Another Day in Paradise

I took Oliver and Sophie to the beach in the late afternoon yesterday so that we could walk for a bit, eat dinner at our favorite beachside cafe and then watch the sunset.

The sky turned pinker and pinker as we left, but since I was driving I couldn't get a good shot. Here's one I took at a stoplight before Oliver screamed at me to not text and drive. Even though I wasn't texting and driving, he was right that I shouldn't have been so distracted.

Merry Christmas 2014

Well, if Jesus had been born in southern California, the day might have been similar to this one -- breathtakingly clear, the skies wiped clean and brilliant blue, the wind rustling through the palms so vigorously in the wee hours of the morning that I woke quite suddenly and lay in my bed and just listened, wondering what was up.

The Teenagers all slept in this morning, so I was able to take a quick photo of what Santa brought. We're a family that doesn't wrap presents, so Santa bent his will to our customs and left each teenager her and his own pile.

Everyone was happy. I had three of my favorite Instagram photos blown up and canvassed -- each one showed Henry, Sophie and Oliver doing their favorite thing. I pretended to give each one to the kids, but they are actually for me.

One of my sisters gave me this Frida mug -- when my neighbor called to say that she had hot mulled wine at her house, I walked over and filled Frida up.

Later, I insisted on some group photos outside by the poinsettia tree. Ya'll there is NO FILTER on these photos. That's how blue the sky was (above) and how red the flowers. Jesus absolutely should have been born in southern California because there might not be better winter solstice weather anywhere else. I'm so grateful to live here -- always.

Oh, here are the group photos. I won't tell you what sort of words came out of all of our mouths in the taking of these photos. Some things never change, right?

We're winding down, getting ready for our Christmas Dinner with Uncle Tony. The Husband is grilling steaks and doing some other magical things in the kitchen. I'm drinking milk punch and tending to Sophie. All is calm. All is bright.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door —
Red — is the Fire's common tint —
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs — within —
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge —

Emily Dickinson

National Sibling's Day Couldn't Come Quickly Enough

So, let's just say that today wasn't the greatest over here in the land of a moon, worn as if it had been a shell. Let's just say having minor skin surgery on one's back, done by an impossibly young and good-looking Italian dermatologist, was not fun. Let's just say that one lay there, humiliated that the surgeon had no idea, no idea at all, that the back he was digging into had once been quite beautiful and not fat at all. Let's say, too, that these vain thoughts, literally while under the knife, made one feel incredibly small and were entirely ridiculous. Let's also say that finally emptying one's bank account and paying one's property taxes wasn't all that inspirational either. Nor was parking Sophie's stroller and forgetting to put the brake on it, turning one's back and then turning around to see it roll and bump down the two steps and then fall on its side with Sophie in it right into the dirt that never grows grass under the tree. Trying to pull the stroller and Sophie up while wondering whether her arm was broken and whether one's stitches from the minor skin surgery had burst -- no lifting or pulling for three weeks and otherwise taking it easy, the nurse had said -- was, if not par for the course and fuel for fodder, further evidence of the chaotic nature of an unexpected life. The squabbling between The Brothers on the way to baseball practice prompted The Mother to state firmly with no edge of hysteria to her voice that today is not the day to fight in front of me. If you do, I might leave, and then who would take you to baseball practice? The drive to baseball practice was quiet except for the scuffed-up Girl's hums and reaching for beads that hang on the back of The Mother's head-rest. Let's just say that the rather large seizure in the grass in front of the baseball diamond that necessitated a full lie-down and concern on the part of passers-by -- no worries! The Mother reassured those who asked, We're used to it! -- prompted a sort of surrender by The Mother into the shittiness of it all.  There was dinner from a drive-through and then a drive home. Let's just say that The Mother realized it was National Sibling's Day at about 7:30 that evening and took the above photo, deciding that things really aren't so bad after all, are they?

Tips from Oliver, Part One in a Series

I took Sophie, Henry and Oliver to the nursery yesterday, to buy some potting soil for our vegetable garden. The boys climbed into the car, Henry in the front seat with me, and Oliver in the back with Sophie.

Oliver leaned over and gave Sophie a resounding kiss on the cheek.

Sophie smells weird, like lavender. She needs to smell like something different, he said.


What do you mean? I asked.


I think she needs to smell like a normal girl, like what normal girls wear. Like Daisy and Emma.


But lavender smells good!


Yeah, but it smells sort of like what a baby's clean butt should smell like. Not a teenager.


I handed him a small roll-on fragrance thingy that I had in my purse, some kind of ginger essence from Origins.

Yeah, that's good, he said, after rolling it on Sophie's neck. He leaned in to smell her and said, Yeah, that's good. She smells like a normal girl now.

Oliver and Sophie

Oliver and Sophie, 2001

We talk a lot about growth spurts here at Casa Crazy. Henry, now thirteen, has had a huge one and is one hair shy of being taller than both me and The Husband. I swear it happened overnight, and Oliver regularly exclaims and wonders when his growth spurt will happen (he's on the Swiss, short and stocky side, while Henry has the leggy, skinny body of my side of the family). Last night, Oliver and I climbed on Sophie's bed, where she lay on her side, buried under the covers, and I read aloud for about half an hour. Afterward, Oliver lay next to Sophie, up on one elbow, gazing into her face. She reached her tiny, tapered hands up to flutter over his face, and he closed his eyes and sighed. It feels so soft, he said, and he held Sophie's hand in his own, his fingers short and square, his hands still dimpled with boy-dirt under the nails. Look, I said, your hand is bigger than Sophie's, already! I knew this would please him as he's off-put by his brother's grandeur. Do you think Sophie will have a growth spurt? he asked. I told him that no, she probably wouldn't and that she probably wouldn't grow too much from here. Oliver sat up and said Why? That's weird, right? I told him that she really hadn't grown much in the last three years or so, and that I thought it had something to do with her disability. Oliver lay back down next to Sophie, his head touching hers and they looked at one another. I turned out the light and lay down myself, my arm over both of them, the light from the hallway a band across their faces, shadows on the wall.