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.

 

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!

 

 

The home stretch

It's the time of year when people start counting days. Thirty-two teaching days. Fifty-one Singapore days. Two public holidays. My Gus is counting fingers to ensure that he's ready when that fourth birthday rolls around. (352 days)

As the end of year approaches and the tidying up begins, our school is taking pictures of teachers for READ posters. My former poster was immortalized by clever L, who toted me on holiday (I wish I could have seen customs' faces when opening her suitcase), to evening bookclubs, and all the way to Starbucks for a post-run latte:

Flat Becky had herself a time. While those Flat Becky pics rank pretty high in the super-nice-things-friends-have-done-for-me files, I detested that poster of me looking wistful and all Manifest Destiny about poetry. This year, I held up a beloved coloring book and got to design my own background. I altered a former doodle from Gus's first birthday:

My sister was kind enough to point out that the title says "Read", and I'm a literature teacher holding a wordless coloring book. 

Ha ha ha.

Never you mind. That happy Coloring Book Becky is gleefully counting down days until she and Flat Becky converge in Ithaca for two nights with their L: 66. We've many missed lattes and long run-talks to make up for.

And at the same time, I'm dreading the June day until I have to say "see you later" to true rocks in my Singapore life---dear G and K. I scribble at night things that make me think on them, and they are piecing together into a wee goodbye gift:

Thankfully, they remain on the same continent and reliant on Nespresso pods. I have volunteered to be their mule, and there will be rendezvous.

I can't wait to get it on the calendar!

Recycled topic: Living well 101

It's been almost three years of almost:

Almost back in shape.

Almost drawing again.

Almost Skyping all those people I've told I'll Skype.

Almost enjoying long hours building block towers that get knocked down over and over and over and over.

Almost writing.

Almost parenting.

Almost making it home for Christmas without the flu.

Almost maintaining friendships.

Almost sleeping through the night.

Almost hanging all the pictures in the eight months "new" apartment.

Almost figuring it out.

Almost buying a house.

Almost handling that last interaction with grace (before it went tragically south).

Almost learning Czech.

Almost making it through the whole year within my sick day allotment.

Almost attending the 47 dinners I've canceled.

Almost grading all those papers on time.

Almost using "swag" correctly in front of my seventh graders

Almost giving up coffee.

Almost tackling that skin rash.

Almost answering the phone.

Almost finding a new topic for the blog other than the cyclical, "How do I enjoy this cup of life that is handed to me?" one.

As I've alluded to 40 billion times, as someone that read wayyyyy too much Emerson in college, I know that I should take heart in the process of transcending my yucky self, but being on the verge is really unsatistfactory. I'm a lady hankering for a victory. An apex. Two and a half weeks post-sinus-surgery, I have a big ol' infection in my face. I'm thanking God it's not MRSA, but I'm also cartoon kicking the dirt and saying, "shucks!" If you knew how meticulous I have been with self-care, you would think my usual cavelier-about-doctors'-advice-self was taken over in the zombie apocalypse. I have been careful. 

And so I'm mildly defeated over dumb reasons.

I canceled another dinner date.

I came home from the doctor and was a poopy mom and didn't really enjoy setting up the lego train or (worst game of all) pretending there was a bee trying to get us so we hide under a blanket and scream (repeatedly). 

But, I did do something I haven't done in months. Maybe years. I handwrote a letter. I got out paper, and I scribbled a long note to a dear friend and in the slowness of those looping words, I reminded myself about (warning: repetitive blog topic alert!) seasons. We don't get to pick how long some seasons are, but we can wear them well and with kindness to self and others. We can quit fighting them and live them. We can shut up. This season is one of loose ends and loss of muscle tone and holding tight to what is near. Writing it out to her relaxed me enough to think past simply grinning and bearing it (at least for the afternoon), and I was able to react to my day with true delight. Gus was wild, and so he and I sang ourselves through a little Sesame Street therapy after dinner, which I did thoroughly enjoy. Prior to his shower I got out the "washable ink" (a manufacturer's joke) stamp pad, and we made marvelous fingerprint caterpillars and a few deranged handprint turkeys. And as we lay in bed thanking God for his snail collection, his friends, his dad who is admirably building houses in Cambodia with 14-year-olds, and anything covered in chocolate, I was understanding of our now. I wouldn't have chosen all of it. Almost-living isn't best for my personality. I'm disappointed I didn't get to have Nepalese food with a gaggle of interesting people tonight. But I am thankful--very thankful--I got to watch my interesting son shovel in quinoa and tell me the differences between male and female mosquitos.

Madeleine L'Engle wrote often of the necessity for "being time." The time where we walk alone, where we sit alone, where we write for ourselves, where we let our brains relax a bit so we can tackle the routines before us without animosity. I am so ridonkulously stupid that I forget it. And I waddle through days in my Almost-fog and forget to live. And to be fair, how is one supposed to feel excited about that dreadful bee game when a truly disgusting situation is going on in her newly remodeled nose? Being time PLUS giving ourselves a big fat break seems a fair balance for sanity and the ability to recognize the good in life.

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I took some being time last week while I mended to celebrate a birthday of a new friend. She doesn't resent my 5:00am texts canceling our jogs, understands why I didn't show up to the dance party, and she also eats frosting-laden cupcakes, so I like her very much:

I also bought these confectionery shaped erasers. They've totally amped up tea parties around here:

PS. It's question list time in my class! Man, is THIS a season that's easy for me to savor. My list wonders what adenoids do, what YOLO means (yes, I finally looked it up), the reasoning behind the mango shortage during Chinese New Year, why they all laugh at me when I say "swag", whether or not I can eat my lucky Mandarin oranges, how they pick a new Pope, what the US's involvement in WWI was, tenable methods for deterring a large asteroid from striking the Earth, what was the Marconi scandal, and does Chapstick really create a dependence on lip balm. Good times.

 

Virtual Holiday Letter

We didn't write our annual Christmas letter this year. Our card (this photo--spoiler alert) just lists our blogs, as we're not very coherant (this post will attest to that in every regard) right now. Thoughts are scattered. What's interesting to us is universally mundane. We chuckled a little bit about what we'd even say: "Um, we are humbled at every turn?" "We moved, foolishly thinking it would be easy and are still trying to catch our breaths?" "We gained ten pounds?" "We spend our free time re-catching Gus's surprisingly speedy snail collection?" 

The skinny is that things are good. Just plain good. And there's a lot of learning--tiny learnings--but good learnings, nonetheless. They may say it all (though not as cleverly as P's holiday letters):

• Gus snacks regularly on Char Siew Pau, rice noodles, mango lassis, and dried seaweed. He avoids vegetables of any cuisine, french fries, chicken nuggets, or potato chips.


• Two years in Prague were long enough to make some life-long, much-missed friends and permanent cultural connections. It's been a happy return to our former lives here, but we're sorely missing our recent lives there.


• We can survive a snake in the house. Barely.


• Gus is allergic to all brands and all forms of sunscreen (Thanks to reoccurring rashes, he now has a phobia to boot).


• An extra million people in a country the size of Whatcom County is noticeable.


• Bike paths DO exist and are getting better every day (good job, Singapore!).


• Gus digs the water. He swims. He dives. He repeats.


• If you want to sleep well at night, don't think about how much the cheese you just bought would cost in another country.


• One doesn't seem to get as many spontaneous airline upgrades with a toddler in tow.


• Carve your Halloween pumpkins on the 31st to ensure that they survive the humid evening.


• If you want your son to be outgoing and friendly, you cannot be the wallflower at every party (sighhhhh).


• The wild pig population appears to have doubled on the island. Beware on dark morning runs and rides.


• For now, trips to the beach rather than adventurous backpacking expeditions are refreshingly all right.


• Good libraries do a lot for this family's happiness factor. We heart you, SAS libraries.


• Driving on the left side of the road just comes right back to you. And after a few months of practicing, reciprocated patience, and several close calls, we CAN reverse the car into parking spots with ease.


• The world is small and grand folks abound on all continents.

Some of those grand folks on an adventure race in Krabi, Thailand. And one of the many reasons I was humbled this year (hoooooo boy...not quite up to pace with the old running crew)

A happy puddle-jumper.

My two best friends mid-MOvember. See P's FB page for a too-cute-for-my-blog shaving video. 

Our legacy of tragically awkward couple shots continues. We just don't have "act casual" in us. Soon after, the photograper gave up.

MERRY CHRISTMAS and happy, happy holidays. Wishing you and yours a wonderful new year with good people, good learnings, and good times. Please buy a big ol' block of cheddar cheese for us and savor that it's not a billion dollars. May joy abound.

Behaving and transcending

Oy. The guilt.

There was a recent no food/cold medicine/glass (okay, maybe two) of wine incident. We knew we shouldn't go to the party, as we were really sick. But we have these issues with morality and it seemed better to take the Sudafed and go to the wine tasting than to cancel on the nice people hosting it. We did not pick the best option and yes, I have fielded phone calls from folks laden with embarrassing recollections.

I learned, on the same day, at the doctor's office for said sickness, that I am infecting my family. He told me that I am a carrier of deep infection and that every time my husband and son get sick, it is all my fault. Actually, he said it twice, much more slowly the second time, to let the burden of this sink in. 

I believe that guilt is not from God. But I also believe in behaving. I don't know much about parenting, but from what I can tell from those around me, what I DO has a lot more power than what I SAY. This boy needs to see his mama loving unabashedly and seeking understanding. I had a dream today that I was in Nepal with super-smart Betsy and Rebecca (who I'm trying to woo into blogging with me). We were told we could not buy a rug we wanted unless we found a "transcendent guest house" (this was said to us by Sam Elliot in a Bhutanese goh...have I mentioned I'm on a lot of cold medicine?). We kept looking in guest houses and asking, "is this one transcendent?" Perhaps that will be my new message to myself as I make choices. Is what I'm doing trasnscendent? Rebecca often asks me to ask myself, "How is this helping right now?" It's a good barometer reading. When that second glass was poured, I might should've asked myself, "Now, just how is this helping? And specifically, how is it helping little Gus?" 

November is the month of gratitude. But for me, it may be the month of gratefully behaving. Starting tomorrow, I will floss twice daily, not eat so many salty pretzels, and be thankful for the folks that keep me on the straight and narrow. When Gus tells me that someone is a grouch (as he is prone to report--and with accuracy), I will not concur, I will instead ask questions that lead us to understand why someone might be grouchy. I will help us both transcend.

And I will stay home when medicated.

For your own transcendence, you might want to peek at this (how does a person pick which book is more amazing?). You could also read this, which is one of the sweetest little young adult novels I've read in a long, long time. Lastly, you could enjoy this:

Here's what matters about these leggy ladies. One of those girls finished a 50km running race lately. Two of them did a 60km adventure race a couple weeks ago in wicked-fast time. All of them are stellar and competitve athletes with enviable ab muscles. I don't know what they were thinking when they asked me to join their team, knowing I'm one kid and three years of training behind everyone. I couldn't do it. I was slow. I walked when I should have ran. I was winded and wincing and yet they committed themselves to doing every step of the race by my side. Even when one of the organizers swore at us and said, "Well, you're not dead--bleeping--last, but you're pretty-bleeping-close to it" as we came through a check point VERY late in the day, they kept laughing, holding my hand, and cheering me on. I asked one of the girls at the end, while gasping for breath, "Was it hard for you?" she looked up, pursed her lips and said, "Umm...I mean I kinda feel like I had a workout..." What she meant was, "Um, that was a fun little stroll through the woods with my grandma..."

I'm not even thinking about feeling guilty for their love (well...). Part of transcendence is accepting help. And being grateful. THANKS, ladies.

 

 

Taking sips

A friend reminded me a couple weeks ago about Teacup Theology. That's when you look at the cup of unknown tea you've been handed by your generous host and you decide if you're going to take a sip and savor it and let it do you the good you're intended or if you're going to dump it out and brew your own pot with your own leaves at your own strength. Okay, at it's essence, it's sort of pithy. I'm simple folk these days and needing simple truths; it's giving me pause. I've got a cup of tea that is brimming with tropical goodness: warm afternoons by the pool, long jungle runs, and blooming frangipani. This cup lets me work and travel and be a mama. This cup is filled with really great places and really great people. That's how I know I'm a little off kilter and that this too shall pass, as I'm sniffing the cup and dreaming of something with a bit more autumnal depth: spices and fall colors and hearty root vegetable soups. I'm ignoring that the second pot also comes with wintery burdens that even farmers' market pumpkins can't outweigh.

I've adjusted to an international move three times now, so I know that the awkward month comes. I'm in it. I'm missing the ladies in Prague that taught me to be a mother and loved my boy. I'm missing friends on other continents who used to be here. And I'm knowing that my sister is in her favorite season of all, marbling paper and knitting mittens and probably baking something outrageously good (of course, as I write this, she is hunkered down with extra gasoline and chocolate for what could be some scary days, thanks to nasty Sandy). October is the month for tea with neighbors, and I'm just not feeling it here.

I've been writing Neighbor B long emails and skyping with tough-as-nails LM. I've been making weepy lists of art projects that will just have to wait until holidays. I've been dreaming of learning this, and envying the talented gal that does this. When you're in the awkward month is seems that everyone and everything is being creative and productive and spinning all the plates in the most beautiful ways. And you're just a lady that hasn't even made time to get waxed. And that's a necessity when you're living a tropical cup of tea.

So. What do we do? We come home and take a nap. Because that's one of the perks of this tropical living. And we eat the best bowl of char siew soup anyone could hope for and marvel that our son is learning to use chopsticks. We laugh when he thanks us in Chinese and then clarifies, "That's Mandarin, mom". We read a lot of young adult novels, we dream of afternoons filled with drawing, and we take long walks amongst the mango and banana trees rather than the falling maple leaves. We're back from an island vacation and only four sleeps away from an adventure racing weekend with three outrageous ladies. It's okay. It's more than okay. It's just awkward October, and this too shall pass.

Usual awkward segue:

And because it really is okay, and I can't stay all that reflective for all that long, we're also relishing a delivery of a great tea chaser. Who says beer is expensive in Singapore? You just have to go to the source. And my source has Aventinus. 

And while the birthday girl that got this art doesn't partake in the Aventinus herself, she's another great reason to make it through the October melancholy. Living on the same island as Betsy for the second time is a dream come true. She keeps me laughing, thinking, reading, and drinking the occasional Pokka green tea. So happy to get to wish you a happy birthday in person this year, Betsy H.

Status Update

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:

Hallelujahing and Hiding

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. 

For Moi-Moi

I'm able to see the lighter side of things today. At least enough to waste part of the afternoon finding this article on Weela. I read an Outside magazine article on her in 1996, cut out Weela's head (I really wish THAT photo was on this site) and put it on my driver's license over my face. Yes, it's dumb. But at that sleep-deprived-college-studying time, it was hysterical to all involved (MM). 

I'm also able to think on serious things. My dear adventure-racing partner, PH, as heroic as Weela in my book, recently had to say goodbye to a dearly and long-loved dog. Moi-Moi was one heck of a dog and my friend PH is one heck of a woman. She's ten years my senior (though you'd never know it by looking at us), and yet I humbly spent all of our races watching her get further ahead while cheering me on to keep up. For amazing PH, a doodle is in the mail and a hope for a race with you dedicated to Moi-Moi is in the wishbook:

 

 

Blue skies smiling at me

I am getting over myself! As humbly happens, I recently went on a tirade about folks taking themseles too seriously. And then, heh heh heh, the same week I got all serious. Amy Carmichael wrote that we need to keep our spiritual "atmosphere" clear. If we allow even a "fugitive wisp of a cloud float across our sky"--that is, a wish for things to be different--then we create an overcast spirit.

Don't I know it.

I re-entered Praha with more than my fair shares of wishes. There were colds all around and a bee sting of gigantic (you've never seen cankles like this one) proportions. There have been cold rainy days and outings in August in-gasp-sweaters. Wily Gus has been frustrated with his boring old parents and longing along with us for his out-of-this-world grandparents in very loud and parenting-skill-testing ways. We're on doctor's visit number three. Already. This house has rattled and shook with wishes, and I've felt the result of that stinking thinking in an overcast heart.

But, no more gosh darn it! How can one hope for otherness when one has so much goodness? I take note:

1. A kinder-than-he-needs-to-be Tony M gave me a completely random and treasured gift of DELECTABLE Delirium Tremens. I can count the bottles of the golden Belgian awesomeness I've been privvy to enjoy in my life on one hand. At 8.5% that's probably enough for a lifetime. Get thee to a specialty bottle shop and buy your own pink elephant.

2. The farmers' market is back in action. There has been blue cheese walnut sauce on fresh tagliatelle pasta and berry filled dumplings and organic carrot carrot cake and farm fresh egg and veggie quiche on our table.

3. We've brunched and happy houred and biked and brewery toured and walked and dined and breakfasted and Skyped and coffeed and teaed and desserted and jogged and baby grouped with good folks. Today's gathering honored a special guest who leaves our Old MacDonald refrains for the big kids at skola. Gus will miss his musical pal Dee-Dee.

Worried about the toothpaste decorating the cake? (famers' market carrots carrot cake!)

4. I've returned to the drawing table with commission pieces and celebration doodles.

 
5. There are library books newly checked-out, hand-me-down dresses acquired, new babies born, road trips planned, awfully nice neighbors relied upon (perhaps no longer with prepositions hanging out there like that), and Desigual sales attended.

Blue skies!

 

 

 

Tomorrow comes true

I hit the reset button today. Beautiful 10k snowy run, marzipan filled dates, conversation with witty Neighbor B about things unrelated to child rearing, a few stolen minutes perusing design blogs, and a hot shower. Okay. I'm ready for ya, Gus.