Yep. Tonight I begin. I was delayed slightly in this, my most recent, foray into madness. But that was a temporary setback, a mere postponement. Tonight I step into my first oil painting class with a humble, fearful heart. Nevertheless I step because my friends believe in me—so much so, they’ve funded my class fee as a birthday gift.

Yesterday evening I went to the art store and bought $200 worth of oil paints and canvas, much of which was on clearance.

OMG. That’s a lot of money for a lark, a whim, a hobby!

Yep. The voices in my head are really loud about all this, and mostly they are unkind. The harpies are out in full flight, screeching about how ridiculous is it to start this. Who am I to think I might paint? They’re dive-bombing me with doubt and scornful comments. It’s too expensive. It’s impractical. I don’t have enough time to fold all the laundry or work to earn my living, so what in the world do I think I’m doing taking a painting class?

And yet, I’m going. I’m going to try this because I’ve always, always wanted to. And because if a girl cannot find a way to fulfill a dream once in a while, what’s the point?

Both art and living share this: they are a messy, dangerous process. Might as well get messy.

I’m catching up from last month! I guess life has been pretty busy, and pretty good lately.

We went camping for my birthday in May to Wright’s Beach, which is where my family always went for vacation when I was a kid. I love this beach with my whole heart.

We spent two chilly nights there in Ian’s old family tent. We wandered on the beach, collected small seashells and pebbles, flew kites, and read books. Lucas did a lot of whittling with his new pocket knife, making arrows and spears and assorted sharp and pointy items. The boys bickered a lot, and unfortunately this beach isn’t terribly safe for playing chase with the waves. There are signs posted everywhere saying how Wright’s Beach is one of the deadliest beaches in California. Funny, I don’t remember that tidbit from my childhood, and while I do remember gettting knocked about by the waves, my brother and I always survived. When the ranger came around in her truck to tell us under no circumstances should we allow the boys to touch the water, well, we decided to play by the rules. Still, we had plenty of fun and Daddy’s delicious grilled steak, plus s’mores!

The next day we packed up early and drove five minutes down the coast to Duncan’s Cove, where the beach was more sheltered and the wind wasn’t so bad. We explored and found lots of wildflowers. Lucas found a great rock to jump from onto the sand below. It was quite a drop!

Here we did let Lucas get his feet wet. Asher didn’t let the waves get anywhere near him before he began running for the dry sand.

It was cold and windy up on the bluff. The views were amazing and so were the flowers. Asher enjoyed wearing his camelbak.

We picnicked on Portuguese Beach before beginning our drive home. A beach picnic with beautiful seagulls, sandwiches, champagne, and peach pie is tops in my book!

This is one of the fun things about Bodega Bay. The Lucas Warf sign photo.

We stopped at the candy and kites store. I enjoy all the flags and spinning things. Ian says I am allowed to be an old woman with flags someday, as long as we make them ourselves.

It was a great weekend and I’m glad I got to show my children this place that’s so special to me. Even if we never go there again, it was delightful to have all those fond childhood memories come flooding back.

And after we came home, I had some fun playing with my seagull photos. Tee hee!

I love to paint. So far, I paint only wall murals and eggs and the occasional watercolor. But I have a dream …

My loves pooled resources recently to buy me a spot in an oil painting class for my birthday. I mentioned my desire to take this class a few weeks ago and, although I didn’t know I was doing it, in hindsight I realize I was saying out loud what I want—and doing so despite the considerable cost, or the impracticality of it, or all the million and one other reasons not to do it. It’s quite amazing and I am (repeatedly) blessed to find that often when I do that, someone is listening, and ultimately I somehow get what I want. I never dreamed that my darlings would do this for me and was/am totally awestruck by the thoughtfulness of the gift.

Me. Oil painting.

I have wanted to do this since I was 9. No kidding.

This week I popped over to the gallery/art studio and paid for my class. I have six evening sessions (6-9 p.m.) to use over the next four months. I have a materials list in hand, and some cash left over from my patrons to put toward the supplies I’ll need.

The painting teacher is on vacation now but will return at the end of June. So next month, I will be painting. With oils. On canvas. And if it is even half as sublime and satisfying as I’ve always imagined it to be, I will rejoice. Even if I suck.

Thank you.

Lucas’s first-ever sleepover birthday party started with an epic balloon fight.

Six 9-year-olds and a determined-to-keep-up 4-year-old is a what you might call a cacophany of boys. The dozen balloons lasted almost 8 minutes.

The theme— “No theme, Mom! Just a sleepover.” The cake— “No cake, Mom! I want a homemade apple pie.”

There were antics of all sorts. There was talk of how girls trying to kiss you is the grossest thing ever. There was plenty of belching words. There were stick fights and spy-on-the-parents games. After they inhaled the watermelon, there was a rind fight.

There were two episodes of “Mythbusters,” at the special request of the birthday boy, with extra explosions.

Lucas received marvelous gifts, like a mosaic stepping stone kit, a solar cooker, a Hex Bug, paintbrushes, LEGO, and more.

He greatly enjoyed being the star of the show for a full evening, night, and morning. The boys stayed awake talking and laughing until about midnight, before they finally all fell asleep.

After the guests left on May 1, we spent some time with just the four of us. We gave Lucas our gifts, such as a solar kit, books, a basketball, wool roving and needle-felting tools, extreme dot-to-dot and puzzle books, North American animal fact cards—just the sort of things a 9-year-old needs.

But best of all—most desired of all possible birthday gifts—was this:

And thus he spent much of the day whittling. We were all a bit worn out from the festivities of the night before and so we elected not to attend the May Day festival at Lucas’s Waldorf school. (The third grade had no part to play in the festival this year, and so we left the choice up to Lucas. He wanted to whittle.)

Later that evening, we went to Grandma’s and Papa’s house for dinner. We enjoyed tacos and salad and birthday brownies for dessert. The boys wanted to go swimming—on May Day! And although it was not exactly warm, well—it was his birthday. May Day is traditionally the “first day of summer.”

The next day, which was a day off from school, Lucas got to visit with his other grandmother and his auntie. He came home with a set of woodcarving tools and more LEGO. Bliss!

It’s two weeks later now, and I can tell Lucas is supremely happy to be 9, and is really enjoying all his gifts. He has finally (and briefly) caught up to the age of his classmates, some of whom are soon to turn 10.

May I present to you the thoughtful writing of my dear husband, Ian, on answering our son’s question about the death of Osama bin Laden. This is the first time I’ve managed to talk Ian into letting me publish his writing on Love in the Suburbs. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did and welcome him as a guest blogger.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dad, who died?”

It’s May 2, 2011, the day after your birthday. We have had an exhausting weekend celebrating your 9th. We’re eating breakfast and the radio is on. Usually I turn it off while we eat but this morning I left it on. Last night’s news is still playing out: NPR with their mix of studious research and golly-gee man-on-the-street reporting. You figured out that someone was dead, and that this was somehow a good thing, and the cognitive dissonance prompted you to ask:

“Dad, who died?”

On September 11, 2001, I was working as a computer tech for an online seller of insurance. It was a job that I wasn’t excited about. What I was excited about was that you were due to be born in May of the following year. We had only recently discovered that your mother was pregnant and we were trying to figure out what that was going to mean to our lives. I got in my car like usual, turned on the radio, the disc jockeys were talking about something that had happened in New York, a fire or some sort of accident. By the time I got to the office they were talking about an attack, possibly missiles. At the office, we watched on TV as the truth was slowly discovered. Four passenger planes had been hijacked and turned into missiles: One slammed into the side of the Pentagon, two slammed into the World Trade Center skyscrapers, and one ditched into a field in Pennsylvania. We were stunned, as we imagined the blood on the airplanes, we saw on TV people leaping to their deaths from the flaming buildings. The office closed early that day, and I was left wondering what sort of world I was bringing children into.

“Dad, who died?”

When you were about 5 years old we brought home a picture book about a fireboat. It started out describing the history of fireboats in Manhattan, but as the city developed, fireboats were retired. In the 1990s, a group of friends restored an old fireboat. “How wonderful!” we said. We identified with the group of friends who enjoyed sharing big projects together—and then we turned a page, and there were the two towers in flame and smoke again. Your mother and I burst into tears; you were mystified. It had been years, but the image of the burning towers overwhelmed us. We recalled the evil perpetrated on our country, but also how that evil had affected our country since. (The book would go on to tell the story of the friends sitting in the harbor for days, pumping water onto the site of the fires. There were many stories of courage and sacrifice that day.)

“Dad, who died?”

When I was a kid Americans did not torture, even in war time. Americans did not gather intelligence on other Americans, and we did not wage preemptive war. As the years after 9/11 unwound we saw exactly how dangerous fear could be. American fear allowed a corrupt and silly President to be manipulated by oil companies into starting a war in Iraq. American soldiers, which is a fancy way of saying, “your neighbors and friends” were risking their lives and dying simply to adjust stock values. As our leadership claimed necessity we saw hundreds of thousands of Iraqis killed, no weapons of terror, and vast amounts of American money flow to crooked contractors connected to those same leaders. This led many of us to despair that America as we knew it was over, that we would never again see a free election, we would never see an end to fear and manipulation.

“Dad, who died?”

OK, I know this is stupid, but sometimes when I see ’90s sitcoms set in New York City, like “Friends” or “Seinfeld,” and they show the skyline during a cutscene or credits, and I see those two towers, I cry.

“Dad, who died?”

The object of the terrorist is to convince the population that the State is as horrific as the terrorists say it is. If I can control your fear, I can control you. This is deep mindfuck territory, and it works. Americans gave up so much of who we were because of our fear of what this man and his followers could do. I have never been afraid of terrorism, but I have been regularly frightened by the behavior of fellow Americans. After 9/11, civil discourse and intelligent discussion were derided, and ignorance and jingoism took center stage. When President Obama was elected, the fearful went mad. It is said that a black man must be twice as good as a white man in order to be treated as an equal, and after watching the patience and humor of Barack Obama, I think that is true. People said he was “un-American.” Fools without the wit to meet the man in a substantive debate demanded proof of his citizenship. Whereas a white neighborhood organizer would be congratulated on his dedication to his community, Obama was called Hitler. It was all simply racism, which is just another word for fear.

“Dad, who died?”

Parents are the worst sort of fear mongers. You see, we have these little bits of our hearts running around in the world. We call them children, and people say, “Oh, you are such a good person to have children. I could never have children. I am far too selfish.” That’s just silly. You see, having children is a very selfish act. It is the only way that we can project ourselves into the future. Parents have a very narrow focus: Our children are really all we care about. So when someone threatens our children, our better judgment goes out the window. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that the most powerful women in the Republican party constantly point to their fears for their children: Fear is the only card they have to play.

“Dad, who died?”

According to the LA Times: “Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden was born in Saudi Arabia, in 1957, the seventeenth of the 54 children of the founder of the Bin Laden Group, a construction company. His father, Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, was a Yemeni immigrant … The elder Bin Laden was a devout Muslim, raised in the fundamentalist Wahhabi sect. He had at least eleven wives. Osama was the only child born to Alia Ghanem, a beauty from Syria who preferred Parisian fashions to the veil. As a foreigner, she did not rank high in the family pecking order. Some members of the Bin Laden clan have said her status was so lowly that she was known as “the slave” and her son as “ibn al abida” — “son of the slave.” In 1967, when Osama was about 10, his father was killed in a plane crash. His share of the inheritance reportedly was about $300 million.”

“Dad, who died?”

American students read Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s about race and justice and fear and humility. There is a small episode in the text where the father, much to the surprise of his children, shoots a rabid dog in the street. He doesn’t like to do it, and it brings him no joy; he does not celebrate the destruction of a living creature. But it must be done, a rabid dog cannot wander the street.

“Dad, who died?”

When I was 9 I asked my mother why there were bad people in the world. She told me that people aren’t bad, but that sometimes they don’t get enough love, and that leaves a hole in their heart, and they do bad things in an attempt to fill that hole up. She told me that for some people, being bad was the only way that they could ever be important.

“Dad, who died?”

“… we know that the worst images are those that were unseen to the world. The empty seat at the dinner table. Children who were forced to grow up without their mother or their father. Parents who would never know the feeling of their child’s embrace. Nearly 3,000 citizens taken from us, leaving a gaping hole in our hearts.”

“Dad, who died?”

Today I am looking at your mother over the breakfast plates. How do I answer this question? I start and stop a couple of times. A monster, a rabid dog, a “bad-guy,” a man who, through his cunning and violence, showed us the worst of ourselves. A terrorist, not simply someone who uses violence, but uses violence so that the victims of that violence will become monsters. Here was a man who spent his life developing a worldwide network of hate, just to throw it away on one simple murderous act that ripped the conscience and self-respect out of our nation.

“Dad, who died?”

Well son, no one to worry about. He’s dead and buried in the sea; and it is my fervent hope that as we forget his name, we will remember who we are.

I’ve been meaning to share this picture book for weeks now. The Stars Will Still Shine  is by Cynthia Rylant, a powerhouse of a children’s author. Pretty much everything she writes turns to gold and her credentials are impressive, to say the least. This simple book reminds us that even as things change, they still stay the same, a reassuring message that even I need to hear once in a while.

Tiphanie Beeke is the illustrator and I think her watercolor paintings are sublime, full of a dreamy sweetness and plenty of lush color.

The words and images are simple. The good things in life are celebrated in this book—ice cream, cuddly pets, swinging on the swing.

Family gathered around a table, playing with friends, flying kites, birds flying in the sky, seasons changing—these are the essential experiences of children everywhere. Any child, from baby to first grader, will easily relate. Furthermore, I would fully recommend this book for any child who is feeling stressed, grieving, or going through a difficult transition.

“The sky will still be there, the stars will still shine …

birds will fly over us, church bells will chime.”

Happy Valentine’s Day from our family to yours!

May you be filled with the love that surrounds you, take it into yourself, and let it inspire you.

May you love deeply and truly, with honesty, courage, and compassion.

May you enjoy life, take big bites, and savor small pleasures and everyday delights.

May you see and appreciate the beauty in the world and in people everywhere.

May you cultivate your creativity and capacity to love, for whomever you love, every day.

Blessed be!

“Not one day in anyone’s life is an uneventful day, no day without profound meaning, no matter how dull and boring it might seem, no matter whether you are a seamstress or a queen, a shoeshine boy, or a movie star, a renowned philosopher or a Down’s-syndrome child. Because in every day of your life, there are opportunities to perform little kindnesses for others, both by conscious acts of will and unconscious example. Each smallest act of kindness—even just words of hope when they are needed, the remembrance of a birthday, a compliment that engenders a smile—reverberates across great distances and spans of time, affecting lives unknown to the one whose generous spirit was the source of this good echo, because kindness is passed on and grows each time it’s passed, until a simple courtesy becomes an act of selfless courage years later and far away. Likewise, each small meanness, each thoughtless expression of hatred, each envious and bitter act, regardless of how petty, can inspire others, and is therefore the seed that ultimately produces evil fruit, poisoning people whom you have never met and never will. All human lives are so profoundly and intricately entwined—those dead, those living, those generations yet to come—that the fate of all is the fate of each, and the hope of humanity rests in every heart and in every pair of hands. Therefore, after every failure, we are obliged to strive again for success, and when faced with the end of one thing, we must build something new and better in the ashes, just as from pain and grief, we must weave hope, for each of us is a thread critical to the strength—to the very survival of the human tapestry. Every hour in every life contains such often-unrecognized potential to affect the world that the great days and thrilling possibilities are combined always in this momentous day.” —Dean Koontz (From the Corner of His Eye)

All that birthday party hullabaloo I wrote about happened the day before Asher’s real birthday. So on Monday, the day he really turned 4, we celebrated some more, in small ways with just the four of us. It was easy, peaceful, and special.

In the morning, Asher’s place at the table was set out with what I’ve come to think of as the birthday place mat. His birthday crown was there waiting for him (I made it last year). And I set out a big bronze bell. He was delighted when I said, “Today is your birthday! You get to ring the bell.” Asher rung in his fifth year.

The bulk of the day was normal. He went to preschool, Lucas to school. We worked. But in the evening we had a birthday dinner; Daddy cooked him sausages, as he requested. Of course there was a little more dragon cake to be had for dessert.

We used the birthday cake candles to light up the Scandinavian “party chimes.” Ian and I have had these for years, but we ran out of the 1/2 inch diameter candles and haven’t set it up for a long time. Birthday candles worked just fine, and I thought it was perfect: 4 candles, 4 years old.

There was a sweet, spontaneous hug as Lucas read the birthday message he wrote for Asher.

Finally, we gave Asher his birthday gifts from us. We believe in letting Lucas regift his old toys that he doesn’t want or play with to Asher when the time is right and Asher’s ready for them. Lucas is always very pleased to do this. This year, Lucas gave Asher some felt story boards. These were a big hit and we all played with them awhile before we got to any other presents.

Two books (The Three Snow Bears by Jan Brett and The Paper Princess Flies Again (with Her Dog) by Elisa Kleven), a rainbow bowl and scoop, four jewels, a piggy bank, a wooden car, and wooden people and animals that Ian and I made for him.

When it’s time to celebrate, our family does it right!

It’s been so sweet, this little Christmas bubble. I want to hibernate here for a good long while. My sons and my husband are at home all this week, too, so we have lots of good family time ahead.

Our Christmas was wonderful. We’re always very busy right up to the end of Christmas Day, visiting with family. But we have carved out a few very happy hours at home on Christmas morning and they are most precious!

May he always rejoice at the sight of a new book! Santa brought Dragonology for Lucas.

Asher was most impressed with the gold-wrapped chocolate coins. Santa brought him a dragon book, Tell Me a Dragon, and a stuffed seal backpack.

Lucas’s other Santa gift was Fuzzoodles (as seen on TV!) : They’re like chenille pipe cleaners with really long fuzz. They come with Mr. Potato Head-style eyes, mouths, noses, feet, etc., and can be used again and again to make silly creatures. So far I’m pretty happy with these, especially since both of my boys are able and happy to play with them.

More scenes from Christmas morning (my, it seemed dark!): A handwork basket for Lucas, complete with crochet hook and assorted yarns including some handspun ones (from Syrendell). New books like How to Train Your Dragon, the Eight Year Old Legend Book, and number 1 in the Nathaniel Fludd Beastologist series. (I sure hope he ends up liking sci-fi and fantasy as much as we do.) Playing with the gnomes we made.

Ian and I lovingly crafted a number of wooden toys and a pretend-play costume. Here is Asher’s new wooden dragon, designed and crafted by me and Ian. Painting this was so much fun! I used a watered-down wash of acrylic paint and sealed it with a beeswax polish. It smells wonderful, as do the rainbow wooden gnomes we made.

Here is a “remote control” airplane that Ian made for Asher. There’s a handle on the end of the stick that acts like a joystick, tilting the wings as it flies. Ian made stilts for Lucas, too!

We also visited with family on both sides Christmas Day and everyone seems to be doing great! Even RoRo was dressed up and looking happy when we saw her at my parents’ house. I couldn’t begin to enumerate all the amazing gifts we received and I’m feeling extremely grateful and also overwhelmed by it all. Certainly presents do not make the holiday, but I admit I am awestruck at the generosity we are paid. We appreciate this so much. I don’t know where we are going to put it all!

We were proud to give a number of homemade gifts this year, including poplar cutting boards, nature table decorations, herbal glycerin soaps, photo books, and one wacky googly-eye jar. Plus a small assortment of books. Honestly, it wouldn’t be Christmas without books.

Our home filled up Christmas night with our beautiful, talented, magical, loving friends. Thank you, my darlings, for filling our home with warmth, love, and laughter. Thank you for spending your Christmas with us. You inspire and fortify us.

And then … the long day ended in the wee wee hours.

In the morning, our time to relax came. A CitiBlocks tall ship, indoor hovercraft-spaceship-thingy, coffee and reading a biography of Cleopatra, trying out Lucas’s homemade stilts, attempting to skateboard for the first time, looking at pictures, a Da Vinci picture book, wearing the wool sweater my mother knitted for me, a bite of Belgian chocolate, roasted root vegetables, popcorn and The Princess Bride, pajamas all day, crystal growing kit, and snickerdoodles = Best. Boxing. Day. Ever.