Little somethings

So many little things I want to tell you about:

The darling lemonade stand I stopped for, I mean who could resist a dancing little kid in a mini kissing booth costume?

How green everything is from the recent monsoon rains

How I finally finished rereading East of Eden and how I wish I could write with even as much talent as existed in Steinbeck's pinkie fingernail.

How good it is to catch up with new and long time friends

How very lovely birthdays can be

And how very satisfying it can be to try new styles and strike fashion gold

How one tiny moment can leave you feeling vulnerable and exposed

How much havoc one messed up back can wreak (just shoot me already)

How wonderful modern medicine is - I heart me some ultrasound, massage and anti-inflammatories

On this, the eve of (the countdown to) my 40th year...(wherein I abuse italics)

I've been thinking. Sort of a lot. About some rather deepish things. I know, "Surprise!"

And do you know I've realized that...

I am not this blog. The voice of this place is not me, is not who I am. It's only something I slip on in order to relate more easily (or not at all) the goings on at Chez Organic. And I hope you're aware of that. That you give me more credit than this, this fluffy, slang-slinging superfluous-ness (made up words and all) that is this place.

I am not my garden. At least not this year, my heart is just not in it. I mean, the garden is there and is growing stuff and we will eat from it and enjoy it, but you know what? It's just a garden. A nothing special garden that I happen to tend (and rather begrudgingly, if you'd like to know the truth) without chemicals.

I am not my falling apart, yet coming together again body. Oh, it feels like it sometimes. Like all I am is a body breathing in air, consuming and expending fuel, taking up space, going through the motions of keeping a home, a family, a life before briefly resting and doing it all again tomorrow. But it's just a body, and an oldish one at that. A saggity, dimply, wrinkly, stretch-markity (having 5 babies and losing 80 some pounds will do that) nothing special body which, for better or worse, Mr. O is "all-in" with for the long haul.

I am not my mothering. No, I fell off that wagon long ago. I am a mother, but I am not my mothering.

Here, right here this is where words fail me.

I know it shouldn't define me. But somehow it does, and I cannot bring myself to say that I am just a mother, that I am a nothing special mother. Because being a mother is bigger than a "just". I know it. I feel it. At least I try to feel it. And even though I am incredibly bad at it more than I am ever good at it, I am a mother. I can do this because it's a part of who I am - a piece in my puzzle - and I will find a way to be at peace with it. Even if it takes me another 39 years.

When it comes down to it there are a lot of things that I am not, but most of them are not for me to share here. Partly because the little people (and the related people) have started reading this island in the Sea of Me and partly because I am trying to rewrite, to drastically edit who I am.

I hereby dub this my year to dig down, uproot, uncover, discover, recover. To find my voice. To find out who and what I am. Happy Birthday, Me.

Bereavement

Two years ago we lost the Corkscrew Willow. One night while the neighbor kids were swimming in the pool, there was a large tearing sound and then the dog went berserk. Half the tree had cracked and fallen. Just like that.

The tree service said it was too dangerous to leave and they took the whole thing out. The Globe Willow next to it was pruned and thinned. We thought maybe it would make it. The survivor tree.

Remember a few days ago when I said it had been too windy to ride? Going against the wind, the fastest I could manage was about 6 mph - which means you could actually walk faster. The wind would ease up and you would think Great, it's over! And then as if it had been holding its breath, the wind would release in a powerful, gusting surge. Woe unto those riding sideways against the wind (you were likely to end up in a sidewalk bicycle sandwich).

Wham! No ride for you!

Anywho, Mr. O went out in the yard later that evening in an attempt to get ahead of the weeds (they are still totally winning), when he noticed some very loud creaking, cracking, moaning coming from direction of the Survivor Tree.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed a crack in the trunk running all the way to the ground. He put up a large board to provide support and quickly sawed into two of the limbs, relieving the pressure. But the moaning and groaning did not let up. The kids were banned from the back yard and the tree service was called in.

Thankfully they realized we had an emergency (not so thankfully, emergency = paying through the nose) and pulled a crew off another job.

The poor tree was dispatched with (turned into chips for someone else's flowerbeds) in just three hours.

And now the back door neighbors are going to come home from their restful vacation to a very changed landscape.

They'll be back in two weeks to grind up the stumpy remains. It feels like we've lost a member of the family. Guys, I'm tearing up here. Someone please pass the tissues.

Crackin' Up

It was too windy to ride today. I tried, and it was insane. Don't believe me? Check out our tree. Oh yes, the neighbors are going to love coming home to this (don't worry - no property damage). We're going to have the whole tree removed and just like that there goes all our lovely shade.

I love lilacs but am very allergic to them. Mr. O (I could kiss that man) snipped off all the blooms outside our bedroom so I could still sleep with the windows open and listen to the wind rustling through the aspens. (If you squinch your ears just so it sounds like the ocean is in the backyard).

But not before I snapped a couple pictures.

Oil and Water

Consider yourself forewarned: this is not a pretty little post. Not at all.

Scene: Outside on the terrace, in the family car, or at night tucking someone in and suddenly out "it" comes and "it" is not pretty.

How can they treat me as if I have no feelings? I am a person.

Words like these are a dagger to a mother's heart. The story spills out and so do the tears. More cruel, cutting words and I wonder how much a child can take. It is all I can do not to, not to.....I don't know..... sit the offender(s) in a corner for a long, long time. Like forever long is what I'm talking about. Let all your friends graduate, go to college, get married and then, maybe then we'll discuss if you've been sitting there long enough. If I'm not still fuming, that is.

And then I wonder how did my mom do it? How did she survive 6 kids going through the aches and hurts of adolescence? How? (Because right now I am tempted to retreat to my world of books and exercise and nature just so I won't have to watch. But then I know that is leaving my children to the wolves and that I can't do. At least, that one instinct is all that is keeping me present and not going AWOL. At least I have that instinct. At least.)

I know there are some moms out there who have no idea what this feels like because their kids are the ones doing the mean things. Sometimes it is intentional, sometimes careless, and sometimes these kids (and their mothers) are mostly oblivious to how they affect others. One thing is certain they are not the ones sitting home, feeling left out, being mocked, ignored or put down. They just go on their merry way sowing seeds of mean, whether or not they mean to.

Sigh. (I am allowed at least a sigh, right?)

I barely survived my own growing up years. I never realized that I might have to go through it all over again as an observer and one with a very vested interest, at that. Part of this is what makes church hard for me. I know that we are all people more or less doing the best we can with what we know, but it's still hard to watch the mistakes people make and the fallout created by those mistakes. A love for Christ should bring us together, unite us. Shouldn't it?

I think I am all stoppered up with words, my brain is an absolute jumble and the right things just won't come out. I know what I mean, but the words are failing me. I am not communicating. So I think just this once I will go read a book. Just this once.

Side note: If I had to pick, I would still rather my child be on the receiving end rather than the giving end of such poor behavior.

Side side note: This doesn't end at adulthood, as long as you're a mother you still feel keenly the hurts and triumphs of one of your own. Blast this motherhood thing with its goods and bads!

I mean, what's mother to do? Any of you who've been through this...do you have any suggestions? Obviously the sitting in the corner thing isn't going to work out all that great.

Mom, mom, mom

I love having Ellie along for bike rides, but I sort of have to gear up for those trips since she becomes a non-stop stream of chatter.

Are the horsies out today?

Mom, where does the wind live?

Does the sun go to sleep when we can't see it?

I'm looking at the sun, mom. Actually, I'm just kidding. Actually.

Mom, why is the wind loud in my ears?

Look, look the horsies ARE out today!

Mom, why do the weeds look like flowers?

Mom, mom, mom!

Yes?

Mom, why are you making loud breath noises?

Ellie, please wait until I get to the top of this hill before you ask me anything else.

Mom, why are you not going faster? I like going faster. Mom? I'm firsty.

Ellie. Please. Don't. Talk. Until. We. Get. To. The. Stop. Sign. (gasp, pant, wheeze).

How come I can't talk to you? Oh, I know. It's 'cuz hills make it so you can't listen.

Ellie!

Approximately 30 seconds of blissful, sweat-ridden, muscle-straining silence. Then...

Mom? Could you used to fly when you were a girl?

And so on, and so on for another 40 minutes or until my ears start to bleed and fall off.

Psychopath Chocolate*

Sometimes, chocolate is all that stands between me and a certain insanity.

Do you ever feel like a bundle of bumble bees is buzzing in your belly? Or like your chest has a very large mammal camped out on it? A heaving hippopotamus of doom? Is your brain a whir of warring whispers?

Two words: Social Anxiety

The chocolate is merely a distraction. And it's off limits right now as I am STILL trying to shed those last ten freakishly stubborn pounds. So I need a new distraction and it will probably be cleaning.

Folks, I like cleaning almost as much as I like beets, which is to say not at all. Desperate times call for desperate measures. How do you distract yourself?

*Title just for you, b.

Priorities and such

Remember this list? I actually only care about doing a handful of those (the fact that I have a little more than a year left to complete them may be biasing me a little. But just a very little)

Lists like these are interesting, they really only show where you were at a given time in the journey. They are not accurate predictors of where you'll want to be.

Not for me.

Five things that tell you where I am now on this journey:

1. Spirituality. Get over it (meaning myself) and get closer to God.

2. Passports. Still. Get them!

3. Do hard things. Run, bike, meet new people (these are metaphorical mountains).

4. Vocabulary. Expand it. (find more creative ways to express myself when it comes to dropping things, getting hurt, or losing patience)

5. Be healthy. In other words, eat less crap and work harder at getting fit. Why is this one always a battle?

And as a little bonus, a lesson I've learned:
Good posture, a good bra and a cream sweater will make your bosoms look ampler. Best to balance it out with an ample bottom. Done and done. (note to self: Don't forget to breathe).

SPS - sunglasses

(perfect for the dress, no?)

If only the sun would come out again. I'm looking forward to long days in the yard, putting in the garden, cutting flowers, lounging poolside and reading.

Mysteries Solved (and other perks of cleaning the basement)

This past Christmas I could not find our tree skirt anywhere, and believe me I turned the storage room upside down with my efforts. Ah well, we just wrapped batting around the base of the tree and pretended it was snow.

I tackled the storage room today (the entire basement really) and put it to rights. It looked like a 72 hour kit threw up in there. Two large trash bags and one box for charity later, I still hadn't seen a trace of that skirt. Well! I moved on to the kids' rooms.

I actually became my father. I did the thing I swore I never would and I piled everything from the floor and messy drawers on their beds. And then I told them they couldn't do anything until their beds were made and the room was tidied. Much wailing and teeth gnashing ensued. But! Their rooms are clean (for today, at least).

Still, no skirt. And really, I'd forgotten all about it. That is until I moved on to the family room and straightened the cupboard at the bottom of the hutch. One of the kids must have been using it for a hideout and had stashed the skirt and a throw pillow in there.

I decided to move on to greener pastures and tidy up the scrap booking supplies that reside at the bottom of my closet. Disclaimer: I do not actually scrapbook, but I think about it sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean never.

The girls like to raid the stash to make cards and it was in a horrible jumble. Without even the aid of a single Dr. Pepper, I plowed through it, straightening four boxes of supplies and bonus! discovered a pair of shoes I thought I'd never see again hiding at the back of it all.

I have vacuumed and dusted this place to within an inch of my sanity. My brain hurts, my back hurts, and I really need a Dr. Pepper, some high-quality chocolate (these measly chocolate chips just aren't cutting it), a hot bath and a good book.

What I really want is to hit the beach, and if I didn't have to drive 12 hours to do it I'd be there tomorrow.

So, Mondays

I don't know why I try to make the most of every Monday, but it is always jam-packed. I had a cleaning scheduled this morning to keep my gum disease (thank-you thyroid cancer) in check, but first I got the girls ready to take to school.

Go to get in the car and realize, No car seat (it's in the beater car - at the shop). Get to school and realize, No school (spring break). Get to appointment a leetle bit late and the poor girls hang out in the playroom while I am there for two hours.

Get home, fold some laundry and get everyone ready for dance and volleyball. Check Ty's war wounds, (he got clobbered at school today) he's shaken up but is fine. Drive to dance and realize, No ballet shoes (they are sitting next to the car seat at the shop). Make a library run and realize, No petty cash to pay off fine (get books anyway). Drop child off at volleyball just in time to meet one at dance. Pick everyone up when it's over and rush home to make Chicken Enchilada Soup (masa harina might just be my new love).

Everyone eats without complaint. Success! Root beer floats top off the evening. I try to read aloud from The Yearling, but everyone is just too tired to be nice. Tuck everyone in and head off to settle in with some of my library finds.

I'm so glad tomorrow is Tuesday. Even though the schedule is just as crazy (with dentist appointments, dance, volleyball games, and a doctor visit to boot) somehow it's easier to have a chock-full Tuesday than a Monday.

Are You Game?

Joining in My Topography's new Self-Portrait Sunday. You can play too.

January, Shmanuary

I know I shouldn't be weary of the inversion so soon after Christmas, but I am. I really am. It is a sludgy smear that rubs out my mountains and snuffs out the sun.

I am in desperate need of Vitamin D, and not the kind you get from pouring milk on your cereal either. I probably shouldn't write at all this month, because it will likely only devolve into moaning and carrying on about the weather.

But! There is this. Ellie has discovered the joy of reading. Aunt Wanna (as Ellie calls her), made up some flashcards for her with three letter words on them. She wrote the first letter of each word in blue marker and the last two letters in orange. Ellie put the sounds together in each word and now reads them.

Tonight she propped herself up with a stack of pillows, grabbed my copy of The Dark Divine and my book wedge book light, and looked up at me with her big brown eyes, I'm reading, she says.

What is this word here?

Uh...Puh. Up. It's up. She says this with every confidence that she's right. And you know what? She is.

And just like that she is on her way to decoding the mysterious world of words. I LOVE this part.

Loose Ends

I'm working on some Christmas Stockings for a neighbor. She's done all the hard work and I'm just stitching up the foot on both of them (side note: if you decide to search google images for retro stockings so you won't have to shoot a photo to post, be sure to add the word Christmas, first. Trust me).

I'm also finishing up this pattern in matching raspberry colored dresses for two of my new nieces. They're all done except for buttons. Button, button who's got the button? Why is it always the little things that trip me up? I vow to finish these AND send them before Thanksgiving.

I took Michelle for her first eyebrow waxing tonight (only $5) and my mom thinks she's far too young (side note: I've NEVER had my own brows waxed). This daughter's brows tend to be rather full and she has a tweezers phobia, hence the waxing. It was no big deal although thinking about it very nearly gave her an ulcer. Her brows are still full, but have now been tamed. Thoughts?

I am seriously considering instituting a global hand-made Christmas, meaning that all gifts this year (for friends, extended and immediate family) will be hand-made. This means I had better get busy. I want to make mittens and matching hats for my nieces, a scarf for my sister, and a hat for her hubby. I'd like to make socks for everyone in my family because nothing beats a scrumptious pair of socks in the winter (maybe I'm going too far and should tuck a gift card in each pair so they don't feel completely gypped). It's too late to make (and finish) the blankets for my mom and mother-in-law, so tell me is an IOU too tacky?

I feel like I'm caving to commercialism whenever I buy a gift, but when I don't I feel like I've cheated them out of their due. Thoughts?

Slo-Mo Moment

I've never been attacked by a piping hot sample of Tomato Bisque before. It's not something I'd care to repeat.

The sales girl brought to sample cups to the counter for Michelle to taste (she was suffering from brace-face and in need of soft foods, STAT) and plopped them down. What with physics being what they are and all, that tomato bisque flew right out of the sample cup landing squarely on my chest and brand new (formerly cute) jacket. It was like something right out of The Matrix only I couldn't manage that back-breaking layout to dodge the basil-tomato bullet.

We both stood there open-mouthed -me because Holy Hannah! was that soup ever HOT and she because (in her words) Well, that's never happened before.

Finally I managed to gather some composure and squeak out Can you get me something, it's burning me! You'd be surprised at just how much havoc two tablespoons of soup can wreak. I soaked the jacket, but haven't had the heart to see if it's stained. In such a case do I cut my losses and buy a new one or ask for compensation? I'm inclined towards cutting my losses since it was an accident, I think.

But I'm normally such a crusader for justice that inclination somewhat surprises me. I'm just pleased that I didn't let any un-ladylike words fly. Especially in front of my daughter.

Labor pains

{A repost because I'm feeling this especially keenly this summer}

The other day, a few of us were discussing parenting. Specifically, the parenting of teens.

Parenting teens is a unique experience.It is when karma bites you in the butt. Everywhere there are parents in their mid 30s-50s doing penance for all the grey hairs, heartache, and high blood pressure they caused their own parents as teenagers. It is the time when you finally appreciate the sacrifices your parents made in your behalf. Especially the one where they placed their sanity on the sacrificial altar of parenthood, as you are now doing the same for your own children.

I've met women who love their kids' teenage years, or at least say they do. I am thinking it's because they have already walked through the fiery hot coals of a savage toddlerhood and the teen years are a cake walk in comparison. But for a lot of us it is just the opposite.

We have been given children with strong personalities, and when they enter adolescence - it's a setup for an emotional collision of cosmic proportions. It's as if we're giving birth a second time to the same child, only this time it's an emotional birth. There are the same pains of labor, a wish for heavy medication, and desperate prayers for this experience to be over so we can hold this child in our arms, and of course show him off to all who will look.

Do you remember the pain of Transition? There is that to look forward to, because it means it's almost over. It is the time to remember your breathing exercises, to concentrate on your end goal, and work together as husband and wife. It is also the time you're most tempted to scream & throw things, to blame your spouse for all the pain you're in, to throw in the towel and walk away - only you can't, there is only one way out of this, and it's right smack through the middle of the hard stuff.

But wait! what about the baby/teen? Have you ever wondered what that baby was thinking in the middle of his/her birth? I'm sure it wasn't all that pleasant: leaving the relative comfort and security of the womb, getting squeezed from all sides (talk about your pressure), and then taking that first, deep scary breath - not knowing how it's going to turn out. No wonder there's all that crying at the end. It's just as hard on them.

And I came to the realization that teens? they are God's way of making sure we do not forget Him.

100 Things, Part 1

1. I was born in SoCal.

2. I try to get back to the beach (any California beach counts) once a year.

3. My first memory (I was 4 1/2) is of pulling up to our new house and sleeping out in the front yard our first night.

4. Because, as I recall, we didn't have the keys yet.

5. My second memory is of watching Donny and Marie (and his purple socks) in the basement of that split-level house.

6. On the deck of thathouse, I smashed a bee in my copy of "And To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street."

7. I still have that book and the bee guts are still there.

8. The next week, I felt something land on my head so I reached up to touch it and got stung.

9. That's karma, baby!

10. I sucked my thumb until kindergarten

11. I tried everything to stop it, the only thing that worked was putting tube socks on my arm at night and the fact that my mother bribed me with an enormous turquoise ring

12. It fell off my finger that first day.

13. I'm pretty sure it's still in the front lawn of that house and one day, I'd really like to take a metal detector over there and dig it up.

14. I rocked a great pair of boots and a vinyl dress coat (complete with fake fur-trimmed hood) in kindergarten.

15. I thought I was so Go-Go.

16. Even though I didn't know what that was.

17. In first grade, I had a crush on a boy named Johnny.

18. I remember this because he wrote me a note and I got caught with it.

19. That was my first brush with Public Embarrassment (also known as PE).

20. Then we moved to the Philippines, where I had a lot more "brushes" with PE.

21. For example, on my first day at school the teacher asked some girls to play with me.

22. They (knowingly) stood me on a red ant hill, told me to count to 20 and then try to tag them. Damn! those asian ants can really bite.

15. The read ants swarmed me, I screamed and the teacher ran me into the bathroom, stripped my lower half and hosed me down.

16. Welcome to the Philippines, thankyouverymuch!

17. I lived there 4 1/2 years (the rats there are as big as bushes, so that's a very long time).

18. Also, I was there when Marcos was. We didn't do fire drills, we did BOMB drills.

19. I swear to you that, in the 70s, the entire country (the parts I lived in) smelled like pee.

20. I spent 5th grade in 3 different schools, in two different countries, and two different states.

21. My 5th grade teacher in the Philippines was Mrs. Ester Fernando. She had fabulous Aquanet hair, stood 5 ft nothing, and wore orange nail polish on her one-inch nails. She was very cool.

22. I served as a Yearbook Photographer and my dad taught me how to develop film in our dark room. He was very cool.

23. My mom almost died of cancer. Long story short: she had a molar pregnancy, but my brother was born, lived one hour and then died. She did chemo (in the Philippines! in the 70s!)and was in the hospital for a long time. She's very brave and I admire her deeply.

24. Back in the states, I had the same 5th grade teacher as my Uncle Tom (10 years prior). People not so lovingly referred to her as"The Brink." Every girl in her class was required to crochet a granny squares afghan. She was very not cool and way past retirement.

25. However, I did manage to win my first writing contest. It was a slogan for Poison Control and the prize was a Roadrunner backpack. Winning slogan? Pesticide is for the bugs. That is what you call literary prowess.

How about you? Did you have any brushes with "PE"? What was your favorite outfit as a kid?

Hmmph...a picture says a thousand words

Or is that harrumph? Whoever had the bright idea of including Positively in the name of this blog has completely messed with my mind and my ability to post my more serious musings. Oh right, that was me. Whatever.

I'm afraid this is going to turn into a food blog for a minute while I get my bearings again. Sorry, better that than you listening to me beat my drum and waxing pitiful. Just a few things before I turn this blog over to the food gods:

1. I'm pretty sure the gas station where I get my refills puts crack in the soda fountain. I tried switching to the cans, but the fountain still calls me and my head hurts something awful until I cave in.

2. Hi! I'm Mrs. Organic, and I write really bad fiction. As in You've got a big piece of green something in your teeth but I'm not going to say anything kind of bad fiction. There, I've said it. Why don't I feel as better as I thought I would confessing that? (Having said that, if you'd like to read it, I'll send you an invite - because I am not above keeping that parsley in my teeth for your amusement).

3. I just read a confessional post (where people anonymously confess something in their comments) at Lauren's blog and I think people make stuff up to confess - the more outrageous the better. Some people try to do out do each other in the shock-and-awe department. And also people have a lot of hangups about sex. Shocking, I know. I think some of the confessions were real, but some were just crap. Anonymity has its perks.

How about you? Anything to confess?

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming

Or not. Just when I was starting to feel human again, my son shared the sickies with me - again. He's such a giver. To end this circle of germs, I think one of us needs to go far away for a couple weeks. It's tough, but I think I can do it. I'll make the sacrifice because I'm a giver, too.

I'm thinking the beach sounds nice. All I really need is a chair, an umbrella, a few books, my camera, sunglasses, and wi-fi.

And Mr. O.

No beach trip would be complete without him. Maybe I should just stay in a hotel for a week and then when I'm all healthy again, he and I can fly out to "recover" in Newport or Laguna or Huntington. I'm not picky. Really.

Now where did I put that Calgon?

2 days left

and then I will (surely) feel no pressure. Maybe even come up with a post idea. In the meantime, I am going to jump on CW's bandwagon and post a pic of me from days long past and include a book I loved. This pic is the only one I can find at the moment (please let me not have thrown away the others in a fit of organizing).



Yes, I am a child of the 70s. When I was that young, I'm sure my favorite book was a Dr. Seuss this one to be exact. But soon it would be Green Eyes - it made me love having geen eyes.