Mind the snake, please.
Last week my husband and I had a bit of the dismals. We looked over our various half done jobs (stripping wall paper and painting downstairs bedroom, wrestling the laundry room monster that threatens to devour souls and small dogs, getting the garden set up, digging another drainage ditch, painting the kitchen, rescreening doors, FINALLY get a door knob up on the hall closet…weed theAHHHHHHHHHH). So we hung up a picture in the dining room. High fived and flopped on the couch feeling totally uncreative and uninspired.
We realized as we talked out our short tempers and crusty attitudes of late that we hadn’t really gotten out and about. Sure we’ve been out in the Garden, heading to the local playground, the local beach. But we needed a little adventure damn it. That’s why we set sail from Kauai and the land of the everlasting coconut. To travel to new lands. Not to spend every Saturday weeding, unpacking and pushing kidlets on swings (not that there is anything wrong with said activities…just in moderation!).
So we found a destination. Dug out our new family tent and trangia. Piled up tiny sweaters, stuffed monkeys, favorite books, tempting snacks and a dose of optimism about camping with two kids under 2.5. I mean…THIS WAS CAR CAMPING, not a trip to Everest. Although you’d be tempted to think we were about to do a recreation of the Oregon Trail after you saw all the crap we had.
We set up our tent in condor country. California chaparral. Dry and hot with evergreen oaks, thickets of chamise, clumps of monkey flowers and dainty elegant clarkia. Manzanita. Mustang mint. We dripped sweat in the 90 degree heat thinking how in the F did we cope in Hawaii all those years? My body is now fine tuned to a temperate coastal 65-70 F.
We hiked. Went birding. Built a wee fire. Got tired kids tucked in and sat under the stars holding hands and drinking cups of lady grey tea while pouring through our wildflower ID book.
It was EXACTLY what we needed and now we want more, more, more!
And yes, as always I got my snack over the head lesson in mothering by the Universe.
Our first trail was a simple 3 mile looper past a spring, a cave closed for bat breeding and winding through boulders that looked like the marbles of scattered giants. Sounds great yeah? Well, 4 steps onto the trail (you know, it might have still been the car park) I met my first Western Rattlesnake with my daughter firmly tied to my back.
To say I was raised in a snake phobic house is an understatement. My mom honed an obsessive fear of snakes that makes Fox New’s conspiracy theories on left-wing media bias seem rational in comparison. A garter snake the size of my pinky finger turned up in the green beans…off with his head! What about by the morning glory trellis? Off with his head. By the fire pit? You got it! Off with his head.
I have so many memories of my mom forcing my dad, cousins, innocent bystanders to decapitate snakes that it’s hard to choose just one scenario. It just runs together into a bloody summertime genocide of scales and hissing.
Perhaps the best example of her pathological fear was the time she abandoned my 3 week old sister in her bouncer out on the dock because a water snake was spotted in the general vicinity. I remember standing on the (second story!) deck clutching her hand with my brother and other young sister who was luckily able enough to toddle away while my mom called down encouraging “buck up, you’ll be fine,” remarks to the howling baby before growling to my dad to get the shotgun.
For those of you who know my dad and have seen him order bottles of wine, obsess over bike components or a new set of golf clubs this may come as a surprise. But yes, my dad obliged his wife and executed this hapless water snake by firing squad. Then piled the remains on my Aunt Donna’s dock three doors down because you know, she hates snakes too. Just not as much as my mom.
Sure Mom had her reasons. Seven brothers sticking snakes in her bed or wrapping their dried corpses around her door knob. But to be unable to look at a picture of one in a book? Cognitive therapy anyone?
Obviously this snake phobia cast it’s own dark shadow across my tender psyche. Nick and I enjoyed many backpacking trips into the Tasmanian bush that descended into tears the minute he hiked a mite faster and rounded the corner out of my eyeshot. Abandoning me when bona fide snake danger existed? This wasn’t getting licked to death by a garter snake. This was getting swallowed into the tussocks by the feared Tiger Snake.
He was unsympathetic. I was uncoddled. Unhappily so. Then we moved to Hawaii and enjoyed 5 years of running thigh deep through dense bush worry free.
And now here I was. Literally looking straight into the glistening eyes of rattlesnake who held it’s head alert, tailed poised. And there was my 9 month old daughter and VERY impressionable 2 year old son watching me.
“Oh.” I managed.
“A snake.” Jarah squatted next to me pointing as Nick hung back checking out my reaction.
“It’s so….beautiful?” I squeaked looking back to my husband for reassurance. He just grinned like a cheeky monkey. An encouraging cheeky monkey. C’mon, show me you can handle this one.
“Yes, he’s so beautiful Mama.” The little guy agreed.
“Let’s just stay right here and show the snake some respect okay?”
“Ok. Hi snake!.” Waves.
We stood there for the 27 hours or seconds it took for the snake to undulate down into a pile of leaves.
For the next 4 days all we heard about was the “so cool beautiful rattlesnake. pay attention. show respect.”
I can’t promise not to inflict all my deep-seated fears on my children. But here is one little chestnut of hope that sometimes, just maybe, I can break an unhelpful cycle. Keep their sense of peace intact whatever my own irrational hang ups.
Happy Fathering
Thanks for breeding with me…
My little runaway…run, run, run, run, runaway
I think every parent at times asks the question, “Am I a good parent?” Some days when I feel myself about to go into a core reactor meltdown I have to repeat my favorite mantras…
“He’s only two.”
“It is easier to raise a healthy child than fix a broken adult.”
We have been working A LOT with empathy in our house. This means that when I get smacked in the leg or spat at (oh no he didn’t. oh yes he did) I try to get down to the little guy’s level and give him some firm compassion. “You are so mad. You really want to (insert: watch 342 hours of videos, eat ice cream in bed, bang wooden hammer on sister’s head, throw rocks at the car, rip out newly planted flowers) don’t you. You are so mad that you are trying to hurt Mommy. I don’t like to get hurt. Ouch. Let me give you a hug instead.” 7 times out of 10 this actually diffuses the situation and my little guy crumples like a kleenex into my lap overcome by his emotion. He’s 2. I mean it’s like living with PMS 24/7 apparently. When I am actually successfully in an empathetic state I really do get it. Being a small guy in an adult world is hard. I can remember snatches of his frustration. The drudge of the afternoon nap (I can still even remember the floral patterns on the sheets of my bed). The distaste of having my applesauce spread into my peas. The boring journeys to the plant nursery or grocery store.
Empathy is also way better than my alternate approach which is “DON’T SPIT. GO IN YOUR ROOM UNTIL YOU CAN ACT NICELY.” “NONONONO.” “YESYESYESYEYES.” “NONONONONONO.” “YESYESYESYESYES.” Drags little guy into room. Those No’s and Yes’s can go back and forth for upwards of a half an hour.
So…empathy generally seems to be working on a big picture level. But let me just say this is not without a hiccup or two.
Take yesterday . My overtired guy decided to boycott naps altogether and stage a protest that would be the envy of unions and pro-democracy activists everywhere. Fine, I decided after 2 hours of futile gentle encouragement. Fine, no nap. That was promptly followed by a poo in the closet. “Wow, you are really angry to go poop in your diaper in the closet. You are so angry that you didn’t want the toilet.” Fine, change diaper. This is where the gauntlet is throw…in process of cleaning away said diaper I hear front door slam.
Are you kidding me?
WTF? I run out to backyard to check out sandbox, toybox, garden. Nope.
WTF? I head to front yard to check out car, etc. Nope.
Seriously…WTF? I hustle down to end of driveway and look left, than right. Bingo. My two year old son is running (naked as a little jaybird) up the sidewalk towards the rather busy road a block away. I start to chase him. He cackles and diverts into our street. I catch him right in front of a house with a bunch of hippy UCSC students moving out. Dude, was I about to harsh their mellow.
In my pajamas I grab my little nudie rudie quite roughly with empathy out the window. Much cathartic yelling ensued on my part, I’m sure the other neighbors were peering out their blinds thinking what is that crack mom up to now? The hippie gaped. My son issued some nervous laughter that sent me from angry to freaking full on Fukushima meltdown fury. Then that little mantra sprouted up like a tiny hopeful flower inside my toxic sludge, “He is two.”
Cue the deep breath. Exhale. Repeat.
“I was so scared.” I said making a scared face.
“Yeah.” My guy responded, laughter ceasing.
“I was so scared because you ran out of the house and I didn’t know where you were.”
“Yeah. I ran away.”
“I was so frightened that you would get hurt by a big car.”
“I so sorry Mama.”
Cue loads of tears from little guy and then in turn his mama.
Since this traumatic event he’ll walk up at random moments and say, “Run away Mama? No way!”
Hopefully he’ll remember that when he turns 16 or so and we are embroiled in some teenage quagmire. Hopefully I remember to keep having those gleanings of empathy at the right moment (or a few minutes later, better late than never). A nightly glass of red doesn’t hurt either. I’m working my way down the Central Coast wineries. And on those mantras.
my own personal zen master
…because i can’t get “give me one moment in time” outta my head tonight. just made my ailing hubs a cup of tea (apparently i’m under contractual obligation to furnish hot drinks including meyer lemon and honey as required), peeled a book of animal illustrations of my sleeping little boy’s sweaty face, and tucked the blankie snuggly around a snoring miss b. now time for an hour or two of wild writing.
still unpacking from trip north to the big smoke of SF. Got to see the opening of the talented James Chronister’s Now We Lustre. Nearly drove a 5 seater tourist bike out of Golden Gate Park and onto Hwy 1. Discovered bourbon/cornflake ice cream and fava bean dip. Took my first trip on the BART. Caught up with dear old Missoula friends, laughed hard, remembered much. Wished I could keep some people in my pocket (although they’d likely think otherwise given the state of my pockets).
you know what, life is pretty sweet just now. almost as sweet as that delish ginger tea/raw honey/lemon zest concoction i just prepared.
so now, thanks to whitney, is the theme of today’s post…
give me a few more of these crazy rainy day moments in time.
(you can literally see the attack unfold from start to finish)
I believe the dialogue went a bit like this
Bronte: This is fun!
Jarah: This is fun!
Bronte: My big brother is so freaking cool, I’m so lucky!
Jarah: Hang on, I think I’m going to suffocate you now.
Bronte: WTF ***sputtersputter***
Jarah (suddenly speaking like Darth Vader): I’ve got you now.
Bronte: FML….wait a second. I love you! Do it again, do it again!
A dripping snapshot of 15 unbelievably sodden parenting minutes…
Yesterday the kiddos and I headed out in the late afternoon sun to wrestle the wily alligator that is our 95% gutted backyard. And by gutted I mean like a midwest deer at the hands of one of my Michigan uncles sometime mid-fall. Ew, sorry that was a bit more visceral than I intended. But have a look for yourself and see if you disagree.
Before:
After:
Whoa. Now picture sunken patios, juicy blueberry patches, thoughtfully laid out drought tolerant California natives, showy South African proteas, a patriotic kangaroo paw, jaunty sunflowers, lush plum trees, raised bed of deep, rich soil rising in a symphony of heart breaking beauty…yes. yes. That vision currently only exists somewhere between in my frontal and temporal lobes. Germinating. Ready bloom forth. Jesus, I am full of the metaphors this morning and literally cannot help myself. I MUST inflict them on you, dear readers.
But no, this post is not about our garden. Nor the fresh gopher hole I discovered yesterday (although no doubt I’ll be growing all Carl Spackler a la Caddyshack if this problem worsens).
No this is a post about poop. And vomit.
…..
Are you still there? Well then, let’s continue shall we?
So there I am raking mulch and swearing over the gopher hole that appeared uninvited near our new plum tree (that I totally planted in a gopher basket so you’re foiled mr? mrs? ms? gopher) when Jarah announces he has to poop. On the potty. Which is not a cause for celebration. Jarah only announces he has to poop on the potty if he’s already pooped. In his pants. So I head to the deck to find my suspicions are confirmed. He did indeed forgo the much lauded potty. But in a twist, also decided to forgo the pants. Instead, he chose the deck. Where his shoes, clothes, body and around 4,345 trucks were all coated in a very berry (we have been feasting on local strawberries with madness, fervor and passionate intensity), very smelly concoction.
I gagged. I rolled my eyes to the heaven and whispered a prayer of mercy. I looked over my shoulder to see if any guardian angel was on hand to help a sister out. Nope, I was on my own. Ten minutes later I had sanitized myself enough to handle small children. Had the boy more or less clean enough to get in the house and straight to the tub. The deck was wiped down. The toys in a bucket awaiting a major washing.
Then Bronte decided the moment was ripe for a pre-dinner meltdown.
Jarah seeing his sister melting down decides he could do a bit better and gives it his level best. I (holding a nearly 20 pound writhing 8 month old) squat to collect my convulsing son only to press down on Bronte’s stomach at exactly the wrong angle. Leaving me dripping from chin to knee in baby vomit.
Folks, that is why sometimes my husband walks through the door to discover his wife disemboweling him over a breakfast dish he left on the table.
5.
Five years ago today we were doing a little of this…
Five years later we’re doing a little bit (correction: a whole lot) of this…
So what do two tired parents do when kind friends offer to babysit giving us a chance at a date night?
I suggested sneaking home for a nap, and by nap i meant…a nap.
Nick suggested a beach walk. Then admitted he’d really like to crash at a movie. Thor anyone? Anyone? Cue wifely eye rolling.
But then we rallied and got our inner carnie’s on a the much maligned (by me, not the world at large) Santa Cruz Boardwalk.
Love really is a bit like a rickety 100 year old wooden roller coaster. Full of swooping ups, jarring bumps, moments of terror, odd fits of screaming and sheer exhilaration.
Happy anniversary matey.
Digging Out
I am in the middle of one of those times when it seems like there is a heap piled on top of me. Anyone have a shovel? My to-do lists have to-do lists. My temper runs short by turns, then totally relaxes at odd moments like getting cut off by a crazy Prius driver while traversing the murky waters over San Francisco Bay.
But first things first. The winner of the FIRST EVER WHERE THE WATERMELONS GROW GIVEAWAY IS (insert snare drum roll here)….Claire! This highly scientific drawing was decided by putting the number of comments (#2, I TOLD you your chances were good to win) in a bowl, then choosing. Claire was #2. Some spammer named Lawanda was #3 but I decided not to count her.
Claire, for supporting the Kira Hodek Medical Fund you will receive s personalized story by yours truly. We shall speak soon, sort the logistics. Please support the Hodek family, they have a feisty baby who is spending way too long in a hospital in a country that charges obscene amounts for hospital bills. Seriously, I think mamas who appreciate free health care to protect their little ones should go polar bear on those mama grizzlies Grrrrr.
Ms. Claire is a long time friend made back in the days of Jesse Hall, University of Montana. She is by turns an amazing artist, skier, brand new mama and MacBook aficionado. Last year as I agonized over spending big bucks on a thrilling new laptop she encouraged me. So therefore, I received some sympathy from her on the weekend when A HORROR occurred.
It was a normal afternoon heading to the new house to do some gardening (move in day is 3 days away!). I practically broke my toe on a baby bouncer, got son into car only to be pelted in face by an offending apple (no apple, no snack mama came the cry), only to see dear daughter sneeze a bucketful of snot all over her face from the confines of her car seat. I tossed MacBook Pro (er, placed gently with care and reverence) onto the roof of our Suburu and ran inside to grab a hankie. Came out with a granola bar which was received by son with more enthusiasm. Sigh of relief, and we were off.
1 mile down the road in moderate rush hour traffic a clatter catches my attention. I turn down NPR, now what was THAT? I wonder before slowly realizing THE HORROR. The Horror that is driving off with your MacBook Pro (>1 year old) on the roof of your car on a one way road in traffic with no shoulder.
I could talk about the tears, bitter self recrimination, painstaking searching but you know what…I don’t have time for the pain. Long story condensed into a small, brilliant miracle: MacBook found. Owner contacted. Friend (thank you Maxine!!) picked it up as finder lived just out of Oakland. I dashed over on Easter and retrieved it. And it works like a charm. Apple I love you. People I love you.
A few weeks ago (weeks that were filled with a Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease/Croup struck 2 year old, broken water main, MASSIVE home DIY undertakings, sick 7 month old, jetlag, no sure what else because say what? I don’t have time for the pain!) I flew ALONE with two children under 2.5 years of age. From Melbourne, Australia to San Francisco and a layover in Auckland just to spice it up a little.
Was it long? Yes. 24 hours door to door. Was it hard, surprisingly…no! Go forth and travel young mothers, for the world is a rather kind place. At least to solo mothers on long haul international flights. Neighboring seatmates didn’t overtly mind being kicked or occasionally boob groped by my wee lad. Bronte marathon nursed and now weighs in the same as a small country, hi New Zealand! Stewards brought water. Epic cartoons were watched. Custom lanes were fast tracked. I was awake for 48 hours but hey, I didn’t have to cook a meal or take the garbage out.
We move in this week, hopefully postings will be returning to more reasonably sporadic timelines.
Leaving you with a taste of our trip down under:
The last two weeks have been good for us. So, so good. We’ve been enjoying a lovely family vacation in Southeastern Australia full of laughter, catch up, cups of tea, kookaburras, baby slobbers and wild, windy weather. We are blessed and I’ll pop some pics of the fun so far in this space soon.
But the past few weeks have been quite wrenching for a friend from Missoula, Montana. This strong new mama has had a very sick baby who’s now been diagnosed with a Congenital Subglottic Stenosis with Laryngeal Web.
Say what?
This means that she was born with a narrow airway, just below her vocal chords. The little trooper is only 9 months old. You can hear more about her story and how to help here.
If you’ve ever felt inclined to help out a stranger, making a donation (however large or small) to support the daunting medical bills of this young family would be a lovely, much appreciated way to celebrate the start of Spring, faith in humanity (you choose the reason).
And… I’ve come up with a way to sweeten the deal for you. Make a donation and I’ll enter you into the FIRST EVER . I am not exactly dripping with talents but I can write a bit. Or at least can show you my B.A in Creative Writing to shock and awe you. Here’s the scoop:
Make a donation to the Kira Hodek Medical Fund and I’ll enter you in a drawing to win a story. Yes, that’s right a 1,500 word story to be exact. Written by little ol’ moi!! You pick the characters, the plot (or I’ll choose them for you). Think of the faces on Christmas morning or an upcoming birthday when you surprise a loved one with a personalized story where THEY are the main character. Woo hoo, fiction writing with a purpose at it’s finest.
Just leave a comment below saying you helped the sweet family out (no need to state how generous you were, I do think this is a case of anything helps). You’ll be entered in a random numbered drawing to win. And guess what? This is not exactly the most read blog on the planet so your chances are really very, very good!!!! Don’t be shy…you know you are practically weeing yourself at the opportunity to immortalize yourself or a loved one in the written word.
Entries close April 2nd. Come on and help a mama out (plus give a slack writer mama a great project!)
Keys to the Kingdom
Yup…It’s official!
And to celebrate Nick and I did NOT make out in our new living room (as my sister Megan asked). No we were way hotter, we bought a water heater (bad pun certainly intended).
Why I have fallen off the face of the virtual world…
The ever fabulous Maya Angelou (who I cannot believe is hitting up Santa Cruz when I am outta town) once wrote, “the ache for home lives in all of us.” And in my not-so-quiet, OCD way…I have ached and ached and ached for a home of our own. If my official title is homemaker, where is my office? I have dreamed of garden plots, chickens, and nesting for so long I feel like I should have a long, white beard and talk about when milk was a nickel.
But now my friends, I will ache in a whole new way. The way that can only come from cannonballing into an ocean of debt known as the California real estate market.
Ladies and gentleman…may I present to you the relic of the 70’s, the wonder of jungled backyards everywhere…our first home!
I could disparage, poke fun of and deride this little fixer upper like I have for the past 6 weeks it has ruled our lives. But no more! This weird little plot of land is now our family stomping grounds and it needs lots of love, warm words and kind intentions to grow forth and flourish.
We get the keys in two days.
Where the Watermelons Grow 