April is a Douche. Who's With Me?

This morning I could find no other thought than if the snow killed the pink trees, it would break my open and tired heart.

Spring in Colorado is like loving a cruel and beautiful man. He gives you flowers and then destroys them because you loved the flowers more than you love him.

Luckily it seems the snow has passed.

I am at momology today talking about how much I hate infants.

Just kidding.

I am talking about how all of this mess is precious, not just the new baby times.

oxo
La V

(Seriously though, man. Infants.)

Snow, Secrets

Last night we put two sick kids to bed early and watched Moneyball. We'd watched Drive the night before, and I'd spent the evening walking around the house listening to the song on my ipod and had even played it in the car en route to the library, driving purposefully but with my face all emotionless and blank. I like to pretend I'm in the movies whenever I'm alone. I've never been caught.

It's important you know we'd watched Drive because it's possible what happened next can be solely chalked up to SRGD (Sudden Ryan Gosling Deprivation). My husband was trying to enjoy the movie and I start tossing out comments like "Could we take baseball any more seriously?" and, "Could this movie be any more like The Social Network?" with a vaguely Chandler Bingish inflection. I don't know why I decided to become the movie's heckler, it was after all an innocent little movie, sweet and well-intentioned. I swear I didn't know until the credits rolled that Aaron Sorkin had written this, too. Like I said, it wasn't Drive, there was no Ryan Gosling or sweet-ass synthesizer music, or hot pink fonts. Billy Beane seemed determined to be unhappy and the scene--MILD SPOILER HERE--where the clouds roll in during the game and you-know-what happened really bothered me. It made me itchy. I get that we are trying to be romantic about baseball here, but come on. I just don't have it in me. You can't play "Kittens are being forced to fight each other to the death" music during baseball. Hath Jimmy Duggan taught us nothing? Also I was annoyed that I was born in 1981, I'm 30-years-old, and the vast majority of movies are still made about men. Yes, I know we had The Help and Bridesmaids this year, but Kristen Wiig and Skeeter Phelan can't single-handedly save Hollywood and can someone call Steven Spielberg and check if he's even aware that women exist? The last time I saw a female in a movie of his, Drew Barrymore was in pigtails and screaming.

We turned off Moneyball and I listened to the song again to comfort myself. Mr.V went to bed and I made a cup of tea and settled down with a Jacqueline Carey novel. It was close to ten and the house was dark. The snow had started outside. Mr. V had baked bread and I had a thick, warm slab of it drenched with butter and honey. It was a real cozy moment, where your bones just say "ah". From down the hall, I heard a small coo. I set down my tea. In her bed, Indy was crying.

Baby, I whispered. What's wrong?

She had an earache. Medicine and warm washcloths were given. Look, I said, pointing to her window. It's snowing. We snuggled up tight together. How sweet a mother I will be right now, I thought. We will just cuddle here until she is back to sleep. Indy sat up. "I'm just going to go lie down on the couch and watch Rugrats," she said. "Because I feel like I want to."

It was ten o'clock and she'd in bed for three hours. I am powerless to Indy. I settled her on the couch and turned Rugrats down low. Outside the window behind her the snow was thick like marshmallow cream. I felt my flirting illness settling deeper into my bones. Baby, I said. I'm going to go to sleep now.

Ok, she said. I'm just going to watch this for a few more minutes and go back to bed.

Yeah right, I thought, kissing her forehead and padding down the hall. In the morning I knew I'd find her there, the tv still on, my Indy dreaming away under quilts on my sofa. But I was wrong. A short while later a noise opened my eyes, and there she was in her room. My door faces hers directly, her nightlight was on, and I watched my Indy in her private world, in her owl pajamas, five-years-old and so good natured, whenever I tell her I forgot to put dessert in her lunch or the birthday party is canceled, she shrugs and smiles and says "Oh, that's ok!" I watched her climb up on her bed, on the flannel sheets, and pause to rest her elbows on the sill and peer out the window. She muttered something, soft as snow, some private world or language I could see only the fringes of, the essence like Avalon, shimmering in the mist. She blew on the glass and squeaked her finger through the fog.

Memorize this moment, my spirit said to me. So very seldom am I present enough to memorize. Brief flashes, laughter on a beach, my daughters in the spring, pink cherry blossoms falling in the breeze, landing in their hair, and they are holding hands. But now I have it, this memory, forever. Indy, five-years-old, pausing at her window to think thoughts I will never imagine, to spin dreams to be forgotten, to tread in worlds that I will never see.

Under the Radar

Memorial day weekend passed in a blur.

The girls were sick and missed their last days of school. Mr. V, birthday boy, was sick as well. On Saturday night I went to bed at nine pm and slept for thirteen hours.

I woke up and I knew a few things for sure.

One was that, god willing and the kids don't get pink eye, I spend most of my days doing what I love. And oh, how I love this thing I love. And that is a true happiness.

Indy bursts through the door and dumps out handfuls of flowers and rocks. That she has collected for me. Because she loves me.

Happiness.


I knew that in ten days--or eleven days--look, I don't really know how to count days--I am going to turn thirty. It's true. And I knew that I want to spend these next ten or eleven days celebrating. I am going to fete myself with little treasures.

Today we had Mexican food with guacamole, and ice cream. Holy cow! Sakes alive.

Tomorrow maybe I'll spend some of my early-arriving birthday money on a book and a song.

Bit by bit, moment by moment, is how these things are done.

What I know for sure is that my future holds Frappucinos and some really good pizza.

What I know is that I will never buy margarita mix labeled "Skinny Girl". Life is short. Life is hard.

Life is sweet.

I woke up from my ten year nap, and I knew that it was time to lay low for a little while.

Things need to kick around.

Grains of sand must be turned over and coaxed into pearls.

Soft places must be nurtured for new things to grow.

I'm going under ground. Under the radar. Incognito, if I will. (I will).

I don't know how often I'm going to come around these parts, for a time.

I just wanted you to know, in case you come looking.

When I was in college, there was a serial rapist in our college town.

I was driving in the car with a friend, who was on the phone, trying to explain to someone how uptight we all were because of it.

In her bouncy, lovely way, she raised her eyebrows and exclaimed, "We are all on hi--"--she searched for the word-- "--atus."

I wish you summer treasures. Good books, good beer, crickets in the evenings and languid afternoons.

I wish you peppers on your pizza and cinnamon in your coffee.

I wish you Mary Oliver poems.

I wish you tv shows on dvd to devour, five or six at a time.

I wish you all things coconut and good, vanilla bean and spicy. Whatever is honey-dripped, garlic roasted, and wonderful to you, I wish you those things.

Wherever it is you wish to go, I wish you a piece of it wherever you are.

I wish you many star-filled nights at the cabana of Le Happy.

We are on hiatus, here.

I am Vesuvius and here comes the Mary Oliver poem:

Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home.
Red-cheeked from the roused wind.

I'll stand in the doorway
Stamping my boots and slapping my hands,
my shoulders
covered with stars.


(from 'Walking Home from Oak-Head. By Mary Oliver.)


My favorite poem by Mary Oliver
is called "The Journey"
and you can find it online.

What Ayla Doesn't Know

Indy looked in the mirror and said, "Mom, I'm getting lots of freckles on my nose because I eat so much toilet paper every day."

. . . So, that was news.


Ayla got really mad at me and ranted off a string of things I won't repeat but it did include screaming, "You have so much junk in your trunk!"

I would like to point out that Ayla doesn't know the expression is a euphemism for fat.

(Isn't it? I don't actually know.)

She wrote in chalk on the sidewalk that she was sorry. "I love you mom will you forgiv me?" she scrawled, and left an empty line.

I wrote "for a ticket to Paris, yes".



Then Ayla did this and I was sure: I've got the best kids ever.



She spelled 'love' correctly, but I am having width issues here and they are proving insurmountable.

Just like Ayla.


I am Vesuvius and I'm going to go hide the toilet paper.