Beware: Cheezy Hippie Post About Dirt

I actually smiled when seeing car after dirty car in the work parking lot. The months of summer dry don't usually keep the locals from having shiny cars. But this season the lines at the car wash are shorter. There's hardly anyone with a bucket and sponge in their driveway. The summer fundraising kids are desperate on the corners.

The Bay Area water restriction means that homeowners need to use 19% less water this year than the same time last year. This was a hard challenge for us, as our garden is already drought tolerant and we have efficient appliances and low flush toilets. But we have learned to trust that the dishwasher will clean when the dishes aren't fully rinsed and it's packed to capacity. We have remembered the efficiency of a quick shower, the simplicity of reusing clothes. We let our tiny clover lawn try to die. We aren't making flushing an exciting part of Otto's potty training. We thought it impossible. We have reduced our water use by half.

It seems the awareness of the drought is growing. It's not just the environmentalists who are forgoing clean cars. Judging by the lot, it's most everyone. Three months into the restriction, I am totally comfortable asking if I should flush or not when visiting someone's house. Lately, I even assume the house follows the Yellow Be Mellow, Brown Flush Down philosophy, and I just close the lid.

Saving water is a change of life. We do it not for fear of water bill penalty, but because we know water is scarce. We want everyone to have some. The cars in the lot made me happy because it was obvious that so many people chose to care for the planet over making the car shiny. I thought about going to the full service wash the other day, because my car was a mess, inside and out. But I realized the inside was more important to me- that's the part I see more often- so I shook out the floor mats and wiped the dashboard with a baby wipe. Good as new in 4 minutes, and only one wipe to the landfill.

Now if I could tackle the other messes in my life with such satisfying efficiency and environmental aplomb, then I'd really be smiling!

Never Prune While Drunk

That's my best gardening advice. Even if you think the job can't wait. That you won't have time tomorrow or any other day in the foreseeable future. I know when something needs pruning, it needs pruning. It's like a haircut that can't wait: it's 11pm and you're in the bathroom- optimistic with the scissors. You know how well that usually goes. I'll say it again. Don't prune if you're drunk.

Even a glass and a half can cloud my judgment these days. We had an unusually warm evening in Oakland. We finished dinner on the deck and watered. I like watering with a glass of wine and the family milling about. It's my little suburban dream. I can leave the rest of the suburbs where they belong, but a hose in one hand and a drink in the other is my bliss.

I digress.

Watering one spot leads to another, leads back to the veggie garden. Which leads me to wonder why the beans are still seedlings and the tomatoes didn't flower with vigor. And then it hits me. The tree mallow is twelve feet tall and that's too big. Yeah, it's a tree mallow. It's shading the beds. And with the local water restrictions, I have watered less. No time like the present! It's light out at 7:30! The family is fed and happy. I'll prune!

It happened just like that, I swear. The pruning wasn't so bad, aesthetically. Or at least I think in my current state. The peripherals were problematic.

The Oh, Shit!
Why am I pruning during a drought? Don't I usually prune in the winter rains? We prune to fill out the plant. Is this best for the mallow? Oh, the flowers are so pretty; but I'm killing them.

The Dead Babies
And then Otto runs to me, showing me the "Ma-mos!" The first small, green tomatoes. Something must have come from my mouth, because Stella asks, hopefully, from 40 feet away, "What did Otto do?!" I show her and she smirks. She did the exact same thing the Summer of 2006. I tell her so.

The Inspiration
Never prune while drunk. It's a post title in that instant. My error composted into creativity. Not bad, actually.

The Fallout
I turn off the spigot (does anyone else love that word and never use it?). I skip to the laptop, knowing it's been days since my last risky post. I need to bury it a bit. And I type what you started reading moments ago. (Your moments are hours to me. We did a bath-milk-bed in between sentences.) Oh. And I type, and Otto moves flotsam from a little ceramic tray to my old keyboard. Screws. Pins. Beads. A shoe charm.

Maybe my best gardening advice is my best parenting advice. Don't try to do too many things at once. You never know what will come of it- or what the toddler will do while you're absorbed in the distorted glory of your words and ideas thrown to the world.

What was I thinking?!

We now have two creatures in the house who want to chew, rip, and mess up everything from balls, to plants, to toilet paper. Just as I tear a throw pillow from Rex’s mouth, I turn to see Otto grabbing the phone. I pluck Otto from the phone corner, put him down, and find Rex chewing a hole in the rug. I give Rex a toy, then Otto pounces on the dog and I’m separating them again. Is this what it is like to have twins? And this ritual doesn’t even include Stella. Add her to the mix, and it involves a lot of whining and stomping for something she can’t have, such as chocolate at 8pm or messy painting as we’re about to leave the house. It’s background music for the dance.

Rex needs to be trained. He nibbles on pant legs and wrist bones when he wants to play. Any kid toy is his to eat, apparently. And he jumps, of course. Otto needs to be trained too, but it’s a longer process for which I have more patience. And Stella? She’s training me how to take ten deep breaths when we’re late for work, how to stop and see the spider webs. How to think it’s funny when Rex steals Otto’s food from the high chair.

I had a patient yesterday who was pregnant with baby number 4. Her other children are 5, 3, and under 1. She is happy, but her primary-caregiver husband is scared. So scared he barely spoke and just teared up a lot. I made my other patients wait 45 minutes while they tried to talk about the future, their options, and how they’ll afford 4 kids under 6. I know how stressed I can get with two kids on a bad night. And how adding Rex increases the stress on those bad nights. And to think of adding a baby 8 or 9 months from now? Forget it. I’d be terrified. Thank goodness for good birth control. I think that dad is probably getting his vasectomy as I type. His fear clings to me. I just hope she can carry them all.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

Now I am going to write about nose picking. I am WhyMommy obsessed (and sweet/ salty Kate obsessed too), and I’ve had a hard time writing about my daily life. But I know they’re having a regular life in the throws of it all. I think everybody’s 2-year-old picks her nose. Actually, I think everybody picks their nose. And that’s the problem. How do we teach our kids not to do what we adults do?

I don’t buy “do what I say, not what I do.” I think we should be changing our behavior- or at least thinking about the reasons behind behavior and asking for reasonable accommodation. This goes for swearing, eating in the living room, snacking on chocolate before dinner, and leaving the house before going to the bathroom. On nose picking, our house rule is: No picking in public, but at home or in the car is ok. I wanted to be realistic, that’s why we added the car as an acceptable place. You might not know I pick my nose in the car. I avoid it at stoplights when there are other cars present. When I see you coming in my rearview mirror, I quick pull my finger from my nose. And if I have a passenger other than family, I don’t pick. Ever. The nose picking rule works, because I can keep picking where I find it acceptable.

Even weirder than thinking so much about nose picking rules, is thinking about reasons behind nose picking. It seems Stella always has her finger up her nose. When I started paying attention, I realized with horror that I do to. Nightime nursing: pick. On the phone: pick. Watching TV: pick, pick. It’s disgusting and oh, so satisfying at the same time. And it’s addictive (and sadly a diagnosable obsession). I don’t have a cold, yet the slightest sensation of something extra in my nostril sends me running for a private place where I can go get it. So who sees her mother picking her nose all the time? Now I get it.

Oh, and another house rule is: Wash your hands often.