the run.

woke up early this morning to go running.

first time in weeks, actually. i've been slogging through december without much exercise, and i know that my body and soul need me to start moving again. so i chose this pristine winter morning to do it.

it was about 30 degrees out, with low clouds in the sky and the sun barely peeking through the trees. it comes out later here, goes down earlier--i forgot that. somehow 7 o'clock seems like a misnomer, as if mother nature forgot to wind her watch.

this is rural massachusetts, here where my in-laws live. there are cows in very large yards that double as farms, and acres of land for one house. trees everywhere, ponds and rivers and streams still running in this warm december air. flashes of red as cardinals make their way through the sky, their brown-gold mates close behind.

there is majesty in the stillness. there is drama in the fallen trees, barren of leaves, hit hard by the halloween snowstorm a couple months back. this is a story i heard about, read about--it is not my story. this is not my town. not even my state.

funny how the locals here sing praises about the warmth of the winter so far, while my california children and i pray for snow to accumulate in piles around us. at this point, we'd give anything for fat, happy snowflakes in the air, just floating down for us to catch on our tongues.

forty years old, and still waiting for the first snow to come.

something still about this terrain that is singed into me, branded into my skin. i cannot escape the calm and peace that this landscape brings me. it is still the home that hangs around my neck, like a necklace from my best friend in the world. it is the home that shelters all the thoughts and wishes and hopes of the future. it's the home that takes precious little time to remind me of what i am missing when i am so far away.

i'm not sad today. i'm really not. just so grateful for a morning spent with my body moving again, listening to the sounds of the world around me, alternating between live bird calls and the roots on my ipod. hearing this song called "fire" that seals the deal.

my red cheeks are my badge of honor this morning. the cold slices my skin but comforts it at the same time. the beauty of the incongruousness is a wonder to behold.

aspire.

in school this past week my daughter was part of a discussion in her classroom about superheroes.

the kids all went around the circle, talking about what they would choose for their power. a lot of kids said they would fly. a few said they would be invisible. some kids talked about changing into animals.

when it was my girl's turn, she simply said, "i don't want any superhero powers. i just want to be myself."

as the days tick closer to my fortieth birthday, i think of this moment, and realize that i want to be just like her when i grow up.

inked

going to get my birthday tattoo tonight.

what is it that makes me walk into a shop and sit down and willingly wound myself for a statement? why do i need the permanency of a picture on my body?

its curious.

tonight i hope to invite a spider to rest on my wrist for the rest of my life, with her web underneath where my veins lay blue and twisted. i know she is the right choice. i can feel her pulling herself into me, as i wait for my night to begin.

and to make it more clear, there is now a spider spinning a web from the star on our xmas tree.

i know there are a lot of people getting tattoos out there, and a whole lot more who can't understand why the hell i am doing it. my husband, for one. i know that he quite actively dislikes it, but tries his best to find his way to at least appreciate my decision. i am grateful to him for that.

my parents can't fathom why i would want to. my grandfather couldn't stand it, and told me so.

and i admit there is a part of me that is still searching for the reason why i choose to go under the needle, but the fact is i need to tell the story of my life. it turns out that words alone don't quite do it for me; or at least words on paper. the finality of letters and images on my skin doesn't scare me, it soothes me. it makes me feel like a real live girl. makes me feel that each twinge of pain as i deep breathe through the color is reminding me that i am awake, and right where i need to be.

and yet at the same time reminding me of where i've been and who i used to be.

there is a seriousness to all of this, isn't there? and there damn well should be, since i can't erase it. but there is also a part of this that reminds of being a kid, and drawing on my skin with markers, and delighting in how fancy my body could look with all of that art.

turns out it still makes me really happy.

this month

december is the prettiest month.

this i am fairly sure of.  it may have to do with all the lights about and the sparkliness of the season, but i feel that it goes deeper than all of that superficial stuff.

i think its more about the quiet of the nights, the ease of the blackness that sneaks earlier and earlier into the daytimes.  there is deep beauty in the stillness of the cold air.  there is majesty in the breath of air that i can actually see.

i won't speak of snow yet, or the bracing cold that shivers my skin down deep, because i am only speaking of the december that is here with me now.  soon enough i will visit the december of my childhood, and that is an entirely different experience.  the prettiness becomes laced with the emotion of back home, and there is more bittersweet there than i can properly speak of at this moment.

this december is bringing me a momentous number to claim.  my fortieth birthday is a few weeks away, and the days are passing by while i cross them off on the calendar, knowing that my own personal countdown is both buoying me up and sinking me fast.

i'm determined not to go too deep with the sinking, i promise.

i keep telling myself that this time should only be filled with celebration for this life well lived thus far.
i keep telling myself that i deserve a kick-ass tattoo to commemorate the day.
i keep telling myself that i am worthy of the number, and yet that the number is nothing to notice.
i keep telling myself that i am what forty looks like.
i keep telling myself that i am almost halfway through, except that i'm planning to live until i'm 100, so that's not really true...

it really doesn't matter.  i know it doesn't.  it really doesn't matter at all.

i am thankful that i am here right now, in this early december evening, knowing that there is something about wintertime that makes me glow from within, something that is illuminated behind my eyes throughout this entire season.  this is true.

december is good to me.

the loveliest

what is there to be said about a dog?

she was my friend for fifteen years, and stayed watch over me while i cried or cooked or slept alone or took walks or watched tv or knitted or played. she was in the room with me when my daughter was born, and licked my son's face minutes after he breathed his first air. she let me bury my face in her fur when i was distraught, always smelling of good, good dog; never a stink on her, never a cringe from me. always smelling of the best dog in the world.

especially right behind her ears.

she traveled with us from california to massachusetts and loved the snow as i did, burying her face in it and eating it with abandon and delight. she made sure of us, kept us together, made us whole and complete by climbing up on the couch and sighing to sleep each night. she was nothing short of a comfort.

she shed pounds and pounds of fur; which today we cherish, knowing we'll be finding bits for years to come. she ate disgusting things and behaved dog-like and had run-ins with skunks in her earlier days. she put up with children hanging on her and babies grabbing fur, all the while patient, tolerant, kind.

in the end, her glacial-pace walks were comical, and yet she maintained her dignity. five days ago she came running to greet me; lopsided and wobbly, legs unsure of themselves--but still, she managed to approximate a run, smiling all the way home.

today, as we sat with her while the medicine did its good, noble work, we told her over and over and over that she was the best dog. and i know this is true. and i know that you reading this may have also had a best dog in your life, and i nod my head to you, understanding that each person's best dog is hers for a reason.

fenway was my best dog. she came running up to me 15 years ago, up the small slope behind the cafe at school, her tiny body buoyed by her enormous paws--a foreshadowing of the dog to come. she came running up to me a few days ago, too. she knew that i was her person.

and i know that she felt my undying gratitude and love today, and i put my head to hers and listened to her last breaths come rumbling from deep inside. i know this. she was by far the loveliest.

i miss her so much already.

moth

its been so long since i've written. i've missed this.

not sure why i still get the urge to do this. not sure what the craving is, what the pull means to me--why i feel the need to get all of these thoughts out of my head and onto this site. there are plenty of good people walking this earth that don't have this fierce draw inside of them, and there are times that i wish i was one of them, because when i can't do this it hurts.

i'm still in the process of trying to figure out how the hell to carve out time for myself. this writing thing has become a luxury. its never at the top of my list. i find myself wrestling with the idea that i am due anything, other than an occasional bowl of nice cream. how can i possibly dig through this muck of schedule that is mine now and pull out an extra hour or two each day?

i've been trying to wake up in the hour of five, but my children have both been sleeping so shittily that i give up on the idea of going to the gym around 2 in the morning, when i calculate my hours and realize i've been screwed out of another full night of sleep. instead, i lay there hoping to find my way back to the dream that i was having, the one where i am younger, lighter, wittier; without children, responsibilities, homework.

that's a damn fine dream these days.

when i sit down to write i find it hard to go through with this if i don't have something monumental to say about myself or my life. if i don't have a funny anecdote to write about, i feel silly indulging in this blog-thing again. and truth be told, i don't know who the hell is actually reading this, since i'm off facebook again and there's no linked-in anymore.

so thank you, if you've sought this out. it really does mean a lot that you find me here.

sometimes i want to just play around on my computer's photo booth, and try to make myself laugh. i need to be okay with just fucking around these days, knowing that i am working my ass off most of the time, and i don't need to spend every single minute focused and constructive. i can goof off. i'm allowed. i can watch the red sox implode and not feel badly about myself.

there are moments in my life now that are like snapshots--these brief snippets of rays of light that show me another way to be--a way of peacefulness and acceptance and happiness. of pride about the woman i am becoming, and the one i hope to be someday. of security in knowing that i am on the path that i am meant for, and i don't need to know anymore than that.

brief, flickering, flighty moments that knock into my skull like a moth hitting a window.

they're not soothing, but they are hopeful. and a little bit pretty.

just like me.

balloon

the crickets are still awake here in the depths of early morning, and i'm sitting in my kitchen waiting for the rest of the world to wake up.

last night i watched my boy say goodbye to a balloon that he accidentally let go of, and saw the disappointment play out on his face like a movie. he argued with himself, saying it was not a big deal, but couldn't deny the tears leaking out the sides of his eyes.

"i don't know why i feel like this, mommy."

and all i can do is to tell him it all makes sense, and that there is nothing wrong with him, and that i know exactly how he feels. still, i can't help but think that i have doomed this lovely boy with the emotional weight of my genes.

sometimes it feels like there's nothing heavier.

today

it was ten years ago today that i watched the towers fall, just like you.

i had a baby in my gut ten years ago, and i clutched my taut stomach throughout the day as waves of nausea hit me. couldn't get the images or sounds of the city out of my stomach. still saw the people falling out of the sky, even as i took care of the kids at the preschool.

that day i randomly chose a book out of the shelf to read at circle time, and it was a little book about a mother finding a child, no matter where she might go. the author had written it after her own child had gone missing. in it, there was an illustration of nyc, and the towers loomed large and bright in the sunny expanse of the picture. i stared at it and choked back tears as i read to the kids, hoping they wouldn't notice.

later that day those same kids built towers and then let their airplanes knock them over.

tonight, as i lay nestled with my kids waiting for them to choose books, i let the feelings wash over me, thinking about this day. remembering ten years ago, desperately trying to reach kim and marshall in the city, then finding out that she was just coming out of the subway downtown when the first tower fell. she then jumped on a bus and sat with her fellow new yorkers, saying the rosary together, some in spanish, some in english. remembering thinking of all the people i'd lost touch with, wondering if they were anywhere near the tragedies. remembering how hollow i felt after i got home from work; that i cried for the entire drive home, that i felt like i couldn't bring a child into such a scary world, one that contained such hatred.

my kids brought me their book choices. selkie had a charlie and lola, and milo had randomly picked "between the towers", a book about philippe petit--the man who walked between the two world trade center towers back in 1974. again the towers were alive in the illustrations. this time the baby i carried was next to me, able to talk about the attacks, able to process in his own way what had happened.

ten years passed. just like that.

calling out

is this what its going to be like every night for the next three years? am i going to dissolve into hysterical tears while my daughter wails for me in the background and i sit at my crappy little desk in the chair with a hole in it (so that i have to have two pillows on top of it)? am i going to try and focus on answering questions about the state of california's public schools and specifically what teaching training is needed to address the issues for low-income families while my children beg for my attention?

what should my focus be here?

why the fuck am i doing this to myself?

i feel so low right now, so very fucking low, dear readers. i know this will pass and this is, after all, the first week of the great graduate school experiment but sweet jesus, i am in a giant clusterfuck of fear right now.

i am wayoverwhelmed.

bunny

i lost it tonight.

i'm feeling the stress of starting college again, especially since my financial aid and registration are all fucked up. i'm trying to just go forward with my assignments and do the work. i'm trying to keep it all together, knowing that my dedication to 8-hours of sleep a night is not long for this world. knowing that if i want to keep exercising i'm going to have to wake up at 5:15 to do so. knowing that i have even less time to spend with the people i love the most.

tonight i was furiously typing a response to my online assignment as my kids were struggling to go to sleep in the other room. they decided to have a sleepover, milo in selkie's bed, but for various reasons it wasn't working. finally milo came out and was red-eyed, trying not to cry, but obviously upset, wanting to go back into his room.

i told him he could, and asked him what was wrong, and he started to cry but said, "i don't want to tell you, okay? don't ask me, okay?" and i said i wouldn't but asked if i could walk him back to his room, and maybe then he would tell me.

which he did. sometimes its easier in the dark.

"i need a stuffed animal. i don't have any stuffed animals anymore." this is what he tearfully told me. i reminded him that he had given selkie a few of his animals, including his beloved bunny that he'd had since he was three weeks old. he broke down even more when i suggested he take it back (having no problem with it at all, since his greedy little sister has ridiculous numbers of stuffed animals, and she played on his kindness in order to get bunny--whom she immediately dressed up in a skirt, which was so wrong--anyway, i digress), telling me that he didn't want bunny, that he had given it to selkie, and that he needed new stuffed animals.

i said, "buddy, can i ask you a question? do you think that maybe you don't want bunny anymore because he seems a little bit too young for you? is that what it is?"

and he said, breaking my heart a little bit, "yeah, that's kind of it."

this is where i was glad it was dark, because i didn't want him to see that i was crying, too.

i asked him if he had any money saved, and he said he had about $22 dollars, so i told him we could go online tomorrow and do a little research. i asked him what animal he'd be interested in. "a snake, a long one. and next would be a dragon, but not a cute one."

i could tell he wanted the conversation to be over, just like so many of our talks lately. before i left, i told him that he could definitely have bunny back, and that i didn't think bunny was too cute at all.

"he's more scruffy, i think. don't you?" milo said. i told him that was exactly it. and then i tried one more time, and said that i would go and get bunny for him for tonight, so that he could get some comfort from him. "NO. please mommy, i just want to go to sleep," he said, starting to cry again.

i kissed him, told him goodnight, and he said, "sleep well," just like he does every single night, just like he has done ever since he could say it to me.

then i went out to the living room and cried onto my keyboard. i immediately hid my essay and started searching for snakes and dragons online, soft ones to sleep with but not babyish ones that would embarrass my 9 and a half year old boy.

i found some. there is a little hope.

later on i went into selkie's room again, her fourth time calling me, ready to ream the kid for all the interruptions and the complaining, when milo came in to check on what was going on. i softened my tone when i saw him, asked him if he was okay, told him selkie wanted him to sleep with her again, and he agreed to try one more time.

and that's when i noticed that he had bunny in his arms.

"hey, you got bunny back?"

he nodded his head and cuddled up with selkie. she said, "i gave bunny back to milo." "that was really nice of you, selkie. thanks for doing that."

seriously. thanks so much. you'll never know how grateful i am that bunny is back where he belongs.

smurf away somewhere

sitting on the bathroom floor while selkie has a bath. today my dad brought out the immense collection of smurfs that my brother jarrod played with when he was a kid, and the grandchildren are smitten.

i am slightly horrified, but not going to dwell on it too much.

here in franklin for a couple more days. had to buy a new carry-on suitcase today to bring back all the stuff that we have accumulated over the past two months. watched my daughter decide on her first pair of low-top converse. sparkly black, with sparkly blue shoelaces. spent way too much time playing our family card game with my mom and brother.

its called lashination, just for those who are interested.

today is also my anniversary. my husband is currently in nebraska with another man. i am comfortable with this. he deserves time with his best friend. hasn't been away from us in a long time and he deserves a break.

me too, come to think of it.

while my brother teased me incessantly today and my mother drove me crazy for various infractions and my son told me he was given a coke despite THE THEME OF THE SUMMER BEING YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DRINK COKE, DAMNIT i really really really really wanted to run away for a little while. go somewhere quiet and peaceful, preferably with trees and coolish summer air.

there is the saying that you always need a vacation from the vacation. but when you are gone for as long as i am, when you are actually living somewhere else for two months, it can't really be called that.

total number of times packed and unpacked in various places in new england: 14. i've lost three pairs of socks. and gained way too much stuff, including giant pieces of birch bark which are slowly making their way across the country with the aforementioned husband/best friend road trip.

taking what i can back with me. taking what i need, what i don't, and the longing for what i wish i could bring.

fenway

hey, baseball fans.

remember that awesome triple play in fenway last night? the only good moment for jed lowrie? the first triple play since 1994 for the red sox?

a rarity, right?

and you would perhaps remember that my family and i were there last night, past the third base line in beautiful seats. and perhaps you might've thought, "oh wow, holly and her kids got to see that amazing play in person--how cool!" you might've thought that.

please give me a call and let me know if you yourself got to see that play, and then you can tell me what happened. i did not see it. i was giving money to the teenager at the ice cream stand in the concourse at the park. i was buying my ridiculously ungrateful children overpriced soft serve in souvenir miniature batting helmets when a raucous cry of exhaltation shook the rafters and those of us who were not looking at the tv monitors were left scrambling and saying, "what happened?? what happened??"

a triple play, that's what.

and if you happened to be inside fenway park last night, did you catch me and selkie up on the jumbotron in the sixth inning? and wasn't it cool that they showed highlights of dwight evans and he was there in person? were you as sad that you didn't get to see david ortiz or youk play as we were?

for the record, the park itself is even more beautiful than you remember.

rainy days and mondays

its been raining all day long. turns out that when its humid and rainy, my hair gets a little bit wavy. it almost looks like it could have some life in it. its a pleasant little shock to realize this.

i drove back and forth to nashua, new hampshire twice today, following the rural back roads that i have memorized only from years of use. no clue about names of towns i'm driving through. no sense of direction or surety of street names. just pure physical driving memory, which only seems to work in the daytime. at night i'm inevitably lost.

whenever i see cows, which is quite often, i lovingly shout "hello, beauties!"

there is something so heartwarming to know that i can walk into a marshall's or tj maxx and find an entire section of red sox gear for men, women and children. i could have bought my own red sox shirt today, but i didn't. it just pleased me to know that the option was there.

milo and selkie went to their first camp of the summer today, a local day camp held at a junior high school. they both walked in and quickly said goodbye without looking back, as alex and i left them with complete strangers for the first time in their lives. it was disconcerting. it was exciting. i was happy to realize that i thought they both could handle it. and selkie did. she had a blast; told me all about the drawing "contest" the counselors had given the kids and how the winners got silly bandz. (i kept my mouth shut about it but jesus, a drawing contest for six year olds? could anything make me want to scream more?) milo, on the other hand, first reported the sports camp was fine and then as the evening went on dissolved into heavy tears, explaining that "everyone was so mean, EVERYONE" and told stories about the bigger boys taking away his ball and not giving it back to him. (those assholes.) he's going back tomorrow, despite his protests otherwise, but he may switch to the younger camp, just to keep his heart safe.

later tomorrow we are taking our children to fenway park for their first game, thanks to the luck of the gods and a good friend of alex's who was kind enough to give us tickets. twelve rows up the third base line tickets. sox vs. rays. my children under the lights of fenway. i don't actually know if i can handle this or not. it makes me remember my first time at fenway when i was seven or so, wearing my homemade rick burleson uniform (#7) and sitting next to my brother in his official rico petrocelli uniform and eating ice cream out of little plastic sox hats.

it was so beautiful. even then, as a little kid, i knew how gorgeous that ballpark was. and now i get to introduce it to my kids.

i can't take it.

i'm meandering all over the place tonight. can't find a thru-line to this post except that i am here writing it. which may be enough.

the rain sounds like magic.

mass

its been a while.

we went up to new hampshire with my family, and stayed in a condo with no internet. who has a condo to rent with no internet these days? i mean, yes, the river behind the house was lovely and the mountains were beautiful, but damnit, how am i supposed to get my emails?

now i'm at my in-laws, listening to my husband scrape the side of their house in preparation for painting while talking to his mom about the red sox. he's going deeper into the season then i have the knowledge to follow. i'm glad he has her to talk to about this.

i'm making soup from scratch right now, no recipe in sight, just feeling my way along. i think that this has become my general approach to my life in general, with a heaping amount of fresh rosemary thrown in for good measure. lots of spices and herbs. lots of missteps and possible bad choices, but in the end it all seems to taste okay.

i seem to taste okay.

i have about 10 days left in my massachusetts life, then i'm back to california and all the people there who keep my sane and whole. i'm full of apprehension about going back to cali, because i'm about to become a college student again, at the same time that i am a full-time teacher and mom.

not sure how i'm going to pull that shit off, to be honest.

end of summer always makes me melancholy. i'm sure if i went back to my previous blog i'd find longing posts that rhapsodize about late summer memories, all to the tune of "boys of summer" by don henley. "out on the road today, i saw a deadhead sticker on a cadillac, a little voice inside my head said, don't look back, you can never look back".

it was many many years into my life until i really understood what a deadhead sticker was. i think i spent my adolescent years convinced that the grateful dead worshipped the devil, along with kiss and ozzy osbourne.

i didn't really have broad taste in music back then. i listened to mostly pop radio, and didn't have an awareness of good music. except for the beastie boys, thank you very much, and they were given to me by someone else.

anyway, i digress.

i miss my dogs and my closet, and the ability to choose a different colored pair of converse to wear. i can't wait to see the seventeen children who will make up my kindergarten class this year. i'm looking forward to routine again. my routine.

however, as we crossed the new hampshire line last night into massachusetts, i felt my heart leap, simply because i read the name of the state where i was born. i love this place, body and soul. still can't deny it, still don't want to.

i will forever be lodged here; a piece of my heart left behind each and every time i take off for my home away from home.

sad

woke up this morning to the sound of rain hitting the roof of a house that isn't mine.

i think today i've got the vacation blues. i'm weary of suitcases and transporting and packing and repacking and no trader joes. i'm just tired.

can't stop crying, to be honest.

more sad news this week as an old friend's brother from high school died unexpectedly at age 40. wondering what it is about this summer, about all the dying that has been around me. i mean, i know people die all the time--every hour, minute, whatever--if you think about it in a global sense this is not a shock. there is no sense or reason to this. this is life on this planet. beings die, beings are born. we all go on.

still, this one is getting to me.

kevin was one of the nicest people i've ever known, and even though i hadn't seen him for many years it is clear that he continued to inspire everyone who knew him. he was a good person for this place. he took care of others, strangers and family alike. he was deeply loved.

and so now all of these people who are in his circle are mourning him. and i'm mourning him for his brother, who was one of my closest friends in high school. and for his parents. dear god, his parents. this is when people say "i can't imagine what they are going through" but the truth is, we can. we all can.

i can, and i guess this is one reason why i'm so sad. it seems there's always a moment in grief when it takes a more self-reflective stance (selfish?) and i think about what it all means for me. maybe everyone does that. maybe its natural. but i look at my family, my life, and think about what it would mean if i died suddenly tomorrow, or if alex did. or my brothers. or any of my dear friends.

i don't have a will, or life insurance. don't have plans for what should happen to me after i go. none of that stuff. i guess if anything this summer sort of shakes me into action about that. i have to make some plans, don't i? its time.

but for today, i'm just so sad. thinking about this small community of mine, this franklin, massachusetts town--a place where i am forever connected to these people who shaped my teenage years and helped to make me who i am right now. we are all so sad.

the rain came along to help us today.

brain trust

someone else's alarm clock woke me up this morning. there is a scent of twelve different kinds of soap in the air. footsteps in the hall vary in weight and determination.

ah, dorm life.

i'm here in bennington working at what i love so much, trying to learn more about who i am as a teacher and a human being, trying to get through dense articles written by strange german men and coming to grips with terms like "phenomenology". trying to participate in exercises where we figure out the relative position of the moon to the earth; where we are given a passage in greek and asked to decode as much as we can. trying to make my voice heard and asking what something means when i just don't get it.

i've become really brave about raising my hand when i'm lost in a room.

meanwhile, during my breaks, i come back to my room and read agatha christie and watch "the daily show" and eat chocolate and listen to music, because i have to keep myself in check and in line. despite this work, despite the intensity of thought and focus, i am still in need of the things that keep me sane. things that keep me interesting.

so many of my peers here have been working in their fields for decades, have been studying descriptive inquiry since i was a kid. i am amazed at their tenacity and work ethic, and most of all at their ability to retain information. simply put, they are really fucking smart. and it takes all that i have everyday to not go down the very crooked path of beating myself up for not being an intelligent person, for not being an academic.

'cause i'm not.

i'm trying to remind myself that my smartness is anchored in moments with other humans, in my capacity for love and respect and thirst for connection. i'm most brilliant when i'm with someone who needs me. i'm smart enough to know to offer my thanks to the people who work in the cafeteria everyday. i've got enough brain power to realize the beauty of my surroundings and the opportunity for growth that presents itself here.

i'm not book smart, not full of theory.

just smart enough to feel like i deserve to live on this planet, like i have something to offer the other creatures who are here on it with me. and for today, for this beautiful morning, i'm gonna say that's brainy enough.

really.

i'm sitting in the groton public library, and it is quiet and cool and there are dark skies outside and green trees. this is a moment of happiness.

yesterday at my parents' house i watched as selkie sat on the top of the chair and brushed my mom's hair for money. originally offered fifty cents, selkie had talked her into $5 for 10 minutes of brushing. she had swindled her own grandmother, who, being so desperate for her favorite form of indulgence, gave in and handed the kid a five-spot.

in that second, watching selkie's face gleam with the reward, watching my mother find a bit of laughter amidst her sadness, i had an overwhelming glimpse of pure happiness. it lasted a second long. it was an electric shock of a moment, but it was real and it was alive and the gratitude that hit me afterwards was profound.

ah, this is what it feels like.

last night visiting my dearest, oldest friend (younger than me, though, she'd be sure to point out): she indulged me ol' vegan heart and we found a food truck down the street from her work. we ordered soy blt and rosemary french fries and shared them on a bench in the warm cambridge air, laughing about unmentionables and things that can't be put into print. and there it was again--that brief little glimmer of happy that slapped me across the face and left me giggling long after it had retreated into the evening shadows.

and then this morning, after a fitful night of sleep, curled up in bed with my nine-year old boy next to me, amazed that he still remembers how to put his head on my shoulder and nestle right in, as if he needed me still. another pinch of reality that was nothing but joy.

is this what it is like?

in a little while i will strap on my backpack and take the four-mile walk back to my in-laws house, hopefully getting rained on during the journey. it is a warm rain today. summer rain. nothing smells better than massachusetts summer rain on the streets that i love so much.

its okay if this glow goes away, you know. it will. but for this moment i am just reveling in the grace that has been presented to me, and the awareness that is allowing me to claim it.

scribble

a few things:

teaching my children about the horrible joy of scratching mosquito bites until they almost bleed has been a perverse pleasure of mine this past week. welcome to massachusetts, kids. get out your hairbrush if it's a truly bad one. (this morning on my run i felt a strange sensation on my arm, only to look down 10 seconds later and see a huge skeeter drinking way too much of my blood. when i slapped him i looked like i had cut myself.)

i don't know what it is about new england radio stations and the dave matthews band, but i am going to use this blog to finally admit and stand by the fact that I. Don't. Like. That. Band. its overrated and sappy and bad. go ahead, tell me i'm wrong. if i hear that stupid violin opening to that dumbass song one more time as i'm scanning stations i'm going to lose it.

my accent is back in full force. being around all of my relatives during my pa's funeral just cemented it for me. somehow, i like the sound of my voice better when i'm here, and my r's get all lazy and soft.

playing mini-golf with my son was the highlight of my day. sadly, it seems that was not the case for him. afterwards he told me he'd rather we stayed home, cause it wasn't fair we just played one time through. i am struggling with this new demonic child who has taken over my sweet boy.

maybe he was just mad i got two hole-in-ones.

the clouds were so beautiful today.

but i miss my california family.

i'm melancholy, desperate, worried, exhausted, and at peace, all at the same time. how can one girl keep herself together in this situation?

not sure. doing it anyway.

poem.

poem for pa.

i trolled the internet yesterday

hoping to find words that rang true

or offered some glimpse inside the relationship

of grandfather to grandchild.

i did this

because i could not find my own thoughts

could not find my own way

through the idea

of what it was that you meant to me.

but in truth, there is nothing that's been said

before that can tell this story

the way that it needs to be told.

and in all honesty, i don't know if i possess

the ability to do you justice.

but.

you, pa, the master of potatoes.

how is it that you knew the best way to

prepare them in every conceivable form?

scalloped, fried, mashed

with heavy doses of real cream

even as children we knew that was the

most important ingredient.

you, stubbornly clutching to the idea that

the yankees held your loyalty.

constantly teasing and upbraiding the rest of us

in red sox nation, wearing the NY hat with pride,

perfecting your taunts.

(and yet, old man, when we cleaned out your drawers,

we found commemorative editions of sports magazines,

celebrating boston's historic 2004 world series win.

hidden away, like a treasure for us to discover.)

you, working in cahoots with your grandchildren

since the day we were born.

dressed as santa claus at christmas,

offering bribes for rubbing your feet,

slipping us cash whenever you could.

an art form emerged, whereupon you used your

grandchildren against your daughters, and

in the end we were spoiled rotten because of it.

spoiled above our means. spoiled senseless.

you, telling us stories,

like how long your real name was

Edward William Baxter Balmer Sylvanius

Allowicious Wallace

or how you were a colonel

instead of a sergeant

when really, a sergeant was enough to impress.

you, filled with emotion,

brimmed over the top,

handing down the wallace gene

that insures your grandchildren

will tear up during macy's thanksgiving day parade,

especially for santa and the rockettes.

you, heartbroken for years, missing her everyday,

while we rallied around you and tried

to be enough for you to be happy.

you, doting upon us and giving us nothing but love.

nothing but love and aggravation. nothing but love and

irascible behavior. nothing but love and slammed-door arguments,

cigar in your mouth, driving off in your car

to make your point.

you, forgiven immediately, and reciprocating. instilling in

your grandchildren the understanding

that no matter what, family harbors only goodwill towards

each other. in the end, we learned, we are the shelter,

the umbrella,

the cabana in the sudden summer rainstorm.

you, pa, you.

from me, from your grandchildren,

there is gratitude. what sweet good fortune

we had to have you around,

to be cradled by you,

to feel our cheeks against yours

in years of embraces,

the scruff of your face a friendly hurt.

wherever you may be

your spirit soaring overhead

Dewar's scotch in one hand

ethel's hand in the other

inevitable cigar in your mouth

i hope you are on your treasure island

full of the knowledge

that you left us with so much love,

filled, satiated, satisfied

by your endless devotion.

air.

early this morning i went out for my run, which is actually a very fast walk accompanied by short bursts of jogging. i took to the streets of my old home town and set my ipod to shuffle.

mumford and sons came on first, which set me to crying, which isn't very conducive to exercising. but i was sorta grateful for the chance, to be honest.

i miss my pa.

the humidity took care of me, wrapped me up good and tight, but there were still some moments of coolness lingering in the air, and i gulped them up like my favorite tap water. i knew the day would turn hot again but for that moment i was so happy to feel that sweet shiver on my skin.

i loved seeing the oak leaves under my sneakers as i ran.

my pa's wake is tomorrow afternoon and funeral is on monday morning. my cousin benjamin is giving the eulogy and i'm saying something as well, although as of this moment i'm not sure what.
i know that i will need to be respectful of my surroundings (ie, church) and so therefore i may find someone else's words to help me along. maybe not, though.

i keep thinking about pa's last moments, and how i inhaled and exhaled and he inhaled and he exhaled and we shared the air together for one last time.

i keep thinking about when i was seven or so and we were walking across his back yard to his neighbor parky's pool where he waited for us and my mom said something sarcastic to him across the way and in response he gave his drink to his friend, reached down in the water and took off his swim trunks and held them all up for us to see. my mom said, "run!" and for some crazy reason we all took off hoping (fearing?) to catch pa with his suit off and he panicked and tried to get them back on as fast as he could but he lost his balance and fell back into the pool as his friend laughed hard with two drinks in his hand.

i keep thinking about playing solitaire, and how he taught me three different ways to play, and how he always said, "another ace, ma!" to my grammie when he was playing at his house.

i keep thinking about his inevitable scratchy stubble on his face when i saw him, and the smell of his cigar, which i always hated but now am nostalgic for, and how he called me "haw-haw".

i keep thinking about the night before he died; how i sat with my cousins and we told stories and i learned things about him that i never knew. i like to think of him having this life i never knew about. i like to think that he had secrets and layers that were just his, because it makes him more like me.

i keep thinking about him. which is what my job is now. this is what i do. i tell stories and reminisce and try and feel him around me as best as i can.

donnie.

diversion.

okay, this one has absolutely nothing to do with my actual state of mind right now, but i figured it was good for me to share.

took the kids to bellingham today to see "zookeeper" which sucked ass, by the way; but here is one of the many reasons why i love this massachusetts:

turns out the quasi-bad guy in the movie is none other than donnie wahlberg, and when he appeared on screen for the first time, the mostly-mom-my-age audience hooted and gasped with appreciation for their hometown boy. while donnie and nkotb never did it for me, i appreciate the enthusiasm. turns out donnie still has quite the fan base.

love this place. love it with all of my sturdy new england heart.

in passing.

today i read a book to my grandfather.

on this 98 degree massachusetts day, i sat in his room at beaumont nursing home, just me and him; curtains drawn, small fan blowing lazily across us, the only sounds other than my voice were the jimmy dorsey music playing on the radio and the shallow breaths of my dear old Pa.

earlier this morning, as i thought about what to read to him today, i perused my dad's books. i wanted to find something that my Pa would like, but not anything too dense. i'm sure he would have been pleased with a quiet reading of patton's biography but i didn't think i could find a way to do that for a few hours. there were lots of mysteries and stuff, tons of books on nature, but my Pa wasn't that kind of guy, really.

when i saw the 1937 copy of "treasure island" i knew i'd found the perfect book.

so there i was, reading it to him. i sat next to his bed and tried to find a comfy position where i could hold the book and hold his hand at the same time. that didn't work so well, so i settled on being able to just touch his arm, which was baby-soft since my aunt carol had spent all morning rubbing lotion into it.

i told Pa that he had to sit back and listen and not interrupt. i believe that kind of joke is what they would classify as "gallows humor". i started with chapter one and realized very quickly that i would have to do various british accents to fully flesh out the story. i wanted him to be riveted.

i gave it all i had.

we were occasionally interrupted by the kind nurses who were checking his breathing and giving him his meds, but other than that, it was just us. Pa's eyes were closed tightly, shut so defiantly, and his skin was a different color than yesterday. his hands were cold.

i knew, from the hospice paperwork, that these were signs that it was almost time to say goodbye.

i kept reading, stopping for drinks of water and lip balm application. i talked to him every once in a while, telling him that i loved him, and that he was doing a really good job.

when i finished chapter eight, he took a deep deep breath and i waited for the next one to come. twenty seconds later a much shorter breath appeared, followed by another in quick succession. the nurse came in and listened with me.

there were no more breaths. i watched as the pulse in his neck slowed down and stopped. the nurse listened with her stethoscope. she told me he was gone, but i already knew that.

i won't go into the details of what happened afterwards, because that sadness belongs to my mom and my aunt. i can only tell my story here.

all i know is that i felt honored. i was so honored to be there with him, to tell him that he was almost done, that he could go when he wanted to now. as i put my head on his chest and cried a little, i told him how much i loved him and how he was a pain in the ass, but i loved him anyway.

it was our little exchange. tradition. had to be said, even on his deathbed.

i wasn't expecting this, wasn't planning on being the person in the room when he took his last breath. but i feel like i was the luckiest kid alive today. maybe he chose me because he knew i could handle it okay, that i would be strong as i was watching him leave.

it was so beautiful.

now my family begins the process of bereavement, and we call funeral homes and write obituaries and choose clothes and call friends. we pack his clothes and gather photos for the wake. we think about what we will say at the service, who will talk, what stories we can share that don't have too many swear words in them.

in the between time, we swim in my mom's pool and cook dinner and check emails, because that is what you do when you are living. you put your hair up because its so frickin' hot and you hope that your kids go to bed early tonight and you snack on chocolate because if ever you deserved it today would be the day.

this is what i do.

and having spent some time with death today, i am so grateful for this business of being alive.

Billy Joel - Allentown

i remember.

here's one little tip for those of you who are considering a drive cross country:

no matter how strong-willed you are, or how much you have put aside your former bad taste in music, when you enter pennsylvania you will immediately get billy joel's "allentown" in your head and it will not leave for the rest of your journey.

trust me.

extras.

what i should be writing about today is my pa. i spent some more time with him today, and i'm going back later on to read to him for a while.

for now that's all i can say about him.

however, i realized that there is one more aspect of the cross-country trip that i forgot to post about. we kept track of certain things over the week on the road and i wanted to make sure that our statistics were put on the blog for posterity.

so, number of times:

we unbuckled ourselves in the passenger front seat to help in the back while the car was still moving--12 x.

milo asked to use his ipod touch--11x.

we saw billboards for cracker barrel--21x.

selkie asked "when are we going to be there????"--20x + 1 song about it.


that's it. i thought we had more than that but just keeping track of those few seemed like a whole hell of a lot.

and i came up with a list of things to say about traveling by car in general, but now that i am housebound again i have completely forgotten them, as well.

no surprise there.

new day.

name change necessary, now that our little experiment has ended.

i have arrived back in my hometown and am immediately thrust into family difficulties. i spent the afternoon at my grandfather's nursing home yesterday. he's on his way out of this world, and i watched him thrash and grab for invisible hands in the air as if some sort of bed ballet.

it was really scary and really beautiful.

we're not sure how much time he has left; maybe a few days, maybe a couple of weeks. he's stubborn even in his own death, it seems. which makes sense, if you knew my grandfather.

anyway.

it didn't take long for me to fall into my structured role as oldest child, caretaker, organizer, chef, etc. i know what i have to do and i do it. i am the calm voice for my mother as she mourns her father, trying to keep everyone afloat in this house. its my summer job.

last night i went shopping at whole foods and stocked us up for the next week, then made dinner for the kids and my mom, all the while bemoaning the fact that i didn't bring my own knives with me. i was driving, for crissakes. i didn't have to go through security! i could've brought them and made my life so much easier this summer, since the knives in my parents' house are wussies.

probably a better way to describe them out there but i can't come up with it at this point.

oh wait, here it is: they completely suck and make me mental. chopping onions was never so dangerous.

its not that big of deal in the grand scheme of things. but why is it that the little things are the ones that make me lose it? why is it that dull knives could bring me to tears?

so here i am, in the state of my birth. the smells of summer are reminders of my whole life here. the humidity alone is enough to get me nostalgic. and looking outside the window right now--seeing the maple tree's shadow across the street on the pavement giving off that eerie orangey glow that only comes with this kind of new england weather--it seems that i am really home.

le fin.

and we're here.

the road trip is officially over, and it seems that we have survived it all. last night we left jersey city at 9pm and drove to massachusetts, listening to joe castiglione talk us through the endless red sox/rays game. the kids finally fell asleep in the back seat for the first time, until selkie woke up wailing two hours into the trip with her foot asleep.

we pulled over on the highway and i climbed in the back and sat between the two of them, heads resting on my shoulder as i massaged some life back into selkie's foot. we put in the lullaby coldplay cd in hopes it could find her some peace, but really, i think it was just the fact that i was sitting with them back there. quite a novelty.

the three of us were snug in the expansive prius back seat, and i tried to savor every second of the last hours til home. my other home. i listened to the game and tried to whisper comments to alex up front but gave up and closed my eyes.

yesterday, before we left jersey, i went to a funeral for the husband of an old friend from college. i am so glad that i got to be there for her, amidst all of the people who love her so much, and i was amazed at her strength.

i kept thinking that we were all way too young to be attending something like this. it wasn't fair.

i saw people i haven't seen for 17 years; good people who take care of the other side of the country while i toil away on the west coast. i hugged them tightly and marveled at how time had changed us but then again changed nothing. we were still the same.

my friend kelley said something in her beautiful eulogy about going home and hugging your kids, your husband, your friends; calling up those you love and telling them directly, telling them today, because you might not have another chance to do so.

today, now that this long trip is finally over and i am sitting on my parents' blue couch while my dad watches cartoons with my kids, my mom sleeps off her night shift and my husband reads the boston globe, i want to say how grateful i am for this ever-loving, crazy-ass journey on this planet. i am grateful to know so many stunning human beings who make this world better just by breathing the air up here. i am grateful to be a part o the messiness and the clutter of this life.

i am so thankful to be loved.

please consider yourself hugged tightly. i am holding you to me right now.

and i want to say thanks to the patron saint of prius-driving, crazy liberal, family-of-four-traveling whackjobs. you got us here safely and i am indebted to your kindness. you did a damn fine job of watching over us.

i would light a candle for you if i knew your name.

good talk, rusty.

jersey city.

here we are.

we got to our dear friends' house today around 5 pm, driving right past NYC and letting milo and selkie get a glimpse of lady liberty and the empire state building before hitting jersey. it seemed fitting. very american. a cap on our trip from coast to coast.

we did it. (i feel very chevy chase saying that).

it was so wonderful to get to a house tonight, to get somewhere full of a family's life, filled with kids' toys and sofas and a kitchen. dear god, a kitchen. i immediately asked for onions and a knife, and caramelized onions for a pasta dinner with my friend kim.

because she loves me so, she bought me kale from the farmer's market today.

i sliced that up and sauteed it with garlic and red hot pepper and salt and beans and we made a red sauce to go with it and it was delicious. it has made me so happy. being here has made me so happy.

here we are, the four of us, best friends since college; now married, now with two kids each. here we are, each family going through its own bedtime routine while intersecting with the other, trying to help the kids adjust to each other, trying to get them to jump past their excitement and close their eyes together. just go to sleep.

and all the while i keep thinking about these people i love so dearly, who knew me when, and how far we've all come. these two people--two of the best actors i have ever seen in my life, back in the day--there was none better--and i think about the times we spent together and the endless college days of debauchery and silliness and how we've all survived everything since.

and how, even now, we jump back into our friendship without a thought to how long its been since we've last seen each other. we effortlessly find ourselves continuing conversations that were started years ago. how is that possible?

i can't help but think of how lucky we are that we made it here in one piece. i won't deny that i had visions of crashes throughout the trip, playing out the accidents in my head, as i often do. i figure if i think of them then i'm covering my bases, and they won't actually happen. its hard work, and its a lot of pressure to take that on, but i'm willing to do that for my family.

coast to coast. we made it.

i am more than grateful tonight, as i'm here with kim and marshall and alex and all the kids. so grateful for this bounty of good things in front of me. so grateful that we made the last stop of the trip be to spend time here in jersey city.

so grateful for a friend who buys me kale as a welcoming gift.

almost gone

my last two mini-mobile posts were intercepted by aliens or something.

we're in pennsylvania, having lucked out and found the last hotel room 40 miles around last night around 11:30 pm. turns out there is natural gas drilling going on around here, and the miners have been living in hotels for over a month now, so rooms are hard to come by.

so here we are in a red roof inn, which feels more appropriate to our family than the luxury of the hilton last night, but sadly, having tasted richness, i want it back, damnit.

is it that hard to vacuum the carpet all the way to the edges of the wall? and just by putting a little placard that says "no smoking room" in the room does not mean no one ever lit up in here.

i'm not even gonna shower. its that gross in the bathroom.

but, my friends, it was a place to sleep, and i am grateful nonetheless.

today we haul ass over the lovely PA countryside in hopes of finding one cool cavern to explore and then we're off to jersey city to see our dear friends.

today, i am so glad that we are almost home. almost there. so close.

indy

i'm sitting in panera bread, downtown indianapolis, just steps away from the state house and the complex of buildings where my dad used to work. alex and the kids are back at the hilton (thank you hotwire) having a swim and i am taking a few minutes to myself to breathe in the good indiana air.

actually, the weber grill restaurant (?) is next door, so all i smell is barbecue, which, upon reflection, is probably what this state always smells like.

we're getting a really late start today, having forgotten yet again about another time change last night. the kids didn't go to sleep until midnight, and we had to wake them at 9:30 this morning. we promised them pool time and we're still going to the kids museum, so we're thinking that today will be our first drive-into-the-night kinda day. if we can make it.

i'm really frickin' tired. i need a massage. i need something else for breakfast other than an apple.

anyway, on our way out of indianapolis later today, chances are we'll drive by the hospital where they opened my back up in 1984, and eight hours later i was wired for sound and straight as an arrow.

sort of.

having that kind of badassss surgery when you are 12 years old does something to a girl. i forget sometimes that i made it through that, you know. i forget sometimes that i have a steel rod implanted by my spine. i forget.

but being here, right in the place where it happened--its hard to forget. being here is a reminder that it was all real.

so. in honor of that scoliosis surgery, april 4th, 1984--today i wear my sexy striped shirt with the cut-open back and no bra. that's right, indiana. can you take it? can you take this amount of almost-40-year-old hotness?

ask me--go ahead--ask me about my scar today.

bits n pieces.

some random thoughts/moments:

we lost one of selkie's flipflops. this is a tragedy that took half an hour to emotionally process.

alex is concerned with the lack of wildlife. "where are all the hawks? why are there no hawks around? i would not be surprised if we got back east and found out that the red-tailed hawk population has been decimated by some unknown disease."

selkie was interested for half a day about directions. she kept asking whether we were going north or east. she said, "if we go south, we'll see worms!"

i first yelled at my kids at 3:38 pm, day one.

my kids watched "the price is right" for the first time yesterday. milo says he's now hooked.

during a really great moment, milo said, "this is one of the awesomest experiences i've ever experienced."

he also explained to us what making out was, and as we groaned told us, "this drive just keeps getting better and better."

i told alex he was actually a good driver two days ago.

we keep thinking of really good apps for smart phones. for instance, what about one where it can tell you exactly what kind of landscape you are in at that very moment? as in, hey, here we are in a upper prairie/grasslands motif! isn't that interesting? you click on it and then my family is rich.

milo yesterday: "how did i manage to kick myself in the penis?"

selkie late last night, riffing on nothing with hysterical laughter: "because the pickles are here, and they are magic!"

we drove 28 miles out of the way today for a whole foods. let me just say, i LOVE. WHOLE. FOODS. i got a salad and said in a quiet, adoring voice, "hi kale. how are you? remember me?"

the smell of fast food restaurants' antibacterial bathroom soap is enough to make me gag at this point. i rubbed my hands in dirt the other day after i went pee, just so i wouldn't have to wash up with that stuff.

we have six license plates left to find. c'mon, hawai'i, c'mon.

now that my daughter has discovered the joy of pee-wee's playhouse episodes, i feel that my love for her is cemented, and i will no longer think about sending her away when she's a jerk.

the landscapes have changed so much. this is pretty country, y'all.

except for kansas.

this morning we got out of the hotel right across from the kansas city royals stadium and the humidity was so powerful i felt i had to push it apart with two hands, as if parting some heavy curtains. "see, selkie? this is humidity. get used to how this feels."

there is nothing more blessed right now than when the kids are either singing together at the top of their lungs or when the entire car is silent, each person thinking her or his own thoughts. quiet contemplation. beautiful.

already i'm a little bit sad to think its going to end this weekend. just a little bit. but then i can't wait to get off my ass and run around for a while.

current gas mileage: 44.6 MPG. pretty sucky for a prius, but we can't complain.

tonight we're staying in indianapolis, and tomorrow we're hitting the indianapolis children's museum, where i spent many a day as a kid milo's age. i haven't been to indy since alex and i first drove out to california, and i'm a little nervous about being there again. it is a veritable freak-out moment to bring my own children to the place where i played as a child.

we're driving through st. elmo, illinois right now. all i hear is the theme song.

rob lowe sax solo, anyone?

last kansas thought.

i'm feeling a little guilty about my anti-kansas post.

i have nothing against the good people of kansas, such as the kind gentleman with the breathing tube who greeted us warmly at Dillon's supermarket, or the family we talked to who prayed before eating at Wendy's, or even the state trooper that gave us the speeding ticket without any nasty comment about nailing the out-of-state, foreign-made, hybrid car.

they were all very pleasant.

no, my grudge is against the institution of kansas. you know the one. i can best sum it up and foist all my anger onto it when i think of the countless anti-choice billboards we went by yesterday, along with the ronald reagan quote signs and, my favorite: a super close-up of president obama with the words "wannabe socialist/terrorist" that was big enough to see from half a mile away.

that's the kansas that can kiss my liberal ass.

kansas be true?

these pictures are not kansas.

they are of the glorious aforementioned arches national park from yesterday. they deserve to be put in this blog.

kansas, however, doesn't.

as my good friend aki wrote to me, "why does kansas exist anyway? is it really a state? why?"

the only thing kansas did for us today was give us a north dakota license plate. it gaveth, and then it took the fuck away.

i'm really zonked now, and so frickin' glad to be out of that state and into the beautiful missouri. going to crash on yet another crappy hotel mattress with one of my children inevitably kicking me and stealing covers all night long.

we're going to take another detour tomorrow, cause on our way through kansas city we saw a sign for the negro league museum, and milo's dream excursion is less than five miles away.

so now we know what we're doing in the morning. hell, the east coast will be there waiting for us, no matter how late we show up.

goodnight, all. thanks for reading, by the way--i like to think of all of you watching over us as we drive and drive and drive . . .

Kansas haiku #3:

The only cure for
Kansas is to read Bossy-
pants to each other.

Kansas haiku 2:

Kansas takes away
One hundred sixty-three bucks
Where is the state line?

A Kansas haiku:

Hot dry endless drive
Nothing for me to eat here
We get pulled over.

last night.

barely made it over the rockies last night.

mother nature decided to show off and threw a lightning show into the mix as we crept over the mountains. that, plus the pouring rain, made for a very exciting drive.

my knuckles hurt from clenching the wheel too hard.

we also had to deal with flooding in denver itself, and we basically swam through the lakes of puddles and prayed the prius battery wouldn't die.

it didn't. lucky us.

exhausted today, and going out to breakfast before we hit the road and the inevitable band of storms that await us on the plains.

tuesday #1.

We're driving in pouring rain right now. There's a big thunderstorm all around us. This is how Colorado has chosen to welcome us. Its pretty righteous.

The kids are in front of screens, as am I, and Alex is driving. It isn't easy for me to let him drive. First of all, I get sorta carsick if I'm not driving. Secondly, he tends to look at the scenery first and the road second. Not all the time, but enough that it makes me nervous.

Right now he's doing a good job, though. I'll give him that.

We went to Arches National Park today. I don't believe in much, other than avocados and the power of homebirth, but I do believe that there is some kind of majesty in those red rock walls. I've never seen anything like it. It was a cathedral. I was in awe.

The kids, however, said things like, "Is this it?" and "This is so BORING." Which officially makes this a real roadtrip. As if it wasn't already.

The backseat organization is a pain in my ass. There is constant drama surrounding lost items, and I am amazed at my children's inability to actually look for things. They cry and say "It's NOT THERE!" with accusation in their voice and then inevitably it's just underneath the first thing on top of their pile.

When do kids start actually looking and finding their own stuff?

Backseat song right now from Milo: "Your butt has never smelled that good . . ."

Selkie is immersed in watching "Mary Poppins". For the sixteenth time in her life.

We've already found 42 state license plates. I long to see Hawaii.

We really are doing okay so far. I think we're all tired. We're weary of some aspects of the road life, like trying to find restaurants. It doesn't help when one member of the family is vegan. But we're doing okay.

When I was a kid and we lived in Indiana for a while, my family would take road trips a few times a year to Massachusetts to see relatives. I remember these so well, almost as well as I can remember anything. My brothers and I would lay down in the back of our station wagon, with all the seats completely flat, and we'd have sleeping bags and pillows and blankets and our dog Mindy. We never ever wore seatbelts.

My parents drove practically non-stop for 1000 miles. They took turns, switching in rest areas. They bought these ugly brown square pillows that took two D batteries, and we're supposed to give you a butt massage as you drove. They made a lot of noise, those pillows.

My brothers and I would argue and fight but we'd also play astronaut, and lay on our backs and press buttons up on the ceiling. We often thought about mooning people in the other cars. I can't be certain that my brother Jarrod didn't moon anyone. It wouldn't surprise me if he actually did.

I slept a lot, and especially remember driving back for Christmas, feeling the freezing windows and being scared about my dad driving in the ice and snow. It was thrilling.

Now I'm in the front seat, co-pilot style, and my kids are strapped down for safety behind me. My kids. How can it be that I have my own kids? How can it be?

Sigh.

We just drove by a gas station called "Kum and Go."

Come to think of it, I'm so glad that I am an adult now and can appreciate that sign.

living the good life in utah.

grand canyon.

quotes from my children regarding this amazing wonder:

milo: "wow. that's really a grand canyon."

selkie: "i can't see it."