Hummingbird

It's been a complicated day. 

The kids wake up too early, just like every other morning. I conduct the same old morning song and we prepare for the day. As I help my oldest with his math homework, something catches my eye. A small movement outside of the sliding door. "Look, baby, a hummingbird!" We both stop and watch the small bird hover in one spot, inches from our window.

Then, back to our song of morning -- Hair, teeth, lunches, forms. Wait, is that yesterday's underwear? Just let me finish this last email, then I promise, I'll help you. Please, get your shoes on. Get in the car. I'll be right there. I promise.

In the car, the song continues -- To my oldest child: No. No. Maybe. I don't know. Remember, today's a bus stop day. I'll see you there sweetie. Don't forget to turn in your forms. Youngest child: Nope not today, preschool is over. Today's a home day. Oh love, it will be fun. I promise.

There's a pause and we all become aware of the radio. "Anthony Bourdain is dead at the age of 61. He's taken his own life while on location in France."

The car is stopped. We're here. But, I can't quite open the door. I don't know him of course. I haven't even seen that many episodes of Parts Unknown. But I'm sad. I'm really, really sad.

We sit for a moment or so. The kids ask questions. I don't know how to answer. I tell them and myself that we'll talk more about it later. Time to go. Hurry, hurry. As I step on the sidewalk, something catches my eye. A small movement on the ground. It's a hummingbird. It's alive. Breathing, moving, chirping. But it can't fly. It's body is not quite as it should be.

Oh my God. I can't. But I can't not. It's so small on this big open sidewalk and it's starting to rain. I find wonderful grown-ups to distract my children and a half-used box of Kleenex. I lean over this little struggling body. I'm terrified that I'll hurt it more. But I hold my breath, and as gently as I am able, scoop this tiny creature up. I'm astonished by the lightness. Logically I know that hummingbirds are small, but I expected even the littlest bit of heft. It's like lifting a cotton ball. I place her in the box, she rights herself and looks at me. I cry on the inside, but not on the outside -- there are things to be done.

I find a veterinarian who also happens to be licensed in wildlife rescue. I put this little bird in the front seat and my children in the back. We go to the vet.

They are not supposed to give me updates. The vet just successfully rehabilitated another hummingbird last month. I know she is in capable hands. I am so thankful that there are amazing people that give their time and resources like this. But she's been in my head all day.

Every night I sing "Blackbird" to my kids at bedtime. Tonight I couldn't get through it without crying. Every line felt so heavy with meaning. I thought of our hummingbird. I hope she'll be okay.

I cannot, will not, make any overt connection in this post to Anthony Bourdain and my hummingbird. But, I can tell you this. I will never again look at a hummingbird and not think of Anthony Bourdain.

I also can tell you that I believe we're all more connected than not -- skin, fur, or feathers, we all just want to find a safe place to land.

From Preschool Regrets to Boxed Wine: A Working Mother's Late Night Diatribe

My youngest child graduated preschool today. It was a simple, heartfelt affair with cardboard hats, scrapbooks and posed pictures in front of butcher paper. At the end, I started to think about the fact that I'm toward the end of my "mother of young children" phase and then my eyes got prickly. But I sucked those asshole tears back in, because even though our children spent a year together, I don't really know these other parents and I can't be the crier. I can only cry comfortably when I feel known.

And maybe I'm the asshole because I don't think I can even match up all of the children with their parents. There are a lot of blonde children around here. I don't know who goes with who. And honestly? I didn't take the time. I flew in to drop-off every morning, hastily kissing my daughter goodbye so I could catch my next meeting or teach my next class. I rolled into drop-off late enough to avoid small talk and cajoled my daughter back into the car so we could grab a quick bite before I got back on the computer to work.

I'm writing this, tears rolling down the sides of my nose, wishing for a do-over. And guess what? There is no fucking do-over. I poured (and drank) a large glass of wine earlier, so it feels apropros to quote Anna Nalick (Breathe, 2005) now: "Life's like an hourglass glued to the table." Anna may or may not have been a tired working mother post-preschool graduation when she penned that, but she clearly knows what is up.

I don't know what my objective is here. I have not written a single post for years. The only thing I wrote that ever gets a single hit is the one about Ryan Gosling's beard in The Notebook. I don't have social media. Not because I'm too cool, but because I'm too weak. Too weak to not scroll through feeds when I should be doing literally anything else. Too weak to not get completely destroyed when reading articles involving politics, puppies, Teflon, and/or honeybees. Too weak to not feel jealous when everyone else seemingly has their shit together in a more visually pleasing manner than myself.

And why am I even talking about social media? Oh yes, that's right. To prove the point that this is the most rant-y self diatribe ever that will not be read by anyone. I cannot and will not post the link to this article on social media. (Because remember, I don't have it.) So, since people only seem to read things via social media, this post is essentially invisible. I may as well be writing in my personal diary.

Since no one is reading this, I'd like to return to the wine. Remember, drinking wine and quoting Anna Nalick? Jesus God, that song really spoke to me in 2005. But the wine. After preschool graduation, all of us ladies (the 5 year-old, mother, and grandmother) popped into "Total Wine and More" for some gift cards. Because that is where you should buy end-of-year teacher gifts. I know this because I am a teacher. So we got the gift cards, then mom and I dragged the five-year-old to the back of the store where they store the boxes. We like boxed wine. Not Franzia or similar (because we have some taste), but mid-grade boxed wine in natural cardboard with agreeable fonts. We cooed over the reasonable prices and selection. We each grabbed two boxes and felt quite pleased with our purchases.

As we walked back to my car, joking about boxed wine, with my daughter wearing a scowl and a tutu, I felt pretty great. We should all be so lucky to have a mom to discuss boxed wine and parenting with. And a daughter who already know how to sigh, roll her eyes, and say, "this is so boring. When are we going to talk about unicorns?" Then, I get to go home, drink that boxed wine, and have an ugly cry in front of my computer. The tears dry, I write another paragraph, and now, instead of lamenting what could have been, I'm smiling as I remember my tiny mother lugging two boxes of wine across the parking lot. I don't know. I could have been better this year. I suppose we all can be better. But this it. And it's mostly great.

Thank you boxed wine.

Letter to my Husband

Dear husband,

You mentioned (on several occasions now) that I never write to you. I don't. That is absolutely true. I brush you off, citing the many (I think, valid) reasons why I don't write you letters.

1. You are sitting next to me on the couch. It seems horribly inefficient to write out the sentences I could quickly whisper in your ear. Shall I pen you a sonnet and send it your way via carrier  pigeon? Come on honey, the sink is full of dirty dishes and our daughter just pooped her pants. Which leads me to....

2. We have jobs, small children, Labradors, a cat with a gross skin disorder. Sometimes I just want grab handfuls of my hair and scream, "THERE'S NO TIME!!! THERE'S NEVER ANY FREAKIN' TIME!!!" But I don't. There's no time for such dramatic displays.

3. We met in 2000. Our relationship is 16-years-old. Our marriage is 10-years-old. Love letters are for new relationships. All shiny and sweaty and unfamiliar. Right? 

But I read this list over and I know that they're excuses. They're true, but excuses nonetheless. Marriage is this complicated journey with complicated emotions. This dance of give and take, push and pull. It's easy for me to sit down and write about my love for our children. It is not that complicated. They take. I give. That's the relationship. With you? It's constant revisions and compromises -- two captains working to keep the boat afloat. That letter is not simple.

Here's the thing though. We've come so far and maybe that does deserve a love letter. Some confirmation with the written word. There was a time when I really believed our boat would sink. It was so, so hard and I think we're both still healing. But we stayed on that sinking boat and bailed out the water with our bare hands. (Sorry babe, I'm really into this boat analogy.) 

I am so proud of us, and especially you. You weathered a lot of storms (Argh matey. I can't stop!) but you didn't give up. You work so hard to make me happy and sometimes I don't even deserve it. I come home to clean dishes, mopped floors, and empty garbage cans. You bring me mugs of ice cream while I watch trashy television. You tell me I'm beautiful. All the time. I'm so blessed and I need to remember that.

A week or two ago I was rocking our daughter while we all watched a movie. I was singing a little song in her ear when I felt your eyes on me. I looked up and saw the most amazing look on your face. A look I wish I could bottle up and keep for the hard days.

A night or two ago I was in your arms and felt completely safe and content. There was nowhere else I wanted or needed to be. A feeling I wish I could bottle up and keep for the hard days.

I know that if we keep creating and bottling these amazing memories, we will always be okay. The boat will (mostly) sail straight and strong and true. (I had to bring it back to the boat.)

I love you.

No-Poo Resolution

UPDATE: It is almost one year after writing this post and I jumped off the "no-poo" bandwagon months ago. I tried. I really did. For more than five months. But, here's the thing. I developed dandruff. My scalp started to itch like it was infested with fire ants. One of my students came to school with lice. I was convinced that I had contracted the little buggers. I made my husband check my head. All the time. He begged me to leave him alone, "I don't know what the hell I'm looking at honey! Please stop making me do this." I sat in front of the mirror with a fine tooth comb and studied my hair for hours. Is that a nit egg? Dander? Baking soda residue? Glitter? Only God knows. Anyway, I decided to wave the white flag and buy some good old fashioned yes-poo. Problem solved. I did not have nits. Just a sensitive scalp and hypochondria. 

Original post date: January 9, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

My suspicion of the ingredients in many commercial foods and products is nothing new. But my recent zealotry with DIY beauty products is new. In fact, I had this idea to replace EVERY health and beauty product I own with its all-natural DIY equivalent throughout 2014. A resolution of sorts. Fun, right?

Here's where I hesitate. Mascara. I love that stuff. I love the way my lashes look curled and painted. I love the way I can't close my mouth when I apply it. I love the way it documents the tracks of my tears. (I know, I'm in a super weird mood right now.)

But I can cross that bridge later. For now, it's time to forge on with my homemade deodorant. It's been a couple weeks now and I'm still on board. I think it kind of loses it's steam in the afternoon, requiring occasional reapplication, but that's not a biggie. I've also discovered that game-changer--lavender essential oil. A couple drops of lavender in my deodorant and... bam! I'm on the floor taking a nap! JUST KIDDING! Like my children would actually let me sleep!

I'm also trying that no shampoo thing. You've probably seen it on Pinterest. Instead of shampoo and conditioner, I'm using baking soda and apple cider vinegar, also known as ACV to the cool kids in the know.

So I mix baking soda and water together and rub it all over my scalp. Then I rinse. Then I douse my hair with a mix of ACV and water (3:1 ratio) and rinse again. I thought that vinegar would make my hair smelly and tangled, but the smell rinses out and it actually makes my hair softer.

But here's the thing, my hair looks pretty greasy. If you saw me right now you might be inclined to say,

"Hey friend, maybe you need to lather, rinse, and repeat."

And I might respond with,

"This is my personal journey for 2014. This is me walking away from parabens and phthalates and walking toward a toxin-free beauty product nirvana. This is me embracing a homesteading hippie lifestyle and fighting the cosmetic man. This is me paving a healthy lifestyle for my offspring and teaching them that there are few problems you can't solve without a little coconut oil and vinegar. This is me..."

At this point you've already walked away and I am ranting to myself.

The organic mommy blogs reassure me that this greasy phase is simply that--a phase. My body needs to detox and relearn how to produce my natural oils at the proper rate. This phase is supposed to pass and from it I will emerge--a clean, shiny-haired phoenix, startling the world with my lustrous locks, bouncing in the breeze.

In the meantime, I kind of look gross.

So this is it. My resolution. Goodbye drug store and hello goat. I am going to milk you and carefully craft soaps and lotions from your life-giving manna. Then I will gently brush you and sing you Cat Steven's songs to thank you for your contribution to my life.

Maaaaaaa. Happy new year.

Pic from www.liveleak.com, because let's be real, I don't actually have a goat.

Letter for My Four-Year-Old

Original post date: February 24, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I wrote emotional birthday letters to my son for his first and second birthdays. Then his third birthday passed. I was pregnant, overwhelmed at work, in the process of selling the house, etc. etc. There was no letter for that birthday.

Now, quick as a wink, he's four. I think I want to write him another letter.

Dear Little JAR,

You turned four last month and I'm pretty sure motherhood has turned my life into an evil time warp with the clock moving faster and faster. It's funny, because the time between Christmas and your birthday felt so long to you. Ages, eons, practically centuries. For me? A moment. Either way, it happened. You're four.

Most traces of baby are completely gone now. Your feet are strong with arches and you have visible knuckles instead of dimples on your hand. Your once round baby belly is mostly flat. You still have your baby curls because you're not old enough to beg me for a short haircut. I'm sure it's coming.

This year was full of change and you don't like change. Your baby sister was born in April and we moved to a new city and house in June.

I will never forget the moment you met your sister. We carefully planned it, putting the baby in your Auntie's arms so you wouldn't feel too jealous. I sat alone in the hospital bed, my arms wide open, waiting for you to dive in. You ran right past me, straight to your sister, and just stared at her with big eyes. You adored her from that moment on. Learning how to share our attention was not easy for you, but you never blamed your sister for  it. Ten months later and you are still excited to see her every morning.

I will also never forget moving. I brought you, at nap time, to the new house to drop off some plants. You sat on our new deck and sobbed. "This is not our house. Our flowers don't go here. I don't want to move. Don't make me move!" Then your sister blew out her diaper and I cried too. I'm sorry I wasn't better for you then.

But time is the universal salve and we settled. We spent the summer in our new backyard, dipping our toes in your wading pool and talking about life -- the butterfly life cycle, the food chain, where your sister came from -- you are so curious. I hope you always ask questions and continue to learn.

You are the funniest person I know. It's amazing to watch you develop all of these ideas and opinions. You love to eat dark chocolate and bowls of feta cheese. The doctor thinks you have a dairy allergy, so that's a bummer of a lifestyle change. We're in the middle of your dairy elimination diet/test and you're pretty hilarious. Food allergies/sensitivities are pretty much the norm these days, so while you miss your cheese, you also think it's pretty cool to be in the "allergy club." You clutch your pirate lunchbox and proudly exclaim, "I have a special lunch because I'm allergic to dairy!" It makes me laugh.

I used to worry because you didn't like to play on your own. That worry (like most of them) was unnecessary because turning four has really ignited your imagination. You play all day long and I love it. My participation is required for important guest roles, such as exhausted mama polar bear -- my favorite role, probably because I just have to lay in my den and wait for you to feed me penguins. I love to watch you. You get excited and pace around the room, waving your hands for emphasis.as you break it down. "Mommy, I'm the brother polar bear and I have to go on a trip to catch baby penguins and you're the momma, so you get the picnic ready. Okay? Okay?!" (Last night, you threw a blue blanket on the floor, put on your swim trunks and a ski cap, and practiced diving from the top of your Sit & Spin into the "water." So cute. You also carefully arranged a bunch of rocks and sea glass on "shore," but then your sister crawled over, stuck sea glass in her mouth, and that was the end of that. Thanks for your patience. I know it can be hard buddy.)

You are also testing your limits and trying on a bit of an attitude. Daddy says that you scowl just like I do. You love your baby sister, but you still miss being the exclusive center of our universe. Your attention seeking behaviors are unique and always effective. One morning, you took about twenty picture books off of the shelf and arranged them in a path leading from the kitchen back to the shelf. You grabbed my hand and said, "Mommy! Follow the path to my bad choice!" So I followed the path to the bookcase, now covered in carefully drawn curlicues and J's -- on EVERY exposed surface. I swallowed my laughter and sternly handed you a sponge to clean up your mess. (The truth? I was kind of proud of your creativity.)

Jackson, you are such an amazing little person. Every day, I thank God for picking me to be your mama. I love you. Forever, for always, no matter what.

Mommy

30 Day Internet Cleanse

Original post date: January 21, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

My constant access to Wi-Fi is making me insane -- a fact that we established with my last post. So instead of whining about it again, I'm going to do something about it.

I quit.

You hear me internet?! I quit!! (For 30 days, with stipulations and exceptions, because I'm not a complete caveman.)

Here's why:

1. I love to read. I was the kid that stayed up way too late squinting in front of her nightlight, trying to finish Little House on the Prairie before dawn. But since iPhone came into my life, I'm reading less and scrolling and tapping more. Unacceptable.

2. Facebook makes me feel weird. I'm too neurotic and too much of an overthinker for this stuff. Like, "Hey, I think we're friends in real life, but how come we're not virtual friends? We haven't asked each other yet, is there a reason for that? Maybe you have pictures of your cat that you don't want me to see? That's cool. I respect your privacy, but is it weird that we bump into each other via the comments section? Should I just click "add friend?" I don't know how to handle myself in this complicated social arena!!!!" (That said, there are some lovely people that I just love, love, love and facebook is our main vehicle for communication due to distance and/or busy lives. Tricky.)

3. My four-year-old pulls his "tricks" (you know, jumping up and down, going into downward facing dog and then waving one leg in the air, jumping off the back of the couch, etc.) out the "app store in his foot." This probably isn't a real problem but it does remind me of our vast generational gap, made larger by the time warp that is technology.

4. Pinterest. Oh Pinterest, you evil seductress with all of your life-enhancing possibilities. Crockpot meals for $2.00? How to get shiny hair in 5 minutes? The perfect sensory dough to occupy my child for hours of screen-free engagement? Yes please. Here's the problem. Pinterest also reminds me on a daily basis that:

a. My crafts always look mediocre. b. My cakes typically sink in the middle. c. My outfits are never that put together. d. Nothing in my house matches except the dirt.

So, my dear Pinterest. I will no longer let you set the bar for my perceived level of awesomeness. My cakes might look like crap, but they are so delicious. We need a break, because, at this point in my life, I feel better without you. (However, I would like to thank you for DIY lotion bars, DIY baby wipes, and Ritz crackers with Rolos melted inside. Life changing.)

5. Breastfeeding. I often find myself breastfeeding while balancing my iPhone on my sweet baby's head. Enough. That is simply enough.

So for 30 days I will quit facebook, pinterest, google searches (unless work-related), basically everything online, with the exception of:

-Email (because my boss wouldn't find my technology cleanse amusing)

-My articles (because they pay me, duh)

-This blog (because going tippity-tap at the keyboard soothes my soul)

It starts tonight. Goodbye internet.

Parenting in the Age of Information, Or Google Exacerbates My Neuroses

Call yourself a good parent? Click. Click. Sucker. I'll show you. Click. Click.

Original post date: January 13, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

With the click of a mouse I can access immediate information on virtually any topic in the world. I no longer feel the need to ponder or wonder. Google can answer all of my questions. They say that knowledge is power and I personally feel like I have heaps of power, pressing down on my shoulders, watching my every move. This adds an interesting burden to my life. A burden I couldn't have imagined in 1993, as I happily purchased bags of flour and extra wagon wheels on the virtual Oregon Trail. (That was the peak of technology as far as I'm concerned. We should have stopped there.)

More specifically, this burden of knowledge has turned me into "neurotic mommy" or "the mommy who knows too much" or more accurately, "the mommy who has mere surface knowledge of many topics, turning her into a terrified, ranting maniac."

Observe.

1. Dropping my three-year-old off at school.

Me: "Bye honey, I love you. Be good. Listen to your teachers!"

Google: Wrong. What is the matter with you? Are you trying to get your child abducted? Telling your child to "be good" and to "listen" implies that they should blindly comply with all adult directions, making them more susceptible to potential pedophiles, creepies, and villains in general. Come on now!

Me: "Um, okay, don't be good, be um, assertive and discerning and watch out for weirdos in vans? Forget it. Just have a great day."

Do. Not. Get. Into. Van. Ever.

2. Feeding my baby solid food.

Me: "Kootchie kootchie koo, baby girl! Do you want some yum-yums? Yes!! You want yum-yums!! Mommy getchyou yum-yums!

How about some yummy, yummy rice cereal?"

Google: Nope. Rice is teeming with arsenic. Carcinogen. Try again.

Me: "How about some yummy chicken? Protein!"

Google: Okay, super-mom. That cutlet is laced with antibiotics and hormones. Do you want her to grow breasts in time for kindergarten?

Me: "Um, okay. How about a banana? That's not even on the Environmental Working Group's Dirty Dozen list."

Google: Sure, the thick peel may protect the fruit from most of the pesticides, but did you ever think about the 8-year-old Ecuadorian child picking the fruit as she is working the fields, getting doused with said pesticides? It's not just about your baby, ya selfish Sally. Think globally.

Me: "Christ almighty! I'm exhausted. Let's just have a nice, cool glass of tap water."

Google: Idiot.

3. Cleaning my house.

Me: "Well, I only clean my house with vinegar, baking soda and essential oils, so I'm sure that I'm getting this one right."

Google's BFF Pinterest: You're going to clean your house instead of chasing rainbows with your precious children? Monster.

Me: "But, but, but... Have you seen my house?"

These are really my dishes. This is what my sink looks like. Right now.

Google: Sure. Wash those dishes. But soon you'll be a lonely old woman with an empty womb in an empty house. You can just sit in your rocking chair and remember washing dishes. Alone.

Google: Alone. All alone. With just your memories of dishes, laundry, and baking soda in the toilet. But go ahead, don't let me stop you.

Aren't you glad you neglected your children so you could wash those dishes?

Me: "Oh God." (Sobbing quietly.)

4. Reacting to my son's tantrum. 

Me: "For the love of God buddy. You're being ridiculous. This cup is too yellow? Is that even a thing? Give me a break." (Sigh loudly. Look longingly at wine bottle. Remind self that it is 10:30 in the morning.)

Google: Nice job. You're probably creating a future sociopath. Belittling his problems. Failing to really listen and empathize. Research shows that an effectively empathetic response to his tantrums now will reduce the frequency of tantrums in the future. Furthermore, his prefrontal cortex (that little part of his brain that controls social behavior and regulates emotions) is not yet developed at this age. Are you really chastising him for his typical development? Hey, hey! Are you even listening to me?! Focus! Quit looking at that wine bottle!!

Me: Glug, glug, gulp.

So. As you can see, the Internet has turned me into a raving lunatic who may or may not drink wine before Sesame Street is over.

Screw you Google.