tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74087936286562956262024-03-05T04:50:03.998+00:00Mañana MamaA tale of three very short people against the world.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.comBlogger306125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-44680464919200522482021-11-19T19:45:00.003+00:002021-11-19T19:45:20.952+00:00<p>It's been a while. Words ebb and flow. I think in my younger motherhood days, words came so quickly that I could barely catch them and stick them here. Then they ebbed for many years (how did that happen?)</p><p>Several towns/countries/jobs/partners/entire hairstyles later, a word found me again today and tapped me on the shoulder. Asked me to follow it round the block, make it a cuppa, and sit with a while. And here we are. </p><p>The tiny babies of this story are big babies now. My eldest just turned 14. So much has changed that it blows my mind. I think at the beginning I couldn't imagine that they would grow into these complex, beautiful beings, or that I would too along the way. That they, and I, are still growing. So much can be contained in the boundlessness of ma<span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">ñ</span>ana. To quote the great prophet James Bond, tomorrow never dies. </p><p></p><div class="separator" dir="rtl" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4dJ6_h5rgKCQFGwF_sxNnSxUP5PHYj0KEQJhvCHPK5ba4ZmvXOGa_Pk-OmwISc3eLreIrMKy3nVpAmbGFOnjU_hiU-7C2aKDeP7AiY6SfJkHemG013p3AGpAnUAyqplbg0YlVH0Pz7Nt/s2048/dog.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4dJ6_h5rgKCQFGwF_sxNnSxUP5PHYj0KEQJhvCHPK5ba4ZmvXOGa_Pk-OmwISc3eLreIrMKy3nVpAmbGFOnjU_hiU-7C2aKDeP7AiY6SfJkHemG013p3AGpAnUAyqplbg0YlVH0Pz7Nt/s320/dog.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>There is another addition. A hairy one, who sniffs butts, is hell-bent on destroying all Cat Kind, and eats stray dish towels like they are pringles. Funny how there are so many ways to grow family, welcome life, and be a mama. Some of these ways trend more towards butt sniffery and Cat Destruction. <p></p><p>So my fourth child is a platinum hairball, and I am again a new mama, figuring the whole thing out. A bit grayer and snarkier, but not beyond new tricks. </p><p>And old ones. It feels good to catch a word again, as it floats through the ether, and put it on a page. </p>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-11268010888725842002015-03-30T23:22:00.000+01:002015-03-30T23:22:47.559+01:00Pterodactyl updateOn <a href="http://www.manana-mama.com/2015/03/pteradactals-love-wasabe.html">silent prehistoric wings</a>, he swooped past the moon and flitted between stars. Owls watched him with bemusement. Bats scattered in terror.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uc_EfTzLtrrkirMqFlllsy_zibOXGtGHF2e_oy3AtdzdOZ90soaR64y8smTXUJhula_fJXxHj4-mFkQ1v1LsPeYP39kw0RYqY0fqnX5cEtT07IL82wtdfWDi57QNt-7s0sowsIWfZ_s/s1600/IMG_1794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uc_EfTzLtrrkirMqFlllsy_zibOXGtGHF2e_oy3AtdzdOZ90soaR64y8smTXUJhula_fJXxHj4-mFkQ1v1LsPeYP39kw0RYqY0fqnX5cEtT07IL82wtdfWDi57QNt-7s0sowsIWfZ_s/s1600/IMG_1794.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pterodactylus belovedus.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He'd been to Tierra del Fuego and Greenland; he'd been from Bali to Siberia and back again. </div>
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He'd had the best wasabi in the world a hundred times over, and luxuriated in the heady, soaring freedom of being a free bird on the road. </div>
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But he missed his girl. Nothing compared to his girl.<br />
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And so he followed the juniper shadows until he found her. </div>
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The night before the morning he landed, she was too preoccupied to see his pterodactyl-shaped shadow over the moon. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Her sister saw it. Her sister saw him flit from juniper to juniper. Her sister saw him peering in the window anxiously. </div>
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Usually lost things are just plain lost. Usually one has to take solice in such aggravating sentiments as "there's always another pterodactyl in the sea." </div>
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<br /></div>
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But on some glorious, unusual occasions <a href="http://www.manana-mama.com/2015/03/pteradactals-love-wasabe.html">lost things are found</a> with a little help from the universe and Amazon. </div>
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Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-34419106337785391912015-03-14T22:14:00.001+00:002015-07-04T16:38:58.574+01:00Pterodactyls love wasabiLast summer, I had to organize a hasty exit from a remote location. Well-planned moves involve loss and breakage. Hasty cow field moves even more so.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGaM7oo-gU8HmjlhHGeiUQeu1E77PZ4rORtxV_uSQYdA7p5cU_AUGWSfGfjH7YJoZGtmuFIkeSrRhA1fibWGCyyR0EzmtkqOenYJoX6Lp3bcjIMnKcN6WmNfIGrODTs2TkrbxkdHc0FI/s1600/Pterodactyl_2_(PSF).png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGaM7oo-gU8HmjlhHGeiUQeu1E77PZ4rORtxV_uSQYdA7p5cU_AUGWSfGfjH7YJoZGtmuFIkeSrRhA1fibWGCyyR0EzmtkqOenYJoX6Lp3bcjIMnKcN6WmNfIGrODTs2TkrbxkdHc0FI/s1600/Pterodactyl_2_(PSF).png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Australia-bound!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My daughter Ana packed up a much beloved stuffed pterodactyl. She diligently checked on his welfare throughout moving day.<br />
<br />
She promised to meet him on the other side of the move.<br />
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I've always been proud of the high degree of compassion and pastoral care Ana exercises with toys and humans, which is why it was so devastating to unpack the last box and discover that pterodactyl had gone missing.<br />
<br />
The loss of pterodactyl was deep and painful. His ghost persists.<br />
<br />
A recent bedtime mention of his name brought her to tears. As I held her in my arms, wishing for all the world that my daughter never had to suffer loss, a story bubbled up from deep inside me and sprang from my lips.<br />
<br />
Pterodactyl was not in fact lost! Not all who wander are, right? Nor had Pterodactyl been <span style="background-color: white;">adopted by the new family who now lived in our old </span>home.<br />
<br />
Pterodactyl had done a marvellous thing. He had taken the crater upheaval moment as a wake-up call and a beautiful opportunity.<br />
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Pterodactyl had taken wing, with a vow to explore the world.<br />
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Why, at just that moment he was in the Caribbean, landing on gruff, tough pirates' shoulders and completely freaking them out by screaming: "Pollydactyl want a cracker!!!"<br />
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Beyond crackers, what Pterodactyl really was searching for was wasabi. The best wasabi ever. And tons of it.<br />
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Why wasabi? Why not?!<br />
<br />
One of Ana's favorite books is "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dragons-Love-Tacos-Adam-Rubin/dp/0803736800">Dragons Love Tacos</a>." Perhaps this is where the idea came from.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpv9tPDfZh_bc4LOLiOPM4j-_ABb-qA658sN3c-XZUij1PxsH4kaIX9BOTtUajND4iw0B6bpGdmudwXsI64eIy3eMUA83OOwWhwW9sEAvLSoMST4QbiPr_A3JabQGN1bEL5mLM4zifWqc/s1600/Pterodactyl_PSF.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpv9tPDfZh_bc4LOLiOPM4j-_ABb-qA658sN3c-XZUij1PxsH4kaIX9BOTtUajND4iw0B6bpGdmudwXsI64eIy3eMUA83OOwWhwW9sEAvLSoMST4QbiPr_A3JabQGN1bEL5mLM4zifWqc/s1600/Pterodactyl_PSF.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off to Tanzania!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Regardless, wasabe became the magical word that turned tears into laughter.<br />
<br />
And so night after night, my daughters snug in bed, we discuss Pterodactyl's whereabouts.<br />
<br />
He is quite well-travelled. He has been to Greenland and Antarctica. He is running out of options, and may have to go to space.<br />
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I can see Pterodactyl's ghost on my daughter's shoulder. I wish there wasn't a pterodactyl-shaped hole in her life, but I don't have the power to stop it.<br />
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And this is one of my own pterodactyls. I wanted a perfect childhood for my kids. Only joy and never sorrow. That utopian pterodactyl has flown. You can see it's ghost on my shoulder.<br />
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We all have lost pterodactyls. No matter how deeply we bury their memory, they are part of us. Spiritual survival is learning to accept the gone-ness of our pterodactyls while retaining the inner core of joy that is our pterodactyl-proof birthright.<br />
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"When pigs fly" has always struck me as an odd saying, because pigs fly all the time (they fly business). But what about when life's pterodactyls take wing? Where do they go?<br />
<br />
I suspect that the rare prodigal pterodactyl returns, laden with offerings of worldly wasabi and the sorrow of experience. Perhaps life is richer for wandering and losing.<br />
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Not all pterodactyls who wander are lost.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-60994894280468324292015-02-28T23:16:00.001+00:002015-07-04T16:33:34.006+01:00The atlas and the axisMy son has discovered the power of "no".<br />
<br />
This is to say, he has discovered his top two vertebrae, the atlas and the axis, which allow him to shake the heck out of his head at will.<br />
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My son, are you hungry?<br />
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Vigorous head-shaking while simultaneously eating three cream cheese sandwiches. No.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNK54MtlUdopcj7eOloilQw0PZ1XjIwoob2Vzq7riCiCpbJYfDCKe2ouHMQzE6Gq0rChadtrTBVgAV9gwk4S4E-TrIyj4J-0L10-AfH64wWlC03plRnArgTzeMl8_SaGigqPGJnrWbvow/s1600/IMG_1529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNK54MtlUdopcj7eOloilQw0PZ1XjIwoob2Vzq7riCiCpbJYfDCKe2ouHMQzE6Gq0rChadtrTBVgAV9gwk4S4E-TrIyj4J-0L10-AfH64wWlC03plRnArgTzeMl8_SaGigqPGJnrWbvow/s1600/IMG_1529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No. This is not a photograph of an earthling. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Thirsty?<br />
<br />
Glug. No.<br />
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Do you have fingers?<br />
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Nope.<br />
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Toes?<br />
<br />
No.<br />
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Are you human?<br />
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Exasperated look. No.<br />
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Earthling?<br />
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Whisker of doubt. Furrowed brow. Then...NO!<br />
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He shakes his head in his high chair. In his crib. He shakes his head vigorously as he crawls down the hallway.<br />
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He head-shakes with such gusto that his crawl has a sideways wobble to it.<br />
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He shakes his head rain or shine. He shakes it with joy and nary a hint of guilt. Sometimes he shakes so hard that he cracks himself up and goes giggling, wobbling, giggling, wobbling right down the hallway.<br />
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My son shakes the word rather than speaking it, but he knows what it means and he's not afraid to use it. My son doesn't know what is expected of him, nor does he care. He is free.<br />
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In human anatomy it is the atlas, the first cervical vertebra, that affords the ability to nod "yes". The second vertebra, the axis, is required to shake "no." Thus the world rests its heft and beauty upon "yes", but only fulfills its potential to spin upon "no".<br />
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It took me years to discover the power of "no". When I finally did, the floodgates opened and the sun broke through.<br />
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I like my son's attitude. I hope he holds onto it, because he's going to need it out there in that crazy beautiful world with all its heft and baggage.<br />
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"No" makes the world go around. "Yes" should be reserved for a select few people and situations.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-4775257034707139052014-06-15T14:58:00.000+01:002014-07-30T03:47:27.519+01:00Happy Fathers' Day<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM4Ztq8Xqii_Q8GPDuCRxPbJRuYDKIcXn_AqZ609bn-Ye49NlV_IQXVvwLvCT5nhNhM4dHSMv_noWGXd0xbJGh1jfllEpL0QeeUZCF8d-l7pMcowDS-DWs6vi-9zMTzFDfnVXVoT7Psyo/s1600/20140609_222357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM4Ztq8Xqii_Q8GPDuCRxPbJRuYDKIcXn_AqZ609bn-Ye49NlV_IQXVvwLvCT5nhNhM4dHSMv_noWGXd0xbJGh1jfllEpL0QeeUZCF8d-l7pMcowDS-DWs6vi-9zMTzFDfnVXVoT7Psyo/s1600/20140609_222357.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Farting around. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My dad taught me my first fart joke at four (What did the burp say to the other burp? Let's go out the other end and be farts!).<br />
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He was a clever, thoughtful man who built things. My dad gave me my sense of silliness, and I simply cannot imagine life as a serious person.<br />
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I am thankful for my Dad, this year and all years.<br />
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Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-56436704023255306942014-05-11T04:24:00.001+01:002014-05-11T04:26:12.391+01:00Mom's house<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhornHOqjyvp_OSihnrnJjnCJOopg0TD0JPxYF1fhaePJ4Oao9FSlJI5Upa5aVfHL-YgqOOd2f4M8lMS3cWcYdgsd2_Hu5Pf0F0KllBwJoEbvIPqQtcUo1Yht9Cen_kYvLUcYbFPpfrot0/s1600/20140509_150505.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhornHOqjyvp_OSihnrnJjnCJOopg0TD0JPxYF1fhaePJ4Oao9FSlJI5Upa5aVfHL-YgqOOd2f4M8lMS3cWcYdgsd2_Hu5Pf0F0KllBwJoEbvIPqQtcUo1Yht9Cen_kYvLUcYbFPpfrot0/s1600/20140509_150505.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
I like going to Mom's house.<br />
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When I arrive, she asks me if I've eaten and feeds me regardless of the answer. It's always something healthy as opposed to the fridge dregs I would feed myself.<br />
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Mom gets the kids as many milk refills as they need, while I sit there. When the kids get cheeky, she gets cross and tells them to be nice to me.<br />
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Mom says to get some rest as many times as it takes to get me into bed. She covers me so I can sleep in. When I mosey out mid-morning, I find my kids playing with my old toys, retrieved from well-labelled attic boxes, lovingly stored all these years.<br />
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I like going to Mom's house. I like walking around the old hills of my childhood and remembering how the air there smells and how the earth crumbles underfoot. I like feeling a childish sense of security within the walls Dad built.<br />
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I grow older, but being mothered never grows old. Sometimes I think I need it more now than ever.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-66069021174391842962014-03-31T22:12:00.000+01:002014-03-31T23:00:41.139+01:00The atmosphere around UranusBefore foolishly embarking on the construction of a planetary mobile with your children, consider Uranus: the planet that cracked you up as a child, and may continue to do so even as an old person.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4kp1M_p0AlT7tQANOBcwehSyUakuY_YEldrS4RldjNmIiDuGrvNrXYWoDkXaXDQ5higjqpsJ05g0uaerfdANCw73588pTTyCQEEwP7BPsIEZk2ZNW_x8Hm-D16Sg6oM3JwQS7OasCbCg/s3200/20140329_162156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4kp1M_p0AlT7tQANOBcwehSyUakuY_YEldrS4RldjNmIiDuGrvNrXYWoDkXaXDQ5higjqpsJ05g0uaerfdANCw73588pTTyCQEEwP7BPsIEZk2ZNW_x8Hm-D16Sg6oM3JwQS7OasCbCg/s3200/20140329_162156.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Don't bother reading your horoscope for a while. </span> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I discovered this the hard way, as I attempted to be educational, which always ends in tears.<br />
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"Mom, I painted Uranus green! But I dropped it on the floor..."<br />
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Sure enough, there it languished.<br />
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When Uranus plummets from the heavens, you feel humbled. And when you kneel on the floor next to Uranus that was so recently in celestial orbit, it puts you in a reflective mood. You find yourself cast back to previous instances of Uranus crashing down.<br />
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This <a href="http://www.manana-mama.com/2010/07/through-shape-sorter-darkly.html">blog was born as a lament</a> for the independence that I lost in a thumb war to Baby One, which I again lost in a dodgy poker game to Baby Two. Here six years into this adventure, the stars have once more aligned to send my sorry backside to the back of the queue with Baby Three.<br />
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"Mom! Wake up! Uranus is still on the floor."<br />
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There is little time for reflection with Uranus so low on the horizon, but I know from experience that it's only up from here.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-45075579461461694042014-03-19T15:55:00.003+00:002014-03-19T16:08:03.268+00:00A Twinkle in Bad's eyeI am deep into Bib Territory. There is no turning back now.<br />
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Armed with layers of protective gear, I have nevertheless become a Jackson Pollock of apple sauce, and carrot barf. Three kids in, I am somehow still shocked at what root vegetables can do to baby crap. And that is my lame excuse for not posting a dispatch here in so long: I was too busy running from crap.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GZVfwhvjjEuBnM50Nl2gyI0gKNhSVJ9PDAuFc86eEg8RMprmzGid2zIScTNYPIsyjdurdaawEKDm2UPbzsAX905Tq0y0TgB4ruOspIP958MHx7qUvPLPtNXf-61aCK8YkxrzKS5YKfs/s3200/10013836_648927855162448_1236156915_n+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GZVfwhvjjEuBnM50Nl2gyI0gKNhSVJ9PDAuFc86eEg8RMprmzGid2zIScTNYPIsyjdurdaawEKDm2UPbzsAX905Tq0y0TgB4ruOspIP958MHx7qUvPLPtNXf-61aCK8YkxrzKS5YKfs/s3200/10013836_648927855162448_1236156915_n+(1).jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Parenting is in the eye of the beholder. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I would say that the first six months of my son's life have flown, except that they haven't. And yet they have. Haven't. Have. Haven't. Etc. As you can see, I am feeling a bit conflicted and fuzzy about the passage of time, and everything else.<br />
<br />
You can tell by my poor choice of baby nicknames. When I watch my cherub gleefully bounce around in his baby swing, I am compelled to call him "Twinkle Toes".<br />
<br />
Last night Ana very sweetly told me to check out where she'd written "dad" and "mom" on the fridge, and the picture on the left is the result. She claims innocence, but I have to wonder if it's a revenge plot for the Twinkle Toes thing.<br />
<br />
Life with the three-ring circus is a messy logistical nightmare, but it is punctuated by frequent moments of joy, and the arrival of a little boy has provided a very happy disruption in the close and sometimes war-like relationship of his two older sisters.<br />
<br />
Recently, while jack-hammering a dried avocado bomb from the highchair, I glanced over and caught Ana and Ali in tense Barbie negotiations, with the Little Guy drooling in the middle of them as a mediator. And right there, banana dripping from my hair, I had to catch my breath because of how perfect they are. Far more wonderful than I could have ever dreamt or imagined. Worth every ounce of sweet potato and crap. And there's been a lot of crap by now. <br />
<br />
Anyway, Twinkle Toes is calling me and I'd be a bad mom if I stayed here typing any longer...Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-38774310335497289692014-01-06T16:48:00.000+00:002014-01-06T16:50:59.812+00:00Hunting the old magicAna could've spent Christmas break honing her reading skills from the first semester. Instead she went hunting moon lions with a bow and arrow fashioned from farm junk.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qXi4x3pjHiycdh4HpyXTiON7GkDgZJ4dOZO1jdXEUAJjszridlpLvuPKqZCtCYixzlMLbpki2gvAGSBaJEN6fsyxdkwESGgqw3tYWIDCVH_6Q-9jT_qHUJJ8NeB0ghzdZdCuu3oxmiI/s1600/20131230_105824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qXi4x3pjHiycdh4HpyXTiON7GkDgZJ4dOZO1jdXEUAJjszridlpLvuPKqZCtCYixzlMLbpki2gvAGSBaJEN6fsyxdkwESGgqw3tYWIDCVH_6Q-9jT_qHUJJ8NeB0ghzdZdCuu3oxmiI/s1600/20131230_105824.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reality defense. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Moon lions are more common than you might think. In fact the world is full of all kinds of amazing stuff, if you don't limit yourself to what's visible. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm not entirely sure why the bow and arrow are neccesary (contrary to popular belief, moon lions are actually quite gentle). But as an expert in invisible magic, I trust her judgement.<br />
<br />
Watching her hunt, I felt the anemic ghost of my own childhood magic stirring. Reading practice would've been great, but my gut told me that this rare unstructured time was best left unstructured. </div>
<div>
<br />
Whether you be child or ex-child, I wish you a happy New Year. May the year ahead be as magical as it possibly can be, and only as practical as it <i>needs</i> to be. Do your paperwork, then go hunting moon lions. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-45416271575788631482013-12-23T20:14:00.000+00:002013-12-23T20:14:37.550+00:00Christmas letter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Dear Niece,<br />
<br />
This is your second Christmas. Hooray!<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7CxrT_3fQTveG1NEIxIe7oipfK_8HmxzUxDQnjrTypO0zLnHdhHGsRQLNdEg3-RZvnIU0adIJ-DI_n79UMElWv1R2XAGwRXrGV7eyLpPKpO2ep4ZAXiQZfFXiwzUEadrqtV1i4wW1VE/s1600/20131209_185011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7CxrT_3fQTveG1NEIxIe7oipfK_8HmxzUxDQnjrTypO0zLnHdhHGsRQLNdEg3-RZvnIU0adIJ-DI_n79UMElWv1R2XAGwRXrGV7eyLpPKpO2ep4ZAXiQZfFXiwzUEadrqtV1i4wW1VE/s200/20131209_185011.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Electrolytes. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
At this early stage in your Christmas history, you may be encountering certain frustrations, like:<br />
<ol>
<li>Aiming cookies at the correct orifice. </li>
<li>Getting boogers all over cookies. </li>
<li>Not being allowed to eat the Christmas lights</li>
<li>Occasional abandonment by PARENT GODS OF ENTIRE UNIVERSE while they enjoy mulled wine or sitting down. </li>
<li>Lack of spaceship and control of entire universe. </li>
</ol>
<div>
Fear not. There are certain advantages to being the magical age of one and a bit at Christmas. For instance:</div>
<div>
<ol>
<li>Santa must do your bidding. </li>
<li>Mama and Papa must do your bidding.</li>
<li>Grandma must do your bidding. </li>
<li>Auntie and Uncle must do your bidding.</li>
<li>The entire universe must do your bidding, just as soon as you find your spaceship.</li>
</ol>
Happy Christmas Nichte! May the year ahead bring you fewer boogers and more presents. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Love,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tanta </div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-53877273832894895452013-11-27T16:53:00.000+00:002013-11-27T23:11:22.669+00:00Happy Thanksgiving<div class="MsoNormal">
I should count my blessings more often. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMGPhOFJkP7aB9RnJdH39MHEVea0emneEX2Uib6r2uE4Pq6Bt6zReWfGrWpGBmSeaVlUy1Oq7o0HcXdKN2h2_YggMoIzNI4Ru35n0KeKw8Sr2m4aFHG6Arr643H1YUiRkMt3TiM9rWpD8/s1600/20121122_145141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMGPhOFJkP7aB9RnJdH39MHEVea0emneEX2Uib6r2uE4Pq6Bt6zReWfGrWpGBmSeaVlUy1Oq7o0HcXdKN2h2_YggMoIzNI4Ru35n0KeKw8Sr2m4aFHG6Arr643H1YUiRkMt3TiM9rWpD8/s200/20121122_145141.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four generations of pie. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. I am thankful for my beloved and for our shared life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. I am thankful for our children, for our parents, and for our siblings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. I am thankful for all the members and generations of my family, whether bound by blood or love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. I am thankful for friendship. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. I am thankful for the neurosurgeon and the nurses who fixed what would have been a disfiguring condition, had my son been born a pilgrim.
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6. I am thankful for caffeine, my daily saviour against becoming a turkey. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. I am thankful for the alphabet, and for QWERTY keyboards. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. I am thankful that so many of my relatives excel at making pie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9. I am thankful for my village, because a parent does not live by caffeine and pie alone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10. I am thankful for the love and for the memory of those who used to sit around the table, and for the gift of the years that were. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>My cup runneth over, and I raise it in a toast to your families, and to your generations. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives. </o:p></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-15019572826010677612013-11-15T18:53:00.001+00:002014-09-12T02:33:48.501+01:00My brain has turned into oatmeal...<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
This morning I forgot breakfast. Then I left my house with neither socks nor children. Clearly I am suffering from mama exhaustion.<br />
<br />
Scientists agree that as many as 12 out of every 10 new mothers suffer from mama exhaustion. The other 6 who claim they have energy are simply lying.<br />
<br />
By the end of this post, you may be suffering from it to. Here are the symptoms:<br />
<ol>
<li>Failure at socks. </li>
<li>A tendency to repeat yourself.</li>
<li>An inability to perform basic calculations.</li>
<li>A poor grasp of science.</li>
<li>A desire to tell boring anecdotes, repeatedly.</li>
<li>The consumption of unholy quantities of coffee to no avail. </li>
<li>A compulsion to binge on 'Homeland' and other TV oatmeal. </li>
<li>A verbal collapse to nothing but complaining language. </li>
<li>A tendency to repeat yourself. </li>
<li>A tendency to repeat yourself. </li>
</ol>
<div>
These effects are temporary, which is a relief because I just walked outside unbreakfasted and sockless. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are other symptoms I'm forgetting to list, but I can't find the words right now. As Steve Martin once said: "Some people have a way with words. Other people...not have way." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm told these effects are temporary. This is a relief because my feet are starting to turn blue. I could sure use some socks. Now...where are my children?</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-52404419962411593242013-11-03T01:00:00.000+00:002013-11-04T03:06:08.228+00:00Things that go beep in the nightHospitals are fever dreamscapes. Lights blink and machines bleep. Footsteps and meal trays fade in and out of morphine sleep and sober sleeplessness. Angels roam the hallways cleverly camouflaged in scrubs. You can hide anything in scrubs.<br />
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWhc8NOIyRlpfN6Lr5hCHGovGakmZ8nQc-b6v7T0wnaC5P7JHWTbYZc7WWPXwCHzn8dcwKHCurtZsRe6Est69jUZWh1yb-HcF2c22NkDkXjDts2dmFbFWl8aL-MYEfQMDLpzrgVeIKxg/s1600/20131101_094719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWhc8NOIyRlpfN6Lr5hCHGovGakmZ8nQc-b6v7T0wnaC5P7JHWTbYZc7WWPXwCHzn8dcwKHCurtZsRe6Est69jUZWh1yb-HcF2c22NkDkXjDts2dmFbFWl8aL-MYEfQMDLpzrgVeIKxg/s200/20131101_094719.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div>
I've been here before. A hospital stay with a six-week old baby feels a lot like experiencing the birth again. My boy and I will have to relearn how to breastfeed, and remember how to hold each other comfortably. We will have to sleep when the other sleeps, and smile when the other smiles. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Like the last time I found myself in hospital with a poorly baby, I am filled with the knowledge of how much worse it could be. I am amazed at how strong and brave my tiny child is, and I am so grateful for the angels in scrubs who make sense of all those bleeping machines attached to my son. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One of the nurses tells me about a ritual of his: at the end of the night he returns home and turns off all the sound-making devices in his house. Then he sits in the pure silent dark for a good while. I can't think of a better way to return to the outside. </div>
</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-51766494969703257602013-09-26T04:59:00.000+01:002013-09-26T05:16:32.250+01:00The hundred-year flood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Perhaps Noah became New Mexico's most <a href="http://www.ssa.gov/oact/babynames/state/top5_2012.html">popular baby boy name</a> through a collective yearning for rain during the drought. In hindsite, such an abundant crop of little Noahs seems like an omen.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhtORNma7EKhkoG8nkgG9AK5XTfr1F-T0DXkM1ehpVLsvlzOX8cx9mbpjn276cmPBgGMEuHCqp3H8p0HFUFEQCbo3lb8WAC-9XkKODVlBrOVjhQzmhjNz7ookRr3ao6C-CjQsYqBDBe0/s1600/1268780_284195478389580_878290105_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhtORNma7EKhkoG8nkgG9AK5XTfr1F-T0DXkM1ehpVLsvlzOX8cx9mbpjn276cmPBgGMEuHCqp3H8p0HFUFEQCbo3lb8WAC-9XkKODVlBrOVjhQzmhjNz7ookRr3ao6C-CjQsYqBDBe0/s320/1268780_284195478389580_878290105_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
The flood started with a gentle pitter-patter one evening. By midnight it was a steady tempest that took no tea breaks. If there are male rains and female rains, this was the mother of all downpours.<br />
<br />
It just kept on raining.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSfB0J2Z4oB_NtOxhVwINg2hfEJ0lEfzpLQpPQ72m8RHHNgoTHS3jHNE6A_yklC20DzFvD1L4V0BuMV4K8DSWUwpOS9kBVAaHjT0aWF9U4KDFRIFZyvklRnZEBw5UYEkIgJN6OEghvSU/s1600/1268417_284166941725767_694889055_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSfB0J2Z4oB_NtOxhVwINg2hfEJ0lEfzpLQpPQ72m8RHHNgoTHS3jHNE6A_yklC20DzFvD1L4V0BuMV4K8DSWUwpOS9kBVAaHjT0aWF9U4KDFRIFZyvklRnZEBw5UYEkIgJN6OEghvSU/s320/1268417_284166941725767_694889055_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By morning, the whimsical Pecos had become the mighty Mississippi. The river embraced dead meanders like old friends, etching out familiar pathways from the last great hundred-year flood.</div>
<div>
<br />
It kept on raining.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNDxA2eEumWWPPnOeVsJ6j87q9pU8_JBa6OEMeGK3jdqgc96pSljQy6oDqJ4d0D5P9P8qVtr8KK6oG5UIgvUx0Z5QUjokcakx7jS8mag_NocpDpTN4BHILgB3fs-1UsOQQNaST8zOOkE/s1600/1264339_284195361722925_1461902683_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNDxA2eEumWWPPnOeVsJ6j87q9pU8_JBa6OEMeGK3jdqgc96pSljQy6oDqJ4d0D5P9P8qVtr8KK6oG5UIgvUx0Z5QUjokcakx7jS8mag_NocpDpTN4BHILgB3fs-1UsOQQNaST8zOOkE/s320/1264339_284195361722925_1461902683_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Full-grown cottonwood trunks and oil barrels sailed past. The river ate the tractor over yonder, and devoured the swather in the field below. We prayed for marooned cows and lamented lost machines. <br />
<br />
It kept raining.<br />
<br />
There was nothing we could do but watch the water rise with an uneasy feeling in our guts.</div>
<div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJs_8r1RI0w5pdyJYR4ZvBOyv8GZY0sQnQXeuVaJ7HrX-tLsBLW4V6dKtt-0IVPZH8G3bxCekb9cZPShVobF-GRSbZ9QvigxqNUFt3ezKPQYPn5UIWkKVioHzAVMMdox4z_o0pGzxP8JA/s1600/1272859_284195391722922_234284953_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJs_8r1RI0w5pdyJYR4ZvBOyv8GZY0sQnQXeuVaJ7HrX-tLsBLW4V6dKtt-0IVPZH8G3bxCekb9cZPShVobF-GRSbZ9QvigxqNUFt3ezKPQYPn5UIWkKVioHzAVMMdox4z_o0pGzxP8JA/s320/1272859_284195391722922_234284953_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
By afternoon the road was an impassable mess, bisected by roaring washes. The acequia rose up, threatening to burst its banks and explore our house. Papa fended it off with a pick and shovel.</div>
<div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiy0x51vnhSFvyMP2vJw6By6bv6Gvg-cBGVf4LnosblhiBHQQrhdE6dkBfBMduhlA0cs3zqQMHtxROuGo6A1uLoLmfXTBKrEE8yyKB4nBoGnRcvdeA0QYoSQprvC17BgkIn4Ylslz5AsU/s1600/1271323_284195338389594_524964797_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiy0x51vnhSFvyMP2vJw6By6bv6Gvg-cBGVf4LnosblhiBHQQrhdE6dkBfBMduhlA0cs3zqQMHtxROuGo6A1uLoLmfXTBKrEE8yyKB4nBoGnRcvdeA0QYoSQprvC17BgkIn4Ylslz5AsU/s320/1271323_284195338389594_524964797_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The rain let up for about an hour that evening, but it was neither olive branch nor rainbow sign. The clouds remained up there, regrouping. So we loaded up the kids and mud-shimmied down the road to higher ground, just making it through the deep washes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEief_Bd8iDwffMhB1cKQLDgsHQwqJ3Ol4Lo2UJ0hv0hnub6-G0c6dVicr4jIvLSbitpkaWCoZJeT2aHuKlsHdkVkc_nZoLV-fmI-up_X9YvdG6P-nrGfJJFFESPITYHsMvfVQsMH-SUDxU/s1600/1273156_284195535056241_514863046_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEief_Bd8iDwffMhB1cKQLDgsHQwqJ3Ol4Lo2UJ0hv0hnub6-G0c6dVicr4jIvLSbitpkaWCoZJeT2aHuKlsHdkVkc_nZoLV-fmI-up_X9YvdG6P-nrGfJJFFESPITYHsMvfVQsMH-SUDxU/s320/1273156_284195535056241_514863046_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The radar showed another big, black cloud on the way, so we pushed on to the city. Just over twenty-four hours later, the Little Guy was born.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwAJZfQ12JYicYHRtAaNvZsX2mWJ0poMv8Qzddzvj1qbeugnSwkaQdK3Gj7lrAK0XHLyN1cr4Q3zTpJAdIPWR0ahFAmrpS4QFl0lj27D1YvnhV7rGi4c_50bJfJZbmxzGYG7j1xCb4OU/s1600/20130913_103503.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwAJZfQ12JYicYHRtAaNvZsX2mWJ0poMv8Qzddzvj1qbeugnSwkaQdK3Gj7lrAK0XHLyN1cr4Q3zTpJAdIPWR0ahFAmrpS4QFl0lj27D1YvnhV7rGi4c_50bJfJZbmxzGYG7j1xCb4OU/s320/20130913_103503.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It kept on raining. But we didn't call him Noah.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-85001298484842848732013-09-10T00:17:00.000+01:002013-09-10T18:03:39.948+01:00Birthday letter <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Dear Niece,<br />
<br />
You are one. Hooray!<br />
<br />
At this age, you may be battling certain frustrations, like:<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<ol>
<li>Aiming a spoon at the correct orifice. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5iKEUtGxbnZmInRsfqmv8PS5iAMmDSruX3JmSESm6WOUYZDSPBqNnb8uisOe_f8lvPHrkj0Whx5PSLDmI0U7GwQ7CVn4OY39egsVSpru3bOy-tmQFy-UN1uJuGWBCWc6wBagXBW7PP_w/s1600/20130908_155618_resized_1+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5iKEUtGxbnZmInRsfqmv8PS5iAMmDSruX3JmSESm6WOUYZDSPBqNnb8uisOe_f8lvPHrkj0Whx5PSLDmI0U7GwQ7CVn4OY39egsVSpru3bOy-tmQFy-UN1uJuGWBCWc6wBagXBW7PP_w/s200/20130908_155618_resized_1+%25281%2529.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It gets better...and worse. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</li>
<li>Copious boogers vs precious little nose space. </li>
<li>A damp backside that remains stubbornly damp, even when you crawl like hell away from it. </li>
<li>Occasional abandonment by PARENT-GODS OF THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. </li>
<li>Not having your own spaceship and CONTROL OF THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. </li>
</ol>
You have my sympathy. But trust me - there are many advantages to being the magical age of one. For instance:<br />
<ol>
<li>Your lack of spoon precision means that anti-cake diets are many years off. </li>
<li>When your nose runs, it is somebody else's problem. </li>
<li>You can pee anywhere without being arrested. Take it from this pregnant non-boy: this gets very complicated later on. </li>
<li>When PARENT-GODS OF THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE momentarily abandon you to take a grown-up pee (see item 3), they are sure to come back soon because you are that darned cute. </li>
<li>You don't have to make car payments on the spaceship. And in practice, running the ENTIRE UNIVERSE mostly involves washing crap and filling in forms. </li>
</ol>
<ol>
</ol>
Happy birthday Nichte! May the year ahead bring you more spoon precision and fewer boogers.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
With love always,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tanta<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-75815257769295432262013-08-30T18:26:00.001+01:002013-09-02T16:34:36.797+01:00A boy named Cate<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Pregnancy is a journey down the rabbit hole. The wonderland of expectation rarely involves croquet or Cheshire cats, but it is chock full of characters <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/08/thinking-about-pregnancy-like-an-economist/278874/">telling you what to do</a> based on crackers laudanum logic.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgo50NjqssuAVW_ufX6gbSISIBwrqJamcK9m0_w5Qt26WhIC_HO7IKKlcO1D-fbXxWwYx9wIV63FiQsz3QeZdB0eb_F8s-VbBFG-BdX8ylpoXJjl6IP8p60Pn9v7U4SxEY_Droyc3CaXg/s1600/20130830_071307_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgo50NjqssuAVW_ufX6gbSISIBwrqJamcK9m0_w5Qt26WhIC_HO7IKKlcO1D-fbXxWwYx9wIV63FiQsz3QeZdB0eb_F8s-VbBFG-BdX8ylpoXJjl6IP8p60Pn9v7U4SxEY_Droyc3CaXg/s200/20130830_071307_resized.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What to expect. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Happily, pregnancy is also a journey into the kindness of strangers (not the Tennessee Williams kind).<br />
<br />
Strangers regularly express sympathy over my frontal planet and offer directions to the nearest swimming hole. The random kindness phenomenon happens even in Britain, where late pregnancy is considered one of the only acceptable loopholes in the no-conversing-with-strangers rule.<br />
<br />
Friends and family have again surrounded me with help, affection, celebration, delicious food (including suggestive cake...) and a plethora of lovely little boy-shaped clothes.<br />
<br />
In my pre-ultrasound days, acquaintances proved surprisingly astute at detecting the presence of a boy, in spite of my insistence that I was carrying a girl called Cate. Apparently my shape (large beach ball) and that green pallor in my cheeks all indicated a male of the species.<br />
<br />
My own predictive abilities are weaker. I have now thrice mispredicted the gender of my children, and twice mispredicted the birth date. So I've quit trying to predict anything. For the moment, all this generous good will it is a lovely way to pass time while I await my date with the inductioner (out with her baby!).<br />
<br />
I know from experience that some of this voluntary kindness will will taper off when I am the proud owner of a screaming infant.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-65946431140986087722013-08-20T13:28:00.000+01:002013-08-21T03:32:49.784+01:00The mother of monsoon seasons<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQl7srAuiSBfe_a-TRE87Wag1qRoj3la_BxoKvEAlyuzEYRJcnbHxZ_XB6o41XVjU8GikussJYKi5AY7msTd0nIZGDE9B2H1oygHWNZ-Sme9wb07TeYQD53TblDPX1nEJk7q7_y-AKko/s1600/20130814_143304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQl7srAuiSBfe_a-TRE87Wag1qRoj3la_BxoKvEAlyuzEYRJcnbHxZ_XB6o41XVjU8GikussJYKi5AY7msTd0nIZGDE9B2H1oygHWNZ-Sme9wb07TeYQD53TblDPX1nEJk7q7_y-AKko/s200/20130814_143304.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sunflowers as high as an elephant's eye.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the years I was gone, the grass fell away and the cows were sold. 'Monsoon' came to mean the memory of a teaspoon of rain that fell on a solitary August afternoon.<br />
<br />
When I was a kid, monsoon meant a month of afternoon thundershowers, leading to tall green grass and fat black caterpillars by the end of summer.<br />
<br />
In my wandering years more sand dunes were grown than grass. Then over a month ago, the clouds rolled in and it began to rain.<br />
<br />
Perhaps fate declared revenge on the a nice man who offered to help us build a flagstone porch back in June, and has been waiting for a dry afternoon ever since. Perhaps we brought the rain back with us from England.<br />
<br />
Whatever it is, you can hear the aquifers filling deep under the earth, and the plants singing on the <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSeF0cTjpsO0fT04_gFw3AJiACysiS-mcWSTOrf-v64-rCALoPitHvbfH-DIGVc_PGll_TlMW7oWW8gJIL0xIQNVI-aUbAhkn7BevFnfUgBUwNNKEei5qi77xf8Tnb24Zy2fZ9nkij7Nk/s1600/20130814_143028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSeF0cTjpsO0fT04_gFw3AJiACysiS-mcWSTOrf-v64-rCALoPitHvbfH-DIGVc_PGll_TlMW7oWW8gJIL0xIQNVI-aUbAhkn7BevFnfUgBUwNNKEei5qi77xf8Tnb24Zy2fZ9nkij7Nk/s200/20130814_143028.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Growing puddles. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
surface. The river has risen and weird aquatic bugs tango on my porch at night. The awful weeds - nightshade, cockleburrs, tumbleweeds - have grown perilously high and are demanding voting rights.<br />
<br />
Each year at the Taos Pueblo church, a statue of Mary on the alter wears a water-blue dress to mark the monsoon season. I wonder how many dust-colored summers she has hopefully weathered in blue.<br />
<br />
When it is dry, it feels like it will never rain again. But a wise man once told me: "How do I know what the weather will do tomorrow? I don't even know what I will do tomorrow."Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-84395977051915506562013-08-11T16:03:00.000+01:002013-08-12T02:27:02.917+01:00While you were napping<i>By: Ali, resident three-year old</i><br />
<br />
Scientists have shown that late pregnancy on the <i>llano</i> in August leads to severe afternoon narcolepsy in 110% of women, and occasionally men too. It's just that damn hot.<br />
<br />
So what's a kid to do while mama's asleep at the wheel?<br />
<br />
It's good to get precautions over first. Draw something on her face to see if she's faking. Grown-ups can be very sneaky like that. Then go for the chip bag. Most waking mamas can detect even the slightest disturbance in the crinkly forbidden snack bag force.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-08Y-xCDQySIVSzn64Lp6qMFhncqGM8i0Wj0tNy2n5aqoEmmrS4_Ftvqps2Eu1rJSG9lqlGwywGRMwFd1ueqcPjZkI3xBGWPAXbkXhWe3qHOr8B4mTf9AGpA9TwRoKgFoxyaVHIKku7Y/s1600/20130811_084223_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-08Y-xCDQySIVSzn64Lp6qMFhncqGM8i0Wj0tNy2n5aqoEmmrS4_Ftvqps2Eu1rJSG9lqlGwywGRMwFd1ueqcPjZkI3xBGWPAXbkXhWe3qHOr8B4mTf9AGpA9TwRoKgFoxyaVHIKku7Y/s200/20130811_084223_resized.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lock and load. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Snoozing tests successfully completed, you have clearence to move on to bigger fish. Go draw some fish on the bathroom mirror with a sharpie. Repeat process with crayon on the bathroom floor.<br />
<br />
Even planetary mothers often have a stash of lipstick somewhere. Locate lipstick and reload.<br />
<br />
It has now been several minutes since the chip crinkle test, and you may be getting hungry. Pantry spelunking is a good solution. Here you will find cake mix, bags of sugar, and boxes of flour. These are really great substances for filling up dresser drawers and recently-vacuumed rugs, ensuring that your naptime efforts will continue to be appreciated for days to come.<br />
<br />
Ice cream is a great way to slake a thirst built up from lipstick and cake mix. Although designed by grown-ups to keep ice cream away from kids, freezer safes are pretty easy to crack. Once in, locate the Blue Bunny box. Make sure to dissect the cardboard container completely using scissors to ensure maximum chocolate goo coverage.<br />
<br />
Next, conduct a scientific experiment: what happens to sunscreen if you spread it all over clean bedsheets? Add honey for good measure.<br />
<br />
Pet your cat's fur in the wrong direction. Pull his tale once or twice. No one can stop you from sparring with the cat now, except for the cat.<br />
<br />
By now you will probably be out of fun stuff to do and getting bored. Don't bother cleaning up or hiding the evidence. Say THE GHOST did it and Mama will love you anyway because she is a sucker.<br />
<br />
Pass the remaining time by locating some good cartoons on any touch screen device you can find with chocolatey fingers. We all need a break right?Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-78085071335967732342013-07-31T18:16:00.000+01:002013-07-31T18:33:55.360+01:00The Tomten's houseOnce upon a time someone came <a href="http://nm.audubon.org/randall-davey-audubon-center-sanctuary">to this place</a>, deep in the middle of the forest, and built a home and a garden.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxxb8jrauRdt_H5TpJCVS_n4subHbl7G9mlSJLvr_5ixyNauw8Ov72avQ9CNZ4Wv7u31MCya73MkVkg0JUsLM0WcSJ3Vtv68K_PqiBy31YNsnwoorODlV793lPQlIPl82Gnyy-dgLZrc/s1600/20130726_084949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxxb8jrauRdt_H5TpJCVS_n4subHbl7G9mlSJLvr_5ixyNauw8Ov72avQ9CNZ4Wv7u31MCya73MkVkg0JUsLM0WcSJ3Vtv68K_PqiBy31YNsnwoorODlV793lPQlIPl82Gnyy-dgLZrc/s200/20130726_084949.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
The Tomten lives in the middle of an old pi<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ñ</span></span>ion tree in the woods. He only comes out at night when the humans are asleep. Sometimes they see his prints in the dirt, but no one has ever seen the Tomten.<br />
<br />
He is an old, old Tomten, and no one knows when he came to the woods. Although no one has ever seen him, they know he is there.<br />
<br />
On small silent feet, the Tomten moves about in the moonlight, making little tracks in the dirt. He talks to sleeping forest animals in Tomten language, a silent little language animals can understand.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOfoNcJ5jFaVWgJjP6csXBqocy6eg-hu55191uynWMQxYRHMwNYb1IY05Cx_bYRTET-CRk6vKoRdRmvQhEeweSPI2-Wxme56DbTi7N3KeCuwU5Ay-Jn-mk_MdFF4AbtQCCJsiVDNpOHE/s1600/20130726_090859.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOfoNcJ5jFaVWgJjP6csXBqocy6eg-hu55191uynWMQxYRHMwNYb1IY05Cx_bYRTET-CRk6vKoRdRmvQhEeweSPI2-Wxme56DbTi7N3KeCuwU5Ay-Jn-mk_MdFF4AbtQCCJsiVDNpOHE/s200/20130726_090859.jpg" width="200" /></a></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Droughts come and droughts go,</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Thunderstorms come and thunderstorms go,</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Soon the grass will grow green and tall again."</blockquote>
<br />
<br />
The house where the humans live is silent. The grown-ups sleep through the hours of cricket song, not knowing that the Tomten is there.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5aN4ywi-XGmmK5remtds3xumvndTLViJrr0pKR42d6M0OK3gUJ4w0ik0rfw-Fj4FjmhUFUkdOe8gMkC4mYdBvm9tU3ijxs2FU4IyGi66lc9CVB1IVmuUxex8sVm4WK882TT3LRltkhg/s1600/20130726_093227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5aN4ywi-XGmmK5remtds3xumvndTLViJrr0pKR42d6M0OK3gUJ4w0ik0rfw-Fj4FjmhUFUkdOe8gMkC4mYdBvm9tU3ijxs2FU4IyGi66lc9CVB1IVmuUxex8sVm4WK882TT3LRltkhg/s200/20130726_093227.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
The Tomten tiptoes to the children's room, and stands silently wishing they would wake up so that he could speak to them in Tomten language, a silent little language that children can understand. <br />
<br />
Night is brief here in the middle of summer. The Tomten leaves milk for the cat before returning to the pinion tree.<br />
<br />
The grown-ups rise with the sun and go about their business, but the children see his tracks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1nkQYknTeBvM0HCZaZ5LZKp9y4VdnXVjya5yPBEfk1zvwoIbf2uAykpHIvYhHopICsxCHa9AAm01CF5fuTOJUjQeDtOTsqSnOtuf0NI_eQGZxpIEc38XmY4gcE8XUTAN-Q0So8FmT_g/s1600/20130726_091533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1nkQYknTeBvM0HCZaZ5LZKp9y4VdnXVjya5yPBEfk1zvwoIbf2uAykpHIvYhHopICsxCHa9AAm01CF5fuTOJUjQeDtOTsqSnOtuf0NI_eQGZxpIEc38XmY4gcE8XUTAN-Q0So8FmT_g/s200/20130726_091533.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Every night here in the wood, everyone will be fast asleep. Everyone but one...<br />
<br />
Year follows year, but as long as humans live near the old woods, the Tomten will traipse between the old pi<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ñ</span></span>ion tree and their houses on his little silent feet.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>- Credit for this <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Tomten-Astrid-Lindgren/dp/0698115910/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1375289630&sr=8-1&keywords=the+tomten">Tomten flight of fancy goes firstly to Astrid Lindgren</a>, secondly to the <a href="http://nm.audubon.org/randall-davey-audubon-center-sanctuary">Randall Davey Audubon Center</a> in Santa Fe for a wonderful summer camp week of bug-chasing, and thirdly to one three-year old's profoundly overactive imagination left to run wild in the woods, speaking only a language that Tomten's can understand. Although no one saw exactly where the imaginagion went, in the morning there were little tracks everywhere. </i></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-48728988365005187422013-07-21T15:23:00.001+01:002013-07-22T00:12:11.326+01:00Little tent in the big woodsI make a rubbish pioneer woman. If I lived in a little house on the prairie 100+ years ago, my children would've surely been eaten by locusts and blizzards by now.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyiLT4VvLvrgImT5netVUePGqhFuTmqyuc5H9cIR0RcjNw0AIM6j7fKdkO2Cfi2MxNMi9Wt6eIArQuaE1LjhNqxVUBDbMKW56zB8V5zyJycgPI2pEOeard_X2f1OTRRLVGIUyV1hIpBCI/s1600/20130714_101805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyiLT4VvLvrgImT5netVUePGqhFuTmqyuc5H9cIR0RcjNw0AIM6j7fKdkO2Cfi2MxNMi9Wt6eIArQuaE1LjhNqxVUBDbMKW56zB8V5zyJycgPI2pEOeard_X2f1OTRRLVGIUyV1hIpBCI/s200/20130714_101805.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chasing rain fairies. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Since fortune has returned me to the land of carving one's destiny from Earth using only bare hands and duct tape, and I am doing my best to wade back out into the physical world without injury. Last weekend for instance, I returned to the mountains for the first time in many years.<br />
<br />
And I am pleased to report that it all went wonderfully. As I discovered, the trick to happiness in the wild is this: go with contemporary pioneers. These are people who can tie knots in their sleep, assemble tents blindfolded, build campfires in hurricanes, and send even the most rabid of imaginary bears whimpering back into the woods with a mere nod.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
I had forgotten how rain sounds on a tent flap, and the shape the mist takes when it munches up pine trees from top to bottom. I'd forgotten the smell of rich, black mountain dirt, strangely simlar to that of a new baby. Meadow flowers are taller than I had recalled, and brighter. Mountain streams are colder.<br />
<br />
Ana tells me she wants to move to the mountains where the rain fairies live, and she never wants to return home. I seem to remember having this same thought years ago too, long before a fear of bears and tent-failure set in. </div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-59722224208693316372013-07-16T14:34:00.001+01:002013-07-16T16:48:00.512+01:00The tortoise and the haircutWhen in the course of human events:<br />
<ol>
<li>The scissors go missing</li>
<li>Your kid decides to hide out in the bathroom for twenty minutes.</li>
</ol>
Call the SWAT team.<br />
<br />
Do not - I repeat DO NOT - react like a lethargic turtle. Trust me.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZgEQnNFZcYgarLI_WgM2mOypTTgVAlC_XuYWRN_k7AdlISOR963nxf1Anc6-cJQ9lGKQBkULAQZc8cJgNj2mpqW58qRiqb9eWbHJ2Ls9MjbOsV0SliniJqBWgSaInGL2sq5oLNZebTk/s1600/20130716_072646_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZgEQnNFZcYgarLI_WgM2mOypTTgVAlC_XuYWRN_k7AdlISOR963nxf1Anc6-cJQ9lGKQBkULAQZc8cJgNj2mpqW58qRiqb9eWbHJ2Ls9MjbOsV0SliniJqBWgSaInGL2sq5oLNZebTk/s200/20130716_072646_resized.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weapon of hair destruction. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I blame our deforestation incident on Haircut Compulsion Disorder (HCD), which runs in my family.<br />
<br />
In addition to HCD, babysitting karma has a long memory.<br />
<br />
Years ago BC, I was entrusted with the care and feeding of someone else's kids for a mere hour. A haircut incident occurred about five minutes into my supervisory tenure, the result of which was about what Fozzie Bear would look like if he tried to give himself a modern art mohawk after drinking three bottles of gin.<br />
<br />
Their unfortunate mother had to view the haircut without the help of gin, and was understandably not amused. In the silver linings department, after my experience this morning, I finally feel that have finally repaid my debt to society for that episode.<br />
<br />
Of course, babysitting karma and me are not through with each other yet.<br />
<br />
There was that other time I was on watch and the kids found a sharp implement with which to mow down all the plants in the backyard, the result of which was about what Fozzie Bear's yard would look like if he tried to give it a modern art mohawk after drinking three bottles of gin...Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-61238887398059517842013-06-25T22:53:00.003+01:002013-06-28T13:26:44.168+01:00The past is another countryUnlike other Royal Parks, the gates of Primrose Hill remain open long after dusk. Faux gaslights line the paths, enticing lovers and other nighttime eccentrics to come have a wander inside.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
From the top, lights spill out into the distance, making London look less like a human financial services treadmill, and more like a magical fairy civilization in the region of Alpha Centauri.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiffHabsJizMr3II3yWDguAePyi0FD88T1I228IvxpjYiwqEP_Q0FZSwjfA3XnN2VUeTtgN-8EkE1vyEvvD-qnAYastu0FaWeL4XXQljXBmShHJnh_gn0cvmaAWCiySwWcYL6h8YgnH98g/s1600/20130615_215010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiffHabsJizMr3II3yWDguAePyi0FD88T1I228IvxpjYiwqEP_Q0FZSwjfA3XnN2VUeTtgN-8EkE1vyEvvD-qnAYastu0FaWeL4XXQljXBmShHJnh_gn0cvmaAWCiySwWcYL6h8YgnH98g/s200/20130615_215010.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Conversing with the memory moon. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
If you used to live here, this is the place to trace out the streets that correspond to the memories. This is the perfect spot to remember only the fond bits. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Visiting one homeland from another is a strange feeling. On both sides, someone greets me with a smile and says: "Welcome home." And both greeters are correct. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hit the third trimester for the third time somewhere over the Atlantic, which means I won't be visiting Primrose Hill again for a spell. It also means that I will mostly be napping through the scorching hellfire summer I have returned to. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But be it two or twenty years when I return, I know London will be precisely as I left it. This is because of the somewhat distressing reality that no person can ever change the fabric of such a humongous, crazy, fairyland.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Primrose Hill is covered in rain 98.9% of the time. But from the very top, William Blake speaks from the stonework: "I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill."</div>
</div>
</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-28400786651370090942013-06-05T20:24:00.002+01:002013-06-05T20:42:58.030+01:00ProfessionalismLike any over-reaching parent, I discuss career options with my offspring. And like true professionals, my children never limit their ambitions to tangible reality.<br />
<br />
Ana wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up. She wants to work with guard toads and battle toads, who sustain many injuries in their line of work. She would rather switch careers than work with bookworms (they are abominable).<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSV7wdlfvHtN6oLmEkIhSf33Mf1haOuTmXguYvcFY4D9Yyt5i456oiKJRDIrxzmoFBGWx-OMl6oJCfMx0vcURpST5gJ7yKY0jAVMZ-PTiSl1iEdzmX2qh49tb4Ecj_-HA4EpBFmbO-ViQ/s1600/20130508_121811.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSV7wdlfvHtN6oLmEkIhSf33Mf1haOuTmXguYvcFY4D9Yyt5i456oiKJRDIrxzmoFBGWx-OMl6oJCfMx0vcURpST5gJ7yKY0jAVMZ-PTiSl1iEdzmX2qh49tb4Ecj_-HA4EpBFmbO-ViQ/s200/20130508_121811.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Battle toad. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Much of her current veterinary training takes the form of sketching unicorns and hundred-tailed cats with a purposefulness that any scatterbrained grown-up can admire (she formerly wanted to be an artist).<br />
<br />
Ali wants to be Papa when she grows up. Upon graduation into life, she will promptly grow a beard and become a guitar ninja.<br />
<br />
While this was Ali's standard answer for yonks, but it abruptly changed the other day:<br />
<br />
Mama: 'So kid, what do you want to be when you grow up?'<br />
Ali: 'I don't know.'<br />
<br />
Aside from a lack of grey hair and a profound disinterest in the <i>Financial Times</i>, this new answer may mean that she has already grown up. I reckon the typical age cycle of the question goes about like this:<br />
<br />
Q: 'So, what do you want to be when you grow up?'<br />
<br />
Toddler: 'Astronaut!'<br />
Adolescent: 'Rockstar!'<br />
Grown-up: 'No clue. Better-rested?'Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-9712152773006103472013-05-29T06:01:00.000+01:002013-05-29T15:29:17.001+01:00The plunge less taken<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjft4NfWsHpBvtMWLsdsDG8C52zjpNp8lR5o21ktQhyphenhyphen_lpGGKUerq4-hHmMNFHX_FQoWGhyphenhyphenJwSqgEfCv5cSEzZCWt2eLgFKeZqkh8wjkEWQSabAv8nTl6DM05pckDwLB20yDwCZN9L2opQ/s1600/20130528_224317_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjft4NfWsHpBvtMWLsdsDG8C52zjpNp8lR5o21ktQhyphenhyphen_lpGGKUerq4-hHmMNFHX_FQoWGhyphenhyphenJwSqgEfCv5cSEzZCWt2eLgFKeZqkh8wjkEWQSabAv8nTl6DM05pckDwLB20yDwCZN9L2opQ/s200/20130528_224317_resized.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bloomin' miracle. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The girls successfully completed their first joint flower girl gig over the weekend.<br />
<br />
I don't mean 'successful' in a stage mom way, but rather that no lasting injuries were sustained and nothing was accidentally ignited. Petals were scattered in roughly the correct direction rather than being scoffed like potato chips.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Pre-ceremony, there were objections to footwear and walking. Both baskets were misplaced. But when the big moment came, they knew exactly what to do and they did it beautifully, making my kid-herding role entirely obsolete.* </span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUw0YxNq6xsYRZT_NT74fZPokic963AJH32qYLz8BwZuWRoJdwd1kYYW8LOvzll1doC7XrWNRuHDph241ti16Bl5oA9R5UYKDaGC-VAHjaaFxozXt0HaSOHOtMeoI1ARdgGfjwJ7ES5Y/s1600/20130527_195430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUw0YxNq6xsYRZT_NT74fZPokic963AJH32qYLz8BwZuWRoJdwd1kYYW8LOvzll1doC7XrWNRuHDph241ti16Bl5oA9R5UYKDaGC-VAHjaaFxozXt0HaSOHOtMeoI1ARdgGfjwJ7ES5Y/s200/20130527_195430.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The carb tipping point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Weddings conjure up talk of miracles: the faith to walk on water for another, man living on cake alone, water becoming wine (or in this case tequila), etc.<br />
<br />
It was a grand weekend bordering on miraculous, and as such there were some awesome leftovers. I was sent home with a bathtub of flowers, and a literal bucket of pasta salad. Such a quantity of pasta salad in fact, that a warning label on the side proclaims it to be a toddler drowning hazard.<br />
<br />
Pasta salad asphyxiation is surely a fate that only a miracle can save you from. As if - with childhood's many other potential sources of lasting injury and accidental ignition - I need another thing to worry about. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*There is an important parenting lesson to be learned in this, and I will ponder it further when I finish my pasta salad. </span>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7408793628656295626.post-9089330833354620182013-05-10T15:08:00.001+01:002013-05-10T15:12:04.064+01:00Having kittensFaced with impending kittens, the girls and I built Catwings a birthing house (straw-filled box).<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZLKox_RWxdab4cpgU6k575xl4pz0cA3DsrqpoY1MC2DmYwVxZyZzJGpKfo_Kp1eTEbtca5fbSdBA9pp7QffF2DCWxkFkxZsuaPTQv5-ijg_3AbAwfhyphenhyphenDpHAV708yfOw4JBYN4McQwbg/s1600/20130501_100150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZLKox_RWxdab4cpgU6k575xl4pz0cA3DsrqpoY1MC2DmYwVxZyZzJGpKfo_Kp1eTEbtca5fbSdBA9pp7QffF2DCWxkFkxZsuaPTQv5-ijg_3AbAwfhyphenhyphenDpHAV708yfOw4JBYN4McQwbg/s200/20130501_100150.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nesting. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The girls painted it with ornate murals of cats playing with mice, cats playing with dogs, cats playing with hedgehogs, etc. All depictions of play wound up being very peaceful and collaborative, which probably means that any brood raised in there will be vegetarian (an unusual condition for a cat).<br />
<br />
Apparently Catwings had reservations about the utopian vibe. Two days after birthing house completion, she promptly started having kittens next to a dog, in the middle of the lawn, under a werewolf moon, with a blinking neon sign around her neck saying: "Hey there owls!"<br />
<br />
Catwings clearly hadn't done this before and found it all a bit surprising. But let those amongst us who are super-awesome at first attempts cast the first stone.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvqbHWqBHo2rzOBS7kupfP30ccHHlb9wh8emmWKCcDCZj83xqFG3UCOBulZoE03q2iNA4PBE45rbgwnPBmXWqdTAHV5Q45VpvfoF7L0cwzSKBhJiR_gj5EQTbh88OFWzDBaELxxNhSxM/s1600/20130509_094752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvqbHWqBHo2rzOBS7kupfP30ccHHlb9wh8emmWKCcDCZj83xqFG3UCOBulZoE03q2iNA4PBE45rbgwnPBmXWqdTAHV5Q45VpvfoF7L0cwzSKBhJiR_gj5EQTbh88OFWzDBaELxxNhSxM/s200/20130509_094752.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your adorable new pet, yes?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Luckily, it wasn't just the owls and the dog and werewolves who noticed, but also my obstetrician sister-in-law. She scooped the situation up into the birthing box, and sent the rest of us running for towels, hot water, and Nitronox. Catwings and the brood have been happily napping in the box ever since.<br />
<br />
There are two stripey ones and two white ones. They are impeccably tiny and ever so cute.<br />
<br />
Catwings takes her name from an <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Catwings-Ursula-Leguin/dp/B008SMQU4W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1368134722&sr=8-1&keywords=catwings">Ursula Leguin story</a>, in which a mama cat's brood is born with wings and flaps away into the great yonder. They alarm some finches, truly piss off an owl, and ultimately find a new home with kind hands and plates of food.<br />
<br />
In spite of the lofty namesake and my girls' high hopes, these kittens show no sings of hatching wings yet, and appear to be completely inept at flight (not that we've pushed them from the nest or anything).<br />
<br />
So, wouldn't you like one?<br />
<br />
Because you see, I may otherwise become a cat lady. Last week I had three cats in the yard, and this week I have seven. By next week, it might be seven thousand unless we get some volunteers soon...Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04868311511462835246noreply@blogger.com2