Hands Full of Rocks

Starting out right

Ah, New Year's.

The chance to officially start again. Granted, I don't wait for that kind of formal opportunity much. I start over all the time.

But last night was Hogmanay, which is one of the great joys of Scottish Dancing for me. Live music (fantastic live music, the kind that makes the dancers 'woot' and clap while dancing, and demand to repeat dances rather than move on to the next one). People I've known since I was 14 gathered in their finery, reconnecting on and off the dance floor, some having come from half way around the world. A lot of young punks I've never met but who are also fired up by the music and the dancing, floundering their way through a dance with determination and that anxious passion that I remember from the same age - there and trying and willing and joyful. And a whole slew of the next generation, some of them now hitting their growth and looking like their near-adult selves, others still tearing around at knee to hip level, and a few babies making their way through dances against someone's shoulder or on a parent's hip.

Ep and I met through dancing. Our courtship was not a courtship (I kind of cornered him - okay, not really 'kind of'), but the cornering I did was possible because of the dancing. He knew me as much through the partnership of the dance as from chatting and hanging out after the dancing was over (sometimes into the morning, crashing at the house that hosted the dance). Some of my boyfriends (most of whom were dancers) were better dancers, but he's up there for skills. And damn, the eye contact ... the man has beautiful eyes.

We haven't danced much in years. Too many conflicts, and kids who would run out onto the dance floor to follow us. Plus knee pain, but I could get around that. Now, the kids are easier to let loose without fear of them causing a train wreck. I can still get through a dance, but I'm way out of shape for it.

Still, I danced with ep last night. We picked an early Strathspey in the program, in case I oped to dance more later.

I didn't end up dancing more later, but it was a good one to pick. There's a part of the dance that has 'space' in it to push the flirt. Eye contact. Showing off the dance skill. Holding 'just that distance' in a turn with no hands around each other, doubling the speed on the turn to loop around an extra time in the gracious space that was left for a slow and stately passage. Timing ourselves one against the other, 'covering' so closely that it is impossible to tell whether he adjusted his timing to mine, or I adjusted mine to his. On the few points where our hands met, getting that read through his whole body, feeling not just his grip but knowing through that the strength of his arm, how that translates through his upper body, down to knowing how stable his footwork is. I'd forgotten that I could tell if the floor was slippery where he was dancing by the information I got through my partner's hand. Pass by and watch his eyes, and pass by again, stretch and reach and matching the length of our steps, coordinating our timing of the figure of the dance to the music, letting the music tell us both what to do.

Yeah.

That's the way to start again.

Music is a huge part of our marriage, but dancing is equally core. Dancing is where I learned who ep was, when he was so quiet and private that talking would have taken three times as long. And dancing always reminds me, without any overlay of whatever challenge we're facing in the logistics of everyday life. Dancing takes us back to just us, in context of our friends and family, in context of our entire history, from the moment I first saw him sitting on the back of his parent's couch at a dance class at their house.

Even with the winces from using muscles again after too much time away, and the intersection of strangers and friends in the pattern of the dance, or maybe because of all that context... one dance with ep as my partner is all it takes to start again, and start again right.

Plus, you gotta love a man in a kilt. Mm, mm. 

Riding ahead

If you've had kids for a while, you'll probably know the feeling of looking at your child and catching a glimpse of who they will be years from now.

Sometimes it is just the next stage up that you see - the toddler inside the baby, rising up for a moment. In older kids, you can sometimes see the teen, and rarely I get flashes of the adult inside the child.

It's like getting a random contraction in the last few weeks of pregnancy to remind us that labor will come, the next stage is coming, and that it can't be stopped. And also that the next stage will be good. So far, all my flash-forwards have been good. THey give me a sense of nostalgia for the present I am already in, make it clear and sweet and present.

Mr B has started up his last 'pony' riding lessons. He's almost 8, so he'll be in group lessons at the next session. So, for now, his last chance to have solo lessons without paying extra. He has met the challenge his former instructor laid out - she wanted him cantering before he moved on to group lessons. He is.

He has also leapt a level in his riding. It is likely because of having done the riding camp - both a group lesson situation and a daily riding situation. Whether it was the group aspect or the daily riding, I don't know, but he has gotten a lot better. His heels were down, and he kept his body posture strong and straight the entire lesson - no slacking. Plus, they put him on Cutie, who is cute but snotty. She wants to do what she wants to do. And he turned her around and got her pointed the right way again, muscled her head around, even. Given how small he is, it was pretty impressive. Granted, Cutie isn't as big as some of the other horses he's ridden, either. He's used to the big quarter horse, who also likes his own way with things. So I suppose it isn't so strange that he's this able on a smaller, less stubborn (if more obnoxious) horse.

What I saw, though, when he was posting across the ring, eyes forward, responding to the instructor's called cues, was the teenager, the young man riding confidently, working with the horse. There was something in the way he was suddenly at ease 100%, instead of 95%, that flashed that image into my mind and heart. Here he is, little boy, eager and excited. There he is, grown and confident.

Man. It's cool, seeing that flash.

It doesn't hurt that we're headed into the regulation phase for everyone. The half-year of disregulation is fading out, the new phase of order and knowledge and skill is rising. The 11 becomes 12, the 7 becomes 8 (one of my very favorite ages), the 4's become 5's. It's still on the cusp - shifting back and forth between younger and older, leaving me expecting one and getting the other more than half the time. I get grumpy when that happens - transitions aren't my strong suit, I suppose. But I can see the new stage coming, and it is so darn amazing. Look at them, growing up! I am aware of their mortality a little more during these stages, I think because I want to see them fully as themselves in this next level. I want the next chapter to unfold, want to watch it happen. As they get older, I get more time to do so, with the changes allowing them more power and scope, and taking less physical effort from me.

A little less, anyway!

Ah, I hear feet coming down the stairs - time to go...

And another one down...

With a bang.

The train robbery was great fun.

Not sure if I had more fun because I was NOT next to the kids, or what. The friends from work got tickets separately, and only then did we find out that the tickets were assigned seating - so they were in a different car than us. ACK! Not exactly hosting it well that way.

So, since his wife loves my kids, we swapped out - I went with him, she stayed with my kids. Miss M was THRILLED. She absolutely worships N. She's so pretty. And so pretty. And she carries me. I want a doll that looks Just Like Her. She looks like a princess.

Gaga. Oh, to be so worshiped by my own child... ah, well. It's fun to watch.

Fairly mutual gaga, it seems. N didn't seem to mind being uppied to death, either.

Miss M loved two things about the trip best. First was the shootout. WOO, loud gunfire and people falling over and ... WOO. :)

And second, N carrying her across the parking lot to the car. That ranks right behind the gunfire.

Mr G and Mr B got shells from Paco (the Mexican Bandit, right-hand man for Black Bart the Bad Guy) - they're thrilled as well.

There weren't as many people dressed up as we'd hoped, though. My kids were very dressed up.

Mr G was a cowboy - Quaker style hat (flat brim, round crown), period rifle, fringed vest, jeans, fringed boots.

Mr B was a Native American - bone breastplate, fringed vest, brown pants, fringed boots, and his hair done in braids. More Oglala in style than his actual heritage (Chumash), ah, well. He looked the part, despite his hair being quite blond.

Miss M was a princess, complete with tiara and earrings and sparkly pink and white mary-janes. She wanted to be a Native American, too. But she hadn't given me time to make that, so she went with princess instead.

Miss R was in her usual costume... whatever she thinks she is, but that in their regular clothes. Princess in her regular clothes, this time. It requires a great deal less in the costume making department. Heh.

I went as something like a school teacher - tiered black skirt with some embroidery and lace, brown tall granny boots (relatively period-ish), sheer high-necked black and antique rose floral long-sleeve shirt with a plain brown western-ish vest over it. And my hair more loose than usual (only the front pulled back). Oh, and a garter with a pistol in it. Because otherwise it would have been boring. Just a bit dangerous looking is good, right?

I'd planned to go as a dance-hall girl, but I couldn't find the darn dress. I think I gave it away. Sigh. Blue with black lace and pretty low cut in front... would have been perfect work blackmail photos, but instead I ended up dressed 'too nice' for blackmail. My friend A declined to wear a costume, so I was not getting any blackmail photos, either (though we did get a pic of N with Miss Kitty, the, er, 'boss' of the dance hall girls...).

I had a decent conversation with A, and he had a good time with the event itself. They did the whole play throughout the train, with lots of banter with the audience, practicing holding up our hands for the stickup, teasing the kids, and then setting up the robbery, shootout, stage-fighting fist-fights, and with the good guys eventually winning, even though they were outnumbered three to one.

They also have a murder mystery train ride. That also sounds like fun... but more for grownups.

Mr B was a little put out that we were in costume and other kids were just there in shorts and tees. He said 'everyone was looking at us!' - and then I asked him who looked at us the most. Who? The actors. They loved that we were in costume. It drew their attention, and they played it up from the moment we got to the train platform. We had three different characters come up and talk with the kids. And then there were the spent shell casings from Paco... that was cool. Mr B quickly decided that being in costume was pretty neat. It paid off. And the notice from other people was a fine thing. He's still annoyed that the other people don't Get It. I mean, come on, dress up! Who needs dignity if you have a costume and can play a part?

It was good all around. N got her kid fix, I got to hang out a bit with A (yeah, I talked shop a little), the kids got to play, I got to not have to manage the kids the whole time, my mom had fun, my brother and niece and nephew had fun...Perfect would have been if we'd all been in the same car. Close enough.

So, one more adventure down, solid success. I'll post some pics from these in a few days - no time at the moment. I have to clean the house up a bit, and also re-write my resume - I'm being shopped for a new slot (half-time) within our client company. Still get time to work on the stuff I care about most, thankfully. Don't like the feeling that the reason they're shopping me is partly because I don't fit the role they tried to fold me into. I dislike the feeling that I didn't do a good job on that, but I really am not suited for it (knowledge-wise, not skills-wise - my skills are fine, but I just don't have the data warehousing background required). Still hate that feeling. Bleah. But, should be a better fit for this opportunity, and they are trying - trying to find me a spot that can be strategic all around - help the client, help the company, help my career. I don't mind that part. Bonus, the client is actively seeking people for these roles, so if I'm a fit, I'm good for the client company. Solving their problems is the entire point. They'll pay us if we do, boot us if we don't. So, do, and make everyone happy.

The enemy of the excellent ...

One of my mom's pithy aphorisms is 'the enemy of the excellent is the good'.

That is, spending resources on 'good stuff' and 'good enough' stuff is likely to prevent you from being able to get the excellent stuff. Certainly more of a block to excellence than spending resources on cheap junk. The junk just doesn't cost that much. The good stuff costs enough that you end up not being able to afford the really great stuff. Getting the good stuff sucks the resources dry faster.

There are many times when 'good enough' really IS good enough. Ikea furniture is good enough when it is appropriate - the Ikea dining room table is appropriate - big enough, solid enough, and I really don't care that much when someone marks it up with Sharpie by accident. Keeps my stress level down, solves the essential job, serves for this part of our lives. The 'excellent' version isn't appropriate until the kids are older. And that's the right choice. Effective, Prudent, True, there - fits all the filters.

But there are times where the Effective and Prudent filters are wide open - and all you've got left to go through is 'True' - true to self, true to need, true to that deeper esthetic sense, all the way down. Figuring out how to track that, and work it out, not ignore it or do the half-assed version or even take 'good enough' when what is wanted is that-which-I-truly-want, the thing that resonates in my soul, that's a bit tricky sometimes.

This is a discussion we're having with Mr G and Mr B right now. Both are fixated on COOL WEAPONS and OTHER COOL STUFF (swords, walking sticks, historically accurate costumes and such). All that is okay. We're kind of a sword-oriented family (the fencing, watching The Princess Bride, etc.), and the rest of it we're geeky enough to recognize as fine things.

But. They keep going 'ooh, that's the one I really want! Dang! It's $140! Hmm, I'll just get this here $14 junky one instead.' (Not that they're ordering anything without a lot of guidance, input, and management from us - just to be clear there, Mr G has a set of woodsman's blades for hacking through brush, and that's it - and most of their cool-weapon choices get nixed on 'deadly weapon' grounds - but they're okay with that, since they have, er, experience accidentally injuring their siblings, and really don't like that feeling.)

We're working them hard on figuring out what it is that they really, truly want, and then developing earning and saving strategies for those, rather than buying something just to have something, using what they already have saved.

Because seriously, they won't be happy with the 'good enough' option, in the end. It will be cool for a bit, but the deeper hum won't be answered. And the chance of the 'good enough' option breaking, or not having a good feel to it, much higher.

This is a beckon-vs.-hum thing, as well. I should bring that in as a construct, too.

For those who don't know that term set, a beckon is something that calls you in the moment, but has no deeper layer - it is the candy bar at the checkout stand. A hum is something that's already vibrating at a deep level in you, that gets you up to go seek it out. It didn't just get noticed as a 'ooh, pretty', you went looking for it. A beckon is the cheap thing that is calling out 'eat me!' or 'buy me!' A hum is worth waiting for, is something you'll come back for later if you walk away now.

And a hum is also something you'll still want, even if you buy a cheaper 'beckon' version first. If you really really want the Godiva chocolates, if deep down that would satisfy your soul, your sense of indulgence, your need to feel pampered, etc., buying the Hershey's Special Dark will put it off for a bit, but it will just come back again later. It is a hum.

Mr G and Mr B have hums for complex tools that are both physically and esthetically pleasing. Mr B wants a walking stick that has a hidden telescope in the handle. It's $140. When he heard that, he immediately said, 'I'll just look for something I can afford.'

Whoa, there boy.

My immediate response to that strategy was: At 7, Mr G saved up $140 from birthdays, Christmas, allowance (plus investing with us), and so can you. Don't go for just the cheap thing you can afford and that is 'good enough' - go for what would really satisfy your soul. Go for what you really, deep-down, want to own. Let's find a solution, not mis-identify the problem and hope the urge goes away.

Okay, so one part of the problem is 'I want to buy something NOW' - but that's not the real problem. The real problem is 'I want something more costly than I think I can afford'.

We've been saying the same thing over and over for a while. Mr G tends to get it eventually - the urgency once put off enough times settles into 'okay, okay, I really can wait long enough to get the thing I truly want.' The challenge is teaching him to hold himself back when the impulse to just get something, anything, if it can be had now hits.

But it's coming. For both of them.

Mr B, last night, looked up from his search for 'something/anything' when I suggested that it was indeed possible to save $140 at his age. He thought a moment, and then ran off from the table... and came back with one of his money collection jars - the one marked 'Saving'. He showed it around, pointed out that he'd even grabbed the Right One, and set it on the table. He then began frantically looking for the dollar he'd put down, somewhere, right over here, is it under Miss M's stack of art? Where? I need it! Must. Start. Saving. NOW. No wasting money on the 'good enough', nuh-uh!

Because, well, the walking stick with the spy-glass hidden in the handle is just really, really, EXCELLENT.

Hogmanay

Last night we went to Hogmanay Ball, a Scottish Country Dance event repeated around the world on New Year's Eve. Ours was in a gorgeous old converted church, with live music (bagpipes, fiddle, accordion, piano - and at times, three bagpipes ... in the high-arched hall, it's glorious). Set after set of dancers decked out - women in sparkle and shimmer and satin and velvet, men in their best - kilts and Prince Charlie's and doublets and the odd trews and jackets and cobbled-togethers with individual flair for the college guys who can't afford (or couldn't borrow) a kilt.

I love balls, and Hogmanay is one of the best (okay, they're all best, but this is a favorite for many reasons). There's a balcony there where you can look down and watch the patterns of the dance swirl through, parallel motion down three lines of sets, with the background murmur of the folks standing or sitting out, heads turned toward each other or toward the music. Mmmm. Yeah, that's what hooked me on dancing, seeing this, feeling the unison of enjoyment, being able to see community in motion. Even the small painful dances of intersection between people who used to love each other and are still recovering from their divorces (but both still dance, and it is accepted that most will encounter each other at such events), and the less painful but still intricate dance of those who parted ways years before, moving in close enough to remember the fondness, looping gently away from old hurt... this is my community, in real life.

It isn't my only community. I have a half-dozen others, but this one is my core. Nearly every other community I am in intersects through this one. This is where I have spent my life, from the age of 14. This is where I fell in love most often (though not exclusively), and where my history lives. These are the people who held my hand when I wept, and whose eyes shine when I succeed. They've seen me through layers of growth, and have forgiven me my adolescence, my youthful arrogance, my tendency to fall in love on the dance floor during my college years, and even my lack of active dancing for the last seven years.

I got to dance last night. Rather, WE got to dance last night. For seven years, it has been a challenge - Mr B didn't make dancing easy - it distresses him deeply to have me go out onto the floor and leave him behind. Last night, even at this age, he clung to me and wept and asked me not to leave him when I said I was going to dance. He still let me go, transferring his need to his grandparents, who took him off in search of a bandaid for a hangnail that was bothering him.

And I got to hit the floor with epeepunk, and remember all the reasons I fell for him when I was still a young punk myself. He's a good dancer, and the continuous eye contact that is essentially mandatory in Scottish Dancing reminded me that I can see the red-brown of his eyes even at a distance. We were definitely rusty, and we both grimaced at the unaccustomed demands on muscles and joints - even though we both danced for more than 20 years straight before the recent hiatus, the muscles don't just snap back. Worse, they remember what to do, and try, without the capacity. Ow ow ow. But we still managed, the flow, timing, pattern all deeply ingrained. Together, apart, together, turning, remembering that he's a good height for me, I don't have to duck or let go hands to get into allemande hold (goodness, is that spelled right?). We know the same things, the timing of the turn... and enjoy the same things, the pleasure of aligning with the couple dancing with us, covering so we sweep into place in unison, and the solid and probably very Scottish pleasure of a strathspey six hands round and back with everyone keeping good arms so the circle moves as a circle entire, slows at the same pace for the reverse direction, eye contact across to the other side and someone who is not your partner... mmm. Yeah, I love that, and love remembering the dancing. Plus, he looks hot in a kilt. Mmm. *cough* er, back to the post.

Overall feeling? Satisfaction.

Rather a lot of it, really.

Satisfaction of looking up to see that Mr G was helping move water to the water table, or refill pitchers, learning the tasks of the tea assistant job without me needing to watch over him.

Satisfaction of seeing that old friends are carrying on.

Satisfaction of listening to the skills of the musicians, one of whom is a cousin (also found in this band), and having a sense of the history and relationships interweaving between them and the dancers.

Satisfaction of seeing all the kids growing up into the community, the kids whose parents' courtships I remember fondly. Seeing those who are growing into their adulthood with remarkable (but at the same time reasonably expected) grace... watching the set of kids dancing with parents, and checking in with the kids jumbled and tumbled onto the balcony floor, playing board games or being silly together. Wincing a bit at the little boys hitching up their kilts in the back as they're careening through the crowd or sliding across the floor in their stockingfeet, little girls racing after (when they were not in the lead themselves).

Satisfaction of interweaving myself into the conversations, passing on my current state, picking up the current state of others after short gaps or long. Reconnecting with family - all from epeepunk's side, but family that is family. There's something particularly nice about seeing relatives at Hogmanay. My side will be today, not last night, and that's okay.

At midnight, singing Auld Lang Syne (the Burns version), and the subsequent pleasure of groaning boards of 'tea' (which in our area means ham and home-baked treats and hummus and savory goodies and cheeses and lox and fruit and chocolate and more home-baked treats and some not-home-baked but equally welcome goodies and some veggies and more chocolate... mmmm this branch knows how to have a tea!). And then more conversations, with the long history allowing touch-downs into deeper territory within a few words, encountering current pain and struggles with compassion expected and given freely. And then more music, and the next dance of packing up and moving the kids out to the car, gathering up the gifts that magically appear from behind backs or were added to our pile of coats when we weren't looking, gathering up the coats, and shoes, and and sleepy grumpy children, pouring them into the car and then sharing our separate conversations and observations on the drive home, and our thoughts and needs for the upcoming year for ourselves.

We have our bad years, in this community, and in our own lives. Hogmanay isn't always full of grace. I'm sure for some people, this year wasn't as easy, it is either moving downward into or just barely moving up out of the depths of their own pattern. There were a lot of friends wanting to leave behind the sorrows of last year, or still in the midst of a struggle of one sort or another, and some not looking forward too much to what is coming this year. For us, this one was a good moment in the pattern, a point where the dancers come together, sweeping in close with that brief touch of hands, a pause of zero bars in the meeting, the music telling us what to do.

And today, it is off to my mom's house, for a more intimate celebration of the new year, with our traditional smoked fish (shellfish included) and caviar and champagne lunch, this year with home-made sheep-cheese pizza for those who aren't into eating 'smelly fish'.

It's good.

Happy New Year, all.

DC Meetup - Meeting grownups

Ah, that was nice.

It definitely is easier to get to know people when the conversation isn't fragmented into bits too small to get past a grammar checker. Kids seem to know when your attention is aimed at anyone but them, and like a cat, will place themselves between you and the item to which you are attending. (Hence the fact that they have an urgent question whenever you pick up the phone and it is someone you want to talk to, but seldom leap in to interrupt when it is a sales call.)

It was nice to have the opportunity to pay attention to other adults, more so because they were interesting, intelligent, funny, engaging, real people.

My mom, ever aware of finances and everything else to do with our lives (too aware this week for my taste), asked if the trip was worth the expense - two hours each way in the car, that's an expensive dinner out even without counting the cost of the meal.

It definitely was worth the expense.

But I had a hard time explaining why. I'm glad I went, and still feel that baseline hum of pleasure coming off it, and still struggle to express quite what it was that made it so good.

It seems to be an accumulation of small things, but that aren't scattered bits or kind of an assorted lumpy amalgam of things, but more a patchwork that comes together into a pleasing pattern, making a new whole in itself.

The small things included:

• feeling indulged - good food, and (gasp!) TWO alcoholic beverages. I usually split one with ep. But he was driving, and the margarita was really the best I've ever had. Lots of lime, probably a bit too much tequila (a hare down from that would have been perfect), only just sweet enough (not sticky), and, okay, more salt with a bigger crystal size would have been my preference. BUT, still the best, even if imperfect. Indulging in two was nice. The salmon was also just a hint rare in the middle, which is the way I prefer it. Mmmm.

• Interesting people to talk with - which means having two sets of conversation that were worth listening to, at the same time. I was sitting in the middle, so I ended up swinging back and forth between the conversations, wishing I could be in both at the same time. But as much as I felt that 'ooh, dang, wait, over here, now what did I miss over there?' sense, I'm an ENXP, which means distraction and flipping back and forth are basic to my nature, and so this was actually a good place to be. I still missed some of the conversation, but I got to dip into both ends. At the same time, there wasn't a boring topic all night. No lulls, no floundering for another topic, no trying to feel out where to go next.

• Which brings me to  probably the core item - being with people with whom I have a good chunk of common ground (and better, knowing this before we started). Even if our details differ in the specifics, we all approach our parenting and the parenting of others with the assumption that we're doing the best we can (and that this is good, and the right path for our family), we're always working on it, and we're accepting of others also finding their own way through. We knew we didn't have to caveat anything about cosleeping or babywearing or nursing - we could just say it. And even if the other person wasn't cosleeping, or babywearing, or nursing, or hadn't, or struggled with it, we could expect that there was no judgment or rejection coming. There might be some shared unhappiness, the sorrow over struggles, sympathy or commiseration or empathy even for the experience we didn't have ourselves. But no rejection, no jabs or digs or attitude, no superiority. Just real people, working their way through the experience of life.

• Plus one very cute baby. Who happens to look a LOT like epeepunk did as a kid (only ep's black hair stood on end and looked a lot like someone stuck one of these to his head then put his finger in a light socket...) Same huge really dark brown eyes, same cheeks, same solid body and cute rolls of baby chub and ... yeah, adorableness. My littlest half-brother also looked very similar, and his son could pass as a close relative without trouble - same skin, same hair, same eyes, same soft, chubby please-nibble-me hands. Mmm. And I'm definitely not having any urge for another baby. It's always a bit reassuring to hold someone else's child and not feel my ovaries ache. Lovely, sweet, and while I'm willing to love another, I'd rather it be a grandchild. And for that, I can wait. (Hopefully a long time.) (Though my body did its usual trick and I woke up yesterday with the itchiness of letdown and some fullness... a hundred years ago, I'd have been a wetnurse...)

And all of that together still is still only the patches in the quilt. The whole evening was bounded and edged with a sense of commonality, community. We were stitched together with our Ask Moxie experience, maybe, or with the mutual backstories from so many posts there, or on other blogs. There was also a sense (hopefully shared) that if we didn't have babysitters to return to, if there weren't family and home and child to draw us back away, that the evening could have been one of those that just kept rolling until we ended up the next day torn between feeling like idiots wandering around in bleary misery and gladness that we knew we had drunk every ounce of the companionship available.

It is rare for me to find even one other parent in a random group that has that sense of 'I would hang out with this person.' To have dinner with a table full of them, three other couples who engage my brain, my interest, whose lives and families and choices interweave in patterns I'd enjoy following across time and into more depth... that was a true pleasure.

Perhaps it is a little silly developing friendships two hours away - especially as I already have a friend two hours away (in the same area, even - though our friendship is complicated and sometimes a bit stressful for both of us). We barely see the friends who are across town, yet here we are driving two hours to see new friends. Sigh.

That serves as a reminder to see what we can do to meet up more with the local friends, too - most of whom are quite comfortable with us and our parenting choices even if they're not happy about how much having four kids interferes with the local schedule of events... (we DO keep trying to move the Saturday morning riding lesson later, so we can do Friday night dance classes again, really!).

For me, finding mommy friends (any parent friends, really) is always a long dance with a lot of partners, trying to find the very few whose dancing meshes with my own. When the music changes, some of those fall away, too, and the search is on again for others. Over and over and over, we try out the intersection of me and thee. Most mesh well enough for one event or evening or occasion - the same school, the same circle, the same activity... but don't stick the way I'd like. In 10 years, I've had just four who stuck reasonably well. One moved back to the UK years ago, and we've not been good at keeping in touch (either of us) - life moved on. One moved to upstate NY a year and a bit ago, and we miss them terribly - Mr G found a true friend in their daughter, a kindred spirit, and talking about N makes him sad - we need to get him an email account to stay in touch with her. One is still local, busy and scrambling the way we are, but true friends, drop-everything-and-come-over, easy with cancellations and easy with unexpected opportunities as well. One started out before she had a child, but progressed rapidly. So, 10 years, and two that stuck, only one of those already in parenthood when we met.

I do have many friends from before parenthood who didn't wander off when we (or they) became parents - most are busy and active people like ourselves, and only a couple are local (admittedly, we moved south, and they moved north, but we're still in the same loop). It's always a trick, predicting how parenthood will shift a friendship (especially if there's a difference in start times, or one party does not take that path). So far, it hasn't been too difficult. It does feel odd sometimes, because we started sooner than the bulk of our peer group (we're older, too) - and we have more kids than most of them probably want. I try to dodge the assumptions I put on my own friends in the group who had kids before me, who I saw as experienced and successful - and who fortunately were quite good at telling me that I'd be fine doing it my own way, and needn't try to duplicate their way. Not as sure that I'm good at saying the same thing, though I feel it. All the people I know well are finding their own way through, floundering at times maybe, but the same ways and times that I think almost everyone does (read: 'fussy stage').

It's a long road, parenthood. Lots of turns, changes in direction, and a path we can only walk for ourselves. A labyrinth, like the healing journey I went on a couple decades ago (man, I'm old). Like walking a labyrinth, it has to be okay to accept the casual companion at one's side, the person who seems to be going the same direction for now, who may be ahead, behind, nearby or far away, but for this short time is side-by-side with me. Sometimes that short intersection of companionship brings me into longer intersections, long enough to recognize each other as parents discovering the same path, so that even when we're at a distance we may glance up and smile from across the pattern. And sometimes the connection is just a few paces long, before we each turn our own ways. They're all part of the process.

That's part of the Acceptant, Loving, Faithful process, I guess. Walk my path, allow others to walk theirs, allow the connection to be for as long as it is, welcome what it brings, let it go gently when the paths separate. Granted, that's a lot easier when things are going well than when I'm feeling lonely or when I'm really struggling with even staying on my own path.

No idea if the other parents feel the same about us - but that's a point of curiosity rather than need to know. We will or will not encounter each other again, and I will be happy if we do, and if we do not, I will be happy that we did even once (or twice, for some of them). At least from here, I can say that there's enough joy to be gained to spend a few minutes checking the calendar ahead, and keep an eye on Caramama's blog for the next meetup.

That's my boy (okay, his own boy, really)

It's the little moments that add up.

This morning:

Mr B: (thoughtfully, a little sad) J is not my best friend anymore.

Me: Really?

Mr B: He teases people. That's not right.

Me: Yeah.

Mr B: (firmly) So he's not my friend.

Me: (sympathetically) Mm.

Mr B: I try to stop him, but he doesn't. He wants to do what he wants to do. And I don't... I want to do what I think is right.

Me: Brave people try to help others do what's right, and they do what's right themselves. (Dang, higlighted talent instead of skill. Why is it so hard to remember that in the middle of a conversation?)

Mr B: (quietly, as if to himself) Yeah.

Me: I'm proud of you for choosing what's right for you. (In retrospect, I could have started with 'you sound proud of yourself for choosing what's right for you' and then added 'I am, too'... ah, well. I'm still a work in progress.)

Mr B: (change of tone, still thoughtful, but enthusiastically) Can we have something special for dinner tonight?

Good use of True (defined here).

I'm not sure if he sensed the opportunity to ask for a treat at the end there, or he just knows all my buttons, including the good ones, or if that was a totally random segue like he usually uses to signal 'done' on any of these self-discovery conversations (a bit of each, maybe)... but yeah, I said we could get something. We've had meatballs two nights in a row.

I got the sense that he was talking to himself but with an audience - he wasn't watching me, just sitting in the office chair spinning back and forth, looking thoughtful while I stitched his mitten back onto the mitten-string. He has a tendency to go big-eyed and hopeful if he's trying the innocent ploy routine.

Eh, whatever. It is what it is. We're still going to swing by the grocery store on the way back from the meet-the-teacher event at school this afternoon.

Family Mythology - Helpful Beings

Not the usual family mythology stuff, like 'Great-Grandpa Joe, who met (insert famous person here)' or 'Great-Aunt Suzie who died of a broken heart' or 'Stern and Serious Auntie Byrd, who was a wild hellion in her youth'.

I'm talking elves and fairies and gnomes and genies. The little ones that flit by and leave presents, or find things, or mess things up.

We have the Parking Genie in the car, who finds us parking spots. He eats what falls on the floor of the car, or off the top, and seems to like fries and apple pie. As in, once I left a pie on the roof of the car, and I had great parking spaces for weeks afterwards. Not to be confused with opossums, who will also eat food that fell on the floor in the car (if, say, the car door is left open for several hours at night), but which I imagine are not nearly as useful for finding parking spaces. I'm pretending I only have to imagine the part about the opossum in the car.

We also have the whole ongoing battle between the Good Fairies and the Bad Elves (there are good and bad of each, hence the specifics), and the bad elves are trying to steal the jewels of the good fairies. The drama unfolds each night, as the good fairies sneak into our house, knowing they can trust Miss M to keep their jewels safe, and they tie them into her hair in knots, tighter and tighter to keep them safe. They know Miss R will help protect them in her sister's hair, and the big brothers Mr's G and B are far too powerful for the bad elves, so the bad elves will not come near. In the morning, just before the sun comes up, the good fairies sneak back in and magic the jewels out of Miss M's hair and run away quickly, safe in the daylight from the bad elves for another day. But Miss M, darn it all, she still has the tangles and knots. Sure enough, at the center of almost every one, there's just the tiniest puff of fluff, often showing the color of the jewel that had been inside. Look, a blue one - a sapphire was there! Oh, a ruby, a red ruby! It makes the combing go by faster, to know what color gem it was. But it's still kind annoying - too bad the fairies can't find another way to protect their treasure. I guess those ones are kind of neutral, but they also help us find things when they go missing, so it evens out.

And what other helpful beings do we have?

There is the coffee genie, who appears out of the darkness to deliver coffee to me. He looks a lot like epeepunk, but I'm careful to always call him by his proper name ('Yay, Coffee Genie!').

And the garden fairies, who planted a slew of crocus in my yard when I was in the hospital postpartum with Mr G.

Yesterday, I discovered a new fairy ... the fox pee fairy left a box of fox pee on my porch. Thanks, Fox Pee Fairy! With your help, I'll keep that evil rat groundhog out of my garden.

Life is far more magical with all these helpful beings around.

Remembering being small

I can remember being bathed in the sink when I must have been less than 9 months old. My mom said that I hated the tub, so sink it was. I loved the sink. It was slippery feeling, but small enough I didn't feel dwarfed by it. I liked the feel of the nozzle spraying over me, and the sight of suds sliding down me. I can still remember the taste of the shampoo when it got in my mouth. Sink was nice. Sunlight, and height/altitude (I liked being "UP"), and the curtains moving in the breeze (spring baby, summer bath). Baths? No way. I didn't like the sensation that there was a substance that was not air and not (to my mind) water, in which I was sitting, which was ringing my body with what felt like a constantly moving line like a ribbon glued but not glued to my skin, tickling me (I could feel the surface tension of the water moving the small hairs on my skin, as if it was a separate thing - later, I decided I liked that feeling, but not as a baby, I guess).

I can also remember being a toddler. I remember the day I realized that I did not rule the universe, that the sun did not move at my demand. I was sitting in the kitchen, in my favorite sunny spot, where the fake-brick linoleum had warmed to a nice comfortable temperature. I was apparently totally absorbed in my play, because I sat there long enough that the sunny patch worked its way up the wall, so only a few inches remained on the floor. I casually reached up, and slid my hand across it, moving it back down where it belonged. Only, it refused. I did it again. The sunny patch stayed put. I stood up and used two hands, pressing harder, trying to force it to slide back down the wall and onto the floor where it was SUPPOSED to be, where I CHOSE it to be. Again, the sun ignored me. I knew it was sunlight, and it was the sun that was the problem, but I couldn't reach the sun, so I pushed on the light. With dreadful realization, I understood. The sun wasn't mine to command.

The universe shattered, with that understanding.

I was suddenly powerless. I saw myself from a moment before, true ruler of the universe, able to coordinate all that I chose, desired, hoped with a single wish. Mother to lift me up or set me down, siblings to come play or leave me be, sunlight always sunlight or the short powerful rain (okay, so I lived in southern California, I had no clue about unpleasant weather!), that me of a moment before had them all at my beck. I remember standing there, arms limp, probably my mouth hanging open in dread surprise. Now, the world was big, and I was small. Now, everything was cold and I could not force it to be warm. Now, I could not feel my needs flow out of me as a wave of my hand or a call of my voice or a lifting of my arms (up!) and know that the answer would come flowing from the universe towards me, meeting me, completing the lack.

I was suddenly very alone. I was terrified. And being scared infuriated me, because that was something else I could not answer.

I attacked the sunny spot on the wall. Screamed my rage and disappointment, crashed against it, beat it, demanded and ranted and insisted. It only stayed where it was, or if anything, moved higher up the wall. I collapsed at the foot of the wall, leaned against it, mourning, weeping in heartbreak for the friendship lost between me and the sunny spot on the floor. I knew now that it would never stay there just for love of me.

It was hard being little. It was harder than being grown up, some times. The totality of the everyday changes in understanding were powerful, life-altering, like natural disasters taking away all that is familiar and safe and good, leaving only uncertainty and loss in their wake. And then with only a child's understanding, I would have to re-forge the universe into a shape I could understand, put the parts back together, place myself within its order based on the new understanding, and then correct and adjust until things made sense - I wasn't that unimportant, was I? No, see, mom still picks me up when I raise my arms. But I cannot control the flowers and the wind and the sun. Ah, now I see that it is the asking that is powerful. So I will ask, not as an outflowing of the need, but as an intention to communicate the need. And now why when I ask does she sometimes not DO? Back to feeling powerless again. And to figuring out again where I fit, how it works, why things work sometimes and not others. Trying again. Making sense of it, again.

Remembering these things helps a lot. It makes it easier for me to understand how little my children really understand, and how much the truly believe they understand. It's their certainty in their truth that comes up against my adult reality with hard edges, and their certainty is harder to move than reality, some days. Pushing against it just creates confusion, and in confusion we tend to hold fast to our certainties, even as adults. It takes very gentle motion, gentle ideas, gentle tweaking of their reality to add something new without causing it to all fall down around them.

I know that my kids still have plenty of times when they're certain of their version of reality and life causes that certainty to shatter. As much as it hurt for me, it wasn't traumatic because I didn't assign it meaning. It just was, and I just was angry and scared and hurt. And then I was done being angry and scared and hurt, and was on to figuring out what was next. I aim for the same for them - that their shattering moments aren't wounds to carry forward, but are just changes. And I also hope some of the changes are gentle ones.

I've had those, too. I even remember some of them.

Birthday Party Scene

A dozen kids, mostly boys, mostly 4, 5, 6 years old, with a couple of almost-4, and a preponderance of 5’s.

Mr B was greeted on arrival as The Oldest, The Co-Favorite of the Birthday Boy, The Cool One (for having drawn tattoos on himself with sharpie, to start, and then for his usual pattern of interaction, which is to start out somewhat reluctant to join in – which is actually shyness and a slow transition speed but reads sometimes as just a little bit of a personal bubble of disengagement – and then engage with the individuals for a while, then decide to do his own thing in intersection with them, allow others to join him but not follow the play plan already in place … it’ll be interesting to see how that evolves as he gets older, since it’s been his pattern from very early on…).

Back to the party: Swimming is over, pizza is over, and cake is over.

Candy bracelets have been eaten, yoyo-balls have been discovered. A game of something vaguely resembling tag crossed with rugby has ensued around the tables.

Parents watch, but so far the noise hasn’t escalated to the pre-catastrophe excess of glee point. It’s a party, they’re having fun, no stomping on the fun.

And then the crash.

Six year old collides with almost-4. The younger boy goes down, yoyo ball coming apart (ring one way, ball and string the other).

I turned at the sound of crying, and was informed that the older boy pushed the younger boy down (interpretation? Accurate? Not sure.). Younger boy is crying, angry, despondent.

The other kids stop running, but clearly don’t know what to do.

Some just stand there, staring at the boy still on his knees, face angled toward the floor, black curls angled toward the others.

Others kind of wander around in loops, neither leaving nor attending.

One of the two girls arrives as if teleported, her arm around the boy (around her age), her eyes steely and fierce, helping him to his feet.

But other than the change in posture, nothing changes. The boy still cries, still face downturned, his hands turning back and forth uselessly. The other kids still seem to be wandering in loops or just standing there staring at him. (Only a minute or so has passed, it takes longer to write it than see it.)

Then Mr B comes into the circle of onlookers, looks at the boy, comes up to him, leans in, talks to him quietly for a moment, then looks around. He spies what he is looking for, picks it up off the floor, and hands it to the boy.

Tears cease instantly. Shining face looks up with a smile at his hero. The ring from his yoyo ball that had come loose and been lost in the collision has been found, and returned. The reason to cry is gone, the heart no longer broken.

The other kids dissipate, reform, converge in a different arrangement. The boy who had been crying is reabsorbed, welcomed back into the loop of play. Eyes follow Mr B,

Mr B goes off again, doing his own thing.

A few of the parents turned to me and each other, and said, “Did you see that? He saw the kid crying, and he found something for him that helped, and just helped.”

I was kind of stuck. What do you say to that? Isn’t that what kids should do?

But then I remembered a few things:

a) Experience: Mr B has younger sibs. Many of these kids have only one sib, if that, and most the sib is still in babyhood.

b) Age: Mr B is nearly 7, the oldest there. Most of the others will grow more able to problem-solve socially as they head into the 7 year old phase.

c) Personality. Mr B is and always has been kind and loving as core features. Not just the way most boys are, but KIND and LOVING with an echo that goes right through your soul.

d) Modeling (I hope). Even though I know we model that behavior, and coach it, I hesitate to give credit to us. Half because I can’t measure whether it was, and half because the idea of taking credit for his choice of action feels like I’m looking for back-pats, and I cringe at that. Yes, I want to feel good about my parenting, no, I don’t want to take credit for his actions. It was still his choice, all I did was allow his choice to be free enough. Not encumbered with judgment, worry, attitude, or untenable rules.

Whether the other kids will choose to problem-solve compassionately, or whether they will know how based on the models they are given, no knowing.

I eased the stunned expressions off the other parents’ faces by indicating option a). Oh. They nodded. Big brothers are like that. Or can be.

I’m just glad that he is.