If I was less discerning about facebook statuses, today's would say:
-10 C is the official breaking point of my cold weather running gear.
Make the Kaye Syrah beans. You won't regret it (and yes, I added spinach).
Something long overdue is finally in the mail:
It's all hallelujahs and hiding spinach around here. Almost 11 months ago, I found myself unable to get out of bed or pick up my baby or hold a cup of coffee. A pesky joint disease altered life for this family. Altered it a lot. It hit when I was finally gaining a little confidence after a bucketload of bewildering newness: We'd kept the baby alive for nearly a year and survived our first months on a new continent. I was back clocking happy kilometers on long runs, and our first winter in seven years--a long and gray one--was starting to lift. It was a cruel time to find myself abruptly bed-ridden, and I let that disease knock the hope right out of me.
But I've got good peeps and Grace and This Too Shall Pass. And it did. It's not the same body; there are joints that will never quit growling, but I can move. Hallelujah, I can move! Today marked a milestone of moving---18 glorious kilometers through Praha with a dear friend. It was hard, but it was beautiful, and I never ever ever thought it possible. I am one grateful girl.
Tomorrow will be Advil and ice and spinach muffins. That's right. I'll take this poor transition from what really is an awfully Big Deal to explain that I obsess over iron intake, and so we've been eating Rebar's Broccoli Soup (take the time to make a pesto to swirl in, toss in some steamed florets and you will never ever ever make any other creamed brocolli soup--or possibly any other soup at all. You'll find the bare bones of it here.), which should really be called spinach soup, and finding other creative uses for the green stuff.
The boys have no idea there is wilted spinach in these delish carrot muffins.
And tomorrow's fruit smoothies.
Bad photography aside, you have no idea how happy this all makes me.
Since we returned to Prague, Gus and I have been having a hard time speaking each other's love language. He's hid all of my winter accessories. My hands are freezing. He gave me a bloody nose and dropped his oatmeal in my coffee. And then there was Wednesday. When someone you love hands you their own poop, you know your relationship needs some attention.
That night, before he went to bed, we prayed together as a family. Well, I prayed and he poked his father in his closed eye (it really hasn't been easy for any of us). I asked for a little help around here. Help learning to parent with joy.
I've been getting all sorts of appropriate parenting advice and notes and insights from folks, and it's felt sort of bleak to have well-intentioned people say such lovely things like, "Don't you feel like you're just living the best life has to offer?" when I'm scrubbing the toy excavator my son has just filled with his own urine. I've really questioned (and probably will forever) my ability to execute and endure the dirt and grime and nuts and bolts of parenting.
Thursday Gus and I left early for school. This walk was rich with the giddy anticipation of a breather from one another. And so it was surprising when we found ourselves missing our bus in order to crunch ice. All the puddles from the day before had frozen over, and we are people who do not miss an opportunity to smash things without consequence. So we smashed and hopped and slid and skated and reminded ourselves not to eat dirty ice or to lick the tempting pieces that look like candy. (I thought of you fondly, MS, and all the times we watched the movie Beautiful Girls. I always liked the scene where Natalie Portman is just stomping snow. I share her pleasure in a good snow stomp). While ice chunks flew and Gus learned to land on his knees for a really good ice ride, a neighbor walked by and took in our mayhem. She is not a parent, but she has more parenting mojo than I'll ever muster. I'm bewildered by this girl's kid-magnetism. Kids love her. She loves kids. Oscar is totally smitten. I was pretty sure she walked off making a mental note to investigate Czech child protective services as I yelled things like, "Run over here, this puddle is REALLY slippery!" But I was wrong. Instead she later emailed that she just wanted to share her joy in "witnessing kairos (she and I must read the same blogs)", and how she was so happy to have seen such a beautiful parenting moment.
Argh. What a stinker. I wanted to tell her, "That's parenting? That's the crap Gus and I waste our time doing all day when we should be learning to cut with scissors and sing our ABCs and put on our own coat. That's the stuff that distracts him from eating vegetables and bathing properly. That's the fun stuff I do when I want to avoid what parents should be doing. That is NOT parenting." But, I got it. I get it. Thank-you-very-much pre-eye-poke prayer.
I was pretty happy to pick up Oscar after school and get my buddy back. Affirmed now in our aimless ways, we did all the voices to The Pout Pout fish together when we were supposed to be learning to tie our shoes and may or may not have hung up our jackets. And can you believe it? He even asked to use the potty and not his own hand or the Nepalese carpets. I was shocked.
This is a strange gig, this endeavor growing a human. In an On Being podast from NPR with Sylvia Boorstein, two phrases recently stuck in my head (poorly quoted):
"Your measuring stick that you're thinking clearly is that you are able to be kind."
and
"In this moment, am I able to care?"
I'm looking forward to putting those up on the wall and trying them out on the next day where I find myself gritting my teeth. And while I'm not super keen on the amount of attention fecal matter gets around here, I am pretty keen on living hopefully and on watching someone grow so admirably despite my best efforts at messing up this process. I am grateful for a community of outspoken women who remind me what I am doing and remind me what I should be doing and give me pause. I don't always agree with them, but I am happy to be walking in this path if it is one where Gus and I can take a break from the horror that is learning-to-zip-your-own-coat with an impromptu ice skate.
About twenty blissful seconds before he poured hot chocolate on my shoe.
Fifteen years ago, in the Schroeder farm kitchen, I met my beloved P. Someone asked me the other day if I liked him from the moment we met. I was in a hurry and regretted my quick response. If I'd taken advantage of a moment to sing out our song, I'd have explained that before that encounter at the Schroeder farm, yeah, I had seen P. He'd been in some of my classes at University. He was outspoken and confident and always seemed surrounded by a gaggle of good looking people. At that point in my life, I was unimpressed by anyone that seemed remotely competent and thus ignored him. But when a mutual friend (thanks, SV) had us both over to make a batch of her mother's homemade raspberry hooch, it was like at first sight.
It's only been a few times that I've had the experience where you meet someone and your friend-meter starts shaking. You just know that you're in the presence of Something Good. We squashed raspberries, sang rowdy songs at the top of our lungs, and saw each other almost every day after that. The Schroeder farm (and a nip of raspberry liqueur) has a way of bringing out the humor in folks. We decided we were the funniest people the other had ever met.
I didn't know what love was for nearly ten years (fully aware that everyone around us did). I just knew that P and I were soulmates. We made lists, we laughed, we learned things, we cooked, we crafted, we ran and kayaked and stirred up a lot of silly. P has a way of making the ordinary unbelievably entertaining.
I'm so happy that we both finally figured ourselves out and so grateful that I get to celebrate his 36th year with a gorgeous Gus and a hopeful heart.
Since Gus was born, we've both felt like we are in humilty boot-camp. So, to commemorate our year of new horizons with continued hopes of self-improvement, I painted and drew P one of our favorite (and timely) verses. It's become a bit of a manifesto:
P also got his favorite cake: carrot. Gus was happy (though you'd never know it from his somber face) to help:
And happy to eat:
Happy Birthday, dearest P. You're the best Something Good I've ever met.
It's MY year! The year of the dragon! Put on your red shirts and prepare your reunion dinners! Unaware of Chinese New Year until I moved overseas eight years ago, I've waited a long time for my turn. And, fitting for an Asian symbol that bodes revolution, this year holds a move back to Singapore and back to teaching. Big things are on the horizon.
I just hope my class sizes aren't too big.
A place-filler of a post: Gus and I are 36 hours back in Praha. We've not slept as many of those hours as I'd have liked, but we're happy from a long holiday in a very good place. I chose egg nog over blogging, and I think that was wise. With a new year in full swing and the Year of the Dragon (MY year!) looming, I'm in organizing and improving mode. Or at least I will be once the post-flight vertigo stops.
Gus is in missing diggers, tractors, and good dogs mode. It's all talk of Sable Dog, Cousin C, and Gram and Gramps. Especially at 1:30 in the morning.
And who wouldn't enjoy a midnight reminisce on good times like this?
