Front Seat Soapbox

I have this little moment of time every day at about 7am. Now often I'm barely out of my pajamas, my coffee is always with me, sometimes just that first little bit from the coffee maker that tastes like a shot of espresso on a good day and like used oil on a bad one. Sometimes my son has to come and remind me that I'm supposed to get up and drive him to school. It's a small price to pay for going to a school that is different than the one he's assigned to--I get up and drive him there. Except of course most days now he drives me, and yes he can feather my ancient clutch nicely up a steep hill now, and hardly ever almost kills us by pulling out when I just wouldn't have. But some days, oh some days I get on some rant. It's about a 6 minute drive, we're not talking far or long here, but we listen to public radio and you just know how opionated liberal white women like me can climb right up on a soapbox and well, just rant. I do, I rant. My poor son mostly just listens. The other day we were driving in the dark, dark, morning that comes at the time of the soltice here. And somehow we got on the topic of daycare. Daycare. I've been an at home mom by calling and choice from day one. I've almost always worked some job, but I've never had a child in daycare. Sometimes in the early days we had to have a garage sale to pay the rent, or paint an apartment building for rent. But there was never one day of daycare. Funny, because I grew up in a daycare center run by my mom. And before my mom's 10 years it was run by my grandmother for 20 years. One of my first jobs as an adult was in an infant room of a daycare center. Really, I beleive passionately in good daycare, and went on and on about this to my poor son as he made his way around the tricky corner, and up the big hill. I ranted about child development, and opression of women, and government eliteism and even the mistakes I think the early feminists made.

"You know" he said. "Sometimes it's like my mom just kind of steps aside and there's this big sermon that comes out of you."

"Ooo" I said, "sorry."

He said that no, it was alright, and he just kind of seemed to take it as a part of who I am. He got out, took his lunch and his monster sized backpack and his swim bag, said good bye. I got to say "love you sweetie, have a good day." I walked around to the passenger side, got in.
And I drove home, post rant-- wondering, how on earth did I get so very lucky? A teenager who listens to my rant. Takes it all in stride.

Luck. It's all him. But, I am so very lucky.

National Novel Writing Month (written 11/30)

I'm done. The novel is past 50,000 words, which makes it a "novel" and means I WON Nanowrimo. Well, me and lots of other folks. Rock on us!
I had the most fun of the whole month writing this morning when Jen called at 9 and was here by 9:15 writing. It just made me so happy when she laid her head down on her keyboard. I wasn't alone!
AND my husband and kids baked me a cake, and got a card, and roses and a huge balloon that plays "Celebrate", like by Kool and the Gang, when you bop it; even before I hit 50,000 words. I'm so lucky. Yes, the house is a mess, and I'm way behind at work.
But so what. I wrote a novel.
In November.
Yeay us!

Just the way it is

It's Thanksgiving, and yes, I don't eat animals so it's "Happy Tofurkey" day for me, fine, laugh-- whatever! I don't care. Really.
But what I do care about is my friends. My family of course, too, my three stooges and everyone. But I think I might be the most blessed person on the planet, or maybe the entire galaxy. I have the best friends.
I have the old friends who have been my friends forever, since high school or middle school or whatever. We talk all the time, we play on facebook and email and the wicked scrabulous game when we know very well who grew up on scrabble and who will win, but we play to be together. And the old friends who turn up after decades and somehow still matter because we never stopped loving them, we just didn't know where to find them.
And the new friends who are family even though it's only been a few years. We've been through too much to have anything ever pull us apart. We'll be there now, forever. Just the way it is. And our kids will grow up together, and dance at each other's weddings. And I can just hope that some of them will marry each other and we'll be family for real.
And we'll have holidays and birthdays and who knows what all that cements us all together. Just the way it is.
How can I not spend the whole day in the deepest "thank you" prayer I've ever offered? I have to. Make the gravy and the potatoes, baste the big dead bird who never did anything to you....and I'll be saying it under my breath. "thank you". Not to the bird, although him too. But to everyone I love, everyone who matters. All of you. "thank you."
Just the way it is.

cheezeballs

So, don't be mad, I was just playing on facebook. Yes, we can use multiple social networking sites. It's so interactive and easy to play with your friends, in easy little bits through the day. I mean, I love the long conversations in person or on the phone, that's great. But to just be able to poke people and they know I'm thinking about them, I love them, it's all good. I'm still breathing even though I'm half way through the crazy novel now, I still care.
I was creating a new "superlative" for my friends. I did "most likely to throw cheezeballs".

Remember cheezeballs? Little things that aren't really cheese, get the z in cheezeballs. And they are round but they're probably not actual food. Anyway, I had this lovely vision of hanging out in a cruddy one bedroom apartment for a party. A post college party, so there was beer, and of course, cheezeballs. And somehow someone started throwing them to other people. Not whipping them hard, a soft lob, meant of course, to be caught right in the mouth, no cheezy mess, and eaten.

Funny, now, 20 years later we're still throwing easy ones to each other, we're still in one big circle, although it circles the continent now. We're still together. And forever we'll always be the cheezeballs. We've added and amended spouses, we had nine cheezebabies. We've moved all over the globe. But we're still us, we still love each other. And when one of us gets stuck, the others come rolling out, fast as we can, to help.

We really are the cheezeball family.

Insanity

I'm so stiff, and my butt just hurts. I haven't hung out with my friends for a week, I walk past them and try not to make eye contact, they might talk to me for too long, and then my schedule would be all messed up. Scurry, scurry. The house has gone from comfortably cluttered to a garbage house that would probably make the evening news if anyone reported me. And unless you eat tofu and rice, there is no food. I walked in the house early this morning and glanced up, the stars were beautiful. Yes, yes, but I had to get to the computer. Word count, time's ticking. December is just three weeks away. And I'm writing a novel. It's that crazy Nanowrimo (http://www.nanowrimo.org/) and I'm totally hooked. My "novel" is complete crap and I can't imagne that other than people who really love me and my kids who hack my user and read without permission (I know who you are!) no one will read it. But, God it's fun! The characters have this life that they channel through me and it just goes into the words. It feels a little odd, but very cool. Maybe like having aliens inhabit your body. Kinda slimy, but good!

Nanowrimo lousy first draft novel excerpt...but you’re welcome to peek!

As her friends ate dessert, Kristi got antsy and stepped outside to browse the shop next door; "The Cow's Outside". As she reached into her purse to get out the lipgloss, she felt her phone vibrate. It was Jake—her heart jumped. Should she answer? Why was he calling her? Was everything OK? As soon as she wondered if he was OK she had to answer it. Waiting for a voice mail wouldn't do. "Hey baby!" she tried to sound happy and breezy and not a bit flustered.

"Oh sweet Kristi! So good to hear your voice! How are you? I miss you! Can I come hang out at the beach with you guys tonight?! I can be there in about three hours. I'll bring dinner!"

That's Jake. Always going 25 million miles a minute.

"Hi!" Kristi said. She kind of didn't know what else to even say.

Jake chuckled. She could almost see him shaking his head, messy hair flopping back and forth. His sweet smile tucked into his sweet face. "Sorry. Too much! First, how are you? I feel like you've been gone three weeks!"

"I'm OK, it's fine. Relaxing."

"And sweetie, are we OK about the other night? I mean I know we wouldn't usually sleep in the same bed in our underwear or anything, but it was so late, and we drank so much and it just felt so nice to hold you in my arms and fall asleep."

Kristi bit her lip. It had been really nice. Even just for what it was; her dear friend holding her, his fingers on her back, gently caressing her. Her face tucked into his neck, head resting on his shoulder. Warm skin. It had been nice.

"Oh yeah, don't even think about it. You were the perfect gentleman and you brought me coffee in the morning which gets you five gold stars and a pat on the head." Kristi touched the hand knit scarves, the olive green one would look so nice on Jake.

"Good, I'm glad. I love you sweetness. I don't want it to get uncomfortable between us. So whaddya think? Should I hop in my car and drive out? The kayak is already on. Everyone could take turns paddling. I'd make stew on the fire or bring you some salmon, we could grill. I'd be there before dinner."

If

My beautiful, amazingly talented and totally crazy friend talked me into this Nanomowrimo project. You write a novel. In a month. No kidding. She's actually DONE it. So, I figure it must be physically possible. Maybe you just don't sleep. And really word count wise (50,000) it's a NOVELLA. But still, it's completely not a normal thing for an adult to voluntarily sign up to do.

So I'm in training. I decided the best thing to do to be ready (you write in November, all of November. We're doing corn dogs for Thanksgiving this year, kids) the best way to really get the prose in gear would be to focus on poetry. You know, clean lines, fast images. Good poetry. Today I read Frost and his whole road issue. You know, picking the road that was grassy, and it wanted someone to walk on it. And of course I wondered. Really, what if?

My life is so full of the road not taken. What if? The Who, the What, the Why Where When and How would all be different. But the mountains would be the same. And the valleys would still fill with fog on October mornings. The huge Douglass Fir would still have grown through the decades. The tides would flow in and back out.

The grains of sand might have been aranged in a different pattern, once, twice and again.

And the grass on the road might have been tromped on one more time. And really, what would have mattered. What.

If.

The Fool

From my daily tarot...
"The FoolThe Fool desires to achieve great things in life, but does not always anticipate the hard work required. Full of curiosity and searching for answers, the Fool symbolizes a new beginning and endless optimism. He must be careful in the decisions he makes, as his lack of experience is often a hindrance. While others may avoid taking on insurmountable odds, The Fool will attempt to accomplish near impossible goals with almost reckless abandon."

I'm thinking that I am just too sensitive. I walk around like a hermit crab who just crawled out of its shell. Everything feels rough. Everything can hurt you.

Someone told me recently that people our age who share raw emotion with other people so easily must be fools. No kidding. So I share the deepest things that happen in the hermit crab heart. Bright, real bright. I don't know why this happens. Sometimes my mouth is just running and my brain is chasing after yelling "Hey! Stop! Wait!" But that's the problem with being less-than-bright, my brain can't really sprint. So I lay out the whole miserable thing to whoever it is; the dental hygienist, the friendly old lady at the coffee shop, or just some poor unsuspecting friend who never meant to get into that much detail!

Poor people. They probably go home to their family and say "that sad sap, she just couldn't stop telling me all kinds of miserable details of her wretched heart".
Well, OK. But there are some little benefits to being so clearly raw emotionally all the time. People trust me. Instantly. And I am trustworthy. Lovely quiet women tell me their painful stories. And I always get the "I'm pregnant" or "I'm getting married" announcement way before the rest of the crowd.

And kids who can't trust anyone and really given their life story shouldn't trust anyone, trust me. And tell me. And then I can call the police. And I do.

And even a child with autism who isn't comfortable with new people ever, looks at me and says "Kari!" and takes my hand.

So maybe it's not all bad.

Let's have a support group for people of a certain age who are fools. And really in the end, don't mind.

Just is....

Being married for 20 years teaches you a few things.
Love is not just the gooey fizzy feeling you get when that special someone thinks you're something special too. It's cleaning up the mud from the flood at 1am when you have a big meeting in the morning. And having fun, laughing while you clean.
Committment is not something that happens when its easy. It happens when it's really, super hard to commit to someone who is pissing you off. And you still love them, even when they totally suck.
Sometimes it's you who totally suck. And you don't deserve to be loved, but that is not at all what it's about. You deserve to be loved and cherished, even when you're being stupid. And sucky.
And sometimes everyone forgets that it's about loving when unloveable, and committing when it's hard. And you have to go back and figure it all out again. But you do it, because the alternative is that you don't.
And it's all worth it. Every last second of painful, wretched trying. Because it is. It just is.

Walk on

So, it's raining. I'm at the West Seattle end of the Vashon-Fauntleroy ferry, waiting. The ferry is in and I see the motorcycles speeding off the ferry and up the hill. The first "walk-on" folks straggle down the sidewalk, start to gather at the bus stop--kitty carrier in hand, a sleeping bag. One with a big box, one kicking at the ground. He must be coming, shortly behind the first off. He's got a lot to carry, it's probably slowing him down.
People were shocked that I'd let him walk on the ferry. What if something happened?
Like what? Really, bad things happen in places we think are safe. The ferry isn't exactly White Center at 2am, not that it keeps me from driving that way if that's the way I'm going at that time. I'm not really worried. Not really.
I see him, standing just beyond the park and ride, looking around, trying to figure out which way to go. He doesn't look only 12--almost 13. He looks like a kind of scruffy young man with a sleeping bag and a duffle. Well, he looks a little like a homeless teen instead of a beloved kid, back from a weekend at camp. He hates being hugged, but so what? I sqeeze him tight--let go before I want to.
Letting go is so hard. We have to, it's important. I want to hold tight. I don't want to let him walk on the ferry alone. I don't want him to grow up, move away and think of calling me as a duty. The measure of how we've done in the end, I think, might be how much they really don't need us.
And that maybe sometimes they call because they just want to say "hi".

The funniest thing

I came home tonight after a long day of single parenting and being the religious education professional and the soccer taxi and the school volunteer to the funniest thing ever. Today was one of those days. You just shake your head at the "to do" list from hell and decide the only things you'll get done are the bleeding, broken things. Ever walked into an ER with a bleeding, screaming child? I've never seen such speed! So I'm on the lost homework patrol, and the carpool detail, and the driving instructor role. All good, right? Even had the hour-and-a-half at the coffee shop with the work/homework/parental care shift. Super good. In fact, there was even the trek through Costco (anyone else feel like they need to bathe in holy water after that?) and the emergence with the potential for a well balanced breakfast, lunch AND dinner for a week or more.
So, I went off to my church-lady meeting. I went to the wrong house first which clearly had the nicest pot smoking guys in town telling me which house I was really looking for. I had to leave my kids with thier own dinner to make. No biggie, right? We have food in the house. Like $500 worth of food! Their dad is on his two-weeks-away-working-every-month-trip, so they're really on their own. But I've seen them all cook. They're almost 16 and 13 and 11. Come on, they can fend off hunger for a while, right? Gotta be.
Well, fine. I come home. All homework is successfully completed. All the kids are brilliant and would never let that grade validation slide. That's all good. The dinner dishes are in the sink, even some water has been kinda sloshed over them. Good, that's good. But the Costco run today was late in the day. I didn't have time between the school run and the soccer run to put away anything but the stuff that would totally rot. So the kitchen is full of everything else. I look down and there on the floor is the huge bag of hot dog buns. It's carefully twisted closed and secured with a clothes pin. Hot dogs for dinner. With buns. Gotta keep them fresh. Close it up and LEAVE IT ON THE FLOOR!
Oh god, I'm still laughing.
It's beautiful, really it is.
My friend who found out that her cancer is back, and there's nothing anyone can do, and she will never have these crazy days with kids, would be proud of me. I really did just smile. I love my kids, I love Anne, I wish she could raise kids and watch them carefully close up the hotdog buns and leave them right there on the floor. She can't, but I can.
And I can smile, just smile. It is a blessed life.

It's just different....August 2007

When you go camping with a group of about 40 people and all of them are just a lot like you in values, beleifs and treasures, it's so easy.
A kid needs something, everyone understands. No one judges, no one lays blame, it's just fine.
Someone comes in to camp at midnight and half a dozen folks come crashing through the woods, set up tents, warm up sleepy kids, unpack sleeping bags, all with a laugh, a smile and relief that we're all finally together. Then they sing happy birthday to the kid who just turned 11 at midnight--but really quietly so the babies stay asleep.
If you don't like your dinner, someone is making something you'll like, and they're more than happy to share.
When your own kid is driving you nuts, they're not driving someone else nuts--and that someone might even take them fishing.
A camp fire is a time to relax, lean in and just be together, even if crazy folks are baking one chocolate chip cookie at a time over a fire--someone else will hand you a beer and make you laugh til it comes out of your nose.
And a bike pararde is really meant to be done by teenagers with glow sticks in their spokes at midnight, really.
Maybe this is how we're truly meant to live. It sure felt good.
Bless you all who were there and you who might be next time, too.

....more clutch

So today was the first time I sat in the passenger seat. Oh, not ever, of course I sometimes let other folks drive. But this time the driver was my son. How he had the nerve to get old enough to drive, I have no idea, but he did. And while his dad is really the auto freak, I am the one who is around all the time, so of course, I'm the one who gets to sit in the passenger seat. And be calm. And encouraging.
And did I mention that I drive a stick, yep. Manual transmission. Clutch. And not a great one either. It's been iffy on first gear, oh for maybe you know....A YEAR!
But you know what? I like my kid. And he's a sensible person. And he did pretty well. There was the one squealling of tires, but he's right, I didn't really explain that you had to let off the clutch really slowly....not pop off. After that it was pretty smooth.
I know tomorrow he's going to be grown and gone and the day after he'll be winning a Nobel Prize, or a Pulitzer, or a Grammy, or an Oscar or something. Maybe he'll even win the love and respect of his friends and family, and maybe if he's really lucky, someday he'll sit in the passenger seat, too.
I'll miss him, but then, that's the whole point, isn't it?

Valentine's Day 2007

At the Y today by the mirrors with the hair dryers was a card. It was a Valentine card addressed to "All My Girlfriends a the Y". I'm not sure I even looked at the card which was next to the red envelope, but it doesn't matter. I was thrown deep into everything I value in all those fleeting relationships like the ones at the Y. Today the only Valentines I got were from girlfriends that started out just like the Y friendships. Circumstance, location and maybe a smile. Sometimes those relationships are the ones that change your life. More than a year ago, almost two years I think I had a yoga instructor that changed my life. It was simple, she said "we can do hard things" and that our dreams were ours but we had to make them happen. I did take the time to tell her that she had inspired me to reach for the job I really wanted, and then I never saw her again. Over Winter break this year I went back there and took classes from someone else, but the room still echoed with her belief, and what I saw as her belief in me.
So right now, today on the sappiest most comercial day of the year what am I grateful for?
I'm grateful for my kids. My sons are the reason I breathe and the reason I try again and again to do the best I can with all I'm given every day. They seem to be growing up to be amazing young men. It's all them, but I'm grateful to watch it happen.
I'm grateful for the women who love me and care for me even when I really don't deserve another second of it. Maybe all best friends who have known you since forever are like this, but I doubt it.
I'm grateful for the women who share the lunchroom at school with me, and talk about everything and the details when we can--every moment we can. And feed my kids. And let me feed their kids. And give me Valentines because that's just who they choose to be.
I am so lucky.
If the final ultimate glory ecstacy comes from people that you love, and people that love you, I think I just might get to nirvana this lifetime cycle 'round. Why not? Seems like I'm almost there already.
I am so very lucky!
May you all be so blessed.

The Sacred in Costco--Christmas 2006

Sometimes when I'm in the middle of the grunt-crud of running a family, I wonder...really? Come on, is this really what it's all about? OK, granted, if I lived, oh even 70 years ago, most of my life would be taken up with the CARING for my family. Now, I care for my family, but I'm not making them clothes or feeding chickens so they'll have eggs. I'm going to Costco which takes an hour and might just suck the soul out of Jesus or the Buddha (who was really just a rich prince with a mission). The loving and caring that happens for your family, for your children is different now. And it's not as easy to see how it's real and full in their lives. This is why so many white women in their 40s are on anti-depressants. This is women's work. This is sacred work. When children are raised with love and held in a precious embrace, it's sacred. And it's always women that do the work. OK, there are a couple of sainted men that can do it, but they can write their own blog. If a powerful woman goes and does amazing things in the world, like running a country or curing disease, there is another woman who is doing the sacred work of raising her children. At Christmas, I do as my ancestor women did before me. I work, I cook, I laugh with my children and listen to my children. It is the most important work anyone can ever do. And sometimes, sometimes, it includes going to Costco.