Summer AurtFest

Our breakfast nook, which felt super claustrophobic when we used it as such, has been redesignated a play space for our kids, or, as our eldest daughter claims it, "My Office." She is prolific drawer and colorer (and paper user!), to the extent that on certain days it appears she is simulating a child-drawing assembly line and must keep up with the conveyor belt Or Else. Days like these she can produce up to thirty works. Days like these I send many masterpieces to the recycling bin.

Earlier this month she began absconding with the tape and hanging her drawings all over the walls and windows. She made a sign declaring the assemblage her "Aurt," and proceeded to add more:


Then she and her cousin attended a week-long art camp hosted by two former students, which inspired her to invent her own, and she posted the following notices on our water cooler:

Not unlike the elaborate Castle-with-Princesses-and-Polly Pockets-and-Jewelry complexes she has created in her bedroom, the Aurt Installation creates that parenting dilemma: how long do we let the show run before dismantling and cleaning? When will taking it down not completely piss off or crush her?

Hard to say. So it stays. Even though, to my critic's eye, this series of scribbling and dribbling of water and then smudging of ink is not her magnum opus.

Speaking of Married Couples...

Here's my three-year-old, C, and her almost-three cousin, P:

C: (calmly, hands on hips) I am very, very, very frustrated to you because you have my favorite book about Ariel.

P: But I want to read it.

C: Can I trade you for the Cinderella one?

P: (frowning, considering) Yes.

C: I love you.

P: Now you can come to my birthday party.

Our Better Selves

It's been hard to ignore the character who's been getting all the press lately, who's been dominating the tabloids, who's been taken to court, whose reputation is at stake, over whom Americans are fighting for custody: You know, Marriage.

That poor institution. As gay couples fight valiantly for the right to adopt it, well-known heterosexual pairs are abusing and abandoning it (and claiming, in effect, that homosexuals wouldn't be fit guardians). Sheesh.

But I've said my piece about gay marriage. It's Generic Lifelong Commitment that I want to riff on today.

You would have to live in the Unabomber Shack to miss all the gibber about South Carolina's governor Mark Sanford, as well as Jon and Kate, and I have been thinking about them...mostly about the governor, since I haven't watched our generation's reality version of Eight is Enough (enough already?), and Mr. Sanford appears to be unable to muzzle himself on the issue of his "glorious" mistress.

And to bring Love and Marriage even more to the fore, I've been faithfully watching (I'll confess: faithfully! With nary a dalliance!) The Bachelorette this season; last night I went out with my sister to see the film Away We Go; my husband and I had a wee row one week ago. Someone's telling me something, and I think it is: It ain't easy, sister. Persevere.

Perhaps we could all use the reminder. Away We Go's main characters, expecting a baby and anchorless, head out in search of a new hometown and a family to model their own burgeoning one after. In one of the more poignant moments of the movie, the couple is sharing a meal with some old friends who have adopted four children. The father explains to his visitors that it takes more than shelter, parents, child, to create a home. In what has the potential to be a sickly sweet scene, he pours syrup over his makeshift pancake shanty to demonstrate how love binds it all together. But, he emphasizes, marriage--and parenting--takes "patience, consideration, and our better selves." His wife sighs, adding, "You have to be better than you ever thought you could be."

There are plenty of wedding vows which expound on the notion that one's partner makes one a "better version" of oneself, but the responsibility really lies within ourselves to figure out how best to be our own best version. On The Bachelorette last night, independent, self-possessed Jillian verbalizes her sense that amiable contender Kiptyn might just be a little too...nice for her. Citing her parents' marriage, in which her mother "wears the pants a little too much," she prods him, "I need to be sure that you wouldn't let me get away with whatever I wanted. That you would tell me when I am offside." Kiptyn seems to get it: "You need someone to call you out."

The question remains, would Kiptyn (you know, back in the Real World) tell Jillian to back off when she's overbearing, or would he shrug her off and shrink away, a la Jon Gosselin? And who's to blame when it all falls apart?

This is familiar territory for me, as I myself married a Nice Guy. And I will maintain 'til death do us part that he's the man I need, but I will also maintain that there are times I could use a swift kick in the rear and I don't get one from my good-natured husband. I can be a bossy sort, you see, albeit one who responds well to behavior modification. But I too was shocked and awed when my husband called me a "ballbuster" last week (I can't even capitalize it; that's how ouch it was). Okay, but as much as I wish he would nip my bossy in the bud, versus allowing it to build up to blurting that archetypal bitchy wife appellation, the point was not lost on me: Be nicer, Fer. Chill.

So I try.

Because I love my husband, and because I want to be a better version of myself. Because this is as good as it gets--I know, I know...some people divorce and remarry and are much happier, healthier, "righter"...okay. And if you're abused and you're a shadow of your former self because your partner does not let you grow, and you've tried...you know? I don't know. I don't know any marriage besides my own, but I think trying is what most of us have to do: Keep trying.

Because, frankly, I am fearful. And fear is what I fear too few of our fellow marrieds feel when they philander. I have a healthy fear of losing All This, and of Hurting All of Them. Why politicians don't feel that fear of losing All This That is Family, and then furthermore, don't fear losing All This That is Career, I just don't get.

I don't drink and drive because I fear killing people, but also because I fear (excuse the language, but it seems appropriate here) Fucking It Up. At what selfish, stupid point do people stop fearing Fucking It Up? At what cost? Yikes.

I think the Indigo Girls said it best: "All the shiny little trinkets of temptation/something new instead of something old/All you gotta do is scratch beneath the surface and it's fool's gold."

No one said it was easy; no one said it would be this hard. But I'm convinced it's worth it.

Best Week Ever

Seriously, I get off work, and look: we're on hiatus. So sorry.

But truly, we have had Good Family Time. Husband's only week off work was this last one, so we attempted to do more than snatch time to ourselves by passing off the progeny to each other and actually accomplish Mandatory Family Fun.

Some glimpses of the week:

1. Sunday evening at Nighttime Zoo, where our budding first grader was a contender in the Hula Hoop Contest...until her sister bumped her hoop and it was all over. You should see those hips! They barely wiggle.

2. A return to The Fair, and The Pig Races, of course! Highlight of the Pig Races: this year's Swifty the Swimming Pig actually jumped FAR into that pool/trough, after pooping and peeing admirably to crowd cheers pre-dive.

Lowlight of the Pig Races: as we waited for the action to commence, our charming three-year-old repeatedly kicked the woman in front of us as well as harassed her older sister, and then, after being moved to my other side, yelled, "NOOOO! I don't want to sit next to that Mean Lady!"

If I could have yanked her out of the Pig Races Stands without pissing off more people on the way, I WOULD HAVE.

Another highlight of The Fair: my friend who accompanied me with her two kiddoes, who hadn't been to The Fair more than once herself (in her Entire Lifetime!), wanted to try the most outrageous Fair Food available. And I was like, "I'm in!" So we wound up sharing a Deep-Fried Jelly Donut Chicken Sandwich and some Buffalo Potato Wedges with Bleu Cheese Crumbles. Verdict? Hate to say it, but Not Worth It. There's yummier-tasting unhealthy food off an exit near you.

3. Repair of a Regrettable Haircut: I seem to have finally learned that Free Haircuts or haircuts at places that are nearly free are not worth it. Adding layers to my long hair left me Metallica Groupie and mullet-like. First, I cut off an inch myself. Then I paid for another haircut. And the real reason for all this last-ditch cosmetic work:

4. My 20th High School Reunion: There was squinting at one anothers' name tags in attempts to recognize classmates; there was dancing (I released my own Inner Prom); there were revelations; there were rekindlings; there was skinny dipping; there were 25 kids in the pool at the Family Picnic.

I learned to forgo the Tequila Shot next time (and stop pretending to lick my arm, Tijuana-bar style).

5. Annual Fourth of July Chili Cook-Off: My husband entered my family's contest for the first time with "Chili con Carne y Coronitas." My niece and nephew concocted a crowd fave: "T 'n' A Chili" (with hot dogs). My own chili ("Sweet Potato Sting") was HOT! Like, really spicy HOT! Maybe too hot to taste.

Even the kids voted in what has become a serious tradition. And my brother's chili won--I swear, by adding copious cilantro right before the tasting.

6. Family Fireworks: The planets aligned and our children were rested enough for us to take them out on our boat, anchored in the bay, to watch the fireworks overhead. The almost-full moon (a "gibbous moon," we just learned from our post-kindergartner) cast silver sparkles on the water, and our daughters were awed by the spectacle--their first time, I think, seeing fireworks close up.

This morning, Daughter #1 sighed, "Last night was my most magical night ever..."

First Day of Summer with My Kids...

...and the verdict is: BORING.

Or so says a letter our five-year-old wrote to me and taped to the water cooler this evening:

I am not Happy today but maybe I will be Happy soon. This morning was Boring the Birthday Party was sad or when I was watching Mamma Mia that was bad.

Of course I had high hopes for today, my debut into summer. Husband working, it would be just me and the girls and we would have fun, FUN, FUN! My plan was to take them to the pool--the cool pool with the beach entry and mushroom fountain.

But first, I needed to make cupcakes. That was boring, apparently, even though daughters helped me measure and stir and got to lick the spoons. And then I needed to take them to my sister-in-law's pre-pole-dancing-lesson birthday lunch party. Because her cousins had been dispatched elsewhere and she and her little sister were the only kids in attendance, the party was, despite food she loves and even CUPCAKES, sad to our little first grader.

Things went downhill as soon as we left my sister-in-law's house...whining, fighting, and general unpleasantness paired with sloppy parental response encapsulated in The Threat: We will not go to the pool if you don't behave.

Now, nine times out of ten (nine times out of ten, I am inaccurately using that tired cliche), when I threaten my children, I also recognize that if their bad behavior can be attributed to Utter Exhaustion, they are virtually powerless to control it. And when my kids are Tired and Unpleasant, I both feel bad about delivering on my threats but also know that Tired and Unpleasant People don't belong wherever we were going in the first place, like the pool.

Unless, of course, they take a nap.

So I hopefully employed the weak nap strategy called Video on Mama's Bed. Which means, kids choose a movie (Mamma Mia, really? Here we go again...), we all lie down, and I hope they fall asleep while I fall asleep reading my book or magazine.

Once in a while it works (four times out of ten?), and there is peace in the valley. But sometimes, the whole notion of curing distemper explodes, crashing and burning into Worse Than Where We Were Before. So it did today, with the girls kicking each other and then ramping up their constant repositioning into near-throwing of themselves onto the bed. Over and over again.

So I snapped that movie off mid-cheesy-Pierce-Brosnan ballad and declared that we would NOT be going to the pool.

At which point, sniffling daughter retreated to her Craft Corner to write me her note, complete with the key on the back to the faces she drew:

We're going to work on some "Yayy! Happy" days ahead.

Top of the World

Back in 2001, one of my favorite magazines, The Utne Reader, had some of their their staffers make Greatest Hits lists, which were meant to be all inclusive: events, songs, albums, works of art, phenomena, people, etc. I used that idea to formulate my own Top Ten list once and then, as a creative writing assignment, asked my students to do the same.

At the top of my Greatest Hits List are summer Boston Pops Symphony Concerts at Tanglewood in Massachusetts. I remember the summer Arthur Fiedler conducted and my parents brought sleeping bags for us; my brother and I snuggled under the stars to music that filled the night air, cozy and content in that deep-down-in-your-soul kind of way. It's not just outdoor summer concerts which top my list, but the Family Togetherness as well--memories which as a parent I hope we are creating for our own kids.

Once in a while, I get close to some of the magical moments I felt as a child. Tonight I went to the Three Girls and Their Buddy concert (with two of my buddies, natch) at Humphrey's outdoor venue on the bay (my season opener, if you will, since I have tickets to two more concerts there this summer: Joan Baez and The Indigo Girls--duh!).

The highlight of the concert was Patty Griffin singing "Top of the World." Her earnest face, sweet voice, and aching lyrics inspired silent reverence from the crowd. The best I can do to recreate the moment is offer this clip of Patty performing the haunting song last year:



"Everyone's singing; we just want to be heard..."

Least Common Denominator

Sometimes I read my old writing and cringe. Sometimes I read my old writing and it feels a little foreign, like, what an interesting word choice, Fer.

Here's an untitled poem I wrote in November 2002:

There’s something worth cultivating in this
post-season soil we sift through
for a sign,
a principle,
a basis for our labor.

Fingers scratching stone and seashells,
pottery shards, loamy chunks of clay,
we’re unearthing secrets,
sorting revelations.

What we’ve come for—
our least common denominator—
must be this seed,
nestled among
the neatly designated rows of what should be
and the furrows
of chance