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."

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!

 

 

WallowING

I am full of "ings" this week.

FearING ticks.

SqurimING awkwardly.

ScribblING nervously.

WalkING quickly.

WorryING. 

It's one of those big comfort-zone buster kind of weeks where you wonder what you're doing and why you're doing it and you come out better on the other end. I'm seven days from the other end, so right now it just feels like some sort of introvert torture camp, but really it's a writer's retreat full of talented people and great ideas and one big ol' awkward lady from Singapore. 

I'm so flustered I can't remember my conversation starters, and I'm also so concerned about making this time count that I'm talking more than normal. It's a bad contradiction, and at night when I am sequestered away in a cabin all my own, I remind myself of core rules to follow in perilous times: Be humble. Be generous. Smile. Listen. Ask other people questions about themselves. Remember everyone's names. Drink lots of water. 

So far, I'm well hydrated. 

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!

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!

Story telling

I've been thinking a lot about story lately. Dear friends were discussing a family phrase for recentering worrying in their house, "Is that the truth, or is that a story you're telling yourself?" It's a good barometer reading for self-imposed-suffering.

Since Deborah Wiles worked with my students (see yesterday's post), I've been thinking on how story tells the truth, even when what you're writing is fiction. It's helping me frame some of my own stories and giving me license to write. It's also providing a more compassionate lens.

(thank you for DW)

When P and I were recovering after the tsunami, we had our stories taken from us by two different people. One journalist published an email we didn't want seen and another author lifted quotes by P and used them in painful, derogatory ways in widely-read angry diatribes. Those violations made me quit talking and question my own reliability and experience. This week, an 8th grade student was doing a research project on the tsunami of 2004 in order to write a short story for her language arts class. She found one of those "shocking but true" books that tells tales of brushes with death. And of all the stories, in that book was the tale of the family that P helped rescue eight years ago. But, P wasn't in the tale. They shared an entirely different story with an entirely different hero. At first I was enraged. For the third time we were absent from our own life-changing experience. But then I thought about what Debbie Wiles taught us, and I stepped back. That story was what that family experienced. They were panicked--like us. They were in survival mode--like us. What they wrote is what they felt, hoped for, and lived through---even if it didn't really happen. Who am I to say I'm the reliable eye-witness? I spent enough years teaching social studies to know that no account is to be trusted when we examine history. Include me in it. I'm sad we're not in the story in the book, but it's only for petty reasons. Mostly, I'm happy that family had a shared narrative that leaves them stronger and that gives their children scaffolding for making sense of something very hard and scary. I'm grateful for story, and it's not mine to judge if it's fiction or not. 

That's all sort of heavy and weary-making, so I'll think about this: Today, while I continued to recover in bed, Gus brought me a coconut he picked up on his walk home from school. Things like that make me really dig Singapore. We shook it together, heard the milk slosh around and made plans to smash it open when his dad gets home. In Gus's story, he knows that you can't stand under trees laden with coconuts or one could fall. He also knows that there are different kinds, and we usually only drink from the green ones the street vendors hack into with machetes and poke with bendy straws. He knows every snail in his yard by family order ("that's the littlest brother and the almost biggest sister"), and he also remembers not to touch milipedes or yellow fuzzy caterpillars. The sting is outrageous. Yesterday, a green snake (mildly venemous) climbed the trees in our yard and got into a second story apartment. Gus knows that snakes are dangerous and that we run and get help when we see one. The condo "uncle" who caught it, also told Gus tales of a python he caught on the eighth story last year. Gus is learning his natural world even in a city of five million people, and he is creating memories that I had. Mine featured large mouth bass, ducks, and sunfish. I picked lilacs and goldenrod and not tropical fruit. The parrots in the trees we see here would have only existed at the zoo. When we moved overseas, I worried that we'd lose our footing with nature. Thankfully--hallelujah-- nothing has been lost: the storyline is the same, the elements have just altered. That gives me great joy.

So does smashing coconuts. 

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.

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.

In-Between

Gus and I are celebrating one month in the loveliest of limbos today. We left Praha behind (and apparently this blog) for the mountain views, mud puddles, tractors, sprinklers, sandboxes, lakes, good dogs, small town parades, snakes, fresh picked raspberries, Mexican food, hikes, and overall amazingness of many good Grandmas and Grampas. If you are under the age of three, clothing is optional and you've probably added the phrase M & Ms to your vocabulary as well as an inch and or two to your height. Gus has had his first dental appointment (Success and smiles thanks to the best dentists on the planet), chicken nuggets, fish-catching, bear-sighting, and fire truck ride. Life is good in the Wenatchee Valley.

P arrived a few days ago, and the fun factor has only increased. We are tan and can't find our shoes. There are Northwest microbrews in the fridge and neighbors with warm swimming pools. Our family can't be beat, and baby M is one day away from being overdue. Goodness abounds.

It's not just little M that's on the horizon, it's Singapore too. I usually want time to slow down here at the ranch, but this year I'm torn. We've landed a condo we long coveted and that was long occupied by some of the very best folks we know, so good juju fills those walls and good living awaits. I am anxious to move my boys into it, to show Gus the geckos that will share our home, and to take him to all of our favorite haunts. There is so much for him to eat and see and so few days before I'm no longer a stay-at-home mom. I'm trying to savor here and ready myself for savoring there. It's an odd balance.

But it's been an odd balance from the start--leaving dear friends in Prague and settling in to a few weeks of dear friends and family in the states and moving on to dear friends and colleagues in Singapore. At the playground, moms I meet ask where I live, and the answer is so complicated their eyes just glaze over and they shuffle their kids over to the slide and away from the awkward lady. I can't blame them. 

I always wonder if we're doing the right thing during these times of transition, and this morning, at one of my less-awkward playground gatherings, a friend of P's quizzed us on overseas life. He and his family are teachers and contemplating a similar leap, and as we talked, P and I both got more animated and more excited. On the car ride home we enjoyed the buzz of knowing that whether in Singapore or Washington, we're doing what we love.

There is so much to love:

Lake Wenatchee. Sigh.

My attempt at Czech pickled hermelin.

Lucky, lucky boy.

 

Today's theme

Things have seemed a bit gray. Not bad. Not glorious. Gus and I had a few too many nights of collective coughs. We went to IKEA (yechh). Our accomplishments of late are boring: criminal record checks, shipping insurance forms, and short-term medical insurance. And yesterday at 11:00am, the bank said the money hadn't arrived yet and I should come back tomorrow. It was reminiscent of when we stopped by Burger King on a student field trip while living in Singapore and they said, "Oh, sorry--we don't have any burgers." 

But today, after the wonder of a good-night's-rest (thank you Husband of the Year), Gus and I woke up to sun and color and choosing-joy. Some folks even decided to dress like it: 

Keeping with the theme, I started my next sketchbook project. This book's theme is "The little things in life".

There are lots of little things looking good today. The lilacs are blooming, Neighbor B made homemade peanut butter cups, I may or may not have ordered this Waylon Jennings necklace, and there's a painting project underway:

To add to the synchronicity, a friend sent a link to a bucket list for kids under twelve, and it's inspired me to think on our family bucket list. That's good fodder for dinner time conversation in a household of seasoned list-makers.

And finally, as I putter in my office and with my paints and listen to my podcasts on this happy-shiny Tuesday, I savor a BIG thing, which is my dear Father's (slightly belated) birthday. Happy Birthday, Dad!

(it seems rubber boots are a theme as well)

So nice to be here

We are so very glad to be in Carthage.

There have been risotto and lamb dinners. Artichokes. Preserved lemon pastas. Halvah, dates, and lots and lots and lots of olive oil. We are smitten by the blood orange trees (and resulting fresh juice), our hosts' espresso machine, and the gorgeous blue trimmed windows. Carthage is a beauty, and our friends are amazing. We have feasted and laughed and storied. 

We've had outings to the beach:

And we've learned to throw things:

We've sampled the local fare:

Enjoyed family evenings:

And created quite a bond with some great boys: Will be tough to leave such good dudes (who are so good to my little dude):

There's a few days left and good weather in the forecast. We've Roman ruins to cimb and more shwarma to eat. Woo hoo! 

Tunisia bound

We're getting out of here! And it's supposed to rain the whole time! And we all have colds! And the flight times are horrendous! And you're not invited! (Roz Chast readers, the last line is for you)

Colds and rain and lack of sleep are not getting in the way of our fun. We're off to see some of our best people---two of which are some of our favorite bloggers. Rain showers aside, there will be significantly warmer weather and olives and new sights and grand conversations. We are excited.

Perhaps not quite as excited as the puppy dog dancer in the background. But almost.

Happy to have been and happy to be back

We are back from lands of chocolate, cheese, hiking trails, and really great people. A weeklong road trip to Munich and Zurich proved to be exactly what this family needed to gain a little clarity and lose a little Euro (Take note travellers, it's not just Switzerland that requires a toll sticker. The Austrian fine is hefty!).

(fondue--followed by chocolate--with the lovely Rops)

Gus was a champ, sleeping like he'd never slept before and recovering from bronchitis in unfamiliar places. He mooed at Swiss cows and marveled at German forests. Our hosts were all amazing and our weight gains evident. What a great trip.

And now we're back and sorting out some big decisions with lighter hearts and darker German beers. Life is good in Prague. Fall has settled in with freezing temperatures, and homemade soup was on last night's menu. This is a season to savor.

I got a little gutsy and posted some designs to sell, but it's mostly to avoid over or under printing. I'm still not comfortable with seeing doodles in print, but maybe this will all work out. We'll see. In the meantime, I've got a sketchbook project this week and three amazing birthdays to celebrate (Steelie Dan, Bekah, and Annika--Woop woop!). With only six weeks left in the CZ before Oscar and I take full advantage of all the love Grandma and Grampa have to offer, we're living it up!

 

Momentum

Plannin' and rollin' and chuggin':

Rewrote last year's Christmas card with the correct spelling (gnashing of teeth) just in case we get our act together for holiday sales:

Submitted a few more sketches for Memory Cards:

Felt jealous of this wall paper.

Marveled at my friend bSmiley's new Etsy shop. That witty (and uber-talented) girl finds ways to weave The Dude into her toddler clothing write-ups. She's a wonder. 

Packed the suitcase for this weekend's getaway in Harrachov with P's company. Finshed Stacy Schiff's Cleopatra. Rented a car for an October road trip. Bought plane tickets. Tackled Gus's first fall fever. Hosted a potluck. And, perhaps the most noteworthy of all (but only thanks to Neighbor B's relentless patience and tolerance and overall jaw-dropping kindness), surivived a morning trip to (more gnashing of teeth) IKEA with G.

Whew.

Two Guses

While some of us attempt to look manly in our tights, others feverishly clean.
I cannot leave on holiday with a dirty house. It's ridiculous. We'll return to an inch of dust. But I don't care; I have a pot of soup on the stove from the refrigerator remnants, and I have sparkly wood floors. Gus is too giddy to clean. He's got a rendezvous in Rome with an old friend coming up. His pal is also a Gus. Those two crazy kids backpacked together through the Singapore rainforest when we counted Gus's age in weeks. Can't wait to see how the boys have grown. And I'll enjoy it so much more knowing my toilets back home smell nice.