I AM interested in sports...culture.

5 Minutes:
When it comes to breeding sports fans, my parents have a strong batting average: 0.666. It'd be even higher if you got bonus points for creating a kid who ends up majoring in sports management and another who has several close friends on the payroll of a professional baseball team. My siblings are sports fanatics. I, on the other hand, am finding my way to sporting events mostly to be a good mom. So far, both of my kids enjoy playing sports; one REALLY seems into watching, too.

I don't dislike sports or sporting events, but I'm more interested in the people playing them—and also those watching. This afternoon, here are some of the thoughts that ran through my head as I sat in the stands of Centennial Field watching a game between the Vermont Lake Monsters and the Connecticut Tigers:

• I wonder if hearing Elton John's "Bennie and the Jets" whenever he walks makes the Bennie guy (Joe Bennie, of the Lake Monsters) hate—or love—his name?
• Look at them doing those calisthenics down there—I wonder if the team exercises together all the time. Who leads them through those moves?
• That player from Santa Cruz (I forget which team): Growing up, was he all about "keeping it weird"?
• I wonder if the Lake Monsters have a marketing person who writes bios about all the players'  favorite foods and such. 
• That would be fun. 
• I think I remember a piece in The New Yorker about the marketing person for the Mets doing this. And people finding that fluffy and strange. Maybe I'm making that up. 
• Still, that would be a fun job. 
• I can't believe that Olin has never noticed that I put ketchup—not mustard and relish—on my hotdogs. In the FIFTEEN years we've been together. 
• Mustard and relish on a dog taste good.
• I think I would have made a great mascot. Dancing and acting without having to talk or sing. How awesome would that be?
• How often do seagulls often get hit with baseballs? 

This went on and on... Then we came home and watched a bit of the World Cup. My inquiring mind continued:

• Why is our goalie dressed like a banana?
• Does that yellow mean something?
• Why is their goalie wearing green?
• I'm confused. 
• I wonder if that big beard makes our goalie hot. Like warm, not attractive. But he is quite attractive. I wonder what he'd look like without that beard.  

My stream of consciousness represents one who is totally uninformed about soccer. But the comment of one of my kids suggests that we're not doing a great job of informing them about world goings-on (or perhaps they're watching too much Chima). Upon learning that Portugal's goal meant that we had not won, he said, "That's REALLY bad."

"No, it's OK. It's really disappointing, but that's how these things go," I told him.

"But wasn't this the war to see if we keep our country?"

Um... no. But wouldn't that be such a better way? 

5 Snaps: 

Day 13 | 5x5 Challenge | Today was long and sweet.

5 Minutes:
It was the longest day and it feels it, in a really good way. At solstice (which, I learned from the Farmer's Almanac, occurred at 6:51 am) I was running—about one third of the way done. When I got back, the boys were still asleep and Jon was just pouring his first cup of coffee. We actually got to have a conversation—uninterrupted and not about scheduling. No clue what we actually discussed. The boys woke up and ate breakfast. Jon disappeared upstairs to deal with some laundry (go Olin!), and Jules, Kai and I drew pictures and practiced letters, so, so nicely, for what seemed like a long time.

Then it was summer, full-on. I took the boys to Last Resort Farm to pick berries. When we got there—after a few wrong turns and a 30-minute drive—it was all picked out. But Eugenie, who runs the farm, pointed us toward the kids' field and offered the boys to pick whatever ripe berries they could find. And so we did: Jules intently seeking the the rare red gems and pressing them into my hand, after he'd bitten them in half, to "taste how sweet"; Kai following behind, with a less-precise, more-dramatic picking style. The place was magical. We watched red-winged black birds zip and dip across the sky in some sort of (mating?) chase. We pointed out how the clouds—the kinds kids draw—hung low just above the tops of the long greenhouses. Then we went into the farm stand and bought two of the few remaining pints of the sweetest, reddest pre-picked berries.

When we got home, the next-door neighbor—six, like Jules—had set up a stand to sell lemonade and homemade (AMAZING) donuts. Eventually, a gang of neighborhood kids assembled next door, and then in our backyard, playing on swings and creating scenarios that involved armor and swords. THIS is what summer had always been to me. With Ange and Dan, Jeff and Steve, Missy and Gina. We had bike races. We played GI Joe. We held an Olympics. (Hello, 1984.) We choreographed outdoor performances (most memorable: Billy Joel's "The Longest Time"). We stayed out all day until our moms called us in for dinner.

For dinner, tonight, we packed it all up for the beach. The crowd there was surprisingly sparse—perhaps because it wasn't hot, just warm, and the water was freezing. Its iciness didn't faze Kai a bit, and not really Jules either. But he preferred to stay in the sand, building volcanos and retaining walls for waterways, combing the beach for sea glass. Jules and I hung along the water (bellies full of quinoa salad and cantaloupe), while Jon and Kai went back up for a second course of hot dogs.

We reconvened for one last hurrah at the playground before getting in the car and driving to Archie's for ice cream. Long. Sweet. Today. Let's keep it coming, summer.

75 degrees is sunny

We came home from work and school, and it was light. It was warm. We ate a dinner quick to prepare: cheese omelets with shredded zucchini sautéed in garlic; roasted potatoes made yesterday, rewarmed; vinegary coleslaw. All veggies CSA sourced. And, in that way, our dinner selection was somewhat forced. (I am ready for summer's bounty—or at least more spring spinach.) 

We cleared the table enough to put dirty plates out of reach of the pets (not that the cats haven't ever jumped on the counters) and went outside in flip-flops and bare feet. We flew planes, pushed swings, dug dirt, played lacrosse and acted out Power Ranger situations. We chatted with neighbors on both sides of the fence. It was a sweet evening, light and warm.

Tomorrow, I hear, it may snow.

Living in the future is sometimes a matter of survival.

Most of this cold, windy and rainy weekend, we spent trying not to kill each other—literally exerting great effort to not bark or yell (often unsuccessfully), push, shove, kick or kinesphere-invade (often unsuccessfully). Yesterday, I did a long muddy run (with three fantastic women). Jon and Kai did a T25 workout. Jules wrote a book about it—and, by that, I mean, yes, he recorded the details of Jon and Kai's exercise session in his field "diary."  In which all notes are spelled phonetically. (It's pretty awesome.) Both boys escaped out a birthday party sidedoor. It was not cool—but I get it: they had anxious energy to burn. They were quickly captured. Shortly after, both boys fit in some training runs for the Yam Scram—through the aisles of Gardener's Supply. The employees were very kind. We quickly rounded up the track team, paid for our purchases and left for home. Where we forced the boys to do jumping jacks and lift weights.

Olin's shirt fashion credit: Valerie Kiser Design

This morning, the boys swam at their lesson with Annie. Then, with two friends, they did some more Yam Scram training sprints, down the long hallway of the office building that houses the pool (and my office). Screaming like wild men. Straight past the yoga studio where a Kundalini class was just beginning. They were ushered home. Where they prompted began a game of evading kinesphere-invasions. A game that involves much tattling and crying. One kid was directed to the basement for a private yoga session. Then Jon did a T25 workout. Or maybe two. Then everyone geared up in snow gear and headed out for a sleet hike. (Yes, it was sleeting.) We spent almost an hour striding through slush and ice (me, in slippery rainboots) in an attempt to—I'll say it again—not kill each other. One kid, one adult and one dog loved this. One kid and one adult did not. The not-liking-hiking kid cried—understandably, because his boots and socks were soaked through. The liking-hiking adult carried him piggy-back for the rest of the hike. The liking-hiking kid asked the not-liking-hiking adult for a piggy-back ride, too, because "IT'S NOT FAIR" for only the soaking, sobbing kid to get carried. She obliged, in her slick and slippery rain boots, gingerly stepping over slush and ice and snow, miraculously not biting the mud.

Upon arriving home, cocoa was serving and the formerly crying kid soaked in a lavender-scented jet tub, which turned his attitude right around. For 15 minutes. The not-liking-hiking adult was instructed to go to yoga—at the same studio the shrieking kids sprinted past earlier in the morning. She gratefully obliged, as there was much swirling energy to be tamed.

In other news, we got a bunch of seeds and a new grow light. We are so excited that it's March 30. Officially spring!

Sometimes it's dope to mope.

I am not moving to Australia. Because that simply seems like far too much effort. And I'm not going to claim that I had a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." Because it wasn't really. I know this. Everyone is safe. Everyone is healthy. I have a job. I have a home. I have heat (at least I have this warmth while inside the home, or the office, or the car). And plenty of food. But I'm in a super shitty mood.

Maybe it's because I didn't run this morning and didn't unroll my yoga mat this afternoon or evening. Maybe it's because things feel fuzzy and I like solid boundaries. Maybe it's because one kid melted into a mess of tears when I asked the two of them what "superfun" things they wanted to do this weekend while daddy was away. He doesn't want daddy to be away. And he also doesn't want daddy to have a meeting tonight. I take this personally. But I try to hide it, best as I can. And it mostly works to turn the tides. We three play Monopoly and make static, swirling our straight hair on synthetic fabrics. They "swim" in the jet tub while I urge them to wash behind their ears. We read Chapter 3 of Harry Potter. There are snuggles and back scratches. I pass as a more-than-acceptable second fiddle, I'd say.

And then when they go to bed, I get back to feeling sorry for myself. Olin returns home and agrees it's OK to mope about my rut. In the other room—for just a little bit. So that's what I do. And then I get back to creating order out of my emotional mess: making lists, sending emails, outlining ideas for a short story I'm starting on—in my purple Moleskine notebook with a strange syringe-shaped pen I got at some medical conference.

I feel better already.

Rice bowls are the "low-hanging fruit" of dinner.

Over here, dinner is my deal. Generally speaking, it's my job to plan, chop, cook and serve everything my family eats. I know how this sounds but it's not about gender roles really. It's about me having gone to school to study food and eating, and then taking a job that pays me to think about food and eating. It's about me enjoying the process of planning meals (as well as cooking them) and about Jon hating this chore—the planning part—with all his being.

Yet there are some weeks when I don't participate in this enjoyable process of planning meals. When this happens, behold The Rice Bowl. Simple, customizable and lightening-fast, this fail-safe dinner solution will please the pickiest of eaters. It will easily accommodate your favorite vegans and gluten-free friends. Think: taco bar with much, much more flexibility. The recipe is essentially rice (or "rice" - quinoa, farro, bulgur also work great) topped with whatever you can find in the fridge, the freezer or your pantry.

But I always appreciate a "recipe" so I'll share tonight's rice bowl spread and I'll give it a fancy name and a proper hednote. Enjoy!

Low-Hanging Fruit Rice (or "Rice") Bowls 
This completely customizable one-dish dinner is inspired by the absence of a dinner plan. Every ingredient is 100% interchangable with whatever you have on hand.

Ingredients:

• Black rice
• Canned white beans (cannellini), rinsed
• Napa cabbage (CSA share from a few weeks back), shredded 
• Avocado, cubed
• Red onion (CSA share from at least a month ago), diced
• Cheddar cheese, shredded (by Julian)
• Pepitas, toasted (taking 3 minutes to do this makes a huge difference)
• Frozen veggies (the gross-looking weird ones with unnaturally square carrots - my boys love them), nuked.

Directions:
Cook rice, according to package instructions. Put everything else—rinsed, shredded, diced and nuked—into small bowls and let anyone eating pile on what they want.

Tip: If you have a five-year-old, or a greedy eater of any age, remind him (her) that it's not polite to serve himself (or herself) ALL of the avocado.

They care.

It started as I would expect Halloween eve to start: I encouraged bites of burritoes and broccoli while Jon rushed around setting up the candy station for the trick or trickers and looking for the various glow devices grandparents had gifted for the occasion. When we finally located the luminescent accessories in a random drawer with dish towels, placed there "so I wouldn't lose them," we cut our losses and hit the road.


Jules was dressed in the awesome werewolf costume my mom designed for him but refused face paint. "I look cuter this way—not scary—so I'll get more candy." Kai had already dissed his werewolf on his way out the door this morning.

*** 

"I want to be Wolverine," Kai had pouted, tossing the furry hat to the floor. 
"Werewolves have big claws too," I reasoned.
"NO!" 
Knowing how important it is for three-year-olds to be dressed like all of the other superhero three-year-olds at school, I quickly located the Batman costume. In the laundry room. Soiled with something that I hope to be chocolate (good chance: it was on the chest). Batman's cape/mask was missing but I managed to find some Spiderman headwear.  Kai was thrilled. Success. 

It was windy and rainy. I missed our old hood: Ri stopping by to see the boys, the sidewalks, the streetlights, the Jastatts. But the boys' excitement was contagious. They wanted candy—loads and loads of it. I'd expected this. What I didn't expect was everything else. 

Jules would charge up to each new door and shout: "Trick or Treat for Unicef!" and push the tiny cardboard collection box out for quarters, often before taking a piece of candy.

And Kai... Kai was just taking in the night. I'm pretty sure that strolling the (dark, dark) streets with Kai, aged 3 1/2, will remain in my top ten cherished-moments memories of our "young family" days.

About halfway through our trick-or-tricking, we caught up with some friends. Jules would run with the pack up to a door and I'd hang back with Kai, who continued to mosey along at his own pace. As the other kids were already racing up to the next house, he'd climb the stairs of the one everyone else had just left, carefully keeping his balance as he clutched his plastic pumpkin in one hand and glow sword with the other. 

When the door swung open, he'd shout "trick or treat!" and leisurely select a piece of candy. Often he would drop his glow-sword and his bucket to grasp the new treat with both hands and make a very theatrical (but sincere) show of smelling it. "It's peach," he told one neighbor, of the lollipop he'd plucked from her bowl. At another house, he told a Skittles-proffering woman that he "LOVED SKITTLES" and he'd already gotten some... and started digging around to find it as evidence. "But I like to have two." At the next home, he insisted on showing the man giving him a Reese's Cup a box of candy he'd received it because "the superhero on the box turns into a rock." At every stop, he made sure to wish everyone a "Happy Halloween," sometimes following that up with a "and have a good night." He took plenty of time to admire the Halloween decorations. Each and every one. 

And as we rounded the corner for home, Kai slipped his tiny hand into mine and whispered, "those last candies - there's two in there - I saw the picture on the box. One for you and one for me." My heart exploded. 

Back at the ranch (converted into a contemporary home with no categorical style), 5-year-old Jules engaged in the expected candy counting. Moving at a productive pace, he'd managed to accumulate more than twice the loot of his younger brother but was acting relatively generous about it all. On a quick FaceTime with my parents he even promised save some candy to share with them when we visit at Thanksgiving. But Jules' tear-jerker moment came later, when I was hounding him to brush his teeth "after all that candy." (Cliche parent, I have become.)

The kid was sitting at the table shoving coins and dollars from his little wallet into the Unicef box. Jon joined us at the table and Jules asked him, and then me, for more dollars. Carefully folding a five-dollar bill into the slot, Julian explained: 

"We need to get lots of money so we can help people. Look at the things we can get for them with this money..." He pointed to the illustrations on back of the box. "You can get fruit bars." (Protein bars.) "Or soccer balls. And they die early. So you can survive them if you get them shots. But I want to get all the way to the water. They have to walk REALLY far to get water." His eyes were wide. His face was flushed. "They have to walk as far as it is to get to my school," he said. "And when they get there it is MUD. They drink mud. I want to get them clean water." 

I get teary—again—writing this. That kid is getting an extra piece of candy tomorrow. 

It's not always about proximity.

The memories are vivid yet totally random. Aunt Cora leading us through the dusty trails behind the Bessemer quarries. We were looking for fossils and spotted a "bear" - a big black garbage bag. A visit to their old Toronto house, the one with the awesome pool patio. Parts of this memory are so clear I can almost feel the cool linoleum against my feet in the book-packed basement that was my bedroom during that stay. Pretty sure it was the visit launched "The Mickler News," the short-lived family newsletter, copied for distribution by my dad at the steel mill.

I remember the trip to Houston to see the Marcums when I was in, I think, 8th grade. The air pressure on the airplane messed with my ears so badly that I couldn't hear right for two days. I read a book at the Astros game that Uncle Steve had so sweetly planned for us. I hated baseball. It was during my total-asshole period. And another trip to Houston, many years later, for Liz's high school graduation. The girl cousins went shopping. The boy cousins got shirts that said "security" and wore them for the party. There was plenty of pool time. We mostly all drank too much. I'd gotten the flight on Priceline at the very last minute. Fuck the budget. Family trumped finances. It was so worth it.

Still today, I can hear Aunt Mini rapping brilliant nonsense on a kid microphone in my mom and dad's basement after Angelo's high-school graduation in 1996. Hanging with Uncle John and Aunt Mini at the Johnson Club after Teta's funeral more than a decade ago. Mini was wearing my grandmother's fur coat (the one no one could bear to donate after she died) and a Rastafarian wig hat with dreads. Costumes, on this side of this fam, are a theme.

UB is always in costume—so I'm not sure why anyone was really surprised when a werewolf turned at Liz's wedding this past weekend, mid-reception. There are so many UB memories, new and old. In addition to costumes, most involve aggressive driving, chocolate, wine, dapper attire, gourmet food, relaxing jazz, runs and coffee. (In no particular order). Many involve surprise appearances. All involve multimedia recording devices. He's the family paparazzo. And the bon vivant. He's also the one with the crazy eyes—and the coffees—pictured up above with Aunt Mini.

Except for my Uncle John/Aunt Janet/Cousin Sam, the members of my mom's immediate family have always been at least a six-hours drive away. Yet my connections with this crew are incredibly close. Is it effort? (Probably not - I'm not that good at keeping up, honestly. UB gets the award for effort. Sister Kate comes in a close second). Must something else, like, we all got big chunks of the same DNA. Or something.  I wonder. For a bunch of people who grew up on all different corners of the country, we seem to share a lot in common: there are a bunch of talented musicians (I am not one of them) and another group of people who work in helping fields (nurses, therapists, etc.). There's sizeable group of  loud, like-to-dance types (I fit in there). Overall, we're an emotional bunch. Maybe that's it. I just don't know. But we really, really like each other—or so it seems to me.

Maybe we're just lucky.

There are limits.

I've written lots of magazine stories that would seem to suggest you can create energy: by eating strategically, going for a walk instead of another cup of coffee, sniffing invigorating scents. Bullshit. Today—today—I'm going with the laws of thermodynamics, straight-up.  Sorta. I kinda think energy can be destroyed. Here's how:

• Wake up late to two dueling iPhone alarms, both downstairs. There's a kid in our bed lying perpendicular between us, forming a perfect H.
• Digs circles. Olive slithers. Demanding food and love. The aroma of coffee wafts. Thank God.
• Breakfast battles > dressing drama > out-the-door dawdling.
• Dentist > deliberations > discussions.
• Kid pickup. Disturbing report. (All is fine but WTF?!?).
• Championship softball game; little "fans" snake through mounds of dust while I stand sentry waiting for a foul ball to knock someone off. It's not like I could catch it. (All the time others were developing hand-eye coordination, I was doing handsprings, aerials, plies. Dammit.)
• Herding humans > mud-room strip-down > naked parade/pet feeding > one-minute, assisted showers. PJs.
• Dinner making > dinner eating > dinner clearing.
• Dessert demanding. I succumb. 
• Teeth tending. Kid TV. Books. Back-scratching.
• Him: "Tell me a story...." Me: "I can't. My brain doesn't work anymore. 'Night."

I imagine the inside of my head an iPhone with too many apps running at once. Battery's draining like an emptying tub. All to do is reboot.

My old-author self would tell me to go lace up those new minimalist shoes (half off, perhaps due to their John Deere hues) and get down to the basement for a workout. Common sense would send me to bed. Instead, I pour myself a glass of Cab and ready myself for a date with Cary Agos. Done.

I can live without an itinerary. Sometimes.

August has been amazing: it's the first we've been home with no where to go. And after so many full or partial weekends away, two days of no-real-plans felt luxuriously spacious.

Maybe we should be working on the house (starting with the floor pictured, above and below)... or spending long, epic days on the lake (we've managed to fit in just a few short situations). But all I really want to do is meander and socialize. I want lazy, laid-back days but ones that feel rich. And this weekend, that's just the way things worked out.

A surprise (it'd been raining all day) Friday-night dinner at the truck stop meant not having to cook, running into lots of friends and happy boys.

Saturday morning, Kai and I were scheduled for a date while J & J kayaked. I'd planned to do something, um, awesome (you gotta work hard to stay competitive in the cool-parent game when you're married to Olin) but as it turned out, neither Kai nor I cared about leaving the compound. So we sat around in PJs (and costumes) watching Care Bears on the iPad, reading books, and painting our toe nails. An old friend, in town from Providence, stopped by. I met Ri to run along the water, then we grabbed iced coffees and took a spin around Anjou. We went to Shelburne Farms - twice - during off, peaceful hours. Jules and I made a cherry pie. There were two delicious dinners with amazing friends... ones where the whole fam had fun. And none of this—NONE  of this—was planned by Friday at 5.

It unfolded and we rolled. A beautiful thing.

(Update: I just realized, when I hit publish on this post, that my Grandpa Bill passed away 25 years ago today. I have so many great memories of these sorts of simple-spent days—baking, hanging, talking, eating—with him.)

I am capable of feeling content.

I've been meaning to start a new blog.  I've been meaning to ... blog. To write anything not work-related really. And, actually, inspired by Christina, I was planning to write—just one graph—every day for 30 days starting August 1. Today is August 5. First entry.

Today, J is 5 1/4. Today, I am 37 2/3. Today, Digs is 10. All born on the 5's. I think: surely there's a reason for this connection. And then I think... how do so many 5's pass so quickly? I'm prone to over-thinking, prone to nostalgia, prone to bat-shit-crazy ruminations when hormones and circumstances align in just the wrong way. Luckily that's not today.

Today, I felt compelled to capture my contentment because feeling comfortable standing still, absorbing the awesomeness of what is, happens rarely—if ever.

But as I watched the boys sing happy birthday to Digs...  a typically shirtless Jules presenting him two scoops of cake batter ice cream (his once-a-year treat) on the family's special-occasion scarlet plate...  Kai shimmying, snapping and beaming million-dollar dimples, I was gratefully present... celebrating sweet Demps and two little boys who recognize, much as we do, how incredibly awesome our decade-old Digs is.

Fresh starts are invigorating.

Happy September 1! I love the fall. The air smells great. The light looks pretty (think: ambient lamps versus overhead CFLs). For me, the sensory experience of fall is so awesome that, during the months of September and October, I can run more than 3 miles sans music and not feel like I'm going crazy.
Then there's the fashion. I prefer tights and boots to shorts and tanks any day. (Need inspiration for fab fall fashions? Check out LOFT's The Now campaign--spearheaded by my bestie HT!) But the thing I like to shop for most in fall? No doubt: School supplies. (Yes, I'm 35. No, I do not go to school.) Check out this sweet new "Tomorrow" planner I just ordered from Poketo, on a recommendation from Daily Candy:

How to fill in the sentence "Tomorrow _______"? ... "is a new day."
Or "is another day." Hmm... I think #2 is more inspiring and Zen.

For me, new school (okay, office) supplies represent a new start: a clean slate, another chance to commit to things that "improve my performance" (wow, that sounds really ambitious in print, doesn't it?),  things that make me happier. And while I don't have data from a clinical trial to prove it, I suspect that this phenomenon has his some sort of genetic basis. Jules started preschool on Monday. It's at the same place as his "daycare" with many of the same friends and teachers. But the little guy is in so many ways mini version of me (but with blond hair, blue eyes and, um, boy parts) and this new start seems to have motivated milestones--potty success!--and increased independence all around. Today, he dressed himself, topped off his outfit with a baseball hat, grabbed Kai by the hand and ordered, "It's time to go, Kai." When Jon tried to help him with his backpack--daycare is a drive away, so Jules wears it just to walk to the car (love!)--he shooed him off, saying, "I got it, Dad." Dad.

Anyway, today I'm starting a list of fall resolutions. My top 3:
1. Wake up earlier.
2. Run 3 times a week and get back to the weekend long runs that empower me to sign up for a 1/2 marathon (okay, a 10K) at any time.
3. Prep as much of the next-day's dinner as possible the night before. (Or simplify and plan to serve healthy dinners that take, like, 5 minutes to make. Whole-wheat raviolis...)

Now. Do I start my new planner today--or wait until my old one runs out in December? And do you have any New (School) Year Resolutions?

-Nicci

PS: As I occupy this blog with trivial musings, so many people here in Vermont and elsewhere are struggling with new starts forced by Irene. Donating to the American Red Cross is a great way to help. Or Text FOODNOW to 52000. The Vermont Foodbank will help turn your $10 donation into $60 worth of groceries for local families in need. (This was the first time I've ever donated via text. It. Is. Awesome.)

Using your children as an alarm clock has limitations.

With two young boys in the house, there's little danger that Jon or I will sleep beyond 6:30 a.m.  In fact, our typical wake-up call is even earlier, sometimes around 5. So what's the point of setting an alarm? Today, I learned--admitted, really--that there are several benefits of beating your kids awake. (And by that I mean waking before them, not slapping to rouse them from their slumber.) Here are my top three:

Time to shower. For people like me who mostly work from home, a shower, one might argue, is optional. Generally, I am not one of those people. Getting doused with water in the a.m. wakes me and makes me feel normal. But in getting the boys out the door, I often don't have time to shower, so I take the boys to daycare looking like, well, I just rolled out of bed. Because I did. When I come home, I don't shower then either. I convince myself that I have too much work and that I'll shower after I run. But then... I convince myself that I have too much work to run. Or shower. Boys come home. I've not showered. This is not good for morale.

Time that could be used to, say, unload the dishwasher. Or something like that. No one who knows me well would EVER describe me as a neat. (But I AM organized). Still, a certain kind of chaos makes me crazy. I'm not sure where to look or what to do next. Here's a photo of a corner of my kitchen. It's just the tip of a very messy "iceberg."

Yes, that's a disposable camera with film.
What is it doing up there on the shelf? Good question.

Clean clothes. Actually. I have a lot of clean clothes right now. In baskets all over the house. Because I'm waiting to put them away. You see, we're leaving again this weekend and I'll put them away when I pack. Perfectly logical, no? Also, I need to switch out the boys' clothing: In Julian's drawers are size-2 cords. He wears size 3 and it's summer (read: we haven't worn corduroy since, oh, March), which means... WE'VE BEEN LIVING OUT OF BASKETS FOR MONTHS.

Writing this is actually making me feel like horribly unorganized, but I will say this: yesterday, after work/school, I played baseball with Jules and tried to teach him how to stand up from a somersault without using his hands. Kai and I sang songs and danced. After the boys were in bed, I had a glass of wine with two friends. I chatted with my dad on the phone. This morning, both boys were dressed in clean, matching clothes appropriate for the chilly weather when I dropped them at school--where I leisurely helped them settle in and put away their healthy, homemade lunches.

I hope that my boys will look back and say, "Yeah my mom worked a ton but she played with us all the time and took good care of us." Will I feel like I've failed if they add "And she was a total slob"? Maybe. But I think waking up 30 minutes before they do is going to solve all of my problems. (Half full perspective here... )

So. Anybody have a great rec for a super cool-looking alarm clock that will charge my iPhone?

Losing your Grandpa is really, really sad even if he lived a long and healthy life.

This morning, my Grandpa Patsy passed away. He was 95. He was a smart, funny and kind man.  He grew impressive gardens. He never forgot a name, a face--or a good hunting story. He was a devoted husband, father, grandfather and great-grandfather (who needed three hands to count his great-grandchildren). He drank his coffee with lots of sugar and loved animal crackers as well as macaroni. Randomly, what I'm remembering at this particular moment is how, when I was a little girl, he used to "carve me sticks" (shave the bark off of small branches with his pocket knife) and give me peppermint gum. Love you, Grandpa Patsy!

August 2010: Kai meeting Grandpa Patsy (Papoo).