Sitting Down with Slouching Mom

I am cross-posting this at The Wink.

I read blogs. They're funny, intelligent, brilliant, poignant, honest, inspirational, authentic, passionate, crafty, consistently cool, unflinchingly direct, dear, endlessly readable, and their authors have come to be my friends.

I am not a master commenter, I tend to read and skip, read and skip. I know the majority of bloggers track their hits and know when I've been by, or if not me exactly, they know that nycap.res.rr.com has been on. Yet I know how precious comments can be, so I do try to slow down enough to leave them when I can.

One name that is always there, no matter the blog and no matter my number in the line of commenters, Slouching Mom. She and I exchanged emails one night as she tried to determine which of my blogs she should read. At the time I'd been a bit taken aback, "Why can't she read both? Am I not worth it? Is the writing quality on one not as strong as on the other?" Now that I know the scope of her reading terrain, I am honored to have her at all.

Recently she posted an entry of the memish variety, involving an interview. She offered to send out questions if readers were interested, knowing the questions would be well thought out and specific to each person I raised my hand. So, without further ado, my interview with Sarah minus, coffee and chortling kids.

Sarah- How on earth do you manage to run two blogs, and why do you maintain two blogs? How would you describe the differences between them?

A wing and a prayer? Seriously, I began Life with Briar, now Tumble Dry, as a way of sharing photos and stories with my family back on the West Coast. It was also a stand-in for the baby journaling I was so woefully remiss in doing. Although truth be told I always knew I wouldn't keep up with the baby journal, even as I forked over twenty dollar bill after twenty dollar bill at Hallmark and company. The second, The Wink was to be less, Briar is now a 3T and potty trained, Avery is a 2T and growing molars by the second, and more, well, more something. Turns out I like writing about my girls, Sean and life, on both blogs. I think it might kill me to say goodbye to one of them, perhaps someone could teach me how to merge them...hint hint.

I still believe they are distinct in that Tumble Dry continues to be written as if my grandfather were still reading it and The Wink is slightly more irreverent, and on occasion, profane. My stories tend to be more tender on Tumble Dry, though tenderness happens on The Wink too.

Sarah - You have two lovely girls, and now you're pregnant again. Are you hoping for a boy? Is Sean? Why or why not?

No official hopes for one gender over the other, just the standard 10 and 10 and devoid of our worst characteristics. Though it seems to me a girl would be easier, if only by avoiding the messiness you moms-of-boys describe with the pee sprays. I suspect Sean would love to see a little boy in a Sox cap, but the truth is our girls look cute in caps and do just fine in the rough-housing department.

Sarah - What music are you listening to these days?

Oof. I try not to talk about this because I am definitely sort of a C student when it comes to music. I like it, I sing along, I bob my head, but I get lyrics and names wrong. There is a song Sean put on disc for me, two actually, that I adore. I am certain they were a discovery of sorts when he did it, but are played out now. We call one of them (we being the girls and I) the Fairy Song. I think it's Lori McKenna with the lead singer from REM in the background and the other is a woman singing a song that Sean tells me is called, Bubbly.

Sarah - What were you like when you were Briar's age? Do you see yourself more in Avery or in Briar?

What was I like at Briar's age? Boy, I'm not sure. My parents were not yet divorced, I was an only child and my mom stayed home. I think it was one of the simplest and purest times of my life. I loved playing outside and reading. I'd like to think that I had her sparkle.

I see my physical strength in both girls, the echo of the lines of my body as they slip through a doorway, the curve of muscle as they stretch for a toy. I think I see a lot of my rigid belief in right and wrong in Briar, which tugs at me, it is something that will lead her on a noble path, but will cause heartache as she realizes that other people do not operate using the same playbook. And Avery, Avery is everything I have ever wished I could be, it is as if every daydream I ever had myself has come true through her. Ultimately, I hope I can see myself in both of them, better and stronger.

Sarah - Sean seems like a loving and involved father. Describe what you believe to be his finest parenting moment thus far.

And the pregnancy hormones come in with a rush and send me weeping. Touche, following up such a direct question about my girls with this about Sean. He is magnificent. I don't know if there is one moment that I can call out, rather there are so many times that I've been in the kitchen making dinner and I've heard him singing to the girls. I creep slowly to the doorway and there they'll be, Sean, guitar on his knee, smiling as Avery gently strums along, Briar stands, swaying to the music and watching his lips, learning the words as she mimicks him. It is a thing to behold, and each time I revisit in a blur all the bends and dips in the road, that led us to now, and I am rocked by how very right it is.

Thank you, Sarah. I so enjoyed answering these questions.

If you are reading this and would like to take a turn yourself, let me know, and I'll send a few your way.

Kinda like Orbitz, but different

Living here in the Adiorndacks I feel duty-bound to enjoy the foliage. Hotels offer leaf peeper specials, restaurants boast their best harvest entrees, and the weatherman on the national stations point at maps indicating which areas are at peak. And I do, don't get me wrong. The girls and I are out there every day oohing and ahing at the brilliant leaves in the trees as we walk clutching autumnal bouquets in our hands (actually they hold the bouquets for a moment and then stuff them emphatically into my pockets, "Ere you go, mama. No you got some leaves for you in your pocket right dere."

I got to thinking what can I do? Yesterday I shared photos, trying to transmit a taste of what it's like here through the pictures of our experiences. I had another idea, because in addition to devouring the beauty of the season, we take frequent advantage of the year-round beauty of Washington County. Frequent readers have heard me regale the adventures we've had on the farm.

Since those first posts our family has come to care a great deal for Jon. I am so grateful for the friendship and the refuge that his magical farm holds for my family. Next month he is part of an event that harnesses the very spirit of the way that he approaches his life. He has fallen in love with photography, like literally fallen in love and is consumed by the passion he has for this new medium. Along his quest to diving head first into photography he has found kindred spirits: an artist misidentified his whole life, first medically and later professionally, Anthony Armstrong has become an integral part of Jon's life and in doing so has found his way to a passion of his own, creating art with his hands and concrete; then there was the little slip of a woman working with her hands each day, resurrecting old buildings alongside her husband, approaching each edifice as if it were a person, painstaking attention to detail and incredible sensitivity to the past, she let slip she does fiber art on the side; and the radiant widow who wrote in the hope of visiting his farm, and who, upon meeting Jon shared she'd been writing poetry since her youth in World War II, never owning the fact that she was a poet.

Jon is doing what you imagine doing, he is making something happen. Together with the three artists he has befriended, he is presenting an event called, Art Harvest: Four Friends Share Their Art. Their art will be displayed in a magnificent barn gallery at Gardenworks in Salem, New York. The proceeds of the sale of Jon's photography will go to benefit Friends of Hospice. At 2pm each day Jon will provide readings and throughout the event the fine people at Gardenworks will have impossibly succulent berries from their farm as well as innumerable other edible goodies and wonderful little must-haves for your house.

I am sharing this because I think that this is a chance to do something, go somewhere. Been considering a trip? Looking for something to do or a place to go? Why not try the foothills of the Adirondacks in October?

Take a trip to Salem, New York and plan on going to Art Harvest on the 13th and 14th of October.

Stay at a B&B in Salem or somewhere nearby.

We plan on taking our girls, it's a memory I look forward to sharing with them, moments frozen in time in all their Adirondacks in autumn glory. Maybe we'll see you there.

Simple Wonder

Ever realize that you are actually quite blessed? I think sometimes we get so caught up in the have-tos and the can'ts in our lives, that we lose sight of the wonder that can be found in our surroundings.

I just opened up iPhoto to transfer pictures taken today at work, and I was taken aback. I am at The Sagamore alongside Lake George, to call it exquisite wouldn't even begin to describe it. The pictures literally jump from the screen with the late September sun dancing on the choppy waters of the lake. And the pictures from our trip last weekend frame perfectly the truth that life's sweetes memories take residence in the simplest of moments. We went to Gore mountain to take the gondola to the top for a picnic and gentle hiking. It was breathtaking, with the foliage still a week or two shy of being at their peak.

I just wanted to share it with you, with any luck you'll find the magic in your world.

And with just a kiss...

It had to have been the seventh time I'd gone in, she'd been howling on and off all night, so bothered by the arrival of yet another set of molars. I tenderly lifted her from the crib and held her in my arms, her dark hair clung to her head in damp ringlets and her shirt was bunched around her torso. We moved to the chair and I eased myself down, the budding bump just beneath Avery's form has already begun to alter my movements, more ginger and tentative, particularly at night.

I leaned my head back as we began the familiar choreography of nursing by moonlight, her face finding its way to my breast even before my shirt is lifted. These past few weeks, whether from pregnancy or molars, the dance has been different, detached somehow. I fear she senses my fatigue and resents it. I know that I struggle with my inability to soothe, returning throughout the night only to find that the once enduring solace of our closeness is forgotten before I make it back to my own bed, and her whimpering grows stronger. It makes each trip back to her harder, and my resistance to run to her stabs at me.

This time she rubbed her palm against against my skin, faster and faster until she was almost slapping my throat as if demanding that I fix it, ease her distress. I stroked her brow and kissed the top of her head, humming the medley she requests each night - Row Row Row Your Boat, Tigger and Pooh, Einsteins and Twinkle Twinkle. Her eyelids fluttered and she sighed, a deep, leg straightening, back arching sigh, and then she relaxed, her belly pressing softly against mine. I let my own eyes close and we sat together, our breathing falling into a steady, shared rhythm.

A while later I opened my eyes and smiled at her sleeping form, it seemed as if this time it had worked, she was at peace. I stood and moved toward her crib, she lifted her head and I paused. My heart thumped against my chest as she lifted her head, I braced for the moan and cry for milk. I hated the feeling of desperation, I needed her not to cry, to turn to her crib and let me rub her back until she slipped off to sleep again, at least for a little while. And then she did it. Her head turned to me and I closed my eyes, ready to fall back into the chair.

There was no sound, just the impossibly perfect sensation of her pressing her face to mine, her lips searching out my mouth and kissing me. Thank you, mama. Thank you. And then she turned back to the crib and I lay her down, knowing that she never stopped finding comfort in my arms and at my breast. Thank you, baby. Thank you.

A Curious Milestone

And by curious, I suppose I really mean maddening. Briar has decided that she would like to stay at the sitter's. All day. As a matter of fact today she let me know that she needs to stay there, "for the nighttime too," it was either that or she sucker punched me with a fist formed from shards of glass.

I am taking it day-by-day, chuckling and rolling my eyes, but the truth, the honest, I-don't-floss-and-sometimes-I-skip-to-the-last-page-of-the-book truth is, it is killing me.

I am not ashamed to say I want to be her favorite for all time. It's like a first crush all over again. Sigh.

Doing Right

Just trying to be a good mom, speaking my mind and thumping my chest over at Moms Speak Up. I hope you'll visit and maybe do a little soap box standing yourself. It feels good and it's the first step to change.

Yes, I am.

Caving

Bloggers do it all the time, taking the keyword searches used to find them and crafting, like the great chefs of the world, brilliant blogging material. I have yet to really do that, though I often blush at the google searches that lead people to me...

The thing that has finally got me on this keyword search pony? The search for a friend. Someone is looking for my friend, and what a friend she is. So let's turn this into a Public Friend Service Announcement.

Deborah F. of Pownal, Vermont is brilliant. She's got a razor sharp wit, a magic hand in the kitchen, a head that can do math and logsitics in a way that makes me worry that one day she'll catch on to the fact that my mathematic learnings were cut woefully short in about the third grade. She has been my mentor and friend and her oblivion to my mathematical shortcomings are truly a testament to how accepting she is. If you are looking to find out more about her you need only consider your greatest friend and most trustworthy confidant, then imagine that they live in a beautifully restored home in semi-rural Vermont with a library of tomes that will have you wishing for rainy days for months and then you might have an inkling of the type of person Deb really is.

She's a gem and I miss her every day.

x's and o's to my Deb.

Perhaps

Briar is three, three and a day.

Yesterday was marked with the palest of pink streamers, decorate-your-own-cupcakes, complete with age-inappropriate spray and squirt icing, and a larger-than-life, climb inside and roll around, red ball. Red bags lined the step of the porch, each filled to overflow with candies and toys, the topper on each was a party hat, the girls' version embellished with ribbons to look like a princess hat. There were tables, covered in pale pink, stacked with snacks and drinks. There were ribbons and ballons hanging from every conceivable perch.

Watching Briar walk into the backyard wonderland was a bit like what I imagine arriving at the Mary Poppins carousel in the countryside experience might have been like: reverent, dizzy and filled with the best kind of I-can't-believe-it-yet-I-know-it's-real disbelief. Standing on the stone patio Sean and I laid together and seeing this day I'd been fretting over for days and weeks finally arrive, had me feeling a bit supercalifragilisticexpialidocious myself.

I stood on the edge of our yard, mouth agape, as family after family arrived. Little girls bearing presents, parents pushing strollers and neighbors sporting huge grins. I don't know if I expected it to fail, but I never dreamed the party would go off so perfectly. The kids tore around the yard, while the adults mingled, chatting and laughing. I had a camera in my back pocket, but the photos I see today are blurry and not at all as I remember the day.

It was full of bright colors and laughing eyes, of high fives and somersaults. There was a sot breeze and warm sun, stolen kisses in the kitchen as we replenished treats, and warm hugs as friends and family gathered. And at the end, we had sleepy eyes and ratty hair, sticky fingers and smudged faces, and of course, each other. Cuddling at bed time and rubbing noses in the night, celebrating the births that led us to today, a day I'll remember in my heart.

Mom let's me do it...

I was enjoying this, then Dad came in...

Priceless Snippets

The other night we got the girls good and drowsy with a hot dinner followed by a bath and lazy, story time. Each slipped uncharacteristically off to sleep without a whimper, Avery in a tshirt and Briar in just a diaper. About an hour later, Sean and I were lying in bed whispering about the day when an indignant voice called out,

"Wait a minute! I haven't got any clothes on!"

It's Still a Clover, Mama

Seems just the other day that I sat by the window pining for autumn, now here it is, nipping at me with heavy rain and brisk winds, and a melancholy has set in. I think it is not the advent of autumn, but the rush of time it signals.

Briar is prancing about the house in underwear, the solid legs that used to poke from her diapers gone, in their place are limbs long and lean from running and dancing. The curve of her bottom is sharp and casts a shadow on taut hamstrings. I see the girl ahead, already here if I dare admit it, and yet the cotton princess underwear are a size too large, so they pucker and balloon around her form and I am reminded of how fragile and slight she still is. How can it be that just three years on this earth and I am mourning the passing of her youth? So many years are still ahead, and, in fact her nearness to the Briar of just a year ago is still palpable. It is almost as if she is a living dream, all of my hopes and fears wrapped up in a living, breathing flourish of pink and ringlets.

And Avery? Oh, my sweet petunia, so vibrant and hardy, open for all the loving and living you could ever imagine, but her petals whisper soft and her scent the whole of all my happiest moments. She is moving with the athleticism of a child much older, her words catch me by surprise, literally conversations, these words we share. She has risen above the cajoling and coaxing we were guilty of and forged her own beautiful relationship with her sister, both giving chase and taking breaks. What they have is so much better than anything we could have constructed. Such a bittersweet lesson, they really do surpass us, with their wisdom and strength, and of course their beauty. Physically Avery is sprinting as well, taller and slimmer each day, and each night the teeth make their ferocious march, pressing against her gums until she yelps and moans. I jump, perhaps a little too fast, to go to her. We reach for each other in the dark, and there in the embrace of her plush, squat reading chair, we find solace in one another.

I kiss her brow and stroke her back while she nurses, pausing every so often to raise her gaze to meet my own and whisper, "Back, Mama" and then she returns to suckling with a contented sigh, her eyes slipping down drunkenly. Some nights I hold on, enjoying the slower flow of time. Eventually sleep's call is too great, and I lower her back into her crib, her arms immediately reaching for her babies, my own feeling a little less empty as she sleeps in her crib, still a baby.

The other morning as I walked with Briar down the stairs she stopped. Mild annoyance passed over me as she pulled back toward the top of the stairs. She scampered up to the landing and bent down to pick something up off the hardwood floor.

"Look, mama."

"What is it, baby?"

"Look, mama." She said again as she walked over and pressed her face between the spindles of the banister. She stretched her hand toward me, little bits of dirt still under her nails from playing in the backyard.

"What's that, sweetie?"

"Look, mama. It's still a clover."

And there in her hand I saw a clover, dried and curled from sitting in the sun since she'd brought it home from a walk a couple of days earlier. I looked up at her, she was backlit in sunlight streaming through an eastern facing window. Her shoulder poked out from beneath her Cinderella nightgown and her legs were turned out in the universal squat reserved for three year old knees.

"Do you see, mama? Do you see it's still a clover?" Her face was intense, my affirmative answer something that she seemed to be dying for. I looked at the clover again. It was slightly yellowed and brittle, but I could still see the clover, still hear the gentle snap as she picked it. Looking back at Briar I suddenly saw the answer I had so desperately been seeking myself.

She is still my baby, my sweet clover.

"Yes, baby, I see it. It really is still a clover." I whispered.

"You want it, mama? You want my clover for you?" She asked leaping around to the stairs.

"Honey, I can't think of anything I'd like more. Thank you." I smiled as I took the hand she offered.

"I love you, mom."

Spit it out.

Not that I've ever really needed prodding to speak my mind,Izzy Mom started a new blog. And since even I am sick of hearing myself write about being excluded, how about this: Izzy included me! I have a post over at Moms Speak Up. Check it out.

Just Reach

Been paying attention to these girls, marveling at the get-up-and-go attitude. Dust off a dirty bottom, shake off a fat lip, blithely abandon spilled milk. They are on to something, and, in the interest of being the best mom I can to them, I am reaching. Reaching for a dream. Taking, as a dear friend of mine would say, a leap of faith.

I am shrugging off doubt, swatting away distractions, and abandoning all else but pursuing that for which my heart is meant. Thanks to Mrs. Chicken, for friendship and encouragement, Sean for help with the distractions and always believing that I could, and to our girls, my muses and my purpose, I promise I won't ever stop reaching.

Mama's got some writing to do. She'll still be here, writing, but another story needs telling and a dream needs catching.

I'm off. Go chase yours too, won't you?

I Don't Need a Nap, Mommy!

"I jus'hafta watch Rek!"
Said in an I'll-have-my-way-or-you'll-regret-it scream.



Not even through the opening credits of Shrek.