This could very well be both the happiest time of my life and the hardest. Mothering both boys is a balancing act that I never seem to master with each day. There are always frayed edges or undone parts, sometimes it feels a little like I’m managing to walk across an invisible tightrope with the baby in my arms, that’s how fragile my grip feels. But as I stared into the lake today, beyond the bubbling enthusiasm of the pool, Chas crawled before my eyes like a gorilla in pursuit of a transparent blue beach ball with white polka dots. When he had finished chasing the ball across the concrete, he hoisted himself onto his feet and began to clap and smile. Evidence that my job is, despite the aching heart, pretty precious. I mean, he could learn to do these things on his own, I know this, but the job of being there to see it all–how fortunate I am to always be witness to these little miracles.

This could very well be both the happiest time of my life and the hardest. Mothering both boys is a balancing act that I never seem to master with each day. There are always frayed edges or undone parts, sometimes it feels a little like I’m managing to walk across an invisible tightrope with the baby in my arms, that’s how fragile my grip feels. But as I stared into the lake today, beyond the bubbling enthusiasm of the pool, Chas crawled before my eyes like a gorilla in pursuit of a transparent blue beach ball with white polka dots. When he had finished chasing the ball across the concrete, he hoisted himself onto his feet and began to clap and smile. Evidence that my job is, despite the aching heart, pretty precious. I mean, he could learn to do these things on his own, I know this, but the job of being there to see it all–how fortunate I am to always be witness to these little miracles.

This could very well be both the happiest time of my life and the hardest. Mothering both boys is a balancing act that I never seem to master with each day. There are always frayed edges or undone parts, sometimes it feels a little like I’m managing to walk across an invisible tightrope with the baby in my arms, that’s how fragile my grip feels. But as I stared into the lake today, beyond the bubbling enthusiasm of the pool, Chas crawled before my eyes like a gorilla in pursuit of a transparent blue beach ball with white polka dots. When he had finished chasing the ball across the concrete, he hoisted himself onto his feet and began to clap and smile. Evidence that my job is, despite the aching heart, pretty precious. I mean, he could learn to do these things on his own, I know this, but the job of being there to see it all–how fortunate I am to always be witness to these little miracles.

I’m brainstorming party ideas for Ford’s upcoming Fourth Birthday, drawing purple and black swirls and doodles on one page within my brain, in rhyme with a Harry Potter theme; on yet another page I’m filling in retro squares and dots in a patchwork quilt of ideas for Plan B: Robot Theme. As we have sailed through Year Three, I’ve been amazed with Ford’s cognitive leaps, his eagerness try new things and to help solve problems. For every emotional breakdown he’s had to witness, Ford has tried to solve my dilemma by scouring our drought-ridden backyard for flowers; for every asshole on the road who has cut me off, he has volunteered to go kill them for me; for every store that has run out of strawberries he has decided to boycott. I would have to say that, while Year Three has challenged my patience with the advent of negative quirks, it has also shown time and time again that Ford has not only wanted more and more to sympathize with us in times of distress but that he has also felt more equipped to help us feel better.

The June heat in Austin makes everyone cranky midday.

Part of Texas’ charm lies, to some degree, in its insanely diverse and bizarre bug population. I suppose this statement is purely subjective; I know an equal number of folks who think this fact is amusing and of people who think this fact is a nuisance. But it’s not a question of “half-empty” or “half-full,” but a matter of survival. Because when you pass things each day like, say, rat-sized tarantula wasps dragging impaled tarantulas across the road (and turning their heads to INSPECT you as you cross paths), it’s all about how you can handle the situation:

You could run, for instance, but this might make you attractive to such an aggressive predatory insect. This might also attract all the wandering ankle-biting neighborhood Cujos.

Or you could stand there, frozen like a deer, and hope that you might blend into the asphalt and surrounding trees. But the problem with that is the wasp might decide to fly over and hang out on your shoulder with its paralyzed tarantuala buddy before it decides to lay its EGGS in the abdomen of the totally doomed arachnid.

Don’t forget that you could also be hit by a truck rounding the corner while you stand there staring at the natural beauty.

Better yet, you could raise an eyebrow and whip out your Super Soaker (that you carry in the baby jogger when out for neighborhood walks, you know, for those roaming Cujos). But wouldn’t THAT just stir things up?

YEE HAW!

I’ve been browsing some wonderful little paintings by Amy Ruppel, another bird/egg aficionado. These are so buttery! I want to touch one–I believe they have a layer of wax embedded in them somehow? I’m hoping to hear back from Amy on her technique. FUN!

How cool!
Amy sent me this in her response (thanks, Amy!):
I use beeswax, indeed. I cover a piece of wood with wax I’ve colored with pigment, then collage on top paper birds and shapes I created digitally, then layer clear beeswax over that… then I sometimes (most of the time) draw back into the wax, and fill the lines with oil paint, then wipe the excess away. A quick pass with the propane torch, and it’s set in for eternity. Have you taken an encuastic painting class? it’s so much fun, and very rewarding. It’s such a forgiving medium, full of happy accidents!

It’s like setting up a new fort. This platform is taking some getting used to but in time it’s going to feel like a fun place to hang up ideas and document the time. Here is a photo of Ford and Chas atop the igloo-bed, atop the quilt my mother made during the 1972 summer olympics, while I was probably napping in a white wooden crib within a sunny yellow nursery, in a small fourplex on Vassar Lane, in the sweltering Houston heat.

Blogging time will likely be restricted to midnight hours, as every moment during the day is nowadays occupied with kidstuff. I can expect to grow red eyeballs and get more irritable with time, unless I start working in the quilting and crafting in the afternoons when Chas naps and Ford gets stir crazy–after all, the heat is stifling outside during the midday hours. In fact, I’m off to start his rock collection. I think he’ll enjoy learning about what makes the Hill Country so hilly and rugged.

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Thank you for setting me up with MT, even if I know it was only because you were embarrassed for me to be seen under Blogger.