I

This morning, Asher and I counted ten snails in a three-foot by three-foot area. Fortunately, they were in a neighbor’s yard and not mine. As we walked to school, we found shapes all over! Circles and rectangles and triangles and squares and even half circles. We found them in pavement, in lawns, on houses, on mailboxes. Two water department access openings in one lawn made two eyes and another circle was the nose, Asher noticed. We saw a brown squirrel hop up a telephone pole, using his claws to grip—hop, hop, hop—like a lumberjack with spiked shoes and a belt, and then he sat on the top of the pole. He booted a bird off this tall perch. Asher said, “Silly skwool!” We also worked on the concepts of near and far. As we get nearer to school each day he says, “We’re nearer, Mom. We’re getting nearer.” Counting cars went like this: one, two, three, four, eight, sixteen. (Sometimes it goes in the traditional order you would expect.) We made Important Observations. For example, one neighbor has a flowerbed with flowers of every color of the rainbow—even blue! Asher observed, “That tree is like a man. Why’s he all tall and fuzzy like that?” My hypothesis: “Because he’s a tree?”

II

After school, Asher begged to have a snack and a “couple minutes out of the bed.” That’s his delaying nap tactic. Fine with me. I know that if I try to put him down too soon after coming home, he’ll fake it. He’ll go through all the motions of going to nap, listening to three or four stories and snuggling close with his hand down my shirt, and then he’ll bolt the minute the last story is done. So today, we sat in the window seat and watched as the weird thunderstorm pelted the garden with rain, blew the trees about, and pounded on my flowers. Asher asked for some celery with peanut butter. But we were out of celery, so I gave him carrot and some peanut butter. He’s 3 and he isn’t set in traditional food pairings. And with rain pouring down, what else was there to do but pull out the camera?

III

Dinner was freezer pot sticker dumplings and organic broccoli—because sometimes you don’t get to the store for, well, too many days in a row. While we ate, Lucas and Daddy did math. We practiced our 12s times tables, the last set that Lucas has to recite to get the final star on his math chart. The after-dinner discos of the last few nights have been brought to us by They Might Be Giants and Schoolhouse Rock. My favorite? “Conjunction Junction,” which we heard tonight. Lucas wanted “Lolly, Lolly, Lolly Get Your Adverbs Here.” Ian’s partial to the patriotic songs, but then he’s weird. He played David Bowie (of course) singing the Door’s “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar).” Asher’s question: “Why those creepy people singing, Dada?” Somehow the subject leaped from David Bowie to the film “Labyrinth.” Which Lucas has never seen. Nevertheless, he immediately registered his deep hatred of muppets. I might finally have hit on the key concept, might just have pulled out the lynchpin in the whole muppet phobia. “Lucas, you want to someday see ‘Star Wars,’ right?” He emphatically nodded yes. “Dude! It’s full of muppets! YODA is a MUPPET. Muppets are cool.” We’ll let him process that and see what happens.

You may be bored with these spring pictures posts but I’m not. I seem to be endlessly fascinated with small things lately; they are unbelievably intricate if you look closely.

This blackberry maiden is being visited by her bee paramour, who is all up in her business.

I like the tangle and riot of color that makes up wild places.

Maypole top and blue sky.

This is redwood sorrel on the forest floor at Muir Woods. When the sun shines too brightly on this shade-loving plant, it folds its leaves down to minimize the exposure.

I’ve never really gardened from seed before. This spring Lucas and I put a variety of seeds directly in the ground or in pots. So far we seem to be having good luck with the corn, pumpkins, chard, cucumber, nasturtiums, morning glories, and four o’clocks. It’s kind of a miracle when the little seedling emerges from the earth! If they thrive it will be another miracle.

Blue is rather rare among plants. We found this wildflower at Indian Grinding Rock in April.

Red seeds soar above the Japanese maple in my backyard. To me they look like birds in flight.

Today is my birthday. I’m 38 today, although last year my husband advertised my birthday as my 25th, so maybe this is my 26th? I can live with either, really.

During my 26th year, I was married to the man of my dreams, building life-long friendships, living a mostly carefree, earnest life, and working hard to make it in the world. It was a good year full of good times and good goals. We were building careers. We were saving all the money we could to buy a home together. We were talking about having children.

Yesterday as I was walking home after having dropped Asher off at his preschool, I had a few minutes to reflect on my life. It’s easier to think about such things when the ambient sounds are birdsong instead of little-boy laser-battle sound effects.

Wow. I am really fortunate and REALLY happy!

I don’t always feel happy. Small and big things get me down. I worry. I have anxiety and frustrations and limits that I strain against very often. Sometimes this coat of motherhood that I put on eight years ago feels itchy and too tight in places. Sometimes I get hot under the collar. These feelings I experience are all true, valid, and real.

But what a life we have made for ourselves! For instance, I have time to walk my 3-year-old to school in the morning. I can pick my 8-year-old up from school in the afternoon. I have the freedom to accept the work I want, and most of the time I can turn down the work I don’t want. I haven’t sat in a cubicle for six years. When my young son isn’t with me, he is with his father, a grandmother, or our dear friends of twenty years. Lucas goes to an amazing school, where he is learning every day. I have hobbies now that I never dreamed I’d have, and a garden full of green, growing friends. I’m learning to make things with my hands. I’m developing new interests and skills all the time. Our children are healthy, smart, and vital. We enjoy our family time together. I have talented, loving, patient friends. I’m profoundly in love with my husband and he with me.

It’s a rich and vibrant life and I’m so grateful. I think 38 is just fine.

Nana (my great aunt) turned 97 yesterday. She is so sweet and strong and easygoing. We gathered at a Chinese restaurant last night to celebrate her birthday. Unfortunately, Ian and Lucas couldn’t be with us because of Lucas’s piano lesson. He had a good lesson and then got some special Daddy Time instead.

Asher came along with me and was thrilled to see Grandma Syd and Papa, and to eat at a “ranstrant,” which is something he dearly loves.

My two cousins and aunt and uncle were there, too. They have the not-small challenge of caring for 6-month-old twins at the moment. Long story. It’s temporary. Never mind.

My point here is to tell how Asher reacted to these babies. He pretended not to even see them. He didn’t wish to acknowledge that there might be OTHER babies in the world besides him. Wouldn’t talk to them or play at all. And oh, when I held them!

“Put it back. Mom, put it back.”

“This is Girl Baby. Isn’t she small?”

“Give it back.”

“You used to be this small and I held you all the time.”

“Mom. Put it down.”

“Don’t you like babies?”

“No. I don’t.”

When I eventually handed this little person back to my aunt, Asher immediately climbed into my lap and thrust his hand down my shirt. “My mama! Mom, I love you.” My father and mother guffawed. My grandmother scowled. Nana reread her birthday cards.

No amount of flattery (“You’re so much bigger than them! You’re the big kid here!”) would convince Asher to care a bit about these babies. He’s more than happy to talk about his own exploits, however, or to charm you with stories of his imaginary friends. Such is 3.

How blessed I am to sit at a table and share a meal with family as young as 3 and as old as 97! My youngest cousin is now 18! How amazing to see a 6-month-old chunk of a baby boy (with an unfortunate nickname, thanks to my uncle) next to Nana, with her silver hair, tentative smile, and age spots.

The same day I noticed all those orange Chinese fringe flower leaves in my backyard and made the orange leaf “flower,” I also realized that the photinia leaves scattered on the ground were quite colorful. It was surprising. It’s spring, after all, and one expects leaves to be green, or maybe red like the new growth on this plant. When the photinia leaves lie haphazardly where they fall, it’s hard to notice their color variants. Gathering some together revealed almost a rainbow. My gratitude goes out to the land artists who made me realize that leaves, even from the same plant, are not all one color.

Seeing—really seeing—is something that comes naturally to some. For others it requires some discipline. We often interact with our surroundings using a kind of visual shorthand, taking in only the most general details as we move through space. Seeing is something I’m working on because really seeing sometimes leads to finding. Discovery gives one quite a marvelous feeling, don’t you think? Over time, I’ve come to understand that discovery is very often a simple matter of tilting your head to the side, brushing off the debris, and revealing what was there all along. To my way of thinking, this is proof that miracles are all around us—and within.

Inspired by SouleMama {this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

I don’t wander very far from home, most days, and yet I always find something that inspires me and fills me with wonder. I’m grateful for all the beauty that I’ve soaked in this spring. I’m trying to use it to stoke my own internal creativity and patience.

Graceful catkins decorate this tree, which is the last one to leaf out in my backyard. I wish I knew what it is.

I forget whether this is a “Sterling Silver” or “Blue Girl” rose, but man, it smells sweet! It’s silly that I don’t remember, since I placed it there myself!

Wildflowers we found at Sacramento Waldorf School farm, when Ian, Asher, and I went looking for Lucas.

A rainbow of wheelbarrows at the SWS farm. They just looked so useful and beautiful at the same time.

Mint returning in my food garden plot, next to my parsley. I was told I’d regret planting mint directly in the ground instead of in a pot, but the truth is I am happy to see it coming up. Lucas frequently goes nibbling his way through the garden plot and enjoys making all sorts of mint soups and drinks.

I

It starts with a bed-a-bye snuggle, sometime before the morning music …

somehow, there we all are.

Four abed, snuggled under, breathing.

Daddy’s the bravest. He rises before the rest.

Then mama feels guilty, smells coffee brewing, and slowly emerges from the nest.

Big boy bounces up, right up!

Mama and big boy go to his room to pull out clothes for today’s many adventures.

“But I’m not ready!” he complains.

(Mama doesn’t blame him. She’s not ready either.)

So they sit together on the green carpet. Perhaps a cuddle?

Arms enfold ten wiggly elbows, ten knocking knees.

“Either this lap used to be bigger, or you used to be smaller.”

(Giggle)

And there she is, just an arm’s length away,

Emily Mouse, doing her “evening” chores, having a before-bed drink

of water from the upside-down blue bottle.

Gently, Mama says, “Maybe Emily misses you,” thinking, it has been a good long while

since you held your mousie friend.

OK. He reaches for her, cups her gently in two astonishingly large hands

lined and crackled with dirt,

graced with broken nails

and calluses—

curious hands

that move a bit too fast.

White mouse whiskers, sniffing, twitching.

“Wow,” mama says. “We have had Emily for a whole year.”

“Yep.” White mouse moves over dingy T-shirt,

is corralled back into workaday hands.

To herself, Gently now … careful …

“How long do mice live?” Mama wonders cautiously.

“Two years, or a little more.”

Hmmm …

Emily’s fur is stroked, ears scratched by one nubby index finger.

Even. More. Gently …

“What do you think that means?”

…

Blue eyes flash, then seek refuge in the green carpet.

She will die someday. Sometime.

“Maybe soon.”

“Let’s give her lots of love until then, OK?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“And lots of petting. And kitchen scraps!”

“Yeah! I wonder if we gave her a whole sweet pepper, would she eat a hole and crawl inside it?”

“I don’t know. Let’s give her one and see.”

Eggs are ready. “Time for breakfast,” says the Daddy.

Littlest boy sleeps on …

…

II

Lucas and Grandma leave.

Existential dilemma faced and dressing for a rainy school day accomplished!

Phew!

Mama sips coffee

until …

“MAMA!”

Sleepy one emerges into a quiet house.

“My jammies are wet. I want a kiwi.”

Never before. “A kiwi? Really?”

“Yes.”

Well, then. Diaper change and then Mama goes looking …

Hallelujah! A kiwi. One.

“I have to peel the fuzzy brown skin off.”

“And then I eat it up.”

It vanishes before Mama’s eyes. Three gulps tops.

Then the cold eggs follow.

Mama sits by his side.

“I’m ready for some holding now,” he says with certain faith, and climbs over.

A small egg fills her lap.

“I’m a baby bird in my egg.”

Ah. “And I’m the nest?”

“Yes. And the Mama Bird.”

Pecking. Peck. Peck.

“I’m pecking!

“I’m hatching! Hatch!”

“Hello, Baby Bird! Welcome.”

“You’re my Mama Bird?!”

“Mmmm-hmm …”

“I hatch again!”

(Repeat)

“Are you ready to fly, baby bird?”

“Yes!”

“Let’s put on your red rain feathers.”

“Hurry, Mama Bird! Let’s fly!”

All the way to preschool.

My Mother’s Day weekend was delightful! It was full of flowers, yummy food, a pedicure, and art. My family lavished attention on me and we were able to do things I really enjoy.

Like take a trip to Capital Nursery to buy roses for me and Mother’s Day presents for my mom and Ian’s mom.

Of course, I had to drool over the selection of clematis vines. Must have one soon, but how do I choose?

Here is one of the roses we came home with; it’s called “Daybreak.” I’ve really been wanting an apricot rose! I got three other new roses: a pink one called “Passionate Kisses,” a second “Hot Cocoa,” and a violet rose called “Wile Blue Yonder.”  We bought my mother a yellow rose called “Monkey Business” and bought Ian’s mom a lovely hanging fuschia with pink and red flowers for her shady patio. Fuschia flowers always make me think of little ballerinas.

Then my sweet hubby planted my roses for me, after I picked out where they should go. Poor Ian! He used to think he’d never have a yard so he’d never have to do yard work. Then he met me.

Asher practiced some new skills, like climbing up the slide. He mentioned something about one of the other boys at preschool doing it…. Lucas played with his new tennis racket and fetched mishit balls from the neighbor’s yard. We weeded and planted vinca and red and pink iceplant in the troublesome spot in our front yard flowerbed in the hopes that it will hug into the little hillside and make it prettier.

We also did a fun art project that I’ll write about later.

Raindrops fell just as we were finishing up the gardening so we all went for a dip in the hot tub in the rain. It might have been peaceful and romantic if not for all the water monkeys splashing around! Ian painted my toes for me while I read a magazine and drank a cocktail. Bliss! Then we went visiting, to deliver our Mother’s Day gifts to our moms.

So you see how well I am treated, how well I am mothered?

To all the people in my life who have mothered me, inspired me, challenged me, picked me up after I failed, taught me to take good care of myself and others, who modeled self-worth, strength, and courage, who are dedicated to their own ideals and pursuits of happiness, health, and making the world a better place, who have taken care of those I love—I honor you and THANK YOU. Mothering is a calling, a practice, a crucible, and a responsibility, and we all do it—female or male, with children of our bodies or without. It’s an expression of our humanity.

I hope your Mother’s Day was as lovely as mine!

Inspired by SouleMama {this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.