Home work

Blue got some notes home from school.  Not directly directed to me, apparently.  Just a note to herself that the teacher made her copy down onto the parent communications paper.  "I need to get back on track with my homework and start doing it every night."  Definitely, a note to self.  Right.

She's only missed three lately.  Well, two before the note.  One she forgot at school.  And the other, I'd reminded her only three times to do it! I'm not into haranguing.  I told her if she didn't do it the teacher would make her stay in at recess.  And she never got around to it.  Fine.  I love these small consequence items.  A small punishment.  But it had big effects.  After that, she did her homework without me having to ask twice.  It was nice.  I liked it.  A lot.

That's what childhood is for, lessons with small consequences.  Adulthood is for big consequences: yuck!  Parents are supposed to set up small and annoying consequences on purpose. 

This note cracked me up, however.  First, she's only missed homework a few times.  And second, it worked out great for me for her to deal with some mildly unpleasant consequences at school.  And third, she just took the state's standardized tests and scored 10% higher than any other third grader in that school, one of the best in the area.  Her claims of boredom and loneliness, though never doubted, are backed up by test results now.  So, I think she can skip some stupid, crappy home busy work, ya think?  I know they think it builds an independent worker.  But at this age, the kids getting it done are mostly the ones with helicopter parents, hovering over their shoulders and cracking whips.  At this age, it's a meaningless "independence" they're displaying when they hand in their worksheets with all the blanks filled in.  All it means is that I'm great at harassing kids to do things they really don't want to.  I think I'm the one that's supposed to get back on track.  But I already am. Thanks.

(two of these picks are 2006, Pullman house: Blue, with the proper queen face and princess Coyote.  And Blue jumping.)

Coyotes in the Mist

A few mornings ago, I stumbled from the front door into yet another thick fog.  These clouds we live in are so heavy, we can't even see any neighbors some days.  And they can't see us! Which means they can't criticize: relief!

One bucket of hot soapy teet water in the left hand.  Two empty sterilized buckets for milk in the right hand (two, because if she kicks one with a poopy hoof, we've got a back up).   The air smelled wet, earthy. Thick and cold on my skin.  The smells of early morning, the aroma of a blank new day.  Half way to the barn, a middle-school girls slumber party erupted around me: hooting, laughing, howling, yipping.  I know this racket now.  No, it's not a lost summer camp.  Not the ghosts of a two-drink minimum comedy club come to haunt us.  No.  I was surrounded by coyotes.  I could not see them but they were close.  I'd walked right into their exploratory romp.

The first time I heard coyotes up close, was in Grand Tetons National Park.  They ran through our camp site, singing out their ecstatic language.  Calling.  Responding.  It seemed easily translatable: "half a hot dog at 2 o'clock".  "I've got grill drippings at straight up noon."  "Roger that!" "Check this out!  Here's some tofu, I'll leave it for you."  "Holy Crap!! Massive cooler left out at 10 o'clock."  "Yippeeee!!!!"  "Yahooo!!!!"

A group of us, kids and couples, hiked up high onto a hill in Idaho.  Below us we heard spastic laughter and shrieking.  What was that?  Someone had seen a sign for summer camp nearby. Must be some 12 year old girls whooping it up.  I suggested someone had been pantsed. What else could cause such a thrilled ruckus among girls? But then, I couldn't make out any words.  We creeped closer, peered over the ledge.  Below us a family of coyotes mid-debate.  And they vanished.

The pack usually roams through around 3 am.  I wake up.  And account for all the little animals: the chickens, the cat.  Check, check.  And I go back to sleep.  This was the first time I'd physically interrupted their conversation.  I'd stumbled into the middle of the pack. like a family member.

Coyotes don't scare me, sneaky kids, unless they've got anvils.  Even then, I'm pretty sure I'm safer than they are.  I did meet up with a wolf once, cara a cara, while riding my bike on a rails-to-trails in Idaho.  I was alone and so was that predator.  We stared into eachother's eyes.  I swear I fell in love at first sight.  So wild.  So full of lust was that beast.  I couldn't believe my luck!  I did pick up my pace, however.  I knew it wasn't a coyote, it stood so tall and sure. Coyotes are small slinkers.  Sure enough, I read in the paper the next day... wolf sightings!

But these were coyotes, little hungry mutts.  I saw one in the field across the road later in the day.  The free-range neighbor dogs chased it away. Counting my chickens and road runners both now.

knitwit

Let it never be said that I am impervious to peer pressure.

I've kept up with my knitting group... which turns out to be a small threesome of compassionate, smart women of very different backgrounds, occupations, religions and skin tones.

I ditched on the field trip to the hoity toity knitting knookery, thank you very much.  But I've kept going and going, toting my humongous plastic ring of shame around like an albatross.  It actually does fit around my neck quite nicely and smells better.  And then I happened across a knitting aisle in somestore somewhere, don't ask me how I got there.  I perused the needles, wondering if I could substitute shishkabob skewers, metal or wood. Skewers get my vote for most versatile kitchen implement, after the vegetable - aka thumbnail - peeler.  My skewers find their way into my every kitchen endeavor.  But they might prove even more embarrassing than the medieval hemorroid seat I've got stuffed in my bag.   And I don't know the gauge of skewers.  "Gauge" is a term that I've evesdropped and suspect is important.

I found some nice bamboo needles, with a slender and well proportioned gauge called 8.  And then I found some yarn, a cotton recycled yarn, in dishwater blond.  The package had the number 8 on it, so I figured that was a match.

And then an 8 year old taught me my first row!  "In through the door. Around the back.  Out the window.  And off jumps Jack!"  The rhyme makes knitting thrill like a murder mystery. Who is Jack?  How long was he there for?  Where did he go?  Did he leave any finger prints?  Where is the body?  It can also sound like a soap opera:  Who is Jack seeing?  Why did he come in the door but jump out the window?  What does "around the back" mean?  Is Jack gay? 

Anyway, the knitting knowledgablest lady in the group suggested a wash clothe to me...not because I stink (or not that she mentioned) but as a first project because you won't care if they're lumpy or uneven.  I found this approach to be much more merciful than the last time I turned down an invitation to take up knitting.  That lady made her students knit a ball of yarn and then unravel it three times before she'd start them on a project.  Excuse me.  But that sounds very very depressing.  I like something to show for my work, even if all it shows is my shoddy, lazy, loopy tangle of ignorance and inexperience.  I still want to look at it in admiration.  Or critique it.  On second thought, now that I'm half way through this dishrag, maybe it IS more compassionate to require the novice to destroy the evidence of their bumbling mishaps.

Here before me, however, I have evidence, proof positive, an enduring memento of all of my cherish-able newbie screw-ups.  They're so much cuter in children.  For instance, Coyote embroidered a frog and sewed it into a pillow.  It's got some glitches.. and they're so cute!!  My dishrag, however, illicits not coos of affection but howls of laughter.

And it's become an archeological sight of my past week. The first corner is purely a cat's cradle of a mess.  Hardly a corner but more like something a bird drunk on moldy cherries might toss together for her ill-fated young.  After a bit, the rows become clearer and neater.  But then, there's the spot where I had to break up the kids before they mauled each other and returned to my knitting only to head off in the wrong direction.  And that's half a line.  I'm supposed to be doing a design on the edges as I go, but again, the drunken bird brain is the only thing evident.  Good grief, did I just call it a biography in yarn?  No... I haven't had a drink in weeks.

I'm prone to tendinitis, so I'm not sure knitting is a great idea for me.  But since I no longer type my day away on a key board (hmmm....perhaps I smell burning pants?), and I've acquire milking farm-girl arms... maybe it's okay.

I've always had this impression of myself as an 87 year old woman.   And sometimes I glance at the river of time and I can't tell which way it's flowing.  Is the future creating itself?  Or is the past creating the future?  Who is knitting who, Moira?  And some days I get this creepy feeling that I could actually be an 87 year old woman with Alzheimer's who's reliving her life.  So if I shout out, "Blue! Don't punch your brother!"  I might actually be talking to my great grand daughter who's come to play her lap harp for me.  It's an endlessly entertaining geriatric variation of my favorite "brains in vats" theory.  And there's no way to prove I'm wrong.  And all this knitting only enhances my bizarre fantasy.  I could be Marilla Cuthbert.  I could be Miss Marple.  I could be any old old woman.

I've always been an old woman.  Always.  I wore a 1901 dress to my Junior/Senior (this was my Christian school's version of a Prom... but now it sounds more like what I am.  I am a Junior Senior)  while everyone else wore current fashions.  Except my best friend, who also oozed classic style, although hers was more 1920's high (and simultaneously low) society while I wore a linen white shift with hand tooled eyelets.  In addition, I've always swooned over antiques, collected random old photos, and just bought a joyful 1901 farm house.

Coyote's clearly inherited this historical dis-ease.  And Blue seems to have too, with her rapid inhalation of historical fiction and her tendency to dress as old fashioned as she can.  Here she is in her school musical, in the Blue, with the drum (actually, I'm just showing off how I can upload photos now!)

So... expect a tangled mangled hunk of yarn coming your way soon!  I'll be sending them out as "gifts" as they are completed. If the current pace is any indication, that should be one dishrag annually.  Little knotty journals of my life.  Minute by minute, I lay down my sloppy, earnest rows, writing it all out, a cursive yarn, an externalized memory of days.  And I'm giving it to you, for you to wipe the grime off your dishes.  What's your address?  Or rather, what will your address be in three years, when I've completed it?

You, the lucky beneficiary

First, let's check out my blog worthy kids:  Blue got her 12 year molars, lost her last baby teeth, and got her first big girl, salon hair cut!  While I waited for her I imagined being a salon stylist... chit chat, clip clip, spray spray, other peoples scalps, barf barf.

Yesterday some lady at the grocery check-out line said, "I've seen you two around the store today, and you're little boy is certainly very well behaved.  He pushes that cart so well!"
"Ohmygosh!!!  Thank you so much.  People always comment and notice when they're out of line. Such a nice change of pace! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!"  Tears, kisses, falling on floor, wiping her feet with my hair and anointing oils.  She did seem a little put off by that last move, however.

And then the Cashier says, as we're leaving.  "He really is a very well behaved little boy."  Thanks!!  Tralalallala.

But wait.  Does this mean I'm being too hard on them?  I try to go easy, to trust in their innate goodness, to remind myself that children generally WANT to please their parents.  But what if I'm too strict?  I mean, not much candy, no tv, outside play is required for about an hour a day, regardless of weather.  Is their behavior even my fault at all, good or bad?  Were they just born good?  Obviously yes, but I mean, especially good?


Then I had blood drawn, and Coyote got an EXTRA sticker for being so amazing!!  But I didn't get ANY stickers and I almost passed out.  I was so brave to keep my consciousness well in hand!  I bought myself a Fizzy Izzy.  Who needs those damn stickers anyway?  Just ruin your clothes if you forget to take them off before they go into the laundry.

Then: here's the big one!!  His teacher begged me to allow him to stay for six hours a day.  She claims he's one of the smartest kids she's had in her 25 years in Montessori and that she wants to do much more with him than she can squeeze into the three hours he's currently got.  And she's frantic that I send him to first grade next year.  She even grabbed my elbow and said, "I can't seem to make you understand what kind of child you have here!!" I internally replied, "A child!  A small child with child emotions and child needs that must be considered as well as his intellect."  Then she said, she also needs him as a social anchor, since he's impervious to peer pressure, has an extra-ordinary attention span, and is a calming presence on the other kids.  She NEEDS him. They worked with us to fit it into our budget.  And I will gratefully do their gardening this spring.

What am I doing with him for those three afternoon hours?  He runs errands, an occasional park swing, and then after that, he basically lays around.  He's no longer interested in playdoe and moon sand.  He's no longer two and endlessly entertained by the tupperware bin.  He helps wash dishes sometimes.  We play chess and Sorry and Uno and Monopoly.  I clean the kitchen while he lays in front of the heater.  Honestly, I'm having a hard time keeping him entertained at home.  But I'm sad.  If he goes, who will I coddle and dote on and cheer for?

Homeschooling.  It keeps coming up.  It was my ideal.  And then I had Blue.  We fought over an E.  She called it an F.  This went on for days.  And that is how I knew that homeschooling would not be for us.  And what of Coyote?  He's mellow.  He's malleable.  And he's got me wrapped around his little finger so tight I can barely breath.  I do what I can.  But I still tell him, when he asks, that 12 is 12 despite knowing he's long subtracting at school.  And I still can't seem to make him wipe his own butt.  So, you see, I don't think I am the best person to cajole him to his highest achievements.  I'm his mom.  Our home is his place of relaxation and comfort, not the place where he takes on new challenges and soars into long division.  His mother is his sofa, potato chips, and a good book.  Not a fire under his ass.  That's just not how god made me.

So good little Coyote got a popsicle reward for dinner (!!!!!!), played his favorite game on Kongregate.com (!!!!!!) and fell asleep with a wide wide grin on his good little angel face.

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that any great news comes with a massive exestential crisis.   I was already in the middle of this one.  And this kicked it up a notch.

Perhaps you are one of the throngs of people that would like to know where-oh-where did my career asprirations go.  I am looking for them too.  Two years ago, after five years as a paralegal, I was visiting law schools, studying for the LSATs, reading Supreme Court history, and screaming through legal tomes.  I'd interviewed leading attorney's and law professors in my preferred field.  And then this whole crazy thing with Huck and the economy happened.  And we moved five times and panicked a thousand.  And over the past year and half the whole vision has just imploded.  Now I'm near a Yale priced law school that has never appealed to me what with its Montana rating.  I hopped in to use their bathroom (it's right on this urban trail) and I got no chills, no thrills.  Nothing.  Nothing registered except, "What a big fancy building.  So that's what they do with your 30k a year."

I tried to jazz myself up for working by riffling through the Working Mother magazine at the kids dentist last week.  Unfortunately, every single article was about how to manage the stress of it all.  EVERY ARTICLE.  And that's all I remember of working, the hectic home life squeezed in around it.  The rushing.  The constant illnesses due to stress.  I caught every single cold and flu that even wafted threateningly in the direction of the Inland Northwest.  Ick.  Ick.  Ick.  I hated not having time for the quarter merry-go-round in front of the grocery store.  And now I do.  And I've only had one flu, mildly, this whole year of not working (oh please oh please don't jinx me!).

People who knew me well two years ago are asking questions.  Including Huck.  No one's critical (that role is still open if you want it!)... just curious.

Now I'll have no excuse to be out of shape.  To let the house go to crap.  To not get a job.  To not meditate.  To not go to law school (except for $ and time -which would be WAY more that 23 hours a week). 
 

I keep trying to think of something useful to do.  But every time I attach money to these things, I loose interest.  I like money.  A lot.  But I want to have a giant garden.  But not a Farmer's Market booth.  I want to milk my cows, but not sell the milk.  I want to draw and make my cards, but not hunt down venues for their sale any more.  I want to write but not about anything that doesn't fascinate me.  I'm a Dutch woman, therefore I value utility in a life, not futility.  Unfortunately, it looks like I'm just going to do what I futilely want to do and we are all going to have to shut up about my uselessness.   Or be encouraging.

Maybe I need a really long break before I get juiced up again.  Maybe I'm pointing in all the wrong directions and until I'm pointed in the right one, I'll spinning my wheels.  Maybe I am doing something now that will eventually pull me into my place in this world, one that will bring us both great joy.  Maybe I am doing exactly what I was meant to do.

I confessed to one of my philosophy professors once that all I wanted out of life was an office with a great view and to be paid to sit in it and think.  He assured me that if anyone could get that, I could.  I didn't believe him.

I don't have a good view in my office (in every room but the office there's a good view).  And I'm not getting paid.  But now, I could, conceivably, just sit around thinking!  And won't you be the lucky beneficiary! I might even have time to figure out why I can't upload pics anymore.  Lucky.  Lucky.  Us.