one hour photo

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.

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/

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.

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.

The Art of Parenting?

While sitting in the waiting room at the doctor's office yesterday, I came across an interesting article in a rumpled copy of The New Yorker (October 2009.) It was enough to keep my mind off the muscle-y knot/pinched nerve in my right shoulder, so I thought I'd post it here:

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/atlarge/2009/10/19/091019crat_atlarge_zalewski

For the record, our bookshelf houses both How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight and Harriet, You'll Drive Me Wild! I don't view the books as any sort of antidote to "bad behavior," rather they are a good starting point to talk to my kids about the need to listen, and the fact that mothers are human, too. (That said, Harriet is a messy kid who seems to have trouble with spilling things. And, the dinosaur-kids have parents who could intervene in all the madness a little sooner.)

But is the new narrative really Bratty Kids And Their Doormat Parents or is it something else?

Kids need to be taught to modulate their own behavior in order to feel some sense of security as they grow up into the world. Modulating behavior means learning self-control and tolerance of situations that can feel bad (like a muscle-y knot/pinched nerve in one's shoulder that hurts but doesn't give you free license to act like a dinosaur at work because you'll lose your job.) Since when did boundaries and expectations become a bad thing?

Slow Down

Life's like a road that you travel on

When there's one day here and the next day gone

Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand

Sometimes you turn your back to the wind

There's a world outside ev'ry darkened door

Where blues won't haunt you anymore

Where the brave are free and lovers soar

Come ride with me to the distant shore

We won't hesitate

To break down the garden gate

There's not much time left today

Life is a highway

I wanna ride it all night long

If you're going my way

I wanna drive it all night long

- Rascal Flatts

After several weeks devoid of Thursdays, I'm back (if somewhat sheepishly) to this blog. What happened to all of that momentum I had been building? Somewhere between Isabel Allende's advice to "write every day" and Sisyphus and his damn rock I lost speed. But I *swear* I have not been doing nothing. Really. I've been busy with many somethings like driving halfway across the country with children 1, 2, and 3 in tow (plus spouse) in a small (micro) Mazda 5. Without a DVD player. (But I did print out "Free! Printable!" travel bingo cards the night before.) The good news is that from New England all the way to the Midwest it took two [TWO] tanks of gas! (Take that, Toyota Prius!) Before the trip there was rushing and laundry and packing, and afterwards more laundry and unpacking and exhaustion. There was getting ready to leave work for 5 whole days. ("Don't forget to turn on your Out of Office message.") And, oh yes...there was a $140 speeding ticket on I-90 (in Massachusetts of course) and some puke on I-80.

The speeding ticket landed in my lap with great efficiency. I was doing a leisurely 79 (so says the ticket) and making very good time, might I add. I came around a scenic bend in the road when The Officer laser gunned me, pointed directly at me with his forefinger and promptly directed me to pull over to the side of the road. Despite the fact that The Officer was several feet away, I still felt his finger point all the way through the windshield and land on my chest. Yeeouch! It was oh shit/brakes on hot summer asphalt/tall black mounty boots/window rolled down/license and registration/rear view mirror/another poor sucker pulled to the side of the road while we waited for The Ticket/$$$/Be careful pulling back into traffic. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with Massachusetts state troopers, hear me when I say they are a force to be reckoned with. If you are pulled over, remove your sunglasses, hide your cellphone, and keep your mouth shut. I'll save the "I cut off a cop entering a traffic circle in Dorchester," and he told me that "[I] was the reason [he] couldn't get home safely to [his] wife and two kids every night" for another time.

Let's return to the moment of truth...the I'm getting pulled over/oh shit business of state troopers. What is notable about that moment is that all of the passengers in my vehicle, even the 13 month old, fell silent. Hear-a-pin-drop silent. (Well, except the spouse who briefly quipped, "I told you to slow down.") Now, Child No. 1 is a very in tune with rules and rightness, and I fully expected to be reprimanded by him, or for him to tell The Officer very matter-of-factly, "My mom was speeding." But there was nothing. Not a peep. I expected Child No. 2 to giggle, or ask The Officer if he liked mushy bananas which currently amuses my son. But he sat silently while Mommy Got A Ticket. Child No. 3 buckled securely into her five-point harness quietly sucked on her Nuk. Not a sound, not a single fussy moment to perhaps show The Officer that Mommy Was Distracted By All The Noise In The Car. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Perfect silence. In a family with children, perfect silence always indicates something very bad has happened or is currently happening. The ticket was one hundred-forty dollars that I could no longer spend worth of bad! So, after receiving the ticket there was only one thing for me to do. Keep driving. You know, "life is a highway" and all that. It was clearly a message from the universe telling me to Slow Down, to the tune of $140.

Since going back to work full time (f/t WOTHM) I have been running. My friend/co-worker laughs at me because I actually "cross state lines" in order to complete one of my three pick-ups. I work 6 minutes from my home, but to round up each of my three children from each of their respective after-school/preschool/childcare programs it takes an hour to get home, if I rush. I've been running in heels, pushing a stroller across gravel to get to baseball games on time, crazed to be on time, get there on time, make good time. Getting out the door and later back in the door with hats and shoes and daycare bedding, snack for 18 rug rats, school notices, changes of clothes, toys to share with friends, money for popcorn or ice cream or book fair, and homework (don't even get me STARTED on homework for elementary school kids) oh, and don't forget my planner for work with reminders to myself to make dentist appointments and follow up on completed health forms all of which has brought a level of crazy I would liken to feeling seasick on a roller-coaster. I want to get off the ride, really I do. I am getting off. I will slow down. Really.

Afterword: The puke happened on the trip back home, again while I was driving. Child No. 2 ate an entire Starbucks's apple fritter, and a bag of Teddy Grahams, and possibly half of a chocolate brownie "Z-Bar" all before 9 a.m. It was surprisingly easy to scrape the puke off both his clothing and car seat. Car sick puke is one thing. Stomach virus puke is another. I'll clean up car sick puke any time.

Slippery Slope

Remember the Myth of Sisyphus? Poor sucker, Sisyphus, condemned to roll that giant rock back up to the top of the hill again, and again, and again, because the damn thing kept rolling back down. (Do you also remember the high school English class where you squirmed in your seat while the teacher quoted bits from Edith Hamilton's Mythology? Ah-hem: "Let's begin on page 24 with, "The Myth of Sisyphus.") The memory of the high school English class, of Hamilton's dry-as-crackers book, and the myth itself makes me marvel at how I ended up first an English major and later a high school English teacher.

With all that is published in the world, how is it that the best we can summon into the curriculum is the Myth of Sisyphus? What bleaker life can there be to present to a bunch of 17-year olds? Maybe it's included because sitting at that school desk, and later in/at your cube at work you will identify with the mythological man. I don't know if its heat or the humidity ("it's the humidity") that's got me in such a funk thinking about Sisyphus, but it seems lately that despite my best efforts I simply cannot get to the top of the hill. I'm in a slump, stuck on a slippery slope, with Sisyphus. (Can you say that five times real fast?)

What happens if you lift Sisyphus out of his own myth, secure the boulder at the top with a couple of 2-by's and offer him a Sam Adams for his hard work? What would the man do? Well, he could meet up with Sir Isaac Newton and talk gravity, or he could visit remedial English classes and encourage kids to "stay in school." He could even stop by my house, knock at the door and tell me to post my blog on Thursday's, get some exercise, and eat right in order to avoid his fateful forever. And you know what, if he stopped by I'd probably invite him in.

"If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious." - Albert Camus