Heartbreaker!
I’ll probably have a first day post later this evening. But I thought you’d like to see my freshly minted 8th grader. Oh. My. Goodness. He’s too cute. Seriously, the kid is killing me.
He better keep an eye on those chucks… I might just  have to “borrow” them. 😀
Taika in Blue, Klaus Haapaniemi for Iitala
It’s still tomorrow, today. At least by my clock.
Where did my day go? There is something about recovering from a cold. I find myself racing to catch-up on everything  that piled up while I sat on the couch sipping Diet Coke with lime and declaring my imminent death.
Diet Coke with lime. Two things on that. First, it really can cure the common cold. And second, how cool is my husband for keeping me supplied while I languished on the couch? A girl gets parched declaring her imminent death! You really have to speak up around here, cause, no one’s paying much attention to the hypochondriac  couch potato with a head-cold.
Speaking of my adorable husband, he really rocked my world today. But more on that in a bit. I just want to put this sentence here so I don’t forget to tell you. He’s AWESOME!
Anyhow, I woke up this morning feeling like, just perhaps, I wouldn’t die today. I managed a work-out, a dash to the fabric store for thread, grocery shopping, finishing an order (sale #199!), plus I downed a lot of  water so you know, potty breaks.  I even found time to be distracted by a window display downtown on my way to buy cupcakes. This china was in the window so of course I went in!
I’ll confess I loitered a bit in that store. It’s full of all these Scandinavian housewares. They have Marimekko and chocolate. And really nice women working there. (As opposed to Joann’s where the people are RUDE!) And it felt good to talk to people and not have to mention my imminent death. *snif snif*
I still haven’t caught up with the laundry, though. But I’m convinced that if the gods had been drinking Diet Coke with lime they would have been smarter and Sisyphus would have been doing laundry, not pushing some dumb rock. It’s never-ending. No point in getting to the top of the  hill, people, it’s just going to pile up again.
That’s not to say you shouldn’t do your laundry. Clean underwear is next to godliness.
Me: “Uh, putting your dirty laundry basket in the middle of the laundry room floor is NOT the same as doing laundry, G!”
BW: “It is in my world!”
That child is a sassmouth!
Two things on this child. The first is, I’m actually doing ok with this transition of his. Before I got sick I meant to tell you all that. If I’m writing about it, then I’ve worked through whatever issues I might have had. “In process” stuff doesn’t make the blog. It goes to therapy or spiritual direction or coffee time with IZ. But, of course, I got sick and couldn’t reassure you that I’m really very excited to be moving into the next phase of our relationship.
Which leads me to the second thing about that child. He’s the reason I’m sick. Â The kid got this stoopid head-cold from his friend last week—but he kept on turning on the light to the downstairs movie room with his mouth.
That’s right, my uber smart, super sophisticated, really cool but slightly germaphobic kid used his germy mouth to turn on a light-switch. And you know I went downstairs several times before I was told about this nasty habit.
Me: “I’m pretty sure I’m going to die.” Â (sip, sip, mmm, diet coke)
IZ: “So, I have to tell you. Earlier tonight, as we were going downstairs to watch TV, I told the kid, ‘Kid, just go down, I’ll grab the door’ and what does he do? He reaches over and turns on the light in the stairwell with his mouth! I’m like, “KID! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” and he tells me his hands aren’t free and he didn’t want to drop his laptop, so he uses his mouth.”
Me: “Oh. To the hell. NO! He did not!”
IZ: “He did! And I told him, “I had the door, I would have got the light too!”
Me: “Kid, this is so going on my blog!”
Which brings me to my placeholder up there. I needed that because I don’t have a good segue to tell you JUST how awesome my husband.
He’s so awesome, he’s been stalking me. Well, my store. I hit 198 sales about 9 days ago; he’s been quietly watching and waiting for my 199th sale so he could go in, buy a candle for his mom, and be my 200th sale. Â I know, nice, right? Before I could stop him, there was the invoice, paid for—it’s to be sent to his mom when she comes home from her vacation. She’s been spending a lot of time on her own, because his dad has been traveling on business and it’s looking like she’ll be alone again right after they return. So, he thought she might like something nice and he’s just been biding his time to be #200. Two hundred sales! I pretty excited. Especially since, earlier this week, I thought I was going to die.
No, you may not have him. But I might loan you the light-switch licking kid. He kinda does laundry.
And good news, people. I’m going to live. And it’s still tomorrow, today. By my clock, anyhow.
I’m afraid the onset of September also marked the onset of a doozy of a summer cold! I’m just now emerging from my medication induced haze. So, let’s play catch-up tomorrow? Boy do I have stuff to tell you!
Until then, you can just gaze at the pretty cupcake. I’m embarrassed by how many photos I have labeled “cupcake” but that’s another post. Or, you can head over to Mireio and read how I was out-maneuvered by the Post Office before I fell victim of this virus. Your choice!
Either way, see you tomorrow! Be here or be square. (Ok, maybe the meds haven’t worn off just yet!)
Chamois colored roses
It’s been a weird, weird week—in an equally weird month. I miss July.
But it’s all good. Really it is. I’m finding my way, finding inspiration in the resolve. Summer is ending. But September, my friends, September always holds the promise of potential. Cool clean breezes. Dappled sunlight and lingering days. It really is all good.
What made me smile today:
Sitting on the porch with Sophie. She sits on my lap and we look out at the Columbia. I can’t help but breathe in that doggie smell and tell her I love her. “I love you more than I love some people, Sophie. Don’t tell.” Â And sometimes, she looks up and takes a deep breath of me. We were meant for each other.
Chamois colored roses. I’ve never seen this color before and the more I look, the more intrigued I am.
Long conversations, long walks, long coffee breaks. . . lingering with IZ. Sometimes, the Universe gives you exactly what you need. . . or who you need. And that more than makes up for any of life’s deficits.
Oscar, the Welsh Corgi at the top of the hill, barking to greet us as we puffed up, up, up the hill. “He’s barking because he recognizes you,” his person told us. “Just wait.” Sure enough, he began running down the stairs of their second story deck—barking and lumbering at full speed toward us.  Oscar, who usually reigns on his expanse of  lawn, sitting Sphinx like, looking regal and prim, tail swishing in recognition, was happy to see us. “Hi, Oscar,” catching our breath, “We’re so glad to see you too, buddy!”
Explaining hair products to my son. If all goes right, he’ll share my addiction in no time. Aveda here we come.
Listening to the Ting Tings tonight, as I write these lines.
It is all good, my friends.
Almost thirteen. But not quite.
Boy Wonder: “Ok, so if you have to come get me at the park. . . just, uh, kinda stand on the edge and wait to catch my eye. Ok? Because, waving is so not cool.”
It was bound to happen.  That  magic time-release pill you take when your child is born finally goes off in your body. The child you once had to remind hourly, “I’m not a jungle-gym, stop climbing on me!” now, bats away your public attempts to be affectionate. Overnight you are embarrassing. And really, you are. You’re not cool. Don’t let your fashion forward clothing or taste in Alternative music fool you. You are a mother of a teenager and by definition you are NOT. COOL.
Did I mention that this new change in status comes with a new title too? Oh yea, you’re no longer “MOM!” but “Moooother!” Which is apt. Because, let’s face it, Â it’s not your job to be cool. It’s your job to mother and that requires a keen eye at noticing all the newly established and yet completely invisible boundaries your child has constructed overnight:
When you can and cannot give hugs or advice. Hugging only when no one is looking and always at bedtime. NEVER when there is a girl around. Advice only when said child is well fed and there are NO Â girls around.
What you can and cannot call him. Only by his given name in public. Pet names at bedtime. Nothing, you don’t know who he is if there is a girl around.
Where and when you can be seen together in public. If you’re buying clothes or food or “extras” your wallet is always welcome and probably your company too. Â But, only if, you know, there are no GIRLS around.
Did I mention the new boundaries also come with fully installed land mines? Yeah, one of them is called “Not when there are girls around.” It’s not unrealistic that you will lose a few limbs in this process. Don’t worry, they’ll grow back.
This is toddlerhood on testosterone so tread carefully. Respect is  your best guide, humor your road map. But you can rest easy in one little fact: you are not alone in this. His father took that magic pill too and he wears socks with his sandals.
“Adopting Mayfair was as Natural as Taking a Breath” ~~ Lisa Kaser
Pssst: Over on Mireio there is a fabulous interview with the stunningly generous Lisa Kaser. You might want to go read it and enter the giveaway for one of her prints! Â You like free art, right? Yes, yes you do!
I’m just a little homesick today. Mostly, for palm trees—and that sensation of being exactly where I belong that I get only when I am home.Â
A palm tree stands in the middle of Rusafa,
Born in the West, far from the land of palms.
I said to it: How like me you are, far away and in exile,
In long separation from family and friends.
You have sprung from soil in which you are a stranger;
And I, like you, am far from home.
 ~~ Abd al-Rahman of Cordoba (731-788 CE) translation: D.F. Ruggles
Hi! My name is Wende and sometimes I melt down. Ok, scratch that. I melt down a lot.Â
This week I had several melt downs. And it’s only Wednesday. I thought you might like to read a list of my melt downs. You’ll either commiserate, because you too are a melter-downer. OR. You can go around feeling superior because you never melt down. Either way, I get bonus points for being helpful.
So, let’s review my melt downs. Shall we? Yes, yes we shall. You’re on my blog you do as I say:
Ok, I’m going to let that sink in. And then I’m going to tell you that it wasn’t really a scare as much as a case of bad math. I get stressed out and I forget how to count the days in a week and kinda add stuff. When I am stressed there are extra days in the week and that makes me LATE. Really, really late.
I don’t know why I got all worked up about that. But I did. It turned out better than ok and now I feel a little foolish that I let it get to me. Not as foolish as I feel for not being able to count. And I was so stressed out about meeting a new doctor that I blew through a case of Diet Coke with Lime and convinced IZ that I could use another case. So we went to Safeway which led to my next melt down.
And then I felt foolish. Not as foolish as I felt for not being able to count or getting worked up about meeting a perfectly nice human being. But pretty darn foolish for googling “heart attack symptoms in women who might be pregnant.”
In my defense, I was late but not nearly as late at my bad math suggested. And really, the late night runs for pizza and diet Coke should have been a tip off that all was normal.
But, you know and I know that cravings are a symptom of pregnancy and vasectomies do fail. Probably not 10 year old vasectomies, but I was delusional because I was late. So I bought Diet Coke with Lime. And I drank too much of it and forgot how to count and suggested too loudly in the dairy aisle of Safeway,
“You don’t think I could be pregnant do you? I mean, your little swimmers didn’t get ambitions and break free or anything?”
And that’s when IZ melted down. In Safeway. Buying me more Diet Coke with Lime. Because even he thought the late night pizza run was suspicious. I don’t even like Pizza.
. . . but here we go.
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I will admit, I’m not ready for this. I’ve re-read my baby manuals and I can’t find the chapter on “Dungeons and Dragons, cologne, and some 16 year old tart thinks your kid is SEXY.”
How do you make them stop growing? I don’t mean the constant, “Mom, my pants are too short” growing or the, “Mom, I’m HUNGRY” growing. I mean the, “Hey mom, I need mouthwash” growing.Â
No, no you don’t need mouthwash.
And you don’t need cologne either. I’ll concede the deodorant, kid. But that’s as far as I’m going.Â
Boy Wonder: “But MOM! I want cologne.”
Me: “Do you even know what cologne is for?”
Boy Wonder: “It makes you smell good.”
Me: “No! Â And you may not wear cologne if you don’t know what it’s for. Go ask your father what cologne is for. . .”
Much stomping up stairs and down stairs. . .Â
Boy Wonder: “See, I told you! He says it’s to make you smell good.” Â
Me: “Go tell your father he’s not allowed to wear it either!”
I’ll tell you why teenage year old boys wear  cologne, and it’s not to smell good. Not exactly. It’s so that GIRLS will notice they smell good. And his father should have known that as he was the best smelling teenage boy I ever knew.Â
Where was I? Oh yea, I’m not ready for this.Â
My BABY came home from his first big kid event last week ( a marathon Dungeons and Dragons game. He had been invited by the slightly older crowd and being the youngest player was a big deal.) all a twitter and a glow. Asking for deodorant, cologne, and informing me that some tart girl thought he was cute. Â
Boy Wonder: “Mom! Am I ever glad that you made me really wash my hair yesterday.”
Me: (stopping for a moment to gloat and not realizing what I was walking into.) “Yeah, see, I told you!”
Boy Wonder: “Yeah! Some girl ran her fingers through my hair and told me that she thinks I’m SEXY.”
Me: “WHAT? Wait, wait, wait. What girl, running her hands through, Â what?”
Boy Wonder: “MOM! She’s like, sixteen. She thinks I’m a cute kid. She’s not my age or anything.”
Me: (climbing the stairs to his father’s office) “Yeah, well, ‘SEXY’ isn’t a word I want applied to my 12 year old.”
At this point his father, who doesn’t know what cologne is for, is snorting laughter in his office.
Me: “What are you laughing at, buster?”
Seriously, am I the only adult in this house?
I didn’t tell him to wash his hair so some girl would run her hands through it. I told him to wash his hair because it was filthy. These little moments of parenting can have unintended consequences, my friends. You think you’re just doing your job by insisting on good hygiene and teenage girl reinforces your point and simultaneously doubles your water bill.  And I certainly didn’t agree that he could go hang out and play the ultimate geekville game for him to come home asking for cologne.Â
Boy Wonder: “So, can I have some cologne?”
Me: “No. But let’s talk when you’re 13.”
I’m still not ready for this. But I’ve bought myself 4 months. And who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll forget.
Got Cake?
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Some of you have probably noticed that I started a new blog. I know. So much fanfare from this self-professed diva, you could just die, right?
I meant to write about this a long time ago. But this week? Yeah, this week has been kickin’ my old backside. And it’s a broad target, but still, OUCH!
So, here I am, at the end of yet another week. How did it get to be Friday, again? And I thought I’d take a few moments to explain myself. In a world where more and more people are blogging in 140 and Facebook status reports, I’m expanding. I’m making space and living into the extravagance of thinking you really want to read MORE of me.
Ok, I kid a little. But I am making space. Lately I’ve been feeling cramped on Evidently. Second guessing every post, wishing I could just write what I’m thinking without looking over my shoulder.
The thing is, I’ve never thought of Evidently as a vehicle to support or promote Mireio. It has always been, and remains so, a practice in seeing beauty. When asked how I keep at it year after year, the answer is as complex as it is simple, “Evidently is a spiritual discipline.” Because I know that I will need to blog, I pay attention to the beauty that is in my life. I’m going to report back to you—and I can’t come empty handed. It’s just not done in my world.
