rude, but we don’t regret it cuz we got all the credit.
No one came to edit, they all just fed it.
See? That’s some story telling right there. No one came to edit, they all just fed it? I love that! If you don’t know my son, you’d probably be alarmed by this, but honestly, he’s a gentle guy. Last night we were lolling on his bed while Doctor Dash read the raps out loud and Saint James was just laughing and laughing. I have no doubt he knows the difference between right and wrong – understands that there’s quite a bit of terrain between a yarn and the truth. And to me, that wild acreage is a pretty fun place to play.
Maybe you’ve already seen this, but I’ve been in spring break unplugged mode and I just stumbled upon it and it made me feel like weeeeeeee! Apparently, the National Geographic Channel actually pulled off recreating a house flight inspired by the movie UP. Check out more pics here. So neat.
So, on a seemingly (but never entirely) unrelated note, yesterday we had no real plans aside from a date with the couch and a US v Argentina friendly soccer game at 6:00 p.m. We had a lazy Saturday morning and I managed to scoot out of the house for a noon yoga class. When I came back, Saint James had a friend over and they promptly took off for the community center down the street to kick a soccer ball around. Good boys. The girls, though, were bored, whiny, bouncing around the house and getting on each other’s nerves and mine. I finally got so exasperated that I kicked them out – it was a beautiful sunny day and they needed to be outside, breathing in the last bits of cold winter air. Go build a school of snow children, I snapped as I shut the door. They stayed out for a while, came back in soaking wet, pink cheeked and smiley, just the way I like ‘em.
Later that night when we were cleaning up after dinner I found a paper magazine subscription insert on the counter. I was about to toss it in the recycling when I saw that Supergirl had meticulously filled the whole thing out. Name, Address, E-mail (made up), Number of Issues – all in neat, tiny, purple letters. I still tossed it, of course, but not without a twinge of guilt. She was so bored, sooooooo bored, that she filled out a magazine subscription card.
But let’s be real, here. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Not at all. We just spent three glorious days in Lutsen with Nanook, Gear Daddy and familia. They got to ski and snowboard their hearts out, bunk up and giggle into the night, feast on all sorts of yummy food, celebrate Nanook’s birthday, watch American Idol with peeps, color, bicker, chat, spy, and generally scamper around a big, cool house while the grown-ups talked, drank, cooked and cast a lenient eye over everything they were doing. It was a blast. What is wrong with coming home from that kind of trip and just chilling out?
If you were to look at my shoulders, you wouldn’t see the devil and angel taking turns whispering in my ear. Instead you’d see Julie McCoy, our fave cruise director, on one shoulder, hatching plans, leading adventures, planning field trips, always thinking of ways to make my kids’ lives more FUN. On the other shoulder you’d see Joan Collins in a silky dressing gown, maribou kitten heels and a very large martini glass muttering that these kids need to learn to occupy themselves. The truth is, I like doing excursions with them because I’m a bit of a “flee the house” kind of a gal. But it’s just that kind of on-the-go life that has made them so intolerable if we ever do want to hang out at home. If they don’t have friends over, they are pretty much guaranteed to be driving me insane. Which makes me yell at everyone and shoo them into the car for – you guessed it – an excursion.
As far as I can remember, my parents didn’t spend all their free time trying to keep us entertained. There were giant swathes of idle time in my childhood, which I filled by reading books and the backs of shampoo bottles, playing Dukes of Hazzards, spying on the neighbor boy and convincing my brother I was a wizard. I know this isn’t anything new, but I wonder what my kids are missing out on by being constantly occupied and entertained. There are so many things that can only be learned with ample time: how to get along, how to love books, how to French braid hair, how to climb trees, how to choreograph dance routines to the entire Grease album and then the entire Xanadu album. I bet the dude who thought of floating that house had lots of idle time in his youth (and she brings it back! bam!)
The way things are going, it seems like our children’s generation, more than any other, is going to find success through knowing how to hustle and being creative. Seems to me, those are just the kind of skills that may be borne of a little boredom. At the risk of sounding like I’m rationalizing my laziness (which, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally comfortable doing), I think I need to be less Julie McCoy and more Joan Collins. And maybe, just maybe, my kids will be better off AND I’ll get to do more of this: 
The Summer Day – Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
I love this poem. It’s so simple. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. But I do know how to pay attention. I see a pink cheek, small freshly painted blue nails and the twist of a braid on a late winter’s day and I know to pause and take note.
Is this what I’m supposed to be doing with my one wild and precious life?
I think so.
What will she do with her one wild and precious life?
To ponder that exquisite question too closely or for too long is like staring into the sun. Better, for now, to stick with my moments.
This is the text I received from Supergirl (using Doctor Dash’s phone, of course) yesterday on her way back from soccer:
“Hey mom! What we having for dinner?????????????? ?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? I’m starving how about meat oh I love meat juicy meat on the grill YUM!!!! I love meat GIVE ME MEAT MEAT sweet meat. Love ya smooch bye P.S. I LOVE MEAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Give me meat :-p”
I’d say that girl had the hungah! She’s a protein girl through and through. Just like her mama. And guess what we had for dinner?
According to Devil Baby, sometimes babies drop out of God’s pocket and fall into ladies’ bellies and then they are born by shooting out of ladies’ butts. Only sometimes though. If they don’t fall out of God’s pocket, they just shoot out of ladies butts. Spontaneously. Which means that chances are good that with all these babies dropping out of pockets and getting shot out of butts, you could get hit, so take appropriate precautions, is all I’m saying. And all of this simply because Devil Baby’s school had an author come in to read and sign books and said author is with child, igniting Devil Baby’s curiosity and imagination. When I asked her who told her about this pocket business, she said it was Supergirl. Sigh.
Remember when Jamie Lynn Spears got knocked up and I was trying to figure out how to explain the whole debacle to Supergirl? Well, I found this series of books by Robie Harris and I think they are wonderful. When I sat down to read it with Supergirl and Saint James, however, Supergirl scampered off in short order, uninterested in or unable to digest the topic. Saint James, on the other hand, loved it. It felt so familiar and normal to be reading a book together, shoulder to shoulder, that it completely mitigated any awkwardness or wondering how to phrase things on my part. He was genuinely interested, curious and amused by the (admittedly) preposterous sounding facts of life.
My little conversation with Devil Baby was a good reminder that I not only need to purchase the next book in the series to read with Saint James, but I need to revisit the first one with the girls. This time Supergirl will probably sit through it and Devil Baby will scamper off, but such is the process I think. Pass the knowledge along, bit by bit, but come back to it often. In the meantime, helmets and parasols to protect from those flying babies.
