This month I’m giving the perfect post award to aka Monty for her post entitled Heading South . I love Monty’s every day posts because they make me smile, but there is more to Monty. She’s a lot more remarkable than she let’s on, perhaps even to herself. I’m just sayin’.

There’s something about Monty that touches me deeply…even when I’m reading her usual, less serious fare. There’s more to her than she let’s on. I said that already. Okay…I think she’s just good. There, I said it. So please, go say hi to aka Monty.

Also, go visit MommaK or
Lucinda to find out more about the Perfect Post awards and to find more award winning posts.

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Right now homemade pink-poodle-in-Paris party invitations are taking priority (almost done). Someone is turning five soon. And it’s not me.

A quick gimpse into my weekend.

1. Rachel is helping me get ready for an event I have to go to with my husband. I feel good after a morning getting my hair cut and highlighted–finally. I have my dress on. It’s not a formal gown, but it’s definitely more than casual attire. I look good, I think. Rachel is talking a mile a minute–narrating my every move. “Oh, this purple lotion. Oh I like this. It smells nice. Are you going to use this? (pointing to who knows what). Why do you use this? You should wear this? Oh, that’s pretty Mom.” Then she looks at me in the mirror with my dress on, but no shoes. She says, “You know who you look like?” In my mind I’m going through all the possibilities. Go ahead. You go through them, too.

“A pilgrim,” she says thoughtfully.

I’m a little disappointed.

“It’s the bare feet, Mom.” she says decisively. “Pilgrims had bare feet….and short dresses.” (Mine was above the knees.)

“But it’s okay, Mom. You look nice.”

2. The whole family heads into a clothing store after dinner and ice-cream out. It’s an hour before bedtime and my kids are bouncing off the walls. I call them into the dressing room with me so they don’t cause trouble while I’m trying on clothes. As I’m trying on clothes, Hannah takes my hand, cocks her head, puts her chin to her chest and says, “Baby, wanna lie down, Baby?” I decline the offer. Then both girls start playing games in the mirror, too loudly, I tell them.

We’re not in a dressing room. It’s just a stall in the back of the store. My husband gets into a stall nearby. Hannah kneels down, puts her head by the gap in the stall door and yells loudly and cheerfully, “Hello, Daddy. We’re in the bathroom!”

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Please forgive me for not returning all of your comments recently. I beg you. Especially the new commenters that have come by. I plan to visit soon. I had another paper due Friday and much else going on with family. I will return all comments from the past week(s) within the next few days.

In two weeks, I will be free from all this school and birthday stuff and will make it up to you big time.

Tell me you forgive me.

If you haven’t been here in a while, I’m posting only once a week on Mondays. It’s my new plan.

I was tagged by wonderful Angie to do this Meme. I said to myself, “What the heck. I’ve got nothing better to write about and it’s Angie, for goodness sake.”

I AM: lucky to have had the life that I have had and I am grateful. On a less profound level, I am a true Gemini, “dual-natured, elusive, complex and contradictory.” I am too nice when you first meet me, and then get goofier and feistier as you get to know me better. If you are a true friend, I am loyal and steadfast. I am old enough to know how rare and precious a real soul-to-soul friendship is. No flightiness in that area.
I WANT: my daughters to come of age in a more peaceful and less frightening world than we face now. I want them to find soulmates that make them laugh, respect them, are good to them, and that they deeply respect.
I WISH: I could lasso this less frightening world for them. I wish I could keep them safe always.
I HATE: hate, so I try to avoid it.
I MISS: sleeping late and traveling. I miss my family. I miss far away friends.
I FEAR: the unthinkable, so I don’t go there. I also fear finding a black widow spider accidently in one of our boots one day; job interviews (not that I have any coming up); public speaking; events that require schmoozing; and fear itself.
I HEAR: my husband talking to my sister and brother-in-law downstairs. There has been lots of evening laughter this week produced by grown-ups.
I WONDER: whether I will have another baby one day and what that might be like. I still want one more. I am still afraid.
I REGRET: very little consciously, but I think I dream about things I regret unconsciously–like avoiding things because I’m afraid. What I regret consciously are times when I’ve hurt people.
I AM NOT: good at confrontations.
I DANCE: when I’m feeling happy and there is music on that is reaching me deep down in a groovy place. I dance when my children are watching and it makes me feel light and giddy. Sometimes they get embarassed, sometimes they get really joyful.
I SING: when I have been feeling sick and am beginning to regain strength and health. I also sing to my Hannah at night and often throughout the day. I sing when I’m alone in the house and I see the guitar out of the corner of my eye. I pick up the guitar and sing all the songs my kids don’t want to hear when they’re home. I am a much better singer than guitar player. I’m really terrible at the guitar, but I’m actually getting better.
I CRY: when my hormones want me to.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: nice. patient, cheerful.
I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: a life….lives.
I WRITE: because it brings me peace and clarity.
I CONFUSE: you…when I comment sloppily on your posts. And then I can never decide whether to make corrections or not. I most often don’t.
I NEED: to be challenged to be content.
I SHOULD: keep my office and laundry room neater.
I START: many things.
I FINISH: the things that lasso my soul.
I TAG: all odd numbered commenters to this post, unless you sweet talk me out of it—and any even numbers that want to do it. Oh, and Stephanie. I tag Stephanie because she likes to be tagged and I want to hear what she has to say. I’d love to hear what you all have to say.

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When I was trying to decide what I else should write about Rachel wandered into my room from her bedroom and after talking a bit with her I asked her to write something here. I typed for her.

From Rachel:

What I did this Week was:

My cousins came. I missed all my friend at school. I went in the car lots of times and I got to sit in the back of my Daddy’s car with my cousins.

I did lots of things. I went places where lots of boats are today. I really, really want to go to school and I really, really want to bring my new snow globe that I got the other day from my cousins.

(Then I asked her to play this game with me.)

I AM: a human.

I WANT: my cousins to stay here forever.

I WISH: that I had my ears pierced. (Huh?)

I HATE: skunks.

I MISS: going to school.

I FEAR: (am afraid of) sharks.

I HEAR: buttons from my Mom’s computer right now.

I WONDER: if things that are broken can be glued or sewed and sometimes taped.

I REGRET: am kind of sorry to my school but I’m glad to myself that I stayed home from school when my cousins were here.

I AM NOT: (”this is kind of a silly one”) a grown up.

I DANCE: because I want to and sometimes I dance because music is on.

I SING: at school; because I want to whenever I like: I sing, as the donkey in Shrek says “the Sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom.” and they sing it in Annie, too.

I CRY: because I get hurt, because I don’t want to do things that I have to do and when I don’t like things.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: grumpy.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: handprints.

I CONFUSE: which hand is left and which hand is right.

I NEED: my jacket when it’s cold.

I SHOULD: not try to get sick.

I START: my day with breakfast.

I FINISH: my dinner, breakfast and lunch.

I TAG: Me.

love, rachel

Song by Rachel for Dad

“Jingling Dad”

Oh I love my Daddy, as much as anyone
That’s why we’re singing this jingling song
That’s why we’re singing this jingling song
That’s why we’re singing this jingling song

(Mom plays guitar and Rachel jingles the bells when performing this song.)

I think Spring may be here finally. The sun came out this afternoon. I mean, I know way back in February I gloated about Spring arriving, but it didn’t turn out that way. Winter in northern California means rain. This “spring” we’ve had rain. Lots of rain. Cold rain. Record rain. Rain for the past two weeks. Unbelievable amounts of rain in March.

This past Saturday we had a break in the rain for an hour and headed out on a mission. Rachel was going to hug the Easter Bunny and move on with her life. The week before we came across the Easter Bunny in the mall and while Hannah clamored to get her arms around the bunny, Rachel was frightened and chose not to. In the car on the way home, she felt sad about it and wanted to go back and try again. I’m not that indulgent, particularly in a downpour, so we went home instead. Then on the first night of Passover, when we were celebrating Seder with some friends, Rachel was too shy to represent the “Wild Beasts” when it came time to do so during the dinner (she got the “beasts” mask on her plate). This also made her sad. And so this Saturday, we got our raincoats on, went downtown and gave the bunny a hug. Rachel almost chickened out in the end, but I reminded her of how she felt when she didn’t hug the bunny last time, and then I stuck her hand In Hannah’s hand and they went together. Strength in numbers. We tried the same thing in church today. I stuck Rachel’s hand in Hannah’s when it was time to go up and participate in a children’s dance. She was frightened but went with Hannah.

I want them to learn to grab each other’s hands automatically like this through life.

Oy. I have this post that I want to write. It’s about sisters–my girls, It’s in my heart; it just hasn’t reached my head yet. I can’t quite capture it. It has to do with this holding of hands and the piercing squabbling that intermingles with the holding of hands and how it all adds up to something more powerful than I could have imagined when I kept repeating to Rachel in an annoying sing-songy voice when she met Hannah for the first time, “She loves you. I think she loves you. She’s going to be your friend.” I was videotaping Rachel at the time, and my voice is so loud, ridiculous and repetitive it’s comical.

Rachel was 2 ½ years old then and took it all in beautifully at first. As the videotape continues she touches Hannah so delicately, clearly in awe, and begins singing “twinkle-twinkle” to her just as she had planned to. It was an amazing moment.

There were other moments in the following months, moments of clarity for Rachel. Hannah didn’t love her, Rachel would tell me on sudden impulse. I always protested, and she usually accepted my perspective, but really, she was right. Hannah did not love her. Not yet. Heck, she didn’t really love me. A newborn is struggling to poop for goodness sakes. What use or time is there for love.

But now, the love is palpable. I don’t know how to write about it. The screeches that occur during their arguments drive me nuts. Truly. But the love is so….there. Where are the words? It’s in the gestures, the expressions. And I am too tired to paint those pictures for you now.

Speaking of sisters, my sister (Sister M) is arriving tomorrow with her husband and four kids….oh, and with one more child on the way (her, not me), as Rachel likes to remind me. My other sister (aka “Sis”) is across the country, hopefully sleeping through the night tonight, with 4 month-old baby Jeremy. You know what touches me about “Sis”. I bucked her as a child. I was the youngest and didn’t let her lead me as a big sister is trained and prodded to do. And yet, here she is, reading my blog every day and letting me give her advice about babies when I talk to her. She’s letting me take her hand. I am truly humbled.

We have a picture of Hannah in a car-seat in the hospital where I am looking at her before taking her home. Hannah loves this photo. She now thinks that she was born in a car-seat, while Rachel “came out of mommy’s tummy.” When we want a laugh we tell her she came out of mommy’s tummy. That makes her mad. “Nooooo, I born in a car-seat. I was a newborn…in the hospital!”

We’ve got to cut that out.

Oh, and just in case you were pegging Hannah as the brave one, she’s still afraid of her own poop.

I wish I had something more cohesive to write about, but I’m tired tonight. I cooked Easter dinner all by myself, including two pies, while the rest of my family was napping. Oh, how I love cooking in a quiet house with hours to get things ready. Oh, how I dislike cooking in chaotic conditions. This year Easter was not chaotic.

The dinner was delicious, if I do say so myself.

Ack, my mother used to say that after she cooked a good meal.

For the record, I did not say this out loud after dinner. I did however, lay down on the couch after dinner like my mother used to do after a big meal. Hmmmm.

What I don’t get about this process of officially becoming my wonderful, eccentric mother, is that her hair didn’t grey until she was about 58 and I started greying at 35.

Not. Fair.

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One last thing. I think it’s interesting that instead of wondering whether the Easter Bunny really came to our house last night, Rachel is wondering whether the Easter Bunny–a bunny in her mind–wore a costume when he/she came. A bunny wearing a costume. I keep telling her that I can’t help her too much in the Easter Bunny department. “I just put the baskets out. I’ve never actually seen the [the real] Easter bunny.” (She knows the Easter bunnies in the malls, etc. are people in costumes.)

It feels strange and scary to write here again. Where do I start? I can’t say I missed you all because I’ve been visiting you, lurking mostly, and enjoying your posts. Did I miss me–Miss Raehan? I’m not really sure that I did.

I don’t know if yoga has slowed me down or if the blog world is moving faster, but it feels too fast for me. When I blog every day, I crave time away from the computer, but I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s like eating potato chips.

Therefore, (drum roll) I’ve decided to put myself on a blogging schedule. (Stop laughing; it’s not a joke.) You know me too well. I’m the one that loves making schedules but can never seem to follow them. I have a good feeling about this schedule. I will post every Monday (or Sunday night). I will also slowly make the rounds to visit everyone each week, savoring each blog slowly and catching up on posts, rather rushing my way through every two days and feeling unsatisfied and hurried.

These may end up being longer posts, like today, so I won’t be offended if it takes you all week to finish and comment, or if you can’t make it all the way through. It’s all good.

Namaste!

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My daughters have discovered “Annie,” the musical. About two months ago, I heard Hannah singing “Tomorrow.” I asked her where she had learned it. “Do you sing it in your class?” She told me no. We had watched the beginning of the movie once or twice, so I’m assuming she picked the song up that way.

When I was elementary school age, I lived in New Jersey, in a suburb of Manhattan. I dreamed of playing Annie on Broadway. I belted out the songs with passion at home on a regular basis. We lived in an apartment building. No one was spared. I remember once having my neighbor friends call me on the phone one day when I was singing because they heard me in the neighboring apartment building. We waved to each other through the windows. Somewhere around that time, I dreamt I WAS Annie on Broadway. It’s funny how vivid that dream still is and that I remember how disappointed I was when I woke up. These are not memories I’m particularly proud or fond of.

So I hear my daughters singing Annie and I have mixed, primal feelings. I bought the Broadway version of the music from itunes last week and have been enjoying watching them sing and dance around to the music.

Rachel loves dancing and stomping around with an angry look on her face to “It’s a Hard Knock Life” and Hannah still likes the song “Tomorrow” but also keeps asking for “Miss Hannigan.” We really don’t know exactly what she’s asking for. I think she’d like us to play the line “I love you Miss Hannigan” over and over again. Another quirky thing Hannah does is laugh at the words to “Tomorrow” when I’m singing the song before bed.

“I just stick out my chin…”

“Nooooo…not chin” she protests every time, laughing like I just made a ridiculous mistake. She asked for the song!

Miss Hannigan, by the way, is a topic that has led to some interesting conversations. Finally, after the third time watching the movie, Rachel noticed that she wasn’t all that nice and asked me why. My lame answer was: “She drinks too many beers.” Why, she asked. “Because she’s lonely,” was my answer. Rachel protested, “Well, she has Mr. Bundle.”

When you watch your child take part in something you did as a child—something that was a powerful force in your life—it is very…well primal is the only word that comes to mind. I watch Rachel discovering her voice as she tries to match the ridiculously out-of-reach voice of Andrea McCartle (I think the movie version has a more reasonable key for Annie’s songs) and I think maybe I now know a little bit of what it feels like going to a Passover supper, if you are Jewish, watching your children take part in a tradition that has passed on for generations. It sounds silly to compare the two, but I just find these feelings so interesting. And it’s good for Rachel to sing without me. She feels self-conscious singing with me, I think. My voice teacher in college once told me that my voice is good for solos or large choirs, but too strong for smaller groups. Rachel needs to discover her voice without me singing over her.

Annie was not my favorite musical. My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, West Side Story—these I have no mixed feelings about and no memories of angst and longing. But maybe it’s the memories of angst and longing make this experience of handing down Annie so powerful and primal.

I don’t know.

What else is going on in my life? After putting my kids to bed at night I work on papers for the classes I’m taking, or I read Middlemarch. I had a long paper due on Friday and was surprised at how calm I was all week and how good I was at compartmentalizing my work and my time with my kids. I gave the credit to yoga. And then Friday came and all I can say is that the paper was due at midnight and I sent it electronically at 11:40 pm after practically hyperventilating from stress. It was traumatic to say he least. I had a kind of post-trauma hangover the next day and am still recovering. Yoga today helped. So did a good night’s sleep. I still wish I had had one more night to proofread.

The girls have spring break this week. Sometime last week during a brilliant moment I mentioned to Rachel that we could play school at home during spring break. She’s so excited by that idea that she wanted to start Saturday and then today (Sunday). So tomorrow, we start our little school schedule. Yes, me, the one who can’t follow a schedule. You may join us for storytime at 8:30. I told her that we’d have a “morning constitutional” at 10:00. I crack myself up. She didn’t laugh.

That’s all from Lake Woebegone, folks.

Except for this poem, which I wrote a few weeks ago after drinking many glasses of sangria during a mom’s night out. It’s not “good poetry.” I don’t know anything about the mechanics of writing a good poem. It’s just me, writing, with a few too many sangrias in me. Thinking…”I should write a poem.”

Now I’m going to snuggle with my husband who put up with my “hangover” this weekend. I love him so. That’s primal, too, with little angst.

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To Breathe

(by me)

My parents’ bed lay plainly
on the floor, no fancy frame, no four posters, down or satin.

Still, every Saturday morning it became a boat
and we’d sail to Africa, or some other destination
shouted out by one of three girls before eating French Toast.

I suppose we learned to dream on that bed.
The youngest, I suspect I never shouted myself, but rather absorbed
the sounds and smells of morning bodies and laughter.

Later I mapped adventures to myself and announced them out loud,
until I finally sailed and breathed
the dust of Cairo,
the markets of Jerusalem,
the moist earth of Scotland,
the Autumn mountains and rivers of Kyoto.

At four, my oldest daughter scours the World Atlas and has mastered the continents,
for which I can take no credit.

At times our four poster bed seems too high.
I’d like to make it plain and nestle with my husband while we hear my daughters sail, knowing that this may cause them one day to have adventures too far away.

If I could I would build a magic room where we could live on this plain bed infinitely,
though I realize that if I did we would wish the magic away one day carelessly.

My oldest asks me if she can live with us forever and I say yes,
and there is nothing I mean more sincerely at that moment.

But deeper still, I just want my girls to breathe.