I think my days have compressed. We joined a gym nearby, where a friend of mine teaches yoga, and I’ve found myself going there in the evenings on a daily basis. This, in itself, is a good thing. But it cuts into my writing time. Fortunately, however, we still find time to paint.

We rode down to the lake today. There were hints that March winds were about to blow, that it was on the horizon. I brought a crinkly nylon kite and let Ford have his first go at flying solo. But his eyes were reddish, and snot dangled from his nose, quivering in the breeze. I didn’t have kleenex, so my shirt sufficed. Dogs galloped in arcs around us, hollow barks ran through the canyon. I discovered that my children have become afraid of dogs since we sent ours to grandma. Ford cried when a yellow lab pup jumped up and licked him, bumping Ford’s lip and making it bleed. Then there was bloody drool dangling in the breeze, suspended, as Chas shrieked like an alarmed chimpanzee.


Clover is everywhere. The sweet smell reminds me of baseball and bee stings, afternoons napping in the sunny infirmary with a swollen hand resting on my chest.

I came home tonight from the gym at ten o’clock, ravenous, to find leftover chicken BBQ on the dinner table. So I dropped my bags, haunched over the table (too hungry to sit down) and started inhaling a drumstick. Outside the kitchen window, the hedge whacked into the pane suddenly. I froze, staring into my reflection: I stood over my food with my hair on end, arms outstretched, and chicken in my cheek, not much differently than my dog does when Damon looks at him sideways. But I wasn’t about to run to the window for a face off, up close, to see what I was up against. Instead, I stood there, chewing the meat, guarding my kill and watching the bush sway back and forth; all I could see were the illuminated leaves beating against the glass. After a few seconds, it ceased.
I kept a blind eye on that black window, until I was convinced the animal had either left or settled comfortably in the bush to stare at me while I ate, and then I licked my greasy fingers and continued engulfing bird parts.

We’re on the cusp of Spring, you can smell it in the damp air like pheromones. Grass shoots tint the meadows, still covered with leaves. On some property near home, Chas ditched his wellies to run sockfooted down a long dirt trail, his cheeks bounced up and down as he ran and sang. He shoved his head into a hole in a tree, shouted, and plunged his foot into a burrow near the creek. Life was hidden everywhere. But closer to the lake we passed under a gossiping flock of Red-Winged Blackbirds, a throaty playful labyrinth of song in the pecan treetops. Once we were directly below them, and they noticed us listening, all talk ceased and the troupe flew away like a fluttering, carefree black veil. Chas followed them with his eyes. It was quiet like that for a few seconds, before Ford started belting out White Stripes lyrics (I still have ‘Blue Orchid’ pumping in my head). On the drive home, close to dusk, a very large Coyote jumped the fence into the chaparral. I shouted and pointed it out to the kids, almost running off the road, but when I looked back at them, both heads were buried into the sides of their carseats, asleep.

This is my vice. I remember trying to stop biting my nails when I was about eight. There was a small vial of Stops-It or No-Bite or something, which tastes bitter. It worked for a while, but long enough. Look at this! I can’t believe people see me do this. Yet, whenever I have a dry cuticle, it has to GO, and the fastest way to remove it is to….bite at it?

I’ve just set a new goal for the year. I’m NOT going to walk around looking like this.

See more real people.

The house is thick with testosterone, even when they are all sound asleep. At night, the clean scent of my lotion cuts through it like a warm knife through butter. In fact, I can barely smell a thing, it’s that subtle. But Damon will sit up in bed, half asleep, and declare, “I can’t take that smell! You don’t understand, it’s killing me.”

I’m outnumbered by men, three to one. And that’s not including the dogs, who (for the love of God) are not here right now. The boys are getting older, though, and more willful. Chas is already throwing flailing tantrums, of the head-bashing variety, when his brother takes the basketball away from him. Ford, for his part, is already a little man.

I was carrying my open laptop into the bedroom today and found him lying on my bed, watching some afterschool, non-PBS-type, commercial-interrupted cartoon show. I stood there, frozen in the doorway. And he just lay there, staring at the tv, oblivious to the screaming going on in my head. And I couldn’t help notice that his hand was, as usual, in his pants.

“Ford, this show has guns. You know how I feel about guns! I hate them. Guns and greed are the root of all evil.” Well, except testosterone, right?

“Well, Mom, you’ll just have to keep your eyes on the laptop, then, okay?”

I lay draped over him like a lead apron. I am shielding him from any lingering resentment hovering in the air around me; in the last half hour I’ve kept busy while stewing in anger. But I’m sinking deeper and turning softer, as we breathe together. Nothing else matters at the end of the day, even if neither of us can understand the other’s point of view. What matters is that we’re here in uninterrupted silence, in a heavy pile of forgiveness, on the bed together, (alone!) staring at the wall and the ceiling with relaxed faces.

I lay draped over him like a lead apron. I am shielding him from any lingering resentment hovering in the air around me; in the last half hour I’ve kept busy while stewing in anger. But I’m sinking deeper and turning softer, as we breathe together. Nothing else matters at the end of the day, even if neither of us can understand the other’s point of view. What matters is that we’re here in uninterrupted silence, in a heavy pile of forgiveness, on the bed together, (alone!) staring at the wall and the ceiling with relaxed faces.

I lay draped over him like a lead apron. I am shielding him from any lingering resentment hovering in the air around me; in the last half hour I’ve kept busy while stewing in anger. But I’m sinking deeper and turning softer, as we breathe together. Nothing else matters at the end of the day, even if neither of us can understand the other’s point of view. What matters is that we’re here in uninterrupted silence, in a heavy pile of forgiveness, on the bed together, (alone!) staring at the wall and the ceiling with relaxed faces.

It’s my time, now. I waited upstairs this morning while the workers installed floorboards. I ran errands, and babysat the boys in a toyshop while Damon tested guitars for purchase. I have read a bedtime story, explained the concept of “gold medal” to Ford while watching speedskating, and tucked him in. I never took the walk I promised myself this evening, but we spent dinner together at a table, and everybody ate at the same time. No, I take it back, Ford talked all during dinner about his new wand. still, we all sat down together at dinner. Finally, it’s time for me to breathe. It’s my time.

Chas is in bed. Every half hour he wakes tonight, which is unusual. He is still wearing his romper from earlier in the day. Strawberry stains, rubbed in by fat fingers, are now dry. Those sweet stains mingle with smudges of vanilla yogurt and margherita pizza to saturate the air around him with the smell of fried churros. He smells like a carnival on a Saturday night. I want to eat him up, maybe dip him in a warm chocolate (for added magnesium and antioxidants, of course). His fine, caramel hair tickles my nose as I try to inhale him whole. His index finger is still bruised from the morning he closed it in the bathroom door, and I ache to look at it. My skin shifts across my back in a painful way at the sight of it. My eyes rove across him in admiration: how he has succeeded to go to bed without washing, less brushing his teeth. A dirty toe looks as if he might have stepped in wood glue, then dipped it into a dusty corner somewhere (surely from the floor installation); it looks as if it’s teeming with a colony of penicillium. It’s really funny, in a totally gross sort of way.

Damon, for his part, is in the boy’s room. He is wearing the 4000-watt technical headlamp I gave him for his birthday. He is lying in bed, under the covers, reading a book. Something science fiction, I am sure, but I didn’t peek when I stopped by to give him a kiss. I’m just happy that he is enjoying himself, donning the headlamp with the “find me” blinker, in case he gets lost among the piles of disorganized toys. Not that I won’t be able to find him by his snoring, which will commence in approximately five minutes. This feature works like clockwork; his ability to fall asleep within twenty minutes after cracking a book in bed is absolutely mechanical. I envy him.

In fact, all of this is making me quite sleepy. I want to sink into something horizontal, letting my mind peacefully unfold. The icy wind shoves the juniper against the gutters, and the day exhales upon me. I slow to a pause, then start typing again, in and out of sleep. But I am forcing myself to type, showing up at the page. I am showing up for the date with my self.

Yeah yeah yeah, this is ridiculous. I’m going to go snuggle into bed with McGuyver and his novel.

Ruta Maya organic coffee. If I’m not drinking water, I’m having a latte. Stainless moka pot. Whole milk. Not that I’m always able to sip and paint; I paint or draw in 15 minute spurts throughout the day, whether I have a cup in hand or not. It’s just nice when the two activities collide.

More studios, more potions.