My Husband, Ladies and Gentlemen!

Avery: They're forecasting a ton of rain by the end of the week.
Jamaica: Really?
Avery: Yeah, they say there will be about eight inches in some places.
Jamaica: Eight inches in some places, just not here.
Avery: ...That's what she said.
Jamaica: *forehead smack*

Thank you, thank you. He'll be here all week.

I Wrote a Poem

In my closet is a small jumble of old purses that are now much too tiny to carry my requisite daily load of wallet, keys, sunglasses, broken crayons, toys, diapers, wipes, snacks, and changes of clothing for four children. Basically, they are purses that I haven't used even once since I had kids. In this way they serve as an interesting time capsule because-- and this will come as a huge duh to anyone who knows me-- I did not empty them out before they were relegated to the closet. Today I dislodged one of these tiny purses from its resting place and a piece of paper slipped out. A poem was written on it. I read words--my own words-- that I had not read in almost four years, and went whooshing back in time.

Four years ago I was just beginning a new job in Sunnyside. I was teaching English to elementary school students, and although I loved the work it was a very challenging experience. I was assigned to a portable, isolated from the rest of the faculty, and did not share a planning period with any of the grade-level groups. I ate lunch alone a lot. The culture shock was pretty significant, too, as I had just moved from Seattle, where I had been living and working in very diverse but safe neighborhoods. Sunnyside really only had two ethnic groups to speak of: the white middle class minority, and the impoverished Latino majority. Gang violence was always looming, either as a threat (lockdowns, being unable to wear my favorite red headband) or as an actual presence (teachers gossiping about the dead body found in someone's yard, students missing school for funerals). In some ways I had never been as frightened as I was when I started that job. Not that I feared for my safety; I was terrified of letting my students down when they already had the deck so heavily stacked against them.  But it was a wonderful time in my life, too. I had just become pregnant with Geneva, I was making new friends, and Avery and I were living cozily in the back room of his aunt and uncle's beautiful empty farmhouse on the Yakama Reservation. I was happy, but I was exhausted. I worked long hours, and when I did come home at seven or eight at night I brought all of my work anxiety with me.  I needed some sort of outlet, so one day before I left my classroom I sat down, grabbed a sheet of notebook paper, and just started writing.

That sheet of paper is what slipped out of my old purse today. I decided to share it, not because I think it's a great work of poetry (it's really not) or because it shows what an amazing teacher I was (I really wasn't). It is just a very specific and very true snapshot of where I was four years ago, after my whole life had just changed and before it changed again.


One young boy's tongue sticks and stops.
His face burns red as he shakes the English words
out of his head.
One morning,
numbers tumble from his fingertips
like seeds
and sprout.
I see him clearly for the first time,
Geometry our Lingua Franca.

Glowering girl straddles her chair,
scrawls hearts upon my wall,
mouths pendejo in the air,
carves bitch into the bathroom stall.
She's learning her lesson well
that no one ever cares for grades the way they do
for love and hate.

A curious boy with a pen-and-ink voice
takes my joys and troubles home,
names them
like stray dogs.
Dear Mrs. Zoglman,
How old are you?
What makes you happy?
When is your baby due?
I know the kids in class make you mad,
but Mrs. Z, don't feel bad.
Sometimes I get angry, too.

It hurts to remember
an empty-chair day,
though she never spent much time in her chair anyway.
Her brother was shot
dead.

Too-big child, a head above the rest,
moves underwater slowly,
forming perfect empty letters.
Not language; art.
Her voice caresses every foreign syllable.
Not speaking; part of a song
she's been singing for two years
without knowing the words.

I can smell the buses leaving from my classroom.
I sit at the smallest desk
for hours
so still that the lights
automatically shut off.

That Old Cliche

"Life has just been so crazy."

That's what I keep feeling like I ought to write here as some feeble explanation as to why I haven't posted anything in months. I haven't written to celebrate my baby girl's first birthday, first words, or first steps. I haven't put up pictures of our vacation to Florida, which, by the way, took place in May. I haven't said a single word about learning to play the banjo or camping at Kalaloch or taking Geneva on her first ever Ferris Wheel ride. Did you know we bought a new car? Well, we did. Geneva has already barfed in it, earning it the nickname Vomit Comet. I'm taking care of four kids during the day now, a topic which could be fodder for several new blog posts in and of itself. Oh, and my wonderful brother and his darling fiancée had their wedding this June, an event so quirky and charming and perfectly them that it almost defies description. So yes, "life has just been so crazy" about sums it up.

But oh, my skin almost crawls at that old cliche! Life is always crazy. Whose isn't? It is full of comings and goings, of changing seasons and the changing activities that go with them. Life without this so-called craziness would be boring. Hollow. Empty. And if we're smart and self-aware, the craziness we put into our lives is really just a happy jumble of things we choose to do, with some unavoidable obligations thrown in. I haven't mowed the lawn in about a month now, but the truth is I could have if I'd decided it was important enough to me. The same goes for making jam, or keeping up on this blog for that matter. Saying "life has just been so crazy" feels like apologizing for the choices I make. I know I can't do every activity that piques my interest, or spend endless hours with the people I love, or maintain a perfect home while simultaneously being a completely engaged and involved parent. Every moment that I choose to devote to one thing comes at the expense of the thousand other things I could be doing, and so I strike the best balance I can. It's the best anyone can do, really.

Now, after a brief hiatus, my crazy happy balancing act includes blogging again. It's a choice I'm really excited about! A jam-packed life is worth recording, and worth remembering.

My Top Ten

The year 2010 has ended, and as I was pondering this I was seized by yet another ruminative mood. I sat with my notepad, staring out the window and wondering what I had to say about this year, this decade, this life. I wasn't sure what I was expecting to write, but what I ended up with was a kind of letter to myself ten years ago, or maybe a letter to anyone who is still entangled in adolescence as I was then. It's the top ten things life has taught me so far-- my top ten from 2010, to be corny. And yes, most of what I found I had to say is a little cheesy, but I didn't let that stop me. These are the things I have found to be undeniably true.

I hope it's not narcissistic of me to put this on my blog... or at least, that it's no more narcissistic than the average blog post. And who knows, maybe you are all feeling ruminative, too.



My Top Ten (in no particular order)

• Sometimes being right doesn't matter. Sometimes it doesn't give you the moral high ground. Sometimes it hurts others. Sometimes there is no right, but simply what works and what doesn't.

• Of all the dumb ways I've spent my time and energy, being jealous of others seems in retrospect to be the dumbest of all. It also seems cowardly: it was a way for me to as questions about the happiness of others instead of my own. 

• Possessions accumulate. Eventually an increasing number of possessions becomes a burden, a hassle. Things must be cleaned and stored and organized. Experiences, on the other hand, never pile up or collect dust. Doing is a much better investment than getting.

• Faith and doubt can, and perhaps even should, keep company. Questioning your beliefs-- by which I mean subjecting them to logical and moral scrutiny-- is one of the most responsible things you can do as a growing human being. When you have rigorously examined what it is you believe, why you believe it, what the implications are for how you conduct your life, and have integrated your doubts and misgivings, then your faith truly becomes your own. Until then it is simply borrowed from someone else.

• I find I am infinitely happier when I choose forgiveness. Do not forgive someone based on whether or not he or she deserves it, but based on whether or not you can offer it. Yes, some things cannot be forgiven, but the vast majority can, and you may not be able to tell the difference right away. Keep trying. It is a kindness you do for yourself.

• Relationships between people cannot be fully understood by an outside party, even a close one. This should be the enormous caveat to every judgment a person makes about the relationships of others. In some cases it ought to shut them up entirely.

• Forget about doing work that you think you should and instead just do whatever it is that makes you feel whole. An immigrant youth case worker is no more noble, no more admirable than a fashion designer if they both live generously and compassionately within their communities. Basically, do what you love and let being a good person flow from there.

• For a long time I had the concept of patience all wrong: it is not a character trait that some are born with and others are not, nor is it a byproduct of loving every second of your life no matter what. It is simply the skill of seeing the big picture when you are overwhelmed by the details, and it is a skill that must be continually practiced. Sometimes exercising patience is downright unpleasant. Fortunately, grudging patience still  counts, and fortunately it is always worth the effort.

• In the WWF smackdown between John Lennon's "All You Need is Love" and Aretha Franklin's "Respect," Aretha wins every time. Love without respect is a disaster.

• There are things for which our society leaves us ill-prepared: Letting go. Waiting indefinitely. Failing graciously. Saying nothing. Not knowing. Understanding when and how to do or accept these things is what I imagine wisdom will be like, should I ever acquire it.

Beat It!

Many of you reading this blog probably know or have met my dearest friend, Kristen. I've been lucky enough to be buds with her for my entire adult life, and just last year we gave birth to our babies within two months of one another. I love her fiercely, and so when I found out this summer that she had stage four lymphoma I was terrified and heartbroken. I could hardly wrap my mind around the possibility of losing her-- the pain just loomed up too large, and my brain would shut off.

Her doctors were very optimistic and so I was hopeful that with a lot of treatment and a lot of time this disease could be beaten, but it turns out that my little best-case scenario didn't do reality justice. My amazing friend has completely beaten stage four lymphoma in eight weeks! She'll finish up this round of treatment with just a few more chemotherapy sessions, and then it's back to the serious business of raising her beautiful son, growing her beautiful hair and living her beautiful life. Kristen, you blow my mind. You're the strongest woman I know.

These photos were taken of Kristen's sweet son (and Geneva's buddy) Thomas at her parents' home in Bellevue.

   

On Tolerance

For this post, I will be deviating from the usual format of updates and family pictures. I should also mention that "the views and opinions expressed in this post are the author's alone and do not reflect the views of the entire family," or something like that. Oh yeah, and I'll be writing on a very personal and sensitive topic, and absolutely do not want to offend anyone. Basically, if you feel like skipping over this one, or leaving me a comment that disagrees 100% with what I have to say, I won't mind. I'm really just writing this for myself... I had some thoughts that were demanding to be let out.



I can't help but wonder how our world has managed to become so religiously intolerant. I do mean that in two ways: first, that many people are intolerant of differing religions, and second, that some seem to have made a religion out of intolerance, defining their faith in terms of who they are not like and who they do not agree with. They believe that only themselves and a relatively small group of others who think exactly as they do are in God's good graces, and that the rest of the rabble are misguided at best, evil-hearted at worst, and ultimately doomed in either event. Now, as an anthropologist I get it. I understand how cultures arrive at this point, but I struggle to understand why.

Every person in this world who has ever lived, or will ever someday live, has a path to walk from birth to death. There are no exceptions, and in this truth we are all united, every last human being. And yet with all these billions upon billions of eyes looking out at the world, no two pairs have seen the exact same thing. In this truth we are utterly unique. These are the forces that pull people together and drive them apart: that we are simultaneously identical and disparate. Talk about powerful stuff.

As individuals, we are all blessed with a mind that is entirely our own. No two people will envision divinity in exactly the same way, just as every thought a person conceives has the stamp of his or her own unique brain on it. This holds true whether the two people are absolute strangers living on different continents, or whether they have been married for decades and sit beside one another in church each week. And what does it matter, when the God each one of us sees when we close our eyes is really just a human construct? Here's what I mean: the words we say about that which is divine, the images we create, the voice we give it-- these things are not divinity itself. Divinity is something outside the possible experience of a single person, so to even discuss the concept we have to start framing the divine in our own mundane terms. Suddenly this abstraction, this beautiful gut feeling about life and the world we live in is assigned a name, a gender, a language, a form. This is not only understandable, but necessary. How else can we relate to something so all-encompassing as God itself? The problem arises when time passes and we forget that the framework of religion is only a tool for talking about something greater.

Many people, myself included, find some sort of meaning in the path of life. We see it all around us-- our fellow human beings struggling through life's ups and downs just as we do-- and we feel it deep within us. We seek to understand this sense of meaning, and we seek to share it with others, undaunted by the fact that, whatever idea of the divine we hold in our hearts, it is completely original. Out of this desire to share comes religion, an organized system in which a myriad of different perceptions of God can be blended, united, and called "one." But out of the desire to understand the meaning we feel comes faith, and that is personal. That is what we take with us on our solitary journey.

So the God in my thoughts looks different from the one in yours. Is that so frightening? Does degree of difference really matter when, as it turns out, we're all a little different anyway? Symmachus, a Roman senator from the Fourth Century, put it this way: It is reasonable to assume that whatever each of us worships can be considered one and the same. We look up at the same stars, the same sky is above us all, and the same universe encompasses us. What difference does it make which system each of us uses to find the truth? It is not by just one route that man can arrive at so great a mystery. I believe tolerance stems from the knowledge that no single person, no single religion, can fully understand divinity. It's simply too huge, too abstract. But we can gather our understanding in pieces, bit by bit, person by person. There is unity in that. Together, we are whole.

Whooo's Hungry?

Plants and Books

True to the name of this blog, our little family has been neck-deep in adventure these last few weeks. We've been to the zoo twice now, have been camping at Mt. Rainier and Spider Meadow, and have been scampering around town during the intervening weekdays.

Yes, I have pictures-- hundreds.

And no, you can't see them.

You see, I've taken so many photos in the month of July alone that the task of sorting through them and editing them right now is positively daunting. Really and truly, I'll have them at least uploaded onto the computer sometime in the next few days, but that's all I'm promising. So instead of a chronicle of the Zoglman family's adventures, this blog post will be devoted to my musings (ramblings?) on the subjects of landscape design and a book I happen to be reading.


First up, landscaping! Now, having lived in Eastern Washington for a mere two years I am still not very well acquainted with the plants that thrive in this particular environment, which has been my main excuse for not getting more done in our yard in terms of planting. However, I'm also discovering that while I can take care of plants fairly well-- as in, sometimes they don't die-- I am still a very unpracticed landscape designer. My gardening knowledge is weighted heavily towards maintenance rather than creation. Fortunately, I've been doing my homework. I wander around the neighborhood or flip through magazines, asking myself a bazillion* questions as I go. Do I like annuals or perennials? Symmetry or asymmetry? Lots of color variety or just one or two colors? Do I like tidy growth patterns or looser growth patterns? How do I feel about trees? Bushes? Vines? Groundcover? With each answer I feel like I know my own taste in plants and landscaping a little better, and after months of observation I've boiled down my preferences to two facts.

One: I like texture. More specifically, I like contrasting textures-- round next to prickly, curly next to straight, shiny next to nubby, etcetera. I would plant ferns next to hostas. Somehow I find those kinds of arrangements more interesting visually than variations in color.

Two: I like blobs. More than borders, well-defined shapes, or homogeneously mixed plantings, I like blobs. If left to my own devices I would probably put a hundred lavender bushes in our yard, but never in rows or clusters. I'd plant them in big arrangements resembling huge lopsided puzzle pieces, with complementary blobs of coneflowers creeping in to fill the gaps. I eschew right angles and straight lines and, to a lesser extent, small dots of plantings all thrown in together (think Jackson Pollock).

And now I'm hoping that my readers... all six of you... will respond. Please, please tell this newbie landscaper what you find pleasing, what rules you follow, when playing with plants in the yard!


Next up, I want to tell you about the book I am nearly finished reading-- a minor miracle in and of itself! The book is Hungry Monkey by Matthew Amster-Burton, and it was lent to me by my fabulous friend Ellie. She has a little one of her own who has recently started eating solid food, so the subtitle of the book ("A Food-Loving Father's Quest to Raise an Adventurous Eater") hit home for both of us. Now that I'm three-quarters of the way through Hungry Monkey I feel qualified to write a review. Here it is.

There are two subjects on which there seems to be excessive information about what not to do: eating and raising children. If we were to believe the experts, the number of possible missteps we could take when consuming food or caring for kids is daunting if not paralyzing. Fortunately, Matthew Amster-Burton touches on exactly zero of them. For him there is no "good" or "bad" food, except in the sense of how it tastes. Likewise, he sees no right or wrong way to feed his child as long as some food actually makes it into her mouth. It is refreshing to see the world of cooking and eating through the eyes of a person who guiltlessly and exuberantly loves to cook and eat. But it's even better-- so, so much better-- to see that world through the eyes of his articulate daughter Iris. She is a bacon snob. She decides, on a whim, that she hates soup. She is fascinated by the concept of a slow-cooker and amazed that maple syrup is in fact sap. Iris reminds us that food is truly miraculous stuff. She also reminds us that even without sticking to the "rules"-- you know, rice cereal, bland food, purees, and so forth-- feeding a child can be challenging the way doing anything with a child can be challenging. Toddlerhood comes with inevitable power struggles and meals are not exempt from this process, but what I appreciate in Amster-Burton's book is that he does not make an issue out of the quality or quantity of food that Iris eats. He loves to eat, and so he prepares meals he likes and involves Iris in the process as much as he can. In the end, if she enjoys it too then that's great, but if she doesn't then that's also okay. Amster-Burton does have the freedom to really cut loose in the kitchen in ways that many of us do not: he's a stay-at-home dad whose lifestyle clearly screams I have money, although he goes out of his way not to flaunt it. Occasionally it's obnoxious to read about the best brand of bacon (Neuske's, apparently), the kitchen gadgets you can buy, or some cut of meat with a price tag that would look to me more like a car insurance bill. In the end I can forgive him for waxing snobbish because I know that, had I the funds, food is way at the top of the list of things I'd splurge on. Also, he prefers frozen hash browns over those prepared fresh and isn't afraid to admit it. To anyone looking for a fun, drool-inducing book I would recommend Hungry Monkey. Read it for the recipes, read it for Amster-Burton's honest and humorous description of life with a foodie kid, or just read it for Iris. To her, the world of food is strange and joyful and brand new. I swear, things taste way better that way.




*The spell-checker accepts "bazillion" as a legitimate word.

Solstice

The gentle wobble of our planet has tipped the northern hemisphere, for the four billionth time, down into the warm rays of the sun. Today is our longest day; tonight is our shortest night. Together, they make up June 21st: the first day of summer. This day matters. Despite the seemingly interminable nights and cold, dim days of winter we will always be tipped back into the sun. Isn't that what every human triumph is about, really? The power of light over darkness?

The sun will not set tonight until 8:59. Until that time, you can find me outside! I'll be pinching back the basil and reading a book. With no pants on.

Seriously!

Workin' for the man!

There are some days in my job where client after client has crisis after crisis. There are other days where local policies (and policy makers) manage to simultaneously demand completely contradictory courses of action to be completed as of yesterday. There are days with accounting problems, days with landlord problems, days with paperwork glitches and eligibility mazes. And then there are days like today, with all of the above.

Days like today are when I feel like just maybe I'm good at my job.

I started doing this case management thing 18 months ago, and today was the first time I felt certain I didn't need to worry that my clients and my organization might not just have been better served if there was someone with a bit more experience or a bit more confidence sitting in my chair, or in their kitchen for that matter.

And now, because I have no illusions that anyone checks this blog for my thoughts on work life, here's an adorable picture of Geneva!

Passionate Loafer

I have boundless admiration for people who work hard at whatever they do, whether it's a career or a hobby or an art. I've always wanted to be one of those people who never seemed to sit still, who blaze through the house like a tornado in reverse and leave a trail of organization and creative genius in their wake. My personality seems to fit the role-- I'm passionate to an extreme degree, I see my home as my own personal blank canvas, and I like waking up fairly early. But you know what, folks?

I am lazy.

There, after two decades of being in denial, I'm finally committing it to print. Laugh if you like; this is not easy. Seriously. At every turn in my life, I try to make the choice that a hardworking person would make, and I've been telling myself that this means I'm a hard worker, too. I've been hauling around two decades' worth of guilt over silly things that it turns out I really enjoy doing:

staring out of the window and watching the neighbors
taking two hours to finish a cup of tea
extending my shower by a good ten minutes after I've finished washing
poking around on the internet and reading cheesy advice columns
looking at my own photo albums ad nauseum
hemming and hawing about what shoes to wear
eating food because I'm bored

Without getting too introspective, here's the conclusion I've reached: somewhere along the line I seem to have decided that lazy activities have less value than hardworking activities, when in truth I think I need a good helping of both in my life. I'll still try my very best to be an industrious person, but I have decided to stop flagellating myself for those moments when I realize I've just been blissfully spacing out. With those moments occurring less and less frequently anyway, I'll chalk it up to a quality of life issue and just enjoy it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to ignore the laundry while eating ice cream and staring at the TV.

Nothing says white "trash" quite like...

... keeping a chicken brooder in the guest bedroom!

What's better than sleep?

No, not that, you sicko!


Yoga. Even yoga in the basement at 6:00 in the morning.

I've had the occasional opportunity to sleep through the night since Geneva has been born, although never with any predictability or regularity. After these rare occurrences I'm usually pretty bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next day. It makes me miss those days when I took for granted that sleep is just what you do at night. I figured that feeling of morning alertness was a relic of the past, or else a distant, glimmering hope waiting for me many years and babies down the road. I certainly didn't think I'd find it in a 6:00 wake-up call.

I actually meant to start this new routine yesterday morning, and failed spectacularly by sleeping right through the alarm-- not turning it off in a groggy stupor and going back to bed, not "accidentally" ignoring it, but slumbering on in a borderline comatose state for a full hour. So this morning that clock radio went off LOUDLY, and I did indeed wake up.

I should explain here that I do consider myself a morning person. This, however, means different things in different seasons. I tend to wake up with the daylight if left to my own devices, and there was none of that to be had as I shuffled down the stairs into the basement. Thinking ahead, I had already put the yoga dvd into the dvd player the night before and had slept in my workout clothes, anticipating that in my grumpy, chilly state I was likely to be foiled by the smallest of obstacles. I entered into this new routine with the attitude of "okay, I'll do it, but I don't have to like it."

But I do like it, I do! I have so missed that feeling of using my whole body, of challenging my muscles to work and to relax at the same time, of concentrating on my breathing, concentrating on my attitude. Last night was not great, sleep-wise; Geneva woke up three times and it took some convincing to get her to go back down, but today I have felt more energetic and alert and strong than I have in a long time. I already can't wait until tomorrow morning. It's seriously better than sleep.

It would be remiss of me to claim credit for this early morning motivation, when in truth I was inspired by my friends Heather and Allison. To be brave enough to change one's eating and exercise habits is one thing, but to do so in the oh-so-public eye of the internet is another thing entirely! I really admire what thes ladies are doing and appreciate them letting me piggyback on their enthusiasm. I also love that they're doing this for all the right reasons: not to conform to a pre-determined size or shape, but to become healthier and stronger and, okay, maybe a little less soft in certain places. Those are my goals exactly.

Haiti

Today I went out for coffee with a friend and fellow mom. It was a relief to get out of the house, and we talked about how difficult it is to feel like we're doing something productive when we spend our days at home with our babies. I've been feeling a little bit stir crazy lately, and it was nice to hear I'm not alone. I certainly don't mean to say that raising a baby is the same as doing nothing-- it's just maddening to work all day and have no finished product, no meaningful contact with the outside world, no measurable success aside from a kid who is infinitesimally bigger, stronger, and smarter than she was the day before. I miss giving a part of myself to the world beyond the walls of my house.

As I was driving home I turned on the radio and listened to an interview with Jason Beaubein and Melissa Block on NPR. Beaubein was relating his experience in Port au Prince, and as he described the scene outside the Villa Creole Hotel there was an odd moment of silence. I glanced at the radio, wondering if my reception was on the fritz, but then the reporter spoke again. His voice was ragged and broken; he had been crying.

He went on to describe the girl he saw lying in the driveway of the hotel, naked except for bandages and a tablecloth. He described how the chaos and destruction seemed to intensify as he moved closer to the center of the capital city. He told of the refugees who had traveled 100 miles to the border of the Dominican Republic to seek medical aid. By the time I pulled into my driveway, I was crying too. I couldn't get the image of the bleeding, broken little girl under the tablecloth out of my head. I kept flinging frantic glances at Geneva, sleeping in her carseat, safe and intact. If I thought I'd felt helpless as a cooped-up parent, it was nothing compared to how I felt at that moment as I sobbed in the car.

But helpless is something I'm not.

I probably won't know what happens to that little girl, but I will do what I can to help the thousands of other Haitians like her. I'm not talking about money out of pocket, although I will certainly donate what I can. I want to organize the resources of my community to do some good in a part of the world that has seen more than its fair share of tragedy. I want to give a piece of myself.

So, now the work begins! Not being sure where to start, I thought I'd share my thoughts with the world wide web. I guess I'm hoping to remind everyone that every tiny contribution to the humanitarian effort in Haiti adds up to something huge. In the meantime, I'm brainstorming. Wish me luck!



Here's a link to the story I was listening to:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122580370

...and here's a link to a list of charities involved in the earthquake relief, compiled by NPR:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122521163

Back to School

Okay, so we're a little behind schedule, seeing as how it's November, but Geneva and I finally made a trip out to Sunnyside to visit Pioneer Elementary! It was loud and hot and overwhelming-- for me. Geneva was amazing. And, despite being exhausted after two hours, I loved every second of it. It has been easy for me to forget how much I adore teaching during these last five months, because staying at home with my girl has been the most wonderful experience of my life, but being back at school reminded me of everything I loved about working with kids. They were goofy and honest and sweet (and they loooved Geneva). I wouldn't trade this time with my daughter for anything in the world, and I am thankful every day that I get to stay home and take care of her as she grows... so how on earth did I get lucky enough to have a fulfilling career waiting for me when she's off having adventures of her own? I miss teaching-- not in a way that makes me sad, but in a way that keeps me excited for the future, and makes me sure of who I am and what I want to do with my life.

As I was typing this, Geneva peed all over me. You don't get that in the classroom!

Call the fire department...

I never thought I'd be one of those people who freak out about their pets, but that was before I acquired Milo, a cat who doesn't seem to have two brain cells to rub together. I honestly worry about him walking headfirst down the laundry chute and breaking his neck. When we found him he was half-dead in the Old Navy parking lot, and we honestly didn't expect him to make it through the night. Fortunately he's grown into a nice healthy cat, but I think he might have brain damage from when he was little. So, whenever a feline mishap occurs I'm concerned but not surprised.

Here's the latest event in the saga: yesterday our adorable dumb-ass cat got stuck up a tree. How cliche can you get?

We were having a picnic dinner outside when it occurred to me that I hadn't seen Milo around for a while. I mentioned this to Avery and we had a little chuckle imagining what kind of trouble he had gotten into. Then, not five minutes later, I spotted a furry blob in our birch tree about 25 feet off the ground. It was Milo, clearly freaked out, panting and howling. Avery left his dinner to scale the tree and try to get Milo down, but Milo was having none of that-- he clung to the branch with all four paws AND his tail! It was really windy, the sun was going down, and Avery was starting to get nervous being so high in the tree. Milo wouldn't budge. Crap.

Our first plan was to lower the cat down in a basket, but that idea died pretty quickly when Milo refused to get into the basket. Luckily, we are geniuses. Avery climbed down and found a nice long plank in the garage left over from building our planter boxes, and with some (minimal) help from me managed to hoist the plank all the way back up to our terrified kitty. Both of my boys were happily reunited with the ground, and now I'm "that" person: the lady who freaks out when her cat gets stuck up a tree.

Home Alone

Sometimes I wonder what I missed out on by never having lived alone. It seems like something every adult should do at some point, but then again I've never been one of those people who needs a lot of "alone time" so the experience might be more miserable than beneficial for me. Anyway, I get to thinking about the subject when I find myself home alone. Avery is at a conference in Vancouver this week so it's just me, the cat and the bump, fending for ourselves. Today I went to Kiki's for dinner and read an entire National Geographic magazine from cover to cover as I slowly enjoyed my hot and sour soup. On Wednesday I worked for eleven hours straight. Tonight I'm watching a movie Avery doesn't particularly enjoy, but that I really like. I'm enoying these little moments, and the flexibility of choosing my own insomnia-driven schedule, but in the spaces between I'm lonely. I miss my husband. I am also finding that without someone to laugh with, it's much easier to cry over things like my outrageously puffy feet. Living by my own rules is nice, but nice in the same way as going on a trip somewhere: it's new, it's fun, and no matter what it's just not home.

P.S. Jen, oh my gosh!!! Congratulations!!! I've been rooting for more St. Hilaire babies, so YAY :)