It has been nearly a year since my last trip East with the kids.

When we first moved across the country, one of my greatest concerns would be that
we would not be able to travel "home" enough to continue the precious
relationships we were leaving behind. Not the least of which included my parents, my siblings,
their spouses. In the first 4 1/2 years away, no problems. We flew back and forth several times a year, spending
a lot of time having the kids bond with their grandparents and aunts and uncles. We went to weddings, funerals,
important birthday parties, wedding dress shopping, holidays, the birth of babies, surgeries. The 5 hour trip from LA to Philadelphia did not deter us in the least from being as involved as we could in our other life.

Now that almost a year has gone by without a trip, I start to feel the pangs of longing for Philadelphia in autumn.
The kids have a week out of school in October and this has been a natural time to travel most other years.
This year, this time, for the first time in my life... I had to acknowledge I was just not up to it. The thought of the airport, the crowds, the long flight, the baggage - too daunting. My husband was cheerful and supportive (despite his job being quite closely connected to the housing market) but I just cannot face the prospect of
airline travel. Granted, I am pushing five months pregnant, with two other children to drag through security; but I don't think that would have mattered to me earlier.

Well, I know it didn't. I flew with my daughter at one month, at three months, at four months, at eleven months and on and on, making my son drag his own luggage through the airport all those times. "NO, you cannot ride on the stroller (after walking a mile lugging his bag) you have to carry your bag!"

And so approaches the longest amount of time that has ever gone between my trips to the East.

Hopefully I will get my energy back - we all miss it.

Hmmm...

after so long the ideas for posts have begun to come back to me, but I am sure this blog is long forgotten.
How to begin all over again?

the best and worst of times

Because nothing that you look back on and wish you remembered seems significant at the time, I have no way to know how many times I have flown coast to coast with my children.

In the midst of dragging myself, two children, luggage, and a dripping hot coffee (why do the cups that drip always come to me when I am either dressed up or travelling?) through airports in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Atlanta, Raleigh/Durham, Chicago O'Hare, Dallas, Houston, JFK, Philadelphia I have no clue why I don't immediately arrive at destination and whip out the scrapbook. Probably because, after each trip, I spend several weeks saying to myself, "For the love all things peaceful and sane WHY do I keep flying these children across the country?"

I know the answer, and the truth comes back to me after a few months of using full-size toiletries: My love for my family is not peaceful or sane; but it is one that makes you do crazy things like coaxing crying children off of airplanes when they refuse to go one more step with their bag and you are preventing about 167 travel-weary people from getting off that plane! And so, we fly. My best estimates put roundtrips at about 14 (70000 miles!) with one or both children since May 2001. I like to fly with them alone, and usually do, because they are better when we have three seats together and it is clear there is nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but sit.

I have a long list of tips about flying with children of varying ages. (infant to 7.5 - although once they reach 6 you can buy a Game Boy and some acceptable games and bring it out only for flights. It is magic.) This trip, some more were confirmed.

1. Crocs are a heinous crime against fashion; but they are a security line lifesaver!
2. Do not rely on airplane coffee to feed your caffeine addiction - unless you enjoy leaving your children to sit in a random waiting area while you run 1/4 mile to the nearest coffee stand and back with scalding hot coffee. (during very short layover)
3. Use the bathroom at the last minute possible before landing.
4. Make sure you are in the correct terminal to avoid long walks through mile-long underground tunnels.
5. Don't take offense when the lady in front of you turns around at the end of the flight and says, "You know I was dreading having to sit in front of two children for this whole flight, but I didn't even hear yours."
6. Pray for kids movies. Nancy Drew and Even Almighty shown back to back saved our return home. Don't worry, the sound isn't good enough for the movies to influence them very much.
7. Dress the kids up a bit, and straighten their hair. Nothing like a couple of cute kids to inspire people
give you little extras. Free food, snacks, headphones, extra cans of drinks.

peaches, again

August is here and with it comes the explosion of our peach tree. June Gloom did not arrive as it usually does here on the coast; and I believe the increase in sunshine sped the fruiting of the tree by a few weeks. We were away on vacation for the last week and 1/2 - and I knew I would arrive home to many peaches fallen and rotten and a tree still overloaded. Yesterday morning was my first chance to get to the business - and I went out armed with a kitchen spoon for the ones on the ground and a bag for the picking.

I first scooped more than 30 that had fallen - and then more than 50 from the tree. After making a peach cobbler for dessert (a big cobbler for the 5 children, Jay and me, and my sister in law and husband who had come to help with some canning) we had more than 11 pounds of peaches left over. The scalding, peeling, and prepping to cook them took us until 9:15 - and then Jay and I took on cooking by ourselves. After over an hour of bubbling they were still only the consistency of peach sauce. Nearly 11 PM by this time we had to accept that peach sauce was going to have to be good enough - and we sterilized the jars and canned it all into 11 pint jars. I made pancakes this morning and spooned some sauce over them - it is truly plate-licking delicious.

It seems that, soon enough, there will be another 11 pounds of peaches to pick. Maybe we can get them to preserve consistency the next time...

in praise of modern generic medicine

Yes, this last month I did witness a miracle of modern medicine as my
80 some hours old nephew was emptied of all his blood, chilled, and in open heart surgery, given a 3-4mm piece of Gore-Tex tubing for reasons a layperson would need a complete heart anatomy lesson (with diagrams) to gain even rudimentary understanding of. That acknowledged, my praise of modern medicine is on the other end of the spectrum. I am not quite sure if I would have survived this last month if not for Dr. Alexander Fleming and his Penicillium notatum and that little 2 week vacation he took in 1928.

Between my abscess (gone, healed, dried up in days thanks to some strong antibiotics) and last week's bout with strep throat (Technically raging tonsillitis - mine looking scary enough for some horrid 30 second consult pamphlet on otolaryngologic anomalies - I know this because I have read some of those consults. Being grayish black and roughly the size of apricots certainly qualified them.) I am spending time in awe of the incredible discovery that this particular little mold (even diluted several hundred time over!) ate away at bacteria.

He isn't credited with making it useable as a drug in humans, but he did discover early on that the bacteria became resistant if it was only exposed to the pencillin for too short a period. And, he is credited as being the first of a million people to advise that it should not be used unless clearly medically indicated due to this resistance.

It was certainly a miracle of a discovery and I am very glad for it. One day, down in bed with the telltale flu-like fever and chills of strep, next day celebrating the 4th of July with the family.

These days the drug companies and their money-grubbing ways, their outrageous campaign contributions and lobbyists to match, new drugs rushed to us more for the revenue they'll deliver while the patent remains exclusive, Dr's offices jammed with drug-company sales reps all leave me cold fretting over who we can trust when it comes to drugs and our health. I like the moment of a return to straight-forward, clearly indicated, medicine. Something plain, generic, Gram-positive pathogen killing penicillin. Done.

mending, part two

Now my computer has been repaired and I have advice:
Buy a first generation anything Apple, invest in the warranty.
Ours has saved us a lot of money on this 1st gen iMac.

Today we needed a new power supply - and now I have my computer back!

I, however, have not fared as well. If only I could overhaul my power supply.
I now have a lovely strep throat thanks to the boys in the house who, tired of
theirs, decided to spread the love.

Thankfully the trip to the Dr was brief and simple.

One glance at my throat, the record of Gray's positive culture from Friday, and
I was hooked up to get my own little red Target pharmacy bottle.

Some actual writing coming soon.

technical difficulties

my computer is broken and in need of some overhaulin'

Thus, I will be without for a little while -
please don't forget me while I am away.

The upside? I have a good back-up this time!

mending

There is nothing more satisfying to a Mom at home all the time
then feeling needed by a grateful family.

I now recommend, if you feel your husband is getting soft
and your children are beginning to leave their shoes on the table
and living like they have skipped straight to some university frat house,
go away for a few weeks.

Just pack up and trust that husband will be able to find emergency
childcare and rustle up food from the freezer... or from every restaurant in town.
Go away for a few weeks.

Mine seemed to be just fine when I arrived home. Clean clothes and house, no one
was starving or particularly dirty. Nails were trimmed - but I knew they must be
longing for their mother on the inside. I figured they didn't want to hurt their father's
feelings that he was not quite good enough.

A few days went by and they still seemed unable to admit that
things were much better when I was around.

To soften them all up, (maybe a touch of domestic wiles)
I began baking blueberry pies.

It was after a few bites that son and even husband declared with a smile,
"We are very glad that Mom is back, aren't we?"

Victory!

P.S. On a more serious note, as I dressed my wound this morning Alice considered it carefully
and declared it to look like a giraffe. I would describe it more simply: a hole. A hole where there should not be one unless one has just been caught in the path of a bullet.

Clean Cut

The tears kept tumbling down, wetting my hair and the paper cover on the pillow under my head. I felt stupid, silly, weak lying there in my doctor's small office "procedure" room. A small operating table covered in pine green vinyl and that useless white paper that turns to shreds the minute you shift around at all, fluorescent lights slightly flickering, the searing pain right below my left collarbone. The pain that came with me on the long plane ride Friday night, that distracted every attempt on Saturday to enjoy the reunion with my family. The pain that by Sunday was all I could see, hear, feel, touch - overwhelming any other sensation, dragging down my mind.

And so, Monday morning, I have the phone in my hand 5 minutes before office hours begin. My 3 year old daughter, who has only been able to cry or talk about how much she missed me in the two days since my return, reacts like she has been slapped when I tell her she is going to have to spend the morning with her aunt and cousin. "But Momma I already miss-ED you so much, I want to come to the doctors with you!" She is nearly inconsolable and I have to promise to spend every moment after her nap with her later on in the day.

The nurse barely glances at my sad, infected skin. Perhaps I was fighting off infection all along and the stress, heat, heavy bags of last week finally exacted their price. She clucks sympathetically, hands me a gown, instructs me to lie down on the table, and leaves me alone with my thoughts and the unflattering lighting. In the 20 minutes I wait, I fight back tears over the pain, not wanting shots, not wanting to be cut open on a Monday morning, and possibly tears over all of last week.

My doctor is a very gentle man. He has a kind voice and kind eyes and can see my misery - in my eyes and as he assesses my abscess. He asks if I've had a fever. I tell him that I haven't noticed. It is 100.3 and he starts shaking his head slowly. "You have been walking around like this for three days, oh, tsk tsk- Jessica!" It is a complete mix of scolding and sympathy. In that moment I realize that he only means my obvious problem; I feel the correction too deeply for it to be simply about my physical condition. Not for long. He draws out the needle and as he numbs my pain, and it vanishes into my memory I start crying in earnest. The relief of the pain is part of it, but the relief of crying all the contained stress and worry and exhaustion. He looks startled, "It isn't hurting, is it?" "No," I say. "It's been a really long week. Please, just fix it."
And then, a clean cut, some pressure, and careful bandaging later I am free.

I thank him on the way out - of course he nods automatically - but I have never felt more
healed.

Where in the world?

More detailed posts about my travels to follow,
but since I have been silent so long, I figured I'd update.

I let my husband and kids for the last nearly two weeks
to be with my sister and husband in Philadelphia.

My flights were timed very nicely, I made it for the birth -
and subsequent trials of the first week.

Now, however, it's his life story - and his blog to read:

The Life, so far, of Sullivan

Coming soon: Transportation Possessed

3D in pencil,marker, & oil pastel

G has really gotten into cubes.

My Favorite Thing

This Thursday morning brings with it my last MOMS (making our mothering significant - like we need a group to make it significant... more like CEOOMIS, convincing each other our mothering is significant) Again, tangent. Significant mothering is doing nothing to improve my memory or increase brain cells. I have a complaint, powers that be! I need my brain more than ever now, one could argue, and it seems to be vanishing into a black hole of fetching water and snacks and "I have the most boooring life!".

So, last MOMS meeting. For my contribution to our "Fellowship Coffee" I am supposed to bring my favorite thing. Suggestions were thrown about last week: your favorite jean brand (only the skinny ones smiled approvingly at that one), your favorite recipe, product, book etc.

I am paralyzed by the choices and simultaneously want to impress everyone and not remotely stand out as strange, pretentious, "all intellectual", whatever.

The dilemma: what is my "favorite thing"? Certainly not raindrops on roses! (although I do have a lot of roses that are very pretty but cannot escape the much deserved reputation of being a royal pain to care for.) Whiskers on kittens are fine as long as it's someone else's cat. Bright copper kettle? I do love my Le Creuset deep red french oven! Warm woolen mittens? Not so much in LA. Snow is absolutely out of the question. They need a warm weather version of that song.

What does one bring to a bunch of consumered-out SoCal moms?
It is a suprisingly difficult decision. Suggestions?

The Easy Life

We don't receive The Discovery Channel because, as with all logical decisions in the world of satellite television, (like I need two dishes on my house because the public television stations are coming from a satellite that is at a bad angle from the first - huh?) we don't receive any of the interesting channels. As a result of this we have to get most of what we watch from Netflix. We have finally gotten to the point where we are only watching things from Netflix or itunes with the exception of American Idol - which is certainly not worth the $29.99/month. Long story made long, we can finally cancel our satellite! Because of our house's placement (we are sort of nestled between two large-ish hills - officially hills because I think they are taller than 500 feet but less than 1000) we cannot get regular antenna reception at all. Therefore, it would be a big move to completely cut ourselves off of any live TV. I keep thinking, what would I do if I wanted to watch some breaking news?

Anyway, not the point.

We have been enjoying Planet Earth on DVD, thanks to Netflix, because we don't get The Discovery Channel. There are six discs in all, with three episodes on each one. Disc One's three episodes ended up being watched 4 or 5 times - the kids couldn't get enough of the amazing stories about the incredible animals literally a world away from your basic zoo experience.

Oh, the injustice in the animal world!

It is incredibly sobering and awe-inspiring and deeply sad and confusing simultaneously. I am sure many of you are familiar with March of the Penguins and the treacherous life of the Antarctic penguins - the gut-wrenching, daily struggle for survival in a world almost completely inhospitable to any kind of life. The battle of the snow leopards, in their cliff-side lairs, consumed with hunting to feed their young. The incredible scrambling up and down after agile prey - always waiting and watching and desperate for food. The heart-breaking story of the giant panda and the life spent eating bamboo, so void of any real nutrition it has to feed constantly and it's milk is so poor in quality it can hardly ever keep it's young thriving and healthy. (I wondered why the giant panda and it's healthy baby we saw at the San Diego Zoo last summer was such a big deal... )

What twisted my 7 year old's brain was the jump to the story about the birds of paradise. A life where the climate is perfect for living and food is so abundant that they have the free time to stand around and clean up their "display area". They filmed this bird carefully tossing dead leaves from his little clearing, scratching branches with pieces of dead wood and leaves. Their biggest concern is finding another bird with whom to mate. A serious concern, to be sure, but a far cry from the birds who spend four months of the year, an egg balanced on their feet, huddled together in -75 degree winds and snowstorms.

We are on the second disc now, and the theme continues. Some animals have plenty of time for playing and relaxing and eating leisurely, some spend their entire existence in a literal fight to the death with the harsh realities of nature. What gives them this drive, the instinct, to fight so fiercely to live? We watched about the ibex the other night and how, in only one lost fight against another male, they can lose the right to ever be permitted to mate. They showed the alpha male, followed by his entourage of ibex ladies, with whom he is allowed to choose from and mate with whenever he pleases.

Nine Years

Anniversaries are always a chance for some nostalgia, some sentiment, some reflection on what we've been through and how far we've grown together.

Perhaps the greatest advantage (and disadvantage) of marrying young and not really knowing anything is that you don't really know, well, anything. You don't have a great sense of the scale of time passing and how the most mundane life circumstances will shake out all the deepest parts of your depravity - all over each other.
I suppose, at first, I thought it would be the tragedies and suffering that would bring out the worst. (OK, there was that screaming I did when my grandmother died and we were lost in the dark on Long Island.) And so, I was surprised to discover, as I reflected this morning, that our marriage has struggled most in the times devoid of some trial. So, lucky for us, our nine years of marriage have been fraught with suffering. And that has made all the difference.

I made a list of all the trials and sufferings we've been through - and it is too long and too depressing. I lost count at 8 - when I was attempting to recall the people we loved who have died since our wedding. Friends suffering, babies sick, pregnancy impossibilities, marriages falling apart. It has not been possible to forget for more than a few days that we are sustained by the grace of God alone.

Why my husband is better than before:
1. All I have to do is agree on a family bike ride and he is elated.
2. He accepts that I don't like making him lunches either.
3. He finds the new good stuff (movies, TV shows, music) and his taste is only getting better. (Who made me the judge? I don't know - this is where love is blind)
4. If I have all the ingredients for dinner - he actually enjoys coming home and putting it together.
5. He is very funny.
6. He knows when I am hungry, tired, or justifiably angry - and can talk me back from the ledge.
7. Encourages me to take time to myself - shooing me out the door some evenings (kids still awake! Kitchen messy!)
8. The kids can't go to bed without him and the little detailed rituals he takes them through. The song, the handshake, the secret shapes.
9. He loves chess but doesn't make me play or get annoyed that I refuse to play.
10. Maybe this goes with #3 - but he is constantly pushing me to expand my tastes. Listening to new things, watching new things, going to new places, making new friends, reading new things.
11. He lets me have the NY Times magazine and Sunday Styles both to myself on Sundays.
(He claims to prefer the Book Review... but how could he possibly over Modern Love?! Impossible!)

7 on the 7th, 2007

We went to a funny place called Fo-Fo Figgily's on the day of G's birthday. It was his dream place - soft things to climb up, guns for shooting soft balls around, big twisty slides that are long and dark and fast.

It was cool, and he was happy. (No small feat considering his birthday was on a Monday and he had school and a violin lesson - torture!)

One thing a short seven years of parenting my son has taught me - what I say can't change him. I love and listen and validate and discipline over a long haul - and he will do one thing consistenly: challenge my love and acceptance of him.

As DH says: "It's a marathon, Jess, not a sprint."

I am never nostalgic for G's birth, or his days as an infant. I thought that was normal until I had my second. With G I am always content to see him growing and healthy - never longing for baby days of 3 pounds, agony over ounces and what the future would hold.

As he said, "It's more special today Mom, it's my golden birthday!"

Easter dress, 3 weeks late

I love sewing dresses for Alice. She is still so small I can buy the expensive fabrics - but I only need 3/4 yd! Especially if, like this year, I hem the dress extra short to show off the eyelet on her Hanna slip.

This one: Ralph Lauren celery linen, made my own bias tape for armholes with every inch of the scraps, cut the skirt on the bias, and added the little beaded flower trim which claimed to be machine washable - and has survived very well.

Total spent on dress: $13

Relief

I was much more nervous than G. He was calm, sitting through nearly an hour of older kids playing. When it was his turn he took the stage, exchanged smiles with his accompanying guitar player, and played away. His songs were the simplest ones we heard, he was probably the youngest kid there, he certainly has been playing the least amount of time, (he didn't even know any songs at Christmas!) but it was beautiful. He knew he played his songs well, and that was what he'd worked for - doing the best he was capable of. I think he actually thought it was fun.

Conquering the Chart

Yesterday, after two weeks of daily hour-long practice sessions, we crossed off the last box on The Chart.
378 songs over two weeks. (Well, 3 songs 378 times)

The fiddle competition is Saturday morning, we are all ready.
I can only hope that G will come out of all this with at least a smidge
of satisfaction and motivation after all the work he's put into it.

I'll be sure to add pictures and an update on Saturday.

dressing up is dead, here

I think it is Disney that killed dressing up.

As I can recall, dressing up once involved putting on old clothing. Scarves or anything with a flowing texture, old high-heeled shoes with leather so worn the shoes creased flat, bridesmaid dresses that had turned slightly yellow with stiff lace. Dressing up was completed by one very important element: the leap a girl's imagination had to make in order to turn a pile of dusty old clothes into a princess. Maybe this is the root of my self-esteem issues! Always imagining a princess but seeing crusty lace. How could I ever truly believe I was a princess with reality staring back from the full-length mirror in the hall? A Miss Havisham more like!

If the trade-off is having a daughter act like mine does these days - I will have the crusty lace back thank you. Gone are the days of needing a leap of imagination. These days, you want princess - you get princess. No mind-bending required. You can be any Disney princess - simply a step in and three velcro strips away from an exact replica of Sleeping Beauty. She doesn't have to dream of being a princess, she is one. And seriously, she puts that thing on and I realize that Disney's lame attempts to talk about how princesses are about kindness (blah blah) are completely lost on our little royal. She has the "Why am I subject to the poor service of such incompetent help?" mentality. Once the garb is donned, the only things she says are some variation of the following (you will have to imagine the shrill shrieking tone)
"Where is my crown?"
"Fix my pretty shoes!"
"My crown is falling off, not on right, pulling my hair, etc. Come fix it right this second!"

It is Anastasia and Drizella, not Cinderella - that passive, kind to animals, slave.

I think if you aren't wearing Sleeping Beauty's dress you don't really expect the scarves to fit the way you expect your pink jeweled tiara to fit.

fiddle sticks!

G is participating in a fiddle competition next Saturday afternoon.
I will spare you all and not delve into the battle that this preparation has been against all his underachieving therefore perfectionist tendencies. If I could not be grateful for the incredible blessing of sanctification this is for him - he would certainly be quitting the violin! Or I would be quitting my senses, my very sanity.

One aspect of preparation is The Chart. The Chart requires that he play all three of his pieces (the required hoedown, waltz, free piece) 9 times each day and mark the appropriate boxes. So, even on Saturday when The Chart was new to us - by about repetition #4 there were tears, doom and gloom, and (sorry to say) some very stern frustrated lecturing involved. (read: yelling, empty threatening. I didn't say the sanctification has been limited to him!) I am pleased to say that our meetings with The Chart have gone relatively smoothly since the first go-round. Granted we are more in the, do what we have to to survive and get through it without having to go right to bed mode. Tonight's session involved the last five repetitions of the hoedown morphed into an all-out jam session with Dad on guitar, Mom on mandolin, G on violin playing straight through five times.

When we finally made it through all the songs, I leaned toward G (having on my mind to drive him right out for ice cream for making it through Day 4 with The Chart) and said, "Maybe we should go for treat." His response, "I don't have much of a sweet tooth Mom, but I have sweet eyes. Can I stay up and watch American Idol?"