merry and bright

The holidays are upon us, and it is all very, very lovely. I am a little tired and over-sugared, but in a good way--nothing the bright sunshine outside can't cure. My sister and brother-in-law have come all the way from Iowa with my sweet Cindy Lou Who of a niece, Louisa.

She just ate her first bananas with adorable gusto, while five adults hovered, laughing and applauding every time she opened her mouth like a baby bird and swatted at the spoon, before being whisked off to Grandma's house where we will go tomorrow. It is a joy to see the cousins together!

While we were watching the Louisa Banana Show, Frances and Gabriel were busy making a little restaurant in the playroom using the wooden play kitchen that arrived this morning from friends who were ready to pass it on. As you can see, the pizza on offer was cheep for Christmas. Only two dollars a pizza.

This holiday season I'm feeling grateful to be part of a community of giving, noticing how we are the recipients of an easy generosity that is not limited to this particularly lovely season but somehow illuminated by it. The unexpected kitchen, the baby car seat a friend kindly dropped off for Louisa to use during her visit, singing carols and drinking wine with neighbors last night. The holiday cards in the kitchen from friends near and far--many featuring the faces of children who we love dearly--are especially precious in this immaterial age. Watching Frances run across the street with cookies for our neighbor all by herself. It feels so good. It feels like the way life is supposed to be.

Happy holidays to all of you, dear readers. May these days be filled with light where you are, too.

providence

Shortly before Thanksgiving, I had a glass of wine with a new acquaintance, ostensibly to figure out if there was a way I could volunteer with the innovative nonprofit she leads. We had lots in common, including Dallas (where I was born), and her interests and approach to social problems resonated for me in an energizing way. Deciding we'd talk more after the holiday, I wished her a lovely Thanksgiving with her family in Dallas.

She sent me a text a few days later, telling me that her parents had known my parents. They'd gone to the church where my dad first worked out; her dad had a note he'd saved from my dad! That's it up there. I was able to open the attachment for the first time this morning, and it took my breath away. My dad wasn't much of a note-writer; I have precious little in the way of handwritten documents. This is like hidden treasure that I didn't have to lift a single shovelful of dirt to find; it unearthed itself, shiny and perfect, and landed conveniently in my email inbox.

in the bleak midwinter

After the Lower School's holiday concert, I had plans to run errands with Gabriel and knock a few items from my to-do list, which has been buzzing around my head with more intensity than I'd like of late. But then the concert was very long, and Gabriel was very grouchy and hard to maneuver through the school parking lot, and in the end we scrapped it all, stopping at the library (which is not even on my buzzing list!), and eventually coming home to paint.

The concert was, as I expected, very beautiful. The first, second, third, and fourth graders sat in groups on the floor of a gym, forming a wide circle, the center of which became a stage. They played music, danced, read stories they had written, recited poetry, and sang. The grande finale featured the Upper School Chamber Choir singing one of my very favorite Christmas hymns, In the Bleak Midwinter, along with the younger children. (You can listen to a particularly beautiful version here).  Surprisingly, it was not watching the children's faces singing this song--one so beautiful and melancholy, evoking a sense of being humble, stripped bare, with words (by Christina Rossetti) that you would not think to place in the mouths of babes--but the faces of their music teachers, who kneeled before the seated children on the floor, gently conducting and mouthing the words for them with wide, sparkling eyes, that brought tears to my eyes.

All children need adults who kneel before them and look at them with such single-minded focus in their lives. I am very grateful that my daughter has them, and somehow an awareness of our great fortune in that regard brought on a bout of nearly painful awareness of my own (and my children's) fragility. (What can I give him, poor as I am?) Despite the sunshine outside, I carried a bleak midwinter within--earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone--which is why I couldn't bear to drag a grumpy three year old through any more parking lots today. And why instead I retreated home with a much relieved boy for a gentler morning at home, warming ourselves by the fire.

me party

This project caught my eye a few days ago, especially because it involves cutting and painting cardboard, which--and I don't mean to brag--happens to be one of my family's specialties (see here, and here). But coming off a less-than-satisfying interlude decorating the Christmas tree with my children on Sunday, I determined to dive into this simple holiday project with nary an expectation of my kids. Whether or not I had cheerful and willing co-crafters, I was going to make a Christmas tree garland. And I'd like it.

I began by cutting cardboard trees from one of the many Amazon boxes that have been arriving at our door this month, and waited for someone to notice. (Okay, I suppose I secretly did hope for helpers...but I wasn't going to advertise it). My dear son took the bait. Hey, could we paint those trees, Mama? Why...what a good idea, Gabriel!

homeless hair

Today while I was having my biannual haircut I chatted with the hairdresser about cutting our kids' hair. This was my second cut with Kristin but I feel as if we go back way farther than that. She is tall and thin with a bit of Elvira-esque glamour about her: long, straight black hair with a bleached bit on top, witchy black heels, and, in a punk take on the classic beauty mark, a tiny stud sparkling in the piercing just above her upper lip. She tells me I should wear legwarmers. She tells me the burgeoning gray hairs along my part look good. Scissors firmly in hand, she is not even a little intimidated by my unruly hair. In short, she's a keeper. 

In our talk about kid haircuts, she told me with exasperation that her four year old has homeless hair. "I always say to her, why is your hair so homeless?" She might have meant that her daughter's hair looks unwashed and uncombed, as if she's been sleeping in the streets for weeks. But if that were it, Kristin might have asked her why her hair looks like a homeless person's hair. The expression made me laugh so hard because I think Kristin was complaining about an innate quality common to many little heads of hair, including Frances's (though as she gets older it--along with the rest of her--seems to respond to social pressures and expectations). It's that wispy, weird, perpetual ragamuffin look, the baby fine hair that slips out of every ponytail holder and barrette and in certain weather looks as if its owner may have stuck a fork in a socket. Different parts of it seem to grow at different rates, and it tends towards mullet no matter how you trim it. I think homeless hair refuses to bend to convention. It doesn't act like it lives in a house; it acts like it lives in the wilderness and like a wild animal, cannot under any circumstances be controlled.

giveaway winners

Erin Stephens-Marner, Milena Smith, and Christen Coscia all get a lovely CD from The Good Ms. Padgett! Congratulations.

Would the winning ladies please send me (meaganhowell@gmail.com) an email with address so I can send you a package?

(This is the cover of her forthcoming album; if you make it to one of her shows with Elizabeth Mitchell you might hear some of the delightful stories from it live!)

the book nook

My grandmother consoled my mother, who was steeling herself to leave a place she loved for a place she was deeply wary of (Fort Lauderdale, where a church community was waiting for my dad to become its new minister), with these words: home is wherever your family is. I can get with that sentiment (however ineffective I suspect it may have been, comfort-wise, at that moment). It prioritizes relationships over any particular address or possession. A place, even a great one like Providence, can't be home if your family isn't there with you.

The house we now live in would make a good test case for my grandmother. It was in foreclosure when we bought it nearly three years ago. When we came to see the house, it was grim: the bank set the heat just barely warm enough to prevent the pipes from bursting, and had painted every wall the same dirty off-white color. Hardly anything grew in the yard, and in the dirt just in front of the big kitchen window lay a curious pile of stones that had been painted bright yellow.

don't give up!

Gabriel and I made some of our favorite cookies on Friday, and I just munched through three of them, happy to be home after a quick jaunt to Lancaster to see my mother's latest directorial triumph. More on our weekend soon, but first: I am sorry that many of you have had trouble posting comments in order to enter The Good Ms. Padgett's delightful CD giveaway. My technical limitations are being exposed in a serious way. Suffice it to say I'm working on it, and in the meantime...don't give up!

If the comments section isn't being nice to you, don't bother with it. Just like Homemade Time & The Good Ms. Padgett on Facebook, and leave a comment on the Homemade Time Facebook page so I'll be sure to know you've entered. I'll announce the three winners at the end of the week.

Enjoy this last little bit of weekend, everyone.

good songs

Years ago, it was my turn to help out in Frances's cooperative preschool class. The only problem was she was sick that morning, and had to stay home with her baby brother and my mother, who had graciously agreed to babysit. Frances was sorely disappointed but I was secretly relieved, because cooping with that kid was never easy. At the tender age of three, she harbored an intractable fear that if I helped out other children I would become their mother and she'd be left out in the cold. If I had those suspicions, I'd probably scream whenever my mother bent over another child's shoes, too. But just because I could understand her distress didn't mean I liked dealing with it.

Despite the challenges of being in the classroom with Frances, I really did miss her that morning, most especially because we had a guest visit during circle time. A warm and lovely woman wearing bright red pants joined us with her guitar and sang and told stories. I particularly remember her reading a version of The Little Red Hen and singing an impossibly catchy refrain in the voice of the title character, who asks for help but is turned down time and time again by her lazy friends. The hen's song - anthem, really - stayed with me. I sang it for Frances and Gabriel and Mike at dinner. We all loved it. It entered into our family repertoire, where it has resided ever since.

Fast forward nearly three years. I have returned to the cooperative preschool, this time with Gabriel, and guess who I met there? Yes indeed, the singing/storytelling lady! Her name is Anna Padgett. She is a parent at the school, as well as a fantastic musician and dedicated kindergarten teacher. Here is a picture of her:

Well, it is a very nice artist's rendition of Anna, and you can find some actual photos on The Good Ms. Padgett's (her children's music name) Facebook page. The picture above is the cover art from her first eponymous album which is full of zany and sweet songs for babies and their adoring, long-suffering parents. There's something about these songs that transported me right back to being exhausted and crazy in love with my tiny babies. You need a good song and good laugh when you've got a baby. Well, you always need those things, but you really need them with a napless eight month old who looks good in hats, eats her feet, and proudly identifies her nose (all are the topics of songs on this album). Gabriel, who sometimes channels a baby named Tofu with an absurd sense of humor, really loves to listen to these songs. So do I.

Anna happens to be married to Miggy Littleton, who is another fine musician and the brother of Daniel Littleton, who is another fine musician who happens to be married to Elizabeth Mitchell. (Readers of this blog know how much I love her music). Anna and Miggy have been playing some tour dates with Elizabeth Mitchell this fall; maybe you've seen them? And the Littleton's father was a much-loved tutor at St. John's, where Mike teaches, and I think at this point you are beginning to see how satisfying the connections are for me!

Soon The Good Ms. Padgett will release a new storytelling and singing album, The Little Red Hen, but before that happens she has graciously agreed to give away three CDs (of her first album) to Homemade Time readers. It would make an awesome gift for new parents, or for old-timers like me who like to get all nostalgic and hug and squeeze their big kids too much.

If you'd like to participate in this first-ever real-deal giveaway on Homemade Time, here's what to do:

1. Like The Good Ms Padgett and Homemade Time on Facebook.

2. Leave a comment here, so I know you've entered.

Spread the word to your music-loving friends! And local readers: Anna will be playing this Friday (tomorrow, Dec 2nd) at the Leeward Market in Eastport around 6:30 pm. We're planning on being there, and hope to see some of you there too.

football for softies

It all started with this fella, upon whose abundant dreadlocks I gently placed a single seashell hat.

"It's a football helmet! He's on the Cowboys!" enthused my dear boy, who has permanent sports-on-the-brain.

Yesterday we hosted three of Gabriel's friends from preschool, so I made a big batch of our favorite play dough. (There really is nothing like manipulating this stuff; it's a shame we adults don't have more opportunities to squish and roll and flatten in our lives.) Then this morning I had a sitter come over so that I could work on the child abuse prevention article I mentioned recently. In the freakishly springlike sunshine I walked to a cafe, where I got to feel independent and productive, sipping coffee from a wide elegant cup and typing away with only the sounds of muffled adult conversations and frothing milk to distract me.

grateful

Before we went to my mother's for Thanksgiving on Thursday, we took a much-needed Family Day, organized around two special events: going out for breakfast in the morning and going to a movie in the afternoon. Funny how things that were once part of our everyday (pre-children) lives have become nothing less than momentous. All the better to appreciate them! And it was our first movie-going experience as a family, which is something to grin about no matter how you slice it.

If it had been any other new release, we might not have taken a chance with our sensitive three year old boy at the sensory extravaganza that is the movies these days (oh, it is loud!). But The Muppets had just opened. We'd watched some of The Muppet Movie at home, but the thirty-year-old jokes and pacing seemed hard for the kids to access. Kermit the Frog is universally appealing; Steve Martin as a surly waiter is not. I hoped this new movie would call to my kids in a voice they could respond to.

Parenthood, for me, has been a time of suspicion towards pop culture. My sensitivity to crassness, meanness, loudness, cynicism, bad music, bad books, and bad art skyrocketed within minutes of giving birth to Frances. I wanted to keep everything ugly and stupid away from the perfect seven pounds of person that had been entrusted to us. When I read Jonathan Richman quoted saying that he didn't want to play music that would hurt a baby's ears, I knew exactly what he meant.

magic

Frances: Mama, will you just tell me? Is Santa Claus real? Is it just you and Papa who put presents in the stockings?

Me, caught off guard, looking up from the winter squash I have been hacking away at: Well...what do you think?

Frances: Mama. You always say that. Just answer, yes or no.

I look at her. I have no idea what to say.

Frances: I hate lying and secrets, Mama.

Me: Me too.

Frances: So please just tell me.

So I did. I told her that Santa Claus is just a story. She got me with that bit about lying and secrets, which is why for the first years of parenthood I felt squeamish perpetuating the Santa Claus myth, unable to meet my eager toddler's eyes when the subject of elves came up. Over the years though, her delight trumped my qualms about lying. When she was about 18 months old, Frances discovered the Santa Tube, which is her direct line to the North Pole. Mike had casually picked an empty cardboard tube that had recently held gift wrap up off the floor shortly before Christmas. Gently placing one end on Frances's ear, he had whispered through the tube: Frances. Hello, Frances.

Eyes wide, her face registered a shock of immediate recognition. Santa??

a shout out to all the villagers

I've been working on an article about child abuse prevention efforts in Maryland over the past couple of weeks. The United States has the worst record on child abuse in the developed world; a congressional report cited 2,500 child abuse-related deaths in 2009 alone. It's hard to wrap one's head around a figure like that, and hard to understand what it is about the particularities of American life that leads to such a disheartening reality.

When I interviewed the director of a state-wide nonprofit dedicated to preventing abuse and neglect, she told me it wasn't just up to their programs. She said ensuring children grow up healthy is everybody's business: the mail carrier, the bus driver, the elderly neighbor, the checker at the grocery store. It made me think of Mr. Rogers and his unique emphasis on being a good neighbor. Everyone was part of Mr. Rogers' neighborhood, including the viewer, and everyone had an important role to play. The model of community Mr. Rogers shared was one of deep interpersonal connections and mutual responsibility and care.

The director of the nonprofit told me that reducing isolation and education were the central ways that her programs helped parents manage the stress of raising children. Because no matter where you live or who you are, being a parent is hard. I didn't know I could feel rage--coursing through my body, making my hands involuntarily curl into claws, I-could-strangle-someone style rage--until I became a mother. It is a job that tries you in every conceivable way. Like so many of you, I am blessed with a caring partner and supportive friends and family members. I've long recognized that without them, I'm not sure I could have always managed to protect my children's bodies from those moments of rage.

But talking with this director made me realize that it's not just about our intimates. It's about our neighbors! I think of the octogenarian great-grandmother who commiserated with me in line at the post office when my children were behaving badly, a woman who exuded warmth and humor and helped me put things back into perspective. The librarian who volunteered to help us find a special book when one of the kids was about to tantrum and I was about to cry, kindly steering us away from the edge of the cliff. Or the man who ran up to me with a peach-colored rose as I pushed a crying baby in the stroller past his garden, explaining that it was the last one on the bush and he wanted me to have it.

The whole 'it takes a village' thing is often seen as a warm and fuzzy idea, the kind of thing a person who likes potlucks and church bazaars and community theater (check, check, check) might pronounce. A fine bumper sticker indeed; an excellent guiding principle for organizing family life!

But there is so much more at stake. Maybe it takes a village to keep a child alive. Maybe every time you meet someone's eyes or offer a small gesture of support, every time you tell a new mother how beautiful her baby is, hold a door, or ask if you can help, you are doing something huge. Critical. You are being a good neighbor, and perhaps good neighbors reduce isolation and educate parents better than any formal program. And given our country's stats, we are all in need of a bit more neighborliness in our communities.

To the villagers in my life, many of whom I have met only once: thank you. I am so grateful. Thank you for my beautiful, healthy children.

thankful for books

When I was at the library with Gabriel yesterday, I allowed myself a wander through the chapter book section (I can hear Frances now: they're called novels, Mama), skimming my fingers along the many delectable spines that are patiently waiting for us there. Caddie Woodlawn, more Eleanor Estes, the Lord of the Rings books, Little Women, and new potential favorites too, like The Underneath. There is an insatiable part of me that hungers to share novels with my dear ones.

But there is another kind of book, perhaps less obvious and harder to find, that is a pleasure to share with older children who are independent readers. It's the text-heavy picture book, the beautifully-written story that is most certainly not babyish, the illustrated volume that carries with it a bit of danger and mystery. Often these books are fairy tales or adventure stories. Under no circumstances do they feature lessons about how to share or be a good friend at the end. They are for brave, bold, imaginative big kids who are secure enough in their big kid-ness to take on a meaty picture book.

I've been thinking about this because a friend recently asked if I knew of any books of this sort to recommend, plus there's been a whole lot of big kid birthdays this fall and books are our favorite gifts to give. Just in case you also have a six or seven or eight year old in your life who is about to celebrate a birthday, or who may need an extra book for the home library come Christmas or Hanukah, here is a list of beautiful picture books we've enjoyed recently that are absolutely, positively not for babies:

I remember this book from when I was a child. The pictures are extraordinary (no skimping on the blood, fire, or fiery dragon breath) and the story is beautifully told. I don't think Frances and Gabriel breathe when we read Saint George and the Dragon aloud together. Even though they know the Red Cross Knight survives, every time we re-read it the suspense is paralyzing.

This version of the Merlin story is told and illustrated by the St. George dream team, Margaret Hodges and Trina Schart Hyman. Frances gobbled it up all by herself before we could read it aloud together. King Arthur, his knights, his faithless lady, and his entire milieu occupied a big, active part of my imagination as a child (reading The Mists of Avalon in the way back seat of our minivan at age 12 on a long driving trip=heaven). I was thrilled when I found this one at the library last week.

The image I found for A Ride on the Red Mare's Back by Ursula K. Le Guin is tiny; the story is decidedly not. A big sister adventures through the forbidding woods in winter to save her brother from awful trolls with the aid of her magical red toy horse. There is just enough darkness here for us to believe it.

This version of Aladdin is a pleasure to read aloud, and the illustrations are fun. Lots of pointy beards, huge well-muscled genies, brilliant jewels and shining palaces. It was all fabulous enough for Gabriel to withstand the picture-less pages, knowing that eventually we'd turn the page to find another magical scene worth the wait.

I guess The Iron Giant was recently turned into an animated movie for children. I can't help but be suspicious. This book is so strange and unnerving, it's hard to imagine...but who knows? Maybe you've seen it and it's good. The illustrations in this Iron Giant are evocative, graphic, and suit the spare language and poetic logic of the story perfectly. I'm not sure that I even liked it, but my children were absolutely rapt. Its weirdness is what makes it so compelling, and my general take when it comes to art is that weird is good. I'd love to hear from some of you think about this one.

Brave Irene is an old favorite, and really any William Steig picture book could have made this list. I love the way Steig luxuriates in language, pushing descriptions so much farther than any other children's author I can think of. He also grants his characters big, bold feelings (I am thinking of the parents' grief in Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, or Amos' spiritual ecstasy before the splendor of nature on the deck of his boat in the very fine Amos and Boris). In this story, determined Irene braves a fierce and battle-ready icy wind to do an errand for her poor sick mama. 

Finally, the New York Times just published its list of best illustrated books of 2011, and this one caught my eye. I know, I know, Brother Sun Sister Moon can hardly be a wild adventure tale, but it looks so nicely done!

Do you have any good titles to add to the list? Do share!

(In other news: I recently started a Facebook page for Homemade Time, where I'll link to new posts and other items. If you have a minute, please come visit and click 'like'!)

sewing together

Saturday morning, up long before the sun. I read a new novel in bed til I heard Gabriel stir around 6:30. Then suddenly we were all up, making pumpkin pancakes and coffee, unloading the dishwasher, talking about the day. The groceries, the empty gas tank, the birthday present to wrap, the many loads of laundry lying in wait. By virtue of that deep down part of me that resists all the shoulds that shamelessly start making noise far too early on a beautiful autumn morning, instead of bustling about I wound up on the couch in my pajamas with two creative crafters (in technique especially-see above), making sewing cards from the remains of a cardboard box that arrived earlier in the week.

The children drew pictures on the cardboard, then colored them with crayons. Together we used a nail to punch holes all around the image, then I cut it out with heavy scissors. They each chose yarn, and sewed around the perimeter with blunt embroidery needles. Then it was time for Gabriel to send his hawk aloft, and for Frances to admire her bluebird.

Gabriel turned out the first sewing card yesterday, after I saw the project here, while he was home sick from school. Of course instead of acorns or maple leaves, he chose to make a blue football, which he has been playing with (ie throwing it up in the air and crashing into the couch, yelling touchdown!) ever since. It is rather evocative, I think.

Hope your weekend is full of unexpected pleasures, friends.

book of happiness

Yesterday afternoon Gabriel was out of sorts. In the car, I asked if he was sad about something.

I'm not sad, I'm angry, he replied.

What are you angry about?

He caught my eye in the rear view mirror, to be sure I was listening. Then he said, I'm not angry about anything. I'm just angry.

Ever the social worker, I empathized, telling him that sometimes I feel angry too. I said that there are things I like to do to feel better when I'm in a bad mood, like have some quiet time or listen to music.

I don't like to do those kind of things to feel better. 

At this point you may be wondering why I persisted in the conversation, but I can be slow that way. I kept on firing away, asking what kind of things do you like to do?

Snowboarding.

Oh?

Flying in a real, superfast airplane.

What else?

Riding in a motorcycle. Hang gliding. Being a knight.

growing into reading

I can't resist sharing one more Marie Howe poem with you. After I heard her interviewed on Fresh Air and wrote about it here, I requested one of her collections, The Kingdom of Ordinary Time, through our library system. It is very fine. Here is a poem that got me thinking about how children become readers, and the unique developmental processes involved that engage the whole child.

Why the Novel Is Necessary but Sometimes Hard to Read
It happens in time. Years passed until the old woman,
one snowy morning, realized she had never loved her daughter...

Or, Five years later she answered the door, and her suitor had returned
almost unrecognizable from his journey.

But before you get to that part you have to learn the names
you have to suffer not knowing anything about anyone

and slowly come to understand who each of them is, or who each of them
imagines him or herself to be --

and then, because you are the reader, you must try to understand who
you think each of them is because of who you believe yourself to be

in relation to their situation

or to your memory of one very much like it.

on washing the windows outside, looking in

Mike and I took stock in the car this morning on to way to and from church, in between unrelated observations from the backseat. Family life: it's challenging. It's easy to feel overwhelmed. He has so much work. I take on too much, and, as longtime readers may already know, want a lot of incompatible things.

It was sobering, as confronting the limits of time, money, and good humor only can be. A new pair of fancy shoes, a new job, a private school and a new baby simple do not line up, not in this universe nor any other, no matter the contortionist fantasies I concoct in quieter moments (an unknown rich relative will die, leaving us a small fortune; a high powered literary agent will stumble upon Homemade Time and beg me to sign a book deal, leaving me free to write, start a community-oriented bilingual nonprofit, and have one, or six, more babies; an unknown well-resourced nonprofit down the street will come knocking, offering me a lucrative part-time social work job; etc.)

But dearie me, I am a grown up now and should know better! This life has its limits, and in truth that's a good thing. All the better to appreciate and be creative within the context we are given, which in my case is a wealth of blessings. The whole sober gray cloud lifted and scudded away before too long. Here is what happened:

two hundred letters later

A little over two years ago I wrote my first post, encouraged by my friend Amelia who had the foresight to sign me into Blogger, send me my password, and say go ahead, do it! I was wholly ignorant of the blog form at the time, but hoped to create a common space where my dear, far-flung friends - and maybe even their dear, far-flung friends - might find sustenance, support, humor and inspiration for the day of diaper-changing, story-telling, nose-wiping and song-singing ahead. I wanted everyone to write and read this blog together. Might as well come out and say it: I wanted a community.

The jury is still out for me on whether or not an online community can rightfully be called a community (one that satisfies, one that deepens human connection), and I quickly discovered that my friends didn't have the time or inclination to write for a blog that I imposed upon them, but I persisted nonetheless. I wrote each post as a letter to a very close friend, not the sort that are about reporting on major events, but rather letters that increased intimacy by sharing intimate details: alienation on the playground, creative energy at the kitchen table, tenderness at bedtime. Homemade Time has been a place to explore the themes that come up (and tend to stay up) in a mostly stay-at-home life: the conflicting allures of children and work, persistent feminist quandaries, finding a balance of independence and interdependence. 

This is my two hundredth letter.

driving and smiling

Do you remember the feeling of driving at night in the summer, preferably on a highway with the windows down, your hair blowing around your face, the air soft and warm, the radio magically supplying you with one perfect song after another? You might have been 16, or 19, and the person next to you was a boyfriend or girlfriend, or better yet your best friend in the world. You were wild and free, suffused with a tingly happiness, and surely the kindred spirit next to you felt the same. The perfection of that night was motion, being on the way, sliding effortlessly through time and space. Arriving somewhere would have ruined it.

I've arrived here in adulthood. I am in a very definite spot in time and space: 34 years old, on this couch in this house in this town, just a few miles from the Chesapeake Bay, saddled with all sorts of responsibilities the very thought of which would have afflicted my teenage self with a queasiness worse then any case of carsickness.

the comforts of home

Gabriel and I came down with a new cold this rainy, chill morning. Mike volunteered to take Frances to school and so the two of us did something rather unusual. We spent the entire morning at home. The boy is napping now, still pajama-clad, probably dreaming of baseball.

This is what we did:

*colored a cardboard box and pretended it was a basketball hoop, a robot head, and a pirate ship

*sewed together (I added hair to Frances's Gary-the-Monster Halloween costume; Gabriel made grand 3 inch long stitches on some fabric in an embroidery hoop)

*read lots of lots of stories and poems

*ate two lunches, the first at 9:30 am

*talked with Gramma on the phone

*went for a walk in the rain to deliver granola to a friend and jump in puddles

*read lots and lots more stories and poems

Restorative in body and spirit! I'm not sure why it takes a virus to help me sign on to a morning with my dear boy free from work, errands, social dates, gym-going, and general goal-oriented behavior. Goals, I think, are sometimes overrated.

Do you have a sniffle too? Take a sick day! It's a tried and true curative for whatever may ail you, and what's more (as I discovered today), it can serve as a reminder that all sorts of unexpected good and quiet things can happen when we stop trying to make things happen.

you and me and everyone else

As Gabriel (also known as G-Force) and I left a sweet Halloween party with friends from his school this morning, he suddenly looked down at the paper bag festooned with an orange construction paper pumpkin clutched in his hand and said, "Mama! We don't have one for Didi!"

I told him that since his big sister didn't come to this party, she doesn't get a party favor. This one was just for Gabriel. His eyes narrowed in thought as he opened the bag and contemplated its contents: mini chocolate bars, Halloween-themed stickers, plastic spider rings ... in short, treasure. Standing there on the sidewalk peering into the little bag, he became more and more concerned, until the dark clouds lifted from his face all at once and he looked up at me, exclaiming "I know!! I can share the candy with Didi when we get her after school!"

Problem solved. Gabriel finds it very hard to enjoy anything special until he is reassured that every member of his family will be able to enjoy it with him, especially his big sister (this is definitely not always the case with other children). It's akin to how babies who are new to holding and munching food will take a few bites, notice that you are tragically lacking something to gnaw, then grin and offer you their mushy, decimated teething biscuit. It just doesn't taste as good when you eat it by yourself.

Now I know this flies in the face of so much toddler (and adult!) behavior, but counterexamples to the abundant moments of greed and grubbiness that threaten to dominate our vision of what children are like strike me as important to notice. It feels better to enjoy blessings in community. Kids know it, and we do too.

A dear friend asked me recently why I persist in thinking my eventual return to full time social work must directly involve the lives of vulnerable people. Why not do something more creative, more supported, less likely to lead to burn out? Is it some bizarre pathology, am I just a guilt-ridden caregiver? That kind of thing might come into play, but I heard myself say instead that my fate was tied up with the fate of everyone in my community, especially the poor. My well-being is tied to the well-being of people I don't know, people I might never know. I cannot conceive of my flourishing as an independent process.

It's not that I'm particularly good. It's just that when I've worked with poor people, I have understood my life as connected and meaningful. Not that it isn't now. Taking care of babies and young children is living in a state of uber-connection! But it's an inward-looking time, and as my children grow older and more independent, I find myself looking outward direction more often, wondering about all the people in this town that I drive by on the way to school and Whole Foods and Halloween parties.  

The question for me these days is how I want to be a social worker again: doctoral program or grassroots advocacy? Figuring out the path ahead (which I may not actually set foot upon for a very long time) is also about recalibrating the shifting balance in my life of inward and outward, family and community, giving and receiving. (Throw in the mix that fact that I am also trying and failing to quiet irrational dreams of a third baby in the midst of all this reflection on what is important for me to do as a social worker. Conflicting desires, my friends! I suffer a comically persistent case of conflicting desires.)

When we picked up Frances, there was a small farmers market operating in the parking lot. She discovered there was a big jar of candy on offer, and darted between grown ups to fetch two purple boxes of Nerds, one for her and one for her brother. Then Gabriel passed her his bag of treats from the morning. It was a fine, happy rainy afternoon. We begin with our families, and that is as it should be. But when is it time to reach out beyond this safe and loving place, and risk offering our treasures to a stranger?

what a poem can do

Driving with Gabriel to pick up Frances from school today, I listened to poet Marie Howe on Fresh Air. As we pulled into the parking lot, she read a poem called "What the Living Do," which she wrote as a letter to her brother John who had died from AIDS-related complications years before. Here it is:

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.

And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
-from What the Living Do: Poems 

It is incredible to me how a particular collection of words spoken in a particular voice can change everything. We sat in the car and listened to her finish the poem, then I turned the key and the car was quiet. I sat in the stillness and warmth, and turned to look back at Gabriel, who I had woken from a nap only minutes earlier. He looked back at me. "That was a nice poem," I said, trying to acknowledge the beauty without succumbing to the emotion I felt in my tightening throat. 

(I remember you. By now we all have a you to remember, I think.)

He nodded his assent. I got out of the car into the day that had turned windy and cold, opened the back door,  unbuckled his car seat, and lifted him out. I don't get to carry my big three-and-a-half year old as much as I'd like, but today, still warm from sleep, Gabriel remained heavy in my arms. His head fit just so on my shoulder and his legs wrapped around me, fitting along the slight indentation above my hips.

As I walked, I pulled his sweatshirt hood up to cover his exposed neck and protect it from the cold. His body, shielding me from the wind, was perfect in its completeness and in that moment my body participated in that perfection because of the way we fitted together seamlessly. Most of the time, I want more and more and then more of it--but not then.

The warmth and weight of him all around me, amidst the first fall day that hinted at winter's rawness, and right there in the middle of so many yelling children and smiling teachers and chatting parents I was gripped by a cherishing so deep. For me, and for the me that is me-and-them. When Frances emerged from her classroom I wanted to run to her.

She ran to me instead. 

sports and sticks

Fresh into adulthood, I used to tell people (with a quiet air of superiority) that I had observed two kinds of people in this world: those who use sports metaphors, and those who do not. Profound, I know! You'll never guess which category I fall into. Once I scrambled my way out of school and many situations in which I was surrounded by children who were able to throw and catch a ball as if it were no big deal, I breathed a sigh of relief. College and the world of work were, for me, blessed places in which ignorance of major sports teams was a legitimate stance. No more volleyball with mean boys in gym class. The oppressive world of sports receded quietly into safe corners, only to be encountered on a muted screen in a bar, or in human interest stories that made it into other sections of the newspaper about engaging topics like Alan Iverson's mother.

Well. Here is my startling confession. I think I may be creeping slowly onto the other side. Sports metaphors cannot be far off, since I spend so much of my time learning about sports with Gabriel. He has been studying the Scholastic Visual Sports Encyclopedia night and day for weeks now, in addition to his daily interlude with the sports section (which usually culminates in a sports collage) and, if the day allows, hours of pretend running, tackling, and sliding into home base in the backyard.

The boy is slowly but surely showing me the light. I tossed a football with Mike (a Nerf football, but still a football!) in the backyard yesterday evening, while kicking a soccer ball slowly to Goalie Gabriel, so he could calculate and executive a properly dramatic dive to block it. Oh my. It was fun. Years of accumulated, entrenched sports-phobia are slowly softening and melting away. In the gentle space left in their wake, I can try out throwing and catching and kicking without any pressure at all.

Yesterday, Gabriel woke early from his nap so we had time for a walk. First things first: select a proper stick. You will need it, because a walk is a fine opportunity for playing a variety of imaginary sports. The stick will serve you well as a golf club, a polo mallet, a baseball bat, a javelin, and a baton in the relay race. (That sports encyclopedia is very, very comprehensive). It could also be a rifle, but your mother might not join in that game quite so enthusiastically.

Gabriel is showing me something new. This sports thing seems more essential somehow than construction vehicles (though I do appreciate how he illuminated the previously unknown world of dump trucks for me). This process started when he was just a baby, singing songs to balls and showing me how incredible a ball really is. He doesn't know how his passions and imagination are opening a part of me that I had long ago decided should remain closed. It is so, so cool.

I don't know if I'm ready to face those mean boys from gym class yet. But if you come by our backyard sometime, I'd sure like to play catch with you. Gabriel will run circles around us, making pretend touchdowns. Doesn't it sound like fun?

making time

When Frances first coined the expression homemade time, I knew that she was communicating some deeper truth about the way I wanted to mother, but I wasn't sure exactly what it was. It became the name of this blog and eventually shorthand for being present and intentional as a parent, for allowing my children to disclose the kernels of beauty and meaning in everyday life by resisting the urge to rush from one thing to the next. It meant slowing down my pace, which tends towards brisk, in order to share a dewy spider web on the back deck or a perfect poem ten times in a row. Homemade time seemed like a spiritual practice of sorts: difficult, requiring discipline, but eventually one that I might cultivate and thus more fully experience and enjoy these long days that blur together into a handful of very short years.

I think there must be all kinds of books about this. Buddhist parenting? Slow parenting, maybe? I rarely read those books because I'd almost always rather read novels in the precious little quiet time I have. So forgive me if I'm explaining something that has already been labeled or already had its moment, duly reported on the Motherlode blog. But really, there is something magical about participating in temporality as our children do--joining them in this moment--that can make parenting joyful. Transcendently so. You don't need money or special skills or friend in the know. It's not a cloth versus disposable kind of decision; it's an intention that colors everything else. It's a willingness to sit down next to a child who doesn't want to walk anymore, and find out what's so interesting crawling along the sidewalk anyway.

But my kids are older, and over the past month or so, I've noticed a certain distance and frustration that came with the schedules and new activities. I thought homemade time was a way in the world--something anyone could access, at any time, with any child. But I have been losing that openness in the struggle to get shoes tied and jackets zipped, faces washed and carseats buckled so we won't be late. I've thrown up my hands in exasperation when the children won't cooperate, but I've only been urging them to keep up, keep moving. I rarely sit down next to them on the sidewalk to see what's caught their eyes. Even though they are big enough to go to Girl Scouts and dance class and playdates, they are still small enough to be enveloped by the present moment, receptive little creatures that they are. It's a blessing, and I've been missing out.

So in recognition of this disturbing trend, this weekend I cancelled apple-picking, and then a friend canceled a playdate because her daughter was sick. We did go to a rainy picnic at Frances's school on Friday, which culminated in a thrilling rainbow (pictured above), then spent the rest of the weekend at home. There was time for book-making, and time to actually read the book (Autumn Has Come is crazy good. Ridiculously good!). Time for baking, for reading Tin Tin on a blanket in the sun, for playing with neighbors in the backyard, for a long jog, for conversation with Mike, for tacos with friends, and perhaps most thrilling, time for practicing brand new skills.

So many of those things happened because we were together, with open time spread before us. An expanse of time with nothing to do was just what we all needed. 

As a parent I learned (all over again) that young children never kill time. Waiting for a bus is just as potentially rich with experience as is riding the bus or arriving at one's destination. Children don't experience time as something to be dealt with. They do the opposite of kill time. They make time. They enliven it; they fill it. It's one way that they teach us.

I'm feeling grateful for that particular lesson tonight. Such a golden October weekend we had, full of homemade moments! I hope yours was, too.

high low

As Frances and I ambled across the Eastport bridge this morning, admiring the sparkling water and gently rocking sailboats amidst crowds of happy boat show-goers, I kept thinking of that Lou Reed song--well, at least the chorus:

Oh it's such a perfect day, I'm glad I spent it with you. 

I think the verses tend towards bleakness (surprise), so my mind stayed with that simple and complete sentiment. It's such a perfect day. We had the morning together, since her school was closed and Gabriel's was not. We stopped by her old school, where Frances played on the playground and I interviewed parents about the school food garden they were tending. Eventually the two of us squatted down to help with the weeding. After that we took a glorious walk into Eastport and landed at our favorite cafe (Can I get chocolate milk? Can I, can I?), where we made friends with a dog and yes, had special drinks.

Without anyone around for Frances to compete with, we made a peaceful, companionable pair, soaking up the golden October sunshine. Every kid and parent should have the occasional luxury of this kind of exclusive, unplanned day, an 'adventure day,' as Frances dubbed it, where the sole point is to be together, and you only find out where you're going when you get there.

*               *               *               *               *

I wrote that this afternoon. It really was a perfect day--until it wasn't anymore. It is now official that my orchestration of napless Mondays for Gabriel was a Bad Decision. Premature, anyway. His music class runs too late and Frances's pick up time is too early to allow for a proper rest and wow do I hear about it come five o'clock. Today's tantrum took place in line at the grocery store. It was like an excruciating scene in a Hollywood movie that is meant to symbolize all that is hard and demoralizing about parenthood. The bad behavior continued all the way until bedtime (early, early bedtime) and now I am a hollowed out, beaten down wreck. These moments can really undermine one's confidence. 

But the documentation of my morning with Frances is proof that everything can feel perfect and everything can feel abysmal, all in the span of a few hours. Sometimes we play a game called High Low at dinnertime. Everyone gets to share one good thing and one bad thing from his or her day. There is something validating in this, for both the adults and the children: our days have high and low moments. It's okay. We can talk about it all.

But back to the high: when you have perfect days (or rather, moments), is there a song that goes through your head? A happy song? In writing this I realized I have a few: Good Morning from Singin' in the Rain, Oh What a Beautiful Morning from Oklahoma! (I must be a morning person. And a musical person. Who knew?). Recently Gabriel and I heard Friday I'm in Love by the Cure on the radio in the midst of a sunny perfect moment and we heartily agreed that it was an excellent happy song. 

Have any others you'd like to share?

the after school club

Most days when Gabriel and I pick up Frances at school, we come prepared for the after school club. We bring snacks, water, sometimes a book or two, sometimes the makings of a sports collage.

Yesterday the weather was fine, and it was nearing five by the time the club members dragged themselves off the playground. Gabriel and I usually greet this late afternoon idyll with a similar happiness. Our bodies relax, our minds loosen their grip: we will spend this wide-open hour outside, free from structured activities, and with friends.

The club is what we call the few families who linger at the playground after school. The other mothers are a pleasure; the other children are accepting, imaginative, and even game for Frances's elaborate pretend games and Gabriel's sports collage-making. We've found a place teeming with peers. I've already begun to sink into this reality as if its a hum drum, regular sort of thing, but sometimes I look around and marvel. How did we find this?

Yesterday, while we mothers sat in the shade chatting idly and watching the children play, it struck me that this scene was like a page ripped from the book of fantasy images I had been accumulating during my last weeks of full-time work (that I had long ago discarded, thinking it utterly unrealistic). It might just be that my children have grown bigger and easier, but it is also that I'm starting (three years later!) to figure out how to live in this still-new town.

Earlier in the day I talked with two other mothers on the playground after I picked Gabriel up from preschool, and we confided about the Quarterly Crisis (equivalent to Tina Fey's Triannual Sob). Every few months we have to freak out about the professional life and identity we are unsure we will ever be able to return to. All three of us work in some capacity now, but part-time, and in circumstances that are limited and far less appealing than those of past jobs. It's rare to find fulfilling, challenging work that you can do for fifteen or twenty hours a week. But oh, it's a pleasure to find other mothers who know intimately the exact spot I'm in.

In other news: you may have noticed that I decided to monetize. There's an ad below this post. It's a trial thing; deep down I know it's not the greatest idea but I wanted to see if one can actually make any money through ads. 'One' being me, of course. Some time ago I made the decision to scale back my regular work hours in order to do more freelance writing this year, and when Mike and I made up the budget, I set a monthly earnings goal for myself. The goal represented the minimum of what I should be making to keep everything else afloat around here - and believe me, it seemed like a modest goal at the time. Yet I'm falling short of meeting it. 

I have never felt comfortable being our family's spender (groceries, gas, prescriptions, incidentals) while not being a family earner. The first 24 hours of advertising on Homemade Time earned me 77 cents. Clearly, this is not going to pay the bills...yet I'm still reluctant to take that icky ad off the site. The reluctance is irrational and deep, about both money anxiety and worldly recognition anxiety. Will I ever have a meaningful job again? Will I ever do something judged worthy of a substantial paycheck? Might this ad for vitamins on my mama blog somehow ameliorate the situation?

Taking care of my kids and sharing them in broader, caring communities is a rich life. We'll be just fine, even if I don't earn as much as I'd expected to. And yet I succumbed to Adsense! 

I hope you'll forgive me. Sometimes it's hard to trust in an unknowable future, to relax into this overflowing present replete with blessings. 

corduroy weather

Golden, you are,
October.
Golden sovereigns on your trees.
Golden guineas on your floor,
golden coins of leaves that fall
for us to scuffle through
and rustle
and rattle
and hustle
and scrabble
and dabble
and paddle 
as they fall
into an October carpet
which hides
our shoes. 
-from  Around the Year by Elsa Beskow

Last night, as I tried in vain to slow down after a day of buzzing from one thing to the next, I climbed into bed next to Mike and announced that I have a disease. A do-too-much disease.

He laughed and said, "I've been telling you that for almost fifteen years!"

I see. Well. I suppose I do have a tendency to over-extend, volunteer, and generally let my enthusiasms get away with me. Yesterday involved school for Gabriel and Frances, work for me, an after-school music class for Gabriel (during his usual naptime), an after-school dance class for Frances, the biggest tantrum of Gabriel's short life, culminating in a mad dash through a parking lot thronged with SUVs and minivans (whose drivers could not possibly see a barely three-foot-tall person sprinting along the ground beneath their lofty windshields), a flurry of phone calls outside dance class in search of a babysitter, a quick mac-and-cheese dinner for the kids, a change into grown up clothes, and a reception at the Government House in honor of a very cool new program in Maryland. Then I came home, relieved the sitter, worked a bit more, and greeted Mike around 10:30, after his final class of the day. I hadn't seen him since 8 that morning.

This is not how we do things. What is happening?

I have no one to blame but myself. This mama, like many before her, sets the family tone and rhythm. I make the social commitments, schedule the classes, and set my work calendar. We had a special visitor over the weekend, various church activities on Sunday, and now I am sitting in my chaotic house, hoping the boy is catching up on sleep, marveling at how we fell off the lunch-planning wagon so soon, and wondering how I can slow. everything. down. 

There are plenty of good reasons to pursue everything that we pursued yesterday (like chatting with First Lady O'Malley!) but maybe it is time to make some choices. Otherwise, perfect days like today would forever elude me: Gabriel and I ran a few errands, stopped to collect stacks of new books and read at the library, and soaked up some long-awaited autumn sunshine over a picnic in the backyard. With sports guys books, of course.

If I had scheduled our morning away, we wouldn't have had time to brainstorm a Halloween costume, or sing ridiculous songs, or examine the latest crop of baby grasshoppers bouncing lightly over our picnic blanket. I wouldn't be comforted by the smell of chipotle white bean soup simmering on the stove just now, nor would I have finally folded and put away the basket of clean laundry that had taken up residence at the top of the stairs. What a relief! It had been sneering at me for days.

It is corduroy weather, finally. These perfect days slide so quickly into the dark gray chill of winter. I'd hate to succumb to the lure of doing-too-much, only to look up and realize I'd missed the golden days of October.