poetry and motion

Today we bagged camp and spent the morning with a special friend. Mrs. Hampton, one of Frances's first grade teachers, and Gabriel developed a deliciously sweet connection over the course of the school year. Every morning that he and I would walk Frances into her classroom, Gabriel would prepare sometime to show her: bits of trash, plastic bugs, a library book, a beer bottle cap found on the street. If for some strange reason he forgot, he'd look at his empty hands and begin to cry. But the sadness never lasted, because Mrs. Hampton found a way to gently and affectionately show Gabriel that he had in fact brought her something...! A smile, a very nice t-shirt, a story about his day.

It isn't always easy for a boy like Gabriel, who adores his older sister completely. Ferociously loyal, he looks up to her always. When she has a friend over and doesn't want to play with him, he resorts to bratty younger brother-style mischief . But perhaps the worst is when he is being out-talked and out-witted by his verbally skillful older sister. That inspires pushing and shoving. Didi! he will yell inches from her face. Let me talk!

So that is why people like Mrs. Hampton are so very precious to me. My boy is blessed with countless adults who really listen to what he has to say. I am sure that these friends have helped make possible the infectious confidence with which he runs and jumps and shouts odd poetic phrases. Today we were in the bathroom at our pool and Gabriel pumped a bit of purple soap into his hand. He looked up at me and started laughing before he even got the words out.

This looks like...purple marmalade!!

And then he marched back to the pool with a swing in his hips, chanting pur-ple mar-ma-LAY-ADE! over and over, breaking into a ridiculous dance poolside, then collapsing in a laughing fit in a chair.

Sometimes he moves and speaks in a way that communicates a pure, delighted pleasure in simply being himself. What finer thing could a parent possibly witness? Thank you, Mrs. Hampton.  

all will be well

Over the weekend, accompanied by friends and family, I turned thirty-five. It feels pretty good.

We were in Berkeley (aka Birthday) Springs, West Virginia, with good friends, one of whom - Amelia - has a birthday the day after mine. So there was much celebrating with excessive sweet desserts. Also lake-swimming (one of my very favorite things to do), leaf-hunting, BBQ ribs-eating, warm springs-exploring, and plenty of quiet reading time. 

Nonetheless, I sometimes felt mired in what, at a particularly low moment, I heard myself call a "family-wide stress storm." Parent-child conflict, envy, anxiety, fear, and general disequilibrium reared their less-than-welcome heads. When one member of a family system is struggling, the effects ripple through to all members and find expression in all kinds of idiosyncratic ways. And somehow - at least in my experience - traveling can make us uniquely vulnerable to these disruptions in family harmony.

So back home on Sunday night, I determined to call a child psychotherapist  that I've consulted with a handful of times in Annapolis over the years. I brought Frances when I went to see her yesterday morning and I am so, so glad I did. Frances ended up doing most of the talking, and I sat back, watching this animated, creative, articulate child of mine, her face aglow, earnestly explaining the intricacies of her fears (imaginary monsters I had no idea lived in her closet) and laughing about fears from her past that no longer frighten her. I was able to see her for who she is: lively, confident, beautiful.

The sweetest part was the way she was in constant motion -- flopping back on the couch, pacing around the room, curling up next to me -- yet she always managed to maintain physical contact. A finger rested on my arm, a toe squished up against my leg.

It was a great relief. She is a brilliant person, and we love each other very much. We may struggle, but it seemed clear to me that no great damage is being done (something I have sometimes worried about).

Today I walked into the house at 5:30 after a day-long social work training and was greeted by the toasty smell of steaming brown rice, excellent music, and the sight of my husband at the stove and my children quietly cutting and pasting magazine bits into collages on the cluttered kitchen table. What a peaceful and contented scene they formed! I nearly cried with gratitude. They are so very dear to me.

Here's to peace in our homes, and spending time with the people we love.

refugees

The storm on Friday night blew up seemingly out of nowhere. One moment it was hot and still, and the next the wind was howling, the tree limbs moving wildly as if possessed, and the lightning flashing with an almost green light, making everything look eerie and changed. We were really scared for a few moments, sitting in the living room, riveted by the sight of the storm outside and wondering if we should we wake the children and bring them to the basement.

We didn't. It passed. But of course the power went with it, and when it was still out the next morning, I had a bad feeling. We were without power for nearly a week after Hurricane Irene, and the word from BGE was that this would be a similar slog - and through 99 degree days, no less! I called my mom, looking for sympathy, and she suggested we come visit her. Yes. A fine idea. It took us about half an hour to pack up and get on the road.

The only hitch is that I am still really struggling with my dear eldest child. My mother is scaling mountains of work - excellent work - but still, work. We are not especially conducive to productivity. I am trying to contain the detritus that flies about in the wake of my darling tornadoes, and not lose my temper, nor allow my daughter to misbehave too glaringly, nor allow my son to tackle his grandmother while she is going over the rehearsal schedule. This containment effort is ill-fated at best.

Despite my ramped-up doling out of consequences (I'm trying for neutral emotions and immediate consequences in the face of minor infractions - rather than letting the rage build up after 20 such infractions and screaming like a mad woman) (Friends, please comment on this approach) (Isn't figuring out and implementing discipline the worst part of parenting?) ...good lord, where was I? Oh yes. Despite many time outs and stern words, I think things are okay. We remain relatively cheerful refugees, and our hostess has not lost her mind. Not yet, anyway.

The best part of today was a picnic lunch at Millersville's Swan Pond. My mom came with us, and we brought a little extra lunch to share. Ducklings! Swans! Turtles! Disturbingly large fish! I think we could have stayed all afternoon.

Gabriel made friends with this squirrel, who would stand on his hind legs and catch little bits of sandwich in his forepaws, delighting all of us. (Later, we found the same rascal licking the frosting from a cupcake liner. We had left our things, including a sealed package of cupcakes, while we walked around the pond. He chewed a squirrel-sized hole in the plastic, pulled out a cupcake, and peeled the paper off in order to better enjoy it. Genius rodents.)

Everyone was happy until Frances, lost in feather-collecting, got a little too close and suffered a swan nip. Yikes. Those birds can go from elegant and regal to brutal and bullying in the blink of an eye.

We hear our power will most likely return on Thursday afternoon. We may just stay here til then. Staying out of Grandma's hair is inspiring visits with friends, sweaty playground adventures, trips to the market,  and stops at our favorite cafe. Hopefully all the fun will ease parent-child relations, lessen the need for disciplinary interventions, and quiet any concerns my mom might be entertaining about whether or not she raised an intolerant tyrant. 

Oh Mom, I'm doing it out of love! I'm pretty sure I am, anyway. That and desperation.

inspiration, presently

I have been stumbling upon little pieces of outsider art lately (I think they are always around, but in summer the pace slows enough for me to notice more). Take the broken necklace. When it snapped in two in the car on the way home from camp sending tiny beads flying, there were bitter tears in the backseat. Last night I found its parts tenderly reconfigured as eggs cradled in plastic popper nests.

What else? We've been eating well, thanks to our fantastic CSA boxes that always arrive nearly bursting with gorgeous produce. I've been roasting beets. The kids won't touch them, and a five year old friend of ours nearly gagged on one at dinner the other night, but who cares? Could there be a more beautiful, vivid color in nature?

These leftover roasted beets, dressed simply in olive oil, lemon, and crunchy salt, were simply brilliant. I ate them over salad greens, drizzled with hot honey, a new family favorite. A good friend of Frances's happens to be a relation of Mike, the maker of hot honey, so I traded Ava's mom a jar of granola for a bottle. (Sometimes I sell my granola; bartering is even better!)

Mike is studying botany this summer to prepare for a course he is teaching in the fall, and the children have joined him in learning and identifying the parts of flowers. Once it was established that flowers have ovaries, Frances asked if they also had penises and vaginas. A natural question, especially given the frequency with which we've been reading It's Not the Stork (thank you, Rachel, for the excellent recommendation). It's a great book for answering questions and talking about bodies, sex, boys, girls, friends, families, etc and has brought some sweet, cloud-clearing moments of clarity to Gabriel especially (So your birthday is the day of your birth? Really?).

We are also loving Looking at Lincoln, by Maira Kalman. If you love Lincoln, your kids, and Kalman's passionate, expressive work, reading this together will be a sincere pleasure for you, too. On a whim I put The Principles of Uncertainty (also by Kalman) on hold as well, and spent a good chunk of the afternoon in the library with the kids reading it. To myself. (That's another summer development: the three of us, in the hot heavy afternoon, all reading our books, spread out on my bed, or Gabriel's bunk beds, or the couches at the library. I could never have imagined this when they were babies!)

The book is an extraordinary journal, full of exuberant feelings, small and perfect observations from a passionate lover of this world. You won't really get the same effect from the following quote (it's different without her handwriting and evocative paintings) but apropos of our trip to New York, I had to share this passage:

If you are ever bored or blue, stand on the street corner for half an hour. 
I have a special love - old people who have difficulty walking. I walk behind them and quietly imitate their step. My heart goes our to them. 
Shall I follow for the rest of the day?
Shall I offer help?
Sit and read with them?
Clean their houses and make them lunch?
Step, step, step. 
Soon enough it will be me struggling (valiantly?) to walk - lugging my stuff around. 
How are we all so brave as to take step after step after step?


And what about you? What is bringing you inspiration these days?