Date weekend!

We are heading out of town tomorrow to celebrate those five long years I was telling you about. Some one else will have to teach the boys how to share, take turns, refrain from damaging one another, etc. That some one will be my parents so perhaps some prayer out their way in in order...


Toby only ever gets to play with his stuff on the floor like this if Isaac is sleeping. Poor, sweet, testing every one of my rules and boundaries, dear Toby. He's upstairs tearing around his room during nap time as I type this. I am NOT going up there.





They are getting better at playing with the same things at the same time, but still... you have to watch out when they are off their leashes like this. Isaac is surprisingly stubborn and noisy about wanting stuff. He has developed into a shrieker. Happy squealing, anticipatory squeaking, displeased screaming. We are going to sleep until 10 all weekend.


Isaac can find danger anywhere.
Not my problem! Ha ha, gramma-grumpa!









They are alllllll yours.





I'll need phone pictures and emailed updates every hour or so.

It's not what you do...

Some friends asked me this week why I write this here blog and pony show. One answer I'm coming to realize is more and more motivating for me is that it saves my marriage. Without this I would drive my husband even crazier, and vice versa. On Friday we celebrate five years since our wedding day. People say this all the time, but I really can't believe it has been so long, because it totally has that new marriage smell. It's still so much fun.

One thing I'm personally working on lately in a very Oprah kind of way is that the day to day details of my life haven't had the sparkle they once did. I think dust and moths have gotten in. I asked J the other day what he thought was the biggest sin in his life and he said, of course, not worshiping his wife nearly intensely enough. His God, I mean, not his wife. Snort.

Anyway, back to me. I think for me the biggest sin and dust and moths are mostly shaped like worry and fear. I am a world class worrier. I remember my Grandma Norma once grabbed my hand and squeezed it and told me I would always be a worrier. I was about 4 years old, no lie. She was right, though; even her prediction made me worry. And lately I have things going on that seem to justify all sorts of grave concern. Isaac is strongly (deathly is not hyperbole) allergic to eggs, Toby's going to have eye surgery and is testing my ability to restrain my smacking hand daily. (Lookout, boy, or I'll come after you with my smackin' hand!) Also, the plague is back with a vengence and the financial world is weeping: in case you haven't been watching CNN the sky is actually falling, people. Costco had a book on survivalism on sale for $11.98. I would have bought one, too, but when I flipped it open and read, "How to Find Water in Desert Terrain" I realized we are all just incredibly doomed. Not even Costco can help.

So on a day like today when I wake up feeling underemployed, unprepared, invisible and annoyed all at once, I figure typing a few words onto the internet isn't such a bad option. It's an outlet and it saves Jonathan from becoming the customer service center for my whole life. This is not to say I'm not praying. This very afternoon I prayed out loud several times in the car and again as soon as I had locked Toby in his room put Toby down for a nap. I also tried screaming into a pillow, though I forgot the pillow. At least Isaac laughed.

So many things bug me about myself lately I can hardly stand it. I'm afraid the way I discipline will screw the kids up. I'm really tired of these 25 pounds, and feel true shame about that, then realize how vain that is and feel worse. I am being really lazy about chores and then I get grumpy because J is, too. I don't practice consistently and then wonder what the point is since there aren't going to be any more gigs what with the world ending and all. Classical music at times seems already half dead in Portland, but that's a whole other post. Maybe two.

As you can see, I have a tidy pile of junk I can use to cover up any glimmers in the good part of my day. I use this heap all the time as a distraction from my own responsibilities and capabilities. I have all this "stuff going on" so if I couldn't practice/run/study/clean the bedroom, well, I'm parenting toddlers so who can blame me?

Thing is, skipping all those things just feels awful. And I know that. I just haven't figured out how to change my behavior on any of it. So instead of getting up to go do some stuff, I sit down and write about it here.

And suddenly I feel a little better. So that's why I blog: To put off doing stuff and to desperately achieve a false sense of accomplishment. Ta-dah!

Schmack.

I tried a women's day thing at church today. It was fine, thank you. Very polite. I met two people. Whatever. We made jewelry.

My dream version of today would have involved forced group interaction, maybe making collages about our inmost thoughts. Perhaps staging a short skit. Does that shock you? It does me, quite a bit. Since having the boys I have had trouble really developing and especially maintaining deep friendships. I have some wonderful local friends, but we all have at least two kids and that adds up to a lot of distractions. Factor in the number of times each of us cancels a get-together due to childhood infirmity and there you have it. We might as well be internet dating each other.

I could do much more to foster those relationships. The most effective would be to forget about my vanity over the house long enough to just invite them over already.

People talk about juggling priorities as a parent. For us, the dilemna isn't determining how much to give our kids (answer: everything we've got), the problem is how to balance the activities we most want to fit in otherwise. Studying to love God more, practicing that old viola, moving my body before it completely seizes up on the side of the road. I've felt keenly the truth that failing to fit in all those things shorts the kids in the end anyway because I'm such a complete grumpy mess.

Every part of parenting that should be obvious keeps smacking me in the forehead while hissing, No- really, Miriam! Remember when we used to say No DUH!?


This necklace has a train charm, just to make Toby love me more.

Best. Mother. Ever.

When I went into Toby's room first thing this morning, he said "HI MAMA! I WANT ONE OF THOSE!!" and showed me some tiny little cupcakes in the corner of a picture in his Richard Scarry book which he had lugged up on his bed. He made as if to pluck them right off the page, so we ate a few imaginary cupcakes as a breakfast apertif.

Later, I took him downtown to a local rockstar cupcake shop and bought him exactly what he wanted (mini no-frosting vanilla). On the way we saw both a train AND a vintage muscle car (silver, with chrome everything) plus we sang the ABCs and had a happy shrieking contest with Isaac. We had to go to the cupcake hipsters anyway, to pick up a gift certificate my minions the Viola Society gave away as a raffle prize, but he didn't know that. As far as he knows, I love him that much.

Aren't I just the best?

I am a marshmallow.

Maybe a Peep?

I bawled in church today. Not because it's Easter and not because of the message.

It's these words, and the act of trying to sing them with a group of people:
~
How deep the Father's love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He would give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the chosen One
Bring many sons to glory

Behold the Man upon a cross
My guilt upon His shoulders
Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers

It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished

I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no powr's, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom
~
It's especially those italicized verses that make my throat tight and hurty. The fact that my husband drives straight home, gets out his guitar and figures out the chords is pretty awesome, too. This year, I have that wonderful Christmassy feeling at Easter instead. It's probably better that way, really.

It's not that we prepared especially. We certainly don't have an Easter tree, and my mom had to buy all the egg decoratin' gear for Toby to have any memory of this year's holiday at all. We did stop at WalMart this morning and snag the very last bag of malted eggs in the whole state, apparently. We didn't even do lent despite my fascination with it. I guess you could say it's a pretty distant fascination, sort of like the way I feel about people who run ultra marathons or play in the Met Opera orchestra.

It's just that I feel the recent clouds- adoption failure, new baby haze, heinous church shopping, the various infections and medical mysteries the boys suddenly seem bent on collecting- have disipated. They're there, but it just feels like life and not so much like the other.

Yesterday I watched a community come together and celebrate a violist who was killed the year I moved here. I play some of her gigs, I have the priveledge of carpooling with some of her good friends. Preparing for the concert was a heavy responsibility and I found myself cherishing all the goofy things in my hectic and lovely life. It turned out to be fun, and fulfilling and I think she must have been quite something considering all the funny stories people were remembering. Sassy. I like that word even more now.

I love Easter. God bless you, internet.

Inconspicuous Jesus

Okay, don't get mad. That title comes from a morning spent googling infant diseases and constantly coming up with references to a condition involving boy-parts. I'm not blaspheming, it's just running through my incredibly pious head. Hey, look, a picture of baby Jesus with, like, 16-pack abs! It frightened me at a Catholic church gig last month so I knew I had to show it to you immediately.

We're up against another non-negotiable problem with the church we thought we finally liked. The worship dude had a full sleeve and often pronounced things like that guy from the Decemberists, which tells me he's got to have at least some redeeming qualities. So that wasn't the problem. It was a boring theological thingamaBLEH that the pastor said in the middle of his sermon. J and I exchanged glances, zipped up our matching christian-fish-eating-darwin bible covers and backed out while hissing and speaking in tongues. Not really. We haven't sprung for the covers yet.

So I guess instead of finding a church we'll just have to start our own sect. To belong, you must like 79.4% of the following:

Mexican food (margaritas required)
Lawyers
24 or CSI
Violas above all those inferior instruments (that's a gimme- how could you not, you heathen? Also, if you say, "Isn't that kinda like a violin?" we will betray you for 30 pieces of silver.)
This American Life
Irony and/or Sarcasm

I feel like I'm forgetting something...

We're busy lately.

Mostly we are coated in play-doh, ketchup, finger paint or receipts from the pediatrician. It's a look.






Here we have Toby channeling Robert Smith. He's gifted, I tell you.

Nipper

Isaac fell asleep on my chest on the couch yesterday. Neither of my kids has ever done that so far. Actually, except in the first few weeks I've never even seen either of them drift off since they do that in the privacy of their wee little beds.

I guess this was one of those new mom moments I somehow missed over the last three years. It's kinda nice to be able to say, without a doubt, that this is no parenting hormone gush. The sweet treebark smell of his hair, the warmth and weight of his chest, the light quick snore and smushy cheek undo me.

I hope he does it again soon.

Potty Tower*

Toby still shows no interest in toilet training. He's 37 months (3 human years) old.

Today I could tell he was in process and offered to take him to the toilet. Mom and dad were visiting so he declined on the grounds that he "Wanna play." I pressed a bit, telling him all sorts of people like Grandpa and Daddy do that on the toilet so they don't have to lay down in the middle of everything and have a diaper change.

He looked at me with this one very piercing look he has, not angry but startlingly focused and quietly but firmly said, "I know that they do," in a tone that informed me in no uncertain terms that our conversation was over.

If he's going to sound like an older man it would be nice if he picked up just one or two of their habits.

*He calls the Potty Power video we got from the library "Potty Tower".

Externally processing churchy things...

I still feel really out of my zone in Portland despite our living here for three years now.

I've been thinking about why I still feel like a stranger, and I think it has a lot to do with my misperception of church. When Jonathan and I met we were part of an amazing place, with a mix of ages and other socio-economic junk. The way they did the worship music built a community unto itself- anybody could play but you had to attend a regular Wednesday night rehearsal every week. If you weren't playing that week you'd study music or theology or sit around and eat donuts, but you were, forgive the Christianese, plugged in. At the time I just assumed other churches tried to do something similar.

As if.

We went to a church here called Imago Dei for two years before we started shopping again. Toby was dedicated there. Imago is famous for being post-modern, edgy, young: Don Miller's church. We loved the pastor, we loved the idea that creativity honors and expresses our creator, loved exchanging ideas for new tattoos, we even met a handfull (okay, three) friendly people there. I just ended up feeling completely unwelcome. I tried the membership class twice. Both times somebody asked "Why would God allow evil in our lives if he's supposed to be good". The first time the question came from an emotionally disturbed girl (a girl like the girl in The Breakfast Club but without the kissing and the emergence from weirdness). The teacher/pastor person basically said We Don't Have Time for That Kind of Question. I thought, well, maybe he's new to this and just wasn't ready to go there. He was following a hand out. But when it happened again, this time from somebody who had spoken to the church several times on Sunday and was on payroll there, I had had enough.

When I walk down the halls of a church, I guess I would hope to see some people planted there. They don't have to wear a tie and shake my hand. They don't even have to say anything, maybe smile sometimes, but if I have a question or want a program or need some prayer it would be nice to not feel as though I'm messing up their clique. And if it's a staff member then my feeling is they are OBLIGATED to be nice, because it's not their church.

At Imago I served on worship, I tried the classes (including one whose teacher later said he had questions about Jesus' divinity), I tried a house church, I served in the kid check-in, and I almost served as the Women's Coordinator. I told them I couldn't do that last one because my husband's job was changing, we might have to move, we might be adopting and I was pregnant with my second kid. They said okay, we'll find somebody else and never asked me about any one of those things again. Is that community? We've gone back from time to time because there are a few people we love, but the last two times people walked past me whose homes I've been in without so much as a Good Morning.

I wasn't raised in a church, but I have come to believe it's really important for me now to be part of one. I need mentors and inspirors and I need to serve. It baffles me that God would make it so flipping hard to figure out where I should be doing that. Lots of things He does confuse me, I have tons of questions and I can't understand why it would be hard to find the answers. I've spent a lot of the last year doing my own (lazy) kind of wrestling with God, which really amounted to me not asking him out to coffee or hiring Him for any gigs for a while. He still showed me some stuff, but I figured if He was going to be all distant then two could play that game.

For about a month we've been going to a new place. The pastor is completely amazing. He includes a heaping pile of verses every time, he's memorable and humble and funny. He reminds me of our Madison pastor- a man who looked and sort of spoke like an accountant but gave sermons I remember to this day. The church seems pretty bare-bones as far as I can tell, but it's got all the essentials.

I've changed my requirements for a church. If I don't make a bunch of bff's there, I'll be a little disappointed but not shocked. If we find a way to get directly involved, great. If not, then I'm going to buckle down and focus on the teaching. Which brings me to the biggest shift in my thinking: I am the only one responsible for my knowledge of God. No church or school or study will fix the problem if I don't just do it, no matter how many verses they cover. It's like practicing. Or running. Or any of a million SHOULDs I love/dread every day.

I'm trying to thicken my skin, to look for my family where God puts it. I'm hoping this makes me feel more at home.

Don't we all...

Wish we could take a turn in somebody else's toys once in a great while?

If my head spins off...

... just give it a shove over this way, will you?

We are in the thick of Grandparent visit decompression. Toby misses the attention but doesn't know that's what is wrong, so he tries whining and being naughty to see if that helps. I imagine it does at times.

Poor little man. He's at that stage where if I said in a stern voice, "Toby, you have to eat that ice cream and then skip your nap so we can watch videos until your brains flow out your ears." He'd say, "Noooooo! I want candy canes!"

I don't have enough punctuation to show you the octaves that boy is reaching.

Pass the margaritas (and thank you, Grandparents who left the bottle here)!

And while I'm at it, can I just talk about nipples for a sec? I am seriously considering feeding Isaac from bottles for the rest of my sentence (March 24, March 24, March 24...) because he is TEEEETHING. He's miserable, I'm jumpy and miserable, it's not pretty.

That is all. (Pray for all of our sensitive bits, will you?)

Jona(than) in the belly of the fish

Fallen & pushed are not the same thing.

Sometimes people scare me. There was this one mom at the pizza-play place we took Toby for his birthday who must have fully committed herself to raising brats. Her kids were those kids. You know.

And when my mom kindly asked one of them to stop jumping on our kid seeing as he is 5 years younger and was starting to cry, he went and told on her to his own mother, sitting 50 feet away with her back turned. Brilliant mom then marches over and reprimands my mother for doing her job.

No big deal, right? You've heard worse.

It just makes it hard to let your kids out into the world, like, ever. The irony is that I think of myself as pretty permissive; I get a kick out of hanging back and watching the kids discover things and work their way out of stuff. But to do that I have to assume that the majority of the people around me understand and agree to uphold the rules of common courtesy and that is not true. It reminds me that there is evil around and it's going to get all over us. (See how fun I would be at your next cocktail party?)

Another neat story everyone probably already saw but me...

Meme me (times 20)

This is recycling at its best. Here is a list of 20 things about me.

1. I have lots of beliefs & behaviors that people assume stem from some ideological decision. Decision? Rarely. They’re just my collection of wack-a-doo preferences even though they put me in a fairly predictable box. A box in which you might expect to see me sporting Secty-hair with an ankle-length dress and tennis shoes (shudder) and holing up on a compound in Alaska with some of our closest relations…

2. I’m a vegetarian. But my Papa was a trapper in Montana and my parents raise beef. I would LOVE to go elk hunting sometime, especially with my dad. I’ll kill it, dress it, pack it out and cook it… for you! I just don’t like the texture, smell or taste of meat. (You people EAT chicken? Have you touched it raw?) When I was 13 I thought I would try being a vegetarian while standing in line for a junior high cafeteria lunch. It smelled nasty, and I figured if I couldn’t kill it I shouldn’t eat it. That’s changed a bit, a la Xena the elk huntress, but I still haven’t eaten any for years and don’t see a need to. My inlaws and Papa like to tease me about it, but they’ve been very accommodating.

3. After the elk hunting revelation it’s probably no surprise that I’m a gun rights advocate. Whoa Nelly! In my circle of friends, profession and city that makes me a freak in four languages. This past weekend on the way to a lovely chamber music gig I picked Jonathan up from a gun show where he had purchased “the least PC thing there”. Think, “say hello to my leetle friend” and you’ll be on the right track. He also teaches a concealed-carry class. Sexy.

4. I have yet to discover a children’s show worth watching. I cannot stand modern Sesame Street. We do watch Veggie Tales (just see if you can get the monkey song out of your head) but the Pirates movie was a disappointing Disney sell-out. Speaking of selling out, as I type a truly insipid episode of Bob the Builder is playing for Toby. So I’m the worst possible kind of snob- one willing to sully her brain stem and make her children stupider for the sake of convenience and pure adoration.

5. I wish I had more shoes.

6. I still daydream about a Fetique bow I tried at a dealer showcase in Aspen in 2000. It cost more than our Jeep, even back then. For a long time I had a French bow that was worth more than my old viola, but a little less than a new Jeep. I kind of hated that bow’s guts and still wonder why I lost my mind and had to live with it for so long. Lots of non-string players are shocked that the stick makes enough of a difference to justify really shelling out for one. Bows are amazing, just look at them all curvy and lithe.

7. I’m allergic to stone fruits and tree nuts. That includes avocado, apricots, apples and my favorite food ever, cherries. I was perfectly fine eating all of these (though my mouth would get a little itchy) until I turned 19. Now they try to kill me. Between that and the vegetarianism, I cook an awful lot of stuff for my family that I won’t eat and I’m not very fun for the host of a dinner party. Though I will eat lettuce, cranberry sauce & rolls and call it a feast at Thanksgiving, so at least I’m not that kind of picky. (Mmmmmm, cranberries…)

8. I am going to talk about brrrrreastfeeding (roll that r, people). I seriously had never really given it a second thought before I had kids. Did people really do this before? With the hanging bits out in midair and futzing with strangely S&M looking boob-gear and public gnawings? Life is weird. Humans!
Anyway, because of all the stupid allergies, we (by which I mean me and the ladies) breastfeed our spawn for a whole year before they get any solid food. Toby didn’t seem to mind. Isaac, however, is beside himself at 10 months of age. He eats lint and will sprint-crawl if he sees a scrap of paper. When he sees us eating he smacks his lips and all but points repeatedly to his gaping pie-hole. He trolls around Toby’s chair at mealtime like a DHS-bound Lassie and sneaks chews on the leather handles of the antique trunk in our living room. So I suppose he won’t end up with allergies but he will contract Anthrax and have strange fetishes. Sigh.

9. I love crosswords and am really annoyed that Verizon doesn’t have a NY Times app for me to buy. Lewzers.

10. I’m frugal but not cheap.

11. I love doing laundry and dishes. Seriously. When they’re done, they’re done. Clean or dirty, no in-between. So unlike practicing the viola.

12. I didn’t vote for Obama, but I still respect his office and have hopes for his time there. I believe strongly that the government is a picture of inefficiency and should be used sparingly. If that makes me conservative, fine, but I have yet to meet a political party with which I identify.
What is with people being a-holes on either side? Why was Palin such a lightning rod for anti-mother, anti-special needs anti-family ugliness? It's fine to disagree with somebody but what's up with the personal attacks? What did people really know about her? That she was on the wrong side. A colleague said of her big family, “what CENtury are we in, anyway?” and it bit me. Because if you don’t have a nanny and two kids max you are a backwards idiot? I saw a bit of anti-Obama propaganda the other day and it also made my blood boil. He is the president, and that deserves some respect. Can’t you see me shaking my cane?

13. I like peonies best.

14. My mom is a welder and my dad regularly wins his age group at marathons. I hope when I grow up I’m like them. I’ve started running 1,972,358 times. J and I have done two 10k’s and a triathlon, but the last great endeavor was 2 years ago. We have a treadmill in the garage and as soon as I am getting more than 3 hours of sleep in a row I plan to hang out with that sucker every morning.

15. Noisy places undo me, and I get wander-y.

16. Jonathan is muuuuuch more sentimental. Not in a pack-rat kind of way, but in a touchy-feely, tearing-up, giving-a-crap kind of way. He is excellent at remembering that I mentioned I wanted a gizmo three months ago when it’s time to get me a gift. I am terrible at dates of any sort and have to count on my fingers how many anniversaries we’ve had. One year I nagged him five times a day all week to tell me what he wanted on his birthday. And then the day of? I forgot until evening and was cross with him in the afternoon. When we were dating I once forgot it entirely, completely. AND, AND!, the date is part of his email address. I deserve harsh punishment.

17. I hate the color yellow. When I was sick as a kid, I told my mom I felt yellow.

18. I am secretly horrified in a nauseated way of escalators and automatons. My nightmare is a busy shopping mall with Kenny-G Muzak, a bell ringer, a big Christmas-deer-robot display and banks of escalators with no stairs in sight. And it smells faintly of sausage. So basically, Clackamas Town Center.

19. I am an evangelical Christian. But wait! I think the way the Church has dealt with the following topics has been pretty much Evil: homosexuality, abortion, art, evolution.
That being said, I can’t just leave that hanging and am going to address abortion: I am not pro-Choice because I have seen empirical evidence that a fetus is a life and because babies are now surviving from as little as 25-26 weeks. There is no question that there are situations in which it is terrible for the woman to have to carry a fetus to term, and I’m not talking about medically terrible. But how can we say that it is okay for us to encourage that choice? And how about those first weeks? After conception there is no watershed developmental moment- it is all one big fast (very very fast) cascade from there. So while you are wondering about where the line is, couldn’t we just assume in favor of the fetus in MOST cases? I am not sure I’m for outlawing abortion, but I am definitely in favor of early ultrasounds and full information for those not at medical risk who are considering one. If more information is dangerous to a viewpoint, that viewpoint is likely biased for extenuating reasons and therefore is flawed.
But I will not think poorly of you for disagreeing.
Also, evolution and creation are not mutually exclusive. Both are still mysteries of which their own proponents admit we only know a weensy bit. If you you have spent time with a toddler lately you’ll agree that dangerously nutty stage makes no evolutionary sense whatsoever.

20. Well. If you are still reading, you must be my mother. How’s our wing of the compound coming?

Aiiiiiiiiisaac

I'm not sure why he does it.

The thing about parenting a nine-month old is that you can't take their word for anything at all. They could look perfectly fine and be hiding some horrible disease. I watch House. I've seen how a little tic here or an out of place cry there could be hiding an allergy to air or somesuch.

So when he wakes up at 11:15, 3:30, 6 and 8... well, it's confusing. He used to sleep. I remember the days, sweet and carefree and smelling faintly of milk and honey. (Not that he can eat either yet.)

It makes me sleepy and incoherent. And irritable. And prone to not blogging.

I'm not dead yet...

This is the price I pay for saying we don't really get sick very often. I've been sick for an entire month, and now know the intimate disgust that is a sinus infection. With a bronchitis bonus! I finally went and got some druuuuugs and I'm much better now.

The first day we were all feeling better (Isaac's got it, too) we decided to drive downtown since it was Toby's third birthday and ride the train. And Toby threw up all over the car, bless his little heart. Ironically I was telling J on the way in that I needed to ask the pediatrician what it means when he complains that his tummy hurts. I'm pretty clear on that now.

So that's where I've been. Look what my awesome Montana parents sent:
http://www.rhchurch.org/pages/cardboard-testimonies/

It helped me further clean out my works by giving me a good bawl, and I am not prone to that kind of thing.

Mmmm, bread.

Funny how the most joyous, prettiest time of year sort of rubs my nose in the fact that I have a lot of work to do on savoring the truly important.

Sometimes I just stuff myself with bread instead.

So, I'm heading off to enjoy my people.

Snow week

I can be totally smug and annoying about having grown up in Fairbanks.

You have to give me some credit for living up there through high school though, right? At the time we kids jumped at the chance to possibly sacrifice our extremities in order to wear penny loafers sockless at -60, just as God intended. Nobody complained much. Even the adults carried on as though we were living someplace habitable, allowing the formation of a football team for about 2 games before the field was flooded for its real purpose as an outdoor hockey rink. It was them, not us, who announced an Aloha Day each year in January. Don't tell me they couldn't see that prank fire alarm pull coming. Must be they secretly enjoyed seeing the cheerleaders lined up outside at -40 with nothing but their coolness to keep their flip-flopping hula-beskirted butts warm.

As I was saying, I can be insufferable about the winter weakness of Portlanders. Who can blame me when they close school for an entire week for four inches of snow received on Sunday? And the news weather men? Well, I myself have never actually seen the producer stuffing their pockets with promotion dough whenever they declare a "snow EVENT", but I'm pretty sure I can see the dollar signs reflected in their petulant eyes.

This week, though. This week those ninnies were right.

It snowed a bunch and it stuck. Both snow events (I'm picking up the lingo as best I can) are rare here. Then it sat still and developed an ice crust and then this stuff fell from the sky that called itself rain, but it was 24 degrees out so it just mated with the ice crust and multiplied. That was fun, big crunchy steps made instant jagged daggers Toby kept calling strawberry pizza as he shoveled it into his mouth. Whattaya know, weirdo genes do make more weirdos.

So up to this point I was traipsing around town, making up reasons to drive around and ridicule others. The malls were practically empty, which is my favorite flavor. But then it snowed again. And again. And now we have, like, over a foot of snow with a hard layer in the middle and I am going to have to call Uncle! and say, yes, Portland, this has indeed been the Winter Snow Event 2009.

And then he actually ASKED to wash his hands...

Toby's Year-end Round-up

It's very odd, this sensation of being totally smitten and completely frustrated with somebody at the exact same moment.

He's so amazing, and funny. He'll repeat anything you say and we do like to use that for all it's worth, a la this (slight language warning).

He's also contrary right down to his marrow. Yesterday I told him out of the blue, "Sorry buddy, no more hugs today," and you and guess who got a big fat awesome running toddler cuddle pronto.

Today we had an eye appointment. Turns out they upped the scrip again, and if that doesn't fix the problem then it's surgery time. And you know what really bothered me most about this whole morning? The two tantrums and unmeasurable decibels of whining that went on in front of two opthamologists, one tech and two nurses. Is it wrong to be embarrassed by a toddler? Does it matter whether it's right or not? Can I send him to military school only on select days?

I think parenting makes you let go. Of ideas of yourself, of images of yourself as a parent, of your selfishness and self-centeredness and of your time and money. Maybe the difficulty with Toby lately lies in me.

Or maybe he's just incredibly clever and wants to find every last one of my buttons. He likes buttons. I hope I don't show him my frustration too often, and I'm pretty sure it's because he's generally mellow that his less-fine moments undo me so quickly. Man, am I happy to know about the concept of grace because I need a buttload right now.

My Budget Plan for 2009

Here's a quote I put on the back of a photo in our Christmas cards, and I am sticking an extra one in my wallet to remind me not to spend all my money on junk because then when I pull it out for some cute turtle I'll be sad to realize I've only got lint*.

"The very nature of Joy makes
nonsense of our common distinction
between having and wanting."
~C. S. Lewis

Toby is eating snow and Isaac is wishing he could. I am just thinking, Man, I wish we could figure out a way to get J in this picture without digging out the tripod.



*Anybody else old enough to remember that educational cartoon, yo?

Isaac's Year-end Round-up

Isaac has been teething. He's had two big teeth on the bottom, perfect for all his lucrative exploited child modeling contracts. Now, he appears to be adding on in the upper story. Poor dude attempted to eat our entire couch the other day.

I think he's more adventurous than Toby was. He gets himself into the strangest trouble. A few months back we broke a wine glass and even with both of us cleaning it up I almost lost my mind the next day when I looked up to see him start to gum a largish shard. Somehow no blood was shed.

Tonight he made his distress sound (kind of like a dust-buster's whine) when he got himself stuck under the train table. As he ramped up into the "no, really, I'm in pain" octave, I sprinted over and pulled out the drawer to extract him. Turns out he was sort of half stuck in that drawer, so when I pulled it forward his head smacked right into the table's edge. Some rescue, sigh. Parent of the year moment, right there.

Lucky for me he's an easy boss. Lucky for him he figured out how to sleep twelve (12!) hours just after Thanksgiving and has not backslid at all. We were this close to shipping him off to a nunnery.

Actually, at my last recital I played this incredible piece written for voice by Samuel Barber and the text was all based on a vision of St. Ita about Mary's nursing Jesus. Talking about breastfeeding the creator of the universe seems kinda creepy or maybe kinda Hindu, but the text is pretty cool. I know the words don't exactly come through the viola so much, but I do look at it and I usually read a bit of it when I'm performing.

My fav line: Infant Jesus at my breast, Nothing in this world is true.
There's a version on Youtube of everything these days, ain't there?

I am feeling very sentimental at night when Isaac's getting settled for bed. I guess I will miss this season... he makes little hummy sounds until I sing him something. He also giggles if I lift his feet & drop them, and bats away my hand if I play with his ears. They're hard to leave alone, who could blame me?

Almost ChristMishmash

Okay, the holidays are screaming through our calendars and I haven't had a second to think. It's just the way it is for musicians, or at least for musicians who want to buy stuff. Here are some things I've seen in the last few months that I'd like to either remember or forget.

A very bad Messiah bass singing with the face of a perpetually stunned fish.

A wind player who laughs with no sound except rushing air. And it's oddly loud and usually pretty long. Maybe it's some kind of fancy diaphramatic exercise? Everyone looks at their feet kinda when she does it, because she's a nice person with a strange laugh.

Toby declaring "I think maybe Isaac needs a nap" when he was only crying because Toby pushed him.

Toby spontaneously patting Isaac's head and saying, "I love eeyooou." He always uses his really high-pitched voice to say that.

Isaac growling & clicking his tongue at my Mom. They have their own special language, those animals.

A conductor who turned completely away from half the orchestra and then couldn't figure out why we didn't follow his strange tempo adjustments. Somehow I did not find his shoulderblades musically inspiring.

A very sweet slightly challenged man trying to give me and my pianist a copy of his paper after a recital so we could read the article about animals he had found interesting. This man (white, mid-40's, glasses & plaid shirt) had salt & pepper hair with a trim beard and a few long fat dreadlocks hanging down his back. They looked like afterthoughts, and I'm pretty sure they just kind of happened to this guy. Otherwise until he spoke you would have thought from his look that he was a professor of geology or an engineer.

An empty spot on my calendar... this Saturday! We are going off the grid to mangle us up a tree.

Step ball change, LEAP.

We are touching down occasionally in our own home lately. Between out of town gigs that take us to my parents' awesome home and visiting loved ones in Montana, and more out of town gigs for the next ten days, we are seldom in one place for long. Which is actually quite wonderful until somebody gets sick.

I think I'm getting mastitis. Do NOT google that, unless you enjoy seeing disgusting boob pictures spewed out by the internetia. It's kind of like a cold in your milktation machinery. It makes you feel like you have the flu and mono all wrapped up in one painfully hot packet. Thank you sir, may I have another? Poor Isaac can't figure out why I turn into a stone of tension and grimace every time he needs a topping off.

I am really really looking forward to December 13th, the last day of my duties and obligations thus far. This is the first year in a while when I couldn't care less that I'm not playing a single Nutcracker. We'll just get the DVD from the library and call it good.

Tapped out.

I'm feeling really crusty and dried up inside, my brain is practically rattling out of my head like a stray kernel of rice shaken off a high chair cover on sushi night.

We're heading to Montana, beating a hasty retreat to the land of (another set of) doting grandparents. I'm looking forward to hours of both imps strapped safely into carseats. Don't tell any good parents, but I'm bringing earplugs and I'll be snoring by the time we hit the Gorge for sure.

Happy Thanksgiving if I don't make it back by here.

Toby would like to thank God for the bees, rainbows, Jesus, and wheels that go around and around.
Amen.

He probably gets less crap than violists.

It's happening again...

I can totally agree with those types who want to slow down the holiday season, to take time and savor a few shining events with loved ones rather than pack in a shindig a day like a girl scout on her way to her Domestic Overcommitment badge. I see the idea of orchestrated simplicity in my family life fly past on my way to reality every November or so. In fact every single month I get a couple of beautiful magazines packed with somebody's long-massaged idea about how to make every corner of my life a paradigm of organized loveliness. Your home represents you, your schedule displays what you value, the enlightened move calmly from moment to carefully cherished moment and you better too, they confide tastefully from within their manicured covers.

Zaniness at this time of year is just the way it is when you are a classical musician. Even folks who don't have much of a relationship with the great composers and all the variety of styles within the big C will recognize bits of the Messiah and think of the holidays. They make a tradition of going to a holiday concert, so we put on a bazillion concerts at the holidays. As a Christian I think it has something to do with people's inbuilt desire to be a part of creative endeavors and to celebrate something corporately. Of course if you really want to get into worship and music in popular culture, there's always rock.

I see another striking similarity between classical music and religion in that people like it for the ceremony. There is muted controversy there, some classical musicians bucking for a collective toss to the dumpster of their formal tails and fussy hall atmospheres. (I myself let it all hang out here whenever possible.) The entire relevant church movement (from the very earliest days to right this postmodern second) are in the same kind of battle between respecting tradition and finding modern immediacy in their expressions.

I had a little epiphany the other day at a bar watching some folks struggle through a very late Beethoven movement. It's THE Beethoven movement, actually. It is life and death, consonance and dissonance all wrapped up and knitted together with complex strands the way only Beethoven and little sonny Jesus ever could. Some members of this group had a tougher time than others and yes, there are moments in any performance of this nature where the listener is just hoping they make it through to the next phrase and get on with it. But as I sat there watching them help each other through and heard them come to more than one True thing.

Whatever you do this season, however busy you get, my advice is to cling to those odd moments when things are True and run with them. For me at this season, simplicity is a myth but Truth is everywhere.

Mama's leetle friend.

Last week we met Piccolo*, a student at the college where I teach who likes to babysit. She came over while I was home, I went upstairs in my slippers with my coffee and practiced for 2 1/2 hours. In a row. Alone. I also did a load of laundry, ran the dishwasher and cleaned the toilets. Alone.

This week I painted some furniture, organized dinner, went through all of Isaac's clothes and agreed to a gig. Alone.

It is so incredibly rejuvenating, I cannot tell you how much those few hours mean to me. She's great. She reads to them, keeps Toby in line and makes Isaac giggle. I made her coffee, fed Isaac (duh) and even changed both boys' diapers over the course of the morning. She would, but I'm flitting around anyway and I know they both excel at wrestling. Still, that little window of time when I know I'll be able to do my own thing... it's like a shower after camping.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not dreaming of time away from my boys and we would not have a nanny even if we were the Warbucks. There is no doubt in my mind that it's a big deal to be able to be with them and not schlepping off to some factory or working nights. But I am totally certain that this makes me a better mom. I'm pretty sure they like seeing a different face every once in a while, too.

My parents (and J's too, when they're in town!) have also had a profound impact on these first years for our family. They spend four or five hours with the boys on my teaching days- and on the zillions of other days when we make up a reason to head their way. I can't imagine doing this on my own, and I'm just floored with gratitude for all these people helping us along the way.


*Not her real name, and not a descriptor- to the contrary, she's laid-back. Seems more like a clarinetist but who am I to tell her she plays the wrong instrument. That comes next week...

Composers

I played on the most amazing student recital yesterday. This senior composition student brought together a string quartet, a random quintet, an OPERA, and a few other solo works. She rehearsed them all, got over seventy people to attend the recital (that alone is literally stunning) and made every performer a gingersnap with our name written on it in frosting. We all have a thirty minute recording slot on Wednesday.

She should run for president- this woman is organized and gets people to agree to all sorts of things.

I've been really enjoying playing lately. There seem to be phases for that, like any job I suppose. While there's always a certain functional satisfaction to performing, I savor these times when even practicing is appealing to me.

J is probably laughing at my tra-la attitude after listening to me practice the trio I'm playing Friday. It's by a nutty Romanian composer and was composed in 1990. Kurtag is a big name in contemporary classical music (not necessarily the whitest hottest kind of fame) but he put things in the viola part that are impossible to play. This is not hyperbole; it is physically not doable and would have garnered any composition student a lower grade. I guess over the last few months of rehearsing and practicing I thought I would come up with something to approximate his requests, but no such miracle has occurred. Sometimes you get the feel of a piece and can fill in a bit of musical vocabulary for the composer if he's written clumsily, but this... well. Just look:

Vrrrroooooom there goes my ego.

Lots of people have noticed that having little kids around makes holidays more fun, and it's one of the few things you hear about parenting that is entirely true. It's cool to have an excuse to spoil them and break our schedule, and it's neat to have a reminder to emphasize whatever it is you like best about each day.

It's also fun for me to indulge my crafty, time-consuming wonts. I made Toby a big diaper-box model of his favorite car (a green Dodge Charger), which he promptly refused to wear despite his deep love "It's YOUR car, for You." Pronouns are tricksters for the two year old mind.

Funny thing about Toby's costume. It actually kinda made us miss Halloween. I lost myself in the green felt and black duct tape so much that I let the boys sleep extra long in their naps and we got a late start driving to J's office for the annual cute-kid parade & candy fest. I was honestly really annoyed and disappointed about that, but there's not much you can do when you leave only 35 minutes for a 50 minute drive. Part of me was so selfish as to think I shouldn't have bothered making the dang costume in the first place... until I saw Toby playing with it. He really hasn't stopped playing with it since that night. He's asked to take it to bed. The point is, was I making it for him or to show off to a bunch of near-strangers? In the end I decided a little self-indulgence is okay, but real joy in parenting comes when you give selflessly, just like in real life. Even if he hadn't loved it, I did enjoy the making, and thinking about his cute little proclivities all along.

Isaac was a pumpkin (99 cents last year from Old Navy!), and I could have died from the cuteness when Toby kept calling him "punkin', he's a little punkin' in derrr". I am such a sucker- you'll have to remind me not to fall for their adorable scams when they're older. Like next year.

Toby had his first bunch of candy and as far as I can tell he likes berries, rice popcorn and hot dogs better. He did like the Skittles but went around the room feeding them to all of us, so it must not have been as mindblowing as the actual fruits. He also had some rad bugs to play with from Gramma.

In a wild humor

Me- That is NOT funny, Toby.
Toby- Deee dee dooooo da HAHAHAHAHA.

The above conversation happens a LOT. And he actually sings his part. And we have been awakened to Mwahahahahahaha in a surprisingly low and rhythmic voice from the next room more than once this week.

I'm just hoping he doesn't pick up any foul language while we watch election results tonight. I kid. Mwahaha!

Happy Halloween!

In honor of the day, Toby and I watched a little Youtube. We started with Jesus is My Friend (the parody song from a few posts back) and then found this:


If I had skillz I'd make a Totoro outfit for myself but instead I think I'll be a stop light, since I'm making Toby a car. If any of it works, there will be pictures.

He works off the script.

In line the other day to buy another vat of fat free milk from Costco, Toby was jabbering away and showing his red Hotwheel to anyone who glanced toward his perch in the seat of the cart. The couple behind us totally fell for it and started asking him about it.

Toby- Whheeeeels. It's got wheeeeeels on der.
Couple- Oh wow. That's a cool car.
Toby- Yuuuup. It's wwwwred.
Couple- So, how old are you?
Toby- Blank stare, kicking feet...
I show him how to put up two fingers and say "Two".
Toby- Holding up just his index, "Fffthrrrreeee!"

Pumpkin Patching!

I know I am perverse, but I love that first picture of us. Toby is struggling to get out of J's lap, J is struggling to keep Toby from accidentally whacking Isaac in the head with his foot, Isaac is adoring Toby and I'm frowning and my lips are all tense and wrinkly. It's been like that around here about 15% of the time, though the remaining 80% we're happy and Toby is funny and sweet. The last 5% is reserved for sleeping, but all team members have not committed to that quite yet.

We are not ourselves.

We have joined the ranks of parents whose children are not contained by mere cribs. Did I already tell you we found a toddler bed without a stitch of pastel advertising on it? I can't remember through the lack of sleep haze...

In truth our guy has not tested us much at night, mostly because we are lazy and have pretty much Toby-proofed his room. We let him galavant unless it gets particularly raucous and then start taking away hotwheels or, in the direst of situations, the firetruck blanket.

In effect, he has quiet time in the afternoon from 2pm to whenever, and while we prefer him to sleep we'll take non-damaging letting off of steam. At night if we hear him past 9:30 (he goes in at 8pm) then we start making with the stern voices and removal of beloved objects.

Last night I realized with a laugh that outside his room there is a collection of confiscatia: a big blue toybox once use to climb to the windowsill and the changing table (ONCE!), an impressive pile of... well, here- take a look:

















And here are the miscreants in person. Isaac has just sneezed and is tipping backwards but don't worry, he missed the wall and didn't even cry. You would be a happy guy, too, if you got snacks at 2am and 6am. Someday he'll thank me for telling the internet all about his infantile habits.

...

...crickets, I know.

I have pictures to post and a door to door sales person to tell you about and even a couple of thoughts I found that had rolled under the sofa. They're a little linty, but they're mine. I will probably get around to scrutinizing them soon.

I have to go to bed now because in the morning I have to convince a two year old that having your eyes dilated isn't annoying and that you should leave a funky eye patch alone while the opthalmologist makes you look at little pictures of phones like you've never seen (OLD SCHOOL, with a receiver handset and everything) and then accidentally plays a scary section of Cars. Right after accidentally playing a scary section of Snow White (remember, with the trees and the old hag?).
Did you know they use movies to get kids to focus on a certain distance? Well, now you do.

And that's something.

Zap!

Also, Dave Crowder Band* has a version posted. But watch this first.

Canned goods.

It's funny, but not, how when Isaac wakes up that THIRD time each night my brain starts to leak out my ears.

That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

Sorry for this short and empty post, but I just canned a kapillion tomatoes and played an opera. I figured a crummy post is better than no post at all.

Playing Softballs

We're doing La Traviata (it's about hookers!) over the next few weeks here in the Land of Port, and it's been completely enjoyable. I think the orchestra sounds like a different (different better!) group this year.

The music is mostly stupid-easy in the viola parts and that can sometimes mean it's also physically painful. When you are the Oom or the pah-pah for two pages straight, your body tends to get tired of it. It's not bad music, thankfully, but it could easily become tedious in rehearsal if you had a dumb conductor.

We don't!

This guy is great- I don't know how I've missed him, and I'm glad to be playing for him now. First and foremost, he doesn't talk at us when he could be conducting but he does tell enough charming anecdotes to be human. Secondly, he is musical and loves his job. Third, and sort of a rehashing of point one: he actually told us not to write in too much as he may do something different the next time through. And he does! Clearly!

I also finally feel as though I am getting to know some of the area locals. It's hard when you're freelancing to feel much of a connection to any community but I think maybe I'm on the brink of something there. Such a one-eighty from last fall.

If my blog falls dormant in the woods...

Dang! I can't believe I've devolved into one of those blogs. Posting infrequently, mostly fluff and kid pictures. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I had sort of enjoyed thinking I was writing something more every so often.

I have been thinking a lot lately about audience and motivation. Every little thing I say to Toby (tons of jabbering, pleading and whining happen in our house daily and much of it is on my end), everything I play, stuff I write. It's interesting how those things are all changed by their audience or my perception of them. Since I believe Jesus Christ was who he said he was and that what he did enables me to actually converse with the creator of the universe, well... I'm having trouble finishing that sentence. And not just on my blog.

Yep. Interesting. But it's 1:36am and I need to go to sleep... now.

Truffles revisited

I am making these truffles for the reception after a recital tomorrow. They're fun to make, nice & messy. I briefly considered letting Toby help, but came to my senses when I thought about the many food safety issues and the potential for a kitchen encrusted with Oreo goo. I am nowhere near that much fun as a mom.

I found out yesterday that students at my college don't have any casual performance opportunities. They practice all semester and perform only when they are being evaluated at the end, either for a grade or for scholarship funds. That is a shame, and I think I'll try to do something about it by instituting some kind of noon performance time.

Music is for performing, or nothing at all.

Currents

We're currently experiencing busy days and sleepy nights. An actual post will be up soon.

Meanwhile, look! The weather is perfect, and the train table is finally painted.

Request

***UPDATE!***
Tim is feeling better and is finished with some unpleasant treatments, so yay. We're still praying for Rachael to be able to relax and not obsess about the darker possibilities of the past few weeks. The doctor believes it was a one-time thing and that Tim should never ever pick up a cigarette again. Well, duh, Tim. (We love you!) He isn't even much of a smoker, but there it is.

They are moving on to bigger and better things, with a baby kicking like mad and a baby shower on the horizon. So thanks for your prayer, internet. Keep it coming, we all appreciate it and need it in this crazy world.


Hey everyone who might happen by here.
Could you pray for my friend Tim and his wife, Rachael? He had a blot clot problem tonight and is in the ER. She's about 6 months pregnant and beside herself, of course. They are good friends, crazy wacko artsy intense goofball types and two of the best I've ever met... prayer would be good.

Olympics, Baby

The Olympics are a little sip of caffeine for my mood. I love to watch people do well, focus, do so-so, lose well, flip out, talk trash and lose it all. It's like classical music but popular.

Michael Phelps has to be one of the most spectacular pieces of humanity ever to train himself silly. All the swimmers are ridiculous. Gymnasts, too. It's impressive, really, that these people found what they are built for and then focused on it to the extent that they are able to do things no one else has.

I love the sports where things are concrete: you went faster, or not. Unlike performing in artistic endeavors, there is no room for subjective critique. Obviously, I like the arts. It's just that years (and years. And... seriously, 20 years since high school? CRAP!) of training can ALLLLLLmost squash out of a person the ability to enjoy their pursuits without constantly looking for the next thing to improve. All professional musicians I've ever grilled about this answer the same way: maintaining an unjaded love for your music is a life-long challenge. It sucks to turn on the radio and instantly wonder who is playing so you can catalogue them and anything you don't like about their playing in your own mental podium race for BEST, instead of squealing with joy that they are even playing a viola concerto on the air in front of civilians.

I used to love the done-or-not-done quality of dishes and laundry, too, but somehow that has begun to fade.

The best thing about the Olympics, hands down, is that I always have something to hum to the boys. Toby was born during the winter Olympics of '06, Isaac's 4.5 months old now but likes to sleep like a much younger man. So there are anthems, themes, all sorts of snippets of grand tunes floating around even through the clouds of sleep deprivation. I love that main theme- thank you, Mr. Williams, you hummable themey genius you.

DOOOOO DEEEEEEEE Dee DUH! DUH! DUH! DUH! DEEM DEEE Dee DEEE.....

Peepers

Toby's getting glasses. They are made of flexible blue plastic and have unfortunate round rims. When they come in, I'll take pictures of us wrestling him to the ground and applying them directly to his forehead.

I think my gear shifter is broken. Toby loves to play with that kind of thing- he probably got ahold of it at some point and wrenched it clean off. I am no longer able to adjust gracefully between the roles I fill at home and those in the musical world. I'm just kinda tense about both instead. But hey, I can still get around despite my higher mileage and at least I'm paid for.