8 year-old sits
buckled into back
seat
alert/intent
on world past car window, reads
sign fastened to faux brick
on bigbox pharmacy:
[1 Hr - Photo]
don't you think that's a little too long?
(he quips)
I suppose--
too long for the child watching
mother upload photos
instantly
too long for the child begging tiny video clips play (again!) to hear
younger brother laugh (again!) at the sound of
his own laugh/to watch baby sister take steps, snatch at a leaf, grab a toy (again! again!)
what's lost for the lack of paper?
what's gained in time?
I snap photos/upload images/attempt to capture
the moment.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
de·fer /diˈfər/ Verb
Let's face it. My last blog post missed the mark. I wrote about yogurt, and at that, rather badly. I don't make time for multiple drafts, and so sometimes I push on with a topic even when I know it's not working, simply because I am desperate to get something posted. My apologies, readers. Honestly, the last post reminded me of the kind of writing I might have produced on a test when I was in public school--forced, lacking in vision, and generally speaking, irrelevant. Moving on...
A good friend of mine recently began her own blog, and I have to admit, I look forward to each new post. Her writing is at once poetic and bold, with a dash of humor to keep things interesting. She is able to pull off what I think of as peeling-back-the-onion-honesty, without anyone getting hurt in the process. Best of all she has a good sense of when to begin and end a post. Her blog "Work Play Eat Dream" was recently highlighted as a blog to check out on Boston.com. (That's impressive stuff in the world of blogging. ) I hope you'll check out Sarah's blog at: http://workplayeatdream.blogspot.com/
A good friend of mine recently began her own blog, and I have to admit, I look forward to each new post. Her writing is at once poetic and bold, with a dash of humor to keep things interesting. She is able to pull off what I think of as peeling-back-the-onion-honesty, without anyone getting hurt in the process. Best of all she has a good sense of when to begin and end a post. Her blog "Work Play Eat Dream" was recently highlighted as a blog to check out on Boston.com. (That's impressive stuff in the world of blogging. ) I hope you'll check out Sarah's blog at: http://workplayeatdream.blogspot.com/
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Yogurt Culture
Stonyfield Farm makes some darn good yogurt. My sons like the drinkable "Super Smoothies" (Wild Berry) that come in a cardboard sleeve printed with green grass and happy cows. It's good stuff...unlike say, GoGurts ("I want the Shrek ones!") that kids can squeeze up and out of a plastic tube like some flimsy toothpaste tube sans cap. ("No, we're not buying that! I'm not even sure it's yogurt!") Oddly enough, when I shrieked about the bad Shrek yogurt, I wasn't even sure what made bad yogurt bad, and good yogurt good. I was just going off comments I'd heard my sister make.
People like to make their own yogurt, and that seems to make it "good." In fact, yogurt-makers save scrapings from their last batch of old yogurt to inspire the next batch. (Dubious, I know.) My sister, lover of the homemade yogurt, even has her very own yogurt maker. (Is it like a snow cone maker, only no Snoopy?) Thanks to the internet, I've discovered that yogurt is simply fermented milk heated to around 80 degrees Celsius (Fahrenheit, please!) to keep bad bacteria from entering the goo. And, this much loved breakfast/lunch/dinner food has been around for 1,000's of years. (Who knew?)
My uneasy relationship with yogurt began just over ten years ago. The first taste of yogurt I had was in the dorm cafeteria my freshman year of college, (Dannon, "Strawberry on the Bottom.") It was disgusting. I was sure the cup of grainy goo I'd dipped my institutionally washed spoon into had gone bad. And not bad in a good way. But, sportos, sorority girls, dreadlocked hacky-sackers, poets and dreamers all seemed to be eating it up. The cups of unnaturally colored butterscotch pudding lined up in cases by big women in hairnets seemed safer. The yogurt culture was not for me; I played it safe.
But safety and familiarity brought some strange flavors to Freshman year. I had the boyfriend from high school (at another university, 2 hours and twenty minutes away via Greyhound) and the high school friends with whom I ventured onto campus with, only to realize how difficult it was to stay connected, our relationships sitting like unpopped popcorn at the bottom of a very large kettle. But then, there were the rich mochas at Espresso Royale Cafe, and greasy burgers at the Union. Be Bim Bop super cheap just off the main drag, and ice cream instead of dinner at Stucci's. The falafel place and the Chinese restaurant with the dry yellow cookies decorated with an almond in the center. And beer. Of course there was beer.
But what was college if not a supreme exercise in uncovering the tastes that were most interesting/exciting/comforting? The man-boys, the beer, the courses in lit crit, all of them were just filters allowing light to either enter the room, or not. My senior year I worked in the inter-library loan office. The first half of the job entailed standing at the copier with crumbling books that professors from other universities needed copies from because the books couldn't travel from their home in Special Collections. It was boring/easy. The second half of the job required reshelving the books. I was given a small cart, and would steer my charges into the elevator and descend into the stacks. Their were rumors that people had sex in the stacks, were raped, even murdered. But it was too peaceful down there to worry about most of it. The floors had translucent panels to allow light from above to filter down, and the wrought iron rails spoke to a more decorative, a more dignified time in campus history. I would lose myself in those stacks, return one book to the shelf, then pull down three more to page through. Heavenly, I tell you.
But, my shift at the library would end, and I would return the little cart and reenter the world. College was really movement from one culture to the next in an endless, dizzying parade. But sitting here, in my house on this evening, with my three children tucked safely into bed, I wonder what all of those experiences add up to for my life now, as a mother. What becomes of all of those memories and past selves? Looking backward has its purpose, is comfortable and familiar. Looking forward is three times as hard. I guess, like loving yogurt, some things you just have to learn from your kids.
People like to make their own yogurt, and that seems to make it "good." In fact, yogurt-makers save scrapings from their last batch of old yogurt to inspire the next batch. (Dubious, I know.) My sister, lover of the homemade yogurt, even has her very own yogurt maker. (Is it like a snow cone maker, only no Snoopy?) Thanks to the internet, I've discovered that yogurt is simply fermented milk heated to around 80 degrees Celsius (Fahrenheit, please!) to keep bad bacteria from entering the goo. And, this much loved breakfast/lunch/dinner food has been around for 1,000's of years. (Who knew?)
My uneasy relationship with yogurt began just over ten years ago. The first taste of yogurt I had was in the dorm cafeteria my freshman year of college, (Dannon, "Strawberry on the Bottom.") It was disgusting. I was sure the cup of grainy goo I'd dipped my institutionally washed spoon into had gone bad. And not bad in a good way. But, sportos, sorority girls, dreadlocked hacky-sackers, poets and dreamers all seemed to be eating it up. The cups of unnaturally colored butterscotch pudding lined up in cases by big women in hairnets seemed safer. The yogurt culture was not for me; I played it safe.
But safety and familiarity brought some strange flavors to Freshman year. I had the boyfriend from high school (at another university, 2 hours and twenty minutes away via Greyhound) and the high school friends with whom I ventured onto campus with, only to realize how difficult it was to stay connected, our relationships sitting like unpopped popcorn at the bottom of a very large kettle. But then, there were the rich mochas at Espresso Royale Cafe, and greasy burgers at the Union. Be Bim Bop super cheap just off the main drag, and ice cream instead of dinner at Stucci's. The falafel place and the Chinese restaurant with the dry yellow cookies decorated with an almond in the center. And beer. Of course there was beer.
But what was college if not a supreme exercise in uncovering the tastes that were most interesting/exciting/comforting? The man-boys, the beer, the courses in lit crit, all of them were just filters allowing light to either enter the room, or not. My senior year I worked in the inter-library loan office. The first half of the job entailed standing at the copier with crumbling books that professors from other universities needed copies from because the books couldn't travel from their home in Special Collections. It was boring/easy. The second half of the job required reshelving the books. I was given a small cart, and would steer my charges into the elevator and descend into the stacks. Their were rumors that people had sex in the stacks, were raped, even murdered. But it was too peaceful down there to worry about most of it. The floors had translucent panels to allow light from above to filter down, and the wrought iron rails spoke to a more decorative, a more dignified time in campus history. I would lose myself in those stacks, return one book to the shelf, then pull down three more to page through. Heavenly, I tell you.
But, my shift at the library would end, and I would return the little cart and reenter the world. College was really movement from one culture to the next in an endless, dizzying parade. But sitting here, in my house on this evening, with my three children tucked safely into bed, I wonder what all of those experiences add up to for my life now, as a mother. What becomes of all of those memories and past selves? Looking backward has its purpose, is comfortable and familiar. Looking forward is three times as hard. I guess, like loving yogurt, some things you just have to learn from your kids.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Art Studio
The kitchen in our home serves as a multi-purpose room. Although you can't pull a basketball hoop down from the ceiling, or fold the chairs out of the dining table, our kitchen does serve as a space for food preparation, homework, art-making, entertaining, laundry, band-aid application, etc. I put a stop to some of that x-treme functionality today by moving the art-making to a new home in our home, the dining room. Up until today the dining room has served primarily as a place to fold the laundry washed in the aforementioned kitchen, or to dump junk mail, bills, and school notices. While I think it's pretty common that dining rooms rarely get used because of modern day life/the break-down of the family and all of those other American culture reasons, that's not what I'm interested in writing about tonight. Instead, let me tell you about my real motivations for making an art-making space/fledgling studio in the heart of my home.
William Morris, father of the Arts and Crafts movement in America (Google him if you like) is credited with saying, "Have nothing in your house which you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful." That statement has been running through my head for some time. I think it's what makes me constantly move and rearrange, and filter and sort my belongings. If it's not beautiful or useful, why I am I hanging onto it? (This I know; sentimentality can fill a lot of plastic storage bins in the attic.)
My oldest child attended a preschool housed in a beautiful old Victorian. The reason I enrolled him at the school was primarily because I liked the space. Inside the space, Art, Beauty and Order reigned. It was love at first sight. Glass jars lining the walls, each with a different color of hand-dyed yarn inside. Light tables with glass beads scattered across their tops. A fireplace upon which families were invited to place framed photos. Mobiles composed of branches and twigs some twisted with ribbons and bells and shells hanging from the ceiling. And there were even rules barring the Stupid toys, licensed merchandise, and plastic of all varieties from entering The Space. (I'll kvetch about the snack basket another post.)
The nursery/preschool/pre-k/kindergarten is much more a school than a daycare, and because they know this about themselves, they charge an arm and leg for "before and aftercare." They cater mostly to families with the ability to flex around a shorter school day, which leaves me, the full-time-work-outside-the-home-mother with my nose pressed against the true divided lights, gazing in with desperate longing. But, the standing outside, looking in situation is a sad math fact at this point. Tuition rates + three children = my second-born is unable to attend. It tugs at me in the worst sort of way as I would like nothing more than to give him that unique "Reggio Emilia" experience.
At the core of a true Reggio Emilia program is art studio. There are no predetermined projects in this space. In the spring when the local PS is gearing up for each and every student to cut a yellow tulip out of construction paper, "My School" students are completing ink sketches daubed with pale watercolors to post at the end-of-year art exhibition. (Disclaimer: As an advocate of the public schools, I feel compelled to say public schools are tasked with teaching All children. And we should celebrate the fact that they do in fact take on such a monumental challenge. The Reggio Emilia school only has to teach those who pay, those who choose Harvest Celebrations over Thanksgiving Feasts.)
But. Even so. I want that. I want that space for my middle artist-child. So, after a good three or four weeks of sulking and letting it sink in that neither my schedule nor my wallet can accommodate said desires, I decided to figure out a way to bring "My School" home. And here is my plan... The dining room will be our family studio. I/we will collect and arrange things of beauty to inspire us. I/we will dream up small art exploration projects for our family. As a family we will do what my husband and I initially came together to do, create things with purpose and integrity, live protected by love, always move in the direction of beauty. For now, I'm really just setting the scene. I've recycled most of the plastic, moved some art supplies to the middle of the dining room table, and am satisfied on this evening to have kept my chin up, gotten creative, and found a way to get what I want. Well, almost.
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