Lessons From The Guardians

Last Friday's shooting really got to me.  I know that is not a profound statement- it got to all of us.  But of all the sad news days from the last 15 years or so- Columbine, 9/11, Aurora, Portland, and all the others in between that are too numerous to remember and write down, this one last week hit me right in the center of my being.  I had to leave Roo playing in her room once or twice and escape to the bathroom to have a cry.  Couldn't hold it in.  Couldn't let her know why I was upset.

Most of that was a parents' reaction.  I think a lot of us are experiencing an overwhelming empathy for the parents of the families who dropped their kids off at school that day and drove off.  That's something we all do.  We all drive our kids to school where we bid them goodbye.  We trust that at three we'll see them again so we drive off.  We all drive off.

It's hard to wrap your brain around it.

There was also the fact that I used to be a teacher.  All day, as the news broke and we learned that most of the shooting was done inside a first grade classroom, my thoughts were affected by an unwanted filter of personal knowledge.  Were they in the middle of The Gingerbread Man unit?  Were the walls decorated with colorful paper chains counting down Christmas?  Was there a bucket somewhere in that classroom filled with jingle bell bracelets, waiting to be worn and shook at a holiday performance?  All these intrusive morbid thoughts (and worse) pervaded my thinking.

When it was time for me to pick up my own kids from school, I was practically climbing the walls.  I felt nuts.   The last thing I wanted to do was to return back to the house, where the darkened television would loom and where I would try my best to forget about the fact that if I turned it on I'd be bombarded with more news.  More facts I didn't want to know.  More sadness.

So instead I drove us to the movies.

Escapism.  That was my strategy.

The movie we chose to see was Rise of the Guardians.  I thought a holiday movie about Santa Claus would make the kids happy and cheer me up at the same time.  However, I realized fifteen minutes into the movie that the parallels from the movie to the days events would be too numerous to ignore. Turns our that Rise of the Guardians was about a magical group of legends whose job it was to keep the innocence of the world's children safe from darkness and fear.

So much for escapism.

I couldn't leave.  I couldn't sob in front of the kids- even though that's exactly what I felt like doing.  I guess I could've sat there and grieved and fought off more dark scary thoughts- but I was doing that at home anyway.  So I stayed.  I settled into it.  I quieted my mind.  I even thought that maybe, perhaps, I'd get some answers.

I kind of did.

Except that when I sat down to write about it, I couldn't express myself.  So I tried again on Sunday.  Again, the right words weren't coming.  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, same story.  But today, Thursday, I think I've found the words.  I think I know what I want to say.  Bear with me.

Before last Friday, on Friday, and everyday since then, my kids' world has been this: they wake up, get dressed, they argue about some silly stuff, and then we go to school.  There, they learn.  They do art projects.  They go to music class.  They play at recess with their friends.  They laugh.  They play.  They get to be kids.

When they come home we do homework, we hang out, they play outside.  Usually once a day someone cries about something- a scraped knee, an onery sibling, a pile of laundry (that's usually me.)  Sometimes there's some family drama, but usually it's normal everyday stuff and when I tuck them into bed, they have a smile on their face.

That's their world.  The shooting hasn't changed that.  Yet.

This morning, one of the headlines on Good Morning America was this:  BULLETPROOF BACKPACKS FOR SCHOOLCHILDREN AND ARMED TEACHERS

And that's when I knew what to write.

So. America.  Yes. Let's get our kids some bullet proof backpacks.  But why stop there?  A deranged gunman can strike anywhere in public, as we've had the misfortune of learning.  So let's outfit our kids everyday in bulletproof vests.  Let's put the vests on them, let's put the backpacks on them, let's arm their teachers and then let's send them out into THAT world.  A world filled with fear and darkness. A world where we let decisions be made out of fear.   A world where, because faith is absent, we have to control, control, control as much as we can (MORE GUNS! BULLETPROOF EVERYTHING!) because it's too hard for us to accept that we're not really in charge.  Bad things happen.  I'm sorry.  I'm so, so sorry.  I wish they didn't, but they do.  We can't stop bad things from happening.  It's just part of being human, part of existing in this universe.  

What does all this have to do with the movie I saw?  Let me 'splain.

In Rise of the Guardians, Santa had this image of a globe with lights representing children around the world.  The children were the light. Do you get it?  Do you see it?  I don't think you have to have kids to know that innocence and goodness are most of what makes our children so special.  In fact, I would say this is true for any creature that loves so trustingly, so innocently, so unconditionally.  Pets can be this way too.  And I really think that the truth of this goodness can be measured by the intensity of our instinct to protect it.  Why else would that instinct be so strong?  Why else would those teachers and administrators lay down their lives to protect those kids?  It's precious.  It's sacred.  It's worth protecting, infinity times over.

When we raise our kids, we know that we eventually have to release them into the chaos of the adult world.  But because we know how precious their childhood is, we mete out the lessons of the adult world in small increments.  And we give them a space for magic.  We tell them about Santa Claus.  We let them believe in the tooth fairy.  Because, as The Rise of the Guardians taught me, a child's faith can make magical things real.  Santa may not be a true physical form, but just the mere act in believing in him creates a very tangible love and magic that spreads every holiday season.  As adults, we tend to forget about all that magic the minute the season is over-but kids don't.  They keep that magic happening all year long, and it brings us joy.  We love it.  We need it.

So I'm ready.  I'm ready to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, dandelion wishes, jumping over cracks, wishing on a star, crossing fingers, and anything else that simply requires  faith.  I also believe in Jesus.  After all, he says "Truly, I say unto you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 18:3.
See?  He gets what I'm saying.  We need children to remind us of the wonder and goodness in the world.  That's the world we need.

Those of you who've read me for a while know that these are ironic words.  From a girl who has spent the last three holiday seasons writing about how much she hates playing the Santa game and lamenting the fact that she's so bad at it, this is a 180.  But I'm ready now.  Because the world I want, the one I feel like my kids deserve, is one that is filled with happiness and magic and positivity.  One where people aren't making decisions out of fear.  A world that's focused on the light.

Glennon over at momastery has a saying that is especially wise right now: "When the world feels too loud, we must be quiet.  When the world feels too violent, we must be peaceful.  When the world seems evil, we must be good."  I don't know if those are her words or someone else's, but my wish is that people would take some time to consider them.  Stop the noise and be peaceful.  Be good, be kind. That's the best way to honor the victims of Sandy Hook.  There's only one thing that I can think of that would be worse than losing a child, and that would be losing a child and then having the world use that as an excuse to fall into darkness and despair.  Please, can we honor the victims the right way?  Can we be quiet and good for a while?  Then, maybe after our hearts are settled we can make decisions about the grown up stuff.  Until then, let's just be quiet.  Let's be still.  Let's take in the magic and the goodness and the joy of our kids today.  

Thanks for sticking with me and reading all this.  I'm so grateful to all of you 

Peace on earth, and good night. 



P.S- If you don't know where to start looking for the good stuff, I'd direct you to here.  And here.  And this quote here.  Those are all places I went this last week when I needed to load up on the world's goodness. 

Lost Shakers, Lost Sleep

I can't sleep.  What's that saying about moms and sleep?  Something like "Moms don't sleep.  They just worry with their eyes closed."

Yes.

Actually, no.  I'm not so much worrying as I am repeatedly running through a list of upcoming events for this weekend and trying to get a handle on what I need to do to get ready for it.  Soccer schedules, tutoring schedule, birthday parties, grocery lists.  Boring mundane stuff.  Stuff I can think about in my waking hours, but for some reason my brain wants these thoughts now on the front and center of my mind marquee.  The  mystery of my brain's inner workings and the joy of being it's slave- indescribable.

That was sarcasm. It's 4 a.m.  Forgive me.

My thoughts also keep returning to a new discovery that I had today.  I was listening to Jimmy Buffet radio in an attempt to make bearable the deep cleaning of my kitchen counters (FYI, attempt failed), and for the first time in all my years of hearing Margaritaville, I realized that Jimmy Buffet wasn't looking for his LARGE shaker of salt.  This stopped me in my tracks.  Lost shaker of salt?  Really?  All those concerts and singing along with the other Parrotheads, and I was singing the wrong lyrics that whole time?  Surely not!  I posed the question on Facebook (in another attempt to make cleaning day more bearable.).  There I learned that I, indeed, had been singing it incorrectly.  Jimmy was looking for a lost shaker, not a large shaker.  As one of my friends pointed out, "lost" does make more logical sense.

Well well well.  Logic.  We meet again.

Here's what I have to say about logic.  It may be logical that the shaker was lost, and not large, HOWEVER, which scenario paints a more interesting picture in your mind: that of a beach bum looking around for a regular old boring salt shaker OR a beach bum searching somewhat desperately for a gargantuan silver salt shaker that's 12 inches tall with a cap the size of a portabella mushroom?

It's the second one of course. Any normal boring person would look for a lost shaker of salt.  It's what you do if something's lost.  Duh.  But when you  picture an huge ass oversized salt shaker, don't you immediately want to know why such a large shaker would exist?  So then you ponder the question for a while and you realize, "Oh, well, of course.  He's in Margaritaville.  There are a lot of Margaritas there.   If there is anywhere in the world where a huge shaker of salt would be needed, it'd be there!"

Question answered.

You can see why I'm disappointed that Jimmy was only looking for a lost shaker.

No imagination, that Jimmy Buffet.  We all know what Einstein says about that (I've quoted it before): "Logic will get you from A to B.  Imagination will get you anywhere."  

I will never apologize for my imagination or my lack of logic.

Although I do think I'll be apologizing for this post come morning.

Good night!

You Can Take The Mom Out Of Baseball.... Or Can You?

Prior to marrying Matt, I never really cared about baseball.   Yes, I went to Dodger games on a semi-regular basis every summer, but that was because my dad loved baseball.  I was only there because I loved Dodger Dogs.  And frozen chocolate malts.  And, for a short shameful period in 1988, Orel Hershiser.

(By the way, I still love two out of three things on the above list.  I'll let you discern which ones.)

Anyway, Matt did grow up caring about baseball.  A lot.   He played Little League and drove out to Palm Springs every year to watch the Angels Spring Training.  Nolan Ryan was his hero, and when he got transferred to the Texas Rangers, a little teeny tiny cutie patootey Matt wrote a letter to Jim Fregosi, the manager of the Angels at the time, asking him to please please please pretty please with a cherry on top not trade Nolan Ryan.  Then he stuck it in an envelope addressed it simply to "Jim Fregosi, Angel Stadium" and sent it out in the mail.  Apparently, Mr. Fregosi never got the letter, or if he did, he has a shard of ice where his heart should be.  Why else would he crush the hopes and dreams of such a pint sized little fan? And one with such a cute little face?

Perhaps I'm a little biased.

So, all this is to explain to you that when I married Matthew, I married into baseball.  More specifically, I married into Angels baseball.  During the months of April through October, the kids know that Angel games take precedence over their Nick 'toons- a fact that they hate.  To them baseball is as exciting as watching grass grow.  And while I fully, completely, tooooooooootally can see their point of view, I will never in a million years say so to Matt because I don't mind keeping him company while he watches baseball. It's fun. If I have a question, he seems to enjoy taking time to explain it.  He's a good teacher.

Except.

There are a few questions that I have which he seems to ignore.  It's almost like he doesn't think they're worthy of an answer.  This bothers me because I do feel they're worthy.  In fact, every time I watch a game, these same questions pop up in my head, over and over.  I find it hard to believe that I'm the only one who wonders these things so I thought I'd put them out there to see if any of you all have ever questioned the following....

First, why do baseball players spit so much?  Are they not aware of the cameras on them?  Do their mama's watching at home feel as disgusted as I do at seeing the brown slugs of tobacco juice being spat from the sides of their mouths every few seconds?  Has no one told them how disgusting this looks?  Have they never caught sight of themselves on a screen?  Surely, if they had they would know how repulsive they look.

Also, does every stadium have a laundry service?  Who gets all those dirt stains out of the uniforms?

How do they memorize all those little hand signals?   Watching them communicate that way is fascinating and frustrating.  I want to know what they're saying.  Do you think they throw in a few signals for words that have nothing to do with baseball, like "Hot blonde, left bleachers, 2 rows up?"  Why is all so secretive?  I don't like it.

Finally, why do they just throw their gatorade cups on the ground in the dugout?  Isn't there a trash can somewhere?  For some reason, this one bothers me the most.  Matt says that it's somebody's job to sweep it all up after the game, but I just think "Why?"  Nobody would have to sweep it if they would just put it in the trash to start with!  And here's the thing, if somebody really does have the job of sweeping it all up, I'd much rather it be a guy than a girl. Letting the players just throw trash on the ground with the knowledge that a girl is going to come by later and pick it up for them gets me all feminist and uppity.

I guess the real question I should be asking is to myself:  When will I get to stop being a mom and just enjoy simple things like baseball for what they are- without relating them to laundry and messes?

Don't answer that.  You know it's a rhetorical question.  I'm never really going to be able to stop seeing things through my mom eyes.  BUT, just to be clear, I only worry about these things during an extra long inning with a ton of full counts and walks and hardly any action.

So, basically for only like, half the game.   The rest of the time I am in it.  In it to win it.

Go Halos!

Have a good night. 

Well Done, You

Oh mamas.  You all were on my mind all day yesterday.  I was running into so many of you all over the place- the school parking lot, in hallways, inside classrooms, and all over Facebook.   We made it through another first day of school.  That in itself deserves a congratulations, but I’ve been walking around all day with it on my heart to celebrate something else in a much bigger way.  It’s you all.  Well, it is me too, but it’s mostly you.  Okay, wait.  Actually, it’s us- this community of mothers.  All of us- the working ones, the stay at home ones, all of us. I was in awe yesterday. 

I know there are a lot of people out there who don’t understand what we do.  Just recently I was talking to someone who was complaining about a coworker who didn’t volunteer overtime.  She was upset because his excuse was that he had to get home to help his wife with their twins.  Then she said “And she’s a stay at home mom!  It’s not like she does anything!!” 

Nope.  We don’t do anything.

That mom, the one with the young twins, how selfish that she would want her husband home after his 9 hour workday to help her!  (And what a terrible dad, to want to spend time with his children before they’re put to bed.)  All moms know-the working ones too- that when you are home with your child, it is not a day off.  Even if you stay in your pajamas, even if you don’t leave the house, even when you are having a blast together, it is still work.  Sometimes it is fun work.  Other times it is mind numbing work.  However, unless your kids know how to make their own meals, entertain themselves, educate themselves, drive themselves places, and keep house, it is still work. 

Forget about those people.  Maybe someday they’ll be lucky enough to understand what parents do.  

So, can we take a moment and talk about what it is we actually do do?

 I feel like I’ve finished a season of my life.  I’ve got 3 kids in school now 8 hours and one that’s gone for half of a day.  The long, long days of being home and outnumbered with 3 little kids in various stages under the age of 5 are behind me.  No more diapers, no more sippy cups, no more high chairs, naps, playgroups, and no more 24 hour coverage of Nick Jr. cartoons (Thank God.  As I once saw someone write about Dora The Explorer: “Girl needs charm school.” Yes.  Yes she does.)

In fact, I should probably change the name of this blog.  It’s rare these days for me to have “mean mom moments.”  I mean, of course, I still get frustrated with the kids.  I still yell more than I’d like to.  Ain’t no shame.  A lot of us do.  But those moments that inspired this blog, this post… when things would spin out of control and utter chaos would ensue, and I would lose it for a sec? Rare.  Hardly ever happens anymore.  My kids mostly do for themselves now and I no longer have to juggle 3 different sets of needs or demands all at once.  I’ve switched out the physical exhaustion of taking care of babies for the mental tightrope of navigating “big kid” issues: friend relationships and hurt feelings, after school activities, homework, preparing 9 for college, etc.  I’m ready. I’m excited.  I’m also really proud of myself for getting through the first season- cuz that was hard yo!  Really, really hard.  But I don’t have to explain it to you, because you all know.  You’ve been there.

The common theme yesterday, all over Facebook and in the conversations  at school, was how did they (our children) get so big?  Did you notice it too?  Even if we weren’t saying it, it showed in our faces- the marvel of how did this happen?  How did we get here so fast?  Are they going to be okay? Am I?

The answer is yes.  You are going to be okay.  I am going to be okay, and they are going to be okay.  They’ve all gotten so big because we’ve done our jobs well.  Time goes fast because time always goes faster where love is present.  Isn’t that true?  And while it’s hard to watch your child walk off into a sea of a hundred other children without you by their side, it is what is supposed to happen.  It’s why we all work so hard at this parenting gig- so our kids can grow and be successfully independent. 

 So well done, you.  Well done, me.  

One more thing.   

Have your kids ever said anything to you that was so incredibly honest or true or sweet without really realizing that they’re shattering your heart to pieces?  Yesterday PG was getting ready for school.  She looked in the mirror at her reflection and saw herself with her new haircut, cute little Capri jeans, black ballet flats and said “I feel so mature!”

She meant it as a joke so I laughed with her, but I almost choked on the lump in my throat.  

Thanks for being in the ranks with me, moms.  Have a great day! 

iViva Los Chilaquiles!

 It's been a while since I've done a cooking post, but that's got to change now.  I've discovered a new food bandwagon and I want to tell you about it.  The first thing I should tell you is that I'm not sure it's a bandwagon.  In fact, I might be the only one on it right now.  But you see, that's why it's so important that I let you all know about it- so you guys can join me.  Obsessing all by one's lonesome is no fun.  It's why groupies travel in packs.

Earlier in the month when I was in Seattle, my brother in law picked us up from the airport and took us to this restaurant on Capitol Hill.  It's called Barrio.  It was very cool.  It was there on the menu that I  saw it said "Ask your server about today's Chilaquiles dish."  So I did.  I asked "What are Chila...chila... chila...?"

The server smiled and said "Chilaquiles?" (pronounced Chee la KEY lays, or, as the whitest version of me likes to say, "chile-kilees".)

I said, "Yes, that."

And she lit up and then launched into this enthusiastic dialogue that started out with "They're basically like nachos on steroids......." and continued into this impressive speech that was heavily peppered with all kinds of delicious adjectives.  The three of us, Matt, my brother in law, and myself, just sat there listening.  When she was done there was a moment of silence before my brother in law said "Wow.  You sold that well."

So I ordered Chilaquiles.  And oh. my. word.  My mind was blown.  Nachos on steroids doesn't begin to cover it.  I think nachos connote fluorescent orange cheese over stale chips.  There was none of that here.  I wish I could tell you more precisely what exactly was in this dish, but to be honest, after I took my first bite, my brain stopped thinking in logical terms and only operated on sensory input.  I remember crunchy warm tortilla strips, some spicy jalapeños, queso fresco, sautéed zucchini, onions, and garlic.  I think the meat was some kind of pork carnitas, but I'm not sure.  Whatever it was, it was good.  The best part was, the whole dish was topped off with a perfectly cooked over easy egg. (I know the egg part turns some people off, but not me.  I'm telling you, it was perfection.) People call it the perfect hangover food.  I can see why.

Since I've been home, I've been trying to replicate the dish.  I haven't been successful in getting it to taste as good as the ones at Barrio, but here's the great thing I've discovered about Chilaquiles: it's basically a dish that's traditionally used to use up leftovers, so as long as you've got the key 3 ingredients (chips, sauce, & leftover meat), you can't get it wrong.  There are so many different variations, you could eat Chilaquiles every day of the month and never have a repeat dish.
So in other words, it's food heaven.  Blissful and never ending.

The recipe that I'm sharing with you here is Emeril Lagasses.  You can find it on the Food Network site.  (Or I suppose I could just give you the direct link.  Here you go.) I made a few changes of my own, 'cause I'm a rebel that way.  This recipe is a little time consuming, but very flavorful.  And like I said, you don't necessarily need a recipe as long as you've got the 3 key ingredients.  You could throw together some Chilaquiles in 5 minutes if you wanted to by tossing chips into a bowl, mixing it with whatever leftover meat/veggies you have, sprinkling some cheese on top, and then broiling it all.  But if you've got some time and you're in the mood for some really intense flavors, this recipe will do the trick.

Shall we get started?

M'kay.  Just to keep things organized (how unlike me), I'm posting this recipes in three different sections.  Let's worry about the meat first, then we'll move on to the sauce and chips, all right?  Here's what you need to cook up some yummy shredded chicken:

First you're going to chop up your garlic.  I finely chopped a few cloves for the sauce, and just roughed up a few more to poach with the chicken.

Then the next part is easy.  Just throw the chicken breasts, roughly chopped garlic cloves, juice from half of a lime, a teaspoon of salt, a bay leaf, 1/2 teaspoon of dried Mexican Oregano (don't forget to crush it between your fingers to release the flavors), and 2 1/2 cups of chicken broth into a big fat huge skillet. 

Also, Emeril's recipe calls for 1/2 cup of dry white wine.  I think I used this too, but forgot to take a picture of it.  Oops.  

Go on, throw it in there.  Won't hurt anything.  

Now bring it to a boil, and then reduce to a simmer for about 10-12 minutes.  When it's done, let it cool in the broth before you take the breasts out.  Save a cup or two of the broth too, would you?

Then shred the chicken. It'll look like this:

Allrighty.  Good news!  You're done with the meat portion of the recipe.  Set it aside.  Now we can move on to the sauce- which happens to be my favorite part.  It's where all the flavor happens.

Here's what you're going to need for the sauce:

So that's an onion, 2 jalapeños, 2 poblano chiles roasted and blistered to perfection, another 1/4 teaspoon of the mexican oregano you used earlier, the reserved chicken stock, olive oil for sautéing, and a big ole fat can of crushed tomatoes (30 oz).  

First you're going to chop, mince, and slice the onions, jalapeños, and poblanos like a boss.

                                     

BAM! 

(Don't forget to seed out the jalapeños.  Crying because your tongue is on fire isn't bosslike.) 

Heat up a few tablespoons of olive oil, and sautee it all up in the pan.  

Add the tomatoes. 

And the reserved chicken broth.

And then crush up the last 1/4 teaspoon of the oregano into the sauce. 

Cover it and let it simmer for about 30 minutes.  Your house will start smelling like a mexican kitchen.  That's a good thing.  

When the sauce has thickened up a bit, you can add in the poblano chiles....  

                                              

and the cream.  Wait!  Back it up.  Did I forgot to mention the cream in the ingredients list?  Sorry!  You'll need 1/3 cup of cream.  

Pour it in there.

Keep going.  

Keep going.  Isn't it pretty? 

                                                   

Now you mix up all the vibrant colors and cook it ten minutes longer (or until it thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon)

Now, you just add the chicken in. 

Mix it up, put a lid on it, and.....

Congratulations!  You are done with the sauce and are now only mere minutes away from reaping the rewards of your labor.  Part three is easy and quick.  Here's the ingredients that you'll be using: 

                                     

Corn tortillas, oil, queso fresco, and the eggs, which you don't have to do, but I'm going to be really disappointed if you leave them off.   

Whew. Let's wrap this up.  I'm getting impatient. 

Slice the tortillas. You can do strips if you want.  Or squiggles.  Or squares.  Really, it's just all about whatever suits your mood at the moment.  I was in a triangular type of mood.  Wacky. 

                                        

Pour an inch or two of oil into your pan and fry your chips up in batches. 

                                   

I forgot to time it because I'm a ditz. However, common sense goes a long way here: When the chips start to look brown, take em out. 

See?  Logic.  For something so intimidating to space cadets like me,it sure proves useful from time to time. 

Where were we?  Oh yeah.  Ladle on some sauce. 

Then throw on some more chips.

Then more sauce.

Then some queso fresco. 

And then you stick that cheesy, crunchy, salty mess under the broiler for 5 minutes.  

While it's under there, if you're using an egg fry it up.  (Please, try the egg at least once.  That's all I ask.  Just once.  And if you don't like it, I'll never bring it up again.  I may secretly wonder what's wrong with you, but I won't actually say anything out loud.  Deal?)

Here's the best part.  Ready? 

When you take it out from the broiler, it'll look like this:

                                          

When you put an egg on top, it'll look like this:

When you bite into it, it'll look like this:

And this:

And finally, this:

The pictures aren't doing it justice, guys.  This is good stuff.  Make some today.  Or okay, tomorrow if you have to wait that long.  Just make 'em.  Then let me know what you think, cuz what I'm saying is that we need a Chilaquiles Revolution.

Or at the very least, a food truck specializing in them.

The time is now, people.

Have a good night. 

Me & Public Transportation

I need to start this post with a little announcement.  Henceforth on this blog, I will no longer be referring to my husband as Mr. C.  He's just going to be "Matt" here on the blog because lately, every time I wrote out "Mr. C", I cringed.  I feel like I was giving the impression of myself as a hideously upbeat house frau who defers to her husband for every life detail.  It annoyed me.  It's probably been annoying you too.  Thanks for not saying anything.  I've always been the kind of person who needs lots of time to come to these realizations on her own.

It's all part of my charm, friends.

Now on to the real stuff.

Matt and I got back from Seattle earlier this week, where we spent 3 lovely childless days roaming the city and taking advantage of my brother in law's hospitality.  His home is in the Capitol Hill area, and not only does it have a sweeping view of Mt. Rainier, the bay, and downtown, but there is also a gorgeous rooftop patio from which to enjoy it all from.   The weather was perfect.  The Blue Angels flew over our heads one morning while we sat out drinking coffee.

Heavenly.

While we were there we did not rent a car, as we usually do.  We decided to use public transportation.  You know- like, buses.  Subways.  Trains.  Monorails.   These are all words that carry the power to make a lot of California Suburbanites squirm.  Those of you who live here in the desert, if you don't believe me, grab a friend and do a random word association game. Throw out the words "Sun Bus" and see if the first few words thrown back aren't "dirty", "depressing", or "ewwww." (If it's eww, then please gently remind your player that "ew" is not a word, but an expressive interjection.  And then make sure they feel really stupid before you let them take another turn.)

(Kidding!  Nobody likes a snob!)

Anyway, Matt and I did okay getting ourselves around Seattle.  It helped a lot that he was with me, mostly because when lost, my instincts direct me to just go right. In fact, without Matt, I'd probably still be walking a gigantic square around Seattle.  (Which again, is all part of my charm. Matt tells me that I must've been a bat in a previous life.)

So, as I was saying, it all turned out fairly well.  Especially because while riding around in the bus through the International District, I had time to muse over a few insights about public transportation, including my history with it.  Can I share it with you?

Me and Public Transportation, circa 1988:  Me.  Middle school.  Big hair.  Shoulder pads.  Zits.  My friends and I lived 2-3 miles from school, so we'd ride the bus halfway and then walk.  One day an old man got on, sat down next to us and before we knew what was happening, dug out an American Flag from the large knapsack he carried.  He then began a very loud and passionate lecture on our great country.  He was into it, eyes wide, spit flying from his mouth, arms maniacally waving his flag- clearly he was what I like to call "whackadoo".  Nowadays, I would have more empathy and respect, but back then I didn't know any better than to stick with middle school pack mentality.  We just kind of sat, rolling our eyes, looking everywhere but at him, wishing away the uncomfortableness.
1988 lesson learned:  Crazy people sometimes use public transportation.

Me and Public Transportation, circa 1992: Me.  Freshly graduated.  Brand new to the desert and it's heat.  I'm on the way to my first post- high school job as a waitress at Sizzlers.  (Does that make you want to cry or laugh?)  I'm waiting at the bus stop in 110 degree heat wearing dark blue nylons, a thick polyester blue knee-length skirt, a blue blouse with puffed sleeves, a goddamn bolo tie, and the ugliest pair of rubber soled black shoes that the world has ever known.  I'm crying. Not because of my outfit- although that would have been justified- I'm crying because I'm worried that I'm going to be late for my new job two cities away, and I don't understand the bus routes.  A bus pulls up, I get on.  I sit and nervously watch out the window at the unfamiliar roads.  I'm the only white girl on the bus.  No one around me is speaking English.  I feel sorry for myself and  start crying again.  20 minutes into the trip, I stand up and weave unsteadily up the aisle.  Through my tears I ask the bus driver if this bus is going to Palm Desert.  He laughs at me and tells me that currently, we were in Thermal.  I sob loudly and get off on the next stop, where I find a pay phone and commence to make a drama-filled accusatory phone call to my mother.  If I remember correctly,  I hysterically informed her that if I lost my job it would be entirely her fault since she refused to buy me a car and forced me to take public transportation.   I think I remember an audience of migrant workers watching me.  It was a performance worthy of a Mexican Soap Opera, except I wasn't acting.  I was really that lame.
1992 lesson learned: Sometimes you ARE the crazy person riding the public transportation. 

Me and Public Transportation, circa 1995:  Me.  Spiral perm. Flannel.  Doc Martens.  Heading from San Bernardino to Flagstaff, AZ via train.  My boyfriend is with me (also in flannel and Doc Martens) and although we're feeling very self sufficient and adult, we toss and turn uncomfortably throughout the whole red eye train ride.  The seats are extremely uncomfortable.  I enviously eye the traveler across the aisle from us who is comfortably stretched out using some kind of foot rest contraption.  When my boyfriend gets up to use the restroom, I lean across the aisle and in a conspiratorial tone, say to the well rested traveler "You must do this a lot."
"What?" he asked shortly.
 I widened my smile in a show of friendliness and repeated , "I said, you must do this a lot."
"Um, no.  Not really." he said.
"Oh."  I frowned.  "I just figured someone who brings their own foot rest must travel by train a lot."
When a slow smile started spreading across his face, I became aware that I must've said something extraordinarily dumb.   I didn't know what it was yet, but I braced myself for humiliation.  And I was not disappointed.
"I didn't bring this."he remarked, his condescending eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Oh. No?"
"No.  Look under your seat."
Oh.  Well shit.  Apparently, a foot rest was there, available to everyone, neatly tucked away under all the seats.
My boyfriend came back from the restroom.  "Hey." he said to me.  "Do you know everyone has one of those foot stool things under their seats?"
I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.
"Yep.  Just figured it out."
1995 lesson learned:  It's best not to talk to strangers when using public transportation, if for no other reason than to save yourself from embarrassment.


And that brings me back to Seattle.  Sitting on the buses, looking at the maps, checking and rechecking the app (there really is an app for everything) I realized something that I wish I had seen a long time ago.  Sure, public transportation isn't as fast and clean as a private car is.  Sure, the buses smelled strongly of deli meat.  And yes, we rolled through some sketchy parts of town.  But I realized then that if you want to get to know a city- like really get intimate with it- public transportation is probably the best way to do that.  It's not just about riding with the people, going through neighborhoods you wouldn't have otherwise seen, but it's also about the art of mastering the city.  Taking control.  Finding your own way around.  It's very empowering.

Maybe some of you would have seen that right away.  Maybe you're thinking that I'm elitist and naive to only just now get that.  But if that's what you're thinking, can I remind you of what I said at the beginning of this post?  I'm the kind of person who has to make these realizations in her own time.

It's all part of my charm.

J's Birth Story; Subtitled 6 Years Ago Tonight I Was In Labor With A Hobo Ninja

      I've always thought that it would be a good idea to write down my children's birth stories.  I remember right after I had PG, I used to retell her birth story over and over to myself in my head.  The experience had left such an impression on me that I felt compelled to reiterate it to myself.  I think it was because I realized that my life now reflected a bold division of "before" and "after" and remembering the details on both sides of that wall became important.  Mentally recording that transition made it easier for me to let go of my "before" and slip into my new role.  It was a goodbye, my closing chapter on a dog-eared, well read book.
    So with that in mind, tomorrow J is turning six.  Tonight, I'll write his birth story for him (which is why I write all these posts- for my kids, should the future "them" ever want to read these silly diaries.)
     J's birth is actually the least dramatic of my three experiences.  Pg and Roo?  I could write pages and pages about the interesting events surrounding their births.  J's was much more low key.  It was basically "I went into labor, we drove to the hospital, I had a baby by the next day."  That's not to say however, that there weren't details that I'll always remember.  I'll share them with you here, starting with the first contraction (Don't leave!  It was only the first contraction that was memorable.  I won't be dragging you through every single one.  I'm nostalgic tonight, but not mean).
     The first contraction was at 7:45.  I remember standing by my bed and upon feeling my stomach seize u, grabbing the mattress and looking across the bed at the opposite nightstand where the digital clock sat.  7:45 p.m.  I wanted to mark the time, not for contractions, but because I was suddenly aware of that feeling one gets when something important is about to happen.  I knew that when we went to the hospital that we would be admitted, they wouldn't send me home, and that this was the real deal.  (The nurses unfortunately, didn't possess the same level of confidence that I had.  They made me walk around the maternity floor for an hour and then kept me in triage for another 2 hours before they admitted that I was actually in labor.  Why they gotta be like that?  Can anyone tell me?)
     I remember the drive to the hospital.  It was dark and the night air whipped around the front seat.  It felt like the exhaust from a jet engine.  We turned the AC all the way up and kept the windows down because the fresh air, hot though it may have been, felt good while I breathed through my contractions.
     We watched "TransAmerica" in triage on Mr. C's laptop.  Weird choice of movie for laboring in the hospital, but the Netflix Gods had arranged it so that was what had been mailed to us from our Netflix que. So it is that Felicity Huffman will always remind me of green curtains and hospital beds.
     At one point in the night, I got the shakes so bad that I worried that I would bite through my tongue.  I had had shakes before when I was in labor with PG and knew that it just meant that I was transitioning into a deeper phase.  I completely lost faith in my hospital care however when a young nurse came in, saw me rattling around on the bed and asked "Are you cold?  Would you like a blanket?"  And I thought "Have you not seen this before? Not only am I shaking so hard that I am literally about to explode a baby out of my body, but I am in a head to toe hormone and adrenaline rush, and you want to know if I'm cold? You think a blanket is going to help me?  What kind of medical facility is this?"

      Luckily, I wasn't so far into labor that I couldn't see the fact that I may need her in the near future, so I kept my mouth shut.  I was rewarded with an epidural (which I no longer recommend, but that's another post.)  I fell asleep and was awakened by a nurse at 5:30 a.m.  It was time to push, and at 5:48 a.m., there was this:

And that turned into this:

Which then turned to this:

Which became this:

Then this:

And finally this:

     That's you, J, on your last day of being five.  I know how excited you are to be 6, and I love that you're getting older, but I've got to be honest with you, bud.  It's hard for me to see you leave five behind.  Thank you for making it such a fun year.  I'm grateful that I logged most of your funnier moments here on the blog.  And while I can't say that I'm completely on board with your dream of becoming a Hobo Ninja, I can tell you that I believe with all my heart that if anyone could make it happen, it'd be you.

(The dream of being an unmarried father to 60 children and training them to be part of your Hobo Ninja army, however, I do forbid. Props to you for creativity, though.)

Happy Birthday, Monkey Boy!

Banana Slug Karma

When I was growing up, every year we would travel up to the top of the state and camp in the Redwoods, not far below Crescent City.  There were a few reasons why we loved these trips.  One was that we would always meet up with my cousins from Oregon, whom we didn't get to see much and who we always had fun with.  Another reason was that we used to tie inter tubes together and spend the days floating down the Jedidiah Smith River(great fun).  Another reason however, was that we loved to torment banana slugs.

It's twisted, but true.  These slimy, speckled, snot colored creatures were abundant in the Redwoods the way that lizards are abundant here in the desert. They were everywhere.  And I suppose that it was because their looks were so offensive to the eye that our torture of these mollusks didn't seem anything other than perfectly justified.

And torture them we did.

I remember venturing on the trails with my cousins, armed with a canister of salt, searching for our victims.  Upon finding one, we'd stand in a group, pour salt on it, and then watch as it bubbled and writhed.  This was fascinating to us- pure entertainment.  (Well, I don't know about "pure".   However, if it ever occurred to anyone that it was a mean or sadistic act, no one said anything out loud.)  In fact, I even bonded with my newly adopted cousin over the salting of a banana slug.  I remember taking him by the hand and leading him over to where I had found a slug on a log.  Wordlessly, because he didn't have much language yet, I held up salt and let him watch as I sprinkled it above the slug.  His eyes widened, the corner of his lips turned up, and I do believe that I had myself a little friend for the rest of that trip.  You may even say that it was a turning point in our relationship: Welcome to America, little man.  Here, we salt slugs. 

We were definitely a destructive force.  If any environmental scientists ever logged the banana slug population during the 1980's, it's possible that they puzzled over a drastic drop every July.  It's safe to say that by the time I reached my teens, I had accumulated a lot of bad juju when it came to banana slugs.

Which brings me to the ironic part of this post.

Do you recognize the shirt that John Travolta is wearing in this still from Pulp Fiction?

It's a University of Santa Cruz T-shirt.  Those ding dongs chose a banana slug as their mascot for some reason.  Do you know why we made Santa Cruz a stop on our vacation? (Well, other than the fact that I wanted to go to the boardwalk?)  Mr. C is a UCSC alumni.  Class of '94, I believe. 

So, that's right.  I married a banana slug. Karma circle complete, and God does have a sense of humor.  

Ba-dum-bum.  

You have a good night! 

Wait- I forgot that I was supposed to tell you about our vacation in Santa Cruz.  I'll tell you fast- it was fun!  One of my favorite sensory experiences ever is to be on a boardwalk, smelling the ocean and hearing the roller coasters above me.  Plus, a friend reminded me that the Santa Cruz Boardwalk was the setting for the movie Lost Boys.  So that pretty much doubles it's cool quotient right there.  

Okay.  Now you can have a good night. 

Gua-La-Dee-Da

The second stop on our vacation was Gualala, pronounced WAH LA LA.  Can you do me a favor? Try saying that word using your normal voice.  I couldn't.  Maybe it's just me and my husband, but we couldn't take that word seriously.  We'd end up stretching out the first syllable and over enunciating the "la's" at the end, so it'd come out like this:  "WaaaaaaaahLALA".  Then we tried saying it in different Muppet character voices.

It was hours of fun.

Not really.

Anyway, it turns out that the best part of Gualala is it's name.  There is not much going on there.  It's a very teeny tiny town on the coast.  Mr. C has some friends that lived close by so we visited with them.  That was nice.  Other than that, we just camped and hiked and did a lot of this:

Sitting around on the beach.  It was relaxing.  (And a bit boring, to be honest.)  The kids busied themselves by building a little shack out of driftwood on the beach.  

This impressed me.  I'm totally going to take them with me in case of a Zombie Apocalypse, since they apparently possess mad survival skills.  Who knew? 

But that's it.  Besides it's name, that is all I can write about GWAH LAAAA LAAAA!!!. (That was my Animal impersonation.  You know- from the Muppets? Oh, never mind.) 

Wait.  There is one more thing.    

Mr. C took this panoramic pic and then challenged me by saying that I wasn't "savvy" enough to figure out how to post it onto the blog. 

Well, well, well.  Look who's savvy now Mr. C, you big banana slug.  

(That's right.  I called him a banana slug.  I'll explain why on my next post about Santa Cruz.  Until then, have a good night.) 

P.S- For those of you less savvy than me, you should be able to interact with the photo above by dragging your mouse across it left and right to get a full 360 view.  Neat-o!  

Where Little Cable Cars Run Halfway to the Stars

 Well, hello!

How have you all been?  We just got back from our vacation late last night, and I've been looking forward all day to sitting down and writing about it. Not because it was extraordinarily exciting- I mean, it was great fun- but mostly because I'm needing a break from the laundry slave chains.  We camped for the last four nights and the laundry is horrendous.  Writing is a welcome distraction. 

(I just realized that I always use this blog to fish for pity about laundry.  How dull.  I vow to stop.)  

Anyhow.  

Our vacation.  It was fun.  It coincided with our wedding anniversary, and while Mr. C and I usually celebrate our anniversary sans kids, this year we took them along for a beach vacation that started off in San Fransisco.  We also camped in Gualala and Santa Cruz, but I'll leave that for another post.  Tonight I'll just share a few thoughts that I collected while touting out and about the hilly streets of San Fran. 

First, I was proud to realize that 9 years of marriage means that I am now able to read Mr. C's thoughts.  This realization came to me in the car when, after almost plowing through a full cannister of salted peanuts, I proclaimed to him, "Please stop me from eating any more of these!" and just from looking at him, I could see on his face that he was employing his imagination in all the ways that he could physically stop me from eating the rest of the peanuts.  Before I could stop him, he had reached over with a sly smile and pinched my nostrils together.  Try laughing with a mouthful of peanuts and a blocked airway.  It's painful.  

Second, I read Tina Fey's Bossypants over vacation and now I have this ongoing scenario in my head where we're best friends.  I have imaginary conversations with her about all kinds of things (No surprise that she's deeply sympathetic to my laundry situation.) 

In case you're worried about me, don't.  I do this with all the authors I like.  Anne Lamott and Mark Twain are in my circle of friends too.  Someday I'll throw a dinner party. 

Third, we had a delicious anniversary dinner with the kids in tow at The Stinky Rose, which is a garlic restaurant.  I was excited to go there because I had imagined this wonderful, warm family dinner in which we all sit calmly and bask in the love that these nine years have accumulated.  Alas, in this scenario, I had forgotten that J and Roo aren't quite at the age where they are easy and enjoyable in a restaurant.  They still require lots of reminders and distractions.  Here's an unattractive photo that Mr. C took of me at dinner- finger wagging around, mouth open mid-sentence, and I'm probably nagging someone about being careful not to spill their water glass.  

The look on Roo's face says it all: "This woman doesn't stop."

That's okay.  I had fun with them anyways, even if they probably will forever remember me this way:        

                         

Finally, Mr. C and I had both lived up in Sonoma County (before we even knew each other), so we had spent a considerable amount of time in San Francisco. We had the same thoughts about Northern California: it's a beautiful place, but we didn't like living there.  Mr. C blames it on what he calls the "hippie residue".  I just blame it on my aversion to vegetarians with too much hunter green and brown in their wardrobe.  Either way, this time in San Francisco, we really enjoyed the city.  We did all the touristy things, which strangely, we never did when we lived around there.  We took a boat out into the bay, we went to the Exploratorium, Golden Gate Park, and the Palace of Fine Arts.  We walked through China Town and around North Beach.  The kids were great, we were great, everything was great.  Mr. C took some amazing pictures- like, AMAZING pictures.  Even better than usual.  So, I'll leave you tonight with an ultimate "mom" souvenir.  Some moms scrapbook, some moms keep journals, I myself enjoy a good picture slideshow set to some cheesy music.  

And that is what I have for you here tonight.  Enjoy!

Nor Cal 2014-Medium 2 from Tacy Cauthron on Vimeo.