On the road, weeks 2 and 3

Coxsackie virus and GPS in hand, we spend two lovely nights with old friends Ingrid, Aaron, and Aidan in Denver. In between, we popped over to hip boulder and watched one of the greatest couples of all time, Tim Foss and Dana Elkun, tie the knot barefoot after walking silently through a meditative labyrinth encircled by adoring wedding guests. In order to keep the girls quiet during the reverent ceremony (except for one ceremonial offering of a whoopie cushion by bridesmaid auntie janelle!) we sustained and distracted them by stealthily feeding them ham. They loved ham that day and we went with it. In the middle of the ceremony I wondered if everyone, including the blissed out bride and groom, could smell that ham. Not exactly the memory you want to carry forward for eternity. I comforted myself by deciding that ham smell was more romantic than two small children making loud and angry sounds due to low blood sugar. Blase sang “You and I” at a poignant moment… hopefully that made up for the ham offense?????

On the way to the reception which was an urban walk of about 8 blocks, I managed to get stung in the armpit by a small scorpion. We captured it and stared at it in disbelief. We even asked a few passers by about scorpions.. they all laughed and said “we don’t have scorpions in Colorado.” One suggested that it was an ant. Maybe she’d never seen a scorpion – or an ant – the difference is quite noticeable. Turns out there are some scorpions in Colorado and one of them cozied up in my armpit until I squished it by pulling Ossian close to me to cross a busy street. I yelped in the intersection but couldn’t stop to deal with the thing until I’d gotten my party dress clad 3 year old to the curb.

As you may or may not remember, Ossian was stung by a scorpion earlier this year. That experience taught us that the smaller and more yellow the scorpion, the more deadly it is. We also knew from that experience that if you are going to start dying from the sting, it will happen within 60 minutes. So, we began the countdown while continuing our wayward path to the reception. Ossian had to stop and watch the street musicians and the unicycle rider. Nola wanted to put a sample rock in her mouth everytime we passed a new zone of landscaping. Blase and I were hungry and curious about the species of scorpion he carried in the pocket of his dressy slacks. We knew that if I began to slur my words or froth at the mouth or convulse, that we were in trouble. We arrived at the reception 41 minutes into my hour of truth. A cocktail seemed appropriate and helped pass the time until my survival was guaranteed. Nola also helped pass the time by immediately plunging her hands into the loose front of Auntie Keely’s flowered dress. She was clearly happy to see her and thought she might as well try her equipment in case some milk might be available there.

Obviously, I did survive and enjoyed a delicious wedding feast. The next day we headed for Moose, Wyoming which, according to MAPQUEST, was supposed to be a 6 hour drive. We stopped in Laramie for lunch. Perkins seemed to be the only thing open and I thought about Mathew Shepard as we waited for our not-so-fast food. I wondered how safe it was to be out in Laramie these days.

After 14 hours, we arrived at the base of the Grand Teton, in the magical home of the Craigheads.

Shirley greeted us in the morning with toys for the kids, hot tea, and big hugs. I headed out for a run and she escorted me to the gate to do a bison check. The herd had grown over the years to around 1000 and they congregate around her house. I’d never had to plan my run around a herd of wild buffalo before. It was a little exciting.

Shirley knows every inch of most trails in both Grand Teton and Yellowstone parks. She is an inspiring naturalist and keeper of local knowledge and she of course, picked perfect hikes that would allow our motley crew of 4 toddlers, one pregnant lady, 3 seniors, and 3 out of shape parents to see the sights. I saw a wolf and moose and antelope. The rest of the group saw bear, too. We hiked all week and listened to Shirley’s stories in the evening. She and my mother in law were nuns together in Chile. They left the convent around the same time and Shirley became Blase and Colleen’s god mother.

It was a perfect vacation. Even though there was some barfing… Ossian and I were standing in the middle of a very upscale bakery in Jackson Hole. I ordered a ham and cheese croissant for her and a tea for me. As I reached for my wallet, she projectile vomited in every direction from the comfort of my arms. We excused ourselves and went to the bathroom for about a half an hour. When we emerged, all the barf was still everywhere. The staff had decided to let the other customers stand in and around it.

She barfed for another day before recovering. Poor little monkey. Then we were off to Los Angeles. We arrived just in time for me to start my barfing. Always wanting to do what the big kids are doing, Nola started barfing 48 hours later. All totalled, we barfed in 4 cities for 6 days.

Los Angeles was in a “heatwave” allegedly. The best place to be was in the Ocean. Despite the barfing, the cousin time was unmentionably cute and hilarious. There were lots of hugs between Nola and Chiara. Ossian and Blase worked together to build castles, boss their little sisters, and score Orangina. We spent every evening laughing at the kids’ antics and eating GREAT take out with Nana, Papu, Colleen, and John.

7 states in 8 days but who’s counting

We made it. Our three week whirlwind is complete and we are happily and exhaustedly at home.

On the morning of my departure with the girls, Blase drove us to the airport at 5 am and I thought, I cannot do this. Flying across the country with a sore throat and my two little ones solo is just stupid and I must abort the mission. That thought of course passed or was crushed my my drive to complete the plan and onward we went, jammies, sippies, car seats and all.

Our airplane chapter was largely and thankfully, uneventful. I did learn the hard way just how ridiculously small the airplane lavatories are for three humans. Nola had a hard time going to sleep and was starting to get a little wild when the miracle happened and she closed her eyes. My body relaxed a little holding her limp one and I reached for my thermos. “Mommy, I have to go poo poo,” Ossian announced. “Nola just fell asleep, sweetie. Do you think you can wait a little bit?” I asked. “NO, mommy. The poo poo is going to come out right now!” she clarified.

Deciding that waking Nola was better than dealing with poopy pants and airplane seat on a 5 hour airplane ride, I rose to help Ossian. This action immediately woke an exhausted Nola who proceeded to cry and writhe. I stepped into the aisle holding Ossian’s clammy hand and clutching angry Nola when blood streamed out of my nose. I had to release Ossian to dig for something absorbent. All I could find was a used diaper wipe. With onehand holding Ossian’s and the other balancing Nola and pinching my steadily bleeding nose, I lacked the arm necessary for properly managing all the bathroom related events. Once inside, we were unable to close the door so Osh pooped with door open, Nola balanced between her legs and me holding her and my nose at the same time. My nose bled for about 35 minutes.. but who’s counting?

Needless to say, we made it to New Jersey and were lovingly greeted by adoring grandparents. Our days in New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New Hampshire were hot and full. Humid and 103 degrees, the East gave us its worst but did not melt our enthusiasm for playgrounds, Boston’s Science Center, Mystic’s aquarium, Great-grandpa Hoops’ stories, baby cousin Marra, sweet baby Gus or his gorgeous mommy and daddy, fun cousin kim, the beloved Fairley-Quest-Sterns, Connecticut’s children’s museum, or swims in Niantic under the towering presence of a nearby nuclear power plant. We did it all.

By day three, I had lost my voice. On day 6, I realized this was a 7 states in 8 days itinerary with two kids under the age of 4 and me – a rapidly aging woman.

From Connecticut, we flew to Denver where I discovered that it is possible to take the rental car shuttle with two children, two carseats, one double jogger, two suitcases, one overstuffed diaper bag, and a dora backpack at naptime with jet lag. Ossian was thrilled to be riding on a “bus”. I don’t recommend it but if you wind up at an airport with that task ahead, you can succeed.

When we were on the East Coast, everyone seemed to have a GPS that they used to drive around. This was a little bit Jetson like to me and another confirmation that I do, in fact, live under a rock. My Mapquest dependence suddenly seemed like listening to 8-tracks. Finding myself solo with the kids and having no idea where I was and likely no place to stay due to Nola’s emerging case of suspected chicken pox which we did not want to inflict on our pregnant host in Denver, I decided to join the times by renting a GPS. We had to be back at the aiport to pick Blase up from his arriving flight in 6 hours. That gave us time to attempt a vehicular nap (failed), buy yo-yo’s for father’s day at Target (ossian’s idea), drink 3 americanos from the drive thru, lose one of Nola’s new shoes (the 3rd lost pair in one week) while filling a grocery cart at Whole Foods, and gather moss in the Pediatric Urgent Care waiting room. The last of the events yielded no diagnosis of chicken pox but Coxsackie virus instead. Another notch in Nola’s belt of bizarre, potentially life-threatening diseases she’s endured.

That was day 7 of our 21 day adventure… check back for imminent tales of scorpions, buffalo, and public regurgitation from the next 14 days of travel.

Just to recap highlights from the first 7 days on the road:

• Donning goggles to slather sister Nola with sunscreen (Ossian’s)
• Going grocery shopping without any children (mine)
• Captaining an indoor ship (nola’s)
• Blocking out the specter of the nuclear power plant to go for a swim in 103 degree weather (mine)
• Feeding birds with great-grandpa Hoops (Nola and Ossian’s)
• Petting sting-rays with Manama (Nola and Ossian’s)
• Having a wild rumpus with cousin Kim (Ossian”s and mine)
• Going grocery shopping with no kids AND with my beloved friend Claire (mine again!)
• Feeding baby Gus (ossian)
• Playing on the beach with Manama (everyone’s)
• Giving the weather report on television (Ossian’s)
• Making a mess at Aunt Jane’s house in Mystic with a pack of cousins (everyone)
• Making shaving cream art with Zeke and family (everyone)
• Mowing the lawn with Manama and Poppy (Nola and Ossian’s)

• 

Barbie invades conscious family’s home in the wilderness

It happened. Today, my 3 year old daughter asked me to pretend that she was “Barbie”.

We were listening to Dan Zanes and she began to dance around. Mid-twirl, she paused to look me in the eye and say, “Mommy, pretend you are the author of this song and tell me a story about it.” My mind churned momentarily to catch up with her and I began, “My name is Dan Zanes and I wrote this song one day while riding on top of pile of pumpkins in the back of a pick-up truck. I started thinking about my old friend and decided to write her a letter. This friend of mine…” and then was interrupted in the midst of my monologue. “Now, mommy, pretend that I’m Barbie,” she dared. Something inside my body fell clunckily down several floors. It felt like maybe my thymus had fallen down some cavernous elevator shaft and turned to stone on the way down. “MOMMY!! Please, pretend that I am Barbie,” she urged in frustration at my lack of response. “Barbie?,” I asked, “Who is Barbie?”. Still twirling and extending arm after arm in lovely interpretive response to the music she answered, “Barbie is a princess.” “Oh!”, I exclaimed. Barbie and princess had invaded my intentional household despite our collage supplies, book piles, building equipment, train sets, dump trucks, puppet theater, musical instruments, paint splattered easel, mini-kitchen, hot rod tricycle, kite, and wooden blocks? Despite our stance as conscientious feminist parents who approach the raising of our children as a spiritual practice?? There must have been some mix up. Barbie must be looking for a neighbor’s house or maybe she took wrong turn and ended up here in Petrolia by mistake. I’m happy to give her a one-way bus ticket out of town. Except that no buses come here. There’s not even television here. How did that blond, stereotype reinforcing, homophobic, gender-binding, helpless-seeming, appearance focused, and starving corporate mannequin get into my house out here in the wilderness??????

“Um, how about we pretend you are a firefighter, instead?” I offered. “Nooo, I want to be Barbie,” she whined mid-sashay. “Ok, I know, you could be a magical veterinarian!” I said excitedly. “NO, Barbie. I really want to be Barbie!” she replied. “Well, you could be a builder or a teacher or, I know, how about an elf!!”, I desperately suggested. The dancing stopped and she begged angrily with the hint of a developing sob, “MOMMY. I WANT TO BE BARBIE!!!! Pretend that I am BARBIE, pleeeaaasseee.” I saw in her despair that I was compounding the BARBIE problem by committing another infraction in my ill-timed censorship and repeated rejection of fantastic her creative impulse to create a story. We could talk about Barbie after the dance-story. “Ok,” I relented. “How do we do that?”, I inquired. Ecstatic and dancing bigger now than before, she stammered, “Mommy, say ‘Everyone, no matter how big or how small, can make a difference for this kingdom!” I did as I was told and her dancing magnified and her little face was so focused on seriously painting out the story with her body. “Ok mommy, now tell a story about that,” she instructed. I told stories about how Barbie and her friends took on the challenge of a dragon who was intimidating people and how Barbie was so strong and such a great horseback rider and how she built her own house and read lots of books and was kind. This went on for some time. There were pauses so that Ossian could give me more direction for the stories and also to do some choreography for her one-year old sister and her thirty-six year old mother. We had lots of costume changes as well. She was in heaven.

I still don’t know where she heard of Barbie. When I asked her, she said “Michael”. That is a boy at preschool she talks about multiple times each day and has done so for nearly 8 months.

I felt totally defeated and scared and sad when Barbie invaded. I knew we’d run into each other at some point in this child-rearing safari but I NEVER thought it would be at the nascent age of 3. My child is in the world and it is inspiring and awesome and even devastating sometimes, too.

Hot Date

The mountains of laundry in our house were starting to avalanche. Since the 1.5 hour trip to town to wash steaming piles of filthy laundry was an inevitable mandate for today, I decided we should offset the chore of it all by incorporating a date for me and my sweet spouse, Blase. In the last 15 months, we’ve had exactly 4 “dates”. Dates, in our world, are child-free time periods during which Blase and I are together. These time periods can range anywhere from 30 minutes to 2 hours in duration.

There is a babysitter in Arcata who the girls love. Due to her soccer and catering schedule and our prolonged departure routine, our window of dating opportunity would be 1-2 hours today. It required an hour of gathering up the piles of laundry, clubbing the rebellious ants lurking in the dirty kitchen rags, making snack bags filled with rice cakes, nectarines, and almond butter sandwiches and shoving all items into the car just enough so that the trunk would latch. I got up early and made breakfast before the girls awoke so that they could feed, pee, and load in time for us to make our date – with our date.

There is always that only-when-you’re-rushing-to-be-somewhere-and-have-nearly-made-it-out-the-door-after-lots-overcome-obstacles explosive-cataclysmic -diaper -eruption that seems to only happen to us when we are working against a fairly rigid appointment time. Today was no exception. One can never have enough small clean pants for mornings like this one.

Off we rambled, bumping down the road against the backdrop of an irresistably sunny and lush day in the Mattole Valley. Blue sky and sapphire waves meeting almond sand and amethyst lupin were our roadside wonderland. Barely born lambs struggled to move off the road on their new legs as we approached. At one of the narrowest curves on the Wildcat, we wound around to encounter a hulking black bull. Blase slowed the car to go around him and he lunged toward our moving vehicle. The choice between raging bull collision and careening cliff dive in the car is never an easy one. Blase split the difference just enough to narrowly escape disaster in both directions.

We arrived at the babysitter’s house, late but still enthusiastic and stepped around an apparently transient epileptic dog seizing in the entry way. This threat to our rapidly vanishing date time was skirted thanks to the help of a child-less adult who took on the task of helping the dog and calling for help. We left the girls so quickly that I called 5 minutes later, laden with guilt and concern, to see if they were alright with our “dump and run” approach. All was well and I could hear them giggling in the background.

We had 56 minutes left on the date clock so we headed to a haunt with outdoor hot tubs and a cafe. It represented the ideal parentopia: an opportunity to simultaneously caffeinate and relax. Parked and ready with 52 minutes to enjoy ourselves, we hustled to the door marked with a welcoming sign that read “open” in homey cursive. The door was locked and the lights were out. A far smaller sign stated the hours for the establishment… none of them were occurring during our hour.

Since our rare and unpracticed attempt at leisure failed, we decided without debate to head to the laundromat where we could at least get started on subduing our colony of soiled clothing. At least we would be doing it together, we said. Romance can happen anywhere, right? We did our best to re-connect while shoving malodorous fabric into two rows of double and triple loading washers. He filled the detergent reservoir and I selected the temperature settings for our 18 loads of family laundry. Somewhere in the process, my nose began bleeding. Despite the noteworthy comforts of this particular laundromat, it lacks a customer restroom and therefore, easy access to toilet paper. This all meant that I had to stumble around the thumping machines, trying to complete the laundry task quickly in order to still have date moments left on the clock, with blood trickling down from my left nostril to my mouth. Laundromat personnel ultimately took pity on me and rustled up a roll of toilet paper which allowed me to stem the tide and slam shut the final front-loader door before grabbing my husband and speed walking back to the car. Miraculously, we still had 26 minutes to enjoy each other and remember who else we ever were before returning to our epic and cherished roles as doting parents.

A cafe beckoned from the plaza and we sat, face to face over musky green tea and a foamy cappucinno to share a flaky chocolate croissant and discuss our lives for 14 precious minutes. I don’t know if people do this anymore, but I remember an era during which “speed dating” was popular for singles in Seattle. This apparently was our inadvertent version of once highly sought and heftily priced urban phenomenon.

It’s amazing what you can count as “dates” when you are wildly and chronically deprived of them.

Next time, maybe we can slow dance in the produce section at the co-op while squeezing avocadoes and shaking the moisture off of cilantro bundles before strolling arm in arm to the housewares isle to stock up on wipes, parchment paper, and dish soap together.

who’s counting

I realized this week that I am one year younger than I thought I was. For many months, when asked how old I am, I’ve answered, “37”. You know how your age becomes kind of like your social security number… it’s an automatic recall kind of information byte that you can access. Vital data but not highly relevant to your daily manifestations of self.

Since about age 34, I’ve relied on my spouse to remind me of my age whenever questions arise. I guess I haven’t asked him in a while and I’ve had it my head that I am 37. Sometimes lately, I think about how 37 is really an advanced age for me and I then have to work diligently to calm the subsequent internal wave of mild panic that arises in the tide of loose thoughts about all the things I haven’t yet done despite my chronological proximity to 40. This entire process lasts only two or three seconds but tilts my entire outlook ever so slightly. It happens most often on days when I get very little “done”. Though in my good moments I consider feeding, clothing, re-clothing, re-feeding, entertaining, teaching, soothing, reminding, adoring, guiding, sleeping, and re-feeding my 1 and 3 year olds a good amount to get “done”, the mainstream world of business cards, conference calls, and task forces does not. All externally recognized measurements of productivity and progress exclude the bulk of the contribution I am making in the conscious raising of two small humans.

So, while slinging sweet potato chilaquiles at Cafe last Wednesday, I did the math. 2008 minus 1972 actually makes me 36!!! It was unexpected great news. Another whole year of life has been gifted to me thanks to my own dysfunction around my age. With 12 more months suddenly added to my life, it gives me a lot more time to figure out what I’m doing with this life, write dozens more pages, dance to hundreds of songs with my children, walk miles of beach with my mom, eat mountains of sushi with my sweetheart, run miles of pavement on my aging feet, lose bladder control while laughing with friends, and finally floss the hell out of my neglected teeth.