Rushing To the Stillness

I woke up today to a balmy wind winding its way through the still bare Sycamore trees in our front yard. Spring on the heels of this wind and the sun trying so hard to crack through the veneer of gray that has laid so thickly over everything this winter. Though surely some would argue with me, I can smell the subtle shift in the air. It smells green. That smell that only smells like what it is~ wet dirt and tiny growing things and clean scrubbed air. This is potentially wishful thinking but I am loath to stick my head back into the bitter wind and snow and fur lined boots that I have decisively put away hoping that the silent voodoo prayer I've said keeps the Rose of Sharon budding in my backyard.

As cliche as it is, the coming of spring has always been one of my favorite times of year. After fall it's my favorite season. Interesting only to me in its banality but, the dichotomy of ending and beginning in such a painfully literal way always touches me. As prosaic and played out as this little drama of mine is, I can't help it. I've tried. I've kept it to myself but I'm a sucker for that stuff and I'll take the cheesiness and the cliche and silly romance of it all. These are the days I scrounge my bookshelves for Walt Whitman, Annie Dillard and Aldo Leopold. I want the voices of poetic and slaying beauty only their brand of prose can bring. I want to soak long and low in those pages, emerging from the work as green and tender as the new and budding world.

My son was born in the flush of autumn. Fire in the air and ripe falling fruit and woolen scarves coming out of hiding. My daughter though, is slated to arrive in the midst of this verdant and slow unfurling. In this first raw and opening breath after a cold and wet winter, small shoots of Crocus and Iris gently finding their way towards the buttery sun. To try and express how fitting I think this is will simply fall flat. I have decided to simply revel in the symmetry.

Just like the trees lining the street where I live, I am full to bursting these days too. The alphabet of my daughter's elbows and knees becoming an increasingly insistent presence in my body. So much so that I can no longer ignore her flipping and stretching. She is heavy and busy and half the time I wonder what she's doing in there. Sometimes it feels like she cannot be contained but I know better. I have a feeling this is going to be the case with her for years to come and I fear it is just as my mother said it would be, Karma is a bitch...

And so I wait. I am now quietly and patiently resigned to counting down the days until her arrival. The waiting is delicious and in the interim, in the small fingers of time between now and then, I will read. And I will rejoice that the once a year, the world has the gorgeous audacity to make herself all over again.

And Then There Were Four

He tucks his head into the crook between my shoulder and I take a deep, long, slow breath of his perfect little boy smell. All milk and clean sweet sweat and strawberry fruit roll ups. His small delicately boned arms wrap themselves around my neck and he squeezes me with all of his tiny might. The giant is hugging me. This ritual plays itself out 5 or 6 times a day lately and each and every time, it both surprises and delights me to no end.

I am trying to find time to write down these small shared moments because in a few short weeks his sister will be arriving and it will no longer just be he and I, arms wrapped around each other giggling ourselves deliriously. This transition is such a double edged sword for us. On the one hand we are expanding our family with the addition of his sibling which we are over the moon about and waiting to meet her is proving slightly nerve wracking in a wonderful first date jitters kinda way. Providing Joaquin with both a playmate and a very necessary alli against his father and I, it seemed only fair to him that we try and have another child to balance out the family scales. But then there is the other side to all this glorious anticipation and growth. The guilty side. The worried side. The reality that it will no longer be just the three of us and more to the point, just him with us has made me sad in a way that I did not anticipate nor did I expect.

I have spent the last year and a half being a mother to one baby. We have gotten to know each other in this passing of days. How we both need to eat when we're hungry or we get really cranky. How he likes a certain pillow to nap on and how he knows not to crush me senseless when we curl up together. I know he likes his broccoli barely steamed and his rice doused in soy sauce, just like his dad and I do. We laugh easily and play hard. We have hashed out this delicate and unspoken set of rules and ways of being with each other that is so organic. It has been a genuine pleasure having the time to get to know my son. And now that is all about to change in the most drastic way possible.

Parenting has become easier as Joaquin has gotten older and at this point in the game, I often ask Rufus what the hell we were thinking having another baby. We underestimated the potency of a few glasses of Jameson and couple of hours alone and here we are. We have had it so good between routine and bed and family help that we have miraculously created something couples with children often complain about. Time. And this coveted and hard won time allows us to do things we didn't think we ever would again. All those sleepless and dizzy nights of pacing a teething fevered baby on an already empty tank had us convinced that people were lying to us about it getting easier simply so we didn't off ourselves. We can do things now like have dinner and watch movies. And being able to have conversations about real life things other than whether or not the boy pooped enough today has done wonders for our marriage. We can read and laze, spoon and the holy grail of time for couples, actually have sex. It's amazing. And we deliberately screwed it up by getting me knocked up.

So we ride the changes the best we can and placate ourselves with thoughts of how a year from now, insanity and sleepless nights aside, there will be two curly raven haired moon eyed children keeping each other company, arms wrapped around each other's necks instead of ours, conspiring our beautiful demise.

Tell Me

Bah! Up! Ber and Be. Mama, Daaahhhhh. Uh huh and yup. There are endless variations on these words and countless others. These "words" are usually augmented with some insane pantomimed hand or head gesture intended to clarify what it is exactly, that the Giant is trying to convey. My boy is in the throes of learning how to speak and it is potentially by turns, the most wonderful, hysterical, ridiculous and frustrating thing we have encountered in our journey together thus far. My son is a little life mimic and he has a mind like a steel trap. Seriously. The child does not forget ANYTHING. He can watch where I put something just once, and from then on, he will go to that place and wreck havoc with his little hands and beautiful diabolical baby mind. So the learning to talk thing has been a riot. He copies sounds, tries to sing in his one toned hum and has full blow conversations with Rufus and I and then, just with himself. It is a sight to behold.

When you have a baby that is growing this quickly, each phase seems to be both amazing and amazingly trying in the same breath. In the beginning he was simply in a very rudimentary way, trying to gain control of his body. I would watch him for hours as he just lifted his arm or tried to touch his hand to his face. His sense of depth perception and crude motor function frustrated him. As the months whizzed by, his development has accelerated at a phenomenal clip. Holding his head up and rolling over, getting up on his hands and knees and rocking his butt back and forth like he's getting ready to ambush us. Pulling up to standing and then with pride and fear, those first tentative steps that tested his independence. Now he is finding his voice. His first voice. I can hear the birdsong sweet cadence trying to find its way out of his mouth and into the bigger world. I can't wait to hear what he is going to have to say. My boy and his words. His mama and her words. We are both a work in progress.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

We've begun planning next year's garden. With the wind keening outside rattling the windows and shaking the bare trees, we are in the throes of imagining planting. We are literally plotting the lush and verdant bounty that will feed us hopefully, not only through the coming summer but also through the winter of next year as well. We have framed out two gardens- one smaller home garden in our backyard and a huge expanse for our family's communal garden out at the farm. 4 tons of black gold tilled into to the ground courtesy of my land loving husband. Two simultaneous composts working their dirty magic awaiting to be folded into the soil with our bare and eager hands. We can almost smell this growing of things, this green and familiar scent.

The last few days have been an exercise in imagination, in thoughtful and deliberate conversation and research. The names alone are enough to spin my brain into a frenzy of delight. The ubiquitous Moon and Stars watermelon is on the list. Plum Purple and French Breakfast Radishes, Hearts of Gold melon and an old heirloom variety of corn called True Gold (oh my!). We are experimenting with German Butterball potatoes and the the blushingly demure Pink Viking varietal as well. Tendergreen Bush beans and more herbs than you could shake a stick at- Chives and Thyme, Hyssop, Spearmint and Borage, Basil and Chervil and Lovage. This list is only partial too with the requests of the extended family needing to be tossed into the mix as well. So it goes. So here we go.

This is going to be a very ambitious project considering the extent of my gardening acumen. I have planted some sort of garden in almost every place I have ever lived. Whether it be a container garden holding one stalwart and noble tomato plant in Los Angeles or a small patch of backyard in a shared community garden in San Francisco, I have always grown something. I always loved not only the idea of growing my own food but also the physical work it required of me in these small endeavors. The zen of gardening. Yes, there is such a thing. The dirt under my fingernails and the sweat on my brow as I bend to weed a too long neglected row. How my shoulders smell like the sun. But THIS, this is another animal all together and we are excited to see how it all unfolds.

With the changing of the light and the press of winter, we have a lovely reprieve upon us- we can take our time a bit in deciding what and how it is we are going to do this thing. The reverie is a beautiful one. A subtle yet enduring reminder that even at the start of winter, it's never too early to start dreaming about spring.

Eating the Dark

Winter is in the wings here. Her chilly breath on my bare neck reminding me to take heed. The trees glow somber in a gossamer gray mist, the few brave leaves left hanging on in futility. Sky a bruised plum, even at 3 o'clock. This coming of winter also means that the darkness creeps in much earlier. Having grown up on the east coast I should be used to this. You know, hearty character building stuff that makes us such a stoic and martyred lot. Having lived in California for 13 years before moving to Kansas though, I sadly realize that am not. I had forgotten how the gears of the seasons downshift- time, the weather, my body and it's clock, all suddenly feel as if they are wading through the hours in slow motion. I am relearning the rhythm of this ancient dance and I am stumbling. But, my feet seem to remember where to tread and I am trusting of this.

Without fail, this happens every year at this time. Even when I was living in Los Angeles and there was no intelligent sense in it. Suddenly, I want LOTS of knee socks and Flashdance-esq legwarmers. I feel this surging and tidal desire to re-learn (meaning really learn) how to knit. I want stacks of books and a howling wind and a big blanket to wrap up in. Then, there is the cooking. Oh the cooking. This is delicate.

In winter, food becomes porn for me. Yes, I said porn. I want to bake and cook insane amounts- bunker house apocalypse style, we have to live in the basement because the end is near kinda crap. More food honestly, than the 2 and a half of us could ever really eat, even on a good day. And not just any food. I want to cook complicated food. Food with recipes 3 pages long that takes 4 days to make. Food that will wile away the small hours between the early coming dark and when I can fall into bed feeling like I accomplished something of merit- even if that something is as ridiculous as making enough homemade sausage to feed a small Bavarian village. But, my husband has threatened to live out in the shed fasting in protest if this mania comes to pass. Just because the bears are going into hibernation and eating their way into a stupor he says, does not mean that we should be doing the same. I agree with him, begrudgingly of course, though the lure of the kitchen is as difficult to resist as a siren's song these nights. Cooking is another vein in creating for me. To make something, even if that something is chocolate chip banana bread or a pot of braised short ribs that slow bubble in the oven all night happily singing and trilling in their red wine bath, is so profoundly satisfying. The visceral raw soul stoking kind of satisfying. Oh yes. It's like that for me.

But because I love my husband, in lieu of homemade lemon cream danish, I will write. It's going to be a long winter.

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.