Areas of Expertise

Things that we've learned from our resident potter:

Clay comes in slabs. You can cut the slabs into smaller pieces with an Xacto knife.

Slip is the mud made from water and left over pieces of clay. Slip is used to stick sections of a piece together (i.e. you would use it to attach wings to the body of a dragon -- like glue).

You cannot have any glaze on the bottom of your piece, or else it will stick to the shelf in the kiln when it is fired -- thus, all pottery pieces have unfinished looking bottoms.

When you cut a hole into a piece you must smooth the edges very well with a wooden tool, or else those raw edges will become very sharp when fired.

To make a cup you form a ball, and then push your hands into the center to make a well, you then put both thumbs in the well and push the space bigger and bigger. Eventually, you begin pinching and forming the sides.

To make a bowl usually a mold is used. You cut strips and push them into the mold and then use coils to make the rim. You then smooth it all into one piece using your hands and a damp sponge. 

Most things (like a dog made out of pottery) are hollow -- this is so it can fire right.

There are usually two firings -- the first one, and then a second one after glaze is applied. 

The Girl is completely in her element at the pottery studio. When we arrive to pick her up, and I peek in at her, I find in her face that perfect mixture of concentration and peace. 

Today she brought home her first pieces -- a cup and a luminary (kind of a tube that we are to put a candle in).

I write this from DC. We drove here this evening -- the plan was for The Sister to see the cherry blossoms. This weekend was the projected peak blossom-peeping, but then the cold snap happened (it didn't feel like a "snap" to me... more like an ongoing torturous twisting...), so it has been pushed back a few days. Hopefully there will be some early bloomers...

The most interesting conversation that I heard from the backseat was:

"Hey [Judd the Red Chicken]! I think that I just saw Big Foot. Have you ever seen Big Foot?" The Girl 

"Yes, I'm pretty sure that I saw Big Foot when I was your age." The Boy

"How many are there?" The Girl -- kowtowing to his vast Big Foot knowledge.

"There are approximately the same amount as there are... giraffes." The Boy

Seriously, sometimes I'm like: really? the strongest sperm out of 180 million?

Signage

What does this sign mean? 

I don't mean the text: we know what that means -- last year we heard from a friend about the hummingbird, we went to find it, found a hardcore birder (complete with enormous wool socks) staking out the location on the North side of the natural history museum, asked the warm-footed birder if the hummingbird had been spotted -- it had. With some guidance the kids and I were able to see this natural phenomenon -- a tiny flutter that apparently stopped over during the fall migration and decided to stay through the winter. As the birder predicted, once Spring officially came the bird left -- presumably because while the urge to migrate can be quelled, the urge to procreate is much harder to resist. 

But all that is neither here nor there. What does the existence of the sign mean? Why did somebody handwrite it and tie it with twine to the museum's fence a year after the event? Today we were walking past and saw it and we all just stood looking at it. "Oh, yeah, we saw it," said The Boy, referring to the hummingbird. Okay. But WHY is the sign there? I don't mean to harp on this, but I'm so intrigued by what kind of larger picture this might be a part of. Did the exploits of that bird get sucked into the Occupy Wall Street machine? I've never seen them with twine... And not to be picky, but I believe it was a rufous hummingbird (is that dot a tiny "o" -- if so, why was it written like that? Is the "us" supposed to mean something?). My mind is boggled. Did some do-gooder create a rudimentary public-service announcement to  remind his/her fellow humans to let go of conventions and expectations and be like: hey, if that little rufous could winter in NYC, I can certainly sign up for this tap dance class... ???

The Boy had his friend over for a playdate. 

Fortunately, it was a nice-ish day, so The Sister was able to take the wild children to the park while I helped three teenagers/family-friends with research papers. One chose to write on bin Laden, and the other two chose sub-topics relating to WWII. While our discussions on all of the  papers made me realize how easy our lives are, coming to that conclusion by way  of considering how sucktastic other people's lives have been/currently are/will be is acutely depressing. Sometimes thinking too much beyond, or behind, the moment is spirit-sinking. I find it best for my mental health to focus on right now. Right now nobody is terrorizing our home. Right now nobody in the family has a terminal disease. Right now the sun is not imploding. Right now my kid is not fighting in a war. Right now I don't need to wear diapers.

Maybe that's what that little rufous was thinking: right now I see shelter and a food source. Why think too far ahead and continue migrating? And it worked out. She was lucky. A mild winter. An ongoing food source. If she had taken a poll of her friends: "Hey, I'm thinking about hanging out here..." They probably would have told her she was being dense... because a storm could come, the food source might dry up... But now doesn't she have a story to tell? If I were a male rufous I would totally show off for that resourceful, brave little minx.

Undoubtedly I've accurately figured out the thoughts and intentions of a bird that has a brain the size of a period... I still want to know what the intent was behind posting that sign a) at all and b) a year after the fact??? 

I hope it was a nice intent. 

We All Write Poems

Wordsworth's poem:

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. 

Everybody remembers and quotes the first line: "I wandered lonely as a cloud," but that line has never resonated with me like the end: the not knowing at the time what a gift the experience is because in the moment you don't know it will be one of those moments... the kind of moment that comes back to you unexpectedly when doing the dishes or falling asleep... and makes you smile. 

My favorite Pushkin poem has a similar tone:

Oh, I have loved you, and perhaps my spirit
Still harbors a warm glow of love today.
But God forbid that you be burdened with it;
I would not sadden you in any way.
I loved you with a wordless, hopeless fashion,
Sometimes in Jealous rage, sometimes struck dumb,
I loved you with a deep and tender passion.
May you be loved like this in years to come.

(Some translations have that last line as: may God grant that you will be loved like this again). 

When I first read Pushkin's poem the skin on the back of my neck quivered, and I wept. Oh! To weep at poetry! To be a liberal arts graduate student! Now I feel weepy when I'm exhausted and I look down and see how badly the toilets need to be cleaned. 

The poems are bookends for me because of the element of time. Wordsworth: the unexpected small things endure; Pushkin: an event/emotion that seems so enormous and right-now that you can barely wrestle it into submission... will eventually becomes small enough to hold in your palm, enabling you to graciously, and elegantly hand it off...

Poetry. April is National Poetry month. The first April we lived here I walked up the West side of Broadway where a book from one of the sidewalk bookseller's tables had fallen -- pages of poetry were scattered. I looked down and saw that I was walking on poems, and I thought: It's appropriate for April, and the sun suddenly seemed keener. This April we will read and write poems like crazy.

April is still five days out, but today had all the elements for inspiring poetry. As it's Spring break our friends came to us. We went to the park and the children all ran and laughed and sulked and whined and smiled and looked panicked and carried on secret lives even though they were only a few yards away from us at any given moment... And the daffodils are blooming. 

John Fowles (no direct relation) wrote: "We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words." 

What? Does Somebody Have a Monopoly on Nice Weather?

Spring is certainly taking its sweet time. We have decided to make the best of it by getting our little herb garden/greenhouse in order. We have a couple of terrariums that the kids have been waiting to put together, and that motivated us to make the whole greenhouse terrarium-like. We went to Michael's and bought two bags of moss and then raided the plastic animal bin...

Here are the terrariums... 

So these succulents. It was actually pretty funny. When we were at the flower show in Philadelphia I got cornered by these two chipper college students: "Hey, do you want to see some hens and chicks?" they asked. "Do I ever!" I replied and literally ran (bobbing and weaving around people with my arms pinned to my side to make my running less obtrusive, but definitely more awkward) to go and grab The Boy. With him in tow I presented us to the young women while saying to The Boy something like: woo hoo hoo... just wait and see... rubbing my hands together and grinning like Barney Fife. Now. I'm not sure why I thought real hens and chicks would be at a flower show. Obviously looking back at it I should have known that it was a term for a plant... The large ones are the "hens" and the little ones that grow up around the larger ones are the "chicks." I will say that The Boy was a good sport and got properly excited about the succulents. We bought a couple of tubs, and it's a good thing they only need to be watered periodically because they've been sitting under our piano almost forgotten for the past couple of weeks. They now have a proper home with little plastic animals residents. 

The Girl's terrarium has little bunnies.

The Boy got rather irritated with the process of getting things in place only to have something get shifted and have to start over. Eventually he decided to chuck in some rocks and tiny plastic mushrooms on top of his pile of moss, and he declared that it was the ruins of an estate.

But why stop there? Once they got the planting portion of the project done, the spawn were kind of on a high and declared the entire small area in front of the window a Natural History Museum. The hermit crab got relocated, a left-over plastic planet that had been orbiting their room for the past couple of years got strung up, some antlers got pulled out, and posters that were purchased at New York Central Art Supply (for like $3, I think) were taped to the wall. I know that some people thrive in minimalist, clean, open spaces. I think that my kids are more rodent-like. The idea of an empty surface or a bare wall is scandalous.

Today was sleety and windy and gross. Our friend -- the Cookie Queen -- came out in the weather for the kids' second cookie baking session. Again, I am so glad to have friends. She was so cute with them -- finding their antics silly and okay (rather than obnoxious and inefficient). I need examples like her in order to recalibrate myself. Some bunnies were made, as well as ghosts (with green ectoplasm, and the Ghost Busters anti sign made out of red crystal sugar).

While Judd the Red Chicken was at a Math class late this afternoon, The Girl and I made a Spring garland with doilies that we punched out ourselves with our beautiful doily-maker. 

Woodland habitats, germinating seeds, Easter cookies, Spring decorations... We have done all that we can. Spring must come...

My ego certainly can't take staying inside and playing boardgames for too much longer. The Girl beat me so squarely in Monopoly today that it was shameful. After two hours the writing on the wall was clear enough that my seven-year old was like: here, just take these hundred-dollar bills. I explained that I might have had to sell all my properties back to the bank, but I still had my pride... "Then stop saying, 'I used to own this...' when you go past your old properties, it's making me feel bad." Apparently my attempts at humor were coming off as pathetic. That's what this winter has done to me. 

Back In the USSR (Actually, the Basement of the Ukrainian Museum)

The Ukrainian museum is in the East Village (I hopstopped it -- which means that I went to hopstop.com and put in my address and the address of the museum and I was given directions, i.e. what train to take and what stop to get off). Ukraine is a country next to Russia, Belarus, Poland, Slovakia... and some other Eastern European countries. I seriously had to get out the globe when the kids asked me. The whole Soviet Union, USSR, changing-stuff business has just contributed to my already very tenuous grasp on geography.

A homeschooling mom with a connection to the museum set up a class to teach the children about creating Pysanky: eggs that have been decorated in a very specific way using the wax-resist method (cost: $5/kid). 

The trickiest part was having to think things through. They dipped the tool (in this case the head of a nail sticking out of a pencil eraser) into the beeswax and covered/created a design that was to remain white. Then the egg was dipped in yellow dye. Next they covered/made a design in wax that was to stay yellow. The egg was dipped in orange. Again for red, and then finally in the rich black. 

When it was all done the kids wrapped up their eggs in old ice cream pint containers. I love this city. My friend had a grandma that would pull out the most random, ancient items and be like: "Will this work?" Where did those paper containers come from? Some old shelf, some back room. This entire city is a grandma's attic of treasures (except for the parts that have been torn down to build high rises for minimalist millionaires who wouldn't know an awesome egg-carrier if it bit them in the behind).  

Tomorrow we will finish the project. We put them in the oven until the wax becomes shiny, and then we wipe it off.  I can't wait to see them finished.

On our way out of the museum The Boy said, "You know how [The Girl] has her thing -- pottery?" Yep. "Well, making eggs with the wax is my thing. I don't mean to rush into it, but it's definitely my thing." We stopped by the little gift shop and for $4 bought some beeswax disks to melt. We are going to start with regular food-safe dye, and if it still remains his passion we can order the traditional dyes online (approximately $1/packet). 

On the subway ride home The Boy was quizzing us all on what we would say our passions are if somebody asked. It was surprisingly hard to not fall back on old stand-bys, but rather really try to answer the question in a specific, current, and personal way. What activities do make me really happy? One of the things that I said was watching British TV shows. The Girl said, "You can just say that you like the telly," in an awesome almost-British, mostly silly accent. The Sister said, "working out," but we vetoed it for being too boring. We allowed her to keep "wrapping packages" (the gifts that she gives are almost too pretty to open). The sign on the train wall above The Boy's head became our theme as we made a commitment to think about our passions, and find new ones -- it said: "Be more interesting tomorrow than you are today."

The Bathroom No Longer Holds As Much Joy

Oz, Blacky Rogers, Ruby, Mr. Peek Peek (pronounced Peck Peck), Easter, and Magnet Horseshoe Crab have left. (Note: those were their foster names, surely their real names are more dignified). 

The girl sobbed and wholeheartedly declared that she now wants a pet chicken -- instead of a dog. The boy offered a prayer on their departure: he called upon the powers that be to grant them long and happy lives.

I have to admit, I really liked them, too. When The Girl walked by our now empty powder room, and with trembling lips declared that she wouldn't be able to happily use that bathroom again, I had to silently agree that the bathroom seemed to have lost its purpose. When The Dad returned from taking them home he mentioned how quiet it was in our apartment. In short, it was a good run. It's interesting how quickly a living thing (or six living things) can become a part of the family. Yesterday when we were at the store trying to find something for lunch The Boy suggested a chicken product. The Girl gasped and said, "Not in front of the chicks!"

Our friends have graciously invited us up to their home in the country when it gets warmer, so we can see how our little buddies turn out. I'm envisioning a reunion similar to Christian the Lion... but with poultry running to embrace us (we will be prepared with our examination gloves and medical masks). 

As if the impending farewell wasn't enough blarg in one day, the kids also failed a test. Our pediatrician recommended that we go to an allergist up at Columbia and have the children do penicillin challenge tests to see if they really are allergic. Up we trundled to 165th by 9am -- after being stressed for the two months before that one or the other would wake up with a stuffy nose (no mucus or anything else allowed on test day -- we already had to cancel once because The Boy was in the throes of daily nose bleeds). The first part was just a skin scratch test. She said that less than 5% test positive on that one, that it was almost always the second part of the test (the needles under the skin) when the reaction would take place. Well, we were easy customers. Both kiddos were in that skinny 5% and squarely tested allergic. The good news was that we didn't have to spend another couple of hours there, and they didn't have to have ten different bubbles of medicine placed under their skin with long, glinting needles. Obviously, the sucky news is that they are both, indeed, allergic to penicillin. 

Yesterday I snatched some time to meet a friend for scones and tea, and I felt grateful that I did. She has teenagers that are wonderful, so she kind of has that perfect-looking life. But, as she sagely said, it just takes one night of a child being sick to remind you of how quickly things can change. And she candidly shared some challenges that her family has had. At one point she said something like: everybody has a thing... some people have lots of things... we just keep working with what we have to work with.

Taking the subway home from the hospital with my two flunkies, I was keeping the disappointment at bay by kind of musing on this idea of everybody having things. A couple of stops down the line a young woman with profound physical/mental limitations, and her caregiver, boarded our train car. I gave her my seat and stood up in front of my kids and held onto the bar -- thus placing me squarely in front of her as well. Mostly she was rocking back and forth and shouting, but sometimes the conversation would become more muted. She kept saying, "I am." And her caregiver consistently kept asking her to continue ("I am what?"). The young woman would shake her head -- no, the caregiver wasn't understanding -- "I am." The caregiver would again encourage her to complete the sentence. This went on for a while. Standing as I was, facing her, I watched her earnestness and the way she was pointing to herself, and thought: she is making a complete statement. I am. She is. We are. Everybody has some thing, but that isn't our essence. Our essence is more eternal than the limitations of our bodies or brains. We are. We are here. We are here for a purpose. 

Big Sister sent us this link today (The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore), and it so fit in with the idea of fulfilling the measure of our creation -- even (sometimes because of?) when we are given burdens to endure. Even if it hadn't "fit in" with what was on my mind, it's absolutely amazing and I'm so glad that she shared it. 

We have two short chapters left of To Kill a Mockingbird. Boo has carried home Jem. Scout is about to stand on the Radley front porch and consider the value of Boo's life. She will walk home in the rain. Then Atticus will go into Jem's room, and watch over his badly injured son. "Atticus would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning." 

My kids will wake up in the morning. Officially allergic to penicillin. Asthmatic. With highly allergic skin. Math-challenged. Still not a self-starter. Overly-sensitive. Obnoxious. Obsessive. Smart-alec. Whatever they wake up as, or with, I will be here. Their dad will be here. Their aunts, their uncles, their grandparents, their friends, their neighbors. And having now sent their feathered darlings out into the world with hopes for happiness, I hope they better understand how much they are loved, and how much we want for them to grow up fulfilled and well. 

I will also have Peeps to help soften any lingering sadness. 

Over the Shrill

"Without stories we are just eating machines with shoes." That's a very Roald Dahlsy phrase that is being used in the PR for Matilda the Musical that is now in previews on Broadway. We went and saw it tonight and liked it. The songs collectively capture Dahl's balance of irreverence and sweetness, and any scene with the Trunchbull is gold. Unfortunately, unlike Dahl's work, there wasn't a good sense of restraint in the dialogue. While his humor is often audacious and overblown and sophomoric, it is just as often dry and subtle. A play that is trying to maintain high-energy while being bright and magical probably can't also work in subtlety or nuance, but it made me cringe that its high-strung efforts often pushed the play into something that Dahl managed to not just sidestep, but actually mocked: shrillness. But you know what? That's coming from a lady who had MORE dental work done this morning. Perhaps butterflies flapping their wings would have sounded shrill to me. Maybe I'm just getting old and crotchety... Though the kids did say that the lights were crazy and even thought it was too loud, they still couldn't hear a lot of the words. But they liked it; it's definitely worth seeing. Here's a short youtube clip about the play. 

Out of fear that this close relationship that I've developed with my dentist could fall into sad neglect, we did participate in the annual macaron day on our way home from writing workshop. 

And now for your moment of hen: