blueperiod.

costume planning

“Have you thought about your Halloween costume?” I ask Sol.

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“You should decide. Halloween’s soon,” Luna echoes my thoughts. She sits on the floor cutting triangles—destined to be Siberian Husky ears—out of black felt. “Maybe you could be what you were last year,” she says.

“No,” Sol says. “That would be boring.”

Last year he was an unnamed hero in a chainmail shirt and green tunic, with a sword strapped to his back. He claimed he was not Link from The Legend of Zelda and not Aragorn from the The Lord of the Rings, though he regularly pretended to be both of these characters.

~~~~~~~~~~

The requisite trick-or-treat banter was a bit tedious for the first few houses. The candy-givers did their best to puzzle out his costume. “Robin Hood? No. A knight? No. A Prince? No....”

The candy-taker stood there staring, letting them go on guessing with no apparent intention to clarify the issue. It wasn’t done in a “You’re an idiot, and I won’t dignify your stupidity with a response” kind of way. It was more like “I’m not exactly sure how to answer that question, so I just won’t say anything.”

At one point we took him aside and suggested he consider a backstory for his character, or even a name, just so he could politely put an end to people’s guessing. He considered this a moment, then shrugged and continued on, his younger sister, an adorable, blatantly obvious pink pig, beside him.

A few houses later we were met by an elderly couple beaming with the glow of vicarious Halloween fun. Or maybe it was the glow of one too many snack-size chocolate bars.

“And what is this? I see a cute little pig, and...let’s see...Robin Hood?”

Sol held his bag out in front of him. “I’m a soldier who’s left the Queen’s army and gone off on his own to be a ranger.”

Stunned silence all around. Confused looks exchanged.

“Well, how about that?” the man finally said. “A soldier. Here’s some candy for you.”

Sol started to correct the man but was pushed aside by a ninja, a princess, and a firefighter. “Thanks,” he said, and moved on to the next house.

~~~~~~~

Luna hands me the black triangles. “Maybe you could be a Bionicle,” she says.

“How could I?” Sol asks. “I’d have to drill holes all over my body.”

“Yeah,” she concurrs.

“Do I have to dress up?” Sol asks.

“If you want to go trick-or-treating you do.” I say. I survey an old gray t-shirt.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because it’s a give and take—an exchange,” I say, cutting away the extra fabric. “You dress-up; strangers give you candy.”

“Then I’ll go like this,” he says, smiling. “I’ll say, I’m just another kid, consuming resources and using technology, who will eventually destroy the planet for all future generations.”

I look at him, and oddly enough, in jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, holding a plastic bio-mechanical figure newly won on e-bay, he looks as much in costume as he ever has.

things i didn't want to hear today

"Mama, what's for breakfast?"

"My armpits have kind of an odor. I'm starting to smell like Mama."

"Mama, what's for lunch?"

"Actually, Mama, I just remembered I don't like zucchini."

"Mama, why is the tube of toothpaste in the toilet?"

"Mama, what's for dinner?"

peaches

We went peach-picking a couple of weeks ago and somehow managed to pick more peaches than I have ever seen in my life. The whole experience awakened something primal in me and I feel this instinctual rush to consume as many peaches as I can before the season is over, and it turns cold, and our fruit choices are reduced to whatever shiny colorful foods make their way across the country, or even farther, to taunt me at my local supermarket.

I don't know if it's just the general trend in our food-obsessed culture or if it is something particular to Philly, but I have never had so many options for eating almost entirely locally. This means that the bulk of our diet is made up of foods that were grown nearby. This is not too difficult a feat when you have a share in a CSA farm that delivers produce right to your neighborhood; or when you can't walk more than a few blocks without coming across a farmer's market any day of the week. And of course, there is Reading Terminal with homemade sauerkraut, homemade soap and everything in between.

We do miss our own backyard garden and the experience of growing our food, but this experience has helped to make us more conscious consumers; a completely invaluable lesson. We talk a lot about where our food comes from, how far it had to travel, how was it grown, and if it comes in a package, what the heck else is in there. Sol is very much into reading labels these days. 

"This says 'Natural' but one of the main ingredients is high fructose corn syrup." My favorite was when he went off on a rant in the cereal aisle at Whole Foods. "They think if they put 'Organic' on the front of the box you'll think it's healthy and buy it, but look at all the sugar in here. That can't be healthy. They are trying to trick you!" The looks I get sometimes from people.

toothfairy talks

Sol lost a tooth last night. We were all so excited. I hope that when I am old and losing my teeth that I can muster the same level of enthusiasm.

After the celebratory high-fives and wonderment at the new hole in his smile, Sol got out his little tooth box and began examining his other teeth. He has kept them all. He decided with that first tooth that he'd rather keep all his teeth than give them away in exchange for cash.

Last night, to my surprise, he said, "This time, I'm going to put my tooth under my pillow."

"Okay," I said nonchalantly.

"Actually, I'm going to put it inside my pillowcase," he said, eyes wide with excitement.

I sensed a plan to try and foil the toothfairy. "Okay," I said, still working on my nonchalant.

"But you can just put the money under my pillow," Sol said.

"Me?"

"Come on," he said. "You don't expect me to believe that some woman with a magic wand goes around taking people's teeth and leaving behind money. Do you?"

"Well," I said, nonchalant clearly not working for me.

"And what about Santa Claus? This guy with a long white beard, big belly, and 'a nose like a cherry' apparently, riding on a sleigh, with hundreds, no billions of gifts? How do you explain that?"

"Um, I guess some people would say, 'Magic.'" I offered lamely because Luna was listening, and I wanted to give my four-year-old the space to believe it if she wanted.

"Magic is imaginary," she piped in, the eye-rolling exasperation clearly audible.

"Um..."

"Anyway, Mama," Sol said, a hint of 'moving-on' in his voice. "When you put the money under my pillow, can you please put my tooth in the box with my others?"

A dollar coin and he gets to keep his tooth. This kid has skills.

rerouted rambler

Okay, so it's been a while since I posted. I know that's nothing new here, but as I did pledge to regularly update my blog, not that long ago, in fact, I feel a little guilty for being away so long. I have been writing, however, so I don't feel too guilty. I just finished up something for this story competition—not that I'm really competitive or anything. I just drawn to deadlines and due dates.

Before that I was working on a short story. Yes, the dreaded short story. You were once my Achilles heel, and now I embrace you wholeheartedly, which gives you a new place to stick your poisoned arrow. We are working out the kinks in this complicated relationship. It helps to listen to the New Yorker Fiction Podcasts, and to spend some time actually reading short stories. I've always been a little "anti" the short story, partly because I hadn't read many that were any good; largely because I couldn't write any that were even decent. (I ramble and have completion issues.) I'm slowly coming around.

I'm actually pretty pleased with my recent output, especially considering the many changes in my life. We moved on April 15th to... No, not New York, not Jersey, not anywhere that follows any line of reasoning. We moved to Philadelphia. It made perfect sense at the time, and despite the occasional bouts of "What were we thinking?!?" we stand by our insane decision. So far, so good. I love how walkable this place is; how easy it is to live without a car. And after living in New York for a bit, I greatly appreciate how manageable this city feels. We're digging it.

Luna seems to be totally in her element. The energy of the city suits my aquarian child. She's ready to go every morning; up for the newest adventure or discovery. Sometimes I find her sitting at my bedroom window with the blinds pulled all the way up. She tells me, "I want to see the whole city. I like the way it looks."

Sol is adjusting pretty well. He was initially very put off by the idea of living in a city. I think his exact words were, "I could never live in the hustle and bustle of a city." He now says he likes city-life, but he misses our old house; his secret hide-out behind the hedges on the side yard. He really misses his friends, too. That's been the hardest part for all of us—leaving our circle of friends, our unschooling community.

I think it's being in-between real-world communities that inspires me to rejoin the virtual communities of writers, mamas, and unschooolers. We are still unschooling, and getting better at everyday. Actually, Sol and Luna are naturals; I'm the one who has to work at it.

"As long as I don't have to move, I could pretty much do anything."

Sol was sick in bed with the stomach flu this week, and it might sound horrible, but I've revealed far worse about myself here, so I'll just come right out and say it: I kind of liked it. It's not that I took pleasure in his discomfort, or enjoyed cleaning vomit off the bathroom wall. Those parts of it were sad and disgusting. No, what I liked was his stillness; the part of him that I hardly ever see anymore. He's always so busy, running somewhere, bouncing around, flinging his body from one end of an enclosed space to the next. Even when he isn't actually moving his mind and his mouth are speeding off on a train of thought that carries him out of earshot of my voice.

While confined to his bed, Sol preferred the sound of my voice to anything else. He let me cuddle up next to him and wrap him in my arms like I could when he was smaller and didn't have so many other more interesting places to go. For the past couple of years he's needed his daddy more than he has me, so it was like a little gift when he sent Adam away Tuesday night and called for me. He's feeling better now, and making his way back to busy again, but I caught a glimpse of that stillness, that baby boy I sometimes miss. Now the trick is learning to recognize him, stomach flu or no.

colorful characters

We've been reading more comics around here lately. For me, it started with an urgency to get that first book of the year under my belt. For Sol, I think it's that after months of reading way above his “grade level” (a phrase that doesn’t really apply to us, but is kind of a lazy way to get at the point), he’s naturally gravitating to some lighter stuff. And by lighter I mean Calvin and Hobbes,  Peanuts collections, and the Bone series. I’m familiar enough with comics to know that heavy on the pictures doesn’t necessarily mean light on the story. I just finished reading Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood, and was really amazed by the power of its simplicity.

This is similar to how I feel when Luna shows me her drawings. She does page after page of renderings of the people in her life. They are most always just faces, but with such detail and such emotion that they almost speak to me. She has recently been concerned with capturing the lines in the brow—some faces have more lines than others, and the shape of the lines can change with fluctuations in facial expression. She pays close attention to this. I wonder about the stories she is creating about her life, about herself, in these pictures. What does she make of this world?

Speaking of comics, and specifically Peanuts collections, I appreciated the post, "My First Lesson in Being Black" on Aunt Jemima’s Revenge. Professor Tracey writes about her identification with Peppermint Patty as a kid, and the fact that it never occurred to her that the character was white, and therefore somehow different from her, until she was criticized for “fixing” Patty’s skin tone in a drawing.

This really spoke to me because my son has spent almost half his life identifying with a character that could only really look like him with the help of Photoshop. Actually it would be more accurate to say that Sol believes he is Link from the Legend of Zelda Nintendo game series. He doesn’t just play the game, he lives it. In fact, he has spent more time being Link than he has playing Link. There is something about a young boy fated to save  the world from evil forces that appeals to my young boy with a highly-attuned sense of justice. He’s a boy hero; a hero with a cool costume, a sword, and a shield.

So, what if the fair-skinned, blonde-haired, often-times-blue-eyed boy looks nothing like my bronze-toned, dark-haired, deeply-brown-eyed son? Does this even register for him? And if so, how does he feel about it? I haven’t figured out how to ask him these things without risking disrupting his play world. And maybe that’s the key: he’s playing, and as long as no one is telling him there is something wrong with the picture he is painting in his head, then it doesn’t matter what colors he chooses.

I have a friend who regularly shaded in the skin tone of the  princesses that adorned her daughter’s clothes, books, and even shoes during a particularly avid Disney Princesses phase. I can’t help wondering what Link would look like if I “fixed” him just a little. I also can't help wondering why Link doesn’t look a little more like his creator Shigeru Miyamoto? It wouldn’t solve all my problems if he did, but it might help a little.

This morning while I was perusing Goodreads, as I often do these days, Sol came up and began reading over my shoulder, as he often does these days, and exclaimed, “F. Scott Fitzgerald?!”

“Yeah,” I said. “You heard of him?”

“Well, his wife Zelda inspired the character 'Princess Zelda,'” he said.

“What?" I asked disbelievingly. "Are you sure? Is that true?”

“Of course it’s true. I read it on Wikipedia,” he said. “Anyway, why are you reading about the man that was married to the woman that inspired a character in my video game?”

“Well, first of all,” I said, “everything on Wikipedia is not necessarily true. And secondly, F. Scott Fitzgerald is pretty famous on his own. He wrote some really good books.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, eyeing me skeptically before walking away.

Conceptual Costumes and Caffeine

Definitely my best Halloween costume year. When Luna informed me that she wanted to be a baby panda for Halloween I thought, "Oh, easy." I'm not sure why that was the immediate response that came to mind because I had no idea how I would do it, but it turned out to be true. A half a yard of white fleece, some velcro, a pair of black leggings and a black t-shirt later, and voila—Baby Panda!

Of course, then came, "So, Mama, what will you be?"

"Um, I'll just be Mama this year."

"Or you could be Mama Panda."

So, I threw one of Adam's white tanks over a black shirt and pants, glue-gunned black semi-circles on a strip of white fleece, black lipstick on the nose, white eyeshadow on the cheeks and voila—Mama Panda!

Pretty impressive, if I do say so myself. We even carried bamboo with us while trick-or-treating.

Poor Sol was home with a fever, so he never got to wear the amazing Link costume I made—green tunic, hat and everything. He was going to carry the Hylian Shield that he made himself—from scratch! (I can't get this kid interested in arts and crafts unless I work some Legend of Zelda angle into it.)

All in all, a fun Halloween. I got to be super-crafty (and super-cute), Luna got to go trick-or-treating with her cousins and Papa, and Sol got to stay home and watch The Nightmare Before Christmas with Adam and have his treats delivered to him!

Now, I am in the throes of NANOWRIMO and for the first time ever, dare I say it and jinx myself, on track for reaching that 50,000 word-count goal by November 30. Right now I'm feeling so good I don't even mind turning 33. Or maybe that's the caffeine talking.

"Dolly Llama"

On our way out the door yesterday Luna asked, "Do I have a lama I can bring?" We were heading into D.C. to witness the presentation of the Congressional Gold Medal to the Dalai Lama. I was slightly distracted, packing snacks, tying shoes and trying to remember the water bottles cooling in the fridge.  "What, honey?"

"A little llama I can bring," she said, and that time I could hear the extra "L." She likes to bring a toy along when we travel, usually a small animal. Of course, she would want to bring a llama with her to see the Dalai Lama. The night before she had been completely riveted by Demi's book, The Dalai Lama, and I had a sense that she was a little excited about this particular trip into the city.

It was hotter than I thought it would be, but a little less crowded on the lawn of the Capitol. We easily made our way through the crowd of college students, monks draped in red and gold, families with small children, people waving Tibetan flags, women and young girls dressed in beautiful, glittering gowns.  Snippets of conversations spoken in various languages, with various accents, slipped past my ears as we walked. We found a spot of grass, unfortunately not in the shade, but with a decent view of the mega screen broadcasting the presentation inside the building.

His speech was not easy to follow, what with the helicopter traffic, Sol and Luna asking for snacks, and the Dalai Lama, as he joked, choosing that particular moment to practice his English. He is a very funny man. I think I caught the gist of it, at least the parts that were meant for me. There was a moment when I felt the urge to open myself up to the infinite stores of love and compassion, the ones I just recently discovered, and to connect with the people standing around me. I opened up, and a flood of tears and emotion spilled out of me. Then I quickly closed again, startled by the intensity, by the ease of it.

I wonder if I would have been so quick to guard myself if I'd been there without the children. A mother must always be vigilant, and it's hard to be vigilant when you are emotionally naked on the lawn of the capitol in a crowd of thousands. I am glad I brought them. I'm glad I got to share it with them, and whatever they took from the experience, they get to keep.

I think the music and dancing, and all the positive, hopeful energy will stand out in their memory over the heat and afternoon tiredness. I will remember Luna pointing to a Monk and saying, "Is it just me, or is he a Buddha?" I will remember Sol remarking at the very end, "Would you believe by looking at his face that this man has been through so much?" I will remember feeling in awe of that beautiful,  most genuine of smiles.

Afterwards, we met Adam on the mall and headed for the Solar Decathlon to check out the amazing designs. Could it actually be possible to live in a house like this? Some people dream of living in mansions, but we dream of living in one of these. (Everyday I am reminded of how lucky we are to have found each other— two freaks in love with the idea of gardening on the walls!)

We stopped off at the Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden per Sol's request. We wandered a bit, talking about different sculptures and how they came to be. Mostly we discussed whether their names fit them properly. A few favorites were The Great Warrior of Montauban, Seated Yucatan Woman, and  the "Burghers of Calais," which Sol aptly renamed, "Monks Walking in a Circle." And what a circle.

there is little sleep at sleep-away camp

When I was a kid I dreamed of going to sleep-away camp. That's where it all happened. Whatever monumental (or even somewhat meaningful) thing that was going to happen to you in your young life required a backdrop of  campfire sing-alongs, compulsory activities, demonstrations of athletic inferiority, and matching shirts. There seemed to be little to do with actual sleep.

I resigned myself to the fact that I would never experience such wonders. For one, it was financially and logistically impossible for my family. For another, it was hard enough for me to make it through the occasional sleep-over without becoming unbearably homesick. The reality of sleep-away camp was not for me, but the idea of it was so powerful that twenty years later I packed up my family and headed us off to the Catoctin Mountains. Four days of homeschool family sleep-away camp.

Adam called it Bike and Scooter World because with sixty children and paved paths winding through the dormitories and common spaces of the large camp, what else would it be? I like to think of it as My Flirtation with Communal Living. We shared responsibilities like cooking and cleaning. We ate together. We looked after each other's children. There were no matching shirts, no compulsory activities, and even the campfire sing-along got rained out on the last night, but the reality of sleep-away camp was better than the idea.

The food was better than I'd expected, too. Some people seemed to view their cooking night as a chance to flex their culinary muscles. The dishes were mostly vegetarian and some vegan. Our contributions, chosen for their ease of preparation and transportability, were embarrassing. The baked sweet potatoes and homegrown salad were too basic next to the vichyssoise. The vegetarian chili, which was hearty and flavorful at home on Saturday, was watery and slightly charred after defrosting and reheating on Wednesday. We like to think ourselves quite capable in the kitchen. We do not like to serve boring or unappetizing food. We avoided eye contact with anyone in the kitchen that evening.

The setting was lovely— green, tranquil (when there wasn't a kid flying past you on a scooter), with open spaces and secluded nooks. The weather was mild and fairly cooperative, except for two rainy nights and a brief hailstorm. And for those times when scooting, biking, and wandering unburdened by adult anxieties, got to be old—which was never for my children— there were scheduled activities. Some of the most memorable offerings were: sushi-rolling, rock-painting, friendship bracelet knotting, hiking, yoga, and the ever-popular "Capture the Flag."

There were some bumps and bruises, literal and figurative. Sol wiped out on his bike attempting a stunt on a course the children dubbed "The Devil's Pass." Luna disappeared for about ten minutes on the last day. We found her, after searching the entire camp, waiting in the van with her doppleganger. Adam deserted us for a wi-fi connection at a McDonald's in town so he could follow Steve Jobs's keynote address. It was our first day at camp, and I was a bit overwhelmed. And annoyed. My personal hurdle was shaking the feeling that I was someone's blind-date for a family reunion. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. They were all part of the same homeschooling group or had been participating in this camp for years. It's hard to keep that kind of intimacy from too-closely resembling exclusivity, but there was very little of that. In fact, I can't say when I've been around a more welcoming group of people.

There was the added bonus of being the only black girl at the party, which is not a new experience for me, but each time a surprise. (I am relearning my balancing techniques as I familiarize myself with the homeschooling communities around here. We belong to one support group for black families and one unschooling group that does not specify, but seems to attract mostly white families.) There is a homeschool family camp in August sponsored by African American Unschooling. I'm still exhausted from the last camp but am seriously considering it.

One of the great bonuses of "learning all the time" is that we are free to wander as far and as frequently as we choose. Sol said, "We homeschool, but we are hardly ever at home." This is true. Another recently uncovered truth: there is little sleep at sleep-away camp.