{Originally published on Pepper Paints}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on June 25, 2008

Our afternoon started like this; with some Jackson Pollock splatter painting:

Then like this:

Then they realized how much paint they had on their bodies and it could have been all down hill from there.

But, really it ended up being the kind of experience that we (crazy parents!) hope for!

{Originally published on Velveteen Mind}

When we finally decided that we were done having babies (you know, before we found out that we were pregnant with our third. ahem.), I spent some time mourning the little baby girl that I would never have. Mourning is the best way I can describe it because it truly did feel like a loss.

I am a girl. That’s fairly obvious given the creation of babies in ze belly, but I’m not a girly-girl. Perhaps the girliest thing about me is that I have always wanted to have a girl. I’ve always had those little baby daughter fantasies.

Before we find out if this new baby is a girl or a boy, either of which I would be thrilled about (well, thrilled if it’s a boy, thrilled and terrified if it’s a girl), I feel like this is my last chance to capture these “what if it’s a girl/what if I never have a girl” feelings.

A few months before I found out about our new baby, I was watching a movie that included a scene of a mother and small daughter taking a bubble bath together. With no warning, I found myself crying. The feminine tenderness of the image knocked around within an empty spot in my heart and left me breathless. I wanted that and had decided that I would no longer pursue it. Happily decided so, with no less than a heaping helping of relief, but it was a loss nonetheless.

We all give up on certain dreams throughout our lives, often for sound reasons, but we mourn the loss of their warm glow just the same. These dreams that have kept us company and occupied a bit of our imagination for so many years. For me, it was the image of my dream daughter peeking around corners of my mind any time I would see a little girl that reminded me of her.

My daughter. The one that exists in my mind has long dark, curly hair. Her eyes are almond-shaped and deep brown. Her skin is the olive of her father’s. She is the one child of my three that looks more Lebanese than Irish. Who would have ever imagined that my Irish genes would put the beat-down on my husband’s Lebanese stronghold?

She is the mysterious princess that might not fit in quite so well while growing up but that all of the boys will clamor for when she grows into her own. She is a woman beyond her years from the moment she is born, yet full of mischief and light.

I celebrate my daughter.

{Originally Published on Collecting Raindrops}

I was nine, living out the unfortunate fashion legacy of the 80’s, on any given day sporting Jams and jellies or leg warmers and Keds, and devouring Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret when no one was looking. I was ugly and I knew it, like an English Bulldog puppy. The kind of ugly that tugs at heartstrings and causes onlookers to want to scoop her up, fix her a cup of cocoa, swipe the smudges from her pink plastic glasses, and entertain her wild ideas.

A fair amount of my time was spent watching surgeries/procedures, studying oddities that my Dad retrieved from the stomachs of his equine patients, and exploring the barns and acreage around his veterinary clinic. I enjoyed the dual citizenship extended in childhood, dividing my days between reality and imaginary worlds that spun themselves into convincing, more entertaining versions of the truth with colorful landscapes and curious culinary creations.

I was an odd little girl, (which may be the most redundant phrase ever uttered, following the previous paragraphs.) I wrote myself into mystery stories. I concocted ridiculous diary entries that chronicled the life of a more ordinary and attractive girl. (If someone were to find that little diary, some day, which is hopefully decomposing nicely in a landfill somewhere in Oklahoma, they’d be bored to tears and think I lived a very different life…with platinum blond braids.) That was the year I decided on my career path: I would attend Harvard Law School followed by a brief, but spectacular stint as a lawyer before being appointed to a judgeship which would of course, lead me directly to my seat as Chief Justice of The Supreme Court. I was nine–where are the dizzy daydreams of riding unicorns over rainbows (both of which enjoyed popularity in the 80’s thanks to Rainbow Brite, The Care Bears, and Hippies having children) or wanting to be a Marine biologist and work at Sea World when I grew up?

My Mom and Dad encouraged this phantasmic life plan. I was really good at Memory so, you know, I was already qualified.

It never occurred to my adolescent self that I might not be the Chief Justice, or attend Harvard, for that matter. These things were guaranteed because in my other world, my imaginary world, I had already lived them.

My imaginary world was as easily accessible as my back yard. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that it started to crumble. Reality came crashing down and the pillars of my youth showed deep and unsettling cracks. I began to question everything. Pragmatism emerged as an important ally in the days after my Dad left and my Mother couldn’t stand up underneath the sadness that enveloped her. Dreaming, planning, writing, inventing, creating, were dismissed (by me) as childish and I no longer had the luxury of being a child. I locked the door to that world of dreams and tossed away the key.

{Originally Published on Sweetney}

When I made my list of the best 25 songs of the last 25 years a few weeks back, I burned, just for my own private listening enjoyment, a mix CD comprised of those select tracks. Since that time its been on heavy rotation during the 20 minute commute to and from M’s camp each weekday — I’m lucky enough to have a kid who’s tolerant of Mommy’s need to CRANK THAT SHIT UP — and in that time she’s absorbed all the songs and picked her favorites, notable among them the well-aged Oasis tune Wonderwall. It’s a song that for all its obvious magnetism and hookiness I’ve never fully understood. I mean, what’s a Wonderwall, anyway? And what, if anything, does it mean for a person to be that to someone else? Still, questions of signification and metaphor aside, each time the spare guitar strum of that track begins to play on our car stereo I see the joyful recognition wash over M’s face in the rear view mirror, and when the lesser of the brothers Gallagher begins to sing she does too, word for word.
. . . . .

On Sunday, we finally told her about the split.

For those of you who’ve never gone through a separation (and seriously, here’s hoping none of you ever have to), the awful, soul-rending anticipation of having to break this news to your child — the tiny, blameless person who you’ve made it your life’s mission to protect and shield from all hurts and pains — is psychological torture of a magnitude it’s difficult to fully wrap your head around. Over the course of the past few weeks I’ve said to friends, relative to the crushing dread I felt about having to do this, that I now understand why people stay together for the sake of the kids (or, rather, tell themselves that’s what they’re doing — it’s probably closer to the truth to say they’re staying together for the sake of not having to deal with the anguish and guilt of having to tell the kids). It is the worst thing I could ever imagine having to do, and believe me, I can imagine having to do a lot of pretty awful things. Like having to attend a Celine Dion concert, or watch the complete filmography of Paris Hilton, for example. YES, THIS IS EVEN WORSE THAN THAT.

So Jamie came over Sunday morning with the idea in mind that this was the day. No way out but to barrel through it together, however ineptly, and hope to god we don’t have to look back on this as The Day We Shattered Our Daughter’s Identity, Crushed Her Spirit, And Destroyed Her Self Esteem For All Time. I think some of my generalized terror about this event can be traced back to having known a few very seriously broken human beings who pointed to the cataclysm of their parents breaking up when they were a kid as the hot molten core of their volcanic screwed-up-ness. And when I say “human beings” you should read “people I dated.” This is definitely NOT how I want my daughter to turn out.

{Originally posted on Whiskey in My Sippy Cup}

I’ve talked before about the craving we as parents have to mold our children into little mini-mes, to see some glimmer of ourselves behind those big, beautiful eyes. I’ve talked about how hard we both have striven to avoid doing just that thing, for the sake of our kids’ sanity. We were both pushed and pushed perhaps a bit too hard as children. We both spent most of our lives trying to live up to some unattainable ideal of perfection that our parents had laid out for us. We both had an absent parent who we alternately tried to garner the love of and spite with our over-achievement.

We both have parent issues. We try to not share them with our kids.

For me, not pushing them to be me is simply a matter of not letting them slit their wrists and not pushing them to get straight A’s all the time and reading them something other than Douglas Adams. For The Donor, it’s a bit more complicated. He was that kid. I have scrapbooks on scrapbooks full to the brim with newspaper clippings and accolades. I have cases of ribbons and pins and trophies in my basement. I have a wall full of plaques and a closet full of uniforms waiting for a child who needs them. For a child who will follow his father’s footsteps. And I have a very tired father here, too, one who never got his childhood because he was too busy being pushed to be the fastest, the hardest, the leanest, the best.

And so I’ve read them other stories (thank you, Dan Brown) and he’s let them dip their foot in a pool with an instructor rather than with him, and he’s put them in soccer lessons with any other coach, and he’s sat back and waited. I’ve seen him dream. I’ve seen the hope well up inside of him like a fire and I’ve seen that flame extinguish time and time again, mostly because he’s an athlete and I’m a nerd and nerds don’t push their kids to hit balls for a living and athletes don’t buy their kids Mensa Mind Challenge books for fun. Our kids will be neither of us, it seems. At least not by our doing.

He’s actually been trying his hand at their sports of choice a little lately, and let me tell you that a 37 year old man on a Ripstick is damn near the funniest thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life. Especially when he does a double-backwards-aerial-somersault and lands flat on his ass. That man was never a cat, in any life.

{Originally published on SusieJ}

This summer, our hill at the lake will be used in yet another ingenious way: to make ice cream for our root beer floats. I was tempted to buy the traditional ice cream maker, but there are so many choices; I quickly became overwhelmed looking at all the bells and whistles. And besides, I have all that boy power just dying to get put to use. Plus, the process of making ice cream by hand… literally…. in the can… is is a great way to introduce some lessons in science. There is the ice cream in a bag method; my boys would surely break the bag in the mixing process. So, I’ve decided to go with the ice cream in a can method.

1. The first challenge is finding the can. Many recipes suggest using
   a coffee can, but who buys coffee in a can anymore? A better idea is
   to ask for an empty paint can from the paint store. You’ll need two: A
   quart, and a gallon.
2. Ask your kids to tell you the freezing point of water — or teach
   them — 32 degrees F, or 0 Celcius. Then, ask them what happens when we
   put salt on icy sidewalks. Ask them to start thinking about why we need
   salt to make ice cream.
3. In the small, clean can, add one cup of milk or half and half, one cup of sugar, and one teaspoon of vanilla.
4. Optional: add one tablespoon of chocolate syrup — or frozen strawberries.
5. Use a hammer to seal the lid tightly.
6. In the larger can, combine the ice and rock salt. Use a thermometer to record the temperature of the rock and salt mixture.
7. Use hammer again to seal the lid tightly.
8. Take turns rolling the can down the hill, for about five minutes. This will “solidify” the ice cream.
9. Explain what’s happening: the ice melts and combines with the salt.
   This “brine” has a lower freezing point — lower than 32 degrees.
10. After five minutes of rolling, open the large can, and take the
    temperature of the ice. It will be colder than it was the first time.
11. Open the smaller can. The colder brine was able to get the milk
    mixture cold enough to freeze the milk mixture to make it solid, to
    create ice cream.
12. You know you’re going to have to whip up another batch right now; the fun was really rolling the can down the hill.

{Originally Published on Doobleh-Vay}

I dream of riding the Orient Express

for two nights in a row now

I am in a bright cabin with paper and pencils

and very Bohemian in an authentic way

like the way I used to wrap scarves around my head in college

and head out to the bar for a drink

when it was not even chic- just odd

scarves that my Kurdish friend would give me

and how they were so bright turquoise

that I stood out from miles away

like a beacon to other strange girls

blinking and calling out

be the person yr supposed to be

and later you will be fine with it

I am on a journey and at some point in the dream I freeze frame for a second and hit some sort of intense epiphany- only I wake up right as I feel the hairs on my body stand and stir

it was like that yesterday too

{Originally Published on Mommy Melee}

It’s a little after 5:30 and the sun is starting to give everything a rusty, magic glow. Green is greener. Blue is bluer. And half of Riviera Middle School is in ruins.

I knew about it, of course—racing the sun to get the light, to document the destruction before I forget, before it’s gone gone gone. I have my camera in the passenger seat. I pull up against the fence, crack the windows for my sons in the backseat, and step out onto the pavement.

Monsters in the parking lot. Two giant diggers. (The dinosaurs are eating the school, my son whispers.) The sun glints just right, a little flare of personality. A wink. I shiver and start taking pictures.

Gum on the seat, then my jeans, a jacket tied around my waist. Crying on the phone, please come and let me go home, the girls are so mean. I write a report on dachshunds. A boy in gifted class writes a song about the way I pick my nose. I know I’m not the only one who thinks about last year’s rape incident every time I march up the dingy stairwells. I have a boyfriend for three days in the hall. A high school student volunteers with the after school chorus program. Why don’t blondes use vibrators, he asks me. Because they chip their teeth. I don’t get the joke.

{Originally published on Lucky Thirteen and Counting}

I used to have a daughter. I don’t have her any more. This is something that is not easy to talk about nor easy to write about, even almost two years later. But today, in the spirit of February, the month of love, I think this is an appropriate day to share some of my feelings.

I love this child. I wanted this child. I made a sacrifice for this child and I still believe I did the right thing. BUT, there are days and times, that cause me to reflect on that decision. I don’t want to tell you I question it, or that I hope I did the right thing. Because honestly, deep in my heart, I KNOW that I made the right decision. But knowing this doesn’t make it easy, or the grief any less, or the loss go away.

When The Ex and I separated Embree was four years old. The Nanny started dating The Ex three weeks later, and I fired her. My kids lost two very important people in a matter of 21 days. Embree took it the hardest. She cried as hard, if not harder, than I did. It was devastating to watch. She loved her nanny. The Nanny started working for me full-time when Embree was one. She was her primary caregiver. When Embree cried, she wanted The Nanny, not me. That loss was substantial to my child. I was not above admitting that.

When The Nanny moved in with The Ex, Embree joined them. She moved in full-time. I couldn’t deny her who and want she wanted. She visited me when they went out. However, it wasn’t me she was visiting, it was the siblings. When I scheduled one-on-one time with her, she wanted the other kids to join us.

We continued life this way for one year. We lived in Utah so I knew what Embree was doing, and I still played a small role in her life. But, when we moved to California everything changed. The Ex and The Nanny were married and having a family of their own. My life was here in California with Brandon and the kids. When Embree came to visit she cried for her “mommy”. It was painful to hear, to see, and to feel. Embree and I both knew she belonged with her dad and her “new mommy”.

I talked to her about what this would entail. Brandon and I wouldn’t be her family any more. Her siblings would still be her brothers and sisters, but I would not be her mom, and Brandon wouldn’t be her stepfather. She understood the best a six-year-old mind could understand. She was thoughtful for a moment and said with confidence, “Yes, I want that.”

{Originally published at FIMBY- Fun In My Backyard}

I love the idea of Charlotte Mason nature study. No doubt other educators and naturalists advocate this approach but I hadn’t heard of it before investigating CM philosophy.

Picture this: a child in the woods, with a drawing pad and pencil. Diligently sketching a leaf, stone, tree, flower or butterfly. We actually tried this once or twice last year.

Our reality: three kiddos running through the woods, building forts and fairy houses, pretending to be drunken pirates (my son’s latest fascination). We are city folk so when my kids are in the woods I am less than inclined to require then to sit and sketch. In fact I WANT them to run around like crazies, minus the drunken sailor bit.

Don’t get the wrong idea, we are all over nature study at our house. It’s an everyday occurrence but it looks more like this:

- The kids find a couple pieces of brown felt and some fleece from the fabric bin. A copy of the ancient vintage sewing book “The Big Book of Soft Toys” by Mabs Tyler inspires an afternoon of tracing, measuring, cutting, stitching & stuffing. Behold, “Silent Sam” and “Cocoa” are born.

Laurent and Silent Sam