Family Meeting
AppleApple took photos. We’ve chosen Thursday evenings as our regular meeting time. Ice cream has been incorporated into the event.
But Kevin and I are not committee people. That’s an understatement. Our impatience with committees knows no bounds. Nevertheless, we’ve named our family meetings: The S-C Family Committee Meeting.
Albus volunteered to be secretary for this last one. This is quite extraordinary, as he greatly dislikes any task that requires writing. He perfected his short-form. We went over the minutes from last week’s meeting, and added some new items to this week’s minutes. I think the children were a bit disappointed by what happens (ie. very little) at the meetings. We introduce a subject, briefly discuss it, then move on to another one. The two older children kept reading and re-reading the minutes. “But we haven’t really DONE Dad’s friend party,” they would say. And we would say, “Well, is there something you’d like to add to what we’ve already talked about?” And they’d say, “No, but we haven’t really DONE it!”
Proposed item for next meeting: figuring out what it would take for any item to be DONE.
Kevin and I are so far mostly chairing the meetings ourselves, though I can actually imagine one of the older children taking over down the road. We are not using a “talking stick,” or other very formal organizational devices, but already found the children more responsive to the phrase: “Let’s let [insert sibling’s name] take a turn to talk, and then you can have your turn.” It’s definitely been a fun addition to the week. So far, everyone seems to look forward to it.
My most difficult task is clearing time and space for the meeting. There can be no multi-tasking. I can’t be doing the dishes or making tomorrow’s lunches while participating in the meeting. But we can all eat ice cream.
We Got Silkworm Spinning / We Got Birthday Singing …
Want to write, if hurriedly, about our party last night to celebrate Kevin’s fortieth birthday–his “friend party,” as we explained to the kids, who had their own ideas about who should be invited (ie. their friends). It wasn’t till the kids were in bed that the party really started for me–the eddying and flowing, whirling and skirling of shallow waters and deeps that makes for a really fine gathering. I took no photographs. Not one. It felt like the camera would remove me from what was happening, and I really just wanted to sink right in and enjoy.
Highlights include the late-night tidying insisted upon by the Three Vodkateers (ever may they outwit, outplay, and outlast).
I also cannot fail to mention Ryan’s can of conversational magic, aka edible silkworm pupa, which guests braver than I threw back and managed to keep down (Survivor comes to Uptown; no prizes for this one, but aren’t you glad to be alive?); there were few takers for seconds. The children put the leftovers into jars this morning and by evening I’d collected and spun our first silk scarf, which seems entirely improbable, nay, downright incredible, given the infamously finicky nature of the silkworm and that the little slugs had been marinating, potentially for months, in monosodium glutomate. Guess we just got lucky. Ryan, that was a well-invested $1.50.
But seriously. The best moment of the evening? A full house singing lyrics especially written for Kevin’s birthday by Chris L., with Sean on wailing acoustic guitar. Was I dry of eye? I was not. Later, a friend told me that they’d been mulling what to get Kevin for his birthday, and suddenly someone said: We shouldn’t get him something–we should DO something! Thus, the surprise song. A better gift for a man of action, there could not be. Thanks to everyone.
And suddenly it was three thirty in the morning, and the house was quiet. And then it was seven, and the house was not.
The Joys of the Neighbourhood Playgroup
An ode to my playgroup … click here.
CJ in the House, Woot Woot
Man, I love this kid. He’s a clown. He’s a peacock. He found this hat (Kevin’s) and put it on himself. He’s got the swagger, the moves, the drama. He’s a talker, too. Loves making up words, trying out words, putting words together. Reading me stories from books. Loves an audience. Sometimes, these days, I’m all he’s got.
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Tonight I made it to yoga class. Finally. It had been a week and one day since the last class. I haven’t had the energy recently to get out at night. I’ve chosen pjs and bed over sweating and exertion. But tonight’s class reminded me–as all the classes do–why it’s worth it to go. Because it damn near kills me, sometimes, and those times turn out to be the best. Tonight I was able to manage the physical distress as long as I continued with the poses; I’m finding it more natural for my mind to enter a space where it can cope calmly and concentrate. But when I reached final resting pose, I was fairly certain that I’d pushed myself too hard and had gone too far. Lying still. It felt almost impossible. It took ever fibre of self-control to continue resting there (and for those of you who practice yoga, you know this pose is often the most pleasurable, a place of relief and accomplishment and general good vibes). I was the last person to get up and leave the room, but I stayed till I’d gotten myself back. It took a lot of concentrated breathing. I also kept repeating a mantra given to me by my kundalini teacher and friend, Kasia.
And as I walked out of the room, I realized that I was GRINNING. I felt amazing. Not at all like throwing up. Fabulous. Beyond fabulous.
Very trippy.
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The yoga practice works as a metaphor, for me. It is like going on a journey, in miniature. A difficult journey. There are moments when you think you cannot endure. You want to give up. You get past that moment, and you’re confronted by another. And another. But if you keep going and stay focussed on something clear and necessary–your own breath entering and exiting your body–you discover reserves of courage and strength. You get beyond. To somewhere you couldn’t have imagined when you started out. To something … not necessarily better, because who’s to judge. Just … to a place that has depth and meaning, and to which you bring the courage that got you there.
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I’d title this entry “Flake Out With Obscure CanLit Mama,” but that doesn’t go with the photos.
And Then He Was …
Kevin had a birthday on Saturday. One of those BIG birthdays that, rumour has it, comes paired with crisis and denial. Thirty-nine again? Not my husband. Here he is the night before, still thirty-nine, and then the next morning, forty. (Since I’ve been doing this before/after documentation for the kids, why not for him? Except please don’t comment to say that he looks older in the morning).
On his birthday, he slept in, ate waffles, watched the Celtics play live on the internet, received a surprise delivery of a birthday gift worthy of the changing of the decades (a new guitar!), was serenaded at a specially prepared birthday concert starring his children, went out for a family sushi lunch, spent the afternoon playing guitar and watching a movie with the kids, and went out for dinner with me.
But the cake had to wait one more day because I hadn’t read the recipe thoroughly enough to discover that it required chilling in the fridge for a minimum of six hours post-baking. (It was a somewhat laborious-to-make New York Cheesecake; my first ever attempt). So we blew out candles (four plus zero) last night instead.
The wish still counts, I’m sure of it.