First Christmas on Burbridge

Clara meets Mr. Claus, Packing her books for church, Choosing the tennenbaum, Mom and Dad, Williamsburg Legaspi's, Wynnewood Legaspi's

To Remember for Holiday Mental Health

-You can hear things and even feel things but then you can shut the door on them. Like Luther asked, "Are the birds flying around your head or are they making a nest in it?"
-Naps are mood-altering and life-giving.
-A protein snack can also be transformative.
-Short, manageable lists.
-Be explicit about what I am going to do for one hour at a time.
-Under-invite if it means you are going to be over-extended.
-Steer with Geoff the ship of this little unit.
-Steer myself toward the intentions of Christ-like service and meditate on His beauty.
-Like Mom said today, "Remember that His birth was full of inconvenience and pain."
-Feed and make nests for my kids, otherwise roll and flex with large-family plans.
-Be open-hearted.
-Ask God to give me his joy.

Thirty.

Geoff said that he wanted the day of his thirtieth birthday to include elements that mirror his life. He worshipped, he served us, he went for a solitary hike, he drew, he wrote, he connected with his closest buds. And just like his every day life, he had to unselfishly make a sacrifice for us. My sis and I had been planning since early November that she and JP would sleep over and keep my kids overnight. (I know, amazing, ne plus ultra, Sanchez'!) So, I packed us an overnight bag, a poshy little picnic with wine and Top of the Hill chicken salad. We dashed into the wintry evening to catch the R8 downtown. We laughed like kids getting away with mischief. He thought we were going to the symphony. I told the boys we were going to a meeting run by Santa's elves, where parents had to clarify the kids' letters to Santa. (I can come up with some pretty surreal stories when it comes to my kids. Just ask them about the "pig's blood.")

Anyway, we found ourselves on the 23rd floor of the Doubletree. We got room service. I continued to train him in the Legaspi ways of exploring all hotel amenities for full satisfaction (These include: unpacking even if you're only staying 1 night, jumping on the beds, reading the complimentary magazines and also reading the manual.) It was wonderful. Then we headed to the pool, where we swam and played for 2 hours. I had forgotten some of the pleasures of swimming. Fear of your children drowning brings a gravity and suspicion to every beach or pool trip. We floated, we raced, we talked. The whole evening was dream-like and amazing. It seemed like we had the whole hotel to ourselves. So when we got a call from my sis at 11 saying that our little girl was refusing sleep, we gave a midnight deadline. An hour later we were packing our bag and heading up the Schuykill back home. Just before we left our room, I wanted to spiral into a state of dread thinking about my unweaned toddler and my holiday chaos back home. But Geoff wanted us to pray. He wanted to give thanks for his thirty amazing years, he wanted to lift up our marriage, he wanted to cry out in prayer for both our wacky families of origin, and he wanted to meditate on the beauty of our little life that we have managed to build together over the past 11 years.

We sometimes joke about my wanting to sleep with an older professor. But he never stops opening my sometimes stony heart, never stops opening the aperture of my narrow thinking. What a teacher he is to me. But what I want to say, Geoff, is that I am seeing after all these years with you is that God is making you into something really strong and real, someone we couldn't have imagined, even together. Happy thirty, my man.

Three Magic Words

Tonight during movie night, I was reading a little book called, "Hot Mama," from Chronicle Books. A book I find fun and mood-altering especially on days where I feel bloaty and irritable. (My intellectual prowess as demonstrated by my literature choices are NOT the subject of this post.) Anyway, Benici looks over my shoulder and says, "Shoes, shoes, shoes!" HE READ the page over my shoulder! We couldn't believe it! I think it's a tricky word, with that "SH!" It's true though, if you look at the book, there IS a drawing of various and sundry hot footwear for prego moms right below it but I say even with illustration, it's still fair to call it reading. Context clues are very kosher in my book. Just another developmental leap report from Burbridge St.

P.S. We postponed the GFS interview until next Tuesday. Dr. Cady says that Manny has a cold. Anti-climactic, I know, but music to our ears.

Building Beatty Immunity One Feverish Battle at a Time

Little report from the battlefield of Virus versus Beatty kid: We've got a feverish five year old with his GFS one on one interview at 10:45 in the morning. He's been sluggish and pukey since Wednesday morning. Doctor says that day 3 is always the proving day, if he shows an improvement, it's probably viral, no biggy. If he worsens by day 3, he should come in to be seen.

Tried to spend good couch time with him today. Read: Ant Bully, Bread and Jam for Frances (one of my faves), Fireflies among other books. When I picked up a catalog to read as he dozed in my arms, he woke up and said, "Mom, don't you think you are reading too many of those and your brain is going to shrink?" Wow. I set the Garnet Hill down and shushed him back to sleep biting my lip and laughing. He let me hold him, such a beautiful little gift to me, to have such a big boy sleep in my arms, us waiting together for the fever to break. It was so gratifying to hold him as the sweat mercifully began to form on his brow. I have no doubt now: doing visceral service yields a wider aperture for my heart. Receiving hot and fresh bedding from the dryer anew. Refilling the humidifier, liberating a small girl from her tights worn all day, even filling the dustpan with all the crumbs and paper scraps of the day can have a redemptive effect on my heart, which is prone to vanity and inordinate self-regard. Threw a Bell and Evans roaster in my red goose pot with sweet potatoes, russets, carrots, celery and 3 hours later, we had a beautiful dinner and I wanted to just be down on the floor doing sketches of a Robin costume with Benici. Tomorrow, the chicken will be soup-ammo for my little soldier-liberators.

More later on the GFS decision and other news from the Germantown Chapter of the Virus Liberators. All we are saying is give clear fluids a chance!!

Aquacizing with Aretha

Working out is not usually a surreal experience. However, Geoff's semester break afforded me the chance to attend Tuesday morning's Aquacise class at my gym. Because of how pregnant I am, my choices in classes are limited. As in, for a pregnant lady, stationary bike is not an option, neither is pilates and I can forget Morning Burn, which had been my favorite. (Up at 5 am having an energetic Jamaican woman shout at you, "We're here to work hard, ladies!") So, I was not sure what I was signed up for when I show up on the pool deck with about a dozen women, all older, different backgrounds, ranging from elderly physical-therapy patients to kindly empty-nest moms with graying hair and Christmas earrings.

The teacher was energetic and told me she did jumping jacks and sit-ups through her ninth month and all three of her kids "came out fighting." She told me this group has been meeting for several years and that they all chat through the class but that I would get a good workout. The class was about an hour of doing short laps of running, knees-up marching, and no hands striding. My favorites were her choices of music: We warmed up to Aretha, and knees-up marched for the entire length of "Kiss" by Prince. We cooled down with the crooners, against the pool wall like aquatic ballerinas at the barre while Dean Martin pleads, "When an irrestistible force such as you. . . ." One woman shared that when she took her son shopping this weekend, they had to walk 8 blocks to the store and HE was the one who got winded. The teacher responded, "Yes! This is healthy you high-functioning! This is the point of fitness!" The ladies were kind and asked how far-along I was. They even invited me to lunch after Thursday's class. I'm sure I won't go but it was nice to see into a little window. Disparate ladies brought together by their semi-weekly gatherings to be weightless in the water, to float and be lithe while being passionately serenaded by divas and sappy romantics.

Mother Mary Comes to Me

Every year when I was in elementary school, an eighth grade girl was chosen to play Mary for the school pageant. I distinctly remember the year Mary was played by a girl of Asian-Indian descent. She had the blue veil hair-pinned onto her thick curtain of raven hair. And even though she was brown-skinned, unlike the milkmaid European Mary, she had the demure but put-upon persona totally spot-on. She got to do the walk up the auditorium aisle, humble but chosen, fake-pregnant, the spotlight on her and her just-barely pubescent Joseph. Because of my name and because I was full of hope, I was sure the role would be mine until 7th grade, when our class joined the highschool and there was no more k-8 pageant. My hopes were dashed.

I grieve the loss of that pageant, it was wonderful. Every afternoon during Advent was devoted to rehearsal for the pageant. Kindergarteners were, of course, angels in white with tinsel garland halos. Eighth graders were chosen for the roles of the Holy Family. Most of the rest of us were the chorus, who stood on risers flanking the stage. But even this was fun, singing our hearts out to "Hark the Herald" or even "the Cherry Tree Carol," which was my favorite. The night of the pageant was always so fun, older sibs would return from college and be there to watch. The nuns were relieved and uncharacteristically jovial, blushing over our sloppy but heartfelt performance. Though I loved this night, the fact that I never got to play Mary is something I'm still getting over. My sister got to be the first girl ever to play the role of Angel Gabriel, a part she SO wanted. That year, Mary was played by my sister's little Irish friend, rosy-cheeked and virginal, but the fact that she was 9 was somehow not the same. The year I should have played Mary, I spent all of Advent going to lame basketball games and junior high dances that still give me existential dread.

Anyway, last Sunday, for Advent's second Sunday, I was asked to read Mary's Song as the Call to Worship. I knew I could look at it two ways: 1) see it as our church's trick to get my family to church on time for once OR 2) believe in the redemption of happening to be pregnant during Advent and believing our friend when he said that I would be gifted at reading this song as someone sho could really portray Mary's message. So, Sunday morning, I put on my most distinguished black cashmere turtleneck and black corduroy skirt for lack of a pale blue veil and flowing white gown. I had listened to the Luke passage on BIble Gateway read by a British actor. I had rehearsed the 9 verses with Geoff. So I went up there and gave it everything I had. I wanted to put across Mary's sense of feeling like she had won the lottery, feeling CHOSEN. I also wanted to portray her sense of feeling a part of a greater story than hers. I also wanted to NOT twist my ankle when I made my way up to the microphone.

After my short reading, Geoff and the kids came up to light the second Advent candle. So there we stood, a little humble family, holy in our own way. I could not have felt more blessed at Christmas, fecund with child, chosen for a role in God's story and availed so much grace.

Signs of Christmas

If, until now, I was not in the Christmas spirit, baby I am now. I went to a wreath-making workshop tonight. It was on the grounds of the Wyck Mansion (home of the oldest American rose bush!). It was so good to be doing that tactile work, filling my arms with different greens, wiring them to the thick evergreen circle. Choosing between juniper, incense fir, boxwood, holly and others, making little bundles and arranging them. The cozy workshop was full of the smell of evergreen and the sounds of Christmas music. In the end, I chose three birds to add to my wreath and this really bold, festive ribbon. I learned that instead of nailing into your front door, you can discreetly nail into the wood on the top of the door itself if you use a flat-head nail. It was such a fun evening.

Walking to the car afterward, it started to snow! My friend Lisa and I drove home in the winter's first snow, laughing about our kids and sharing about how family life can be so weighty and trying. I arrived home to a quiet house of sleeping kids and Geoff and I celebrated the snow with a gorgeous and dramatic fire. The wind was so strong outside the chimney that it was just scooping up smoke out of our fireplace. We chatted until just now, about everything from how the hell to make a quick-dry pinata to the progress of his animation curriculum proposal to the dorkiness factor of certain eighth grade extra-curriculars.

I don't know but now I feel like we're really moving toward Christmas. The advent momentum has struck me and I want to decorate out of that energy. We have the following craft kits to do: Waldorf wool people, candles for teachers and crossing guards, and a gingerbread house. Also, we want to do these salt-dough ornaments reminiscent of ornaments I made at St. Mary's School in first grade. Geoff had to stop me from waking the boys to look at the snow. Maybe when Clara wakes up in a few minutes we can peer out at the back yard or find the moon together.

"snapshots" from the day

Because I can't figure out how to post photos on my blog, I am just going to have to tell you in words because today was too great NOT to describe: A field trip to the local pizza place with Benici's class. Driving little Elliot in our van and having him tell me, "Your car is so clean." Watching them make their own pizzas as the tattooed Vito showed them how to press the dough with their fingertips. Little Clara even got to make her own! I remember trying this pizza joint when we first moved here. Geoff and I weren't completely convinced of its merits but Geoff also said that it's our neighborhood place so we should hang in there for it. I'm so glad we did. When we walked in, the counter girl said, "Oh my gosh, you are in here all the time." Yes, I think we Beattys could eat pizza seven days a week. And this particular pregnant lady enjoys a nice pep and mush slice on occasion, ahem. Is that such a crime?

The boys had their first art exhibition at the PMA. Their teacher actually selected one piece from each of their collections. Over the past 10 weeks or so, they have made about 20 pieces. They've sculpted tiles inspired by Dutch tiles from the renaissance, Moorish screens from Morocco, Japanese calligraphy, mini chests of drawers in the Shaker style. Their teacher selected each of their self-portrait etchings. Manny articulated his own teeth in his. Benici gave himself a spiral on his chin to look like Buzz Lightyear. When we had some money from selling our house, we decided to sign them up for this class. Also because the nursery school didn't seem to have a really strong consistent art curriculum. I didn't anticipate how much I would learn about looking at art myself--and I'm married to an artist! We have learned to take our time and to look for the story in a piece of art. We looked at these wedding chests today and she told us the story of a mother who was so heartbroken when her daughter got married that she negotiated a deal where the husband could have the daughter half a year and the mother could have her for the other. The daughter's name is Prosperina, I think, and the seasons of the year she is with her husband it is fall and winter. The ones with mother are spring and summer. I was getting a lump in my throat just listening. Also we looked at the mythology figures and the teacher asked simply, "Who here has ever wished they could be a galloping horse but also just stay themselves?" The kids were really at home with that question.

Also, we have learned to be a little team in the museum. They boys know how to check their own coats, how to keep their voices to a controlled volume, and how the elevator lady likes her tea. Anyway, today we all had a little party after seeing the exhibition of their work. The program director was in clicky heels and gave a little speech. We applauded, took photos. I wish you could see the one of the kids eating soft pretzels in the gallery! Oh, and they were soft pretzels shaped like Christmas trees. I love photos that can tell you what time of year and in what city they were taken. It's been a great 10 weeks!

P.S. Ask Manny and Benici about the "parking lot" game we play each week!

Restless, Broken

Our neighbors' house got broken into. Our dear friends from college are going to Colorado to save their marriage. Instead of a date night, Geoff and I drove for an hour trying to find parking in center city. Our nursey school had no heat yesterday. My daughter is on antibiotics for the first time in her life. I have been to yoga, to Catholic Mass, to our church even--to try and get some meditative head space. I think of Ecclesiastes, "Everything is vain, meaningless under the sun." It has been one of those weeks. My mom assures me that these trials breed a healthy and right dependence on God's good news but this is not easy. Seeing my own church as awkward and broken. Seeing the Catholic church as this controversial monolith. Even seeing yoga and poetry as these escapes for my mind.

We have been celebrating the first week of Advent. "Advent" means "to await the coming." It definitely does seem like everything around me is anticipating a change. Instead of being bitter and blameful, our neighbors stood on ladders and decked their house with fresh garlands and red velvet ribbons. I would think this would make them more of a sore target but I see their decorations and I love that audacity. They have lived here for over 10 years and always decorate, so why should a burglary stop them? And as my friends fly out tomorrow, two souls-in-progress trying to salvage 7 years of marriage, I am anxious for them. As I stood up as a bride's maid for her, I want to stand up for them now in that same way, "Hey, I get the hugeness of these promises you are making and I am standing with you to tell you I think you can do it." But as I have been married the same amount of time I see how difficult this is-- old wounds, crazy insecurities, a culture that loves to depict monogamy as parochial or narrow-minded. And the heat DID come back on at school and when I picked up my boys that afternoon, they had their rest time by the fireplace. Their teacher has read almost to Chapter 4 of Charlotte's Web, they told me , their hair mussed from lying down, their cheeks flushed with heat. And as for the little poster-child for Western medicine, hungrily drinking her pink penicillin, I hate to admit, is 100% better.

St. Augustine prayed, "I am restless until I rest in You." I know that I am restless. I am a soul-in-progress, an insomniac with a little baby girl doing dolphin flips in my tum, a mother-bear who still chokes up when saying goodbye to my boys at school, a hopeless project-starter, and a restless writer so eager to have this blog entry tie up nice and neat. I think I have to be a little okay with the wrestling. God said to Cain, "Sin is crouching at your door. Its desire is for you. You must master it." I need to fight for some mastery, I think. Some strength to stay in the game.

pink milk and heart-shaped shortbread

Have I told you that it's really different having a daughter? The hectic pace of the school dropoffs and the playdates and the holiday planning can really leave my head spinning. But lately, I have come to notice the pleasure of keeping company with Mademoiselle Clara Margot. Last spring, on a PMA field trip, I was wearing her in her sling when I found a moment to sneak away from the tour. I brought her into the Grace Kelly exhibit. It was a magnificent display of her wedding dress. Ivory lace and regally cut, we both stood there looking at it, noticing things, I think only a Mom and her daughter can notice.

So now during the 45 minute studio portion of their museum class, we head to the cafe for a little traditional snack: pink milk and heart-shaped shortbread. I leave her stroller in the studio and we walk hand in hand and I don't even need to show my member card to the cashier anymore. I can give the exact 3.80 before having to chase after Clara, doing her Frankenstein jog past the registers.

I don't think Tinkerbell make-up exists anymore. I resorted this morning to the "Little Diva" department at Five Below where I was delighted (and slightly nauseatued by) the shocking array of girl makeup but managed to find glitter nail polish in a teeny bottle that looks like a strawberry. C'est la vie avec ma petite mademoiselle!