another beginning...

This year has been full of Zak and I saying to one another "Here we go... it all changes now... look out!"

Tonight was another of those moments. 

We have been signing to Simon since he was 3 months old or so. Starting with "Milk"and "diaper". Zak liked to use big strings of signs together and we often wondered what, if anything, he might pick up. (Experts recommend families starting with one and adding them slowly. This appears to be about helping the adults to be consistent and learn the signs. We had no problems with signing consistently, and knew quite a few signs already from my work with a child whose hearing was impaired, so we just had at it.

Simon first signed "milk"while he was nursing (which is when I would sign it to him). For a long while, he wouldn't sign "milk" when he wanted it, but if I guessed and signed it to him, when he was hungry he would smile, grab my signing hand and stuff it in his mouth. So, basically, he improvised his own sign for "HELL YES!" After awhile, he got tired of that, and has been "signing" milk, by tugging at my shirt and unsnapping my bra for the last few months. 

He learned "water"and signed it by opening and shutting his hand in front of his mouth, often while making a gurgly sound. We were ecstatic. Occasionally he has signed "Papa"and "Mama", although he can  now say those words. Very soon, the sign for water also meant bird, and full diaper. (We can show you the three signs and you can see how his sign is very close to water, bird and dirty.) then he generalized  from "bird"to "bird or dog". So, occasionally throughout the day, he'll sign this sign and we'll look around for context clues to tell us if he needs his diaper changed, is thirsty, or is thinking about a bird or a dog. 

He's really excited about dogs. He's been seeing them around our neighborhood and is big enough to walk over to them and pet them if the owner is cool with it. He always signs "bird" and then we sign "dog" back. For the most part, we've used ASL signs, but I have occasionally wished we'd used the "baby sign" for dog. ASL is to snap your fingers and slap your leg as if calling a dog, and baby sign is to stick out your tongue and pant. Since it'll be awhile before Simon can snap, I had been thinking this was a mistake.

Tonight we went out to dinner and saw a dog on the way home. After it was gone, Simon kept trying to look over my shoulder (I was carrying him on my front facing me.) to see the dog. (Yesterday a dog walked behind us for a few blocks and this method helped him to see it the whole way.) He frantically signed "bird/dog". Zak signed "dog"to him every time and said "dog"too. "duh" is a common sound for Simon to make and a big part of his daily, conversational babble so it was no surprise when he responded to Zak with "duh"and his "bird/dog"sign. Zak emphasized "Daw-GUH" a few times. There was no dog present and the two just kept signing and talking to each other

Simon: Dah! ("bird/dog")

Zak: Daw-GUG ("Dog")

over and over 100 times until... Simon said "Dog-guh". We all got excited. We walked down the street all chanting "Daw-guh" sign language forgotten. I hoped that we'd run into another dog, and we did. Our neighbors had their two puppies out playing and they ran over to Simon and he said to them "Dog-uh". And that was it. The beginning of a child who can definitely think with others about things that are not present, the beginning of a hunger for language, an enthusiasm for naming and describing. Language is hugely important to Zak and me and it was so exciting to walk through the dark  talking together with our little one.

The youth of my youth

Here are some blurry Iphone pictures of an all-ages show I attended yesterday. I brought a couple of pentagenarians along, so that I wasn't the oldest person in the room.

"But Kendra" you may well say. "This is not really your scene." You're right. Outside of some time at Babyhead and the Living Room as a teenager, and some fantastic Kled shows, people screaming as entertainment has not been largely my bag.
But this young man is not screaming into the microphone. He's singing! His diction is so clear, I could hear it through my ear plugs.

He's also the child I cared when I was a teenager in Providence... all grown and tattooed.

Proof of Packing

Last night my friends John and Paula watched me pack because Z is away for the weekend and I needed some moral support. I went through a box of old stuff (dumped most of it) and two shelves of books. (Most of our books Z and I want to pack or pitch together, but tonight I did my child/youth section, and saved two questionable items to ask him about later.) Unfortunately, since I don't have boxes yet (but will fetch some today... cast-offs from P's wedding gifts) my packing really consisted of stacking. But the hard part for me is really sitting on the floor, and casting off the ones I don't want, and I did that.










































For John the Baptist, hating changes is the hard part, though.

I've found myself really anxious and stressed out about this move, more than I thought I would be. Yesterday I said something about "this family" and how we move. It was a tense moment in a long string of tense moments, but Z laughed when I said that and we realized that maybe there are some other voices speaking in our conversation. I don't remember much of moving as a kid, but we did it a lot because my dad was in the Navy. (The last big move was when I was 9 and I remember that one.) I'm pretty curious about how my family talked about moving, and what my parents were anxious about at the time. I remember the concept of "cleaning for inspection" and that it was a big deal. I think at one point this meant my mother scraping spaghetti off the ceiling in Connecticut (someone had shown her that a perfect way to test your spaghetti is to throw it onto the ceiling... if it sticks, it's done.) and oatmeal off the water heater in California (a kid my mom cared for had been forced to eat his cold oatmeal breakfast leftovers for lunch and the kid had hidden it there when my mom's back was turned). I guess, when I'm feeling stressed out about emptying the basement, I can imagine scraping oatmeal off the heater.
Yeah, that might help.

My Story of Stuff

I have been looking around my house with a new lens. We're getting closer and closer to the move and I'm astounded by how many objects there are, and how dominated I feel by them.

Growing up we moved quite a few times, and I remember stuff getting "lost in the move" or broken by movers. I also remember how comforting it was to see the same stuff in a new place. I was the oldest, so I mostly got new stuff, but I got some hand-me-downs from older cousins. One set of grandparents was always trying to give us stuff... I think that grandma bought most of my clothes until I was old enough to know that Healthtex clothes are not hip... and to wonder why the word "Health" was in the brand name. In fact, I have two parcheesi sets from the 50's that that grandfather gave to me (and that I carried on a plane!) in my closet right now. When I visited them I took pictures of some of their stuff, the fruit bowl, and the weird statuettes that had been in the same places for my entire life. I heard often from my family that my other grandparents had gotten rid of so much of their good stuff. They didn't save anything for their children, like furniture, cars, trucks, a beach house. In fact that grandfather gave away my mother's chickens by accident... somebody asked about them, and he had no idea that his teenage daughter even HAD chickens, so he gave them away without asking. On the other hand, that grandmother was a knitter. Her gifts were afghans, pajamas, sweaters and scarves and slippers. I still have a sweater that she made for my mother. Different people, different times, different stuff.

When Z and I moved here, we had a huge truck and we drove a LOT of stuff here. I feel like I spend some time every day commenting on my stuff without actually picking any of it up and DOING anything about it. (Except books. Z and I have a box for keeping books and a box for getting rid of books. Every so often, one of us will pick up a book and ask the other one "Keep this one?" or "You don't want this one do you?" This is fun, and we've agreed completely so far.)

I've got clothes of course. I buy almost all of my clothes at the Goodwill, which is great; it's reusing, it's cheaper, it's around the corner, I'm not supporting sweatshops, or box stores. I feel really good about it. On the other hand, they tend to fall apart a little more quickly (because they're older) and I think I'm more likely to "settle" for clothes that don't quite fit or aren't just right, so they cycle back to the goodwill, and I tend to be discontent. I'm not crazy about boxing up tons of "Not-quite-right" clothes and paying to ship them across the country. In any case, I've had an annual clothing swap that's coming up in a couple of weeks, so that's one solution to that stuff.

I've got wedding gifts. Most of the beautiful special stuff that Zak and I will carry across the country again are wedding gifts. After our wedding, in Rhode Island, we drove a borrowed Eurovan across the country. We carefully packed our gifts into its small trunk. At one point we accidentally killed the battery by leaving the DVD player on (it was a SWEET Eurovan... thank you Mag) and had to jump it. We thought that the battery was in the back (it actually had two) so, while I fetched someone to help us, Z carefully removed our treasures and set them on a picnic table in an RV park. It felt really wonderful, looking at them all laid out completely out of context like that. The only gifts we won't cart back will be some of our beautiful dishes that have broken over the years. (I admit, we've been saving the pieces in a box, because Peter's Pots, where our dishes were made has a butter fingers day. If you bring in the pieces of a broken piece, you can replace it at a discount! I have no idea if the box of pottery shards will make it to Boston.)

I've got technology... I've got yarn... and books... and old papers and STUFF. I'm actually frozen when I think about how to move or sell or pack all this crap that's hemming me in. (As soon as I'm done with this blog, I've got to spend 15 minutes in the office trying to get a handle on the mountain of papers and yarn on and around my desk that has exiled me and the laptop to the living room.) Occasionally, I look beside my bed, or in the office and I think of a film I watched called Possessed by Martin Hampton. It's a documentary about four hoarders, and it's very startling and sharp and disturbing. The whole video is available if you follow that link, and it's excellent... like any mental illness, it's easy to see the same, if less dire, habits of thought and fear in anyone that are displayed in the film.

Once I met a guy and visited him on his boat where he lived and I was startled by how free and happy I imagined I could be on a boat. "Check it out." I thought. "This guy has only a little bit of crap. He basically could NAME every object that he owns. That's awesome." I imagined how fantastic I would feel if I got rid of all my stuff. Zak was away and I came home and looked around our house and found myself only attached to SOME of our stuff. I met a woman on retreat who lived on a boat. We talked about how free she felt with fewer possessions. I told her that I imagined that it would be hard to get rid of books. She blushed and told me about when her husband built them each a bookshelf, and announced that this was all they got. She asked for a second shelf, which he fit in someplace else, and then still ended up storing some books with her sister.

Recently I helped some dear friends pack up their apartment and in lifting all of their stuff, felt miraculously less and LESS attached to all the things I have with every trip up and down the steps. On the other hand, I've been thinking hard about buying another bike (my old one doesn't really fit me) and it's been very tempting to buy one that's brand new.

Sitting in the sun on our deck w/ Z, I looked lovingly at the prayer flags that I hung the first day we lived here, five years ago. They are so beautifully faded and destroyed, worn to transparent colorful bits with gossamer strings hanging from them. I asked Z... what should we do? Should we leave them (probably to be taken down and discarded by the landlord or the next tenants?) Should we take them down and bring them with us? That does'nt feel right at all. Maybe take them down and bury them in the yard, or do some other kind of ritual? We put off deciding. We are very accomplished at putting off deciding.

Yesterday, our training at work began by watching a video called The Story of Stuff. It's a brilliant 20 minute film describing how stuff is made, sold and then discarded. It discusses planned obsolescence and perceived obsolescence in depth and where they entered our design world and how it's changed our relationship to stuff. Please take some time to watch it, it's really fantastic and compelling. It's a little hard, in that An Inconvenient Truth way, but that's because it asks us to look at a bigger picture, which I'm trying to do a little every day anyway. Anyway, I'm not entirely sure where The Story of Stuff has pushed me. (At work, a friend and I are going to gather a Zero-Waste Lunch discussion group of teachers and parents. This makes me feel a little like a super hero.) I'll have to keep mulling to discover exactly how I'll shift my own personal life from this film.

I'm sure that it'll definitely impact me as I consider how much stuff to keep, what to fix, what to get rid of, etc. Now I'll wash some stuff, and recycle some stuff, organize some stuff and try to change my relationship to other stuff. What do you think about your stuff?

It's time....

When Z and I first decided to move to Seattle, we told everyone... it'll be two or three years. This month, it's been 7 years since we climbed out of that U-haul, and we've decided that we're ready to pack it back up again.

There are so many reasons why we're moving, and why now, but the biggest reason is that we both feel the need to be closer to our family. I am so excited... AND everytime we tell folks out here, I feel like I'm breaking up with them.

We've got plenty of time... Z and I love love love summer in Seattle, so we won't be leaving until August. It's exciting and wonderful, and we're enjoying imagining what will come next.

Maine Pictures

 

Here is a drawing my cousin Ben made of my Grandfather from a photo. He made it when he was 19, but as you can see it's really beautiful. It was taken at a dental convention in the 60's and my Grandpa wasn't crazy about it. I think he said something about it making him looking like a gangster. Anyway, my aunt brought the painting to the funeral and it was there, right next to the casket. The woman who took it (my granddad's dental assistant from those years) showed up unexpectedly and gasped "I took that picture!" It was pretty awesome, especially because my grandpa was an artist himself, and Ben is really the one who's carrying that torch around now.

 

Sunrise over Tenants Harbor. We never slept late when we visited grandpa.
 

This is where my grandfather's house used to be. That's his old garage where we used to play sometimes. That enormous bush was not there in those days. The house was sold 5 years ago when Grandpa went into residential care, but razed only a couple of weeks ago, apparently. It hurt my eyes to look at it.

 

Family Foto in Front of Farmer's.

There are more pictures from this trip, with more words here.

Heard in Tenants Harbor ME

Breakfast at Farmer's Restaurant across the street from my grandpa's old house.

Jessy: What kind of veggies are in the veggie omelet?

Waitress: Oh, tomatoes, mushrooms, onions... we don't put anything weird in there. I been waitressin' for years, but one day somebody asked "You don't put OLIVES in yer omelets, do you? I said NO! Ha! Can you imagine!?"

Here I am....

I'm here at my mother's house. When my sister walked in an hour after I arrived, it felt strange. Generally, seeing family who live so far away involves months of planning and anticipation. Instead, here I am, and here they are, and none of us were planning on being here a week ago. It makes things feel very raw and somehow unproofed.

Here is a tribute to how rushed this whole thing has been: this morning, a couple hours before my flight, I was at the Goodwill, searching in vain when I called my mom. "Mom, do people still have to wear black to a funeral." "Yes, you're coming in at 9:20 right?" We talked about every other thing until I almost hung up on her after 10 minutes, and as soon as I hung up I thought "Did she say 'Yes' or 'No'?"
I've never had such a desperate race through the Ballard Goodwill. It was early enough on a Saturday morning that when I charged out of the dressing room, ready to demand some feedback, there wasn't even an employee there to help me never mind the nurturing, frugal earth-mama I was hoping for! (Let the record show that I am not very good at looking in a mirror and having any idea what I actually look like.) I was there for 45 minutes and had just washed my hair, but the effect of lifting dozens of synthetic blouses, sweaters and dresses (In various shades of black, chocolate and grey) over my head resulted in a charge so strong I thought I might pass out when I touched the door handle of the Little Red Wagon.

Never the less, I made it. Tomorrow we'll go collect as a huge group and do something Catholic together, and it makes me terribly lonely for my darling husband, who kept me company through the late night laundry/packing marathon. I needn't tell you that it was HE who looked up Goodwill's opening hours for a Saturday when I was at the end of my childcare-wardrobe-rope.

This is the first time I'm going to Tenant's Harbor:

In about 10 years.
Expecting to drink a beer there.
With a driver's license.
In the winter.
To stay in a business establishment instead of a home.

Whew. I say again Whe- hew.

updates to follow.

My Heart is So Full

My heart is so full. At the same time that I was working to help in the birth of a new space for my work, my grandfather was at the very end of his life. I've had some of the happiest working days of my life in my new classroom and yet the same time that I was packing to go home and mourn, the most compelling politician of my lifetime accomplished his first step in becoming president. While my emotions are changing from moment to moment, their pitch, their intensity stays steadily strong.


I'm heading home tomorrow, and then to Maine with my family for my grandpa's funeral. It'll my first time in Maine in maybe 10 years, and my first time eating with my family since I stopped eating meat.
I'm breathing very deeply and slowly almost all the time.

Lice and a song

Today, before the kids arrived, I discovered that one of the kids in my group, and her brother have lice.

Later, when I went to pick half the kids up at once school, I sang an excited kind of theme song called something like "Check the Big Kids' Heads for Lice Day". It had a verse and brief chorus and it rhymed and musically made sense. It was dumb, and repetitive and I couldn't remember it ten minutes later, to sing a reprise for some kids who were late, but it made kids giggle.

This proves that it isn't just my mother's voice that comes out of me anymore, it's also my dad's.

Autumn Leaves....

There is this heartbreakingly sad version of this song by Ricki Lee Jones, and that's what I'm hearing right now in my head. (Don't worry, it's in an indulgent "cold out there/warm tea in here" sort of way. There is no doubt that it is fall in the Pacific Northwest.

I just walked to the corner to buy a calling card so that I can talk to my sister overseas. Why has no one written a sad love song about the act of buying a calling card, yet!? It is such a pathetic and cynical and horrifying action. You walk to a gas station, which is ugly and smelly. The needs of everyone else there are immediate crucial and distracted. Only the worst food, toilet paper and light up Incredibles key chain LED pens are available because you are a captive, you cannot escape because the bars of your own business hold you in. There are posters in at least 10 languages (including at least one form of pidgin English) advertising calling cards. (We apparently believe that folks who speak Spanish, Korean and Arabic want to call home more than they want to find the ATM, pump their gas, use the bathroom etc.) Half of all of the calling cards I've purchased have screwed me over in some way and YET I still buy them, because I believe they are the cheapest and most convenient way to call long distance to Europe. So, I have this transaction with the guy behind the counter... like buying a lottery ticket or a tree air freshner, he asks me which one I want and I tell him, and we exchange money and card and it's over. This guy has enabled me to stay in contact with my family, like it's no big thing. Whew. Thanks.