booandbunny

I love the kind of day that is nothing that you thought it would be. Mr. 5 was more than happy to meander with me, nothing particularly exciting, but all better than cleaning the house! We had such a good time. No sooner had we arrived home and heated some leftovers for lunch than the phone rang. My best buddy in town was inquiring about a pop-in.
I love a good pop-in … completely unexpected, totally wonderful. It was a short visit, during which she, too, partook of some leftovers and caught me up on what’s going on in her life as I filled her in on the little things that cause big excitement in our house. I especially love it because with her I can just be who I am … laundry all over the living room chair, Legos all over the coffee table … photos and scrapbooking supplies all over the dining room. It’s nothing like when one of the moms from school pops over and we stand on the porch because I wouldn’t dare let them see how we LIVE.
Talking with her always charges my batteries … I usually realize the true potential of at least one of my crazy ideas and she gets to play with toys and collect kids’ hugs, which seems to charge the batteries of a 30-something single girl.
Hubby came home and said nothing about the laundry (still on the chair) or the fact that I spent the day shopping for our upcoming gatherings rather than getting the house ready. He kissed me and thanked me for making one of his favorite dinners. It was that kind of day … the kind that leaves you all warm and tingling inside.

When I wrote about Ms. 8 last week I said “I could say about a million things about mothers and daughters here. The relationship, to me, is one of life’s most mysterious.” That was my way of not saying what I wanted to say: I have known two kinds of women in my life, those who admire their moms and those like me, who cringe at every indication that they are just like their mothers. I’ve never met someone in between. So when, after praying for a son, I was given this precious Peanut, I was more terrified than ever. I always thought I would be a better mother to a son, and so each day has been a balancing act. I try to give her the things I take from my mother and want to hold on to, which are many, actually, but I try to teach them in a different way. I grew up in a darkness I only gave name to about 10 years ago. Its genetic imprint left a red welt on my back after my babies were born. And so I feel I must explain the twist in my stomach the first time my daughter said “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.”

Mom cried in church. It wasn’t an incessant, sobbing kind of crying, more of that slow tear down the cheek that turns into a steady, unstoppable stream. And, all the while, nothing behind her eyes.

Mom cried at Christmas. I must have been about 8 when I came around the corner into the living room. There, by the light of only the tree, she sat alone on the sofa crying. I would become accustomed to these Christmas Eve cries, though I never have accepted them. “My grandfather died on Christmas Eve,” she said. Well, at 8 years old I thought this was something that just happened to her, so she tried to explain that she was a little girl when he passed. I would grow into this fact over the years only to realize the power of environment on a very small child. She never knew him. But the mourning that went on around her has affected every Christmas of her life, and many of mine, too. My husband has a hard time understanding that I never knew the joy of Christmas until he came along. This year I’m trying to explain why I don’t want the family I grew up in at our house on Christmas. Perhaps it’s because I don’t want any crying in my kids’ Christmas collage.

Mom cried when she listened to music. Back then we listened to records, which some people nowadays don’t even know what they are. But there’s something about growing up with records that colors the soundtrack of your life. The crackles, pops, hisses, become part of the songs. The perfect sounds we get from our modern recordings somehow diminish the roles these imperfect recordings played in our lives. But the instant gratification of programmable music players somehow can’t diminish the prowess it took to hit that third groove on an album when all you wanted to hear was that third song. But I digress. I don’t remember seeing her dance, or tap her feet or even sing along. Music would render her motionless, perhaps staring out the window over the kitchen sink, crying with nothing behind her eyes.

Sometimes I feel moved to tears in church. I’ll listen to my daughter singing or watch my oldest son greet those around us. When our youngest was smaller, I would watch my husband keep him quiet, happy, distracted, comfortable because I didn’t have the strength to wrestle his 30-pound frame in my lap for an hour. I would see the line of hubby’s strong jaw against the fluffy tuft of 2-year-old hair and think “I really do have it all. Thank you God,” and feel tears come. I would never, ever let them fall because no one should watch their mother crying in church and wonder why.

Sometimes I am moved to tears at Christmas as I sing at the top of my voice, even when there is no other music playing. Or as I listen to the sound of the three of them lying on the floor and looking up into that unattainable, magical world that is a lit Christmas tree in a dark room. Those are the times being George Shrinks would be really cool. You could just climb up in that Christmas tree. I am moved to tears, but I would never, ever let them fall because no one should watch their mother crying at Christmas and wonder why.

Sometimes I look at the history of mothers and daughters that runs through my veins and think “There’s just no way out. There’s no avoiding it. You already are too much like her. And she’s too much like Gram. You tisk when the kids do annoying things, though you know they don’t do them out of any malice. You sigh when you don’t get your way as a means of passive control. Who are you to think you can stop the inevitable genetic destiny you and she face? Who are you to think you can break a generations-long cycle of women who pass their own depression and self-loathing on to their daughters?”

And then I see my husband’s face and I know I am not alone. And I see him in her face and know she has something I didn’t. Her dad is willing to stand up and say “Get help if you need help. I don’t care what it takes.” If my dad ever said this, my mom just never took action. But Dad is a separate bag on my luggage cart.

I see my husband’s face and I hold on to him. He who loved me even when I stopped smiling. He who loves me even when I push him away. I hold on and I pull myself up and I pull myself out because I don’t want my daughter to ever, ever come to me again as she did that day she was 2 and rub my shoulders and say: “Mommy, it’s OK. Don’t cry Mommy. It’s OK.”

This made me cry harder and it made me confess to my husband that something was wrong this time around, something after this baby wasn’t coming back together right and I needed to talk to somebody who wasn’t him, a stranger who might not be frightened by the fact that I was in a sobbing ball on the living room floor, with my toddlers staring at me and my newborn in a play yard. (This episode was something I kept from him for years.) I needed to talk to somebody, not because I was afraid I’d hurt anyone but because I was afraid I’d hate myself even more than I already did and that much hatred could never be hidden from my daughter.

That was six years ago. And I don’t cry in church and I don’t cry at Christmas and I dance when the music plays … and sometimes when it doesn’t. And my daughter looks at me and smiles and says “I want to be like you …” and for the first time in her life, I am not afraid that she feels that way.

Going on like this always seems grossly self-indulgent to me because I don’t come from a childhood that you could label as anything more than generically suburban. There was no violence or neglect or abuse or danger. It just was. I just was. So maybe that’s why I’m striving for more now … a childhood of vibrant color for my daughter so that the pictures of me in her brain are of dancing. And maybe that’s why all the writing I’ve been doing these past months, a kind of writing I bottled for so many years as I concentrated on reporting and editing, has brought me to this grossly self-indulgent moment. Because moving all this luggage out has left more space inside for me to grow into. The school bus will be here soon. I think I’ll go put my dancing shoes on.

We spent the day together, relaxing, laughing, playing, being kids. Of course there were snow angels and snowball fights. There was the attack of the mutant crazy German Shepherd, the hot chocolate and then there were Shrinky Dinks.

The kids had never done these before, so it was fun watching them explore. There were four sheets of dink paper, so to avoid a fight a took the last one and used it myself, creating a tiny sun catcher of sorts out of words such as Expect Magic, Grow Wings, Feed your creative beast; Sigh; Breathe; and, of course, iris, wildflower and maple. As I kept going, I kept coming up with more little words to map my blogosphere. Soon I was just staring at my dink paper.

“What’s wrong,” my daughter asked as she carefully colored in a flower she was tracing.

“I don’t know what I want to draw next,” I said.

“You’ll think of something,” Mr. 6 chimed in.

“Ya,” said Mr. 5, who had abandoned Shrinky Dinks for his “private birthday Play-do.”

“Who knows,” Ms. 7 said, “maybe something will pop up that you never expected … like a magic boat in the air.”

Like a magic boat in the air.

I’ve been thinking I’ve been a bit stingy in sharing my daughter in this space, but her magic boat is the first concrete image I’ve been able to conjure. (And I didn’t even conjure it! I’m borrowing it, actually.) She looks like her Daddy, but she’s the only one of them with my dark brown eyes. The only thing I can imagine would come close to describing my difficulty putting words to my daughter is this: Catching fog. As a storytelling device fog’s mysterious and frightening but for me it’s magical. It’s as close as we’ll ever come to walking in the clouds. I can feel her all around me, influencing so much of what I do, but words for the sensation escaped me until she pulled her magic boat out of the air.

“What’s that mean?” I asked, tucking her into her lavender bedazzled bed, appropriately stuffed with fluffy friends. It was something new she’d tacked to the wall.

“It means be who you are,” she said as matter-of-factly as you can possibly imagine. “If you’re yourself all the time, no one can take your beauty away.”

Well, I thought, aren’t you about to turn 8, not 18? And I hope when you are 18, you still think eXaCtLy liKE THAT! A few more words went back and forth between kisses and hugs and soon she was asleep.

And today, thinking about her boat, her beauty, her bounce, I realized she is poetry. I could say about a million things about mothers and daughters here. The relationship, to me, is one of life’s most mysterious. When I’m asked to describe her I often boil it down to this: She is the perfect blend of princess and tomboy. But there’s so much more. She’s sparkle personified. She’s the zip of a dragonfly. She’s the bend of a willow. She is my daughter, and when I think of all her bright beauty and confidence I pray the world won’t break her spirit. And my prayer is answered in conversations such as this. And then I climb into her magic boat and we do our nails out at sea. And I think of the only verse I can ever remember to this Martina McBride song:

In my daughter’s eyes, I can see the future, a reflection of who I am and what will be. And though she’ll grow and someday leave, maybe raise a family, in my heart I hope you’ll see how happy she made me. I’ll be there, in my daughter’s eyes.

That was the song of Mr. 6 this morning ... standing at my bedroom window shaking his behind and singing. It's the first time weather has closed our schools in two years, which makes it his first-ever snow day. Aaah. A day of snowball fights and hot chocolate ... I don't expect I'll get much written today!

It’s a warm day, perhaps that’s why my skin feels so tight.
I swerve.
I slither.
I feel as though I’m cracking out of myself.
I feel as though my usual colors are dulled, but not for long.
I swerve.
I slither.
I am one long muscle.
I am working to free myself from this skin that feels too tight.
It itches.
I scratch.
It cracks.
I'm free from that old self.
I move beyond it.
My yellow, orange and black are darker than before.
My muscles are stronger than before.
I’m shedding bad habits, one at a time, and this brightens me.

There was an exciting development in our house last week. Mr. 6, who has been studying karate for about six months now, was told it was time to take a belt test. This meant his first one-on-one workout with sensei, the highest ranking teacher at the school. Mr. 6 was an odd combination of excited and nervous, but, as always, confident. He would be trying to show sensei that he knew enough to move from white belt to advanced white belt. In the style he studies there are solid belts, which show a certain proficiency, and striped belts (advanced white, for instance, which is white with yellow running through the center) that show a progression of knowledge, but not quite the next level of proficiency. Mr. 6 had a blast showing what he knows and sensei was so impressed he skipped Mr. 6 to the next solid color belt, yellow.

I was fascinated listening to this man who has taught public school as well as karate for several decades. The ease with which he spoke to a crowd, the ease with which he spoke to students of all ages and the pride he took in each of their abilities was beautiful.

As each group advancing came forward he had them show those gathered some of what they know. He talked about how a white belt means you’re pure, an open book, he said, ready to learn. And as you learn, he said, the belts become darker. He had my son, and each of the others, remove their belt after their demonstrations and lay them at their feet.

“Step over that,” he said to Mr. 6, whose gaze was fixed on the yellow belt in sensei’s hands. “You’re beyond that now.” And he presented my son with his yellow belt. I thought my son would burst with pride.

This idea of knowledge darkening our pages was interesting to me. So often darkness is used to describe something menacing, dangerous, evil. At the dojo, darkness means knowledge, a powerful, positive thing. And the darker the belt, the more powerful the body, the deeper the knowledge, the more positive the self image of the student who has earned it.

And, as I filled journal pages answering the questions Claudia posed last week and worked my way toward Meg’s question I kept coming back to the fact that we are all making big changes, darkening new pages with more words, more art, better images of ourselves. But even as we make these changes we find there is still more to know, another level to work toward.

We shed one skin, celebrate the new one for awhile, then realize that it, too, feels too tight. So we work our way out and discover what’s next.

“Sometimes you’ll have a student who’s really been working hard,” sensei said as he came to the 40-something mom advancing. “They’ll skip the striped belt and move to the next solid color.” (Here I felt an extra twinge of pride in my son.) “Put your belt down,” sensei said to her, unfolding an orange belt as she placed her yellow one at her feet.

“Step over that. You’re beyond it.”

Carolyn and Alexandra got me to really thinking …

Name 5 of your favorite books:
1. The Once and Future King, T.H. White
2. The Mists of Avalon, Marion Zimmer Bradley
3. The Giving Tree, Shel Silverstein (Thanks for reminding me, Meg.)
4. The Polar Express, Chris Van Allsburg
5. The Poetry of Robert Frost, All Eleven of His Books – Complete, edited by Edward Connery Lathem

Name 5 other favorite authors:
1. J.K. Rowling
2. Laura Ingalls Wilder
3. C.S. Lewis
4. the many, many tellers of Greek myths
5. Peri O’Shaughnessy/John Grisham/John Lescroart

Name of the last books you bought? I buy many, many books as gifts for others and receive most of my books as gifts. The last book I remember buying for myself was Intimate Enemies: The Two Worlds of the Baroness de Pontalba

Name of the last book you read?
Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis

Name of five books that are particularly meaningful for you:
1. The Ramona books by Beverly Cleary … which taught me to read for pleasure.
2. The works of Judy Blume and S.E. Hinton … which kept me reading for pleasure in junior high and high school
3. The Firm, John Grisham … The book that got me reading for pleasure again after graduating from college.
4. Avalon, Stephen R. Lawhead … My oldest was 2, but this was the first book without pictures that I read for pleasure after starting our family.
5. Good Night Moon, Margaret Wise Brown … Which introduced all my kids to the pleasures of reading.

Name three books you are dying to read but just haven’t yet: (Three … only three?!!)
1. The World is Flat, Tom Friedman
2. The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald: A New Collection; edited by Matthew J. Bruccoli
3. The Age of Arthur: A history of the British Isles from 350 to 650, John Morris

In my head this story sits in the middle of an amazing drawing of an iris bed, a path, a wildflower garden and a huge maple. Now I have to learn how to get it out of my head! Happy weekend to all!

One day, a novice gardener came to a woman who had raised more than she and asked “Will you help me with this?”
The gardener looked over the rhizomes as she untied the brilliant scarf that kept her hat on her head. “I will,” she said. A comforting glow was all about her. She reached for a clay pot and planted them just below the surface. “Come back in six weeks,” she said.
So the novice gardener did.
“Here it is,” the gardener said, magic dust coming off every inch of her, floating down to the seedlings all around her. In the clay pot stood a tender iris, its first bud shoot pushing up between the leaves.
“Thank you,” I said cupping the pot in hands open much looser than those that gave her the rhizome. For in the six weeks that I had left the iris in her care I had learned to step back from my garden and watch what developed on its own.

Not long after, the novice returned seeking more help. Magic dust again sprinkled down on the rows of freshly planted seeds as the gardener moved by. “How are the iris?” she asked with a wide smile.
“They’ve taken hold and are spreading to explore their bed,” I answered. “Thank you so much.
“I was wondering, will you help me with this?”
She turned the seed packet over and over while saying things like: “How exciting! I can’t wait to see what we get! Oh, of course I will help. Come back in six weeks.”
So the novice did as she was told. Returning in six weeks, remembering to bring a picture of the many iris now boasting bud shoots in their bed. As she opened the gate the gardener came around the bend, raised her arms and exclaimed “Wait ’til you see!” All around her buds were about to burst open. The novice could feel the leaves dancing against her legs. “Oh THANK YOU!” I exclaimed as she handed me reds and yellows; oranges and purples. A prairie in three pots.
“Now remember,” she said, in a tender but stern way, “They need space to roam. Put the right kind of border on their bed and they will respect it. Of course they’ll attract things that might carry seeds to places you don’t wish them to be, but deal with those seedlings as they pop up.”
“Thank you again,” I said, gently placing the pots in a wagon to take them home. I thought to bring it along for, in the six weeks that the seeds were in her care I had learned that some plants need their own space, more space than others, and that doesn’t make them unruly, it makes them adventurous.

Not long after, the novice returned one last time. The gardener welcomed her with open arms. A new scarf held her hat to her head, but the same magic dust followed her wherever she went.
“I see you’ve moved some roses,” I said giving her a hug.
“Well, after so many years the soil needs a change you know,” she said. “What special project have you brought for me today?”
“I’ve had great success with this maple, but it seems to be hungry for something I can’t find,” I said. I handed her a coffee can that held a seedling I had raised from a mere whirly-copter found on the sidewalk. “Will you help me?” Of course, she said. “Of course. Come back in six weeks.”
During those weeks when the seedling was in her care I realized I had left it between the iris and the wildflowers, at this point all much taller than the maple. And when I did as she said and returned to her garden six weeks later, I brought my wagon along with pictures of my blooming iris and adventurous wildflowers.
For by now I had learned to be prepared when returning to her sparkling garden.
And it was a good thing I had. For my coffee can was long a thing of the past.
“LOOK!” she said, magic dust showering down as she rushed down a path. “LOOK!”
In sunshine near the roses, stood a strong, straight young maple, leaves unfurled as wide as the sky. “Lots of light,” the gardener said. “No shadows. Give it lots of light and you will see how tall and strong it will be.”
“How can I ever thank you enough?” I asked the wise woman who had raised so much more than me.
“Oh it’s nothing,” the gardener said, tightening her scarf. “I’m just so glad you brought your plants to me. We had such a good time together.”
“But this is all I gave you,” the novice said recalling the coffee can, the seeds, the rhizome. “And look at what you’ve given me.”

Thanks so much for all the well wishes. Today is the first day I’m really feeling pretty regular. Thanks to hubby I’ve abandoned the pillow the past two days and done a light workout, all the time thinking “The old me never EVER would have left a pillow for a Total Gym!” But, as I said, out-of-town guests are on the horizon and I’m using that as motivation to really make those four workouts a week, instead of assuaging my guilt by saying: “Well, you did three!”

Little Lady 7 got a light case of whatever this bug was. Thank goodness she had no fever. I always worry most when the kids get fevers. She’s a trouper though. All our men are standing tall: Mr. 5 was bolstered by his recently completed antibiotic course; Mr. 6 is quite excited about a belt test with sinsei tonight at the dojo and Hubby all the while was finding a way to fill the house with new songs.

**breathe**

It is good.

So I started today thinking about old westerns for some reason. I was writing in my journal about how the sun felt different today. That morphed into thinking about the specific movie that had westerns on my brain: Hang ’em High with Clint Eastwood and how in these movies every town has an angel and a madame, a church and a saloon. I find this interesting.

I’ve watched a lot of these Clint Eastwood movies, which might sound strange because, well, most women I know don’t. (Despite my knowledge of American sports, old westerns and mobsterwar movies, please take comfort in the fact that I find very little about the Three Stooges appealing!) Besides, one of the biggest reasons to watch these old movies is Clint Eastwood himself. I mean, if only I had been born 20 years earlier!

Then I got to thinking … what if I’d been born 20 years earlier?

Well, I could have gone and seen a lot of Clint Eastwood movies, I tell you that. I could have clipped newspaper articles about The Who and their hotel rooms; traveled to their concerts and those of many, many other amazing artists. I could have told you Paul was my favorite Beatle, but Elvis was my first lust.

I could have gone out on Friday nights in something you might imagine on Kate Jackson and wouldn’t have cared that I was missing The Love Boat and Fantasy Island.

I could have worried why the world seemingly went up in flames and worked to douse the fire. I could have become a journalist when it meant something more than getting paid to write. I could have seen the dawning of a new age.

But wait. Isn’t that what I’ve seen anyway?

So I’m lying there, sweaty, exhausted, not certain what part of my body might revolt next, and all I can think of is this guy. He made me smile the first time I saw him, because she’s right: That has got to be what it looks like. Something that, upon encountering it the first time, I would be curious about. I woke up 15 hours later (Thank you, handsome, for the Squarepants, the Mac-n-Cheese, the Daddy magic you worked that kept them quiet and happy.) and the coffee smelled good, but didn’t feel right. This made me grumpy because I love my morning coffee. So I looked around, afraid to get to close to anyone because they all seemed healthy, and looked at the computer. “Ah Ha,” I said. “This kind of virus can’t get to those friends.” So I plopped down and found him again. I was sad to hear Carolyn was under the weather, but we would fight him off together. Once again, I wasn’t alone, so thank you.

I spent the rest of the weekend shuffling around, trying to be productive between naps. Honestly I resent the fact that the only thing that chases a virus away is plenty of water and rest. (Perhaps he should surf on that bed … ride a giant wave until *SPLAT* right into Megg’s wall.) Super Daddy got the kids out on their bikes. Super kids spent the rest of the day in the backyard and by last night I had scrapbooked a bit and was able to try that new recipe. This was important because we will be having a big celebration for Little Lady 7 in a few weeks and we want to prepare this for out-of-town guests. The bestest, bestest! part was that it was just as yummy at lunch today, so we’ll be able to make it ahead and enjoy our visitors. I must give proper credit, so I’ll tell you it’s from the Jan. 4 St. Louis Post-Dispatch. I altered it because I think the more marinade the better. (And, I must say, I think it would all be yummy with chicken, too.)

Thanks to all who understood my plight/frustration/anger/sadness/despair last Friday. You have given me much to think about as YOU are the evidence imagination isn’t running on empty, it’s just carving its way down an unpaved ALTERNATE ROUTE.
OK, now the food!

Marinated Pork Tenderloin Dollar Sandwiches
1 cup olive oil
4 tablespoons plus 4 teaspoons soy sauce
1 teaspoon garlic powder
4 tablespoons honey
2 (1-1½ pound) pork tenderloins
¼ cup sour cream
¼ cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
Dollar rolls sliced for sandwiches

Place pork in a large, self-sealing plastic bag or in a sealable container. Combine olive oil, soy sauce, garlic powder and honey. Pour over pork. Make sure it is coated completely. Let marinate at least 2 hours in the refrigerator, better if overnight.
Combine the sour cream, mayonnaise, mustard and Worcestershire sauce until smooth. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
Over a medium fire, grill whole tenderloins about 5 minutes per side until all sides are seared and browned. Remove from grill and slice in one-inch medallions. Grill medallions five minutes on each face. Check for doneness. When completely cooked remove from heat and let stand about 5 minutes. Spread sauce on the inside faces of a dollar roll; place a pork medallion inside each roll and serve.

We live in a time where some say the American imagination seems to be running on empty. If it’s not a profitable idea, it’s not a valid idea. I think this is part of what sends us all a-blogging to free the many ideas that can’t buy a spot in the marketplace. Some Americans live in places where the vocal minority runs over the silent, unorganized majority. We’re running here and there and don’t think twice about a high school production of Grease. Good for those kids … they’re not exploring the more tawdry corners of the teenage world: sex, drugs, vandalism, petty theft, etc. We continue with our lives until those loud few protest and take whatever it is that’s “too risqué” out of an already watered down “schools production” of Grease.

Have these parents been to a high school lately? Have they listened to their kids? Talked to their kids? Eaten a meal with their kids? Aren’t these the same kids with computers and satellite TV in their rooms, where they go and lock the door with a bag of fast food and encounter an anonymous, uncensored world with no guidance from the parents who are too wrapped up in Deal or No Deal to make a family meal?

I’m so frustrated!

We don’t have time to sit down and watch one family TV with our kids or share a family computer in a common area where we can monitor their Internet habits. However, we do have time to organize a group to lobby the school district to pick a production with no pertinent social message because it also has no curse words, kissing or innuendo in it.

Maybe we have time to organize the group because we don’t have to talk to our kids to do it. Maybe we have time to censor everyone because we’ve already censored ourselves with such a heavy hand that we can’t confront our own fears, aspirations, shattered dreams. Once again, we’d rather assimilate than explore.

Remember the good ol’ ’80s? When we could write for our school newspapers about stuff that actually happened to us as teenagers? Then came the Supreme Court ruling that allowed district censorship of school newspapers, so parents can rest easy. If it’s not in the school paper it must not be happening to our kids. Denial is such a powerful thing. In the ’80s I took on the school theater productions because they were a place where I could let out my inner artist, become someone else, sing and dance, cross paths with someone I might not meet otherwise in the rigid hierarchy of high school society. It was a place to encounter a new way of seeing the world and from it more ideas were born. Of course there were adult themes, but young adults present the show. Marketers say they have more buying power than any other demographic, you know. And soon they’ll be able to vote, you know. Serve our country in the military, you know. They’re already smoking, drinking, having sex, you know. And if they aren’t they know someone who is. But wait, it might scar them to hear the word “hell.” ’Cause, well, they don’t say that on satellite TV.

I freely admit I find teenagers difficult to be around. It’s not that I look at them and am afraid, it’s that I look at them and wonder when I stopped being that person. The one with the bright eyes and the big vision, the poet who wrote each night and (willingly or unwillingly) studied history, math, science each day. They are the future and some parents try to shield them from the here and now; from the ever-truths of our humanity; from experimentation, from love and lust; from individuality. Limits are necessary, but a shield is just a parent’s blinders on steroids.

Don’t these parents know that these are the people who will have to clean up the mess, just as we are the people cleaning up the mess left while our parents were lobbying against MTV?

Suppression of art.
Is this really the direction our country wants to take?

I am sorry to be here, being this parent I try so hard not to be. I believe most every parent does the very best they can and that, sometimes, we as parents, are much too hard on each other. But so many times as an American

I’m so frustrated!

In case you’re wondering what set me off, it was the morning paper. It usually makes me angry, but I believe in knowing what the people around me think, even if I disagree with it, so I read it. It’s just that today, quite obviously, it really struck a nerve. It won’t ruin my weekend though. Looking forward to two days of nothing scheduled. Kids playing outside … scrapbooking to the sounds of hubby composing music somewhere nearby. Journaling … maybe even a drawing or something. Good weather means grilling and if the new recipe is good, I’ll share it Monday. It’s from this same cursed newspaper, so the paper can’t be that bad.

Thanks for reading my rant. And thanks to Megg for her post today, which calmed me after writing this. In my brain, the wall she showed became the vocal minority and the ocean the rest of us … persistent, powerful, slowly chipping away at what stands between us and what we love … the beach, the millions of grains of sand that move freely between land and sea and never know the difference.

Aahh. Much calmer now, thank you Megg. Here’s to a happy weekend to all who come here!

So many of you I’ve met out here share a dream with me … to publish a book. So when this came in the mail I wanted to share immediately. I’ve only scanned through it, too busy reading all the other books I’m so excited about. Though I do love getting a good, old fashioned magazine.

Hubby and I get five, actually. He likes BBC Music Magazine, which he’s subscribed to for more than 10 years. He also likes Bike, another British publication. (Sometimes I think we should just charge it and go to the UK for a month … take the kids … it’s not as if it wouldn’t be educational!) I like Better Homes and Gardens, which I’ve subscribed to for more than 10 years, and Midwest Living, both very American, but also full of my “most favoritest” ways to go adventuring … gardening and decorating; cooking; and traveling (and close by is about as far as we can go right now).

We know they all have Web Sites, except for Bike, but something about tearing out a page with a really good idea and tacking it up somewhere just feels good. So I’m tacking these articles up electronically and wondering what magazines other people love.

This is the smile … the smirk … the kiss I wouldn’t have each day if life went “according to plan.” This is the place where new ideas are voiced, where passion is expressed, and where vegetables shall never trespass.

This is the smile of a boy who will now be known as Mr. 5, whose smile greets me each morning over the top of a Pop Tart box and whose lips each day utter the words “Oh, Mommy, I just love you!”

This is also the place where the amoxicillin began its attack on the double ear infection that felled him. He’s back from the 102-degree brink, so many, many thanks to the scientist who figured out mold can kill more than cheese.

These same scientists should be thanked for keeping kitty from peeing everywhere except the litterbox. Poor little furry witch. Born on a farm, she has little use for people, except Hubby, who feeds her. And she especially dislikes me as I am the one who administers her antibiotic, which has killed the urinary tract infection. If you have never given a pill to a cat, there is no way to describe to you the noises that emanate from deep within her. They are lion-sized! Fur flies. Claws flail, but I love her and I stay until the pill is down. Sometimes this takes three or four tries, but how do I explain not helping kitty to that sweet-smiled boy?

So, life didn’t go exactly according to plan last week, but that’s OK. Even with modern science there's no planning the moment when a child will enter your life, no planning when he will get sick or when he will get better. There's just great joy when he arrives safely and great relief when he feels better. Besides, if life didn’t happen while I was planning other things I might run out of steamed vegetables at dinner each night and eat the Pop Tarts myself each morning.

There’s something magical to me about people who publish books for children. When an adult can so readily connect with that younger person inside and carry a message to the young people who pick up the book, it’s nothing short of magic. Watching a pre-schooler flip through any one book over and over and OVER again is such a beautiful thing.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Alexandra when I read this book.

So, I wanted to share The Van Gogh Café and Cynthia Rylant. She is one of my oldest son’s favorite authors. Being that he’s only in first grade, he sticks mostly to her Henry and Mudge series. They are a lot of fun because Henry enjoys many of the same things my son does, especially being with his dog. But Rylant, who was a children’s librarian before she became an author, has a special gift. She’s written more than 50 books for a wide age range. I left the library last week with more “picks” than the 4-year-old, and one of them was this Rylant book, which can be found in the juvenile fiction section.

One thing I’ve discovered in the almost eight years I’ve been reading to (and now with) these kids of mine is this: A truly good children’s story is really just a great story. A chord is struck each time you listen to it … but the same chord is rarely struck twice.

So between Alexandra’s posts about expecting magic and the way Rylant’s Clara and Marc waltz with magic daily in this book I’m looking at things through different eyes.

I remember feeling funny after reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, awestruck by the idea of the magical and the muggles … wondering what element of truth lies in the assumption that magic is all around us, it’s just that some people can’t see it; can’t accept it; can’t do it.

Magic is all around us, if we try to see it. I don’t need the Weather Channel’s scientists to tell me the wonders of a 70-degree day today. It’s a gift.

And then there’s the magic of finding more than you expected. Right about the time Claudia was asking whether constantly redecorating was a way of expressing restlessness I found Rylant’s autobiography ( Best Wishes ) from 1992:

“I’m always changing something in my house,” Rylant wrote. “My friends think it’s funny. Every time they come over, something’s different. I tell them I’m releasing creative energy when I move the furniture around. Really I’m just having fun.”

On the next visit to the library I discovered Old Town in the Green Groves a gap Rylant filled in the Little House books … a two-year blank left by Laura Ingalls Wilder between On the Banks of Plum Creek and By The Shores of Silver Lake. When I checked it out, I didn’t even realize Rylant had written it. I’m revisiting my precious, yellowed paperback Wilder collection, which has my name written on it in my grandfather’s hand. And, after Plum Creek I’ll dive into Rylant and then go back and finish the collection. I’ll let you know how it goes when I’m done.