Home in New Orleans

Make a Smilebox scrapbook

Alex wants me to blog. She says, "The great thing about blogs is it just takes a couple of minutes to write."

Suzi says, "You can have it all. Just not at the same time."

So even though it just takes a couple of minutes to write on my blog, I have twenty things that just take a couple of minutes to do. Thus, I have not been blogging. I stop putting "blog" with a few apropos subjects/titles on my To-do list. To-do lists need to be Able-to-do lists, not Guilt lists.

But now, I think, I can blog a few minutes.

Ramona: Mom, I am a little bit of you, a little bit of Dad, and a whole lot of me.

Sumner: Mom, I have your body and Dad's brain.

is what we are calling Sumner these days.

I said, "Sumner, can you please go and pick up your room because your cousins are coming and we don't want them to think we are messy."

Sumner, without a hint of irony, puzzled, "But, we are."

For the twenty-two months that I have lived in New Orleans, I have been searching for an answer. I keep asking myself: Why do I want to make my home in New Orleans? When someone asks me what I like about the place there are some obvious answers: We live near family. I like the food and the music, the flavor and the costumes. I like how all it takes to make a party is people and simple food--you don’t really need a house or decorations or invitations or even a planned menu. In fact, before I ever set foot in New Orleans my friends knew me as flavorful person who liked to dress in costumes and throw spur of the moment parties. I fit in here. I also like dilapidated, old stuff that other people want to throw away. New Orleanians like old stuff; they prefer refurbishing things to getting new ones. They’d rather renew than redo. Perhaps that’s why this whole rebuilding thing just might work out.

But all that is not why I like to live in New Orleans. I could live by family, eat well, dress up, have parties, and pick up furniture from the curb in a number of different places and avoid the crime, the litter, the poor public services, and the ever-imminent hurricane. So the question remains: Why do I want to make my home in New Orleans?

My Uncle Kent, who was visiting from Oregon, articulated the answer for me this week. While I haven’t spent a lot of time with Uncle Kent mulling over my life’s big questions, it was clear when he visited our home that we come from the same people. I felt connected by much more than old photo albums and unique Christmas gifts he had given to me when I was a child. We are connected by a shared sensibility—an openness to make your life something that is grounded in what you really want to do, not what anyone or anything has told you, you ought to do. My relatives on that side of the family are painters and senior-citizen motorcyclists and letter-to-the-editor writers and dairy farmers and world travelers and adoptive parents and so on and so forth. We share a confidence that we can do just what we want to do, no matter how odd.

So Uncle Kent talked with the kids, saw the house and shared a meal of crawfish and a bowl of gelato. Then he and I sat and visited over a cup of tea. On the drive to his hotel, as we approached a decrepit housing project that pains me every time I drive by it, he asked me if we planned to make New Orleans our home after Phil finishes his residency. Like an apologetic, I began to tell him why, yes, we planned to make our home here. I mentioned the art and the food and the friendly people. I think I probably was trying to tell him that there is good here, even though it doesn’t look like Oregon. Halfway through my homily, I realized that he wasn't my mother and didn't need convincing. He likes New Orleans and began to explain what he finds enchanting about the city. He reminded me of the neighborhoods. Yes, most neighborhoods are close-knit communities, I confirmed. He talked about the writers and musicians. I talked about how for an urban public school teacher and a doctor interested in community-based primary care, this is the place to be: it is Boomtown, a great experiment, the possibilities are endless. I tried to continue my ongoing brainstorm about why I am here, now. He listened and simply stated, “There’s something about living here that is like facing reality.”

That’s it. Living here is like facing reality. You cannot get away from it. You don’t have to watch a documentary or read a “If the world was 100 people” email to remind yourself that you are part of the broken world and that there’s work to be done. Don’t get me wrong, it still is easy to hide in your hobbit hole in comfort and warmth and fill your time with meaningless worries of thinner thighs and undone homework and who the last Lost survivor might be. It is just a little harder to stay there if you live in New Orleans.

When I lived in NYC I ate lots of take-out and it seemed normal. After living in Phoenix for a while having a tan and spending a lot of time in malls seemed like a good idea. In Oakland I was the second one of the parents in our parents' group to ween my baby (at 18 months), I felt like an outsider because Sumner slept in a crib, and Phil was one of three stay-at-home dads who's wives and I worked together. In Boston, I felt self-conscious that my winter coat wasn't big and puffy (until I bought a new one).

So what next? I think of this stop as much more than a layover. We are within spitting distance of the two year mark. I've always said that it takes two years for a place to be home.

Here's what's happened so far:

I no longer feel like giggling when I say that I am going to the Winn Dixie.

I feel naked if my toenails aren't painted (even when I have shoes on).

I always wear earrings.

I wear ironed clothing. Often.

Costuming is a verb.

50 degrees outside is very chilly.

15 minutes is a commute.

Recycling is no longer reflexive--it is a disciplined project.

I think of summer as a rainy season full of indoor activities.

Basementless houses are no longer an oddity to me.

Popeye's isn't a treat.

Seeing rotting, flooded houses with overgrown yards everyday no longer gets me in the gut.

Dad actually emailed this true story to me:

Here is a quote from a GC [Grinnell College] applicant I found yesterday:

Q: How did you first learn about GC?

A: I spoke with 1 of your representatives at an otherwise disappointing college fair. The booth caught my eye on our way out. Not being familiar with GC, it was solely the man’s attractively unique personal presentation that drew me to your college; a balding head, thick black glasses (not unlike my own), and a pair of fiery orange eyebrows—a smart guy, a real character. Our exchange was, obviously rewarding. For once, the cover was an accurate representation of the book!

Ramona likes to keep up posted about products that she learns about on T.V. Whenever I am fumbling through my purse to find my keys she reminds me that I can buy a purse that has a place for everything, "You can even find things blindfolded for $ 29.95." The other night at dinner she told us about the Evert-Fresh "green bags." She flatly told us what she had witnessed (on T.V.), "Bananas in the green bag stay fresh for 10 days, bananas out of the bag get black and spotted."

We follow-up these info-sessions with anti-commercialism rhetoric. We talk about need and want and the fact that a purse with more pockets won't magically organize me and that we eat our bananas in less that 10 days so we don't need another thing to keep our bananas fresh (although that banana hook I got at Target years ago does help). She listens without a word. We talk at her about marketing and how people who make ads want to convince you to buy stuff.

The other day she and I stopped by the drug store to pick up a few things. We meandered into the shampoo aisle and she jumped to attention. "Mom, I know that all of these are from advertisements," she reported, using her whole body to indicate an entire shelf of one brand of shampoo. "I am sure they are from advertising," she repeated and pointed with concerned big eyes and raised eyebrows.

"Should we get that one Ramona?"

"No, Mom. They are trying to trick us into buying it," she mimicked.

Lesson learned. Neurosis born.

My dear friend Amy labored for over 60 hours last Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday and had a beautiful boy on February 19. I was with her and husband Marlow for about 50 of those hours. Amy and I have been there (or nearly there) for the major milestones in our lives from the time we were about 13. Those 50 hours are one of the greatest gifts she could have possible given to me.

Many things happened in that time and most of it will only be of interest to those of us who were there, but I know that part of my job is to remember this birth so that I can tell Elijah about it when no one else remembers, because I will.

I learned...

Patience is a virtue.

You can't get a six-pack of normal size Diet Cokes (they sell the little ones) at Rouse's and Amy's mother-in-law, Mimi, is being so careful as to not offend us-Louisianans about our ass-backwards ways that when she asked someone about why she couldn't get a regular sized six-pack, she didn't use the word normal.

Brittany thinks that Kevin slept with her mother, but she didn't. Brittany is paranoid.

Marlow eats a lot of sausage and tic tacs and prefers sausage to bacon and toast to grits.

Naomi was in labor for 36 hours, as was Anna. Mimi was 12 with the first, 6 with the second. My mom was in labor for 4 hours with her first. We should not mention these stories to Amy.

Labor can go one for more than 2 days and still not make the world record.

Rolly stools are for hospital staff.

Mimi prefers to call Rouse's Rouse because she doesn't like all of these commonly-misspelled possessive store names.

Marlow thinks that's fine as long as she realizes that that's not what the sign will say.

Marlow is not dogmatic about how to make a tuna melt, but Mimi and I agree he is about other things.

Drugs can make a contracting, tired lady sleep.

You can die of pants.

You can be beautiful in labor. Amy was not only graceful in pregnancy, but after 52 hours of labor she was still composed.

Bubba burgers don't have to be defrosted to be cooked.

Cannons is not crowded on Monday nights.

Marlow is really committed to Bikram yoga.

Mimi wants to be called Mema and CNO (Chief Nutritional Officer).

4 of the 5 Happy Baby S's are shushing, swaddling, side-jiggling, and swinging, but not in that order. The guy who invented these S's gets them right, but need to tear up a few phone books.

How to make a hearty sausage-squash-kale (minus that kale) soup and it is easy to make German brick bread.

Mimi likes to know what's going to happen next in a movie.

Marlow gave up sweets for Lent and I gave up giving up alcohol for one day during labor.

You can get warm muffins at 6AM at Oschner.

Amy is a champion. So is Marlow.

The cleanest place to sleep in a waiting room is under the T.V.

"Eye of the Tiger" and "I Would Walk 500 Miles" are good labor songs.

Labor is labor.

Childbirth is one of the only things that makes Erika effusive and quick to return calls.

I want to write.

I am one of Amy's people.

This one is for you, Alex.

Today was a beautiful day. There were sibling spats and family members grouching on each other because they can, but it was also full of friendship, familiarity, and possibility. I like that.

The best moment of the day was this afternoon at the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby. If you ask me how Sumner did, I'll tell you that he won the Pinewood Derby for his den, which has about 10 kids. If you ask Sumner, he will tell you that he came in third place for his pack, which has about 50 kids. He will also tell you that he made friends with the kid who won, Josh. Josh happens to be the newest kid to the pack. He happened to join one week ago just in time for this event and he happens to be an orthodox Jew, wearing a yarmulke and out on shabbot to race cars. The Pact Leader, who I like to call the Den Master because it rhymes with Zen Master, called Josh his "sleeper."

The Pinewood Derby is a rite of passage for many boys in America. There is a lot of family lore surrounding the Pinewood Derby in our family. There was my cousin Matt, who built his car with Grandpa Art, because his mom was a single mom. The story goes that he worked tirelessly on his car, doing most of it himself. Grandpa Art helped him with one aspect of the design, as the rules specified he could. When the big day arrived, Matt was crushed because his car didn't match up to the father-built cars his cohorts raced. He cried. There was my brother, who built his car with his Grandad A.J. because our dad hardly prefers newspapers to sandpaper. His car looked good, but it was slow. And, of course, there was Phil's cars. He won the Pinewood Derby two years in a row, because his father paid careful attention to every aspect of the car and made it without much help from Phil.

Sumner knows these stories. So this week, as Phil scrambled to find the time to help Sumner finish his car between two hospital on-call cycles, Sumner was trying to make sense of the family legacy. They were up early in the morning--sanding and painting--and working on it before bedtime--planning the detail work. Sumner and Phil were determined to make this car Sumner's work, but Philip was also determined to support Sumner to have a competitive car.

Last night when Phil and Sumner were putting the final touches on the car just before the weigh-in Sumner told Phil not to be such a perfectionist, "It's going to be just fine, Dad."

Today I was snapping some pictures of Sumner posing with the five den winners and I could see that he was trying to smile, but that he wanted to cry. As soon as the photo shot ended, he made a b-line for me and said that he wanted to go "right away." I was pretty sure that he was going to cry because he didn't make best in show. As we walked out of the cafeteria, I asked him is he felt like crying because he came in third place. He shook his head and said, "No. I'm just so proud. I made this car myself."

That's a good day.

Sumner had two teeth pulled today to make room for his other teeth. When he got home he opened a word document and compose the following letter in 18-point Jokerman font:

Tooth Fairy, please bring me Pokemon cards instead of money because I like them way more than wealth and there is a 50 % chance that I could get an e.x., maybe even a Lugia! Anyway, I’d like Power Keepers or Diamond and Pearl. Oh yea and if you can control what’s in it all please get me some really good cards.

Then he asked Phil and I if the Tooth Fairy could read. He told us that he remembers his Kindergarten teacher, a real authority, once told them that the Tooth Fairy sometimes bring toys instead of cash.

The Tooth Fairy wrote back to him:
I not cen reed guud. Sary. -Toof Hairy

She also left him two dollars.

Ramona said, "You have to fart to live." It's kind of like breathing.

Phil has a call month this month. He's working 80+ hours a week. I have the end of the first quarter, Spirit week, and a Homecoming dance to pull off. The grandparents are in Spain. We're making out okay, but...

Needless to say, issues of work-family balance (or a total lack thereof) are surfacing. They are taking a toll. We both feel that we are doing more than the other parent. The truth is that neither of us is a martyr, we're just doing too many things. So, Phil's a little intense about little things and impatient. I need to cry a few more times a day than I usually do.

Lots of crying can wear a man out. Today I asked him to "listen to me [cry] more." He said he couldn't--he's not a bottomless pit--it wears him out. I laughed. I told him that he was not where near a bottomless pit. He's a ditch. He just absorbs a little bit of the overflow.

As summer turns to autumn, before we have even chosen our Halloween costumes, questions of Christmas are troubling my children.

Sumner asked me the other day if parents lie. I told him that parents do lie--some parents. I also asked him why he asked. He wanted to know the real truth about Santa. He said about half of his friends believe and half do not. I dodged the questions about Santa by asking him if he believes. He said he does. Maybe.

Tonight at dinner Sumner told us that he doesn't believe in magic, but he believes in Santa. He said that he thinks we put a ladder in our chimney for Santa to come down and that Santa has a jet sleigh. The reindeer aren't magic, they are robotic reindeer that look realistic. The elves are just "little people" who had plastic surgery on their ears. And the toys? Well, there's a machine with a "little bit of magic." When I mentioned that I think a little bit of magic is still magic, he protested and said that it is just "mechanical magic." The toys come from a giant thing with lots of parts and all of those parts can make up any kind of toy and the toys shoot out of the machine. Oh, and by the way, there is one girl toy-tester and one boy toy-tester waiting to test each gender specific toy as it pops out. But there's no real magic involved at all.

I was taking notes during the whole monologue. When Ramona realized that I was taking notes, she chimed in, "Santa is fat and old." When she saw fat and old on the page she told me to cross that out. She didn't mean that. I think she thinks fat and old are put-downs. Then she started dictating to me, slowly, so I would get it all down. It turns out Santa is very kind and he would be a good Lusher student and he likes and respects people a lot.

At this point Sumner interjected, "How does it all work?"

"I think his reindeer are beautiful. Some are girls and some are boys."

"How do they fly?" Sumner insisted.

"Well, fairy tales just trick us. They want us to think Santa isn't true. This is what happens. The reindeer just walk. I think Santa has magic and he puts it on his nose and his reindeer and his sleigh and it makes them shrink. Then they slide under the window. No, Mom, cross that out. They slide under the door."

Parents don't need to lie. They've got it all worked out.

"How do you do it?" Brad asked.

I was at the copy machine, trying to make copies (in two minutes or less) of a test I had just finished writing for my students to take right away. I was rushing so that I could leave the test with a sub, freeing me up to take Sumner to a doctor's appointment.

Brad chatted with a frenzied me. He doesn't have children. "Tim and I were talking this weekend and we just don't know how people with kids get it all done. I mean our weekends are crazy. By the time we clean up and grocery shop and run a few errands and grade papers, we're beat and it is time to start a new week. And it is just the two of us. I just don't know how parents do it." He gave the obligatory slow head shake, right to left, twice.

I looked at Brad and said, "I'll tell you the big secret. Parents just don't get 'it' done. You can't. Not in the same way. Crazy things happen. For instance, you find yourself driving to work and you think: I didn't brush my teeth. And then you think: I guess I better chew a piece of gum so I don't smell. That's the big secret: you just don't get it all done."

There are lots of little things in New Orleans that only happen in New Orleans.

After the big day at our school yesterday, I came home with a huge bag of kettle corn. This morning, I put it in containers and tried to parcel it out to the neighbors.

When I got to one neighbor's house, she offered me some Russian Cake and I accepted. She said, "I won't be offended if you hate it."

That's not usually what people say when they give you cake. Well, I soon learned that Russian Cake is an acquired taste. After a day of asking every local I know about it and reading about it on the internet, I learned that bakeries (and apparently a local convent-homeless shelter that has a secret deal with Tastee Donuts) in New Orleans take their leftover cake, cookies, and pie crust and make it into something new: Russian cake. They cut it all up into little bits, then heat it up and pour some sort of cherry flavored syrup or liquor on it and rebake it. Then they put a layer of fresh cake on the bottom and top and frost it and put sprinkles on it. Yuck.

Good thing she won't be offended.

As I have told many of you, this year has not been easy. Quite honestly we moved here because we like New Orleans, we wanted to be a part of something, and we wanted to live my family. Well, we've been here and we like the town, but sometimes it is hard to see progress and feel like you are a part of something.

Today was different. Teacher, parents, students, and administrators at my school came together and did something. And it was beautiful.

Check it out.

Sustainable life is possible here.

When I was little, my cousin's wife (now x-wife) began to design stuffed animals. These animals are not your basic beanie babies or some sort of stuff-a-bear-in-a-mall thing. These animals look real--really real. Back when I knew her, she was just starting out and her living room was always full of rabbit pelts that she was cutting up and refashioning into new animals. Her latest gig is to make stuffed animals that are replicas of real ones. Its better than taxidermy. She makes stuffed animals to look like real animals. I'm not kidding and I admit I think it is creepy. I located her after a quick google search. You may want to check out her website; it is not for the faint hearted, but this story will be even better if you are familiar with her work.

Anyway, one of the things she made for us long ago was a finger puppet that has the shape and feel of a teddy bear hamster. She might have made this puppet because Jacob had a series of hamsters who all died over a three or four year period. There was Ben, then Teddy, and then Wes, who it is suspected my mother coldly euthanized with a paper bag one rainy Oregon day. Perhaps this finger puppet was meant to soothe his loss. I am not sure what the truth of this matter was, but I like to imagine my cousin's x-wife, misty-eyed, threading her needle, getting ready to re-craft a bit of rabbit into a stand-in pet for my sensitive little brother.

Whatever the reason it was created, this tiny puppet looks really real. I think it is made of rabbit fur, it has black beady eyes, and little pink ears and a nose made out of suede. It is really quite amazing and if you put the puppet on your index finger and then wrap your other hand around the base of it, it looks like you have a real hamster. When we were in middle and high school Jacob and I used to trick our friends with it and on one occasion we so petrified Mom, she screamed bloody murder for at least 20 seconds without a breath. A giggle still rises up in me when I think of it.

FAST FORWARD 16 years. My children love to tease my mom about her fear of rodents. Nearly every time they talk to her, they mention a rat or a mouse or some such thing. They plot together (as Jake and I used to) ways to scare her and she gladly plays along--shrieking and shivering as much as possible.

So to carry on their little joke, in one of my mom's most recent shipments of my childhood junk to New Orleans, I found a lumpy, sealed envelope addressed to Sumner and Ramona. Since I always sort through these junk shipments from home when the children are not around--I fear they will lay claim to things that I think are rubbish--I was the one that found the envelope. I opened it and played with it for a few minutes one night, looking forward to showing it off to them the next morning.

As always, Sumner got up first. I was sure that he would be very excited to see this rodent replica. I imagined he, Ramona, Phil, and I using this hamster puppet to play practical jokes on all of our friends. I was sure that Sumner would find this rediscovered toy a pure delight. I was wrong.

At 5:45 the following morning, he got up and made his way downstairs to find me checking my email or making their lunches. I slipped the puppet on my finger as soon as I heard him on the steps and when he got to me I announced that we had a new pet, a hamster. Then I waited for him to examine the specimen. He looked confused and then asked, "Really?"

I directly offered to let him hold it and I put the puppet in his hand to let him discover the truth. He was puzzled and slightly disturbed.

"Grannabelle sent it," I told him. "It's a hamster puppet. Isn't it real-looking?"

He picked it up between two fingers and, looking over his glasses at me, asked, "Did they just hollow out a hamster to make it?"

That is a replica for you. Too good to be true. Or real.

I felt that old giggle rise in me again.

My dad wanted to "have less responsibility and more time with is grandchildren" and he wanted to continue golfing and saving some buck for real retirement. So he fake retired. He is supposed to work three-quarters time, three quarters of the year. He isn't a dean of anything or a VP of that department. He's a guy who works for Grinnell doing some recruiting and a little of this and that.

This means that my mom is going to "have less responsibility and more time with is grandchildren." I can tell that she wants to be free of all of this stuff she has. She wants to have less, do less, and be still more. She wants to be with her friends and family. She and my dad are going to have more time together.

I'm learning a few things about fake retirement. When your parents fake-retire they downsize.
They send you lots of good furniture (that your brother may one day fight you for). They move home. They are surrounded by their old friends and they are jolly. Jollier. More relaxed.

Still they are grieving this great (and fake) life change. They look back on the hard work of the last 40 years and they are reflecting on the experiences and friendships they have collected. And each experience and friendship has a keepsake connected to it. A Hollie Hobie stained glass figure. An unsent card you wrote to an old friend, who was beloved by your parents. A crumbling corsage from some dance. They send you some dishes you may want and a few childhood keepsakes that you mentioned you want. And they want less responsibility and yet they don't want to let go of it all. So they ship all this useless junk to you.

As you might imagine, our family anticipated and watched the first regular season Saints game with enthusiasm. Phil even bought a big, flat TV for the occasion. We made a deal with the kids: even though it was a school night, we let them stay up until halftime.


With about 5 minutes before the half, when the Horseshoes (as Ramona calls them) were already winning yet it seemed there still may be hope for the Saints, Ramona started to peter out. With about 2 minutes on the clock, I told her to go and get in the bath and that I'd be up in two minutes.

"Really? In just two minutes?" she asked suspiciously.

"Well, two football minutes is like 5 or 10 minutes," I explained.

Puzzled, she turned and went to the bath.

The Saints lost; we mourned.

The next morning, I woke Ramona up as I usually do on school days. Generally when I wake her up, we cuddle for several minutes. This cuddle is "a process" of connecting and then breaking apart. She does not let go easily.

This particular morning, I was in a hurry so I told her that I could only cuddle for two minutes.

"Two football minutes?" she asked.

A quick study, that one.

Today I told Ramona to stop "talking in that way." She was being sassy. She's bossy. She knows what she wants. And that's no excuse. She was being rude. It's not cute all the time. It was rude.

I guess my voice was little "intense." I would say that I was just trying to talk directly. My voice may have been a little brassy.

While being talked down, Ramona put her little hand in front of my mouth to stop my reprimand (It is so cute when she does that.), but I kept on talking. Then her face crumpled up and she started crying and said, "Don't talk to me that way. You sound like a tiger and not like my mom."

It reminded me of two summers ago. My mom was "talking in that way" to me about my driving and it was making me mad. She said that she was being intense--direct--and that talking in "that way" was the only way to get me (and my dad and my brother) to listen to her (and in turn, change what we are doing). "Change us--huh?" I asked her, "Is that
working for you?" She has repeated to me the is-that-working-for-you line about once a
month since then.

Last night Phil and I were having a planning pow wow. He was put off by me, my eyebrows jumping around, and my notebook of important decisions to make. My intensity was putting him off and he told me so. I told him that this is me. This is who I am. What does he want me to do? I just want to "get something done." Is that working for me?

Is my tiger-talk working for me? Is Ramona's sassy, stomp your foot while you are speaking to make your point working for her? What does work?

I get caught up in wanting more.

I want more hours in the day. I want to be cleaner, neater, prettier, smarter, healthier. I want to "get more done," whatever that more might be. Among my friends, this sentiment seems to be rather normal.

This weekend I asked Phil if we would ever do something really great. It is somehow important to me to do something really great. He said that we may and he said that we may not. Then he reminded me that this should be enough.

At first I was aggravated at him. Doesn't he want more? Doesn't he think we're destined for great things? But I was wrong. This is a great thing and I look past this to more.

"This" is a family. A boy and a girl and a mom and a dad. A teacher who likes to bake and a doctor who likes to ride his bike.

This is enough.

is what Ramona calls Burger King.

A balcony is a falcony in Ramonaese.

Cous cous is goose goose.

Molars are nolars, which she uses to chew goose goose.

In Ramonish, all meat is chicken and hurricanes and tornadoes are one in the same.

What to do? What to do?

Sometimes I can make things so complicated, so contrived. Planning seems to take more time than living. Plotting, researching, checking, conferring all under the umbrella or planning.

Ramona's got a plan.

An adult friend asked her today, "So now that you're done with school, what are your plans for the summer?"

She looked up at him blankly. Her expression betrayed a little confusion. The question wasn't what puzzled her, it was the fact that he had to ask. Isn't it obvious? Doesn't he know. She smiled politely and answered, "Play."

What a good reminder. We all need to play. Playing in more than recreation or projects or activities or vegging out. Playing is having the time to invent, pretend, and choose what you want to do and how you want to do it.

A few weeks ago, on one of Phil's call nights, I picked the kids up about 5PM, got them some pizza, ate the pizza on the go, and watched a short play back at my school. The kids liked the play, but by the time it was over, it was 7PM and we were tired. When we got home I realized that I was locked out and since I had locked myself out the day before and not returned the key to its hidden spot, I was really locked out. So, the kids and I climbed back into the car and headed for my in-laws to retrieve a extra key. This was nerve-racking because while they will not judge--they know me--but I will judge myself for being such a mess.

In the middle of all of this Sumner said, "Mom, why are you always so stressed."

I said, "I think I just have too many things to do."

Wisely, he said, "Why don't you do less?"

Since that day I have been looking forward to the summer so that I can do less. And I am (2 days in) doing less, yet I am still buzzing here and doing this and planning that project and making coffee dates with all of my friends that I have missed this year.

Yesterday after a slower day (Hogwarts camp, a trip to the library, visiting with a friend, swinging on out new swing, playing Pokemon with Phil, and a bike ride), Sumner asked me another wise questions, "Mom, can I have a few days this summer where I am at home and I can just get absorbed into things?"


Having the space to get absorbed instead of just dipping your toe in here or there. What a grand idea!

Since I started work last August my mind has not always been my own. I have always had an immediate deadline, crisis, student, teacher, or parent pressing in on me. I have had a shifting job description and thus my responsibilities and expectations of myself have been a moving target.

I have also been trying to figure out how to be The Mom I Want To Be in a new set of circumstances. It has not been easy. How can I best use my ever dwindling time with my children? This two-full-time-working parent thing is new to us. I know most parents have been doing it for years, but how? How can I parent from 6:00-8:00AM and 5:00-8:30PM (the hardest times of the day for all of us) and two weekend days a month? How do you parent a late-rising, wiry, wiggly, vocal sprite and an early-rising, sedate, brooding thinker under the same roof? Why can’t they be just a little more alike?

It was an accomplishment to make it through each day. I did some good work and I had some hard days. To make it, I have had a kind of headlight vision—I have been able to see only what is just up ahead. I concentrated on work while I was at work (the best I could) and while I was at home I concentrated on feeding my family, keeping them clean enough, and being kind to them (the best I could). I have been ignoring the laundry, aesthetic progress in my house, personal phone calls and emails, my blog, and piles and piles of stuff that cover nearly every counter and bookshelf in my house. I have triaged my emotions as well—dealing with the ones that bubble over and putting the others on the back burner. I have worried far too much about things that could not, just would not, get done. I have worried far too much about what other people are thinking about me. I have spent many evenings in front of the T.V. just to quiet my brain. I have stopped trying to get “enough” sleep and just tried to sleep when I could for as long as I could.

We have managed to make some friends and see old friends and be a part of an extended family.

Philip and I have coped during the tough months and reconnected in easier months. We have been too tired to talk many nights, but made sure to carve out time together when we could. There has been lots of grace.

And now, the summer is here. And I have a little space and a little time to get it together. Ahh, the elusive “together” that most moms I know strive for—even appear to be. Maybe, one day, we will catch up and actually be together instead of just playing at it. I am going to spend my summer trying.

We are fine. The tornado hit two blocks from our house!!

Saw a house that looked like a giant dollhouse: the furniture was set up for a family to live, but there was no front to the house.

Phil and I were discussing if rising crime or global warming weather is a bigger threat to our sanity.

I think our children are the biggest threat to ur sanity. Two little tornadoes.

I have been too worn out to blog. That's why I've been so quiet.

I don't want to be melodramatic, but when you are new in New Orleans, or old in New Orleans, you get tired.

I am tired. I am tired of transition. Transition to a new house in a new neighborhood, new schools, a new church, a new medical internship, and two parents working full time and then some. It is exhausting to be here.

But you don't have to been new to feel this way. While I was waiting in a long line at Walmart tonight, I had to break in to my honey roasted peanuts in order to avoid collapse. I offered some to the people behind me, a woman and her son, who looked as depleted as I felt. They refused to reach in and grab a handful, but allowed me to shake some into their open palms. We got to talking. They were here before the storm. She's sure that the levy breech was an intentional act against the people of the city and she's afraid it will happen again. She was at the Superdome and she was scared of the people there. She want people to come together and do right by one another. She loves her extended family here, but she's tired and she's still scared and she just may head back to San Antonio where she evacuated. She's disabled and can't work, but her son just got a job with the sanitation department. She doesn't think they will be able to live off that $600 a month. My cart was full to the brim--I was spending a huge portion of what she has to look forward to next month. She was tired and so am I.

But it’s not just the lady in the line at the Walmart when you happen to get friendly with your peanuts. It is everyone. My students, my collegues, my kid's friends and their families. Everyone is tired. Everyone has a story to tell.

The first night we got to New Orleans, while we unpacked the kitchen, Marlow asked me how I was "doing with this whole move." I told him that I was excited, exhilarated even. I also told him that I have moved enough times to know that it would hit me in the fall. And it has. I am missing my old familiar friends and getting used to my no-longer-new friends here in New Orleans. I miss familiarity. I miss a place where things run as they should. And I am tired.

So, I do what I can to get through the day without yelling at my children, getting sick, or having to quit. I cry when I need to. I vent to my husband, my family, and my friends a lot. I pray, but my prayers are worried, muddled cries for help. I get up 15 minutes late most days and run behind for the rest of the day. I work, I pick my children, we eat, we bath, we read, they sleep, I fall in front of the T.V. for a couple hours to quiet my mind and we start over.

So I haven’t been blogging, but I want to get it going on again.

and Sumner asked him, "When you're doing a heart transplant, do you just fall asleep in the person's guts?"

Sumner's got a plan, a plot really. He is going to stay up until midnight on Christmas Eve and steal Santa's toy bag. Then he'll have "all the toys in the world". Phil told him that he'll be on the Bad List for a long time if he goes through with it. Sumner said that wouldn't matter because the only reason to be on the Good List is to get toys, and he'd have "all the toys in the world". Plus, he claimed, "Santa would forgive me in like a day."