Ma famille

Today, I spent the day with the boys while my special someone did housework. We went grocery shopping together, then baked a king cake, a pastry requiring many steps that multiple people can divvy up. It was so much fun. I love being a part of the boys' lives, to hear what they think about things, to have their help picking out apples or mixing pastry filling. Even when they're shrieking and hitting each other with pillows or fighting or forcing the dogs to snuggle with them while watching TV or conspiring to attack us, it feels glorious. They are my family, and more and more, I look forward to our weeks together.

Which is a good thing, because in 9 months, these rowdy, silly, cute boys will be officially my family. My special someone and I are getting married, and we will have to love and live with each other no matter what. I've been reading "The Courage to be a Stepmom: Finding Your Place Without Losing Yourself" by Sue Patton Thoele, and although I'm only a third of the way in, all I can think about is how fortunate I am. I found the book a few months ago, when I was feeling frustrated and lost as a parent, and this book seemed to be a salve for my wounds. But my experience has differed from the tribulations described in the book's stories. I'm thrilled to have two stepsons who are kind and accepting of me, a partner who is thoughtful and committed to me and his kids, and friends and family who embrace my new role and new family. I have many of the same challenges other parents have, but I haven't found any tempting reasons to run from this situation.

I know things won't always be this great. The boys are entering adolescence, and their increased independence can only lead to greater challenges. But I have big hopes and dreams for us as a family and I'm excited to watch us grow, independently and together.

Thoughts on motherhood

It's been 3 months since my special someone and I moved in together, along with his two sons (ages 10 and 13), two dogs, and two reptiles. Even without the kids here, we have a full house; Dear Kitty is not so thrilled with the dogs, but she has mostly gotten used to the kids aside from an occasional gentle warning hiss, and she's fascinated by the usually sedentary but sometimes comically active reptiles. In the past year, even before we combined households, things have felt different. There were troubles with one of the kids, which I couldn't help but agonize over despite my general role as an empathetic bystander. Then, we took a trip together as a family to visit more family for Christmas, straight out of a movie. The kids hung out at my house a few times and even slept over once, welcome strangers intruding on my turf. And now we all live together, a real family, and we took a 2-week vacation together, family-style. It feels nice and weird and foreign and frustrating and cozy and settling and many other conflicting feelings that come with being a parent. Except I'm not a parent, I'm a step-parent. I used to be a single girl who only had to pay attention to my own life and could get lost in my thoughts and leave my clothes on the floor for days. What I had was my small world, inconsequential to others and beholden to no one, and I felt free every day.

Now, I must pick up my clothes while others' messes lay strewn about. Do I pick up these socks, foam bullets, candy wrappers, shoes, plastic blocks, blankets, etc., or do I struggle with getting the kids to pick them up so that the house feels a little more put-together? Now, I must plan plain meals that the children will eat, which they usually don't anyway, instead of sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, eating fresh, crusty bread with salty olive spread and sardines and a glass of wine, indulging in reality TV. Now, I must listen to stories from Scouts and soccer practice and paintball fights and nod along and mmmm-hmmm to descriptions of warfare tactics and think of questions to ask about things I'm not the least bit interested in, instead of escaping to read in bed with Dear Kitty for hours. Now, I grit my teeth when the entitlement act gets old and I want to yell at them to stop being so spoiled and just listen to us for once, instead of rolling my eyes at other people's entitled kids. Now, I wince and sigh and try to relax during the especially rowdy moments when they can't, just cannot, stop screaming and running around and shooting things at each other and blasting the music, instead of reveling in the silence and the chirping birds while scented candles flicker.

But also now, I giggle along with the silly things the boys do and say. Now, I read about how to raise kids right, and I worry that everything I do is wrong and will screw them up for good. Now, I want to have snuggly moments on the couch, and watch movies together, and make holiday crafts at the table together, and show the kids off to my friends and family, and talk about them like we all belong to each other. Now, I want to be a part of their lives and help them change and grow into men, and go out there in the world, and be as fully themselves as they are now. Now, I feel warm when they include me in their adventures, when they want me to know all about what they care about.

But it's hard to get out of my head and focus on them. I enjoy them but I don't crave them. I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes I look forward to our last day together for the week, and I dread the day they come over two weeks later. Not dread, just...feel sad for my temporary loss of freedom, and for the fact that I must share my special someone with them. I embrace this challenge, and I am thrilled to have these boys in my life, for they are simple and lovely and exuberant and still excited about the world, but sometimes, it might be nice to not have them so much in my life.

I know that step-parents feel this way. We wonder whether perhaps it would be different with our own kids. In some ways, maybe yes, but in many ways, parenting is parenting. But I'll never be a parent. I'm surrounded by other people's kids, including my nephew and my friend's kids, and I will bond with them and love them and be a member of their village and give them whatever I have to spare. But I will have no children to call my own, and that's a selfish feeling but also a natural feeling. So I will go on pinning kids' activity ideas and parenting advice and home decor on Pinterest, as if these children were my own, as if we belong to each other. Because now I am no longer lonely, and I have people to live a life for, and even when it's tough, it's still better than eating sardines alone on the floor and watching other people's lives. And maybe someday, for all my hard work, I will get a hug or an acknowledgement that I mean something to them, and it will all be worth it.

Needed

I'm standing in front of the school, waiting for the bell to ring and children stream out the doors. Other parents wait too, some fathers but mostly mothers. Although many are my age and some are younger, I feel like the youngest one here. I can't possibly be old enough to have a 10-year-old. I'm only 26, right? Or so I feel. But this boy is my family now, and his 13-year-old brother is, too. I went from single woman with an older boyfriend with kids to a sort-of step-mom overnight. I went from usually alone to a parent and domestic partner lickety-split. My life isn't just my own anymore. I was dragging my feet in the days before this move, afraid to give up my autonomy and my life space. But now, it feels nice. The stuff at work doesn't matter because I come home every night to a house full of beings who rely on me. Sure, I'm already tired of hearing my name called every 30 seconds, and I'll deeply need those quiet moments when I get home each day, before everyone else arrives. But life at home is now so much more important than the other stuff. I never was able to really imagine what it would be like to have a family, so it never seemed like a real thing that I might have someday. It will take some getting used to, but I can't imagine going back.

Dreamer By Day and By Night

Yet again, this old rag has gotten a new face, a sign that like so many others, I resolve to write more. I struggle with this, because who is really interested in what I have to say? Besides my own mother, of course. But I've been dwelling in my dreams more, wondering where these crazy conjurings come from in the dark of night, where only my wandering brain can see them. By day, I am a mere mortal, subjected to the ordinariness of the realm of the fully conscious. I am not what anyone would describe as an especially creative person in my dress or demeanor. As I slumber, though, the grinding gears of a clearly repressed brain turn workaday situations and ideas into the worlds of science fiction and surrealism. I don't do any drugs - really, I don't - but sometimes a glass of red wine in the evening can increase the level of weirdness in my slumbering stories.

I fall asleep listening to BBC News on my local NPR station, because admittedly, I'm a little afraid of lying alone in the dark, and the stories distract me from the stream of consciousness that would otherwise keep me awake. Once sleep washes over me, anything goes. Sometimes the scenery could be a long-lost Magritte or Dalí painting, eerily strange and twisted but not scary, with a rambling plot that really makes no sense. Other times, it's whimsical and fantastical, with vivid colors like the beautiful scenes from What Dreams May Come. A few times, science fiction drives the theme, likely influenced by something I read, like my female-centric sequel to the book Ready Player One, this time entering different universes through trap doors in an old Victorian home, searching for some object (what it was, I now can't remember). And then there are the ethereal dreams that imply death - not the scary dying part, but the floating, peaceful, somewhat lonely part afterward.

My dreams aren't always like this. I have recurring expressions of anxiety that manifest as various forms of travel that never get me to my destination. Or wandering a giant shopping mall, looking for an item that I never find. Or hiding from a tornado that passes overhead or nearby, leaving me unscathed. Lately, I have cared for my brother as a small child or experienced the alienation of my special someone's son growing up and becoming someone we can't recognize. But usually, it's the same randomness that everyone experiences during the night - snippets of real life combined and twisted into something that resembles reality but makes much less sense. It feels like it goes on for the entire night but is probably only an hour two in total, and sometimes I awaken feeling just as I do during the day, like it would be such a relief for my brain to just turn off for a while. The dreamless nights, or at least the nights during which I sleep so soundly that I'm not aware of my dreams, are such relief and are sadly so rare.

And yet. I'm envious, really, of Dreaming Me. Sometimes my nightly worlds and experiences are so fun, so interesting, so pleasantly strange, that I want to stay there longer or bring them back with me to the land of the conscious. At the very least, I wish that I had the skills to translate my inner machinations into a story in words or images. Something that I can hold onto when regular life is just so mundane. A technique for pulling ideas from my brain so that I can enjoy them while awake and be rid of them while asleep. Or maybe even a new way to make some money. Maybe someday, we will be able to download our brains, record unconscious images like a DVR to play back later, splice and enhance and edit. Some people practice lucid dreaming, but it's still ephemeral, lasting only a short while and never to return in the exact same form.

(Not) Broken

My move to this new place in 2011 was in a bit of a fit of despair. I felt lost, stuck in a city in which I no longer wanted to live, lonely without any romantic relationships, purposeless in a job I couldn't and didn't want to do, antsy to see more of the country. I was looking forward to starting completely over, in a city where no one knew me, in a job I knew I could do, in a landscape that promised real adventure. I was feeling broken, and I wondered if a new life would help me put my pieces back together. It did, mostly, but when I still sensed some holes, I looked to a professional to help me with the last few pieces. Soon afterward, I felt fixed. It was something I should have done years before. But just like any life changes, you have to be ready or it doesn't take.

Two years later, my body has felt broken, after too many years of not addressing the little things. So, again, I turned to professionals to help me. After many co-pays, a prescription, and some twisting and turning, again I feel like I'm on the upswing. I feel more capable, and strangely, a little more invincible. All those things that held me back in the past are now in the past. My list of excuses has dwindled.

I have always lived my life so independently. It's been up to me to figure out how to get through any obstacles that have come my way. The past few years have taught me that it's okay to seek out help, that even the strongest people sometimes can't handle everything alone. I learned to accept that it's okay to not be the strongest person in the room. It's been good training, because soon I will have to give up a great deal of my independence. My special someone and I will soon live under the same roof with Dear Kitty, two small-in-stature but big-in-character dogs, a corn snake, a bearded dragon, and every other week, two rowdy boys. We will be a family unit, dependent on each other, even when we'd rather go it alone. It will be a big adjustment for me and Dear Kitty, who enjoy our solitude and freedom. But it will be better, because few people can stand to be alone forever. These days, I come home from the circus to my quiet house, and I feel lonely. There will be days when I can't handle the circus, and I hope that I will be granted a few hours of solitude. But overall, I suspect that I will feel even more complete, more so than I imagined possible.

Running Apparel Season is Upon Us

Today, my special someone signed up for the Robie Creek half marathon (he's much more hardcore than me), and I signed up for the Idaho Potato Half Marathon, which I did last year, and for which I'm hoping for a PR (that's personal record, for all you non-racers out there). I've been doing a lot more weight training this winter, and the extra strength combined with greater lung capacity (Why did I wait so long to get my asthma under control?) has enabled me to get to a sub-10-minute mile without too much effort. I feel good already and I haven't even started training yet.

All this working out gets me thinking often about my workout attire. I consider my body to be in the Fit Fertility Goddess category - solidly a size medium, with healthy curves that are only accentuated by muscle tone.  Tons of workout clothes are made for women who are petite, are athletes, or are just naturally thin. These women can wear short shorts, small tank tops, sports bras that aren't padded or super-reinforced, and any kind of spandex their hearts desire. We fit fertility goddesses cannot wear these types of clothes, and unfortunately, the athletic-wear companies generally just make clothes bigger to fit the curvy and the full-figured among us. But while making the same styles in larger sizes may work for some women, sadly, that is not the answer for us active curvy girls with hourglass figures, because we're not bigger all over. Our hormones have blessed us with bodies made for birthing babies and raising children, but we're fit and toned because we're runners, cyclists, weight-lifters, rock climbers, yoga practitioners, dancers, skiers, hikers, and snowshoers. We may have shoulders, mid-torsos, knees, and ankles that fit into a size small, but our 32/34/36-D/DD breasts and our 40/42/44-inch hips definitely do not. However, we're also generally not a size large, except for some smaller-cut pants and shorts (I'm looking at you, Columbia Sportswear. Some of us actually have hips and butts, you know.) We struggle with pants that fit either the waist or the butt, but not both, and tops that make us look either slutty (too tight in the chest) or frumpy (too big all over). We need:

• sports bras that provide serious support without smooshing the girls and aren't bulky, that wick away a ton of sweat, and that don't chafe on the shoulders, ribs, or under-boob. Our girls may be ample, but we're proportionately smaller around the ribs, and we need a bra that will stay put despite all the bouncing.  
• spandex that supports and compresses, hides panty lines and cellulite, and doesn't create cameltoe. Spandex and similar blends are light and stretchy, and even though they're not the most flattering fabrics, for those brave enough to wear them, we need them to be highly functional and as flattering as possible. That means wider waistbands, dark colors, and appropriately placed seams and panels that flatter curves and don't chafe. And, it bears repeating, no cameltoe.
• lightweight shorts and skorts in lengths that extend beyond our saddlebags and inner-thigh bulges, but not all the way to our knees, and that don't ride up at all when we walk, run, or jump. We will never have a thigh gap, and anti-chafing gels and creams are not sufficient solutions to inner-thigh rashes and irritation. Neither is wearing spandex shorts under nylon shorts, which is just not an option on a hot summer day.
• warm-up and hiking pants made of a material with some stretch and some structure, with wider waistbands, options for adjusting the waist, and a wider cut in the hips that tapers slightly from mid-thigh or knee to the ankle. Pants that are the same width from the widest part of the hips all the way to the ankles make curvy women look frumpy. Pants should be flexible and comfortable, but not too flowy or too clingy. And again, no cameltoe.
• longer tops in lightweight wicking material. Our extra padding means more movement, higher core temperatures for some, and thus more sweating. Shirts that come down to the hips, with sleeves that are cut wider and a little longer, are more flattering and won't ride up as much. Tank tops with wider straps and higher necklines cover up larger sports bras and provide more modesty and style. All tops should be cut to provide more room in the chest and hips, while tapering in the middle to flatter the waistline. This goes for coats and jackets, too.
• some kind of waist or hip belt for water bottles that stays securely and doesn't ride up. When a curvy woman puts a hip belt on and goes for a run, the belt quickly rides up to the narrowest part of the body, which for fit fertility goddesses is often right below the breasts. Fastening the belt securely at the natural waistline can look funny and isn't terribly comfortable. Backpacks and hand-held water bottles can work, but they're not the preferable solution. There must be a better lightweight way to carry water on long walks or runs. 
• socks and shoes that withstand and absorb greater impact force and prevent over-pronation. Curvy women are harder on their hiking and running shoes because they're heavier, and the greater angle from the hips to the ankles can lead to all kinds of hip, knee, ankle, and foot problems. We need socks and shoes that provide proper foot and ankle position, support and disperse the extra force, and last longer despite the extra beating we give them. 

Maybe in my next life, when I have greater financial resources at my disposal, I will make athletic apparel for fit fertility goddesses. We sort of get ignored, in between the natural athletes and the much-fuller-figured women, and that makes it really frustrating to be the badass chicks we know we are. 

Dead (wo)man's party

It's past peak leaf time around here, about two weeks beyond the loveliest time in autumn when gorgeous reds, oranges, and yellows pop, with some deep purples and still-greens and ever-greens mixed in, perched and ready to flutter to the ground and skitter across the pavement. Daylight Saving Time ended today and now is peak leaf-raking time, the bare trees reminding us that time flies too quickly. I ran another half-marathon three weeks ago, this time on my own, and the runners' heavy breaths floated visibly in the cold morning air. My banner year is coming to a close, and I fear that next year will be the opposite - full of challenges we'd rather not face. This year, I ran two big races, took many fun camping, backpacking, and long-weekend trips, learned to fish (and received my own fishing pole as a gift), met some of my special-someone's family, and brought that special someone to a Rosh Hashanah service. I checked a dream trip off the list, saw the Pacific Ocean, and stood below Mount Rainier. A gorgeous baby was born and a union was made official. I bought new tires for my car and finally found a way to take full control of my asthma. But among the milestones and the noteworthies have come family strife, a government shutdown, and the foreboding sense that the closing of some doors has opened others to worlds we hadn't expected and don't necessarily welcome. The party is winding down; time to deal with the real world again.

Seasonal Affective Disorder usually drags me down as the sun slinks farther south and the days grow shorter, but I'm determined to beat it this year. Down with the leftover Halloween candy, the heavy food, the sleeping on the couch all evening, the strange despair that sets in despite the opportunity for a full life. I bought one of those therapy lights, and after five days of huddling beneath it while eating breakfast each workday, I can already sense that something is different. Maybe it's coincidence. Maybe it's the placebo effect. Maybe it's a number of other reasons. But I've had more energy in the evenings, and though melancholy lurks, it hasn't yet taken hold; that's a great start. I started this post a few weeks ago, in the throes of the seasonal blues, and I'm finishing it tonight feeling lighter and fresher.

As I think I've mentioned before, the span of time that includes the Jewish New Year, the new year observed with the Western calendar (January 1), and my birthday (February 11) provides ample opportunities to reassess, to make promises for the next year, to vow yet again to do things differently. I think my aim will be to put aside some of my generalist tendencies, find some things I love despite the challenges they bring, and focus more of my energy on them. All my life, I have flitted from one hobby to another: ballet/jazz/tap dance, soccer, horseback riding, piano lessons, choir. There are some things I regularly do these days, like hiking/camping/backpacking, cooking, yoga, weight-training, occasionally crocheting, reading. These are recreational pursuits, though, activities I enjoy but don't obsess over, and if I improve my skills, it's only because I do them often. But the runner's high has taken hold of me, specifically the high from racing. I'm a slow runner, and between my asthma and my hourglass physique, I don't expect that I'll ever win a race or even place in the top 10 percent. I'm lucky to place in the top 50 percent for my age range. But there's something about communal running, pushing yourself to just finish, cheering on others as they cheer you on in return, traversing through time and space by the sheer will of your mind and body alone, that I just love the way I haven't loved an activity before. I cheered on my special someone and some friends at a half-marathon yesterday, and I so ached to be running with them that I ran hard on my own afterward. So, I may not win any races, but I want to get better. Faster. Without pain in my knees or my back or my lungs. I do many things because I can without too much work, but I want to run more despite the hard work. Or maybe because of it.

Yesterday was All Souls Day. Oingo Boingo famously sang in 1985,

"It's a dead man's party
Who could ask for more
Everybody's comin', leave your body at the door
Leave your body and soul at the door . . ."

I don't know what it means, really, but I'm taking it as a cue to use my body and soul now, while I still have them.

The Ghost Got a Makeover

A while ago, my mom took a trip down to the old neighborhood, and afterward, she sent back some photos of the old house, the one that's been haunting me. I would never recognize it if I drove past it now. The new owners painted it a bland tan color. The big trees in the front are gone, the bushes and benches in the back are gone, part of the porch has been lopped off, the overflowing garden and pond are now a dog run and firewood storage, and tall shrubs separate the yard from the neighbor's. If the outside has been changed so much, I can only imagine what they did with the interior.

It's a relief, really. I think the house haunted me because I felt like we had abandoned it, left it standing, knowing that someone else moved in without knowing who they were. But it looks so different now that it's not our home anymore. Now that it doesn't look like the home I used to know, I don't miss it. The home that haunted me doesn't even exist anymore. I can finally move on, at just the right time, since I'm now planning to make a home with my special someone and his kids. And old ghost gone, making room for a new life.

Water and Butter

A month ago, I stepped off the plane in Paris. I withdrew euros from the ATM, boarded the Metro, and headed toward the city center. I had wanted to visit France since I was 11 years old, before I even knew what that meant to go to France. I studied the language, the culture, the music, the art. I watched movies with subtitles. I read Colette, The Little Prince, Balzac, A Tale of Two Cities. France seemed so beautiful and magical, like the fanciest fairy dust-covered place. La Belle Époque transcended time and space to exist in my heart. I believed that some day, I would become one of those delicate ladies with the big layered skirts and lithe frame that have been painted with vague strokes in a vintage French poster.

So I roamed Paris with my friends. Bicycled along the Lac d'Annecy near the Alps. Bought a baguette and fresh chèvre at the market in Lyon. I roamed the countryside, drank pastis in the city that inspired Van Gogh, and sat topless on the beach in Marseille. I knew the language but couldn't quite understand it, and it filled my ears uncomfortably until I gave up trying to speak it and just ignored it all around me. I had no appetite for fancy wine and food. It was hot and humid, every day was full of tourism, I was woefully alone, and I found myself yearning for the wily ways of us silly Americans. I flowed through the country, taking in all I saw and heard, having some magical moments in unexpected places, without ever touching the real surface. I left France 10 days later, in the same form as I had arrived, unchanged except for the fact that something I had yearned for over so much of my life no longer tugged at me. I had built up France so much in my mind that even though much of it was just as beautiful and dreamy as I had imagined, I didn't feel like the same person who had been imagining it for so long. France didn't change me. I had changed long ago but never left that dream behind. I no longer need to feel dainty and glamorous. I spend my time on the rivers or in the mountains. I run half marathons and cook barbecue pork in my slow cooker and shop at Whole Foods and mow my lawn and have water gun fights with my boyfriend and his kids. I do still like gorgeous shoes with tall wedges, and sparkly earrings, and flower clips in my hair, but I don't lament the fact that I'm not chic and sophisticated. I'm living the real life I always wanted, so I no longer dream of someone else's life in a faraway place.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed France and I hope to return some day to see more of the things I loved. But it wasn't at all the trip that I was hoping for, and I didn't float back home on a cloud. Instead, I came home understanding my country better, loving the things that make my life what it is, and finally feeling like I actually fit in here in this land.

Wearing it

Some women have necklaces that they wear all the time. Thin chains wrap a close circle around their necks, carrying dainty pendants that can easily be tucked away. Sometimes they come in that well-known blue box, or else they're passed down through generations. Fancy jewelry that comes from a national chain isn't really my style, and although I have a couple of beloved necklaces that my grandmother used to wear, they're just not me either. Not as an everyday accessory.

But today I received a necklace in the mail from The Run Home that might be the one I put on each morning. It's a thin gunmetal chain with three small pendants: a solid pewter heart, a pewter running shoe, and a nickel silver pendant hand stamped with 13.1. As in 13.1 miles, a half-marathon, which I ran this weekend. My mom gave me this gift to celebrate the event. I didn't think of it as such a big deal because I had been training for it, I really believed I could do it, and when I crossed that finish line sooner than I had planned, I felt like I had a couple more miles in me. It was a goal I worked for, but not too hard, and I didn't suffer for it (I had forgotten my asthma inhaler at home, and I didn't need it at all during the race). But not everyone can run as far, and not everyone has a necklace with a running shoe and a race distance. And 4 days after that race, I'm itching for more - my special someone and I are already scheming to run the Hood to Coast relay in 2014. So I guess this makes me a runner. My young, lazy, asthmatic self would be so surprised to know that running has become a hobby, and my aging knees may be dismayed at this news, but they'll all have to get used to the fact that running will be a consistent part of my life. Right after the race, I thought that a full marathon was beyond my reach, but the idea is starting to settle into the crevices of my brain. There's just something about moving across the land by foot that makes sense, like a meditation in action. Allons-y.

Haunted

I'm haunted by the house I grew up in. Two dreams in two hours - not the first, certainly not the last.

We walked away from that house when my parents divorced and medical bills forced foreclosure and more. We left the bank to clean up most of our belongings. Slowly we all trickled out, went our separate ways, never looking back.

Now, someone else lives there, in the bedroom where I listened to the birds coo and the train horns blast and the falling rain flow through the gutter. In the hallway where the pets played by day and I sometimes slept at night, too lonely to stay in my bed. Someone else eats in that kitchen, sits on that porch, tends that garden. Maybe they have remodeled, made it the house we never could.

My memories are stuck floating around that house, left to dream about what was or what could have been. Sometimes we're back there as a family; others, it's been abandoned by us, furniture and games and dishes still strewn about, a place we haven't fully left yet but don't care for in the meantime.

Why can't I just move away already, and release the ghost that still follows me 10 years after I took my things and left?

Growing

Porching season is nearly here again. I'm not quite prepared - I was just getting used to winter. But now I can leave the porch door open so the fresh air can flow in and Dear Kitty can come and go as she pleases. This means it's gardening time again. The bulbs I planted in the fall are sprouting and the perennials I planted last summer have returned. Rather than attempt a vegetable garden in the ground again, I decided on attractive vegetable pots on the porch that play dual roles as food and decor. Cucumbers, tomatoes, sugar snap peas in tall pots. Rainbow chard, red Russian kale, mesclun mix, and spinach in wide bowls. Carrots, red oak lettuce, parsley, and basil in their own pots. Broccoli and arugula in long flower boxes. All from seed. This is the year I finally have a substantial harvest. I can feel it. I think it's important to start plants from seeds, because its important to know what the seeds look like, especially if they're not visible in the plant. Who knew that spinach and chard seeds were so big? Or that carrot and parsley seeds look similar? Cool stuff.

While I await my porch garden bounty, I'm training for a half marathon. Last weekend, I was really dragging and doubtful that I would make enough progress in the next month to get through the race. Then I had a massage and a big plate of pasta and turned out a 9-mile run yesterday. It was fabulous. The thing with running longer distances is that at some point, momentum takes over and it's easier to keep running. Until the blisters remind you that you're mortal, anyway.
So, spring is returning, with less frantic energy than last year, now that I'm comfortable and settled in. This summer will be hectic enough with the France trip, the wedding, the baby, and surely plenty of camping trips. And as much porching as I can possibly handle.

A Banner Year

Hey guys, I'm going to be an aunt!! My handsome, all-growed-up brother and my beautiful and glowing sister-in-law are going to have a baby boy in July. This is still so surreal for many reasons, but they just announced the gender today so it's getting more real. Although all three of my cousins on my dad's side of the family have procreated prolifically, my brother's baby will be the first on my mom's side of the family. My brother is the youngest on both sides, and it's been clear for a while that any grandchildren were probably going to come from him. My brother and I have always been friendly but not that close, partly because we haven't lived in the same town since I left for college. We've gotten to know each other better as adults, and especially lately, it seems that we've had a better connection during our occasional phone conversations. But I'll admit that I still think of him as my little brother. He's still the grubby-fingered, chubby-cheeked, smelly and embarrassing little brother in my mind. But he's been married for more than 4 years to a woman I've enjoyed getting to know, he's been a pastry chef for some cool restaurants, he has owned a home for more than a year, which they've been fixing up for a while, and now he and his wife are going to be parents. And they're going to be great parents - creative and fun, responsible, so loving, and they'll do everything they can to give this child whatever he needs. So it's time for me to paint a different picture of my brother, one as an adult and a professional and a family man. And just so you know, I'm going to be the best aunt ever, even though I have to do it from many miles away. That kid is going to appreciate how cool science is, dammit!

It's not just the baby that has brought joy lately. My mom and her companion, a man she has shared her life with for 8 years, are getting married this year in a big hippie celebration. I'm so happy that she has found happiness and that she has a great guy to hold her hand through the good and the bad. I hope she doesn't feel that the baby has stolen her thunder, because all wonderful things in life deserve great celebration, and she deserves this joyous celebration of love in her own life.

As for me, just toodling along. I bought my plane ticket to France, fingers crossed that my job would not fall victim to the government's purse-tightening. So far, I'm safe, but I'm going to go to France no matter what, because the fates have decided that this is my year, and I'm not letting political nonsense get in the way of my dream. Unfortunately it's a shorter trip than I would prefer (really anything shorter than 2 months is too short) so I'm trying to prioritize. On the list: a few days in Paris, the ancient cave paintings in Dordogne, a few chateaux, some cheering as the Tour de France cyclists whiz past, a trip to the coast, some serious culture (art, food, wine, music), and if I can manage it, at least a train ride through the Alps. Too much for only 10 or 11 days, but I'm determined to make it work. Alas, my special someone cannot join me on this trip, but we're good at taking mini-vacations together, so a visit together to the City of Love will have to wait for now.

So yes, this is shaping up to be a banner year so far, and it's only March. I've been tiptoeing around any real celebration of all this good fortune because for so many years, my family has had small spurts of good fortune, followed by long spans of exhausting challenges and can't-we-just-get-a-break fist-shaking at the Powers-That-Be. The joke was not to say too loudly that we had some extra money because then something would surely break. We've never done things conventionally and it's taken us a while to get our bearings. But the past couple of years have been better. Calmer. Not free of challenges,  because that's just a part of being alive, but free of the ridiculous challenges that threaten our sanity yet again. More importantly, truly good things have happened, and actually stuck, finally. Life has settled down for us, and it's about time. Thirteen may be an unlucky number, but for an unlucky family, 2013 has been pretty great. I'm so truly thankful for the peace of mind we all have, and I hope every year is filled with such happiness, even without milestone events to celebrate.

Dreaming of gardens

The birds are chirping loudly. Even though robins live here year-round, their numbers suddenly seem to have tripled. Beneath the melting snow, tender blades of green grass are tentatively poking out. But the real sign that spring is starting to make its way here: the garden stores now post on their signs that SEEDS AND SUPPLIES NOW IN! It's too early to plant those indoor starter pots, the ones that will be transplanted outside after the last frost, but those stores know what we crave after the holiday season ends. It's cold and snowy, and although the days are growing longer, the land is an ugly brown. Now is when we indulge in the dreams of flowers and vegetable gardens to keep us going until the time comes to sow seeds and mow lawns.

Whoever decided that Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the start of a new year should fall during the darkest 6 weeks of the year was brilliant. Hanging lights and sparkly colorful ornaments on trees and roofs, holding parties to give us excuses to socialize with others and take our minds off the short days and cold weather, providing a sense of meaning and an opportunity for introspection at a time we would prefer to sleep through - it helps us muddle through. But then we wake up on New Year's Day, hung over from heavy food and too many drinks and exhausted from shuttling among parties, friends, and relatives all month, and we're ready for something refreshing. It starts that morning with the Rose Parade, those whimsical floats covered with organic materials and the freshest flowers you've ever seen.   Then, the awards shows, actors and actresses dressed up like irises and roses and birds of paradise. Next, the home and garden shows, which tease us with the newest gardening implements, the most fabulous ideas for turning discarded items into planters, and OH! the hanging baskets and walkways overflowing with blooms!

When I lived in Chicago, this was the time of year that I always visited the Garfield Park and Lincoln Park conservatories, their humid greenhouses filled to the brim with the most wonderful exotic plants and flowers that bloom year-round. Same with the U.S. Botanic Garden in DC, and I volunteered at the Amazonia exhibit at the National Zoo, which was a two-story greenhouse with giant fish, exotic birds, and monkeys roaming freely among the kapoks and other jungle plants. All of those places are free and open to the public every day of the year. Boise has no such place. The Idaho Botanical Garden is lovely, but it is not free, there is no public greenhouse, and it's closed on the weekends November through March. I have played with the idea of starting a crowdsourcing campaign to raise money for the Boise Department of Parks and Recreation to build a conservatory in the Boise area that would be open everyday with free admission. But how much does something like that cost? And at a time when there are so many more problems in this world, problems bigger than just the winter blues, is that something people would really support?

In the meantime, I'm starting to plan my own garden. This year, I think I will plant vegetables on the east side of the house where the grass doesn't grow. It's a pain to mow around the tree stump there, and it gets lots of morning sun but isn't blasted all day, so I think it will survive better than on the too-sunny south side where I planted last year. I think I'll do kale, broccoli, tomatoes, beets, and carrots. Maybe radishes and red cabbage too. And I want to scatter flowers all over the yard. I'd love a couple more rose bushes or peonies, and I'm thinking of potted flowers too. This year, I want to turn an old bathtub into a planter. Not sure where I'll put it, but I have some options. Why, oh why, is it only February?!

I hardly knew ye

When I wrote this post a year ago today, my head was filled with ideas about a life I had just left behind and another life that I was just beginning. I didn't even know what was actually possible, just that this new place with 4WD and mountains and sagebrush and cold, clear rivers was so much different from the tall buildings and knowing neighbors and the vibrations of a busy East Coast city. I thought that I would live Wild West-style here while trying to find fragments of the things I loved in other places. Because that's what you do when you move from one place to another: keep ahold of what you know to bring you comfort in a new and foreign land. I'd be a city girl in a medium-sized western town, enjoying the novelties like rodeos and shotguns and pickup trucks and getting stuck in godforsaken places with the wind and dust whipping through unkempt hair, like in an Annie Proulx novel.

Instead, I camped and hiked in God's country, vast valleys filled with wildflowers and alpine lakes. I rocked out to a local music festival. I watched fireworks from a blanket in the park after rafting on the small river that splits the town in half, biked along that river to the county fair twice (and home in the dark twice), and hiked along that river in numerous spots. I slept in my tent so much it started to feel like a second home. I gathered with friends to grill in the backyard on hot summer nights; I read in a chair on my porch for entire days at a time, gardened and pruned and mowed and explored my little plot of land, cooked up a storm for Labor Day and Thanksgiving get-togethers, and snuggled in front of the crackling fire in the wood stove on a cold winter night. I dreamed about the renovations I would make if only I owned this random red house on the hill.

I thought that when I moved here, I would spend some time trying on the things that supposedly make one a westerner, in order to fit in such a foreign place about which I knew very little. But as a native Midwesterner, befriended by other Midwestern transplants in this Midwestern-seeming town, I'm actually living the life I was always supposed to live. This is a mostly tame place, with little danger unless you seek it out, and there is just enough excitement to satisfy the city girl in me, while the nature-girl part gets to play as often as I want. Today, a chickadee visited my bird feeder and five mule deer meandered along the sidewalk near the nature center. This is my version of the wild west, wild as in wildlife, as in nature right at my doorstep.

The person I have become is the person I always was. When I reflected last year on the tumult of the previous years, I didn't recognize then that I had been bracing myself for so long against the gales that whipped through my branches because my roots were seeking purchase in the wrong soils. I thought that I could grow anywhere if given the right sunlight, enough water, and sufficient nutrients. But I was operating as though I were a different species; now that I have been transplanted, I can thrive among the Great Basin sages and grasses and the Rocky Mountain conifers.

Last January, I had high hopes for the coming year because I didn't know what to expect in such a different land. This year, for the first time, I have different goals: fix up the great used bike I bought, build a kitchen table from a used door, expand my garden, buy a kayak, take that trip to France I've been dreaming of since I was a kid. These are the dreams of someone who is already where they want to be, and now they can dig their roots down deeper. There is no more looking ahead to the next move, at least not for a while. Now is the time for nesting, for building on what I started last year, for owning my life.

Breaking Up with my Bank

Dear Bank of America,

I'm sorry to deliver this bad news during the holiday season, but I felt it was time to tell you that I'm breaking up with you. Sure, it's been a good 6 years. You treated me well, and I have no complaints about my service. Your website and phone app are very user friendly, and I always felt like you had my back in case my security or identity were potentially compromised. And you seem to care about the environmental sustainability of your operations, which is admirable, although I sometimes suspect it's just for the good PR.

But you have treated many other people very poorly, people whose dreams of owning a home were at first unrealistically realized and then dashed because of your eagerness to make a quick buck. People who trusted you with their money, which you then misused or squandered. My idea of a worthy partner is someone who treats me with respect and also treats others with respect. Someone who shares my values of a thriving, healthy community where everyone has a chance of living a life free of financial worry. And you have turned your back on that community. So I am moving on, to be with someone who shares my values. I would have broken up with you sooner, but the hassle of moving my affairs seemed daunting. Now I know that it's worth the effort.

You should know that I have joined a credit union. I have already moved some of my money over to my new account, and I'll slowly come for the rest of it as I notify the utilities and other relevant parties of the change. This credit union might be less flashy, their website and phone app less advanced, but they offer all of the same services you offer, for free, and they even gave me a better rate on a new credit card. They're part of my community, and I know they're looking out for me, at least partly because I own a share of the business as a member of the credit union.

I'm proud of my decision to take a stand against your deceptive and unfair business practices, Bank of America, and I will encourage others to make the same move I have made, at least until I truly believe that you have made amends for your despicable actions. The American people deserve better. Surely the actions of one person won't make a dent in your bottom line, but at least I'll know that my money isn't supporting what you do, and that's enough for now.

Thank you for a good 6 years together. I hope that the new year brings to you a new sense of responsibility to do what's right. After all, your name says that you are the bank of America, so please take this opportunity to give back to the people of this country, and to represent what we as a nation represent.

Good day.

Oh, mother

It's fall again, December, really, and I am so grateful for each day and the new challenges they bring. As I get older, more friends start families, and my life has felt so carefree. I have been fortunate to have so many opportunities to take adventures, to change my life so drastically, to pick up and go on a whim. The longer my life stretches on like this, and the more of my friends who have children, the farther apart we seem to grow. Lately, this has begun to sink in more because my special someone shares equal custody of his two children with his ex-wife. I met the boys early on in the relationship, but only now, after a number of months, have we all gotten to know each other more. I would never deign to replace their mother, but playing in that role during the weeks they're with their dad has reinforced the point that having kids is a lot of work but also brings such great reward. The weeks my beau is childless, we have some great adventures, enjoying the careless feeling of freedom, limited only by our minds and budgets. When he is dad, the afternoons and evenings are filled with Nerf gun shoot-outs, art and cooking projects, battles to finish dinner and complete homework and chores, cheesy kids' shows, and snuggles on the couch. He reads aloud while I clean the kitchen and make snacks. The kids now request my attention - I must watch their funny online clips, listen to their stories, play games with them, help get things from tall shelves, and duck as they ambush me upon my arrival. My brother wasn't a "typical" boy with guns and sports, so it has taken me a while to get my sea legs with these boys who seem so typical sometimes but not others. The weeks with children are noisy and hectic and allow little time to think or look inward.

Life with children does not allow space for selfishness. They need attention and care, balanced with a long leash and trust to let them discover, succeed, and fail. It's almost never obvious what length the leash should be. I think that more people would be better parents, and more people would choose to delay or completely avoid parenthood - if they had to co-parent for a certain length of time. Not just babysit, but actually attempt to live their own lives while simultaneously caring for children who believe that their parents' sole role in life is to give them whatever they need, at any cost. I get it now, why parenting is so wonderful and yet so completely exhausting in every way.

I've lived a selfish life so long - caring for a cat is on a different plane - that the learning curve has been steep. I've realized that I am probably beyond the point of being able to give up enough of myself for my own full-time kids, but that I also can't imagine dating someone without kids, because they add so much meaning to life. Before this experience, I had a hard time understanding why people have kids - they're great and all, but I wondered whether they're really worth the work. Now I'm beginning to understand that there's more to it than that. It's not so black-and-white, but it's still difficult to imagine compromising my lifestyle to be a full-time parent. Being a part-time parent sounds just right. 

Ask a Grown Person

When I was a teenager, I read Sassy magazine. Oh, how I wish I would have grown up in the Age of the Internet. Rookie magazine, what Sassy would have been as an online 'zine if written by the readers instead of adults, would have made me a much more well-adjusted teenager, because I would have known that there were other people out there who thought differently, and I wouldn't have felt so out of place. And guess what: I follow Rookie on Facebook and often read their pieces, including Ask a Grown Man and Ask a Grown Woman, because I may be a grown woman myself, but I think we all still have insecure teenage selves hidden deep inside, and that makes Rookie relevant no matter how old we get. If you have young people in your life, share Rookie with them and let them know that you're never too old to watch Ira Glass make balloon animals while giving love advice. The rest of the content is also superb and shows just how far we have come as a society that teenagers not only talk about previously taboo topics but also accept everyone's gender/racial/sexual/cultural identity differences without question. Women of my mother's generation set the gender equity bar such that although women may still struggle in some areas, those in my generation never questioned whether women could do anything that men can do. I like to think that my generation is setting the cultural bar such that the next generation (i.e., Rookie readers) will never question their worthiness or capabilities across gender, sexual, racial, or any other lines. That's encouraging.

One year later

My Boiseversary was last week. One year since pulling into this cowtown, unhappy kitty in tow (Dear Kitty hates riding in cars, especially after four 10-hour days on the road). I was scared shitless, unsure of what I was getting myself into, knowing only that I had been overdue for a drastic change and in desperate need of a way to shake off that feeling that I was still a kid. So I paid my first month's rent and collected my house key from the landlord, pulled into my garage, and plopped Dear Kitty on the green carpeting in the empty living room, where she sat down and looked at me as if to say, "This is my last stop. You can keep driving but I am going nowhere." We both knew we were home. I celebrated that night with delivery pizza and a bottle of wine from a local winery, and the next day, got to work unpacking.

A year later, the rooms are full. Art is on the walls and curtains are hung. The garage and spare bedroom are collecting various items to outfit various adventures. The porch has been sat on, grilled on, and partied on. The pathetic garden has been tended and the sad lawn has been mowed. I have seen the mountains and the desert, though there is still much more to see. Some things around here could use some work, but the point is that I have spent the year taking it all in, learning what each season looks like, and now I know how to do it better in the coming year.

I hardly recognize the person I was in DC. That world now feels so foreign, and it has been replaced with a world in which I awaken every morning, hardly believing that is isn't just a fantasy. This is the life that I am supposed to be living. There are some kinks yet to work out, but what would life be without something to strive for?

“You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” - Dr. Seuss

Changing of the Feathered Guard

It's been nearly a year since I moved here, but this time, as autumn moves in, I know what to look for as the seasons change. The hummingbirds are long gone, as are the lazuli buntings. For a while, the house finch fledglings ate all the seeds in the feeders almost as soon as I refilled them, but this week, things seem quieter. Instead, the robin fledglings are poking around the yard, fully grown though dusty in color, picking through the regreening grass. A dark-eyed junco or two have been spotted, returning from Canada to their southern winter home. More red-breasted nuthatches and mountain chickadee-dee-dees have been hanging around, hopping back and forth between the trees and the feeders. Today a pair of northern flickers came down from the canopy and have been picking through the fallen leaves and berries from the Russian olive trees. House sparrows were pulling at the juniper bark and some kind of wood warbler peeked between the Russian olive leaves.

These are normal comings and goings, but I wonder what will be different this year now that word has gotten out about the bounty to be found here. What's different this week is the Steller's jay that has been sharing the feeders and hopping brazenly around the porch. It seems to have lost its way, since although I live in the foothills, my neighborhood is hardly like the higher elevation forests it usually calls home. Could all of the forest fires this year have chased it away, caused it to seek temporary shelter in an area with trees and guaranteed food? I wonder if it's here to stay, or whether it will return home when rain and snow extinguish the fires for good.