Fire His Ass

And, speaking of pushing, can I just say this:

When General Stanely McChrystal gave Rolling Stone an interview in which he mocked the Vice President, ("Bite me" was how his advisors termed it) and also said he thought Obama looked "uncomfortable and intimidated" by a room full of top military officials, he was pushing too far.

This is not a moment for tolerance or that famous calmness, Mr. President. This guy is a playground bully who has called you out. As my sassy friend Jocelyn says, sometimes you just have to unload the whammy. He needs a permanent time out. Or, as M suggests, a reassignment to latrine duties. 

If there is one thing that makes a democracy work, it's civilian control of the military. McChrystal's interview was a very public total blow off of the chain of command.

President Obama, fire his ass.

Don't Shame Over Broken Eggs

Tough night Sunday. We had new friends over, who have a kid the same age. Chance meeting in the toy store. They were there to preview Maggie’s upcoming birthday. We were there to replace the puzzle Forest peed on while he was operating commando.

(Having a kid and having a dog have so many things in common, not the least of which are urine and wildness.)

And lo, it happened to be Father’s Day, and I said “Come over for dinner!” They brought fried chicken, I made corn-on-the-cob and taboulleh. I had just enough time to clean up the disaster that was our kitchen, boil corn and mix some quinoa, cucumber, mint, parsely, lemon, olive oil goodness before they arrived. (The house didn’t have to be perfectly clean because this is the second time they’ve come over. I am a believer in house first impressions. First time people come over, I like things to look pretty good. Fresh clean on the bathroom, flowers in vases, etc. That way I figure they know I’m capable of keeping a clean house. Sometimes I just choose not to.)

I like these two, like the way they parent, want them to like us and the way we parent. This is a strange place to be; it’s a mixture of Jr. High vulnerabilty and the stuff my parents gave me – good and bad --  and the common sense and goofiness of the parents that we are becoming.

When you have new friends and their kid over for dinner, you get all that, plus the fun of managing your toddlers’ dinner plates together.

Here’s the tough part: the Fox has entered a pushing phase. It had just started a couple days before and on this particular night, I was not on my guard yet. I was having fun. My fun, not his fun. I know, I’m allowed this. But, the Fox was cranky and also a little over-tired and underfed and refusing to eat. So when he pushed Maggie, a big ole two-handed chest thump, I told him it wasn’t okay and chalked it up to stuff.

He also hoarded toys, threw his corn on the cob across the room and went out the dog door for the very first time. These were signs. Not his usual self. I was not paying attention.

Then, I was in the kitchen and I heard “Forest, stop that!” from the living room I rushed in. Maggie’s crying. Her mom looked up at me, big eyes blue. “He pushed her right next to the piano. I thought she was going to crack her head.” She said. I could hear the fear in her voice as I was saying “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” caught Forest, said “Forest, pushing is not okay. It’s not okay! Look! Maggie is sad. She’s crying because you pushed her. Can you say sorry?”

He said it.

But then I went on. I got mixed up inside. And I said, “Look, Forest! You made Maggie cry.” Did I actually say the words “Bad Boy!” No. I didn’t. But it was in my voice. It was.

For the record, I am for firm boundaries, but I am really against shaming, which is what happened there.

It’s funny where the buttons are. I am not ashamed of him getting dirty or being loud. But pushing is one of the places where I feel that snake rise within me. Where I forget that it’s just a behavior that he needs help with and I start thinking (“thinking” is an overstatement, by the way) that it’s about me.

The rest of the evening looked a little bit like a jr. high school dance… only instead of all the boys on one wall and all the girls on the other, it was Daddies and the Fox in the kitchen, Mommies and Maggie in the living room. The new friends were pretty beautiful about the whole thing. She shared some of her scary stuff. He called later to say "Don't get discouraged." But that night I felt sick inside, the snake having its way with me.

It's funny that this happened on Father’s Day. You see, we recently brought back an old favorite story – if you can have an “old favorite” at two years. The book is “Mama, Do You Love Me?” by Barbara M Joose. And actually, it was a favorite page of a story. It’s the one where the little girl is first testing: Will you love me anyway? She says

“Mama, what if I carried our eggs

– our ptarmigan eggs! –

and I tried to be careful,

and I tried to walk slowly,

but I fell

and the eggs broke?”

And the mama says:

            “Then I would be sorry.

            But still,

            I would love you.”

Forest has asked me to read that page to him over and over for the last week.

How does he know this shit is coming?

Listen: there are the parts of our own parents’ teachings that we want to take with us and the parts we want to reinvent for ourselves, and the parts we want to burn with a butane torch. Everyone I know has a different ratio of these three, but everyone has at least a little of each… including my own mom and dad, I think. And that book reminded me of one of my dad’s teachings, one of the ones that I am trying to take:

My dad said out loud, frequently, “I may not always love the things you do, but I’ll always love you.”

And he always said it – crouched down, looking into my eyes, with his hands resting gently on my shoulders – at the most important time: Right after I’d messed up.

And then he hugged me.

I forgot that lesson. Not that I love the Fox, but how to separate those things. I forgot it just for a second. It’s not the end of the world and it won’t be the last time. The signs say that we are headed into some rough waters for the next weeks, months… Shoot. It will never stop being sweet and rough. But I have a good teacher. I can do better.

Sorry, Fox. Sorry, Sweetheart.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thank you for the good lessons you gave me.

I’ll give Barbara M. Joose the last word on this one. After her little girl tests her by throwing water on the lamp, putting lemmings in her mukluks and turning into “the meanest bear you ever saw,” her mama replies by saying:

“I will love you,

forever and for always,

because you are

my Dear One.” 

Thanks to flickr user kmevans for the photo "Broken Dreams 5.31.07"

Hot Pink and Happy

So I decided to try cutting my own hair. This thought occurred to me post two glasses of Trader Joe’s viognier. I don’t know why, when I have such vivid memories of the last time I tried mixing home hair stylin’ with liquor. “Flamingo head” comes to mind.

But, I did it. And it was actually really good after the first cut. And then I went back for a second and it got a little bit better. Or at least didn’t get worse. Then I went back for a third time.

When I was thirteen, and my parents were just starting to go out to dinner without getting a babysitter, I decided to pluck my own eyebrows. My mom called to check in and, when I told her what I was doing, she said “Put those tweezers down right now. Promise. Promise me.” I did. Promise, that is.

But I didn’t put them down.

Sometimes I just can’t stop myself. Like that night, when I ended up with a single line of hairs marching across my forehead, and like when M and I aren't seeing eye to eye and I have to make just one more comment, and like last night when my hair took a slightly lopsided turn.

But, it's not so bad. The hair, I mean. At least, it's not bad enough to keep me from cutting the Fox’s hair for the first time today...

Have I mentioned that we’ve been thinking about painting our house? Maybe a hot, rose-red-pink color. But we’ve finally attained a decent balance and I don’t want to get into crazy project mode. (Even if the project is, in fact, crazy.) So we are going to do it one side of the house at a time. It might not look that great right away, but it will be heading in the right direction and we will comfort ourselves with that.

This is another way of leaving the Perfect Room. This is another way of living a real life, not living up to the imaginary one which only leaves me pissed off and scared and unable to take creative risks on pink houses or writing or frogs in the city or raising the Fox with art and verve. All of which I am still trying to do. although with a somewhat fluctuating rate of success

So, I cut the Fox's hair while M ran up to the movie store. No wine this time. I managed to get the bangs out of his eyes and trim a side... and then the boy was done. I guess it’s going to be like the house. One side at a time. Which I guess is like life. Not the made-for-tv life, but the real life, where I'm learning to hold my tongue when it helps and get out the bright colors and scissors even when it doesn't. The life that is hot pink and lopsided and happy, which is how I am feeling right now.

Thanks to flickr user Degilbo for "50 Pink Smiggle Scissors."

Frogs in the City

I have a frog yen that hatched in me as a little girl and kicks its legs inside me still. Every spring, when Steven’s creek receded from the winter’s rainy flood, came tiny brown frogs, no bigger than your thumbnail, and millions, (I swear millions!) of tiny black tadpoles. There is nothing to me like that sight. I caught them in cupped hands, put them in a round glass globe of creek water with rocks and seaweed and hung the globe in my mom’s custom macramé in the kitchen so we could watch them up close, growing legs, becoming frogs. Every year the same plot and yet it was always suspenseful.

Nature is the original bestselling mystery writer.

So, today I went down to the banks of Longfellow Creek to get my frog ya-ya’s. I don’t know what I was expecting to find there; I didn’t see any frogs. But the little voice said “Go!” So, I went and dug in the soft creek bank for 20 minutes, rooting out morning glory, the zombie of invasive weeds. It has white skeletal roots and lives by swarming over and sucking the brains out of the plants that outta be there. The ones that help frogs. Then we had a break, then we weeded for another 20 minutes.

Except that actually, it was four hours.

This is why I love frogs, creeks, the undersides of trees. I lose track of time. A very wise friend said to me once that when you are wondering what your “bliss” is, ask yourself: what do I lose track of time, doing? For me, it is way up-close interaction with little plants and bugs. I was like a happy little girl, talking to the black millipedes with their pretty yellow shoes and the caterpillars in their green lounge suits.

I talked to the other volunteers as well. I used the same voice for both. I’m pretty sure they didn’t think I was crazy.

The caterpillars, I mean.

I didn’t see any frogs, but I got filled up with creek time, leaf noises, the smell of soft old logs. I felt really useful and good, taking care of our common land with the other King County Conservation District volunteers: Fred with the gravity-defying moustache, Lisa the pretty mom, Matthew, who had a splendid British accent and his young daughter Diane. Plus friendly leader Adam. I got to know them a little bit, got to know my watershed.

Hello, Longfellow Creek.

I made me want to have what I used to have. Frogs in my own yard, my own garden. Frogs in the city, again. They used to be here. They want to come back. I think it’s possible. I learned some stuff today. I think we can do it. And don’t you feel it? When you remember the house you grew up in, or the cabin by the creek, or that time you camped by the pond and you heard it, the sweet music of frog lust? Don’t you want it? That song, that reminder of wildness and how easy it is to be reborn when spring comes a calling?

It’s nearly summer now, but we still have coldness, rain. It is still a good time to plant seeds. Plus, the solstice is coming up, which is a good time to sing intent. So I will plant this seed, my face close to the earth, my fingernails stuffed with what is good and fertile. And on Monday I will do what I haven’t done in a few years, since mommy busy-ness knocked the ritual out of me. I will celebrate the solstice on the beach. The Fox is old enough to drag a stick in the sand with me, and sing, and draw pictures for the sun to see and bless and bring into bloom.

Frogs in the city. Again.

Thanks to flickr user Damian D for "Pacific Tree Frog", and flickr user Simple Circle Photography for "Pacific Tree Frog hiding on my Rostov sunflower. "

Mystery in the Morning

Yesterday, we learned “Mystery.”

This is one of my favorite words. See, the Fox found a black plastic handle. Oval shaped, flat, with a hole for a securing screw. I think it was left on top of the kitchen cabinets at some point; I knocked it off while I was sketching a tree on the ceiling. (Not to compare myself to Michaelangelo, but how did he avoid a serious neck crick?)

The Fox held up the handle and said “Dat! Dat!” Which is his way of saying, “At this time, I’d like to politely request an explanation of this item.”

I said “That looks like a handle, honey.”

To which he replied. “Hmm. Do you know what it once was attached to?” (See above for actual language.)

“I don’t know where it came from,” I said.

His eyes lit up like a slot machine that has found its long lost disadvantaged granny. “I don’t know!” he said.

“Yes. I don’t know. It’s a mystery.”

“Mystery,” he breathed. (We are talking real words now, by the way.)

The handle and the conversation, over and over, occupied him through the morning, long enough for me to sketch a twisting, knotted branch that arcs over the hall door, down behind the stove, touching the floor next to the deck door and arcing up again to leaf out above the counter on the other side.

This is how live oaks do it. They turn their lower branches into a support structure of buttresses that brace the ground so that they can grow hard and heavy and high. How did they figure out how to do this? Darwin explained it, that I believe.

But I also believe that it’s a mystery.

The handle disappeared at some point, but not the words. I heard him in the car on the way to Trader Joe’s, whispering to himself: “I don’t know… came from… mystery.” I’m not sure if he grocks all that is contained in “mystery” or if it was just the thrill of me saying “I don’t know.” Either way, this is freeing.  For many, many years I felt that certainty was safety. That saying “I don’t know”  – how to do this, where I’m going, who I am at the moment – was shameful. Like being caught with your pants down. Hot, cheeks-burning shame.

It prevented me from leaping for way too long.

So, I’m psyched that he is getting early exposure to the concept. Hey, I figure that if I can demonstrate trying and sometimes failing and having a good time while doing it, and if I can also get him to eat something green once a week, I’m doing okay.

Am going to climb on the kitchen table, now. He’s still asleep and I’ve got a little time. Since I’ve got one supporting branch sketched out, I might as well start on one that reaches for the sun. I’m not sure what it’s going to look like yet, but that’s okay. In the immortal words of Shakespeare in Love’s Geoffrey Rush:

"It’s a Mystery.” 

What the Oak Tree Said, Part I

Limbs of a Beautiful Live Oak Tree
Originally uploaded by annjaber74

I promised to mention what the oak tree said. “This week,” I believe I promised.

So, He said three things:

1.     Blog every day.

2.     Paint me.

3.     Talk about the frog dream.

I was at the top of an egg-shaped mountain. I was underneath the dome of a very old, very large live oak tree. They are called live oaks because they are evergreen and, like everything else that lives in that landscape, they are hardened to heat. The limbs are cracked black iron and the lower ones are like a layer of snakes swimming up and then down in every direction, buttresses so that the dream of the tree can be really, really big.

And, it seemed to me for those two sunny days in the toast-colored hills of Napa, they have little use for stalling.

So I’m trying to get on with it.

Now, with regard to number 1: I had dinner with some old friends on Saturday night, one of whom said “there’s nothing worse than a ritual that makes you feel trapped.” At least, I think that’s what he said. It’s a little blurry. I remember this, though: he went on to say that he has his own ritual. That he goes in to see both his little boys, pulls their blankets up over them as they sleep, every night before he goes to bed.

This is what a ritual should be like. It should feel important AND good.

Writing does that for me. Almost every day.

So number one: check.

I started on the painting too. I can see it perfectly: Murals of the branching, reaching canopy of a live oak on my kitchen and living room walls. Yesterday, our friends John and Corry sat in the living room after a fabulous late lunch that sampled their recent trip to Italy. And it just came over me. I got up, grabbed a stick of charcoal and starting climbing the couches to sketch on the walls. John moved off of the loveseat to make way and the Fox said “Mommy’s drawing!”

Number three, though. The frogs. Whew. This is the hard one. It is a scary dream in both of the ways that dreams are measured.

(One way is what happens if the dream succeeds. Is it big? Are you willing to be that big too? The other way is what happens if the dream fails.)

But, these are good things to face in the arms of a tree. I may have mentioned before my feeling of God in the trees. Especially, as it turns out, in a very old live oak tree with twisting black limbs and emerald leaves which spun a dome all the way down to the ground and was filled with caterpillars that flew from limb to limb on silken threads like flying Wallendas just before rebirth. I don’t want to overstate things, but that’s what we were there for. Falling and flying.  And isn’t that what the resurrection of a dream is? Rebirth?

We thought we were there for a quick hike before going wine tasting...

Broomsticks and Smegma

        Like so many other parts of motherhood, my first ritual with the Fox was not what I expected. I call myself a witch, sometimes say "pagan." Mostly because I am looking for a tag with fewer syllables than “earth-based spirituality.”

Also because it pisses me off that the Roman empire did such a good job of branding pagans as bad guys.

So it is appropriate that the first ritual we did was a broom ritual. We were sweeping the kitchen. This is one my mommy proudnesses, when I succeed at turning a chore into a game that we enjoy together. The Fox pushes the chairs into the hall and then I use my big plastic broom to sweep up all the dog hair and mud and cracker crumbs and general smegma. The Fox uses his little broom to sort of spread it towards the dustbin. We were in the midst of this yesterday morning when I   suddenly felt it, that opening inside that says “ritualize.” If you don’t know exactly what I mean by this, let me just say that my favorite definition of a ritual is a physical act with an invisible meaning. It could be lighting a candle to remember a loved one, it could be cleaning out your desk when you are ready for a new challenge at work. And it could be sweeping out the old feelings along with the old dirt.

(BTW: This would be a good reason for brooms to be associated with witches. But really, it’s all about beer. Back in the day, ladies who made enough homebrew that they had extra for sale would hang a broom over their door in the universal “belly up to the bar” symbol of medieval villages. Throw in a wort kettle and their entrepreneurial invention of a tall pointy hat, which allowed the ladies to be spot-able when they sold beer at fairs. Abracadabra! You’ve got your archetypal witch.)

(But I digress)

So there we were, the mom who wants to teach her son what I consider to be some basic life skills: How to sweep a floor. And how to let things go. Old feelings, old ways that don’t work anymore. Since I got back from the FAFAWOF, I’m ready and brooms are great for both of these things.  Using a broom can be a pushing around of dirt or it can be a Sweep. This time, we did a little of both. I think. I said “Honey, when we sweep out the dirt, we can sweep out the old feelings too.” He looked at me for a sec. “Like sad,” I said. “Sad.” He said. Then I worried that I was telling him that sweeping made me sad, but I think he got it. Sweep it out. Sweep it out. Then I got all excited. I can do ritual with the Fox! We should make him a broom out of sticks and string! That will be so fun! Then we can light candles and talk about god and trees and ­– rrt. I realized that in this vision we have a toddler with a bundle of kindling and an open flame in my house.

Not so much.

So we just swept and talked about feelings and dirt. This lasted about three minutes and we used the same old plastic brooms we always use. I was sort of envisioning that my first ritual with him would be a little more magical, a little less everyday stuff. But maybe that’s part of the lesson. It’s so easy to make creating sacred moments into such a big deal that I never do it. I mean, whoever it is that you pray to, wouldn’t it be better to incorporate lots of little prayers throughout the day, little moments of being present and connected?

Wouldn’t that be a ritual worth passing on?

M and I are not on exactly the same page on things godly, but we have a good common ground and this book has a lovely, non-denominational, kid-friendly way to celebrate the seasons:

Dawn's Early Light

So, the first step in leaving The Perfect Room is becoming a morning person.

“What the F&*?” you say.

Yes. And yesterday went fine. The alarm went off as it does every day at 4:55am. I opened my eyes and said “I am a morning person. I wake bright and alert at 5am.” I said this several times in a sort of three margarita slur, but I felt that it was a positive and ironic thing to say and that M would laugh. Which would be a good start to the day.

I looked at him. Sound asleep.

“Did you hear the alarm?” I shook his arm.

“Bleah! Whaaaa –?!?”

This made me feel slightly superior and smug, which continued as I made my coffee, did yoga and wrote. 

But this morning. Maybe some of the oak tree magic had worn off – we’ll get to that this week, I think – but the alarm this morning was bullshit.

However. At 5:08, I rousted out of and went to make coffee. There was a green and white plastic thing stuffed through the coffee pot handle.

M was conducting his wakeup. I’ve got him figured out, now. He stands by the sink, looking out the window, eating a banana with PB and by the time the banana is done, he is awake. Without drugs.

This is so unfair.

I stared at the green and white thing in the coffee handle uncomprehendingly for a period of time. I needed to make coffee in order to understand what it was, and yet I couldn’t make coffee. Total conundrum.

“We’re out of diapers,” M said.

“Ah.” It was a diaper package. A note where he knew for sure I would get it.  “I’m tired of this shitty weather,” I said as I dumped yesterday’s grounds into the worm cache.

“Morning people don’t mind the weather,” said M.

“Shut up.”

“Morning people are uncompromisingly optimistic without good weather,” he said.

Now who’s smug and superior?

Can I just say, though, that this is a wonderful, funny, handsome, amazing man? Who, by the way, was the corporate sponsor for the FAFAWOF that put my ass in this here chair at 5:39 am, second day in a row, drinking coffee and listening to the dogs fart while I leave The Perfect Room with my writing. I should have worn his logo on my sneakers during the trip.

He knows something about being a morning person. I can hear him downstairs learning a new song on his guitar.

He also knows something about how to love a woman, be a good father, a loyal friend.

I don’t think I have ever admired someone more than I do M. I mean, yeah, I was pretty blown away by Coco Chanel in the movie “Coco Before Chanel” wherein Audrey Tatou portrays Coco as a poor orphan who founded a fashion empire and who ended the use of corsets in Europe. Amazing.

But, I never watched Coco struggle with insomnia, or too many dogs, or not enough Peanut Butter to complete the ritual at 5am. I mean, these are small things, not the hardest we’ve been through. But with or without PB he keeps getting up every morning at 4:55 am and coming home to me every night and learning new songs. Plus, I love his big hair.

Yesterday he came home from work, having read my blog. “So, you are going to leave The Perfect Room?” he said, smiling.

And I said “Yes.” This is a way too late, first tribute to M, the sponsor of the FAFAWOF, musician and morning man. It is 6:20 am. He is out the door and FF is awake.

What I learned from the FAFAWOF!

Before I left for the First Away from the Fox Adventure With Old Friends (FAFAWOF), My neighbor, who is a mom times three, said “You will remember who you are.” And I thought I knew what she meant, but here’s what I actually remembered:

I need old friends.

Friends who, if you’ve known them long enough, have seen you at your best and at your worst. Like when you thought satin pants were a good idea, that dishes washed themselves (sorry, gals) and the only thing better than a late night was a shared late morning, struggling up the corner café to blearily come awake over coffees and really awesome scones. And then it all starts to come back to you. How you made out with that Swedish guy on the mattress in the corner of the dance room. How the bass player strapped his bass on around her and then did a solo while dancing with her. How a man asked her sign and she said “Men at Work,” and you said “Dangerous Curves.”

After breakfast you go lie in the sun in the park.

Then you eat a burrito.

Of course, that was then. This is now, the FAFAWOF in San Francisco. We are spending a weekend together. I’ve kept close with Eve over the years, late night phone calls and long weekends. I’ve seen Caroline less but now I wonder, why is that? Because sitting down across from her was like sitting down with the best part of myself… If my best part was a lot cooler and wasn’t afraid of heights and said that she wasn’t living on the edge anymore because she only flew ultralights without broken wings since the crash.

She is just the same. So is Eve. And so am I. Underneath all the scars and trophies that the years have chucked into our shopping carts, we are the same and we instantly reconnected. Our coffee date turned into hanging out in Caroline’s room and I didn’t realize how completely we had settled into being together until Caroline’s beautiful, sparkly girlfriend came in and said “Aw, look! You’re so roommatey!” We were. We were sprawled on the furniture, laughing and shouting and shaking our heads and it could have been 18 years ago.

All of which was wonderful. But here’s the best part about the FAFAWOF. ( I love saying that out loud. Say it with me. “FAFAWOF!”) With these friends, I catch myself. I caught myself, when I told Caroline that I had painted my toenails for this trip and it was the first time in three years.

As if my child STOLE all my nail polish upon inception, and ankle-cuffed me to a pair of dirty Birkenstocks. (Would you like a little cheese with that whine?)

I caught myself making excuses to Eve, why I couldn’t write about what is most important to me. How I find God in the trees. My crazy, beautiful, magical, worldview and what nature means to me.

I caught myself, trying to live in The Perfect Room, where I suffer and do what I’m supposed to do and not a booger escapes my grasp. The Perfect Room is a sucky place to mother and a sucky place to live and both Caroline and Eve know very well that I don’t belong there. Not because they don’t love me, but because they do.

I’m going to need to see them more often. And I need to leap off some cliffs closer to home.

See, these old friends were forged hard in years of great change. Not just in those years. By those years. New soul companions do not grow rampant in gardens of safeness and competence. The last time I took a Big Jump was my 37^th birthday. The day I found out that I was in fact pregnant and a new road, which I knew NOTHING about, laid it’s first yellow brick at my feet.

That was nearly three years ago. That last leap, though, that started new crop of friends, born out of the risk that we took when we decided to breed. Nothing like motherhood to forge closeness, if you are lucky enough to find some fellow souls with same age babies. I did. These friends are new compared to my San Francisco soul mates, but there have already been some double ninja alarm calls, made and received. I think there are some cliff jumpers there.

I am fresh from a weekend of howling like a wolf with women who love me like fire because – and even though -- they know every part of me. Not just the making out on mattresses part. The witchy part, the scary dreams, the rude roommate, the wild tree dancer and the sad raw part under the skin. 

All the little pieces that are lined up on the precipice saying “Is it my turn?  Can I jump now?”

Yes. The answer is yes.

People, I am leaving The Perfect Room.