Is the Grass Greener?

Some days, I feel like I am failing fantastically at being a parent. Today was one of those days. My patience worn to a thin and fragile transparency that left me legless and spineless begging for some kind of mercy- and I am not usually the praying or, begging type. The incessant needing of another human being can be mind shatteringly exhausting. It's like running a marathon with your mind instead of your feet and you don't get to stop because there is no finish line. Ever. Yes, it's been one of those days and in the moment I wonder what it is exactly, that I have gotten myself into with this mommy business.

It goes without saying that a 10 month old has no concept of personal space. He will abusively use you as a jungle gym, ladder and all purpose utility vehicle to get himself wherever it is he thinks he needs to go. Now, this may be up or down, inside or outside, to the moon, to Japan (and this is why it's so maddening and frustrating) but really in the end, he doesn't know. He has no idea. And as his mother, as the navigator of this ship of crazy, it is my job to try and decipher his insane and lunatic baby rambling and babbling, head throwing and leg clinging into some coherent and useful sense that is going to save both my sanity and his little head from spinning around and popping off into his baby pool. Suffice to say I haven't had much luck. They never taught me how to crack code in college. I am now profoundly bitter about this.

I try and explain to my childless and carefree friends that having a baby is like living in a foreign country all the time where you don't speak the language and are perpetually lost with no map and no one to come and rescue you. More often than not Rufus and I are just winging it. That, and the Jameson helps too. There's lots of UN type consulting that goes on back and forth between us with nothing becoming any clearer but at least we both feel vindicated at the effort and not entirely useless. We look at each with that dazed and glassy eyed stare that you see in lots of couples with children. They look shell shocked and battle weary because they are. It is a daily negotiation that takes place- sometimes delicate and sometimes heavy handed but, it's constant. Even when they can't yet speak you are engaged in this bartering. Even when you haven't slept in 3 days and know the child has purposely waited you out simply to get the upper hand in whatever ridiculous drama is playing out, you still pander and pray. When you have a baby, you think the universe is playing tricks on you and laughing at your expense. I told my mother this and she said without a hint of irony, that it was true. The things no one tells you are many and from what I hear, there is a good reason for this. But no one is talking yet and I am too tapped out to care.

Then I see this. The Giant in the grass with his arms raised up above his head, a smile cracking his face open like a watermelon, his fingers trying to catch the wind. His hands working like bird's wings taking flight. And in these small minutes watching him, there is a grace that takes my breath away. And I don't have to ask for the answers anymore, because I realize that I already have them.

A Patchwork Life

I am cutting up pieces of fabric; crazy stripes and massive claret and gold blooming flowers on brocade. Old funky and retired dishtowels too pretty to throw away and some vintage pre-me baby clothes that I could never even PRAY to fit into again. I have taken out the Giant's trove of baby booty and have scissored them to bits. Leaping emerald frogs and mind dizzying plaids, soft nubby cottons that still smell like him and heavy but lush knits. I am working on a quilt. Or I should say, I am intending to work on a quilt. Once I start to dig myself out of this mountain of fabric and can try and put some order to the chaos covering my dinning room table, then I will be piecing a quilt, and starting the long and arduous process of creating something with my own two hands. This is the first project of this type that I am endeavoring by myself and I am slightly overwhelmed but mostly, I am incredibly inspired. Quaint, isn't it?

My compulsive creative need to make things out of stuff laying around the house is an old one with deep roots. I can remember trying to sew some hab jab nonsense out of old pillow cases on my mother's sewing machine with absolutely no idea of what I was doing. But something in that small spark of willingness, of wanting to make something with my own hands, stayed with me. This blitz of electric energy that streaked its way into me has culminated in collages and paintings, rebound books and my sad yet valiant attempt at knitting- which culminated in one thing, a rusty orange scarf that I still wear. All this ripped paper and yarn, glue and paint has all been about one thing, some latent desire to re-purpose the clutter of my life and make it into something useful and beautiful.

I have thought about becoming more self sufficient as the years have spun by and this here quilt, this insanity threatening to devour my son with its sheer volume, this fabric avalanche, is my first true effort at trying to use what we already have to make something we need. It seems so provincial to attempt and fall off the grid, to grow a garden and sew your own clothes. I can just hear one particular friend of mine saying it's all so Laura Ingels of me, so pioneer woman, so old fashioned. But I would disagree. I would hazard a guess that most of us are more adept at working on a computer than we are at digging in the dirt. And by dirt, I mean the brown stuff outside that has worms and bugs in it. Most of you will think I'm crazy for even saying that, of COURSE you know what dirt is, god. But really, when was the last time you stuck your hands in it? When was the last time you took a deep and gorgeous breath of how rich and full it is? Most folks don't know how to stitch a hole in their sock. Truly. Why bother when you can just go out and buy new socks? Because. It's important. In this age of mass over consumption and the hoarding of useless and extraneous crap it means something. It is markedly important to me to be able to take care of my family this way. I'm tired of throwing stuff away and just buying new stuff to replace the stuff that I really probably didn't even need or want, in the first damn place. Whew. I'm stepping off the soapbox now, I promise. But, I think now, we understand each other a little better.

This is not intended to be a lecture. It is not intended to make me cooler or more progressive than you. It is not a ploy at covert hip-ness or for that matter, hippieness. I am not advocating that you quit your job and run off to live in the woods, eating tree bark and hunting squirrels. I am simply saying, think about it. This is the reason we moved to Kansas to begin with, to try and re-arrange our lives a little. So I am making a quilt. A quilt that will keep my boys warm this winter when the wind is raging outside and the snow is falling casting a hush through the air. I am making this quilt because it is important.

The Evolution

He eats dirt. And sticks. He slides across the floor on his belly and licks the hardwood like a catfish, hoping to get that dried piece of cracker or that bit of strawberry from 3 days ago. He tries to stick his fingers into electrical sockets and chews on wires. He climbs things he shouldn't, like bookcases and record players. He rips up grass and beheads flowers like it's his sole reason for being. He fights sleep like a pro-wrestler on too much ephedrine and then crashes so hard you'd think he'd been up partying for days on end, putting his father and I to shame with his stamina. He howls and cackles, head thrown back with no self consciousness, flashing his little glowing moon white milk teeth. He is opinionated and loud and lets you know rather dramatically, when he is VERY displeased with something you have or have not done. He loves fruit but needs to beat it to death first making sure to rub a fair bit of it into his hair and ears before he tastes it. He would rather be naked, all the time, than bear the indignity of clothes or heaven forbid, his diaper. He laughs easily and often and strings together silly little sing-songy gibberish that make it difficult for me not to just eat his face. This is the Angry Giant. This is the sweet little starfish, all arms and legs akimbo, kicking me in the ribs, that I carried for nine months and he is almost a year old.

As I was laying in bed with him last night, me bone tired and heavy eyed, him, slaphappy, delirious and giddy with exhaustion, I started remembering things. Watching him grow from this brand new helpless and tiny newborn into this little baby/almost boy has been one of the most surreal and intense experiences I have ever born witness to. He is becoming. Every day in leaps and bounds beyond measure, he is becoming, incrementally, himself. I have watched him in his quiet play trying to figure things out- how a latch works or how to open the top of the trash can so he can make our kitchen look like the floor of a frat house. How he is fascinated by water, especially running water, and will rush head long with no fear into the coldest puddle or pool hysterical with glee. He is me yet he is so other. And in that, lies the most fascinating evolution. His evolution, and mine too.

I am trying to hold on to these small miraculous moments that seem to just slip through the cracks of my life like rain. I want to remember his snuffly sleepy grumbles that make him sound like a discontented pirate. I want to wrap him up in me and keep him small and safe and always close. But, keeping him static and still and little is not my job. He is leading and I am merely here to follow. His small curious forays into the world, watching eyes saucer wide with wonder at the amazingness of all of it. And he reminds me everyday that there is just as much beauty in laying belly deep in the tall summer grass as there is on any museum wall. He has taught me patience and easy delight and how to be quiet and strong, so he can be loud and free.

An Ode.

I am swallowing small stones. Little jagged things with dagger points that trace a line of white heat down my throat as I breath. I am rolling little marbles of sadness in the palms of my hands while listlessly listening to the rain batter the roof of this house. Thunder cracking and lightning vaulting across the bruise colored sky in some wild race with itself. Tonight, I am missing my husband. So I write. I put fingers to keys in an effort to stem the melancholy washing over me and to keep my mind moving. Moving away from the small swallowing stones and flighty restless fingers playing with my hair too much; to keep my eyes from really absorbing his empty shape missing from this house we share.

He is traveling for work and it is a necessary yet excruciating trip, having him so far away and for so long. I have not yet begun to count the days for it seems too facile a trick on my weary and tender heart. The cliche of heartache is a funny one. A tired one. A worn and overused one. We are usually so eager to ascribe these silly and seemingly childish flights of love fancy to those of us who don't know any better, to those of us wearing the dreaded rose colored glasses. Jaded. We have all become painfully jaded but my heart doesn't care about this. My heart knows better. My heart has seen the real deal and won't go back to that imitation stuff. My heart is smarter than I give it credit for most of the time. I find the rosy glasses fit just fine these days. I am old enough to even afford a really fantastic pair.

I miss my husband. And in this missing of him, I am remembering so much about why he is worth being missed. And it's not because he's gorgeous (because he is) or not because he's sweet and wonderful and all that other crap couples usually say about one another when they want to say nice things. It's for other reasons. For the hundreds of little tiny reasons everyday, that make me love him all over again.

I am difficult. I am temperamental and prone to moodiness. Rufus likes to say that I am a strong woman. He says this with no hint of irony or smarmyness. He is proud of this and exhausted by it in the same turn. And he would also probably tell you that I am more stubborn than is possible to imagine. On both counts, he is right. I am strong in all the ways that word denotes. I can and have lived alone, happily. I have traveled and explored and followed my curiosity into some dicy situations. I have camped and hiked with nothing but a backpack and my own will and whimsy to carry me through for days on end. So yes I guess that makes me strong. But I am also soft as well. And I bruise easily though I am loath to admit that. That's where the stubborn comes out to play and my stubborn is often a menace. A mean and surly pouty lipped girl with a bad attitude- the one your mama warned you about. My set mouth and immovable stone face when I am not willing or, too proudly able, to budge on something. He loves this about me, regardless of how much of a pain in the ass it makes me. I call him the saint. The patient and penitent one. He laughs at this, ribbons of song unfurling from his beautiful mouth.

He is my counterpoint. My equal weight of commonsense and good judgement when I am losing my pretty little head. Both introverted and quietly reflective he is a man of few thoughtless words and unlike his wife, chooses to think before he speaks. There is praise here. For that, is a gift and one that I honor so much in him. I suppose all of this reflection just distills itself into this, I am grateful. Grateful that my partner in this marriage and in the general mischief making of life, the father of my son and my confidant and closest friend, is someone worth all this missing and longing I'm throwing around so recklessly.

So yes, I miss my husband tonight. I will roll into my side of the bed and bury my face in his pillow. I will inhale deeply, his smell of fresh cut wood and clean sweat. And I will fall into sleep and my warm bath of dreams holding on to the shape he makes, the one closest to my heart.

The Turtle and the Hare

Molasses. Slow and thick and taking it's time to get anywhere worth getting to and I am living in it. This turn along my life's path has lead me to a place where the pace of the world is much slower. A thick and deep and faint heartbeat propels the air around me. Time takes on a different timbre, the light even runs down the side of my house and pools in puddles in the front yard. Maybe it's the weather. The humidity and heat have a propensity to do that, make you languid and loose. Maybe it's the wide roads with nothing but sky and green as far as the eye can see. Maybe it just is because it is. I am not exactly sure and I don't think I'll ever really know. What I do know though, is that molasses are an acquired taste.

I don't wait well. This is not new and it is something I have fought against in life's more delicate moments. I rush. I jump and leap and crash into things. I grab and hold and throw stuff, both words and occasionally, books. I am loud and soapboxy. Such a vision of grace, I am. I am finding that I have had to adjust to this creeping like morning glory vines growing way of being in a capacity that I was not sure I was exactly capable of. It almost seems to go against my very nature. But I am trying. Boy, am I trying.

There exists here a sense of politeness and necessary social interaction that I am not familiar with. The woman at the grocery store spent 15 minutes extolling the virtues of 3 different kinds of Swiss cheese to me yesterday. Yes, 3. She also told me that she lived in China as a girl and that her father was in the military which was why she could still speak 5 languages even though she really loved working at the deli. I tried to run into and out of Target and spent 10 minutes shooting the breeze with the cashier- her husband came home late again and forgot to pick up the stuff at the grocery that she had asked him for and damn it if it didn't just start her day off on the wrong foot. It's not everyday you get to hear about the personal lives of the people you do your everyday business with so candidly. I know more about the woman who makes my coffee at the local Starbucks than I did about the neighbors I shared a building with in San Francisco for three years. This is telling.

I hesitate to write this because I don't want to come across as sounding condescending or prosaic. These interactions matter. They ultimately shape the community I live in and lend it it's texture and taste. These exchanges are teaching me something very necessary both about myself, and the people I share my daily life with. Listen better. Take and make the time. Be present and compassionate. I am adjusting my breathing to this new molasses air, to this green and blue space and to this new way of walking and being in the world. Ironically, I go slowly. It seems the only real way to be.

Moon and Stars Watermelon and all the Reasons Why

We have finally settled it. Shaken off the dust and started to get comfortable. The last boxes broken down, the pictures hung and books tucked into their moss green shelves. Over the course of the last few months I have had to convince friends that the "settling" part was a good thing. A bold and brazen thing. We were not choosing a life of less than, we were not making a choice based on second best. We wanted to move to Kansas, as difficult as that was for some of the ones we held closest to reconcile. What are you going to DO there?, they asked. Then we told them, truly from the core of who we are, that it was for a slower life. For time. For quilt making and growing things and room to do nothing. They shook their heads in astonished disbelief. Boring, some said. Perfect, we said.

It has been a whirlwind few weeks and now that I can finally breath I am both in slight awe and bewilderment about the fact that we are actually living here. Not that the 1,800 mile drive didn't hammer that home mile by mile but, it has taken a moment for it to root in me. New air. Thick and warm and full of humming. New sky stretched out far and wide roiling with thunderclouds thick as heavily whipped cream. The ruby tomatoes and pearly silver ears of corn from someone's little farmstand. A fantastically sexy and sweet watermelon called Moon and Stars. New. And this life fits like we have been living it for years and years.

The windows are open and through the heavy soupy summer air I hear locusts and crickets, see fireflies and a dusting of the nights first stars. It's a glorious thing to behold. I am home. And it feels just right.

Yes Dorothy, We Really are in Kansas

So we made the big leap to "The Middle". Both the literal and the figurative middle; into the middle of so much family and into the middle of the country. In actuality, it wasn't a very big leap at all. At least emotionally it felt very necessary and authentic in a way that few things do. Leaving San Francisco for Wichita has been a compelling and necessary experiment in human connection, in creating a specific and deliberate life. One that we were willing to leave Northern California for. Yes. We know.

The conversation had been floating in the ether for some time but the reality of it existed in some other parallel space unconnected to our daily lives. A small but persistent voice that would orbit around and try and establish some sure and level purchase. And then we started talking about raising chickens and having a garden the size of an overpriced San Francisco flat. And we talked about goats and making our own cheese. We talked about responsibility and hard work and dreams as big and wide as the Kansas sky. We talked about seasons and snow and weekends at the lake. We talked about being closer to family and closer to the pulse of the country- though many would argue with me that the pulse exists solely on the periphery. And then too, he started growing. The Angry Giant had the audacity to try and become a functioning baby (on his way to little person) in his own right without regard to his father and I.

The longing for this other life began to overshadow our existence in the life we occupied. A life we truly and deeply and passionately lived and were present and full in. But things were missing. Nostalgia can be deceptive and both the husband and I realized this. Regardless, this fierce current was propelling us east. We wanted room to grow and explore and get dirty. We wanted to raise our son in the open air with room to run so far and so fast that the sheer size of the world would make him and us, dizzy. Suddenly the city became too small to contain all that we had verbalized, thought and willed.

We bought lots of boxes that weekend and started to pack. We called our family and told them we were coming home.