A while back, a doula client of mine showed me her soon-to-be-arriving daughter’s nursery. I see a lot of nurseries and most of them are, well, you know … nurseries. But this one was bright and cheerful and fun and lively, and not at all baby-like. Mom had taken a barnyard theme and produced a colorful, happy space, so unlike the traditional cow, pig, duck, and barn fare associated with most barnyard-themed nurseries. Along the wall were three beautiful paintings of chickens and cows and her very own dog.

My client had stumbled upon this artist, whose work is available here and here. She’d picked up the cow and chicken oil paintings on the artist’s ebay shop, and then had been the lucky winner of the “email-me-a-photo-of-your-pet-and-maybe-I’ll-paint-it-” lottery that this artist runs off of the same ebay shop. The painting of her dog was nothing short of perfect, capturing Willie’s personality to a T. In short, it made me smile.

I immediately thought of this artist when I went searching for someone to paint Cal’s portrait. I’ve seen plenty of pet portraits that attempt to capture a realistic image of the animal. Usually, while they might achieve a fair facsimile of the animal, they fall woefully short on capturing the pet. Not so, this artist. Not so at all:

I realize that “naming rights” to an artist’s work belong solidly to the artist. However, I hope she understands just how much regard I hold for her work when I say that I will be tacking on a subtitle to whatever it is she chooses to name this portrait. The subtitle? “The moment before yet another cookie disappears from the counter.” A perfect capture of Cal, indeed.

He’ll hang in the kitchen, right alongside the wicker chickens.

One word.  A thousand.  No matter how many, they’re never enough and too many at the same time.  Page after page, word after word – they lie crumpled on the floor, lifeless.  Ashes sprinkled into the wind.

How do you say goodbye?  Tallying the time, chronicling your life with us, synthesizing the memories of all your sounds, describing the space you hold in our lives – all those efforts fall woefully short. Still, I’m left with a hole in my heart.

So, I’ll let these one hundred words fail as magnificently as any other number.

Farewell, my dear, sweet Cal.

It used to be, you could head to the bowling alley for an evening of cheap entertainment, if not a little bit of embarrassment.  This, I know, because often my bowling tab — in dollars — was not much more than (yes, more than) my bowling score at the end of the evening.  And folks, I couldn’t afford much more than ten bucks on a Saturday night.

The other night, I had the brilliant idea of taking my family to the bowling alley.  Nothing like a little cheap family entertainment, I thought.  Yeah, right.

• Four rental shoes (ewww): $20
• Four frames: $20
• Two beers, one hot dog and one plate of nachos: $25, plus tip

That would be one family outing for a whopping $70.  Holy Cow.  Boy, how things change.

Except, of course, in the score department.  Once again, the bill was more than the score.

potty performance anxiety

Function: noun
: the sense of fear and concern that overwhelms you as you lead a house guest to the bathroom in your home, uncertain as to the age and responsibility-level of its last inhabitant. Did my daughter flush? Did my son aim well? Oh. Dear. God.

Last night I scurried around the house picking up and tidying and cleaning a bit.

Why?

Because the cleaning lady was coming, of course.

The other day, our entire family went to see Merlin and the Cave of Dreams at the Raleigh Little Theater. We head to this theater about four times a year and enjoy their family series together with my sister and her family. Always, afterward, a pizza dinner at Amedeo’s. This? Is the stuff I love about being a family.

The production was no different than any other production we’ve seen: clever scenery, rich costuming, and acting that leaves only a little to be desired. My children sat intently with their jaws wide open watching the wonders on the stage; I sat intently with my jaws wide open watching them watch the play.

And then Arthur met Uther in the Underworld. Swords clashed, spears jabbed, and dragons hurled fire. Thunder clapped, lights flashed, and men screamed. I watched as Zoe recoiled in horror and fear. And I recoiled in horror and fear as I watched Evan creep to the edge of his seat in awe.

I’ve tried my best to limit my children’s exposure to violence. Television is extremely limited in our home, and that which they watch is usually on PBS. Toy guns are not allowed in our home, and physical play usually emphasizes skill over brawn.

And yet? Evan can make a gun out of anything. He shoots bad guys and spears villians daily. The word kill is not unknown to him. And, more often than not, he comes home from school covered head-to-toe in mulch, undoubtedly from a few good tackles and romps on the playground.

When Zoe began displaying stereo-typical “girl” behaviors — playing dress-up, obsessing over princesses, and oogling grandma’s make-up — my reaction was a less-than-concerned eye-roll. Certainly, this jeans-and-t-shirt kind of gal didn’t impose these behaviors upon her, but they were entirely innocent, and only a bit annoying.

So why isn’t my reaction to Evan’s display of stereo-typical “boy” behaviors anything other than that same bored eyeroll? Why, instead, the arched eyebrow of concern and frantic rush to stifle the behaviors?

A girlfriend of mine, and mom to three boys, says that there’s recent research (which I haven’t bothered to investigate) indicating that young boys should be allowed to play out such behaviors now, in their early years. By the time they get to be teenagers — when they have decidedly less impulse control — these behaviors are nothing interesting, nothing exotic, and nothing to be explored. They’re old hat, quite frankly. The rule in her house goes something like this: play with the swords and shooters as much as you want, preferably going after the bad guys. But if anyone gets hurt, the “toy” goes away. Seems reasonable to me. Guns and swords and shooters as therapeutic play? I’m not so certain I can go so far as to say that, but her point does resonate with me — a bit.

And then I watch my son pick up a stick and “shoot” me with it. And it’s…uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable because I cannot abide guns. I cannot abide the violence they bring, and the hate they brew, and the discord they percolate. It’s uncomfortable because … it is real. Zoe’s fantasies are just that: fantasy. There are no real-life corollaries to unicorns and princesses in towers and magic carpets. Evan’s games, too, are certainly fantasy. He hasn’t any idea that what he plays in his games indeed has a very real, and very disturbing, corollary in true life. But it does.

One day, Zoe will discover that there really aren’t any unicorns and magic carpets. She’ll be sad for a day or two. Discovering that your fantasy isn’t really real can be devastating. Yet, I wish it could happen to Evan. A tear or two shed upon learning that his fantasy world of bad guys and villians and shooters is just that — fantasy — would be entirely worth the peace brought by the alternate reality.

1. The amount of dignity lost is directly proportional to the amount of fun had.

2. Hat-head can be sexy.

3. There is nothing cuter than a little girl bundled up in winter clothing.

4. Except, perhaps, a little boy.

5. With a little snow to catch your fall, even the worst tumbles aren’t so bad.

6. When life gives you dry snow, dig deep.

7. Cold hands, cold feet, cold ears, cold cheeks — very warm heart.

I’ve never lived in a place that wasn’t stingy with its snow.  Sure, I’ve seen it.  Even in large quantities.  But it’s always a visitor, and never one to stay for longer than a few days.  Sometimes, years will go by before I will see a snowflake.  Other times, we’ll get a dusting or two — just enough to let you know that anything is possible.

I think because I’m such a distant acquaintence with the stuff, I still hold a childish glee in my heart for it.  The novelty?  Just doesn’t wear off.  I’m as giddy as a schoolkid whenever there’s the mention of snow, and when it actually materializes, I’m simply delighted.

We’re headed off on vacation tomorrow.  Lake Placid, NY.  No one in our family is a skier, and that’s not the point of this trip.  The plans include the comforts of hot chocolate, soup, and knitting — a lot of knitting.  But the biggest draw?  Snowmen and sleds, and maybe a snowball fight or two.  It honestly can’t get any better than that.

A set of snow tires. The world’s ugliest sweater. A bust of Thomas Jefferson- a really, really big bust of Thomas Jefferson. And a gargoyle with a computer on his lap.

These are among the better gifts Tim’s father was known for giving. The man always had his heart in the right place when thinking of gifts for others, but, somehow, the synapses mis-fired just a wee bit in the execution of his heart’s desire.

I was a relative newcomer to the experience that was a gift from Tim’s dad, but I knew we were in for a doozy when Tim’s brother laughingly handed over a wrapped gift to us at Thanksgiving to take home to be opened at Christmas.

“I helped him wrap it,” he said, stifling a laugh. “He’s outdone himself on this one.”

Once home, the gift loomed in front of us for several more weeks before we were able to open it. But…oh, when we opened it!

A gilt-framed shadow box enclosing a plastic saxophone, a bouquet of dried flowers, and a piece of parchment with fake music notes written on it — all for the saxophonist in the family. How, um, thoughtful.

It really has been a joke for the last seven years. That gift represented the epitome of Tim’s father’s gift-giving prowess. After his death, we toyed with re-gifting it amongst family members, but, for some reason, we hung on to it.

But, finally, as we recently moved back in to our home from the fire and took the opportunity to declutter a bit (well, a lot), the great gift finally made its way to the garage sale pile. It was not without great circumspection. It was not without a lot of laughter. And it was not without a lot of bittersweet tears. But, finally, we realized, the great gift had served its purpose, and was now, simply, the really ugly piece of trash that it started out to be.

Garage sale people never cease to amaze me. They really are, well, an intriguing lot. The first purchase early on Saturday morning, before the sun rose, and before the official start of the sale? You got it. That lovely piece of art. One man’s trash. Another man’s treasure. And the gift just keeps giving.

I sit here typing this on one soot-covered Macintosh in a pair of pants and shirt that I bought just yesterday — the only clothes I have at the moment.

Yesterday morning, while with my daughter on a school field trip, I received a call from the Fire Chief. “Ma’am, we’re at your house. There’s been a fire.”

In all honesty, things really aren’t that bad. I don’t have a kitchen, every.single.thing. I own must be removed from the house and cleaned, and I’ll probably be “homeless” for 4-6 weeks. But, no one was hurt, nothing precious was lost, and, well, some things are just out of your hands.

I’ve really handled most of this with aplomb. Sure, I got a little shaky on the drive to the house after receiving the call — imagining the worst, of course. And a quiver came to my lip when Evan’s dear, sooty “Gerald” was brought forth from the house. I even was up a little last night doing some extra tossing and turning. But, beyond that, I really have been “ok” with it all, keenly aware that it could have been much, much worse.

And when I look at the soot-covered and singed — but still salvagable — Wicker Chicken sitting atop the one cabinet still standing in my kitchen, I know it will be all right.