You Know You're Home When. . .

-I bleached and hosed out our simple human trash can for the third time to remove the essence of kitty litter.
-I sawed off a branch from our rose of sharon that the kids hung on one too many times.
-Geoff did a rose petal-ectomy from Calliope's nose. (And the kids agreed that that was the only drawback about having a rose bath.)
-I am working on school paper-work that was due on July 15th.
-We had a play date where I again encountered my vanity about how my kids fare next to other kids. But God triumphed and I administered the holy sacraments of water balloons and cheetos.
-I watched napless Clara dance so fast to keep up with the boys.
-I played two rounds of Guess Who to console the left out Clara. (She's getting so good! Yay process of elimination skills!)
-I cut hydrangea and wildflowers that have riotously showed up while we were away. Fresh flowers in every room but I still have laundry to put away. Mary's priorities, I guess, not Martha's.

And now Geoff's making seltzer spritzers and we're going to watch a movie.

Providence List 2:Some Things I Learned

-When in doubt, lie on the floor with the kids.
-We no longer need a stroller.
-They really don't need tv.
-Track with them on their obsessive quests: Yes, the DS costs this much. You won't always want a Wii this much. What is it offering you that other things you have can't offer you? OR Honey, I'm not certain if things become alive at night at museums, but my gut tells me that they don't.
-Taking individual children out for a bike ride or for coffee is mood-altering for all involved.
-Maybe invest in a GPS.
-No matter how bored or hot, NEVER take all four of them into Target. Unless you want to feel soul-sucked.
-Go to the closest beach every day, no matter the weather. In the end, it will feel like its theirs.
-Thank you to the inventor of Cat's Cradle, which made daily Mass possible.
-Plan meals and bring all the groceries. Only buy produce snacks there.
-Do less daily bribing. Levity and distraction work better.
-Leave them to their play. It's way messier but after a certain point, they all get into it.
-Going to a car wash can give you a new lease on life.
-It's okay to get involved with play with one or two of the kids. It is magnetic and will either amuse the others from afar or draw them in.
-If you are going to build a house, have the kitchen sink look out onto a sweet little garden.
-We are grateful for this gig, that Geoff has work and that in this case, it has offered us a chance to travel. I think we could do it again.

Sweet Anonymity

One thing I love is when, after dinner, Geoff says, "Go get some head space." I feel like Fred Flintstone sliding on the dinosaur's tale at the end of his workday, Yabba-dabba-doo! He was tagging-in, he was calling me off-duty. He was telling me to get some space from the day's work. He offers this when he can.

Last night, I went to the video store around the corner and then to find a mailbox. But first I ducked into the coffee shop. (I love being 2 blocks from these independent spots (Acme Video, Coffee Exchange). I was in a state of post-beach, post-shower, post-dinner nirvana. Standing in the cool evening, in line for a decaf mocha latte, in my dryer-fresh cotton frock and jeans and sandals. Standing there, reading the Pro Jo, vibing off the heady scent of the roaster. I had no guilt about my People magazine in my bag. Not worried if my dress looks maternity. It's like when we'd visit relatives in Queens, my Mom and I would be getting dressed, "Hey, let's wear crazy socks! No one knows us here!" she'd say. I get giddy about anonymity.

Back home, in a community I love, and have loved now for five years, you can't always just DO things. Once someone said to me, "Wow, I'm really surprised to hear you went to Walmart." Or the mutual explanation that happens when shopping at Shop-rite when both people feel like they are cheating on the food co-op. Or being out with my kids and being asked what camps they're going to or what school they attend.

Being here for two weeks, I get to perfect my act of pretending not to speak English. (I have practiced this a lot at the Please Touch Museum especially when it is crowded. Shout-out to Jen who indulges me in this.) I like being where my identity is not identified as these things. I get to lay aside things like food-righteousness and car and clothing as status. I have been able to be my creaturely-self behaving creaturely. It helps me relate to my kids as a human being. To stay deep into the afternoon with them at the beach or at the playground around the corner. Today, I videoed the boys riding their bikes down a hill and crashing into obstacles I set up for them! I peed myself laughing when Benicio whiffed obstacle completely and tried to kick it instead. The thrill of "Who cares?" The riskiness of appearing as slightly reckless!

And by myself, I have biked up to Thayer St. when the sports-practices are letting out, realizing that I am not of this scene. These 18 year-old atheletes are not confusing me as a peer. And without my kids, without the stroller to serve as my Mom-barricade, I am a human soul among other souls. And I feel acutely, that I am not a college-student in a world of papers and philosophies, not a single chica on the town, but by no means am I anybody's granny either. Please remind me to stay in this mindset when we get back home. To find moments to breathe like this. I have met my goal of finding a beach that achieves this. (But I can write more about that later.) I have appreciated this space.

I wish this for everyone. Chances to go encounter yourself in spaces where you used to belong, or maybe will never belong. Serendipitous-outings where you can have a chance-encounter and a cool, fun date with your own soul.

rainy day play

Providence List: Week One

We could:
-walk to Thayer Street backwards and with our eyes closed
-live on that RISD beach forever (singing "We've go the whole beach to our selves" to the tune of Got the Whole World In His Hands")
-not have not had more fun laughing and catching up with friends we met at the Park St. "Honeymooners" class who now have as much chaos as we do
-eat every meal from City Feed in Jamaica Plain
-swing forever on the squeaky swings on Brook St.
-listen to the bluegrass trio at gallery night again and again
-not live in New England again and afford it
-have a family soak in the tide pool to make up for the fact that we can no longer have family soaks at home
-make and remake lego structures from just the legos in that shoebox
-use ideas for more card games
-spend every day on the beach rain or shine
-ask them to make boys' board shorts with the internal elastic
-use a Vietnamese sandwich shop in Germantown
-get used to walking every where
-get used to an awesome farmer's market everyday somewhere close by
-not have had more fun at that baby park in Cambridge with family and an old pal
-use some tips on getting berry stains out of white upholstery and marker stains off of particle board

next time pack the floor-length apron

We've minor-leauged it. We've zooed it. We've biked it. We've Browned it. Tooling around town with our kids has me on my toes by day and face-down by night. Yesterday, after the zoo, I told them I needed to rest my eyes for a minute. 45 minutes later, one kid is naked, the dinner baguette is half-devoured with a crumb-trail from the fridge, which stands open and an open container of cream cheese as the welcome mat. A lone fly circles the dirty dishes and someone has drawn on the futon frame with marker.

It is one thing to be a housewife on your home-turf, with your pit crew, a friend to meet you at the playground, a pal to meet up with at IKEA on a rainy morning, a great sitter who is eager to read ANOTHER Amelia Bedelia book. At home, I have my nooks. I have the phone-closet to duck into. I have the back deck for my chapter of Psalms and coffee. I even have the linen closet to stand in front of just to catch a deep breath. I think it was Susanna Wesley, the theologian's wife who was the mother of nine children. I read that when she was overwhelmed, she would pull her apron up over her head.

I like Providence but I have gotten lost every single day so far. All roads lead you to I-95 or over some weird bridge into a residential Brazilian neighborhood. And unlike Boston where the Charles River always gave me my bearings, one bridge takes you over a bay and another one over some random lake. Today, after I was spit out into yet another indistinguishable neighborhood, all four kids were fed up. Manny sighed impatiently, Clara shouted, "No, this can't be right!" Benicio pleaded, "Just turn around!" And poor Calliope craned her neck and then shoved her shoulders back against her seat in frustration.
Even on foot, I had to call Geoff, "I can't find your building. I am at Hope where it intersects with Benevolent."

I WILL become friends with my Google Map. And I WILL get the hang of this place.

Oh, Provide-ence

We've rented an apartment not unlike the one on St. Rose Street. It's the first floor of a triple-decker, spacious and wide but with the neighboring house an arm's reach from your window. I am grateful for this tidy furnished rental. It has everything we need. And the things it doesn't have, I have easily procured after being here less than two days. I reunited with my old thrifting haunt and easily found 6 white-cotton tab-topped panels for the windows, a hand-thrown pitcher for water, some hand-towels and a few child-sized pieces of flatware.

A furnished living space is like reading someone's facebook profile: reads Octavio Paz, takes Acidophilus, bike-riding and children's artwork are priorities. And what the apartment doesn't have are even more curious to me: are curtains against your religion or something? You have a closet full of propane tanks and yet no cookie sheets? I don't know if I'll ever meet this family we're renting from. There are no photos on the walls or mantles. They live in Manhattan and this is their "country house." She teaches at RISD, judging from the books, I'd say architecture but I'm not sure.

Being here, not in a hotel and yet not at home, I realize what it is that is essential to home for us. If the boys have yarn and legos, they're all set. If Clara has books to flip through, she can pass the minutes. If Calliope has a cup to fill or a bag to pack and unpack, her play will go into motion. If Geoff has his crossword, his Bible and his laptop, he's in good shape. Me-- there are a lot of props to my set, lets' say. Now that there's a cloth on the table and curtains in the strategic windows, I can rest easier. How lavish God's hand always is. Oh, generous hand that always manages to provide!

gonna tri:lessons in masterful indifference and drinking the Schuykill

Okay so I am registered for this triathlon. Why am I doing this? Well, months ago, I needed to focus my energies on something besides having another baby. As a foolhardy and rash act, I thought training for a triathlon would be akin to pregnancy. The major difference is that in pregnancy, the baby grows on its own. With a triathlon, you have to clear your schedule for things like open-water swimming, for 15 mile bike rides and for that matter, running 3 miles. As you can imagine, carving out time to train like this is like carving The David out of a side of a mountain.

I went to an open-water swimming clinic yesterday. Two thirds of the morning was spent on education. A swim-trainer discussed tips for an efficient stroke, taught us "sighting" when you look up to sight the next buoy. She also told us that it was okay to come and grab onto a kayak to fix your goggles or to compose yourself. Hallelujah! A break to compose myself! Breaking to compose myself should be my middle name. She also taught us how to keep our mouths closed from drinking the Schuykill water that my friends have me nervous I will end up with a nerve disease.

Then there was the sport psychologist. I took his talk to heart too. He had us articulate our fears in this loud cacaphony of fears filling the air. Then he had us whisper them like secrets. He said that courage is only possible in the presence of our fears. To name our fears: drowning, being slow, claustrophobia in the dark water and in the presence of many other swimmers. Allow our fears to come, thank them for coming, THEN allow them to leave. He taught us "masterful indifference," a suspension of judgement, to think of the race as play. Then mistakes are not problematic, setbacks are not problematic, even injuries are not necessarily problematic. These things are simply variables that can be looked at as influences on the event and NOT dealbreakers. I loved that "masterful indifference" like I know I am ready for this. I know I will be okay, and so I can detach from the outcome. I don't have to pour my identity into the outcome.

And then there was the swimming! We were grouped into heats of 20. I was one of the first in the water because I just wanted to get it over with. I had inked the words "PLAY" and "MASTERFUL INDIFFERENCE" on my inner forearms and tightened my watch, so I could time myself. Well, all that went out the window when I hit that water. I got into that water where I immediately had to tread and my heart caught in my chest and nervously I started freestyle-stroking and did not have the composure or wherewithall to look at my arms nor my watch. I was a frenetic mess. Anyway, the swimming instructor saw me and I guess what was my apprehensive swimming. From her canoe, pointed at me and asked, "YOU! You in the blue cap, are you okay?" She had taught us to ask for help a little before we thought we might need help. So I said yes. They rowed over to me. I hiked my arms up on the boat and just floated for a minute, closed my eyes. Just savoring the break. She coached, "Slow that breath down. You don't have to breathe hard to go fast." I got back in the water and finished the swim. I needed a mentor to be along side me. Essentially, I needed a doula. My mentor swam beside me, encouraging me, telling me to stroke longer instead of higher. I need to keep sight of her neon pink cap to keep my alignment.

I don't know if I'm going to be up for this. We're here in Providence. I have my suit and my sneaks and my bike. I have down-shifted and have just enjoyed drawing with my kids and kind of just want to ramble around with them like a goofy little tourist family. We'll see what happens.

Free To Be Three

I have heard that when you teach a certain group, you begin to identify with them. And maybe, I think, you begin to behave like them. I have spent almost four weeks with two dozen pre-schoolers aged 3-5. In that time, twice I have fallen narcoleptic before dessert. I have dipped into my pipe-cleaner and bead jewelry collection. And I had a phone meltdown with a triathlon registrar saying, "You are SO not helping me right now!" Also, I have thoroughly enjoyed my sidewalk-chalk tatoos and wood-chip exfoliation treatments.

But the whole thing helps my parenting. I understand why preschoolers need to eat at least every hour. They give over to their play. My field hockey coach used to say, "Get in there, go after it, you gotta want it!" No one has to tell Clara that. She is in the game. And she is owning the game. Even when that game is "house" or "doctor" or "lemonade factory." Playing in the sandbox isn't playing. Calliope excavated the sandbox for glass beads, with the express intention of exhausting it of its treasures. Knees down, shovel pitched. It is no wonder she is famished and losing it by 9:30am!

I like it, I like knowing their rhythm, it helps me see how benign things are. Many of them are testing things out, trying things on. For example a new sassy, almost competitive tone-- affected to a discussion about having toileted before school. Or grabbing your best friend's favorite color for him but then arguing with him about taking the cap off. Or telling someone "You're not my friend" as you ride beside them in the double stroller going to their house. The incongruities are striking and sweet. How fickle and yet how safe they must feel to test these things out. I imagine it is the development of boundaries and even self-control.

Speaking of self-control, Calliope caused her first bloody nose. Being a counselor, I hadn't thought of it this way. She collided with a three-year old boy. His nose. Her cheek. It bled for a good 5 minutes. Shirt bloodied, I called his mother who comforted him. Callio, on the other hand had a red cheek, but in the end did not bruise. When I called Geoff, he said, "Her first bloodied nose!" Benicio said, "Pacquio Baby!" And at once, I thought about how last year at the same camp, she collided with someone at the sandbox, and had a near-eye injury and a bad scrape. And how this year, our baby is formidable enough to collide and NOT be harmed. Hallelujah, she is not delicate!! Even though small, even though roughed up, my kids can emerge unharmed. It has all been worth it to learn this lesson.

A Note to Build a Dream On

I just received this from a friend. Messages like this are exactly why I blog. When air and light is brought into a situation, it is good. When shame and dread are brought into a situation, you end up with a hot mess. Here is an excerpt: I don't know if I ever told you. But I started reading late, very late. From kindergarten to about 4th grade, I was in a special needs class. I thought algebra I and II were going to do in my family and I. My parents each took turns tutoring me thru it. We would stay up late almost every night, well past midnight. My Mom and I would be crying because I just couldn't grasp the concepts, no matter how many times and different ways it was explained to me.

I guess I wanted to share that story to say that academics and school are a marathon. There will be times when it seems like everyone is outrunning you and there is no water station in sight. But, it is a long endurance race with moments of sprinting, walking, and crawling. But, it is all about the accomplishment of finishing. And it is a BIG accomplishment to finish...no matter what your end time is.
I know this friend from our years in Boston. When she witnessed our boys' baptisms, I think she took to heart standing up as a congregant at Christ the King, she stood up to say, "Yes, I will seek nurturance of this child. Yes, I will be part of the village it takes to raise him." Anyway, she shared that story with me, and all over again, I felt like I was standing in that sanctuary with our little baby, offering him for his baptism. Like I was saying, "Here is this baby, I can't do this by myself!" And the community said in response, "It's okay, we know, it won't be easy."

Just FYI, the friend who sent the email graduated from Wellesley with honors and holds an MBA from the University of Chicago and as a minority female in the business world, generally knows how to kick ass when she wants to, which in the end, is all I really want for any of my kids.

now he is 8

Last night, we had a sweet, low-key dinner. After the parade (Wait til you see the pictures!), Manny chose "Angels in the Outfield" to watch while the grownups cooked. During the movie, the call of his gifts was so strong, he got up to flip through his chemistry book and his water uzi. Our musical friends played the guitar and the melodica for "Happy Birthday." Everyone should be so lucky to have a 1972 Harmony Rocket guitar accompanied by a pea-green melodica played for their song. Our boy, hair wet from sweat and water play, no shirt, standing on the back deck turning 8 right in front of our eyes.

Then this morning, I awoke to him calling to me from upstairs, "Mom, hey mom, Calliope feels a bit warm to me. She might have a fever." I love this kid.

It's Not a Birthday Unless

there's labor. I have layer #2 of this year's pinata, which is a mosquito drying on the kitchen counter. I have ingredients for cheese straws on the other counter. There are 48 rubber duckies for party favors. And I know I won't feel right until I have some cute packaging idea. What is this sickness???

I still remember my friend Jamie's bowling party in fifth grade. Her mom was driving us there and I could see her hands on the wheel, they were stained bright red, up to her wrists. Later, I asked about her hands. She said, "For dinner, she wanted pickled beet eggs. She loves the pickled beet eggs." I loved that detail. My friend Jamie and her family around the table dining on those strange eggs. And now, a day later, proof on her mom's hands.

I do think birthdays are like this, requiring these stores of energy, attention to detail that no other time of year demands. Eight years ago today, I was admitted to Cambridge Hospital. I should say, I asked to be admitted there instead of laboring at home and then waiting things out for my turn at the birth center. I was so anxious and simply could not wait. Geoff's parents are staying here like they were staying with us around the time of Manny's birth. It was sticky-hot and I was a watched pot. I paced St. Rose Street, chatting with neighbors and begging my body to contract for this baby. Eight years later, I am putsing in our garden, fretting over ADD meds and if white flour is a friend or foe for Manny. Weeding around the nasturtiums, I am praying for wisdom, begging for patience.

We are throwing a little Bike Parade for Manny per his request. His grandparents gave him a book "Hats off for the Fourth" where this little Cape Cod town has an Independence Day parade where all the town kooks strut their festive stuff. Hoping for good weather, and myriad friends that we have invited. I am still trying to make sense of the incongruity of this loud and brash holiday being the birthday of my reserved and unknowable boy. All I can do is listen to his requests, show up for him, be affectionate, and let him have his anchors. His anchors these days: cat's cradle, origami, and discussions about Halloween costumes. I am working to ignore his direct line to my neuroses and fear about him being suited for the big, cold world and the big, cold world being suited for him. Ignoring these things is an art I cannot master. He will repeat first grade in the fall and I am tailspinning about it. A complicated conundrum.

His birth was like this: 10 days late, 50 hours of total labor, cocktail of meds, the flurry of interventions, layer after layer of our birth plan stripped by the hour. Our young and delicate marriage was stretched and tested with all of that decision-making, fear of mortality, trusting caregivers, trusting ourselves. I know now all these years later, that it's not THAT different. I am encountering the layers of my hopes for him and how I have to let them go and trade them in for more love for him, more unconditional acceptance for his abilities.

Just taking it day by day, staying faithful, staying present. I think my pinata might be dry. If you'll excuse me, 25 kids are going to need a mosquito to pulverize. . .

little survivors

The boys are in their second week of "Boys'Camp." Just now, they came down with a list of statistics that they can't shake from their thoughts: you will die if you don't have shelter after 3 days, you will not survive if you don't have food for three weeks, and if you go 3 days without water, bad news. I tried to give a heartening Guide-post-esque bedtime story about a boy whose angel pitches his tent for him during a rainy night. Thank God for Mema, who is now up there reading a light-hearted short story! She and Pepop will make them laugh and reset their mindset. I wish I could post the photo of their log-shelters and their hand-dug holes for "making water."

I have always wanted them to do these things, build shelters, learn survival skills, hike, CARE about the woods. What a dream for me but unfortunately, the two little survivors upstairs cannot sleep!