hi, it's kari

In Concert

 

I love Ellis in concert, and going to the concert with friends was the best. And when you walk in early and get hugged by the artist, now that's gotta be the very best. OK, except the concert was in a chocolate factory--kinda not really like Willy Wonka, well except for the circus performers at the next venue over--but with chocolate that was a real honest to god spiritual experience. No lie. The ultimate evening.

We belly laughed, and cried and giggled and ate amazing chocolate and had a lovely glass of red wine. And shared in the best music going, anywhere.

Thanks, Ellis. And thanks Jen and Melinda. The ultimate.

 

 

Happy Mother's Day!

Even though this day was originally a call to leave war behind (http://www.prism.net/user/fcarpenter/howe.html) I kind of think Mother's Day is a call to remember just what this whole dishes-laundry-carpool carousel we ride is all about.

Even before I had any babies, I knew that raising kids was an art, that creating a home that would be a nest to grow a family would be the biggest thing that any person could ever do, and that I; with the biology and sprit I'm equipped with as a woman, would be perfectly suited to do just that.

I'm not talking Martha Stewart perfection of obsession with the bric-brac that sometimes comes with a house. Really what I mean is that funny ju-ju you feel when you come into a home. Maybe it's the sizzle of onions and veggies that will make a long simmered soup, or maybe it's the fabric softener that goes into the washer on the rinse cycle. Maybe it's the homebaked cookies that poor Hillary Clinton will never live down. But really, I think it's the air that invites a long conversation. It's the cozy, sometimes cluttered couch that invites sitting together for some down time. It's the feeling of acceptance and time and love and hope and care that comes when someone who lives in the house has chosen, as their primary function in life, to create a home for a family.

It's nothing for a delicate soul. There are no raises. The benefits are that eventually someone might take out the garbage FOR you and maybe they'll find your commitment to them lovely. But there will be days that they wish for nothing more than for you go just get out of their way and leave them alone.

Full time employment looks pretty good when this happens.

Someone else can run that afternoon with snacks and homework and the ride home from school.

Someone else can make dinner.

Someone else can get the kids to get on the bus to just go to school, even if homework isn't all done just right.

But those drives have little moments of clear brillance that you'll miss. And those dinner prep moments have chemistry lessons and LIFE lessons that you'll miss. And if you leave for those tricky times, you can't help but MISS things. There's no way to capture all of it, unless you are just there. No other way.

I've worked full time while homeschooling three kids. It's not easy, it's not fun. But if it was what I had to do to make the days work, well then, that was the only choice. I am not willing to miss those days.

Quality time is a lie. Time is time, and it doesn't matter if you're gone for an excellent reason. You are still, to you own child, just gone.

Maybe lots of moms disagree and feel that they'll lose themselves if they are JUST home with kids (http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/362567_optin10.html).

For me, there is no greater art, nothing more important, no better way to spend my life, than with my amazing sons, doing the laundry, the dishes, driving to practice. There is nothing I'd trade for the chance, the honor, of being their mother. Nothing.

Happy Mother's Day.

Am I really hearing this? You know, my kids, what they say?  I mean not just when they say "I need more graph paper.  The sugar is gone.  Can you drive me to the movie?"

But what about the things that they say without saying them, or the things they say in just in a little whisper? Or the things they say with a little sideways look that evaporates in a moment.

Yesterday I was headed into the YMCA. I was late, the day was just one road block after then next, and I really had to be to Youth Group on time. I was on my cell phone with a friend trying to figure out the details of a big event the next day. Then I saw one of my favorite families. They were down at the corner; the dad and the two older boys were talking and looking up the street. There was a mini cello case, so I'm sure it was either just before or after cello lesson for the kindergartener and they must have been waiting for mom to come swoop in and pick them up.

But the baby was up over dad's shoulder. She's about a year-and-a-half old now. I got to do her child blessing when she was a newborn, so she's pretty special to me. And across the parking lot I can tell that she sees me. I can see the look on her face "hey, that's Kari from church, hey guys we know her!" But she's still little. She can say "chip" and "no" and "more" but to say "hey guys, there's our friend Kari" is just more than she can do.

So I can see her pointing and making toddler noises. But there's too much going on, and dad and brothers just miss it. And I've got 45 minutes to do my hour long work out, so I just wave crazily to her, turn and open the door and head into the Y.

I think I miss these moments with my old, old kids sometimes. So, OK, they can say more than "chip", and the things that they have to say are way more than "hey, there's our friend over there", but it's the same kind of thing.

 
There are things that people who I love, my kids and even other people, there are things that they say to me, and sometimes I miss the whole thing. "Hunh?" "What?" "OK, what did you say?" Or sometimes, just nothing. Nothing.

I'm gonna try to watch for the little finger pointing, and the little moments that point, too. And I promise to try really hard to stop, and to follow where the little finger points and to listen while you or anyone else explain it to me, because really. I want to hear. I care about it. Really I do, I care.

And if I flake it out, well then, just smack me upside the head and say "duh, you WANT to hear this" "you need to hear this" "hear this"

I will. Really, I will.

I know what I’m having for lunch today. We’re gonna go to the little Chinese place that’s by the bowling alley—not the new one down the hill we just found that has fantastic authentic food where the menu is in Chinese and they only give you chopsticks and I’m the only white person in the place. Nope, were headed to the little hole in the wall that doesn’t even have chopsticks if you want them, and the tables are really just to sit at while you wait for your to-go order.

 

Because I want crappy sweet and sour “mock” chicken. I don’t want authentic. I want sweet and I want sour and I want it with high fructose corn syrup and breading and food coloring. And soy sauce that’s made in Kansas. 

 

This morning I was in the car with my middle son. As we sat at a red light waiting he looked over at me, squinting, brows pulled tight and said “how you do?” He’s psychic, or so super sensitive and perceptive and intuitive that if he lived in a calmer society, he’d be the shaman. I looked at him. I don’t want to lie to my kids. They know when something’s up. They get it; this one especially. Telling less than the truth breaks the trust between us. So I told him.

 

“It’s like life just can’t be straight forward. It’s full and empty, up and down, the good with the bad. Can’t we just have the sweet or the sour? Why do they have to be all mixed together?”

 

This was the moment the 13-year-old came back to the surface and the shaman faded and he looked at me like I was nuts.

 

“I just got an email from someone I’m so deeply happy to hear from, but it’s fall-out from the guy from high school who just died.”

 

“Mmm” he said, and looked out the window—earbuds stuffed in his ears and the ipod so loud I can hear the “Chemical Romance” song right through his ears.

 

I guess I need to remember that sweet and sour go so well together. It’s the perfect thing. Yes, this man died. It is deeply sad. It’s loss. Life always swings to death, it’s what makes room for the rest of life to move on, it’s sacred and good and part of life. If none of us ever died no one would be able to take a breath here on the planet. Even the sad is good. And hearing from this lost now found person is all good—like divine sweetness. Like pineapple. It sounds like this is happening across the country from this one man’s death—old friends finding each other after years and years and years. Sweet.

 

I think I’ll bring my sweet and sour “chicken” home and dump super spicy thai sauce over the whole thing. Like life. Sweet; sour; and if we’re lucky— wicked spicy.

 

The people you knew years and years ago...are they still in your life? Are there people who know stories about you that you wish no one ever knew? And can you just reach over and steal a bite of their food, even if you haven't been in the same room for months and months? Old friends. Good friends.


Now, the winter where I live is dreary. The clouds hang on for weeks. It rains. We all get a little gloomy, no one wants to go for a walk in the rain. No one wants to just hang around outside. But really? We're all crazy. The flowers are blooming! It's in the 40s! And in February we start to get real spring planting moving, and the sun comes out for days and days! So what did we do?? My family made the brilliant decision to come to Minnesota for our mid-winter break. It's 11 below, the actual temperature, with a 25 below windchill. It hurts to breathe and anything exposed freezes. But we came here to see those old friends.


In fact, Suz even came from Florida because there was a chance that all five of us girls would be in one room for a day or so. Well, maybe it was more than that, but she came to cold weather so cold it's dangerous; willingly, even bought a plane ticket. We just fly standby.

So there we were, staying in downtown Minneapolis for an overnight, the five girls who share a brain. Now we're all 40--the baby of the group just climbing that milestone this month. And it was cold. The skyways were closed. But it didn't matter. We shopped--at Target. We ate at a nice restaurant, we went to a niche pub. We laughed over nothing and drank a bottle of champagne.


And then as we each leave, one by one, to go back to our lives, a little piece of me rips off again. It's like that really strong velcro that holds super tight, but when it rips apart it makes that huge noise.....rrrriiiiiiiip. And in a couple of days I'll leave too. Rrrriiiip. It makes me think that maybe, it would almost be worth it to move back here to live in the super cold to be nearer to some of these pieces of myself. But of course, when you live close together you hardly ever take a whole week to hang out with your friends. And now we have those friends that only know the stupid stories about us from the last five years who live by our new home, and that's a piece we'd have to rip off. And it's really, really cold in Minnesota. I don't want to live someplace where the very air you breathe is dangerous. Volcanoes, earthquakes...now that's a reason for danger. Air, not so much. So I'll wear goofy wool socks, and be cold inside buildings and out for a while. It's OK. I'm happy to do it--but, really, I'm not moving back.

So, I went to the Obama Rally today. Two of the kids went with me, I think public school has totally ruined Michael and no matter what I said this morning, he would not skip school and come with me! Peter said "He's making grades while we're making history."

I don't know if we were really making history, but being in a big arena with 20,000 people who are actually letting themselves feel hope for our country was a little exciting. For so long I've felt nothing much good about being living here in the states and what we are doing to the rest of the people of the planet through our government.

But Barak Obama says things that make me hope. Like, that americans can be counted on to do the right thing. And that if things are going to change, we all have to do hard things, and that's OK, we can do that.

Cool.

I want to live in a country that takes care of it's old and sick, and does not give tax breaks to oil companies. I don't want a president who said "I hate all gooks" and would stack that suprememe court with even more judges with shameless political agendas.

Tomorrow I'm going to my caucus and I'm speaking my mind. I know I live in a very, very red neighborhood, but I don't care. Let 'em fine me for having moss on my roof (in SEATTLE??! MOSS??! Oh my!).

And if you were there, and you got stuck in hours and hours of awful traffic like the 58 mile back up on I-5 and if you stood outside for an hour and really really wished for just a little coffee, well then we'll say together after the swearing in, "hey, maybe we made a little history there on that grey February day..."

I'll host the post election party.

 

So, I caved. I subscribed to something more commercial and more mainstream than any blogger site or social networking site. It's bad.

I joined Weight Watchers.

Well, because even tho I lost almost a whole 2nd grader worth of weight years ago, when I moved back in with my husband INSTANTLY I gained  a whole bunch of weight. Seriously. It was like that day, the moving truck, boxes, cleaning and bam, here's a whole bunch of clothes that don't fit anymore. And no matter what I did it didn't want to go away, even after we decided we were married and happy and we planted gardens and everything.

OK, maybe thinking that nachos are kinda sorta healthy was part of the problem. That might be it. AND that thinking that red wine and dark chocolate are healthy...that's part of it too. Ww makes you stand up and weigh in and admit that even things you eat while standing-up... count.

It was funny, I kept hearing people that I thought of as "normal" size talk about belonging to ww--some for 20 years, and I decided that this is what "normal" sized people do when they start not fitting in their clothes. So, there I sit, in the chair at the meeting, every week and I don't eat nachos and I only eat "little" bits of dark chocolate. And yes, it's working, slowly.

There's a pile of clothes on my closet floor that I can hang back up when they fit. It's shrinking. That's good. If you're like me and can actually talk yourself into believing that nachos are kinda healthy, sometimes, you might have to stop eating standing up, too.

It's OK. We'll all be fat old people on the golf course someday, but for now....hey for now, I'm off nachos, I'm planning on a "clean" closet floor soon.

 And if you are one of those naturally thin people who can look at chocolate cake and think "um....I'm not really hungry" I'll try to accept you as a person next week. Promise.  

I have this little moment of time every day at about 7am. Now often I'm barely out of my pajamas, my coffee is always with me, sometimes just that first little bit from the coffee maker that tastes like a shot of espresso on a good day and like used oil on a bad one. Sometimes my son has to come and remind me that I'm supposed to get up and drive him to school. It's a small price to pay for going to a school that is different than the one he's assigned to--I get up and drive him there. Except of course most days now he drives me, and yes he can feather my ancient clutch nicely up a steep hill now, and hardly ever almost kills us by pulling out when I just wouldn't have. But some days, oh some days I get on some rant. It's about a 6 minute drive, we're not talking far or long here, but we listen to public radio and you just know how opionated liberal white women like me can climb right up on a soapbox and well, just rant. I do, I rant. My poor son mostly just listens. The other day we were driving in the dark, dark, morning that comes at the time of the soltice here. And somehow we got on the topic of daycare. Daycare. I've been an at home mom by calling and choice from day one. I've almost always worked some job, but I've never had a child in daycare. Sometimes in the early days we had to have a garage sale to pay the rent, or paint an apartment building for rent. But there was never one day of daycare. Funny, because I grew up in a daycare center run by my mom. And before my mom's 10 years it was run by my grandmother for 20 years.  One of my first jobs as an adult was in an infant room of a daycare center. Really, I beleive passionately in good daycare, and went on and on about this to my poor son as he made his way around the tricky corner, and up the big hill. I ranted about child development, and opression of women, and government eliteism and even the mistakes I think the early feminists made.

"You know" he said. "Sometimes it's like my mom just kind of steps aside and there's this big sermon that comes out of you."

"Ooo" I said, "sorry."

He said that no, it was alright, and he just kind of seemed to take it as a part of who I am. He got out, took his lunch and his monster sized backpack and his swim bag, said good bye. I got to say "love you sweetie, have a good day." I walked around to the passenger side, got in.

And I drove home, post rant-- wondering, how on earth did I get so very lucky? A teenager who listens to my rant. Takes it all in stride.  Luck. It's all him. But, I am so very lucky.

 

I'm done. The novel is past 50,000 words, which makes it a "novel" and means I WON Nanowrimo. Well, me and lots of other folks. Rock on us!

I had the most fun of the whole month writing this morning when Jen called at 9 and was here by 9:15 writing. It just made me so happy when she laid her head down on her keyboard. I wasn't alone!

AND my husband and kids baked me a cake, and got a card, and roses and a huge balloon that plays "Celebrate", like by Kool and the Gang, when you bop it; even before I hit 50,000 words. I'm so lucky. Yes, the house is a mess, and I'm way behind at work.

But so what. I wrote a novel.

In November.

Yeay us!

 

 

It's Thanksgiving, and yes, I don't eat animals so it's "Happy Tofurkey" day for me, fine, laugh-- whatever! I don't care. Really.

But what I do care about is my friends. My family of course, too, my three stooges and everyone. But I think I might be the most blessed person on the planet, or maybe the entire galaxy. I have the best friends.

I have the old friends who have been my friends forever, since high school or middle school or whatever. We talk all the time, we play on facebook and email and the wicked scrabulous game when we know very well who grew up on scrabble and who will win, but we play to be together. And the old friends who turn up after decades and somehow still matter because we never stopped loving them, we just didn't know where to find them.

And the new friends who are family even though it's only been a few years. We've been through too much to have anything ever pull us apart. We'll be there now, forever. Just the way it is. And our kids will grow up together, and dance at each other's weddings. And I can just hope that some of them will marry each other and we'll be family for real.

And we'll have holidays and birthdays and who knows what all that cements us all together. Just the way it is.

How can I not spend the whole day in the deepest "thank you" prayer I've ever offered?  I have to. Make the gravy and the potatoes, baste the big dead bird who never did anything to you....and I'll be saying it under my breath. "thank you". Not to the bird, although him too. But to everyone I love, everyone who matters. All of you. "thank you."

Just the way it is.

 

 So, don't be mad, I was just playing on facebook. Yes, we can use multiple social networking sites. It's so interactive and easy to play with your friends, in easy little bits through the day. I mean, I love the long conversations in person or on the phone, that's great. But to just be able to poke people and they know I'm thinking about them, I love them, it's all good. I'm still breathing even though I'm half way through the crazy novel now, I still care.

I was creating a new "superlative" for my friends. I did "most likely to throw cheezeballs". Remember cheezeballs? Little things that aren't really cheese, get the z in cheezeballs. And they are round but they're probably not actual food. Anyway, I had this lovely vision of hanging out in a cruddy one bedroom apartment for a party. A post college party, so there was beer, and of course, cheezeballs. And somehow someone started throwing them to other people. Not whipping them hard, a soft lob, meant of course, to be caught right in the mouth, no cheezy mess, and eaten.

Funny, now, 20 years later we're still throwing easy ones to each other, we're still in one big circle, although it circles the continent now. We're still together. And forever we'll always be the cheezeballs. We've added and amended spouses, we had nine cheezebabies. We've moved all over the globe. But we're still us, we still love each other. And when one of us gets stuck, the others come rolling out, fast as we can, to help.

We really are the cheezeball family.

I'm so stiff, and my butt just hurts. I haven't hung out with my friends for a week, I walk past them and try not to make eye contact, they might talk to me for too long, and then my schedule would be all messed up. Scurry, scurry. The house has gone from comfortably cluttered to a garbage house that would probably make the evening news if anyone reported me. And unless you eat tofu and rice, there is no food. I walked in the house early this morning and glanced up, the stars were beautiful. Yes, yes, but I had to get to the computer. Word count, time's ticking. December is just three weeks away. And I'm writing a novel. It's that crazy Nanowrimo (http://www.nanowrimo.org/) and I'm totally hooked.  My "novel" is complete crap and I can't imagne that other than people who really love me and my kids who hack my user and read without permission (I know who you are!) no one will read it. But, God it's fun! The characters have this life that they channel through me and it just goes into the words. It feels a little odd, but very cool. Maybe like having aliens inhabit your body. Kinda slimy, but good!

 

As her friends ate dessert, Kristi got antsy and stepped outside to browse the shop next door; "The Cow's Outside". As she reached into her purse to get out the lipgloss, she felt her phone vibrate. It was Jake—her heart jumped. Should she answer? Why was he calling her? Was everything OK? As soon as she wondered if he was OK she had to answer it. Waiting for a voice mail wouldn't do. "Hey baby!" she tried to sound happy and breezy and not a bit flustered.

 

 

"Oh sweet Kristi! So good to hear your voice! How are you? I miss you! Can I come hang out at the beach with you guys tonight?! I can be there in about three hours. I'll bring dinner!"

 

That's Jake. Always going 25 million miles a minute.

 

"Hi!" Kristi said. She kind of didn't know what else to even say.

 

Jake chuckled. She could almost see him shaking his head, messy hair flopping back and forth. His sweet smile tucked into his sweet face. "Sorry. Too much! First, how are you? I feel like you've been gone three weeks!"

 

"I'm OK, it's fine. Relaxing."

 

"And sweetie, are we OK about the other night? I mean I know we wouldn't usually sleep in the same bed in our underwear or anything, but it was so late, and we drank so much and it just felt so nice to hold you in my arms and fall asleep."

 

Kristi bit her lip. It had been really nice. Even just for what it was; her dear friend holding her, his fingers on her back, gently caressing her. Her face tucked into his neck, head resting on his shoulder. Warm skin. It had been nice.

 

"Oh yeah, don't even think about it. You were the perfect gentleman and you brought me coffee in the morning which gets you five gold stars and a pat on the head." Kristi touched the hand knit scarves, the olive green one would look so nice on Jake.

 

"Good, I'm glad. I love you sweetness. I don't want it to get uncomfortable between us. So whaddya think? Should I hop in my car and drive out? The kayak is already on. Everyone could take turns paddling. I'd make stew on the fire or bring you some salmon, we could grill. I'd be there before dinner."

 

My beautiful, amazingly talented and totally crazy friend talked me into this Nanomowrimo project. You write a novel. In a month. No kidding. She's actually DONE it. So, I figure it must be physically possible. Maybe you just don't sleep. And really word count wise (50,000) it's a NOVELLA. But still, it's completely not a normal thing for an adult to voluntarily sign up to do.

So I'm in training. I decided the best thing to do to be ready (you write in November, all of November. We're doing corn dogs for Thanksgiving this year, kids) the best way to really get the prose in gear would be to focus on poetry. You know, clean lines, fast images. Good poetry. Today I read Frost and his whole road issue. You know, picking the road that was grassy, and it wanted someone to walk on it. And of course I wondered. Really, what if?

My life is so full of the road not taken. What if? The Who, the What, the Why Where When and How would all be different. But the mountains would be the same. And the valleys would still fill with fog on October mornings. The huge Douglass Fir would still have grown through the decades. The tides would flow in and back out.

The grains of sand might have been aranged in a different pattern, once, twice and again.

And the grass on the road might have been tromped on one more time. And really, what would have mattered. What.

If.

 

From my daily tarot...

"The Fool
The Fool desires to achieve great things in life, but does not always anticipate the hard work required. Full of curiosity and searching for answers, the Fool symbolizes a new beginning and endless optimism. He must be careful in the decisions he makes, as his lack of experience is often a hindrance. While others may avoid taking on insurmountable odds, The Fool will attempt to accomplish near impossible goals with almost reckless abandon."

 

I'm thinking that I am just too sensitive. I walk around like a hermit crab who just crawled out of its shell. Everything feels rough. Everything can hurt you.

 

Someone told me recently that people our age who share raw emotion with other people so easily must be fools. No kidding. So I share the deepest things that happen in the hermit crab heart. Bright, real bright. I don't know why this happens. Sometimes my mouth is just running and my brain is chasing after yelling "Hey! Stop! Wait!" But that's the problem with being less-than-bright, my brain can't really sprint. So I lay out the whole miserable thing to whoever it is; the dental hygienist, the friendly old lady at the coffee shop, or just some poor unsuspecting friend who never meant to get into that much detail!

 

Poor people. They probably go home to their family and say "that sad sap, she just couldn't stop telling me all kinds of miserable details of her wretched heart".

Well, OK. But there are some little benefits to being so clearly raw emotionally all the time. People trust me. Instantly. And I am trustworthy. Lovely quiet women tell me their painful stories. And I always get the "I'm pregnant" or "I'm getting married" announcement way before the rest of the crowd.

 

And kids who can't trust anyone and really given their life story shouldn't trust anyone, trust me. And tell me. And then I can call the police. And I do.

 

And even a child with autism who isn't comfortable with new people ever, looks at me and says "Kari!" and takes my hand.

 

So maybe it's not all bad.

 

Let's have a support group for people of a certain age who are fools. And really in the end, don't mind.

 

 

 

Being married for 20 years teaches you a few things.

Love is not just the gooey fizzy feeling you get when that special someone thinks you're something special too. It's cleaning up the mud from the flood at 1am when you have a big meeting in the morning. And having fun, laughing while you clean.

Committment is not something that happens when its easy. It happens when it's really, super hard to commit to someone who is pissing you off. And you still love them, even when they totally suck.

Sometimes it's you who totally suck. And you don't deserve to be loved, but that is not at all what it's about. You deserve to be loved and cherished, even when you're being stupid. And sucky.

And sometimes everyone forgets that it's about loving when unloveable, and committing when it's hard. And you have to go back and figure it all out again. But you do it, because the alternative is that you don't.

And it's all worth it. Every last second of painful, wretched trying. Because it is. It just is.

 

So, it's raining. I'm at the West Seattle end of the Vashon-Fauntleroy ferry, waiting. The ferry is in and I see the motorcycles speeding off the ferry and up the hill. The first "walk-on" folks straggle down the sidewalk, start to gather at the bus stop--kitty carrier in hand, a sleeping bag. One with a big box, one kicking at the ground. He must be coming, shortly behind the first off. He's got a lot to carry, it's probably slowing him down.

People were shocked that I'd let him walk on the ferry. What if something happened?

Like what? Really, bad things happen in places we think are safe. The ferry isn't exactly White Center at 2am, not that it keeps me from driving that way if that's the way I'm going at that time. I'm not really worried. Not really.

I see him, standing just beyond the park and ride, looking around, trying to figure out which way to go. He doesn't look only 12--almost 13. He looks like a kind of scruffy young man with a sleeping bag and a duffle. Well, he looks a little like a homeless teen instead of a beloved kid, back from a weekend at camp. He hates being hugged, but so what? I sqeeze him tight--let go before I want to.

Letting go is so hard. We have to, it's important. I want to hold tight. I don't want to let him walk on the ferry alone. I don't want him to grow up, move away and think of calling me as a duty. The measure of how we've done in the end, I think, might be how much they really don't need us.

And that maybe sometimes they call because they just want to say "hi".

 

I came home tonight after a long day of single parenting and being the religious education professional and the soccer taxi and the school volunteer to the funniest thing ever. Today was one of those days. You just shake your head at the "to do" list from hell and decide the only things you'll get done are the bleeding, broken things. Ever walked into an ER with a bleeding, screaming child? I've never seen such speed! So I'm on the lost homework patrol, and the carpool detail, and the driving instructor role. All good, right? Even had the hour-and-a-half at the coffee shop with the work/homework/parental care shift. Super good. In fact, there was even the trek through Costco (anyone else feel like they need to bathe in holy water after that?) and the emergence with the potential for a well balanced breakfast, lunch AND dinner for a week or more.

So, I went off to my church-lady meeting. I went to the wrong house first which clearly had the nicest pot smoking guys in town telling me which house I was really looking for. I had to leave my kids with thier own dinner to make. No biggie, right? We have food in the house. Like $500 worth of food! Their dad is on his two-weeks-away-working-every-month-trip, so they're really on their own. But I've seen them all cook. They're almost 16 and 13 and 11. Come on, they can fend off hunger for a while, right? Gotta be.

Well, fine. I come home. All homework is successfully completed. All the kids are brilliant and would never let that grade validation slide. That's all good. The dinner dishes are in the sink, even some water has been kinda sloshed over them. Good, that's good. But the Costco run today was late in the day. I didn't have time between the school run and the soccer run to put away anything but the stuff that would totally rot. So the kitchen is full of everything else. I look down and there on the floor is the huge bag of hot dog buns. It's carefully twisted closed and secured with a clothes pin. Hot dogs for dinner. With buns. Gotta keep them fresh. Close it up and LEAVE IT ON THE FLOOR!

Oh god, I'm still laughing.

It's beautiful, really it is.

My friend who found out that her cancer is back, and there's nothing anyone can do, and she will never have these crazy days with kids, would be proud of me. I really did just smile. I love my kids, I love Anne, I wish she could raise kids and watch them carefully close up the hotdog buns and leave them right there on the floor. She can't, but I can.

And I can smile, just smile. It is a blessed life.

 

When you go camping with a group of about 40 people and all of them are just a lot like you in values, beleifs and treasures, it's so easy.

A kid needs something, everyone understands. No one judges, no one lays blame, it's just fine.

Someone comes in to camp at midnight and half a dozen folks come crashing through the woods, set up tents, warm up sleepy kids, unpack sleeping bags, all with a laugh, a smile and relief that we're all finally together. Then they sing happy birthday to the kid who just turned 11 at midnight--but really quietly so the babies stay asleep.

If you don't like your dinner, someone is making something you'll like, and they're more than happy to share.

When your own kid is driving you nuts, they're not driving someone else nuts--and that someone might even take them fishing.

A camp fire is a time to relax, lean in and just be together, even if crazy folks are baking one chocolate chip cookie at a time over a fire--someone else will hand you a beer and make you laugh til it comes out of your nose.

And a bike pararde is really meant to be done by teenagers with glow sticks in their spokes at midnight, really.

Maybe this is how we're truly meant to live. It sure felt good.

Bless you all who were there and you who might be next time, too.

 

 

So today was the first time I sat in the passenger seat. Oh, not ever, of course I sometimes let other folks drive. But this time the driver was my son. How he had the nerve to get old enough to drive, I have no idea, but he did. And while his dad is really the auto freak, I am the one who is around all the time, so of course, I'm the one who gets to sit in the passenger seat. And be calm. And encouraging.

And did I mention that I drive a stick, yep. Manual transmission. Clutch. And not a great one either. It's been iffy on first gear, oh for maybe you know....A YEAR!

But you know what? I like my kid. And he's a sensible person. And he did pretty well. There was the one squealling of tires, but he's right, I didn't really explain that you had to let off the clutch really slowly....not pop off. After that it was pretty smooth.

I know tomorrow he's going to be grown and gone and the day after he'll be winning a Nobel Prize, or a Pulitzer, or a Grammy, or an Oscar or something. Maybe he'll even win the love and respect of his friends and family, and maybe if he's really lucky, someday he'll sit in the passenger seat, too.

I'll miss him, but then, that's the whole point, isn't it?