more or less

Hi!  Still here.  I've been preoccupied.  Parenting, investigating homeschool, visiting the public school, cleaning out, cleaning up, selling crap, toying with the idea of doing photography as a "side" gig.  (I really don't have an extra "side," so I'm not yet sure how that will work.)  I turn 40 this year (have I mentioned that before?), and I'm looking at a full-frame DSLR camera.  My mid-life motorcycle.

I've been learning to skijor with the dog.  I've re-herniated that damned disc in my neck.  I've watched too many episodes of "Lost" while folding laundry in the wee hours of the night. One family member or another has been sick (not bad, though) for the entire month of February.  I've guiltily enjoyed our creepy spring-like weather, going on "adventure hikes" with the kids on bare frickin dirt (in February!).

In the photo above: a post-preschool afternoon spent fishing on the river.  The kids found some elk bones.  You can't see it well, but under her right arm Juniper is holding a maggoty elk skull.  My man removed some teeth, which Hazel is investigating.  Things like this make me want to homeschool.

Today: Hazel had emotional breakdowns over somethingorother approximately once every ten minutes.  Also, she got naked, drew all over her body with markers and ate a poisonous plant right before bed.  It's always funny when it's over.  Now, they are tucked snuggly into bed.  Juniper is spending her first night in a big bed; Hazel is spending her first night furiously jealous and if she had the words for it, she would declare herself a second-class citizen.  It's so hard to bend to both of them at the same time.  They play together unbelievably well (they are constantly surprising me at how well), but their individual needs can be so different.  I wish Juniper wanted more of me, I wish Hazel didn't need quite so much.

Signing off for tonight, hope to be back soon.  ~    

  

fire, smoke and memory

(Plus some long-lost early spring snaps.)

Last night a dry lightening storm split the sky open and set-off a fireworks show.  I stood outside and watched in the wind until it got too close, then I sat inside with the lights off.  Tonight there is a fire burning I can see from my bedroom window.  I had seen the very bolt that started this fire, a red ball at the end of it.  I don't miss fighting fires; it is hot, grueling work.  But oh my, I do love the smell of a healthy fire.  I opened the windows to let in a hint of that smokey air.  The kids stood on my windowsill in their pajamas, pigtails all askew, looking for the fire, following my description with their eyes: See your playhouse?  And the roof of your playhouse?  Look just past the roof of your playhouse to that blue mountain in the distance.  See the white smoke?  That's the fire.  And oh, look!  See that orange light?  That's a tree torching!     

Hazel, her glass-blue eyes so wide she is practically shaking: "I see it, I see da fire!  Mama, dere's a big, huge, fire!!  We could ROAST MARSHMALLOWS!"   

I watched them, the backs of their heads, their day-old pigtails, as they clambered for a spot in the windowsill.  I often (too often) fret that my kids are being denied the childhood I had: best-friends within spitting distance, a swimming pool down the road and a neighborhood of kids that roamed as a pack.  People often wonder what their kids will remember.  I don't expect my kids to remember much.  I don't remember much from that age.  But I do sit back and watch this life, our world, inform their very souls.  I watch as their neurons learn to fire for mountain goats, balsamroot, and the orange slash on the throat of a cutthroat trout.  I don't worry about what they'll remember; my concern is what they will come to embody.  I want them to embody kindness, love, connection, wildness, stewardship. 

   

Juniper: "Oh, no!  But who will save the animals?"  

Me: "It's a small fire.  The animals will know to run."

Juniper, yelling through the window: "Run animals, RUN!"     

So even though the air is crisp and I *just* covered my corn and beans, potatoes and tomatoes, cucumbers and pumpkins in expectation of frost...tonight we smell of hot, smokey summer. 

:: 

:: And on that note, before summer starts for real, I have some early spring snaps that are too good to miss.  So if you remember waaaaaay back to Easter, we had a visitor arrive that night.  Nana graced us with her presence for a whole week.  My kids may not remember it, but their neurons know to fire for baking cookies, pretending and reading with their Nana.  It all counts, memories or not.     

:: Mudcake-making started early this year. 

:: We semi-spontaneously hosted a small, May Day afterschool tea party.  (Whatever happened to May Day anyway?  I remember as a little, little, kid leaving a bouquet of flowers on a neighbor's doorstep, ringing the bell and running.  But then the memories just fizzle out.  How about you?  What did you do for May Day and what do you do now?  Anything?  Mom?  We did that, didn't we?)

:: In keeping with her Magic Schoolbus obsession, Juniper turned herself into a honeybee, entirely of her own doing.  In case you can't tell, the paintbrushes taped to her head are the antennae, the paint tray taped to her belly is the nectar stomach, the coasters taped to her sides are the pollen pouches, and her wings, obviously, taped to her back (I did help get those on).

:: Juniper teaching Hazel to play Candyland.  Hazel, my sweet-tooth, this is what her dreams are made of.

:: Early, windy, spring walk with friends.

:: If the house is quiet, she's either eating toothpaste or...

:: 'night y'all.

P.S.  YES, I herniated a disc in my neck.  It is fine, almost normal, thank you.  And YES, we were rear-ended by a careless driver last week.  The back end of my car needs some body work, but we are all perfectly fine (except for missing most of Kid's Fishing Day).  It didn't do my neck any favors and Hazel tells everyone that we were in a car accident, but otherwise everything is a-okay.  Thank you.    

cheese for grandma

I've been trying to teach Juniper to smile.  Without a camera, her face splits into the most glorious of kid-smiles, the corners of her mouth pushing her cheeks into tight, dimpled apples; every single one of her straight, white teeth all lined up like little soldiers in her mouth. Her eyes squint, the left more than the right, always.  

But with a camera, she hides her face behind her hair, her arm, her work, her peanut butter and jelly.  In group photos, she'll happily and readily make a "silly face."  If she's excited or even a little embarrassed, she'll stick her fingers in her mouth.  All of them.  It's been this way for a while.  I just can't get a posed, say cheese picture of this kid.  And I want to.  For me, yes.  But mostly, for my mom.  I want to be able to pay a professional to take pictures, real portraits, of our nucleus of four.  My mom's been asking, probably for years.  First, I have to be sure Juniper will smile.

Okay you pros out there, what say you?  I know some of you do this for a living, or at least as a favor.  How do you get a stubborn 4 year old to smile--really smile--for the camera?         

(Hi mom.  I know you're laughing.  Apparently I was the same way, and still am.  I have a picture on my fridge of my cousin smiling sweetly and me in a half-snarl, sticking my tongue out.  I was maybe...7?)

I've been trying to explain why I take some of these photos: Your grandparents rarely see you and I can send photos so they will know what you look like, what you've been up to.  Think how sad Grandma would be not to have any pictures of you smiling!  You have such a beautiful smile.  

My mom sent the girls new sundresses the other day.  We were, for once, not planning to be terribly dirty; instead spending the morning at the library, picnicking in the lawn followed by haircuts for both me and Juniper.  And here they were, eating nectarines and horsing around on the library fence.  

99 percent of the photos I take for myself and this blog are candid.  For once, I wanted some cheese.  The best I could get:

Yeah.  We have some work to do.  And then there's Hazel, the more amenable kid, showing Grandma her nice white teeth, See!:

Another impromptu cheese attempt from earlier this spring:

Me: "Oh, come on!  Say CHEESE!"

And again from our trip to Missoula, this time my man behind the camera and I am directing (but not smart enough to remove my cap).  Apparently, "Say PUPPY!" elicits more of an excited, screaming O face than a smile.

I never thought I'd have to teach my kids to smile for the camera.  Mom, we're working on it.

Dear Juniper, you at 4

Dear Juniper,

I am chopping green onions for our scrambled eggs.  Coffee's brewing.  I've cracked the kitchen window open.  You and Hazel are red-nosed and playing hard outside.  It's 17 degrees.  You are flying a homemade "kite" (yarn taped to a filleted dum-dum wrapper and tied to a popsickle stick) from the top of a mountain of snow by the pine tree.  I hear you yell: "OKAY!  EVERYBODY READY FOR THE CHICKEN PARADE?!"  

^The chicken parade.  Sometimes, the chicken race.^    

You are not a fan of convention.  Your imagination alone could steam-roll asphalt.  You are an innovator.  Just tonight you were building something that would "repair a hole in a mirror or a stuffed animal."  You were working with an electrical outlet safety plug, a wooden dowel, a chain, a carabiner, a screwdriver, some painter's tape and a fake, heart-shaped jewel.  "Okay dad.  Get all your tools!  Let's get to work building!"

You shun instruction.  You prefer to learn your own way (sometimes the hard way).  You are stubborn.  

Independent.

You regularly douse house fires (red and orange playsilks) with water (blue playsilks).  You say you want to be a firefighter.  You still speak in the third-person, a lot.  Today in the car you announced: "Juniper's definitely into fires this year."  

The other day you ran outside naked excepting an unzipped coat and snow boots.  You slid down the rough, frozen snow bank and skinned your bum up pretty good--all scraped and bleeding.  You said, "I was sliding down the mountain and I thought a shark came up behind me and bit my bum!"        

And yet, despite your rough and tumble side, you are loving and kind.  You have an exuberance for life and you share it.  You are an amazing, patient, loving and playful big sister.  If you've created something while Hazel's napping, you say, "Ooooh!  I can't wait to show Hazel!"        

Every night you sleep with a mama-knitted pea under your mattress.  

You are a leaping, twirling princess.  

And an avid bug collector.  

^Playing with one of your "pet crickets."^  

Lately you've been building a "race course" for spiders.  (Hi mom!  This is how the doll house furniture gets played with.)  

You make elaborate "set ups" that started with stuffed animals,

Moved on to Playmobil,

And are now operating with anything you can get your hands on (see spider and chicken races above).

You've been playing doctor for a solid year and a half now.  You love stuffed animals.  You rescue animals, operate on animals, and take care of animals.  (You also pretend-butcher and cook animals.)  You host a "pet show" almost daily.    

^Using the "x-ray camera" (toiletpaper roll binoculars).^

^Performing the operation with chopsticks.^

And almost daily, you give birth to animals.    

You are fascinated by blood.  You are learning about all aspects of human anatomy, but blood and the digestive system are your favorites.    

^Cut your finger helping dad work on the car.^

You love books.  You love books.  You would never turn down a good story.  

You have a world of pretend that you rarely leave. 

^Shooting targets and winning the gold in the women's Olympic biathlon.^  

You fire off questions and demands so fast your tongue practically locks up and you nearly hyperventilate.  "Okay mama you're the tailor and Hazel's Anna and this is her new red coat and I'm the mama and what happens next? and oh, we're having a big celebration and I'm the mama and Hazel's the tailor, no I mean Anna and you're the tailor and who's...who's the farmer and the weaver? okay sit right here while I...and we have a cake, what kind of cake is it again? okay so come over here and say, 'Anna what a beautiful red coat' say it, say it now to Hazel...."  

^This is you directing a complete reenactment of A New Coat for Anna.^  

You help me cook, 

And lately you're into "science experiments."  

You have a ton of energy, except when you're tired or hungry or have to poop.  You like to climb trees.  You like to be naked, saying you have to "shed" your "fur."  You are the only member of our family who can reliably pick up our chickens.  They love you.    

You can spot elk on the hillside before anyone else.  

You are an animated, outgoing social butterfly.  You love meeting new people.  You are good to your friends.  You will spontaneously burst into song and dance.  Your most recent favorite song: "The Ants Go Marching."     

You eat like a real kid.  You love all sorts of food, but especially carrots, apples, beets, strawberries, cashews, clam chowder and tofu phad thai.  You will inhale any type of dough or batter.  Lately, you are drinking more water than milk which is a switch.  Ice cream sends you to the moon.     

^Here you made an "apple tree" from a sprig of fennel and some discarded strawberry tops.^

You are almost four-and-half now.  On your birthday, your favorite colors were red, pink and purple.  Last week they were "all the colors of the rainbow."  Today it was yellow "like the sun."  

You are so excited about spring.  You say it is your favorite season.  

You always hold up one finger to drive your point home.

The other night, you took your moon-shooting tools to bed (a pretend bow and arrow you made from a twig and scrap yarn) so you could "catch the moon" (like the coyote who shoots the stars to form constellations in one of our Native American stories).  

I've said this before and I'll say it again.  You make me want to be a better person.  You challenge me everyday.  You make me want to seek out the best parenting choices I can muster.  You simultaneously make me think I'm doing a terrible job and a great job.  

Because of you, I know unconditional love.  Because of you, I know purpose, pride and humility.  Because of you, I am learning connection.  Because of you, I am present.  Because of you, I know grace.  I am so thankful that I get to be your mother.  I would catch the moon for you.  I love you Junebug.  ~Mama