Gratitude | wasting time

I was in the car the other day, driving home into the five o'clock sun (the most yolky, rich of suns), and "The Dock of the Bay," came on the radio. The kids were in the car with me, both quietly staring out their respective windows, a sure sign that sleep was over-taking them--a little early for that this afternoon, but they'd just spent an hour bouncing around, literally, at the trampoline park. I turned the radio up. I sang along. I told them, though I knew they weren't listening, "This is one of my favorite songs." I'd never thought about it before, but, yes: this is one of my favorite songs. This song that almost wasn't released, and then was only released because Otis Redding died young, and his label needed something to offer people who were sad. I did not know about this while I sang along in the car the other day, but I have since learned that Otis Redding had had a throat surgery that left him worried for his voice and future, and "Dock of the Bay" was quiet, poetic, soft--and easy for someone like me to sing along to, someone whose voice is only what it is because she sings to children, tucking them into bed at night, and because she sings to herself, in her car, though not a natural singer at all.

When I heard the song in the car, I thought about my life. How happy I am singing along to songs on the radio in cars--two minutes of bliss. How I told my co-workers the other day that drinking beer by a pool is one of the greatest pleasures to be had on this planet, in this life. How a day spent fixing good, simple meals with my menfolk, pruning plants, walking in the yard barefoot--this is perfection, this is my personal joy. I beat myself up sometimes. I am hard on myself for not being more or doing more, but the truth is that while, yes, at some point I think I'd like to travel, I'm more happy in my own backyard than anywhere else. And when I worry I'm not doing enough, not being enough, isn't most of that worry based on comparing myself to others and what I believe the expectations of others to be? That has nothing to do with me and my path and my heart. 

I live a modest life, and I like it. This is the life I've carved for myself; I have created this from nothing. I have lived with chaos and despair, yet here I am: in love with a good man, my life's companion, as we raise our son together, this beautiful, healthy, smart, charismatic kid. We don't have much, but we have each other, and we know how to be quiet, and we know how to laugh, and we work hard, and we know how to laze around like it's an art.

I Am Greatful:

• I am grateful for the way Ella does not fight bed time, but leans into it, like every part of our night time ritual is a luxury.
• I am grateful for my husband, who makes me sushi for lunch and draws little sriracha smiley faces on them.
• I am grateful for the photo on the front page of the Sunday News & Observer, of a lovely and lovey lady pit bull comforting a grieving mother.
• I am grateful when Mads says, "Look, Mom," and I respond, "Uh huh," and he tells me firmly but without anger, "You're not even looking, Mom," and I am snapped out of my head and into the present moment; I am grateful for these reminders of mindfulness from my guru son.
• I am grateful for the soft way my husband kisses my cheek and thanks me, everything else pausing, his hands on my arms.
• I am grateful for weather reports broadcast on the radio on stormy nights.
• I am grateful for the adult courage to peek under beds and into closets after dark.
• I am grateful for Grandma telling me, with admiration and approval, that I am so patient with my son.
• I am grateful for the last gritty sip of French Press coffee.
• I am grateful for a few minutes to zone out, looking at the Instagram accounts of yogis on tropical islands while eating chips and guac, without feeling bad about myself--just letting my mind rest, looking at something beautiful while eating something tasty.

Madmartigan, 4 Years Old |

About Mads, 4 Years & 1 Month Old:

• Rather than "cannon ball," Mads shouts, "Canny Ball!" as he tosses his Bumblebee transformer into the full kiddie pool in the back yard.
• When he wears his Spider-Man web slinging glove in combination with his Batman mask, he is Spider Bat (a hero of his own invention).
• He practices new words and their definitions like so: "He's a bandit. He takes things that aren't his. He's a bandit."
• Mads is also practicing good manners and politeness diligently. For example, "Mommy, I would like it if you would please wipe my butt." 
• Mads sometimes refers to his dad as "your husband" when talking to me.
• Mads says, "Mommy, I'm going to throw up on you," and mimics vomiting first thing in the morning. We're working on not making rude noises (vomit, farts, burps) in restaurants, which is difficult when I'm not as strict about not making those noises at home in our kitchen.
• Mads says, "Remember when I was 3, and you picked me up all the time and you were always close to me?"
• This month: Mads wrote his first song, he got his hair cut at a barber shop with his dad, he did a lot of art projects including learning how to collage in his journal.
• Favorite books: Curious George and Batman easy readers
• Favorite movies/shows: Justin Time (always)

Just Joy | sidewalks, feel me strut so good; gutter, don't forget this face

• We are at the circulation desk checking out this week's book haul when one of the librarians (one I remember from my own childhood visits to Cary Public Library) compliments Mads on his Batman mask and gloves. Mads is exasperated and corrects him, "No, I'm The Flash," and I translate/explain that Mads is actually The Flash disguised as Batman. Mads tells him, "Actually, Batman is my brother and he let me use his mask." The adults have a good chuckle at this. One librarian says, "Nice brother!" As we're walking out the door, Mads turns and shouts, "Remember, I'm The Flash and I run really fast, but Mommy doesn't like me running in the library!" I am doubled over laughing as I usher him out the door.
• Mads has fallen into a limp, heavy sleep on the drive home. I lift him out of his car seat and cradle him, shushing with "my sweet boy"s and "mommy's here"s. 93% asleep, he reflexively lays a smacking smooch on my neck.
• I am a nearly 33-year-old woman, riding a horse on a 96-year-old carousel, calliope music and pastels washing over me.
• Cars slow down and honk, drivers wave, as we light fireworks in our drive way. A shower of sparks rain down, silhouetting my baby's excited face as he looks back at me, making sure I'm sharing this spectacle with him.
• We are having a great, slow morning together--the kind of morning I want to have more of, the kind of present, mindful morning I am proud of. I turn on Queen of the Stone Age's "Misfit Love" and Mads plays along with a pink plastic whistle. Wolfman picks up Mads' tiny play guitar and begins to strum along.
• It is Sunday morning, and I have to wake Mads at 7 so we can take his dad to work. He's happy when he opens his eyes as I pull up the blinds in his room. When I lay next to him to snuggle a bit before we're off, he asks dreamily, "Mommy, can you scratch my back?"
• Grandma is standing in my kitchen, and Thorn meows at her feet. She leans down and groans as she picks him up. "I forgot what it's like to have a big cat like this, a T-shell cat," she says (her favorite cat, T-Shell, was maybe even bigger than Thorn). I ask her how much she thinks he weighs. "I don't know? Thirty pounds?"

"Misfit Love," Queens of the Stone Age

Madmartigan, 3 Years Old | Mr. Blue Sky please tell us why you had to hide away for so long

An interview with Martigan, early on the morning of his 4th birthday:

Q: How old are you?

A: Four!

Q: What is your favorite color?

A: Blue!

Q: What is your favorite food to eat?

A: Apples and blueberries and strawberries.

Q: What is your favorite show or movie?

A: Justin Time.

Q: Who are your favorite super heroes?

A: Thor and Iron Man and War Machine and Wonder Woman and Rescue Bots.

Q: What are you thankful for?

A: Strawberries and bananas.

Q: What is your favorite thing to do?

A: Play!

Q: Where do you like to play?

A: At the playground. At the trampoline park.

Q: Where do you and daddy go during the day? Where have you been going lately?

A: Markets!

"Mr. Blue Sky," Billy Kelly & Blah Blah Blahs [cover]

Thankful Thursday | rock has got the right of way

My garden has done a lot of Jesus-take-the-wheel-ing this summer. And, despite my self-sabotaging instincts, I managed to relax into a state of mild and pleasant surprise at the goings-on in my little chicken-wired garden plot. I let go of my expectations completely and accepted that this was a hard summer. I was sad, and some of my houseplants died while I was sad, and outdoors my would-be garden just had to make its way without a gardener. Let me admit here, however, that I've never been a good gardener, necessarily; my gardens have always been a sort of laissez faire event due to my incredible lack of skill and/or knowledge.  But, this year I was more neglectful than ever before. I hardly visited my plot at all. I tended to the compost pile, tossing kitchen scraps in and turning the hot mass with shovel, but of course producing garbage is easier than producing sustenance. Pumpkin vines wound about the entire plot, choking out my peppers and tomatoes. Zucchini rotted on the vine. I did pick several large yellow mystery squashes, the stems of which deposited tiny spines into my skin, but I failed even the charming task of deciding how to cook and eat those squashes. They grew a film of fuzzy mold on my kitchen counter. Then, I tossed them into the compost pile and broke into them with a shovel, which was satisfying. 

I did not garden this summer, but I did sit in the back yard and drink rum out of a hollowed-out pineapple at the solstice. Many an evening, I sat reading stupid novels while Mads played in his $7 plastic pool (often, I'd pour Buddy Wash in while it filled and call it his bath). On Tuesday night, we roasted marshmallows at the fire pit after the sun set and "camped" (Wolfman set up the tent out there). I am so grateful for this fenced in back yard, for the Walmart plastic pool, for the tiny pumpkin that grew while I wasn't watching and protecting it, for Thorn Rex as he perches on the deck with his fat belly hanging over the railing, for stinky herbal bug spray, for a man who can build a fire, for tropical fruits, for the smell of meat cooking on an open flame. I am grateful that summer is almost over.

I Am Grateful.

• I am grateful for books that mean nothing to me, procured for next-to-nothing, that I can guiltlessly rip apart for art projects.
• I am grateful for an ink smudge on my fingernail that makes me feel like Jo March.
• I am grateful to past me, for all the meticulous notes in my past journals.
• I am grateful for AC/DC playing on the radio as the high way opens up and we pick up speed.
• I am grateful that our ailing beast of a truck, Brunhilde, chose not to start on a day when we weren't in a particular hurry, on a day that Wolfman was with me, rather than a day I was out alone or out alone with Mads.
• I am grateful for grimoire flip-through videos on Youtube (like this one).
• I am grateful for the smell of Play-Doh and coffee and sizzling sausage links, all in our kitchen one morning.
• I am grateful for the way Wolfman sometimes unexpectedly falls into a Scottish brogue. 
• I am grateful for the tastiest margarita I have ever had on date night at La Rancherita.
• I am grateful to be married to a man who tips servers so generously.
• I am grateful for very sharp razors with which to slice through boxes.
• I am grateful for the crinkle of packing paper.

"For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)," AC/DC

Madmartigan, 3 Years Old | headlong little one into the wild unknown

Dear Martigan,

The past three months have been a painful blur for me, and I think I've missed out on some things. I've been here, of course. I haven't gone anywhere; I never will. But, I'm not always all-the-way-here. Sometimes I will hear your little voice becoming agitated and realize you've been talking at me for many moments without recognition, that I've been lost in my head, and the guilt of that crushes me. Your dad and I have done our best to explain to you why things are different now. None of these explanations make a whole lot of sense to you, but you're picking up on the fact that life is strange and unfair, and sometimes people are disappointing. Try as I might to protect you from those facts, I can't wave them away when they land on our doorstep. I can only kneel next to you and listen hard while you talk, and answer your questions as honestly and simply as I know how, and apologize if I miss what you say the first time, then listen harder. Even when I've been distracted and sad, I have loved you and I have been amazed by you. 

And we've had fun. You are a joyful creature. You are a creature full of a lot of feelings, joy being one of them. We laugh quite a lot. You have that same clownish impulse as your dad, that same desire to see me giggling until tears spring to my eyes. You are so kind, so intuitive and sweet. I never worry about the man you'll be. But, I do want to do a better job of watching you and guiding you as you become that man, whether the world is falling down around us or not. 

I love you always, in every moment, every day,

Mama

"Adolescence," Brown Bird