VINE CHAT

Before the days of DVR, we missed awesome plays during televised games, we had to run into the living room from the bathroom to see a funny Bud commercial, and we waited for re-runs of our favorite shows because we missed Emeril making something with sausage.

Now that we can rewind live television, and we don't miss anything good, my son can pause Drake & Josh while he goes pee, and Zoe, my five-year old daugher, rewinds the people-getting-eaten scenes from Jaws. Don't ask me why, she watches over and over the scenes I can't stomach...that's my daughter.

I'd give anything for a real-life rewind feature like we have for our televisions. I wish I could rewind all of my children, but today I wish more than ever that I could put my 20 month old daughter, Melia in reverse mode. She is my last little one, and since I can't (read: don't anymore) walk around with a video camera to tape every little thing my child does, I miss a lot of her developmental acheivements. I will lament missing these things one day, but there is nothing I can do.  Time passes.  Kids get older. Life moves at the pace of fast forward around here, despite my heart begging it to slow down.

What I want to rewind Melia doing is this...she is talking in complete sentences, making a convincing statement as she nods her curly little head and even points her finger...and no one understands what Melia is saying but Melia.

"Ayeshoo may weedoke" ... Melia says, stomping her two size 5s in Dora sandals. Is that Lakota, maybe Cherokee? It sounded very thought out. Right. It's just that her sentences are the most infectious, soft-spoken, enthusiastic gibberish that I have ever heard.  I love her unintelligible baby vocabulary, it's as original as the scent of her hair, as commanding as a State of the Union address (at least to us). "What did you say, baby?" I ask, hoping she'll repeat herself.  Alas, she just turns on her smallish baby heel and scurries down the hall.  She has places to go.

"Honey, she said another sentence!" I tell my husband.  He has to be aware of these things, too - when you're sure it's your last baby, you want to make it last. Our method of communicating with and understanding Melia has always been a comical effort and intuitive combination of ASL she learned from Baby Einstein/process of elimination/guessing/smelling/third child expertise. Now she's completing sentences in her own language and we're stumped.  And totally charmed. I've got to hold on to this. 

Why can't I rewind daily life? I don't want to go back twenty years and fix my big hair, I just want to rewind these fleeting moments of my child's self-punctuation and keep them in a hard drive, on a tape, or DVR, because my heart is getting full to capacity. Or is it?

I'm sure I'll find more room there, and the best part is, I don't have to delete one memory to add more. 

I'm a Mom.

I'm dating myself here, but do you remember the Coppertone Girl?

The quintessential blonde California (toddler) Girl, sporting a Coppertone tan and little pony tails on a beach, her less than tan bum revealed by a puppy dog pulling down her bikini bottom.

It is stereotypical, sure, but just plain cute. I love the sight of children a bit older than babies enjoying the sunshine and freedom simultaneously. Aside from toddlerhood, when else does life these days afford one the opportunity to run half-naked on a beach without consequence? I'm stocked up on sunscreen for the summer, so I encourage this. Especially since my 20 month old daughter has learned to, and seems to love, removing her diaper with speed and efficiency. I have an opportunity here, and I'm going to spend the summer not fighting her to keep the diaper on, but going with the flow of her stubborn little mind, because sooner or later, she'll make a deposit in the right place.  That plastic portable potty that cost me $16.99 at the baby store will prove priceless when planted next to Grandma's pool during June, July, August and September. Four months for her to find her own way...four months for me to read more by the pool than potty training books for parents.  

My daugher looks more like a Santorini transplant than a blonde California Girl, however, she is fourth generation Californian, sunshine is in her blood. She's been bobbling around in the Pacific since she was in utero, and we have no plans to change this.  Whether it's a pool, waterslide, blow up plastic front-yard pool or sandy beach, I'm trusting my instincts to let her go diaper-less. This means less stains on my carpet, this means not sitting in front of the toilet for hours with a tenacious kid as I cajole steps toward independence and a life free from Pampers...and an all over tan.

I think it's the perfect formula. I should have done this with my first two children. 

For the sunny days of living diaper-less, I've got my camera, and her baby book ready.

Summer time, and the living's...freely.

I'm getting an early taste of summer today. My son is home from school with an upset tummy (he ate at least a pound of grapes last night), the two girls are stuck home with me who is stuck home with him, and they are all bored - climbing the walls, removing contents from drawers, changing television channels every 3.2 seconds, fidgeting like fishes out of water.

These days give me character.

By 10:17 a.m., I had already asked for them to cease speaking to me. By 11:00 a.m., we had already eaten lunch. This is the third blog I have started and I'm really optimitic this will be the one I finish.  I'll post it, even if it sucks because I am desperate to finish something besides the bottle of ketchup today.

I remember what summer used to be like...before kids, before working from home. And at the risk of whining, I'll just say that summer now means spending disposable income on the spray on sunscreen (it's worth the additonal money you pay for the traditional rub on kind), TIDE with Bleach Alternative because beach towels and bathing suits need washing six days out of seven, and pizza delivery because pb & j's become "the same old lthing" by the second week of summer (either that or you're too tired from swimming, laundry and making five meals a day that you're too exhausted to cook dinner).

Makes me wonder how I am going to survive this summer - my very existence has become dependent on writing something good every day, and I really, really love to sleep.

How did I survive last summer?  A little bit of seasonal pondering and I realize it's better to buzz like a honeybee in a summer flower bed than it is to wait for the sun to shine on a bleak, uninspired day. The sun occasionally hides behind clouds the way my imagination and creativity hide behind my fears of stillness. When I can't muster up an original thought or I hate what I've written, it's a clue...re-direct. Sit down with your little girl and read a book to her. Go water the plants. Talk to your son about the circle change or two-seamed fastball or play peek-a-boo with the baby.  Sitting at my laptop letting life pass me by, I can't write about what I don't see or don't experience.  My muse helps me write, but she also tells me to live.  Summer beckons living, even if it's tiring.

Last summer I finished my first book.  This summer I hope to work on my second.  It's a little different than a series of narratives, it's not a collection of columns I've already written. It's the big one, the one I've always wanted to write, and it's taking energy from me - challenging me - making me confront my fear of not finishing strong - forcing me to work at good content rather than close with insufficient data. Dreams take sacrifices. Goals take maturity. What have I gotten myself into?

So I'm wrapping up this blog now with a little more self-awareness.  Sure, I'd love to sit down and watch 'Go, Diego, Go' with you, baby...just let Mommy log off. This is good material. This is all one long story, one long summer, unfolding.

I'm taking notes, though, as I watch everything you do...I can't ever be truly still.

Here’s what I want…a beach house, a full pantry, someone to do my laundry, and a successful series of published books.

Here is what my conscience (and my mother) tell me…your kids are healthy, you’ve got a 3BR/2BA in the suburbs, your kids go to great schools and your husband leaves you notes next to a hot cup of morning coffee that say “I LOVE MY AUTHOR”, even logs on to your laptop for you.

I’m like, so…unforgivably selfish.

Would you believe me if I told you it was in my nature? I’ve gotten to know myself pretty well these last couple of years that I’ve thrown myself back into the work arena – the WAHM arena, which, who the hell are we kidding, is more than a little competitive.  

Here’s what I know…literary success is like a drug for me, I get a little bit, I want more. I keep writing and researching until I crash with strep throat or I’m awakened by cries from my kids in the morning…“Momma, I don’t have any clean underwear.”

Here’s what I admit to…I don’t like being idle. I don’t like it when I am at the checkout line, glancing at a magazine, and notice that another writer has conceived, written, queried and sold an article – the subject of which I had a similar idea for not so long ago.

I don’t like it when a brilliant idea strikes me at the softball field and I have to settle for writing a summary of my piece de resistance on the bottom of a nachos container, where it will stay until I have the time to commit it to hard drive.

That stagnation can be such a pisser, you know?

Here’s what I have…a benign case of writer’s block.  I am starting manuscripts like crazy, but I’m having a hard time finishing.

(…”I’m slow to finish but I’m quick to start”…RHCP)

What gives? Ugh, I just don’t know.  All of the mommy obligations? Ambivalence about why I can’t do more? Keep writing, I tell myself, a writer writes. Maybe the finish line of something good is closer than I think. My horoscope today said something about strong will and erratic habits. Yeah.  Doesn’t get the dishwasher loaded, but these eccentricities may help get a manuscript done near the end of my self-imposed goal (end of the year for my next book proposal, just haven’t decided which book). The sky will clear and the manuscripts will open up, but not before my strong will and good ideas are in perfect synchronicity. I just have that feeling. Keep my fingers typing, without forcing the hand.

This philosophy works when I let it.

I don’t have an MFW, I’m stuck on book #2, I don’t always replace the toilet paper roll when it’s done, and the laundry will kill me if I let it. I haven’t learned how to get up before 6:00 a.m. yet, I don’t finish my to-do list everyday or even attempt to lead the most balanced life that I could.

I live this way because…because I think I like it. It’s like, the chaos keeps me creative.

In the process of my second career and riding the broomstick of imperfect mommying, I realize that I am happy…happy where I stand, happy as far as I can see.  I don’t remember if I consciously choose to be happy because I really got some good writing out of melancholy, which I think is far more enthralling and story worthy than your average glee. But I’ll stay here until the party is over, the water is fine, the flavors, addicting.

There really is a story in everything.

Here at this come-as-you-are party I apparently rsvp’d to, I find myself in places I never thought I would be – writing for more than just my own kicks, side-by-side with someone who loves me as much as I love him, having existential and overly sentimental thoughts at my kitchen table. Don’t tell anyone.

And I find myself doing things I never thought I would do – tearing as I chant with my daughter, “I do believe in fairies, I do! I do!”, earning an editor-in-chief position of a print literary magazine (did you hear that, tenth grade Algebra teacher who said I’d be a failure?), and maybe, just maybe, allowing myself to enjoy it without worrying. When I’m not being superstitious, I can give you an allegorical run-down on each blessing in my day-to-day life…it’s a fun exercise in gratefulness. Now you know my secret.

Here’s what I’ve deduced…my feet will only take me where they are prepared to go. I’ll get the next place I need to go at first light (or a few hours later, depending on the day), and when I get there, there will be enough for everyone. I’ll smile at the people I meet, and this energy will take me to the next party. It’s going to be fabulous.

I’m like, so…unbelievably lucky.

(knock on wood!)