H-Loween Morning

Never yet have we had a year with so much delicate coreography to our day: drop off at PMFS, by 8, Geoff to school by 9, and Clara to nursery school by 9:15. Sometimes this involves carpool, biking, walking, or walking the bike with Clara, me co-oping, which involves another regimen of preparation, many variations within the span of a week. Today, we arrived at a sublime level of ornate chaos-- Halloween!

Aside from prayers of resignation and deep breathing, my one antidote to these moments is preparation. An example: last night, I startled awake at 3 am, "Geoff, the oxygen tanks for Manny!" Another example, I maniacally write lists down everywhere. Calliope plays and pretends to read an imaginary list into her play phone. Anyway, today was an example that when enough prep is done and enough resignation is given over-- it is possible to participate in the joy of the moment.

I don't know what kind of conspiracy they have going on there but every time there is an event at the boys school, I find myself in tears. Today, it all began with the bagpiper and the dewy cold grass. Parents lined the path from the upper part of the campus all the way down to the kindergarten and pre-k. Led by the beret and kilt-clad bagpiper and the head of school dressed in the sincerest of benevolent witch costumes processed the the 6th, 5th and descending grades. This grand and quirky parade which included teachers dressed as stoplights and wizards and students as Things 1 and 2, a huge wrapped present, Charlie Brown as a peeled-potato ghost! The requisite kindergarten boys in polyester pectorals and biceps always has a special place in my heart. All our children, decked out in whimsy and fantasy parading to the music of a live bagpipe was disconcerting and beautiful. The parade culminated on the blacktop where the Head of School waits alone. I am expecting the head of school to throw out handfuls of skittles to a rowdy technicolor crowd. Or to at least address the crowd. Instead, the children assemble, and in twos, walk across the blacktop, which serves as a stage and then gets a hand-shake and a greeting. There is nothing to hear, they just make their way up to her, greet her and sit down. What I'm beginning to understand as that Quaker way of being quiet and private and yet reverent and warm. Benicio, the ninja (sans throwing stars and sai) walked up with his friend dressed as Woody from Toy Story. Clara called out to him like she was spotting Bono in Dublin. He smiled and rolled his eyes a little.

Manny the deep-sea diver went up with a boy who was dressed as Indiana Jones. When greeted with, "Happy Halloween," by Anne, the Head of School, he replied, "You too." I should photograph the oxygen tank. Geoff rigged it up at 5am with washing machine hookup tubes, two seltzer bottles and duct tape. I went there with my children prepared: dressed in layers, costumed and lunch-packed and was able to take in the simplicity of that ceremony.

All the Little Things

A few things that I'm loving these days: doing homework with Manny by the fire, interpreting my Dad's marinated garlic, lemon-chicken recipe and making a yummy sauce with it, Rosemarie Miller's "From Fear to Freedom" is throwing the lights on for me, these shoes in patent olive: (see link) which are comfy enough to co-op but but sharp enough for dinner here: http://cantinadossegundos.com/, feeling the universal love on facebook, discovering a new workout with Becky:Bhangra workout.

Can you tell that adding links is new to me?

Margin, Name and Date

A year ago, the boys entered a coloring contest at a local pizza place. At the top, it asked for your name, age and date. Manny dutifully filled out, "Manny, age 6, date, Starbucks." He thought it was asking for the location of your last date. We have been in the habit of taking them on "dates" in order to get individual face-time on occasion. I so savored the innocence in this.

Now, our eldest child is not only heading his papers with "margin, name and date" correctly but has appropriated a world of school-y behaviors. At turns, I marvel and grieve. In the morning, he wants to walk to upper campus with the older kids. This always reminds me of "Finding Nemo" when the sea turtles are swimming in that big current and "Crush" the surfer turtle observes his son saying, "Stand back and see what little dude does!" instead of intervening. My favorite is in the afternoon, the same current of kids flows downhill and I see him running with his backpack, today his face was stained with water ice from a classmate's birthday treat. This school, these children, have become his world. I observed him on the playground one afternoon playing this game called, "Bow to Your Partner." It takes place on this square log, maybe 6 feet long. One boy stands on one end and one on the other. They face eachother and bow. Then, using only the sides of their bodies, no arms or "leg wrapping" they essentially hip-check the other until he loses balance and falls off the log. It ends up these intense, wrestling of shoulder and torso, both boys hunched and trying to needle and shove the other off the log. The boy that wins remains on the log and takes on a new challenger. Boys wait in the line, cheering and coaching.

You can imagine me biting my lip, sweating and praying for my little guy. I have to say that it was just exhilarating to witness. Three or four times, I just saw Manny get in there, bow, and then engage in the game. Each time he lost but each time, he sustained his strength incrementally. One time, one of his peers said, "Manny, you're going to have to do better than that!" How can I explain the beauty in seeing him wrestle? Him in the mix, being a boy, being sharpened by those around him in this physical and athletic way. He wasn't the biggest but he wasn't the littlest. There were the broad boys, candidates for the lacrosse scholarships at Swarthmore. Then there were the wiry and quick ones, sweaty and ruthless, surfer hairdos obscuring their eyes. And then there was our Manny, stepping up for his turn, smiling his front-toothless smile.

G-town Saturday

"It's about folks catching hell, it’s about folks wrestling with social misery, it’s about folks trying to come to terms with their grief and their pain but transfiguring it into vision."--Dr. Cornel West

This is us on Saturday when Barack Obama came to our neighborhood. Through friends of friends we stood in this amazing backyard that was back to back with Vernon park. We packed the double stroller like we pack for the beach-- fruit, water, heartening savory snacks. The end of the line to get into Vernon Park was imperceptible. That same morning a friend left a message on our machine, "I know you have an aversion to Vernon Park but you'll never guess who's gonna be there!" I have an aversion to this park because even though it's walkable, it is the park of whinos, of breadlines, of dimebags on the swings and used condoms under the curly slide. I was in disbelief that a presidential candidate was coming not only to Philly but to our backyard. And not only to our backyard but our stanky, poor, addiction-rife, crime-ridden backyard.

The streets poured with so many disparate groups--we saw teachers from Manny and Benicio's school, chipper and game in their Birkenstocks and travel mugs. Also tons of young mamas wearing their babies all the Snuglis and groggy parents. And then there were the grandmas out in full force with Barack T-shirts and American flag bandanas. At first we were discouraged by the line and decided to go home. Later, we found a spot where we could hear the music, and figured it was a good enough place to stand. That's when we ran into a friend of a friend who invited us around the corner. We went up these steps and pushed open this gate onto this amazing yard. It was three backyards where the fences had been taken down. They had a veggie patch and a hen house, a worn old yew tree for climbing and other low trees which our kids were immediately drawn to. Such a serendipitous oasis in the' hood! We ended up finding that we could see through the trees. They tried climbing these holly shrub-trees, Zaccheus style. There we were peering through trees and fences, catching glimpses while listening to Barack's words. Benicio says, "He was smaller than a double-A battery, but we saw him!" And by the time Rendell and Nutter had introduced him, other folks had found their way back to the fence and stood with us. Some familiar faces and some totally unfamiliar, even people if I saw on the street would really give me pause and raise my defenses. I don't know that the photos do it justice but there was a very palpable sense of hope. I could stand shoulder to shoulder with so many different people and enter into an energy that is pregnant with possibility. Whatever happens with the election, I am deeply inspired by Obama's ability to inspire so much hope and energy around what is possible.

Clara Margot Turns 3

You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are
***
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do
--Peter Starstedt "Where Do You Go to My Lovely"

"When hope is not pinned wriggling onto a shiny image or expectation, it sometimes floats forth and opens.” --Anne Lamott

11 The king is enthralled by your beauty;
honor him, for he is your lord.--from the 45th Psalm

Happy Birthday, little big girl. You confound us and delight us every day.