peevish mama

I was driving back from school with Saint James when this Macklemore song came on the radio. After listening for a bit he said: this is a song about voting no, right? I listened a little more and nodded. Sounds like it, bud. I could tell he liked it because he shazammed it, which is how I remembered to go back to it and give it another listen.

We were out to dinner with a couple families a few weeks ago and one of the things we talked about was how interested and vigilant all our kids are on the marriage equality issue. I’m not going to pretend that they aren’t swayed by what they hear from us, but I think to a large extent, the ideas of equality, of acceptance, of ‘live and let live’ are intuitive to little kids.

Saint James had a friend with two dads back when he was in daycare. The option of two dads has been in his world view since he was in diapers. If anything, he’s flummoxed that this is even an issue. To him, it’s a non-issue – or it should be.

I never really “got” the whole lawn sign thing before this. I know what I believe, but I didn’t particularly see the point in trumpeting it to the world. I suppose showing solidarity is worth something, but to me, it seemed unlikely someone would ever be swayed by a sign on my lawn. I guess you could say I was peevish about propaganda – even propaganda that I believed in.

But I’ve changed my mind. The Vote No signs one every other lawn in our neighborhood are the reason all our kids are so tuned in. Even Devil Baby knows what the issue is and what side of it we’re on. Because she can read and because she can wonder, she knows all about this. And she’s six. Seeing a Vote Yes sign is like spotting a yeti in these parts. There is one near their school and Supergirl reports on it when she gets off the bus (apparently, it has been spray painted – which is a great segue into talking about freedom of speech). The signs spark conversation and that is everything.

I’m going to go pick one up tomorrow.

In the meantime, enjoy a song. Share it with your kids.

I was scrolling through pictures on my phone the other day and stumbled upon this one from the Bastille Day Block Party this summer. As is increasingly the case, we had a moody Saint James on our hands that day. He wasn’t digging the bands or the scene and he didn’t perk up until we ran into Creeper Bud and familia and he had someone to pal around with. Never underestimate the power of a peep.

We were happily ensconced to the left of the stage, kind of behind the speakers when the eagle-eyed Creeper Bud spotted Astronautalis milling around before his set. He is absolutely adorable, as you can see. As dapper a rapper as ever did rap. Supergirl grabbed my phone and walked over to him, we pushed the littles to follow and she got some girl to take this photo while we looked on with ridiculous grins on our mugs.

The best part of this little summer escapade, however, was Saint James’ turn around. Nothing I could have done or said would have changed his mind more than a musical connection. Having heard the song Dimitri Mendeleev on the radio earlier and talked about it with Dash (apparently, Mendeleev invented the periodic table – the kind of fact both Dash and Saint James are likely to know and me, not so much), he had his aha ! maybe this IS cool moment as soon as Astronautalis took the stage and started to sing in his inimitably intense way. He was hooked. I was happy. And more importantly, vindicated.

Because how can anyone stay moody listening to cool live music in a crowd of happy people on a perfect summer afternoon? I have to remember this episode because with the teen years fast approaching, my role as the official familial “dragger to things” is only going to become more and more challenging. I’ve got to keep dragging, but remain detached from the reactions. I need to keep in mind that it is not in my power to make anyone like anything. That maybe if I drag but I drag lightly, it’ll become more about the thing and less about the mother dragging to the thing. Right? Right.

Doctor Dash and I watched the documentary, Marley, this weekend and we were both blown away. We’ve long been fans of Bob Marley’s and reggae in general, but it turns out there’s A LOT we didn’t know.

Directed by Kevin Mac Donald (did you ever see The Last King of Scotland? Oof. Good.), the movie revealed a shy, complicated, charismatic, spiritual and talented man. I guess I knew about as much about Bob Marley as could be gleaned from a poster in a college dorm room: dreads, weed, great tunes. His short life was about so much more and this movie was not only a great way to learn about his message, Rastafarianism and Jamaica’s struggle for unity, but chocked full of awesome concert footage and photos – a complete joy to listen to and watch.

Stir it up, little darlin’.

And speaking of stirring it up . . . Supergirl and Little Red totally played me and Big Red yesterday. They came home from the park claiming that the other mother wanted to take one last dip in Lake Harriet. How well they understand their mothers. Supergirl knows how fixated I am on the “lasts” of each season – and I played right into her hand. Big Red is just always super game for an adventure, so she was an easy catch too.

It was a gorgeous night down at the lake, so unfortunately we had quite an audience as we cringed our way into the frigid water. The lake is low, making a quick and dramatic plunge impossible. With so many eyes on us, we couldn’t very well back out and we were left to awkwardly Nestea plunge into two feet of water. Of course there was no avoiding the guttural shrieks of pain, but it felt great – and the balmy 65 degree air felt like a warm blanket allowing us to sit on the beach wrapped in towels as the sun went down.

Those stinkers. It was perfect.

Let it be written. October 21st, baby.

Words by Anaïs Nin hand lettered by artist Lisa Congdon via Explore.

Boy do I hope this to be true. If you had told me when I graduated from college, or on my wedding day, or when Saint James was born, that I would be “living the confusions” so vividly at age 42, I would have rolled my eyes. Or I would have opened my mouth to argue, then shut it for lack of words. Or I would have scoffed. Maybe I would have laughed. But I don’t think I would have believed you.

And yet, here I am. So confused. And confused about being confused. I thought that “settling down” through the various degrees of it that I went through (dating, law school, marriage, kids) might somehow settle the matter of what I was to do with myself. I thought my path and my life was set. What could be more time consuming and fulfilling, after all, than raising a family with your best friend? Shouldn’t I be content?

It turns out there’s that pesky matter of the self – that despite being consumed and used up and fully immersed and engaged, wrung out and sometimes completely exasperated – just keeps popping up and saying Hey, man! What about me?

Don’t hear me wrong. I am happy. But am I content? That’s what that wily, whiny, stubborn self keeps asking.

Fall has always felt like a time of new beginnings for me – surely a remnant from back-to-schools of yore. These days, it’s when I climb out of the messy sweaty frantic 24-7 sprint that is summer with my kids and get a chance to think about what I do, what I could do, what I should do. You know, besides being a mom.

I think all the time. I think when I’m shopping for food and cooking it in big pots. I think when I’m at yoga and driving my kids. I think in the shower and when I walk my dog. I think when I’m reading, when I’m writing. My brain feels like a beat up old tennis ball and I am just bouncing it, bouncing it, bouncing it against the garage. Over and over. And nothing changes. Nothing becomes clear.

Maybe this is part of the process. Part of the answer.

I fucking hope so.

Our boys did it again. They won the Fall State Championship. I gotta say, this little team is on fire right now – and I feel lucky to be part of it. A team is an organism – a living breathing thing, made up of living breathing things and as such, it can and will change over time. But right now, these guys are golden. And I’m not just talking about the wins.

They are good kids in a good place. They are kind to each other and they are gentlemen on the field. They work their tails off – they really do – but from the outside, it doesn’t even look like work because they love soccer. They are serious and they are goofballs – like 12 and 13 year olds should be. They are strong and fast and elegant – individually and together. They are, in short, a total joy to watch. And although I can only speak for the little guy below – a total joy to parent.

So in honor of the champs, a little Queen. Freddy Mercury, in his chest-less black and white unitard is just beyond. What a voice. What a loss. And it’s interesting to note that there’s a biopic of his life in the works. Yay!

Happy Monday y’all. I can’t get this stupid grin off my face.

I love this project by Leah Dieterich called thxthxthx. She calls it a daily exercise in gratitude and her ability to siphon out the smallest and most inconsequential things and moments worthy of thanks is just genius. I couldn’t stop reading. It’s funny, touching, silly, deep and honest all at once.

Lovely. And just too tempting to pipe in.

Dear Rain:

Thanks showing up and giving me permission to hole up inside without feeling guilty. Plus, you smell awesome.

xo,

peevish

Dear Coffee:

Even though I ignore you the rest of the day, you are consistently faithful to me in the morning and for that I thank you. You wake me up, you make me happy and most of all, you make me feel super industrious. Together we get the shit done that I would never have the motivation to do later in the day. You rock.

Love,

peevish

Dear Vino Blanco and iTunes:

I don’t think I could cook dinner night after night without you – especially you, iTunes. My kitchen would be a lonely place without you both.

Your friend,

peevish

Dear Devil Baby:

Thank you for being the first of my kids to indulge my love of Annie the Musical. Watching you concentrate with your ears to learn the words to Tomorrow almost made me cry. Hearing you riff and scat your own version while you put toothpaste on your toothbrush was even better. I hope you always find a way to make music.

All of my love,

peevish

Dear October:

Thank you for Halloween and harvest moons. Everyone loves September, but I love you because you are a little dark.

Muah,

peevish

Dear Sugar Maple that I See Every Morning:

You are a stunner. Not sure if anyone has ever told you that, but oh.

Yours,

peevish

I’m not exactly sure when I became an old mommy, but I am sure that it has happened. Maybe it was when Saint James became a middle schooler. Maybe it was when my Devil Baby went off to kindergarten. Or was it even before that? When she was potty trained? Or when she refused to be carried around on my hip anymore? Surely, a fiendish toddler hell bent on running on her own juice shouldn’t eject one out of young mommy hood prematurely. Surely, all that chasing and cursing and eyes in the back of one’s head has to count for something.

The transition from one to the other happened without anybody noticing, including me. But now that I’ve noticed, I can’t help but wonder at it. The young mommies are the ones pushing strollers, anxiously waiting for their kindergartners to come streaking out of school while holding a baby on a hip, maybe a dog on a leash. They look tired, perhaps, but they can handle it. They are young.

The old mommies either do not bother to pick up their kids at school and let them take the bus, or more likely are waiting in the car ready to peel out to make it to soccer or violin or Irish step dancing on time. The old mommies don’t look tired unless they happen to be hung over. Which is good because they are old.

Also, the old mommies are assiduously trying to avoid any eye contact with the young mommies. It’s not because we don’t like the young mommies, it’s not because we don’t think their babies are cute. It’s because we are scarred from our memories of being young mommies. Not enough time has passed to soften the edges of those exhausting years with a golden patina.

The young mommies, mired so deep in relentless baby raising and toddler chasing, don’t even realize how hard it is. The old mommies didn’t either. But when one emerges from it and starts to feel a bit of relief from the constant physical hands-on work, one suffers a bit of PTSD. An old mommy shudders when she drives by a park and sees a young mommy pushing a baby on a swing, staring off in the distance or making desperate small talk with another young mommy. An old mommy can spot a “playgroup” from a mile away and it hurts her heart a little to remember how much she used to look forward to her playgroup. How polite and chipper everyone was. How relieved she was when someone told the truth about something.

You see, an old mommy remembers how monotonous it can be to be a young mommy – how isolating and lonely it is at times. And so we avert our gaze and concentrate on the business of being an old mommy, which is pretty fun because we get to rush around, being really busy getting our gigantic, smelly, interesting kids all the places they need to be. Old mommies are on the fly and relish the mobility after so many years of being stuck – by naps, schedules and the all around pain-in-the-ass-ness of having to buckle people into carseats.

We old mommies imagine that we look stylish and windblown as we rush through the hall to pluck a child for an orthodontist appointment. We have time to wash our hair, after all. We are experts at setting up complex multi-family carpools and smile knowingly at the van load of pre-pubescent boys rapping in back. Maybe we wave at the young mommies killing time after school at the playground, but we’re probably too busy typing the address of that soccer field in Chanhassen into our iPhones.

Obviously, this is a caricature of two stages of motherhood, but I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that time and hindsight expose those early years for what they were: tiring.

I wonder if the moms of high school and college age kids are looking at us right now, shaking their heads at our preposterous calendars and all our DRIVING. Maybe they’re laughing at us because we don’t know what it is to have to buy gallons upon gallons of milk every few days. Maybe we only think we’ve smelled smelly cleats. Maybe we have no clue what it is to deal with teenage angst, attitude, rage or euphoria. Try sex, drinking, drugs on for issues they may scoff at us. Try having your child hate you.

I bet I look quite the fool driving with my windows down and my music blasting and my car full of polite seventh graders. I bet I do.

Check back in 10 years.

I’m a Detroit girl. Well, not actually Detroit, per se – I just like saying that – but a suburb to the north. Still, Detroit was my sun as far as cities go. I orbited around, obliviously taking care of the business of growing up, with increasing plunges into the city itself as I started high school. Our brother school was a Jesuit high school called University of Detroit – U of D – and surprisingly, there was little effort to keep us Academy of the Sacred Heart girls away from the boys on Seven Mile Road. Not that it would have worked anyway.

Detroit is a fascinating city and in August when I went to visit my family with the kids, I got to bushwhack a little and experience it as a curious grown-up as opposed to a silly, clueless girl. Normally when I go home I sort of regress to my adolescent state – overcome by inertia, I feel like coccooning at my parents’ house, grazing my way through the pantry, watching tv and twirling my hair – maybe letting out a long dramatic sigh every once in a while.

I’m only partially joking. The truth is that now that the kids are older, I was able to see our visit home through a different lens. Detroit, in parts hopeless and beautiful, is no longer just a place to be ignored, the backdrop for youthful (and dangerous) shenanigans – it’s a place to explore. Just like any other city we would visit. And in this city, we’ve got contacts.

My siblings live in town and as young adults figured out the city – the hidden gems, the rhythms, the fingerprints. My fairy godmother, Gretchen, is a veritable historian. Curious, intrepid and knowledgable – if there’s an interesting nook or a cranny with a story, she has found it, explored it and can tell you all about it. Sweet Juniper, a blog that’s been in my blogroll from the beginning, has been a lyrical yet honest peek into what it’s like to raise kids in the city; he describes a burgeoning arts and food scene, feral homes being engulfed by nature, mom and pop businesses thriving because of corporate America’s aversion to a high risk markets, empty lots being turned into bountiful and nutritious gardens.

She may be a broken down beauty, but she’s got plans.

So this time, in addition to long wine-soaked meals with my family, boat rides and swims in Pine Lake, celebrating two birthdays and squeezing my delicious niece, Manzanita, we did a little exploring. My top three highlights:

Eastern Market: The mac daddy, grand poobah, god father of all farmers markets, this is the oldest market in the country. It’s colorful and urban and cool  - I liked it so much I went twice. Also Supino’s. Best pizza ever. Worth the wait.

The Heidleberg Project. Detroit was literally burning and out of the ashes rose the Heidleberg Project. Artist Tyree Guyton started to fight back with art and created an indescribable polka-dotted neighborhood. Watch this short movie about it – SO FASCINATING! I can’t believe I never went there before. This on my permanent and forever lists of places to visit when I go home.

Fairway Packing Company. My favorite thing of all. Thanks to Fairy Godmother’s hubby, Cabezon, we got to go inside this temple of meaty beauty and see how it’s done. We wore white butcher’s coats and toured the dry age room with all the best cuts hanging out for the area’s best restaurants and clients. The Himalayan salt wall is stunning – a glowing work of art in and of itself. We bought gorgeous steaks, pork shoulder and brisket for the week’s dinners and parties and watched as they were broken down for us. Saint James was all eyes and quiet appreciation. Boy knows his good meat.

All of this was a round about way of getting to this recently released documentary. Detropia explores Detroit’s complicated and painful history, its rise and fall, mingled with the exciting, grass roots, outsider art fringey changes that are happening right now. I can’t wait to see it. I don’t think this sugarcoats anything, which is good – Detroit is better salty anyway.

I’m a sucker for a good documentary and this one looks great. Musings, meditations and analysis of the most basic thing we all want: happiness.

The question of what makes you happy is a good one to ask and answer for yourself. The question itself kind of makes me happy because it’s a reminder that yes, we have some control over this. And frankly, half the battle is simply reminding yourself to look and then knowing where to look. It’s all around us – begging to be noticed so it can work its magic on our souls.

It’s the Jewish New Year and it’s also the new school year, so in celebration of new beginnings, here are some of mine in no particular order:

1. Loud music

2. Dancing

3. Feeding my family

4. Watching my dog romp with another dog

5. Soccer goals

6. My book club

7. A great pair of boots or jeans

8. Knowing that my siblings are finding their loves

9. When cousins get to hang out

10. Doctor Dash making pizza in a frilly apron

11. Two for one bloody marys and the ladies that go with them

12. The change of seasons

13. Children singing

14. Yoga

15. Tiny dancing

16. Cool graffiti/street art

17. Salty cured meats

18. When Saint James roams for hours on his bike with his buddies . .  and then comes home, winded and happy.

video via Cup of Jo

I love the beginning of the school year. Maybe it’s a residual feeling from my youth, but it always feels like a fresh start. New kicks, new box of crayons, new teacher, new tries for new things. I sense that my kids feel it too. Despite the protestations at the end of the summer, they seem game. They’re popping out of bed in the morning and bubbling over with stories in the evening (the girls are, anyway). Things are still settling into place – we’re all figuring out what to do, where to go and when, how to do it.

New this year is my drive to Saint James’ school at the crack o’. This is my view every morning. Sometimes those big red shoes slide off the dashboard and the sun visor goes down so he can check his hair, but mostly this is what I see. I drink my first cup of coffee, we listen to music, few words are exchanged.

Dash doesn’t understand why I didn’t pay for the bus to take him and I still might when the snow flies. For right now, though, I like this view a lot. This is found time with my kid. Last year, we were both asleep at this hour. Now we get fifteen minutes of hanging out blissfuly devoid of carpool boys, gnarly traffic and chatty younger sisters.

Saint James doesn’t realize it, but I’m gathering up these little blocks of time and I’m making a little pile and then I’m going to build something. And I think it’s going to be good.

So, Saint James has started a new school this year and by the end of the day, I am just beside myself to hear how it’s going. I wonder about him constantly, as he navigates new hallways with strange kids and (egads!) high schoolers looming about. I wonder about his teachers. I wonder who he sits with at lunch. I wonder how he even finds the lunchroom. I wonder if he knows where to go for soccer. I wonder if he bought a planner at the office. I wonder if he’s met any kids.

Today was his first day. But I managed to stuff a whole lotta wonderin’ into one day.

And then Doctor Dash gets to pick him up while I’m on girl duty, so I miss any minivan confessions that might have occurred. When I FINALLY get to see my son, whom I’ve been wondering so much about, I get the total brush off. He is nothing but a monosyllabic sweaty middle schooler who just HAS to get his homework done before soccer.

Sheesh.

So Dash offers to fill me in, escorting me into the sun room, but I pick a fight, so peeved am I to be left out of EVERYTHING. And so he says forget it and walks away. Leaving me as I am. Still wondering about EVERYTHING and knowing NOTHING.

Twenty minutes later, I’m on the laptop and in walks Saint James and the first thing he says is: my religion teacher is a triplet!!! Like it’s the best thing ever. I sit up at attention, think better of it and slump back down, careful to keep my laptop open. You know. So I don’t look too interested. I don’t want to spook him.

And he starts to talk. And he answers my questions. And I find out everything. And I’m left wondering nothing.

All I had to do was back off.

Hellooooo from the sunny slopes of the month of August. Time is running through my fingers like sand and even though I think about writing often, actually sitting down with my laptop has proven nearly impossible. But this. This I had to post. I’m sure you’ve seen it by now, but if not, take a listen and a look-see. And show your kids.

A product of the Minneapolis North Community Beats and Rhymes Program, these kids unfurl the funnest, sickest, slickest song about Cheetos I’ve ever heard. Maybe the only song about Cheetos, but no matter. Just goes to show, it’s the how, not the what. If you need convincing, check out this article in the Village Voice enumerating the 10 best things about the song.

Salty goodness.

Oh, the jubilation that preceded this picture! Makes every iota of driving, of sweltering or freezing on the sidelines, of washing long stinky black socks totally worth it. And really, truly, the title couldn’t have gone to a sweeter group of kids. Good sports, hard workers, soccer lovers. They are good in many ways.

As far as championship games go, it could not have been more dramatic and nerve wracking. 1:1, into overtime and then a shoot out. I literally had to do some yoga breathing it was so intense. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this kind of sports stress.

They sure are, though. HURREFFINGAAAAY!!!

Summer. It goes so fast that the only thing I can possibly do to catch it, is to try to be still when there’s time, motivate to do new things when there’s time, run from one thing to the next when there isn’t time, and take a few pictures along the way.  Last year, when I did a Summer Snaps post, I realized that our summer was indeed chocked full of moments, good moments – we were just careening through with nary a second to dwell. So here it is. A second of dwelling.

We kicked off summer with Devil Baby’s birthday. Sweet six.

Later in June we watched the Euro 2012 Championship on the rooftop at Brit’s Pub. España v. Italia, lots of heat, humidity, wild gesticulations and cheering. I’ll say this: it is good to spend time with soccer people. Never have I been more content to sweat under a patio umbrella with a Crispin Cider on ice. Saint James and Dash were in hog heaven.

The kids swimming with Foxy Brown at the hidden beach on Lake Harriet is pure joy to watch. The doodle can swim. Wish we knew more places to take her where we didn’t have to be so clandestine. Anyone?

I love the Fourth of July because it involves swimming, barbecues, beer and fireworks. This year it fell smack dab in the middle of a brutal (by my standards) heat wave, but we managed to squeeze in all the elements anyway. Nothing like a steamy night with kids and friends, watching magic light up the sky.After too many days of slogging through air as thick and warm as cotton candy, the heat wave broke and this mama felt ready to conquer the world. Dash was on nights, so I took the kids for a hike at Dodge Nature Center, where we had the place to ourselves, save the quietly grazing barn animals. By some stroke of luck, everyone was happy to explore, take the more tangled looking paths and generally feel our way around the pretty grounds. We had never been there before and were lulled and welcomed by the humming insects, the whispering grasses and the cool dappled woods. Not every adventure works out, so when one does, I know to say a little prayer of thanks and put it in my pocket as a small triumph.

After the nature center we were famished, so we stopped at Mandarin Kitchen for dim sum – another first with all the kids. We sat down and were immediately enswirled in the cacophony of the restaurant. The flurry of cart drive-bys was so quick and confusing, that we just kept saying yes, yes, yes to anything that looked good, and within minutes our table was covered in mysterious delicious crispy things. A moment of stunned silence was followed by a fit of giggles as we surveyed the feast ahead of us. The kids were so game to try it all, it made me happy. We are definitely going back with Doctor Dash.

Photo by Kathy Quirk Syvertsen

When Red Vogue emailed me this picture she took of Supergirl, I gasped. It’s so beautiful . . . and those legs. Those legs are no longer the awkward flailing crazy legs of a little kid. They are the legs of a big kid. A coordinated, water loving, game-for-anything bonafide big girl.

Oh, my heart. We are on the verge.

I suspect Red Vogue already had this picture in her mind’s eye when she proposed a dusk dip and photo sesh to Supergirl. She knew Supergirl would do exactly this, because Supergirl approaches everything in her life from a place of yes, why not? and then how about . . . ?

I need to be more like her.