Posts
Pip knocks plates down for fun, but will eat off these cool placemats.
His new play area, conceived and arranged by his Poppa, with toy arrangement by his Momma.
I tuk out da cat
2 hours ago
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
New play area
Pip knocks plates down for fun, but will eat off these cool placemats.His new play area, conceived and arranged by his Poppa, with toy arrangement by his Momma.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
photo recap of last week's Marbles trip and new shoes
Splash table and kid garden at Marbles. Everything else was over his head.
Museum of Life and Science Fauna.
He's not wearing them yet, but now Pip has some of those leather shoes that are supposed to be best for new walkers (thanks to ebay, because I'm not paying $35 for baby shoes). He has the dinosaurs and puppies in his current size and the airplanes and monkeys in the next size up. I love his toes, though, so he probably won't wear these shoes till the autumn or for walking on rough patches.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Saturday marks fifty years for her
From time to time since my mid-twenties, I have planned my mother's funeral. A few years back when she tried, thank God unsuccessfully, to kill herself, I thought that the best way to honor her life if she tried again would be to have a sunset service on the beach, to spread her ashes over the water, and give a red hibiscus to every household in attendance. I think I wanted to use Psalm 139 as the biblical text. To affirm the life she loved when she was not strung out, and to settle it in everyone's minds (including some weirdly religious relatives who believe that suicide victims should not be buried in consecrated ground) that she was in the hands of a loving God.
Earlier this week, I was thinking of children's books that I loved as a small child. The two I remember my mother reading were Peter Rabbit and Dr. Suess's A Great Day for Up. I wasn't feeling morbid or anything, understand. Just warmly recalling memories of when my mother played with me and read to me. But I found myself thinking again of my mother's funeral. Wouldn't it be wonderful to read A Great for Up there? To use it as a metaphor for the resurrection and restoration of all creation that happens both now and also not yet. To recall in referencing it all the most loving characteristics of my mother: her funny faces she makes to babies and small children, the look of her fingernails after shelling a bowl of green-purple smelling peas, her boundless energy under the sun and by the ocean. And that last page. She's sleeping in today. I thought, well, that's it. I started crying while I drove down 40 towards the children's museum, overwhelmed with compassion for this person I've known and not known my whole life.
My mother suffers from poorly treated depression and who knows what all. Like a lot of depressed folks, at some point she got so low that she said to herself, "If it weren't for ____ who needs me, I would gladly die to end this misery." She manifests all the signs of codependence, of course, meaning she literally thinks she needs to be needed, and skews all of her decisions toward creating the necessary drama to sustain that myth. At some points she may have let her partner relationships dictate her neededness, but I think her overall fall-back has been to think that she should live because her children need her. As each of us four have grown and moved off in different ways, then, she has crashed a bit more. So you see a bit why I ocassionally plan her funeral. She has cyclical bouts of deep depression/drug addiction that lead us to be concerned for her life.
Like most depressed people who are depressed in a similar way, my mother isn't actually overwhelmed by pain but by the fear of it. She exhausts herself fighting off the prospect of facing the painful bits of her life. Being exhausted, she doesn't have the energy to cope with the angst, ennui and hardships of life. The thought of accepting herself or her painful memories doesn't occur to her because she is deeply ashamed. I think the shame started when she was a tween girl and was molested by a friend's relative. She didn't know how to cope with that - who does? - and accepted a lie about herself - that she was loose/slutty - in the absence of a conviction that it was not her fault. She was surrounded by working-class Catholics who didn't go in for girls not being to blame, though I am sure, knowing my grandmother, that my mother would not have been blamed if they had known. I figured out that my mom had been molested in my early twenties, when I got brave enough to mention to her that she had all the symptoms of someone who had suffered such abuse. She immediately began to cry, said no one had ever known, related the circumstances, and said that it had always haunted her.
In her teens my mother was sexually active, long before the cultural shift that made extramarital sex the "norm" on teen shows. She had a tacky nickname that I won't post here, but it was embarrassingly graphic. She had me when she was seventeen. About a year later she had a baby boy whom she gave up for adoption. She told me the boy was the result of a rape, but she also told me that she only gave him up because she didn't have money, and her story changed enough and my Aunt Jamie told me an alternative story with enough conviction that I am not sure how the boy came to be. But at any rate, add the horrific experience of rape and the horrific experience of giving up one's baby to my mother's list of terrible pains she won't face.
I was thinking about all these things, when it occurred to me that what really broke her heart was when her father left the family (my grandmother and eight kids) to go live with and marry another woman (the sort of woman who somehow forgot to mention his first family at all in the obituary when he died even though the extended family remained intimate). My grandfather was a heartbreaker. When my grandmother died, his sister told me of a video of her and my grandfather dancing. "You should have seen them. So beautiful. He was the love of her life, you know." And I think he was also the love of my mother's life, in a different way.
Once my mother and her friend were in the ocean playing when a waterspout came up. They were too small to get out of the current and my mother was terrified. Suddenly her father pulled her up out of the water and grabbed the friend up, too. He threw them up on the sand and covered them with his body till the tornado had passed. To hear her speak of it, you know that my mother feels even now that her father's actions were an act of true love.
The problem, perhaps, is that she never saw the other ones. She set up tests for love for people around her, and they failed, not knowing they were even on trial. I have one other image of my grandfather that is not mine, but was given me by my mother. He always knew, so she said, how to find sand dollars.
Imagine my grandfather there. If you do not know his face, picture the smile of the man in the moon, because that is exactly how he smiled. He was a fireman, strong, if later he thickened around the middle. Cherokee cheekbones bright eyes. He sits down in the water on a sandbar. With ten strong fingers he digs into the sand and pulls up fuzzy handfuls of life to make his children giggle. In two muddy fists he hands his terrified daughter back the ocean that she had loved before the storm.
But something broke along the way. Instead of laughing at the joy of survival and the way the light pours in through the cracks or how the water takes away the grime and leaves a sort of smoothness, she runs again and again toward the storm, hoping that someone will pull her out.
What I want for her is to wake up covered in salt sand under a warm bright breeze. I want her to look at her toes, to taste the tang of water when she licks her lips. For her once clear green eyes to shine again. First with tears of pain, then with peace, then with joy. Would that she loved the hands I loved to play with as a girl (I would move her fingertips while she slept just to watch the light on them). Would that she would lay down the burden of pretense and let herself be loved. I want her to stick her hand in the sand when she gets up and pull up one perfect sand dollar. I want the sun to rise just then.
Happy Fiftieth Birthday, W.E.B.
Earlier this week, I was thinking of children's books that I loved as a small child. The two I remember my mother reading were Peter Rabbit and Dr. Suess's A Great Day for Up. I wasn't feeling morbid or anything, understand. Just warmly recalling memories of when my mother played with me and read to me. But I found myself thinking again of my mother's funeral. Wouldn't it be wonderful to read A Great for Up there? To use it as a metaphor for the resurrection and restoration of all creation that happens both now and also not yet. To recall in referencing it all the most loving characteristics of my mother: her funny faces she makes to babies and small children, the look of her fingernails after shelling a bowl of green-purple smelling peas, her boundless energy under the sun and by the ocean. And that last page. She's sleeping in today. I thought, well, that's it. I started crying while I drove down 40 towards the children's museum, overwhelmed with compassion for this person I've known and not known my whole life.
My mother suffers from poorly treated depression and who knows what all. Like a lot of depressed folks, at some point she got so low that she said to herself, "If it weren't for ____ who needs me, I would gladly die to end this misery." She manifests all the signs of codependence, of course, meaning she literally thinks she needs to be needed, and skews all of her decisions toward creating the necessary drama to sustain that myth. At some points she may have let her partner relationships dictate her neededness, but I think her overall fall-back has been to think that she should live because her children need her. As each of us four have grown and moved off in different ways, then, she has crashed a bit more. So you see a bit why I ocassionally plan her funeral. She has cyclical bouts of deep depression/drug addiction that lead us to be concerned for her life.
Like most depressed people who are depressed in a similar way, my mother isn't actually overwhelmed by pain but by the fear of it. She exhausts herself fighting off the prospect of facing the painful bits of her life. Being exhausted, she doesn't have the energy to cope with the angst, ennui and hardships of life. The thought of accepting herself or her painful memories doesn't occur to her because she is deeply ashamed. I think the shame started when she was a tween girl and was molested by a friend's relative. She didn't know how to cope with that - who does? - and accepted a lie about herself - that she was loose/slutty - in the absence of a conviction that it was not her fault. She was surrounded by working-class Catholics who didn't go in for girls not being to blame, though I am sure, knowing my grandmother, that my mother would not have been blamed if they had known. I figured out that my mom had been molested in my early twenties, when I got brave enough to mention to her that she had all the symptoms of someone who had suffered such abuse. She immediately began to cry, said no one had ever known, related the circumstances, and said that it had always haunted her.
In her teens my mother was sexually active, long before the cultural shift that made extramarital sex the "norm" on teen shows. She had a tacky nickname that I won't post here, but it was embarrassingly graphic. She had me when she was seventeen. About a year later she had a baby boy whom she gave up for adoption. She told me the boy was the result of a rape, but she also told me that she only gave him up because she didn't have money, and her story changed enough and my Aunt Jamie told me an alternative story with enough conviction that I am not sure how the boy came to be. But at any rate, add the horrific experience of rape and the horrific experience of giving up one's baby to my mother's list of terrible pains she won't face.
I was thinking about all these things, when it occurred to me that what really broke her heart was when her father left the family (my grandmother and eight kids) to go live with and marry another woman (the sort of woman who somehow forgot to mention his first family at all in the obituary when he died even though the extended family remained intimate). My grandfather was a heartbreaker. When my grandmother died, his sister told me of a video of her and my grandfather dancing. "You should have seen them. So beautiful. He was the love of her life, you know." And I think he was also the love of my mother's life, in a different way.
Once my mother and her friend were in the ocean playing when a waterspout came up. They were too small to get out of the current and my mother was terrified. Suddenly her father pulled her up out of the water and grabbed the friend up, too. He threw them up on the sand and covered them with his body till the tornado had passed. To hear her speak of it, you know that my mother feels even now that her father's actions were an act of true love.
The problem, perhaps, is that she never saw the other ones. She set up tests for love for people around her, and they failed, not knowing they were even on trial. I have one other image of my grandfather that is not mine, but was given me by my mother. He always knew, so she said, how to find sand dollars.
Imagine my grandfather there. If you do not know his face, picture the smile of the man in the moon, because that is exactly how he smiled. He was a fireman, strong, if later he thickened around the middle. Cherokee cheekbones bright eyes. He sits down in the water on a sandbar. With ten strong fingers he digs into the sand and pulls up fuzzy handfuls of life to make his children giggle. In two muddy fists he hands his terrified daughter back the ocean that she had loved before the storm.
But something broke along the way. Instead of laughing at the joy of survival and the way the light pours in through the cracks or how the water takes away the grime and leaves a sort of smoothness, she runs again and again toward the storm, hoping that someone will pull her out.
What I want for her is to wake up covered in salt sand under a warm bright breeze. I want her to look at her toes, to taste the tang of water when she licks her lips. For her once clear green eyes to shine again. First with tears of pain, then with peace, then with joy. Would that she loved the hands I loved to play with as a girl (I would move her fingertips while she slept just to watch the light on them). Would that she would lay down the burden of pretense and let herself be loved. I want her to stick her hand in the sand when she gets up and pull up one perfect sand dollar. I want the sun to rise just then.
Happy Fiftieth Birthday, W.E.B.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Scatting on the riffs - A response to ML and BwP's dialogue
When I dream of myself as a house, the center room is a surprise. I push through the quiet places – both the solemn and the cluttered, and find myself alone on stage in a vast space, bright lights trained on me. I would not have expected that image if it had not shown itself to me, but there it is. I can recall the feeling of being there – fully present, fully alive, and it fills me with a quiet joy. From that centered feeling of joyous peace I am able to gather up and take up the great streams of life: love, loss, longing, and their accoutrement, and to sing. Performing is not about me saying, “Hey, look at me,” but about me taking up and becoming what you want to know about yourself. Entering into the heart of pain and joy so that perhaps you are lifted up a bit, too. Perhaps your breathing changes and you remember your own future or past or you are just drawn into the music enough so that you grow brave enough to let go of fear for a bit. Being known in this way is not the knowledge of a narcissist, but of a priest.
Let me confess something to you: I do not carefully craft what I write. I just sit down and type and maybe correct grammar or spelling. I stop when I get distracted or when I’ve come to a stopping point in my thought. (This post was cobbled between the baby's sleep cycles tonight.) Sure, I have spent more than half of my life honing essay skills (not that you can tell), but when I sit down to type for my blog, it’s just free writing. When I take time to scribble in an actual book these days it’s usually to make up a story that makes me laugh, or to answer a bizarre question – what if there was a priest with a pack of dogs that could smell sin? [He was never able to leave his church but was the best confessor. He also taught a young woman who was treated infamously how to heal the sick and to mix remedies, including chocolate, so that she eventually became a wise woman. The dogs grew loyal to her because she had nothing to hide, and they ate the prioress who broke her fingers rather than pay for the fine cloth that the girl’s family wove, the event which brought the girl to the old priest in the first place. There are details about how finely woven the linen, such that rumors spread that it was the work of enchanted moths and butterflies, and the golden purple smell of sunny lavender that perversely rose from her hair as she cried by the church doors.] But these things are scribbled for my own amusement and are not well-honed. What am I on about? I blog because: 1. I think out loud, and 2. So do you. Or leastways, you probably find a lot of ideas easier to approach when they are shown you by someone who doesn’t really have any judgment to pass.
I don’t blog about my favorite time of day: the hour when I no longer have to wear a bra, nor do I try to instruct you as to how you ought to make a good cup of tea. That’s mostly because I think it’s lovely that there are so many enjoyable tea rituals, and people will be so visual about undergarments, won’t they?
I blog to keep tabs on my own sanity, and to think out loud, and sometimes to respond to what others have written. Like today. Two interesting introvert bloggers Moominlight and Breakfast with Pandora have been carrying on a fascinating conversation about the role of blogging and facebook and other internet micro-publishing. I single them out as introverts because, unlike extroverted thinking me, they have to make a big effort to share what they share. As a result, I think they read their own value for and carefulness with words into others’ motivations. Not as though other people are not careful, but I think lots of extroverts talk as a way of building connections without self-consciously trying to draw attention to themselves. To extroverts, self-revelation is not usually undertaken with such intentionality, but is rather a matter of course. For that reason, I think that perhaps the sharing of little details has a different import for extroverts.
A non-internet example: A friend of mine at opera camp dealt with her fiancé’s job loss by telling each of us as she saw us. She kept us up to date about the process, too. She wasn’t begging for pity; she just knew instinctively that by telling us she could think through the reality and face the situation better. We all rooted for her, and as a result of her updates, felt really happy for and warm towards her fiancé when we met him at the end of camp when he came to see the performances. The little details she shared gave us access to a sort of mythological struggle, I guess, but they had the effect of bringing people together.
I don’t see performance as standing up to say, “Look at me!” Rather, I try to hold up some mirror larger than myself, to say, “Look at this! Look at you! Look at us! We are beautiful!” Getting back to the Facebook/detail sharing connection, I think that these “micromyths” are a way of expressing not how someone is outstanding, but how they are the same. The details are what give us all access to greater truths.
In performance, the details are the marrow and flesh of big ideas. I think “Senza mamma” is one of the most powerfully moving arias ever because it is so specific. Puccini could have had Suor Angelica sing that she was sad because her baby died. But he had her lament the details and so voiced the soul's full and gloriously beautiful grief. Without your
mamma's kisses your lips are cold. When will I be able to die to be with you? You are dead without my cuddles and without knowing your mamma loves you! We are able to enter into her grief and know at once the powerful love that fuels it so that the final strains "o, Loved one, o loved one, o love" are not just an invocation to the absent child, but a revelation of what we all long for and it's terrible cost in pain.
There is a sort of intimacy in performance that includes personal knowledge rather than precluding it. It is possible to share details without trying to draw attention to oneself in a quest for fame or immortality. Perhaps temperament plays a role, or philosophy (I admit to a universalist bias – I believe everyone is eminently loveable). Above all we are beautiful, and that’s what I mean by telling you what I cooked for dinner on facebook.
Let me confess something to you: I do not carefully craft what I write. I just sit down and type and maybe correct grammar or spelling. I stop when I get distracted or when I’ve come to a stopping point in my thought. (This post was cobbled between the baby's sleep cycles tonight.) Sure, I have spent more than half of my life honing essay skills (not that you can tell), but when I sit down to type for my blog, it’s just free writing. When I take time to scribble in an actual book these days it’s usually to make up a story that makes me laugh, or to answer a bizarre question – what if there was a priest with a pack of dogs that could smell sin? [He was never able to leave his church but was the best confessor. He also taught a young woman who was treated infamously how to heal the sick and to mix remedies, including chocolate, so that she eventually became a wise woman. The dogs grew loyal to her because she had nothing to hide, and they ate the prioress who broke her fingers rather than pay for the fine cloth that the girl’s family wove, the event which brought the girl to the old priest in the first place. There are details about how finely woven the linen, such that rumors spread that it was the work of enchanted moths and butterflies, and the golden purple smell of sunny lavender that perversely rose from her hair as she cried by the church doors.] But these things are scribbled for my own amusement and are not well-honed. What am I on about? I blog because: 1. I think out loud, and 2. So do you. Or leastways, you probably find a lot of ideas easier to approach when they are shown you by someone who doesn’t really have any judgment to pass.
I don’t blog about my favorite time of day: the hour when I no longer have to wear a bra, nor do I try to instruct you as to how you ought to make a good cup of tea. That’s mostly because I think it’s lovely that there are so many enjoyable tea rituals, and people will be so visual about undergarments, won’t they?
I blog to keep tabs on my own sanity, and to think out loud, and sometimes to respond to what others have written. Like today. Two interesting introvert bloggers Moominlight and Breakfast with Pandora have been carrying on a fascinating conversation about the role of blogging and facebook and other internet micro-publishing. I single them out as introverts because, unlike extroverted thinking me, they have to make a big effort to share what they share. As a result, I think they read their own value for and carefulness with words into others’ motivations. Not as though other people are not careful, but I think lots of extroverts talk as a way of building connections without self-consciously trying to draw attention to themselves. To extroverts, self-revelation is not usually undertaken with such intentionality, but is rather a matter of course. For that reason, I think that perhaps the sharing of little details has a different import for extroverts.
A non-internet example: A friend of mine at opera camp dealt with her fiancé’s job loss by telling each of us as she saw us. She kept us up to date about the process, too. She wasn’t begging for pity; she just knew instinctively that by telling us she could think through the reality and face the situation better. We all rooted for her, and as a result of her updates, felt really happy for and warm towards her fiancé when we met him at the end of camp when he came to see the performances. The little details she shared gave us access to a sort of mythological struggle, I guess, but they had the effect of bringing people together.
I don’t see performance as standing up to say, “Look at me!” Rather, I try to hold up some mirror larger than myself, to say, “Look at this! Look at you! Look at us! We are beautiful!” Getting back to the Facebook/detail sharing connection, I think that these “micromyths” are a way of expressing not how someone is outstanding, but how they are the same. The details are what give us all access to greater truths.
In performance, the details are the marrow and flesh of big ideas. I think “Senza mamma” is one of the most powerfully moving arias ever because it is so specific. Puccini could have had Suor Angelica sing that she was sad because her baby died. But he had her lament the details and so voiced the soul's full and gloriously beautiful grief. Without your
mamma's kisses your lips are cold. When will I be able to die to be with you? You are dead without my cuddles and without knowing your mamma loves you! We are able to enter into her grief and know at once the powerful love that fuels it so that the final strains "o, Loved one, o loved one, o love" are not just an invocation to the absent child, but a revelation of what we all long for and it's terrible cost in pain.
There is a sort of intimacy in performance that includes personal knowledge rather than precluding it. It is possible to share details without trying to draw attention to oneself in a quest for fame or immortality. Perhaps temperament plays a role, or philosophy (I admit to a universalist bias – I believe everyone is eminently loveable). Above all we are beautiful, and that’s what I mean by telling you what I cooked for dinner on facebook.
Friday, July 17, 2009
They remind me of Pippi Longstocking
A gratuitous photo of Pip receiving his first birthday card (from Aunt Gloria) in the mail last week.
At Wednesday's swim party. Today I cut a slit in the front of the shirt so he can fit it over his head easier. He seemed more comfortable and had a ball with me and his Poppa in our neighborhood pool.
A certain little fellow started chasing me when I got the camera out today.
Playing with his new Playmobil set (they have a 1-2-3 line for older babies with no small parts).
He enjoyed chewing on the various pieces.
Some books, including the four we picked out today: I Went Walking, In My Pond, Barnyard Bath, and the Spanish version of Blue Hat, Green Hat. My rule for picking out the books is either he likes it enough to try to eat it or dance at it, or I think he'll really like it, or it makes me laugh. He ate the fish and bath ones (well, he kissed the fishy one), the Spanish one cracked me up, and I was right about I Went Walking. He loves that one.
These toys are so surreal that I call them Scandanavian in honor of Pippi Longstocking, even though they are really German. But the giant flowers and bird that roosts easily on the bunny just seem so "Pippi."
Again after the camera.So, the videos are of Pip's new blocks and setting up his new Pippi-esque toys. I say something mildly inappropriate in the first one, but I couldn't help it. The toy is so surreal that it's like a Jungian archetype or some other primal thing. I was all, the giant flowers, the bunny, the animals, it's like they are trying to insinuate a courtly love story a la medieval tapestries. Seriously, I don't know what the makers of the baby Playmobil line are on (too much literature or some kind of chemical?), because they also have a set with a kid riding a giant snail and a kid dressed as a bee on a giant flower. Why do they think babies are into that stuff? Pip debated between liking the farm set and this weird pastoral park set. He finally chose this set due to the cool giant flowers.
And the fun blocks:
Tonight after the pool and before bed, Pip actually stacked some of these blocks. It was the first time he's stacked rather than just knocked down. Very cool for him to have a whole new skill.
Pip's talking up a storm these days. He mostly uses two and three word sentences such as "I like it," "I want it," "I get it," or "Want that." He also tries "I love you." Yesterday and today he's been imitating new words a lot and using his already acquired ones. At the toy store, he pointed to the ladybug and said, "bug," identified the butterflies and mobiles, and called the baby dolls both "baby" and "doll." He knows the word "Bob" in his Fuzzy Fuzzy book, and though I've not seen it yet, Andrew tells me he also reads a couple of other words. The other day when I sang Psalm 23, he sat up from his bottle and pointed at his sheep flash card. He knew a shepherd tends sheep. I assume that either his Poppa taught him that or he is weirdly smart and I won't be able to spell "A-H-O-L-E" much longer. I really don't want to have that conversation.
Anyway, the kid is really fun, and we had fun shopping together today. Gotta go have a Guiness now that my head is set to rights, and watch a Cadfael mystery with my husband.
Anyway, the kid is really fun, and we had fun shopping together today. Gotta go have a Guiness now that my head is set to rights, and watch a Cadfael mystery with my husband.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
blame the head bump, mmkay?
Noni and Pops visited the museum with Pip and me before their plane yesterday.
Pip enjoyed examining the dinosaur's eye. This is the one he called a "birdie" in his insightful way. None of the dinos were the standard ones from my childhood - they all had really weird and specific names that I didn't trouble myself to recall, so I can't tell you what kind this was. Only this red one was climbable; the others were hands-off.
The Pipster is so cuddly! I love him.
Pip is amazing. He initiates games of "cake" by clapping and patting his belly and saying "pa-Cake. Cake." He said butterfly when we went to the Museum of Life and Science yesterday morning with his grandparents before they returned to Texas in the afternoon. He asked "Where Noni?" when his Noni was gone. He's such an affectionate, kind, loving, funny, bright, wonderful child.
I think I have been dealing with my own bouts of separation anxiety since I returned. Spending loads of time with him and holding him while he sleeps has helped. Having a concussion has not helped. I think my head is healing really well, but my right hand is a bit less coordinated than usual. Today I dropped our small camera, a cup of tea, and a bottle, of which only the camera was damaged (the others were from low heights). I really enjoyed seeing Sharon today. You know how it is with good friends: so you zone out a little and get really offended about there being no sweet tea at the restaurant and how a Yankee girl who told us all she won't from the South so she didn't want sweet tea anyhow, which made all the other people waiting politely but with clearly indignant courtesy for the sweet tea to finish question why the Yankee girl was affecting the Southern "y'all" that way if she didn't care about our plight like that - and why did she announce it that way, instead of the only polite way (I wasn't born in the South but I got here as quick as I could)?-and then you rant for awhile about Sherman and how he was evil and hurt innocent women and children and you are still mad about that and he was no gentleman and did wrong, which troubles your soul a little owing to you believe in forgiveness but hate Sherman a lot, and then you completely forget what it was that you were going to say before they ran out of sweet tea, and Sharon didn't even judge me. She understood. She also affirmed the fact that I am a good mamma even though I am slightly concussed and told me about a sale on my favorite shirt. Together we scorned some people who were tailgating us at the mall and admired the selection at Pottery Barn Kids, even though they do not have real Queen size sheets, only full/queen, which is a shame.
Well, anyway, Pip had a ball this morning at his friend B's swim party. It was his first time in a big pool, and he played happily for a little over an hour. Very fun, but tiring for me since I missed our afternoon nap. I've always been a napper, and I love that I get to sleep each afternoon for an hour and a half. I think naps may be one of the reasons I tend toward homebodyism. We try to keep the outings down to one/day so that I get to share Pip's morning and afternoon naps, but sometimes I miss one of them due to travel. Lack of a nap thwarts some of my attempts at social grace and charm - for instance, I accidentally said something mildly caustic at the store today when the salesperson was dumb about a church thing me and Sharon were discussing (Sharon: D can't go to VBS at my sister's church because the woman who I stood up to who doesn't like us anymore is teaching his class, and she is vindictive enough to take it out on him. Salesperson: Someone at church?! Why are they letting her teach, then!? Me [a bit annoyed that she didn't let me answer my friend's conversation, directed at me]: Flabbergasted look. Sharon: I'll tell you why. She gives a lot of money to the church and goes there and she bullies everyone so they don't stand up to her. I stood up to her. Salesperson: But at church? They shouldn't let that sort of thing go on. Me [here's the rude bit, but she was like 50 and should have known better, sorry]: Smile. It's a charming sort of naivete to think that these things don't happen in churches.) At which point the salesperson backtracked and acknowledged that such things did happen but really shouldn't, to which we agreed as a way to quiet her so we could leave. She was upsetting the baby by being willfully dumb. Seriously, childlike faith is only charming in children. If you don't know people are political and flawed as well as loving and good, then you probably aren't paying much attention or receiving much real grace. Also, I conspired with the other people waiting for the sweet tea about whether it was a Yankee set-up to mess with us and see how many of us would congregate and for how long. In the end, three of my fellow Southerners gave in and drank soda, and only two of us held out for the good stuff. When the man finally returned to the dispenser with the simple syrup, I thanked him profusely, almost like it hadn't been a set-up to begin with.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Pip's First Birthday Party
We had ants (not Aunts, which would have been lovely) invade the house last Thursday, which nixed the plans to bake a cake and have a small party at home. But things worked out. I managed to describe a Jamberry RR Crossing sign cake sufficiently to the folks at Whole Foods, and Pip had his favorite picture from a book on his cake. We were even able to invite a few more of Pip's grown-up pals to the party since it was at a public place. Whole Foods cafe is Pip's favorite place to eat. He likes that we give him just a few bites from several dishes. He was happy, we were happy, and it was a good day. I accidentally banged the whoozit out of my head on Saturday afternoon and have been very mildly concussed since then- just motion sickness and tiredness - nothing serious or requiring medical attention. Even with the concussion, though, I've had a lovely weekend. Noni and Pops came into town for Pip's birthday, and they've been having fun playing with him. I should say they are all having fun together. He seems to appreciate the addition to his little circle. Without further ado, here are lots of birthday photos. When facebook lets me actually upload the whole set (failed twice already), they will be up for all y'all FB friends.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
le museum
While I was away, Andrew and the baby discovered the joys of the Museum of Life and Science. They went there on a playdate, then went again with Pip's godparents. Andrew wisely bought a membership. We went as a family last Friday when Andrew was off work, and I took Pip again today. Guess where the grandparents get to visit with us on Monday? Oh, yeah.
Here are a few photos from recent trips, then some videos.
The above is from that first playdate (playdate pals, I'm posting that album to facebook as soon as I can, with all y'all's pics). Below are Pip's heroic and wonderful godparents, who, along with Sharon and Amy, kept Andrew sane.
And here we all are Friday. (Thanks, Liz, for the photo.)
From Friday's trip: Pip totally did an adorable dance when we got to the turtle room. He pointed toward the turtle tanks as soon as we passed the owls and began to jig upon approach. I missed the dance, but here's the video attempt anyway.
Next up: Pip playing at the indoor toddler playground today. First time he attempted to climb the stairs while standing.
Finally, from today's trip, the donkey playing with a ball. If you listen closely, over the hoards of daycamp kids hollering, you can hear Pip's first attempt at saying "donkey."
Here are a few photos from recent trips, then some videos.
The above is from that first playdate (playdate pals, I'm posting that album to facebook as soon as I can, with all y'all's pics). Below are Pip's heroic and wonderful godparents, who, along with Sharon and Amy, kept Andrew sane.
And here we all are Friday. (Thanks, Liz, for the photo.)
Next up: Pip playing at the indoor toddler playground today. First time he attempted to climb the stairs while standing.
Finally, from today's trip, the donkey playing with a ball. If you listen closely, over the hoards of daycamp kids hollering, you can hear Pip's first attempt at saying "donkey."
opera camp
Last night I was driving back from Sharon's when I remembered the second night we both knew for sure that Pip was with us (the evening of the day we picked the nickname "Pip" in fact). We walked out into the cold Scottish night on Iona. The bell was tolling at the abbey, and we were heading for evensong. Miraculously the sky was clear. We picked our way across the dark island road by starlight.
That was All Souls' Day in 2007. Pip is almost a year old now, and all these little moments of his life with us keep popping up. I think my living soul is trying to convince the old cynical part of mind that all this joy is real.
These memories and a childhood spent partly in the dense countryside are part of the reason I've fallen in love with this song:
Opera camp was awesome, but now I have loads of work to do to prepare for the autumn/winter round of auditions. I'm going to learn "Ain't it a Pretty Night" for my American song. I'm really looking forward to getting my DVD in the mail sometime in the next couple of weeks so I can steal part of it to show you guys a bit of the performance. I don't know if my perceptions of what I was communicating match what I conveyed to the audience. It will be good to know.
I went to the Johanna Meier Opera Theatre Institute for the last half of June. Pip stayed home with Andrew, who took off work those weeks. Our friends helped loads (THANK YOU!!!!). I'm going to post a museum post soon, hopefully later tonight, which includes several of the people who helped. While I was there, I really connected with the fun kid part of me. We had movement classes twice a week wherein I felt really grounded for the first time since I don't know when. During one of the early classes, I was able to connect with the feeling of strength and centeredness that I experienced in child birth. Then, in the last class, we did this relaxation meditation, and I felt really free. The feeling stayed with me and grew, so that by the last night (when we performed), I found myself repeating, "Fully present, fully alive." You've heard me say before that one of my favorite sayings from church history is "The glory of God is man fully alive." Well, I felt fully alive those days. I know I still have loads of work to do to increase my skills in the field, but I really think performing is a sacred calling for me. Too bad stages are so few and far between. Hopefully it will not always be so for me.
[Aside -One other cool thing I learned in movement class, about how your weight is centered on your feet: if you are putting more weight on your heels, it indicates a sense of reluctance (due to thinking of the past), whereas weight forward toward your toes indicates anxiety about the future. So your sense of really being in the present time and your connection with the ground through your feet is highly integrated. I found this tidbit helpful in checking in with myself.]
While I was away, I found that I flirted a lot, in a lighthearted way. At home I only flirt with a few friends or back with my aunts and old friends in Texas. I think I feel a lot of pressure to behave myself around here, in this world so saturated with academics and people who take everything seriously. I got to be my real self more while among artists. Even writing the word "flirt" feels a little dangerous to me, owing to the judgmental attitudes I know lots of my acquaintance harbor. I think, wow, now someone is going to read my blog and think I am sex-crazed or disloyal. But that's not at all what flirting is about. It's an overall attitude of playfulness, that, yes, may involve a slightly naughty comment if it makes the baritone blush. Some fellow nuns who shall not be named and I silently laughed ourselves silly during the dress rehearsal and performance at opera camp, owing to some of the habits didn't close well. And maybe some sisters showed some legs or bras or grabbed other's bums to demonstrate the point. See? It's commaraderie, not perverseness, flirting.
I'm sure I learned a lot about singing and stage presence and acting, too, but I most value the sense of freedom to be myself and be present.
***Jr. High-ish Section:There was only one incident where I didn't know one of my colleagues well, and she didn't know my dry sense of humor yet, and we had a miscommunication, but everything sorted out in the end. It wasn't anything catty, though, but an affair of the heart that I didn't know was afoot when I made a flippant comment. I learned a big lesson then about how vulnerable young artists are. In future I will make sure to listen closer to my colleagues' stories before I venture to jest. I didn't hurt her feelings, but she took a joke to heart and because of her personality and feelings, did something embarrassing that I would never have encouraged had I known. I think that back home, I'm always feeling too responsible for everything. For a good reason, to an extent, because people tend to trust what I say. Well, the one mistake I think I made at opera camp was forgetting that the sense of authority that I convey when I'm serious can also carry over when I'm joking, which can confuse people who aren't used to my way of joking. So, freedom to be myself, but also to check my sense of humor a bit around the vulnerable. End of Jr. High***
I had culture shock when I got home. Suddenly I have this set of experiences that noone around me understands. I talked way too much at my voice lesson on Saturday just because I knew that my teacher got it. It's also been really hard because the baby's heart was a little bit broken by me being gone, and he needs me to be with him almost around the clock. Of course I love being with him! The lack of breaks has been wearying. I look forward to him sleeping for at least a few hours without being held, just so I can have some personal time like to take a bath or just hang out with Andrew or whatever. Andrew and I seem to understand one another better after the experience of being apart (for the longest time ever for us) and him being the sole caregiver for Pip. I totally understand his need to talk shop with his programming-literate friends, and he understands my need to have a few minutes to string a few thoughts together and complete a task.
The baby is healing from the trauma of me being away. It's hard for him especially at sleep times. If Andrew and I are both in the room and I turn away for some reason, the baby will cling to me in a panic. I want him to feel safe again and know that I'm not trying to leave him. It's kind of hard. I super-duper love our little son, and I don't like to see him scared. Also, I know that even though it was very good and important that I went to opera camp, he does not understand, and I have to love him in a very humble way while he heals. Like a penitent, going through all the motions with quiet humility even though my heart never left and I am already restored. Penitents wait to be restored to someone's heart or other. The religious are restored to their own hearts until they find their own selves a safe place to be. Parents are restored to their children's hearts until once again the child feels secure. Or maybe I am off on this a little. At any rate, I am humbled by this dear little boy's need for reassurance. Loving him right now means being with him.
Speaking of whom, I need to wrap this up so that I can go up and let him sleep next to me tonight. Andrew is holding him right now so I can type. Not blogging for a month has made me cranky, and it was best for us all that I clear my head a bit by means of the keyboard.
I'll talk more about opera camp from time to time. I keep dreaming about it. Once my recordings come in, I'll post again with opera-y stuff.
That was All Souls' Day in 2007. Pip is almost a year old now, and all these little moments of his life with us keep popping up. I think my living soul is trying to convince the old cynical part of mind that all this joy is real.
These memories and a childhood spent partly in the dense countryside are part of the reason I've fallen in love with this song:
Opera camp was awesome, but now I have loads of work to do to prepare for the autumn/winter round of auditions. I'm going to learn "Ain't it a Pretty Night" for my American song. I'm really looking forward to getting my DVD in the mail sometime in the next couple of weeks so I can steal part of it to show you guys a bit of the performance. I don't know if my perceptions of what I was communicating match what I conveyed to the audience. It will be good to know.
I went to the Johanna Meier Opera Theatre Institute for the last half of June. Pip stayed home with Andrew, who took off work those weeks. Our friends helped loads (THANK YOU!!!!). I'm going to post a museum post soon, hopefully later tonight, which includes several of the people who helped. While I was there, I really connected with the fun kid part of me. We had movement classes twice a week wherein I felt really grounded for the first time since I don't know when. During one of the early classes, I was able to connect with the feeling of strength and centeredness that I experienced in child birth. Then, in the last class, we did this relaxation meditation, and I felt really free. The feeling stayed with me and grew, so that by the last night (when we performed), I found myself repeating, "Fully present, fully alive." You've heard me say before that one of my favorite sayings from church history is "The glory of God is man fully alive." Well, I felt fully alive those days. I know I still have loads of work to do to increase my skills in the field, but I really think performing is a sacred calling for me. Too bad stages are so few and far between. Hopefully it will not always be so for me.
[Aside -One other cool thing I learned in movement class, about how your weight is centered on your feet: if you are putting more weight on your heels, it indicates a sense of reluctance (due to thinking of the past), whereas weight forward toward your toes indicates anxiety about the future. So your sense of really being in the present time and your connection with the ground through your feet is highly integrated. I found this tidbit helpful in checking in with myself.]
While I was away, I found that I flirted a lot, in a lighthearted way. At home I only flirt with a few friends or back with my aunts and old friends in Texas. I think I feel a lot of pressure to behave myself around here, in this world so saturated with academics and people who take everything seriously. I got to be my real self more while among artists. Even writing the word "flirt" feels a little dangerous to me, owing to the judgmental attitudes I know lots of my acquaintance harbor. I think, wow, now someone is going to read my blog and think I am sex-crazed or disloyal. But that's not at all what flirting is about. It's an overall attitude of playfulness, that, yes, may involve a slightly naughty comment if it makes the baritone blush. Some fellow nuns who shall not be named and I silently laughed ourselves silly during the dress rehearsal and performance at opera camp, owing to some of the habits didn't close well. And maybe some sisters showed some legs or bras or grabbed other's bums to demonstrate the point. See? It's commaraderie, not perverseness, flirting.
I'm sure I learned a lot about singing and stage presence and acting, too, but I most value the sense of freedom to be myself and be present.
***Jr. High-ish Section:There was only one incident where I didn't know one of my colleagues well, and she didn't know my dry sense of humor yet, and we had a miscommunication, but everything sorted out in the end. It wasn't anything catty, though, but an affair of the heart that I didn't know was afoot when I made a flippant comment. I learned a big lesson then about how vulnerable young artists are. In future I will make sure to listen closer to my colleagues' stories before I venture to jest. I didn't hurt her feelings, but she took a joke to heart and because of her personality and feelings, did something embarrassing that I would never have encouraged had I known. I think that back home, I'm always feeling too responsible for everything. For a good reason, to an extent, because people tend to trust what I say. Well, the one mistake I think I made at opera camp was forgetting that the sense of authority that I convey when I'm serious can also carry over when I'm joking, which can confuse people who aren't used to my way of joking. So, freedom to be myself, but also to check my sense of humor a bit around the vulnerable. End of Jr. High***
I had culture shock when I got home. Suddenly I have this set of experiences that noone around me understands. I talked way too much at my voice lesson on Saturday just because I knew that my teacher got it. It's also been really hard because the baby's heart was a little bit broken by me being gone, and he needs me to be with him almost around the clock. Of course I love being with him! The lack of breaks has been wearying. I look forward to him sleeping for at least a few hours without being held, just so I can have some personal time like to take a bath or just hang out with Andrew or whatever. Andrew and I seem to understand one another better after the experience of being apart (for the longest time ever for us) and him being the sole caregiver for Pip. I totally understand his need to talk shop with his programming-literate friends, and he understands my need to have a few minutes to string a few thoughts together and complete a task.
The baby is healing from the trauma of me being away. It's hard for him especially at sleep times. If Andrew and I are both in the room and I turn away for some reason, the baby will cling to me in a panic. I want him to feel safe again and know that I'm not trying to leave him. It's kind of hard. I super-duper love our little son, and I don't like to see him scared. Also, I know that even though it was very good and important that I went to opera camp, he does not understand, and I have to love him in a very humble way while he heals. Like a penitent, going through all the motions with quiet humility even though my heart never left and I am already restored. Penitents wait to be restored to someone's heart or other. The religious are restored to their own hearts until they find their own selves a safe place to be. Parents are restored to their children's hearts until once again the child feels secure. Or maybe I am off on this a little. At any rate, I am humbled by this dear little boy's need for reassurance. Loving him right now means being with him.
Speaking of whom, I need to wrap this up so that I can go up and let him sleep next to me tonight. Andrew is holding him right now so I can type. Not blogging for a month has made me cranky, and it was best for us all that I clear my head a bit by means of the keyboard.
I'll talk more about opera camp from time to time. I keep dreaming about it. Once my recordings come in, I'll post again with opera-y stuff.
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