Keeping it together

I am fighting self doubt with tiny, self-contained doodles today:

I'm also reading the blog posts of the wonderful new group of SAS Sketchers. They are making good art!

White space

Permission to rough draft

I had a whole morning to fail today. Time is a remarkable thing.

A new blog/website is in the works. Pieces of this will stay. And many pieces will go.

This is!

This is today:

This is good.

 

They came in threes

Three things happened today that make me wonder if Jonaca is right, and we should all be drinking bottled water so that we don't turn into planet Earth at the end of Stephen King's short story, "The End of the Whole Mess:"

1. I recycled some noticings from brilliant writer/chef/human JB, and spent far too much time watching Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes. She told me not to look them directly in the eyes, and I think J's right, as I just could not. get. enough. June Carter and Johnny Cash were resurrected in a hippie cult, and they were just singing their unshowered guts out. 

2. LM convinced me to sign up for the Happy 40th Birthday Hello Kitty run. For the t-shirt. And for the hope that we could subversively draw mouths on all the silenced kitty-people. I don't do races anymore unless they send me somewhere unusual and if I don't have to stand in a race pack line. You have not seen frustration until you've seen a Singapore Race Pack Line. And this Hello Kitty (oh my gosh--another cult!) race fits neither criteria. Ack. She better pick up my pack, as it's obvious Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes were clouding my thinking when I said yes.

3. Gus came home speaking of "Baby Big Boy" who dominates the coveted playground ball at recess and is neither boy nor baby. He is older than Gus yet an infant. Baby Big Boy has a mean face and a baby face. And he says, "thank you" when you return the ball to him---but it's in a kind baby voice. Yet he's big. As it's the ONLY shred of information he's provided about his pre-K career, I hung on every word. I know as much as you do, and yes, I will be lurking behind the playground at 9:45 tomorrow to find myself some Baby Big Boy.

Tomorrow I return to work where I'll get a daily dose of IQ. And to be on the safe side, I'll not be looking Baby Big Boy, Hello Kitty, or those Edward Sharpe people directly in the eyes. 

It's Just Great

Returning season is happening better than we expected. Last year I walked straight off the plane and to the ER, and then we had two months of Gus tearfully asking why he didn't live with Grandma and two months of me (tearfully) asking when was I ever going to get to draw, and six months of P not being able to lift his arms, and yet all the while he was having to smile at all of us and mutter, "this too shall pass" about 47 kajillion times while he walked down the street to find sanity at a friend's house where hopefully someone else would open the beer because his arms hurt too badly to do it.

This year, there is less muttering and way fewer tears and someone might even be healed enough for tennis. Hallelujah. We came back to two new jobs for me (and one of them is at home at this desk with lots of colored pencils and books on fonts and freshly typed pages of manuscripts. Wheeeee!) and to this:

We're not convinced he's not incontinent or partially blind or prone to spaniel rage, but in the words of the slow-drawling boiled peanut hawker that MS and I encountered in the Florida Keys thirteen years ago, "I luv 'em. Oh man, with a cold beer, I jus' luv 'em."

I'm not the only one. Gus dresses him as the Boy Wonder, carries him around awkwardly by his esophagus, and is greeted every day off the school bus by some serious tail wagging and irrational joy. There were no sad transition mornings weeping for the farm or rough evenings watching Gus pack a suitcase for a one way trip out of This House That is Not Washington. No, there was a new buddy to pat. And that is just great.

And for those of you that know anything about anything with this family, you'll know that the ultimate test of a dog's mettle is this:

I know. I can't believe it either.

There's so much we can't believe right now. LM returned to Singapore after we left for Europe and she left for North Africa, and now we're both back and in the same condo and meeting to run the same roads as we did years and years ago before a Gus and two continents (not incontinence) and collective home purchases and everyone's boys suddenly getting cheek bones and jawlines. It's just great.

Another friend marvel is that our best Prague neighbors have moved here too, and BB and I wander Chinatown and eat dumplings and talk about writing and books and art and design in the same meandering ways we discussed the same topics on snowy Stromovka mornings, pushing baby Gus in a stroller with croissants and Linzer cookies.

It's just great.

The amazing part is that it really feels like the greatness hasn't fully come, as we haven't had the time we want with our old friends, and I'm still juggling my days off to plan lessons, and we're all feeling our way through new classes and schedules and routines. But the months ahead hold infinite possibility, and Singapore has not always been a harbinger of hope for us. So, we're going to not worry that the dog is ruining the carpets we hand carried from Nepal or that he may have swallowed a Lego or that I'm writing about a dog's bladder when I should be posting art I've crafted. Instead, P gets to practice his ukulele and use his own arms to open doors, while Gus and I dress the dog, and we all sit in the glow of community and healing and potential and far less husband-worrying weeping. I'm going to celebrate the returning season, take a deep breath, and remind myself (often very loudly so that P doesn't start talking to himself or drinking his beer elsewhere) that everything right now feels Just Great.

 

The Goodbye Season

It's that time of year. We say goodbye. We get excited for hellos. We count down days until we're leaving and ignore days until we return. OG's countdown is on two hands. How will we sleep?

This year, I am blessed to say goodbye to someone pretty darn special:

I'm only leaving him for two floors up and a few hallways down, but when you plan daily, teach together often, and pop in and out of each others' classrooms forty times a day, it's a loss. 16 years ago, I was blessed to team with an amazing woman. She raised llamas. She danced at the salmon festival. She taught me about Terry Tempest Williams and Mary Karr and not being so scared all the time. I loved that lady and our accordian wall we'd push to the side so we could face all fifty of those rowdies at once. Since then, I've grieved losing that relationship. And this miraculous year, I had it again. Thanks, Bri.

Brian taught me to let kids see my love of words in all its embarrassing glory. Every birthday, we give each student a poem and read it aloud with gusto. It's not his birthday, but I'm going to read him some William Stafford:

I've never been comfortable with ceremony or spotlight. I don't like to talk about myself. But, I'm learning--slowly--that there's a place for ritual, for honor, and for public moments to celebrate a season. 

And of course, since I can't take anything too seriously without getting red-faced, I'll probably have to come home and make a list of what we'll do ten days from now when we sit on the hill, in Washington State, looking at Mount Cashmere: Legos. Slow Coffee. Legos. Fat Tires. Legos. Hike. Repeat.

Two hands!

Magic Babushka: She's back!

In places I used to live, May was the month where we all started wearing our summer clothes too early. Glaring white legs held firm in shorts and outdoor seating was used even when teeth were chattering. I waited for those lilacs and goldenrods to show themselves, so I could abandon leggings and freeze my way to June.

Not in Singapore. Singapore May is a cooker. It's a cruel month after three uncomfortable ones that's leading right into an even hotter June. It's the end of school, the end of any hope of a bearable cool-ish morning, and the end of deodorant by 9:00am. There are a lot of reasons to be fragile in Singapore Mays: Grade reports need written, dear friends are moving, families are worried about transcripts, students are tired, teachers are tired, people are bracing for six weeks of visiting families they rarely see (and by people---all you dear readers---I don't mean us. We're EMbracing!), and well...everyone is really really hot. Things can get kind of passive aggressive or just outright aggressive at work. I can always rely on one or two truly bonkers days and out-of-character outbursts. I pass out a lot of chocolate macaroons to my co-workers. It's May and it's getting weird.

Last week, I made a slide in my daily slide shows that had a lot of sad pugs on it. It seemed like a good weapon at the time for battling student angst, the heat, and my encroaching feeling of May doom:

The results of my pug warfare have yet to be seen (secretly hoping for a pug in a school uniform to show up in my classroom as the Best Teacher Gift Ever).

This week I tried something new and probably equally unhelpful. Long ago, as a comfort to my strange self, I started doodling Magic Babushka. She's so wise. May needs lots and lots of Magic Babushkas. For a date with two dear friends tomorrow, I have two tucked in my purse with back-up signs for them to hold, proclaiming very encouraging phrases:

I'm learning about Adobe Illustrator as I go, and mostly I'm learning that I don't know much. She started black and white:

And then I played:

If you're thinking that having two of these in my purse is proof of the May Bonkers, then I might concur. However, with any luck, they will laugh...and we will be seated somewhere under the air conditioning.

Best Gift Ever

Everyone is desperate to know if they are the lucky recipient of this. You'll just have to wait and see. I think you have a July birthday and know who usually gets the strange cut-out paper products:

If you look very closely, you'll see that to make the elephant howdah, "more cutting skills are needed."

Dreams

We did not bring Grampa home to stay. Grampa's eye-sight was too far gone for a rowdy four-year-old. Fetch would have been tragic, and he seemed a wee cranky. But, we did have a hilarious conversation with the dog adoption lady.

"What kind of dog are you looking for?"

"Well, we're not very picky. We just want to have a good dog. But it would be nice if it didn't bark. Or jump or lick. Or chew on anything. And we couldn't handle a dog that stunk or drooled. I'm not sure we really want a dog with a lot of energy, but we would like to take a dog on walks. Maybe a dog that likes to follow our son around? But isn't too needy? A friendly dog that likes to snuggle...but not a dog that will get on the furniture or anything..." It went on and on. She's a wonderful woman with a sense of humor, so she laughed very hard. 

While we wait for our mythical dog, we dream about art with inspiration from Peter Brown. This talented artist and writer came to school this week to work with lucky students, and I got to sit in on a quick and entertaining session of his. Amazing stuff!

Living the good

When you're not in a space of creating art, you take that season to savor good works of others. I'm learning from her daily practice.

You also take time to be with good people. It doesn't always go so well. Recently I read a book on some exercises to boost dear Gus's development. One of them had him lay in the middle of blanket. Then, I grabbed the four corners to make a bundle of Gus that I was supposed to swing around--stimulating his senses and turning him into an athletic genius. He shrieked like he was on fire and yelled, "I'm not a dumpling, I'm a boy!" For the rest of the evening, and well, at least once a day since, he's asked, "Remember the time you thought I was a dumpling mom? And you didn't know I was a boy?" Sigh.

You also might escape to good places. We're inadvertent jet-setters at this house. Chennai two weeks ago. Bali last weekend for me. And this weekend smart P is keynoting a conference in Hanoi. It sounds glamorous in print, but it's the same as driving four hours anywhere in the US and probably the same price as the cost of the gas. 

You eat good food.We have a new rule: You may not have any food or drink if you're consuming it on the run. If there isn't time to sit and to savor and hold a conversation with your loved ones, then you can just have water. We've been ten minutes later to work sitting with our coffees and a sleepy Gus, but I think we might be more sane.

You make good lists. And the top of the list has art projects. They will come. For now, we read, we talk, we listen. We try not to make Gus shriek. We enjoy what our Southeast Asia life has to offer. 

(I did a good job savoring this breakfast.)

 

 

 

We are back

It has been awhile, but I am back. We've been walking our way through the new year in hopeful steps. This is a season of mantras for us: reminders to be kind, to not take ourselves so seriously, to keep company with the wise, to avoid hot dogs (that Gus sure does like nitrites), and to spend time together doing what we love. I've been feeding my soul with Anne LaMott's newest, with good friends, and with a return to long trail runs. 

And while Chennai doesn't seem to be the best place for the latter, it was perhaps the most spectacular choice possible for everything else. There wasn't a hot dog in sight, and there was soul-feeding by the bucketload. It was a first solo getaway from Singapore for P and me, and it was beyond all expectations.

I like to think that as I get older, I get more tolerant all around. We all have quirks. We all have stories that have shaped us in strange ways. We are all--hopefully--doing the best we can with what we have. That tolerance is tempered with caution, and as my heart and time belongs to P and Gus, I'm grateful for the miracle of friendships where being me seems easy and not embarrassing even despite spans of time and miles. K and G are those rare gifts. And how can we not love people who have THIS waiting for us?

It's been many years since I could just sit and stare out of a tuk tuk at color and people and take time to wonder and not answer the four-millionth "why?" question from a curious G. I love that G. But I also love to stare.

We ate. We watched. We tried not to worry that we were causing a lot of inconvenience asking for kurtas to be unfolded and bedspreads to be opened and block prints to be unwrapped. I came home with treasures.

Time away and time with people that are doing great things in the world gave me hopeful thoughts. And some big ideas burbled. There's good paper in India. There's inspiration. There are places like this one taking on important projects and making stunning things:

It was also hopeful to learn that our adventure selves still exist. There's this reoccurring event that happens in my Southeast Asian travels. I call it the "awkward room." It's happened in Kathmandu and Chiang Mai. In Ubud and Sapa. At some point a stranger--usually a transport driver--leads us up a stairway or through an alley to some chairs and some more strangers. Often there is tea. A couple of times there's been unfortunate homemade whiskey. We have absolutely no idea why we are there. We sit and stare. I smile awkwardly. Someone summons someone else in to show us something. Art. A happy baby. Something carved out of wood. This time it was a French woman, who claimed to be a doctor despite looking 14 (I kept thinking of Dr. Piglet and Dr. Winston from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "Please, we are doctors..."). The youngest-doctor-in-the-world was disheleved, holding a mewing newborn kitten, and talking about tuberculosis. For a long time. She was talking hard and holding that creepy cat. We'd been through the awkward room drill, so we nodded it out, waited for a pause, and excused ourselves. And while usually I like to avoid those moments, this one was really affirming. We were back! We were traveling! Once again we were somewhere and we had absolutely no idea what was going on! Yay!

Back in the oasis of their home, K and G talked printing presses, writing, ashrams, children's books to promote literacy, yoga, third-culture-kids, and more. We caught up on their children, our G, and what is good and hard. We ate paneers and drank homemade gingerale, and watched everyone from women in regal saris to dog-walkers with finicky pugs stroll the Bay of Bengal. 

And, we may have sat in a nice hotel and savored brunch. That's okay too, right?

I've lists of ideas, plans to outline for next year, and possibly a trip to Pondicherry to work out. My heart is full, my Gus was blase about our return (sad and affirming all at once), and it is a hopeful new month in the year of the horse. According to my Chinese calendar predictions, it's the year we dragons should be focusing on writing and paper products (no joke!). Amen!

 

 

Catch-up

The last eight weeks:

1. Mooncake folly: About a billion months ago, Gus and I went to a neighborhood mooncake making party. We soon realized from the looks on everyone's faces that our bewilderment on the process and the directions we required to complete the process was the equivalent of an alien showing up at a Christmas cookie decorating party and asking, "Now, which is the cookie and which is the frosting?" "What exactly do you mean by 'spread the frosting on the cookie?'" "Do I use the green sprinkles or the red sprinkles? How many sprinkles exactly? All over the frosting? How many milimeters of frosting?" We were high maintenance and worrisome. And, horror of horrors, we ATE our mooncakes as soon as we made them. It was sort of a Homer Simpson moment looking around at all the other tables with pretty mooncakes in pretty boxes and Gus and I with full mouths and sticky fingers and mooncake guilt.

2. Perspective: A baby elephant strolled down the beach, and I went wild, urging Gus to go over and pet it. Gus looked over his shoulder and said, "Nah. I've seen enough elephants." I was pretty sure I'd failed as a parent in every regard until the neighbor came over with his Golden Retriever and Gus lost his mind with delight. It was a dog you could pet. A dog that wasn't feral. A dog without rabies. 

3. Legos: The male people in this house have Lego fever. I'm considering using Legos as leverage for all the atrophied skills I worry over. Want to build? Ride your bike. 

4. Waiting. We're waiting to learn about the margin in our lives. We're waiting for P to return from a big long work trip. We're waiting for Gram's cinnamon rolls. We're waiting for our winged bean crop on the back patio to be ready for harvest since the last crop was STOLEN by someone who obviously does not understand how desperately a three-year-old waits to harvest his winged beans.

5. Drawing. We tried to draw a Christmas card, and it just didn't work. We're on plan 42. We'll get there. We did eke out something for our sketchbook exchange:

 

6. Mustafa Centre. After ten years in Singapore, I went there today, and it was amazing. You should all be worried about your Christmas gifts.

 

Outward thinking

Today we think about positive things that are always true:

Generosity is happening all around us.

Dear friends who have given us more than we can ever return served us a decadent dinner on these placemats in June. I ogled them. And last week, my own set arrived in the mail.

I love Indian block prints with my whole whole heart!

Then I came home to a pile of hand-me-down clothes from the neighbors upstairs. And dear P took dear Gus to the pool this afternoon so I could draw and write and listen to podcasts. And in return, I'm channeling all that love into this card for a generous writer who mentored me this summer. Thank you JL for being so wise and so patient with someone so silly.

People will surprise you. Look for it:

This last week I spent three days on a remote island of Indonesia with 110 fourteen-year-olds on a field trip. Some especially quirky kiddos were amongst us. And as always, the group of people on the planet that gets the worst reputation (those selfish adolescent brats!) were the ones that humbled me the most and restored my faith in the goodness of humans and reminded me to always always always be kinder than you need to be. That said, I slept 13 hours last night to recover.

I have had some stupid weeks being tired and being stretched too thin and being frustrated in the right-now. They are self-inflicted woes, and they are really rather funny and embarrassing when you think on my laments, "Oh, if only I only worked part time but could still afford to keep the nanny...."  The common thread in all self-inflicted woe is looking inward. It's no good, people! Look away!

And so, this week I am trying to look outside of my inner-ridiculousness to a week where I notice what is good and joy-filled and worth emulating. Although, I do worry this will impact my sense of humor since the day I cried because the island had run out of quinoa and consequently panicked that staying here was ruining our health was super duper funny in retrospect. Perhaps another truth we'll live out is, "You can be ridiculous as long as you make fun of it later and don't ever do it again."

It's a long-winded road from guilt-ville

I repost this blog entry with a disclaimer and a wise quote reminded to me by wise JB:

Sometimes I tell the same joke three times in one day to my three classes. When I'm feeling sociological, I like to deliver it identically. I stand in the same spot in the room, and I carefully re-enact it to examine reactions. It is never the same. There's one class that thinks I am hi-larious. Doesn't matter what I say. I'm funny-fun-lady. There's another that either doesn't get the joke or doesn't even realize I'm in the room or has caught on that my jokes are really lame. The third class is hit and miss, and it's a real victory when they chuckle.

My blog posts have a worse ratio. What I think is a real side-splitter more often than not causes others alarm. I think a good rule of thumb is that if something makes you want to reassure me, then I probably meant it to be funny. My sense of humor, as most of my students and one tough-sell of a Gus will agree, is off.

"Everything that happens to you, belongs to you." Anne LaMott. Here is what is happening--and yes, really, I think it is funny:

The past two Augusts, I've convinced myself that only bad mothers go to work. I think about all the scenarios Gus encounters all day that I could help him process, and I tell myself he is turning into a horrible man as a result of my neglect. I start reading Cup of Jo and think wicked thoughts. I perseverate on the value of autumn and tractors and I make myself depressed, slightly insane, and agitated. Gus senses this. He has a weird mother. She smiles too big when he comes in her classroom after school. She hugs him too tight. She asks him, "Was anyone mean today?" and gets too close to his face. She takes the Fisher Price people and role plays potential character building scenarios. "See this farmer, Gus? This farmer is that big kid next door that doesn't pick up his toys from the yard and borrows our playdough but never invites us over to play..."  or  "Noah and his wife here are the bus driver and the bus monitor. When Mrs Noah says buckle your seat belt..." This makes Gus angry. ANGRY. He tells me his feelings. He has a lot of feelings. He draws on things that are not paper. He is as much fun to be around as I am. And of course, I interpret this as the result of me being a working mother, and the cycle beats itself into a wild froth.

I told this all to my running partner, and she just laughed. At first I was mildly offended, but it's possible that's the best reaction any of us could hope for.

I like to look at my Goodreads account in August to take a barometer reading. Parenting Without Fear. They Called Themselves the KKK. Third-Culture Children of Educators. Love and Logic: The Toddler Years. Honestly. That list needs a glass of wine and a don't-take-yourself-so-seriously pill.

Years and years ago my sister said something that she didn't realize would become a refrain in my head for beating me back into sanity. I was having hysterics over something ridiculous and would not calm down. I was crying that something was all my fault: I ruined Christmas, or there was no world peace, or everyone ate too much at Thanksgiving dinner and had stomachaches. She looked at me, with the sensibility and the frankness of an older sister and said, "I've never met anyone so insecure with such an enormous sense of self-importance."

You betcha. She's sitting right here. She's a bad mother with the capability to influence the planet into darkness and ruin. Guilty.

Tonight, I attended Gus's first-ever Back to School Night. Given my book reading and my train to guilt-land, I was in rare form. Both Gus and I had gotten antibiotics that day. I stayed home from work to take him to the doctor. I may have bought some expensive guilt Legos post-doctor-visit that I'm hoping no one in the house mentions. At the start, it seemed like the evening might be normal: It was a lovely group of people who seem to really love their jobs and my child. Gus drew a self portrait that was magnificent:

(He's probably inspired by his super artistic dad who just made something really fab)

But then it happened. The parents were asked to leave behind a self-portrait of themselves drawn in their non-dominant hand. Now, I need to mention that something had already agitated my weak and grace-less mind. I chose a very specific seat, and a group of fairly non-threatening people sat around me. Peace prevailed. Then, out of nowhere, BO lady sat down. I am so glad BO lady made it to her kid's Back to School Night and didn't worry about washing prior, but it really set me off. As a result, my safety net of strangers moved. Couples would walk to my row to sit down and the wives would get a whiff of BO lady and mouth to their husbands, "not here." But there I sat. Alone. Rows empty around me except for BO lady. It got my crazy motor running.

So, the parents are all supposed to be self-portraiting in their weaker hand. I look around and see that virtually every other parent is not following the rules. They are just drawing! They are making happy faces that do not look shaky and awkward! People---drop the crayons! Regrettably, instead of turning on my social filter I loudly proclaimed, "Looks like everyone is choosing not to use their non-dominant hand." No one likes the smarmy lady. No one likes the weirdo that comments on rules. No one likes the self-righteous woman wearing deodorant. I have no idea why I spoke but speak I did and their looks replied more than my ridiculous words. And so I left. I turned, I left, I got in the car and texted Patrick that I'd let the family down. (inflated-sense-of-self-importance-Becky ALMOST texted the teacher to apologize for ruining the evening)

So there I was, a grace-less lady who smelled just fine but was riddled with guilt and social angst and a sinus infection. It was August in full depressive force. And as always, a little magic happened just when I was thinking it was time to make that appointment with HR to break my contract. I walked into a little boy's room who was almost asleep. He rolled over, he didn't tell me he hated me, and he said, "I just need to hear a song about a star, mom." So I sang to his request, and held him tight and prayed over all three feet five inches of him and hoped that he would have character that definitely transcends mine. I thanked God that for now, his self image is pretty darn good (those lashes in the drawing are spot on). He is happy. He is okay. He is not saying rude things in front of other adults like his mother. He is playing every day and learning every day and amazing me every day. He is all right. You could feel the all-rightness in the room even with his emphasymic-seal cough. I left that cozy boy of goodness, took a deep breath, and realized I am just three days until September.

It is going to be okay. And like my running partner wisely modeled----we are all just going to laugh. Especially at ourselves.

It is THAT time

It is that time. That time that is back-to-school and shifting from introvert brain to fake-extrovert brain (I try not to tell people what to do, but read Quiet. You'll understand the human race so much better.). It is the time when Gus's naughties go on over-drive because the adults in his life are busy and distracted. It is the time when everyone gets colds. It is the time when I say things I shouldn't. It is that time.

It is time to make soup!

And soup I made. I resurrected my Czech self and sliced cabbage and garlic and infused that pot with all the immunity boosting goodness of which I know. Celery root was replaced by enoki muchrooms, and I cut and chopped my way back to sanity:

These continue to be tiny times. Tiny times where in the words of Linda Sue Park via Betsy Hall we eke out nine tentative lines a day on our half-baked novel, we breathe deeply, we aim for kindness (because George Saunders changed our lives with this commencement address), and we make soup.

Last post I promised art. And here's what I came up with:

What's awful and hilarious about this stack of almost-in-the-card-business goodness is that there's a misprint on the back of every darn card. If I could learn to speak Mandarin, I might be able to swing this card gig in Singapore. But honestly, I'm not sure that's where my heart is. If what I do every day is what matters, then it's nine lines, scribbles for friends, and lots of chasing sweaty Gus.

It's THAT time.

 

Being Luminous

This summer, at writing bootcamp, an amazing Newbery Honor author urged us fledgling writers to "be luminous." I'm trying to decide if that applies to blogging.

Things that are not luminous:

I currently base a day's success on how many vegetables I have hidden in the boys' foods. Yesterday's triumphs: clandestine veggies in oatmeal, cookies, popsicles, and smoothies. It was a five star day.

I am not writing or creating art. I am in creativity limbo, and it will end tomorrow when I will get my act together. It will happen! A big Monday is a-coming!

Things that ARE luminous:

My sister. She sent me two hand sewn skirts this summer (skirts with pockets!). They are wearable quilts of genius: 

New teachers. We are the welcoming committee at our school this year, and I feel pretty ridiculous that everyone needs far less help than I need on an annual basis, and I've lived here for almost eight years. They are competent. And kind. It's silly. I keep hoping someone will rampage, but they seem to just be pretty swell.

Tuesday. After I get my act together, there will be art to post to this. There will be works written. There will be peace on earth. Maybe.

 

 

Birthday and bon voyage

In 48 hours, we will be on a plane and grandma-bound. The following five weeks will be hikes and mud pies and raspberries and good microbrews. There will be lots of hugs and slow mornings. I'm excited, and I'm probably tuning out until late July. 

We'll kick off the summer with a birthday shout-out to dear JC. May all her birthday year dreams come true. And may our upcoming flight be toddler-drama-free. Yahoo!

Time to waste time by reflecting on people that probably resent time wasters

Tis the season at work. The season of emotions running high and workloads increasing. The season of students moving and friends relocating and upheaval in spades. The season to spend inordinate time on one's personal laptop to play with Adobe Illustrator in the name of wall art for next years' classroom. Probably not the best use of time. Very satisfying.

 

Gifting

It's birthday, Mother's Day, moving day, and goodbyes month. And that calls for art. Some card ideas and with which I'm tinkering: