I've said it before...

...and I'll say it again. The step-parenting thing is a real challenge.

W.O.W. - 6/25/10

My mother used to say 'knowledge is power' - especially when I was complaining about school work. I later heard the phrase altered to 'knowledge is potential', where the power is available and lurking in the wings, and I like that better.

I believe it means that nothing in life is handed to you simply because you show up, for example, at school and get some decent grades. And by extrapolation you find it's what you choose to do with your potential that counts. Given that I was brought up in a libertarian household, this point strikes an important chord with me.

I hope the girls can understand this fact of life, and not have its implications weigh on them in a negative way. I don't mean that it's a negative thing if you don't turn out (or elect to be) a Type A person who rises to stardom in the field of your choice, (God knows I haven't). Rather, it means that you have the ability to create whatever power you want to have. Gather knowledge, and you have the potential to do anything, at your own discretion. You are in complete control, and at the mercy of no one.

Obviously the flip side is that you're not entitled to anything just by existing, but with limitless power at your beck and call, who cares? The world is your oyster, now LEARN and devour it!

Learning retrospect in advance

I took the girls out for breakfast this morning, thinking it would be a fun change to our routine. We'd go to Dunkin' Donuts! They could order whatever they wanted! They'd have orange juice (which we were out of at home)!

Our sojourn started off less, well, positively than I'd hoped. J was a tired mess after a bad sleep, and K began to wilt as she waited for me to get us all out of the door. No, J, you can't bring Bunny. Pick someone else. Come downstairs now. Ok FINE, how about bring no one! We're waiting for you! Ultimately, I had to carry her downstairs, and she muffled a whine into my neck with each step.

On hearing that J would order a donut, K asked if she could have ice cream (since the shop is also a Baskin Robbins). Uh, hmm. I don't know - can't you just get your favorite muffin and save ice cream for tonight? How have I turned a trip to Dunkin' Donuts into a disappointment? We haven't even all been awake for 30 minutes.

JBL is moving around us through the kitchen. Did I remember the girls' vitamins? No, I'll put them in a sandwich bag now. At the mention of her calcium supplements, K's quiet displeasure fills the room, and J begins to poke fun at her. Wait, what? Yes, I made a full pot of coffee, and no I am not having any. But I'm going to a shop where they sell coffee! ALLRIGHT, I'll take a cup to go.

Finally in the car, we begin the eight minute drive down the road to our destination. We are stopped, however, for an additional 5 as we wait our turn to pass some road work. It is already hot - 84 and barely 8 o'clock. The air conditioning ruffles my hair as I contemplate the hazy atmosphere on the horizon. Here is the view eastward as we sit:
At last, we pull in to the parking lot. J has regained her composure and is chatting incessantly, and K has gone completely silent as she listens to music on her iTouch. I gather them both into the doughnut shop, and try to distract them from the long line at the counter. I am nervous, as I always am, that K is more unhappy than just tired. J is whimpering, "It's too early!' and is lifting her arms up for me to hold her. I encourage them to pick out orange juice for us all. K loves juice! J loves to help! But K tells me she doesn't want juice this morning, and J can't reach the juice - it's in the top shelf of the chill case. I could use a break here.

Ah, our turn! I order quickly and shuttle the girls to a table while I wait for my bagel/egg sandwich to be prepared. I wait for a moment more at the counter, then run back to the table to see that J can open her juice, and to encourage both to start eating without me. I am greeted by K, wearing a look of disdain and boredom combined, asking, 'Can I, like, get a napkin to eat this on or something?' And I burst out laughing.

'You are a complete stereotype, and I love you!' I shake my head and turn to get some napkins as she replies, 'What?' When I look back at her I see she is shocked and a bit hurt by my outburst. In the past she may have laughed with me - we used to make fun of teenagers together. That time is long-gone, I now see.

The morning got better from there, but it encapsulates my fairly constant struggle to smooth over the rough edges, both of the fragile-yet-ebullient 6-year-old and the fragile and somewhat sullen 12-year-old. Both are open to me, but both can snap at a moment's notice. This summer will teach me a good deal, I am certain, hopefully including new level of patience. Now if I could just look at situations in retrospect before they actually happen...

West Wind

J and I will finish Mary Poppins tonight. We're both feeling a little sad about it.

Sweet and dreamy

J has always been known to say exactly what is on her mind. She is rarely quiet and is never subtle. Mostly, her musings are logical and thorough observations of the world around her. Like most kids her age, she is always chewing mentally on something, but I tend to think she's even more intense than some. We have had numerous people comment upon witnessing J's thought-verbalizations, "She doesn't miss much, does she?" No indeed.

I like to think this need to analyze, categorize and organize comes from my side of the family ('Dad, can you see her? Isn't she something?'), but am fully aware that scientific propensities exist on JBL's side as well. Compared to K's deep intelligence that is tempered with an equally deep empathy, J tends to be dominated by calculated reason. Occasionally, however, she will show flares of sappy emotion that surprise me.

When she has nothing else to do, J likes to attack a piece of blank paper with a barrage of crayons, producing a wide array of creatures and scenes, but often her art evolves into love notes. I will receive an ode or two. JBL will get letters stapled closed, placed on the counter where he leaves his keys and wallet on returning home from work (along with a staple-remover so he can easily open his note). But most often K is the object of J's affections. Each day of this year's summer vacation has seen at least one work of art containing K's name in bold, bright colors, or in a collage of materials glued together across multiple pages. Thanks to the aforementioned empathy, K very kindly exclaims, "Wow, that's amazing!" or "I love that!" with every presentation. Walls and bulletin boards around the house are densely populated with K's name.

Sometimes, however, J's devotion is expressed in other ways. This morning, she came downstairs and began busily working and humming at her desk while I fixed her breakfast. Suddenly she burst out, "Mommy! I caught two of those fuhzel things that float in the air!"

"Really? Did you make a wish?"

"Yep. I made TWO wishes. And I want to tell you what they are!"

I paused and turned, giving her the rapt attention she was angling for. "So, what were they?"

"Well," she clapped her hands together, "first, I wished that Kate could be with us EV-ER-Y DAY. And the other one was," she took a deep breath and clasped the back of her chair, "I want a unicorn!" The force of her emotion, the dream of something as magical and perfect as a beautiful creature who lives only in our imaginations, along with something as magical and perfect as the constant presence of her big sister, was almost more than I could handle.

"Wow!" With eyes stinging, I smothered a grin and went back to my yogurt and strawberry preparations. Isn't she something?

The other side

I know I've been writing more sporadically of late, but it's not because I have less to say. I have simply had less time, especially now that school is out for the summer. Thoughts I've been chewing on:

- How the Earth so teems with life
- Compare and contrast: a good person recovering from a bad past, a bad person recovering from a mediocre past
- What it feels like to receive a compliment that you know is true
- Why summertime weather makes me exclaim, "You've got to be effing kidding me!"
- Grappling with losing momentum with recent running goals
- Telling myself stories

Hopefully I will force some structure on my days, rather than letting them run amok as they have for the past 2 weeks, and thus have more time for writing. And hopefully I'll get this Access database built without too much pain as I trip up the learning curve. See you on the other side...

Sign of the times

(Me, throwing a freezer zip-top bag into the microwave.) "Hmm. I wonder if I can microwave the shrimp in this bag?"

"Mommy, just go to Google and type, 'Can you microwave a plastic zip bag?'."

Good idea.

Missing what's important

It is a late-spring morning, and I am scrambling. I woke up remembering all the things I forgot to do yesterday afternoon before a neighbor's party - cancel a doctor's appointment for Monday, move the date of a wine shipment for a friend, water everything outside.

"You kind of checked out yesterday, didn't you?" remarks JBL. I reply feebly that my interval run messed me up, and I hope that is true. The perennial specter of The Alzheimer's weighs on me. However, I do think yesterday's schedule-less nature did funk with my usual ability to keep things straight in my mind. At least I got my intervals in.

So since there is nothing to be done with a closed doctor's office and a wine merchant on the Left Coast at this early hour, I hurry outside with my watering can. I barely register that it is already warm enough for me to be comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt, and it is pleasantly humid. Squeak-squeak-squeak says the spigot as I turn on the water, with the hose face-down in the green can. I cast a critical eye over the nearby bed, looking for new weeds to be plucked. Squeak-squeak-squeak, I turn off the water as I hear the can overflowing.

I am accompanied by the clapping of my flip-flops down the hill and around to the back yard. First the hibiscus is dowsed, then the newly-liberated houseplants. I stop to pull a few weeds from between the pavers and glare at the numerous ant holes across my spacious patio. My mind briefly flickers an image of JBL and J up in the kitchen eating bagels with cream cheese, and talking in quiet tones so as not to disturb a still-sleeping K.

Under the deck and out into the vegetable garden, I give a thorough drink to the tomatoes and basil, the peppers and rosemary, the lettuces and peas. With a heavy sigh, I set the can down and harvest the bursting pea pods that have ripened overnight, my mind skittering across the concern of my doctor's appointment. How can I possibly reach them to cancel now? The appointment is for 9:10 Monday, so by the time they get the message he will already be en route to the office. They'll probably charge me anyway. And he'll want to know why I am canceling. I don't want to have that conversation. And I have no idea what to do with all these peas.

I stand and walk up to the east side of the house, now cradling several pints of peas in the front of my shirt, and set the watering can down. I climb around a happy Japanese holly and a prickly barberry to find the hidden strawberry plants. Still holding my shirtfront as a makeshift basket, I swish my hands across the tops of the strawberry leaves in search of ready-red berries. The first one I see has a recent gash in its side thanks to a hungry slug, and I am irritated. "Figures," I think to myself, noting the berry's otherwise perfect color and size. It sits adjacent to a pile of coffee grounds I had sprinkled to avoid just such a fate (based on the recommendation of a talented gardener friend). A soft voice in my head reminds me that I have harvested significantly more berries so far this year than last thanks to this trick, and for that I should be grateful. I turn away.

As I stand bent-over near the wall to the morning room, brushing at the leaves, I catch many glimpses of red - little bits of perfection growing silently where I planted them. In spite of me. And as I pick them, I am subtly chastened for missing the perfection around me every moment of every day.

I stand and climb out from behind the shrubs with a fresh pint of strawberries on top of my peas. I pick up the watering can and climb the deck stairs to find the annuals, and finish what I started...

Touch

I want to make something today.

I want to feel the sun on my neck and back as I push wheelbarrows full of mulch around the yard. I want to feel soil slip through my fingers. I want to swish water in buckets and feel it dribble down my leg as I pour and walk. I want to wipe sweat off my brow.

I want to carry cushions and arrange furniture. I want to clutch at fruits and vegetables. I want to rub marinades into meats. I want to knead dough and slice things.

I want to light candles and direct symphonies with a remote. I want to hold J and wash her little body and smooth lotion onto her skin. (Do you know what her cheeks feel like in your palms?)

And I will do all these things. Maybe tomorrow I will remember how to draw and paint.