Father's Day

It's only ten to 7, but the girls have been up since 4:45. My head feels spacey yet simultaneously as heavy as lead. I'm on my second cup of coffee and have made bacon and pancakes for the little creatures who dictate my sleeping hours.

The morning after a full day of travel in a new time zone is always rough.

However.

The window to my bedroom is open and the crisp, fragrant air of the bay area is gently blowing. The view is of home: rolling brown hills, blue water in the distance, lemon and grapefruit trees within reach, soft blue sky. I also fed my kids blueberries and cherries this morning. The color and quality of which is only obtained in Kansas if you're willing to take out a second mortgage.

I'm so happy to be here. Even though I haven't lived in CA for over 10 years, it still feels like coming home.

We traveled yesterday on Father's Day and in an effort to get packed and out the door with everyone (including a husband with a fractured foot) intact our festivities were put on the back burner.

Which is kind of lame because the lack of celebration in no way reflects the deep love and respect I have for all the fathers in my life.

The patriarchs.

Memories of this grandpa include cable TV, swimming pools, trumpet playing, doing things the correct way even if it takes longer, and honesty.

This guy was always a charmer, lots of jokes with a twinkle in the eye, gourmet pancakes that I appreciate now more than I did then, dogs, a great driver.

The father-in-law

This guy loves to laugh, enjoys his granddaughters (all 4 of them), is a go to for advice on home repairs and all criminal offenses, and has such a soft heart.

My father

A man who can rock a perm. Or a mullet. Or a buzzed head.

I appreciate his fearlessness when it comes to hairstyles.

Willing to do the heavy lifting. Or fold several loads of laundry, unload the dishwasher, mow the lawn.

Stoic, yet tender hearted and brimming with kindness.

This snowman didn't have a back because my brother and I kept eating it. We were in Washington at the time and didn't usually get snow that stuck, much less come in quantities that were suitable for snowman making.

A man of integrity, incredible work ethic, a gentle spirit, and a pretty darn good pancake maker in his own right.

My babies daddy

Kind, loving, patient.

Silly, hard working, playful.

A beautiful example of a respectful, nonjudgmental, strong male.

He's my best friend and the most wonderful parenting partner I could ask for.

Happy Father's Day to all you father figures out there.

Thanks for loving and mentoring so many of us.

This world is a better place because of you.

Noise

I keep meaning to sit down and write. All week I've been reminding myself, writing is a skill that has to be practiced. All successful authors say that you should write every day.

I don't know why it's been so hard. It's summer, our weeks are filled with wide open slots of empty time. And yet, in the mornings I'm consumed with breakfast and chores and swim lessons. I intend to write during nap/quiet time, but lately I've been napping too. By noon I'm exhausted from the incessant noise that fills the house.

And it's not really noise, itself that is so exhausting. It's the type of noise my children create. I should be grateful that they love to have me around and share every single thought that comes through their little brains.

Mommy, guess what. Mah-ee, know what? Mommy, watch this. I'm hungry. Mommy, I'm going to get some water. Ok? Mah-ee, I have to go potty! Mommy she won't play with me!

Ruby says my name, but leaves off the second "m" so it sounds like Mah-ee. Which, when you're trying to balance the check book or make a grocery list or practice or write, can sound a lot like Maia. And let me tell you, there is little grace if I mistake a Maia for a Mah-ee.

It's constant. There isn't room for thought. I often feel like the second I start to bloom a tiny seed of an idea that doesn't concern my offspring, my kids respond as if they can physically feel a difference. They instantly get their little hooks into my brain, with mommy guess whats?, and pull the spotlight back to their faces.

Don't even think about trying to make a phone call.

The only time a get a lithe break is when I'm cooking. How sexist are my children?! I think it's because they know something good is coming. After all the breakfast is cooked and the dishes are done and they are doing puzzles on the floor, I'm often tempted to stand behind the island and finish drinking my coffee. I know if I sit down, I'll upset the balance and the peaceful atmosphere will soon become busy and demanding once again.

I love my children.

I really do love having them home. I just wish they could leave me alone once in awhile.

I know that one day I will be trying to break through the barricade that adolescence inevitably constructs without much warning. Maybe that's why people are always saying things like "don't grow up so fast" with crying face emoticons next to the picture of their baby walking.

Me? I'm like, let's get this show on the road!

I do realize that my children will not always be excited to have me come to their classrooms. Or that hugs and kisses won't be given readily and with exuberance. However, in the 5 short years that I've been a parent, it's been my experience that it keeps getting better.

The conversations get more interesting. Your little offspring who were at one time just blobs, will amaze you with their ability to do sit ups and pull ups (Ruby) or swim across the pool on their own (Maia). They will make up the most amazing songs and stories and you get to watch them make sense of this crazy world we live in.

Last night I was reading Berenstain Bears "House of Mirrors" to Ruby as she was settling down for the night. It goes "Big bear. Small bear. This way in" but I was interrupted,

Why does it say "this way in" here and here?

She pointed to the words of the story and the picture of the sign that points to the house of mirrors, which also says, this way in.

Well, I respond with patience, those words are telling the story and these words are in the story.

But why does it say "this way in" in two places?

That's the way they wrote the book. I quickly move on. "Thin. Fat." I'm interrupted again.

Mah-ee! You said thin and it says thin in the book! To my ears the difference is indiscernible. I can, however, hear the contempt just fine.

I did say thin! I say it patiently, but firmly making sure to really emphasize the "th" sound. "Tttthhhhhin. Fat. Shaped like a pear. Shaped like a bear."

Mah-ee! It doesn't say pear! It says bear! See!

Ruby, look, (I should mention that our upstairs AC unit is broken and it was a balmy 90 degrees in the room) see, p, p says "puh," pear. Over here there's a b. B says "buh," bear.

No! Shaped like a bear!

Ruby, bear is over here. The first one is pear.

No! Bear! See!

Ruby, do you want to read this? (I am saying this in a semi-exasperated tone, but inside I am screaming at the top of my lungs and my inner self is throwing the book and storming out of the room to the basement where it isn't so hot and I can breathe. Hm. Maybe Ruby and I aren't so different after all. I suppose the only thing that makes me an adult is my ability to conceal, not feel...)

No.

Ok, then let me read it.


It would take pages to recount the rest of the night. I'll tell you what, I'm waiting with bated breath for Ruby to develop the ability to reason and rationalize.

Anyway, what was this post about? Ha, at least I got something written!

And I will admit, while I'm really looking forward to my children growing older and developing more independence, I do get twinges of nostalgia every once in awhile. Especially when they're being super cute.

Recharged

Maia had her last day of school and the next morning Aleks headed to Austin for his triathlon, leaving me with the girls for four days. Not only was I greeted with the shock of single parenthood, but also with the abrupt end of hectic school and work schedules. Which left me suddenly gasping for air even though I was no longer suffocated with things to do.

As artists and professors, our lives and routines are extremely varied from week to week, but the consistency of intense work and time commitments dictate the rhythm of our days. And every summer, the rug is pulled out from under us. Both parents are home at the same time. Mornings seem aimless without school to propel us out the door. It's an adjustment.

I spent those four days as a single parent, somewhat isolated from the world. There were brief moments of conversation with other adults, but they were few. I entered a bit of a depression, eating too much, looking at Facebook on my phone incessantly, watching my 600 pound life on TLC. And while I really despise feeling lethargic and am terrified of becoming deeply depressed, there was a little voice encouraging the boredom knowing that it might serve me in the long run.

During that time I also read. Aleks had been loaned A Life Without Limits by Chrissie Wellington, a world champion triathlete, and I found myself sucked into and inspired by her journey.

"Hard work and an open mind- it's the only way to realize the potential that is inside every one of us."

I also began reading Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott, whose honesty about motherhood and masterful storytelling are so incredibly motivational.

So while my world had come to a screeching stop and it felt like I was sitting on my butt (I did go to the gym several times!), ho-humming and unmotivated to practice or write, I was actually recharging the batteries that had completely run out.

Sure enough, Aleks came home and I now have a list of projects for the summer, yard work has been done, lots of laundry folded, and de-cluttering has revived my spirits.

Yesterday I even went bathing suit shopping.

If you have 3 and 5 year old girls, I strongly encourage you to bring them along. If you have two little  girls chirping how beautiful you look, they almost drown out the voices of self loathing that can knock a woman to her knees.

The girls are remembering how to play together again. Aleks and I are catching up on sleep (the dark circles are only occasional now). The air conditioning is now a constant whir in the background.

Summer: let's do this.

Last day of Pre-K

Maia just had her last day of pre-k.

Which means, she's no longer pre.

She's a k.

Hold me.

Over my salad today, it hit me that Maia will never again go into Mrs. Burcham's classroom and sit down to do work jobs or centers. I won't see her running out of the door at pickup time, cheeks red from recess, looking around for her friends. (She can never get enough of her friends.) 

All of a sudden, just like that, it's over.

In all the busyness of my teaching schedule and the end of the year, I didn't properly prepare myself for this day and milestone. 

What a gift that children are so adaptable. We ask so much of our little people, to be flexible and accept change and do what we say. When do we lose that ability to relinquish control so easily? 

Actually, maybe I'm idealizing a bit. I happen to know a certain 3 1/2 year old who has a terrible time with not being in control and is currently figuring out a way to deal with life when things don't go her way. Like when THESE PANTS DON'T FEEL RIGHT ON MY ANKLES or THE BLANKET ISN'T LYING FLAT or THAT'S NOT HOW I WANT PEANUT BUTTER SPREAD ON MY CRACKERS

I digress.

Maia has grown so much this year. 

She's gotten taller and her hair has gotten longer. 

She's also matured emotionally and socially.

Maia and Vivi like to sing for the class during snack time.

Her fine motor skills have markedly improved.

And here's a book she wrote and illustrated this month.

My Work Book

This is my dad and some pretty flowers. 

 This is me at my house. These are the pretty flowers.

This is my house. My sister Ruby is looking at me.

My sister Ruby is at her school. She is doing puzzles.

 Ruby and I are playing tag.

 This is my mom and me standing with our eyes closed. We are thinking.

 This is my mom. She is at work.

The E

(upside down) Maia.

She told me she couldn't focus on the last page.

It's been a good year.

Next year we'll work on looking at the camera.

So, onto summer and all the sunscreen and chlorine filled days as time keeps marching on!

Mom

For a good part of my childhood, when asked "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I would respond, "an author." I loved reading and almost finished my Sweet Valley High book on the way home from the library. I read the Little House on the Prairie series too many times to count and I would often go to the bathroom after being put to bed as an excuse to read for another half-hour.

Things changed as I grew up and my interests became more centered around music, but I've always loved reading and writing.

Especially lately. Writing makes me feel good. A different good than singing, it satisfies me in a completely unique way. Through reading other people's blogs and some random google searches, I came across Anne Lamott's name and just yesterday picked up her book on writing, bird by bird. 

I found myself nodding throughout the introduction and feeling as if I'd been given a priceless gift. Why on earth did it take me so long to find her? 

A couple things jumped off the page and hit me in the face. Here are a few of them:

"good writing is about telling the truth."

"Writing can give you what having a baby can give you: it can get you to start paying attention, can help you soften, can wake you up."

"I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have more fun while they're doing it."

I've only just started reading, but Ms. Lamott's words have inspired me to write and be intentional about it. And I think, besides the fact she's brilliant and funny and gifted with words, I just like her because she's from the Bay Area and I'm desperately homesick for CA.

Anyway, Ms. Lamott encourages writers to do short assignments for a number of reasons, none of which I'll go into here, (you'll just have to read her book!) and I've decided to take on the challenge.

So, since it's Mother's Day, I thought I'd do my first short assignment with my mother as a subject.

There are many things I could write about my mother. I could write about how the scent of Oil of Olay face lotion instantly transports me to childhood bedtimes. Or how she makes the most amazing dinner rolls and at Thanksgiving and Christmas I would eat as many as I could get my hands on, leaving no room for turkey or stuffing. Or how she's passed on to me her love of dance and celebration of what the human body can do. And her love of coffee and peanut butter. Or how the childhood she gave my siblings and me has helped shape us into thinking, creative people. 

Instead I want to share a memory that came to me in a flash today as I was headed home from the gym.

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It was early evening and the outside light was further muted as it made its way through the tall, narrow stained glass windows in the church. The light cast a yellow tint to the already orange hued pews causing time to stand still as if we were in a faded polaroid.

It must have been late summer or early fall because it was warm and there was a slight layer of perspiration all over my body. The pastor was talking and had been for awhile to the small congregation, the especially devout who came to church twice on a Sunday.

I sat in the front pew next to my mom, her feet adorned in familiar black organ shoes. There was a hymnal on her lap upon which sat a scrap of paper where she had jotted down a few notes, phrases from the sermon, a bible passage. At the top corner was also a little doodle, something I found fascinating. I don't remember specifically what it was, just a a series of curves and swoops in my mom's distinct, to me, handwriting. Did my mom get bored too?

On my other side was a friend, who had fallen asleep across her mother's lap. 

Slowly I managed to replace the hymnal on my mother's lap with my head. I'm sure I was too big for this sort of thing, but it was warm in the church and the light was hypnotic. Absentmindedly my mom began to stroke my hair, just at the baby soft spot, right next to the forehead near the temple. 

Stroke, stroke, stroke. 

It was the most heavenly feeling. Maybe if I kept as still as possible she wouldn't stop. For once I didn't care how long the sermon went on, I wasn't bored, just propelled into the present moment, and anchored there by my mother's hand.

All too soon, the pastor began to close in prayer and my mom gently lifted my head up as she stealthily made her way to the organ to play the last hymn.

In that moment, we fit together effortlessly, able to ask for, give, and receive love in a way that made sense to both. What a gift that memory is to me.

I now know with my heart, not just my head, that being a mom isn't easy. But I also know that it has made me a better person and so worth every difficulty. 

So you're welcome mom, for making you a better person. Haha! Just kidding!

Seriously though, there aren't enough words or sentences or short writing assignments to express the depth of love and gratitude I have for you and the mom you've been. So, take this memory, which is yours now as well, and pull it out when you need to be reminded of what a bang up job you've done.

Happiest of Mother's Days mom.

Anyone else?

It's the end of the semester.

I'm feeling a little

Also a little

And unfortunately, the amount of B.S. that keeps popping up is making me feel like I'm going to

So, if I see you, maybe avoid eye contact and just keep walking.

But in 2 weeks it will be

Happy Weekend everyone!

It's all in the details

So much of my life is thinking about the big picture. 

Getting us all out the door with clean underwear on.

Mapping out the week's dinners.

Making sure the house is running smoothly.

Staying on top of my students' repertoire and performances.

This week I've been reminded that the quality of life is in the details.

For example, right now I'm drinking a glass of wine and listening to jazz while boiling noodles for our pasta dinner tonight.

I'm as happy as a clam.

Or as content as a baby tightly swaddled with a full belly. (A lot of our friends are having babies right now. Happy happy)

---------------

On Tuesdays and Thursdays my alarm goes off at 5 am. I stretch and rub my eyes. I grab my phone and scroll through social media for 4 minutes, trying to let as little light as possible enter my eyes. I spend those 4 minutes convincing myself to get up. That I might as well get up since I won't be able to go back to sleep. That I'm already awake.

Inevitably, when I get home at 7 and I've got a cup of coffee in my hands, I'm glad that I've gotten up have checked an item off my to-do list.

When I first started going to Masters swim, just the thought of Al (swim teacher?coach?) standing beside the pool, would propel me out of bed and to the gym. This oldest child-people pleaser doesn't want to let anyone down. And then I missed one morning and realized it wasn't the end of the world and Al doesn't really care that much if I come or not and suddenly my 4 minute pep talks were turning into 6 minutes.

The gym opens at 4:45 and while I'm mortified by my early alarm, there are people leaving the gym as I head in. And we can't forget the staff who must be there before everyone else.

The front desk personnel changes periodically and one of these changes happened about 2 months into my new routine. There was a staff worker, now on the morning shift, that I'd recognized from previous weekend visits.

At first it was just kind of mumbled, under his breath, before I logged in. "Hi Emily."

But the next week, it was a little louder and more confident and I was sure that he was talking to me.

It's not totally weird that he would know my name, since when I log in, my picture pops up on the screen, but he remembered it from previous visits and now it's this whole thing. Like, I don't know his name so do I ask? And it's been a month now, of him saying hi to me and I haven't asked yet, so is it weird to suddenly say, "hey, by the way, what's your name?"

And while, it's a little awkward, in reality, it's actually really nice, to know that someone has noticed you and makes an effort to say hi to you by name. Especially at 5:30 in the morning.

In fact, when I want to skip my early morning swim, I'm motivated by the thought that he might notice I've missed.

Little things.

---------------

We had a wonderful Easter. The highlight of the day was listening to some of our friends play Peter and the Wolf in the most delightful setting.

{photo by Douglas Hahn}

It was a full day, with lots of little details that added to its loveliness.

Vintage light up signs that point to the stage.

1910 pianos placed in the bed of a model T.

Charming conductors.
{photo by Douglas Hahn}

Musicians in costume.

{photo by Douglas Hahn}

The simplest pleasure of sitting outside, listening to good music filled me with gratitude.

---------------

Spring has arrived in Wichita.

With the blooming of daffodils and tulips come the inherent spring winds. While I grew up with foggy Bay Area mornings, my girls will associate their childhoods with wind howling outside the house.

The trees are full of white and purple flowers. Everything is growing and pushing through the soil, little buds whose mettle is proved against the fierce wind. Growing especially enthusiastically is our grass. In fact, we basically had a meadow in our front yard this weekend. It was kind of pretty, but also kind of embarrassing because last Saturday EVERYONE ELSE in the world was mowing their lawn and there we were, wild and untamed.

And we would have been EVERYONE ELSE, if our lawn mower wasn't broken. It broke at the end of the fall and due to a series of events, it has been near impossible to fix. It's fixable, it just appears that the process in which it can be fixed is very convoluted and time consuming.

Every time I pulled up to my house and saw the deer frolicking and bunnies hopping in the tall, gently swaying grass, I would feel anxious and stressed. (Ok, I'm exaggerating. No deer, but definitely bunnies.)

Until Tuesday. When I came home and was greeted by the sight of a beautifully edged and newly sheared lawn.

It's such a small thing, yet the sight of a well tended lawn brings such peace and comfort.

Our lawn mower is still broken by the way.

And I want to tell you, that a not-so-small act of love and graciousness and kindness is responsible for our manicured lawn and consequently my lowered stress level.

You see, I've got this student, who is remarkable and special in his own right  and comes from some truly extraordinary people.

Miss Alicia, or Malicia as Ruby likes to call her, listened to my apologies for their trek through the over grown terrain to the front door, and story about our lawn during her son's lesson on Tuesday.

Later that day while I was teaching, I got this text:

I was gobsmacked.

And humbled.

And speechless.

And deeply touched.

It's still hard for me to find words to describe what how this not-so-little gesture made me feel.

If you ever come across people like this in your life, hold on to them. Not because they do things for you, but because they listen and care and make this world a better place.

Alicia and Jed and Carson, thank you for your kindness to our family. You are such special people.

---------------

So here I am, at the end of the semester. A time in which I typically find myself exasperated and irritated with everyone.

But instead, I'm finding small (and large) reminders that life is good. That there is much to be grateful for. 

Evening light.

Spring temperatures.

Intentional hellos.

Friends who listen and care.

Good food and drink.

Antique quilts.

Music.

I am reminded that if I care about the quality of the details, the big picture is going to look pretty great.