peevish mama

My boy has sipped from the delicious cup of freedom and there is no turning back. As you know, I’ve always loved the wandering. Go forth, ride like the wind, find your friends, explore. Come home tired, happy, dirty and smarter.

I feel lucky to live in a city that feels safe for our kids. There are sidewalks, bike paths, businesses and people out and about – lots and lots of people. There are also lakes and trees and parks and donut shops. Lenore Skenazy, a proponent of anti-helicopter parenting and free roaming kids writes about the “popsicle test” – if an 8 year old can walk to buy a popsicle by herself and finish it before getting home, then that city is probably thriving and therefor a safe place for children to inhabit and own. I think our little apple passes the popsicle test with flying colors.

Then there’s what I’m going to call the “eyes and ears” test. In the last couple weeks I’ve had at least three friends mention that they spotted Saint James out and about with his crew. There’s a loose but vast web of benevolent watchers who will recognize my kid and take note of where he is and what he’s up to. There are scores of mamas who will, I trust, report back to me if they see something I wouldn’t like.

When I spot one of my friends’ kids out in the wild, I make a point to wave or make the quickest of quick breezy contacts – just so they know I see them and just so they’ll see me. If they’re too far away, I take a beat to check them out – make sure all is well. Our kids seeing and being seen by adults they know has a double benefit: I will tell your mom if you’re not wearing your helmet. But also: I am here if you need me.

So I’m purportedly comfortable with the ever widening perimeter Saint James is claiming as his own. Why then, did I spend this past weekend in a state of suspended waiting and disbelief as the hours stacked up and he didn’t darken my doorway for food, drink or rest?

He’s roaming far and wide, and with him – always – goes a piece of my heart. I know he’s a good kid and he looks both ways before crossing the street. I also know that if there’s a short cut that doesn’t involve staying on the bike paths, he’s going to take it. I know that the boys really are playing sports for hours on end. But I also know that these day-long peregrinations may not be as wholesome at age 16.

My conversations with Dash are completely ridiculous.

Me: Oh my gosh, he’s been gone since ten this morning!

Dash: Ya, it’s good.

Me: It IS good. Yes! So good. I love it. But it’s been hours!

Dash: uh huh.

Me: I mean, what is he eating? He’s going to be so exhausted! What are they doing? He left at the crack of dawn this morning!

Dash: You’re the one who’s always saying . . .

Me: IknowIknowIknow!!! It’s good! It’s so good, but it’s been HOURS!

Dash: . . .

Me: I mean, what on earth are those boys up to? It’s been hours!

Dash: . . .

Me: It’s so awesome. Ya. Don’t you think he should come home rest for a bit before practice?

And I’m leaving out the parts where Dash rolls his eyes and tells me I can’t have it both ways and that I started the whole wandering thing and I slam the door in a huff.

Yep, we’re still figuring this out. So for now the rules are that he has to tell us the plan and who’s involved. He has to text back within a reasonable period of time if we text him – we have yet to define what a reasonable period of time is because he’s been decent at getting back to us. He needs to text when there’s a change of location. I’m also thinking he’s going to have to come home for lunch or start using his own money for food otherwise he’ll be at Tin Fish feasting on fish tacos every damn day this summer.

And the most important rule of all: be a good kid. You never know who might be watching.

Shame on me for not responding to Creeper Bud’s text while I was on spring break. She was offering me her two tickets to see Dawes perform at the Electric Fetus this past Tuesday at 6. It’s not that I don’t love Dawes and the Electric Fetus and Creeper Bud, for that matter. It’s just that 6 o’clock on a Tuesday seems dubious when you don’t have your calendar in front of you. As it turns out Creeper Bud left me the tickets anyway and as Tuesday unfolded, a little field trip before dinner seemed like the perfect thing. I’m a firm believer that when there’s a choice to do or not do, you just gotta do. And I proved myself right yet again.

Saint James was at tennis practice, so I took a very neutral Supergirl as my sidekick. She was unfamiliar with Dawes but she’s nothing if not game. Turns out she’s the perfect wingman. When we arrived 20 minutes before the show, the line was snaking around the block, so she yelled at me to let her out and go park. I parked a few streets away and ran to meet her – hustling past all manner of hipsters, girls in bright lipstick and tights and plaid clad folks to find her tucked into the line with her hood up – chill as a buddha.

Turns out the kind of people who make an extra effort to check out a Dawes show in a record store are an affable bunch who think nothing of letting a little kid worm her way to the front. Time and again, people would smile at her, let her through and look back at me to see if I wanted to follow. Who am I to say no? We ended up with a perfect spot front and center – so good that a blogger for the City Pages asked me to text her my iPhone pics. Check out my first published pics in Natalie Gallagher’s great interview here.

Dawes is such a good band – beautiful musicianship and lyrics that get you right in the gut. Watching and listening from five feet away is so intimate it’s almost awkward. Taylor Goldsmith doesn’t make it easy – he’s not showy, and peacocky and flamboyant – he’s humble, soulful and unbearably honest. He is extending a piece of his heart every time he opens his mouth and you feel like you need to accept it with some modicum of care. I found myself staring at his beat up buttercream confection of a guitar, wondering if it had a name, to keep myself from welling up.

My favorite thing was watching them through Supergirl’s eyes. She was leaning up against an amp, her head at Goldsmith’s chest level, still as a stone. The kid who always has one eye on my Instagram and one eye on iTunes and her hands busy doodling and her mouth going a mile a minute was quite literally frozen in her tracks. She got to feel the magic that is a live performance, where the love and energy is flying in both directions, where you feel something shift in your insides and walk away just a little bit different.

And if I played my cards right, she’ll be hooked for life. Stories Don’t End.

This is hardly what you’d call a discovery. Everyone has heard of Frank Ocean by now and most people who have given this album a listen are smitten by him as an artist, musician and storyteller. I know I am.

On Saturday night in the middle of a very loud crowded dance floor at our school parent dance party/fundraiser, My Little Springroll’s hubby brought up Frank Ocean. Frank Ocean wasn’t playing and I really can’t remember the context aside from some rowdy dancing. In my blurry mind’s eye he was bopping around to a really great song and he just yelled How about FRANK OCEAN! And I was like Ya! OhMyGOD! And we both did a little swoon, eyes to the heavens gesture and yelled out a few SO GOODS, SO GOODS!!! before getting back to the business of getting down.

The point of this little anecdote is that channel ORANGE IS a really great album. One of my favorites for this year, for sure. It’s definitely one that rewards listening from start to finish and it doesn’t get old because every song tells a story and sounds different – which is saying something for R&B.

And, truth be told, it made me happy to have had this tiny music moment with a friend, within a bigger music moment on the dance floor. Because that’s what good music does – it moves you.  It takes you out of your head, back to your past, over to other music, way deep into your body, in and out of emotions and it connects you to other people.

It moves you.

Enjoy Bad Religion.

Photo credit: Ryan McGinley for the NYTimes

Supergirl and Devil Baby are still pretty little – 10 and 6. Itty bitty, really. But the other night, in the most nothing of moments, I got a really vivid glimpse into our girlie future together.

It was bedtime and they were lollygagging on my bed while I washed my face. I had whipped my hair up into a hasty knot and when I came out of the bathroom, Supergirl looked at me and said You look really good in a bun. It took me completely by surprise because she’s never really commented on my looks before. Not to mention the fact that I’m not so sure I look really good in a bun at all. I sort of stopped in my tracks and grinned. Really? And then Devil Baby nodded emphatically. Oh, ya. Totally.

There it was. My two ragamuffins, who wear boy clothes and color on themselves with markers and have skinned knees and tangly hair and wipe yogurt on their collars – they notice things and they have an opinion. And these moppets already know how to sit on a bed and dish.

This is going to be really fun.

Valentine’s Day is an unofficial anniversary of sorts for Doctor Dash and me. It was on that day during our senior year in college that we cooked steaks with blue cheese in my little blue house in South Bend and finally fell into couplehood after months of being best friends and dancing around it. Actually, I was the one doing all the dancing. Dancing up close one day, dancing away the next. Dancing all in circles. A fickle whirling dervish, indeed. Dash, it turns out, is a patient man. Thank goodness for that. Then and now.

This Valentine’s Day marked 21 years of our being together. My math man also pointed out that we have now been together more than we’ve been apart in our lives. I have spent more than half of my life with Dash at my side. It’s staggering. We didn’t meet that young and we’re not that old now, so how can it be? Yet there it is. It’s simple math, and it blows my mind.

We spent Valentine’s night with the kids and we usually do, and I cooked steaks with blue cheese sauce as a small nod to our wee beginnings. We’ll get our proper date night on Saturday night when we go see Book of Mormon and then out for bites in some twinkly bar. I can’t wait.

I suppose I could say how different things are from way back when, but they don’t seem that different. Aside from more responsibility and less flannel, he and I are pretty much the same. I still look forward to seeing him at the end of the day, stepping out with him on a chilly night or lingering at the table after dinner while the kids bounce about not really clearing like they’re supposed to. Actually, when I picture any after dinner scene, I guess it is different. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how footloose and fancy free we once were.

But you grow, adapt and live, with the days piling up behind you at an alarming clip and then one day, you tip. Which means not much more than a moment in time to look back and to look ahead and be grateful.

I love you, Dash.

I adore a photo booth and I try to take advantage any time we stumble upon one. I just love walking away with a little strip of images – a memory of an outing you can hold in your hand. We have a collection that hangs out in a mug in our kitchen and going through them always makes me smile.

And of course, who can forget the gorgeous movie, Amelie? It’s a beautifully imagined mystery slash love story, told through those photo strips. Swoon. One of my favorites and come to think of it, long overdue for a re-watch. Maybe around Valentines Day.

Something about being in a tiny confined space behind a curtain seems to free people up to be silly, amorous, smoochy and unguarded, which is why I got completely sucked into this little tumblr called Vintage Photobooth. Just look at the hair, the outfits, the jewelry – all clues to a bygone era when people seemed to carry themselves in a more careful, deliberate and genteel way.

I find these faces just fascinating and beautiful and cannot help imagining the circumstances surrounding the decision to step behind the curtain. Girls taking pics for their soldier loves going off to war? Vice versa? A mother and child walking home from lessons? Girlfriends out for an afternoon of gossip and window shopping? A newly engaged couple, giddy with news? A pair of boys in love when it wasn’t allowed?

In that spirit, a song from way back when by Flock of Seagulls. Ha! You know what I’m talking about. Enjoy!

I can’t be 100% sure, but I think Dave Brubeck was the first concert Doctor Dash and I went to as a newly married couple. Brubeck died last week at age 91 and hearing the news made me think of that night in some hotel lounge in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dash and I had been to a bunch of concerts together before, but none like this. It was kind of a swanky scene. We sat at a cocktail table with a candle on it right up close to the the stage. We were 27, but it felt like we were playing at being grown ups. Cocktails, live jazz, plush chairs.

Brubeck seemed impossibly old and impossibly sweet. Also, impossibly talented. I remember we both loved it, but I don’t remember much else about the night. What strikes me now, in retrospect, is how little of an inkling I had about how much going to see music was going to be our thing. Like in our marriage. As a couple. It’s just something he and I have always done together, in every city we’ve lived in and in many different venues.

I do not take this for granted. I do not take it for granted that my man will scootch up behind me in a big hot crowd at a loud loud show and be as happy as me. I do not take it for granted that he’s always turning me on to new music. I do not take it for granted that he’ll humor my incessant need to put words to what I hear, to attempt to describe and compare in order to understand. I do not take it for granted that he’s willing to take a gamble on some band or some person just because I have a notion that it’ll be good – and vice versa – because it is good, better than good, 99% of the time and fully worth it 100% of the time.

And so it was on Friday night when we had tickets to see Solid Gold at First Ave. Putting aside a long, busy, tiring, under-the-weather week, we drank a cup of green tea, tucked in the kids, sealed up the house and stepped out into the brisk winter night at 10:40 pm. The band was awesome – dashing and cool, loud and swoon-inducing, but very graciously Minnesota and obviously beloved by the crowd. We danced and cheered and clapped and were filled up with beautiful, heady, music – I’m still thinking about the show three days later.

The shimmer.

And I don’t take that for granted.

Enjoy a little Dave Brubeck. Enjoy a little Solid Gold. Two stops on my musical romance with Doctor Dash.

I swear, I’m riding an exhausting, heady and soul satisfying wave of love lately. It’s only exhausting because apparently, for me, love involves a bit of carousing.

Over the last few days I’ve celebrated the election and the fact that our state was the FIRST of about 30 to shoot down a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. Love Minnesota.

I’ve also attended my first Bat Mitzvah and was overwhelmed by Lady Doctor Poodle’s beautiful, poised, spiritual 13 year old daughter and the lovely way the Jewish faith celebrates this coming of age. Love the Jews.

I’ve danced in the beautiful kitchen of a new friend with a bevy of fabulous gay men and leggy ladies to again celebrate the Vote No victory. Love the Gays. Love dancing. Love champagne.

I recovered from said revelry by going to Sunstreet Breads with my kids in the morning and feasting on a fried chicken biscuit and gravy wonder of satisfaction and deliciousness. Always game for indulging mama’s need for some solid grub, my squirrels were good company on a gray Sunday morning. Chatty, mellow, hungry and funny they actually came up with a plan to watch a movie when we got home. Footloose 2 (ridiculous), blankets, puppy pile – all before noon. Love some hibernation.

And today, the snow flew. I’m feeling back to normal. Almost. But also very blessed right now. This is what I’m thinking for this winter: keep it simple, slow down, notice everything, be happy and celebrate life whenever I can.

Enjoy this beautiful song. I can’t get enough of her voice. Love is Won by Lia Ices.

Best holiday of the year. Hope you and your little peeps had a good one. Could it have been more gorgeous out?

For us, those golden years of all our kids trick or treating together are fast retreating in the rear view mirror. Seconds after I took this photo, Saint James was off, quite literally, like a bat out of hell to meet up with his buddy.

I stood there holding my camera watching his tiny gold lamé clad body and giant afro streaking away. He yelled love ya! without turning around.

What can you do? This is simply how it goes.

All good.

I was scrolling through pictures on my phone the other day and stumbled upon this one from the Bastille Day Block Party this summer. As is increasingly the case, we had a moody Saint James on our hands that day. He wasn’t digging the bands or the scene and he didn’t perk up until we ran into Creeper Bud and familia and he had someone to pal around with. Never underestimate the power of a peep.

We were happily ensconced to the left of the stage, kind of behind the speakers when the eagle-eyed Creeper Bud spotted Astronautalis milling around before his set. He is absolutely adorable, as you can see. As dapper a rapper as ever did rap. Supergirl grabbed my phone and walked over to him, we pushed the littles to follow and she got some girl to take this photo while we looked on with ridiculous grins on our mugs.

The best part of this little summer escapade, however, was Saint James’ turn around. Nothing I could have done or said would have changed his mind more than a musical connection. Having heard the song Dimitri Mendeleev on the radio earlier and talked about it with Dash (apparently, Mendeleev invented the periodic table – the kind of fact both Dash and Saint James are likely to know and me, not so much), he had his aha ! maybe this IS cool moment as soon as Astronautalis took the stage and started to sing in his inimitably intense way. He was hooked. I was happy. And more importantly, vindicated.

Because how can anyone stay moody listening to cool live music in a crowd of happy people on a perfect summer afternoon? I have to remember this episode because with the teen years fast approaching, my role as the official familial “dragger to things” is only going to become more and more challenging. I’ve got to keep dragging, but remain detached from the reactions. I need to keep in mind that it is not in my power to make anyone like anything. That maybe if I drag but I drag lightly, it’ll become more about the thing and less about the mother dragging to the thing. Right? Right.

Doctor Dash and I watched the documentary, Marley, this weekend and we were both blown away. We’ve long been fans of Bob Marley’s and reggae in general, but it turns out there’s A LOT we didn’t know.

Directed by Kevin Mac Donald (did you ever see The Last King of Scotland? Oof. Good.), the movie revealed a shy, complicated, charismatic, spiritual and talented man. I guess I knew about as much about Bob Marley as could be gleaned from a poster in a college dorm room: dreads, weed, great tunes. His short life was about so much more and this movie was not only a great way to learn about his message, Rastafarianism and Jamaica’s struggle for unity, but chocked full of awesome concert footage and photos – a complete joy to listen to and watch.

Stir it up, little darlin’.

And speaking of stirring it up . . . Supergirl and Little Red totally played me and Big Red yesterday. They came home from the park claiming that the other mother wanted to take one last dip in Lake Harriet. How well they understand their mothers. Supergirl knows how fixated I am on the “lasts” of each season – and I played right into her hand. Big Red is just always super game for an adventure, so she was an easy catch too.

It was a gorgeous night down at the lake, so unfortunately we had quite an audience as we cringed our way into the frigid water. The lake is low, making a quick and dramatic plunge impossible. With so many eyes on us, we couldn’t very well back out and we were left to awkwardly Nestea plunge into two feet of water. Of course there was no avoiding the guttural shrieks of pain, but it felt great – and the balmy 65 degree air felt like a warm blanket allowing us to sit on the beach wrapped in towels as the sun went down.

Those stinkers. It was perfect.

Let it be written. October 21st, baby.

Our boys did it again. They won the Fall State Championship. I gotta say, this little team is on fire right now – and I feel lucky to be part of it. A team is an organism – a living breathing thing, made up of living breathing things and as such, it can and will change over time. But right now, these guys are golden. And I’m not just talking about the wins.

They are good kids in a good place. They are kind to each other and they are gentlemen on the field. They work their tails off – they really do – but from the outside, it doesn’t even look like work because they love soccer. They are serious and they are goofballs – like 12 and 13 year olds should be. They are strong and fast and elegant – individually and together. They are, in short, a total joy to watch. And although I can only speak for the little guy below – a total joy to parent.

So in honor of the champs, a little Queen. Freddy Mercury, in his chest-less black and white unitard is just beyond. What a voice. What a loss. And it’s interesting to note that there’s a biopic of his life in the works. Yay!

Happy Monday y’all. I can’t get this stupid grin off my face.

Apparently Nevermind was released 21 years ago today. I remember when Dash, Dolly and some other friends road tripped to Boston for fall break, they came back with this CD. It had blown their minds in the car and I distinctly remember Dolly loading it into the six CD changer in our living room, pressing play and letting us listen for a minute before saying listen to that bass! It made me giggle – partially because Dolly was talking like a boy, partially because the music sounded new and weird compared to all the classic rock we had been loading up on during those years and partially because she was totally right.

We were 21 – young enough to claim this album and this band as our own, but barely. For people who were teenagers and preteens in 1991, this is it. All of it. Hearing any song off this album out in the wild (and by that I mean out in the world) never fails to give me shivers. This is music by youth, for youth, of youth.

And just listen to that bass. Lithium.

Oh, the jubilation that preceded this picture! Makes every iota of driving, of sweltering or freezing on the sidelines, of washing long stinky black socks totally worth it. And really, truly, the title couldn’t have gone to a sweeter group of kids. Good sports, hard workers, soccer lovers. They are good in many ways.

As far as championship games go, it could not have been more dramatic and nerve wracking. 1:1, into overtime and then a shoot out. I literally had to do some yoga breathing it was so intense. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this kind of sports stress.

They sure are, though. HURREFFINGAAAAY!!!