Monday, July 31, 2006

bittersweet

I brace the cherry between my tongue and my teeth, pulling the stem out and losing it somewhere in the couch while I wait for my circa 1996 laptop to boot up. The pit makes a muffled dink as it hits the bowl, and I absent-mindedly reach for another, being careful not to mismanage the stem this time. I wonder, as the screen flickers and the internal workings of my machine click and whirl and beep, where the summer could possibly have gone.

Three weeks until school starts. Three weeks until routine and schedule and order return to our lives. Three weeks until I have my night-life back again. Three weeks until I can really write again. Three weeks until I lose my daughter again…

Must everything always be so bitter-sweet?

As if to answer me, I bite into a cherry not yet fully ripe and am caught off guard by the tartness of its taste. I look up from the screen to search for a burgundy-ripe selection and chase away the bitter with the cool, delicious sweetness.

This has been my summer. Chasing away the fleas, the raccoons under the deck, the termites, the weeds, the potty training, the endless pairs of poopy underpants, the tantrums, the attitudes, the battles over flash cards, the battles over dinner time, the battles over getting into the pool, the battles over getting out of the pool—chasing it all away with the sweet moments of star gazing and camp fires and friendship bracelets and “field trips” and making ice cream and you’re the best Mommy ever. All in all, I am left with a sweet taste in my mouth.

Even if I’ve not written a lick.

What was once a beautiful bowl of luscious deep-red cherries is now a collection of pits and stems—at least most of the stems. They are what remain. When these stifling days of lingering sunlight and long walks are gone, we will have consumed them fully—used them up in the best way we know how—together. The memories will remain.

And once school starts, I’ll share some of them with you.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

writer's block pantoum

I’ve been having immense guilt over not writing at all lately—I tend to be all or nothing, so if I can’t finish a piece, I don’t bother to begin it, it seems.  In hoping to break out of that, I at least wrote something.  (And I finished it, to boot.)

i cannot think tonight—
my mind as blank as the page
ideas as fresh as week-old lettuce
wilting in the dregs of the crisper

my mind as blank as the page
blue lines on green paper
wilting in the dregs of the crisper
daring someone to make salad

blue lines on green paper
crumpled up, inside and out
daring someone to make salad—
i toss it, instead

crumpled up, inside and out
it may be redeemable—
i toss it, instead
better luck next time

it may be redeemable—
ideas as fresh as week-old lettuce
better luck next time
i cannot think tonight

Monday, July 17, 2006

"what i did this summer"-- a photo essay


since there's been NO TIME TO WRITE, thought i'd show y'all what we've been up to. these are all just this past weekend...

i miss writing...

...but we're having a blast!

a bitter-sweet drink


just a little too close...

just because she's beautiful


laid on my back to get this one. i don't recommend doing so in 90-degree heat on the sidewalk... just in case you've ever had the urge...

it's not a digger, momma...


... it's a eggs-ca-bay-tor.

(Where does one learn the official names of construction equipment, pray tell?)

he's actually operating this, btw.

sharing some history at cosi



My husband and I were my daughter's age when the first movie came out.

Do your own math.

her-father's-daughter with her father



Ya wanna come with me, Momma?

(Silence)

fun at the festival



his-mother's-son wouldn't try a thing...

Saturday, July 08, 2006

(sigh) those were the days

Saturdays were not meant to be spent cleaning the house, but, alas, since we’ve run like gangbusters since it first started to get warm, Spring Cleaning could not wait a moment longer. One absolutely gorgeous day down the tubes—but our house is finally clean. Well, as close to clean as it’s going to get, at any rate. A neat freak I may be, but a clean freak I am unfortunately not. The kitchen was where the majority of my time and effort was spent, and as I went from grotesque mess to grotesque mess (Have you ever seen what grows under your stove? Ew!) I began to question what ever happened to the Magic Kitchen of my childhood.

I can only assume that every home had a Magic Kitchen, but, truth be told, mine is the only one I can verify with any certainty. I’ve never heard mention of another, but I cannot imagine what stroke of pure luck or heavenly blessing could have possibly bestowed such a glorious creation on my family and my family alone. What wonders it beheld—oh, the nostalgia! The longing to go back! The yearning for an era gone by! But, alas, the Magic Kitchen seems to have faded into obscurity with avocado appliances and Jello molds—and I am all the sadder and wearier for it.

The piece de resistance in the magical masterpiece of my childhood kitchen was the Magic Fridge. Official 70’s-appliance-green (See what I’m saying? It must have something to do with the color!), the Magic Fridge stood in the center of the kitchen like a tower erected to the Grocery God. This dietary deity must have been quite pleased with us, because—and here’s where it starts getting good—the fridge never emptied! Like some widow’s jar of oil, the Magic Fridge refilled itself completely on it’s own—I never had to do anything but open the door. Lemonade, Kool-Aid, Soda Pop (or just Pop, if you’re a Midwesterner)—beverages flowed like milk and honey. Jello, Cherry Cheese Cake, Baptist Pie (a staple at Methodist potlucks despite the obvious theological issues), Rocky Road Fudge, Chocolate Pudding—not to mention all the staples for making pizzas and sandwiches and casseroles and tacos! I’ve never again in my life seen anything like it, I am grieved to say. It was a sight to behold.

While this was obviously the grand tour de force of the Magic Kitchen, especially to a child, I cannot help in my adulthood to also reminisce with great fondness about another important and overlooked feature—the kitchen was self-cleaning. Yes. It’s true. I never lifted a finger in that kitchen and yet the refrigerator shelves were always clean and the oven never had burnt cheese in the bottom of it and the dishes appeared on the shelves as if completely of their own volition. Clean. The first time. It was astonishing. The floor never stuck to my feet, the counters never collected crumbs, the sink never had a ring around it, and the utensils never collected dust. Ever. And I never did a darn thing. Amazing. (Sigh.) Those were the days.

Four hours later, as I look around my own kitchen—white, all of it (that must be the problem)—I remember as well the self-stocking pantry, the pre-packed school lunches, the self-cleaning toaster oven, and the garbage can that never needed to be emptied. I sigh deeply at my prunish hands and ragged fingernails, wiping sweat from my brow with an arm that smells like Pinesol and bacon grease while I try for the 37th time to get my hair out of my eyes. After fifteen years of cleaning kitchens, I had almost forgotten the days when I never had to lift a finger. Almost.

(Sigh.)

Magic kitchen—oh, where have you gone? Why have you forsaken me? You have left me to toil endlessly while my children do nothing but consume and make messes—

you’d think they believed the kitchen just took care of itself!

Monday, July 03, 2006

firecrackers


IMG_9152, originally uploaded by as we see it.

camped with my parents this weekend-- here are a few highlights!

a loose cannon


IMG_9035, originally uploaded by as we see it.

Five minutes later she did a head-first flip off the side into three feet of water. Twice. Lord preserve me!

what can i say?


IMG_8980, originally uploaded by as we see it.

so cute i could EAT HIM UP!

Sunday, July 02, 2006

summer lovin'

Always one to try something new (ignore my husband laughing in the background), I read about Pantoum, a form of poetry writing, and thought I'd give it a shot. The lines duplicate in a pattern, so in a 10 line/phrase poem, for example, the stanzas would look like this: Lines 1,2,3,4 / 2,5,4,6 / 5,7,6,8 / 7,9,8,10 / 9,3,10,1. Wrote this one while camping with the kids and my folks.


love wraps its sunscreened arms around my damp neck
its sweaty, summer-sticky body pressed to mine
like bare flesh on station wagon vinyl--
peel it off and it leaves its mark

its sweaty, summer-sticky body pressed to mine
scented with the long, hot day
peel it off and it leaves its mark
love's lingering fragrance mingles with my own

scented with the long, hot day
oppressive in its desirous nature
love's lingering fragrance mingles with my own
clings to me with fierce affection

oppressive in its desirous nature
I bear the heat of love's attention
clings to me with fierce affection
such are the sweet sacrifices of summer

I bear the heat of love's attention
like bare flesh on station wagon vinyl--
such are the sweet sacrifices of summer
love wraps its sunscreened arms around my damp neck