April 25, 2006
Chinua is home and we met him at the airport with fanfare and squealing. I stood clapping my hands and smiling like a complete moron while I waited for the rest of my family to come over to the legal side of the line. I was trying to keep the kids from running under the barrier at the international arrivals lobby. You know, the barrier that looks like it's made of seat belt material or something. They were pretty good about it, although Kai could not understand why on earth we couldn't just go looking for Daddy. Once he showed up, though, they darted through like naughty puppies and it was fine. No one's going to get angry with a couple of love-struck preschoolers greeting their daddy. I stayed on the proper side, though, bizarrely clapping, just clapping and clapping. I couldn't stop until I could hug my Superstar Husband.
He looks good. He looks like he was out in the sun, a whole lot. Which he was, in the mountains of Turkey. We've been watching some of his video footage, and it looks amazing.
Kai can't stop talking to him. He wants to tell Chinua every single thing that has happened since he left. Speaking of Kai, I'm glad to see that by marrying one another, Chinua and I haven't diluted the absentmindedness gene a single bit. Today Kai wore two pairs of undies, since he forgot to take one pair off before putting the other pair on. I was so busy getting us ready to drive the four hours to the airport that I didn't notice.
April 28, 2006
Sometimes I struggle with anxiety that is so strong I feel paralyzed by it. When I'm like this I can't even have a normal conversation with my husband without being nervous and scared. When I'm like this I'm so tense that my neck and shoulders feel like iron. If you knocked on them, they would ring like bells. When I'm like this, I try so hard to just get my mind to stop, stop, STOP already. When I'm like this, I start to panic.
Anxiety often seems to overwhelm me when I feel like I've been doing really well for a long time. I feel like I've become free of it, like I can participate, now, rather than just watching other people make normal decisions without feeling like the end result will be everything in life crumbling around them. And right when I'm participating with all that's in me, when I feel like I may even get a ribbon, it hits me. And I'm startled and confused.
It always makes me feel as though I've lost all the ground I gained.
I think I was holding a lot in, over the weeks that Chinua was gone. I felt strong because I needed to be strong. I felt victorious. And then he came back and I turned into the little girl, the small one. All the weakness that I'd been keeping under wraps came stumbling forward and I found myself no longer able to think clearly. I was apologizing for every word, every thought. Everything made me afraid. I had a really bad day yesterday, which ended with me driving home at 10:00 at night, my van full of Land groceries, crying uncontrollably on the phone to my husband while he tried to calm me down. The lady at Winco had yelled at me, had told me that my check raised "red flags," had made me feel stupid in front of all the other customers. It was just too much, after a day of trying not to listen to the "Destined to Fail" speeches in my mind all day. I fumbled my groceries into their brown bags, and wheeled myself and my baby out the door, crying.
On days like this I turn into everyone's teenaged step-daughter, angry and defiant at all of my step-parents. The lady at Winco is no longer just a grumpy late shifter, she now gives me identity, gives me definition, and she has decided that my checks are no good. Not only that, she has implied that I'm a liar. She must know. She must be right.
Everything is confirmation of what I've always feared. That I'm not going to be able to participate. That I'm not a good girl. These ideas I can usually fight off. But sometimes, when anxiety grips me, it's like my white blood cell count has fallen drastically. And the viruses win.
This is when I am utterly flattened. Sitting shapelessly and wondering if I'll ever stand back up. They asked, speaking about Jesus, "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" But this is what they forgot, that God likes people from little tiny shabby places, that he makes broken things new. At times when my mind is so cluttered that I can barely see through the weeds, this is about all I have to stand on. And it is enough.
April 29, 2006
Imagine living in the most beautiful campground that you ever went to in your childhood. It's your home. Now imagine being there year-round, walking from building to building in the rain, shivering in the dark. Imagine losing your running water for hours or days at a time, imagine poorly insulated buildings (which we are working on, hooray!) and small fires in stoves that may or may not be maintained. Imagine a lot of wetness, rain day after day, and a lot of darkness, using a flashlight to get from dinner to bed. Imagine that it is still wonderful to live in this campground, even during the long wet winter, because you get to live with your friends and play games and it is beautiful even in deep dark shades of gray.
But now imagine that it's summer again and the sun is shining and everything smells green and living. Imagine warm evenings when the kids are in bed. Imagine feeling giddy and liberated, wearing short sleeves in the warm night air. Watching the green river, knowing that any day the weather will be warm enough for you to swim. Listening to music and dancing your way around the wide paths.
It's heaven. I feel like a little girl.
I love pulling out the kids' sandals, looking for shorts in second-hand stores. I love seeing more of them; their little brown feet, the little legs, their chubby knees. Today we went on a picnic and just lay around like cats in a patch of sunlight in one of the Redwood groves just up the street. We had so much fun; walking on huge fallen trees, watching a snail, trying to climb a giant boulder. Kai was so cute and little/big boy as he confidently tried to scale it and then ran back to me, shrugging, "Nah, I don't want to," as he climbed into my lap.
Kenya's been sick and it's so sad. She's not her usually spunky self. She's been clinging pretty close to me and when we're in the cabin she follows me around whining, "Mama" over and over again. She's getting better now and we're all glad.
I love Kai's curiosity, the way he makes things up. I asked him about a bruise he has on his leg and he told me he got it running up a tree.
I love that Kenya has named one of her feet "Mama" and one of them "Daddy" and that she makes them kiss and talk to each other in squeaky voices.
I love that Leaf is turning into an adorable chunky baby who drools incessantly and is what you would call jolly. He's got this big wide smile and is very "boy." (All of him, even his gigantic feet.)
Yes, I'm feeling a lot better. We're getting ready for the festivals this summer (where we'll sell art and photography) and I've begun my painting marathon. Last night Chinua finished putting the kids to bed and I listened to music and painted and painted... and painted!
May
May 4, 2006
I have a little room at the Land that I've been using to paint in.
I like to call it my "Studio", even though it's a very temporary place for me to use to make art in. Calling it my studio helps me paint better. It's not a glamorous spot, but I have a new love for life since I've been painting again, so to me it's a loft in the Presidio of San Francisco. Painting even helps me be more fun with my kids because it fills me up. I think that art is what I was born to do. One of the biggest treats that I can give myself is to go to the art store and buy a new tube of paint. An Ultramarine Blue, or a Cadmium Yellow. If I'm really feeling crazy, maybe a Permanent Violet.
Not gray, never gray. In my opinion, gray is the biggest waste of money in the paint world.
Summer came to us swiftly. It doesn't even feel like spring, with 80 degree weather everyday. Today Jed and Kai were playing in the kiddie pool on Jed's porch. One minute we were freezing in the rain, the next minute all our heaters are off and we'll be saving tons on our gas and electric bills. Sweet.
I've been hanging out with Job, our tree climbing rooster. Well, I guess he doesn't climb, he flies. Job is a survivor. He has survived two major massacres, when both sets of his wive
s were killed. In the first massacre, he was the only man left standing. That's when he received the name "Job". Then he got some new wives and they have been slowly picked off this spring, by vicious and nasty skunks who can apparently chew through chicken wire. Job has one wife left, and they've got the spring love bug, which can be a little embarrassing. Keep it in the coop, guys.
May 17, 2006
Rooster Wisdom:
It is not wise to feed the local friendly rooster out of your hand on your porch, since this may cause him to come calling at 5:30 in the morning, looking for more whole grain bread. And he may call and call, looking through the glass door, possibly waking your baby up, causing you to curse him and your husband to stumble out of bed and throw stones in his general direction.
It may be wiser to feed the local friendly rooster on someone else's porch. Someone who needs to wake up earlier. Someone, maybe, like my friend Renee.
June
June 2, 2006
Tonight I've been thinking about how I probably won't remember too much about the hard stuff of having small children, once they've grown older. The poo, everywhere, in diapers, out of diapers, poo on the floor, on the wall, in the crib, on me. Or the amazing number of times that Kenya has vomited after over-eating. Or the fact that I never ever seem to sleep very much anymore and I always feel exhausted.
I'll probably remember their brown feet in sandals, the way their skin smells after they've spent the day in the sun. The sweet strawberry smell of a nursing baby's breath. Little hands on my cheeks, the elusive and overwhelming kisses. The compulsive smiling of four-month-olds, the funny waddle of a year-old baby. Kenya mispronouncing everything, Kai pronouncing everything perfectly except for poached eggs, which he still calls "proached".
You know, the good stuff.
June 8, 2006
Although I try to be as honest as possible on this blog, I obviously refrain from writing about some things. Some things aren't meant to be read by all. Some things are too deep to be written about, some things are too despairing, some are too complicated, some are too personal.
And all the things that have been rolling around in my head lately are those kinds of things. This, combined with my extreme busyness (which has me running from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep) in preparing for our Booth at the Festival this weekend, has kept me from posting as much as I like.
I could write about the daisies which are the new poppies, springing up everywhere: down the highway, on the hillsides, in the neglected garden.
I could write about my exhaustion again. (Lucky you.)
I could write about how hard it is to get prepared for something like this festival when you live so far away from all the supplies you need. How Chinua came home from the City on Monday only to drive away for the day on Tuesday, preparing, only to have me drive away for the day yesterday, picking up more stuff. Are we crazy? Yes, maybe. A little.
But I need to go, because we're heading out to set up camp in five minutes.
Life is sometimes hard, and sad, and that passes, but sometimes I can't even find anything funny in it, and that is when I know that it's been a little harder than usual.
June 14, 2006
I am trying to recover from one of the most disastrous weekends that I've ever had. Chinua and I are so exhausted that we might decide to implode.
Scenario One: Thursday.
We leave for the festival feeling bright and chipper, although a little late, in a caravan of two vehicles. Derek warns me before we go that the van has a tendency to overheat. He warns Chinua. We forget to warn Renee, who is driving. The van overheats, on the side of the highway, as we are on our way with the three kids. I decide to drive down with the baby in the other car so that I can register for our camping. The others will wait for the van to cool down and then follow.
Except that our beloved old red van became a little too hot and will never drive again. Chinua sits on the side of the road for five hours with Renee and the two kids, until Derek is able to come and rescue them. I wait in the cold car, shivering and wishing I could eat a gallon of crème brulée to help myself feel better. They reach the campground, (a gravel RV lot) at 1:00 am. We proceed to pitch the tents and lay our weary heads down. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day, we think.
Rest in Peace red van. You were good to us. 18 years and 279,000 miles is a good life. You were even stolen once and then recovered. But I think that this time it really is goodbye.
Scenario Two: Friday
We are a day behind now. The guys pick up the stuff they need to construct the booth, while Derek, Spencer, and Renee and I sit around trying to amuse young children in a gravel parking lot. The kids do really well, falling down a little more than we normally advise, but mostly entertaining themselves fabulously, throwing rocks at cars and stuff. Next, it's my turn. Renee and I run about a thousand errands, picking up business cards, mats, and prints, and buying food. We return. Chinua starts to look through the photography prints that we will be selling.
A little while later, he calls me over to the van. "This isn't good news," he warns me. Basically, the printer did a terrible job. The prints look like a five year old did them on a printer made in 1985. They are unsellable. Fortunately, he didn't have them all ready, so we didn't pay for them yet. Unfortunately, we now have thirteen prints to sell, prints we had done previously at a shop recommended to us by a friend.
We are doomed. I cry myself to sleep. Lesson learned. Always test a printer, even if they have great equipment and show you great samples.
Scenario Three: Saturday
Chinua is able to bring the prints back, and in showing him the difference in quality of several prints from the same files, helps the guy to understand why we can't pay for what he's done. I feel really really badly for this man, but he does need to learn.
We work feverishly at framing the prints, and have the booth ready just a little bit late, not too bad considering our breakdown in the red van. Another friend has brought her paintings, and I have one of my own (we had originally intended to have my paintings and prints for sale, but due to a lack of time had settled on selling only Chinua's photographs) so we manage to fill the empty space with those. The booth looks really, really nice.
We sell absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
Nope, not even one.
Nothing.
All the vendors are doing terribly, although I hope none did as terribly as us. One lady said that her hat business did the worst it had in sixteen years. I think it was a combination of having too many vendors and the extremely high price of the festival.
I don't cry anymore, although it does feel a bit torturous to sit at the booth and continue to sell nothing.
Lesson learned: we won't be doing this again.
Scenario Four: Sunday
Sunday is pretty much the same as Saturday (more sitting at the booth not selling anything) except that now I know that my children have Coxsackie's virus. They have sores in their mouths, although they have no fevers, and this isn't all that bad except that it makes them absolutely miserable. Crying, tantrums, lying on the grass and weeping inconsolably. It's pretty horrible. Kenya is affected more than Kai, since she soothes herself by sucking her fingers, and this is painful. She feels miserable, and she can't comfort herself. Lots of crying ensues.
We break up camp and come home, a little poorer, a little more humble, a little shaken. Poor, poor us.
On the EXTREME upside, I am right now at this very moment sitting at a table. In my HOUSE. IN MY LARGE FRONT ROOM. The kids are sleeping. IN THEIR ROOM.
Today we moved across the Land to our new house. We feel a little nostalgic. This little three and a half year era of sharing one room with our family has come to an end. We've gone from 280 square feet to almost 900. It's crazy. Chinua said, as we were walking across the Land, "This is the only good thing that has happened to me in a long time." It's truly a very good thing.
June 16, 2006
W
hy is it that things all seem to happen like fruit flies popping out of their eggs? All at once, with no warning, suddenly the country that is your home is invaded and you are no longer alone with your fruit. Your fruit comes with friends.
Maybe there are too many bruises on the fruit. Bruises like forgetfulness and tiredness and a need for a long, hot bath.
I'm pondering fruit because today, on my way back from the city I locked Renee's keys out
of
her
car.
Yes, I know. Whatever you have to say to me, I know.
I have an excuse. We stopped so that I could nurse the Leaf baby, (who, by the way, can say ba ba ba now) and I left the keys in the ignition while I nursed him. Then we blissfully hopped out of the car and into the dollar store to buy stickers for Kenya for our upcoming road trip.
The mistake was in not taking the keys out before we got out of the car and locked all the doors.
A couple of hours later, after some very fun adventures that involved asking lots of people for help, we were on our way. The people from the tow company that came out (no, I don't have AAA, and yes, I think people like me should) were feeling jokey. They noticed that Renee had bought me ice cream to make me feel better, since I was obviously on the verge of turning over the tomato cart, and said, "There's an up side to everything! You got to have ice cream!" I just glared them down, and said bitterly, "Yeah. $50 ice cream."
Trees Tall as Mountains (The Journey Mama Writings: Book 1) Page 9