A Moving Violation... or Four

I'm an upstanding citizen, I am. I pay my taxes (grr), I mind my own bizness ('cept when I'm telling off bad mothers), and I vote (O'Doyle rules! Oh wait, that's from Billy Madison). I'm really a very non-threatening person, and I shouldn't seem very suspect to, oh, say... a cop.

So it was with great surprise that I noticed the swirling red and blue lights in my rear view mirror on Saturday night as I rolled through a small town in WI... rolling so slowly I think I was riding with my foot on the brake pedal.

Normally my heart nearly pounds out of my chest when I get pulled over (yes'm, it's happened before). But this time I couldn't imagine what I'd done wrong. As I pulled to the shoulder I began the litany of "What?! I didn't do anything! What could he want with me?!" in utter astonishment.

I mean, consider this... it was Saturday night and I was driving home at 8:00pm, kids in tow. We had our road bikes strapped to the back because we'd completed a half-day ride. We had just left from a visit with the great-grandmas. And I don't drink much anymore so I'd consumed approximately one soda and eighteen glasses of ice water.

Not what you call your average Saturday night random stop, you know?

So imagine my surpise when the officer had not one concern (35mph in a 25), not two (headlight out), but three (bike rack covering the license plate) and then four (registration sticker expired on said covered license plate). Holy bat violations! I was suddenly a'fluster.

Ok, calm down, let's see. Speeding, ok, oops. I mean, 25 mph is, like, moving backwards, but ok, I guess I was wrong. The officer said, "You took off from Hwy 11..."

Took off? Took off?.. Hardly... "when I noticed your headlight was out."

Wow, so... so... criminal.

At least it wasn't like the time I was going 86 in a 55. (There was no getting out of that little jam. Cringe.) At least I wasn't getting hauled to the station. (My dad was, as you can imagine, slightly less than pleased that time. Double-Cringe.) At least I wouldn't have to go to traffic school for a burnt-out headlight. (Would I? My aunt designed our local traffic school program, so I just wanted to, like, you know - test the program's efficacy for her. Double-Double-Cringe.)

The cop asked my husband to step outside so he could show him something, and had his hand on his gun all the while. I was really starting to feel like a criminal. It seems Rob had placed a towel under the bike rack so it wouldn't scratch the van and the towel had slipped down. And seeing as the registration was expired, it looked like we were trying to cover something up. (Which, of course, logically, was why I was "taking off" so fast from Hwy 11... sigh)

He showed Rob how to move the towel. "Yes, sir."

He showed him the burnt-out headlight. "Yes sir, I'll change that first thing Monday morning, sir."

He showed him the registration sticker, and thankfully I'd kept all the paperwork to prove that we had indeed registered it, but apparently the sticker hadn't come.

In the end he let me off with a verbal warning, thank the lucky stars. I've never gotten a warning! Once, when ticketed for speeding (at the ripe old age of 16) the cop snorted, "And if you cry, I'll give you a seatbelt ticket too!" (Hey, it was 1988 - no one wore seatbelts back then!) This is the first time I've ever gotten away with just a warning, and I would've jumped out of my van and kissed the cop if I didn't think he'd pull his gun and go all excessive force on me or something.

The kids had a good time of smirking and scolding "Moooommmmm..... you were baaadddd....."

Huh. They don't know the half of it.

Where Did All The Mothers Go?

People often piss me off. (And no, this isn't a post about school!)

I've been wondering for some time now... where did all the mothers go? I'm talking about the "come sit on my lap and tell me what's wrong" kind of mothers. The "mama will kiss it" mothers. The ones who hurt when their children hurt, empathize when their children are upset, go soft on them when others go hard. I'm looking for the mamas who model empathy and extreme tolerance and softness and love. I'm looking for the mothers who put their children before principles, who offer a "there there" and "I'm here" and a dozen I Love Yous a day, who, yes, will indeed read that one last story before bedtime again even though she's already read it six times.

The mothering I see more and more these days makes me shudder. I don't know when they got so "hard." I always thought it a good thing for mamas to offer the nurturing balm while the rough knocks of life came from elsewhere. I believe life offers enough wallops across the backside without mother following them up with a few of her own, and enough obstacles will present themselves without mothers creating some where none need exist.

I know mothers who will be having a delightfully pleasant conversation with me, turn their head and rip their children to shreds, then turn back to me and resume the syrup. It always leaves me shocked and usually speechless, not to mention cringing for the children.

Not always though. Sometimes I find my voice.

Just the other day I came in late upon a conversation and overheard only the part where the mother bragged about making her child - who is TWO, mind you - sell his favorite toy in their garage sale. As a punishment.

(Sorry for the excessive bolding, but I've got my undies in a twist. This story calls for some serious emphasis.)

Um, excuse me, what?!

I was not the only person in the room, and wasn't part of the original conversation, but my ears perked right up.

Oh yes, she went on, noticing she had a captive audience but mistaking the interest for support. I gave him the quarter for it, she laughed.

You gave him the quarter?! I asked? This only encouraged her, because her utter lack of intuition (in this conversation and, obviously, mothering altogether) urged her to carry on.

And the neighbor kid bought it!

By now I'm wondering just who in the h*ll this woman is and could I possibly find a way to adopt her children and should I be rude because I'm a guest in an old college friend's house and I don't know any of the people well, even the old college friend, and ohmygoshsurelythere'ssteamcomingoutofmyears... when a man named Eric - whom I now love and adore forever - said harshly, "You better take that quarter and put it toward his therapy fund, because after that he's definitely going to need it."

And that was my cue to unleash "No kidding! Forget the college fund, that kid will be in therapy instead!" To which Eric replied, "I can't believe you made him sell his favorite toy!" to which I replied, "And to the neighbor kid! So he not only had to give up his favorite toy, he has to watch the neighbor boy play with it!"

This was gonna get ugly. But by then the mother had caught up and realized we were not supporting her disciplinary method and our laughter was shock and gall and not of the "I hear ya" sort. She slipped away. We carried on with our bike ride preparation, our reason for gathering.

And so again, I ask where have all the mothers gone? I don't see why the mothers have gone to the dark side, why they worry more about what the other parents will think than about how they should navigate each situation gently and with love. And why it doesn't hurt them deep down to shout commands at their kids or make them toe the line like army cadets or sell their most favorite toys in the whole wide world.

You know what she said in a last ditch defense? It was just a stupid little cheap toy.

Excuse me, but that is most decidedly not the point. *sigh*

When I was teaching, I'd meet all sorts of parents, some wonderful of course, some not-so-wonderful. And some of the not-so-wonderful, in my opinion, were creating their own reality - by assuming the worst in their kids at all times and employing a zero-tolerance approach to control and therefore offering their children no options but to fulfill that expectation. I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and say "But don't you realize you have a great kid here right now? And you're forcing him to become a 'bad' kid just to get a little say in his own life?" Why can't people see it?

The other day I took some pictures of Jonathan and his pal at the park. I asked if I could take some photos of them and Jonathan's pal asked, "Can we be obnoxious in them?" As obnoxious as possible, I replied. And the photo shoot began.

These days, the boys aren't always interested in posing for pictures, so getting goofy is a different incentive.

Why be ugly and controlling when we can be like this?



Or this?

And this is the "pretend we're stuck in this tree" silly shot.

And then there's always the "let's pretend we're stuck in this plane" shot.


I'll take "we just wanna be silly!" photos over no photos any ol' day. And I'll offer a hug and a chat over big-stick-discipline any day too.

An Unschooler in School - Part II

So, here's the question for today... how did we get here?

The last few months have been totally consumed with the whole prep-for-school thing. I wavered between wanting to jam 8 years of schoolish stuff into Brady's poor brain before August and tossing all cares to the wind and saying "what will be, will be." I didn't want to send him unprepared and yet I didn't want to fill him with conjectures and predictions that may or may not come true and color his experience before he even began. I knew that all the things we most worried about would probably prove to be non-issues, and the things that we least expect to cause trouble, may.

It's all the soccer coach's fault, really. I mean, I have to blame someone so it might as well be him. He saw talent in my son and made the suggestion that Brady come play for him in high school. And that's where it all began.

This particular school was never on our radar before, and suddenly we were all raising our eyebrows, shrugging our shoulders, and saying, "Well... why not?" We talked about it off and on for many months, but Brady was unsure. And then - the night before the application was due - Brady said, quite out of the blue, "I think I might want to give it a try."

"Really?" I asked... "You do? Are you sure?" So I dug out the application information and one thing stood out - Submit a transcript along with... but the rest didn't matter. A transcript. A freakin' transcript. We didn't have anything that even remotely resembled a transcript unless you count the few-months-long record I'd kept during a particularly bad bout of unschoolers doubt when Brady was oh, about ten. Some good that would do.

I had about 15 hours to come up with a transcript.

I got on the horn and called Elizabeth - who's good for help under pressure - and she agreed to edit the narrative I was about to write off the cuff. 8 hours of compiling and translating and emailing ensued.

And we were off. He applied. He visited the school. He tested in. We went to information nights. He signed on for soccer. And we suddenly found our life facing a very different direction and it's like we just kept on driving even though we didn't know exactly why we'd made that last left turn off the interstate.....

So fast forward a few months and we're past the anxiety about starting, past the awkward introductions, past the honeymoon that all is well... and find ourselves in a foreign place, one ruled by serious time restrictions, stifling class requirements, an extremely busy soccer schedule, and pressures and requirements and restrictions and expectations hovering over us like a storm cloud about to burst...

I'm not sure how we got to this place where we've joined the chorus of complainers about school. Whenever we unschoolers would hear the school folk rant on and on about this or that wrong with school, we could offer support and then send waves of gratitude to the universe for not having to live in that space. And now I'm there. And worse, Brady's there too.

He's feeling pretty bad about himself tonight. The transition has proven harder than he expected, the workload is very difficult (it's a college-prep private school), and he said tonight, with agitation bordering on overflow, "I have NO TIME...."

I don't want him to feel bad about himself. He never felt bad about himself before. We've always known what his weaknesses were, but we've also known and celebrated his strengths. We've gone from a community that celebrates who-he-is and everything he does, to one that points out his failings in scratchy red marker. I walked with the soccer coach to the bus after the games today and he went on about how great Brady is doing (as a freshman playing varsity) and he's improving so much and he's quite pleased, and I about fell to my knees to thank him for giving us something *positive*.

But maybe this is just the low that must follow the high and if I wait a bit longer the pendulum will swing... and perhaps next week I can write about what a fab time he's having and how all these troubles were just minor glitches along the way and now he's deliriously happy and we're so glad we made this choice.

It could happen.

And I really REALLY don't want to be one of those people who complains all the time, so let's end this on a more positive note, shall we?

Let's see....

* We sat through two soccer games today on a most gorgeous, sunny, 70 degree day.

* I had a long lazy morning drinking coffee, watering plants, and reading blogs while the sun streamed in my window.

* All my boys are busy watching football, playing drums, laughing and enjoying a relaxing Saturday evening.

* I spent the day with my mom and we got some heavy-duty chatting time.

* I love my boys and they love me.

So Amen. Blessed Be. Namaste. Lord Let Things Get Better. And All That.

Random Thursday Thoughts

Photo: Brady dressed for formal Black&White day at school

I'm afraid the ol' blog is going to get neglected a bit. This new school-ruled lifestyle of ours is a little difficult to navigate. I feel busier than ever, now that we're tied to someone else's calendar. And I'm tired. So for today, a few random thoughts (format inspired by Kelly) to match my skittish mood.

1. I'm detoxing from drugs. Ok, meds really, but saying drug detox sure has more of a ring to it, eh? I've been downing allergy meds like pez for the past month. This allergy season was especially horrid, probably due to the gazillion inches of rain we got in August. The meds make me jittery and keyed up and cause insomnia (worse than my usual insomnia), which are not helpful characteristics when they accompany large life transitions. I've been off the meds for 3 days now and have had a massive headache instead. Lovely. This makes me pissy. Just ask Rob.

2. Mom and I were grouching about fall today. Everyone says fall is such a lovely season but I can't help being a little resentful of it, seeing as it ushers in winter - which is too damn long - which brings on my SAD - which causes me to grumble about silly things and my husband to utter things like "not this again". And we pined away for the deep greens of spring and the deep spring-like green we experienced this August, thanks to the flooding rains. (Does every gift have to come with a cost? I'm giddy about my green yard while others are wading in 3 feet of water in their living rooms.)

3. I get to mama a whole new bunch of kids. It's too early to judge, but the pattern so far is that the same few parents attend the high school soccer games and therefore we frequently find ourselves schlepping extra kids, making phone calls to find lost players, & waiting to see that all are accounted for before we head for home (they're usually not). It's interesting to find that in the homeschooling world I sit on the very far lenient/hands-off/trusting end of the spectrum, and in the school world I seem to be the meddling/hands-on/overly-involved parent. I know others have had 8 years more practice in sending the kids off for the day and trusting that all will be well, but beyond that, I want to be there. I want to be a part of it. Already parents ask me what time the game will be over, when practice ends, who we're playing tomorrow, and when will the bus return. And I'm cool with that. I got in my van yesterday to find 4 new faces and I laughed and said, "Who are you and what are you doing in my van?" The reply: "Thank you for the ride Mrs... Mrs... Mrs. Brady's mom!" Not a problem, my new friend, not a problem.

4. Brady and I had laughing fits over his algebra homework tonight. Let it be known algebra was not my strong area in school, so I'm basically 1/2 page ahead of Brady. Meaning I recognize having done it before, but have to review the examples myself in order to help him. I think he was doing a problem incorrectly tonight, then another. He insisted he was right. We bantered back and forth in fun and he said, "Wanna bet?" and I said, "Bring it" and we've got $5 riding on 2 separate problems. He thinks it's a hoot that he gets to tell his friends tomorrow that he and his mom are betting money on his homework. It's important to me to set a reeeal good example like that.

5. One day into school - Brady told me about a teacher and said, "She's got the same philosophy as you, Mom."

Two weeks into school - He.Couldn't.Be.More.Wrong.

An Unschooler in School - Part I

So my boy's in school. How do you like them apples?

I'm still not sure what to think of it, as it's only day 8 and all, and we're in "transition mode." For Brady that means adjusting to the incredibly annoying buzz of his alarm clock at 6am, learning how to multi-task, and asking things like, "What's an essay?" For me, so far it's meant crying in a Starbucks parking lot for 30 minutes before I could compose myself enough to go in, many sleepless nights, and wandering aimlessly through the empty house saying, "Brady? Brady?!"

You think I jest.

I've been known to be a tad heavy on the emotional side, so this change is throwing me for a bit of a loop and it's going to be a doozy of a ride.

It's funny what stress'll do to a grrrl. I didn't sleep for 3 nights straight in anticipation (aka dread) of his first day at school, and my sleepless nights continue still. My skin broke out. Last night I had to pull over while driving because I seriously thought I was going to faint. I've never fainted in all my life, so I don't know what that was all about. Luckily Rob was there, so he drove. I got a raging headache and did some deep breathing while I chewed 3 children's aspirin ('twas all I had on me) and muddled my way through my duties at Jonathan's soccer practice. (I've been appointed "Club Administrator". A new job to add to my muttly resume.)

But school is going well - surpringly well - and for that I am grateful and incredibly relieved. So relieved that I dare not gush on, lest I jinx it. That wouldn't be very good of me. "Mom, things were going along all fine, and then you had to go and SAY things were going well.....!" 'Round here, we don't like tempting the gods.

The friends have been warned not to ask too many questions, because as is my way, the tears lay in wait for the verbal cue. On the first day (the Starbucks parking lot-wallowing day) we had our homeschool group gathering, and I almost skipped it so I wouldn't have to face people and answer any questions. Sure enough, when Tina asked how it went my answer was given by way of tears and snot and a nose-dive into a tissue. After I recovered, I quickly told the next friend I was fine if I didn't talk about it, and I made it through the rest of the day acting like we hadn't just gone through a monumental transition that very morning. Denial is my friend.

Brady looked a bit like a deer caught in headlights that first day, though he says he wasn't nervous. But we knew the first day or two would be scary, since he not only has a new school to adjust to, but school itself in its entirety. So far the biggest challenge hasn't been the algebra homework, as expected, but how to know what to bring to which class and where and when and why and says who. I told him to ask lots of questions, but he won't. That's not his way. That's ok - he's gotten through just fine. A few minor scrapes, but nothing earth-shattering. H*ll, he can fail a test and I won't find it earth-shattering. Says the unschooling mom.

Last night, sleepless yet again, I rehearsed my unschooling-turned-school-mom mantra - that happiness is more important than grades, that there's a reason we opted out of the system for all these years and those reasons still stand, that even though his vocabulary list sometimes throws him for a loop he can build a computer from scratch and that's a d*mn amazing thing whether some authority figure grades him on it or not. And I'm all steeled and ready to be his advocate, if and when it's needed, after detecting the slightest disparaging tone from one teacher as she referred to "considering his prior situation..."

Not that I don't expect it. I was a teacher and I used to feed the same lines that I now read between. And I actually understand exactly where their hands are tied and know the reasoning behind certain concerns. I get it all. I've stood on all points of the circle in our journey from one realm to the other and back again. And now I'm especially grateful for my perspective as a radical unschooler, grateful to the pioneers before me who've helped me find my voice and see straight through the sh*t, and I'm poised and ready to do whatever it takes to see that Brady's experience there is what he needs it to be.

There've been many highlights, too. It's been lots of fun meeting new parents, meeting Brady's new friends, listening to him recount his day as he sits on the end of our bed, and hearing the roar of the crowd as his soccer team dominates an entire game. It's been surprisingly easy to rise early in the morning (helped, no doubt, by the minor fact that in some cases I hadn't gotten to sleep yet) when it's to help Brady and not to trudge off to some dreaded job myself. It's given Jonathan and me some amazing quality time together, something he's gotten less of being the younger child. And it's proven to me - whether I sought 'proof' or not - that after 8 years of total unschooling, my child can walk into a college-preparatory high school, at grade level, and do just fine.

And if that doesn't make the "powers that be" pause and think for a moment...

**********************

School quotes for today:

"You know, Mom, I wouldn't mind school at all; I'd like it even - if it weren't for all this homework." ~Brady

"I hate school. School takes people away." ~Jonathan

~Namaste~

Garden Seasonings

Showtunes and Coolness

Photo: Courtesans and Marcus Lycus, backstage, before last performance of "Forum"

I'm listening to the soundtrack from "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum", the musical I was in last March. When I listen to the songs I can remember every dance step, every entrance cue, every nuance of every moment of the show. I'd like to think it's because I have an astounding memory and aptitude for such things. More likely, it's because it was my one big hurrah and I relive it like the town drunk relives the amazing game-winning touchdown he made in the final seconds of the homecoming game back in '76. In other words, it's probably only a big deal to me. But hey, let me have my moment, would ya?

I've always had an affinity for soundtracks, especially showtunes. I've been known to get hooked on a showtune or two and belt them out at the top of my lungs, to which Jonathan shakes his fists in the air and commands, "Mom... MOM... STOP!"

**pout**

Singing is something I can't help but do, especially in the car. Or to Jonathan's loud iTunes music, or to late night retro music on car rides home. When we drove to Colorado for family vacations when I was young, we'd throw on some John Denver as soon as we crossed the Colorado border from Nebraska. We'd get excited thinking we were almost there, when after 2 or 3 go-rounds with the John Denver tape and we *still* couldn't see mountains, we'd all grumble back to our books or sibling-poking or thumb-sucking. But we did harmonize a mean Wild Montana Skies.

Now when I harmonize, my music-loving but singing-ignorant husband just thinks I'm singing off-key. Sheesh - tone-deaf chump. He joins Jonathan in wishing I'd stop. Sometimes I have to sing very quietly, almost under my breath, in the car so I don't bother the other riders. Kinda like a dog wearing a bark-collar who is jones'n to howl.

Once I found myself in a whole tubful of fellow showtune-loving grrrls, and we sang every tune we could think of until the wee hours of the morning. Yes, I said tubful - we were in a hot-tub, at a women's retreat at a B&B many years ago.

But the other day when we were driving to Willow, van loaded down with coolers and tents and yard games and lawn chairs, growing more eager by the mile, Rob popped in his iPod. And on came the Wicked soundtrack, blasting forth. So naturally, Jonathan began belting out the lyrics since he knows the entire album. Brady wasn't quite as enthusiastic about the choice, and when we pulled into a gas station for ice and beverages, he started laughing uncontrollably. Here we were, piling out of our van, ready for our hippy-dippy festival, with Defying Gravity filling the air. And of course, there were dudes on motorcycles and vans full of teens nearby, who looked at us like we were the strangest things to be seen in these parts since, like, ever.

And Brady, gearing up for a weekend with friends (including a former grrlfriend) and needing to exude coolness, begged - begged - us to turn it off as he dove for cover in the back of the van.

Hey, at least we can harmonize.

So This Guy Walks into a Bar....

I love jokes, but I can never remember them. I laugh my fool-head off when someone tells a good one and can't wait to spread the joy by telling it to my husband or kids or whomever, but gol-darned if the thing doesn't fly out the back of my head by the time I get around to the opportunity.

It's really a strange thing how I can categorize some things in my head but not others. I can remember certain phone #s for life after using them just once, but I can't recall many of my own former phone #s, even ones I had for a few years. I can remember directions to places I haven't been in years, decades even, but I can't necessarily recall any of the street names or addresses. I can recite all the nursery rhymes, sing the entire Muppet theme song, and recite the Japanese alphabet after taking one semester my freshman year of college, but I can't tell a d*mn joke.

I had a friend named Dean in high school who could tell joke upon joke upon joke for hours and hours and hours. He'd entertain us at parties and keep us in stitches, laughing at his own jokes the entire time. It was a hoot - and a highpower-given talent, I now believe. I recall something about a koala bear with the punchline of "Eats bush, shoots, and leaves".... (classy)... but... well.. no, of course I don't remember the set-up.

Another time I flew the red-eye alone into Denver for a family reunion. I'd never met many of these particular family members, and after 36 hours with no sleep, it may not have been an extraordinary feat for a long-lost cousin to have me laughing until tears poured down my cheeks for a couple hours straight, but it was entertaining nonetheless. There was one about a bug on a windshield that had us busting a gut... but... nah, I don't remember it.

Even my mom can tell a better joke than me, although she's got my father's habit of having only a few and telling them over and over. One of her infamous jokes, which I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear I'm sharing, is the one about the Big-Mouth Frog. All I'm gonna say is you need a big mouth to tell that joke effectively. (Who loves ya, Mom?)

And I was taken back to the good old days when another familiar joke appeared in my email inbox today. It was from mom and it's an "oldie but goodie." She told this joke many, many times, and somehow had a way of telling it that had us all groaning and giggling.

Before I forget how it goes, here it is:


An Italian, an Irishman, and a Chinese fellow are hired at a construction site. The foreman points to a huge pile of sand and says to the Italian guy, "You're in charge of sweeping."

To the Irishman he says, "You're in charge of shoveling."

To the Chinese guy, "You're in charge of supplies."

He then says, "Now, I have to leave for a little while. I expect you guys to make a dent in that there pile." So the foreman goes away for a couple hours, but when he returns the pile of sand is untouched.

He says to the Italian, "Why didn't you sweep any of it?"

The Italian replies in a heavy accent, "I no gotta broom, an' you tella me da Chinese-a guy supposa ta bringa da supplies, but he disappear and I no finda him."

So the foreman turns to the Irishman and asks why he didn't shovel. "Didn't I tell you to shovel it?"

The Irishman replies in his heavy brogue, "Aye, that ye did, but I couldn't get meself a shovel. Ye left the Chinese fella in charge of supplies, but I coulden find 'im."

The foreman is really angry now, and storms off looking for the Chinese guy. He can't find him anywhere and is getting angrier by the minute.

Just then, the Chinese guy springs out from behind the pile of sand and yells...
.
.
.
.
.
"Supplies!!"

Willow 2007

Willow....

Willow is over, once again. It was a wonderful gathering! We had all the makings of a fantabulous time with many of our favorite friends....

We had drumming.

Oh, how I adore an intoxicating drum beat in the background of any Willow gathering. That afternoon, I followed the rhythm and found Eric and Jordan having a jam session in the front room. I started slapping my leg and dancing around like a drugged-out hippie, so they pretended not to see me.

We had camping. Several of us camped in Dan and Joan's yard, seen here. But some of us retreated to the Duff-compound just down the road where we had quiet and stillness, and a breath-taking view, and coffee and quiche for breakfast, and newspaper reading on the new screened-in porch. We want to move in, we liked it so much. 'K, Duffs? You don't mind, do you? We take our coffee at 7:00.

We had henna and mehndi.

I found Becca, a friend of Brit's (who couldn't be with us this year - boohoo), and invited her to join us. She brought along her henna and I found her and Kenz painting each other's legs, with a gaggle of kids watching them. I begged mercilessly for her to do me first, shoving small children out of my way as I budged in line.

Ain't it purty?

There was willow wreath-making.

Last year, some of our kids made willow wreaths ahead of time for all of us. But this year, they didn't - the spoil sports. No matter, the next generation of willow wreath makers have arrived! Maya made a lovely one for me and even asked which flowers I wanted and exactly how many. Then she decided she liked it a whole lot and kept it for herself.

And instead she gave me this willow headdress. I felt like royalty in it, even though some people said I had weeds in my hair. Harrumph... such disrespect for a Willow goddess will not be tolerated.

We had porch time.

This is the perfect spot to be - for conversation, for a lounge on the porch swing, for a cool breeze, for a nap with music in the background. For admiring the wittiness of your son, like Pat is doing. Isn't that what you were doing, Pat?

We had volunteering.

Dale and Diane have family involved in the Willow church so they sign up to help. Then Diane rounds up our children and makes them do her shift for her. Cuz she's bossy like that. Thankfully, our kids always have a fun time working the soda tent. Here, several take a break over a game of cards while three others take their turn running the stand. At least we think someone is running the stand. I see the cashbox there - wait, are they playing poker with the soda tent money?

We had communal cooking.

There's Dan (the master of Willow), Laurie and me. We stripped basil leaves for a lovely tomato salad as Joan barked, "No, not like that you ignorant fools!" (She gets a little saucy when she's supervising a bunch of lulus in her kitchen.)

The finished salad masterpiece:

And the kitchen goddess was at the top of her game, as usual. Joan, you never fail to amaze us with your creations - this year, turkey mole with all the trimmings, caponata on thick grilled bread, and an array of garden salads had us all moaning in pleasure. Deeeelish. I channel you each time I enter my kitchen, and always hope I can bring home some Willow magic and inspiration. So please stop yelling at me.

And of course we had music.

Here's Doug playing his mandolin, in preparation for his big Willow debut. You rock, Doug! And we salute you. (flicking lighter)


We had garden walks.

Several garden walks. Dan and Joan's gardens were exquisite yet again, and yet again I was sent to pick herbs for the kitchen. This time, 3 kinds of basil.

We plucked cherry tomatoes off the vine and ate more than made it to the kitchen.We drank coffee amid the squash plants and took pictures of gigantic tomatoes. We started our weekend there and ended our Sunday there.Such beauty...


And of course, we had singing.

Dan led all the kids in several songs, and here, Pat and her daughter, college-bound-MacKenzie, sang some of their favorite Willow tunes as Dan accompanied them on guitar. Don't they look lovely up there? (Evan - pay attention. Yer family's singin', boy!)

Finally it was time to leave. The kitchen was empty, the haybales stacked. The guitars were put away and the energy started to wane. We savored our last meal together and took coffee to the garden for a sunset stroll.


And another Willow is over. *sigh*

Messin' With Mom

Sometimes a situation's ripe for exploiting. I found myself in such a situation the other day and my inner "little shit" took advantage.

It had already been an odd county fair experience for several reasons (not the least of which was my stint as a canned goods judge) but on Friday night we went back to the fair with plans to meet up with family and friends. Brady took off with the neighbor, Jonathan hooked up with a couple buddies, and Rob had an appointment to do business with a concession stand owner.

Well, you know what they say... Nothing like topping off a day at the county fair with a little insurance quoting! Or... something like that. So I tagged along.

We went to the man's first concession, the elephant ear stand, and asked to see the owner. He wasn't there, "probably at his other stand," we were told - clear across the fairgrounds, of course.

We went to the man's second concession, another elephant ear stand, and asked again to see him. He wasn't there. "Probably at his home," we were told.

Well, that's that, I thought, no business tonight, when the vendor started pointing us in the direction of the trailers that house the carnival folks. "Just go on over there and knock on the door."

We weren't sure if that was prudent, but Rob told the man he'd stop in so we carried on. The owner and his wife invited us in and offered us sodas, and we hit it off famously. We talked business and elephant ear flavors and capital gains taxes and kids for a while, and then I noticed we'd missed a cell phone call. Explaining I need to be available to the kids, I excused myself. The call was from my mother, who was to meet up with us. And this is when inspiration struck. I called her back.


ring ring

Me: Hi Mom!

Mom: Hi honey, Where are you?

Me: In a trailer. With a carnie.

silence

Mom: Wait... what? You're where?

I'm pretty sure that ranks somewhere high on the list of "Things a Mother Doesn't Want to Hear her Daughter Say." So naturally, I just couldn't resist.

The elephant ear vendor insisted our kids have free elephant ears so he offered us a ride to find them. We hopped onto his golf cart and got a motorized escort through the fairgrounds. As we parted the red sea crowd of fair-goers, I asked if he had a tiara I could wear? Or perhaps a sash that reads "Miss Canned Goods 2007"? He did teach me how to do the beauty queen wave to the passersby. "Never above the crown," he instructed.

People we know would see us, stop and stare, and shake their heads with that look of "What in the world are you doing now?" Ah you know us, always gotta be attracting attention. (This was actually the second golf cart ride for us during the fair. A fair official gave the kids a ride after explaining the ticket booth we were waiting for wasn't going to open anytime soon, but he'd be happy to take us to another booth.)

We found Jonathan and pal, who were quite happy to oblige the vendor with his elephant ear offer.

And later, when we hooked up with mom and the rest of the family, she just shook her head and said, "I got off the phone and said to Jackie, Your Sister!!....."

But I kindly pointed out, "Hey, better to hear it now than when I was, say, sixteen, right?"

*grin*

We've Got da Moves

I've wanted to take ballroom dancing lessons for a LONG time, and I finally talked Rob into it. We've gotten pretty good, and we're pretty jazzed that there's a family wedding coming up where we can show off our moves.

We've been working really hard and I'm proud of us. Rob has been pretty nervous about the whole thing, but he finally let me videotape us dancing.

Not to brag, but I think we look d*mn good. Let me know what you think!


Star in Your Own JibJab! It's Free!

It's Back

We interrupt this newly-fun-loving blog to bring you this update.



Enough with the wise cracks, I feel like I have a little 'splaining to do.

It's been raining for 3 solid days here. Every time I woke up last night (which was often) it was raining, a different intensity each time. But when I finally rose this morning there was a wee break in the deluge and I was able to squeeze in a fast bike ride. I made it just in time... there's now a downpour outside my window.... but I really needed the ride this morning. I probably could've ridden twice as long, seeing as it wasn't nearly long enough to melt my emotional build-up.

The grieving process over the past year and a half was so incredibly difficult and draining and all-encompassing, I was actually pretty relieved when my smart *ss side returned. It felt good to crack jokes and laugh at how stupid I can be, make sarcastic comments and talk about silly stuff, normal stuff, regular life - shoe shopping. And if you've been with me for a while, you may have noticed the radical detour from the original writings on my blog. I'm sure some are relieved and others are wondering just which one is the real me. I'm sure - I'm hoping - the answer is somewhere in the middle.

I was relieved to actually grow tired of feeling like a wet blanket all the time, but that had to happen in its own good time. I remember I even researched the stages of grief because I always felt the same - heavy, detached, incredibly sad, and very lethargic about life. Where was the denial? I had many moments of say-it-isn't-so but the loss was very present. Where was the resentment? I recall only a flash or two. Where was the anger?

I actually recognized my own impending pattern of crash-and-burn this time, which is a curious thing. All of a sudden (on a bike ride, of course) I realized all my writing was heavy on the sarcasm and light on the paradigm-shifts, and noticed I was starting to feel a bit manic. It doesn't help that it's been raining for almost two-weeks straight; or that our crazy soccer schedule has kicked in; or that my hayfever leaves me with the undesirable choice between having a drippy face or suffering med-induced sleepless nights; or that we just learned of another sudden, senseless, accidental death. And people keep asking me when Brady starts school and how that's going and are we excited and will it be difficult. And oddly, I've been fine about the whole thing. Juuusssst fine.

There's another Dad-like quality of mine - I go along juuust fine, and I don't notice the tension building as it's masked by busyness, biting humor, and increasingly intense bike rides. And then bam - I crack wide open.

I remember discussing the book The Artist's Way with an acquaintance once. I was going on about how difficult this or that was for me, how I'd like to feel more confident about certain things, how I was working on it and whatnot, and the woman looked at me with mouth hanging open. "You?!" she said? "But you always seem so... so... confident, and secure, and happy. I always assumed you had it all figured out." That surprised me in so many ways, but especially because that meant I'm quite adept at showing the strong side and hiding the weak underbelly.

Writing about my grief was the first time some folks saw that other side of me - the side who delves into my own sh*t, wrangles with it for a while, stays in the fray until something good comes from it or I learn something about myself, and then emerges anew. My social side just shows the end product - the newly evolved me - or even just a slick advertisement of myself, keeping things light but together. Blogging about my journey through grief was simply sharing more of the process of how I get from a bad place to a (hopefully) better place. Not to mention it was the only person I could be at that time.

And then when I was feeling stronger, I didn't want to be so heavy anymore. I was ready to move on.

So I pondered my latest rising angst and finally saw what is going on - I'm in total denial about the pain of Brady going to school. In one week. One freakin' week.



The anger has arrived. It started a few days after I learned of the latest senseless young death (46). I could feel it rise in my throat and I wanted to shake my fists at the universe and scream "WHAT THE F*CK!" It visited when I was conflicted about attending a golf outing in my father's memory because the associated heaviness was interfering with my joy at rushing off to Willow. It's here as I wrestle with the helpless feeling of launching my first child into school after eight years of unschooling, a new process which has brought out both the best and the worst in me. (Thankfully, these days my 'worst' is better than it used to be.)

And when I get p*ssed off, the tears follow right quick. Gawd I'm so bloody tired of crying.

School folks, go ahead and roll your eyes (or think back to the first day of your child's kindergarten perhaps), but this really hurts. I'm excited for him, hopeful that it'll be a wonderful transition for him, and eager, even, for all of us - that we might be entering a wonderful new phase and adding a wonderful new community to our lives. But we've been together for so long, and it's been such a beautiful thing to grow together and work through the hard spots and savor the good spots and know each other in a way that only comes from such intense togetherness... I just can't believe that's going to change. I fully support and honor him in this process - but the good of every change is also tempered by grief about what gets left behind.

I remember when my kids were young it seemed like the teen years were so far away. People say it goes by quickly, and it does, but I don't know that there's any way to prepare for such parting, just as there's no good way to prepare for any loss. You just muddle through it and put one foot in front of the other.

My intuitive Pisces grrrlpal Sharon knew it was coming and called to check in on my emotional well-being. I told her I was handling it surprisingly well as I rambled in hyper-drive about other stuff. She knows, though, she knows. (And now she knows why I couldn't return her phone calls for over a week - I wasn't ready to crack open.)

But now it's here, and I'm out of time, and the emotion is spilling whether I'm ready for it or not. And it's ok. It's a let-down, and I'll come out the other side again, in time, and be wiser and stronger and calmer. But in the meantime I'll need to retreat and be quiet and sift through it in my own messy way, and spend our last week together celebrating my son, his transition, and our ever-evolving life.

The next few blog posts were penned yesterday in "rising angst mode", so keep that in mind, laugh a little, send me some positive energy and light, and I'll catch y'all on the other side.



~Namaste~

Yo Lupita, What Up Now?

Our Willow hosts, Dan & Joan, have a dog named Lupita. She's part Chihuahua and part, um, something else. Really, she's Joan's dog, as anyone would know if they spent any time at all there. Lupita shadows Joan like a dutiful little cocklebur.

Lupita also happens to be the only dog my Duchess (who shadows me nearly as closely) will play with. Duchess is a dog-loner. She loves me, she usually loves Brady and Jonathan, and she occasionally loves Rob (the 'occasional' thing is quite mutual), but she most decidedly does not love any other dogs, especially if they pay any attention to her at all. She's a solo operator, a snob, prejudiced against her own kind. She likes to be in control. She looks down her snout at other dogs, yawns a "yeah, yer not all that", then looks up at me as if to say, "Um, please pick me up?"



Her limited and very particular play with Lupita, then, is defined by a very strict relationship. Duchess chases Lupita and Lupita allows herself to be chased. Round and around the yard they go, making identical zig-zag patterns in the yard. They don't wrassle or tangle, and when one stops, the other stops and freezes. There's the occasional sniffing, but otherwise only parallel play and very little contact.

They're fond of leaping into my flower beds - first Lupita, then Duchess - making quick football player-like cuts, kicking up soil and seedlings as they go. (Dratted furry little rascals.... why I oughtta.... )



Photo: Duchess guarding an unwell Jonathan

Lupita made herself pretty scarce at Willow, but as Sunday was winding down and the last few folks were tending the grill for the evening meal, Lupita ventured out, enticed no doubt by the scent of sizzling meat. When she begged for morsels - which she did very politely, she's quite the little lady - Dan took the opportunity to get all "my dog knows cool tricks" on us, and proceeded to have Lupita perform a trick where she did a turn on her hind legs. It was pretty cute, I guess. I mean, it was a hard trick, I suppose. For Lupita, maybe.

The other night I was making dinner and Duchess was begging, and I thought, let's show that prima donna Lupita what you can do, huh, Duchie?

Duchess says, "Yo, Lupita - check this, grrrlfriend... "




Ohhhh, snap.