girl at large

What They See

It’s been an exhausting few weeks.

My community is in an uproar over the highschool production of To Kill A Mockingbird, which exposed the school’s ugly power dynamic, ineffective school board governance, and of course, very loud obnoxious white lady style racism.

We spent a week vacationing with family up north, with all the emotional weight, good and bad, that entails. Note: vacationing with a six year old and a two year old is not vacationing; it’s a trip away, yes, but not a vacation.The school district’s survey to gain support for a $55m to $120m referendum came out (I’m part of a small group trying to get the financial facts and consequences out to the public). I somehow got myself on the Beautification committee of the PTO. There are fliers to hand out, doors to knock on and troops to rally. And parent teacher conferences were on Thursday.

Oh, and while we’re were at it we refinanced the house, with all the paperwork and worry that involves. On Wednesday, after five years of doing everything else ourselves in this fixer upper, we finally signed the construction contract for the complete gutting renovation of the kitchen and first floor. Good grief. Also, I guess I really live here now.

I’ve spent a lot of time these past two weeks thinking about what I want my kids to be exposed to, what kind of community I want them to grow up in, how my values aren’t always reflected in this village.

I’ve also been caught out a few times on my own internal village, how we don’t always live our values right here in this house. Teacher conferences gave me a glimpse of Viv’s world (all week she’s been telling her class stories of the wonderful time she had at the cottage!). I’m freshly aware of how we talk to each other as Charlie explores the boundaries of being a bossy two year old, tests out “No!”, and imitiates Mama and Papa with his dollies. I’m not always proud of what is reflected. 

But, I learn. And I grow. And when ashamed, I try really hard to step forward with new approaches instead of retreating into old habits.

In the end, when they are grown and reflect on their upbringing, I hope their view of their family is like Viv’s clandestine photo portrait of us. There we are, tired and resigned. But together, and with faint smiles on our faces. At the table with each other and not too much yelling.

We Met for the First Time Six Years Ago Today

You are six years old today, and right now you are a humid little lump sleeping next to me in Mama’s bed. “Mama Time” you call it. 

It’s been six years, but I still don’t know exactly what I’m doing. Each time I get confident, each time I get the routine down, you go and change on me. In the proverbial leaps and bounds you make your way through stages of childhood, often leaving me behind in the cliche dust. 

But I do know these things:

Your first best friend was named Julian and you greeted each other with a hug every day and cried when you had to part.

You say Gwanma. And Nonna. And have never confused the two.

You want to be a monkey when you grow up. And also a teacher. And a race car driver.

You are 100% right when you say pants with pockets only in the back are stupid.

Charlie will never have a better guide than you.

You own your Papa’s heart, and almost more importantly, his growth from a pretty darn good person to an amazing person.

You bite your nails, out of nervousness, and I worry about that. But you also are trying to quit, of your own choice, and quitting a habit is the hardest thing a human brain can do. So if you can’t, I got you. That goes for every thing. Every single thing.

 

On Rage

It's been a tough week. After yet another well-meaning person displayed lack of insight on the subject of Kavanaugh's impending appointment to the Supreme Court, I'm exhausted. Three times I said "or, it could just be enough that he assaulted someone". Three times, and still the return comment was "yeah, but also he's a drunk, and he lied, and...". Yes. I get it, all those things are also true. But why wave your hand and shoo away the sexual assault? Why is that not enough? And why, as I stand here saying to your face, very clearly, that it SHOULD be enough, can you not stop and hear me? Hear me, as a woman, as a person who is affected, who has experienced this, and take it in. Listen.

Every time you say "Aside from the  sexual assault allegations, he's also unqualified because xyz"...What you're saying is that credible sexual assault allegations aren't enough to disqualify someone from a position of power and influence. And I can't hear that shit anymore. CREDIBLE SEXUAL ASSAULT ALLEGATIONS ARE ENOUGH TO DISQUALIFY ANYONE FROM A JOB. When will we be heard? Every single time someone says "Why didn't they say anything?", this is the perfect example. BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MATTER. ALSO WE DID SAY SOMETHING AND YOU DISMISSED IT IN THIS AND A HUNDRED OTHER WAYS. Well-meaning men have been doing this kind of thing all week, and even my favorite well-meaning male allies can just eat it right now on that. Thank you and that is all.

Makes Perfect Sense

“I want a baby but I don’t want to make one so I will go out and buy one because I’ll be be rich because I’ll work at night too. I don’t want to make a baby because I don’t want to feel the pain when it comes out or when the baby kicks me. And I know it’s not really buying, there’s an orphanage or something like Oliver. Does it have to be a newborn?”

Goals

“I want to be Frankenstein for Halloween. Or maybe the Hulk. Can I get the jacket with the edges? I’d wear it with no shirt. Or if I’m the Hulk I only need short pants with the edges.”

“So, basically you want to be green in torn clothing.”

“Actually, I want to be green, and strong, and mostly naked”.

Actually.

 

It Takes A Village

I got called out this week for suggesting that the monarch butterflies that survived, survived because of my care. Nope, they did not. I had, in fact, very little to do with it. For the record:

Our neighbor friend gave us a chrysalis earlier this summer, from her butterfly garden. We watched it hatch and released a huge female monarch, very exciting. I thanked the friend, and mentioned that I planned to plant milkweed so we could maybe have some monarchs of our own next year.

Sure enough, a few days later she dropped off a milkweed plant for us to have! It was in a temporary pot, so I plunked it on the shelf and mentally scheduled its planting for “later, after I do all the other things like getting the toddler to stop yelling ERNIEBERT ERNIEBERT ERNIEBERT at the top of his lungs”).

I was working at my sunroom desk one day, when a huge fuzzy caterpillar suddenly appeared on my keyboard and scooted his way across my work. What the?! Turns out the plant had eggs, and now a few warm interior weeks later, we have four caterpillars!

I put the plant outside, complete with it’s four new tenants and called Mom. I had no idea what to do, or frankly if there was anything required to do except put them outside. I’m a naturalist. I naturally think all living things belong outside, you know, with the nature. Don’t they figure it out themselves?

Turns out, there’s more to it. In order to get caterpillars from fuzzy worm to chrysalis to butterfly in large numbers, they need some protection. The next day, when I got home from work, I saw that Mom had brought over a monarch box and put the caterpillars and milkweed stems inside their new safe little habitat. Mom MADE the monarch box, with the monarch group at the senior center because you know, she’s lived here half as long as me but knows everyone and does everything and is the queen of the village. 

All is good. Until the hungry little buggers eat all the leaves, stripping the milkweed to nothing but stalks. Mom knew this would happen and had already rallied the troops. Her darling friend Julie brought over some of her own milkweed leaves, taking the time to deliver them to mom before she went to her own family outing (!). 

Cool, crisis averted. So in the evening, I put the box up on the table on the porch to better view the creatures and see when they attach themselves to the top and start their metamorphosis. And I go to bed, and to work and to bed and to work again and think nothing of it.

Mom scolds me after she moves the box from the exposed table top to the floor, and puts a plastic cover on the top to protect it and its delicate inhabitants from the howling storm and three days of rain. Oops.

Now safely sheltered, they do their acrobatic cocooning thing, and dangle for another ten days in the corner. We count only three chrysalis, the fourth probably lost to the weather. As Viv nonchalantly said “it’s probably dead”. 

Fortunately for us, the monarchs appeared over Labor Day weekend, so we could enjoy the sight as they unfolded their glorious wings. And during the only bit of sunshine we’d had all weekend, even better.

So, there’s the whole story. I take no credit for the successful hatching of these monarch butterflies. As I said, it’s a miracle they survived me. 

What a lucky bunch of bugs we are.

Uh oh, I’ve Got Another One

Two-year old Charlie is talking, waddling, and goofing his way through toddlerhood.

“I love you Charlie”

“I love you too, Mama”

“Charlie, where does love come from?” (This is reference to a favorite bedtime book, I expected a hand gesture over his heart).

“Right here, from my butt”. (as he pat pats on the front of his diaper)

 

Peanut Butter and Jelly

Viv and Charlie are becoming a unit. Now that Charlie is two and finally walking as much as he is talking, they are interacting more than ever before. Viv has always enjoyed being a big sister to babies both real and imagined, but now she also has a playmate. A cohort. A co-conspirator. And another analytical mind to meld with.

Mama: “You are so cute Charlie.”

“No, I’m not cute, I’m Charlie”.

Mama: “What’s that (stuffed) puppy’s name?”

“Puppy”.

Mama: “Oh, and what about that puppy, what’s its name?”

“Other Puppy”

 

Fuck Whales, Save Context

This topic of this article is really important. I’m only beginning to understand.

https://www.vox.com/2018/8/3/17644704/sarah-jeong-new-york-times-tweets-backlash-racism

Fuck whales, save context. This article and others I’ve read related to the story (with a variety of views) of Sarah Jeong and others makes me hope that I learn fast enough how to educate my kids on context, internet literacy, consent, research, and critical thinking. Also, art critique skills could be useful, it’s the same questions: Who is the audience? What is the intent? How successfully was it executed? How else could it be interpreted? 

The internet is scary. It’s also amazing. It’s all the things, and it’s embedded in my life.

I’ve been blogging since 2002 and posting photos of my babies and life on Facebook since 2009. Two things have given me pause lately. One, I sent a link of an old 2012 blog post to a friend and I noticed that in the post before it I had used the word “ghetto” in the title. That made me cringe. I was tempted even to change or delete it. But I didn’t; a reminder that language and understanding changes, that I learn and grow is a good thing.

Second, I was recently enjoying a fluff story trail of “Where Are They Now?” about memes and I noticed a majority of the images were of young people or children who are now—zip—adults. First, wow that was fast, kids grow up in seconds. And second, crap, what would Viv think at age 13 of some of the photos and captions out there of her at age three? Do I have a right to do that? Does she have a right to privacy before junior high?

Oh god, she’s going to have to go to junior high. Delete delete delete

Roll With It

We ran out of toilet paper. Like out out. No Kleenex, nothing hidden in the back of the cupboard, even a search of Paulie's car for the emergency travel roll came up empty. Paulie stashed a few paper towels nearby and we got on with our morning mayhem routine, noting “tp” on the never ending to-do list. 

A few minutes later, I noticed this. Viv had rolled the paper towels around the holder. Folded in half, then rolled. Thank you, Viv, for the civility.

The Sun Shines On Us All

At the beach this evening, resting my sore feet in the cool sand, I could see this scene to my right and to my left. Families, friends, kids, grandparents, daters and skaters and aunties and babies. On the walk down the bluff, I heard three languages. I spotted interracial couples and families, more than one hijab, differently abled folks, seniors, lgbtq folks, and even a lone hold out cigarette smoker. Clumps of families in every conceivable configuration dotted the beach. Hand holders, shouters and strollers shared the boardwalk. 

When the world seems upside down, when the newsfeed is unbearable, when the political divisions feel like looming civil war, remind me to go to the beach. To the beach where everyone is bonded,  where the array of humanity is beautifully broad, where everyone is there to capture the same thing—good selfie light.

A Seat At The Table

Each article, each radio interview, every profile featuring women running for office, women winning elections, women leading boards, and women leadership in general right now is stoking my rage. Why? Because the popular angle is “women are good for business”, “women do things differently so they are better” and all that lean in crap. Even if the studies aren’t flawed, even if the premise isn’t condescending, why the fuck should it matter?

Why do we need to prove our worth? Our capabilities? Our profitability? Why must we apologize for taking our seat at the table? Why do I need to convince you that my female presence is not only harmless, but beneficial to you? What if it isn’t beneficial? What if women are just as fallible and human as men? What if we get greedy, can be corrupt, can be inept, can be wrong; do we then get expelled?

Women are half the population, women are human beings, women are engines of the economy, makers of humans. WOMEN EXIST. That is reason enough to demand representation at every level in the government that rules us, the institutions that affect us and the corporations that profit from our labor.

Period. Ditto everyone that isn’t a straight white man. 

First Burning Bras, Now This

“Nice Hawaiian shirt Mom”

“Thanks, I wore it so if we’re on the news, you know, I can stand out and spot myself”.

Um, kinda not the point of being here at this march for immigrant families Mom, but ok. I thought that was the end of the topic when Paulie, beloved but daring son-in-law, chimed in:

“An old lady in a flowered shirt at a protest, yeah, that’ll really stand out!”

Brunch Market

Paulie and Viv are at the races all day, I already have two loads of laundry done and the sun is shining. Time to go to the farmers market, just Charlie and me. Or, because he has a boppie and is totally ignorable four feet ahead of me in the double stroller, mentally just me. Ahhh.

The Shorewood Farmers Market is packed. Packed with strollers, coffee drinkers, shoppers, a band. A band? A full honest god electric set up band. And there's the Shasta trailer selling waffles, the other trailer selling egg breakfasts, and new this year a vintage Ford truck retrofitted with taps to serve small batch brews. It is, of course, clad with horizontal reclaimed wood boards. A Tommy Haverford lookalike inspects the boulangerie's mobile wood fired oven, at least four booths have locally roasted coffee. Is someone roasting beans right here? There's Kambucha, empanadas, gluten-free ready to bake dough...it's endless, and not much of it is produce. There are more vehicles than veggie vendors, you wouldn't be crazy for thinking it's a food truck lot. If I didn't have the experience to know where to find the egg lady, and that a cartoon of her fresh brown eggs was worth elbowing through all that overpriced spandex for, I would have turned around.

Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy this outing, especially the chocolate croissants. But let's call this what it really is: Portland 2005.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Perspective

Time in the car with my girls, Mom and Viv, is my favorite. I certainly miss the days of road tripping alone, the window rolled down, sun on the windshield, rolling through the green summer countryside blasting NPR. But I have embraced my passengers. I always learn something.

Driving back from Patsy and Charlie's lovely family wedding in Door County--

Me: "It was so great to meet that woman whose sister babysat me back in Columbia, that's amazing that they remember! Awww, they said to say hi to Pumpkin, I always loved that I'm your Pumpkin mom." (Warm fuzzy memory of little kid me being held close to my mom, her calling me Pumpkin when I needed a cuddle)

"God, were you orange."

What?

What?

"Wait, wasn't I called Pumpkin because I was cute, it wasn't a cutesie loving nickname like honey bunny? Wait, WHY was I called Pumpkin?"

"You had jaundice! You were orange as a pumpkin!"

Posted with Blogsy

Cleverer and Cleverer

Settling in to our room: "The hotel TV might not cooperate, and your iPad is fragile, so I'll watch cartoons on your phone."

Cooperate.

 

Posted with Blogsy

And That's How

As Charlie says, suited up and strapped in, let's "rocknroll!"

Paulie likes to have all the things, ALL the things for any activity. Going for a walk might turn into a picnic so of course an umbrella and a bag of sandwhiches is standard. Going anywhere at all, indoors or out, requires a huge fleece blanket because you never know when you're going to get cold, sleepy or just need comfort.

A weekend away with the kids requires an enormous amount of stuff, which we bring in the larger car we bought for the purpose of bringing stuff, and yet here we are Sunday morning with Charlie in the last diaper. Which is a swim diaper. From last year. Paulie, where is your duct tape?

Vivi is taller this spring, and as always, a helper. I assigned her to do "the sweep" this morning as we packed up. "Did you check every closet, room and drawer?" "Yes". "Did you get everything, nothing left behind?"

"Yep, all I found was that book" (and now somewhere in my car of stuff is Gideon's bible)

 

Posted with Blogsy

Parenting Peak

It's been a spring of late snowstorms and lingering cold. Only this morning, already the first of May, does the air finally feel promising. And yet there are still patches of snow in our concrete yard. And also a large patch of standing water that Viv says looks like a dinosaur. (The mudjacking company says it looks like about a grand)

Recently one day at school, a classmate's parent forgot to bring snowpants.

Vivi said to her: "Isn't it your job to pack your own snow pants?"

My work here is done, peace out. -Mama.

 

Posted with Blogsy

All Politics Is Local. Also, the Universe doesn't care.

On Tuesday night, I refreshed my screen a hundred times, waiting for the local election results. More than ever before,  I really cared who was elected to the Village Board. Shorewood has had a lot of development in the last five years (and by a lot I mean an eight story apartment building, a parking garage, a two city block Metro Mart complex with another parking garage and then right next to that another six story apartment block--all visible from my front porch. Oh, and the cute church on my very corner got torn down for a bank-from-a-box currently under construction). I love the walkability of our neighborhood, it's literally why I moved here, but a lot of how the most recent development was done is more than the little village could handle. I'm still learning, still catching up on board meeting videos, but my understanding is that there is wide spread discontent regarding these issues: 

1) Not enough community involvement in scale, design and use decisions (i.e. That enormous building is ugly as shit).

2) Inadequate planning for traffic changes; to date there is still no village wide traffic study.

3) Inequitable facade improvement grants up to $200k from a program that was supposed to support older buildings and local business at the $10k level.

4) Over use of TIF (Tax Incremental Finding) to "get" development deals instead of letting the market dictate.

5) And of course, our taxes keep going up.

So, it's ripe for political change. The previous VB President is retiring, and two Trustee seats were up for reelection. Apparently, (and I'm only up to speed on a few Facebook group and online forum gossip mill posts), there has been a lot of discord, infighting, and trash talking between the old guard (those who created, financed, and approved the questionable developments) and the new guard (two women Trustees who surprised everyone by unseating incumbents in the last election cycles). So, that's the set up.

It made for a very exciting few weeks in this little hamlet! The Milwaukee County Executive even weighed in on our little race (with his private money) by endorsing some candidates as part of an expensive, glossy yet vague big-money political action group ad campaign. Yard signs were stolen, previous VB Presidents allegedly banned from Facebook pages, gossipy smear letters annonymously mailed to citizens...politics really brings out the best in people.

I was really hoping for change, for my three picks to win. Allison Rozek for VB President, Jessica Carpenter for Trustee and Davida Amenta for Trustee (2 trustee spots were open, and Davida was seeking reelection, Allison was a sitting Trustee running for the President spot).

At 9pm, the local news site said my gals had lost, with 100% precincts reporting. I was dumbstruck. I knew Allison was a fifty fifty chance, Jessica was safe with a second place showing, but Davida got bumped to third which meant she lost her seat. That was the worse case scenerio--if Allison had lost she would still retain her Trustee seat, but without Davida on the board her coalition for change was weakened. Davida losing was really crushing, I believed her seat was safe. But it was not to be, I was gutted.

So, I tossed and turned all night..I made mental plans for a get out the vote campaign, I was rearranging my schedule to attend every village board meeting, writing my Concerned Citizen statements, grinding my teeth...

In the morning, I checked the Facebook to read their statements. Stunning reversal! THEY DID WIN! All three of my picks WON! Turns out the local site had it wrong, Allison won by 103 votes, Jessica took the first trustee spot handily with the most votes, and Davida retained her seat with a squeaky but safe margin.

I cried. I actually cried. Now, they may all make mistakes and we may find that all the decisions the previous board made were on the up and up, but most important to me is that now we will KNOW what is going on. This new group has promised to change the way the government communicates with and involves the residents, they have promised transparency and accountability. They better deliver, because my heart can't take it!

It was an amazing morning, it felt so fantastic to get a win. There's nothing we can't do! March! Vote! Fund raise! Change is coming! The future is female! What a day!

And then I put my car in a ditch. So, thanks Universe, for the reminder.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Pat Translator

Mom has always had a language all her own, usually more accurate and descriptive then the "correct" version. Like Mark Twain and Yogi Berra, her brilliance is both profound and hilarious. The conversations during our annual Spring Break road trip were no exception.

"You know that place we were just at in Texas or wherever." (We went to Arkansas, not Texas)

"We're Americans, if we forget anything we can just buy it."

"I can't believe how it changed. Oh, that's different. Why is that there? That wasn't there before"...(She hasn't been to St Louis in fifty years)

"I'm just so glad that I'm not like those old people in denial, still driving and and not admitting when it's time to quit or time to move into assisted living. I'm not like that, I'll never be like that, I won't be that stubborn."

You need hearing aids. "No I don't."

"Do you still write on that blog? large girl or something?"  

You mean girlatlarge.com?

"Yes, that one you did about being fat, I thought it was so great that you were ok with it"

What? It's Girl At Large, not Large Girl!  It's a reference to being out in the world! traveling! being adventurous! Not about being fat! (And yes, the links you read on Facebook are that very same blog.)

Oh Mom. What a trip.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Snootypants vs Smartypants

Grandma: "Corndog? No, I've never had a corndog. That's "Fair" food, I don't go to the Fair".

Viv: "Do you like hot dogs?"

Grandma: "Yes."

"Do you like bread?"

Yes.

"Do you like corn?"

Yes.

"Hmm. I think you like corn dogs."

 

Posted with Blogsy

America's Seedy Underbelly is Your Neighbor Larry

(bumper sticker says ‘I choose the obnoxious prick over the corrupt bitch’)

Really? Who raised you? If you're daring enough to put this out there (there was also a huge Trump banner inside the garage, right next to a Jesus poster), I give you credit for speaking your mind. Also, you're evil. And not Christian.

I enjoy proof of well-to-do Trumpers; the "poor white men" narrative has always irked me because I KNOW there were just as many silent Republicans in those upper tax brackets who put him in office.

I love America. Trumpers don't own patriotism, or family values, or loving America. We spent the week driving its highways and byways, like any good country song. Everywhere we went there were faces and voices of every stripe and persuasion, for the most part all friendly. Traveling with family may bring out the worst in you inside the minivan, but out at the pumps, we are all alright. And trapped in a snowstorm in the quickimart, we are all one.

Be better to each other. Especially you, "Christian" a-hole.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Girl Out in the World

It's remarkable how a little thing can put someone at ease. Everywhere we travel Viv is assumed to be a boy, except by priests, nurses, and teachers who (almost to a person) default to "they" or some other gender neutral substitute like the ubiquitous "buddy" without missing a beat. (Is it years of practice? Working with the public? Being wrong too many times in the past?) Its a small thing, but what a difference--to engage with kids and be in tune with their kidness, not their this or thatness. When did we get so boxed in?

Viv doesn't care one way or another, but it bothers me that girlness is presumed to come in only one pink-wrapped, long haired package. (Of course, I'm conflicted. Why does it bother me when she's misgendered? I'll have to dive into that sticky emotion at a later date). Viv has opinions, preferences, and even at this young age, a "style". And by style I mean she wears and does and plays what and how she enjoys. Or as she says: "Why do boys get all the comfy pants?"

 

Posted with Blogsy

Don't Get Me Started

I made the mistake of getting engaged with the local Village Board election coming up in April.

Paulie hasn't had the chance to attend a forum or read much, so I keep him informed.

This morning was all about the TIFs, the lack of bidding out professional services, and the issues that never even got on the board agenda. One of the candidates for Village President said "I don't set the agenda, YOU set the agenda" to the forum crowd. Um, yes, actually the bylaws state that the Village President DOES indeed have sole authority to set the agenda as well as to select committee members. So, 1) misleading and pandering B) didn't answer the question which was what is your method for setting the agenda. Paulie wasn't there, so I played it out for him, word for word. Quite a lot of the forum got repeated for his benefit come to think of it.

We covered all three candidates for the two Trustee positions, and the two candidates for Village President. Experience, qualifications, positions, and of course detailed analysis of their replies to my email questions. Then there's understanding the complicated Tax Incremental Funding and the relationship between the Board and the Communitiy Development Authority and that big money transfer made this year instead of closing one of the TIFs early, and did you know they DON'T GET COMPETING BIDS for professional services? And that they don't have CONTRACTS? And there wasn't a look back clause with the developemer that got the $5 million GRANT and then flipped the entire project in 10 months for $20 million profit? And so on...

Paulie, from the shower: "Honey, why don't you just go ahead and run so I can get ready in peace some day."

 

Posted with Blogsy

Living with Pat

"Here, take these underwear, they are too big for me."

"Are you saying I'm fatter than you?"

"No, I just know they are too big for me."

Lifts up enormous granny panties (or as she used to call them, nipple huggers). Paulie could wash the car with them.

"Mom! I don't even wear these kind of underwear! I wear NICE underwear, I wear LACE underwear!" (Thank you France, and thank you Hanky Panky)

"I thought maybe, you know, period underwear!"

"You thought wrong. No."

"But I don't want them to go to waste."

"Ok, let's say I do want these, which pair did you try on?"

Looking at the opened pack of five: "Hmm, I don't remember"

So Mom, suddenly a pillar of thrift, is asking me to play underwear roulette.

Posted with Blogsy

Home Fires

In a stunning reversal, I like my house and hate my husband. Ok, so that's too strong, but I'm cranky this morning. And we're not seeing eye to eye. But, like all our marital storms, this one will pass.

What will stay, I hope, is my new satisfaction with the house. The painting continues, one room at time, through the first floor. We literally have just one painter working in the house each day, the painting company is fitting us in between other jobs. Which wouldn't be that unusual except that typically they run a crew for this amount of work---walls, ceiling, then sanding, priming and two-coating all that trim. The playroom ceiling had to be stripped of falling ancient wallpaper and practically replastered. Davis, whom I have yet to meet in person, arrives after we leave for work and leaves before we return. Our very own magical painter elf. This is very our style of working with the trades---not needing a schedule or having a deadlin has its cost benefits. And makes the drive home from work more exciting; oh the anticipation!

Adding to the feeling of CLEAN the paint has given the house, the three new light fixtures have changed my outlook on everything. Literally. I can now see just exactly how filthy, grungy, and dark the house was. Why did we wait so long? Oh right, because we needed a shower, and garage doors, and our own bedroom.

Paulie did put up all three lights. And installed dimmers. Ok, truce.

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Retro Christmas

“I want a pogo stick and a scooter and a black and red watch” -Viv to Santa

Monumental Decisions

I was not made for home ownership. I prefer to move every two years or so, changing my view of the town I live in, if not the town itself, downgrading or upgrading as needed. Despite my love of architecture and design, I have never wanted to OWN architecture. Like my love of hotels, I prefer both a less permanent and more luxurious arrangement.

 

Paulie was born to own. He was literally born two blocks from where he is currently snoring. In our marital compromise, and also in a new-baby, got kicked-out-of-our-rental haze, we bought. We got lucky; in winter and the bottom of the market, we scored a solid structure in the neighborhood we love and now today could no longer afford. (Don't get me started on the unfairness of the real estate market and how young families, seniors and modest income folks are getting priced out of our village because the recent condo developments and duplex conversion programs favor the wealthy).

 

We did not purchase, as I originally suggested, two adjacent one-bedroom his-and-hers modern apartments. We got a classic bungalow instead, complete with crumbling plaster walls, ancient plumbing, and...original woodwork.

 

In the four and half years since, I have tossed and turned and wrung my hands about one particularly thorny issue. An issue many homeowners, HGTV watchers and renovators have passionately debated for decades.There are sides.There are camps. There are blogs and articles and curses if you do, curses if you don't. Only politics is currently more divided.

 

To paint the woodwork or not paint the woodwork?

 

Finally, I decided. I chose a camp. I chose Paint. The picture rail, door frames and baseboards all got painted a smooth, clean and lovely off-white. The wood doors, windows, and dining room arch columns will remain unpainted (and filthy until the budget and time allows for stripping and refinishing).

 

And you know what? No one cared. No woodwork police arrived. Because it's my house, and god damn I can do what I want. Which is exactly what I said to myself when the property tax bill came last week, interestingly just moments before I said screw it and called the painter.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Gratitude

It's time again for the annual "What are you grateful for" proclamation. Like New Years resolutions, I don't get it. I'm grateful every day for friends and family and all the little things, like ziplock baggies, that make my life good. In times like these I'm also, depending on the day (and wifi connection), grateful to not live in Houston or Puerto Rico or to work with a-holes, and to have health insurance and a rewarding, living wage job. All those things and more---it's a given, right?

But, if compelled to select one thing I am grateful for this year, on this day, it is retail and hospitality staff.

As we careened down the hotel hallway this morning, double stoller laden with inflated swim gear, we turned the corner just as the staff meeting was released. Like a flock of nuns, the women who made our beds, and made my holiday, came around the corner in a flurry.

I spent more than twenty years in retail and service. It is flexible and rewarding, and the skills required VASTLY underappreciated (anyone running for public office should be required to have successfully completed a holiday shift). Those who go without holidays, who fit their own family traditions in between shifts and put up with the public's general shit, are my heros. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Also, about the barfy towels. I'm so sorry.

 

Posted with Blogsy

All The Little Things

 

When I wore my favorite dress on my birthday and forgot that the fourth grade teacher did "birthday spankings". He made me crawl through the "spank machine" of my classmates legs as they paddled my bottom, at the end of the tunnel he put me on his lap, lifted my dress and spanked my bottom.

 

When the gym teacher asked if I could "run with those things".

When my freshman (high school) roommate came over to my bed while I was sleeping, woke me up and made me pretend to give her finger a blow job in front of her gaggle of friends to humiliate me.

Every single time someone said "but you have such a pretty face".

When the doctor, during my very first pelvic exam, slapped my thigh and said "What are we going to do about these saddle bags?"

When the school president asked "Which one is the smart one and which one is the pretty one?"

The time the guy started to go anal without asking.

The time the guy creeped his hand over to caress my thigh while his other hand was holding the hand of his girlfriend on my couch.

The time the two male business partners started talking about a female vendor: "How could someone that good looking smell so bad" as we waited for the meeting to begin. When the next party arrived, who was male and not their employee, they stopped talking.

The time a grown man pinned a sixteen year old me against the pole on a crowded train car and rubbed himself against my backside until he was yelled at and ran off at the next stop.

Every single time someone assumed that fat is an insulator from assault and a barrier to love.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Fall Back

Viv was born five years ago, or just yesterday, depending on how much sleep you've gotten. My emotions have been heavy these past weeks, heavier each passing week as the daylight dwindles. Fall does a number on my body clock, disrupting my sleep, which then in turn chips away at my emotional fortitude. In a typical year this is a speed bump, easily countered with walks and a sun lamp. This year, I am crushed.

Viv's birthday party was so important to me; not just because we only do "big celebrations" on the 5's and 0's, but because this has just been such a crap year. A big failure at work kept me away from the kids both physically and emotionally for six months of the past year; the regret is hitting hard now. At the time, I was just heads down to power through it. Now that it's over, I look back and am newly overwhelmed with regret for agreeing to something that in my gut I knew was wrong for me. But the fear of losing my work, losing clients, losing status during such a vulnerable time overpowered me. (Anyone who experienced the financial disaster, got laid off, foreclosed, or has been on maternity leave knows this fear well). We have a long way to go in understanding how to support parents returning to work in our culture, including inside our own heads.

I think maybe, it could be possible, there's a chance...I was trying to make up for a perceived lack of attention with a big to-do for her 5th birthday. I spent a lot of time arranging and fussing and worrying about it being good enough. As luck would have it, she had an amazing time putting on each and every pair of the ten pack of Sesame Street socks that her Aunt Peg gave her. Because she's five. And it's her birthday, and why not?

As I work to build my own family, I am navigating emotions that are really the lingering shadows of emotions I had years ago. When Viv started kindergarten, I was completely blindsided; just being in a school building (and interacting with administrators) brought a wave of unexpected negative feelings. Everyone claims to have had a hard time in school, do we really have to experience it twice?

And that's just my own, small internal world; let's dive into the emotional exhaustion that is the rest of the world and all it's suffering. I am struggling to fully live the lovely moments that are my happy family life, the completely normal, mundane interactions with coworkers and customers and shop keepers and neighbors that keep happening despite the staccato reports of disaster, chaos, injury, violence, terror, and death of innocents.

How can I enjoy the innocence of these soft and curious creatures in my house without the intrusive thoughts of the random misery inflicted on others? Others so like me. And us. And this house of coffee and cartoons on Sunday morning.

Forgive me for crying. Where the fuck is the sun?

 

Posted with Blogsy

Location, Location, Location

Viv: "When I grow up I want to marry Miss Tia"

Mama: "Where will you live when you and Miss Tia are married?"

Viv: "Why not right here, this house is great!"

Mama: "This is mama and papa's house, you can't live here once you're grown up and married."

Viv: "What if you're already dead?"

 

Posted with Blogsy

My Balance Is My Own Damned Business

 
                                                                                                                                                                                 

"By a show of hands, how many here this morning are married?" "Again by a show of hands, how many of you have kids?"

This is not a family event. This is not a parenting class. This is not a working parent support group. These are the OPENING LINES of a PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S DEVELOPMENT event. Professional Development. As in business, the workplace, professions. As in growth, learning, development.

I should have had a clue from the start at my table. The ice breaker activity was answering the question "What is the best thing that happened to you this week?". I was running about five minutes behind the rest of the group (having stood outside the daycare at 6:55 am, dropped Viv off when they opened at 7 am, and then hauled across the county to attend the 7:45 am event), so as I sat down with coffee, I cheerfully shared my big win of the week. Up for a long-shot, very large-dollar project bid, a junior member of my sales team had just got word that we won the deal. When she called to tell me, I had to hold the phone away from my ear because she was yelling so loud with excitement. It was a big moment for the company, a big moment for the team, a huge moment for her. And I was thrilled to be her coach.

"So, that was a pretty rewarding win this week". Smile, head nod, next.

Gal next to me, at this moment a complete stranger: "But Kate, what was your personal win this week?"

"Um, actually, I've spent a lot of time coaching her so for me it was a personal win." Roll eyes, turn to hear the introduction of the keynote speaker. I thought, well, that was awkward, but let's see what the keynote has to offer.

It did not get better.

Line three of her presentation was "You can have it all". Um, we are all working women, and now we know which of us has kids. It's 7:55 am. We are all here. At a work event. Please, tell us something we don't know. It would factually appear that we do know how to "have it all". What even is that? That is not a thing.

When do male-dominated or mixed-gender BUSINESS EVENTS ask such questions? They don't. Don't get me started on the rambling, self-obsessed drivel that was a presentation on how she got to where she is, which is the Bench. Ok, I'll start, here's a sampling:

" A lot of women have to work these days, I mean houses are expensive. Everything is expensive". "My brother's wife raised her kids to be stay at home moms, they got pregnant young, out of wedlock, then got married and then got divorced. One got remarried, and he's very supportive and now shes back in school but shes so far behind. I mean, education is so important". "All my kids are going to college, they are going to college no matter what. Don't get me wrong, for some kids it's trade school. And that's fine. College can mean so many things. But my kids are all going to college. And I can't say enough good things about Google Calendar, it's a must."

PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S DEVELOPMENT.

Things I Learned In Kindergarten. Or, Why Working Parents Lose Their Shit.

 

Registering Viv for kindergarten was frustrating. I first signed her up back in June, at the appointed time, bringing a file with our residency documents her vaccination records, birth certificate and her actual self. Then, in July, there were forms to complete online and a requirement to upload the same documents. Mind you, that same information also had to be submitted (in a different format) to the wrap-around daycare that maintains a completely separate, though just as convoluted, registration system. Actual kindergarten is only three hours, before and after she's in a partner daycare program. In the same building, in the room next door, but everything has to be done over again and maintained in a separate online portal. And don't get me started on the auto pay that took payment for every single no-school day extra charge for the entire year all at once. With no notice.

In August, school fees were announced, but that portal didn't allow payment until after a certain date two weeks later. Then, I got notice that even if paid online, I still had attend something called Forms and Fees Day at the high school. At that appointed date and time, during the working day, I had to bring an additional two documents for proof of residency. It was at Forms and Fees Day, in my car afterwards, that I had a complete and tearful steering wheel break down.

Little did I know that that was not the last hurdle.

I received a message that the wrap-around daycare was having an open house the week before the start of school. Still trying to figure out if lunch was or was not served to the kids from the public school lunch system, I figured that was a good event to attend. I had a lot of questions still unanswered. (The school portal let me make a lunch program payment, but said no where if it applied to morning K4 classes, the daycare site said nothing at all about meals). We scrambled home from work, shoved a bottle in Charlie's face and walked over to the school for the daycare open house. Which turned out to also be a kindergarten open house/parent orientation. I was hoping to pop in and out, but instead got seated and then realized I was in for a lengthy presentation, without my phone to alert Paulie waiting outside with a fussy baby. I had missed one critically informative line in an otherwise obtuse letter in the packet received on Forms and Fees Day.

If you're still following this, no, they do not participate in the school lunch program, we have to pack a lunch. I'm still waiting for my refund.

Taking Viv to her first day of "school" was not tearful; I didn't "have a hard time" (but thanks again for asking everyone, and asking again just to give me another chance to prove I do have a heart). She's been going to daycare, which we call school, since she was six weeks old. She's had to change centers twice, each time was a bumpy few first days learning a new routine, but other than that, zero on the life altering events scale. Like previously, she had a pretty good first day.

The rest of us are hoping the school district administration takes a Lean course.

 

Posted with Blogsy

This Guy

We're having a little family do today. I mentioned in passing that I wished the garbage cans weren't so visible. Five minutes later, he's building a screen.

 

Posted with Blogsy