Coming to the Surface

The past month has been obscenely hectic.  We had a St. Patrick's Day dinner with friends and Tia Kissie.  We hosted Easter at our house and the next day housed family from California.  And we visited the lower valley to  place Aaron's beloved Grandma Bea beside her loving husband, Grandpa Joe.  We helped my sister in law celebrate her 40th birthday in Tumwater, too.  To top it off the month has been peppered with bouts of the flu and this week, a cold.  And there has been no semblance of routine or normalcy since before Christmas.  To say it's been exhausting would be a cute misnomer.

We're completely bonkers at this point.  Clinical.  And for my part, I'm ready to check into a respectable institution for the mentally unstable primarily because the idea of someone else preparing my meals is enchantingly alluring.  It's been an endurance race like nothing I've ever gone through before, and there's no way to know when it will end.  Or if it even will end.

I usually start with Andres, as he's the first born, but I feel like I'll start with Raph today.  We planted a garden in a little tub on our patio with a baby sugar snap, a mint and a sweet basil starter.  I discovered that Raphael is an avid gardener!  He loves to water the "babies," as he calls them, and uses a tiny plastic watering can with fervor.  I've started to bake with him on Thursdays when Andres is at school all day long (the longest day of the week) and have tried to really appreciate the one-on-one time we have together.  Last week we played soccer at the park, made a new lemon cookie recipe together, and cuddled up to read books together on the sofa.  It was a chilly day with low gray clouds, so snuggling up with some good picture books, warm lemon cookies and hot blueberry tea was ideal.  This week has been sunny and warm, so it actually felt like spring.  Our cookie this week was suiting for the sunshine, and we made Fresh Strawberry Shortcake Cookies, a fun new recipe I found on Pinterest.  Raph helped cut the strawberries, and did a wonderful job.  They turned out super good, just like strawberry shortcake in a cookie!  I had a half a lemon left over from the recipe, and feeling like spring as it was, I squeezed more lemons to make my first batch of homemade lemonade.  I have to say, there is really nothing like it.  It was dee-lish.  So after our traditional Thursday meal of Totinos pizza for lunch, we enjoyed our scrumptious strawberry cookies with cold lemonade out on the picnic table. His language is coming along, and I'm loving learning about his manner and perspective.

After a year of hard work, Andres has finally graduated into the next level at swim practice.  This is the child who just last year screamed bloody murder when his face was wet.  He's now bobbing along, jumping in, and even doing back floats.  I'm proud of his work, but really excited that he's had his first real taste of pay-off, and the sensation that success brings when one overcomes something they don't like, something they don't want to do (yes there were some tears about going to swim practice, but now he loves it!), or something they are afraid to do--and swimming was all three for him.  This bolstered his confidence and I felt I had better strike while the iron was hot and get him into a piano lesson, as Aaron and I had been talking about the need for that, since we feel being musically literate is important in gaining skills overlapping in other areas of life.  Following my musician husband's lead, agreeing with him that piano is a really good foundational instrument, and that when Andres is 10 years old he can choose his own instrument.  We're so blessed to be able to have private lessons from a veteran teacher who not only had two boys herself (hence, she gets the creature of a boy), but she's also the mother of our dear friends from church, the Votrobecks.  She's been around Andres since he was tiny.  After two weeks of piano, I've seen him really focus and yes, although he can get a little distracted or squirrly, he practices well, and seems to enjoy playing.  When we practice on the old upright in the garage before bathtime, he'll point to the accompaniment at the bottom and say "you play that part when I play my part, Mom."  Poor kid.  I never learned how to play piano, only tenor sax in high school jazz band, and can't play that lovely accompaniment to duet with him.  Perhaps when Aaron's not doing homework or at class, he can duet with him.  But he feels really proud of his little Tick Tock song that he's working on, and I am learning with him.  I've also signed him up for a theater camp this summer, and an animated movie production class in Portland because this IS Andres, after all.  Speilberg, remember?  He's hankering for a taikwondo class, but seriously, I'm feeling like, no thanks, we're good right now.  Plus those martial arts classes like to meet twice a week, and that's too much for us at this stage.  Maybe next year.  We'll see.

I feel like we've arrived at this busy season of parenting, and life in other areas--like professional areas- is still adolescent.  I'm a failed middle school teacher unemployed, and Aaron's a staff accountant/college kid.  Yeah, it feels like that.  College.  We rent, we're constantly broke, our furniture is the same stuff we had in the dorms, and we cram for finals.  College, but with kids in the mix to keep us mildly insane on our toes.

On the side I've written a screenplay, and have started making friends and connections deep in the writing community in Portland.  I find that I really have a gift of storytelling, and others have been so encouraging, most loudly, my dear husband.  But my script's turning the heads from folks within the movie industry has been exhilarating  albeit a bit scary, and in classic Andria form, I have backed way down from writing just as it was getting hot.  The writing world can be dark, and Hollywood requires a sacrifice (of time, character, morals, etc. ...pick your poison).   I'm not wholly sure I'm ready for that, whatever it may be, but I know when I feel it's right I'll return to it.

Now I've also been dabbling in graphic design, having been asked to create a logo for a new 5k race our church is organizing to support our missions funds.  THAT has been a huge gift, a really wonderful experience in which I've learned a ton.  And Aaron encouraged me to save my paychecks from work to  purchase a graphic artist tablet...something that I've been lusting after for at least four years.  The caveat is that this will become a tool for me to build my ESTY shop, and open for business in August, fingers crossed.  I got the tablet in the mail two days ago and was ready to get to work, but Jumping Josepher!  It's a lot to learn!  These graphic programs are expansive and powerful, and I've just only scraped the first crusty layer of frost on the ice burg.

Aaron is rocking the casba at PSU and has stellar grades.  He's been offered several opportunities to apply for fellowships, and those offers came on the cusp of hearing from UW that he was not accepted this year into the masters of musicology program up there.  Honestly, it's a blessing.  It would have been so confusing.  He's nearly done with his masters here, and uproot midway like this would have meant all his classes would have to be retaken up in Seattle, and more loans.  So, Plan B: finish the MSM at PSU, then apply for the PhD at both UW and UO.  What that man juggles, between working full time, family full time, and grad school part time, is an amazing feat.  He handles it all with such grace and discipline, inspiring for me to witness, and I'm unspeakably proud of him.

That's been our last five weeks or so, and I'm just now, sick with a cold and all, finally coming to the surface.

Pep Talk

It's been a brutal, brutal week.  I really needed this pep talk from Kid President.  Maybe you do too.  Watch and feel inspired, refreshed, and ready to be awesome today.

Words

Today, just now when I opened the boys' door at 6:45 to greet them for the day, Raph came to me and wrapped his arms around my neck.  His language has been much delayed, having about 30 words at age three, far from textbook.  But I haven't worried about it, being a language acquisition scholar, I knew it would unfold when Raph's synapsis were ready.   And now it's happened, the language mechanism in his brain has flickered on, and his vocabulary has suddenly exploded.  Words he's never practiced, or ever muttered, are daily being added to his list.

But this dim morning in the dawnlight, as his small arms linked around my neck, I nearly wept when I heard his warm, heavy morning voice whisper in my ear:  "I wuv you, Mommy."

Eavesdropping

"A long time ago," you start.

I hear you, dearest, as I'm at the stove stirring the veggies in the pan, chopping broccoli, washing dishes.  Your voice comes to me through the soft Reggae music, and I can tell by the silence in the other room that you have captivated them, you have their undivided attention.  From my place as the kitchen counter, I imagine them leaning into your storyteller voice, their brown eyes round, mouths slightly open, pinned to every word.

"And if she looked at someone they would turn to stone."  I pause and tilt my head to hear you, too.  You're storytelling is only missing a camp fire, and flickering shadows.  Do you know how powerful your gift for storytelling is?

"But then, this one guy name Perseus, he loved Andromeda, who was supposed to sacrificed to a sea monster, and he decided he would rescue her..."

I wonder if you notice, at this part of your tale to our children, that it's in some ways our story.  Was my life to be a pointless sacrifice before you rescued me along your hero's journey?  It's our love story embedded in your voice, as our boys lean into you as I always have.

You are a remarkable man, dearest.  Our sons are profoundly blessed by you, and we all gather around you, listening, reveling, in the wonder you are.

Inspiring

This 13 year old boy's testimony on TEDx moved me to wonder:  what am I doing for my children's education?  Preparing them for a career, or preparing them for life?  I have a lot to learn, and a lot to let go.

Accomplishing Dreams

Indulging a moment of pride for one of my former students, and now, friend.  Minseon came from Korea an 8th grader in my ESL class years ago, and I tutored English for years privately at her home throughout her high school years.  Here is a link to an article on her featured in the Columbian in 2010, a piece I read over and over, most lovingly.  Now, she's well on her way at Whitman.  Hear her incredible talent and hard work as the flute solist at 19:27.  Congrats, dear friend.  The sweat and strain were worth it.

Little Cars

Our annual Branding, 1989.  Fifteen cowboys rounded up 250 head of Grandpa's free-range cattle, vaccinated, castrated, de-horned,  and branded them with his J-Lazy H hot iron.  Here my dad in the maroon sweatshirt runs the shoot, and Grandpa, putting away his can of chaw, looks towards the camera through his dark sunglasses.  

Long ago, two young kids had three babies during the greatest economic depression our country has ever known.  One of those kids, the middle boy, was Jearl, my grandfather.  The family moved to Washington as migrant workers in the thirties, and eventually settled on a twenty acre chunk of land in Granger, and farmed. 

Grandpa was a hard working farm kid, who fell pray to several accidents that brushed him up close to death.  He had been plowing a field when the tractor on an incline fell over on top of him.  He had been working with a horse when it spooked and kicked his mouth and nose in, leaving a horrible scar reminiscent of a hairlip.  Grandpa wasn't interested in school, but I know he took piano lessons at one point.  He was more interested in girls, parties, and making money.  He had a mysteriously dark complexion, one we know now stems from a Jewish heritage, but at the time his deep brown eyes and curly black hair turned the girls' heads. One such head turned at a dance one night, as Grandpa with his extraordinary two-step skills made a pretty young girl named Luster swoon.  They were soon married and had three babies of their own, the oldest, my father. 

But the story is not a happy one.  Grandpa was a hard man in desperate times.  He was raised to be tough and strong, and became jagged and abrasive.   Unlike Grandpa Jose who was embedded in a thriving Mexican culture and Catholic community, Grandpa Jearl was a loner, pushing away would-be friends, embarrassing to his family in most social situations, drunk, lewd, dangerous, careless.  

I grew up with him being quiet and scowling.  I'd hear him and his cowboy friends exchange jokes that didn't make sense to me, but I assumed (rightly) not to repeat them at school.   I thought he was rock solid.  Unbreakable.  Unfeeling.  Until I was sixteen when my grandma was slowly dying of cancer.  I saw him kneel beside her, the band of his Stetson hat imprinted in his hair, and softly wash the drool from her mouth.  And then he left the room angrily wiping at his eyes.  

Years later he quit drinking, and his first great grandchild was born, our Andres.  Although grandpa has been unapologetically racist, even around  my husband, he drove three hours the day when Andres was born, just to meet him.  He held Andres more, caressed him more, than he had ever done any of us.  I wondered who this man was.  He was still quiet, but the scowl had vanished.  He had softened.  And warmed.  

Tenderly, so carefully, adjusting Andres' cap the day after his birth.

He sat admiring him.   Long moments passed in silence, a reverie.  

Andres' first Christmas.  Grandpa gave him all sorts of toys, little cars and this Eyore.  

Grandpa gave Andres his first tractor ride at one. 

Grandpa came down for birthdays or Easter, or no reason at all.  He started to call me out of the blue to see how Andres was doing.  Every couple of weeks, he'd check on him.   Grandpa had not even talked to me more than five times in my entire life was now calling.  

"How's that boy doing?" he'd ask.  His voice was still gruff.  But it was the message that melted my heart.

After Raph was born, the phone calls grew more numerous.  Dad would bring him down to us as we were so locked down in our lives, our schedules, our stuff.  Grandpa would sit and watch them play, smiling at them.  Smiling!  And laughter would roll from his chest as the boys wrestled about on the floor, playing with the little cars that Grandpa was so careful to always have when he showed up for a visit.

Grandpa gently propping Raph up for a picture.

"How's them boys treating you?"  As I shared the stories of my children with Grandpa, about how mad I was about something or how they were driving me crazy, he'd just laugh.  Everything they did tickled him.  They overjoyed him.

When we found out he had cancer, it wasn't a surprise to us that he refused treatment.  Slowly he lost the things he's had around him all his life.  He sold off his horses.  He sold most his cattle, reserving twenty for beef.  He gave away his dogs, holding onto the last, a sweet Border Collie named Belle, as long as he could until even she had to go.  His energy to run a cattle farm was zapped.  And Dad did the best he could to make sure Grandpa was eating and sleeping, but Dad works full time, and runs the farm full time, and as Grandpa needed more intensive care, my Aunt Jodie, retired Air Force nurse, came from Spokane to stay after Grandpa had suffered several serious falls alone in the house.

Aunt Jodie brought him down to visit us on Saturday.  Shockingly, he was a shadow of the big, tough man I grew up with, a looming figure of a cowboy atop a partially-wild quarter horse surrounded by a gangle of border collies, his henchmen ready and eager to obey any command.  Saturday he was thin, brittle, shaking.  He leaned against a walker and needed three adults to help him move.  But he had brought cars for the boys.

"We had to stop at WalMart and get these little cars on the way down," Aunt Jodie said to me, watching as Grandpa carefully selected a car for each boy, then watched with a toothless smile as they feverishly ripped off the packaging and squealed with delight to have a new Hot Rod.  "It took all his energy to just get out of the car, but we had to get these cars."

I don't remember much of that visit, except the way he reached down to hug the boys goodbye.

"You listen to your mama, now, ye hear."

 I heard the farewell in his voice, in his message, and intercepted his meaning.  He meant it to be his parting words to them.

I'm not sure I'll ever know why he was so angry most of his life, or why his life was so hard.  He's softer now, but still amazingly tough. But I'm humbled at the dignity he demonstrates as he faces these days at the end.   He's showing me how, even as we draw up close to the last door, and place our fingers lightly on the knob, we are ever-growing, always-changing beings, right up to the final open.   And more importantly he's shown me how a redeeming love as big as the sun can nicely fit into a great-grandson's hand, driven around on the linoleum with great joy, crashing into shoes and dinosaurs with loud explosions, and laughed on from above.