The numbers game

Chances are, when you see our little Halloween cow, it elicits some sort of awww reaction in you. I will attribute this mainly to the fact that all four of you, dear readers, are beloved friends and family. Shoot, one of you even had a hand in producing the little bugger.

We must also give credit to the universal equation of baby anything + chubs = adorable. But see, strip Ben of his moomoo, and it's revealed that he actually carries most of his weight in his chipmunk cheeks. Cue the furrowed brows and thinly disguised frowns. Perfect strangers questioning whether Ben is truly the age we claim he is. Comments such as, "Our Annie is about his size! And she's five months younger!" Let me tell you: calling someone's baby skinny has about the same pleasant effect as someone asking you if you've gained weight.

And now for the numbers game (our babies could care less what shape, size or color they or their friends are, and yet the rat race is tragically foisted upon them). Despite being born a month early, Ben weighed in at a respectable 5lbs 15oz. Nearly 6 pounds! That put him in the 8th percentile for weight. Again, keep in mind he missed out on those last few chunking up weeks. At birth he was 19" tall, which put him in the 14th percentile for height. After about a month of life, he held steady at the 8th percentile for weight, but had dropped down to the 1st percentile for height. Somewhere between his 2-month and 4-month check-ups, he dropped even further to the 1st percentile for weight, remaining at the 1st percentile for height. Still, his development was completely on track, he was social and smiley, and remember, those cheeks are deceptive. Everyone poo-pooed this neurotic mother when she mentioned he seemed underweight, even our new pediatrician on Bainbridge. They would politely point to my small frame and dwarf-like height. As well as DH's. I don't have any photo evidence of myself handy, as my dad shot all slide film when I was a baby, but I can assure you I was fat. Here, DH is about half Ben's age and just look at the belly on that kid. Some things never change:

And so, although our doc assured us there was no need for concern, I stubbornly refused to stop worrying. Feeding Ben had turned into an absolute nightmare (this kid does not like breastmilk. He does not like any of the major brands of formula. Rest assured, every option has been exhausted. New nipples. Various flows of nipples. New bottles. Distraction. Lack of distraction. Standing (him!), sitting, reclining, strapped into a baby carrier, all manner of positions. Indoors, al fresco. Naked, clothed. Cold, warm, tepid. Bright, dark. Food for thought: it seems there is no shortage of well-meaning advice for new moms, and thank you very much, but all we really want is one hour to ourselves or maybe to be able to sleep again one day. We're all full up on unsolicited advice around here.) Case in point: on a recent weekend, Ben stayed with some of my aunts while I attended a wedding. They loved having him, and he adored playing with them, but when I asked how many little 4-oz bottles they thought he had, the number was a shocking 2 the first day and 3 the next. This, people, is not even enough to keep his eyeballs wet, but that was the result of "letting him tell us when he's hungry." Even DH can barely feed Ben; really, it seems the only two people in the world capable of giving Ben a bottle are myself and my sister. That is, unless you're driving, or it's the middle of the night and you're cozy in bed. As long as it is somewhat inconvenient to you, typically, Ben will take a bottle quickly and quietly, without issue.

As if there wasn't already enough guilt* that he arrived early, I now felt the weight of an underfed baby on my shoulders. Where most healthy babies were requesting multiple milk bongs, there was nothing I could do to make this kid take down anything even closely resembling a normal amount of breastmilk or formula. Sure, if I had nursed him, I wouldn't have known how much he was getting. Yet, his weight checks would have likely raised a red flag and La Leche Leaguers would have been called in on a bullhorn. Since I pumped initially and then moved on to formula, I knew—know—exactly how much nutrition this baby receives any given day. Not nearly enough. But if there is one thing I've learned, it's that you cannot force your child to eat (or to do anything, really). Pushing too hard has a deleterious effect not only on his relationship with food, but his relationship with you. Eating should be a pleasurable, nonchalant, everyday experience. In rational moments, I understand this. I am working really hard to let go of the fact that my kid is a little less than concerned with sustenance. Luckily, he does enjoy actual food much more than his liquid diet. And at his age, most babies are up to 3 meals/day and a couple of snacks - so essentially, 5 meals/day on top of their bottles/boobs.

However, the marching orders from our 9-month check-up yesterday (with our third pediatrician, this one here in Seattle, for the love of...) were somewhat disconcerting. Despite Ben's love of "food food," we're to stick to just a couple of meals a day, in hopes Ben will at least maintain his current level of formula consumption. We're to add butter and olive oil to everything he eats. We're to add whipping cream to each of his bottles. In short, someone finally listened to me, and the kid needs fattening up. While I'm completely on board with helping this kid gain some weight, DH and I have a new set of worries. Are babies really immune to artery-clogging? Will we permanently distort Ben's virgin palate, which heretofore gladly accepted kale, lentils, beets and the like—100% pure, unadulterated—into some sort of fat-lusting, butter-grubbing monster?

Oh friends, it's never easy, is it? And yet, I fully realize we have a happy, mostly healthy baby on our hands. He's hitting all his milestones, laughing more often than not, and he's put up with a fair amount of change and other BS since exiting his cozy womb. This recent story in the NYTimes really puts things in perspective (spoiler alert: if you cry easily, don't read it at work). Our problems are small (no pun intended), and life is good. We're off to another out of town wedding tomorrow, so have a good weekend. I'll see you guys back here next week.

*Oh, you haven't heard? Working 80-hour weeks is, apparently, not the most brilliant thing you can do in the third trimester. Standing for eight hours in a cramped and dirty ER, wondering if your dad is going to be ok has about the same marginal benefit. Attempting to sell your home, cleaning nooks and crannies of said home on hands and knees because the mop was already packed, and then moving into a new home in the dead of winter - somewhat less than ideal a month out from your due date. All you workaholic pregos, please take heed and for God's sake, kick those heels up once in a while.

Turning point

After a good stretch of rain last week, we finally had a dry moment on Sunday. Though it was close to baby bedtime, we ventured out for a walk to the park. Lots of neighbors had the same idea. In Seattle, you learn the importance of carpe diem! 

So we were rewarded with some socializing. And, we even found a giant leaf, a beautiful testament to the circle of life.

We've had a lot of rain lately, but on the best of days, there's a turning point when the rain abates and huzzah! The clouds clear. If we're lucky, we even get a warm spot of sun. Furthermore, if the stars align, this moment occurs just as I've wrapped up work, finished cleaning up around the house, and Ben's stretching and yawning awake from his nap. The thing about seizing the moment is that you have to be ready for it. We can steer our lives as best we can, but the universe seems to be on its own stubborn course much of the time. You just have to trust that the universe has got your back. Not always easy after a blistering run of challenges, say, but things really do even out somehow. Kind of like watching oven fries (one of my all-time favorites) bake. You have to anticipate goodness, know that the goodness will come, but it pays to wait as patiently as you can. Those fries aren't any good until they've crisped and browned just so. Babies really seem to get the whole carpe diem thing. No matter how late they go to sleep, they're up and at 'em early the next morning, same time as usual. They want to make sure they're ready for anything!

 

Miracle of miracles, we're having one such moment here this morning, so that's it for today. No matter that I haven't even showered, gotta get the kid out for some fresh air! 

Friday Fiction

Conspiracy

They're in on it together,
Old Queen Bed and Dowdy Master Bath
Tugging at the ends
Of the earth
Faster, faster, they chant.

Days grow stingy with light as
Autumn extends its chilly hand.
We steal a few more moments, then,
Wrapped in the cocoon of
Slumber or steam, sometimes both.

It's not me, it's you

After a long flight made even longer by a cold (me), lack of sleep (both), and baby haters for seatmates, Ben and I (surprisingly) made it back late Monday night. We were welcomed home with airport pick-up, broccoli pasta (a cheap and easy staple in our household), and a disgustingly spotless house. DH is always trying to make me look bad. Well, it feels good to be home. Wait, did I just call Seattle home? Another post for another day.

A few incidents occurred over the past week that lodged, stubbornly, in my mind. In college, I took a course on linguistics as it related to society, and in particular, gender. With Robin Lakoff as our muse, the working hypothesis was that discourse differs pretty fundamentally between men and women, in ways that heavily impact status. Some of you will hate me for writing this, but Lakoff's assertion is that men have a tendency to assert themselves with direct, unapologetic language. Even if what they're stating is utter nonsense. Whereas us women often employ qualifiers, hedges (i.e. kind of, seems like) and lean towards statements ending with a question. Sort of true, right? <wink> Lakoff's studies weren't based on quantitative research, to my knowledge, but it's still food for thought.

You're welcome to rail against my anti-feminist bent here, and I in turn will applaud you for it. Because I'd rather not have a confrontation with you. Ok, all joking and sweeping generalizations aside, I'll speak for myself here. I believe people talk differently, but I don't think it's split down any vast gender divide. In both camps you have your assertive people and then you have your doormats. Of course there's the in-between, but really, pick a stance already. In my head, I'm dashingly assertive (aren't we all), but somehow in practice, I end up a doormat. I'm not sure how this was ingrained in me, but I know I'm not alone. Rather than appear insulting or disagreeable (by correcting, disagreeing, debating, or downright arguing), I go with the flow, pretending not to hear things that I most definitely heard, giving humanity the benefit of the doubt time and time again. Taking the high road ironically equating to spineless and insecure.

Because aren't the offhand sleights themselves typically rooted in ignorance? Insults, racist remarks, ignorant yet inexcusable comments. Born of insecurity, when you get right down to it.

Historically, I have not found it in myself to call anyone out on said ignorance, but as a mother, I'm reconsidering. I can't let my son, half-Asian, grow up thinking it's okay if someone makes fun of his eyes or calls him Chinese. Yes, people, this goes on. Yes, it is 2011. What kind of example do I set for him if I continue to just let these things go by? Lest you think I'm merely on some racial soapbox, I assure you that's not the point. Ignorance takes all kinds. With a bit of self awareness, it can grow to something lovely, yearning, hungry for knowledge. More often than not it takes the path of least resistance, manifested through all manner of negative groupthink and the scarier of the -isms: fundamentalism, conservatism, chauvinism, old boys' clubism, racism, and so on.

All this to say, you know something? Maybe it's the rain today, or the woman who was blocking the entire entrance to the grocery store with her cart as she stared at her phone, this woman who, when I said "Excuse me," responded, "No problem." Whatever the case, to all the ignoramuses out there (doormats, unite and join me in this mantra, now): It's not me, it's you.

Bah

Despite attempts at channeling my inner hedgehog, I haven't been a very good late night writer the past few nights (wait, am I saying hedgehogs tend to be writers? I meant to refer to the fact that they're predominantly nocturnal. cue: end post.) I've got a bunch of spreadsheets to organize yet before leaving for Chicago on Thursday morning, so my head is a bit of a jumble. Bah. Look for me next week, about this time. And have a great week, guys.

Not quite Friday, not quite fiction

Boundary

Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t
I wouldn’t mind limbo here
Bobbing in the far offing, the corner
Of ceiling and sea
 
I would be red, I think
Vibrating against the hues of refraction
You could find me whenever
That way
 
Dusk closed in fast
Not quite as I pictured it
Yet here we are, this gown
Probed by tubes of bland sustenance
 
I wasn’t ready, but to prepare
I prepare you
Look for me wherever sky turns to water
And salt hangs, wet, in the air

Bearing gifts

It's quiet here. Ben is fast asleep. DH is in Anchorage. Whenever he goes out of town, I have a little problem with insomnia. At any rate, there is no one around to raise an eyebrow when I start pulling out pots and pans at 10pm. Tomorrow we're headed to Bainbridge to visit a friend with two boys under two who just moved into a new house. She's a lawyer, and goes into the office in Seattle one day a week. She and I met on the ferry, which I think about sums up our relationship. She was my first real friend here, and our weekly meet-ups brought an instant sense of steady cruising amid a very turbulent transition period, adjusting to a new life in a new place with our newish 3-month-old. I sometimes have a hard time getting excited about change. I just felt DH's eyebrow go up, all the way from Alaska. Ok, so maybe it's more often than sometimes. I'm a July baby; home and environment have a large impact on my daily outlook.

Anyway, what started out as a plan to take lunch over to the new place and help her unpack/watch her boys has somehow morphed into a session of applesauce prep and canning. Apparently, she practically has an orchard growing in the front yard. I'm giddy at the thought of getting involved with all that chunky goodness, not to mention the catching up we'll be able to do over those wafts of cinnamon and earthy fruit. Afterwards, Ben and I will head over to check in with my employers at their home office. They're such a lovely couple, with an even lovelier dwelling. They have chickens! And a pond! In their yard! Big enough for a wee rowboat (which their kids still use once in a while)! As I haven't exactly hit my numbers this month, I'll show up bearing gifts. Courtesy of The Happiest Belly on the Block's blogroll, I found a recipe for pumpkin fudge that sounded autumnally (ok, not a word, but hey) spicy and perfect for adding a little sweetness to both of our visits. I will say that it would probably work better to use a dutch oven (or something around 5-qt size) than the medium saucepan that the recipe calls for. I kind of ran out of room towards the end. I don't have pumpkin pie spice, so I just cobbled together some spices from the pantry—cloves, ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg. Also, if you have sensitive hands, you might consider wearing an oven mitt while stirring the boiling concoction. It jumped and splattered like excited bacon grease onto my hands quite a few times. Oh, and I toasted the pecans, but I'm sure that skipping this step wouldn't make or break anything, nor would forgetting the nuts altogether. It's the sort of treat that—as my grandma would have said—will give you a toothache just thinking about it, but I can't wait to slice into it tomorrow.

 

There's a pan of creamy, golden parmesan-roasted squash cooling on the counter alongside that pumpkin fudge. My lawyer friend and her family are vegetarians, and I know I should have made something healthier, but this sounded warm and comforting; easy to transport on the ferry and throw in the oven while we go about our saucing. And, oh, it's meant to be a side dish, but I'm making it into a main. The smell of it roasting tonight affirmed my decision. I'm bringing some arugula and a pear to have alongside, so that offsets the richness a bit, doesn't it?

It's late and it's dark, so I'm sorry to say that pix are a lost cause. If I can, I'll add a few onto the post tomorrow morning before we head to the island.

iAlone

You'll never believe it, but I've been working on this post on and off since Ben was napping this morning. Rest in peace, Steve Jobs. Maybe you'll have the great fortune of meeting our dear Frankie* up there.

Being blessed with creative friends means that almost everyone I know (myself included) skews Apple. Just last week, even my 72-year-old father—who worked as an engineer at IBM longer than I have been alive—switched to an iPhone. Not only am I one of the few without an iPhone, now that there isn't an employer paying for my data plan, I don't even own a smartphone. I just have your basic, run-of-the-mill mobile phone.

Crazy enough, all this connectivity is relatively recent, and smartphones in particular didn't enter our lives until about a decade ago. Even the pinnacle of mobility, the iPhone, has only been in our hot little paws since 2007. It seems like it's been around far longer than that. Am I the only one having technological amnesia, or do others out there have a hard time remembering life before iPhone? Perhaps owing to our rapt attention towards all things Apple, these amazing advances just run together now.

Depending on where the moon is in its orbit, I'll admit I'm prone to some occasional theatrics while conversing with DH. However, I don't think I'm being dramatic when I say (and I often say): our parents never had cellphones! and they were fine! and we turned out fine! (Ok, maybe I am a little bit dramatic). The fact of the matter is, the world is moving quicker than I care to keep up. There are days that DH and I fantasize about living somewhere really remote, far from cellphone signals and wireless internet, in hopes that Ben won't demand an iPad at age three. We quickly follow that up with visions of our degenerate child, unable to keep up or perform in life due to our hobbit life, and we know that somehow we must find a balance between the two extremes. In our pre-Ben days, I marveled at the druglike effects that a smartphone and its myriad offerings could have on a baby. I thought to myself, my baby won't need an iPhone. 

Life with baby: precious snuggles, giggles, and other general heartmelt. Life with baby, also: sudden onset of attention redirect disorder (difficulty paying attention to anything other than baby when in baby's presence, especially heightened once baby is mobile), much left unfinished (even sentences), and resorting to measures you thought you were above (particularly while sweating, flustered, looking around apologetically due to the tempest brewing in your stroller).

I've been rethinking a lot of ideas I had about parenting before becoming a parent. Funny how baby, your baby, arrives just in time to set you straight. I'm not above anything anymore, especially when it comes to buying a few minutes of calm. Which is not to say that I'm getting an iPhone. Not yet, anyway.

*We miss you, Frankie.

Turn, turn, turn

It finally turned chilly enough here that the electric fireplace (still quite a novelty for this girl who grew up with gas) has bumped the coffeemaker down to second in command on morning duty. We've traded in baseball for football, peaches for pumpkins, and flip-flops for fleeces. The sun is on flextime. Coughs and sniffles fill the air.

Fall has arrived. And with it, our baby's first cold. Following suit, DH caught it the day after. Hopefully he kicks it before he heads off to Alaska for work this week. The two are finally both napping, the kitchen is tidied, laundry whirring in the dryer. A moment of peace. A moment which, dear reader, I'm glad I get to share with you.

On Friday night, congested and crying so hard he threw up, Ben had me feeling like public enemy #1. After we got him cleaned, calmed and tucked back in for the night, I ran through the previous few days trying to pinpoint where and when Ben caught his little bug. As our circle expands in Seattle, Ben has the opportunity to socialize more often. Which is adorable, albeit a little messy. Babies are awfully forward, even on a first date. Fingers probe, saliva gets swapped, belongings are mouthed by all. Theirs is an equal-opportunity inquisitiveness.

I realized it doesn't matter how Ben got sick. There will be many more sniffles along the way. Heaven help us, there will be times we'll be wishing it was something as minor as a cold. But we can't stop Ben from exploring the world around him. It's important for him to spend time in new places, making friends. It's important for me to spend that time meeting friends, too. If we're lucky, Ben will get a tiny boost to his immunity with every bug. Until the next season.

Friday Fiction goes Saturday

How are you guys? I missed you the past few days. Ben came down with his first cold, so we've set up Sick Kid Bay here on the hill. Luckily, Sick Ben is less needy than Sick DH.

Here's an excerpt from a short story I'm working on. 

<Working title: To Go> 

Sunhee stared as buildings became toys. Green and brown ran together faintly, like a sad seaweed soup scraped together from empty cupboards. Puffy stratocumuli appeared and disappeared like steamed rice buns in someone’s hungry dream. The constant thrum of non-noise blanketed anonymous emissions, coughs and burps, sighs. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her belly with both hands. With Soojin running out of space in there, Sunhee found it difficult to get comfortable even while stretched out on her bedroll on the floor. Now, shrinking away from her chain-smoking husband, her bulbous body propped unnaturally forward, she thought that perhaps Soojin wasn’t the only one feeling stuck. 

The lights blinked and Sunhee looked around, alarmed. Both of them unable to speak English, a heavy blanket of dread had settled on her shoulders ever since Minsu got the message from his cousin in Chicago that there was work for him at the factory. She had not left Busan in the nineteen years since her birth, and the arrival of this day had surprised her, despite the month of anticipation. Early that morning her brother-in-law had driven them to the airport with a borrowed car that seemed to run only in fits and starts. Half-drunk, as was his custom, he swore at mopeds and pedestrians who narrowly escaped his unlicensed path as they rumbled out of Busan. Even with the windows open, the sweltering, muggy morning was more concentrated inside the car than out, like a jar of fermenting kimchee. Her husband Minsu snored with his mouth open for most of the drive, quieting now and again for a cigarette. Sunhee arrived at the airport sweating and sick to her stomach. She had no family but Minsu, but in Busan she had her tailoring job and a few friends.

Stubborn birds

Ben's at that stage where he finds microscopic pieces of debris on the floor fascinating, and he's just so cute scooching around to examine those treasures. I'm all for dirt and germs toughening the kid up, but our floor has been talking back for at least a week now. 

So although it's 930pm I've got the mop out, having vacuumed earlier while Ben was on nap strike yet again. I just got done scrubbing the tubs and toilets; they, too, were looking dicey. There's a heap of dishes in the sink from a batch of cheddar biscuits, made this morning for our awesome PEPS group. Clean dishes in the dishwasher getting cabin fever from having been stuck in there all day. Partly full baby bottles fermenting away on the counter. You would think I could get all this done during normal business hours, but I'll let you in on a little secret. More often than not, the real party doesn't start until we hang the "Closed" sign on Ben's door for the night. 

With all this wild housekeeping happening, I've got a case of stubborn birds this evening. Back tomorrow to take another crack at it.

 

Late to the party

For those of you who know me, it comes as no surprise that I'm running a little behind on the stewed prune revolution. 

Ever since the publication of A Homemade Life in the spring of 2009, purveyors of the shrivelly, sticky stuff have doubtless been scratching their heads at the spike in sales. It's taken me until now to a) read the book, and b) get on board the prune bandwagon. For those of you who, like me, arrive late to the party more often than you care to admit, I'll give you the Cliff's notes: Molly's memoir is a perfect read. It works whether you're looking for something to visit now and again on your morning commute or devour in its entirety on a dark, rainy night. I can say with all honesty that I'd love to make every single recipe she shares in A Homemade Life.

As for the plummy old pals, DH isn't buying the hype. He half-gagged, half-snickered when he saw the giant bag of them perched atop the fridge (though if he read the book, I feel certain he too would end up romanced by her anecdote on prunes and her father). Sparing myself further age or bowel related wisecracks, I waited until DH left for his latest bout of work travel to cook up a batch of these infamous stewed prunes. 

Let me tell you. He's missing out. As citrus and cinnamon simmered those little old ladies into punchy pillows of syrup, I felt myself welcoming this Seattle fall, regardless of any bone-chilling rain or endless variations on gray. The prunes were good warm, but even better after holing up in the fridge overnight. Cliché, schmeeshay. Better late than never.

For old time's sake

CSA, it's not you, it's me. It's just, moving and all, it's been a little crazy. You know. But I do miss you. Hey, you wanna get together for a drink sometime? For old time's sake. 

I couldn't help myself. When I saw the Groupon for a couple of CSA boxes, I bought in. Our first delivery arrived on our doorstep last week, neatly packaged, before our early bird Ben was up for the day. Every CSA has its merits, but I have to sing the praises of this particular one. First of all, delivery? Huzzah. And, you're free to review your shipment before it arrives. If for some reason you have a problem with a certain veggie, you can tell them to please never let you see that veggie's face. Ever. What an accommodating CSA.

We marveled at our bounty of organic goods. It had been a while since we were so flush with produce. I was suddenly feeling a bit panicked. How would we eat it all in time? If only I could have you all over for dinner.

We're working our way through it. Some vibrant spinach leaves went into a savory salad of toasted Israeli couscous, raisins, slivers of leek and roasted pecans the other night. The pears are sitting on the counter ripening, but soon they'll be poached and blended for Ben. He's had a few luscious bites of ripe nectarine and pluot—perhaps unfair for him that his first finger foods were so slippery, but he seemed to think they were worth the effort. Inspired by Ben, we found the green beans (barely blanched, tossed with a touch of butter, soy sauce and black pepper) and cold crispy radishes tasted even more delicious when we ditched our forks. It reminded me of a time when my sister and I stood around a huge pile of green beans in her kitchen, grabbing them off the plate with our hands, chatting the afternoon away.

Two and a highchair

It's almost Sunday here, and for many of you, it already is. Ben will be up any minute now, sleep-crawling and smacking his lips. I'll keep this short and sweet. Us three, we had a very nice day (I trust you all did as well).

There was a perfect table for two and a highchair on a sun-drenched sidewalk outside Volunteer Park Cafe. There were purply tart pluots, and if you've never tasted one, you ought to. Soon. There was strolling strollering. There were cacti and chickens (not in the same place), and a tiny skateboard. There was a beach, there were swings. There was a simple dinner, its easy prep and cleanup making it all the more delicious. 

Whenever Chad has the weekend off, we go bananas packing it all in. Days like this, I go to sleep thinking I've turned a corner on feeling at home in Seattle. 

I adore what Luisa Weiss has to say about home: I am perpetually homesick, so I cook to anchor myself and find joy in the small things: a perfect apricot, the texture of sea urchin, the smell of bread baking in my kitchen. Don't you just love her? I cook to anchor myself. It should be a bumper sticker.

Chicago will always be capital H home and when I miss it, though it's an amalgam of nostalgia, the sharpest knot in my throat is from thinking of my family back there. But the boys, my boys, they too are home. Dear friends who have become kindred spirits, they are home as well. These various homes don't have to be mutually exclusive, do they? The bigger the family gathering, the more rambunctious, the better.

I can't say it any more eloquently than Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros as they call out: Home is wherever I'm with you. I realize most of you probably happened upon this song whenever it first came out, but let's face it, I'm not that hip. I just heard it for the first time this summer and to make up for lost time, I've got it on daily rotation.

Wherever you are this very minute, may you feel at home.

For the love of Friday

Oh snap. I am sorry I didn't end up posting yesterday. It was one of those days. An excursion at Costco that took about four times as long as I'd hoped (and the ensuing unpacking of really giant amounts of stuff). Ben's moratorium on napping. Repeated attempts to get some truly boring data entry over with.

But here I am today. All my mumbled excuses aside, let's get to it. I haven't worried too much about the content of this blog, yet, as my first objective is to become more disciplined. But pretty soon, I'm going to have to find some sort of thread that holds everything together. I'm not sure yet if I'm really a writer, and if I am, what it is I write. Am I crazy to think the answer will reveal itself on its own, organically, evidently? I'm hoping you guys will help me figure it out along the way.

In the meantime, I was thinking it might be nice to have at least one structured day in the week. So every Friday, I'll try and post something a bit more...literary. Let's give it a whirl, starting today.

Just to ease into things, I'd like to share a little poem I wrote for a creative writing class last winter. Starting next week I'll have wholly new bits of prose for you guys, none of this dusting off old stuff.

To take you back to where my head was at, our topic that week was Image, Word, and Detail. In that regard we read and discussed Nancy Willard's poem, "How to Stuff a Pepper," which I think you'll agree is quite a treat:

Now, said the cook, I will teach you
how to stuff a pepper with rice.

Take your pepper green, and gently,
for peppers are shy. No matter which side
you approach, it's always the backside.
Perched on green buttocks, the pepper sleeps.
In its silk tights, it dreams
of somersaults and parsley,
of the days when the sexes were one.

Slash open the sleeve
as if you were cutting a paper lantern,
and enter a moon, spilled like a melon,
a fever of pearls,
a conversation of glaciers.
It is a temple built to the worship
of morning light.

I have sat under the great globe
of seeds on the roof of that chamber,
too dazzled to gather the taste I came for.
I have taken the pepper in hand,
smooth and blind, a runt in the rich
evolution of roses and ferns.
You say I have not yet taught you

to stuff a pepper?
Cooking takes time.

Next time we'll consider the rice.

Yummy, isn't it? I leave you with my response:

The Eyes of March

Sometimes they are babies.

This one, his skin wizened rough,

has seen many days. Felt the earth shift and groan.

Cocooned in the loam of a million things,

from a million years.  

His mother had seen too much beautiful light,  

through unblinking eyes, so many perspectives.  

Her cup runneth over, she put down roots  

as she dreamed of faraway patatas,  

never having known her papas.  

It was a quiet and oculus birth,  

snowbirds caw-cawing overhead.  

The ground thawing and trembling  

once again, under the hooves of mighty ants.  

Now he hunches, hoary and gnarled,  

longing to return to that womb of matter.  

He gets a bath, scrubba scrubba,  

waterfall loud and heavy all around.  

He asks to be dunked thrice,  

and I oblige. It is the least I can do.  

I, the lazy hunter. Picking off this easy target,  

this humble workhorse. Swoosh! the slice.  

Weathered skin yielding to wet,  

dense, whiteness. The pan a-sputter  

with impatient butter.  

Farewell, dear spud. From me you shall receive  

no litany. Just a sprinkling of salt,  

your eyes already faraway,  

on your way home.

Get lost

Seattle is still one big tangle of spaghetti to me. How does anyone find their way around cities that don't fall neatly onto a grid? I love all the water here, but I also love a direct route. 

I'm glad someone invented those handy navigators for the car. Although sometimes I'll be driving along and the GPS lady, perhaps in need of a little excitement, tries to send me flying off a bridge or cliff. I've learned to tune her out when she's talking crazy. It makes me feel a bit like I'm turning into a man.

We bought our GPS just for our move to Seattle. Before this contraption entered our lives, when faced with a new destination, I actually looked at a map. Snapped a mental picture of the route, perhaps jotted down a few notes on the back of a piece of junk mail, and that was that. It was all very efficient and tidy. Grids, people. Grids! I knew where I was headed.

Now, I'm less cabbie, more tourist. Well, I say that, but I always get us (mini-me and me) where we need to go. Just not owing to any navigational skills on my part. I obey the GPS lady, as long as she's not trying to get us to careen off the edge of some sheer drop Thelma & Louise style. And like I said, I'm glad these things exist. Especially now that it takes us an hour to get out the door, due to any number of baby excrement related messes, I won't knock a time saver. 

But if I'm ever going to find my way here, I think I'm going to have to make peace with this feeling of, well, feeling lost.

Linger as long as you can

I think I've mentioned we live on a hill here in Seattle. We were lucky to find this condo with its huge picture windows and a sliding glass door that leads out to the deck. Standing at our kitchen sink, I have the most incredible Cézanne-esque melee for a view; tall pines in the foreground, freight trains and houses tucked into pines on the hill across the way peeking from behind. Which is nice, say, when you're on your fourth round of baby bottle washing that day. Or if you go right up to the window and press your face against it, as Ben likes to do, you can also see Salmon Bay and all the fishing boats moored there. Even the Cascades, on a clear day. We're losing light fast here, but this week we've had some captivating sunrises and sun-drenched afternoons, and believe me when I say we're trying to find ways to can it for the winter.

This hill we live on, however, demands a sense of purpose. And lots of deodorant. The car groans and lurches its way up. Fiddle-y fit cyclists dismount and walk after a point. I once found myself three blocks from home, working through the logistics of ditching our $500 jogging stroller and the groceries we just bought and returning for everything with the car. I got over the hump, literally, but since then we've stuck with the baby carrier for any foot-powered excursions. Truly, even the squirrels and racoons appear to have unusually large calf muscles around here.

When you're in the midst of everything, whatever your things are, it can seem like you'll never make it. But you will. And once you're there, standing at the top of the hill, hopefully you will have a moment to admire the view. Glance back at where and who you've been. Linger as long as you can, because chances are, you'll never be able to find this exact spot again. And just when you thought you had made it, the next hill is right there waiting for you (and it's looking like a doozy). But sure as the sun, you'll make it to the top of that one too. The racoons aren't the only ones growing stronger with every step.

Facelifts of the soul

We were walking in Ballard yesterday when we spotted an amazing robin egg blue mid-century couch in a storefront window. Turns out we had stumbled upon an upholstery shop. It's probably a good thing that couch wasn't for sale. I found myself making a mental note of the location, even though we don't have any furniture to restore or upholster.

The blue couch in all its distinctive vintage detail isn't the first convergence of old and new my husband and I have fallen for. We met an old farmhouse with a smartly appointed chef's kitchen a few years back. We were so taken with it, in fact, that we got married there, replete with simple yet elegant food harvested and cooked by its owner.

It is a wonderful thing when you stumble upon a gem of some sort, and if it's in need of a little TLC, all the better. There is something to be said for looking past that rough surface, and gently—gently—awakening something entirely else.

Until we find an old farmhouse of our own, I'll just have to keep busy with facelifts here and there of the soul. With, perhaps, a few old mason jars or vintage champagne glasses sprinkled in on the side for good measure.

Just right

Ok, so I still haven't quite gotten the hang of this everyday thing. I'm working on it, guys, I swear. After realizing that tumblr felt a bit too much like a 4am bar, NTYMI is making its home at blogger. So far, we're hanging out in sweats with a mug of tea here and it's feeling right.

Besides the technical difficulties, we've had a few scares in the family over the last few days (we're all fine thank goodness). It seems almost every good novel is filled with the seesawing, caterwauling dramas of life. Love. Heartache. Sickness. Health. Birth. Death. Deception. Friendship. Good fortune and bad. But when those events occur in real life, happy or sad, seeing the forest for the trees is much easier said than done.

That whiny dirge about the gray days I just posted? As an addendum of sorts I thought it best to share Friday night at our little place on the hill here in Seattle.

After a warm bath, bedtime story, and some daddy nuzzles and mommy cuddles, sleepy baby Ben drips off my arms into bed.

There's a pear at its peak sitting on the counter. If Ben could speak, I'm convinced he would tell us pears are his favorite. He makes a happy mnnmm sound every time we feed them to him. So that fat juicy little pear is poached and whirred in the Baby Bullet (can't thank my sister enough for this gadget), ready to be mixed with some brown rice cereal tomorrow.

Meanwhile, grownup food needs to happen as well. The chill in the air feels just right for an easy oven meal. DH makes a decadent baked mac and cheese, which I truly love. For about three bites. In my search for a somewhat lighter version (though not so light that it's no longer comforting) I ran across this old Yankee Magazine recipe and bookmarked it a while back. I had all the ingredients, which is pretty much the determining factor in any given evening's menu, and so it was. Subbed in brown rice pasta, a smidge less butter, and a smidge more healthy dose of crushed red pepper. There's a lot to be said for the anticipation built by something cooking away in an oven. So many of my favorite recipes (a simple roast chicken, for one) are best suited for the cooler months. So there's that. As our mac attack baked, we were treated to a sliver of glorious late-day sun off the deck. When the sun is as limited as it is out here in the Northwest, you come to appreciate, nay, relish every moment of it. It's kind of nice, because it forces you to seize the moment.

With a few slices of Tofurky italian sausage (take it from me—it's important to give Tofurky its own pan and a healthy glug of evoo to ensure a nice crisp; crowd it with other elements and like someone who's been at the same job/office/company for too long, it gets a little too comfy, loses its edge and goes soft) and some sweet grilled onion and farmers market peppers on the side, we had an easy fall meal.

The kind that goes really well with, say, a nice smoky glass of pinot noir. Or a dark, creamy stout. And some good company. Whatever you may have on hand. Our Friday night might have already put you to sleep, but in so many ways, it was just right.

We got along fine

I missed my writing appointment yesterday. I'll be back with a post later today. In the meantime, maybe this photo will tide you over. I took it at the end of July. I should have been diligently packing up our house on Bainbridge. But when the sun (!) comes out (before 4pm!) in the Northwest, you can't be stuck inside a silly house doing something so mundane as packing.

Last week, Cliff Mass (University of Washington Professor of Atmospheric Sciences and renowned Seattle weather prognosticator) was discussing how this September will likely stand as a record breaking warm one for Seattle. Indeed, we had a handful of sunny 80-degree (give or take) days around Labor Day, and I basked in every one of them. This week, we're back down to low 60s and gray. I feel a little bit ridiculous lamenting the arrival of fall when most of you probably met up with it weeks ago. The climate here is just so different from the midwest stuff I grew up with. It's no exaggeration to say that 9 months out of the year are gray here. Really, it's more like 10, but I know how sensitive the Seattle folks are about their weather. The Chicago fall, winter and spring I grew up with certainly had its low points. But there were also the moments of sun drenched, crackly leaf underfoot, crisp clear cold, snowy muffled quiet, budding trees, moments of new that mixed things up. The weather in Chicago is far better than the Northwest gives it credit for.

I've become obsessed with weather since moving here. I never gave it much mind because I didn't really have to. I knew what to expect, it did its thing, I did mine. We got along fine. I looked forward to packing away sweaters for sundresses, swimsuits for boots. Though I am at odds with most genres of change, I truly appreciate the change in seasons. People around here wear their dismissal of the perpetual gray and rain like a badge of pride, a small price to pay for the lush landscape. And it's true. Seattle is bursting at the seams with beauty. But oh, the weather.

The first of many birds

Friends, I hope you're out there. It's been so long since I used my voice for something real, something other than cold calls, conference calls, and baby talk. I wouldn't blame you if you're feeling a bit nervous about what this blog will bring. I'm right there with you.

The overwhelming urge to write is oft tempered by the sheer terror of self doubt (being a cynic has only drawbacks, don't let anyone tell you otherwise), but this is my attempt to listen to Lamott and take it bird by bird, word by word, everyday.

The key to all this is everyday. When it comes to outsize projects resembling work, most of you are familiar with my incredible knack for procrastination and avoidance. Which leads to a lot of haphazard, unorganized, frenzied messes. Which I would love to overcome. Perhaps part of the problem is my icky lifelong project to change this. But when it comes to "fun" projects (in the past: vacation itineraries, wedding planning, preparing for baby #1) I'm the first to dive in. Even when the water is teeth-chattering, blue-lip cold, more Pacific than Atlantic.

I'm not sure that writing will ever come easily, but now that my yoga workout consists of lunging to catch our son's head before it bumps into the coffee table, a daily positive practice of sorts can't hurt. My hope is that everyday writing will mince up the great big hairy Writing that's always looming in my mind (the one that slavishly makes me write, rewrite and then rewrite again something so simple as a single sentence, ad nauseam) and if I'm lucky, turn it into little manageable bursts of Yay! Writing!!! Just try and stop me!
 
All this to say that I thank you in advance for bearing with me. It's bound to get ugly in here before it gets better.