A Farm Girl I Am Not

My bold goal since I first started this blog: 100 entries in one year. I've never made the goal public, but here it is, online. Since I started this blog on June 28, 2010, I now have seven days to write eight blogs. I have the ideas, but can I find the time? Let's find out...

There are a few occupations that I would be extremely ill-suited for, according to my husband. One: A spy. This came up once when we were watching The Bourne Identity and I got pretty excited about the prospect of driving a Mini Cooper through the streets of Paris. But as Hubby pointed out, I am not skilled in combat, I don't remember names or faces well, and I don't speak any foreign languages. I can't sneak up on people (I always trip in dark rooms) and in fact have a heightened startle response (I shriek when people sneak up on me, or even say "hi" when my back it turned).

Two: Accountant. Um, I don't know how to balance the checkbook.

Three: Taxi driver. My fender benders have been many. And I have no (NO!) sense of direction, which is another count against me on the spy front. Drop me off in a foreign city, or even a residential neighborhood in, say, Tustin, California, and then just give me up for dead. My husband also swears that he will never allow me to rent a Vespa and drive around Italy, though it is one of my dearest wishes, because I would wreak havoc that would put Audrey Hepburn's scooter stint in Roman Holiday to shame.

These are sad facts for me, all but the accountant one. I really feel sometimes that I would be good at all kinds of things, but then I try them, and it turns out, that, no, not so much. I tell a dear friend of mine, often, that I have more chutzpah (guts) than skill. I'm up for all kinds of adventures, but I'm actually not a superhero, not cool, not smooth, not acrobatic. I'm actually a klutz. Last week I climbed my daughter's favorite tree and then got stuck in it.

One of my imagined identities is Farm Girl. I believe I could really be happy in a farmhouse in the rolling hills of California's Central Coast, keeping goats and chickens, riding my horse to local wineries to sell eggs and goat cheese -- in between stints at the sewing machine, of course. But on recent trips to the Central Coast I've discovered that a country girl I am not.

Bad enough that years ago I got chased by my long-romanticized chickens and was pecked mercilessly in the shins until Jeff rescued me. Two months ago, at a winery, I got my new cardigan sweater stuck in barbed wire, not once, but three times. Then I punctured my hand open on the same wire fence while trying to pet Rocket, the winery horse. I tried to play it cool, as the winemaker and my in-laws were watching, but it's extremely hard to play it cool when you are harpooned on a fence like a mackerel.

Later that day, I was bit in the arm by a five-day-old colt. He drew blood, through my jean jacket.

And then this past weekend, while exploring the wine country of Santa Ynez with Jeff, I began to fantasize about driving a tractor. "Wouldn't that be fun, just once?" I asked my husband. "Do you think anyone would ever let me drive their tractor?" The look Hubby gave me made it clear that if anyone was considering letting me on their farm machinery, he would have words with them first.

But then, just the next day, as we drove to a wine tasting room off the 246, there at the entrance was an antique red tractor on display. On the way out, emboldened by sips of $50 Chardonnay, I decided to climb up on it. And Hubby, who is a rule follower himself but secretly loves the rebel in me, agreed to take a picture.

You know something, it's much, much harder to get up on an antique tractor than you would think. I'm glad there are no photos of that process. I also discovered that there's a reason no one drives a tractor in short white shorts, except in country music videos. I sliced my poor thigh in two places on the metal tractor seat on the way up. But I got my hands on the steering wheel, and I got my picture! Then I walked around the rest of the day with a giant Tinkerbell Band-aide on my leg.

Still, I have not learned my lesson. I want to pet horses and own chickens, though I am a little more wary of barbed wire. If I ever get a chance to drive a working tractor, I'll take it. I'm attached to my chutzpah (oh, won't it embarrass my daughters in their teenage years?), and in fact believe that it's true source is a willingness to hurt and humiliate myself. And who knows, maybe Jeff will change his mind about letting me rent that Vespa someday.

Living the Dream

Before I put fingers to keyboard to write this blog, I had to wash snail slime off my left hand. Snails are a very big deal to Livie right now. She gathers them from around the neighborhood and keeps them in bug catchers in the back yard. Once she even brought one of them in the car in her "Catcher," and being the extremely attentive mother that I am, I didn't realize until the next day that she had crushed it. The Catcher, not the snail. The snail is still at large in my SUV.

As I just walked to the mail this lovely Friday before Mother's Day weekend, Liv had gathered a "family" of snails, all of which had come out of the shell in the time it took me to cross the cul-de-sac. And since the family members couldn't be separated, I got to carry them en masse back to our front sidewalk. They actually slithered across my palm. Yuck. But while this was happening in my left hand, my right hand was opening this card (above) from my friend Wendy.

On the outside it said "Motherhood, oh yeah..."

And on the inside it said, "Living the dream, baby."

I laughed out loud.

But here's what's funny: I am living the dream. Sunday will be my seventh Mother's Day, and I'm feeling really, really good about it. I'm feeling like -- and try to stay with me here -- I don't need my kids to do anything for me or thank me for anything. I love being their mom. On this particular day, week, whatever, I'm not even feeling exhausted, just lucky that they are my kids. It's weird, because it hasn't been exactly the easiest week. We've had sore throats and injuries, tantrums and messy (amazingly messy) rooms. My husband has worked long hours in the office, which means for me long hours at home.

But at this moment, I look at my life and feel a fullness and satisfaction that I frankly just didn't feel on Mother's Day when my children were younger. Whatever desperate need I had to be seen and appreciated as a baby mom I don't feel this year.

Don't get me wrong: I love babies. I mean, LOVE them. My first ever nephew was born on Thursday this week, and I seriously considered trying to smuggle him out the hospital and taking him home. But looking back, I don't love myself as a mom of babies. I didn't know who I was or what I was doing most of the time. I lost most of my creative energy, and almost all my (how to say this subtly?) romantic desires. I missed the kind of wife I used to be and what my husband and I had been like together. I had trouble finishing thoughts because my brain wasn't functioning. I didn't recognize my body. I was so, so tired. Basically, I lost myself.

I was also working 20 hours a week at my editing job when Sophia was a baby. I hated leaving her. And I felt torn between two worlds all the time, and being in a creative field with no creative energy is not a good situation.

So, now as a mother of 3 and 7, I'm aware that I've come out of the early childhood tunnel. I finish conversations with my husband more often. I finish books. I create things. I serve other moms. I love my kids in a wonderful, deeper, less terrified way. They're real people with real ideas and selves and thoughts and abilities. They're miracles, who can, miraculously, use the toilet and get their own snacks and don't need to actually eat off my person. And because I don't go out to an office anymore, I can bloom fully into my role as mom without a sense of divided loyalties.

Today at my MOPS group I gave a speech about how God sees all the little and big things the moms do for their kids, and I'm sure in that room of 100 that at least 50 needed to hear it. Or maybe I'm overestimating because of how much I needed to hear that when I was in the baby stage. But what I really wanted to say, and didn't because I don't want to sound smug, being only a couple of years ahead of most of these young mommies, is that motherhood gets better, and in a pretty short time. I've heard women say that they suddenly knew themselves at 40. I suddenly feel I know myself, or know myself again, at 33. So I wanted to tell my young mommy friends, "Don't worry, at the other end of the tunnel, you're waiting for yourself. You'll find yourself there."

But, actually, that's not accurate. Hopefully, they'll find an even better version of their old self there. A mellowed out self, a more confident self, even if that self has loose skin under her belly button that will never go away. And in the meantime, their kids will get easier to take care of, and be -- dare I say it -- even more interesting to be around.

Last week, one of the day care moms was dropping off her child at my neighbor's house. Livie and I, just returned from dropping Sophia off at school, were peering into the hollow of big ficus tree where all the neighborhood's snails sleep every night in a big, disgusting, slimy pile. I had a coffee cup in my hand and a bucket of snails in the other. "We're hunting snails," I said to the mom.

"I'm jealous," she said. "I'm going to work."

I know, sweetie. "I'm lucky," I said to her. And in my head, I added, I'm living the dream.

Bunnies Are Not Meat

There are some mothers that guard their children's innocence like the precious, fleeting treasure it is. And then there are mother's like me, that crush it.

While pondering the anatomy of her stuffed rabbit one day,three-year-old Livie asked me why bunnies had such long ears. I told her it was so they could hear really, really well.

A week later, when we were bike riding past a local field where we always spot wild rabbits, she asked me why bunnies need to hear so well.

Now, I'd like to pause this story for a moment to mention that children always ask hard questions without warning, and when you are in the middle of doing something distracting, like driving. So if you're not quick thinking, you can really paint yourself into a corner in conversation with your kids. Like the time four-year old Sophia -- from the back seat -- said that as soon as her baby sister was born I would have two belly buttons, because babies come out of mommies' belly button, and you must therefore get a new one every time you give birth. Thoughtlessly, I said, "Babies don't come out of belly buttons." "Where they do they come out then, Mommy?" Walked right into that one.

So, back to the rabbit's ears. I'm peddling a 50-pound beach cruiser with a 40-pound toddler strapped on the back down a busy street, so please picture all this taking place with me sweating, and shouting into a headwind. The dialogue isn't verbatim, but really, really close.

"Bunnies have big ears so they can hear if another animal is sneaking up on them, Livie."

"What kind of an animal?"

"I don't know, like a coyote."

"Why would a coyote sneak up on a bunny?"

"Because coyotes eat bunnies, honey."

"What! Why?"

I start to realize this is going in a bad direction, yet still I press on. "Well, I guess they like the way bunny meat tastes."

"But bunnies aren't meat! They're animals."

Still not backing down, I say, "Well, meat comes from animals."

A glance back at my daughter shows she is truly shocked and horrified. As it dawns on me what I have done, I watch her face and body slowly relax as a comforting idea occurs to her. "So you're saying, Mommy, that if a coyote found a dead bunny in the grass, he would eat it?"

"Um. Yes. Yes, that's what I'm saying." Forget that this whole thing started because of bunnies and their 'ability to hear approaching predators. I was willing to accept this untruth to spackel over the small cracks I had just created in my daughters innocence. I've always been pretty committed to answering the kids' questions truthfully. They know the real names for all their body parts, for example, which has really created some interesting scenes in public places. But I wasn't prepared for this particular revelation and it's potential heart-breaking results.

This all occurred about a month ago and Liv hadn't mentioned the meat-animal connection sense, until today, when she was eating white cheddar cheese puffs that were labeled "Bunny Tails" for Easter. She suddenly paused mid chew to ask, "Did they have to kill a lot of bunnies to get these tails?"

Through our suppressed giggles, we assured her that the "Bunny Tails" had absolutely nothing to do with the actual furry animal. Now we just have to figure out what to do tomorrow when Grandma serves her lamb.

There Are No White Poodles Here

I heard Kirstie Alley say something wise once. (I know, unlikely beginning...). I think she was speaking to Oprah about the way that people can pretend to share your interests and values early on in a relationship ("Oh, I love dogs too!"), but she's learned that it's actually pretty easy to tell whether they're telling the truth or not.

If you love dogs, you have dogs, she says. If you love to cook, you cook. If you really love kids, you've got some kids (infertility being an obvious reason that this might not always be true).

I've been thinking of this recently as my kids have become more interested in the idea of having a pet, and we've given them all the reasons that we won't get one -- not enough space, too great an expense, too much mess for me to clean up, too much responsibility for them at such a young age. And it made me realize, I am not a dog lover. A dog liker, yes. I can scratch ears and rub tummies with the best of them. But if I were truly a dog lover, I would have a dog by now. I know lots of people with less money, less space and/or younger children, and they have dogs. One friend in particular comes to mind, who lives in a tw0-bedroom yardless apartment with her husband, daughter, and two dogs, one of which is a German Shepherd.

Yesterday I was on a walk with one of my friends and we ran into a group of retirees that, among them, had at least half a dozen little white poofy dogs on leashes.

"Look, it's a little white poodle convention," I exclaimed to my daughter. One of the women turned the stink eye upon me and said, "There are no white poodles here."

"Oh," I said brightly, trying not to be intimidated by the stink eye, and maintain my light, neighborly tone. "What kinds of dogs are these?"

"These are Bichon Frises and Maltese," she said. I recognized the steely, measured tone in her voice. It was the same tone I used to use when people would point to my infant daughter, dressed all in pink, and ask me how old my son was. "She is six months old," I would reply.

Okay, it seems a little silly to me that my mistaking her dog's breed would elicit the same irritation I felt at a person mistaking my baby's gender. But that's because I am a baby -- and not a dog -- lover. Recently a childless friend's beautiful Golden Retriever startled me by licking me in my open mouth. I'm talking tongue to tongue contact here. I was slightly horrified. But the Golden's owner remarked, without a trace of irony, that at least it wasn't as gross as if my child had licked me in the mouth.

Now, my children have actually puked into my mouth. They have peed and pooped on me. My friends' kids have peed and pooped on me. My nieces have spit up on my good clothes more times than I can count. It didn't bother me nearly as much as that canine French kiss. In the reverse, my friend would be totally grossed out by sitting on my mac-and-cheese-smeared sofa even though he doesn't mind at all that he sits daily in dog hair. Isn't that interesting?

Recently I was chatting up one of the three year old boys who attends daycare in the house across the sidewalk from me, when my neighbor said, "You really love children, don't you?"

Hmm. It took me by surprise, because I had had a rough day, and at the moment didn't really like my children very much. But of course, he's absolutely right. Even when I was a child, I loved any kid smaller than me. I have cousins who were born when I was a teenager and I couldn't get enough of them. At my MOPS group, people are always making fun of me because I carry around other women's newborn babies all the time.

I've thought of both my neighbor's and Kirstie's comments a lot since. I really do love children. That's why I had some. Even though I was 26 and living in a yardless two-bedroom apartment, and I knew (at least partially) that kids would be expensive, messy and a huge responsibility -- way more than a dog -- I got pregnant on purpose! It's an obvious but profound thought to reflect on during the days when I'm tired of folding tiny pink clothes, sweeping up Cheerios or exasperated as I drag a writhing toddler across the street for school pick-up in 89-degree heat.

During the latter scenario, I've seen childless dog owners look at me in bewilderment, the way I have often looked at them when I see them pick up loose puppy stool in a blue plastic bag with their hand (their hand!!!). But on reflection, I see that we are really the same. We do it all for love.

A Message to the Mice

This is a message to all you mice out there in my neighborhood, and especially those of you who are living in my walls.

I don't want to hurt you. You are fuzzy and cute and remind me of Gus Gus in Cinderella. I like your furry faces, twitchy noses and beady eyes. I am not crazy about your wormy little tales though.

You cannot live here in my house. This you have proven by your extreme lack of manners, including the way you opened that entire bag of unpopped popcorn in the pantry, and ate one of my toddler's granola bars without asking. Her last granola bar no less! You have also pooped in the kids snack basket. These things I cannot abide.

I have already been forced to harm two of your kinsman, and I shed tears for them.One perished quickly. The other I fear did not fare as well, since I was compelled to use the apparently not very humane sticky traps after the peanut butter went missing on the other kind, the trap still unsprung. (The man at Ace Hardware looked at me as though I were a monster when I bought the sticky traps. I'm sorry, but I refer again to the pooping in the snack basket incident in my defense.)

Yesterday, I caught one of your baby brothers in the living room. He was not much bigger than a quarter, and I scooped him up in a quilt. Toddler and I put him in a bug catcher and fed him taco shells. He pooped. Toddler thought perhaps we should dress him in little clothes (she was also thinking of Gus Gus I assume). We set him free in some bushes. Please, little mouse. Do not come back here.

So, to sum up: we are lovers of animals here. But we are also lovers of good hygiene. And we want our clean, health conscious friends to be still willing to come over here. If necessary, perhaps I can direct you to one of my neighbor's houses: maybe one who isn't fussy about smells and has pet food lying around. So good luck to you, mice. Don't let the door hit your little wormy tails on the way out.

Living Off the Land

Recently, my six year old daughter and I sat down at the kitchen table with a project. We were each going to design our dream tree house, in Crayola. Hers was a typical kid's idea of heaven: rope swing, toys, ladder to pull up and keep out neighborhood boys. Mine was kind of a Mommy fantasy: turquoise accent walls and built-in cabinets for craft supply and book storage, an espresso maker and wine fridge, a cozy armchair in the kind of girlie colors my husband would never agree to, and a quilting desk with a view.

When we had finished our drawings, Daughter and I looked at each other and sighed. There they were on paper. Our dream homes: perfect, pretty, unattainable. I could see in her eyes the yearning I remember from when I first drew my dream house back in 3rd grade, and found today, at 32, that the desire in myself hadn't gone away.

Here's my real dream home scenario: a beautifully restored farmhouse with wraparound porch surrounded by oak trees in the rich wine country of the Central Coast's Edna Valley. It has a farm-style kitchen table and red curtains, a nice selection of locally made wine in the fridge. Out the window is my kitchen garden, complete with a Meyer lemon tree, herb garden, and lots of veggies. In the back, I have a chicken coup with some beautiful roosters. There is a goat or two. And the piece de resistance is my converted red barn, now a quilting studio where I keep my long-arm quilting machine, my fabric, and my laptop with wi-fi.

Now here's my real house: 1100 square feet of nondescript condo. I have a patio in the back (no room for goats, plus the association rules actually ban farm animals), and a green belt in the front. We can't build a tree house, because we don't own a tree. From the outside, it doesn't look a bit like "me," nor does it reflect the taste of my husband, who's actually an architect. Cream stucco and aluminum windows ain't his dream home either.

The other night, over dinner with friends, I was sharing my Edna Valley scenario. Midway through, Husband interrupts to tell the story of a time when we actually stayed in my dream house on vacation (Suite Edna Bed and Breakfast), and were awoken by the resident peacock at dawn. That same day I was savagely attacked by the gorgeously plumed chickens who strutted freely on the grounds. Husband had to rescue me.

This story led to other animal tales: Like how when we first moved to our condo, we were woken at dawn by the flocks of crows that nest in the 100-year-old eucalyptus windbreaks outside our window, remnants of the days when our community was actually farmland. And more recently, when a couple of nesting mallards wandered into our open front door and followed my daughter's trail of cereal into the kitchen. And currently, how we have a family of field mice living somewhere in our kitchen walls and occasionally in our pantry (more on this in upcoming blogs).

"It sounds like you already live on a farm," our friend said.

Hmm. That's a thought. Every afternoon, I open my front door and step out under a canopy of deciduous trees. I often see bunnies. My kids are a five minute walk away from feeding our community ducks. In the fall, I am kept supplied with a harvest of pomegranates from my neighbor three doors down, who also keeps me in lemons and herbs from her back yard. And five minutes ago, I went outside to check on my girls, who were scaling an association-owned birch tree, and another neighbor -- I kid you not -- asked if I'd like some fresh figs off his tree!

I'm living off the land, people! It's just that it's not my land. Except the barn and the red curtains, I already have everything in the dream scenario. And hey, I can make red curtains anytime I want. Meanwhile, I don't even have to own a lawn mower for my daughters to enjoy a lawn.

So really, it's only pride that makes me yearn for my farmhouse. I have everything I need. And if you want to see an expression of who Husband and I are aesthetically, well just squint past the stucco and come on in to the home that we've made our own -- all 1100 feet of it. But first, join me on my little concrete porch. I'll pour you a juice glass full of red wine, maybe even an Edna Valley Syrah, and let's watch the kids try to climb that tree.