Rocker Dude

Jack totally looks like Butthead with his arm in the air, making the awesome-est headbanger face he can muster. This is his new thing.

There was, however, no music playing at the time of this photograph.

My Jack-Jack hears music in his head, just like I do. And he has a band in his mouth, just like me! I'll explain: it's like beat-boxing, but with your mouth closed. You swish your spit around, and pry your tongue away from the roof of your mouth with a force of air, all to some sort of rhythm. When I was a kid, I was amazed that I had found a band in my mouth. I wondered if anyone else had one. I only told someone about this a few years ago, but until then, it was my secret. Shhhh...I'm telling you this in confidence.

Well, I heard the tiny music of Jack's mouth-band a couple of weeks ago. He has "the gift." Not only that, but he'll rock out to anything. The solemn music on anti-depressant medication commercials is the best. He even rocks to Dan Fogelberg and Faron Young.

Yep. That's my boy!

Old Soul Jack

Jack is 10 months old, and he's a potty pro. He took to "potty learning" right away last month. There was no pressure on him at all; we just made another option available to him. We didn't start natural infant hygiene at birth because I just couldn't wrap my brain around it then, but it's worked out. I think 9 months was the perfect age for this, really. Jack loves his potty because he loves anything that makes him feel like a big boy, and we're psyched about washing fewer diapers. It's a win-win.

He looks a grown-up guy here, like he's an old soul stuck in a kid's body. What a cutie.

Pop It With Some Green!

One of my high school art teachers, Mrs. Pendegrass ("Pende," as she was called), would look at someone's landscape painting and say, "Pop it with some green!" Then she'd grab that person's brush and dip it in some paint and dab it here and there and say, "See? Pop it! Just pop it, just like that...." And then she'd pretty much finish the painting.

Well, spring has popped it in my backyard. See? Soon the kudzu will take over, and the "pop" will be more of a "blob." Kudzu would not make Pende proud. But these sweet little trees? It's almost as if she grabbed the brush from spring and demonstrated how it's really done. It's that good.

The Garden of Forking Paths

Jorge Luis Borges has a hold on me today. I'm living in one of his stories. I'm finding synchronicity in everything, and therefore, finding life everywhere I turn. Nothing is static; nothing is meaningless.

I remember taking this photograph in County Wicklow, Ireland in June 2004. I was at a crossroads in my life, wondering which way to go, and I laughed at having to make yet another choice on my soothing walk through a garden. But now I look at this picture and I am reminded that I can either stop in front of two paths and think with my head about which way to go, or I can notice a fork in the trail and fluidly feel where my spirit leads me. Decisions are only as difficult as we make them, aren't they?

Messy-Hair-Day-Sunday-Morning

The time has come when I don't mind if people see me looking icky. This is, I suppose, a big step for a gal who, not too long ago, preferred walking her dogs in a dress and make-up. (That would be me wearing the dress and make-up, not the dogs.)

Pregnancy and birth did this. I was reminded on a cosmic level that there are more important things in life than appearances. A healthy baby means much more to me than slim hips. A gentle, primal, intuitive birth means more to me than "holding it together." A smiling little guy matters more than a hot shower.

Not to say that slim hips and hot showers and the appearance of fortitude are worthless or meaningless; I am rejoicing louder than anyone that my figure is once again getting "girlish." But I've found out that people don't notice me as much I notice myself. This is a true revelation! So if I feel good, looks come second. My body is a vehicle for my spirit, and as long as my spirit is dancing, it makes no difference if I'm wearing heels or flats.

Twirl me around, life!

Happy Birthday, Beckster!

My niece's birthday was an entire week ago, and I still haven't called her. Darn, darn, darn. I even had the thought on March 13th, "I still have time to call Rebecca!" But 4pm turned into 6pm, which turned into 8pm....

Anyway, I think she got it telepathically. She is a Pisces, after all. When my mom (her grandmother) told her that I really wanted to call her but was having a rather busy month, Rebecca said, "Oh, I know. She'll call me. It's okay!" I love that kid.

So, Rebecca, this is your official shout-out. I'm so glad you were born! Otherwise, I would know nothing about how to sculpt Crayola Fusion, what Jack looks like as a Wii character, or what in the heck Hollister is. I'd be so uncool.

I Survived Meiosis and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt

I've been waiting for this moment since sixth grade.

I've held this super-awesome joke inside since I heard about cell division in science class. I turned to my best friend Stacy and said, "There should be a baby shirt that says, 'I survived meiosis and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.'" I swear, I thought it was the best joke in the history of jokes, at least until I came up with my next zinger.

Well, I had this shirt made for Stacy's daughter Sophie. After Soph outgrew it, she sent it my way. And now, I present to you, a joke twenty years in the making:
Jack's just the guy to pull it off. He's a jokester--the ultimate king of comedy. See? He has a crown and everything!

Nature Table / Wine Rack

I thought it would be years before I would be able to welcome a nature table into our home. The thing is that to a toddler, any little new tidbit of anything appears digestible, or at least mouthable. Bringing in pine cones or flowers or acorns seems wholesome in theory, but in practice? No, no. Definitely not.

Enter my newest flash or brilliance. Jack has not yet discovered the wine rack--thank God--so I figured I could add a few things to the table part of it, which has a lip to keep out prying fingers. I had already put my cast iron tea set on it, along with a plant and a candle. It seemed natural to add a few little fun things among them. Like Jack's new wool-felted nest with wool-felted baby birds and a wooden mama bird:
Or a wool-felted fairy and Jack's birthday spiral friends:
In the back, you can see a Waldorf art card with a sweet painting of children welcoming some bluebirds to the world, and you can even see our peace lily at the edge of the frame:
So, welcome to our home, spring! There's always a place for you. Even if we get more wine.

Rockin'

Here's my latest contribution to "saving handmade." I got this horsey for my Jack-Jack on Etsy. It's the perfect height for a nine-month-old, and my guy took to it right away. (Note the sneaky expression on his face.)

It's gotten to where I'm only buying his stuff on Etsy. It's great quality, and the people are so nice. And it makes my spirit giggle with glee to get little packages from all over the world. These crafty folks put their hearts into their handiwork, and those good vibes have got to flow to Jack when he plays with these goodies--I just know it.

The Humbled Hipster

John, Jack, and I took a little jaunt to Borders on West End Saturday to pick up the hot-of-the-presses Donald Barthelme biography, Hiding Man by Tracy Daugherty.

Now, this may have been totally lost on Jack, but he sure enjoyed saying hi to everyone in the store. For me and John, this was a big deal. Barthelme is one of our favorites, mostly because he stands for freedom. I was introduced to his delicious stories in May 2004, just before I went to Dublin for the Bloomsday centenary. It was a time in my life when I was exploring what personal freedom meant to me, and Barthelme fit right in. To him, a story was an object to craft and polish; it was a work of art. And it was a playground. He was, perhaps, the first true postmodernist. He turned the world on its ear with silly stories and novels that required a bit of a twisted imagination and dry sense of humor.

John studied with Barthelme's brothers, Steve and Rick, at the University of Southern Mississippi Center for Writers, and Rick directed his doctoral thesis. John read Barthelme's The Dead Father in bed the week after Jack was born. He probably influenced John more than any other writer.

This was a big day. We got to purchase a small key to this elusive man's life. And we got to imagine how we might be viewed one day, long after we've written all we're going to write, and after we've lived as heartily as we could. Slick photos in the center of a book of me pregnant with Jack, of John working feverishly at his computer with a baby on his lap. Snippets about what inspired us and how we inspired each other. An author's declarations about our contributions to life. There will be someone interested in all of us one day--how we lived, who we loved. We are biographies in motion. We are books: walking, talking, breathing books.

Did I Forget to Mention...

...that my son earned his wings on our way to Santa Fe in January? It was a pretty big deal, so I'm not sure how I could have forgotten. The pilot just moved out of the way when he saw this guy coming. Said the pilot, "Experience, schmexperience."