On Friday, I wrote a post about dying my hair. The story is featured at The Red Dress Club today if you would like to read it. (And I'm honored to be there).
Several people asked me to post pics, but the fact of the matter is, the events described happened over a year ago. I haven't had my hair dyed or highlighted since Thanksgiving.
That is, until Saturday. Finding myself with a free morning, I drove myself to Food Lion to buy hair dye. I picked out a color that looked crazy, flaming red.
After the fact, it still looks kinda brown. I believe the universe wants me to have brown hair. But at least the cost was $8 instead of over $100.
(I tried to post pics. Blogger is being evil. Again.)
***
Knock Knock jokes have hit our house hard. Both boys love them. Here's one from Joel:
Joel: Knock Knock, Who's There?
Me: Who's there, Joely?
Joel: Flower!
Me: Flower who?
Joel: Flower going to step on your face!
Owen goes for a subtler approach:
Owen: Knock Knock
Me: Who's there?
Owen: Dragon
Me: Dragon who?
Owen: Dragon going to throw a squid at you!
***
Just now, as I was typing this, I felt something squishy on the chair. I picked it up, thinking to myself, "I hope this isn't a piece of shit."
Thankfully, it was just play-dough.
***
Over the weekend, I went to my friend's beach cabin on the Chesapeake with three other girlfriends. We drank sangria by a bonfire and walked up and down the shores of my beloved bay. It was all quite lovely.
That is, until the horseshoe crabs started humping. That's some prehistoric flailing right there.
***
I had a thought the other day. What if I didn't need or expect praise for the things I do? Wouldn't that be liberating? To do things just because I love them, or know that it's the right thing? To expect nothing in return? To live life without expecting others to comment?
I realize that most adults already think this way, but it still was a revelation for me.
***
Yesterday, The Red Dress Club memoir prompt asked us to share something we knew by heart. The first thing that came to mind for me was the Arizona Public Service Announcement about Hepatitis. This aired on TV in the early eighties. It came on during airings of a local kid's program, Wallace and Ladmo. My brother and I know every word to this day.
Here's a twangy version I found on youtube:
***
I'm not sure there's much that can follow up the Hepatitis Song. I bid you all a lovely Wednesday, free of hurt tummies or yellow eyes.
Showing posts with label AZ. Show all posts
Showing posts with label AZ. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
A Love Letter to Tucson
I drove up Skyline Drive each morning, straight into the mouth of the foothills. The sky was washed purple-pink, like bold swipes of watercolor. These mountains listened to me.
I was a young teacher, full of fears. The mountains heard it all---the student who refused to write, the girl who lost her father, and the boy who hid under his desk when it all became too much. The mountains let me talk. I nestled in her dusty-beautiful arms. She held me close, and then set me free to do my work.
September 11, 2001. On the East Coast, children were already in school---teachers willed back tears and churning panic, as parents raced home to their children. But in Tucson, we woke up to the aftermath---there was nothing to do but drive to work.
The mountains heard me cry softly, as I shifted gears and stopped at lights. The sky was obscenely blue, inappropriate, like a peacock at a funeral. The cacti forest, each saguaro in a perpetual sun salutation, witnessed our coming and going with ancient wisdom.
As I watched the sun tip out behind the mountains, flooding the valley with light, I said to myself, "We are so safe here."
A girl was born that beautiful Tucson morning. Lots of new lives were born under that desert sun, in a valley which smells of creosote and fresh starts.
I lived there, in a flat-roofed bungalow with wood paneling and a swamp cooler. I rode my bike to the University, where I learned that I could write. I became a runner in that valley, pounding out miles along the empty banks of the Rillito.
I married my love there, and danced with him under twinkly lights and a scarlet explosion of bougainvillea.
And through it all, the mountains bore witness. As they will, long after the camera crews pack up, and those dear families attempt to pick up the pieces.
Bear down, Arizona. Those mountains, and the world, hold you in their arms.
I was a young teacher, full of fears. The mountains heard it all---the student who refused to write, the girl who lost her father, and the boy who hid under his desk when it all became too much. The mountains let me talk. I nestled in her dusty-beautiful arms. She held me close, and then set me free to do my work.
September 11, 2001. On the East Coast, children were already in school---teachers willed back tears and churning panic, as parents raced home to their children. But in Tucson, we woke up to the aftermath---there was nothing to do but drive to work.
The mountains heard me cry softly, as I shifted gears and stopped at lights. The sky was obscenely blue, inappropriate, like a peacock at a funeral. The cacti forest, each saguaro in a perpetual sun salutation, witnessed our coming and going with ancient wisdom.
As I watched the sun tip out behind the mountains, flooding the valley with light, I said to myself, "We are so safe here."
A girl was born that beautiful Tucson morning. Lots of new lives were born under that desert sun, in a valley which smells of creosote and fresh starts.
I lived there, in a flat-roofed bungalow with wood paneling and a swamp cooler. I rode my bike to the University, where I learned that I could write. I became a runner in that valley, pounding out miles along the empty banks of the Rillito.
I married my love there, and danced with him under twinkly lights and a scarlet explosion of bougainvillea.
And through it all, the mountains bore witness. As they will, long after the camera crews pack up, and those dear families attempt to pick up the pieces.
Bear down, Arizona. Those mountains, and the world, hold you in their arms.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Literary Homecoming.
Kate wrote about her favorite smell in this post. Like me, Kate is from Arizona, although she still lives there today, and I am now out here in Maryland.
Her favorite smell is chlorine, which makes sense because that is the smell of an Arizona childhood. Anybody who grew up in Arizona spent a significant amount of time in a pool. That's just the way it worked.
As she wrote about pruned fingers and eating soggy sandwiches on the pool deck, I felt the unmistakable longing for home.
People from Arizona don't have a lot of literary models. The only author I can think of that wrote about Arizona is Barbara Kingsolver, and even she up and moved to Virginia.
An Arizona kid watches Christmas programming and feels like she's missed the punchline to a joke. What's a White Christmas? What are these snow days of which you speak?
Garrison Keillor writes about Minnesota and Ms. Moon writes about Northern Florida, and I try on those worlds. They fit nicely, and I could grow to love them. I love the Maryland I'm presently wearing.
But nothing, nothing, feels as comfortable to me as a patch of Arizona sunshine, the sky as wide as the world, and yes, that smell of chlorine.
So, thank you, Kate, for taking me home today. Thank you for understanding my roots.
There are very few people who write about Arizona, so when you find one, it's like a literary homecoming.
Her favorite smell is chlorine, which makes sense because that is the smell of an Arizona childhood. Anybody who grew up in Arizona spent a significant amount of time in a pool. That's just the way it worked.
As she wrote about pruned fingers and eating soggy sandwiches on the pool deck, I felt the unmistakable longing for home.
People from Arizona don't have a lot of literary models. The only author I can think of that wrote about Arizona is Barbara Kingsolver, and even she up and moved to Virginia.
An Arizona kid watches Christmas programming and feels like she's missed the punchline to a joke. What's a White Christmas? What are these snow days of which you speak?
Garrison Keillor writes about Minnesota and Ms. Moon writes about Northern Florida, and I try on those worlds. They fit nicely, and I could grow to love them. I love the Maryland I'm presently wearing.
But nothing, nothing, feels as comfortable to me as a patch of Arizona sunshine, the sky as wide as the world, and yes, that smell of chlorine.
So, thank you, Kate, for taking me home today. Thank you for understanding my roots.
There are very few people who write about Arizona, so when you find one, it's like a literary homecoming.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Fall Awakening.
I love reading the status updates of my friends from Arizona. They say things like, "It's 78 degrees! Fall is finally here!" or "It's 68 degrees! What should I wear?" This, my friends, is a Southwestern Fall.
Growing up in Arizona is weird. It's wonderful, but it's just different. My friend's mother kept an oven mitt in her car (so she wouldn't burn her hand on the seat belt). We were jealous of our friends that had January birthdays, because they always got to have parties at the park. I loved having a March 5th birthday, because my mother would buy me shorts and skirts. And, I'm pretty sure my brother and I weren't the only ones who attempted to build a snowman out of frost.
Although I have no complaints about my native state, I must acknowledge that fall is soooooooooooooo much better out here on the East Coast. I get it, rest of the country. I finally get it.
Top Five Things that Make Fall So Very, Very, Awesome.
1. Pumpkin patches. I could go to a different pumpkin patch every day of the week and I still wouldn't get sick of the corn-mazing, pumpkin-picking, petting-zoo-petting, hand-sanitizer-dousing, llama-touching, tractor-riding, hot-dog eating good times.
2. Unpredictable Clothing Choices. I dress Owen in jeans. He bakes. I dress Joel in shorts. His lips turn blue. Every morning is an adventure---how, oh how, will I dress my children incorrectly today? (I've learned to just carry a hoodie at all times).
3. OMG Halloween!!! Owen will be a giraffe. Or a scarecrow. Or a scare-giraffe. Joel will be a bear. The cuteness will be so intense that the blood sugar levels of half the state will rise to dangerous levels. Don't even get me started on the mini Snickers bars. Why are they always poisoned? Every time, I must take them away from the boys because they look suspicious. I eat them all, just to make sure they are okay. I do this for the health of my children.
4. Fall Color and Raking Fun I raked leaves and saw fall color, for the first time in my life, when I was 31 years of age. I made a big pile and jumped in it, and I continue to do so, because I've got YEARS of fall fun frolicking to make up. Not Owen, though. He already knows. To see my son dive into a mound of freshly raked, crunchy leaves, and emerge grinning ear to ear, is like drinking champagne with God.
5. Mums I can think of few things that make me happier than a beautiful, freshly planted chrysanthemum.
To forget how to dig the earth and to tend the soil is to forget ourselves.--Mohandas K. Gandhi
Growing up in Arizona is weird. It's wonderful, but it's just different. My friend's mother kept an oven mitt in her car (so she wouldn't burn her hand on the seat belt). We were jealous of our friends that had January birthdays, because they always got to have parties at the park. I loved having a March 5th birthday, because my mother would buy me shorts and skirts. And, I'm pretty sure my brother and I weren't the only ones who attempted to build a snowman out of frost.
Although I have no complaints about my native state, I must acknowledge that fall is soooooooooooooo much better out here on the East Coast. I get it, rest of the country. I finally get it.
Top Five Things that Make Fall So Very, Very, Awesome.
1. Pumpkin patches. I could go to a different pumpkin patch every day of the week and I still wouldn't get sick of the corn-mazing, pumpkin-picking, petting-zoo-petting, hand-sanitizer-dousing, llama-touching, tractor-riding, hot-dog eating good times.
2. Unpredictable Clothing Choices. I dress Owen in jeans. He bakes. I dress Joel in shorts. His lips turn blue. Every morning is an adventure---how, oh how, will I dress my children incorrectly today? (I've learned to just carry a hoodie at all times).
3. OMG Halloween!!! Owen will be a giraffe. Or a scarecrow. Or a scare-giraffe. Joel will be a bear. The cuteness will be so intense that the blood sugar levels of half the state will rise to dangerous levels. Don't even get me started on the mini Snickers bars. Why are they always poisoned? Every time, I must take them away from the boys because they look suspicious. I eat them all, just to make sure they are okay. I do this for the health of my children.
4. Fall Color and Raking Fun I raked leaves and saw fall color, for the first time in my life, when I was 31 years of age. I made a big pile and jumped in it, and I continue to do so, because I've got YEARS of fall fun frolicking to make up. Not Owen, though. He already knows. To see my son dive into a mound of freshly raked, crunchy leaves, and emerge grinning ear to ear, is like drinking champagne with God.
5. Mums I can think of few things that make me happier than a beautiful, freshly planted chrysanthemum.
To forget how to dig the earth and to tend the soil is to forget ourselves.--Mohandas K. Gandhi
Monday, September 21, 2009
Lively Crabs
I've already got $20 worth of comments on this post to support the American Cancer Society. Please stop by on Facebook or the blog to add a comment, and raise money in memory of Miguel. This campaign will run through Sunday, September 27th.
***
In the film Wedding Crashers, Flip, who is the villain and resident douchebag declares, "Yeah! Crabcakes and Football. That's what Maryland does!"
I laughed at that a little harder than necessary because I always get excited when I know the setting of a film, song, or book. I feel like I'm in on the joke.
For example, the timeless and classic film Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure was not, contrary to popular belief, filmed in San Dimas, California (where, if you were unawares, the high school football RULES!), but in the suburbs of Phoenix.
When Bill and Ted chased Abe Lincoln and Socrates around the mall, that was the Metrocenter, the very mall where I went ice skating with my fellow Brownies. The water park where Bill and Ted ditched Napoleon was in Mesa. I hung out with my first (but certainly not last) summer camp "boyfriend" there, and (gasp!) held his hand.
No snogging. I was 13.
The only other film I can think of that took place in AZ was the Cohen brothers' masterpiece, Raising Arizona. I remember disliking this film with EXTREME PREJUDICE because it made people from Arizona look like idiots. Of course, this just shows that I was not ready for the Cohen brothers' unique style of writing and directing. Again, I was around 13.
There have been all sorts of films set in DC, which doesn't count in my mind as my hood. DC is powerful and urban and rife with backhanded political chicanery. I live in an area that still grows its own tobacco, drying it in sagging barns that date back to the Hoover administration. Our crime report primarily deals with the theft of ATVs and iPods.It's apples and oranges.
Wedding Crashers does have a Maryland vibe to it, though, having been filmed on the Eastern Shore. And yes, I must say that football and crabcakes are what Maryland "does."
Football? It's done, but just not so well. The Redskins won yesterday, but in a weaselly way, from what I understand. The colleges around here play football, but, much like Paul's alma mater, the University of AZ, the colleges get more press during March Madness than during January's Bowl season. Nevertheless, people like football here. There's a guy who religiously blows up his Redskins lawn ornament on any given Sunday, only to deflate it for the rest of the week. I almost wish Paul and I were football fans, just so we could get our hands on the Game Day Chili everybody's always making.
Crabcakes and crabs in general are done here, and done really well. There is a roadside produce stand/nursery that sells all sorts of stuff, including crabs. These are not just any crabs. Heavens, no. All of the stand's signs, posted up and down the main thoroughfare, declare that these crabs are "lively." On Sunday, as I was passing the blow-up Redskin, I noted that the crabs were not only lively, but they were $5 a dozen.
I couldn't pass that up. Owen and I walked up to the stand and ordered the crabs. "Make them extra lively, please!" I snarked.
The man put a garbage bag in a bucket, put on his thick gloves, and pulled out these terrific, prehistoric creatures. They flailed their claws and protested as he stuffed my thirteen (!) crabs into the bag. As we drove home, the bag moved and claws poked through the plastic. "What are they doing?" Owen kept asking. "Are they mad?"
"Well, yes, Owen. They're crabby." We went home, and Paul set up the boiling pot, with the Old Bay seasoning and vinegar (another weird Maryland sidebar--when you go to the movies, you have the option of getting Old Bay seasoning on your popcorn.)
"What are you doing, Daddy?" Owen asked, from a safe distance.
"Cooking the crabs, Owen." Paul replied, as he hit an escaping crab on the claw, forcing it back to its hot fate.
"Oh." He looked at the pot, watching the steam rise up, clouding the overhead microwave. "Do the crabs like it in there?"
Paul didn't mince his words. "Probably not, Buddy. We're cooking them."
Time passed, and Owen asked, "Why aren't they trying to get out?"
Paul replied, "Because they're dead. Circle of life, Buddy."
"Oh," Owen replied, so not a Buddhist. "Okay."
The crabs were done, and Paul placed them on the platter. He scooped out the errant claws. Owen asked, "How did those get there?"
Paul didn't miss a beat as he replied, "They probably came off in the struggle." Ah, looking death right in the eye. Yeah! That's what Paul does!
Again, Owen was nonplussed, but he declared that he likes crabs. He was especially partial to the hammering and pounding.
It's possible that Owen will someday see Wedding Crashers, perhaps on television, and he'll feel a spark of recognition. As a Maryland native, he'll have that same inside knowledge as a certain young girl, many years ago, as she watched Keanu Reeves (and that other guy) create imaginary worlds in her very real stomping grounds.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Longing
I know that things are off in my world if I have the desire to dye my hair a dramatic color or I miss Arizona. Today, I miss Arizona. Tucson, to be specific.
I was driving the boys home from the Sprayground, which is, as one would suspect, a playground with sprinklers. I think it's okay. Joel is partial to the chain-link fence. Owen, I imagine, will wish for his ashes to be scattered there ninety years from now.
Anyway, as I was driving home, the roads, as always, were surrounded on either side by a verdant phalanx of forest. Thick forest. Smothering forest. As I drove, I imagined the future, when the trees would grow over the man-made road and the vines would twist around the streetlights. Nature would claim what had been taken.
Just possibly, I was in a dark mood. But truly, the trees felt oppressive, claustrophobic. My Western soul needed some breathing space.
It needed big sky, and mountains, and saguaros. These are my forests.
August in Maryland is muggy. August in Tucson is unbearably hot, but it is also the monsoon season. The sky becomes dark. The clouds rumble, part, and pelt down violent, noisy rain. Sometimes, when God is feeling especially show-offy, the heavens preen and pose like this:
The air smells fresh, like creosote and new beginnings.
This, this, is what I miss.
I was driving the boys home from the Sprayground, which is, as one would suspect, a playground with sprinklers. I think it's okay. Joel is partial to the chain-link fence. Owen, I imagine, will wish for his ashes to be scattered there ninety years from now.
Anyway, as I was driving home, the roads, as always, were surrounded on either side by a verdant phalanx of forest. Thick forest. Smothering forest. As I drove, I imagined the future, when the trees would grow over the man-made road and the vines would twist around the streetlights. Nature would claim what had been taken.
Just possibly, I was in a dark mood. But truly, the trees felt oppressive, claustrophobic. My Western soul needed some breathing space.
It needed big sky, and mountains, and saguaros. These are my forests.
August in Maryland is muggy. August in Tucson is unbearably hot, but it is also the monsoon season. The sky becomes dark. The clouds rumble, part, and pelt down violent, noisy rain. Sometimes, when God is feeling especially show-offy, the heavens preen and pose like this:
The air smells fresh, like creosote and new beginnings.
This, this, is what I miss.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Crunchy Spectrum
I attended Northern Arizona University. I know this means little to people born outside of Arizona, but NAU is the crunchiest of the three state universities. ASU and UofA are both powerhouse schools with PAC-10 football, Fraternity Rows, and an amazingly tan and well-groomed student body.
NAU, on the other hand, is known for its forestry program and its proximity to the Sunrise Ski Resort. One can take snowboarding as an elective at NAU, as well as partake in a drum circle virtually any night of the week. Dreadlocked hordes hacky-sack the hours away, as Jerry Garcia or Rusted Root warbles in the background. That's my alma mater.
Granted, this is a small sub-section of the population. NAU has plenty of regular folk, as well as many who openly hate the hippies I recall walking to class with a friend of mine. As she tore into her second pack of cigarettes, she glared at the patchouli-scented group and spat, "What causes people to wake up and just decide they aren't going to bathe anymore? I mean, really."
I nodded in agreement, but, I secretly wanted to be one of them. They seemed so happy in their Tibetan-knitted mittens and hemp necklaces. There was little to worry about except playing a little sack, wrestling with the dogs, and railing against the assorted injustices in the world. I suppose there was some concern regarding the acquisition of marijuana...not that I would know anything about that.
Of course, I had no idea what it really was like to be a hippie, since I was on the outside, looking in. I know enough now to see that they were just another group, not really that different from the sorority girls or the athletes or the Campus Crusaders. They were young twenty-somethings, trying to find their place in the world.
I know now that people are just that, people. We all fall on the spectrum of behaviors. For example, in comparison to some of my friends, I am crunchy. I don't use paper towels, I drive a Subaru, and I've been known to wear the occasional flowing skirt. I do yoga, believe in karma and positive/negative energy (I blend it with the Holy Spirit for my unique form of spirituality), and I make my own baby food. People often assume that I am a vegetarian.
However, I also feed my boys processed hot dogs. I prefer to run on a treadmill, listening to an iPod instead of running outside, listening to the rhythm of my beating heart. I've never considered putting Joel in cloth diapers. I have no intention of breastfeeding Joel past his first birthday. You better believe the boys are getting their immunizations.
I guess that a crunchy lifestyle is attractive, because I would like to have less toxins in my house, and less clutter in my mind. Yet, I don't see myself growing dreads or stocking up on incense any time soon.
Life's too short to try to be something you're not. It's just negative energy, ya, know?
NAU, on the other hand, is known for its forestry program and its proximity to the Sunrise Ski Resort. One can take snowboarding as an elective at NAU, as well as partake in a drum circle virtually any night of the week. Dreadlocked hordes hacky-sack the hours away, as Jerry Garcia or Rusted Root warbles in the background. That's my alma mater.
Granted, this is a small sub-section of the population. NAU has plenty of regular folk, as well as many who openly hate the hippies I recall walking to class with a friend of mine. As she tore into her second pack of cigarettes, she glared at the patchouli-scented group and spat, "What causes people to wake up and just decide they aren't going to bathe anymore? I mean, really."
I nodded in agreement, but, I secretly wanted to be one of them. They seemed so happy in their Tibetan-knitted mittens and hemp necklaces. There was little to worry about except playing a little sack, wrestling with the dogs, and railing against the assorted injustices in the world. I suppose there was some concern regarding the acquisition of marijuana...not that I would know anything about that.
Of course, I had no idea what it really was like to be a hippie, since I was on the outside, looking in. I know enough now to see that they were just another group, not really that different from the sorority girls or the athletes or the Campus Crusaders. They were young twenty-somethings, trying to find their place in the world.
I know now that people are just that, people. We all fall on the spectrum of behaviors. For example, in comparison to some of my friends, I am crunchy. I don't use paper towels, I drive a Subaru, and I've been known to wear the occasional flowing skirt. I do yoga, believe in karma and positive/negative energy (I blend it with the Holy Spirit for my unique form of spirituality), and I make my own baby food. People often assume that I am a vegetarian.
However, I also feed my boys processed hot dogs. I prefer to run on a treadmill, listening to an iPod instead of running outside, listening to the rhythm of my beating heart. I've never considered putting Joel in cloth diapers. I have no intention of breastfeeding Joel past his first birthday. You better believe the boys are getting their immunizations.
I guess that a crunchy lifestyle is attractive, because I would like to have less toxins in my house, and less clutter in my mind. Yet, I don't see myself growing dreads or stocking up on incense any time soon.
Life's too short to try to be something you're not. It's just negative energy, ya, know?
Sunday, December 21, 2008
I'm sorry, what was I writing about?
My cousin's blog (http://solderinthebay.blogspot.com/) discusses all sorts of topics, including "awesome animals" and state flags. The blog, incidentally, got its title because Dave is a civil engineer, and was working on a bridge over Sturgeon Bay, WI, until he dropped his soldering tool into the bay. Hence, the name.
Yes, I'm not the only dork in the family. Far, far from it. You may note that this is the second member of my family that welds for fun. Luckily, we're all happy, unrepentant dorks these days.
Anyway, Dave's most recent post talks about the AZ state flag, and includes a recording of the Cactus Wren's call, which sounds like an engine turning over. When I heard the sound, I was back in my front yard in Phoenix, next to the Palo Verde Tree, wearing my "E.T." T-shirt, and pretending to camp with my Cabbage Patch Kid. One recording, and wham! it's 1984.
They say that people learn by linking new knowledge to old. The brain craves, and requires context to make the information "stick." For example, I needed the bird sound to retrieve the information from the file in my brain marked, "childhood."
These days, I find I need more and more context, because I cannot remember anything. Nothing much is sticking to this brain. My brother will regularly ask me, "What are you reading? What are you listening to?" I used to be able to rattle off songs, titles, authors, and lyrics. Now, the conversation is more like this:
"I'm reading this really cool book about....Owen, get down!...anyway...Owen, Mommy gets to talk to Uncle Tom (yes, that's his name) for five more minutes....anyway, um, uh, what were we talking about? Yeah."
The other day, somebody asked me my age. I had no idea. I had to subtract 1975 from this year to figure it out. By the way, I'm thirty-three---don't strain yourself.
Apparently, I'm not the only one suffering from this affliction, because a commonly heard phrase in our household is, "Owen, what did I just say?" Luckily, we tend to remember whatever it was we just said, because we repeat it to Owen, sternly. Usually "now" is attached to the end of the statement, as in, "Put your coat on---now" or "Get in the car---now." or "Eat your peas--now."
And, oh, was it ever helpful when Owen said, "Say, please, Daddy."
I know that it's the height of tedium to read about the cute things children say, but since I can't remember much, indulge me with just one: Owen can't say "presents" correctly. He says, "prez-a-nents" as in, "On Christmas, Santa will bring me a prez-a-nent."
Luckily, Owen's brain is still developing, so he will not remember that in 2008, Santa gave him socks for his Christmas prez-a-nent.
Yes, I'm not the only dork in the family. Far, far from it. You may note that this is the second member of my family that welds for fun. Luckily, we're all happy, unrepentant dorks these days.
Anyway, Dave's most recent post talks about the AZ state flag, and includes a recording of the Cactus Wren's call, which sounds like an engine turning over. When I heard the sound, I was back in my front yard in Phoenix, next to the Palo Verde Tree, wearing my "E.T." T-shirt, and pretending to camp with my Cabbage Patch Kid. One recording, and wham! it's 1984.
They say that people learn by linking new knowledge to old. The brain craves, and requires context to make the information "stick." For example, I needed the bird sound to retrieve the information from the file in my brain marked, "childhood."
These days, I find I need more and more context, because I cannot remember anything. Nothing much is sticking to this brain. My brother will regularly ask me, "What are you reading? What are you listening to?" I used to be able to rattle off songs, titles, authors, and lyrics. Now, the conversation is more like this:
"I'm reading this really cool book about....Owen, get down!...anyway...Owen, Mommy gets to talk to Uncle Tom (yes, that's his name) for five more minutes....anyway, um, uh, what were we talking about? Yeah."
The other day, somebody asked me my age. I had no idea. I had to subtract 1975 from this year to figure it out. By the way, I'm thirty-three---don't strain yourself.
Apparently, I'm not the only one suffering from this affliction, because a commonly heard phrase in our household is, "Owen, what did I just say?" Luckily, we tend to remember whatever it was we just said, because we repeat it to Owen, sternly. Usually "now" is attached to the end of the statement, as in, "Put your coat on---now" or "Get in the car---now." or "Eat your peas--now."
And, oh, was it ever helpful when Owen said, "Say, please, Daddy."
I know that it's the height of tedium to read about the cute things children say, but since I can't remember much, indulge me with just one: Owen can't say "presents" correctly. He says, "prez-a-nents" as in, "On Christmas, Santa will bring me a prez-a-nent."
Luckily, Owen's brain is still developing, so he will not remember that in 2008, Santa gave him socks for his Christmas prez-a-nent.
Monday, December 15, 2008
An open letter
Dear mothers of the world,
I'm so sorry. Because teething was not a big deal for Owen, I always thought that when other mothers carried on about the difficulties of teething that they were being...overally dramatic. Making mountains out of molehills. Looking for something to complain about.
Shows what I know. Having been up every hour and a half since midnight last night, comforting Joel as he tossed, turned, fussed, and acted pissy, I understand that teething can be a big deal.
While I'm at it, let me apologize for ever passing mental judgement about how mothers choose to dress, feed, discipline, or carry their children.
I guess what I'm learning is that in mothering, there isn't a valedictorian. All sorts of people can be successful mothers, and there's no reason to compete. I've learned, once again, that nothing can bite you on the ass with more vengeance than smug judgement.
Instead of looking at life with my yardstick, I'm attempting to look at life with my magnifying glass. For example, I was watching Owen draw this morning. He asked me to draw a cactus. I sketched out an Ocotillo, and all at once, was swept away by a wave of homesickness for Tucson, for the sparse beauty of the cactus, the orange-purple mountains, and the drapery of blue, blue sky. It made me happy to know that my East-Coast born son had been to Arizona, and knew about cactus.
My glass caught Joel, as he beamed and laughed at Owen's funny faces. He smiled, not so much at the faces, as the fact that they came from his brother.
Later on, my glass focused on Owen in the kitchen. He was pretending to fill up his packing box "car" up with gas. I watched him pretend to enter his PIN code, and realized that he will never know about life before "pay at the pump."
Later still, my glass turned to Owen again, in the living room, working on his puzzles. He narrated his actions while he worked, "Where's the little bit of pink? There it is! That piece goes right here. Where's the brown guy? Oh, I'm not going to put that in yet. There's the orange piece, that goes here..." It was fascinating to watch him create his own success. By resisting my desire to micro-manage his play, I was able to see him problem-solve his way.
Likewise, I can watch how other mothers create their own successes, not by micro-managing and measuring their choices with my yardstick, but by observing that people problem-solve in different ways.
And so, dear mothers, I ask you to forgive me for judging. Help me to see your journey, and appreciate your joys.
Sincerely,
Nancy
I'm so sorry. Because teething was not a big deal for Owen, I always thought that when other mothers carried on about the difficulties of teething that they were being...overally dramatic. Making mountains out of molehills. Looking for something to complain about.
Shows what I know. Having been up every hour and a half since midnight last night, comforting Joel as he tossed, turned, fussed, and acted pissy, I understand that teething can be a big deal.
While I'm at it, let me apologize for ever passing mental judgement about how mothers choose to dress, feed, discipline, or carry their children.
I guess what I'm learning is that in mothering, there isn't a valedictorian. All sorts of people can be successful mothers, and there's no reason to compete. I've learned, once again, that nothing can bite you on the ass with more vengeance than smug judgement.
Instead of looking at life with my yardstick, I'm attempting to look at life with my magnifying glass. For example, I was watching Owen draw this morning. He asked me to draw a cactus. I sketched out an Ocotillo, and all at once, was swept away by a wave of homesickness for Tucson, for the sparse beauty of the cactus, the orange-purple mountains, and the drapery of blue, blue sky. It made me happy to know that my East-Coast born son had been to Arizona, and knew about cactus.
My glass caught Joel, as he beamed and laughed at Owen's funny faces. He smiled, not so much at the faces, as the fact that they came from his brother.
Later on, my glass focused on Owen in the kitchen. He was pretending to fill up his packing box "car" up with gas. I watched him pretend to enter his PIN code, and realized that he will never know about life before "pay at the pump."
Later still, my glass turned to Owen again, in the living room, working on his puzzles. He narrated his actions while he worked, "Where's the little bit of pink? There it is! That piece goes right here. Where's the brown guy? Oh, I'm not going to put that in yet. There's the orange piece, that goes here..." It was fascinating to watch him create his own success. By resisting my desire to micro-manage his play, I was able to see him problem-solve his way.
Likewise, I can watch how other mothers create their own successes, not by micro-managing and measuring their choices with my yardstick, but by observing that people problem-solve in different ways.
And so, dear mothers, I ask you to forgive me for judging. Help me to see your journey, and appreciate your joys.
Sincerely,
Nancy
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I'm not weird, I'm just from Arizona
I had a delightful childhood, but growing up in the Arizona desert, I always felt like something was a bit...off. I remember reading Charlie Brown comics, watching him trudge through the snow, or jump into piles of leaves, and while I knew what such things were, I didn't really understand this whole changing of seasons thing.
This was compounded when, at the tender age of thirty-one, I moved to the East Coast, and realized that there was a whole world, common to most people, that I had never experienced. For example, I realized that people talked about the weather because, in most places, the weather... changes. A typical Arizona weatherman would say, "Today it was 95 degrees and sunny. Tomorrow expect it to be 97 degrees and sunny." This report would be in mid to late September. Here, the weather changes, sometimes two or three times a day. Imagine!
When I moved here, I realized that I did not know what the following things were: bulbs, mums, or mulch. I still can barely distinguish between a Maple, Willow, Sweet Gum Ball, or Birch tree. I don't know the difference between an azalea and a hosta. Going to the nursery is such a nerve-racking experience that I generally leave and go home to rock in the fetal position.
But, don't feel too sorry for me. I can tell you all about cactus. I even wrote a report about Arizona's state bird, the majestic Cactus Wren. I also know that while most of the world celebrates Valentine's Day, in my heart of hearts, it will always be AZ Statehood Day.
Here's why you really can't feel sorry for me. Today, while Owen and I were raking leaves, and he was delightedly running through the piles, and jumping into the leaves until all I could see was the tip of his orange hood, it was just as wonderous for me as it was for him.
This was compounded when, at the tender age of thirty-one, I moved to the East Coast, and realized that there was a whole world, common to most people, that I had never experienced. For example, I realized that people talked about the weather because, in most places, the weather... changes. A typical Arizona weatherman would say, "Today it was 95 degrees and sunny. Tomorrow expect it to be 97 degrees and sunny." This report would be in mid to late September. Here, the weather changes, sometimes two or three times a day. Imagine!
When I moved here, I realized that I did not know what the following things were: bulbs, mums, or mulch. I still can barely distinguish between a Maple, Willow, Sweet Gum Ball, or Birch tree. I don't know the difference between an azalea and a hosta. Going to the nursery is such a nerve-racking experience that I generally leave and go home to rock in the fetal position.
But, don't feel too sorry for me. I can tell you all about cactus. I even wrote a report about Arizona's state bird, the majestic Cactus Wren. I also know that while most of the world celebrates Valentine's Day, in my heart of hearts, it will always be AZ Statehood Day.
Here's why you really can't feel sorry for me. Today, while Owen and I were raking leaves, and he was delightedly running through the piles, and jumping into the leaves until all I could see was the tip of his orange hood, it was just as wonderous for me as it was for him.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
AZ does it right...
Coming from the "Valley of the Sun," we never bothered with Daylight Savings Time, because really, do we need an extra hour of 110 degree summers? So, having lived here for over five years, you would think that I would have figured it out. Hardly.
Every year, I ask Paul, "Okay, so what time is it really?"
He'll say, "Three o' clock."
I'll say, "So, is it actually two o'clock or four o'clock?"
He'll say, "It's actually three o' clock."
I'll say, "I don't understand Daylight Savings Time, so what time is it really? Did we go back an hour or forward an hour?"
He'll sigh with great exasperation and say, "I'm not having this conversation with you again. Figure it out."
Six months later, we'll have this conversation again.
Every year, I ask Paul, "Okay, so what time is it really?"
He'll say, "Three o' clock."
I'll say, "So, is it actually two o'clock or four o'clock?"
He'll say, "It's actually three o' clock."
I'll say, "I don't understand Daylight Savings Time, so what time is it really? Did we go back an hour or forward an hour?"
He'll sigh with great exasperation and say, "I'm not having this conversation with you again. Figure it out."
Six months later, we'll have this conversation again.
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