glitches

christmas cards

I've been feeling completely drained lately.  I attribute it to the second child.  No birth announcements have been sent (by me.  sweets has sent a whole pile of them.)  No christmas cards, no special gifts made for anyone.  In fact, I would have forgotten my name if it wasn't on my ID.  I don't know quite how I got to this place, I used to be pretty on top of things.  Now I can't even see straight most days.

Sweets has been working on our christmas cards.  He only sends them to his friends, and I'm responsible for sending them to my friends.  I have to say, I hate doing christmas cards.  They are second among disliked chores only to sending thank you notes.  Boy do I hate sending thank you notes.  I don't know why, really.  Sweets just pointed out that christmas cards are mighty handy for keeping in touch with people.  But see, we don't send out Christmas cards, we actually send out Happy New Year cards.  Since we're not on the christmas card loop, we don't get a lot of cards back.  For some reason, people have packed up their christmas card lists by the time ours reach them and we don't end up getting added to the list the following year.  I have only received two or three cards this year, despite my efforts to send them out every year prior.  So people get to see goofy photos of us, but they don't send goofy photos of themselves in response.  Also, sweets makes his own cards.  He takes a photo of us from the year, then adds a banner across the photo wishing the recipient a happy new year.  It ends up looking pretty amateur.  I'm not saying I could do better for the money, but I do wish we could just get some photo cards printed up and be done with it.  Then we could just sign the damn things and send them off, instead of having a whole card to fill with words about how lovely the universe is.  Forget the damn universe, just put me back on your damn christmas card list.  I'm thinking of sending out my own cards this year with just photos of the kids.  That way I don't have to look like half a box of crap in the photo for everyone in the world to see, and I don't have to write personalized messages to everyone on the list.  I really hate sending christmas cards.

my hometown

I'm so much better today, thanks.  Last night was total hell- very little sleep, insomnia, doing laundry at 1:00 in the morning.  Nursing baby when I was actually sleepy, then wide awake while the baby was sleeping. The whole package.  But today things are better.  I got to shower this morning, my mom babysat so I could run errands all morning by myself, and I even got to nap without having to nurse the baby back to sleep every ten minutes.  We just got back from a nice little event downtown with singing and yummy bizcochitos, and a great storyteller who told the whole story of the grinch from memory.  They greased up the ancient printing press and let everyone print a card.  It was one of those nights were the community feel is so positive and people are so friendly, it made me really happy to be here.  I love my hometown.

I never understood why people stayed in their hometowns forever.  I think of my cousins in Oklahoma and how they've never lived more than 50 miles from the town where they were born, and I just don't get it.  I've been there plenty, and I'm always happy to leave.  But then I moved to my hometown, and I'm starting to understand why.  It makes me happy to take the lentil to see Santa at the same mall where I sat on Santa's lap 30 years ago.  It makes me happy to show my husband and kids the little nooks and crannies that I knew so intimately as a child.  It's safe, it's familiar, and it's comfortable.  I know a lot of people return home because they want the support of their family.  That doesn't work for us, simply because my family is totally socially stunted.  But if I were given the choice, I would always opt to return to my hometown. 

It doesn't hurt that my hometown is gorgeous.  We got snow this morning that left the mountains looking like someone dusted them with powdered sugar.  The whole town smells like pinon  fires burning, and the cloudy days have given us amazing sunsets.  The combination of the sensorial and the community makes me feel totally content.  I'm so happy to be home.

Favorite little boy.

Sometimes when the lentil isn't paying attention I get the rare opportunity to kiss his soft little cheeks and ruffle his hair.  In those moments I breathe him in, capture him in that second, and savor his deliciousness.  Then I tell him "you're my favorite little boy.  Did you know that?" and we move on with our day. 

This morning I had one of those moments, and I realized that our second child better be a girl or we're in trouble.  I don't know how I will break it to the lentil that he and his brother are both my favorite little boys.  I'm setting him up for sibling rivalry before his sibling is even conceived.  But sweets pointed out that I can just tell them that each is my favorite x-year old, and that would work just fine.  Sweets would know this, because he has both a brother and a sister.

It wasn't until we talked aboout it that I realized that I'm doing what my mother used to do.  I have fond memories of her telling me "You're my favorite little girl."

"I'm your only girl" I would say, giggling.

"You're still my favorite girl." she would respond, stroking my forehead.

Up until this morning, when I caught myself in the moment of loving on my son, did I think about how my mother used to do the same thing to me.  What was a sweet-silly memory of us now has more depth, more poignance.  Now that I know how much my heart explodes when I say this, when it's the only thing I can come up with to say that even touches on the true depth of my love for my son, do I see that my mom felt the same way about me.  Even though we have struggled in our relationship together as mother and daughter, I will always have the knowledge that there were times when my mother wanted to inhale me, capture me, savor the moments with me just as I do with my lentil. 

And for this, I am thankful. 

Happy birthday, Grandma Sally.

music love

I was listening to my ipod as I walked home from class today and I did something I rarely get a chance to do anymore.  I found a song I really really like, and I listened to it about fifteen times, until I got it.  I listened to it until I found the moment, the bar, the little turn of a rhythm that makes the whole song work.  It was glorious.

When I was in college I used to do this a lot.  I studied music, so we all did it.  We would listen to songs a million times to hear that one voice rise up in harmony, that one section that made the entire song that much more special.  We would sing the songs, discuss the parts, deconstruct.

There was this guy in college who probably did this more than anyone else I knew.  He wasn't a music student, just a stoner.  In fact, he wasn't a very nice person in general, but he loved music.

We used to roam in a pack of about 5 people- three guys, me, and another person, who varied.  Sometimes it was this music guy, who I'll call Adam.  I think that was his name, but I don't remember.  I just remember he had this sneer that used to piss me off- he would say something mean to me and then sneer and I would just let him.  I was powerless before him, probably because he was so dang cute.  Anyway, our pack would sit in a dorm room, they would smoke a lot of pot, and then we'd all listen to music.  I rarely got stoned on purpose, but there were many nights when I would stumble back to my room after having spent an evening inhaling everyone else's smoke, and I would be as high as a kite.  We listened mostly to king crimson and the like.  I never really understood the appeal, but I enjoyed being around people who liked music.  This was before I met my musician friends, so this was as good as it got for me.  We usually stayed in one particular room, and people would come and go, and we would observe, interact, smoke, and listen to more music.

One evening, our pack decided to follow Adam up to his fourth floor room.  Everyone but me was high, and Adam sensed he had a very captive audience.  He assembled us around his impressive stereo, and started pulling out records. 

For the first time since i had met this character, he was interesting.  He had intrigue beyond being cute and a skater.  This was where he was himself, and unapologetically so.

He would put on a record, let it play until the song found that one place, that one chord or rhythm or bar and he would sit back on his heels and glow.  Then he would pull the needle off the LP, trace it back a little ways, and play that moment again.  When that song was exhausted, he would find another lp and do the same thing.  Over and over, he shared with us the magic moments to all his favorite songs.  He would smile authentically and describe each song, he would drum along, he would illustrate the chord pattern with his lanky arms.  This went on for hours.

When the pack left his room we were completely sated.  We had lived through one man's vision of heaven, and we were all a little dumbstruck.

In a year where everyone was finding themselves, this was perhaps one of the few times when someone had the courage to be real.  After that night I couldn't quite dislike Adam like i had in the past.  He had his freaky things too.  Maybe he didn't like me, but we both shared a joy for music.  At least I never had the audacity to subject five other people to my personal musical moments.  Our pack never went back to his room again, and I eventually found people who were more interested in me than my clothes or money.

About seven years later I ran into Adam on the street corner.  Almost literally.  He was handing out fliers to Amoeba Music in Berkeley.  I was living in Berkeley, working a great job and making great money.  I said hello to him, he recognized me, and we chatted until the light changed.  Then I moved on, happy that I wasn't working in a record store, happy that he was. 

book of pooh

My mother in law has a habit of picking up children's books and bringing them for the boy.  We are very appreciative, and growing more so as it appears the lentil is going to be a bit of a bookworm.  Sometimes we have to head her off at the pass, as she can't help but purchase the old favorites.  Sometimes I think she is stocking up on children's books, just in case there's another one of those famous northeast blizzards and the regions books are wiped out.  The lentil's book collection is starting to rival any small library. 

This morning, as she unloaded a new collection of books, I remembered to tell her not to buy any pooh books.  As it turns out, I was given the entire pooh collection by a past boyfriend.  Because my mother in law is not very responsive to my words, I thought I would bring out the book to show her that we do have it and I wasn't making things up just to get out of something.  Not that I would ever do that.  But actions speak louder than words, so I needed to act on my claim of owning this large edition of pooh.

The book was a gift that came at the tail end of a long and complicated relationship.  I've kept the book, but I can't really look at it without thinking those bitter, end of relationship thoughts.  I remember getting the book when I really wanted an engagement ring.  I remember crying to myself that night, and crying in his presence at some point.  I had just finished the AIDS ride when I got the book.  I thought I was about as perfect and as virtuous as I would ever be- I was physically fit, I was generous and helpful, I had a large community of friends.  The boyfriend bought me a book.  Granted, it was a book I would have normally liked, but it wasn't the gift I wanted from that particular person at that particular time in my life.  If I remember correctly, he hadn't even inscribed the book.  I was a little hurt.  I seem to remember getting this book for Christmas, just before we were to formally break up, somewhere around the time that he gave me a toy plastic tweety-bird ring as a joke that misfired so horribly I just about vomited when I opened my eyes and saw that thing resting in my palm.

But I kept the book.  I don't think I've ever even cracked the binding, but I kept the book.  In the back of my mind I thought perhaps it would be a good thing to have.  And sure enough, today was the day to drag it down from the furthest corner of the tallest bookshelf in our apartment.  I picked it up, removed the dustcover because the lentil finds them both intriguing and annoying and dustcover=tears in our house.  I opened it up to the first page, and was surprised to see that there was an inscription.

"to whylime.  May this book bring you solace over the blustery days of your life.  Happy 24th birthday! Dick."

It was a sweet inscription.  He had drawn a little picture to go next to my name, and had a little heart next to his.  He had given it to me for my birthday.  It was a nice present.  If I remember correctly, I had to ask him to inscribe it, but he did so with kindness.  The inscription tells me what he couldn't say- that he was ready to move on, that he couldn't be my emotional safety net any longer.  That he loved me, that he wanted me to be happy.  He wasn't a bad person, it was just a bad time.  It had been a birthday present, but I had so hated it at the time that it became part of the drawn-out break-up that emotionally culminated with the insulting tweety-bird ring that christmas.

I stared at the inscription for a little while.  I was surprised to see his handwriting, to see his words jumping kindly out at me almost nine years later.  I was paralyzed for a minute, trying not to hate the book or the blue ink on that page.  My heart kind of pounded as I realized I couldn't give my boy this book.  How would he understand the handwriting of a stranger, a man his mother loved before she met daddy?  Someday he'll see photos of this man, but the handwriting is so much more intimate. 

I stared at the inscription for another minute, thinking about it, looking at the scrawled handwriting in the blue ink.  I looked at the drawing, at the smear where his hand brushed over the image too soon after he had drawn it.  Then I did something I've never done before. 

I went to the kitchen, and I tore that page out of the book, and I threw it away.

Then I put the book in the lentil's room and I went to work.