Kohleidoscope hits the West Coast

I met with my friend, David, today.  David is the founder, owner, and artist of Ozark Handspun.  After months of trying, Ozark Handspun will finally be sold in Mid-Missouri at Hillcreek Yarn Shoppe.  WAHOO!

 

David is entering a fashion show at a yarn trade show in San Francisco in January.  He will be show casing his yarns and hopes to open up exposure to Ozark Handspun (I gotta say, however, that he's doing a damned fine job of it already - selling in something like 37 states and 2 other countries!!)  He has asked me to make part of the ensemble.  Yep.  I'll be making 2 items (which, out of respect to his business, I'll be keeping under wraps) that will go along with items he's making as well as items that my friend, Velma, is making (I think this is how it works.)

 

Regardless, in less than 6 months, my stuff will be on stage in California.

HOORAY!!!

 

Don't you see my cape, Dammit????

It was my morning to get up with the boys today while B sleeps in.  My husband rolled over, shoved me with his elbow and said, "Duck is hungry - you better get up."  Mornings are not his strong point.

 

I get up and listen in horror to the pops and cracks that accompany aging (and I'm only 29!!,) and realize that the nasty cold that has been flying all around me, touching here and there, has finally come in for the kill and I'm as sick as a stray dog cleaning up after a county fair.  I make it to the bathroom, blow my nose, and nearly pass out.  Fuck.  I don't have time for this.

 

By now, Stealth is up and coughing.  Poor baby.  The boys have been dealing with this cold for a few days now, but with amazing grace - never has anyone (other than me) whined about being sick.  Anyway, a round of medicine for everyone as the rattling cough joins the clan.

 

Immediately, upon realization that I'm sick, too, the boys scramble to the books shelf and pull out their favorite book, 1000 Facts on the Human Body.***  They hunt around until they find their favorite pages.  Duck loves the ones on conception, pregnancy, and birth (imagine that,) and Stealth really likes to look at the anatomy of the ear and teeth.  While they got stuck mulling over these pages again and again (seriously, in a week or two they're going to know more about anatomy than I do - and I studied it in college,) their original motivation didn't elude me - they were looking for ways to make me feel better.

 

Hoping for some good news or at least something that will make me forget how crappy I feel, I turn on ol' Bob The TV.  Apparently, B was up watching The Dukes of Hazzard and pigging out on ice cream after I went to bed last night - Bob was still set to CMT.  I sit down with a paper napkin for my nose (out of Kleenex,) and heard these words:

 

She's never pulled anyone from a burning building
She's never rocked Central Park to a half a million fans, screaming out her name
She's never hit a shot to win the game
She's never left her footprints on the moon
She's never made a solo hot air balloon ride, around the world,
No, she's just your everyday average girl (but)

She's somebody's hero
A hero to her baby with a skinned up knee
A little kiss is all she needs
The keeper of the cheerios
The voice that brings Snow White to life
Bedtime stories every night
And that smile lets her know
She's somebody's hero

She didn't get a check every week like a nine-to fiver
But she's been a waiter, and a cook and a taxi driver
For twenty years, there at home,...

 

 

Suddenly it hits me with full force.  I'm the hero of these two sweet angels sitting on my couch, eating apples, rubbing snot on the arms of their PJ's, and reading and looking for ways to make me better.  It's so sweet it hurts.  Their soft eyes and warm hands and sloppy kisses.  It should be enough that they appreciate me.

 

But it's not.

 

The fact of the matter is that I'm angry and resentful that other people in my life do not understand what a critical role I play, they don't appreciate it (me,) or if they do, they've taken a vow of silence. Thank you is not something I hear.  My job is not to do the dishes and the laundry and the grocery shopping.  My job is to raise two boys into men.  It's hard work.  Beyond hard work.  The hardest job there is.  And yet, I still get the usual, "What do we have to eat?"  This idiocy of this question is always compounded by the fact that the asker is always standing in front of an open pantry full of food when he asks the question.  "Babe, do I have any clean jeans?"  Yep.  I'm the sole keeper of this information.  "So, do you think you ought to get a job?"  Don't get me started.

 

To these small people who've only been on this orbiting rock long enough to see the full trip around the big ball of fire a few times, I'm a hero.  They love me and appreciate me and value me and want to help me.  They think I'm magic when I can turn a hot dog into an octopus, a paper towel roll into a rain stick, the stuff in the box into macaroni and cheese.  With a kiss, I can make the ouchie go away, I can make a blanket and some chairs turn into Fort Knox in a flash, I can answer the hard questions. 

 

My boys see my cape.

 

Sometimes I wonder why I'm married to Lex Luther.

_______________________________________________

 

*** Barnes and Nobel has a whole series of these 1000 Facts books.  Located in the children's section, these hardback books are REALLY cheap and incredibly educational.  Lots of great pictures, wonderful organization.  A great buy.  And yep, DDFF, the educator's discount DOES apply.

 

Talking with the fish

 

Wanna Hump? Nah, I have two of my own.

 

Ooh La La Okapi

you sassy thing

Witnessing the birth of an activist

***DISCLAIMER***

The following post is not endorsing, advocating, or preaching the viewpoints of animal rights activists, vegetarians, or vegans NOR is it blasting hunters, meat eaters, etc.  I have my opinions about these matters and I'm sure you do, too.  I respect your views and your right to have them.  This is about my son, not about politics.

 

I've been trying to step back and watch my children from a distant perspective lately and I've been amazed at what I've seen.  They are getting older and much wiser and I'm realizing that they don't apply to "the rules."  There are certain things that they are ready for at a much younger age than I was, a much younger age that some other children might be.  They are much more aware of what is going on around them and they seem to be much more capable of integrating different ideas and concepts into their daily lives and discussions.  As a result, I've been letting them watch parts of documentaries with me - documentaries on the women's prison system, on deafness, on homosexual parenting, adoption, slavery, and more.

 

Most children, if given the chance, will set their own boundaries and limits with regards to what they can handle.  My children have grasped this concept of self lead exposure with both hands and they do a remarkable job of listening to their own cues.  When they are interested, they come and sit and ask questions.  When it's too much for them or they've just had enough, they get up, kiss my cheek, and move on.  As their brains mull over the bits and pieces they have picked up, they come back and ask more questions - sometimes days or weeks later.  I'm telling you, these kids get it.  They understand so much more than I've given them credit for.  They can handle a lot.

 

Lately, Duck has been taking a deep interest in the plight of animals.  There is a commercial on TV airing these days about a "Hands Free Mouse Trap" that "Kills mice dead."  This really bothers him.  He doesn't understand why folks would kill a mouse.  To his reasoning, if someone doesn't want a mouse in their house, why don't they just put the mouse outside where it's supposed to live anyway?  After all, says Duck, the mouse is probably just trying to get back outside to his mouse hole and his family.  For days and days, we've been talking about this.  He feels we must save all mice.  ALL MICE.  He even wants to make Tshirts.

 

We watched A Natural History of the Chicken and he grasped onto the idea of free range chickens like most 5 year olds would grasp onto a candy bar - he's holding on tight and not letting go and the "candy" is all over his face and hands and comes off on everything he touches.  As he helped me prepare breakfast this morning, he asked me if the eggs we were eating were found in the grass on a farm or did they come from a metal tray under thousands of chickens?  I had to look him in the eye and, with tremendous sense of guilt and "Damn, you know better, Sarah," I had to tell him that yes, they actually were from the metal tray and the over crowded, neglected, abused chickens.  Imagine - getting a much deserved lecture from a 5 year old about responsible eating.

 

He asked for chicken nuggets for lunch.  I made them and he mentioned that he wasn't eating real chicken - these didn't have feathers.  Not wanting to back down on a really important lesson in life, I had to explain to him that yes, it was real chicken, that it did start out having feathers and a beak.  As the realization of what he was eating crossed his mind and sunk in, he ate a little slower and eventually asked for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

 

I am very careful to present both sides of every situation - even when it is about as pleasant as gouging my eyes out to give credit to my opposing viewpoint.  I don't want my children to believe what I believe in just because I believe it.  I want them to make fully informed choices for themselves - even if it is a different choice than I would make for myself.  It matters not to me if my children grow up to be vegetarians, vegans, NRA members, or members of the Sausage of the Month Club.  It's their lives.  I just want them to be educated.

 

Watching Duck comprehend these truths of life reminds me of myself - but when I was 14 years old.  I can see his brain going to those places mine went.  I can see him struggle to find the line (if, indeed, it exists,) between the human animal and other animals.  I can see him think before he acts, before he eats.  Where this will land us, I don't know, but I'm so grateful to have him as a partner on this journey.

 

I've always said that Duck will change the world.  I can see him doing it now.  He's already made a change.  Look in my refrigerator and marvel at the new residents - free range eggs.

 

Chicken, my dear, I hardly knew ye.

Okay, you have to see this. I know, I know, The Natural History of the Chicken doesn't sound like something that you'd intentionally watch. It sure didn't sound like something I'd be into. A couple of weeks ago, I found it at the library and I checked it out for my kids. Homeschooling takes all sorts of forms and I dig it. My kids get 1 hour of tv time a day where they can watch a movie (of some educational merit - and believe me, I can find education in nearly anything.) Sometimes they watch Fraggle Rock or Bob the Builder, but sometimes they get into documentaries (my kids, I tell you.)

SO, the chicken flick. Put it on today and I have to say, I was enthralled. It's political. It's humorous. It's informative. It's beautifully done and it does show case some classic nut jobs (think a crazy dyed haired woman living in Florida who keeps a chicken as a pet, feeds it Big Macs, and calls it her baby,) so I'm all for it. I swear, you'll never look at a chicken the same way.

Find it at your local library. Find it online. Just find it.

Cluck!

happiness is ...

paying all your bills either on time or early and still having your checkbook be in the black.  Wahoo!

With that done, I think I've been productive enough for one day.  :-)

 

Bath Time

Yesterday, MIL and FIL took us to the Zoo. We do it every year, or at least try to. Everyone has a favorite animal to see. Duck loves the elephants (3 of whom are pregnant by Raja - the little stud,) Stealth loves the zebras and giraffes. Me? I love the apes, the penguins, and the hippos. Oh, I love those hippos.

Curious as to how the water can be so clear with 3 or 4 enormous hippos in it? See those fish? They clean the water. To be totally frank, the hippos poo, their tails fan it around, and then the fish eat the poo. I'm not kidding. And then the fish clean all the heebie jeebies off the hippos skin.

Great partnership, eh?

I'm off now to revel in the fact that, while I may be the Mom and resident cleaner upper, I am not a fish living off a hippo.

Bi-Peds Unite!!

The Bonehead Comment of All Time

I am a mother, sister, daughter, wife, friend.  Doula, breastfeeding educator.  Designer (of sorts,) and fiber artist.  Homeschool educator.  And, believe it or not, I am also a Stay at Home Mom (this cracks my ass up - show me one flipping SAHM who ever stays at home and I'll eat my fucking shoe.)

 

That's about 5 full time jobs.  At least.

 

I mentioned to someone recently that I am feeling overwhelmed, overworked, under appreciated, exhausted, worn out, ungrateful, taken advantage of.  That I feel like screaming most of the time because I never get a moments peace, acknowledgment, or gratitude.

 

His response?

 

"So, you think you ought to get a job?"

 

If you need me, I'll be banging my head against the wall.

Praise for Waiter

I've been having a hard time lately. I know it doesn't seem like it - I'm writing about how successful both my businesses are and posting lovely pictures of my loved ones. In truth, I'm struggling. My life is headed towards a huge overhaul. I have no idea when it will happen or what form it will take, but it's coming and, like the Iron Man, it's often the preparation that is most grueling.

Waiter has been taking some time off, posting less than usual, due to a crashed computer. But today I checked him out and was given a gift. There aren't words for me to comment on his post - it doesn't need it. My opinion only matters to me. I think, however, that it will speak to many of you - in whatever ways you need it.

Check it out and let it sink in.

Pinup Profiles

Is this me or what?

Okay, so this was just fun. I was checking out the profile of a long time friend of mine on My Space and saw that she had this little picture and write up about her pinup profile done via a quiz on Quizilla. So, I checked it out, did the little online quiz, and this was my result. Dead on accurate. So, if you want to check it out and do your little quiz, you can do so here.

More pictures from the wedding

Okay, lots of folks have been asking for more pictures of the wedding. Here you go - all I'm going to share. :-) I did write a regular entry this morning, so if you want to read it, scroll down after the pictures!

Not long after everyone at the reception finished dinner, the dancing began. There was, of course, the traditional first dance, mother-son, father-daughter dance, the dollar dances. Shortly after that, FIL mentioned to me that he had requested a special song and dedicated it to MIL. It was their song - a song which has been their song for over 35 years. It was incredibly sentimental, especially since they've been going through a rough time. What brough tears to my eyes, however, is that he wanted me and B and my BIL and SIL to dance to the song as well. EVERYONE cleared the dance floor except the 6 of us, sharing one song, sharing the experience, sharing the hope that we'll all still be dancing together after 35 years.

Dancing

Stand By Your Man.

One of the nicest snapshots of me and my monkey.

My best girlfriend in the world, JenPen, and me. JenPen was B's first love, high school girlfriend of 4 years. She married B's best friend. It's complicated - a soap opera. It's fitting, though. Isn't she pretty?

Making sense of the senses

As humans, we are considered to have 5 senses - sight, taste, touch, hearing, smell. Everyone in my family has of these senses. Yes, some of us have senses that are stronger than others. My father's sense of hearing is deteriorating with age. My vision, as that of my siblings, is less than perfect and we use corrective lenses. I have an uncle who cannot smell, but miraculously can taste - he thinks this is a HUGE bonus in life. Some of our family members have what would be considered a perfect set of senses - no need for aiding them in any way.

But what if we didn't? What if one of us completely and totally lost one sense? What if it was a sense that, typically, was considered vital? Essential for safety? Societally necessary? What if deafness came into our family?

I just finished watching an amazing documentary that I've been wanting to see for a very long time. Sound and Fury follows the journey of a family through one of the hardest decisions they have ever made - whether or not to surgically allow their deaf children to hear through the use of Cochlear Implants. The story of two brothers (one hearing and one deaf) and their families (some members being hearing and other members being deaf,) dealing with the emotional struggle of having deaf children and wondering if the implant would improve their lives or would it destroy their sense of culture? One brother is hearing with a hearing wife and three children, two of whom are hearing and one is deaf. The other brother is deaf, has a deaf wife, and three deaf children. Interestingly enough, the parents of the brothers are hearing and the parents of the hearing wife are deaf! Emotions expressed span hope to rage to grief to shame to fear to elation. It's a gut wrenchingly emotional struggle and it brought tears to my eyes.

Hearing has always been so essential to me. I always have sound around. I am always listening to music or making music of my own while going about my day. I can be in the deepest sleep imaginable but if one of my children so much as sniffle in the night, I'm up and investigating. I depend on my sense of hearing to aid in my safety. I know when someone is behind me because I'm always listening to the branch snap, the pebble slide, the footsteps. I can tell when the water is ready for the pasta just by sound. I teach my children to appreciate and identify sound. Is that a cello or a violin? Is that a flute or a clarinet? Is that a dog or a wolf? Is that a "hey, nice to see you" honk on street or a "get the heck out of the way" honk (easily told by the length of the honk!) Is that a firetruck or an ambulance? Do you hear a train in the distance? Get off the track.

But if that option were gone, what would I do? Would I surgically alter them? Would I see it as giving them the best options and hope for life? Or, would I just dive deep into an unknown (to me) culture and expose them to everything that being deaf has to offer? Hard to tell. I just don't know. I can say what I think I would do, but it holds no weight. Until facing the issue, no one can say.

I have no real closure for this post. My brain is spinning. Today, I will thank my ears for working. Today I will listen to all the messages they send me. Today I will imagine what it would be like to not hear. Maybe some day, it will make sense.

Kohleidoscope - always changing

I created a blog for Kohleidoscope in order to eliminate the constant posting of photos of my pieces on this blog. Also, some potential buyers might not appreciate my editorial blogging (to say the least,) so it works well for showing my goods. Occasionally there will be little tidbits about knitting and felting or sewing or whatnot. Anyway, it changes pretty regularly, so if you want to check it out, you can do so here.

Sister Carrie and Brother Seth come to visit

Um, yeah, we look stoned, but we're seriously not.

Yesterday, my brother and sister of the heart, Carrie and Seth, came to visit. They brought with them my dear Maizie Moon, their beautiful daughter. I hadn't seen them in over a year. In fact, it was their wedding that I missed this past summer. I'm so glad to say that they are back living in my state and only about 2 hours away.

We spent almost 5 hours together yesterday, letting the kids play in the yard and then letting them destroy the house, while the adults chatted and caught up and laughed and cried and all that deeply joined friends do when reunited after a long separation. I was fortunate enough to help Carrie and Seth bring Maizie into the world as their doula, nearly 2 years ago. My partner was also there. In fact, this was our first birth together as partners. So much of what my life consists of today can be tied back to Carrie and Seth. We're connected deeply. Carrie is now pursuing birth work in her town and Seth is trying like hell to turn their plot of land (okay, 15 acres) into a sustainable organic farm.

I'm so blessed to have such wonderful friends - family, really. Welcome back to MO, folks. You'll have significantly less snow and significantly more mosquito's than where you've lived for the past year. And we're still lovin' you, so stay this time, okay?

Stealth, Maizie Moon, and Duck

I must be a genius...

because, apparently, I'm the only one in my house who can figure out how to use the dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, clothes hangers, garbage disposal, toilet brush, broom, telephone,  can manage the basic function of pick up toy - put toy away, who isn't stumped by the prospect of making a bed or a sandwich, knows that kids need breakfast, knows that Mom needs 5 fucking minutes to piss in peace, realizes that if there's something defrosting in the fridge and it's in a casserole dish - most likely it's for tomorrow's dinner and not for your late night munchies and, for the love of Elvis and Apple Butter, I damned well know how to flush.

 

Mensa, here I come.

 

Is it wrong...

to lock your children in their room and tell them to fight to the death? 'Cause they're driving me up the damned wall.

Setting Limits

When I was younger, there were a few things of which I was absolutely certain: 1) My parents couldn't possibly understand my angst, 2) my personal boundaries were firm and well defined, and 3) when I died, wherever I ended up, Jim Morrison would be waiting for me and I would finally get laid properly and often. Now I'm older and I can see that, while my parents probably never had the same angst that I had (have,) they had their own brand. Jim Morrison is probably not going to be waiting for me, but that's cool 'cause I'm not waiting for my carnal rewards after death (somewhere along the way, someone in charge finally felt me deserving of a talented man and gave me the strength to say the magic words, "No, darling, a little to the left.") But through the years, my boundaries had become fuzzy, less defined, and oh so easy to cross.


I can almost see when things started going bad. When I was 18, I fell in love with a guy of 21. I totally lost myself to him. I'm not sure why or how, but I'm certain that it was my own doing and I hold nothing against him. Yeah, he made some pretty heinous mistakes, but dear Elvis, he was 21! These days, I wouldn't trust a 21 year old to tie my shoes much less protect my sense of self worth. Besides, that wasn't his job. This guy and I endured a pretty rough experience or two and I came to find myself losing every bit of myself to him. I gave my power away - maybe because I felt like it wasn't enough to protect me. Man, 21 and 18 = the blind leading the stupid.

Regardless, nothing with me was ever the same after that. What followed was about 5 years of self destructive stupidity. We all have those years, eh? I did a lot of things I shouldn't have, said a lot of things I shouldn't have, and certainly let a lot of folks get away with things they never should have gotten away with. I had no boundaries - well, none that couldn't be persuaded. While I'm not proud of a lot of what I did and a lot of the choices I made (and I sure as hell wouldn't repeat them,) I'm not sorry that I went through it all. It's made me who I am. I am learning and getting stronger again. I'm connecting to that bad ass inside more and more often these days. I like who I have become, who I am. And who I am just keeps getting better.

So much better, in fact, that it is again becoming easy (and secretly fun) for me to say NO. No, I cannot come this minute, I have my own things going on. No, I cannot bring those samples because they currently don't exist and I'm not going to kill myself creating them. No, I will not let you eat my last piece of chocolate - I'm bleeding and it's essential to me as oxygen. If you want to keep that finger, you'll get it out of my ice cream right now. Yes I can help you but no, not in that way. No, I will not support you when you continue to make asinine choices. NO, I will not say it's okay when it's not. NO, I will not agree with you when I think you're being an idiot. No, I will not compliment you when you're being an asshole. No, I will not add a zipper to that bag - I didn't design it that way, thank you very much.

You know what? Saying NO works so well that no one argues with it. NO is a complete sentence. Anyone who doesn't listen when you say NO is trying to control you. Heh Heh Heh. Go ahead, sucker, just TRY to control me. Hope you have insurance.

In the coming years, I'll be the one who cannot possibly understand my kids' angst. I'll be the one who is so uncool that I've never possibly experienced anything as profound as their lives. My boundaries will, hopefully, continue to strengthen when they need to and flex when called for, but hopefully my resolve to respect them will grow until the very end. And, when I finally get to where I'm destined after this time on the planet, I just hope Mr. Morrison can handle it when I tell him NO.

And that is how you do that!

In my line of work, the word "Induction" usually evokes one thought - "UGH." Just basic facts - inductions hugely increase the risk of cesarean, labor is often harder to handle and integrate because there's no natural ebb and flow of things, and they are usually LONG and end with a baby looking less than happy and a Mom either being a) drugged or b) so tired she couldn't care less if she gave birth to a boy, a girl, or a gorilla.

Occasionally, however, things are different.

Yesterday, I attended an induction with some clients with whom I've been working for a few months. Induction was the second to last thing that they wanted, but their care provider was giving them the choice of that or the very last thing they wanted, a cesarean. After considering those options, as well as the option of doing nothing at all, my clients decided that an induction would be fine -they wanted to see their baby. These folks had done it all right. They read the *right* books, took the best childbirth education class around, hired a doula, asked the hard questions, made good choices. Both my partner and I felt really good about them. If an induction could be awesome, which it could, then these would be the folks who could do it.

I could go on and on about the nitty gritty details, but 1) you probably don't care, 2) it's not my place to tell their story, and 3) it doesn't really matter. What DOES matter is that this couple made this birth fun. Plain fun. Bullet points of happiness about this birth (from my eyes.)

• in 13 and half hours, less than one full IV bag of pitocin was used. Yep. awesome
• positioning was never limited. No one ever said, "You can't do this, you can't do that, get back into bed."
• Internal exams were kept to HER request (unheard of in the hospital.)
• No one flinched at her eating and drinking at will
• Multimedia included music by Johnny Cash, The Who, and the Ramones and TV of King of the Hill, and That 70's Show. You know that makes me happy.
• Mom never once asked for any pain meds and no one even mentioned it.
• Mom chose her desired way of pushing.
• Baby boy born looking happy and healthy (and beyond adorable) and not even once taken out of Mom's arms until she was ready.

This was the first time I had worked with this doc. Let me just say, she very quickly has moved up into my list of favorites. She was so respectful and, frankly, spent most of her time looking to me for suggestions for positioning and pushing and whatnot. After all, she knows that she's trained in catching the baby, I'm trained in helping the baby come. Right on.

Congratulations A, J, and Baby Z. You showed them. You showed them all. You did it with style and grace and you did it under your own power, your own way. That's just hard core. I'll come to your baby-having parties anytime.

And that is how you do that.

Pick a title, any title

Random thoughts -

I posted new pictures to Kohleidoscope today. There are some before and after shots of two bags that were custom ordered so folks can see how they start out and how the end up. Seriously different. And, there are pictures of 2 bags that are knitted and lined - no felting. They're pretty darn cute, cheaper than felted bags of their size, and up for grabs. I'm getting feedback on these things since putting the blog up. Wahoo!

I have been an evil Mom lately. Just really no compassion. Hard assed. Think Red from That 70's Show. Happy Fun Time has been over. Shit, that really sucks for my kids. I mean, come on, they're just a breath away from still be babies, you know? Bad Mom. Bad Mom. Bad Mom. Guess I'll have to fork out the big dough for the stuffed gorillas when we hit the Zoo in a couple of weeks. Yeah, I know, buying my kids. I gotta say, at this point, it it's between buying them and beating them, I'm sure that they'd appreciate being bought. We can sort out the mess later.

I've been working like mad lately. DDFF and I have a slew of clients coming due. That means we're going to births AND fitting in a couple of prenatals every week. And I make appointments to see folks for Kohleidoscope probably once a week. For the last 3 weeks, B has had to put the boys to bed without me at least 3 out of 7 nights. No big deal, in the long run, but I tell you, it's quite a change from the months that I hardly ever missed a bedtime story. It's good for me. And it's good for them. And no one is sneezing at the looser purse strings, you know?

DDFF has written a post about her weight loss. Awesome! She's doing great and I'm so proud of her. I tell you, we're two foxy doulas. Oh my, sometimes I crack myself up.

Kindermusik rocks. Just rocks. Check it out. Enough said.

My doula gig is getting in the way of me enjoying my one (hush, my friends) trashy vice - Days of Our Lives. Yep. Yesterday a baby was born and I have to tell you - just about the ONLY thing they got right is that this baby didn't come out the mother's nose. Holy Cannole, do some damned research, folks!! Even us birthy folks look for an easy escape now and then, a fantasy to get lost in while folding the laundry and wiping noses and cuing up birth videos. DON'T BE A BUZZ KILL. Maybe I'll get a job making sure these folks don't look so asinine. I think Salem could use a doula, eh?

This coming weekend I'm going to a joint party (again, my friends, HUSH, it's not that kind of joint party,) for my nephew and one of my nieces. It's a birthday party. Somehow, they'll be 12 and 6. The 12 year old's, my nephew's, was the first labor / birth I ever attended. A failed induction that ended in a cesarean, this was the birth that made me see that it could be, had to be, another way. Unreal. He's grown into an amazing young man - actually becoming more man than boy every single day. But he still lets me hug him, as long as I listen all about his girlfriends (there are many.) The 6 year old reminds me of myself. She's blond haired and blue eyed and feisty as all hell. She doesn't take shit from anyone. Right on. Happy birthday, folks.

Love and Rockets forever.

With thanks

A little boy was born in the wee hours of the morning. I was there, as was my business partner. We've done births together before. Many, in fact. It's always fun working together. Almost always after, we meet for dinner and talk about those moments we'll always remember - the funny thing that Mom said right after that whopper contraction, finding the stash of chocolate, the amazing sight of a baby looking around underwater while waiting for the rest of his or her little body to slide out into the birthing tub. In our line of work, talking about details of a birth with folks who weren't there is a no-no. Sure, we might tell friends, family, and other doulas about this or that, but it's always with a tight lip. Never is a name mentioned, never an identifying detail. We adhere to a strict code of confidentiality in order to protect the family's privacy and the sactity of birth. Birth is passionate. Birth is intimate. Birth is personal. Birth is sacred. It's also sometimes funny, jubilant, intense, annoying, exhausting, trying, challenging, mysterious. It's always emotional. Having a partner with whom to discuss and debrief, for lack of a better term, is a blessing and I'm grateful that I've been gifted with such an amazing one.

Sometimes, having a partner means the difference between hanging up the birth bag for good and slipping on those funky purple Birki's and dashing out the door at 2 in the morning to help greet the next new person in town.

I've always written about the beauty of my job and sometimes the complaints of my job. Really, the beauty goes without saying. I mean, c'mon, I get to see people come out of people. I get to hear a child's first sounds. I get to be present for that magical moment when parents lay eyes on this new person for the first time, and I get to see the realization between long lovers that, "wow, we did it! We made that little human from our love."

The complaints? Well, the hours suck. No question about it. Sometimes I get a nice and easy butter birth and get home in enough time to kiss the kids good night, or at least fall into bed myself early enough to make saying good (very early) morning to my kids less excruciating. Most of the time, however, I go 24 hours or more without sleep after getting called out to a birth about 3 minutes before I finally drift off to sleep after a long, haggard assed day of being Mom. As I get older, it takes longer and longer to recover from a birth and the "hangover" that comes the next day seems to last longer than it used to. Most of the newbie doula birth obsession has long since faded into a pragmatic approach. I don't jump out of bed in the middle of the night with quite so much excitement and fervor as I once did. I'm noticing that I'm becoming less tolerant of labor arresting whining and much more apt to take the, "Yes you can so do this - you're a mother and mothers can do ANYTHING, so get on up and have this baby" point of view.

Some folks may say that I've become jaded. I disagree. I think I'm seasoned - and getting more and more so with each rapidly successive birth. I'm certainly still learning from each one, but when you stop learning from them, you should just stop doing them all together.

This morning, I saw a little boy decide to stay in this world. I saw him come out looking like there was no hope, but feeling and knowing in my heart that he wasn't done here. As the doctor and my business partner worked to bring this beautiful boy into his own awareness with stimulation, oxygen, and the breaths from their own lungs, I helped out by reminding the parents that their son needed to hear them, so talk to him now. RIGHT NOW. I warmed towels, grabbed the oxygen tank, spoke to this old soul in a new body, gathered hats and blankets and faith. As I put hat after hat onto this soft new head, I prayed to every higher power I've ever known, believed in, or even heard of. Please, Elvis, please help him. Help us. Baby, breathe. Please breathe. Come on baby, breathe for us again.

And he did.

As he got his first ride out into the world (in an ambulance - what boy wouldn't be thrilled with that?) he got pink and started to cry. And now, nearly 20 hours after his birth, I'm matching his cries with my own. As it turns out, this little boy is fine and beautiful and, most likely, enjoying a long comforting meal at his mother's breast right this minute. There's some controversy about whether or not he will remember this, whether infants remember their births. I have my own opinions about that and other folks have theirs. What's irrefutable, however, is that I will remember this one forever, as will the other folks who were there. It has had a profound effect on me. This little guy left his mark on my heart.

My partner and I didn't meet tonight for our usual dine and decompress session. We've spoken on the phone several times, but I think we both know that what we experienced together today doesn't need to be voiced- at the moment, there just aren't words. Well, not words that we need to say to each other, anyhow. This is also the advantage of having a partner - sometimes a look or a pause or a breath says it all. DDFF, I know. Oh, I know. For the rest of you, if you know my partner and you know her blog, be sure to read today's entry. It's beautiful. A tribute. A benediction, of sorts. An "I know" moment of her own.

Thanks for taking the leap, little boy. I'm glad you are sticking around. And, in appreciation for what you've given me, I'll tell you where to find the good chocolate - it's stashed in the pantry.

Ozark Oh My! 

Whammo Cammo (for David) 

AHOY! 

Raspberry Fizzzzzzzzz 

Monk and Sass 

Duck 

Stealth 

Fancy Pants

That's Duck and Stealth with their Uncle B.

The wedding was amazing. Just amazing. Of course, lots of things messed up. The flowers were wrong. The cake was wrong. The vocalist messed up. The groom's grandparents had to leave before the ceremony due to the cruel effects of Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, and dementia. My freaking camera decided to choose yesterday to refuse accurate automatic focusing. But, they're married and blissfully happy. And so am I.

Duck and Stealth handled the tuxedos with style.

Pretty handsome, eh?

Fifty bucks

My brother in law is getting married tomorrow. TOMORROW. That means today will be known here on out as The Day For Complete And Total Mental Breakdowns or, if you're the expressive type, HOLY FUCK AND GUACAMOLE. I'm thinking of making it a National Holiday, complete with honorary bird (an exploding crow,) and anthem (We're Not Gonna Take It, by Twisted Sister.)

I'm a control freak. I don't like to admit it, but it's true. If I don't have a hand in things, if I don't know exactly what is going on every second, if I don't have a plan, I go nuts. This is playing an interesting part in this wedding as I actually have NO role in the wedding at all. My sons are ring bearers, my husband is Best Man. I am, apparently, the panic person.

Tonight is rehearsal. I've been told that it's "oh, sometime between 5:30 and 6." I asked about the wedding, where the guys are getting dressed (I will NOT try to put a 5 year old and a 3 year old in a Tux and then drive them out of town,) and I've been told, "Oh somewhere - we just need to be ready for pictures at 4." I asked about timing and dress code and everything and have gotten, "Eh, sometime, something, whatever."

My husband is making a custom mat and frame for the bride and groom. The mat will be set out at the reception and all the guests will sign the mat. Later, the bride and groom will use the mat and frame to frame a wedding portrait of themselves. Cool, eh? The mat should be there tonight or tomorrow afternoon - my husband mentions to me that he's going to have to go buy the mat board after work TODAY and make the mat tonight. Shit on a shingle, nothing like last minute.

I asked my husband if he has black socks. His response? "Eh, I don't know. If I get off work tomorrow (holy shit, he's working tomorrow???) and find that I don't have black socks, there's a Walgreen's about 10 minutes from the church - someone can make a run to buy some!"

My husband mentions that he will work until 2. We have to be ready for pictures (read: men and boys in tuxedos with shoes on and flies zipped) by 4. It's a good 40 minutes from our house to the church. It takes my husband 15 minutes to get home from work. And he HAS to shower somewhere in between. Damn.

Stealth, the 3 year old, hates the tux. HATES it. Refuses to wear it. SCREAMS like a banshee when he sees it. Duck, the 5 year old, refuses to take it off once it's on. Mentions that he wants to look PERFECT for Uncle B's wedding. He's going to break my heart, that little one. My husband says that Duck looks so good in his tux that it makes him catch his breath. Must remember to bring tissues.

I'm really looking forward to it, however. I know I'll bawl like an infant. I know that I'll be overwhelmed with emotion for my brother in law and his new bride (who, by the way, is so amazing.) I know that I'll look up at my husband and my children and be flooded with pride and love and gratitude. I know that I'll look at my mother in law and my father in law and, as the tears flow down their cheeks (which I know will happen,) I'll probably understand why they have been so resistant to let my brother in law go. He's their baby and he's found his partner for life.

And then I'll cuss my bra that is starting to slip and hate the shoes I have on and wish like hell that someone had a little whiskey stashed in their purse.

The bride and groom are so sick of this wedding. They just want it to be over. Sincerely. I understand. They've been living together for awhile now. They own a house. They have been married in the heart from the day they met. I understand that, too. It was exactly the same for my husband and myself.

It makes me think of my wedding to B, coming up on 5 years ago. There was no rehearsal dinner. There were no tux's, no ring bearers, no seating arrangements. No one went into debt for our wedding. No one had to get measured for anything. The whole thing took about 2 minutes and cost us a whopping $50 for the marriage license.

For that $50, I got a new name, a new life, a husband, and peace of mind.

Best money I ever spent.

The Monkey is a Poet

My friend, Sandie, sent me an email today and I just felt it HAD to be posted. Thanks, Sandie. Viva La Idiot and God help the rest of us.

This is a poem made up entirely of actual quotations from George W.Bush, arranged for "aesthetic" purposes, by Washington Post writerRichard Thompson.

MAKE THE PIE HIGHER!
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
Make the pie higher!--

Sound FX suck (or, why I wish I was deaf)

I have 2 sons. This was always what I wanted because I'm terrified at the thought of raising a girl. So, two beautiful boys that I love and cherish. Two boys who fill my heart with such love, my life with such laughter. Two boys who make me glad I'm alive. And who, quite frequently, make me want to stab ice picks into my ears.

It has been slowly creeping up on me, but it has finally hit with full, unrelenting, torturous force - my children have become full time sound effects machines.

From before I open my eyes until I blissfully close their bedroom door at night, I'm assualted by pops, hisses, spits, and assorted Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhtttttttttttts, phhhhffffffffttttttttttts, bshewwwwwwwws, and shhhhhooots.

I'm telling you, it drives me up the fucking wall.

Ooooooooooom booooooooooop.

CRASH!!!

I got it, now what?

Yesterday I started writing a post entitled Black Sheep which pretty much dealt with the fact that every family has a black sheep and, in my family, it would be me. What has become clear to me, though, is that there's a bigger picture, a bigger issue, on the forefront of my mind and it has sprinkled it's flavor on every aspect of my life. This issue has touched my black wool and my businesses, my friendships and relationships, my marriage, my intellect, my social passion. It lays out in front of me like a freshman at an afterbar - passed out, inconvenient, and insistent on tripping me up:

Be careful what you wish for - you might just get it.

When I was much younger, I never had moments of wanting to grow up to be "just like" anyone. Yes, it's true, that I once wrote a letter to my sister saying that I wanted to be like her when I grew up, but see, I still wanted to be ME. I have never really patterned myself after anyone, although I have been influenced by many. I'm very much a "little of column A, a little of column B" woman. I have a sprinkle of this, a dash of that, a heaping tablespoon of xyz, etc., blended in with my own individuality that makes me what I am. But, as a result, I see that I've become something almost unrecognizable in comparison to my family members. I spent the better part of the weekend with my extended family (sister and her family, brother and his wife, mother and her husband) in varying forms and combinations. While I was so happy to see them all, I honestly felt as though I didn't belong. That's a hard feeling to have amongst your own blood. They all like the same music - except me. They all like the same TV shows - except me (I've never even seen most of the shows they rave about, nor do I care to.) They all watch the same sport (if you can call it that) on TV - except me. They eat the same foods, drink the same beer, laugh at the same jokes, read the same magazines - except me. We sit at dinner and I have almost nothing - NOTHING - to add to the conversation. Of course, I will admit that most of the things they are passionate about do not interest me in the slightest. And, of course I know that my passions don't interest them a lick. I don't hold that against them and I hope they don't hold my disinterest against me. I'm different than them. I am the black sheep of the family. I love myself and who I am and what I do and all that I'm passionate about. I wouldn't want to change myself. It's distancing, though, sometimes - having nothing to contribute to the conversation and knowing that no one would care to contribute to any conversation that I might start. I wanted to be an original. I wanted to be an individual. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to be unique. I wanted to stand apart. And I have accomplished all of those things. Now what?

I have always dreamed of helping women in birth. I have known for nearly all my life that birthwork is what I am on this planet to do. I have worked hard and studied and practiced and researched and learned. I have made professional connections and can move comfortably around the L&D department of any given hospital, I am relatively well known amongst the homebirth and free standing birth center community in our area. I can tell you when the baby is getting close just by the smell in the room, when the "birth mojo" is heavy and thick. I can, with fairly accurate results, tell how much a woman is dilated by the sounds she is making. I am a doula and I'm good at it. I wanted to be busy. I wanted to attend a lot of births. I wanted to be well known. And now I am. I am so busy that I forget clients from the past and forget the names of the clients I have now. I'm so busy that I, along with my wonderful business partner (shout out, DDFF,) have turned a few potential clients down lately because we're too booked. This is what I wanted. Now, when the phone rings, I give Elvis a holler and ask that it's not a client in labor because I just want to sleep. And then there are days when I beg for a client to call in labor so I can mark one off the calendar. I got what I wanted. Now what?

I love making bags and other fiber arts. Bags, hats, scarves, ponchos, you name it. I dreamed of folks contacting me and asking me to make them one of a kind bags and such and then getting paid to do it. I dreamed of being known as a fiber artist. I have been so blessed to have folks promote Kohleidoscope for me - and now, folks are calling. Folks are emailing. Folks are stopping me in diners and bookstores asking me if I'm "the Sarah that makes those amazing bags?!?!?!?" And I smile and say, "Yep, that would be me." And then, like right now, I freak out about how much people want from me, what they expect from me, "What do you mean you don't have a large inventory and that you prefer to custom make them?," "What do you mean you don't have a store?," "What do you mean you won't cut me a deal - don't you know that I'm your second cousin's old college roommate's veterinarian's hairstylist??" I got what I wanted - now what?

I've always believed that what you put out into the world returns to you. I have always believed that if you ask for something and live in the way that would support what you want, it will come to you. I have always believed that if you live the life of an artist, you will walk in art, that if you issue forth dreams and desires and passion, you will be filled to the brim with those same rewards. And I guess it's my time to cash in.

From my Black Sheep status, I have learned that there's 2 types of family: the type you are born into and the type you birth around you. The family that I was born into might not share my passions for life, my political voice, my love of art and creation, my eclectic taste in music and literature. But they share my blood, my DNA, my lineage. I will love them, and they will love me, until the end of time. While we may not agree on much, we are connected. Because of them and the roots that they have given me, I've become the type of woman who has given birth to my own family. I have chosen a man with whom to share every one of my days - a man who is my best friend, my devil's advocate, my partner in crime. We, in turn, have given birth to two children who are just about the coolest little people I've ever known and I would want to spend time with them, even if we weren't related. Because of my strong roots that I know will support me regardless of my lot in life, I have been able to choose a multitude of people who started out as my friends and are now my family of the heart. My girlfriends who love me and let me love them, who will tell me that I'm out of my mind, who will knock me off my high horse when I need it, and who will throw a parade in my honor if I need it, regardless of whether or not I deserve it. I have men friends who want NOTHING at all from my body, but they want everything from my mind. I have friends who are in their 80's and friends who are 8. And they all are my family - and there are no black sheep.

As a doula, I have been blessed to see many many people take their first breaths of air and many people take their first breaths as parents. I have learned that life doesn't always go as planned and that sometimes it can go awry before it can really truly start - but I've also seen and learned that imperfections don't exist at all through the eyes of love. I've learned to fall asleep anywhere at any time because, frankly, I don't know when I'll get the chance again. I've learned that often times doing nothing at all is more powerful than doing everything you can. I've learned that scheduling is essential - and so is time without a plan. I've learned that I know more than I acknowledge and, with that knowledge, comes the awareness that there's always so much more to know.

Kohleidoscope has taught me that I am an artist and that I need to treat myself as such. I have learned that I am blessed to be creative and have an eye and a hand for fibers. I have learned how to say, "Yes, I am charging $100 for that bag," "No you cannot come to my house to look at samples," and, "It's going to take a few weeks for me to get to your order - I have to eat and sleep sometime." I have learned that a beautiful bag can make anyone feel gorgeous. I have learned that good wool is worth the price and that schwag acrylic is not. I have learned that a discount isn't a discount if it's loaded with resentment.

I've gotten so much out of all my facets. Not a stone has been left unturned, no area left unexplored. I'm spread out like a huge quilt of influences and lives. I'm but a single fiber in the rich tapestry of life.

So, now what? It doesn't matter because, I guess, most of all, I've got the knowledge and security to know that not knowing what comes next is okay.

Color Wheel 

Mad Hatter and Scarf 

Sharp! 

fine art 

Listen up, Monkey. Listen up.

Aaron Broussard, president of Jefferson Parish

"So I'm asking Congress, please investigate this now. Take whatever idiot they have at the top of whatever agency and give me a better idiot. Give me a caring idiot. Give me a sensitive idiot. Just don't give me the same idiot.”
Aaron Broussard, president of Jefferson Parish

Jessica survives Katrina!

Mud Mask Fun! 1997

Many of you know my friend, Jessica Cutter, or know about her, anyway. Jessica and I have been friends for 10 years or so. She's been living in New Orleans for a few years now and, last fall, took over the position of head pastry chef at Emeril's in the Big Easy. Since the storm hit on Monday, I've been unable to get a good nights sleep due to my concern for her.

I spoke with Jessica's mother early this morning and, Thank Elvis, Jessica and 2 of her co-workers made it back to Missouri last night! THEY ARE SAFE!!! This morning, Jessica is driving her friends to KC in hopes that they will be able to find a flight back to their families, and then she will return to her parents home here in Columbia.

Jessica has lost her apartment. She's not sure what, if any, of the structure is still standing. She has lost ALL of her belongings. She has the clothes on her back and one extra set of clothes -- that's it. That's all they were able to gather up before they were forced to leave. New Orleans won't have power for 2 or 3 months and who knows how long it will take after that to rebuild.

I'll be speaking with Jessica sometime today and figuring out exactly what she needs, what other's need, what can be done. Some of her family friends may host a shower of sorts for Jessica in order to give her some of life's basic necessities.

I'm so eternally grateful that my friend is alive and safe. There are so many thousands of others out there, however, who are not as lucky. They have no money, no home, no where to go. Please, support them if you can. Visit the Red Cross website to learn how. Donate money. Donate clothes. Donate food. Donate toothbrushes. Donate whatever you can, even if all you can donate is your thoughts and prayers.

I'll keep you all updated as I learn more from Jessica! Thanks, everyone.

Okay, I had in mind this very entertaining commentary to post, but things sometimes change and it doesn't happen that way. Today, my head is swimming (honestly, it's possible I have some sort of mental illness - or well, maybe I'm just a freak.)

When I was 20, I met this really groovy chick named Jessica. We worked together at Bruegger's Bagels and then spent many years drinking too much wine, smoking too many cigarettes, and dancing like fools to Trailhead. She was right there by me when all kinds of nasty things went on with my life and she never faultered. Now, she's the one with craziness. You see, Jessica now lives in New Orleans. She is the head pastry chef at Emeril's. As of last evening, New Orleans looked to have faired Katrina pretty well - but late last night, the levy at Lake Pontchartrain gave way. The French Quarter, which seemed to escape the worst, is now filling with water from the lake. There is damage to be seen a full mile inland. My husband, forever the pessimist, comments that you know, these people CHOOSE to live in a town that is 12 feet below sea level. Yeah, he's got a point. But, it's a little harder to be so harsh when it's my friend. And, really, the girl can make some pastries. We're talking about a devestating loss. Let's everyone keep Jessica in our thoughts today as well as her thousands and thousands of brothers and sisters in need in Louisianna, Mississippi, and Alabama. Let's hope they got out, and can soon come back to rebuild.

I have one living grandfather. I never met my maternal grandfather, he passed away a few weeks before I was to meet him for the first time. So, I have one grandfather. He's 80 years old and lives in my state, but I very rarely see him. Honestly, I may have seen him for about a total of 3 or 4 hours in the last 7 - 10 years. He's got some interesting stories, but it's hard to hear him talk because it seems to just ramble about. He drove a truck for Swift and Co. during the 50's and then worked on trucks for years until he retired, sometime in the late 80's or maybe early 90's. Because of him, I know that the best mashed potatoes and gravy come from truck stops and you can almost always find a nice piece of pie for dessert. Regardless, Grandpa is an interesting character. He's not doing well. He had surgery for an aneurism a few weeks ago. As a result of the surgery, he developed fluid around his lungs. Upon scanning for the fluid, the doctors discovered that not only does he have fluid on his lungs, he has several spots on his lungs as well, supposedly from asbestos. He's due to have more surgery soon. To top it all off, his partner of 13 years or so has been diagnosed with lung, liver, pancreatic, and colon cancer. She has weeks to live - and he doesn't know.

This is heavy stuff. Makes me wonder, frankly, if I would want to know if I had just weeks to live. If I knew, would I tell anyone? What would I do? I'm going to think about this and then will post my findings.

If you're a devoted reader and have read from the beginning, you might know that a couple that is very close to me separated. I was truely conflicted by this. This past weekend, they announced that they are, in fact, REUNITING. Yep. Moving back in together. Happy Happy Happy. Or, is it? I mean, what has really changed? From what I understand, this is their MO. They do this - fight, talk about divorce, separate, throw everyone through total hell, and then suddenly get back together as though everything is groovy. This cycle repeats every few years and has been going on since the early 1970's. Talk about a roller coaster. We'll see how it goes.

I have a very dear friend (who's cool with letting folks know that I was also her doula,) who is pretty well known in the world of abstract art. If you googled her, you'd see that she's everywhere. This past weekend, I visited her and her family and she presented me with a framed piece of her artwork. I was stunned. It's beautiful - and I am blessed to be surrounded by such amazing people. She ordered a felted bag from me - it will be the largest one I've ever made. I'm pleased to do it for her - I'll post a picture when it's done.

DuCK has been hiding behind the recliner in the play room. WTF?

Last night, B was working on some mats for some artwork he's been commissioned to frame. I watched him deliberate for ages about just which mat color and texture would look best, which molding would make the best frame, take and retake measurements for the little title cut out. Every few minutes he would come and ask for my opinion, and together, we found the right combination. But it's him, you see, who does the hard stuff. The art and beauty comes from his mind and fingers. It occurred to me that we both have an art, a craft, that is based in creativity and beauty and creation. This is so cool. And folks like what we do and are willing to pay for it. It's certainly not enough to support ourselves, but it's nice to have a creative outlet that brings people pleasure and often brings me sushi.

I have three baskets of clean laundry in the laundry room. They've been there for days and days and days. I have no, let me repeat, NO motivation to do anything with them. I detest folding and putting away. Any volunteers?

My brother is going back over to the sandbox that George W seems determined to crowd. To be honest, we don't know exactly where he's going. He's not allowed to tell us. Not even when he gets back. But he'll be gone for a few months. WARNING while he's gone, I'm going to, more than likely, verbally eviscerate W on a daily basis. I'll try to remember to do it in a different font or something so you can skip it, if you'd like.

I need more coffee.

new hair cut. 

For your viewing pleasure

Okay, you gotta see this. There are some things in life that are just so bad, they're beautiful. Maybe inspirational. Maybe nauseating. Fine line, each and every one.

The Sun's Worst Album Covers Ever

I'm quite sure that I may have seen one or two of the Jesus albums in my house once upon a time. Heh. And folks wonder why I like whiskey.

**Credit goes to Mark for this one - don't know how he stumbles across this stuff, but I'm glad he does. Hey Mark, send postcards.**

BIG

Something very strange happened to me today - something that very rarely, if ever, happens. I was struck speechless - in the strictest sense of the word.

The boys and I ran into one of our favorite women this morning. We had been visiting with our friends and on our way out, we saw our friend, so we all went to say hello. We’ve known “Cass” for about a year and half and have always enjoyed speaking and joking with her. She’s funny and kind and respectful and just a really amazing person. I like her enormously. And so do my boys. Cass has lovely strawberry blond hair, infectious laughter, a bright welcoming smile, and a way with kids that would make any parent wish they could take lessons from her. Cass is a gem.

She is also largely overweight.

My son, looking and sounding angelic as always, looked up into her expectant eyes and said, “Wow Cass! Look at your body!” I said, “oh yes, isn’t that a beautiful shirt??” And my son said, “It’s so fat!!!”

It’s so fat.

That was it for me. I couldn’t speak. What do you do in that situation?

She looked at me with this very strange look of “what the hell is going on here?” Her eyes were big and I honestly had no idea what to say or do. I just kind of gasped my son’s name under my breath and tried so hard to not mess my pants. Finally, she looked at my son and said, “hey, it’s okay,” but then quickly said goodbye.

Ouch.

Parenting is hard shit. Folks think that the biggest challenges are dealing with laundry stains, frogs in pockets, keeping them from watching hours and hours of TV, and keeping the sex toys securely locked away, but sincerely, it’s moments like these that make even the most accomplished parent want to give up and move to a monastery. There just isn’t a right answer to this situation.

On one hand, he was telling the truth. In plain old language, Cass is, indeed, fat. There are some folks who have absolutely no issues at all with this. Some folks, in fact, relish the fact that they are obese and there are many people out there who find it so desirable that a person of even average weight and size would be completely out of the question in terms of attraction. And then there are folks who are overweight and miserable and filled with self loathing. And then there are folks at every stage in between. The trick is that we never ever know who fits into which category. Ugh.

And, of course, this also brings up the issue of ‘what is fat?” What I consider fat is certainly not what other people consider fat. It’s all a matter of opinion, which is decidedly a nasty way to go because most all opinions are based on our societal norms and expectations. Surely I don’t have to continue on with all that is wrong with our society norms and views on weight and beauty. Dear Elvis, that’s another post entirely.

Essentially, we had a long conversation about body image and that folks come in all shapes and sizes and folks have all kinds of different feelings about their bodies. We never know how folks feel about their own body shape and image, and their bodies don’t really matter at all anyway, so it’s probably best to just not comment on people’s bodies at all.

By the end of the conversation, my son and I both felt satisfied - he knew where I was coming from, I knew where he was coming from. I have confidence that it won’t happen again, or if it does, we’ll all be able to handle it better.

Where did he learn about this, though? I know for a fact that I have never commented on Cass’s weight. But you know what? I know that I’ve commented about my own weight. I know that my anorexic sibling talks frequently of weight and often talks about fat people. My in-laws are always talking about getting fat, being fat, avoiding getting fat, losing the fat, the dangers of being fat. It’s also possible that my dramatic weight loss put some ideas into his mind - truth be told, we’ve never discussed it with the kids because, frankly, it didn’t seen important. I’m learning that *it’s all important.*

What started off as a situation all about social niceties and acceptance of all shapes and sizes has opened up a whole can of worms about societal pressures, the horrid over eating and under exercising habits of Americans, body image, healthy life style choices, compassion, and understanding. Fortunately, we had the time and desire to discuss it all. We came to a great peace about it. My children understand so much more about folks now than they did this morning. They understand, as well as their little minds are able, about media and pressure and excess.

And they understand that Cass is, indeed a large woman. Large in heart. Large in thought. Large in spirit.

Wouldn’t be great if we were all so big?

The essence of Soul

Lynette Johnson of Soulumination

Some of you may know of Lynette Johnson. Recently she appeared on the Today show and folks all over the world are becoming familiar with her work. Lynette is an amazing photographer who's organization, Soulumination, provides beautiful portraits of terminally ill children at no cost.

Lynette and I have emailed back and forth a bit in the few weeks since she appeared on the Today show. She has spent nearly every day photographing children and families. She is truly doing the work of angels. Please take a minute to learn more about Soulumination

From an email Lynette sent today to many of her supporters:

My wonderful friend Gretchen brought me this poem one morning and
we bothcried together as it touched me and spoke so clearly of the work I
havetaken on with this project. After all that has happened with the
airing ofthe Today Show I thought I would share it with all of you who have
reachedout with love and compassion. I see that Soulumination is being
embraced bythis nation and I see that the need is great. I suffer through
the loss ofone beautiful baby this past week and realize that I need help in
manyareas.

I thank all of you who are offering to take photos across this
country andhope to be a mentor to many. At this time I feel I must let you
all knowthat we need financial backing to make this all work. I promise to
spendevery dollar wisely. Please remember that there are no costs to the
familiesfor this service, so donations truly cover costs that are for
film,processing, printing, office supplies, hopefully a phone line, the
lovelyprints for the show in October and so forth. Please realize that
even thesmallest donation can help us as we are efficient with funds and will
useeach dollar to document these families and babies with love and honor. Wewill
move to educate and mentor so that the program spreads throughout
thiscountry......you can give through our Soulumination.orgwebsite or by mailing
to Soulumination, 1431 East Ward Street, Seattle, WA98112....my heartfelt
thanks, Lynette.

To those of youwho already donated, we can't express our
appreciation enough. Your dollarsare already hard at work as I have photographed
3 families in the last 6days, each on remarkable, each story so emotional.
If you know of anygrants that might apply to this work, please let us know that
also, as weare making a list for when the 501c3 comes through.

if you can't go to sleep

my dear soul

for tonight

what do you think will happen

if you pass your night

and merge it with dawn

for the sake of heart

what do you think will happen

if the entire world

is covered with the blossoms

you have labored to plant

what do you think will happen

if the elixir of life

that has been hidden in the dark

fills the desert and towns

what do you think will happen

if because of

your generosity and love

a few humans find their lives

what do you think will happen

if you pour an entire jar

filled with joyous wine

on the head of those already drunk

what do you think will happen

go my friend

bestow your love

even on your enemies

if you touch their hearts

what do you think will happen

Rumi.

Lady killers

A 5 year old recently told her mother, "Duck is my boyfriend," and her 3 year old sister told her mother, "Stealth is my friend."

They will only get older and, presumably, more handsome. Duck more charming, Stealth more persuading.

I am so screwed.

Ma'am

I'm 29 years old. Still young, I guess. Still really young, I suppose. It all depends on who you ask. I feel good in my skin. I know what I like, what I don't like. I know what I know and what I don't know. I have enough life experience to understand most of what folks go through. Hell, by the time I was 24, I'd lived more life than some folks who are 42 - even 82! Not bad, I guess. You pick up lessons along life's path and you put them in your pocket to keep them with you. I've long ago filled all my pockets and now carry around a back pack and a huge purse to carry them all. I don't let things pass by me. If there's a lesson to learn, I learn it, no matter how hard it is.

Today, I learned a gnarly lesson:

I am a Ma'am.

I spent a few dreadful hours dragging my poor sons through department store after department store trying on dress after dress for my BIL's wedding.

I made my way to the ladies sections and the women's sections and I found WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL gowns, also on sale. They would have made Milton Berle gorgeous as they were about his size. I looked like I was wearing a lovely silk beaded tent. Honestly, no need to book a hall for the reception - the party could have been in my dress This would not work. While it may have been terribly fun to have a party in my dress, I don't think there's enough time to change the invitations to read, "Reception to follow in SIL of the Groom's dress."

So, we schlepped on.

Before I go any further, my kids deserve a million gold stars. The behaved, made friends with the sales ladies, and said, "Oh Mama, you look beautiful" over and over again. But they were lying. I did NOT look beautiful. I looked like an 80 year old woman in hot pants and roller skates.

While I didn't have my quads on my feet nor did I wear shorts or satin of any kind, I was, actually, dragging dresses out of the Junior section now to try on. After all, they were on SALE!!!! And, being about as tall as a mailbox, it truly is hard for me to find clothes that fit me that aren't from the Jr's department (okay, yes, there are petites, but sincerely, all I can find is stuff that my grandmother would like and she is decidedly not petite, nor do I any longer have a relationship with her, so you know, it's a waste either way.)

As I spent countless minutes trying to find the zipper on dresses, trying things on, sucking this in and pushing this out and telling my boys a million and twelve times a second, "DO NOT LOOK UNDER THE STALL TO ANOTHER ROOM!!!!," I had to face the facts. I am not a Junior. Not when it comes to dresses.

Yesterday morning, I spent a delightful few hours with my best girlfriend and her daughters. Over the summer, she has regularly brought her daughters (who are the same age as my sons) to go swimming with us. The kids all play in the water and we talk. Yesterday we spent a good amount of time discussing the fact that I am no longer 18 and neither is she. We both have spider veins on our legs ("it can be taken care of for $100 and an office visit,") I need an eye lift, she has a Hillary Clinton 'do. But we both see ourselves as early 20's. We still feel young and vibrant and alive and young. We feel like Miss's. But we are not. We are Ma'am's.

OH DEAR ELVIS, we are Ma'am's.

This is a hard thing to face, I'm telling you. I'm the "baby" in my family, the same age as the "baby" in my husband's family (although, the baby is getting married to someone who is 5 years younger than us, so now, looking at this 24 year old all the time, I really am faced with my Ma'amness.)

Upon deep reflection, though, I think I can handle being a Ma'am. There are things that come with age that I wouldn't trade for ANYTHING in the world. I am comfortable in my body, in the most part, and it hasn't failed me so I've learned to not fail it. I am comfortable with my sexuality - I know what I like, what I don't like, and I'm not afraid to say the words I need to say in order to get it. I DO NOT HAVE TO DATE. I am past puberty - LONG past puberty. I know who I am, regardless of what I look like on the outside or who I am with. I am constant and consistent. I know what I believe about religion, politics, ethics, literature, freedom, human rights, sexuality, social sciences, education, power, media. I have reasonings for all my beliefs and I can back them up. People can say whatever they want about me because I know the truth - if they're wrong, they're wrong. I have learned to not be a doormat, but that I also do not have to be a brick wall - there's room in between the two and it's called an open mind. I have two children who I believe that, while it will it be hard, I can raise them to be respectful and conscious and aware.

I sat down in the dressing room and looked at my children. One of them was saying how lovely I looked (I'm sure - my jeans were around my knees and my shirt was stuck over my head as it got tangled in my hair clip,) and the other one was busily exploring my lip glosses while singing, "I just can't wait to be king" at the top of his lungs. This is my life. This is my age. This is me.

I packed up the kids, got all my clothes on in all the right places and left without buying a single thing from the Junior or any other department. I grabbed my kids some Wendy's (also part of being a Ma'am means understanding that the drive thru is occasionally fine dining,) cruised through the Taco Bell for myself, and happily decided to wear something that I, GASP, already own. It's NICE, pretty trendy, can be dressed up, I don't have to wear the most evil contraption ever invented, it's comfortable, sexy as all hell, and age appropriate. Wahoo.

So I took my dress money and spent it on one of the most important thing a Ma'am can buy - a proper fitting bra. Yep, I have found the most amazing gravity defying device. I bought two. I can handle being a ma'am, as long as my breasts are in the right hemisphere of my body and are not tucked into my jeans.

That's right. I'm a ma'am and proud of it.

But I still have my girls. Heh heh heh.

No pictures, just words

I've been posting a lot of pictures lately. LOTS. To be honest, it's probably because I've got some heavy shit going on in my life now and it's easier to ignore it than to write about it. And, to be totally honest, when I feel like this, I shut off from folks - even myself. Pictures are nice because they show only what you want them to - I can choose what pictures to put out there, but believe it or not, I cannot always choose what words my fingers type. But, here it is, Wednesday morning and I actually have been so freaking productive already that I'm not going to tell myself that I have a million things to do and therefore have no time to write. I'm going to write and maybe you'll read and possibly, when it's all said and done, we'll sit around a campfire and gorge ourselves on S'Mores. Or not.

Have I mentioned how screwed up some of my family members are? Immediate (whom I've written about) and extended (whom I've also written about,) I have some real LuLu's in my family. It's hard because sometimes I want to scream at them, "OH YOU GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!!" This would go over about as well as a fart in church (thanks for that one, DDFF.) For many years I have sort of tip toed around what I said to some of them because, in all reality, some of them are somewhat parental sorts. This has always put my non-existent panties in a wad because really, aren't we just peers now? We're all adults, spouses, parents, home owners, voters, tax payers, etc. The "need" for these people has gone from a survival thing (meaning they are needed to survive,) to a survival thing (meaning, oh dear Elvis and eggs over easy, I have to survive yet another encounter with them.) As of late, I've just sort of said my mind. They don't cuss, but I do, so I guess they're hearing a lot more "shit" and "damn" and the occasional "fuck" than they've ever heard before. "But what about respect," you say. I say, "Yeah, what about respect? What about respecting my choice of words as a literate, educated, adult woman? What about respecting my right to NOT censure myself!" I think they're getting it. This past weekend, I told one of them to, "Go ahead and bury your head a little deeper in the damned sand!"

And the choir said, "Lord almighty, who passed gas???"


This morning I watched a documentary about The Endurance. If you haven't heard about this amazing story, let me give you a brief run down. In 1914, Ernest Shackelton crewed a ship with 28 men on a journey to Antartica. Less than 100 miles from the shore, they become trapped in pack ice. Long story short, these men spent over 2 years away from home, rowing across the ocean to small islands, surviving blizzards and ship wrecks and dysentery and frostbite and everything you can possibly imagine and more - and they ALL SURVIVED. The details are so mind boggling, it would be nearly impossible to believe had it not been for a film maker and photographer that went along on the journey (photographic rights were sold in order to finance the journey.) Were it not for the actual footage and photographs, I highly doubt any living soul would believe the tale. This brings to mind 2 very profound thoughts. 1) Don't tell me you cannot live without Cable TV. These men lived without drinking water and adequate food and land, for Elvis' sake. You can, too, fix that toilet. These men lived in an overturned safety boat for over 4 months! And, thought number 2) Could I have done what it took to survive? Could I be the amazing leader that Shackelton was? Would I give my own ration of food and drink so my crew would not lose morale? Would I forfeit my fur sleeping bag and sleep in soggy wool so that my crew would remain warm? Amazing. Just amazing. And the honor of these men was simply overlooked because of Europe's involvement in WWI. You have to learn about this trek. You have to learn about these men. You have to fix your own freaking toilet.

I've been reading Protecting the Gift by Gavin de Becker, author of The Gift of Fear. If you have children, you MUST read this book about keeping children of all ages safe from violent crime (kidnapping, physical abuse, sexual abuse, etc.) It's amazing, this book, full of ideas that contradict all the age old advice we've passed on to our children for years ( "Don't talk to strangers," "Never say NO to a grown up," "Do what the baby sitter says,") yet what he says makes so much sense. And I have to say, there's nothing flowery about the way he writes, which is a wonderful thing because, frankly, when talking about self defense and protection and avoidance of risk, the last thing we need to read is, "Maybe it would be a good idea if you tried to listen to that little voice." What we need to hear is, "YOUR INSTINCT IS TELLING YOU WHAT TO DO. LISTEN OR DIE, YOU IDIOT." It is overwhelming, to be sure. I wonder if I'll be able to teach my children what I need to. But, I just have to go with my gut and if I teach my children to listen to theirs, that's a pretty damned good start. READ THE BOOK.

My brother in law is getting married in a few short weeks to a wonderful woman that I am so pleased will be sharing the fun fun fun life of having the same in-laws as I have. Okay, in all fairness, I really have lucked out. I bitch about my in-laws, but truth be told, other than some rather extreme quirks, they're really quite right on. But, you know, those quirks are a bitch. Ah, I digress ... So, there's a wedding. My husband is best man. My two sons are both ring bearers. Count 'em, that means 3 tuxedos. I am not in the wedding (a first in a long long time,) which thrills me, but you know, I am the "date" of the best man and the mother of the two little boys in the fancy pants, so I'll more than likely be noticed by someone at some point. There will be family pictures, as always, and I'm sure I'll have to be in at least one of them. So, considering all of this, I realize that I must buy a dress. I don't want to be surrounded by the men in life wearing tuxedos while I look like I just schlepped out of Wal-Mart on my way to Hardee's. This buying a dress freaks me out. So, any suggestions as to where to get a semi-formal dress for an evening wedding without having to take out a second mortgage and without giving up every cell of my bohemian existence are welcome.

Jerry died 10 years ago today. It's so hard to believe. No, I'm not mourning and I'm not wearing tie dye (although DuCK is,) and I've not got "Box of Rain" on repeat, but I am thinking about Jerry, the Dead, and how my life has been impacted by the music and the art. My first Dead album was Skeletons and then American Beauty came following shortly thereafter. I remember getting into my car when I was a teenager and driving with the windows down, Dead blaring, speeding like nothing else, chain smoking Marlboro lights, trying to get away from my truth - my parents were splitting up and I had nothing to lose. Friend of the Devil, indeed. The Dead and, later on, Jerry and David Grisman, have carried me through broken hearts, broken marriages, broken promises, shattered dreams, and bottomless pits. And I've also danced and laughed and loved and lived more than most folks, with the music as the soundtrack. Working Man's Dead is my husband's album and it tells his story of youthful escape and the mature realization that you can never escape yourself. I'd say that I miss Jerry, but the truth is that he's still around, played at least 3 times a week in my house, touching souls and minds at a magnificent rate (and, of course, nauseating others at the same speed.) His influence is growing and expanding - like a Ripple in Still Water.

There's more in my head, but I'm spent. Have a great day, everyone.