the lonely bag.

ah, the punching bag, blowing in the cool Southern California wind, swaying over the muddy dog-dug lawn, taunting me with the old dusty footprints of workouts past...

i am curled up inside myself, finding every excuse possible as to why i cannot exercise right now.  it's too windy for the bag, i say.  i can't go to the gym after alex gets home because when will i eat? and i can't wake up early because, for the love of all that is holy, it is december and it just feels wrong.

that was wrong.  that felt wrong.

i'm all wrapped up with my heavy thoughts these days, wondering about wondering kind of stuff.  i need to get my blood tested.  i need to find a way to help find energy and stamina again.  i need to work out, or at least do a few planks a day.  is that so hard, holly?  this is what i say to myself.  why can't you just pick up the weights while you are on the couch watching "the wire"?  

and why can't you find the time to wake up a half hour early just to sit with yourself and meditate, goddamnit.  you know it's one of the best things for you.  that and yoga.  and you should go to yoga again, and find a way to pay for it.  stop buying books at the thrift store and pay for a class or two.

what is wrong with you, woman?

there's also the side of me that is begging to give myself a wee break; that it's winter, and in winter, i am fine-tuned to nestling all snug in my bed.  i am the eater of potatoes and stews and hot buttered bread.  i am the baker of sweet things and the wisher of silence and swaddling.  i wear two pairs of socks, keep my heat at 59, and demand a huge pile of blankets.  i feel the need for a den.  i live by the sun, and the lack thereof.  isn't this what is supposed to happen to me during this season?  aren't i supposed to feel this way?

i know it's technically still autumn, but go with me on this one.

there's nothing wrong with me.  there's nothing wrong with me.  there's nothing wrong with me.

the thing is, just changing clothes at this time of year is painful.  who wants to be naked for a few seconds when you live in a house with no insulation, when the night before has hit the 30s (yes, in LA) and the chill is still within the walls of your home?  who wants that?  it sounds really devastating to get off this couch right now, remove my cozy boots and fingerless gloves and knitted hat and two layers of shirts and warm jeans and comfortable bra and put on the inevitably freezing cold sports bra, tiny socks, workout pants and old cold t-shirt.  who wants to do that?

a crazy person, that's who.  i mean, come on, cold bras in the winter suck.

plus i have a warm, large dog who insists on sitting almost on top of me.  how can i ruin her cozy time? i am providing her with much-needed body warmth.  this is what any dog-lover would do.

so this is my rationalization, yes, i know it, yes, it's true, but i can't deny it to myself today.  i'm without inclination or motivation.  and yes, i know that if i overcame those things and got my ass out there i would feel better, would feel that i somehow deserve the homemade blondie in the other room, and then be fine eating tortilla chips while i make chili for dinner, and then pat myself on the back for the huge hunks of bread with butter on them that i inhale with the soup.

fuck that.  

i deserve all of those things anyway.  i am a bear about to welcome winter, and i need to fortify my heart, body and soul for the months ahead.

ah december, what you do to me.  i love you so much.  you are my favorite.  thanks for making sure i was born within you, so that i can be deeply attached to you forever.

(as i was writing this, this became a two-dog couch, so there i am now officially locked-in for good this evening.  time for my jammies.)

the important book.

i found this in our school library today.  written by margaret wise brown (of "goodnight, moon" fame) and illustrated by leonard weisgard.

there is a simplicity to this writing that strikes me hard.

and on and on.  it's simply beautiful.

and so, tonight, in the style of ms. wise brown:

the important thing about fuzzy socks is that they are warm.

they can be any color

but when you move your toes around

the cozy-ness inspires you

to believe in cold weather

(no matter what the temperature outside).

but the most important thing about fuzzy socks is that they are warm.

the important thing about my body is that it is alive.

it is in good working order

it is strong in most places

it can cause me unfettered angst that i abhor

it moves, and dances, and makes love, and made babies, and crouches down to speak to five-year olds, and houses my bones and my guts and it is good.

but the most important thing about my body is that it is alive.

the most important thing about ice cream is that it tastes good.

it is creamy and cold

when you put it on your tongue

and the flavors are perfect

when the mint collides with the dark chocolate

and the coconut provides the bass line.

but the most important thing about ice cream is that it tastes good.

the most important thing about dogs is that they love you.

they are furry or hairy, tiny or huge,

pretending to be human or happily settled into canine-ness

they offer warm bodies to cuddle with

nonsensical barking

smiles of delight with tongues hanging about

endless goodness of spirit and joy.

but the most important thing about dogs is that they love you.

the most important thing about kindergarteners is that they are whackadoodle crazy-pants.

they come into the room and screech their hellos

clutch to you like tiny baby monkeys

sneeze in your face and rub your arm for comfort

laugh so much they can't stop

they are so eager to learn their bodies must keep moving

and their hearts are so big that their teachers fall in love instantly.

but the most important thing about kindergarteners is that they are whackadoodle crazy-pants.

dear weekend.

a few years ago, i posted something on facebook about being so excited about the upcoming weekend that i could fuck it.

today, i'm so happy that friday is here, but i'd rather just spoon with it, have this weekend soothe me and cuddle with me, and maybe make out with me a little.

its been a tough week.  i cried for a while a few nights ago, which is unusual for me since i've been hopped up on meds. i've had friends who are going through turmoil and sadness, and i feel helpless in my inability to change things for them.  and there are no more african black rhinos in our world anymore; they've been declared officially extinct.

this news has really shaken me up.

every so often i get that deep, deep down feeling that we as humans have fucked ourselves so completely that there is nothing to do but watch the destruction and wait for things to end.  i feel ashamed to be a human being during these times.  it filters down into my gut and settles there for a while, and i try to find good things in front of me to help me climb back up again.

like the ob/gyn dancing seconds before her double mastectomy.

and the kindergarteners playing tailor-shop-on-fire/fire-station-fire-truck-rescue at school today: nineteen children working together in chaotic free play that exemplified the kind of education i believe in.

and my son making jokes about his blossoming acne, able to look through the annoyance and find the golden humor there.

my daugher immediately loving her first piano lesson, with her declaration of proficiency still ringing throughout the house.

the take-out from the veggie grill; vegan fast food and no cooking dinner.

watching episodes of "the americans", loving the suspense, loving felicity in such a kick-ass role.

listening to the sweet, wretched sounds of the chihuahua who is staying with us for a week, and watching him cuddle with my children.

all of these things are good things.  i know they are.  i know that if i can put them in front of me, caress them a little bit and breathe them deeply inside of me, i know that i'll be okay.

in the meantime, i'm going to take a hot, hot shower.  and then read to my son, snuggled down under the comforter on my bed.  and then eat some ice cream while watching tv.  and then fall into sleep; a deep, dreamless sleep that is a balm to my heavy-heartedness.

weekend, i ask for nothing less than a repair on my heart.

landed.

back home again, children adorned in winter Red Sox hats, dogs appropriately excited to see me, showered all of the travel off of me and now i am pretending to be adjusted to this side of my life.

it had been a long time since i'd been back east during autumn, and i have to admit that it reminded me of how wounded i've been without it.  the smell alone was enough to initiate little teary eyes: that musky, leaf-cold that is warmed by the sun.  the sight of the swirling leaves and the colors, dear god, the colors!  who knew that my world had missed those so much?

i spent sunday morning raking leaves with my parents: listening to them argue about big piles versus small piles, the lost-familiar sound of the metal on the grass, the idea that the lawn was happy to be massaged in such a way, as my mom put it.  the ache that accompanies that work, so specific to the place where i used to live.

and then i was in the company of the women who have loved me through most of my life, and we laughed together in a collective breath that sustains me still.  

i drove the streets of my old hometown, marveling at the newness of it all, seeking out those places that meant something to me . . . oh look, the corner where i had my first french kiss!  that playground where we all went that time, remember?

and yet through it all, i missed my Los Angeles family, i missed my reality in this home-place.  the nostalgia of autumn is strong, potent, poisonous even--in the way that perfume is bad for you.  it is heady and intoxicating, and it makes me want to launch myself into pile of leaves and roll around like a puppy.

it makes me want to be who i used to be.

but then life moves on: my flight is on time, my best friend drops me at the airport, i get through security, find my seat and start watching what turns out to be five and a half straight hours of bravo ("vanderpump rules"-- sweet desperate gods save me) and fall into a fitfull sleep, my head knocking from side to side in that way that screams air travel.

then i'm back here, and the warm weather greets me with resolution.  we wait for the van nuys flyaway bus: me, and the hasidic man, and the persian woman, and the mexican man of indeterminate age.  these are my neighbors now: these are the colorful fall varieties that greet me and welcome me back to  this home of mine.  the concrete and taquerias and cloudless sky that tells me i am right where i should be.

still, the longing for what i just had, not more than nine hours ago . . . with those thoughts, and the smell of the leaves on my table, i sigh.

almost.

the almost of this day is shocking to me.

i was at LAX this morning.  i was at terminal 3.  i was leaving from gate 33.  i ran down that same hallway to make my flight, approximately one hour before the shooting started.

i was with people in line for security who were bemoaning their delays, who were inevitably going to have to wait because of inclement east coast weather, who, in the end, had to wait for other reasons.

they waited: mothers and children, couples about to leave on their honeymoon, business people . . .

they all waited, and were there for hours and hours.  they heard the gun or didn't; they saw the young man shoot or didn't; they ran for their lives or hit the floor, praying like we all would have prayed.

i was almost one of them.

we spend our lives in these almost-moments: the could-have-been-me moments, the there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-go-i moments.  i can't pretend to be anything but full of gratitude that my plane was already in the sky, that i was safe, that i was sound.  i can't pretend that what happened today will soon fade from my veins; that i will soon lose the almost-feeling that shakes me to my core tonight.

life goes on.  my life continues.

but the almost of this day brushed so close to me.  touched my skin and made me stop for a moment and bow my head among the rows of other almost-peoples; close my eyes to the news reports on the tiny tv screens and say a brief thank you, thank you, thank you to whomever is listening.  and then send out as much strength and love as i can muster to those left behind, waiting, waiting, waiting.

almost is good enough today.

tuesday.

i like this feeling, this need to write again.  it is pleasant, and warming, and familiar.  it feels good.  

its been a while since i tapped on these keys, since i felt the urge to purge a bit.  its been a while since i felt like i deserved it.  but the lucky thing about having this piece of business inside of me--this writing bone lodged in my gut--is that i can will it upon myself whenever i want.  i can forgive myself and just start writing something again.

whatever the fuck i want.

today, i'm thinking of the inordinate beauty in the world.  beauty that sneaks up on you or lives in your undergarments or knocks on your door in the middle of the night.  beauty that smacks you across the face or sings lullabies to you or just washes over you with the calmness of lavender.  this is the beauty that i'm thinking about today.

my daughter putting her own hair up in ponytails; inevitably twisting knots in her hair as she does it but so proud and resilient nonetheless.  her neverending need to watch tv upside down on the couch, bare feet leaving marks on the wall, remnants of her enthusiasm and dirtiness.

my faraway poet finally having her fiancee next to her; in the flesh, breathing the very same air.  

my best friend in the homestretch.  pigeon to arrive soon.  and knowing that i will see her in three days.

a new pearl jam song that speaks volumes of gratitude and affirms my heart.

plans being made for a wedding.

me, driving along, sniffing the bottom beads of my necklace like an addict; knowing that i gather them up and they all still smell of my grammie.  a little hit of yvonne in the middle of the day.

knitting again.

the beauty of a friend's journey through grief and loneliness, watching her unfurl her own self, reborn and remade.

xander boegarts.  red sox nation, rejoice.

two blankets on the bed, socks on my feet, the need to buy long-sleeved shirts.

my son and me, reading "bridge to terabithia" together.  the book in utter clarity and light.

catching a glimpse of my new tattoo during the day, the ink beginning to peel, sinking deeper and deeper into me.

soup.

this family expanded by the man from austin; the glow that my children give off when they are around him.

all the good in this world that momentarily can take my breath away, can take away the subtle underpinings of panic at how much we've all fucked ourselves.  there is good to be found.  i look hard for it.

i search high and low for beauty 'round these parts.  it can be found amongst the grafitti on the school wall and the tangles among the yarn balls and the arguments among the five-year olds and the laughter from the apartment across the street.  it can be found under layers of self-hatred and worry, soaking up whatever good cells are there, ensuring one more day--at least--of triumphing over myself. it can be found in memories and forecasts, in the pillows in front of me and the sneakers on the floor behind me.  

it's found in the sound of the dogs figuring out they are going for a walk; the bizarre playacting that happens between selkie and her godfather that only the two of them know how to perform; the sweet joy that radiates out from my son as he has a good minecraft game, even while i want to suppress and destroy the goddamned computer.

it's found in the burn scars on my hands, the kinks in my neck, the baby muscles in my arms.  it's there in the soft weight of my belly and the tiny spikes of my leg hair.  it lives in my black boots and on my lower eyelashes and in the hand-me-downs that clothe me.

"all accounts, it seems are partial; thus all perception might be said to be tentative, an opportunity for interpretation, a guessing game."  -- mark doty.

beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

laborious.

this is about work.

my floor was covered with it today, as i tried to get my shit together for the week ahead.  i cleaned my room--my twice-yearly clean of the space that gets neglected the most--and organized and moved furniture all by myself while listening to an austin music station playing folk music that was all about workers.

i am a worker.

my work today looked like the above picture, but it also looked like making soup for dinner.  it looked like me cutting my son's hair, while he moaned and cried and moved about like a toddler.  it was work not to slice and dice the surfer cut right out of him, and leave him really crying about something.  my work also consisted of cutting my daughter's fingernails and getting hit in the nose by her light saber after i had warned her once to be careful and she replied, "sorry. . ." just like gilly from saturday night live.  it was work not to throw her off the couch while the inevitable nose-hurt tears sprang to my eyes; however, it was not work to throw the lightsaber and nail clippers across the room.  that was the opposite of work; that was ease.

breathing in the bathroom by myself immediately afterwards was also work, but the good kind.

the work that i get paid for comes home with me.  i can't deny this, nor do i want to.  i teach because i want to help make the world a better place, and i invest everything i have into those little people.  so much so, that when a difficult child that i had last year told his mom that when he dies, he wants to be buried under children's community school, i burst into tears that rolled down my face for several minutes without rhyme or reason.  

i'm in this work because i love it, and i love those kids.

my other work--the kind i don't get paid money for--the work of mother, wife, human-- i'm in it because i love it too.  living in this world is work.  most of the time i'm up for it.

the old songs i listened to today got to me; verses about coal miners and farmers and train conductors--jobs that are overlooked and becoming obsolete.  i thought about all of the people where i live, all of the workers that do their job everyday.

like the old man at the end of the street who works on his native plants every morning before 6:30.

and the nurses from the hospital who walk around our neighborhood during their lunch hour.

and the prostitutes down the way, walking slowly up and down the sidewalk, waiting.  just waiting.

like the men who come to my house every week to take care of my lawn.  

like the neighbor who drives a pristine white pick-up truck filled with pool chemicals.

and the missionaries who knock on our door, working their way around the neighborhood, working for jesus.

my husband working everyday, sitting on this bed, writing, writing, writing; hoping, hoping, hoping.  working for more work.

and my daughter tonight, making her own shoes out of old shoelaces and denim.  her tongue out slightly as she cut the fabric, figuring out the best way to design them, trying them on and reworking them until they came out just right.

so much work.

tonight, i think about all of you, working hard at what you love or hate or aspire to.  the labor that you put forth into this world is appreciated, whether it be on the surface or deep within you.  

we are all working so hard, aren't we?  and whether your work is settled into your heart and explodes out of you with joy you can't contain or if it is quietly demanding your attention day after day; just know this:

it is all good, good work.

happy Labor Day.

more things.

signage.

Hello, Cuidad Juarez.

big ol' Texas sun.

Tucson. My brother's clinic.

Tucson. My brother's inquisitive son.

arizona.

last night. we're in a resort in Phoenix; one last blowout for the kids before we head home tomorrow. we've been caravaning with clay; two priuses heading across Texas, tailing each other. it's been good for us to trade off and spend time in his car. not sure if its been good for him.

there is imminent danger of meltdowns from all of us, me especially. today i whacked the crap out of the side of my head, hitting it hard on the car door, and i broke into tears so fast i even shocked selkie, who is sorta good at that kind of reaction. shit, it hurt. but then it just turned into a massive breakdown about heading home, getting back to our real life, all of the work i have to do, feeling unprepared for the next couple of weeks...all of it, from a simple, clumsy smack on the door frame.

a couple of nights ago i dreamed that it was the first day of school. all of my new kindergarteners were there, as were there parents, and i tried to find the book that i had picked out to read to them. there were shelves and shelves of books all around me, and i kept seeing books that i wanted to buy this summer but didn't, and as i frantically searched for THE book the shelves got closer and closer to me. i kept saying, "okay, we're going to start in one more minute"--my voice getting more and more hysterical--and as i looked behind me i saw the parents setting up a band, sort of good-naturedly taking over the fact that i was ill-prepared. panic set in.

i woke up with my heart hitting my rib cage, sweat everywhere. 

nightmare, as experienced by teacher.

i know everything will be okay. it is okay. life is happening, bills will be paid or not paid, children will go to school unhappily or happily, my body will adjust to van nuys, my heart will go on.  i really should just shut up.  

anxiety gets me nowhere, and makes me really ugly -- and not just because i get stressed-induced cold sores. i like myself a lot better when i am taking things one moment at a time.

so, tomorrow, to home. to dogs who adore us and a cat that disdains us. to our neighbors who know us as the crazy people. to Selkie's imaginary friends. to Milo's unhappiness at not living in Massachusetts. to my big, beautiful kitchen. to dear friends who await us. we are coming home.

if we can just find Idaho. it's our last license plate that we need, and then we are complete.

make a list. cross it off. move on.

(Hotel home. Detritus path.)

a little bit more, y'all.

Austin city.

watching the bats. 

Can't capture how cool this was...

B-fly.

Kayaking Lake Austin.

Austin graffiti.

Austin views.

frog on a bike. 

Okay.

Oh my. Best bookstore ever.

Texas edition.

360 bridge.

Texas sky.

Texas four-wheeling.

austin in our hearts.

after driving for six days, we are at home.

sort of at home.  in austin, where we have been adopted by clay's parents and made to feel part of the family.  the kids have their own bedroom.  we have our own bedroom.  there are places to go to hide from each other.

it is a wondrous thing.

these are good people here.  good, good people.  we are so fortunate.

yesterday we met jinger, clay's grandmother.  it was her 89th birthday.  she told us about her life and made jokes and wore a flower in her hair.  she was beauty personified.

at her party, all of her great-grandchildren and faux great-grandchildren played together as if they had known each other all along.  there were sounds of laughing and shouting and running around; sounds that permeate and connect strangers to each other.  we all shook our heads downstairs, laughing quietly about their antics.

good, good people.

and the wonder of meeting your best friend's best friend from years back, and seeing him say things in just the same way your best friend does.  glimpses of clay from everyone around me.  it was surreal.

we're taking it so easy, it's criminal.  lazing around, reading in the middle of the day; hell, napping in the middle of the day.  we've been driving around beautiful austin and it has truly hit me hard that i could see myself living here, if circumstances were different.  

this is my kind of town.

yesterday we went to the flagship whole foods, the mother ship whole foods, the one that started it all. i know that whole foods is still corporate america and that the ceo has some questionable beliefs and all that, but it is still a good company.  and holy shit, this one is the mecca.  it was huge.  it was beautiful. they had a walk-in cold beer tunnel, and a bike repair set-up outside the store, and a "beans and greens" station in the immense food court.  

my heart swelled.

we also went to a public spring-fed pool--68 degrees year-round--and with the 102 degrees on my skin the water was beautiful.  the good people of austin were all there: hipsters, older couples in speedos, new moms and old moms, lots of tattooed people, gay couples.  we all rejoiced in the water.

we have plans to see the bats and to go to book people and to hit a couple more vegan food joints. we might rent paddleboards on the lake, or go to deep eddy for another cold-spring swim. 

tonight alex and clay will go to the alamo draft house to see a movie, and tomorrow night clay will take me out to see austin at night.  then tuesday morning we'll all head out to caravan to los angeles together.

we're almost there.

in the meantime, austin is our replacement home.  long live the hazelwoods, let austin stay weird forever.  gratitude abounds.

the woad and the weary.

texarkana.  

the last sentence i just said:

"don't do anything to bunny!"

i didn't shower this morning.  i threw on my straw hat and decided to just take the day on as is.  now, looking in the mirror across from the desk in this lovely best western, i realize that a shower may have been helpful.

i look like my car smells.

i'm short-tempered, little-fused.  i have little reserves left in me to deal with these people whom i love so much.

they need to leave me the fuck alone.

we stopped at an amazing bookstore in nashville this morning; independent, glorious, filled to the brim with all kinds of stories.  i could've spent hours, days in there.  instead, i gave the kids ten minutes to make a decision, found a book for the first day of school, and hightailed it outta there before i dropped any more money that i don't have.

we hit up the memphis whole foods for lunch, where despite their protestations of being sick of whole foods, the kids ate happily and we found a drink called "milo's sweet tea".  we drove west, watching as the temperature grew hotter and hotter, finally hitting around 100 mid-day, melting the vegan baked goods we had bought this morning.

the kind of day where the sneakers had to come off in the car; where i apologized for taking them off first, in case they smelled; where my husband asked me if i had socks on; where i rudely said, "do you even KNOW me?  when was the last time i wore socks in the summer?"

simmering, just simmering.

we parked at a rest stop this afternoon to pee, and walked through the enormous, empty restaurant.  there was one trucker there, quietly eating by himself, and the manager going over receipts with one of the employees.  it was eerie.  there were knickknacks to buy, and elton john was playing on the radio (one of his faux-country songs), and "the Big Bang theory" was on all of the tvs.  it was eerie.  did i mention it was eerie?

we spent the morning singing fake country songs.  we laughed a lot.  the kids played drums in the backseat while alex crooned about the stores we passed, and milo came up with brilliantly crooked rhymes.

those were the fun times today.

i'm seconds away from putting on my jammies and crawling into one of the queen beds with my kids.  we're reading "the search for wondla".  i'm reading "the tender bar".  alex is reading "the berlin game". i want this school year to be the year that i read, and read, and read.  always and evermore, just read for my life.  

i need to throw away our television.

tomorrow we head further into texas and hit austin, the town i've been dreaming of.  mostly this is because our dear clay is there, waiting to host us and squire us around the town, but also, i think austin is where i could live.  the listing for vegan foods alone is worth it . . . plus there are bats there.

anyway, tomorrow we drive a bit, then we rest.  we get to settle in for a few days, which makes me glad to be alive.

things are going well.

take me to another place, take me to another land...

nashville.

we're at the point in the trip where i needed to have a heart-to-heart talk with selkie about being more flexible and allowing us to help her.  in tears, she told me that "i just need to be by myself!  i haven't played with my invisible friends in SO LONG! i wish we were at our house and i was in the front yard playing with them RIGHT NOW!"

i so appreciate her need for solitude.

the middle of the trip calls for delicate phrasing, patience and more humor.  when milo yells at his computer from the back seat, telling us for the umpteenth time that "this is so glitchy!" while we curse the makers of minecraft, it is up to us to take deep breaths and find a point ahead of us to focus on.  when he can't find his ANYTHING and starts to panic; again, breathing is encouraged.  and when he asks us to have a drink of our water because his is missing (it's not) and we refuse, telling him to find his, which he doesn't, and then out of desperation drinks from a 2-day old orange juice bottle; it is up to us to find the humor in the situation and not shame him for his incredible laziness or inability to take care of himself.

no indeed.  we just all breathe.

i haven't exercised in five days, and my body is crying out for it.  i'm not good at sitting.  

we've entered that part of the country where people talk different than us.  where they think different, even.  where there is racist chicken (bojangles! famous chicken and biscuits!) and homophobic chicken (chik-fil-a).  there are lots of billboards about meth ruining families, as well as signs ordering to "choose life!" with a picture of a happy, fat, white baby.

oh, we choose life, yes we do.

i admit i take great pleasure passing any car that has a bumper sticker that i don't like on it.  that romney/impeach obama truck yesterday?  see ya, sucka!  "'cause THAT'S how we do it in van nuys!" is our "passing assholes" catchphrase.

i'm sure they are very nice people.  they're just misguided and wrong.

this morning we're heading into downtown nashville to eat at khan's bakery, a vegan joint.  we'll check out the opry by car and then head outta town.  we're making tracks today, en route to get to austin tomorrow to spend a couple of days with our best friend clay.  and to borrow his washer and dryer.

at this point in the trip, we are grateful for cloudy days that give us shelter from the sun.  we're grateful for chain restaurants like chipotle and qdoba, who save our vegan/vegetarian/meateating butts amongst the endless cracker barrels and shoneys.  and we're grateful for firm mattresses in hotels.

i need a chiropractor, and a massage, and about seventeen new cds to listen to.  i'm so old school.

we're gettin' there.  that's what i keep telling the kids.  we're gettin' there.

more scenes from the road. day four.

so hilarious. if you are under 12.

downtown roanoke signage.

more roanoke signage.

abandoned.

taken over.

weather.

babies.

and sometimes, lunch looks like this, courtesy of food lion and the hatchback of the car.

big-ass weather, courtesy of Tennessee and the al gore interstate. 

dispatch.

forgot to mention something about last night.

as we walked up to the lincoln memorial, selkie looked up and saw bats flitting in and out of the light.  milo confirmed the sighting, and the four of us practically swooned with excitement.  forget that one of the most famous statues in our country was steps away from us.  forget that there were hundreds of people from all walks of life enjoying said monument.  

we were rejoicing the bats.

i love bats.  truly.  love, love, love them.  i am in awe of them.  i am in mourning for them, for their decline in numbers throughout the northeast.  we used to be able to stand on my parents' back deck at dusk and watch them chase mosquitoes over our heads.  we'd lay down on the pool chairs and watch "bat tv" for a while.

we haven't been able to do that for a few years.  they've all disappeared.

but last night, there was a small contingent of bats near the lincoln memorial, wisely taking up space by the lights, eating all sorts of moths and bugs, swooping in delight.

it was wonderful.

now we're in virginia, and alex is driving while i write this.  both kids are moaning about how hungry they are, even though we'll be in roanoke in 45 minutes.  they are whining, complaining; i want to turn around and let loose on them.  i want to throw something at them.  something with substance.

instead, i just turned around and told them that i didn't want to hear their voices for a while.

we quarter-assed the air and space museum in dc today.  we showed up in time for lunch, walked a few blocks to avoid the crap in the museum itself, then headed back to the smithsonian.  in the meantime, milo's stomach began to hurt because he ate too fast, selkie complained about her feet hurting, and alex had to run back to the car to feed the meter.

we ended up spending about 30 minutes in the museum, then 30 minutes in the goddamned gift shop, which, i have to admit, was pretty cool.  but still.  did we really deserve to go into the gift shop?  was that an earned treat?  probably not.  but sometimes, you just have to enter the fray, and spend 60 bucks on a book about the elements (for me), a soft, disgusting, gel-filled wiggly worm with planets in it (for selkie), a ridiculously expensive plasma ball (for milo), and an aerobie (for alex).  plus a postcard of amelia earheart for good measure.

we tried to see the mlk, jr. monument this morning, but it is under construction.  the chinese artist is trying to fix the quote that people have been up in arms about, and the whole thing was covered with giant tarps.  which was a giant bummer.

anyway, that was our day today.  we're going to take a chance on a local restaurant in roanoke, and hope that our darling children manage to make it through the meal without complaining of stomachache, lack of hunger, or boredom.

"when are we gonna be there?" selkie just said.

about seven more days, kid.  hang in there.

pictures from the road.

Road food.

Road feet.

Road children.

Road trip faces, various.

Road trip history.

Road trip love.

Finally, road trip madness.