I kicked both of my kids out of the house today. This should be normal for a Wednesday morning, but they’ve been taking turns being sick lately and staying home way more than I like. In the last several weeks we have had colds, lingering coughs, pinkeye in two eyes, fevers, and two ear infections. And I am currently coping with some kind of virus myself. I am tired of them feeling rotten and taking it out on me and Ian. I am tired of forcing assorted medicines into them, braving the scratching, kicking, and screams to do it. (To be fair, I’m only describing Asher here. Lucas takes his medicine like a brave little soldier.) I am tired of trying to entertain them when I have deadlines shrieking in my ears like an air-raid siren and a fervent wish to lie quietly in bed alone and die.

I feel I have been the very picture of Patient Motherhood—most of the time. But now that they’re gone for a few hours, good riddance!

The leprechauns visited last night, just like we knew they would. Lucas had made them a lovely green house and Daddy made a beautiful rainbow walkway for them—it’s glass with gold glitter glue for mortar. We set out little dishes of apples, honey, and a shamrock cookie last night, right before bedtime.

This morning, we found green shamrocks and gold dust everywhere! I guess they liked our little offerings because Lucas and Asher each got an Irish blessing as a gift—little ceramic plaques with blessings to hang on their walls.

"May your pockets be heavy
and your heart light,
May good luck pursue you
each morning and night."

"May good luck be with you
wherever you go
and your blessings outnumber
the shamrocks that grow."

The little guys decorated our breakfast table with gold and shamrocks, which was very pretty. But the tricky cobblers also left tiny green footprints all over my nice white tablecloth! I suspect we got off easy, though. I hear they can do really nasty things if you aren’t nice to them!

Now we have a whole lot of gold dust to sweep up and put in a jar for safekeeping till we need it.

Blessings on you and yours, whether you’re Irish or not!

"Worry is a misuse of imagination." —Dan Zadra

Last night we attended the Sacramento Waldorf School annual fund-raising auction. The theme this year was Once Upon a Time, and I was surprised at how many attendees wore costumes. (Note to self for next year!) My parents were supposed to go, too, but they ended up being double-booked, so they gave us their tickets and we were able to invite Ian’s sister and her boyfriend, Matt. Lord knows why they wanted to go, but they did, and they even seemed to have a good time.

The various items on auction were wonderful. Of course there were plenty of business donations, such as family portraits, laser hair removal, wine tasting tours. There were many luxury items like 7-night stays in Mexico and 3-night stays in Vegas and a week in a luxury resort in the Dominican Republic up for auction. These brought in lots of dollars for the school. Many other items were handcrafted by parents, members of the community, and even students of the school. Each class creates a group project for the auction and some of these are truly spectacular. The eighth grade class created beautiful black and white etched tiles that portrayed various wild animals. These were mounted in grids and were unique and striking works of art (I wanted to win one of these). The third grade needle-felted two large wall hangings with woodland and farm scenes, complete with sunny skies and vegetable patches and animals.

The star of the show, however, was the first-grade project: a gorgeous natural (pine?) wood bench inlaid with ceramic tiles decorated by the first graders. Each child got to paint his or her tile. The bench was golden, smooth and sturdy, and very large—big enough for four or so adults to sit on at one time. Lucas’s tile had math on it!

12 = 6 + 6
12 = 8 + 4

Although many people bid on it at first, it soon came down to two first-grade fathers who really wanted that bench! They bid and bid and bid. The crowd became very animated and excited as the dollar amount went up. $2,000. $3,000. $5,500! The winning bid was $7,900! It was truly shocking and wonderful. Everyone in the room went wild. Then, the first-grade father who had crafted the bench (not one of the warring bidders) stepped up and announced he was willing to make another bench. The auctioneer promptly railroaded the loser into matching the final bid of $7,900 to get his own bench! So, it seems there will be two such gorgeous objects in the world, and the first graders each have another tile to paint. The school gets $15,800 out of the deal. And I suppose two well-off daddies get treasures and big ol’ tax write-offs. Win win win.

Ian and I didn’t end up winning anything, although we did bid on several smallish items. We did contribute $250 to the library fund, which raised over $33,000 last night. The funds will be used to buy new books, refurbish the room and furnishings, and purchase computers. It is very easy to contribute to improving a library fund, I found.

So, all told, we’re down about $476, with tickets, drinks, a couple of chance games, and our library contribution. And although times are tight and we sometimes worry about cash-out versus cash-in, it feels like it was a successful evening all the way around.

Much thanks to the B family for watching our kids so we could go out, see our friends, and watch the school rake in the cash! We love you!

EDIT: Oh, I forgot to mention, my book and gnomes and fairy donation netted the school $45.

I am more than ready for Ian to come home now. I don’t like being without my best friend, especially when I’m feeling inadequate to the tasks before me. He is my touchstone, my haven, my serenity.

I can’t.
I don’t know how.
I’m scared.
I’ve never even seen this before.
It’s too hard.
I’m not clever enough.
There’s not enough time.
I’m going to fail.
I’m a fake.

This time last year I had NOTHING. NADA. NO WORK. At. All.
Now I have offers flowing in and I can’t possible do it all. I’m turning stuff down. Damn it!

Yesterday afternoon I went to the funeral of my friend’s father. This friend and I haven’t been close since college, but we were close between seventh grade and our second year at UCSB and I’ll always care for him. I’m very sad for him and his family: mom, brother, my friend, his wife, and their four children. The youngest child is young enough that he probably won’t remember his grandfather much. The oldest child is probably old enough to sorely miss him now that he’s gone.

I have a few memories of this man, mostly from the earliest days of my friendship with his son. He was jovial, friendly, kind, and welcoming. He was involved—a loving and supportive father. He did great projects with my friend, the most exciting of which to us teenagers was that he helped his son rebuild a beautiful white ’67 Mustang (maybe I have that year wrong). Mr. K enjoyed his sons’ friends and liked having them around. He liked to engage us in conversation.

Yesterday, I watched tearfully as these kind people went through the rituals: music from Mr. K’s home island of Maui, remembrances from family, friends, and colleagues, his biography tearfully read by my friend, and a photo slide show showing Mr. K in all the intimate, heartfelt moments of his life. You can imagine: Mr. K growing up, Mr. K getting married, Mr. K holding his two babies, Mr. K taking his sons fishing, Mr. K holding his four grandbabies.

Two things struck me. Mr. K as a young man looked almost exactly like my friend did and does. The two men share a name, too, so the parallels in features, personality, and biographies were perhaps even more arresting.

The other thing took me completely by surprise, however. When five of my male high school friends stood up to act as pallbearers, I sucked in my breath and the tears came on hard. Something about seeing these familiar faces—older, a little rounder, topped with some gray hairs tucked in among the brunet ones—these friends I knew well a long time ago, now dressed in their dark suits, dress shoes, and white gloves—it pierced my heart. These men, who used to be carefree boys, were now doing the somber and sad honor of bearing the body of their buddy’s dad to its resting place. It was a generational moment. It was a marker.

I feel so honored to have been there. I’m grateful that my old friends thought to invite me so that I could share in this intimate, painful moment with them. I’m glad to have seen these people again, to have talked with them, hugged them, cried with them. It was raw and real.

And it did what it was meant to do: It made me appreciative of all the raw and wonderful LIFE raging and surging and flowing around me.

My dear father would like the world and the Interwaves to know that Asher also now says "grandma," which is something my long-suffering, patient, saint of a  mother has waited a long time to hear, for she is too dignified to have chosen for herself an easy-for-toddlers-to-say nickname, and thus is the last grandparent Asher has called by name. Last, but not least.

Thank you, Interwaves. We now return to your regularly scheduled programs.

I have landed a new computer book publisher client. They’re big. I have accepted my first job. It looks boring as HELL, but I successfully negotiated a higher per-page rate than what they offered me. I expect it to be a struggle. Doing the job might kill me, but at least I’ll earn a chunk of money. I am happy to have one more client egg in my basket. The couple that were in there were looking mighty lonely and small.