tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81260322024-03-06T20:16:55.289-08:00Fetal Positions IIIa shot in the dark at motherhood.
<br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.comBlogger704125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-30498889018730917612012-09-02T09:29:00.002-07:002012-09-02T09:30:47.941-07:00you are what you eat with<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The day started out as usual, the baby
calling to me from his crib, swaying and babbling like a drunkard,
falling over and then climbing up again with a smile and a wave.
There was the relay of the cereal boxes to the table and the
discovery of the dead mouse in the dining room, though Emily, having
vanished under the bed for the morning was not willing to take
credit.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But on this day, all this normalcy
couldn't stave off the weight of knowing: we'd be going to the
dentist. Isaac had a check up and cleaning scheduled and like all our
other appointments – eye exams, physicals for school – we were
trying to get them all up-to-date before the end of the year when
Mike's job and, thus, our insurance coverage runs out.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I didn't have any particular reason to
dread the dentist really, on my behalf or Isaac's, except for the
fact that like with most any visit to a western “specialist,”
we'd be temporarily sucked into their world where, overwrought with
everything dental, we'd thrash and spin until they released us again
to the larger world unscathed to the naked eye.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I miss our pediatric dentist in
Monterey. He had a son Isaac's age. He spoke quietly and often said
things I almost agreed with.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On this day, that started out so
typically, we find ourselves at a place where the staff speaks in the
forced and predictable cadence of people who are trying to sound
kid-friendly, but really have no interest in anyone shorter than
their shoulder. Everything that is said to Isaac, naturally, is
actually for my benefit and comes out in patronizing tones that imply
we have not done everything humanly possibly to optimize our son's
oral health and by extension that we are horrid, horrid people and
even worse parents.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The hygenist continues to interrupt me
while I try to read the annual issue on whether MFA programs are
affective in the writer's magazine that gets all its advertising
money from MFA programs, to show me a tiny dark spot on my son's
molar. “That's a tooth to watch!” she says more than once. And,
after I try again to return to my magazine (<i>Can writing be
taught??</i>), “I'm just going to show mom one more thing on this
side.” It's my cue to get the hell up and look – look at what
I've let happen!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Mmm-hmm,” I try as a show of
concern. And Isaac with his perfect public demeanor, says nothing,
just opens and closes obediently.</div>
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<br /></div>
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If it is under these conditions that I
must write, then so be it. And so, I am drafting this essay real time
as the passive-agressive hygenist berates me with her sighs and hums.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Chipper, faux kid-friendly hygenists'
names are required to be things like Maricella, Kayla, and Leanna.
The final “a” is important. Like the upturn in a smile, the
circles over the I's when you are writing your name and the last name
of the boy you have a crush on over and over again on your folder in
high school chemistry class.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Isaac lost the two teeth that flank his
upper front teeth ages ago and the replacements have not yet seen fit
to grow in. This situation, as you might imagine, is impossible to
bear – if you are Maricella or Kayla or Sienna or Vivianna. <i>I</i>
might find it impossible to bear wearing scrubs with Tweety Bird on
them, but there you have it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She convinces me to do x-rays (that
damn finite stretch of insurance) to see what's going on up in the
gum line. Before she goes to take them though, she spells out all the
tragic ways in which my son's teeth will ruin his mouth and his life.
She recommends (strongly) what I've come to think of as preemptive
braces to “help the teeth come down.” If, in fact, they are even
there (gasp). When I ask for more information on the real
implications of such a situation and the option of waiting as opposed
to vomiting big bucks to spell out to my seven-year-old in
orthodontia just how unacceptable and imperfect he is, she offers
“He's going to look like he's missing two teeth.” To which I
reply, very slowly, “That's because. He's. Missing. Two teeth.”
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I have a referral right here for
you. We'll email over the digital x-ray today,” she says by way of
response.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Release me, oh great goddess of
orthodontia (who is married, by pure coincidence, of course, to our
dental deity), out into my sordid world of dead mice and cereal. I
have nothing for your altar.</div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-60394655010943601222012-08-31T15:04:00.000-07:002012-08-31T15:07:50.922-07:00sit up straight and look like a poet<br />
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I'm sure it's just jealousy. Most
things are.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I've come to resent the book cover
photos of the poet that looks out at you, his expression appearing
as though he is startled to have found himself there, his most
intimate thoughts published for all the world to see, by BOA Editions
or Coffee House Press, by Michigan, Pittsburgh, Arizona, Georgia. And
I have nothing to offer him in return but my undying devotion –
after all, I am one of the few, the small pod of humans that buys
poetry books, albeit second-hand.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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And what has <i>he</i> got to look
alarmed about? I mean, really. He must have known this was coming –
writing in some disciplined way every day that he will ultimately
reveal in a <i>Poets & Writers </i>interview from his
light-filled house, churning out poems, essays, revisions,
hob-nobbing electronically with his old MFA pals, submitting with
some regularity to prestigious journals and being accepted half of
the time. It's not as if he spends his days crawling under furniture,
picking up gooey Cheerios, fleeing the house every couple days, or
weeks, the baby wailing at him, stretching out his little arms for
him like a drowning man going down for the last time, then having to
avoid the questions from the older kids in the driveway: “Where are
you going?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“To write,” he'd have to tell them,
as if none of this affected him and then get in the car, sweating.</div>
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<br /></div>
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At the cafe, the super-ordinary
adultness and freedom of saucers clicking would make him want to
close his journal into which he had managed in the course of 15
minutes to write the date, lower his head into his hands and weep.</div>
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<br /></div>
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No, it's not like that at all.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And it makes one think that every one
of these author photos should be set up like an 80's Glamor Shot or
posed on the top of a mountain – arms raised in triumph over their
literary heads and silhouetted against a pink and orange sunset.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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What is it with these photos anyway?
Sly looks. Shy profiles. Pensive, pondering Bodhi tree expressions.
Aren't poets meant to be the heralders of truth? The carriers of
clarity? Open your eyes, man, and look at the camera! Isn't that what
your mother, who probably spent her days crawling under furniture,
picking up your gooey Cheerios so you could go off and become a
freaking poet would want? And another thing on her behalf – pick up
your damn feet when you walk!</div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-55953469799646617102012-08-21T01:00:00.000-07:002012-08-21T01:00:06.923-07:00the New Englanders 13<br />
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Today the New Englanders are reading. They could never get through all the books on their list! They
keep lists, they are afraid, long and unmanageable on slips of paper
meant for groceries. There is no more room on their shelves for
books, and they think often enough about getting a Kindle. Sooner or
later, right? And as for the lists, they are shut away in the
left compartment of the drawer organizer. Besides, they already have them memorized. </div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-15116095918517823042012-08-20T01:00:00.000-07:002012-08-20T01:00:04.128-07:00the New Englanders 12<br />
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Today the New Englanders are making
art. Pottery in glazes the colors of sunsets, iron work in such
detail it puts snowflakes to shame, the kind of art that covers over
life with something beautiful. Other New Englanders buy the pieces
and put them in bay windows, hang them in the guest room. Every
Saturday they dust them, admire the technique, each brush stroke
nearly invisible.</div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-47475424862708273892012-08-19T13:25:00.002-07:002012-08-20T15:44:03.599-07:00The New Englanders 11<br />
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Today the New Englanders are drinking
coffee. Medium roast. It should be roasted locally even if it
originally comes from far away – exotic places where the trees give
beans instead of sweet sap. Maybe if those beans ended up in
lemonade, salad dressing, on pancakes, well, then they'd be useful,
then, perhaps, the New Englanders might live in those other places.
But of course that's just silly to think about, a hypothetical game,
laughable, really. Those other
places could never, never be New England.</div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-71073457288982457912012-08-14T01:00:00.000-07:002012-08-14T01:00:07.652-07:00birthday getaways<br />
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When we lived in Monterey, it was hard
to find places to go on vacation. Let's face it. The Peninsula and
the Big Sur coast are some of the most beautiful places I can think
of.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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When we were planning our honeymoon,
the weather was also a consideration. It would be August and so
thoughts of hot and sticky also limited our choices. We ended up in
Ecuador – you know, equatorial and all pretty much solving our
worry over weather extremes. And while Monterey lacks the Amazon
rainforest, it has many other flora and fauna in common with Ecuador.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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We were there over my birthday during
which we stayed at an old hacienda that had a lot of llamas, as I
recall. Or maybe they were alpacas. Frogs and toads. Bees and wasps.
Porcupines and hedgehogs. I'm not that good at the world's
oft-confused animal pairs.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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It's the kind of birthday that sounds
interesting enough to write about, but in reality, it was somewhat
drafty and kind of lonely, like we had booked one of the California
missions for ourselves. They also insisted on making us an “American
breakfast” which involved many, many eggs.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The countryside was pretty, but
familiar. There were ferocious aloe bushes (that's not a poetic
descriptor, that's the name of the plant), callas and crocosmia
flowers, just like the ones I'd left rotting at home in the form of
my wedding bouquet.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This past weekend I was chasing yet
another birthday celebration. It's worse than New Year's Eve for me –
always trying for the ideal fun time. I just wanted to go away
overnight somewhere close. I tried to think hard about what could
work with the kids and still be fun for us. A simple, pastoral Bed
and Breakfast, I thought, that took kids. A pretty place with a
chair and a book.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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There are in fact many, many New
England B and Bs that claim farm and family fun. They mostly have 2
or 3 or possibly 4 rooms and exist at various stages of wonk.
Two-hundred years old, 300 years old...they compete for status. We
found one about an hour away with a lake.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Like our last family vacation (<a href="http://fetalpositions.blogspot.com/2012/07/beach.html">the June camping trip</a>), it poured rain. Poured. Did I say “poured?”
Because I meant POURED. All day. All night. At first it was charming,
but the bottom line was no lake, no trails, just us stuck in the
house.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Around the time I was observing Isaac
enjoying the collection of Happy Meal toys proudly displayed in the
sitting room, I realized that when you live in a wonky, old house in
rural New England, you don't need to go on vacation to a wonky, old
house in rural New England. What they have, I have, minus the Happy
Meal toys. The ability to crack my head on the upstairs slanted
ceiling – check. Creaky floor boards that threaten to wake the baby
– check. Clawfoot tub – check. Lightswitches that never turn on
the closest, most obvious light – check. Children running down the
hallway screaming, dressers that need refinishing, screens that let
in bugs - check, check, check.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The harder I try to escape my life, the
more I seem to run smack into it, THIS is why I watch reality TV.
You'd think I'd have been forewarned when the places we looked at
suggested things in our town among the list of “what to do during
your stay.” Sometimes, people, you have to throw large heavy objects at me before I get the picture. Bricks, maybe, but that's for another
entry on renovation.</div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-20488129358023757502012-08-13T08:29:00.000-07:002012-08-13T08:29:01.475-07:00bathroom renovations – the love story<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So in terms of toilets,” my
husband says to me after I descend the stairs having just tucked
Isaac in and finished off <i>Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH</i>.
Until that moment, the moment when the mention of toilets wiped all
else from my mind, I had had in my fragile head some morsel of
writing I dared believe I might get onto paper and a list or two I'd
planned to scribble onto the unopened insurance envelopes pooling on
the dining room table, but now all that riff-raff was gone in favor
of other considerations.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Days after our 11<sup>th</sup> wedding
anniversary, one day after the anniversary of when we met 15 years
ago, the love of my life has as the primary subject on his mind –
toilets.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All these years together and never once
before the start of this home improvement project did I have any idea
of his love of skirted toilets with round seats. He was so immediate
and self-assured when he spoke up in the plumbing show room that day,
and I'd turned to him to see him as if for the first time. “Round
seat. Definitely round,” he'd said. Most women would agree, that
kind of confidence is downright sexy.</div>
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<br />
</div>
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If the renovation workers are trying to
reinforce our decision to install a second bathroom, one that is not
miniscule and a direct extension of the kitchen counter, then they're
doing a great job.After two and a half weeks of men in boots tromping
in and out of my house between 8 and 5 – the carpenters, the
architects, the drywaller, the electricians, and, of course, the
plumbers, most of them at some point visiting my one existing
bathroom, I learned to appreciate my three-sister-having,
always-seat-putting-down husband anew. Being paid 50 bucks an hour,
being essentially a guest in someone else's home, does not preclude,
it would seem, leaving the toilet seat up.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
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Let me just send a shout out to my
charming husband, who 'in terms of toilets' has won my heart in more
ways than one. Honey, I love you, happy anniversary.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-25681135078732562462012-08-10T14:12:00.002-07:002012-08-10T16:15:00.720-07:00evolution's a bitch<br />
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The final triop is dead. We starved it,
I think. Unintentionally, of course.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Isaac's cousin gave him one of the
Smithsonian science kits for Christmas. We needed to wait for warmer
weather to break it out, and this summer, break it out we did.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This particular one is labeled
“Prehistoric Sea Monsters” to make it irresistible to any
7-year-old. “A world of adventure, discovery and wonder,” the box
says. “Hatch and grow your own prehistoric pets!” it promises.
“Witness a 220 million-year-old species come to life!”
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Besides the triop eggs and food
naturally, there is also the all-important “poster” of the
snarling T-Rex wading into the water that you are meant place on the
back of the plastic aquarium facing its sea creature contemporaries.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Apparently it was not enough to be in
the middle of year one with an infant, a house renovation, a house
sitting gig, a job search, and a few million (220 million?) other
things, I also needed to add to my list of responsibilities a tank of
prehistoric sea animals. So, we couldn't find the food pellets for a
few days. They were there all along, eventually unearthed from under
a pile of potholders and expired coupons, but by then it was too
late.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh, I crumbled it into the tank like
the directions said, but little Tri-Tri didn't budge off the bottom.
“He does that a lot,” Isaac said, unconcerned, as he ran for his
Legos. “He's probably just trying to sleep,” Mike said,
projecting. But I knew. And as the day progressed, I was sadly proven
right. Let that be a lesson to any life forms from any era that might
come around in a box: The asteroid, no problem. My pantry, sure
death.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I shudder to think what might have
happened if we'd caved and gotten the bunny.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-72792553223321235292012-08-08T01:00:00.000-07:002012-08-10T12:55:42.843-07:00The New Englanders 10<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In some places it's said you ask for so
much as directions you're likely to get an earful – stories about
what used to be on the corner, who's cousin left town before the War,
the plight of farming. The New Englanders believe in the art of
summation. If it's directions you want, you'll get them and Good Day.
This kind of talent for efficiency could only be God-given. Brevity
and directness are rewarded. The world has many gods. The New
Englanders are not forsaken.</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-45687474052246970332012-08-07T01:00:00.000-07:002012-08-07T01:00:02.013-07:00the New Englanders 9<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today, the New Englanders are
gardening. Look at those tomatoes! What a cucumber harvest! The
bounty is almost embarrassing. Thank goodness there are the weeds to
temper the good fortune that flows like springs from the mountains of
New England.</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-27273913084491077412012-08-06T01:00:00.000-07:002012-08-06T01:00:04.814-07:00the New Englanders 8<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This evening, the New Englanders are
smoking cigarettes. Sure, they know they shouldn't, but that tiny
circle of fire is just so addictive. Besides, it gives them something
to do while their hand is hanging out the car window as they make the
pass-on-the-right. Importantly, the middle finger is already engaged.
Everyone knows what idle hands lead to.</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-63980264400423719102012-08-05T19:24:00.000-07:002012-08-05T19:24:07.695-07:00One. Year. Old.Happy Birthday to my beautiful Rhys!<br />
<br />
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<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-80859220430818759592012-08-04T01:00:00.000-07:002012-08-04T01:00:00.223-07:00the New Englanders 7<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Often, the New Englanders are
driving. They go around and around the rotaries because circles are
symbolic, because driving is like sitting inside your own, quiet
mind. Not so much as a purr from the Prius.</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-57347267956172925702012-08-03T06:18:00.000-07:002012-08-03T06:18:06.079-07:00the New Englanders 6<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some days, the New Englanders become
troubled. The world splashed on the front page of the paper does not
behave like the world of New England. But always they are reassured
because if you plan well, you will have acorns through the winter
and, in these parts, for every tree that falls, three grow in its
place.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-23235276624022441872012-08-02T19:59:00.002-07:002012-08-03T06:17:35.368-07:00the New Englanders 5<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today the New Englanders are helpful.
They are redelivering misdelivered mail to each other; they are
shaking their heads together over lawn mowers that won't start; they
are reminding each other about the park rules for dogs on leashes.
Each of these things is received as it was delivered: with a certain
amount of distance and formality, what the New Englanders might refer
to as grace.</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-26570520180028942562012-07-26T12:28:00.004-07:002012-07-26T12:34:42.191-07:00musings on renovation<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlCVO9MO1nvvJ0OxOLGnxXmCqCIKhKkAIAP6JvWs25HIAOrAs5vMoDjUdDXckC2kT2fcUBxirva9yPdt9N63-SJvILQBKJYdVIvv7jPUwX42ipR2YesJXJ6S1OQHqkU0Nsn1sLQ/s1600/DSCF5799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlCVO9MO1nvvJ0OxOLGnxXmCqCIKhKkAIAP6JvWs25HIAOrAs5vMoDjUdDXckC2kT2fcUBxirva9yPdt9N63-SJvILQBKJYdVIvv7jPUwX42ipR2YesJXJ6S1OQHqkU0Nsn1sLQ/s400/DSCF5799.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the dining room floor after we pulled up the fake wood vinyl</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>And you may find yourself living in
a shotgun shack...</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
-- Talking Heads</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I really want to write to my children.
I want to write them letters and tell them how much they mean to me
and who they were when they were tiny and who I was when they were
tiny and who we grew into together.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When Isaac was a newborn I took a
special little journal of handcrafted paper and carefully began an
entry or two to this little being I barely knew.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Very quickly it became clear what was
unclear – At what aged Isaac was I directing this writing? What
kind of language made sense? Is he reading this as a 10-year-old? An
adult? Other?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then, very quickly after that it became
clear that I could not keep up a journal to my newborn because I had
a newborn.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
When Obama was elected, I started
another letter to Isaac. He was three then. I got farther with it,
but it's still not finished.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think it's a bit like our contractor
who has never finished the renovation on his own house.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yes, we have a contractor. We are
moving ahead with putting a bathroom upstairs and creating a bedroom
out of the store room. <i>Why, Kitty, where will you store things?
Meeee?? What on earth might I want to store? Everything is out in the
open here, baby. Closets are for wusses; attics are for sissies;
store rooms are for the weak and foolish!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The plumber is
coming tomorrow. This may not sound like a threat to you, but when
spoken to us by our contractor, it most certainly was. He was trying
to get us to go choose the crap we want in the bathroom, and well, as
you may have gathered from previous entries, we are stretched
somewhat thin and this choosing activity has not been at the top of
our to-do list.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And here is where
we return to the idea of writing, sort of. Picking out fixtures is a
bit like choosing a font – You can look at a whole alphabet/style
line together and decide on the style that suits you – Serifs? Sans
serifs? Square head faucets? Bold hardware? Italic? Condensed?
Brushed nickel finish? You may like the main line, but then you see
the F or the towel rack and you think, “No! No! No! That won't do!
Why's that swirly thing swirling there?”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And while you are
still caught in the showroom delirium wondering how and why anyone
would bother to spend two hours doing this and screw it let's just go
to a store and buy our own damn towel rack that's in stock and a
helluva lot cheaper even if the contractor won't guarantee it for a
year like he will if we spend 5x as much on it, and you suddenly have
this revelation that will change your life forever: <i>OMG. I now
understand why Home Depot exists and maybe it's a good thing that it
does</i>. It was like when I learned that only the female mosquito
bites, the males – wait for it – pollinate flowers.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
only person who was probably less excited than we were today about
picking out shower valves and vent fans was our contractor who was
calling messages in to the plumbing show room from his long weekend
camping in the Berkshires. (Another <a href="http://fetalpositions.blogspot.com/2012/06/paths.html">path</a> I wonder about – one
minute you decide to go to school for architectural design because
you like lines and you can visualize space well and the next you are
talking to people about where the toilet paper holder should go...)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>And you may find yourself</i> using
the word <i>sconces</i> more than you ever thought possible. Yet,
it's a good word. A good word. Maybe even making my top 100 list. And
here, again, is where we return to the idea of writing. Because, in
fact, we always return to the idea of writing. What a relief.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv6fSOtX1vj56YL5zwdwR7BWHh4MRtn7gx5BMTx9tlRH5L4Fgnr1tcZfb1YdotJt0M6IIERebaUTSj6M6RNqPTkH3ZXLA6zmBMtWfdTF0oxs6F1Gy3VVoEC4uO_gPBt4tWZdQ2Vg/s1600/DSCF5815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv6fSOtX1vj56YL5zwdwR7BWHh4MRtn7gx5BMTx9tlRH5L4Fgnr1tcZfb1YdotJt0M6IIERebaUTSj6M6RNqPTkH3ZXLA6zmBMtWfdTF0oxs6F1Gy3VVoEC4uO_gPBt4tWZdQ2Vg/s400/DSCF5815.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">dining room floor refinished</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-83361696606876481512012-07-24T08:12:00.002-07:002012-07-24T08:12:21.955-07:00the height of summer<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We read over and over again about the
end of the dinosaurs. The theories, the facts, the animals that made
it to the other side. My son's fascination with things prehistoric
has not gone away as he has grown, but only deepened. Now besides the
lists of meat-eaters and plant-eaters, we read about the famous
paleontologists, all they can learn from delicate imprints of skin in
ancient sea beds. Sometimes I confuse the names of the great beasts
and he corrects me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In this, this moment that won't last
either, the trees are flat out green. Full of their own abundance,
their proclivity for life, leaves that flourish, some – no kidding—
since the Jurassic Period. The problem is I don't know their names.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My son runs in from summer play out of
breath, face red from heat and exertion, ankles black with mud, in
this, this moment that won't last either. Some days I do not know
what to call him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At night, we sit on our still-hot porch
and listen to the moths ping against the glass. Sometimes they almost
sound like rain. If I close my eyes, I can taste the water.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After this, this moment that won't last
either, the rains will come back, the bark will turn dark, and life
will continue (though I wonder if I should scan the sky for
asteroids). Russet leaves I still won't know what to call will wave
to me at my window as if I've lived here for ages.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In a flash they will drop all pretense,
their fancy dresses – so familiar they act with me though they've
never bothered to ask my story – and stand in only tall trunks,
their stick arms lifted to the whitening sky, while I hunker below
waiting for the snow to create of the world a new page.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-37971805454599581112012-07-22T08:21:00.001-07:002012-07-22T08:22:31.302-07:00this moment<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lgamTVfRXmLx_TOKSZ-i1dOknlA-GP6H72H68JVL2xfkN0WBXKpoatSBQHZOKZkjeSiviUmK0I_iO4OX4x-zbXlmwI3CzezVCPdBQ-dJq25F2J9vdvJDP3fBlWCK-5AsCpXRCA/s1600/DSCF5944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lgamTVfRXmLx_TOKSZ-i1dOknlA-GP6H72H68JVL2xfkN0WBXKpoatSBQHZOKZkjeSiviUmK0I_iO4OX4x-zbXlmwI3CzezVCPdBQ-dJq25F2J9vdvJDP3fBlWCK-5AsCpXRCA/s400/DSCF5944.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">California poppy blooming in Massachusetts</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have never been this kind of tired -- too tired to think well enough to write. The worst kind of tired imaginable to me.<br />
<br />
I watch the progression – my husband
gets more and more exhausted as the week goes on and he continues to
take on the brunt of the teething nights. At dinner, pasta with
butter, (our farm box of vegetables rotting in the frig), he looks
haggered, dark bags form under his eyes. Later, I retrieve him from
our 7-year-old's room where he's fallen asleep doing bedtime and take
his hand to lead him back downstairs where he squints in the harsh
light.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For over a week now, the two of us
whisper the same thing to each other before we go to bed, “White
sand, turquoise water.” We've been trying to dream about a little
cabana on the beach for just us. A hammock and a drink with an
umbrella. Somewhere out on the horizon, the orange sail of a
catamaran still visible in the setting sun. We just want to <i>dream</i>
it, for godssake. So far, nothing. We are awake every two hours; we
are rigid minds of havetos and can'ts; we are wasted.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Instead, last night just before dawn, I
dreamed of Monterey. I had to say goodbye to everyone again. I kept
going back and forth among my friends, unable to break away.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mike is sprawled, eyes closed, on the
couch now, and before him the detritus of the day maps our path: a
plastic recycling truck, its back hanging open like a yellow wagging
tongue; a teddy bear Isaac got as a gift when he was one leaning on
its face in the corner; a remote control car that hasn't worked for
at least a decade which my mother-in-law insisted we bring home with
us from her basement; a container of blocks, mostly empty; a hundred
wooden blocks strewn the length of the living room; a dozen board
books, their spines gouged with teeth marks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There is no clever ending to this
story. There is no sharply creative metaphor. It is just the story of
a family holding on, just holding on.</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-41433417994374082382012-07-20T00:01:00.000-07:002012-07-20T10:41:05.747-07:00the New Englanders 4<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This afternoon, heat notwithstanding, the New Englanders are mowing their grass. It is like summer's auditory balm. When the impossibility of disquiet arrives, the white noise soothes the soul back to even rows, up and down, like the breath.
</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-50788012924342669682012-07-19T00:01:00.000-07:002012-07-19T00:01:00.488-07:00the New Englanders 3Today the New Englanders are camping. With their pop-ups, their RVs, their tarped tents, with their American flags, their spinning frog lawn ornaments, their soda can airplane pinwheels for sale out front of their campers. Despite the signs warning of the practice's prohibition, they are riding their bikes down the campsite roads after sunset. Because it's summer time, time to let loose, go a little wild.Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-79796789765874401672012-07-18T00:01:00.000-07:002012-07-18T00:01:00.332-07:00the New Englanders 2This morning the New Englanders are walking their dogs. Old dogs, small dogs, dogs panting from the already 80 degree air, dogs pulling wheelchairs, dogs chasing chipmunks, baby-kissing dogs, dogs sniffing gardens, dogs barking at other dogs. The dogs all need to walk. And the New Englanders obey.Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-62733639708598708872012-07-17T12:02:00.001-07:002012-07-17T12:04:04.877-07:00the New Englanders 1Today, the New Englanders are blurry through their screened-in porches. They are using power tools; they are sorting seeds; pixelized forms, bent, working. The New Englanders are always at work.Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-7266431869494616362012-07-10T07:07:00.000-07:002012-07-10T08:33:07.959-07:00Isaac updateSo, other than his guest post recently, I haven't said much about the kid that started all this blogging in the first place. That little cell cluster that showed up 8 years ago and made me violently ill, acutely terrified, exceptionally tired and joyously happy.
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I haven't written about the kind of big
brother he is. I take it for granted I guess you could say. While I
was pregnant, everyone told him over and over how he'd be the best
big brother ever. He would smile slyly at these words and stare at
the floor. Finally, one day he looked up and said, “What if I'm
NOT?” He is.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just by virtue of being so big and so
much in his life, Isaac is magical to Rhys. There is that. And then,
there is all that is Isaac.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When Rhys was tiny and I dared put him
down anywhere, his brother would find me, empty-armed and ask, “WHERE
is Rhys?” “In there,” I might say, pointing to the bedroom, the
blanket on the living room floor, as I attempted to make myself a
sandwich or pour a glass of water. “ALL ALONE?!?” Isaac would
accuse, dashing from the scene to be with the nonplussed infant.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He tolerates all the attention that is
heaped on the baby with more maturity than I know I could have
mustered at 7. I asked him once if it bothered him.“Not really.
He's cute,” he shrugged sagely, as if the logic of it was enough
for him to bear this not so small change in the focus of his world.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Isaac is attentive to a fault. We get
things like this a lot: “Um, he's near the edge you know! Um, so,
do you have him??? Mommy!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The monitor often forgotten in the
wrong room or turned off, Isaac is often the first one to scoop his
baby brother from the crib at nap's end, his hearing attuned to the
softest squeak.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rhys has been greatly enjoying having
Isaac around more with summer being summer and all. But today begins
a period of camps. Isaac will be busy away from the house more for a
few weeks. Doing big boy things.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We start with soccer. That's right, I'm
afraid my boy has made of me an official soccer mom. Ugh. Okay, it's
just a couple hours of skills in the morning at the field down the
street. And maybe he'll hate it. (Was there a touch of hope in that
last sentence?)
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm skeptical. Of sports. And most
specifically of coaches. There seems to be a “Type C” personality
– Coach. This is the person who believes anyone can pull themselves
up by their boot straps if they want to, and has been known to use
that exact phrase ad nauseum. The person who believes beyond a shadow
of a doubt that anything you need to know about life you can learn on
the field/court/diamond. The person who is overly confident, who
pushes, who shouts and uses whistles and regularly says shit like,
“Let's go! Let's go! Let's see some hustle!”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I left him this morning, Isaac was
tapping a soccer ball lightly with his foot, barely moving it, in a
sea of bigger kids, one of his new turquoise and neon orange cleats
untied (“They had the normal kind too,” he'd told me of the
purchase he'd made with his dad, waving his hand in a dismissive
way). This was out of his comfort zone. Isaac did not learn to crawl
one week, begin to stand the next, and go over and over again to the
stairs, trying trying trying. That would be my second child.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Isaac has always been the one to hang
back, ask me to come with him, watch and observe. As awesome a big
brother as Isaac is to Rhys, the benefits go two ways. His baby
brother will be good for him in ways he cannot yet imagine.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Over dinner, I asked Isaac what his
favorite part of soccer was.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Probably when I scored a goal,” he
said.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh!” I say trying not to sound too
surprised. “Congratulations!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah, I was going down the field and
then another kid tried to get the ball away from me and I lost my
balance and my foot knocked it into the net by accident.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rhys will be good for him because again
tomorrow when Isaac leaves the field, hungry, hot and pushed to his
limit, he will be there, squealing wildly, flailing his arms and
leaning with all he's worth toward his favorite 7-year-old, like his
big brother just intentionally wailed on that ball and sent it flying
from mid-field into the center of the goal, winning the game in
overtime.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGxIodWqADNJlKL6Geopl9Byt3yYuv7V2GSBTmwmpEnc3rm7Z5QNt9GV1kAd_WEk9cwki_5uxvfab2ov9Q2y2b6U8RGvU9kppB_T_sg4ozNaceN8sN2Ks69mcI608qSnLmx5uEjg/s1600/DSCF5810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGxIodWqADNJlKL6Geopl9Byt3yYuv7V2GSBTmwmpEnc3rm7Z5QNt9GV1kAd_WEk9cwki_5uxvfab2ov9Q2y2b6U8RGvU9kppB_T_sg4ozNaceN8sN2Ks69mcI608qSnLmx5uEjg/s400/DSCF5810.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-picasa-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6Ify9I2qisgEkUB5iEgkcvFXQq1eQ8ezvPxdkzh0UxfaGCLwfSEfbVqIE2FEOAEtlGAZMc86gMpbLyxLTnc5e5abE921kITBgcYByar7JWXp3Hh8nkIrNVI3AOuo8sUYpvWtOg/s1600/DSCF5807.AVI"><param name="movie" value="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?videoUrl=http://redirector.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D0c7d1f1277e5f20c%26itag%3D5%26source%3Dpicasa%26cmo%3Dsensitive_content%253Dyes%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1344526373%26sparams%3Did,itag,source,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D9066B7283A714F7BFC0FF94F2B735D72CB128487.DA7F56E948C72EDB5BAA1418C02F5FA43FA49004%26key%3Dlh1" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?videoUrl=http://redirector.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D0c7d1f1277e5f20c%26itag%3D5%26source%3Dpicasa%26cmo%3Dsensitive_content%253Dyes%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1344526373%26sparams%3Did,itag,source,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D9066B7283A714F7BFC0FF94F2B735D72CB128487.DA7F56E948C72EDB5BAA1418C02F5FA43FA49004%26key%3Dlh1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
<br />
(more pics to follow)</div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-39643507924875611322012-07-02T12:43:00.000-07:002012-08-31T15:09:58.098-07:00the beachInland<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>People
that build their houses inland,</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>People
that buy a plot of ground</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Shaped
like a house, and build a house there,</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Far
from the sea-board, far from the sound</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Of
water sucking the hollow ledges,</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Tons
of water striking the shore --</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>What
do they long for, as I long for</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>One
salt smell of the sea once more?</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>People
the waves have not awakened,</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Spanking
the boats at the harbor's head,</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>What
do they long for, as I long for, --</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Starting
up in my inland bed,</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Beating
the narrow walls, and finding</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Neither
a window nor a door,</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Screaming
to God for death by drowning --</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>One
salt taste of the sea once more?</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--
Edna St Vincent Millay</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It had been over a year. I mean,
honestly, how <i>does </i>my family expect me to function?? The
beach. The coast. The sea. The water. Finally.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We headed out camping – in the van!
First time riding in it not pregnant. No cat this time, but that baby
guy came along. Seems we've reconfigured our family just a little
since the last van adventures.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ihFrlRumE8X7rqEhKkw6e_HaEH8phlhgnS7E88R4qborHsRgdMR7eH1uQfvMa6DoUWLdj78h_bSz5vteASTBOts_HiTYyVpbmq0sZiz8ntvYWooPaqSRELrj1elrGrP8ioZM_g/s1600/IMAG0150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ihFrlRumE8X7rqEhKkw6e_HaEH8phlhgnS7E88R4qborHsRgdMR7eH1uQfvMa6DoUWLdj78h_bSz5vteASTBOts_HiTYyVpbmq0sZiz8ntvYWooPaqSRELrj1elrGrP8ioZM_g/s400/IMAG0150.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rhys meets the pop-up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We went to Connecticut – Long Island
Sound. Hammanesett State Beach to be exact. I did not bring my
camera. It wasn't purposeful, just forgot. So, no scrolling shots of
the boys frolicking in the waves. A few pictures from Mike's phone,
though.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23f0y3gDFAYhoKEng8kRz6LtCPmb2GxFSpv8g5B5fDX3PuQpEFxhNygqXrjfVXLdzVEBEdtJ0lAvuulOwKxyRcB3fZybzZLil54Up8XCTsNCvRZXPeXjNiq78NdSNnp2NeJvhqA/s1600/IMAG0142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23f0y3gDFAYhoKEng8kRz6LtCPmb2GxFSpv8g5B5fDX3PuQpEFxhNygqXrjfVXLdzVEBEdtJ0lAvuulOwKxyRcB3fZybzZLil54Up8XCTsNCvRZXPeXjNiq78NdSNnp2NeJvhqA/s400/IMAG0142.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cool sky</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJu6gLkJtmFJpHEivBXkzeRTeyzpa-2xM4PXZJ_CBeBBMg4MbKur75TdlWEWPoK22aM9tPLOFCo8r2JmwTHmU96V8NSG2SCmfM4UORlgw6m1mn4AxpgNXqL8mh1_eLZ-RzD4ZYg/s1600/IMAG0143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJu6gLkJtmFJpHEivBXkzeRTeyzpa-2xM4PXZJ_CBeBBMg4MbKur75TdlWEWPoK22aM9tPLOFCo8r2JmwTHmU96V8NSG2SCmfM4UORlgw6m1mn4AxpgNXqL8mh1_eLZ-RzD4ZYg/s400/IMAG0143.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">phone case in flight</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFxcqTFnosjt2AgNWgpBETF2GtAoPMBGQV4RJf3naGIg8eKSyTm7OXwU-YKKLUoHubKiENxGNJ8V6w6t8NBqAofh10wrMv4OapqnflrV5ypoiKgWAg0vsja67pABeA4NWkEGwjA/s1600/IMAG0147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFxcqTFnosjt2AgNWgpBETF2GtAoPMBGQV4RJf3naGIg8eKSyTm7OXwU-YKKLUoHubKiENxGNJ8V6w6t8NBqAofh10wrMv4OapqnflrV5ypoiKgWAg0vsja67pABeA4NWkEGwjA/s400/IMAG0147.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We were trying to pick a beach with
decent camping options that wasn't too terribly far. This one was
under 2 hours. Except that we left with an awake, crabby Rhys and it
turned into a very noisy and stressful 2 ½.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I wasn't sure we were making it, in
more ways than one. It was one of those times you are pretty sure the
folks at Google Maps were just bored (No, no GPS) -- up this road,
down this hill, turn, turn, do the hokey pokey. It did not feel like
we were at all approaching the coast. Small streets of greenery and
loads of low rock walls so quintessentially New England that at any
moment I figured Robert Frost was going to jump the hell out of the
woods and point down one fork of the road. “It'll make all the
difference!” he'd call after our camper van, his hands cupped
around his mouth to be heard over the roar of the VW engine before
waving us adieu.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But then, finally, there it was. The
end of land. I let out a little inadvertent gasp when I saw it. And,
stumbling out of the van, pretty nearly broke down and wept at the
smell of the salt air.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
These are not west coast beaches, of
course. But they are beaches and the beaches of my youth – the ones
with miles of sand to walk, warmish water, oyster and welch shells
deposited in long lines. It was familiar for sure.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I kept driving past the spot for our
campsite confused – according to the map it should be there, but no
parking spot, no firepit, nothing there. Then I found out you rent
the firepit (lame) and you just park on the grass wherever the hell
you feel like it. In California, this would never fly. Complete
anathema. First of all, there would never be so much freaking grass,
and if there were grass, you sure as hell wouldn't drive all over it.
The presence of grass would mean someone worked really, really hard
to make it green and since there is actually no water to maintain it,
you have to respect that it's there at all. Here, of course, the
flipping state song of Massachusetts is the lawn mower.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There is an odd conundrum about space
and the coasts. In CA, there is so much land, but everyone is shoved
into tiny, expensive premium spots that they fence off. In the
northeast, there are tons more people and less land, but everyone has
huge yards, separated by maybe a line of bushes if anything. (This
set up could partially explain why people felt the need to constantly
walk right through the middle of our site while we were there, while
the baby was trying to nap etc. It didn't sit well.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Like everything done with kids as
opposed to what we'd do “back in the day,” the beach was
different. I went later than I wanted to, left earlier. Isaac would
have eaten sand and slept in the beach roses of course, but his
brother was another story.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On our 10-minute trek to the beach
multiple times a day, we'd pass the closest campsite to the water
(our own spot carefully chosen for the shade), which besides being
steps from the sand, had no shade, no character, and suffered the
constant stream of people walking and biking past their tents which
they'd pitched inches from the road. Why would they put them there? I
wondered.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Eh, they are probably a couple of
20-somethings and just hungover anyway,” Mike comments.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I look around at the general
demographic of that section of the campsite – its RVs with
satellite dishes, its occupants' grey hair blowing in the breeze over
their lounge chairs – and am dubious. However, on our return,
another nap on the horizon for Mr Rhys, we see two guys roughly 25
years old shuffling around a fire in plaid pajama bottoms. One of
them is smelling something he's about to eat, the other is shooting
Nerf arrows from a kid-sized plastic bow. Bingo. Husband-guy nailed
this one.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Those guys are awesome,” Mike
says, perhaps a touch wistfully, as our family crew saunters past.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRlhCDLwG0RWdVf50BeEU61dzW7B1yop16mPFOdGkTEcfFttoMau-O5-rb_iKE3L0fcSwjnBiGzIRbjeE01BqTv2dXOwGvCz-1s86nwYRvJ_4n_VbpOqj0hol9r8q55dzzD3p5VQ/s1600/IMAG0152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRlhCDLwG0RWdVf50BeEU61dzW7B1yop16mPFOdGkTEcfFttoMau-O5-rb_iKE3L0fcSwjnBiGzIRbjeE01BqTv2dXOwGvCz-1s86nwYRvJ_4n_VbpOqj0hol9r8q55dzzD3p5VQ/s400/IMAG0152.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8126032.post-7573357024036660782012-06-29T18:10:00.001-07:002012-06-29T18:11:05.734-07:00something to sink your teeth into<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibysdrA1fJ7t4x-RWPH_LIHYgwnZ02ap0YCfiL3rbzU5VlH4MAbbAcyWg4hn5_80-wwPcMgHpaR8b7phUkKIgzTEjMuJIsoMPQ3YCi4omLQqlmRa-8XQYKTP1VT9sFxL_qLntC-Q/s1600/DSCF5884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibysdrA1fJ7t4x-RWPH_LIHYgwnZ02ap0YCfiL3rbzU5VlH4MAbbAcyWg4hn5_80-wwPcMgHpaR8b7phUkKIgzTEjMuJIsoMPQ3YCi4omLQqlmRa-8XQYKTP1VT9sFxL_qLntC-Q/s400/DSCF5884.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">trying to look innocent, eating corn flakes and sporting avocado-applesauce shampoo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
"Does baby have a little toofy?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There is a stranger goo-goo-gaa-gaaing
at my baby on the bike path and I've warned her he may be cute, but
the kid takes no prisoners when it comes to biting.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Is there a toofy in there? Hmm??”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Um, he has 8,” I tell the woman,
who clearly has not taken my warning seriously enough.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She stops, straightens up, drops the
gooey smile and looks me in the eye. “Eight?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh-huh.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,” she says in a huff of
exhale, as if offended by my infant's dental progress.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm relieved to have snapped her out of
her baby talk, though I can see this will end our recently ignited
relationship.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You could say Rhys experiences the
world through taste. One of his favorite things to play with is the
large Rubbermaid container of his socks (all of which are either too
big or too small, like a true full moon, they only really fit him for
a moment. Aaaaaaand...NOW! ). His favorite way to play with his sock
container is to tilt it to his face and catch the falling socks in
his mouth. He then grips the captured</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
sock or pair of socks in his teeth like
a puppy playing tug-o-war and, solidifying the analogy, shakes his
head from side to side snarling.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The child eats anything he can get his
hands on – food, yes, but also any accompaniments – the avocado
<i>peel</i>, for example, all the grass he can cram in his face, a
cheese stick, stolen from my hands, the plastic wrapper torn open
easily with his fangs before I can even react.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the one play group I've managed to
attend at the library, all the other babies were mobile but mine.
Rhys surveyed the room with excitement, his chubby little arms and
legs kicking and flailing at the sight of the other babes. There he
sat on his blanket while half a dozen babies tottered around him or
zipped by on all fours and his pleasure grew untethered. High-pitched
hoots escaping his mouth, he waited until one of the wee ones got
within striking distance and then – blam!-- he'd reach out as far
as he possibly could, leading with his mouth wide open. Mama's little
attack spider manning his web.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The other day I noticed the netting on
his pack-n-play portable crib was torn in two places. Odd, I thought.
Until I realized, that, no, it's not been torn, it's been bitten.
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I'm thinking his first words might
be “Tastes like chicken.”</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGq6IFN5ra8PRpryyAMpPY6mpEDnjdf_nK2qGMoZNohKE_LjQ82VRa-iiMqpDYMuXNXTwEQPteE-Q5dDq-x9a9P-yuj48LTQVj5RABANw8VkxmMCf6ZCvR5AM4CAEHxVFqgz3lQ/s1600/DSCF5885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGq6IFN5ra8PRpryyAMpPY6mpEDnjdf_nK2qGMoZNohKE_LjQ82VRa-iiMqpDYMuXNXTwEQPteE-Q5dDq-x9a9P-yuj48LTQVj5RABANw8VkxmMCf6ZCvR5AM4CAEHxVFqgz3lQ/s400/DSCF5885.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">conducting. the world is his edible symphony.</td></tr>
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<br /></div>Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15213518393810493720noreply@blogger.com1