11/11/11 at 11:11pm Sending out some luck and wishes.

       I have always loved it when I look at my watch or phone and see it is 11:11. I feel like it is a wicked good luck time.  So I send out some love/luck/good wishes to those of us who might need some help or a lift. There are plenty of us who need a boost. I think of those of us who are tired, in the dark, and trying to figure out why the baby is crying.
Or Maybe some of us are wrestling with a bad decision.
Or some of us who have lost their way( I imagine a golden key going into their hands that unlocks the door  they need to open.)
or those of us who can't think of something that makes them happy(their favorite song, seeing their kids laugh and laughing with them, an awe-inspiring work of art, simple but real people, places and things.)
or those of us who can't stop leaning too much into the future( and therefore miss all the juicy incidentals of the present.)
       So, on a date like today(11/11/11--come on!), the wishes will be extra powerful.
So let's have at it!
Darcy

My 11/11/11 Valentine is from the poet Marie Howe

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

BBI(Bad Body Image) it's here and it's entrenched.

BBI it’s back and it’s entrenched!

*BBI= Bad Body Image.

BBI is back in my brain and soul like an insidious super virus invades a big bank's  network and server.

I was having a lovely walk with my dear friend,S, yesterday. She asked in the kindest, most compassionate terms my thoughts on my clothes and style choices. She felt like I could put together more flattering outfits. The problem is, nowadays, I rarely think about ‘putting together an outfit.’ These days I put clothes on to hide my nakedness. And ‘these days’ have stretched from a few month after the baby was born to…today.

And, today my son is five years old.

Huh. Food for thought.

In the process of dressing ‘these days,’ my main concern is pull focus from my mid-section! S, my friend, gently made the cogent, practical point that sometimes trying to hide the tummy actually draws attention to it.  I took a deep breath and realized this is a valid observation.

S made the great suggestion to find my own style icons and think about several simple pieces(a tailored blouse, a perfectly fitting black dress.) that will help me feel beautiful and strong.

Brilliant idea! And so good talk-out loud- about stepping into my own beauty, my own self.

Another important realization: it feels so exhausting to make myself feel beautiful.I literally said that to my friend, S.

I said: “I know how to feel beautiful. I do. But it is just so exhausting.” She looked at me with her wise kind eyes and said nothing. What she was thinking, and what I know is: if feeling good about yourself is tiring, there is a problem.

The good news: identifying the problem is the first step toward solving it. So…yay.

S did suggest, very compassionately, that I suffer from a form of Dysmorphic, disillusioned, dystopic physical perception(can’t remember the clinical term) in short, BBI.

Yes. I agree! I am swimming, nay, drowning in Bad Body Image.

After my walk with S and while I in the thick of errands/teaching/ playdates/ dinner/ homework I had a flash or more like a very sharp pangs. The pangs were clear and acute. They said:

I HATE my body.

I hate and despise it. While I’m very, very grateful for the job my body did producing my son, K, and keeping me healthy all this time, I abhor the way it looks. To me-emphasis on me, remember the Body Dismorphic Disorder that I have-to me, I look hideous and should be hidden from public view. I want the cute, slim body back that I had when I was performing, before I had the baby.

And those thoughts are so so so so

Uncool! Abhorant and unattractive!

It’s blasphemy to all parts of my feminist, nay, my humanist being and spirit! It’s disgusting to think that! When there are woman and men that are ailing that would love more than anything to have a body like mine.

It is truly disgusting not to thank God/Goddess/all that is good every day for having a healthy female body. Not only healthy, it’s  more like a super hero body. Listen to this: at 40 years old, after five days of labor, I gave birth to a 9lb 9oz boy (healthy, gorgeous). This same body that got really, really sick when my baby was 3 weeks old and yet my milk supply never stopped. It’s actually a miracle when I think about it.

So I hate myself for hating my body. Talk about a demon chasing it’s tail!

But still-keeping it real- still when I see a woman who is a size two, even a size four, and she has a one-year-old toddling around, I’m so jealous, I call her bad words in my head.

Only for a nanosecond.

But then, for all you size twos reading this, the feminist me calls me out and gives me a tongue-lashing. It’s so busy in my head.

  

So I could get through the day in the world,I tucked this self-loathing ogre full of vitriol away until after K was asleep. I could only face this craziness and after I watched the hilarious episode of Modern Family for the second time ( the Modern Family episode is the Juice Fast episode. I think it was called, “ Up on a wire.” You must watch it.)

I have found such a wealth of ruminations that I am only half way through the arc of my BBI story!

 So this posting is a two parter. Tune in tomorrow for part two: “Does my son’s bad behavior make me look fat?”

To be continued…

SPC Special recipe: Valentine to summer fruit and local yogurt.

Happy Independence Day all you Single Parents( and to those souls who feel like single parents, which is all of us!  Today, I offer you a recipe. A recipe of Single Parent Special Summer  Surprise. It can be served as dessert/breakfast (with a healthy dash of self-righteousness. More on that later.)

This recipe involves no cooking but I could eat this for three meals a day, as could K. It could be categorized as a fruit crisp.  It's really not quite a 'recipe' really, so much as an assembly, an edible assemblage.  But when you tart it up with designer pottery, kids' art and local peaches, you could draw a double take even from the great Ina Garten.

All you need is:
* Favorite fruits from the farmers market. So, they are local(there's the beginning of the self-righteousness.) and actually divine tasting. Probably because they are local. In today's Summer Surprise I have yellow peaches and raspberries. Note the blond raspberries...they are better than candy. I could have added strawberries but, I thought that might be gilding the lily.

*Favorite local granola.  Of course, if you make your own granola. Well, then...you probably don't need suggestions in the kitchen and more power to you. I confess I do not make my own granola; I go to the store. I am newly obsessed with 18 Rabbits granola. They had me when they combined hazel nuts and cocoa nibs but there is so much more to enjoy in their delicious offerings.

*Favorite local organic plain yogurt. Strauss' is my all time favorite. When I'm on the East Coast, I love "Liberté" yogurt; same concept.  And Voilà!  Find a spot in the sun; sit down with your kid/kids and enjoy.
*Breakfast variations: Slap some of the deliciousness next to or on top of a pancake...have a good time! For kids, if you have the bandwidth, you could do Star Wars pancakes.(We got the star wars pancake molds for Christmas. After a few practice runs, they are worth the effort.)
If you don't have the bandwidth( most days, I have little to none) I put this combo on a Trader Joe's gluten free pancake(K's favorite kind of store bought) or a multi grain eggo waffle.
*Dessert variations: With the basic assembly, I have been known to break up some dark chocolate bars and sprinkle on top. You can also stick a few of the petit beurre cookies into the bowl. Delicious.

*Other notes: You will see in my photo that I have a plate of peaches. They are set out on our dining table. I have noticed that peaches set out to ripen in a city apartment make your home smell amazing. Like you have a peach tree on the fourth floor! I recommend it!

And, now, a shameless declaration of love:
I am a huge, huge, huge fan of Strauss' yogurt. It's organic; it's local and I'm pretty sure(I am touching wood while I type) that it has kept K and I very healthy for his whole life.  K and I have at least one serving of Strauss yogurt a day. In the winter K's favorite dessert and snack is the Strauss whole milk plain yogurt with frozen organic blueberries.
And-still touching wood-K has only had a very upset stomach and actually thrown up, three times. K is now five(I'm not counting spitting up as an infant.)(One of the times he threw up he was on a car trip with his father. He had a chocolate chip cookie for breakfast and then started playing video games. But I'm not judging. OK. OK. I am. This is after all the self-righteous section of the post...)
 I think taking in some of the local cultures and bacteria through this amazing food has saved us from many a stomach bugs. And there have been plenty! Both of us have actually stopped enjoying the other yogurts that are pumped full of sugar. Both of us, if our tummy isn't feeling great will have a bowl of Strauss' and maybe some crunchy lettuce. I really think Strauss is my super food.
As I write I think that I have stumbled onto an important trick! (Unless of course your child or you are lactose intolerant. If so, I'll try to do some research for you. ) I think the important trick is eat something local and or organic every day. Find ways to have that local and/or organic food that tastes good. If it's a chore or yucky, it will be the first thing you forget when you are too tired to think. Find ways that both you and your kids will enjoy that food.
I worry all the time that K's not going to be an adventurous eater. And yet, inadvertently, I have built in a dietary home base that when he does try the new foods, he can always return to it.
Thank you Strauss, Liberté and all you lovely, hard working local farmers!

Don't be a lemon alone. Out and About Valentine.

Out and About Valentine

May 29,2011

SPC Advisory: This is a Free Advise Posting. 

(pictured here: a lemon alone.)

It never ceases to amazing and surprise me, how uplifting it can be to just simply walk of the house and do a simple errand.

I read recently that in a new study they found that the incidence of Alzheimer’s disease and/or dementia plummeted when the subject got out and about everyday.

This makes so much sense to me.(And, thus, I make a note to self. Because after doing this single parent dance and now finally having –some- of my wits about me so that I can write a handful of cogent sentences once or twice a week, I will do whatever it takes to avoid dementia when I am older and, finally, legitimately rested.)

 

Witness the last two weeks: I have been feeling low, low, pit-in-my-stomach, almost-crying-all-the-time low because, 1. K is going to Kindergarten. a new school, a new parent and kid community. No one is responding to my invitations to have a play date. Both of us are nervous but trying to be brave for each other. We have to leave our amazing preschool where we have both flourished, found friends and a support network very much a kin to family.

2. There have been two super cool teaching jobs that were advertised as though I was the perfect person for them, and then, I choked on the phone interview for one (It was in French and unscheduled but still, it was the worse French I have spoken in years. That’s another long, sad story.)And for the other one, while the division head is a fan of mine, the other French teachers “found mistakes” on the board when I subbed for French. What can I say? I’m a dyslexic Francophile. I think I make a great role model for kids in a language classroom. But, hey, I’m not the one hiring.

3.Even though-big picture- there is probably a job out there that’s a better fit for me. Right now, my ego has been kicked in the teeth and cracked a few ribs. So it’s hard to breathe and I don’t look(or feel) pretty.

4. K, my usually charming child has downloaded the Five-Year-old handbook on How to REALLY Push Your Mother’s Buttons(the 5 year handbook is much more advanced than 4 yr old.) and decides to manifest his anxiety and anger about leaving his school by sneaking a bowl of cold soup into my closet and dumping said cold watercress soup into and around a bag full of my clothes. And then, he didn’t tell me about it. I discovered this darkside expression of anger when I was trying to be brave and clean out my crazy(one of many) closets. At that point, I did a cursory soup cleaning while crying.

Thus, we find ourselves at the entrance to…

The Vortex.(cue scary, ominous music)

You know the vortex. It is a sad, messy place where dishes are never clean, laundry is never folded and/or put away. What’s the point? There are so many piles of mail all over the house there is no where to sit. You have no job, no propects, your novel is still not close to finished, your best friend hasn’t checked in in over a month. And your favorite dark-blue sweater is soaked in soup. (Could K and/ or the Universe be trying to tell me to stop stewing in my own juice?)

I think JK Rowling produced the best embodiment of the Vortex in the form of the Dementors. You start to lose the will face the day, much less clean. The pull to the coach and popcorn becomes very strong but you must resist.

You must put on your coat and shoes. Or get dressed. Bundle up the child/children and you must just walk outside. (Oh, bring your wallet or some cash) Step one is simply getting outside. Don't worry about where you are going just get outside. Step two is picking an errand or a friend to visit, it’s really good if you can walk to do the errand but get in the car that the only option. On your errand, you will see other people walking down the street and your child will hold your hand, maybe someone will smile at you, you might run into a friend, maybe you will witness another child having a meltdown. You will have an incidental, but friendly conversation with the check out person.

So, the other day when I was staring down the Vortex, I decided to go and get lemons. I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that I was going to make the roasted chicken that called for lemons, but that was not the point. The guy at the check out asked how my day was going and I watched K, having a light saber battle with an invisible Sith warrior and-bing- I felt better. Connected, grounded, happy to be in the world.

So, When things are looking dark and you are feeling fat and/or lonely and useless, stand up, get some cash and the car keys and get out and about.

See? Here we have the same lemon, no longer alone on a cutting board but with friends. Much happier looking very pretty.

A new reality show: "OLD Batch"

 “OLD Batch”

A different version of

The Bachelorette

I still am completely flummoxed as to how single parents pull off the dating trick. I have tried here and there, but, the effort is so herculean and the preparatory tasks so daunting.

First there is writing clever, casual emails and/or online dating profile…witness long, exhausted eye-roll. Then if something slips through the cracks and you have a plan for coffee/tea, the next level of difficult tasks: bathing, picking an outfit, finding a sitter or setting up a playdate(which you KNOW you will have to reciprocate, so…it better be good), agreeing on a place to meet( just typing this makes me nauseous), locating your sense of humor. Then you muscle through the flit-flat conversation: “So, what kind of sculptures do you make?” “What do you do when you aren’t working?” And, even though you are dying to, you can’t go to a movie because you are supposed to be Getting to KNOOOOOOW one another. At the end, sighing and weary, you finally return to debrief and spend time with dear friends: sugar, butter, chocolate.

And now, there is a new friend to add to the fun: TV!

I have never had cable TV in my life…until now. And who would want to go to hell on a blind date when I can sit at home and watch other people’s dates on TV?

I confess that, from time to time, I have watched The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. Because the dating sounds so dreamy. I don’t have to plan it, or worry about a sitter or the money,I don’t have to be in my normal drudgery life. All I have to do is go on great dates all over the world and have a bunch of attractive men profess their(supposed) strong feelings for me.

  

One little glitch: I don’t seem to be the demographic(read young enough) for the Bachelorette casting directors.

So I’m going to propose another version:

MATE Batch:

MATE stands for Mature, Artistic, and Terrifically Educated Bachelor/Bachelorette.

Or, Wait.

Maybe We should avoid mincing words and call the show:

“OLD-Batch”

(“OLD” stands for Old, Literate, and Disheveled)

That’s pretty much on target.

There’s a certain ring to it.( “Join us next week when drama strikes the Bachelorette Mansion as Linley can’t locate her first edition Dickens “Great Expectations” and she is convinced Robert nicked it. However the truth will surprise and unhinge you…Don’t miss next weeks’ episode of OLD batch!”

AND there is some poetic justice to it as well! Because isn’t it we, the Mature/Old, Literate and disheveled people that really NEED the trip to Hawaii and/or Bali.

Or... the producers could look at this as a money saving venture. It would be cheap! Because a great date for all us Old Batchs would be a trip to a good bookstore, a walk on the beach, a meal prepared by someone else(doesn't matter who as long as my kitchen remains clean) and then chatting about and comparing  favorite characters from, say, Jane Austen, Michael Ondaatje and George Elliot.

And, let’s be clear, I’m no snob.

I’m in no way above talking about movie adaptations of great works.

The intrigue of the show-- rather than someone lying about whether they have a hometown girlfriends or boyfriends—would be,when a guy I thought I really liked actually can’t stand Jane Austen.

Gasp!

Can I spend the rest of my life with someone like that?

The plot could thicken when I try to reform and educate him. 

I would gently prod him:
”But it was YOU that said to me that you thought that Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley  had a real guy friendship. You SAID that. To ME. And that was a real turning point for me. When you said that, I knew that that you really cared about Jane Austen. But, I mean, do you? Do you even care about…”

And he would cut me off:

“Wow! You are really pushing this agenda. Look, I…I…I’m not ready to say…that I would read another Jane Austen novel. I…I don’t know if I can DO that. I mean, it’s only been six weeks! OK, I see your are disappointed. OK, wait, I mean, can we at least start with the movie version. I mean, maybe. Maybe in a year. I’d read another one.”

I nod my head solemnly and say quietly while interlacing my hands in his: “OK. Well, what about Michael Ondaatje?” He rubs his eyes and mumbles nearly inaudibly: “I don’t know if I can even deal with any fiction.” And he sighs heavily.

And I squeeze his hand and stroke his hair: “it doesn’t even have to be fiction! What about Malcolm Gladwell?”

The guy shrugs, closes his eyes and winces: “I have some issues with his fact gathering. What? Why are you making that face?”

Jump cut to me, talking to the host:

I knit my brow as I talk to the host: “I mean…I don’t want to wake up one day a year from now and find out he is just an engineer who works for Google and all he reads is the fricken’ New Yorker. OK? That’s not honest. You SAW him. There he was two weeks ago comparing Michelle Obama to Elizabeth Bennett. Now this. I just feel…I don’t know if I can trust again.”

Jump cut to Robert: He is in the Guy Mansion looking around guiltily as he picks up and reads…not the New Yorker…but People Magazine. Can it be true?!

I would totally watch and love this show. And, if I got to be on the the OLD bachelorettes, I could cancel my subscription to Match.com.

Very Tired Valentine: Ode to the Constantly Weary

Ode to the Constantly Weary

You know you are tired when…

When you bend down to pick up a pirate flag on the carpet and before you know it you are lying face down on said carpet with your eyes closed. And you think: “I am so lucky to have this carpet. It is the perfect place to lie down. I would be perfectly comfortable sleeping here all night.

Starting right now.”

You know you are tired when, while-maybe-lying on your carpet, you count the things you have to do before you can go to bed. And the first thing, to get up from the carpet, seems to be excruciating torture.

Then you become your own best Olympic couch. So starts the patter in your head:

OK! Great work making through the day. GREAT work! Now all you got to do is get up—we’ll break down that process later—get up and get the yummy roasted chicken from the specialty store out of the foil and cut up some for you and some for K. No sweat! Right? No need for salad dressing tonight. (Michael Pollen would approve; so you’ve got that.) Just break up the lettuce leaves and add some edameme and bingo! Dinner. It’s OK that you didn’t make the chicken. It’s totally fine that you bought another separate chicken to roast yourself last week and that it is sitting in your frig and slowly stinking up the place. It’s OK that you will throw $12.98 down the garbage shoot. Stop giving yourself a hard time.(you know, one of the reasons you are having a hard time getting up is that you are really hungry. And, yes, you were up from 2-4:30am last night gnashing your teeth about how to make money so it’s no surprise that you are tired and yes, you should have done some yoga breathing; but we don’t have to go over that now.) OK, slugger, time to get off the bench. Visualization is all well and good. All well and good, but you can’t win the game, if you don’t play. And winning = sleeping all night. And you can’t go to sleep in your cozy bed if you don’t get up now and feed yourself and your child. Then it’s just bath and then sleepy stories, a few songs and ZING, cozy bed here you come. Just stay away from that chocolate! Get away from the caffeine sugar mix. That was the problem last night. Come on! Up and at ‘em”

And even though the sweet siren song of that carpet continues to call, you get up. You get up and you stumble down the four flights of stairs to change the laundry and fumble with quarters. And as you trudge up the stairs, you think:

What on earth are we going to eat for dinner?

All there is in the Frig is that week old piece of pizza and stinking, rotting whole chicken. That chicken is just laughing at you because you thought last week that you could be Ina Garten and whip up a beautiful roasted chicken dinner, but you can barely face opening the silverware drawer.

Maybe if I lie down on the carpet and think a minute, I will come up with a good dinner plan.

Holy Embarrassed Valentine

 Here, on Easter Sunday 2011, is my Holy Embarrassed Valentine

This nice check out guy at Trader Joe’s asked me what I had on for the weekend and I was mortified to say that I was taking my son to church.

It’s Easter tomorrow and I have made definite plans to go to church with my child. You could knock me over with a feather.

I was raised Episcopalian(I’m so lapsed I need spellcheck to type that word) and as soon as I was in high school, I was pretty much over and out. All the mention of Him and the Lord, our Father. And this assumption that God was a guy, or identifying as a guy, just made me squint and then push me out the door.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would want to bring my child into that world. But here I am. And I mean, I am much older and more mello than during my squinting days. And I see intellectually that “The Father” is a metaphor. ( Truth to tell, I’m still not a fan of that depiction.)

However. The church I’m taking him to has a gay priest as it’s leader; there is a practicing Buddhist monk who is a parishoner. I have two good and trés cool friends who bring their families. They ring a meditation bell and there are healing circles in a side chapel during communion.

And, as a busy single parent, a place to sit down and be quiet with free childcare is nothing to sniff at.

But here is the secret reason. The VERY secret reason, I have started to investigate going to church: since I have been K’s mom, so for 5 years now, from time to time-at a very inopportune moments, I have started to feel a really connection to the stories of the life of Jesus.

I KNOW! It is so embarrassing! I am a liberal, intelligent, single mother! That’s so NOT a match with waspy, repressed Christianity.

When anyone I knew started talking about how moving the Jesus narrative is I have always rolled my eyes mercilessly (to myself, not to their face; but, then again, what’s worse?). And, over the years, I have written off some friends who tell me they are going to church. It always grossed me out a little bit. I would wonder: “why, oh why are you going to waste a perfectly good Sunday on THAT?” And I would purse my lips and shake my head. Yuck. And now I am one them! Oh my god. I can’t believe it.

Karma, man. That is what I get for judging your friends.

Note to self: hold off on pursing lips about other people’s behavior.

It started happening most violently at Christmas. K and I would be putting ornaments on the tree and I would think about Mary looking at baby Jesus in the manger and I would nearly sob outloud. Then, at the end of the kids’ Christmas Eve service, K and I are in a small Vermont church with my parents( remember? They are the still devout east coast Episcopalians. They don’t go in for overly emotional outbursts. They pretty much shake their heads and close their eyes at any kind of outbursts.) Anyway K and I are in the dark church and we are lighting each other’s candles singing ‘Silent Night’ a cappella in the hush of snow and stone and advent wreaths. And I’m sitting there with my beautiful son! And I can no longer sing because I am crying with joy and feeling…

(don’t tell any of my hip, liberal, atheist friends and family)

I’m feeling a connection to G-O-D.

All the while, I am thinking: “ I can NOT be having a religious conversion right now! This is NOT convenient. I’m probably just over-tired. Stop crying now, Darcy! K is looking at you like you are so kind of freak.”

In some ways, I get it. I get why I have been moved by some of these stories. 

It’s all about Mary.

She was a single mom! Right?

There she was IN LABOR and ON A DONKEY.

(Can you imagine breathing through some contractions riding an ass? Forget the calm music CDs and the ice chips.)

And no one will give her a fricken’ bed. I would like to have a chitchat with all those Bethlehem innkeepers.

But then she has the baby. He is a beautiful healthy boy. (The animals in the barn get it. No societal pressure to spurn the single mom…) There is a shining star in the sky that seems to appear just for her and her gorgeous boy. And I’m sure when she hears that healthy cry, she thinks-- as I did after five days of labor, a infection, an epidural and an emergency C section—but no donkey—

She thinks, “Oh, I would do it all again in a heart beat. Look at my baby boy!” ( makes me cry just writing it.)

I feel you, Mary!

Busy Valentine

SMV #11: Busy Valentine

My single parent consiglilere who is very wise-as we know; that’s the point of a consigliere-said that it’s important to figure out when you are super crisp and can’t handle the simplest of parenting tasks.

And, boy, was I crisp.

I was flat out for so long! I was cranking and busy for so long, I didn’t realize how much I needed a break.

The really beautiful thing about being busy and having a million (important) things to do, that cannot be dropped, is that when you DO get a break, and you have gotten all the work done: an organized closet, resumés sent, kindergarten applications in, syllabus and homework schedule written and delivered, and when you have been invited up and go to your friend’s country house, located in…Paradise, the not-being-busy feeling is nothing short of Joy.

The feelings of impending heaven happened even before I arrived at J’s house.  When I was well shy of the city, I inadvertently rolled down the window since it was a balmy evening and the sun was out after torrential and surprising weeks of rain. And-wow!- what an eye-opener! It smelled like new grass, wet leaves, warm flowers. I was smelling spring in the country and I started to vibrate. (With happiness, with excitement, with a calm, with relief.) Already, even though I was driving(normally my least favorite, most stressful thing I do) I was in a non-busy state, so senses are heightened.

I don’t really understand why any single, committed parents would take any hard core drugs because when you are so ITT- ATT: “In The Thick All The Time” of child-rearing, when you get a break and you get to do things alone, it feels to me like I am on one of those happy, happy, joy drugs.  Like Ecstasy. Note: I have never tried X and now I have even less curiosity about it. Seriously, being in the parenting trenches and then, doing anything alone and not on a time frame I am so over the moon I have to make sure I don’t embarrass myself.

I remember when I went to New York City alone for a few days for the first time after I was a mother and just taking the subway and seeing and realizing I didn’t have to navigate the turn-style and the tricky stairs with a stroller, brought tears of joy to my eyes.

Single Minded Valentine #10: The Patient Valentine: ox to Earnest Shackleton

Here he is, the man himself looking so incredibly cool and tough. Like he truly is! There will be more love testimonials for Shackleton..

Nearly every time I get acupuncture, I have these very cool, very clear images. They tend to be dreamy stories/ visions that help clear out the bad, ambivalent stress and/or physiological ailment.

Today I was there because the sciatica beast, dormant now for 12 years, has reared it's ugly but hard-to-ignore head. There are many stories and suppositions as to why the sciatica is back(exhaustion while traveling, a turned ankle at a huge trampoline park, not enough attention to a core workout, and inchoate but real sadness, to name a few) All the narrative aside, here I was seeing my amazing acupuncturist after having been in nagging, distracting pain for  over a week.

I have grown to love acupuncture as I can literally feel the tension running out of my body. Today, I had several lucid dreams while the needles and the heat worked their magic.

One involved Earnest Shackleton( antarctic explorer from the early 1900s. He managed to bring back 28 men alive after their ship was beset, then demolished in the pack ice in 1914 in the Weddell Sea. No one died; no one went crazy. If you don't know the story, get the book " Endurance: The Incredible Journey" by Alfred Lansing, It's one of my favorite stories I have ever read.) Whenever I'm feeling low or self-pitying or lonely and helpless, I scan the Shackleton saga and figure out what part of the journey is analogous to what I'm going through, then I do whatever Shackleton did. It gets me out of pickles and the muck of self-loathing in a jiffy.

Anyway, Shackleton had sciatica too. Not throughout the whole trip, but interestingly when things had calmed down for a time and he had established some spirit-affirming routines for his men. At the point that he got his sciatica, they had to just wait for the ice to break up. He was in bed for several days and, I know, in awful pain. It seems sciatica slaps you down when all the chores are done and there is nothing left to do but ruminate.

In my dream tonight, I saw Shackleton in his bunk, pale with pain and I moved in slowly and kissed him on the mouth( I know, some sexy stuff...)and I told him he would feel better, he should trust me. I told him he would bring the team home safely and be a hero. this pain would remind him to be patient. Then, in the dream, he kissed me back and said: "Be patient, yourself; be patient with your sadness. I see that you are sad. Tell me why you are sad, and you will feel better."

I thought for a minute and said: I'm sad I won't be able to have another baby.  I'm sad I'm not having another baby with, you know, a partner. a partner who wants to have one with me. Shackleton nodded and smiled a sweet, understanding smile. Then I quickly said that I was beyond grateful to have K. And feel, sometimes, that I'm the luckiest girl on earth.

You can feel both. You can be lucky and sad at the same time. They don't cancel each other out. Of course, you are excited, thrilled for your friend who just had her third baby last week( he is stunning by the way) and you can love beyond love your 7 month old niece, S, and at the same time be sad you don't have a 7 month old and a cool husband who parents like you do and laughs at the same things you do.

Shackleton, even though he nearly died several times on that trip in 1914, headed back to Antarctica to  cross the continent. On the journey to  down to there, he died peacefully and, I'll wager happy.
I understand.

Humble Valentine: #8

Humble Valentine: #8

(here I am when I was reading about the ground-breaking, world-saving work that is being done by the man I should have married.[drawing by E Scott)

I have been feeling pouty and sad because the guy I should have married(20ish years ago) hasn’t been in touch. We managed to maintain a lovely friendship up until a few years ago. That's when I became puerile and insensitive and left a horrid message on his home answering machine  after ignoring his important, honest email he sent to me about a very tough illness that he had braved.

No doubt his wife was even more over me when she heard my voicemail. I made this ridiculous, impolite comment about his new diet that essentially saved his life. I dearly hope now that none of his kids  heard it.

No surprise that I haven’t heard from him. Had the roles been reversed, I would have said 'over and out', no questions asked.

In retrospect, it was so uncharacteristic of me that this behavior could only be a classic, CLASSIC example of self-sabotage.

I know you already figured that out three sentences ago. Takes me longer.

I remember after I read the email where he shared that he had had a serious scare and had some surgery, I shut my computer and walked away before I got to the end of the email. Then I clamed up( can you imagine ME, with nothing to say?) and never wrote back.

Three months later I left this bizarre, awful (I can’t stop shaking my head when I think about it) voicemail at his house. After not a peep.

It was so childish. but I couldn’t deal with the idea that he was so sick and I couldn’t be right there next to him. I couldn’t be the one making him laugh and bucking him up and celebrating when the Good News from the post-op test results came back.

Because his life-threatening illness is really all about MOI.

Needless to say his wife is a doll! And we were friends too. Til I set fire to all the good will around me. And he is obviously thriving.With her; at work; with his gorgeous kids.  I am delighted to see it.

Just this week, I have realized that if I had had the wisdom to say ‘yes,’ in England and kiss him hard and hold on tight, our life would have been splendid. If I had had his maturity to KNOW when you find a good match when I was 22 and he met me in Oxford, England at the coach stand with a rose and an honest offer of love, our life would have been a sparkling affair of the heart and mind.

I’m still confounded as to why I shied away from such love.

I haven’t met up with the likes of it since.

Our mutual affection made me feel like I never had to lean too hard in one direction or the other. When I was with him, my feet were on the ground and my head in the clouds. I was smart, beautiful, articulate, inspiring, at ease, at home. So, of course, was he. So IS he.

Enter the HUMBLE pie of this valentine: while I whine and whimper on this dusty, unpopulated blog, he is out there literally, LITERALLY saving the world.

I’m not kidding.

I just watched at short You Tube piece of him helping children in Haiti, Ethiopia and China. (I couldn’t make this up.) Right now he is probably laughing with President Obama over beers about what’s a better sport hockey or basketball and, simultaneously, trying to find ways to bring about world peace.

Odds are good he has the president’s cell number.

So, this wonderful man doesn’t really have a lot of spare time for his sad, puppy-eyed not-even-ex-girlfriends (and that is SOOO the opposite of ‘smart, beautiful, articulate.’ It makes me want to run in the other direction.)

Here’s the good news: some day in the future he will read this and know that I am sorry and that I still actually love him. And while it is tempting, very tempting, to send it to him, I will not. I will whine and cringe to you my phantom blog audience. Instead, I will make a donation to his lovely amazing, life-enhancing organization. So maybe somewhere in Viet Nam or Haiti or Ethiopia, a single mother who is feeling low and needs a micro-loan to get her business or school or garden going, will get the help she needs because of me. Much better idea.

More good news:

I have an important addendum to my Important Life messages to K.

K, lastly, if you find someone you loves you just the way you are and you breath easier around them and you feel smart, handsome and insightful in their presence, love them back. Love them often. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

SMV#7: Brave Valentine to the pilots that fly through storms

Brave Valentine #7: To the expert pilots that flew us through a hair-raising storm last night.

Hello team Valentine!

Please forgive the short pause in expressions of affection. I know you are waiting with baited breath for my story about my transformation to finger-wagging Joan Crawford(because he wouldn’t fricken blow his nose! Why don’t they do that? I’m not suggesting he pull out his own fingernails. If they blow their nose, they will feel better and avoid getting an ear infection) and K quietly but pointedly telling me to shut up. It’s coming.

And I need to write a valentine to K’s preschool community for putting on such a fabulous bash in the form of the school auction. Seriously, it was one of best parties in my life as a parent. Embedded in that party valentine is my deep devotion to my new group of parent friends. More on that later too.

And, I have clearance from my friend, Eliza to talk about her recent realization that while she really wants to have sex again, she is afraid. Very afraid. Because the last time she had sex, it ended with her co-parenting with someone whom she does not respect or admire. Now she is yoked for life to someone who is in not her friend.

I KNOW! This is all important and tantalizing.

But today, March 7 2011, my heart belongs to the pilot and copilot who landed our plane in a crazy, bad, windy storm last night. 

Holy Moly, it was scary. I don’t remember the last time I was that scared on a plane. Here’s an important note: I’m not a fearful flyer. I actually like a bit of turbulence, it feels like someone is rocking me.

But this was no 'rockabye, baby' action. No. This was glasses-clinking-then-breaking and “Flight attendants take your seat immediately” shit.

And, this was the first time as a parent that I had a hairy flight so it was all the more heightened. Needless to say, we landed safely. But I did some praying and I pulled out all of my tricks I learned from my meditation class. ALL of them. Sheesh, I was glad to have something to do. Also, I’m grateful to the Backyardigans and to John Williams(again) who kept K engaged and laughing while I was contemplating the Void.

While staring down the barrel of my mortality, I realized this might be my last chance to deliver my ‘mission statement’ as it were, to K. If I’m going to die, what do I need to tell him?  Here’s what I came up with:

Side note: Nose blowing is NOT a Grand Scheme item, so we can both let that go.

First, K, you are so clever, and inquisitive and exquisite, for that matter. Because of all of this, you can do ANYTHING. Truly, you can do anything you want with your life. All you need is a clear vision of what you want to do and discipline to implement your dreams. Dream specifically, dream often, dream BIG, my love. And then work hard.

You can be as big, as bold, as ground-breaking as you want. You have everything it takes. (No one ever told me that. I had to tell myself and it would have saved time if that message had come from the outside as well as the inside.)

Second, and just as important, no matter what great things you accomplish—and you will do wonderful, life-enhancing work-- keep your handsome, giving heart in tact. Because if you don’t practice sharing and compassion, none of your amazing feats will not be any fun or mean much.

Never forget that my times with you have been the best of my life. I am so proud of you.

So. The quick, near-death, life message is done. Can check that off the list.

XOXO again to the fabulous, hard-working pilots.

Single Minded Valentine #6 : collage valentine for K.

Here is  the tangible valentine I made for K for 2011.

The message that goes with is this:

"Amid all the clamor and noise,

 amid all the oaty and blueberries, and music

and lazy mornings and 'up and out' days, amid 

all the adventures, ideas and animals,

amid Captain Rex, Kit Fisto, Luminara, Obi Wan, Ahsoka and Yoda,

amid all the mountains and storms in our life,  

my love for you is the calm, still center

of everything.

 So, yes, that was a lot of sweetness and light. And all very true. You might need to brush your teeth. Ah, the eye-rolling torpor of joy.

But, just as night follows day...

 Never fear my grumpy, reality-bound friends, because tomorrow's valentine, "The Difficult Valentine," features profanity from the child and a Joan Crawford impersonation by me( without any physical abuse.) taking place from 1:30am to 4am in our apartment because someone had the sniffles and would not blow his nose.( and believed that blowing his nose or using saline was on par with water-boarding and screamed bloody murder. A power struggle extraordinaire!  And then the crazy, careening, sleepy days that followed.

Stay tuned.

Everyone sleep well. 

SMV #5 Art that makes you swoon.

Single-Minded Valentine #5: Inspiration again

Michael Cunningham and Robbinschilds

“Peter, however, has other feelings. He believes that a real work of art can be owned but should not be subject to capture; that it should radiate such authority, such bizarre but confident beauty (or unbeauty) that it can’t be undone by even the most ludicrous sofa or side tables. A real work of art should rule the room…”

   Michael Cunningham, By Nightfall p.153

This morning while ardently shaking the book, By Nightfall, I said: “You are a genius. You are a very good writer! Thank you so much!” and I kissed the book. I basically kissed Michael Cunningham out of gratitude for providing such a lovely story in such a gorgeous bouquet of words.

Goodness me! I feel lucky. Lucky to get to have not one but two inspirational and revivifying encounters with true art this week.

(It does helps that I have had two days to sleep in and went for a run/walk on the beach. I cannot tell a lie. The art is more beautiful when I am rested.)

I’m still swooning over that MoMA performance by Robbinschilds and Kinsky on Thursday.  I want to tell you about all my favorite parts( wrestling in the galleries with a rainbow fabric monster over their heads; moving in red through the cavernous atrium while in huge projections on the walls, they are moving through a dessert landscape wearing red; a classical dance duet in front of projections of smashed cars while the bass player pulls a violin bow across her guitar strings…and much more)

But I’m teaching an extended class in my (very messy) house in less than two hours. I’m still in my PJs. So, unfortunately, I can’t sit on my sun-drenched, quiet, blue couch and moon over glorious, well-crafted art and writing.

Today in class I need to help my three middle school girls create characters that will eventually be in an original play. I think it will be distracting if K’s star wars drawings and dirty laundry are sprawled all over the living room floor. I did have the most earnest intentions to install the new printer and clean the crazy corner, instead of just hiding the crazy corner piles. So don’t tell.

And, OK, you don’t have to SAY it! I KNOW that strong artists like Michael Cunningham and Robbinschilds, do not take as long to clean their crazy corners.

Because not cleaning the crazy corners in your house will hold you back as an artist.

I know that.

Yes, I DO want to make sparkling art like them.

I will clean that crazy corner of mine. Really clean it.

Thank you, dear Sonya, Layla and Michael for giving me the strength and the drive to clean my closets(they are super crazy) and the crazy corner near my bed and get off the proverbial couch and make/write something engaging and surprising.

All my love,

Darcy

#4 Sweet Single Minded Valentine

(Retro Note: K is now nearly 5. I started this this ‘sweet’ valentine four years ago. Still very valid.)

Dating as a single mom.

Hmm.

It’s actually a ridiculous idea. 

I’m bemused by the people who insist that single parents should date.  My son is 11 months old and not a fabulous sleeper.

So. When I have a babysitter and manage to take a shower and am rested enough to spend time away from home. I do NOT want to talk to a STRANGER and field questions about the nature of my relationship with the child's father. Yuck, yuck, yickety, yuck!  I’ve been out on one date and the guy lost me with the question: So what’s the story with the father?

Answer: Well, the story is extensive and at this point I don’t really want to go into it.

Then, his mistake: “Well, anything could happen…I mean you could fall back in love with him.”

And…scene. We’re done.

Because, No. No. A million times no. And the long and involved explanation as to why that will never happen is not something I want to elucidate on my time off. It is the least fun, the least interesting and the least inspiring part of my life.

It’s about as riveting as talking about how you do sit-ups.

At that point my Strawberry French toast became the focus of my outing. It was divine

the French toast.

The blind date? Over-rated.

Besides, I don’t need to date.

I have started a relationship with three old friends:

Butter and Sugar and chocolate.

Valentine #3: to Inspirational people and events...

I went to an amazing performance tonight at the SF MoMA. Even better it was my friend performing!

They are RobbinsChilde. They performed with a band called Kinsky.

Look at these brilliant people:
http://www.robbinschilds.com/welcome.php

They are what should be happening in contemporary art!


They will help me get off the proverbial coach and get to work.

They get my third Valentine. They are my heros.

More later; must sleep now and dream beautiful dreams supplied by the images, moves and music from tonight.

My Sleepy Valentines: Love to my sleep deprived peeps(#2)

Valentine #2: Love and Rest for the sleep deprived all over the world.

No one tells you, do they? No one tells you how strange and difficult it is to be sleep deprived for very long periods of time.

I know, for instance, you, dear ones, who are beyond extreme fagitue—or fatigue for the rested- that you will not be able to read or take in much more than a few sentences.

So I send you lvoe. I will ty and expatriate wat to doo when you can’t remember why…you were online/readig this or still awak.

When you are so exhausted that you:

a) crack an egg on a cutting board instead of into a frying pan;

b) run out of gas on a very long bridge with no breakdown lane. IN A PRIUS…

c) Dial a number and forget who and why you are calling and have to make idle banter to buy time and solve the mystery;

D) Wake up and realize you are in your closet, rummaging around in your socks. In the dark.

  

The biggest gift I can gift you now is this:

(Step 1) IGNORE the horrid, mean voices that come into your head that say you are lame, lazy, a slob, a bad mother/father, a crappy artist/writer/cook/driver, that you deserve all the craziness, that you will fail and everyone will roll their eyes and say they told you.

IGNORE THESE VOICES. IGNORE, IGNORE, IGNORE!

These sleepless demons are not real and they are not your voice but some other jealous, toxic voices that gathered stream while you were not able to get the REM sleep.

Then, (Step 2) BE KIND TO YOURSELF. You can have a conversation with yourself about writing, cooking, driving, organizing when you have 10 hours of consecutive sleep under your belt. But right now, do whatever you need to do: cancel dates, make a date, order in, eat whatever is there, call for help, take a nap with your child(even if it’s not there naptime).

Repeat steps 1 and 2, as needed.

When you have had a nap, make a list of what you have done when you are EE(extremely Exhausted). Please share if you so desire.

And know that The Single Parent Company is with you 100%.

Valentine # 1 to The Symphony, John Williams and George Lucas and to K.

2/22/11

Valentine # 1: To the Symphony, John Williams and George Lucas.

     If you had told me ten years ago, twenty years ago, even thirty years ago, that one of the best, most moving valentines was going to be listening to the Star Wars theme song played live, I would have thought you were high.

     But, here’s what happened( try to suspend judgment):this time last year K was bitten by the Star Wars bug. Then it was as if he had never known or cared for anything else; his numerous firetrucks, no interest. His fire-fighting turnout gear that he wore to everything, including his pirate-themed birthday party, was gathering dust in a corner. All the construction trucks, shovels, and piles of rocks were untouched and forgotten. He only had eyes for Star Wars.  The head of his school said it is social currency, which helped me understand.

   So for a year we have lived, breathed, ate and talked Star Wars. When the questions got too rarefied( “Who is Yoda’s mother?” “What happened when a light saber breaks?”), I have to text my brother on the other side of the country for answers. And, I must say, I have learned a great deal. As has K! Truth to tell, I truly enjoy our light saber duels as the sun sets and our blades glow in the dark and the discussions about good and evil. K’s favorite thing is for us to basically do puppet shows of the Star Wars/Clone Wars narratives that are on his mind: the Rotta kidnapping, ( my addition) his mother coming to bring him home;Ahsoka’s reaction when she finds out Anakin  has gone to the dark side; Ewok battle; Endor speeder chase; anything with AT- ATs. To my joy and surprise,  Star Wars has motivated K to draw! He draws battles and all the characters. He just this evening draw a kick ass Millennium Falcon!

     Cut to a month ago when there was a sale at the symphony for the family program and the finale piece was, you guessed it, “Star Wars”. The symphony education department sent us a CD of the musical program along with workbooks about the symphony instruments and biographies of the composers. Thanks to this gift, K fell in love with “Night on Bald Mountain” by Mussorgsky.  

      Then on February 12^th we are at the symphony, both in our party clothes and very excited! As we are going up the stairs in the symphony hall, I find I have a huge lump in my throat. A joyful lump: I am going to the symphony. I’m walking up the stairs, hand in hand with my son. I have a son! Here he is excited to be going with me to a performance. And, for me—the good story whore that I am-going to a good performance is modern-day, real magic. So taking him to his first symphony performance it is a milestone and heaven. I pull it together because even though he is four, I know he is old enough to be mortified by me crying in public.

We find our seats and look down at all the instruments and the music starts! We are both mesmerized! When they play “Night on Bald Mountain” everything fades away( even the 18 month old whining and wandering in front of us,)  and K and I are both swaying and conducting to the music. He is sitting on my lap and I give him a kiss and tell him I love him. He reciprocates and presses his cheek against mine.  

That’s when the Star Wars music starts up. Hearing the music, there is a montage in my head and heart of K and me and Star Wars: We are discussing Luke and Darth Vader and why he goes over to the dark side; we are reading about the different droids; we are dueling with light-sabers with the soundtrack playing; K is telling me about the Squeak, the Jedi mouse; we are playing Star Wars stories with Rotta, Leia, Ahsoka, Lt D-2, C-3PO, Obi Wan, Mace Windu and Luke; we are building Rebel bases, we are spending days building a lego droid armored assault tank. We are doing all this together. And with this swelling, positive, empowering, John Williams music playing live in front of us, I can’t stop crying. My life is perfect. There is no way possible I could be more happy than this moment. 

Thank you, George Lucas. Thank you, John Williams. Thank you San Francisco Symphony and the Education department.

And thank you, dearest lovebug, K, for the best Valentine’s Day of my life.

A year of Single Minded Valentines!

Single-minded love for a year.

I love Valentines Day. And who deserves well-crafted, witty, love tokens more than single parents?

Plus, when I make valentines, and think about who I love, and why I adore  them, and what they have endured or invented or written, I feel better.  I feel proud and excited that we are in the same world. And, in some strange way, I feel more loved, more celebrated.

Boomerang goodwill.

OK. Forgive me. We are wading in a swampy schlock fest. 

Sometimes, joy is so utterly dull. 

And that's not why I am doing this. 

I am sending out these valentines because it is a survival technique.  Did you hear me?

These valentines, yours and mine, will help you stay alive and stay sane.

It's a way to feed yourself when there is nothing left in your spiritual and mental frig.

Making valentines is like eating all local produce and grass-fed beef cooked by Thomas Keller. (He’s on my valentine list) .

So. Here’s the plan:

I am going to commit to a year of Valentines.

Hopefully this will prompt you to think about your valentines

And, yes, it is seven days beyond February 14. I am starting today. I am a tad late.

Because, listen:

When you work at the Single Parent Company, you don’t give up. You do not beat yourself senseless when you can’t quite pull your act together for the EXACT start day that you had planned.( Case in point, 2/14/11)

At SPC surprising things come up that must be dealt with. We are short-staffed.  Surprise! Our lovely little cherubs are up at 4:45am because 

(a) they are just too excited about the lego X-wing that they built the night before; 

(b) they are learning to walk/talk/climb/swim/read and/or they need to know what 40 and 11 make; 

(c) they are nervous about the sleepover at the other parent’s this weekend where the much older neighbor has been teasing them;

(d)they have to know if male and female humpback whales sing the same songs; 

(e) they are coughing like a barking seal, with fever and runny green-snot nose; 

(f) they had a nightmare that Darth Vador is coming through their mattress and even when you get them laughing by picturing Darth Vador doing the dishes, they will not go back to sleep. And, of course, neither will you. That means the rest of the day will feel like you are underwater. Or in the first scene of “The Hangover” and the only way to find your keys is to pray, sing an Eric Bibb song quietly to yourself, and try not to cry.

Thus, we start our year of Single-minded Valentines today! 2/20/11. Actually, the numbers “2/20/11” have a lucky ring to them, don't they?

 I declare February 20^th Single Valentines Day!

Here is my (part of) my list of people/places/ideas I will send a valentine to:

-The San Francisco Symphony and their family program; John Williams and George Lucas and my dearest boy, K.

-To all of the hard working(and sleep-deprived) parents and to their kids.

-My son, K(he will probably get more than one)

-Julia Child

-Alex Prud’homme

-Eric Bibb

-The film-makers of “The Fighter” and “The King’s Speech”

-Dan Savage and the "It Gets Better Project"

-Point Reyes

-Earnest Shackleton

-Preschool Teachers and specifically, K’s teachers at school

-Wild Salmon both those that make it home to spawn and those that die trying.

-The cast and crew of Friday Night Lights

-Michael Cunningham( author of “By Nightfall” and “the Hours”)

-President Obama

-Charming Girl and her coterie

-Thomas Keller

-Giotto

-Grumpy pirates, real and imagined

-Tina Fey

-Martin Luther King Jr

-Emma Thompson

-Jane Austen…of course.

Stay tuned.   Tomorrow in Single Minded Valentine #1 we elucidate why the Star Wars music made me sob with joy.

Now it's your turn: Who is on your Valentine List?

À Demain et à vos amours!