Happy Birthday Sophie

What does one write on this day? Fifteen years of staring into the dark pools of her eyes, wondering what she is thinking, what she sees and knowing that she very possibly knows all. Tracing the thin scar that lies one inch above her right eyebrow, the mark of a fall, long ago when the pool of blood under her head made me draw in my breath and out to her. Tracing the thin ridge of her nose, the faint freckles, the delicate flutter of her breath. The full beautiful lips that form no words but curve gently, rarely, in a smile. The soft, curly hair and tiny rounded shoulders, the downy hair on the nape of her neck, the straight back and gentle, graceful body. Her hands are like birds, long slender fingers untouched by labor or use, tapered like some sort of ethereal musician. What does one write on this day when she is fifteen years old? I love birthdays, my own included, but especially those of my sweet children. For Sophie, the birthday is something different, something more ephemeral, something to be seized, to mark, to be grateful for, another year, another year, another year.

Last week during a meditation I saw a mermaid swim before my eyes, undulating by me, her tail the greens and blues of legend, her hair a floating mass of curls but I couldn't see her face. I'm not sure how to describe the vision exactly, but I was filled with the immediacy of Sophie, filled with knowing that she had swum into my life, swum from my body and was on her way. I realized in the moment that she swam by, from the corner of my eye that I was wasting my time in sorrow and that there was only joy in her.

Happy Birthday, Sophie-girl!

Redemption

After last night's crock-pot disaster and subsequent shameful wasting of food, I pulled out all the stops today for LUNCH, and made these two pizzas. The one on the left is butternut squash, red onion, fresh thyme, pine nuts and grated cheddar cheese. The one on the right is sauteed mushrooms, fresh tomato, salami and mozzarella cheese. Both were finished and none was wasted.

I hate crock-pots

It rained almost all day yesterday, and I had two packages of defrosted chicken in the fridge that needed to be cooked. I also had three children with various schedules and no babysitter for Sophie. I knelt in the kitchen and pulled the dusty, old crock-pot out from the back of a cabinet. I had to remove stacks of newspapers that I "save," one of Federico Fellini's obituary, one from when Clinton and Gore won the election, one from the day after 9/11 and a few of Obama's victory last year. They're old and crumbly, but I love them and God forbid I should actually get the online versions. But I digress... I pulled the crockpot out and began to chop some onions, carrots and shallots and garlic for what was called "Old Fashioned Chicken and Noodles." I placed the chicken pieces over the vegetables in the pot, poured chicken stock over the contents, put the lid on and turned the thing on.

Nine hours later...

I boiled some farfalle and threw that in there with the chicken stew, some herbs and salt and pepper.

It looked terrible and I don't know why I'm using this as my Sunday post. Maybe because I threw the whole thing away, literally pushed it down the garbage disposal and ground it up, feeling sick to my stomach at the waste.

We ordered mexican food from the local mom and pop, tacos and quesadillas, guacamole and chips. I drank a Blue Moon with an orange slice, as I am wont these days.

I'm throwing the crock-pot away today because I've never liked anything that's come out of it.

Tomorrow is Sophie's birthday and I'm working on something that will hopefully be a bit more enlightening than this absolve my guilt at wasting good food post.

Listening to this

Little Fire (Feat. Emmylou Har...

Pretend I'm the Sign

No Two Zebras are Alike

Oliver, Sophie and I went to the Los Angeles Zoo this afternoon. I'm not a big zoo fan, but it was the Big O's choice as his older brother got to go to Disneyland with a friend and that was so unfair and I never get to do anything. There was no school today and feeling depleted in every sense of the word, I acquiesced.

I did enjoy the stripes, though.

And the flowers.

And here's a peek at the snow-covered mountains that surround our city.

Which is worse?

Listening to a white man in a position of power toying with the right of a woman to choose what happens to her body and dictating morality (Democratic Congressman Burt Stupak from Michigan obstructing the healthcare reform package because of federal abortion funding issues that are nonexistent)?

OR

Listening to Republican Senator and Congressmen (pick one, any one) state that the Obama administration is trying to ram down the American people's throats a government takeover of the American healthcare system?

OR

Opening another very thin envelope from Anthem Blue Cross TODAY with a notice that Sophie's insurance policy premium will be raised another 40% April the 1st (this after the 35% January 1 increase). I might add that Sophie is NOT ALLOWED on our policy (The Husband, me and the boys) and our premium was raised 40% in March.

Looking for Queen Janet

Claire ate only three spoons
of cornflakes for breakfast.
On the way to school
her shoes filled with snow.
By eleven in the morning,
math had been going on for two hours.
Lunch was Claire's least favorite --
baloney sandwiches.
At playtime Claire was the only girl
not able to do a cartwheel.
Once again the bus was late.
Claire needs a visit to the Bunny Planet.

Far beyond the moon and stars, 
Twenty light years south of Mars,
Spins the gentle Bunny Planet
And the Bunny Queen is Janet


Janet says to Claire, "Come in. 
Here's the day that should have been."


I hear my mother calling when the summer wind blows,
"Go out in the garden in your old, old clothes.
Pick me some runner beans and sugar snap peas.
Find a ripe tomato and bring it to me, please."


A ruby red tomato is hanging on the vine.
If my mother didn't want it, the tomato would be mine.
It smells of rain and steamy earth and hot, June sun.
In the whole tomato garden it's the only ripe one.
I close my eyes and breathe in its fat, red smell.
I wish that I could eat it now and never, never tell.


But I save it for my mother without another look.


I wash the beans and shell the peas
and watch my mother cook.


I hear my mother calling when the summer winds blow,
"I've made you First Tomato soup because I love you so."


Claire's big warm bus comes at last.
Out her window Claire sees the Bunny Planet
near the evening star in the snowy sky.
"It was there all along!" says Claire.


-- First Tomato by Rosemary Wells

This too shall pass

is one of my favorite phrases and the title of this fantastic video that I saw over at The Improvised Life.



I'm going to think about this wonderful, strange contraption and the blank expressions on the creators' faces when I lie in bed trying to figure out the secrets of Sophie's brain.

More on Evolving

I read this piece by Louise at Bloom and am in awe at how perfectly she washes her hands of the words "mentally retarded" and "disability."

I just HAD to post it!

Read HERE.

Spread the Word and Evolve

I

I admit to using the r-word, even jokingly, with my friends. I admit to hating its use on legal documents pertaining to my daughter, mainly because it's not true but also because of the connotation, the terrible weight of it -- and I'm NOT talking about what it literally means. I have not been an impassioned denouncer of the word retarded but am now realizing that given the discrimination throughout history and continuing today (see HERE), its use has got to go.

I would never use the words nigger, kike, mongoloid imbecile, etc. and there's NO DIFFERENCE.

I'm pledging today to end it.

Will you? Read more about the Spread the Word to End the Word campaign HERE.

We can debate endlessly about logos and about satire. But I think, strongly now, that I prefer to EVOLVE.S

Stephen Kuusisto, a poet and blogger (Planet of the Blind), also teaches disability studies at the University of Iowa. He wrote an excellent article on this subject that appeared in the Des Moines Registry yesterday. Whenever someone opens with a quote from Wallace Stevens and then proceeds to not only suggest further reading but perfectly articulate very complex ideas, well, I want to pass it on. I hope you'll read it.

The Sky From My Car Window

Highland and 3rd Street, facing west

Mantra

Breathing in, I calm myself.

Breathing out, I smile

--Thich Nhat Hanh

Over There

I'm over there today, over at LAMOMS blog. I'd love, as always your comments! Here's the beginning:

 You know the time of year -- when everyone starts hearing about where their kids are going to go to school, whether Susie will be accepted into the $30,000 private girls' school or Charlie into the charter that got 1000 applications. Whether the school Hiram is in is attending to his reading deficits or whether Sally needs two or three days worth of math tutoring. I guess if it weren't for the fact that one of my children is severely disabled and I've had to make some pretty enormous compromises regarding her education, I might have the paranoid perspective that many of my friends have. I'm also sort of grateful, actually, that I don't have near enough money to even afford these private schools such is the anxiety I see and hear spilling out.

I probably have at least one conversation every single day with someone who is worried, kvetching, complaining, bragging or something or other about their son or daughter's school. Frankly, I'm tired of it. I want to SCREAM:

It's FOURTH GRADE PEOPLE!