1.The dentist's office calling after I've left work to tell me that they're running behind, would I mind rescheduling? Would I? You bet! Time to stop at the grocery store and get a few things done before I need to get the kids- that's so much better than sitting in a hygenist's chair.
2.Multiple packs of size 4 diapers. There is a boom of babies my son's size. Ever since he was born the store is regularly out of the size he currently wears- and only that size.
3.Pupusas! Again, the Whole Foods is regularly out of them.
4.Coming home to scrubbed toilets, shiny floors, and fresh beds. Twice a month cleaning is being truly blessed.
5. MY POEMS PUBLISHED by mamazine! Woo Hoo!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
08 October 2008
26 July 2008
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.
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.
21 July 2008
One True Bio
My Monday morning was the usual. Breakfast Dodge Ball with Otto (he is messy and creative with his meals), two drop offs, and then I sat at the computer in my jog bra. Again. I have this idea if I put on the boob corset in the morning, I'm one step closer to running when I'm kid-free. But I tweaked one vertebrae before I even left the house. It was one those incredibly athletic moves- talking on the phone. I waited it out and worked on my bio for some poems that are soon to be published in mamazine. I finished and sent it off, just in time to shower for work.
Here's what it should have read:
"Kim is a wanna-be daytime-TV-watching-housewife who should be running with the dog and/or folding laundry but is instead perfecting her three line bio. She pretends to feel guilty about the dog but secretly remembers that her childhood dogs went out back by themselves and were just fine. She also thinks that if she leaves the laundry, maybe her husband will fold it when he gets home. Kim is an expert procrastinator and mediocre cook, but she is a talented midwife and also gives great head. Her poems have appeared in less than 2% of her submissions. She lives in a cluttered house filled with fart jokes and abandoned water glasses with her handsome husband and gorgeous kids. When she's not stalling, she dreams of lounging on lawn furniture from Williams Sonoma while writing brilliant poetry."
Come on now, what's your real bio?
Here's what it should have read:
"Kim is a wanna-be daytime-TV-watching-housewife who should be running with the dog and/or folding laundry but is instead perfecting her three line bio. She pretends to feel guilty about the dog but secretly remembers that her childhood dogs went out back by themselves and were just fine. She also thinks that if she leaves the laundry, maybe her husband will fold it when he gets home. Kim is an expert procrastinator and mediocre cook, but she is a talented midwife and also gives great head. Her poems have appeared in less than 2% of her submissions. She lives in a cluttered house filled with fart jokes and abandoned water glasses with her handsome husband and gorgeous kids. When she's not stalling, she dreams of lounging on lawn furniture from Williams Sonoma while writing brilliant poetry."
Come on now, what's your real bio?
01 February 2008
Thrown Back In
A little vomit never fails to clear writer’s block. Or writer’s absence, really. Blogging is low in the order of my life- down below pedicures and exercise and massage- none of which I have accomplished recently. That is not to say I don’t love to write and find it helpful/ relaxing/ whatever. But it just gets buried. And we traveled four out of the last eight weeks. After all that time, I lost my momentum. Several phrases have popped into my head over the past two months. Opening sentences, full of charm. But they always come while driving, or holding a screaming child, or in the room with a patient. So I can’t write them down, and like everything else I don’t nail to my skull, they’re gone. Poof.
But the vomit stuck without a hammer. I wrote about puke at least once before. So here we are at the vomit’s silver lining- the inspiration to blog. The vomit was minor, actually. Just once and not too much. But the timing was stellar. Otto had a vaccination on Tuesday and fussed most of the wee hours of Wednesday. Augusto was holding him while I made breakfast and said, “Can you hold him a sec?” No sooner had Augusto walked out of the kitchen when Otto retched all over my clean from the hamper fuzzy sweater. Right then I announced that I would be going to work and Augusto would be home with the puker as he had NEVER been thrown up on by anyone in our household, and I had been lucky one too many times. Off I went, working mama who knows how to put her foot down.
These days, work at work is easier than work at home. The clinic’s problems are within my control. People don’t whine too much, and I can shut the door at the end of the day. At home, we have certainly rounded the one-year mark. Otto’s birthday was last month. We are night weaning. I remember the clearing when Stella turned one. And I feel it now, but we have this giant baby of a dog who hasn’t rounded whatever mark he should. He is improving with less ankle biting and fewer destroyed toys (nice wooden ones which have survived and been handed down through three families). I think I feel a change coming. Soon.
***
We went to Baltimore for Thanksgiving and Brazil for Christmas. We also went to my 20th high school reunion in Philadelphia. I recognized many people, but I couldn’t remember how I knew them. I didn’t know if we had been friends, or lab mates, or just been trashed together at a party. It was weird, to say the least. And I connected with others I held dear long ago. It was good. The pictures of our 1980’s hair were worth the trip.
It was a joy to see family. Otto is a sensation everywhere we go. His charms and easygoing way pull in strangers and family alike. Even Stella copies him and is becoming more outgoing. The best gift from Brazil is Stella’s Portuguese. She started speaking when my in-laws were here, but now she digs it. She invents new lyrics in Portuguese. It’s cool.
***
Tonight is the first Friday of February. Otto and Rex are napping, Stella is at school. Augusto is at work. I’m going to get started on our monthly soup and enjoy the quiet while it lasts.
But the vomit stuck without a hammer. I wrote about puke at least once before. So here we are at the vomit’s silver lining- the inspiration to blog. The vomit was minor, actually. Just once and not too much. But the timing was stellar. Otto had a vaccination on Tuesday and fussed most of the wee hours of Wednesday. Augusto was holding him while I made breakfast and said, “Can you hold him a sec?” No sooner had Augusto walked out of the kitchen when Otto retched all over my clean from the hamper fuzzy sweater. Right then I announced that I would be going to work and Augusto would be home with the puker as he had NEVER been thrown up on by anyone in our household, and I had been lucky one too many times. Off I went, working mama who knows how to put her foot down.
These days, work at work is easier than work at home. The clinic’s problems are within my control. People don’t whine too much, and I can shut the door at the end of the day. At home, we have certainly rounded the one-year mark. Otto’s birthday was last month. We are night weaning. I remember the clearing when Stella turned one. And I feel it now, but we have this giant baby of a dog who hasn’t rounded whatever mark he should. He is improving with less ankle biting and fewer destroyed toys (nice wooden ones which have survived and been handed down through three families). I think I feel a change coming. Soon.
***
We went to Baltimore for Thanksgiving and Brazil for Christmas. We also went to my 20th high school reunion in Philadelphia. I recognized many people, but I couldn’t remember how I knew them. I didn’t know if we had been friends, or lab mates, or just been trashed together at a party. It was weird, to say the least. And I connected with others I held dear long ago. It was good. The pictures of our 1980’s hair were worth the trip.
It was a joy to see family. Otto is a sensation everywhere we go. His charms and easygoing way pull in strangers and family alike. Even Stella copies him and is becoming more outgoing. The best gift from Brazil is Stella’s Portuguese. She started speaking when my in-laws were here, but now she digs it. She invents new lyrics in Portuguese. It’s cool.
***
Tonight is the first Friday of February. Otto and Rex are napping, Stella is at school. Augusto is at work. I’m going to get started on our monthly soup and enjoy the quiet while it lasts.
07 July 2007
I want to be Judy Blume and Martha Stewart and Annie Sprinkle but I don't want my parents to know.
Last Night
Not long ago we gave a few friends a standing invitation for dinner at our house every first Friday of the month. Some friends were established, some somewhat new. We wanted to create a space for conversation, kid romping, and low-intensity hosting. Mostly, we wanted to grow familiarity with these people so that it felt natural for any one parent to toss all the kids in the bath, for another to open every cabinet in search of a wine glass or sippy cup. We wanted to cultivate community. The beauty of First Friday Friends is that we don’t need to think. We check the calendar, see what’s in the peak of season, and expect people at our door. We always serve a vegetarian soup, bread and drinks. Our friends are never obligated to bring anything, but usually someone brings some good wine, a salad, some dip. It’s been four months so far- I mark the time by the soups: chard-sorrel, asparagus, carrot, zucchini.
The last stragglers just left after a longer than expected round of Chinese Checkers (I can’t really call them guests anymore- that’s too formal a term). Our daughters hung in well beyond bedtime while our babies slept. I don’t have the usual post-host exhaustion. We had more than a dozen adults plus a handful of kids eating, talking, running in every room, and I feel filled, not drained. The plan that went out as an email after much thought and anxiety (what will they think? some don’t know each other… do they want to be friends as much as we want to?) is already exceeding my hopes.
This Morning
Last night I dreamed I was reading some old blog entries and one said, “I had sex with my grandmother last night.” I freaked out because I didn’t remember such an offense, and because I just mailed my blog address to about fifteen friends and family. Perhaps I can quick delete this entry, I thought. But, no, I told them two days ago. They might have already read it! Then Otto woke to nurse and my nightmare was over.
After two years of blogging, of sending my life into space with no one reading, I invited my peeps to see it. Just like with the Friday dinners, I wanted to deepen my community, my connections with friends. Since strangers are now reading my blog, it felt odd that my original intimates didn’t know about it. And now this girl who would call all her parent’s dinner guests to the basement to watch her choreographed solo roller skating show is suddenly afraid.
The anxiety started after I wrote about our first Friday routine. Some people who received the blog notice don’t know about first Fridays. Will they feel left out? And maybe long ago I wrote something unflattering or private about someone else and forgot. Now they know. I am unexpectedly self-conscious now, finally understanding why some bloggers use pseudonyms. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and as I am discovering, I don’t want parts of me to be seen. It is exhibitionist to keep a blog about my life. I know that. There is a certain pleasure in sharing it, in thinking that people might find interest in the stuff of our dinners and sleepless nights and vacations. There is an excitement in wondering who has come by, who is peeking in on nursing, potty training, returning to work. It’s like chatting at a café with a friend but the friend doesn’t talk back at all, and I get to take up all the time with Me (unless they go, “um hmm,” and leave a comment, which I would really, really like, by the way). The truth is that a big, old part of me wants to be smack dab in the center of it all. But you can’t have your cake and eat it too. I always hated that expression. But in a blog where your names are real and you alert your family in a fit of hysteria, you can’t tell all anymore. I don’t feel comfortable telling it all, anyway. I can still roller skate for the party guests, but I need to keep my clothes on.
Not long ago we gave a few friends a standing invitation for dinner at our house every first Friday of the month. Some friends were established, some somewhat new. We wanted to create a space for conversation, kid romping, and low-intensity hosting. Mostly, we wanted to grow familiarity with these people so that it felt natural for any one parent to toss all the kids in the bath, for another to open every cabinet in search of a wine glass or sippy cup. We wanted to cultivate community. The beauty of First Friday Friends is that we don’t need to think. We check the calendar, see what’s in the peak of season, and expect people at our door. We always serve a vegetarian soup, bread and drinks. Our friends are never obligated to bring anything, but usually someone brings some good wine, a salad, some dip. It’s been four months so far- I mark the time by the soups: chard-sorrel, asparagus, carrot, zucchini.
The last stragglers just left after a longer than expected round of Chinese Checkers (I can’t really call them guests anymore- that’s too formal a term). Our daughters hung in well beyond bedtime while our babies slept. I don’t have the usual post-host exhaustion. We had more than a dozen adults plus a handful of kids eating, talking, running in every room, and I feel filled, not drained. The plan that went out as an email after much thought and anxiety (what will they think? some don’t know each other… do they want to be friends as much as we want to?) is already exceeding my hopes.
This Morning
Last night I dreamed I was reading some old blog entries and one said, “I had sex with my grandmother last night.” I freaked out because I didn’t remember such an offense, and because I just mailed my blog address to about fifteen friends and family. Perhaps I can quick delete this entry, I thought. But, no, I told them two days ago. They might have already read it! Then Otto woke to nurse and my nightmare was over.
After two years of blogging, of sending my life into space with no one reading, I invited my peeps to see it. Just like with the Friday dinners, I wanted to deepen my community, my connections with friends. Since strangers are now reading my blog, it felt odd that my original intimates didn’t know about it. And now this girl who would call all her parent’s dinner guests to the basement to watch her choreographed solo roller skating show is suddenly afraid.
The anxiety started after I wrote about our first Friday routine. Some people who received the blog notice don’t know about first Fridays. Will they feel left out? And maybe long ago I wrote something unflattering or private about someone else and forgot. Now they know. I am unexpectedly self-conscious now, finally understanding why some bloggers use pseudonyms. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and as I am discovering, I don’t want parts of me to be seen. It is exhibitionist to keep a blog about my life. I know that. There is a certain pleasure in sharing it, in thinking that people might find interest in the stuff of our dinners and sleepless nights and vacations. There is an excitement in wondering who has come by, who is peeking in on nursing, potty training, returning to work. It’s like chatting at a café with a friend but the friend doesn’t talk back at all, and I get to take up all the time with Me (unless they go, “um hmm,” and leave a comment, which I would really, really like, by the way). The truth is that a big, old part of me wants to be smack dab in the center of it all. But you can’t have your cake and eat it too. I always hated that expression. But in a blog where your names are real and you alert your family in a fit of hysteria, you can’t tell all anymore. I don’t feel comfortable telling it all, anyway. I can still roller skate for the party guests, but I need to keep my clothes on.
15 May 2007
I Write Poems Sometimes.
I write poems sometimes. Usually in the winter and after some major life event. Pregnancy, birth and parenting have been excellent muses- along with my mother’s cancer, tensions with my husband, and trips to Brazil. When the summer arrives I turn the soil and rip out the ever-persistent Bermuda grass. Keyboards and scraps of paper for poetic flashes get shuffled down the priority list. Garden bolts to the top. This funk keeps me from doing much of anything- and keeps me inside complaining about it in this forum. Poems are bubbling inside.
Before the funk, I gardened like mad. And the garden does look smashing- a wonderful place to sit and watch Stella play. The day my grandfather died, we were featured on a “green” gardening tour. Our garden is tolerant of the Northern California summer droughts and winter rains, is free of pesticides and fertilizers, and has clover instead of grass for the lawn. We have a Trex deck. We ripped up concrete and built walkways and raised beds, used years of broken plates for a mural on a retaining wall. Having lived here only 5 years- and being novice gardeners- the plantings still have room to grow, and the aesthetic is definitely “home grown.” But I am truly pleased.
Perhaps I can work through my loss with some off-season poems, celebrate life with the veggie beds, and move back to my big dog self. In summer camp one of the counselors said I was like a ball- I always bounced back quickly from whatever problem. I hope her assessment holds true today.
24 April 2006
On My Own
Shopping On My Own
I select 16 oz of garbanzos,
42 small diapers,
four boxes of our favorite
cereal.
I can’t stop staring
at one pale tomatillo-
its papery skin removed.
All 12 pounds of my little daughter
are at home.
Was Stella really already 3 months old when I wrote this poem? I didn't get out before then!? January 7 was the first draft. That's when the in-laws were here. It must be so. The emptiness of that first hour away from her was a hard surprize. I remember it well.
Today I left home at noon and my only contact with Stella before 7 am tomorrow will be in a few moments -when I sneak to her side and check the blanket on my way to bed. And it is easy. Every Monday is like this; I see patients until after 9pm.
My own time. Now it is sweet and rich with gratitude.
12 July 2005
Did you hear what I said?
Blogging is like talking to myself. No, like talking to someone who is reading the paper or watching TV. The thoughts get out, but don’t get in.
Who wants to listen to stories about solid stools or how far a baby can lift her chest off the floor? Other mothers, of course. But we don’t have time. How I have time- use time- to even add a few words here is an honest mystery. The baby is in bed, the husband is engrossed in something on his computer, and I am here, typing, instead of reading The Known World (that’s a fab book), or painting my belly cast, or working on a poem, or even simply staring off into space. How did this happen!? And now, having said all that, instead of feeling suddenly inspired to click off my monitor and skip to the couch with my book, I glance at the clock and see I have just enough time left of today to brush my teeth and tip-toe upstairs to bed.
So be it.
Who wants to listen to stories about solid stools or how far a baby can lift her chest off the floor? Other mothers, of course. But we don’t have time. How I have time- use time- to even add a few words here is an honest mystery. The baby is in bed, the husband is engrossed in something on his computer, and I am here, typing, instead of reading The Known World (that’s a fab book), or painting my belly cast, or working on a poem, or even simply staring off into space. How did this happen!? And now, having said all that, instead of feeling suddenly inspired to click off my monitor and skip to the couch with my book, I glance at the clock and see I have just enough time left of today to brush my teeth and tip-toe upstairs to bed.
So be it.
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