Land of Tamara

Just In Case I Was Feeling Too Good About Myself...

2012-01-30T20:57:00.004-06:00

Have I mentioned that I started taking karate with my son? Sheesh. In case you don't know me that well, I'm not really the karate type. But Eli asked. And asked. And asked. And asked some more. So finally I gave in.
And so tonight, just when I was feeling like maybe not the newest 40 year old fat lady in a class full of 10 year-olds with infinite energy, I got the hang of, well, yelling.
"Huuugh!" and "Aaayyyyy" and "Haaayy-Yaaaaahh!" all just started rolling off my tongue. Felt good, actually.
So I belted out what I thought would be an exceptional "YES SIR!!" at what I thought would be the right moment. Only I was the only one talking (screaming) in the middle of a quiet room full of 10 year-olds who suddenly were all staring at me like I was, well, the newest 40 year old fat lady in a class full of 10 year-olds with infinite energy.
God. I was embarrassed to say the least.
If you know me at all, you know that my default reaction to situations like these is to laugh hysterically at myself until the uncomfortable people around me finally give in and start laughing too. Only that doesn't work in an environment built around self-discipline, inner strength, and control. I know that. Logically-speaking.
I knew then too that I should do something different from my default behavior. That however has nothing to do with what I did.
I did what I always do. I laughed hysterically at myself, in a stifled and muffled way, until the uncomfortable 10 year-olds around me finally looked away in hopes that I would please, please, be silent. And eventually I was.
The beautiful thing about being 40 in a room full of 10 year-olds is that I didn't care. Er, I didn't care that much. Thank God.
After class, sweet Eli said to me without being prompted, "It's OK mom. It happens..."
Lena, on the other hand, much like her mother, could not control her laughter. For a good 30 minutes after, she repeatedly put herself in the bowing position and screamed, "YES SIR!" followed by helpless cackling. It was beyond her control. Mine too. So much for self-discipline, inner strength, and control. I'd rather laugh...

Needle and Thread

2012-01-08T15:07:00.003-06:00

Eli recently came running into my room well past his bedtime with his Harry Potter scarf, which has come unraveled.

“Mom! Mom, can you sew it? Can you sew it?”

"Yes, I can sew it. Put it on my desk. I’ll fix it for you.”

“Can you now? Can you now? Can you get the sewing machine right NOW and sew it?”

"No, Eli, you know I can’t right now. It’s late, boy! Get to bed!”

He then moved into pleas of sleeping in my bed so he could watch me sew the scarf. You can’t blame a kid for trying.

I have to confess it thrills me when he asks me to do this kind of thing. I need to break out the sewing machine and fix his scarf pretty quickly. I want to fix it for him. In spite of my aversion toward many things domestic, when my babies want me to do any of these kinds of traditionally maternal things, I can’t wait to do it! Yes, I’ll sew your scarf! Ask me to sew something! Yes, we can make a homemade cake! Homemade key lime pie? Sure! You want to make a gingerbread house? You want me to read you a story? Paper Mache Piñata? Cardboard box robot? Sock Puppets? Absolutely! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! If it requires a little creativity or an oven, or a needle and thread, I will try my best to do it for you. I don’t know for sure if I can say that’s who I am, but that is the kind of mother I want to be. Some significant part of me wants to be that for my children.

Why? Because when I was daydreaming of motherhood, these were the things I dreamed about. Do you think I sat around daydreaming of being fat, tired and haggard? Do you think I longed for the days that I would leak breast milk and spend an entire 13 months of my life with spit-up on my clothes? I did not daydream about sitting in my son’s karate class twice a week (as awesome as he is at karate). Or going to Chuck E Cheese. Or cooking and serving meals that are insulted and then thrown away. Or spending $50 at a really bad animated feature film that will be quoted incessantly for the following 3 weeks. You get the idea. Not that I don’t LOVE being a mommy.

I just love some parts of being a mommy more than others. Baking together, sewing things on demand, going to the park, reading, or making crafty arty things that Lena finds in books are among the things I love doing in the mommy sense. My mom didn’t do those things with me when I was little. It could have been for lack of interest or ability, or maybe just time. She was a busy woman living alone with two kids, working full-time. God, I get that now.

My mom passed away in June.

When I first found out, I was stunned, even though I knew it was coming. I had this overwhelming sense that I had forgotten something really important. She died in the wee hours of the morning when we were in Mexico, on the day we would fly back to Houston. Those hours on the airplane were really hours of in-between. I was in between countries, governments, homes. I was in the air. No land to put my feet on. No soil under my feet. Temporarily homeless. I thought on the plane little more than, “My mother is dead.” I had this overwhelming sense of having forgotten something. It was similar to many times I’ve been on a plane, but with a much greater sense of urgency, desperation.

I had this unnerving feeling of impending disaster, coupled with these unexplained moments of fleeting relief. I racked my brain to figure out what I had forgotten. Oh God. I left the iron on. No, that’s not it. I left my passport at the hotel. No that’s not it. Have I forgotten some medication? My children, where are they? My tickets? My wedding ring? Where did I park the car at the airport?

I knew: My car wasn’t at the airport. I was not taking any medication. I had my passport, my tickets, my wedding ring. My children were sitting safely right beside me. I hadn’t forgotten anything. It was something else. It is something else, still. It’s a different kind of empty. A different kind of fear of, or for, something forgotten. My mother is dead. My mother is dead. My mother is dead.

Did I forget to say something to her? No I said it all. I think she heard me. Did I forget to do something? No, we took care of everything. It’s just that now there seems to be a little hole in my pocket, in my socks, in my shoes, in my head. And my mother keeps falling through it.

My mother was not the kind of mother who darned socks or sewed anything. She couldn’t bake a homemade cake to save her life. She couldn’t fix the hole I have in my being any more than she could have put a needle and thread through Eli’s Harry Potter scarf. If it required a little creativity or an oven, or a needle and thread, she was not even interested in trying and she said so, unabashedly, laughing even. She would try her best though to buy it for me, whatever it was, even if she shouldn't have. I don’t know for sure if I can say who she was entirely; she was many things to many people, and being a mother wasn’t the role she fell into most easily. But she was the kind of mother she wanted to be, I think. And that’s the best we can do for our children, isn’t it?

Those Who Can't...

2011-12-18T20:17:00.015-06:00

"He who can does; he who cannot teaches."
George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman, 1903

Upon hearing that I've switched careers from writing to teaching, most people want to know what motivated such a drastic change. Believe me, I have asked myself the same question, particularly right around this time last year. I doubted my sanity. I missed my freedom. And there was the money. Also, it was impossible not to notice the stark difference between the brilliant (albeit sometimes socially awkward or downright outlandish) minds of the engineers and writers I had previously worked with as compared to that of The Teacher.
I have worked with some incredibly bright people: engineers, scientists, mathematicians, and writers too. Don't get me wrong. I respect and admire the teachers I work with. They are intelligent, dedicated, loyal. Good people. It's just that I'm in a different world now.
Of course, I hadn't made those observations yet when I decided to move to teaching. When I made the decision, I had never spent time teaching in an actual classroom with children. I had taught adults English as a second language at El Buen Samaritano, and it was wonderful. My students had been incredibly clever, highly motivated, hard-working adults. Most of them had 2 or 3 jobs, kids to take care of, and they were going to night-school. They had come here to make a better life and were truly living the American dream as I saw it.
Now, after teaching in the public school system, I have come to believe that these men and women are the cream of the crop. While there are lots of others just like them, they may not be representative of the population as a whole. I, naively, thought that my elementary school students and their parents would be cut from the same cloth. And while that's certainly true in many circumstances, it was, well, a silly over-generalization at best. What an optimistic fool I can be.
George Bernard Shaw said once, "A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and art into pedantry. Hence University education." This and other statements he made were indicative of the intense disgust he had for the education system. He also said, "Schools and schoolmasters, as we have them today, are not popular as places of education and teachers, but rather prisons and turnkeys in which children are kept to prevent them disturbing and chaperoning their parents." This idea of course should be offensive to any teacher: Being a glorified babysitter (what glory!) to keep kids out of the way instead of making an impact on their minds.
I will admit I have felt that way on a bad day: like little more than a babysitter. But on a good day, man, on a good day, it's so good. You see little light bulbs go off and you hear little exclamations under a kid's breath. They say, "Oh... I get it!" And that feels like success. I guess that feeling, those little moments, is what I thought teaching would be like. And that's what motivated the change.

Hello Internet. Long Time, No See.

2011-12-18T16:27:00.012-06:00

Time flies when you're busy. Or something. I haven't written in almost two years. Remember me, Internet? Do you know who I am? The last time you heard from me, I was in my thirties, working part-time as a contract writer, closing out another semester as a volunteer English teacher, living with my husband and babies in Cedar Park. My kids were 5 and 6. A lot has changed.

May 2010: I quit my writing gigs.

June 2010: I started a summer fellowship program with Texas Teaching fellows to get certified to teach elementary school students in Texas.

Aug 2010: Eli turned 7; I started teaching as a Bilingual 5th grade math teacher at a high-needs school in Austin.

Nov 2010: With a severe lack of sleep and a very high stress level, I seriously contemplated the intelligence of my career change. I was a tad on the miserable side.

Jan 2011: The two week break did me good and I started to hit my stride as a teacher.

Feb 2011: My mom, who had been sick for years with cancer, started to decline more rapidly. I started spending lots of time in Houston, nearly every weekend for months. The PocketLovey as well as my writing endeavors would suffer severe neglect. (They still have not recovered but I'm hoping to change that.)

April 2011: Lena turned 6.

May 2011: I finished out the school year a (mostly) confident new teacher looking forward to my second year and my first summer off!

June 2011: My mom passed away. I spent a ton of time in Houston for obvious reasons but still managed to have a good summer with my family, my kids, and good friends. I spent time in Mexico, Estes Park, Denver, LA and of course Austin and Cedar Park.

Aug 2011: Eli turned 8; I started my second year of teaching bilingual fifth graders, this time as a Science teacher. My husband got an apartment shortly after the school year started and we found ourselves focused on making sure the kids transitioned to school and "having two houses."

Fast-forward to December and here I am: 40. Motherless. Separated. Mother to a first-grader and a second-grader. Teacher. An apparently non-writing writer. Here I am with my brother and sister at the turning 40 bash. And here are my kids, blissfully festive for the holidays. I'm tired and slightly weary but I'm happy. My kids are bigger. So am I, unfortunately. But I'm still me. Yeah, you know me. Sure you do. I do too. I daresay, better now than ever.

ESL

2010-04-29T14:34:00.004-05:00

On Tuesday, I finished out another wonderful semester teaching English as a Second Language, Level 3, at El Buen Samaritano. It was an excellent class. Here I am with my students. There were only seven remaining by the end of the semester, all women. Beautiful ladies every one and we had a great time. It was a great class!

Lena is FIVE

2010-04-28T08:11:00.003-05:00

Unbelievably, she's five.

And apparently, when you have a five year old and a six year old, there is significantly less time for blogging. C'est la vie.

I can however, make time to post a picture from Lena's awesome fifth birthday party. Cinderella (Yes, THE Cinderella) was in attendance.

Obligatory Flower Photos

2010-04-15T12:55:00.002-05:00

As per the Texas tradition in Spring.

Flowers. How Ordinary.

2010-04-05T07:33:00.003-05:00

Eli, who by now you all know as a budding photographer, snapped this one yesterday.

Spring is here. Spring is here! Obligatory bluebonnet pictures to follow soon...

KiteFest 2010

2010-03-24T07:53:00.004-05:00

We went to Austin's awesome Kitefest this year. Somewhat belatedly, here are a few pictures!

Order, I Say

2010-03-03T09:47:00.003-06:00

Have I mentioned how fabulously clean and organized my new office is? In my new house? You don't want to know how much nonsense I threw away as we prepared to move. Bags and bags of nonsense were stacked up in my office, in my closets, everywhere.

No longer!

I purged. Completely. And it feels SO good. Now I know where everything is. Really. Everything. Before you read further, be warned that I have serious compulsion issues. I am aware of this.

Sometimes now I leave the closet door open just to be relaxed by the orderly manner in which all the envelopes line up together, just to be lulled into peaceful contentment by the sweet way in which each piece of paper (organized by color and category, of course) lies one on top of the other, waiting for me to reach in and pluck them out, because I know right where they are.

Ahh, sweet relief. We'll see how long it lasts...

Here's Something I Didn't Expect

2010-03-01T16:11:00.003-06:00

The other day, Elias and I ran into the grocery store to make a quick purchase. I didn’t even bring in my purse. I just wanted to get in and out. Crossing the parking lot, I noticed a seemingly vagrant man loitering about the front door. He wore a camouflage jacket and balanced a big camping-type backpack on his back. He smiled at me and I smiled back but offered nothing. I had Eli by the hand and a $5 bill in my pocket.

Before I could even get entirely inside the store, Eli’s imagination was assaulted by the row of vending machines that held candy, gumballs, stickers, and various other assorted goodies, including Spiderman propaganda. 6-year old heaven. Of course, Eli in turn, assaulted me, gasping.

“Oh, wow. Mom, LOOK! Ahw my gosh, Mom, it’s Spiderman!” He paused only to inhale. “Mom, can I have a quarter, mom? Oh, please, mom. Look at that. Just one quarter, Mom? Please. I’m so serious.”

Eli has recently come to believe that if he is indeed serious about something, and tells us as much, it should be impossible for us to deny him. Alas, that is not necessarily the case.

“Eli, I’m so sorry, Sweetie, I have no change, no quarters. I don’t even have my purse. Maybe next time.”

I began internally calculating the purchases I had to make, trying to recall how much tax they add these days, and subtracting it from the sum total of $5 I had in my pocket to see if I could promise a stop by the Spiderman station on our way out. And then my peripheral vision allowed for a long, well-tanned forearm in a camouflage jacket coming seemingly out of nowhere, bearing a shiny, silver quarter.

“There ya go, Boy. A quarter.” It was, of course, the man I exchanged glances with on the way in. He beamed at both of us.

“Whoah, thanks!” Eli answered. And I chimed in with appreciation too, surprised, impressed, and humbled by his generosity.

That was something I really wasn't expecting, to say the least. A good old-fashioned surprise is nice every once in a while...

That's Enough Winter For Me

2010-02-25T13:43:00.007-06:00

Behold, the rare Texas snowman. His haunting white remnants still glisten and linger in my back yard.

It was fun while it lasted, and it lasted way too long if you ask me.

It's freaking cold. Bring on Summer!

It's Snowing! It's Snowing!

2010-02-23T15:53:00.004-06:00

So we played outside, of course!

The Red Dog

2010-02-22T20:51:00.002-06:00

We've had to give away the Red Dog. He's been a really, really good dog for the most part. If nothing else, he kept the floor clean of random morsels around the kitchen table. He is sweet, loving, and perhaps protective, or too much so. With age, he has become far too impatient with kids, even our own.

He bit a little girl last summer, the daughter of a really good friend. We thought it was an isolated event, and imposed some strict training and kept up with it. We kept him away from kids he didn't know, changed our routine a ton to make sure we were better dog owners, and thought it was all working. He seemed to have improved.

But he nipped at Lena late last week, enough to draw blood and bruise her. That does it for me. We're not going to wait for something worse to happen.

So sadly, we said goodbye to the Red Dog on Saturday. Yet another end of an era. We seem to be on some kind of a roll. He's gone to live with a good friend who hosts a houseful of dogs (no kids) and has a knack for whipping canines into shape.

Clearly the right choice, but sad nonetheless. Our household is 70 pounds lighter. And now I suppose I'll have to start sweeping the kitchen floor...

The Coolest Chick in the Land

2010-02-20T10:18:00.003-06:00

The coolest chick in the land turned 40 (yikes!) and I'm not too far behind her. We met her in Vegas to celebrate. Good times...

But What Are Eli and Lena REALLY Like?

2010-02-11T09:58:00.002-06:00

To debut the fancy new video camera (and to post anything to replace the photo of me with mayonnaise on my head), I give you...
Eli and Lena
(Uncut)

OH. MY. GOD.

2010-02-08T10:43:00.003-06:00

The kids aren't the only ones playing with mayonnaise.

In my paranoid defense, I didn't *actually* find anything on my head. Maybe all that itching was totally psychosomatic. Still. It was really itching. And the IDEA of it, just the possibility, was totally grossing me out.

So.

Just to be, totally, you know, sure, I did the mayonnaise trick. So I have a new number 1 on my list of Top Ten Disgusting Things That Have Happened to Me Since I Became a Parent. This replaces the previous Number 1: Lena vomits on me with the force of Linda Blair on a flight from Austin to San Fransisco and I have no clean clothes to change into and must wallow in it, smelling my own stink, within the confines of a plane for hours.

Um. Actually. Now that I'm remembering the San Fransisco trip, maybe mayonnaise on my head and the unconfirmed notion of a few harmless bugs isn't so bad...

I Am Not Responsible For This

2010-02-04T08:30:00.004-06:00

Look at my two beautiful children, their heads covered in mayonnaise to treat, get ready for this, head lice.

Yes, I said mayonnaise. I also said lice. EEK!

Lena's itching and complaining started earlier this week, at which point I discussed it with her teacher and searched her pretty little head. That's when I saw one. A live one. Ugh.

When my inner convulsing stopped, the Spring Cleaning commenced. My house is spotless, friends. I have washed every sheet, towel, hat, pillowcase, jacket, scarf, and anything else you can think of in this house.

I also spent fat money at the drugstore getting all the latest must-haves in the world of lice removal and prevention. We did the first treatment Tuesday, additional picking, cleaning and grooming yesterday, and last night I covered their heads in mayonnaise in the name of good old-fashioned paranoia.

We should be pest-free now...

Bye Bye Buttonwood

2010-01-25T08:19:00.003-06:00

I announced that we were approaching the end of an era back in September. And it's true. We turned off the lights and handed over the keys yesterday. No more house near the arboretum.

Bye bye funky and wonderful Travis County liberal suburbanites.

Hello Williamson County! Howdy do Cedar Park picket fences! Good ta meetcha rural America. Good morning, Wal-MART!

All kidding aside, I do love the house. And so do the wee ones. I mean who wouldn't? "It's a house with STAIRS!"

I gotta get to work as my commute is slightly longer. And I need to put my new bumper sticker on my car: United States Deputy Sherriff's Association Sponsor. You think I'm kidding. Right beside my Peace, Love and Yoga Groove sticker.

I'm Good Enough, I'm Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me!

2010-01-19T21:31:00.002-06:00

Karma

2009-11-11T19:46:00.003-06:00

Elias came home from school today with a decent shiner.

When I asked him what happened, he said, "I bumped into Karma at PE...

It hurt."

Hasn't Karma knocked us all for a loop at least once?

Turns out Karma is a six year old girl.

Who knew?

The principle still applies...

Weekend Camping Trip

2009-10-13T15:10:00.004-05:00

We took our almost annual camping trip to Camp Ben for the Columbus Day Party. Despite chillier weather than I would have liked, we had a great time!

Portrait of America

2009-10-08T08:30:00.012-05:00

In an effort to ready our house for the market, we had a new roof put on. Several guys stomped around above our heads and two days later we had a shiny new housetop. The men were mostly from Mexico, a couple from Honduras.
I talked to them, as you might guess. I practiced speaking Spanish and I watched them work. I watched them play a little too, and I took their pictures. These guys were working. I mean real work. Hard work. Putting on a new roof in the middle of Texas Summer hardly tops the list of lazy pass-times.

I teach English as a second language once a week to adults, mostly Mexican immigrants. I volunteer for an organization called El Buen Samaritano, an Episcopal Mission, and I am fortunate to do it because it has given me a beautiful window into a world that I would not otherwise know. It has in many ways, I suppose, made my vision of America more romantic. I am regularly witness to my students, who came here how they could, who work two and three jobs, who take care of their children, who go to school at the end of the day. They take English classes and citizenship classes and computer classes. They work. And I don't know if I'd be able to do what they do. I admire them. I learn from them.
I observe these workers with the same idyllic affection. Up at 5 or 6 o'clock in the morning, I have seen them at the gas station, 7 to a truck. These trucks carry landscape equipment and shingles, tools and workboots. I've seem them before the sun comes up buying coffee and hot dogs, Topo Chico, and Red Bull.

They build America. If that's not a beautiful portrait of this country, I don't know what is.

Seed Planting

2009-10-01T09:25:00.004-05:00

Early this morning, Eli's Kindergarten class held a wildflower seed planting. The teachers put on a little show for us, they talked about Johnny Appleseed and Ladybird Johnson, and then the kids planted wildflowers in the kindergarten courtyard area. It feels good as Eli says, to "take care of the earth!"

Self Portrait of a 38 Year Old

2009-09-30T13:05:00.011-05:00

I am 38. It happened to me yesterday, even though from the outside, it looked like any other day.

The upper 30s aren't so bad thus far. Saying the number out loud however is odd. I don't mind being 38...

It's just that it doesn't seem possible.

My awesome family got me an awesome new camera. It's AWESOME. A Canon Rebel xs. I almost slept with it last night.

With no apologies or disclaimers, because at 38 you should be plenty well adjusted, here's my likeness as interpreted by my awesome new camera... (Did I mention it's awesome?)

End of an Era

2009-09-28T22:01:00.003-05:00

Or perhaps this is just the beginning of the end of an era. Our house is officially up for sale. Who knows how long it will take to sell. 6 days. 6 months. Maybe longer in this market. However long it takes, the plan is to say bye bye Buttonwood. We lovingly pronounce that "Buttonwood. Butt. On. Wood." We'll keep you posted as to potential buyers. Anybody out there need a house with a very awesome street name? Check out our house. Tell your friends...

The Bus Driver's Back

2009-09-14T15:42:00.004-05:00

As of today, Leslie the Bus Driver is back. And things are back to normal. She did have an accident. But it was in her own car and she made it clear that "someone hit her."

On his last day last week, I snapped a photo of the somewhat stiff and sweaty, nervous substitute bus driver. When I did, he asked me in his reserved monotone: "Um. Ma'am, why did you do that? What's that for?" I laughed and told him not to worry, that I was just taking a picture of him for my blog, which almost no one reads, so he would be fine. There would be no trouble. He hesitantly agreed.

Hopefully, that is the end of that.

The Bus Was Late

2009-09-04T20:19:00.005-05:00

The bus was seven minutes late this afternoon. Seven. Minutes. I thought seven minutes were long during child labor. Turns out seven minutes of natural labor are just about as painful as waiting for a school bus in Texas heat while entertaining visions of your mangled kindergartner crawling out of a big yellow school bus.

Turns out I can witness four separate imaginary school bus accidents, dream the heroic water rescue of my son from Town Lake, plan and attend the fictitious funerals of my entire family, and fabricate a plan for revenge on Leslie the School Bus Driver, who until only minutes before, I had adored and categorized as responsible beyond reproach. All in only seven minutes.

Good God. Is this normal? Is this what I have to look forward to as my son joins the outside world? Complete and utter paranoia? Worry? Irrational fear of the outlandishly unlikely? I imagined the worst. I cried. I sat there on the curb and wiped my eyes and nose on my t-shirt. I told myself I was being silly. I told myself to just not think about it. I wondered who would be the first newbie mom to call the school announcing that the Frog Bus was late. I dialed the elementary school and hung up before they answered.

Jesus Christ.

Finally, after 420 excruciating seconds, I heard the obnoxious automotive exhale of the big yellow school bus as it stopped a block away. It was coming from the wrong direction but it it was coming nonetheless. It stopped at almost the right place, and my sweet irreplaceable boy stepped off as well as Cooper and Caroline who share this stop. Following them was a very bedraggled and very apologetic administrative type.

"Are you the parent?" he asked me. He was sweating profusely.

Am I the parent? What does that mean? I'm "A" parent. But if he would like to refer to me as "THE" parent, well that's fine by me.

"I'm Eli's parent," I answered. "What happened?"

He explained that he was just a substitute and they would do their best to never be late again. He was checking off names on a clipboard.
"So you're the parent of Eli?" He made a check mark. "What about Cooper's parent?"

What's up with this guy? I keep my thoughts to myself, however.
"I can see her. Cooper's with her already. They're right across the street."
"Cooper," he mumbles. Check. And Caroline. That's that.
"Thank you ma'am. Things should be back to normal next week."

"OK, no problem. Please don't worry," I say. "You weren't even ten minutes late." And I smile at him reassuringly, as if I am the poster child for Hey! No worries! We're laid back around here. No big deal. No worries, man, take-it-easy!
He is relieved and he's in a hurry. I feel as though he is racing against a time-bomb of hormonal women, all sitting on various curbs of various streets, waiting for their various beloved babies. He is a wreck, so I wave goodbye and let him go to it.

It turns out Leslie The Bus Driver had an accident this morning. An accident. For all I know, accident could mean she dropped the hair dryer in her bathtub this morning. Or it could mean she had a fender bender in her own car when she was driving to work this morning to pick up her school bus. Or it could mean she was driving the school bus (Eli's frog bus, which he did not ride this morning) while talking on the phone or texting her boyfriend or looking back at the crazy mass of screaming kids to yell at them to for the love of God just Pipe down back there, when they got into a wreck.

I just don't know. And I am going to try very, very hard to just not think about it. I hope Leslie is OK. And I hope to see her Tuesday.

Total Disarray

2009-09-02T19:21:00.003-05:00

Let's see. I don't have near enough stress in my life. My day job is crazy and they're laying off folks right and left. I just launched my own company and I'm flying by the seat of my pants. My elder child just started Kindergarten. I unwittingly volunteered to be a room mother. I'm volunteer teaching ESL (which I lerve) once a week - at a level I've never taught before. Ailing parents, family dramas, let's not forget therapy (I think I need more therapy), and bills piling up.

Oh wait, I have a great idea! I know! Let's sell the house! Ok. But first we have to do all the things we always wanted to do to make it look presentable so someone ELSE can enjoy it.

Ok, let's do that. So... New paint, new roof, new blinds, new carpet, new yard. Awesome. It's not quite done yet though. Here's how we've been living for a couple of weeks...

Budding Photographer

2009-08-28T15:17:00.002-05:00

Over three years ago, Alena Mae snapped what I thought was a great photo while nestled in her sling. That photo has encouraged me to allow the kids to play with the camera for the most part whenever they show any interest. You just never know what they're gonna get. Most of the time it's little more than foreheads and feet, but occasionally they capture something interesting.

Elias snapped a kind of arty one yesterday, featured here for your consideration. That's me enduring a mild windstorm while waiting for my car at the car wash. No make-up, no hair-do; I actually hadn't even showered yet. That's me. Elias loves the photo, and I love that he took it.

Day 3: Eli Beat the Bus

2009-08-27T08:28:00.004-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, the school bus door opened to reveal the lovely Leslie reminding Eli that this was his stop and "Don't forget your bookbag now." He stopped at Leslie's side to wave his goodbye to the bus, put his bookbag on, straightened himself as if he were about to walk a runway, and then carefully descended the stairs. All very serious work it seems. Success!

Day Two of Kindergarten: School Bus

2009-08-26T09:03:00.008-05:00

Yesterday after school, we allowed Elias to take the school bus home. He was very excited. I waited at the bus stop to retrieve him.
Big yellow bus.
Big noisy engine as it pulls around the corner.
Big squeaky exhale as the bus comes to a stop and the door opens.
Big boisterous bus driver with big mama forearms dangling above a big black steering wheel on the big boy school bus. I'm waiting for my big boy to exit the bus.
Waiting.
I'm waiting and no child exits. Gulp.
I step on to the bus to speak with the lovely smiling woman who is trying to talk to me while I entertain visions of my beautiful baby: walking down the highway focused on his "tramisformer lunchbox" while big rigs speed by, only inches from his perfect little body. Or maybe he got off at the wrong stop. Maybe he's wandering only a few streets away within our neighborhood, confused, crying, looking for our house. Or he's in front of the school with his teacher, standing out there in the heat. Hot, thirsty. Asking where his mom is. His teacher is ready to get the hell off that sidewalk and has decided that I'm that mom. The one who's always late, who puts her work before her children, who can't get her shit together to remember when she's supposed to pick her son up from school. Oh shit, was I supposed to pick him up today? How could I screw that up? No. No, that's not it. And oh, God, I see him being led away from the elementary school bus parking lot by some strange man who goes to elementary school bus parking lots for the sole purpose of snatching up beautiful little boys whose mothers are stupid enough to let them ride the bus by themselves on only the second day of Kindergarten. What have I done?
All these scenarios float through my head in only three seconds and I tell myself not to cry. I tell myself not to freak out. And I don't. Instead I talk to the big smiling school bus driver. Her name is Leslie.
"You have a Kindergartner?" She is beaming at me.
"Yes, his name is Eli." I am cool as a cucumber, I think to myself. Leslie looks up to her overhead mirror and shouts, "Keli! You on the bus? Keee-Laaayyy."
Nothing happens. Leslie purses her lips and looks at me.
"Hmm. I don't think he's on here."
"Um, no. It's Eli," I explain and I'm standing beside her now. I'm scanning the green seats, one by one. "His name is Eli."
Leslie is carefully going through a stack of yellow cards. "I don't have no Keli," she says and raises her eyebrows at me. We both wonder what I'm going to do next. At this point, the children at the front of the bus are watching.
The bus is LOUD. Full of screaming and laughter. It is completely chaotic and overwhelming to me. I can't make out any faces really. It's just this sea of screaming kids, none of whom are mine. I have no idea how this woman voluntarily drives a bus full of children twice daily. I think to myself that whatever she's earning, it's not enough. I think to myself that this woman will have my boy's life in her hands for at least half an hour every day and I don't even know her last name. I don't want to know her last name so much as I want her to like me, to like Eli, to take care of him. Where the hell is my little boy?
"No," I say again. "ELI Roe."
"Naw, Unnhuh." Leslie casually throws down the stack of yellow cards. "I don't have no Eli either. Oh, wait. Roe? William?"
"Oh, God. Sorry! Yes, William Elias Roe. We call him Eli," I tell her. And now I know that I will be remembered as the idiot who didn't know how her child was registered at school. Yes, that's me. I'm the jerk who puts one name on the papers and then to keep it interesting, we call him something else completely different.
"I'm sorry," I say again to Leslie. She writes something down on the yellow card that says William Roe. I am sure she is writing that his mother is an asshole. Then she stands up from her seat and shouts, "ELI! This is your stop!" To this, a bunch of other kids take notice and chorally repeat her.
And then, finally, I see a little mess of red hair pop up over a green plastic seat in the middle of the bus. It is my child. His face is red with laughter and he is surprised to see me on the school bus. "Oh! Hi mom!"
"Let's go, Eli. This is your stop," I say. And I can't help but laugh.
"Oh. Ok mom!" He has no idea there was ever any problem. Leslie says goodbye to Eli and to me, she asks "You gonna be here tomorrow?"
"Oh Yes, I think I better." I say, embarrassed.
"Ok then. See you tomorrow." And she closes the door and drives off.
All the evil scenarios in my head float away, for now. Eli and I talk about how important it is to know where to get off the bus. The only explanation he offers is that, "Well yeah, it was really LOUD on there."
That's my boy.

Kindergarten

2009-08-24T09:09:00.000-05:00

Eli started school today. And we have all been very excited about it. He's ready. The child is already six years old. Given his late birthday and the whole late talking thing, I had an extra year at home with him. We are ready now for kindergarten. Or I thought I was.
I am so painfully typical. So predictable. Any remaining hope I had of being anything other than absolutely average in the parenthood department is in the trash can with an entire box of Kleenex. I feel just as hormonal as I did when I brought him home from the hospital.
Let the cliches begin. My baby is growing up.

While You Weren't Looking, I Had Another Baby

2009-08-05T22:23:00.005-05:00

I haven't said peep up here about my latest endeavor, but I am about to now. I just launched my own company! Huge news, right? I've learned so much, I've had a great time, and I've spent some cash to get up and running. But hopefully it will all be worth it. I'm pretty proud and very excited!

What's the company, you're wondering? I thought you'd never ask! I invented a completely unique baby product. But I'm not going to tell you any more here. No, I'm not. What I want you to do is GO TO MY NEW WEB SITE! Well, go ahead. Go already!

Superstitious

2009-07-22T14:46:00.004-05:00

I'm not usually all that superstitious but yesterday afternoon, this is what I saw when I went to get gas.

I don't know if the person before me did it on purpose or it was dumb luck, but this is where it stopped. It took me off guard enough to take a picture. But not enough to start the car and go get gas at another pump.

Que sera sera.

And then, last night after class, there was a black cat waiting for me on the roof of my car.

Swear to God.

I confess it gave me a case of the willies. I didn't have my camera with me or I would have taken a picture of that too. The cat was nice enough to give me a friendly meow, let me scratch his chin, and then he skedaddled.

So. Not sure what all that means, but if I get struck by lightening or something, well if I do, I guess I just do. Maybe I'll buy a lottery ticket today...

Mama Love

2009-05-22T14:46:00.002-05:00

Saw this lovely vision up close in the parking lot of the J. They were completely calm and less than 15 feet away from me.

Brainfreeze!

2009-05-19T14:07:00.003-05:00

We went to the zoo this morning and among many other important discoveries, the wee ones rediscovered brainfreeze, a la snowcones. Aaaaaghh! Brainfreeze!

Sharing 101

2009-05-14T08:59:00.003-05:00

Elias gave me this necklace for Mother's Day. He made it himself at school and gave it to me in a home-made envelope along with a note. It was presented with much fanfare, including a song called "I Love My Mommy." The whole shabang was awesome and I love my necklace.

Given my reaction, Lena of course immediately coveted the necklace. When she asked me if she could wear it, I wasn't sure.

"Mommy, can I wear your special necklace?"

Elias looked at me, expectantly. I felt like giving my necklace to Lena would be tantamount to throwing it on the floor and stomping on the cute little green plastic heart. I panicked internally. Lena stroked the necklace and kept on, "Can I mommy, can I? Please? Pleeeaaaasssseeee?" Eli waited.

"Well, Lena, this is my special necklace that Eli gave me for Mother's Day and it was a very special gift and I think I'm just going to wear it for a while and maybe in a few days when it's not so new for me any more, then you can wear it." I looked at Eli for approval.

"Mommy!" Eli answered. "I made that necklace for taking turns." He looked at me as if I were stomping on the cute little green plastic heart.

Lena chimed in, "Yeah Mommy. What are you thinking? That necklace is for sharing."

Yes, of course. What the hell was I thinking?

Seeing Spots

2009-05-12T08:31:00.004-05:00

We've had a bit of weirdness around here. Lena got sick early Sunday morning. And her brief episodes of tummy trouble were followed by the appearance of spots. They're on her arm and face mostly but also on her legs and torso. Eli had a few spots too and so did I.

We went to the doctor Sunday to have it checked out and we were the talk of the doctor's office. Several doctors and nurses looked at us but no one had an answer. There were lots of comments about what the spots are not: They're not chiggers, not mosquito bites, not leeches, or ticks. They're not swine flu. They don't seem to be an allergic reaction as there's no pain, itching, or swelling. It's most likely viral. Most likely no big deal. And they're already fading, so hopefully that is the case...

Kindergarten Roundup

2009-05-07T08:02:00.005-05:00

I had the privilege of taking Elias to the Kindergarten Roundup at Davis Elementary earlier this week. After filling out half an hour's worth of paperwork, fifth graders hosted us on a tour through the school.

I was overwhelmed by a flood of my own childhood memories. My art projects, my teachers, the smell of the cafeteria, the texture of what they put on our tray every Thursday and claimed was "hamburger."

Elias, also excited, verbally assaulted the unprepared fifth graders with questions about what he could do RIGHT NOW. The concept of being introduced to the computer room, the library, the science lab, the baby ducklings in Ms. Monroe's class, all without being able to fully experience it RIGHT NOW was, for Elias, a tad absurd. I have to admit I can see his point.

Can we do the computers NOW, Mommy? Are we having story time now? Can I do that science project now Mommy? Do I get to to take that baby duck home, Mommy?

Not quite yet, Eli. But soon.
And although he couldn't do any of those things just yet, he could make new and interesting noises with his mouth after witnessing a random "big kid" doing it in the cafeteria for a mere three seconds.

This marks the beginning of lots of new things for Elias and for me. For Lena too. It's new for all of us. Eli's going to meet women and men who will be his teachers. He will spend most of the day with them and he will know them better than I do. A random group of strange big boys will be influencing him daily and I will have little to no control over what they do or how he perceives them. Am I ready for all this? Not really, but it's happening. Well, it's almost happening. Not quite yet. But soon.

While We're On the Topic of Pets...

2009-05-03T20:37:00.005-05:00

Introducing the latest member of our household. Another thing I have to clean and feed. Really?

Sarcasm aside, I like the little guy. Among all the beings in my house, this one is completely SILENT. Nice. And the kids love him. He's a beta fish and was the most popular gift at Lena's birthday party. (Thank you, Aunt Tasha!) For now, we're calling him Max, when we're not calling him Nemo.

Supposedly these fish can live 2 to 3 years. I'm hoping we can keep him alive for at least half of that...

Schultzie (April 1989 - November 2004)

2009-04-29T21:19:00.007-05:00

Schultzie was my pup. She was born 20 years ago today to my Dad's dog, "Willie" (short for Willamena). I was on a first date with a guy named Andrew at his junior prom the night she was born, but was more excited about her impending birth.

I made at least three phone calls throughout the night to check on Willie and the litter. No cell phones back then so I imagine those calls were fairly intrusive. I was 17, and didn't think to consider that that might have been rude. (Who me?) Needless to say, I never went out with Andrew again. But Schultzie and I were together for more than 15 years.

I am shocked (and slightly shamed) to realize that there is not even one mention of her on this blog. But then again, I started this blog in January of 2006. I was deep in the throes of early parenthood. I had a 9 month old and a two-year old. So in that light, I suppose it makes perfect sense that Schultz was overlooked. Schultzie was my baby before I had babies. After the wee humans arrive, everything changes for our beloved pets, doesn't it?

She was the best dog ever. I know people say that but really. She was clever and affectionate. She had personality. She wasn't a yapper. She had this way of growl-talking at all the right moments: It forced us to anthropomorphize her. It was uncanny. After hours on the couch, her whiskers would be all gnarled up into a Bob Marley mess that we called shmush-face. And she usually woke up grumpy (like a lot of the good humans do.) She licked my toes and I let her. For all twelve pounds of her, somehow she could sound like a herd of cattle running on the second floor.

She lived well over fifteen years and by the time I finally put her down, she had been my pup for nearly half of my lifetime. She met me when I was a kid. She met all my boyfriends and both husbands. She lived with me in every apartment and house I have ever lived in since I ventured out on my own. She knew me pregnant, was with me when I miscarried, and met my firstborn. That's a lotta dog years.

Props to Schultzie.

My Kids are 4 and 5

2009-04-27T22:06:00.004-05:00

Two days ago, I entered the four month period during which my kids are technically speaking, only one year apart. This happens every year, as of four years ago, between April 25th (Lena's birthday) and August 12th (Elias's). This year, Lena is 4 and Eli is 5. I must confess to you that it has been intensely gratifying to report their ages to someone, anyone, during these four sweet months.

It was the best, of course, when the kids were younger. When Lena was born, Eli was only 20 months old. In my opinion, simply venturing out into public during Lena's first months was cause for applause, and apparently countless mothers and fathers here in Austin shared that sentiment. All I had to do was go to the grocery store where I would be lauded by some stranger, usually a parent themselves, as some kind of supermom. I'd be waddling through the HEB in search of diapers or baby wipes or hemorrhoid cream when I would invariably hear "Oh my! Look at that tiny baby!" Then they'd greet Eli, "What a big boy YOU are." And to me, they always asked, "How close ARE they?"

My answer wasn't always received with reverence. Some people looked at me as if I were insane, and rightly so. Some people looked at me as if I must have been ignorant. (They have pills that solve that particular problem, you know.) People without children didn't particularly get it, but the parents among those who asked would almost always give me the most wonderful validation.

Women would wrinkle up their eyebrows, smile, and nod all at the same time, knowingly. They'd pat me on the shoulder or tell me about their children. Dads would shake their heads and laugh. "Yep! Gettin' any sleep? Don't worry you'll get there." Women and men. Some older, some younger, some richer, some poorer, some more educated, some less. All of them very kind and all of them a little tired around the eyes.

One woman, without ever stopping her shopping cart just looked at me and said, "Hard work..." It IS hard work. I had two kids very close together. Two in a row. For a couple of years anyway, two under two. Two in diapers at the same time. As silly as it is, the exaggerated response that has come after I've said, "My kids are 1 and 2," or "2 and 3," and so on has been proof enough for me that what I've been doing is hard. I am not alone. Everyone thinks so. I am not crazy. Well. Not much.

As the kids have gotten older, the fruit on this particular tree hasn't been quite as sweet. My kids are 4 and 5 now. They're big. They're damn cute but the picture I paint at HEB isn't quite what it was 4 years ago.

Then: I was a woman with an adorable red headed toddler on one hip and a cherub-like infant in a sling on the other, stoically pushing a shopping cart with one hand.
Now: I am the same woman, only more disheveled, with two vaguely pre-school-aged-looking kids arguing at the top of their lungs over who's gonna push the cart, and wrestling over a bag of goldfish that has not yet been paid for. (Not exactly something to fawn over.)

Still. If this is the first year I don't get to report the age difference to a stranger, and it very well might be, I will mourn the loss of that era. I'll do my best to enjoy the invisible years though. I have several coming up, I have been informed. And after the invisible years, the age difference will be noticeable again.

I have two kids very close together. Two in a row. Two under thirty. Two in junior high, then in high school at the same time. Two sets of braces, two proms, two college educations, two weddings...

In the Name of Confidence

2009-04-23T20:59:00.000-05:00

In the name of my own self-confidence, I give you the worst picture that has ever been taken of me. Ever.

Here's what I REALLY look like. There is no fun-house mirror involved and that's not my reflection in a spoon. That is me sweating profusely. That is my very large forehead. That is my bulbous nose.

I'd like to add that this is not what I look like usually. This is what I look like when I'm really really hot and sweaty in the middle of summer and Eli grabs the camera and takes my picture when I'm not ready. Totally not ready.

I'm posting this picture on a dare.

There, I did it. And I feel pretty damn good about it. It's actually quite liberating...

Adult

2008-12-04T07:40:00.002-06:00

Just minutes ago, I heard an odd rustling from the living room. The following conversation took place between two rooms, Elias in the living room and the rest of us in the study down the hall.

Tamara: "Eli, whatcha doing?"
Elias: "We need-a make-a fire."

He was inside the HEB Box O' Fire Logs. Not a good idea, obviously. I answered him.

Tamara: "No, buddy. We can't make a fire right now. You always need an adult for that."

There was a brief silence and then...

Elias: "Daaaddddyyyyyyyyyyy!"
Jonathan: "Yes, Eli?"
Elias: "Are you a dolt?"
Jonathan: "Yes um well yes but..."

Understated

2008-11-24T08:32:00.004-06:00

I give you the top ten list of my most understated opinions, with references, in case you don't believe me.

10. Daniel Lanois is full of himself (Daniel Lanois: Here is What Is).

9. John Cleese, while very funny, is a weird man (Monty Python's Flying Circus - John Cleese's Personal Best).

8. While I’m sure he’s a very nice man, John Madden looks like an ogre (Random John Madden Article with Photo).

7. Van Morrison is a talented musician (Official Van Website).

6. During the time between Halloween and New Years, I am hungry. (See a recent photo that betrays the current state of my round middle. Ugh.)

5. Having kids changes your life (Ask any parent).

4. My kids are beautiful (See the Little Landlords for yourself).

3. Writing a novel is hard (Trust me).

2. George W. Bush is not a good president. (Wikipedia's Criticism of George W. Bush or see the past eight years.)

1. People are strange and there's no accountin' for taste (again, see the past eight years), but times, they are a'changin! (Change Can Happen)

No Hitting. Whatsoever.

2008-11-20T09:24:00.002-06:00

I realize of late I do little more than report conversations to you. But it's been rich around here lately. I overheard the following conversation between the man of the house (that's JM) and the wee Master Elias after he (Eli) was caught hitting Lena:

JM: (shocked and disappointed) "Eli! No! That is NOT nice. Come here to me. No! What are you doing, Eli?"
Eli: defensive mumbling...
JM: "Eli, we do NOT hit! That could hurt someone. Do you know that can hurt?"
Eli: "Yeah..."
JM: "Do NOT do that again. We do not hit ANYONE. No hitting. Whatsoever. If you do that again, you're going to get a SPANKING."

(Big fat pregnant pause...)

I wasn't in the room to see his face, but I could hear JM catch himself and wrinkle up his forehead to beat the band all the way down the hall and into the other room. I was laughing too hard to hear exactly what he said next, but it was something like a fast-forward version of "Uhhh. But we don't want to give spankings around here cuz that's hitting and we don't hit. Ok. So run along now. Go be a good boy..."

That's my husband. The father of my children. AWESOME.

What Are You Eating?

2008-11-18T10:58:00.004-06:00

And now, a recent conversation with Elias, who is recently wanting to get out of bed at 10:00pm and, of all things, eat something. I am certain that the child is not hungry, and just wants to get out of bed. So I deny him food...

Elias: Mommy, I am hungry.
Tamara: No, Eli. I’m sorry, it’s not dinner time; it’s bedtime.
Elias: No it is dinner time. Mommy, can I have some bread?
Tamara: No, it’s bed time, Eli. Get back in bed.
Elias: Mommy, what are you eating?

(What? I wasn't eating. Ok, So I was eating a cracker. It was just a cracker. And I had mostly swallowed it by the time he came in there...)

Elias: Mommy, what are you eating?
Tamara: Nothing, Eli, get in bed.
Elias: Mommy, what are you eating?
Tamara: Nothing, Eli, get back in bed.
Elias: Mommy.
Tamara: What, Eli?
Elias: Mommy?
Tamara: What?
Elias: What are you eating?
Tamara: Nothing, Eli.
Elias: Mommy?
Tamara: What.
Elias: What.
Tamara: What?
Elias: What?
Tamara: Chicken butt!
Elias: Mommy, can I have some chicken butt?
Tamara: Hearty, satisfied laughter...

Human Bean

2008-11-16T21:00:00.002-06:00

I recently participated in the following conversation, wherein Lena (again) imparted wisdom and intuition beyond her three years:

Eli: (very upset) Mommy, Lena says I’m not human.

Tamara: Oh, Lena. Eli’s human, sweetie.

Lena: No he’s not, Mommy. He’s a boy. And boys are NOT human.

We’ll she’s got a point there, now, doesn’t she?

Pride

2008-11-04T23:24:00.002-06:00

I feel a pride that I have never before felt.

Barack Obama will be President of the United States.

Beautiful.

Gifts I Have Received

2008-10-16T12:45:00.005-05:00

Today is my mother’s birthday. October 16th, …. I dare not say the year. But she’s been around the block. She’s old enough to have two thirty-seven year-old daughters. Of course, she looks much, much younger than that.

In honor of the occasion, I have made a list. These are some of the gifts I have received from my mother:

The sanguine gene: We’re optimists! And pretty outgoing. She has never met a stranger and I can pretty much talk to anyone too. It comes in handy.

A hearty cackle: My laugh is loud and bold. It is not polite or subtle. My laugh has mom written all over it. I once heard my mother laughing in an airport before I saw her. I knew I’d find her in no time. When something makes mom laugh, she opens her mouth ridiculously wide, throws her head back, and bellows freely. It’s contagious.

An excellent, albeit morbid sense of humor: She has a sick beautiful sense of humor. I love it. We laugh at the same things until we cry. I do have a dark side in the comic sense, and I think that is inherited from her. When I was about eight, she modified the lyrics to My Favorite Things. Instead of “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…” we sang “Dead cats on highways and dead little kittens…” And it went on and on from there, because my mom hats cats. She HATES cats. We laughed for three hours in the car between Austin and Houston. That STILL makes me laugh…

A decent look: I’ve got my flaws, and I’m no classic beauty, but as I get closer to hitting the big 4-0, I think I’m willing to say that I’m no slouch in the looks department. I clean up good. I'm no model but you can't call me ugly. I'm interesting, at least. I’ve got pretty good skin, a mane of thick hair, and pretty eyes that get complimented on occasion. I’ve got a funky nose but that’s not mom’s. That’s dad’s. The good stuff comes from mom. Just look at her. She’s a beauty.

A love for all things Latino. It all started with Mom and Julio Iglesias in the 70s. Or maybe before that for all I know. Spain, Mexico, South America. The language, the men, the food, the art, the culture, the whole idea of it. My obsession is all mom’s fault.

Thanks, Mom, and happy birthday!

Playing with Time

2008-05-11T22:16:00.000-05:00

I suppose it's no coincidence that almost immediately after my baby’s third birthday, I have become a little preoccupied with time. For a full week now, my kids have been in school five days a week. Five days. Geez, that whizzed by fast. And the clock is still ticking. It’s all very finite, you know, our time. I can’t help myself but to obsess over what I have and have not done with my time, what I should or shouldn't do with it, how quickly it runs way from me, where it goes when it's gone.

Sometimes I feel angry that time goes by so fast. It feels like I've been cheated out of some other experience, the one I was supposed to get. But I don't even know what that other experience is.

In Mexico, time flows differently, or maybe that’s not Mexico so much as simply being on vacation. In any case, when you’re away from home and work, time slides past you on another level.

When you’re living and breathing in your own space, within your own routine, time has another way about it. It feels pretty slow when you’re in the thick of it, tending to the tedium, and then suddenly you stop to breathe or clean your face and there’s a totally different person in the mirror. It’s a little nuts. Just a little nuts is all, and that’s what I’ve been thinking about. Obsessing over.

My kids are growing up.

My parents are getting older.

My body’s aging.

My life is changing.

But it’s not a bad thing. On the contrary, I think it's all going to be ok, even if my feelings are all over the map. Sometimes I feel aloof and want to turn my back on the whole thing.

Sometimes I feel bored. I wonder, what's the point, anyway? But you know what an annoying optimist I am. Those thoughts don't linger for long. And the rest of the time, I feel excited and interested.

These are the times when I feel alive, like I need to be present. Like I'm needed. I feel it when my kids are laughing, or when I'm with the people who make me feel loved. When I'm doing yoga or meditating or when I've found something new.

And the coolest thing ever is when the new thing I find is something really old that I just learn to see differently. Like me. Like my own shiny face in the mirror.

Sure the clock is still ticking. It is all very finite. But that's actually motivating to me. I'm gonna let it light a fire under my ass. And hopefully I'll figure out pretty quickly what I should and shouldn't do with my time and then follow through on that as much as I can, before it all runs way from me, and goes whereever it goes when it's gone.

Bye Bye Birdies

2008-05-05T21:49:00.003-05:00

I checked on the birds' nest and was saddened and surprised to see it completely empty. Not sure how these mama birds operate, but I believe she moved the little ones to a new, safer location. I can't imagine they were ready to fly away. They were still so tiny. At first I thought they might have been eaten but I really think they just moved, primarily because the nest was perfectly intact. That, and because Lena told me so.

Tamara: (Gasp.) Oh no! The birds are gone.
Elias: (Mock gasp.) Oh my gosh! The birds are gone?
Tamara: (To JM) You don't think they got eaten do you?
Lena: (To me, perfectly sure of herself) No, they just left with the mama bird.
Tamara: Oh, really. Where'd they go?
Lena: (Incredulously)To the zoo, mommy.

Well, duh. Of course.

New Life Abounds

2008-04-27T22:04:00.003-05:00

A mother wren chose to build her nest in our barbecue pit. We discovered her on Saturday and after moving her nest as gracefully as possible to a hanging planter very nearby, the little ones hatched today!

Look closely. They have big black eyeballs and fuzzy gray heads. In this picture, two of them have their little mouths open, yellow beaks agape.

If that's not cute enough for you, one of my dearest yoga mamas had her baby about a week ago. A beautiful healthy boy, and me with another little boyfriend to lerve. As of April 17th, Parker Vincent Misenti lives among us. He was born the day I left Mexico.

Since I left Mexico, I have been trying to hold on to some of what I found there. In keeping with that, I went to a Zhongtian Yiqi meditation this evening led by Master Li Junfeng. It was excellent. Admittedly, I can't say after one hour that I actually connected with Heaven, Earth, and all of humanity, as is the goal. But I can say I did some good quiet living during that hour. And that's a start.

Hey! Look at all this living we're doing around here...

Old Soul

2008-04-25T10:25:00.006-05:00

My daughter was born on April 25th, the anniversary of her great grandfather's death. My grandfather, my dad's dad (we called him Gramps) was a bit of a Johnny-come-lately into the world of paternal affection, but he got there eventually. I wasn't nearly as close to him as I was to my other grandfather, but he was a really good guy.

Gramps was very well-off and a little well-to-do in the refined sense, but he was also a hard-working man. When he had his last stroke, he was working outside on a tractor. He smelled like chapstick and scotch. He drank and read the paper every day. He liked Beetle Bailey. He sang to us, as if it were a nursery rhyme,

"My momma done told me, when I was in knee-pants,
My momma done told me, son...
A woman is two-faced, a worrisome thing
Who'll lead ya to sing the blues, son."
Not exactly a traditional children's song. He whistled and he sang to us as he drove us around, in his old pick-up truck, the 800 acres of ranch-land he owned and loved. The thing about Gramps was his eyebrows. He had these big eyebrows that he combed up into a point. It was his thing. And he wouldn't let anyone trim them. And I think he liked it when you talked about them. His eyebrows were his thing. They were his eyebrows.

When I'm feeling nostalgic or sentimental about Gramps, I like to imagine that I see him in Lena, given the whole April 25th connection. So the other day, I noticed Lena in the bathtub. It was Gramps. I saw him right there in her eyebrows. Take a look.

Eyebrows aside, my little Lena is her own person! Three years ago today, she completed our family. She filled in all the missing pieces with tireless affection, her strength of character, her unwavering will, and a good dose of drama to boot. She is my beautiful little girl.

Happy birthday, Lena! And my best to Gramps too...

Want To See Some Mexico Pictures?

2008-04-18T21:02:00.017-05:00

Here they are, very briefly described... Me with Brigitte, the woman who runs Solstice.

This is most of the group, from left to right: Carly from Corpus (she now lives in Puerto Escondido, Mexico), me, Aude from France (now living in Mexico City), Paul and his wife Ann from CA (Ann is the yoga guru), Ricardo from Guanajuato, Mexico, and Jolene, an exchange student from Holland living in Mexico City.

The very desolate beach in Zipolite. I never saw more than a handful of people on the beach.

My bungalow.

Wenda. A favorite! She deals art deco in Canada.

More favorites! This couple from Mexico City was passionately in love and so interesting. Giovan and Elsa.

La Roca Blanca (The white rock).

A native goes for a swim. Did I mention Zipolite is known for its nude beaches? Heh heh. I saw lots of privates. Mostly tourists and exhibitionists though. A tad annoying. This was the only nudist I saw who wasn't on parade. So I snapped a photo of his exotic (and fairly aged) brown bum.

Brigitte helps Ann do a handstand. I did one of these on the last day! It felt awesome! It didn't last long though, and I am positive I did not look nearly as graceful as Ann does here.

My writing space.

Ok. That's it. I'll try to stop bothering you with the Mexico talk now...

Back to Reality

2008-04-16T12:39:00.002-05:00

I am now sitting in the airport in Mexico City, awaiting the plane that will take me home.

I love my family very much and I look forward to seeing them, but if I'm honest, I have to say I am not homesick. Not even close. I am always very happy to be home and to see the people I love, but I always get this pit in my stomach at the end of a good trip. Why is that? What is that?

I think it could be that I want so much to prolong the feeling I have when I am abroad. What is it? Is it freedom? Is it all that newness? I have such great luck when I travel. And it was no different this time. I met some very interesting people, had some great conversations, learned a ton, had great food. For some reason, I think I get scared that when I get back home, I'm not going to be able to keep feeling that, to keep doing that. I want to keep doing that.

On this trip, I practiced yoga with a Mexican restaurant owner, a very experienced yoga teacher (who you might have heard of - she was recently on the cover of Yoga Journal, I think), an Art Deco dealer from Canada, a couple of very in love traveling hippies, an exchange student from Holland, another hippy who used to live in Austin and now lives in a Mexican pueblo, and a French 36-year old mother of two small kids. We all got along famously.

We talked yoga, we talked politics, we talked about who liked olives and who could eat the hottest Jalapeno pepper without flinching. We contemplated our energy, our spirituality, our yogic potential, and our aging process. We also talked about our kids and our jobs and how not to get in a rut. We talked about religion, literature, art, and pop culture: Sartre, Borges, Garcia-Marquez, Orhan Pamuk, and Homer Simpson. We talked about life.

And we lived it.

I want to keep doing that.

Back to Basics (Mostly)

2008-04-15T17:18:00.006-05:00

From an American point of view, I have done without a lot since I arrived in Mexico. This place is pretty primitive.

There is no air condition, no telephone, no television, no Internet where I am staying. Zipolite has one payphone and no bank. The next town over has a bank, but you can't withdraw money or use the ATM unless you have an account there. The next town has a bank you can use. Of course, if you don't have any money, you'll have a hard time getting there.

I brought one small bag for the week and each night I have rinsed out my clothes and hung them out my window to dry, not so much out of necessity (I was told they could have my clothes laundered) as because I liked the idea of it. My clothes, when worn the second time, smell clean and hang a bit stiff. I like it.

I have taken no more than five minutes to get dressed and ready each morning. Each evening, instead of removing make-up, I remove the sunscreen from my face and the gritty white sand from my hair and from in between my toes. My shower is not so much a shower. I have in my bathroom a plastic garbage can, not unlike the one we put on the curb once a week. I was given said garbage can and a bowl for pouring water over myself and asked not to waste as water is precious here in Zipolite. There is no hot water. And the pressure isn't strong. There is only off and on.

I have no cell-phone service. I cannot receive phone calls or text messages. I cannot even turn my phone on to retrieve a phone number. My first three days in Zipolite, many times, I would have sworn I could hear my phone ringing. I would start and then move toward my purse to answer it before realizing I was just imagining things.

I do have electricity. I have running water, my toothbrush, and toothpaste. I have a firm bed with a mosquito net. I have my laptop and access to an Internet cafe at the other end of the beach (a 15 minute walk). I have wonderful things to read. I have a daily regimen of strenuous exercise and interesting people to talk to (when I'm allowed to talk).

I have my digital camera and amazing view of the beach. I have had amazing meals. Three squares a day, all vegetarian, all very fresh, all served to me without having been asked my order or my opinion. I have liked everything I've been given.

And better than anything else, I have the time to enjoy all these things.

What I Hear

2008-04-14T19:18:00.000-05:00

The thing about quiet, in an almost sadistic way, is that it can be surprisingly loud.

I have been in Mexico now a little over forty-eight hours. Much to my surprise on this visit, I have noticed what I hear more than anything else.

In the mornings, I don't hear much of anything because "we are silent" for the duration of each morning. Today and yesterday, at 5 a.m., I awoke to the polite tinkling of unobtrusive bells outside my door. In response, I get up and go outside, where we gather and silently drink tea until the next bell rings, at which time we collect ourselves for meditation. During an hour of meditation the yoga teacher speaks sporadically to guide us while we maintain our silence and meditate (which is new to me and extremely difficult). We continue in silence for another hour of breathing exercises, then breakfast, then three hours of yoga. All told, I have kept my yapper shut for about six and a half hours each morning. Surprised? Impressed? I am.

It's really an incredible experience. And I find myself much more thoughtful about how and when I choose to speak during the rest of the day. What will I say? To whom will I say it? Should I say it in English or Spanish? More often, I find myself listening.

I have always had an affinity for Mexico, for her people, her land, her history, her culture. There are problems here and I would like very much to see them solved. Mexico is not new to me. But this overt intent at observation, this act of listening, is new to me, and what I am observing here in Mexico is surprisingly aural. Mexico is full of the loveliest sounds. They are sounds I have heard before but they are new to me today.

I hear children playing in the street and on the beach: I hear their voices and the sing-song of Mexican Spanish that I have always loved as it rolls off 8 and 9 year-old tongues. I wonder why these children are not in school.

I hear animals: Birds chirping and dogs barking, a donkey braying, a rooster crowing. I hear them as they are, innocent and hungry, playful, mindless, living alongside their human counterparts. I hear them and they do not disturb me.

I hear the ocean: It is rhythmic and strong, beautiful and predictable, but still a little scary to me. It's powerful and it's loud, shockingly loud to my urban sensibilities. It’s exotic yet reliable.

I hear Mexican men working across the street from the yoga center. I hear the same music on the radio I have heard at home. I hear their shovels banging against concrete and their wheelbarrows scraping the crude pavement.

I hear an old woman calling to tourists on the beach. She wants to sell them jewelry.

I hear a car driving slowly and a man speaking on a loudspeaker from within. He says things I don’t hear or can’t understand about a political party and where to vote. I hear music from inside his car. I hear his hope for change.

I hear profanity and laughter from the Mexican men on the street. I hear them open cans and bottles of beer while it’s still morning.

I hear silence.

Heading South

2008-04-12T10:24:00.003-05:00

Adios, amigos!

I'm sitting in the Houston International airport awaiting the plane that will take me to a 5-day yoga retreat in Mexico. Here's where I'm going. I am very excited. Are you as excited as I am?

For the next five days, I'll have no job to do, no dirty diapers to change, no dinners to make, no car to drive, no keys to carry. No husband, no kids, no worries. No problema.

I do however have a collection of short stories (Glimmer Train), 2 New York Reviews, my own fiction to work on, a daily dose of yoga, and a lot of sleep to catch up on.

I have no idea if they will have Internet access. Looks pretty primitive, so I'm thinking no. If they do, I'll let you know how I'm doing. If they don't, you'll have to wait until I get back.

Y'all be good while I'm gone...

Memory Lane

2008-04-09T19:42:00.008-05:00

My sister sent me this photo today. It was completely unexpected and even better, I have never seen this picture, at least not that I can remember. My sister claims never to have seen it either.

Wow. I love it!

That's me on the left, my dad, and my sister. I'm guessing we are right at a year old. My dad was 25.

I'm not sure why I love this picture so much, except that it seems really to capture each of us and how we relate to each other. We all seem content and comfortable just to be near one another.

My dad stands perfectly still between the two of us, reliable, and his hands are nearly symmetrical. He has always been unquestionably fair to us. Even-Steven: What he does for one, he has always done also for the other, almost to the point of absurdity. That's my dad. He looks like... him. But he also looks human. And a little bit tired. He's got the look of a man with one year-old twins. And he has the look that I imagine I might have if I let someone talk me into going to Sears and posing with my kids while kneeling behind a carpeted platform, in front of a bad landscape backdrop. (Yes, I know I will eventually have to do this.) And look at that tie!

My sister and I also have a symmetry about our hands. We each place one on Dad and one in our lap. I seem to be holding his thumb and Tasha appears to be petting him almost. I see love and affection in all all six of those hands.

When this picture was taken, we were relaxed, interested in whatever the camera-man had suggested, all of us easy-going, willing to cooperate, to smile even... but not so foolish as to fall for it completely. That's a pretty good way to be, whether you're 1 or 36 or 25 or 61, wouldn't you say?

And at least among each other, that's pretty much how it goes with the three of us today: We're content and comfortable just to be near one another. We're relaxed, genuinely interested, easy-going, willing to cooperate, but not so foolish as to fall for anything completely.

We Cryars are a mischievous bunch. Gotta stay on your toes.

I Love A Good Pair of Feet

2008-04-07T19:42:00.010-05:00

In yoga class yesterday, the instructor commented that he and some other teachers could identify many of their regular students by their backs. He went on to say how unique and identifiable a person’s platonic body parts can be, if you give them the chance. I agree. A person’s ears, their hands, their shoulder blades might be just as identifiable, as beautiful in their own way as their eyes, their hair, their smile, if you pay them a little attention. In my humble opinion, nothing deserves a little extra attention like the all too-oft ignored foot.

I love a good pair of feet. They’re beautiful. And practical. Functional. They take you where you want to go. Last Wednesday, I saw Thomas Champagne play Flipnotics at the Triangle. I’m sure that Mr. Champagne, as a musician, would hate to hear me say this, but I’m going to say it anyway: what I might have enjoyed most about the evening was his pedestrial style.

To be fair, I enjoyed his music too. The lyrics flowed naturally and the music was great. He was no crooner but neither is Bob Dylan or Tom Petty and those guys pave the way. I liked that this guy seemed to so genuinely enjoy what he was doing. As soon as he started playing, he lost his shoes and let it all go. It was contagious.

Feet and I go way back. I remember holding my father’s feet in my lap when I was a little girl, no older than Lena. I remember my grandfather’s aging white feet, toenails thick and yellow. At many a Christmas gathering, my mother, my aunt, and I would sit close together, legs extended, all staring at our feet and laughing uncontrollably because they were all eerily identical.

I also remember (and this might be where it begins to get weird) many of the moments when I first saw a special pair of feet. It’s an intimate moment, isn’t it? It should be. When my husband first removed his shoes in my presence, his feet were wet with sweat and dimpled with the cotton imprints of his freshly removed running socks.

I used to work with a young man who daily roamed the floor of our engineering company barefooted. He would attend meetings in his naked feet or stroll past your cube with his coffee cup, shoeless. Some people hated it. Others said they didn’t care. Either way, everyone noticed. His shoes were always rebelliously tossed in different directions on the floor near his desk.

Now, the majority of engineers I work with are Korean. I see some of their feet too. But it’s different. Their shoes are lined respectfully at their doorsteps or cube entrances. One of them puts his shoes on a towel, a makeshift doormat; Another has a pair of slippers.

Once, I went running in my bare feet. At the edge of a maternal breakdown, I cried to the mothers in my playgroup, who pushed me out the door so I could run it off. I left my children in their care and ran, desperate; I didn’t even have my tennis shoes. The summer concrete burned and pushed me faster and farther than I thought I could go. My feet gave me sweet relief.

Maybe another reason for me to love Austin is the parade of wannabe hippies clad in sandals that reveal their feet, their toes, their personalities. I notice them daily in summer: large or small, well-groomed or not, bare or hairy, athletic or soft, supple or bony. I note protruding tendons, unique veins, birthmarks, freckles.

I have loved many feet, first my father’s and then my grandfather’s. I have admired the feet of much-loved girlfriends. I have romantically adored more masculine feet. I’ve kissed a few of them, willingly, happily: dark skinned feet that walked on lands my feet have never touched; scarred feet, with missing toenails and stories to tell; the pink-white feet of American men; the fragile, delicate feet of well-educated men; beautiful brown feet that move through soil or concrete for hours at a time, stifled, choking, to be set free finally from claustrophobic work boots.

My feet are small. Three and three-quarters inches wide by eight and one-half inches long. They are not well-groomed, not delicate or athletic. I haven’t had a pedicure in ages. But I think they’re beautiful feet. They’re practical. Functional. They take me where I want to go.

When Petting Zoo Animals Attack

2008-04-05T08:44:00.010-05:00

We went to the Austin Zoo last week and got a special treat in the petting zoo when one of the adorable little goats went berserk and tormented one of the adorable little pigs.

Craziness.

You can see more zoo pictures (of a less violent nature) at the Little Landlords.

The Road is Open

2008-04-04T12:34:00.004-05:00

Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,
Old age flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

-Walt Whitman, "Song of the Open Road", Leaves of Grass (1855)

I first mentioned the little road that leads to my house simply because it was beautiful. That little road used to look like this: quiet, serene, natural. It was lovely. Like my life used to be.

What? I can be tranquil.

Well, I can.

Years ago, my life was filled with quiet. With reading; complete Saturdays on the couch with a book. And yoga; all kinds of yoga. And music; I spent hours browsing through Waterloo Records. Then I'd buy some music, then I'd spend hours at home listening to it.

And then there was the quiet. Remember quiet?

Then about nine months ago, they closed my road, tore it in half, and started the process of improving it. I mentioned that here too because I wasn’t very happy about it. I complained about the construction and its progress, or lack thereof. This was something I noticed daily. It impacted my commute, my daily routine, my mood, my life.

And now, in the time it takes to have a baby, a new road is born. A lot has happened since they started construction. When they closed my road, I was already knee-deep in a frazzled state of claustrophobia. I couldn't breathe. My best friend had been gone from Austin nigh on a year and I felt lost and lonely, raw and overexposed. I was only thirty-five years old, but my perception of both time and obligation was skewed. As a naive new parent, I believed in the overwhelming importance of every move I made. Don't get me wrong, I know what I do is important, but I've gained a little wisdom. I'm older and typical of parents who've had a second child, I've relaxed a little. I get it now that even if I don't buy the organic broccoli, even if the baby didn't get daily tummy-time, even if it takes one more Dora the Explorer video to get me through the afternoon, they will be OK. They'll be better than OK. Everything is going to be OK.

If babies are good for anything, it's creating a time warp that knocks you for a delusional loop and sends you into a merciless tailspin of obsession over the paradox of your simultaneous importance and insignificance, over your minuscule part in the universe, your inevitable descent into old age, anonymity, mediocrity, death.

Or maybe that was just me.

And in the middle of my frenzy, every day, I was reminded that I couldn’t go the way I wanted to go. For weeks, out of habit, I would begin to turn right only to be halted by a Road Closed sign.

Nope, can’t go that way any more.

And there was nothing I could do about it. I watched days turn into months with no visible progress on my road, no workmen even. It seemed like nothing was happening.

But magically, now, with no warning, the road is open again. It’s open. Glorious freedom. I can turn right. I can get to where I'm going, faster, more efficiently, on a clean new road.

Nine months later, from where I stand now (which is a much cleaner, clearer place) I'm so happy simply to be able to get to where I'm going. No more detour. Straight shot. And I don't hate it so much as I might have imagined. Sure, it's not as quaint, not as pretty. There are still remnants of the workmen and the construction process: orange netting and scars where the old road meets the new.

But it works. It's functional. Practical. People need that. And whatever the fantasy I had, it's not gone. The same people ride this road. The same little old men in pick-up trucks, even if I don't see them as often. The same mothers pushing strollers, the same fathers pulling wagons, the same men jogging, the same women walking their dogs. And I bet they're all as happy as I am that the road is open.

I can breathe again. Thank God the road is open.

Can Your Kids Come Out and Play?

2008-04-02T22:24:00.001-05:00

This weekend, two little kids came over to our house, knocked on our door, and asked, "Can your kids come out and play?" They were two little girls, about 6 and 7 years old. They live a few houses down.

Wow.

This might seem like no big deal to you. But it's pretty exciting to me. It's the beginning of a whole new chapter. I am teetering at the edge of a huge parental divide. I'm standing at the boundary between being a mommy to my babies and being a mom to my kids. My babies are on the verge of Big-Kid-dom. And it just came out of nowhere. This is a good thing, right? Am I ready for this?

My wee ones are two and four years old. But Lena will be three this month. And Elias will be FIVE in August. Right now, when they go outside and play, I go with them. I used to go outside and play with them and I still do, but I also sit on the curb and watch them play with each other. Soon, I imagine I will do that more than anything else. And after that, I imagine they'll ask me why I'm out there with them at all... hovering.

It's bound to happen. They're gonna grow up. They're gonna get bigger. They're going to go and play outside with kids I hardly know. And instead of being right in the thick of things, I will watch them from the curb, or from the doorway, or from the window. Soon, I imagine I'll be calling the neighbors to find out whose backyard they landed in. Soon I'll know which house has the pool, which has the trampoline. I can still be a mommy from a little farther off, can't I? Sure I can.

This is good. I think I'm ready.

Homage to the Private Joke

2008-03-31T08:03:00.010-05:00

Sometimes you just need to laugh. You want to. And when funny things happen, you like to retell those things, so other people can laugh with you.

Because laughing is GOOD.

But sometimes, unless you are a comic genius, you can't retell it and do it justice. Sometimes you just have to be there. Sometimes, the thing was so funny or so bizarre or so stupid, or timed so right that it can't be retold. Or I suppose it can be retold, but something important is lost in the telling, and it's not the same. It's not as good. Those things become private jokes, of a sort.

Because I am a complete and total dufus, I have made a list of these funny moments of mine and I am going to share them here with you, in the spirit of acknowledging that they exist. You won't know what most of them mean. But if you're a friend of mine, you'll know what some of them mean because you were there when they happened and are thus, part of the private joke. And even if you're not in on it, if you have a good imagination you might be able to see the humor in some of them. Or at the least, you might be able to see how peculiar, how gratifying, how funny they might have been to those with an inside track.

These are some of the memories that make me laugh really, really hard, when I really, really need it. The simple act of making this list made me cackle mercilessly until people looked at me as if I were standing on my head naked in the middle of the coffee shop. It felt GOOD. Here they are (in alphabetical order):

Abortion clinic happy fun-time show.

Calcitrel.

Cart's in the kitchen. Shoo fly shoo.

Clinchy butt cheeks.

Do you have a rubber band? I need a noose for Jesus.

Finger on the map: chugga chugga chugga chugga.

Finnish man struck by train door.

I want to smell his head.

I'm all... bruised and loved.

Mostly.

Oh my God. We're MAGIC.

Oh. Hi Victoria...

The goat's milk? You drank it ALL?"

Too tired to spit in sink; must use drawer.

War erupts in Gulf.

We're not actually dating.

Well-coiffed woman pushes hot dog with index finger.

Who do I have to sleep with to get a red pen around here?

You want some Gatorade?

Awesome list, yes? Did I miss anything? Can I see your list? I don’t know about you but my stomach hurts from laughing...

Complete and total dufus.

98, 99, 100

2008-03-29T20:21:00.007-05:00

In keeping with my lack of moderation, today is day 100 of good, clean living. Let me say that again.

100.

No nicotine, no alcohol. One. Hundred. Days.

And for the past fifty-something days, I've had no caffeinated coffee, no coca-cola. I'm on a health kick high. I've been drinking lots of water, doing Bikram Yoga about once a week, hitting the gym on average 4 days a week. It's kind of crazy. Not sure what happened. It just snow-balled.

I feel really... clean. In the truest sense of the word. My skin feels good and I feel good in it. I feel myself. And I like it.

Does this mean I'm going to be a tea-totaler forever? I don't know about that. I really don't think I should start making promises, to myself or anyone else. I still think mastering moderation could be a very worthy goal. But right now I feel good. I feel strong. Don't look now, but I've got WILL power. And lots of it. Who knew?

And I've got momentum. Momentum can be powerful stuff. Still, no promises about 300 days or 200 days or any of that nonsense.

But I am looking forward to 101.

Why Would You Say That?

2008-03-27T06:44:00.015-05:00

I am a writer. It has taken me years to say that to myself and especially to anyone else. It always seemed like such an important title, too important to bestow upon myself. At some point a few years ago, I decided I had earned it, if for no other reason than that is what I do. Doing it well is irrelevant, or subjective, or moot, or something. At any rate, whether I do it well is not for me to decide. I am a writer all the same.

For a while, when I said it out loud, I felt the need to clarify or justify or disclaim or pontificate on some aspect of the whole writing shtick:

“Well, I get PAID to be a technical writer,” or “I’m working on an article for a local publication right now,” or “I recently had a poem published, but you’ve probably never heard of the magazine…” or “What I really want to write is…” or “I like to write short stories…”

And these things are beside the point, inappropriate even. But all that is my baggage. These are the inappropriate things I say. Right now, I would like to complain about the inappropriate things other people say. I might have said “other stupid people” but given the surprising frequency with which people say this thing, that can’t be right.

What I’m talking about is the question, “Have you been published?” The conversation usually starts with idle chatter and ends up at some version of “What do you like to do in your spare time?” at which point I respond with, “I like to write short stories.”

And people invariably say, “Oh. Wow. Have you ever been published?”

I realize I may be somewhat sensitive, but when someone asks me this, no matter how hard I try, the following two thoughts automatically enter my mind:

“This Ignorant Asker knows nothing about creative writing or the creative process or how hard it is to publish short fiction,” and “God, I am a failure. Why the hell have I not published any short fiction yet?”

Thanks for that, you Ignorant Asker. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that is not the nicest way to talk to your creative friends. What are the chances that they’re going to answer yes? Did you consider the odds before you asked that? To clarify further, I provide here a list of equivalent questions that the Ignorant Asker might use when asking other creative types, “What do you like to do?”

Painter: “I like to paint.”
Ignorant Asker: “Oh, Wow. Do you have anything in the Louvre?”

Photographer: “I like to take pictures.”
Ignorant Asker: “Oh, Wow. Have you ever done anything for National Geographic?”

Runner: “I like to run.”
Ignorant Asker: “Oh, Wow. Have you ever won the Boston Marathon?”

Snow Skier: “I like to ski.”
Ignorant Asker: “Oh, Wow. Have you ever skied an Olympic trial?”

Yoga Type: “I like to meditate.”
Ignorant Asker: “Oh, Wow. Have you ever studied with the Dalai Lama?”

For those Ignorant Askers genuinely interested in improving their conversation skills, I also provide here a list of more appropriate responses, at least to those who write, which still may begin with “Oh, Wow.”

“What do you like to write?”

“What do you like to read?”

“Who are your favorite authors?”

“Are you working on anything in particular right now?”

Go. Talk nice to your creative friends.

Potty Mouth

2008-03-25T09:08:00.001-05:00

Alena Mae is two years old; she’ll be three years old next month. The child talks at a four or five year-old level. She’s quick, she’s smart, she’s mature. But somehow, God knows why, she refuses to potty-train. And she’s regular. My God, we change five diapers a day. So I’m not always thrilled to discover that I have to change her diaper.

Again.

Here’s how it went down yesterday:

Tamara: "Oh, Lena. Do you have poo poo in your diaper?"
Lena: [Big grin.]
Tamara: "Lena, where does poo poo go?"
Lena: [Big grin.]"Poo poo goes in the potty!"
Tamara: "Lena, come here please."
Lena: [She continues playing...]
Tamara: "Excuse me. Lena! Do you have poo poo?"
Lena: [Big grin.]
Tamara: "LENA. What’s in your diaper?"
Lena: "Freaking poo poo."

Freaking poo poo? That’s hilarious. I cackled.

I wonder where she got that.

Moderation

2008-03-23T08:19:00.000-05:00

All things in moderation. Or not.

Not at all, actually. How about nothing at all in moderation? Zilch. I don’t do moderation. Not one bit.

Recently, for reasons unknown, it suddenly became obvious to me that I am incapable of achieving anything in a moderate fashion. When I do anything, I do it all the way. Hard-core, to the max, 100%, no sitting down until I’m done.

I’ve thought hard about this and it’s frustrating. Why must I be like that? Can’t I just find a solid middle ground?

I would like to enjoy one glass of wine, maybe even one cigarette after a nice meal. But that’s not in my vocabulary. I can’t have just one drink; I don’t smoke just one cigarette. I’m either on some health kick, drinking nothing but sparkling water, or I finish a bottle of wine and a pack of smokes in one sitting.

I would like to have a good job that I enjoy and is well balanced with the other facets of my life. But I’m always scrambling to balance work and home, working too many hours until I’m exhausted to the point of burn-out, blowing the whole thing off until I get so behind I start the whole cycle all over again.

I would like to maintain reasonable good health, exercise a few times a week. But no. I’m either in the gym at 6 a.m. daily for months at a time, or my ass is on the couch. Either I’m feeling great and training for some athletic event or I’m too fat for my clothes and I’m stressing out about it, sitting in WeightWatchers meetings.

I would like to be in touch with my God and my spiritual side. But I’m either skipping synagogue for months at a time until I feel miserably disconnected or I’m going multiple times a week and I’ve caved in to being on this committee or that. (See previous comments on burn-out).

Right now I’m in a good place. I’m healthy. I’m trim. I’ve got my God working for me and I’m trying to work for God too (as we believers are wont to do). But I’m tired. I work, I run, I do yoga, I go to the gym, I go to play dates, I go to dinners and happy hours, I read when I can, and then I go home and hide in my closet or in the bath tub or in my space.

I’ve got two kids, two jobs, one writer’s group, one playgroup, one synagogue. I’ve got active projects: two short stories I can’t seem to finish and a novel waiting to be written. I’ve got friends I miss and need to see more of and acquaintances that I see too often because it’s hard to say no.

I was feeling kind of bad about the fact that I can’t seem to hit a happy medium in any area of my life, until I found this quote:

"Moderation? It's mediocrity, fear, and confusion in disguise. It's the devil's dilemma. It's neither doing nor not doing. It's the wobbling compromise that makes no one happy. Moderation is for the bland, the apologetic, for the fence-sitters of the world afraid to take a stand. It's for those afraid to laugh or cry, for those afraid to live or die. Moderation...is lukewarm tea, the devil's own brew."

--Dan Millman, The Way of the Peaceful Warrior

Fine. Excellent, in fact. I’ll take it just like that. I embrace it. I’m done fighting it. Today, I get it. I admit it. Screw mediocrity.

Summer should be hot, work should be hard, laughter should be loud (and mine is). Life should be lived.

The middle ground can get bent.

Sticks and Stones

2008-03-21T13:14:00.003-05:00

The kids and I were driving in the car and Elias and Lena were having the following conversation:

Lena: "Eli, are you a stupidhead?"
Elias: "No Lena, that's not nice, I'm not a stupidhead."
Lena: "No, you're not a stupidhead, that's not nice. Eli, is Baby Vincent a stupidhead?"
Elias: "No Lena, that's not nice, Baby Vincent's not a stupidhead."
Lena: "No, he's not a stupidhead, that's not nice. Eli, is Miss Suzy a stupidhead?"
Elias: "No Lena, Miss Suzy's not a stupidhead."
Lena: "No, Miss Suzy's not a stupidhead! That's not nice. Eli, is Mommy a stupidhead?"
Eli: "Uhhmm. I think mommy's a stupidhead."
Lena: (after a surprised and perhaps disappointed pause) "Oh."
Tamara: "Hey! I'm not a stupidhead!"

And then I composed myself and advised them as to why stupidhead is not a nice word (which they clearly displayed a perfect knowledge of just seconds before). I also pointed out why I, their mother who cares for them, am not a stupidhead.

The immediacy and fervor with which I responded really surprised me. It kind of hurt my feelings, actually.

What? I'm NOT a stupidhead. Well, I'm not.

My parents and grandparent counseled me often as to the virtues of "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." It occurs to me now that they were required to give me that advice often because I got made fun of a lot. I was a weird kid. Or at least I felt that way.

As far as sticks and stones go, my God, could anything be further from the truth? I think I might actually believe that there is nothing more powerful than words. Nothing.

My earliest and most significant memories revolve around words: What people said to me and how they said it. Words, other people's as well as my own, have shaped my perception of myself, maybe my perception of the world.

A brief silence followed my defensive little outburst, and the kids went on to debate which one of them was in actuality, Superman. I started thinking about how I responded to them and naturally, about sticks and stones. It was no doubt brought on by some internal defense mechanism. "No need for hurt feelings," I told myself. "They're just words. And everyone knows my babies love me to the point of absurdity. They're just little kids. They didn't mean it. Blah blah blah..."

I almost told them about sticks and stones and all that. But I stopped myself. I did not give them the Sticks and Stones speech. And I won't. I'm going to teach them opposite.

I think I'd like to teach them that what they say, out loud and on paper, is important, that it should be thought on very carefully, and in most cases, can't be taken back. There have been times when Eli or Lena has brought the other to the point of tears with words. Usually, it's been innocent (or completely ridiculous). But their reactions are SO emotional. For whatever reason, their feelings are really hurt.

They have actually both bawled in rage, one to the other about who's invited to the other's birthday party. Elias was nearly inconsolable when his best little buddy told him he didn't want to play with him. Lena was devastated once when Eli told her that Baby Vincent wasn't her cousin.

Sticks and stones get us in our flesh and bones, but our bodies can heal in ways that our feelings can't. Words inflict pain that can last a lifetime or never heal. As far as I'm concerned, sticks and stones are a cakewalk in comparison.

Birthday Present

2008-03-19T22:04:00.005-05:00

Today is March 19th, my grandfather's birthday. I have said it here before, and I wouldn’t want to repeat myself. (Who me? Redundant?) So I’ll not repeat posts of old about my dear Papaw. (But I will give you a link or two.) And I will say again that he was a very, very good man. Hmm. What have I not shared about my grandfather? What is something new I can give you? Maybe the little things. A little list of Papaw nuggets:

He always wore a hat when he left the house.
If you put your finger anywhere near his mouth, he would bite it. Hard. Somehow this was completely irresistible and tirelessly hilarious when we were about eight years old.
His faith in God was strong and sure. I don’t know how he did it.
He often began a conversation with “You live around here or ride a bicycle?”
He also said often, for no apparent reason, "Sho 'nuff, I mean, How Do?!" and then he'd laugh and without knowing why, I laughed with him.
He was patient beyond reason.
He took me on my 16th birthday to get my driver’s license. I was so nervous - he let me practice parallel parking for nearly an hour before we finally went to the TxDoT on Lamar.
He was claustrophobic, and he didn't think there was anything one bit funny about it.
I don't think the man bought a new pair of pants during the 25 years of my life before he died.

Today I ended up on MoPac behind an old beat-up truck, not unlike Papaw’s. There was an old straw hat hanging in the back of the cab, and I kept my eye on it for a good four or five miles. It dangled there with the rhythm of the road, old but clean, tattered but whole, used but useful.

It was hopeful, like an unopened birthday present.

Happy Contracting Anniversary

2008-01-09T15:49:00.000-06:00

I logged in to the remote workspace for one of my two contracting gigs this morning (the big one) to find out that I could not get in. I called the Systems Administrator to check things out and we found that because today is my one year anniversary, and because I signed a contract for one year, my contract had officially expired.

And I was officially locked out.

The Sys Admin called his boss, I called my boss, and mayhem briefly ensued. By the end of the hour, we determined that, while my boss was certainly on board with keeping me on, and while she actually had every intention of renewing the contract sooner, I was officially unemployed until her boss's boss and all the powers that be in the Human Resources Department in Los Angeles were in agreement that my contract should be extended.

Then papers had to be pushed.

And then I could have my gig back.

Gulp.

Worried? I was. Even though I know I've done a great job, and even though I know my boss is pleased with my work, and even though I know the company is doing well, I still had a pit in my stomach the size of a small dog.

But now it's six hours later, and I just got word that I should be back online within the hour and I can sign a new contract the next time I'm in the office.

Whew. Thank you, God. Thank you, my boss. Thank you, powers that be in Los Angeles.

More little things that give me immense joy:

A regular paycheck.

Making my own schedule.

Working for a very cool boss who lets me do my thing the way I like to do it. She guides me when I need guidance, leaves me alone when I want to be left alone (which is most of the time), and goes to bat for me when I need her to. She rocks.

Working at Starbucks, or from home, or from any of about six coffee shops that I love.

Getting to spend two days a week with my kids, all day.

No longer having the big fat pitty little Chihuahua in my stomach that's been there all day.

Now I'm going to get something to eat...

Joy

2008-01-08T20:00:00.002-06:00

You took my joy, I want it back.
--Lucinda Williams

I gotta get me some joy. I've been missing it. Perhaps I'm just not paying attention. Ok, I'll try harder. Allow me to exercise my brain in an effort to get me some joy. I know it's in there. I just need to acknowledge it. Joy...

joy –noun; the emotion of great delight or happiness caused by something exceptionally good or satisfying; keen pleasure; elation.

The following things give me immense joy:

A good idea, especially on the rare occasion that it’s mine.

The look of a man’s feet in sandals.

The sound of my babies laughing.

The times when I get to spend whole days with my children. And then the times when I get to spend whole days by myself.

When strangers refer to my children as “little people,” because they are.

Butterflies, real ones in the summer time, and the ones that magically flutter around in my stomach when something good is about to happen.

Driving Southbound on MoPac in central Austin when the train is running alongside, with the windows down, the radio up, and Elias and Lena screaming their heads off and giggling to beat the band, “A Train Mommy! A TRAIN! A TRAAAAIIIIINNNNNNN!”

Impatience

2008-01-04T17:55:00.000-06:00

A little over a year ago, I made a case for anticipation and while I still feel the same (on the whole), I am humbled by my own impatience more than I'd like to admit. I confess. I cannot always embrace the thrill of anticipation, when sometimes what I want is to, well, to have my candy NOW. I am after all, a very complex individual, a paradox, if you will, of conflicting emotions.

For some things, waiting is painfully unbearable, if not impossible. These things are few and far between but they are wonderful. And simple. In case you'd like to know, here are a few of the little things for which I am desperately impatient:

My birthday. Because I am a child inside. It's a whole day for me. Me. And it's just once a year. I like that.

Your birthday. It's a whole day for you. You. And I really like you too. Or else I wouldn't have invited you to read my blog. Special you. It’s a whole day to celebrate you. I get excited about your birthday.

The first glass of eggnog over the holidays. Rummy frothy goodness with an absolutely obscene number of calories. It's futile to even contemplate the amount of exercise required to burn off one glass of eggnog. Don't try. You can't run fast enough. Once you drink it, it's on your ass forever. So I wait for the holidays and then savor every sip.

Lemonade. Who doesn't love a tall glass of lemonade in the summer? I say if you don't love lemonade, you must be an asshole. That's what I say.

First sip of coffee in the morning. MMMMMMmmmmmm. Coffeeeeee.

I'm embarrassed to say that yes, I too, see the beverage trend. Did I say something about being complex? Scratch that. I am a simple minded, liquid-loving fool. So you know what? I'm just going to leave it at the beverages, for now.

I get impatient for the beverages. And for birthdays. And for summer. And for being barefooted in the sweet summertime. So nice. That's my off-the-cuff list of a few things, mostly liquid, over which I get all hot and bothered with impatience. Bottoms up.

I Am a Consumer

2008-01-01T18:24:00.000-06:00

Apparently, I am a shameless consumer. Shall I capitalize that, as if it were a proper name?

Shameless Consumer. There, I said it. Now that that’s out of the way, look at what we bought:

Ours is black. And shiny. It’s a (used) 2004 Nissan Titan, 4-door, extended cab. So the whole family can fit in this vehicle. As you read this, two toddler car-seats have already been installed in the spacious back seat, which my husband’s previous truck did not allow. We now have two vehicles that can transport the whole family.

That’s right. The whole point of this purchase was simply to give us another vehicle that would support four passengers, two of whom are little people.

Did we go overboard? Perhaps. What can I say? Stupid salesman. Our new truck is huge. And gigantic. It might not fit in our garage. (I’m not kidding.) We could have bought a car but my husband wanted to replace his truck. Ruby, he called her, with love. He calls this one La Negra. She’s got two mufflers. Two mufflers? Is that possible? I don’t know. But it’s got two big shiny exhaust-type thingees hanging out the back end. And she’s LOUD. She growls when you start her up. Did I mention she’s shiny?

I drove La Negra yesterday. I was actually embarrassed. Oh my God, what were we thinking? Remember when I made fun of the hummer? When I ranted on and on about conformity and consumerism? It wasn’t so long ago. And now just look at me.

We could have bought a small car. We could have bought a hybrid.

But we did not.

We bought a big mack-daddy truck and now I feel slightly guilty about it. But I will get over it.

Who am I? I am a fabulous mystery. Go on. I dare you. Figure me out.

Cold

2007-11-27T07:40:00.000-06:00

Time for (the first of) my winter whining.

Today's low is 42 degrees. Tomorrow, it's 45 degrees.
With rain.

It's COLD.
I don't like it one bit.
I need to buy socks.
That is all.

Charisma Redux (I’m an Asshole)

2007-11-23T11:33:00.000-06:00

If you think I’m a jerk in writing, you should meet me in person. I am WAY worse. All kinds of rude and inappropriate things spew forth from my mouth on a regular basis. That’s in large part why (as a general rule) I like to write. I’m usually a little better on paper. And trust me, that says more about my ability to speak than my ability to write.

So my Charisma post was potentially offensive in that you might have concluded (legitimately, based on my words) that I think if you’re single, you must be lacking in charisma. That is not what I think. Let there be no mistake. That would just be dumb. I am not dumb (mostly), just lacking in eloquence. Hard.

Charisma is not the right word. By its very definition, charisma is rare. You can’t divide the world into two categories along the lines of charisma. If you did, the world would be very unevenly divided and it would certainly not have anything to do with who’s married or who’s single.

So what was I trying to say? For starters, I think loneliness as well as happiness is a state of mind. When it comes down to how we feel as humans on a regular basis, when it comes down to what makes us happy and what makes us sad, it might have nothing to do with how or whether we’ve paired up. Sometimes loneliness is not about how many people share a house with you. I wanted to say that single, married, we are human together. Sometimes my single friends long to be partnered and sometimes my married friends long to be single, but ironically, both sides are often looking to solve the same feelings of loneliness.

I think my failure in the last post was to generalize. I started to theorize about people when honestly, I don’t know squat about people in general. All I know is my own experience. And in my little world, staying together is far more difficult than getting together. I am married and my husband and I work very hard to sustain what we have. I already have one failed marriage behind me. And sadly, that is who I come from: my mother, my father, my sister, my paternal aunt, uncle and grandfather: all married two or more times. That’s hard to say out loud.

So I guess, when I say it’s easier to get together than to stay together, I am not making some profound generalization about humanity. I’m talking about myself. It’s hard for ME. It’s terrifying. Maybe I can’t do it. Maybe I just don’t have it in me.

I was at a happy hour once with my friends Babs and Dipu (who are both single and fabulous) and I said something along the lines of “It’s not getting together that’s so hard; it’s staying together.” They both corrected me immediately and with a good bit of fervor. They said getting together was not so simple. It’s hard to find a good match: someone who’s intelligent enough, interesting enough, fun enough, and with whom you have chemistry on top of everything else. I buy that. That makes perfect sense. But you know what? At the risk of being a complete asshole, I confess: that was never hard for me. Does that make me charismatic? No. Better than my single friends? No. Not even close. I just seem to have other (huge) things to overcome. And maybe wording it the way I did in the last post allowed me to feel a little better about myself on a subconscious level.

Getting together has never been hard for me. I can walk into a restaurant or a coffee shop or another country and meet someone when I want to. I can see how good they are inside, find what I think I need in them, and fall in love if that’s what I’m ready to do. It’s sustaining that love over time that seems to be my issue. Maybe it’s everyone’s issue. It’s certainly easier to say it’s hard for everyone than to look in the mirror and say it’s just hard for me.

But there it is.

Charisma

2007-11-20T20:42:00.000-06:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about marriage lately. Commitment. How do people stay together? I’ve talked about the whole idea of marriage with friends, fellow mamas, coworkers, highly paid therapists and counselors. My God, it seems to be on the tip of everyone’s tongue, at the top of everyone’s blog.

I’ve got friends in unhappy marriages, a friend going through a divorce, a set of couple friends who are pregnant but are leaning toward not getting married. I’ve got friends in relatively happy marriages who are just lonely and ready to get back into the upswing again. There will be another upswing, won’t there? Yes, I think there will. That’s what keeps us holding on, right? If we’ve got a good thing going, we want to stay together. In the end, we want to be right there. Together.

The consensus seems to be that, outside of how well-suited two people are, separate from how loveable and wonderful a partner can be, completely independent of how much you really do LOVE your sweetheart, marriage is hard. Living together is work.

Motherfucker.

Shouldn’t someone have told us that when we were in our twenties and falling hard? Oh, wait. They did. The problem is you don’t GET it when you’re falling hard. And who listens when they’re only 25? I didn’t.

I have friends who are single and it’s a mystery to me as to why. They’re beautiful, handsome, intelligent, creative, heady, deeply and darkly funny; they’re wonderful. I love these people. Yet they feel alone. By society’s definition, they are alone. And I know men and women who are crawling with suitors, I know newlyweds, I know folks who have been married for twenty-plus years. And you know what? Sometimes they feel lonely too. More than just sometimes, in fact. Maybe that’s just part of the human condition. Maybe we just need to figure out how to be lonely without having to turn over the whole apple cart.

Before I dive into some ridiculous analysis of what it takes to make it work (as if I knew) I think I better start at the beginning. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes… But what comes before love? Something has to happen before you’re willing to go there. What is that?

Is it charisma? Could it be that simple?

cha•ris•ma: Personal magnetism or charm; a rare personal quality attributed to leaders who arouse fervent popular devotion and enthusiasm;

Bill Clinton has it. The Beatles had it. Elvis. Hitler. Ted Bundy. Jack the Ripper, for all we know. The girl at the library, the guy in the coffee shop: They’ve got it. Why? Who knows? It has nothing to do with being good-looking, nothing to do with how smart you are. Either you’ve got it or you don’t. Whatever it is, maybe that’s all that amounts to the difference between folks.

If you have it, you meet people wherever you go and it’s so easy. You decide you’re ready, you fall in love, you get married, you have kids, and from time to time, you feel lonely.

And if you don’t have it, you decide you’re young enough, you keep dating, you spend time with your friends, you keep searching, and from time to time, you feel lonely.

In the end, we’re all right there. Together.

Humans Should Not Mate for Life

2007-11-19T20:24:00.000-06:00

Not too long ago I asked my husband: “Do you think humans were meant to mate for life?”
He answered me immediately without missing a beat:

“Nope.”

“Well, shit,” I said. “What are we doing then?”

“The best we can.”

Hmph. Well, Goddamn it. What do you think about that?

I could have had hurt feelings. I could have gotten angry, but I didn’t. I actually agree with him, and ironically, this made me appreciate him even more. Honestly, what if he had instead, launched into a diatribe about how we are soul-mates? What if he had said we were destined to be together, that I am the only woman on the planet he could ever love?

Excuse me while I vomit.

My husband and I are well past the point of naive romanticism. We’re very practical and by the looks of things, we’re well-suited to one another. Does that mean it’s easy?

NO.

But I suppose being easy has nothing to do with being worthwhile.

Whatever we were thinking at the time, we decided to mate for life. For life. Forever. Forever? Did we really promise FOREVER? What were we thinking? That’s not the way humans work. (Even my husband says so.) So… what do we do now?

The best we can.

Not Gonna Happen

2007-11-17T14:38:00.000-06:00

A little over a year ago, I blogged a list of things I’ve never done. And with the exception of bringing several short stories to completion (Yay, me!) everything on that list is still true. And you know what? That’s OK with me. Some things, even the good things, just don’t have to happen.

This past summer, I ran and biked in the Danskin triathlon. I had been training to do the swim too. But after one afternoon swim in terrifying open waters (Yes, I probably exaggerate, but it was no less horrifying to me) I abandoned that goal and got a good friend of mine to do the swim for me. Sweet relief! My justification at the time was that I had not sufficiently trained, which was totally true. I needed swimming lessons. I needed time to deal with my fears (the irrational, illogical, emotional ones). I needed to spend more time at the pool, at the lake, at the beach, get used to being in the water. Great. I called it a plan and settled on next year.

I promised myself I’d think about next year’s Danskin in about five months, so that I could start training in six months because when it comes to swimming I have a LOOONG way to go. Plenty of time.

Oops, time’s up. That time is now.

SO. Now I’m thinking about it, just like I said I would. And you know what I think? I don’t wanna. I really don’t. Who gives a shit if I can’t swim half a mile in open water? I can swim to the edge of the pool, to the closest buoy when I have to and wait for help just fine. I can jump into a pool feet first, grab a baby if I have to and get to the shallow end. I can teach my kids how to wear a life jacket. And I can take them to the public pools with life guards on duty. That’s what I’ve always done, that’s what I’ll continue to do.

So there’s that problem solved. Whew. I, for one, feel MUCH better.

Now I just have to somehow come to peace with this decision, instead of feeling guilty about it. Instead of feeling as though I gave up. When is it important to face your fears and conquer them? When do you decide to accept them and let them go?

I am claustrophobic. Do I need to face that fear? Perhaps, but to what degree? I will never tour Natural Bridge Caverns. I will never explore the crawl space in my attic. I will never again attend a concert unless I am given my own seat so I can enjoy the peaceful bubble of space that my seat provides. Am I missing out on some wonderful gift that life has to offer me? Perhaps. But I really don’t give a shit.

I am afraid of natural bodies of water. When I was 18, I decided to face that fear. I got certified to scuba dive. I went diving in a lake with zero visibility. I was able to tread water in a pool for 30 minutes. THIRTY minutes. (In order to pass, I had to do it without hyperventilating. Third time was a charm.) I donned all the suffocating gear and went diving in Cozumel. More than once. So I tackled the claustrophobia and the open water all at once. Fear faced. Mission accomplished. Am I over it? Hell no. Do I need to readdress my fears again, nearly 20 years later, just to prove something to myself? To anyone else? I think not.

I am terrified of cockroaches. It is stupid? Irrational? Silly? Yes, yes, and yes. Do I need to go on Fear Factor and sleep in a bed of cockroaches so I can say I faced my fear? Um. No. Is it simply okay to instead, when I see a cockroach, run screaming from the room, curl into the fetal position, and wait for my husband to come home and kill it? Yes, actually. That’s just fine with me.

I got nothing to prove. Some things are just NOT gonna happen.

Some Days

2007-11-15T08:27:00.001-06:00

Some days*, I wake up and wonder who I am, who I was when I didn’t like myself, who I will be tomorrow. I wonder if I’ll like her as much.

Some days, I look around my house, at all the things that rest inside and I think, what is that? Who does that belong to? That’s not mine. I don’t want that. I don’t need it. It makes me tired and heavy. I want to throw it all away.

Some days, I look at the people who live in my house, and I can’t remove my eyes. I love them. And some days I see them, and I think who IS that? Who are they? Who I am married to? Who is that woman in the mirror?

What am I doing here? Where have I been? Where am I going?

Some days I go to bed looking forward to my dreams. Some days, my dreams seem to be the best part of my world. Some days, Eli and Lena run into my bed in the morning and wake me up with hugs and kisses and tickles and absurd demands. On those days, my dreams are inadequate.

Some days, I ask myself how it all happened.

Some days, I wonder WHY?

And some days, the other days, I wonder, Why not?

____________________________________
This post was inspired by my blogger hero, Nicole, at Sitting Still and her post on the same theme.

Thirty-Six

2007-11-11T21:00:00.000-06:00

For me there are only two types of women: goddesses and doormats.
-- Pablo Picasso

I am thirty-six years old; I have been for six weeks now. Thirty-five was a hard birthday for me. You might remember my sudden preoccupation with the aging process. It was gruesome. I suddenly felt the clutches of all my days groping my defenseless flesh, clawing at me such that I really couldn’t see myself at all.

I looked in the mirror only to see crow’s feet, laugh lines, a pot belly, a more than ample back-side. I stared in silence and heard my reflection yelling back at me an excruciating monologue of failures, inadequacies, a lack of ideas, time, money, success, publication... “You need to get off your ass.
You need to lose ten pounds.
You need to write.
You need to finish something.
Jesus Christ, you need a haircut.
You need to LIVE.”
I don’t see it that way today, a year into it. Maybe it’s because I’m a ridiculous optimist. Maybe it’s because I’m desperate to justify myself. Maybe it’s because my character is such that I feel obligated to reset my expectations, to change the filter through which I see things, through which I see myself, so that I can be happy. I need to be happy.

I am not afraid. I am not a girl. I applaud my flaws, even when they make me cringe, and they do. They are my humanity. What stories I can tell with my wrinkles, my laugh lines, my gray hair. There is a short story behind every stretch mark, a beautiful baby behind each of my tired breasts, a novel behind every scar on my body. I just have to write it that way, if I can manage to see it that way first.

I am not a doormat. I am living. I am being. I am my body. I am all grown-up and I turned out just fine. I’m thirty-six and finally, Goddamn it, I’m ready.

Let the Goddess years begin.

Here's the Thing about Horizontal Stripes (an Ode to Kyle Hoffer)

2007-11-09T19:47:00.001-06:00

There was this kid in second grade. His name was Kyle Hoffer*. I liked him. A lot, really. He was a cool kid. One time, he threw up a yet-to-be-digested hamburger in the hall after recess. We somehow concluded, with our eight year-old logic that he was consciously responsible and altogether magical for the fact that it still REALLY looked like a hamburger. After all, I couldn't do that. Could you?

Another time, on a dare, he swallowed a dime. Immediately thereafter, the school-nurse took him by the hand and escorted him, wide-eyed and red-faced, out of the cafeteria. He didn't actually cry, although I saw the tears welling up as soon as the coin got stick right alongside his yet-to-blossom Adam's apple. He managed to hold it together though, at least until his mom arrived.

Kyle had brown hair and brown eyes (or maybe hazel, or were they green?) and pretty big ears, as little boy ears go. And the thing is, he always, at least as I remember it, he always wore horizontal stripes.

I do not wear horizontal stripes, and I cannot see horizontal stripes without thinking of Kyle Hoffer. And in tribute to my young friend, I have, for as much of my adult life as I can remember, referred to this kind of shirt as "a Kyle Hoffer." For example, if we are shopping for Elias, my husband will invariably pick up a shirt and the following conversation ensues:

JM: "What about this one?"
Tamara: ... [A certain expression and dead silence, because I tire of repeating myself.]
JM: "What? What's wrong with this one? Is this a Kyle Hoffer? Ugh..."

And we do NOT buy the Kyle Hoffer.

Not because Kyle Hoffer wasn't a freaking great kid. That's not it. It's just, well honestly, I don't have a clue what it is. I just have a thing about horizontal stripes. I'm like that. If you know me, you know that, well, sometimes I just get stuck on these things. And this is one of those things.

There's something about horizontal stripes that screams little boy in a not MY little boy sense. Is that crazy? Does that make any sense at all?

Whatever. It doesn't matter whether it makes sense. My little boy is NOT going to wear a Kyle Hoffer.

I have stood firm.

Until this week.

Behold, my little boy in a TOTAL Kyle Hoffer.

He looks pretty good, doesn't he?

Great. I better start hiding the dimes.

__________________________________________
*This is his real name, because as I have said before, I am an idiot. Maybe Kyle will find me. Kyle, if you are reading this, please don't take offense. (Sorry about the big ear comment.) The truth is, I had a crush on you in second grade. And you are a fashion icon.

Progress, In Progress

2007-11-05T15:52:00.000-06:00

They are hammering away at my little road; they've been working on it for months now, such that I haven't experienced (what used to be) my beautiful daily drive for way too long.

Why do these things take so long? Nothing seems to be going on. I don't see big changes that I can measure every day. Hardly. Most of the time, it looks just as you see it here: rolled over, turned upside down, torn apart, and empty.

Occasionally I hear loud noises, things that sound like I might imagine a backhoe or bulldozer or cement mixer to sound if I was a little more versed in what those things sound like in 2007. Occasionally I see workmen and big trucks pulling past me into this tied-off area. Sometimes I smell tar or see a cloud of dust floating above my children while they play in the front yard.

But most of the time, sadly, my little street is just sitting here, unused. She looks tired. Harried. Lonely, and waiting for someone to come and fix her up so she can be made use of in the manner she was intended.

She is in between states, biding her time, waiting for the people that make her real to do what they need to do so she can move on to doing what she does.

Hey, would you look at that?

My little street is a mommy.

About a Year Ago

2007-10-31T21:23:00.000-05:00

About a year ago, I discovered Henry Miller. I started reading Tropic of Capricorn. I got caught up all kinds of ways in that book. Man. Mr. Miller can be a depressing and sadistic guy, morbidly hilarious, perverse, honest.

Somehow, magically, when I finished the last page of that morose book, I found my optimism all over again. I’m not sure how that worked (I’m certain that optimism was by no means Henry’s intention) but that’s what happened. I got about as philosophical and introspective as any goofball can be. I thought about humans in general and our propensity toward contradiction, love, knowledge, and anticipating the good things.

I started writing a lot just then. And about a year ago, the most beautiful man was born in my brain. I adore him so much that I’ve been selfish with him; I’ve kept him to myself. He has made appearances in three short stories now, bits and pieces of this character, but just bits and pieces. I haven’t quite been able to get him out. To let him go.

A couple of members of my writing group can see that he’s in there, waiting to come to life on the page. They’ve even gushed a little: “That guy. THAT guy. We need more of HIM.”
Well yeah, no kidding. So do I. But it’s hard to write him down and do him justice. Or even come close. At least as I see him.

He’s in my brain so much, especially when I’m writing, that I almost forget and think he’s real. It’s hard to be sure. He’s not perfect by any means. He’s human. Flawed. All scarred up with living and being. He’s damn smart and quick-witted, socially awkward, charismatic in spite of himself, ghastly inappropriate. He feels real to me.

Not sure what good it does me, but it does me good from time to time. It’s on my brain so I’m saying it out loud. Here’s to Henry Miller. If he’s not the great instigator, I don’t know who is. And happy birthday to the stranger in my brain. Hopefully, he won’t be trapped in there forever.

His Name Was David (If I Remember Correctly)

2007-10-28T22:16:00.001-05:00

The first kiss is stolen by the man; the last is begged by the woman.”
- H.L. (Henry Lewis) Mencken

When I was only six years old, Captain America kissed me on the lips and in that moment ushered me into the world where boys kiss girls.
Ok, it wasn’t really Captain America. His name was David (if I remember correctly). Young David always wore this Captain America t-shirt, so that’s what we called him: Captain America. And that’s what I remember about him, mostly. That and the kissing.

It was innocent enough, thankfully, as our greatest accomplishments at that time were tying shoelaces and using the toilet. We were playing some home-made game we called “Married” wherein David, my sister, and I crawled under a table and took turns kissing. The table was covered by a white comforter, thus concealing our intimacy and creating a mock wedding tent at the same time.

David always got to be the groom of course, and my sister and I alternated between playing the bride and some form of wedding officiant. The bride and groom repeatedly exchanged vows, placed invisible rings on tiny fingers, and finally kissed. It was a slightly drawn-out version of soap opera kissing: closed mouths, dramatic head turning, exaggerated embraces, and lots of smacking and moaning and other immature sound effects. The game finally ended with uncontrollable, red-faced, six year-old laughter. Then we’d do it all over again. It was great fun.

It’s a far cry from my adult understanding of kissing. But then again... Is it?

At only six years old, we knew enough to know that

kissing is important and not to be taken for granted (thus the creation of a game to honor it);

kissing is (for the most part) a one-on-one activity (thus the turn-taking);

kissing is personal and intimate (thus the comforter-turned hide-out tent);

kissing is, in some sense, a sacred activity (thus the ceremony);

kissing is passionate and emotional (thus the soap opera sound effects);

and that kissing is in general, fabulous giddy fare (thus the hysterical conclusive laughter).

Hunh... What do you know? Everything I needed to know about kissing, I learned from a six year-old Captain America wannabe thirty years ago. Kissing can be good stuff.

Let that be a reminder to you.

Enough Already with the Deafening Silence

2007-10-26T21:13:00.000-05:00

I’m still here.
I’m alive.
I’m fine. Really. No, really. I’m fine. I am.

I know, I know. I guess I just needed a break. So now I've had my break. It's all out of my system now. And I promise not to disappear like that again. I wasn’t gone for that long. It just seems like I was. And I missed you. Really, I did. I wish I had more to report. It was just a kind of mindless absence. What do I have to report? Let’s see...

Summer was completely rained out. I didn’t get sunburned even once. Not once. In my book, that makes for a tragic summer. And already it’s cold outside. It’s not even Halloween yet and my lips are chapped. Ugh. But what’s new?

In June, I did two out of three legs (the biking and running portions) of the Danskin triathlon. That’s something. It was great. I also worked a lot over the summer. It's all good though. I’m happy with the work world. I spent a lot of time in Houston with my sister, went to a wedding and a couple of baby showers, usual summer fare.

In August, Elias turned 4. He’s a big, beautiful, amazing boy. He’s talking up a storm. He has about one more month of speech therapy for the sake of formality and is by all accounts a fabulously talkative, intelligent, if not precocious, little boy. He is clearly advanced.

He has added Spiderman to his list of alter egos although Superman is not yet altogether absent from our home. Hardly.

Lena.

Lena, Lena, Lena.

She's fun and spirited and smart. She's turning out to be quite the tomboy. And sassy.

The girl has no problem letting you know what she wants. But that's not new. Here she is in full armor, as if she needs it. Charming, is she not? But then, I'm partial.

In September, I turned 36. Yep. Yawn.

In October, my sister had a baby.

His name is Vincent and he is my new boyfriend.

I lerve him. Here I am with my new boyfriend.

And here he is with the other woman.

Little Playuh.

Oh, and my little street - the last thing I mentioned to you. My wonderful little road in the neighborhood.

It’s all but tore down and they’re putting in a fancy schmancy new one. I will report back to you on that with new pictures soon.

What? I promise. No, really, I will. I will. And soon.

Stay with me...

There Goes the Neighborhood

2007-07-05T17:29:00.000-05:00

A little over a year ago, I blogged about my little road, my daily drive, a tiny chunk of rural bliss in the middle of this booming Metropolis we call Austin.

And I am so happy that I took a picture and wrote it down because now it is gone. Behold the death of my beloved little street. They're going to widen the road and put houses there. Big fancy houses twice the purchase price of the one we live in.

It'll be good for property values, good for the neighborhood, yadda yadda yadda. I know that. That's all fine and good. But now what happens to my fantasy?

What about my clean country air, my outdoorsy goodness, my racoon, my deer? What about my little old men in pickup trucks with cowboy hats and straw between their teeth? Who am I going to wave to on a fancy new fandangled road like the one they're building? Where the hell are my old ladies with homemade pie? Where are my rose-colored glasses?

Stupid progress. I want my little road back.

Totally Random

2007-06-12T00:05:00.000-05:00

It is late. I should be sleeping. But I can't.

This happens occasionally and when it does, I am horrified that I am entering some awful insomniac phase, terrible bouts of which I was prone to in my late 20's. At its worst, I had an eight-week period of insomnia in which I averaged two hours per night. AVERAGED. There is no misery like the lack-of-sleep misery.

But usually it's just a one time thing and I sleep fine the next night. Tonight, however I will worry that it's the beginning of some endless misery. And I will entertain a seemingly endless parade of meaningless information that will flit into my head, fly around like a butterfly, and then exit dramatically never to return. Thoughts such as...

Do tarantulas mate for life? Here is a picture of a tarantula that was in our garage last January. We removed her, but what if she has found her true love, returned to my property with Mr. Tarantula Right, and will soon spawn baby tarantulas in my garage or some other hidden place in the space I call mine? God.

Do I know myself at ALL? Here is a picture of me at a Trance concert. Do you even know what that is? A few months ago, I did not. I may not even be saying it right. I never mentioned to you, blogging world, that I went out one evening, here in Austin to a Trance concert. With Trance music. That's what they call it. I went with some coworkers. Look at me, slightly tipsy and having fun at a Trance concert. It was a hip trendy club with hip trendy people all listening to hip trendy music. There was one giant entity on the dance floor and that giant entity was made up of very young, hip, trendy people all wearing black and swaying to the music in a hip, trendy fashion. And for a short period of time, I was part of the hip, trendy entity. And I actually liked it. The music and the whole thing. Crazy. Who knew?

Is it true that the human mouth is the filthiest thing around? Didn't our parents tell us that eons ago? Here is a picture of my son's arm after his first biting incident at pre-school. That is a human bite. A mark created by another frustrated toddler who was apparently not getting his or her way. For some reason, this disgusts me more, possibly, than the tarantula situation.

Alright. Now that that's out of my system, maybe I can get some sleep.

So I Missed 'Em a Little

2007-05-30T21:09:00.000-05:00

The kids came upon the camera as I was unpacking my contented Chicago suitcase, and they were very disturbed to find neither of their likenesses on the display.

We remedied that very quickly, and had a lot of fun in the process. Good Tuesday back after four days with no giggling mini-people.

Ok. So I missed 'em a little.

What? Just a little.

Like you wouldn't.

Dude. It’s Windy Here.

2007-05-27T11:34:00.000-05:00

The Chicago breakdown...

Thursday
Traveling, reading, figuring out the subway system, checking into the hotel, exploring the city, walking along the river, Continental lunch outdoors, a couple of glasses of wine, more reading, meeting up with Lisa, lots of gabbing, lots of laughing, more wine, Indian food for dinner.

Did I mention reading?

We are staying at the fabulous Amalfi hotel. The first picture shows a great view as I look out our window in the hotel.

And the second picture is the view as I look down from the very same spot out our window in the hotel. Heh heh. But it's all good.

Friday
Trying but failing to sleep in, reading, exercising, lots of writing, Continental lunch outdoors, napping, exercising, and exploring Chicago’s downtown core.

We saw James Thompson Center and Jean Dubuffet’s Monument with Standing Beast (shown here with Lisa), the (untitled) Picasso sculpture in Daley Plaza, the Chicago Theatre and much of the theatre district.

We began the evening by spontaneously stopping into the Cadillac Palace Theatre where we lucked into purchasing tickets for The Color Purple only fifteen minutes before the show started. Great show!

Post-performance, we walked back to the hotel in search of food and had what I believe was the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life.
Really.

Saturday
Trying and failing again to sleep in, reading, exercising, a little writing, excellent Thai food for lunch, more exploring.

We saw the Water Tower and Pumping Station, the Magnificent Mile, and the Museum of Contemporary Art.

The Museum of Contemporary Art had an amazing gallery of portrait photography and a great gift shop, but I must concede that contemporary art is often beyond me.

I try to get it but I just don't.

Here is Lisa upon seeing the exhibit outside. And the plastic yellow dude is what she was looking at.

Look at the unit on that guy!

Art appreciation was followed by much merriment and imbibing at the Marriott on the Magnificent mile. Lisa sucked back Cosmopolitans like they were water and I had my fair shared of gin and tonic. We kind of forgot to eat dinner…

Sunday
Thanks to that last gin and tonic, I succeeded with sleeping in on Sunday. I slept in until 9 o’clock. (My, how times have changed.)

I did some reading, writing, and then I had some time to myself. Lisa stayed back to sleep off that last Cosmo so I had a day of exploring to myself.

The weather was absolutely unbelievable. I had a great day and saw everything! The highlight of my day was The Art Institute of Chicago. Pictures follow.

Flitting About the Windy City

2007-05-26T12:47:00.000-05:00

That's what I'm doing. Thursday morning I boarded a plane for Chicago. I left behind in Austin two children, one husband, one house, one dog, two contract jobs, and a list of things to do attached to all those people/animal/things that is longer than my hair. At the top of my list is getting a haircut, but who has the time?

I brought with me one small suitcase, my laptop, my cell-phone, my camera, two copies of the New York Review of Books, two collections of short stories, and one novel. I am only halfway into the trip and I have already finished the novel (Rosie, by Annie Lamott - You must read it – perhaps I’ll do a review for Home Dipu Reviews). And I’m halfway into the first collection of shorts (the Summer 2007 issue of Glimmer Train). All this reading makes me very, very happy.

I left in Austin my tendency to worry, my need to make a plan, my instinct to look an hour into the future in anticipation of my children’s needs. Diapers, wipes, play-doh, sippee cups, facial features that belong to Mr. Potato Head: all left behind in Texas.

I brought with me my love for maps and my sense of spontaneity, my lingering, lazy side, and the twelve year-old girl, the cackling juvenile adolescent who laughs at farts and people falling down. She lives deep inside me but occasionally surfaces when I spend time with certain girlfriends. Girlfriends like Lisa who is here with me now in Chicago. Here we are having one of our juvenile girlie moments. And here I am being happy in general. Happy that we're in a city we can walk in; happy that the weather is great; happy that I can still read a map, and that we're not lost; happy that I just walked by a Picasso sculpture; happy that my kids are safe at home and really are fine without me; happy that I just had two glasses of wine in the middle of the afternoon; happy that I haven't changed a diaper or been whined at in 36 hours; happy that even though I desperately need a haircut, no one in this city gives a flying fuck, including me. And happy most of all that after months of missing her desperately, I have my closest girlfriend in the whole wide world all to myself in a freaking fabulous city.

Happy.

God Makes Me Fall Down

2007-05-12T12:08:00.000-05:00

I like to think I have a little grace… All right, all right, look, I don't have grace, I don't want grace, I don't even say grace, okay?

--Elaine Benes
Seinfeld (The Chaperone episode)

If there is a God, and I personally like to believe that there is, I am pretty sure he (or she– hey, I’m liberal) likes to keep me humble by reinforcing gravity from time to time, by emphasizing it, amplifying it, if you will. Sometimes gravity is just too powerful me. This is the way I like to justify the fact that I just, well, fall down. I fall down a lot.

When I try to explain this to friends, sometimes they think I’m exaggerating. I am not. I fall down. Really. I spent most of my grade school, high school, and college experiences with purple spots all over my body. It wasn’t because I was any kind of athlete or daredevil. It was just because I seriously lack grace. Even today, my knees are usually bruised. Or scabbed. Or something.

So on Thursday, I fell down. (Again.) It was a pretty good one. If it had been someone else, I would have cackled shamelessly. (It’s not that I’m mean. I just think falling down is really funny. Probably some kind of defense mechanism after years of tripping over my own feet.)

I ripped my hand open a little and actually had to dig out some gravel that had embedded itself into my palm.

I tore my pants. Brand new black crop pants from Old Navy and of you know me and how much I hate to shop, you know that was possibly more painful than any bloody romp in the back yard.

I skinned my knees in two or three places and bled a bit on the deck, although it gave me an opportunity to discuss the wonders of beautiful red blood with my little ones.

“See how pretty and red it is? Wow! Look how good my body works! I have blood in there. Look at that! Do you see that? That’s just a little blood. It hurts a little bit, but look at that! It’s OK."

There might have also been a brief lesson in profanity before the medical lecture, but I managed to get myself together, inhale, and swallow all the curse words before they came out.

As I was catching my breath, because it really did hurt, I felt these sweet tiny fingers on my forearm. It was Lena.

Lena: “Are you OK, Mommy? Mommy, are you OK? Mommy, do you have a boo boo?”
Tamara: “Yes, Lena, I have a boo boo. It does hurt a little but it’s OK. In just a minute, it won’t hurt any more.”
Lena: “Hurt, Mommy. That hurts? Need band-aid, Mommy.”
Tamara: “That’s a great idea. Let’s get a band-aid... I’m going to need at least five band-aids, I think.”

She kept patting me on the arm and basically talked me through it.

Lena: “Get band-aid, Mommy.” She gently rubbed my arm.
Lena: “It’ll be Ooohhh Kaaay.” She nodded her head and smiled at me.

Wow. I was so touched by her compassion. She was really concerned for me, and really sweet to me. She was great. And it occurred to me that maybe she learned that from me. That’s a really nice thought.

So I fell down and Lena made it all better. My hand still hurts and I walked with a slight limp until yesterday.

It was totally worth it.

I Might Be a Real Live Writer (Worn Redux)

2007-05-07T15:47:00.000-05:00

Even those who write against fame wish for the fame of having written well, and those who read their works desire the fame of having read them.

--Blaise Pascal

I took part in an event yesterday that was incredibly gratifying. I read a little piece of mine at BookPeople. That’s right. BookPeople.

Sorry. But I can’t help but have gotten a little puffed up. BookPeople. It’s BookPeople, people! Real authors read there, and sign their books there, and generally just wallow there in the presence of their own overwhelming writerdom.

Don’t worry, I didn’t stay puffed up for long. After hearing the other writers read their pieces, my inner critic reared her unobjective head and reminded me why I should remain modest. They were really, really good. But on the up side, I am thrilled to have been included in such a group of talented writers (one of whom is my good friend and fellow Yoga Mama, Sharyn). There were fourteen of us. And many of the other writers have been published many times, some of them in publications such as RedBook, the Washington Post, and the New York Times. Wah.

At the least of it all, I can say I didn’t suck! I didn't whisper or stammer. I didn't fall down on the way to the podium. I didn't fart or vomit or choke on my own spit. I didn’t faint. I enunciated clearly and I delivered the lines well. I got nods and laughs in all the right places. All in all, they liked me. (They really, really liked me.)

So here are the details: It was an Austin Jewish Association Bookfair Event at BookPeople. (Did I mention it was at BookPeople?) If you’ll be out and about in Austin this week, please do some shopping at BookPeople. Through Sunday, May 13th, 20% of every purchase goes to the Austin Jewish Academy Scholarship Fund and Library.

I read the following, which is a reworking of a piece you guys have seen: I shared the original version with you bloggers about a year ago. (You can see the original version if you scroll to the very bottom of my April 2006 archive.) Here is the new and improved version, good for one five-minute reading aloud (at BookPeople).
____________________________________

Worn

There is a tired patch of dirt beneath the swing that hangs in our front yard. The earth underneath the swing has been trampled and kicked and stomped on until finally no grass grows there. It is a worn-down spot in the middle of what I like to think is a beautiful front yard.
The rest of our yard holds long blades of thick green grass, around which little bugs crawl and hide. There are so many great places to play in, in our front yard:
the long sloping driveway ripe for little trucks and tricycles,
the sidewalk crevices that shelter doodle bugs and caterpillars,
the leaves that line the curb,
the flower beds around the trees and next to the house.

Still, my children always run first to this worn-down earth. It is the bosom of our yard, seemingly lifeless, under-appreciated, and beaten down with love and use.

I look on this patch fondly. It is a mirror to my motherhood. Leaves are splattered around the edges like so many gray hairs peeking through the rest of my mane. It has an unsmooth, uneven shape but it is still beautiful. I like to tell myself it is. Sometimes life reaches up and gives birth to new grass making its round unwieldy figure neater and smaller. Other times it seems to grow more bulky, weightier, and I fret over the size of it when I know I shouldn’t.

Sometimes I look at our yard in full and I try to see the whole of it, beyond this little empty place where no grass grows. It seems to have appeared overnight. But it’s hard to see past it. It screams for my attention. It practically throws a temper tantrum. I swear I can almost hear it: It yells: “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” And sometimes I want to scream back at it to shut up! But I don’t. I usually don’t.

My babies are young: they teeter at the threshold between infancy and childhood. They are only two and three years old, no longer toddlers, but not quite “big kids” yet either. They are at that place in between; they want independence and sometimes they take it, but when they do, they almost immediately return to a place of comfort.

This small area in our yard is a comfort to my children. Yes, the earth looks dry and rough, unwelcoming. But in spite of appearances, it is predictable, constant, reliable. If I am the mother I want to be, it is like I am.

This little borough of the outdoors lingers at the edge of the lawn, conspicuously waiting for its little people to descend upon it, to love it, to learn from it, to make use of it, to wear it out. Because it’s their spot.

This raw terrain is at the mercy of the children who play here. Everything about it is exposed. There is no grass to protect it from the cleated heels of a little boy's shoes. There are no weeds to soften the blow when my daughter throws her ball against it again and again. Nature knows that. I know that.

I am a mother. But I am more than a faded patchwork of maternity. I am worn. But look just beneath my surface. There is vitality here: intelligence, intensity, creativity, fertility (though God forbid I prove my fertility any more than I already have).

When the grass finally grows together over this naked soil, how happy I will be! My yard will be beautiful again, physically beautiful by conventional standards, by the standards of the neighborhood association. I can’t wait! I’ll get my yard back. There will be no gaping holes where grass should be, no interruption to my flower beds. And I can take the swing down! But, then again, I’ll have to take the swing down…

Maybe I can wait. Soon enough, the grass will grow together again. Until then, I’ll linger too at the edge of the lawn, and watch what happens until it does. I’ll conspicuously wait for my little people to descend upon me, to love me, to learn from me, to make use of me, to wear me out. Because I am their mother.

I’ll do that. I’ll willingly be as vulnerable, as available to them as their favorite trampled spot in the front yard. I am just as haggard, just as faded, but happy all the same to be worn with such good use.

How Patient Can One Woman Be?

2007-05-03T15:15:00.000-05:00

In case you don’t know, the “lovey” is Eli’s special blanket-like object. He sleeps with it, naps with it. You get the idea. He loves it. It’s a hodge-podge of sheer material I sewed together for him when he was an infant, inspired by our curtains, which he would rub together between his hands as I was putting him down for a nap.

Currently, the lovely is missing. No worries. It will turn up. It always does.

The following is a conversation Eli and I had this afternoon:

Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: I don’t know sweetie. Where’d you put it?
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: I don’t know sweetie.
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: I don’t know sweetie. Why don’t you look in your room?
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: I don’t know Eli. Have you looked in your room?
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: I don’t know, sweetie.
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: Look in your room.
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: Look in your room, Eli.
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: Look in your room, Elias.
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: Eli, look in your room.
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: Elias, I don’t know.
Elias: Mommy.
Tamara: Yes, Eli.
Elias: Mommy.
Tamara: Yes, Eli.
Elias: Mommy.
Tamara: Eli.
Elias: Mommy.
Tamara: Eli.
Elias: Mommy.
Tamara: Eli.
Elias: Mommy, where’s the lovey?
Tamara: I do not know, Eli. Have you looked up your butt?
Elias: (Hysterical laughter) Up the butt! (More hysterical laughter)

I know, I know. I’m sorry.
Weak moment.
How patient can one woman be?

I Seem To Be a Person

2007-03-20T21:32:00.000-05:00

There’s actually more to it than just “I seem to be a person.” Let me try that again.

I seem to be a person to whom things happen. Interesting things. Really. Things often “happen” to me. I meet amazing people. I see things. I hear things. I’ve taken trips and met people, witnessed visions of good, and experienced bits and pieces of life that many people (it has recently come to my attention) actually might long for. I can’t say what I’m really talking about. Not exactly. Just strange little things that happen. I shouldn’t need to figure out any where or when or why about it all. But I do.

I’ve got good stories. Some of them I share with friends and family. Some of them I have written here for you. Some things I will tell you. And some things, I will not. (Insert annoying emoticon or cute little smiley winky face here.)

When I’m feeling confident about myself, I think the things that happen to me happen because I make them happen or because I’m (slowly raising and lowering index and middle fingers) “special," as they say.

When I’m feeling lucky to be alive, I think the things that happen to me happen because that’s the way the world works and we can all be involved in a world that works this way, if we simply choose to.

When I’m feeling frustrated with my fellow humans, I think these kinds of things are happening all around us but most people are too stupid or too preoccupied (with who’s wearing what and which movie star is having which rock star’s baby) to notice the infinity of earthly goodness that presents itself to us every day.

When I'm feeling insecure, I decide that nothing special happens to me and I am an idiot who makes things up to soften the reality of my overwhelming mediocrity.

When I am feeling pleased with the world, I think these things happen because the world is a magical place and because there is an order to the Universe.

When I am feeling lonely, I believe I am imagining the whole thing and that you’re all together right now as I type, talking about me, laughing, enjoying wine and cheese, and planning my intervention.

Right now, I am feeling content. So I guess I’m just happy that the strange little things that happen to me do indeed happen from time to time. And, at least right now, I really don’t need to figure out why.

Hooray, strange little things.
Hooray, interesting tidbits.
Hooray me and Hooray you, to those of you who pay attention.
Hooray world and Hooray to good timing.
Hooray, to my impending intervention.

Here's to Good

2007-02-25T13:27:00.000-06:00

I went to a funeral on Thursday. My great aunt died at 82, Lella Beatrice Whitaker, to me and my generation, Aunt Bea. There were nearly 300 people at her funeral. I know because I counted them. I counted some sad and some smiling faces and the backs of faceless heads that sat in front of me, much like I used to count the tiles on the ceiling in that very same sanctuary years ago during Sunday sermons that seemed to last forever.

I have spent countless hours in the sanctuary of that little church in Buda, Texas, and I have never seen it so overflowing with people. There was standing room only. Extra chairs were placed at the end of each pew and people stood shoulder to shoulder at the back of the church. It was excellent.

I know that when people die, their loved ones tend to go to hyperbole. They tend to remember the good things because it’s easier that way. They probably tend to say what I am poised to say, but I am going to say it anyway, because I believe in this case it is literally true. My aunt was really different. She was really, well, GOOD.

She was a Christian woman in the old-fashioned sense of the word. She “lived for the Lord” in the most genuine capacity. She believed what she said and better, she lived as she believed. I never heard her utter a negative word about anyone. Never. I can remember her sitting at the kitchen table with my grandmother, her sister, who’d be rambling on about someone doing someone else wrong. My grandmother would freely vent, usually with good reason, and Aunt Bea would just listen, smile, and nod.

Then Aunt Bea would respond by talking about the opportunity the Lord was giving us all to practice patience. And she meant it. She wasn't preaching. She never condescended. I once witnessed this scenario when the person being discussed had wronged Aunt Bea herself, had “borrowed” money with no intention to pay it back. Aunt Bea held no ill will toward him. Yet, she wasn’t a pushover. She learned her lesson. In her mind, she had been given an opportunity to help and she had done right. And that had no impact on how her help had been received. It was all God’s will. That sincerity, that generosity, is amazing to me. Who can do that just once, much less consistently during an entire lifetime? Not many.

No, it doesn’t push me any closer to Christianity. But it pushes me to something. It pushes me to good, maybe if only for a tiny moment. I'm not saying I can actualize that. But it's a push in the right direction.

Stranger-Face

2007-02-17T10:32:00.000-06:00

Once many years ago, I went to the airport to pick up a man who I loved and who I believed I would be with for a very long time. I stood shoulder to shoulder with thirty or forty others like me, all of us watching the gate for some departed friend, lover, colleague, or relative to emerge.

My sweetheart and I had been apart for a few months and I was shamelessly eager to see him again. I am 35 years old. Today, I bat my eyelashes and a week goes by. I hear this only gets worse in your forties and fifties, and that by your sixties, you can blink away entire decades. But when you’re only 20, and I was at the time, three months is an eternity. A whole summer. A life could really change in three months.

So there I stood waiting at the airport, antsy, hair fixed, lipstick applied, reapplied, and carefully blotted in anticipation of our reunion. My eyes darted from one man to the next and I was just about to interrogate the airline attendant as to whether my beloved had actually boarded the plane when this stranger came to a standstill right in front of me. Somewhere in my subconscious, I had registered this guy eyeing me when he got off the plane but I didn’t pay too much attention because I was searching for my love. And now, not only could I not find him, but this goofy guy was standing right in front me. He held a tired bouquet of flowers and he stared at me with an ardent grin.

Oh.
God.

It was him. My absent love. I stared at him for an awkward couple of nanoseconds, then we embraced, and then we went on. It might seem absurd, but for those tiny fractions of time, I did not recognize him. That was very disturbing to me for a while. But by the end of the night, we had caught up to each other and slowly, little by little, his face had begun to morph back into the comfortable shape I had assigned to it.

Since then, I have been hyper-aware of this phenomenon. I call it stranger-face. I’ve talked to friends about it and it seems to be universal. The theory goes something like this: When you don’t know someone, they have stranger-face, they look like, well strangers. They appear to you as they physically look. No less, no more. They assume the comprehensive physicality of their characteristics: height, weight, build, eye color, hair color, the rise of their cheekbones, the fullness of their lips, the angle of their nose, the strength of their chin. You see them as they look with no emotional input. Clean slate.

After you get to know someone, you see them differently, for better or worse. Even after five minutes. For the sake of argument, I’ll concede the obvious and admit that yes, when you adore someone, they do get better looking. Flaws become features, moles wax endearing, and scars disappear. But that’s not really my point. My point is about familiarity and how we choose, if only subliminally, to see someone through a filter of our affection as opposed to in a purely corporeal sense.

Perhaps it’s easiest, most obvious, to explain in terms of mothers and their children. I have seen my mother-in-law look at both of her sons with such sweet, genuine adoration. Her boys are 38 and 40 but I wonder if it’s not impossible for her to see them as they really are now. At my son’s second birthday party, I talked to my mother-in-law about how quickly my brand new baby was disappearing, at how fast he was growing up. We covered one cliché after another.

“He’s already two. He’s walking. Look at him. He’s SO big!” I gushed. "When do you stop seeing them as little babies?” I asked her. She looked right into me and answered me very seriously.

“You don’t.”

Oh. No, I guess you don’t. It may be impossible to see your kids in stranger-face, at least on purpose. You’re far too emotionally involved. You can catch a glimpse by accident, of course. I recently saw my son Elias, now three and a half years old, in stranger-face. He had just moved up to the big-boy class at his school. That’s the pre-school class. These kids are four and five years old. They go to the bathroom by themselves, clean up their own messes, sit in organized little circles for story-time. It might sound normal to you, but it blows my mind. They have a computer in their class even.

The first time I picked him up from the new classroom, I scanned the room and couldn’t find him. I thought briefly that I was in the wrong classroom. These kids were way too big. And just as I was about to leave, I saw this beautiful, giant red-headed kid typing at the computer, and it hit me.

“Holy crap, that’s my little boy.” I know, I know. I am a walking cliché. But what can I do?

The parent-child relationship is the exception to the rule, though, in my opinion, at least as far as being able to actually invoke stranger-face. Everyone else is fair game. When I meet someone for the first time now, I always try to memorize their stranger-face. In fact, there’s a bizarre art to removing yourself from what you know about a person, from how you feel about a person, and then just trying to see them, to simply recognize their carnality.

With a little effort, you can train your eyes to see beyond your mind and then observe your loved ones from a stranger’s perspective. It’s something worth seeing.

Overheard

2007-02-10T14:23:00.000-06:00

I was at the Flightpath the other day. It’s one of my favorite places to write. I didn’t write so much this time because of these three kids sitting next to me, distracting me to the point of eavesdropping. Not really eavesdropping I guess, because I didn’t have to make any effort. It would have been more of an effort to tune them out. They were hilarious.

One was unapologetically large. He was wonderfully comfortable in his own plentiful skin and he was clearly the ring-leader. He had a cute round face, little round glasses, and thick curls all over his head.

The second guy was Max. He was super skinny with a trendy haircut, obviously the one the girls go for. And the third was Dan (or something like that), the quiet more mainstream type. Behold bits and pieces of the entertaining conversation I heard.

***

Max: "San Antonio zoo man. Dude, man the monkeys. Playing with tires, eating whole heads of lettuce. You can watch a monkey so bored. Thinking about doing something ALL DAY long and then just, Dude… Give UP... You know, I have never actually seen a monkey eat a banana. Have you?"
Big Guy and Dan: (hysterical laughter)

***

Big Guy: "Hey, I found my afro pick. I’ll lose it again I know. But until then look at me. I’m tangle free and fluffy. "

***

Big Guy: "Dude I told him, I’ll only do this if you help me clean up and he promised, man. But he didn’t."
Max: "Fucker. Yeah. He is a fucker."
Big Guy: "When did there get to be such a lack of respect for the host? That’s what I want to know. They moved the grave marker of my rat, man, and then he just sat on it. How could he do that?"

***

Dan: "I might move into the Brownstone when my lease is up."
Big Guy: "Do it man, we’ll hang out all the time. Get tacos."

***

Big Guy: "I got an idea for a movie man. It’s about Heaven and Hell. "
Dan: "What else? What about it?"
Big Guy: "I don’t know. I’m working on it. But MAN. It’s gonna be good."

***

Max: "Dude, I rode the bus with your burned out neighbor the other day. "
Big Guy: "You did? Oh my God, what happened?"
Max: "Dude, he is WEIRD."
Big Guy: "I told you, man."
Max: "Yeah. You did."
Big Guy: "Was he wearing the shirt with all the girls on it? "
Max: "Yeah, he was really proud of his porn shirt. He was going to play paint ball."
Big Guy: "What a pothead. "