In Concert

I love Ellis in concert, and going to the concert with friends was the best. And when you walk in early and get hugged by the artist, now that's gotta be the very best. OK, except the concert was in a chocolate factory--kinda not really like Willy Wonka, well except for the circus performers at the next venue over--but with chocolate that was a real honest to god spiritual experience. No lie. The ultimate evening.
We belly laughed, and cried and giggled and ate amazing chocolate and had a lovely glass of red wine. And shared in the best music going, anywhere.
Thanks, Ellis. And thanks Jen and Melinda. The ultimate.

number 41

So, I do this weird thing. When I go to the Y, I put my stuff in the locker with the number that corresponds with my age. OK, well when I go to the West Seattle Y I put my stuff in locker 150 unless I know Roberta will be there, then I defer to wisdom and age and the woman who fed me my first Thanksgiving meal in Washington. But usually, I put my stuff in the locker that's the same number as my age. Today I opened locker number 40 and there was all this funky stuff in it--ear wax to keep pool water out, and some random swim cap. Oh yeah, I'm not 40 any more. I moved to the next locker, to number 41. And this sent me. The years go marching, it's what Sophia Lyon Fahs said, the years go marching. Yes they do. I looked just a little to my left, and there against the wall was locker number 37. There she was all cute and young with no troubles. And 38 stood next to her, a little worse for the wear, that locker has been through some stuff. And then was 39, proud of her spot but still, just barely holding it all together. And 40, oh yeah 40. Now that locker has waited, and waited, usually pretty patiently. Now here we are, locker number 41. Half way down the aisle. Finally. Here we are.

I put my clothes in the locker, changed into my work out clothes, tucked away my towel for the shower later, and slammed it shut. 41. Locker number 41.

Locker number 41.

Mother’s Day 2008

Happy Mother's Day!

Even though this day was originally a call to leave war behind (http://www.prism.net/user/fcarpenter/howe.html) I kind of think Mother's Day is a call to remember just what this whole dishes-laundry-carpool carousel we ride is all about.

Even before I had any babies, I knew that raising kids was an art, that creating a home that would be a nest to grow a family would be the biggest thing that any person could ever do, and that I; with the biology and sprit I'm equipped with as a woman, would be perfectly suited to do just that.

I'm not talking Martha Stewart perfection of obsession with the bric-brac that sometimes comes with a house. Really what I mean is that funny ju-ju you feel when you come into a home. Maybe it's the sizzle of onions and veggies that will make a long simmered soup, or maybe it's the fabric softener that goes into the washer on the rinse cycle. Maybe it's the homebaked cookies that poor Hillary Clinton will never live down. But really, I think it's the air that invites a long conversation. It's the cozy, sometimes cluttered couch that invites sitting together for some down time. It's the feeling of acceptance and time and love and hope and care that comes when someone who lives in the house has chosen, as their primary function in life, to create a home for a family.

It's nothing for a delicate soul. There are no raises. The benefits are that eventually someone might take out the garbage FOR you and maybe they'll find your commitment to them lovely. But there will be days that they wish for nothing more than for you go just get out of their way and leave them alone.

Full time employment looks pretty good when this happens.

Someone else can run that afternoon with snacks and homework and the ride home from school.

Someone else can make dinner.

Someone else can get the kids to get on the bus to just go to school, even if homework isn't all done just right.

But those drives have little moments of clear brillance that you'll miss. And those dinner prep moments have chemistry lessons and LIFE lessons that you'll miss. And if you leave for those tricky times, you can't help but MISS things. There's no way to capture all of it, unless you are just there. No other way.

I've worked full time while homeschooling three kids. It's not easy, it's not fun. But if it was what I had to do to make the days work, well then, that was the only choice. I am not willing to miss those days.

Quality time is a lie. Time is time, and it doesn't matter if you're gone for an excellent reason. You are still, to you own child, just gone.

Maybe lots of moms disagree and feel that they'll lose themselves if they are JUST home with kids (http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/362567_optin10.html).

For me, there is no greater art, nothing more important, no better way to spend my life, than with my amazing sons, doing the laundry, the dishes, driving to practice. There is nothing I'd trade for the chance, the honor, of being their mother. Nothing.

Happy Mother's Day.

Hunh?

Am I really hearing this? You know, my kids, what they say? I mean not just when they say "I need more graph paper. The sugar is gone. Can you drive me to the movie?"

But what about the things that they say without saying them, or the things they say in just in a little whisper? Or the things they say with a little sideways look that evaporates in a moment.

Yesterday I was headed into the YMCA. I was late, the day was just one road block after then next, and I really had to be to Youth Group on time. I was on my cell phone with a friend trying to figure out the details of a big event the next day. Then I saw one of my favorite families. They were down at the corner; the dad and the two older boys were talking and looking up the street. There was a mini cello case, so I'm sure it was either just before or after cello lesson for the kindergartener and they must have been waiting for mom to come swoop in and pick them up.

But the baby was up over dad's shoulder. She's about a year-and-a-half old now. I got to do her child blessing when she was a newborn, so she's pretty special to me. And across the parking lot I can tell that she sees me. I can see the look on her face "hey, that's Kari from church, hey guys we know her!" But she's still little. She can say "chip" and "no" and "more" but to say "hey guys, there's our friend Kari" is just more than she can do.

So I can see her pointing and making toddler noises. But there's too much going on, and dad and brothers just miss it. And I've got 45 minutes to do my hour long work out, so I just wave crazily to her, turn and open the door and head into the Y.

I think I miss these moments with my old, old kids sometimes. So, OK, they can say more than "chip", and the things that they have to say are way more than "hey, there's our friend over there", but it's the same kind of thing.

There are things that people who I love, my kids and even other people, there are things that they say to me, and sometimes I miss the whole thing. "Hunh?" "What?" "OK, what did you say?" Or sometimes, just nothing. Nothing.

I'm gonna try to watch for the little finger pointing, and the little moments that point, too. And I promise to try really hard to stop, and to follow where the little finger points and to listen while you or anyone else explain it to me, because really. I want to hear. I care about it. Really I do, I care.

And if I flake it out, well then, just smack me upside the head and say "duh, you WANT to hear this" "you need to hear this" "hear this"

I will. Really, I will.