I Blame It On

The hormones.

It has been an up and down day.

I re-started my day only an hour and a half after it started, I was already annoyed and yelling fuck in my kitchen while I was stirring oatmeal on the stove.

My boss wanted me to come in early.

The kids had an unexpected day off from school.

Dude.

Ugh.

Of course, I said yes, I was able to do it, it just threw a little loop in my day and I had to adjust, get flexible, and just suck it up.

Besides I would be getting out of work an hour early and all the things that I didn’t do this morning, writing and reading for school, I could do after work.

Except the mom got stuck in bad, rainy coming home from work traffic.

In the end it didn’t matter, as I ended up being late to work.

Worst driver I have ever had on a shared ride.

I actually complained for the first time ever.

I am not one to kick up a fuss, but the guy ran stop a sign-passing on the left to go around a car that was stopped at a stop sign on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive in the park, scared the crap out of me as there was oncoming traffic, missed turns, then cut across traffic to make the turns, had an argument with one of the other passengers about directions and was horribly inconsistent with his driving.  I actually thought are you high?

Then right before he drops me off, asks with a really big, forced smile, how my day was going?  Dude.

A little too late.

I’m late for work and overwhelmed with annoyance by the three near death experiences I had while in the car.

I looked up at him, startled, and said, “fine, thanks,” in a flat tone of voice.

God damn.

It was creepy.

But yes, I did actually complain.

Of course, no response, but I’m not going to freak out, I know it’s one of the things that you just have to account for, once in a while getting a bad driver, I actually found myself laughing a little at my obvious desire to have control and my realization, that shit, there was nothing to do, but get through the ride, be grateful and get out of the car and go to work.

I was resigned to not being able to do any homework at work either, so I brought one of my meditation coloring books to color in with my charges and that was a hit.

Lots of coloring on this rainy, rainy, rainy day.

Clay, stickers, paper dolls, and drawing as well.

Robots, jet engines, race cars, stuffed animals.

Pancakes for lunch.

They were so cute about it, and insisted it was a special day and I was happy to indulge them.

I made them homemade pancakes, from scratch, not a box, with raspberries, butter, powdered sugar and maple syrup.

They were in heaven.

I had some of the raspberries later with my own lunch and got knocked over by a wave of nostalgia.

If I haven’t had raspberries in a while, and I don’t often have them, they are expensive little beasts ad I prefer to spend my money on blueberries, inevitably the first bite will always remind me of my Grandma Munz.

My grandparents had an amazing garden in Lodi, Wisconsin.

My grandfather cultivated and cared for most of it, but the raspberry vines were grandma’s territory, or so it seemed to me as a child, and I have a memory of picking raspberries with her–perhaps my favorite memory of my grandmother.

I don’t recall how old I was, but elementary school seems about right, 4th or 5th grade, and it was summer and my mom had taken my sister and I out to Lodi to visit our grandparents.

Grandma wanted to pick raspberries and she and I went out to the brambles to pick carrying 5 gallon vanilla ice cream buckets.

I remember my sister mostly ate the raspberries.

I ate quite a few too, but I liked to see how they gathered and grew in heaps and piles, the luxurious spill of berries a kind of abundance I didn’t often see in my life.

We picked for a while, quiet and serious and when my grandmother deemed we had enough for whatever project she was working on, we brought the berries back to the kitchen to be washed in the sink.

She scooped up a big bowl of them for my sister and I, one bowl for each of us, poured milk over the top of them and then sprinkled them with sugar.

I don’t think I have every eaten anything so glorious and simple and intoxicating in all the rest of my life.

I can taste them still.

Perhaps that’s why I haven’t much bothered with them since.

When one has had the pen ultimate tasting experience of an object most other things pale in comparison.

Sort of like my grandfather’s sweet corn, nary a corn on the cob since has done his justice.

I am lucky to have this appreciation for simple things.

The pure joy of a small bowl of warm just off the vine raspberries, cool, creamy milk, and a heaping teaspoon of fine granulated sugar, C&H Cane sugar, in the white paper bag with the pink label and blue ribbon badge with white writing.

Somethings, small things, are utter simple and glorious in their perfection.

I think that bowl of raspberries is what heaven tastes like.

I had tears prick at my eyes when I ate that first raspberry.

I felt the grass of my grandparents back yard underneath my bare feet, I could see my grandmother’s kitchen, I could taste the cold water from the tap, they had their own well and the water there, the best in the world, seriously, I could feel the breeze coming in through the big screened in windows in the dining room.

I could almost hear the laughter of my mom and aunts smoking cigarettes on the front porch in the big aluminum lawn chairs, waving at passing cars and gossiping about the rest of the family that wasn’t there.

I could feel  the moment pass as I sat at the table drawing with my charges, I did not try to hold onto it, it will come back when I need it, this beautiful thing, my sweet memory that colored the rest of my day.

It reminded me of my roots and also of that there were many, quite a few, moments of bliss in my childhood, simple, exquisite, and etched into my heart despite, or perhaps because of how hard things were at times, I appreciate so much when I got to experience beauty.

I still do.

Ah.

Perspective.

You got me again.

 

 

I Need Some Arm Candy

I am all yours baby.

That is just the kind of message I need to hear on a Monday afternoon in between cooking three different things for the family, in preparation for the boys coming home from school and the grandparent visit.

Yeah.

I know.

They were just here.

And they are gone, as of probably about a half hour ago.

Only passing through San Francisco on the way to further destinations.

I actually have little gripe with the grandparents, the boys adore them and they keep them busy and it’s nice to see a lot of family interaction.

However.

It is more work for me.

More wrangling, more cooking, more errands, more, well, work.

Fortunately, I was fresh as a daisy this afternoon when I rolled up to work on my scooter.

Yes.

That’s right!

The SFMTA Child Care Permit is in affect.

I am now a scooter girl to work officially.

It was really nice.

And super faster than I thought it would be.

I had almost fifteen minutes to kill before I walked in the door at work today.

I had already had a super full and bright morning.

I wrote.

I read.

I ate a lovely breakfast and had lots of delicious coffee.

And.

Yes.

I did a yoga class.

Like that.

Because, you know, it’s a half block away.

I debated doing one tomorrow morning too, but really, four days in a row is cool, my body probably needs a little rest, though, truth be told, I feel more in my body than I have in quite some time.

And.

That shit is addicting.

“I could get hooked on this,” I thought this morning as my body just collapsed in a puddle.

I had some challenges with my new gear, new mat is slippery, but managed to get it together and do a lot of the poses and really try the ones that I wasn’t even going to attempt even yesterday.

I have had three different teachers at the studio and I have to say they all have great teaching skills and though different, I appreciate the things that each has brought to the classes.

And the floating out the door after an hour and fifteen minutes of studio time is phenomenal.

I mean.

I am feeling alive and energized.

And.

No.

I did not have a late coffee today.

Although I am listening to some Radio Soulwax and that is upbeat–I have gotten up three times now to have a dance party.

I am feeling the need for some dancing, outside of my own studio, soon.

I got happy feet.

I have a happy body.

I also have a happy heart.

It was really sweet to get the message from my new friend that he needed some arm candy this Thursday for an event at the SF Design Center.

I was like.

Um.

Yes.

I have some dresses.

Chuckle.

And some new Fluevogs too.

Heh.

Even though it’s a school night, I’m going.

I haven’t ever been at an event there and I adore my friend.

He’s super handsome, my Puerto Rican fairy god father, and tall, so heels are a must and I am just grateful to get to connect with a good heart and a fun heart and some one who is smart and sassy, just like me.

Ha.

I don’t even care that the mom asked me to come in early on Friday.

The boys don’t have school.

I was like.

Wait?

What?

Didn’t they just have a full week off from school last week?

Oh well.

I can handle it on a Friday and it’s nice to get out early on Fridays and get the weekend started a couple hours earlier than typical.

That’s work.

School’s going well.

I have my reading dialed in for this week and some how, not sure how, even with all the yoga, I’m staying on top of it.

Grateful for that routine that I have got going with it.

And.

I do think there’s less reading, either that or I’m just used to the style of writing now and I’m understanding the material better, I’m definitely kicking through it with less struggle than last semester.

So a little night on the town with Mister Fabulous is just what this lady needs.

I could use a date that’s not late, full of excuses, and desperately sending me text messages to see him again.

Um.

No thank you.

That being said.

I am open.

Available.

And ready for some fun.

Yes.

Yes I am.

Maybe it’s the full moon.

Snow moon.

I had this vision (yesterday’s the daisy sprouting from the crown of my head was pretty awesome, I tried to replicate it, but I wasn’t in the same space at the studio today when asked to set that intention) of a bubble of light.

A crystallized sugar ornament.

Spun like a glass bulb.

Glenda The Good Witch couldn’t have wished for a sweeter bubble of light and candied phosphorescence.

I imagined it full of light and I felt myself ensconced in the midst of it.

Floating.

A bubble.

A small light.

Luminous.

I am a luminary.

I illuminate from within.

Small parts die, burn away, and in the rebirth, the lightness ascends and I am swept up and warmly held, divinely held, swooning with softness and surrender.

Um.

Yeah.

Like that.

It was pretty nice.

And like I said, I could get addicted to that kind of feeling.

That spiritual high.

I accept that like every thing worth having, there is work, great deals of it, involved.

“Just show up to the mat,” I told myself today as I sat and tried to regain my composure after slipping on the mat more than once and feeling wildly out of my comfort zone.

That’s all I have to do.

Simple.

Just show up.

And there it was the light.

I walked out of the studio loose and fluid in my body.

I lifted my head toward the sun and felt it’s warm loving caress on the planes of my face.

I smiled.

“Thank you,” I said out loud.

To the Universe.

To myself.

To the sun in the sky.

To my heart for doing the work to pump the blood through my body, this imperfect, perfect vessel for infinite light.

And.

Love.

Not a bad way to start the week.

Happy Monday!

 

 

Back In It

“What you doing tonight?” The kid in the car asked tonight as I bundled myself, my messenger bag, my bag of leftover utensils and coffee jars, notebooks, readers, and books into the back seat of the car.

“Going out? Got plans? What’s your Friday look like?”

Um.

Ok kiddo.

Chill.

I just want a ride home.

“Going home and sleeping so I can go back and do another eleven hours of class tomorrow.”

“Oh!”

Yeah.

“Oh,” is right.

And I’m totally ok with that.

I actually feel pretty damn good about that.

I am in a different place with my classes this semester.

That being a state of preparedness.

I did all the reading for the weekend prior to class and even had enough time yesterday to re-read some of the articles for my Multi-Cultural class.

And.

Get this.

I like all my professors.

ALL of them.

That feels really extraordinary.

I don’t know that much about the one credit online course that I have to do, I found myself talking to a fellow in my cohort and we commiserated on the idea that we already do a lot of what the class calls for–it’s applied spirituality–basically implementing some sort of daily spiritual practice into our school life.

Um.

Yeah.

Got that covered.

And immediately I copped a resentment.

Dude.

I pray, write, I read spiritual readers, I pray some more, I review and reflect on my day, I call my people and check in with spiritual principles, what fucking more do you need?

I have to do more?

Then.

I thought, well, fuck, maybe this is God saying, change it up, shake it up, get flexible, there’s other things that you can do.

Maybe it’s time for some martial arts.

I used to study kung fu.

I could pick that back up or perhaps yoga.

I have a writing practice that I am loathe to give up and my prayer and meditation aren’t going to change, nor will my checking in daily with my people or the passing on of what I have been given.

It’s just not an option for me.

I have to do it.

It’s life or death.

And when I realized how seriously I take my routine I could see, with some perspective changing from my person that maybe instead of coming from a place of hubris I could come from one of humility.

In the discussion I realized the martial arts aspect.

I could also do T’ai Chi or Qi gong.

I have options.

Moving meditation is good.

Being in my body is good.

Something to explore.

The path narrows and I wish to stay on the path.

I have to as a matter of fact, so widening the circle of my spiritual exploration can’t hurt.

Fuck.

I could dance.

Haha.

I have had spiritual experiences dancing.

That is a concept.

This is actually, now that I am writing about it, the way that I might just have to proceed.

More getting into my body and less my mind.

I am super self-reflective and thoughtful and aware, I live a moral life, I feel an ethical one too, at times, not always but I am highly aware of my values.

They are the spiritual principles that I have based my last eleven years of life on.

Moving out of a way that is logical for me and re-orienting myself in my body maybe just the next part of the spiritual path for me to explore.

Now that I have that covered.

I can focus on the rest of the weekend.

Which is basically showing up for my classes, being on time, contributing my knowledge to the conversation and engaging as much as possible with the material being presented.

I found myself so much more relaxed having covered all the material, even when it wasn’t necessarily brought up in the classes, it just gave me a sense of accomplishment and stillness in myself that I wasn’t anxious, that I could listen, that I could be attune to what was happening.

Basically, I got to practice being a psycho-therapist.

Which, you know, is the end goal here.

I actually left tonight being excited.

I felt alive.

In connection.

And grateful.

To see my friends and to re-connect with my classmates.

I had a little heart to heart with my dear friend from Paris and made plans with another friend for dinner the next weekend of classes.

I felt like I belonged and I was a part of and yes, still finding my way, oh, there’s forever that, and I discovered a new modality that I have a lot of interest in exploring–poetic therapy!

What?!

The teaching assistant for my class in the Clinical Relationship read a poem by John Fox to get us situated to being there in the first moments of class and it resonated so strongly with me I had tears coursing down my face just minutes after sitting in my chair.

The poem managed to ground me and uplift me and reminded me of a precious memory I have of my grandparents home in Lodi, Wisconsin.

They had there own well on the land and the water from the kitchen tap was always so cold and earthy and good, strong with minerals and pure, it tasted like all things right and it refreshed me in a way I don’t think any other water ever had.

My grandmother had a set of plastic green cups with pebbling on them, and for whatever reason as a child I was drawn to those cups.

I think water tastes best out of a glass, but there was something to those cups and I can remember filling them up and drinking the water, looking out the window into the back yard, seeing the stretch of lawn rolling towards the fruit trees and grape arbor, the vines and canes from the raspberries and the garden full of so much lush vegetation it is hard to enumerate all that was there.

Tomatoes and corn.

Onions and shallots, garlic, peas, peppers, pumpkins, squash, zucchini, cauliflower, wax beans, eggplants, okra, broccoli, and the many varietals thereof of the above vegetables and many I am sure I am forgetting–cabbage and brussels sprouts, red and green lettuce, asparagus, watercress.

The smell of the tilled earth, the warm of the grass on my feet when I walked barefoot through it.

A bowl of raspberries with sugar and cream in my grandmothers kitchen.

I was flooded listening to the poem.

And discovered another thing that I can use.

Another way, I can perhaps, integrate myself, my words, my language and vocabulary to help others.

Poetry as a way of being of service.

Divine.

I’ll take it.

Happy to be so situated at the start of this, my second semester of graduate school.

It’s a lovely surprise.

Here’s to more.

I am ready.

Slight Change Of Plans

But so slight.

I’m still going to Paris.

Despite the sharp inhalation of breath my mother took when I told her on the phone today.

“I bought the tickets before the attacks mom,” I said, I could feel her getting instantly wound up.

I was also walking my bicycle into the garage at work, so there was not a lot of room for conversation on the topic.

And I hadn’t called my mom to talk about Paris.

Rather my eldest aunt who passed yesterday was my reason for calling.

I didn’t know my aunt that well.

Suffice to say that I didn’t know a lot of my family all that well, but I do have fond memories and I do remember thinking when I was younger that she was kind.

Perhaps I don’t have a recollection of thinking that thought exactly, but that is what comes to mind when I remember her.

Thanksgiving or Christmas at her house a year when my grandparents, for whatever reason, had decided they did not want the hassle of having the whole family over for the holiday.

I recall there being a lot of conversation about where it would be and it ended up being at my aunts house.

It was an oddly warm Christmas, ah yes, it was Christmas, and I remember playing outside in the back with one of my cousins.

Tether ball, I think.

Oddly enough I got along with them really well, in fact I thought that of all my cousins the three daughters of my aunts were my favorite.

Two were fraternal twins.

And I was fascinated by the fact that they did not look at all identical.

As I thought twins should look.

Of course this was before I know what fraternal and identical twins were, but twins, we had them in the family and that was special.

I sort of felt that their family was special in general.

They seemed to have escaped the lash of weirdness that was on my family.

I was thinking about it today and though there were more than one or two black sheep in the family, I think my mom sort of took the cake for a while.

I definitely felt that we were the blackest of the black sheep in the family and that my cousins, well, they were normal, well-adjusted, sweet girls.

They each had their own rooms and the house was cozy and warm and nice.

Middle class.

White Wisconsin.

Nice.

My immediate family lived so far below the poverty line that when I learned what the poverty line was I was shocked to realize how poor I had been growing up.

I mean.

Fucking poor.

And I’m not upset about that.

I didn’t know the difference.

I don’t recall thinking I was suffering.

I mean.

I think I just thought our family was weird.

But I had no clue.

A little grown up time of my own.

A lot of perspective and distance and yes.

I can see the screaming dysfunction at work in the family dynamic.

There is still dysfunction.

But then again.

What the hell is normal?

There is no normal.

I was chatting with a dear friend on the phone earlier and he said, “normal is a setting on a dryer.”

Ayup.

And usually I still have to add minutes to the normal setting.

There is no normal.

And.

If there is.

I’m not so certain I want any of it.

I do want the fantasy of doing what I am getting to do after  I have the reality of doing the heavy lifting, with my brain that is.

I got the tickets to the ballet!

My darling poulette bought them online today and I was mistaken, it is not La Bayadere we are going to see.

Nope.

We are going to see some modern ballet.

Which is just as exciting if not more so.

I’m going to be accompanied by dear sweet people whom I love and adore and I am going to get dressed up, like a princess, and I am going to the Garnier Opera House in Paris at Christmas, Wednesday, December 23rd, at 7:30 p.m. to see the ballet.

Luckiest girl in the world.

I also talked with my friend about having dinner with my Parisian friend, I mean, who better will know where to go for a nice meal before the opera?

I’m so excited.

And yes.

I got the good seats.

We are sitting in the loge.

1ères loges de coté 22

Translation: BOX SEATS!

Merry Christmas baby.

Pack something nice to wear.

There are four sets of box seats in the Palace Garnier and we are on the first, premier, of the balcony, I wonder should I purchase some opera glasses?

Bwahahaha.

Nah.

I won’t need to because we will be so close to the stage.

Box seats.

I am over the moon and so glad I agreed to splurge on the more expensive tickets.

I am grateful that I get to spend the money to allow myself and my friend to have an amazing experience together and to also have my new friend from school there too.

My God I am grateful.

So grateful.

I am also grateful that tomorrow is my Friday.

Yay four day weekend.

So much work to be done.

There is more work for me to do on my days off than I have on my days on.

Although, arguably I could say that it’s a balance this week as there has been more work at work, grandparents are visiting for the holiday.

Which on one hand is fantastic, the boys love their grandparents.

And on the other tends to throw a little monkey wrench in our routines and schedules and the boys also get to have a lot of treats with the grandparents.

Ah sugar.

My nap time nemesis.

I should have had some quiet time today with them, but they were too wound up so instead, I employed them in the kitchen and they helped me make dinner: sushi rice, wild king salmon marinated in lemons and olive oil with spices and lime zest–baked in the oven, roasted brussels sprouts with garlic and brown butter, and organic strawberries for dessert with sliced apples from the farmers market.

 

The boys helped me to squeeze the lemons and mix the spices and herbs in the marinade for the fish, they also sprinkled love on top of everything.

Love is the best spice.

They were so proud of the meal.

And told their grandparents how hard they cooked everything.

It was adorable.

And the adorable train will roll out of town for me soon.

Where I will be departing for the burying my head in my homework part of the holiday.

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” The mom asked.

“Homework.” I replied.

That.

And dreaming about the ballet.

In Paris.

What am I going to wear?!

Hashtag.

Luxury problems.

 

Manic Monday

What do you call it when you arrive to find out your charges have already consumed more sugar than the gross national product of the Hawaiian islands.

Mania.

Oh my gosh.

Today the boys had so much sugar I don’t know how I didn’t relapse in my food program just from being in contact with them.

It was a special day and boy oh boy did they take advantage of that.

Plus the visiting grandparents.

Couple that with its dad’s birthday and the boys started off the day with surprising dad in bed with glazed donuts and coffee.

Nice way to wake up on your birthday for sure.

I came in on the tail end of the sugar binge.

I am not 100% certain how many donuts the monkeys ate, but the mom had bought a baker’s dozen and when I got to work there were two left in the box.

The boys also consumed cookies and birthday cake today.

It was like juggling cats.

Really, really stoned out cats.

I had the juice sucked out of me right quick.

I had myself a few coffees to make it through the day.

And the day was made through and the grandparents will be there tomorrow and the next day and the next.

Sometimes I have felt hindered by this, but as I have grown used to the number of adults around the boys, disproportionate to what I have been used to in the past, I am cognizant of how they rely on me and my schedule and my serene ways.

They crashed of course and it was a wild ride, but over all when I thought of it, I am pretty darn lucky to be working with this family and have the nice perks that I do.

Mondays the cleaner comes in and does the house so I always get extra money in the diaper bag and we have a big park adventure and then we go out to lunch.

Today it was Crepe House on Valencia at 22nd.

The boys love it, they often see firefighters or local policemen, and always some working guys, and its decent food and I get to have a big salad, the salmon cobb today, and not have to pay for it.

It’s a really nice perk.

I probably get half my meals taken care of while I am working and that is something to be said when the largest part of my spending plan is groceries, right after my rent.

The next largest is my student loan.

Which I am happy to report I will be downloading and printing off the paperwork tomorrow at work so that I can take it down to CIIS and have the financial aid office sign the forms which state I will indeed be attending the graduate school program and my student loans need to go into deferment.

I don’t know when my undergraduate degree student loans are going to get paid off, not for the next three years, but I do know they will.

Occasionally I will have magical thinking around them and just have a fleeting feeling of “Poof!” they’re gone, some good Samaritan has paid them anonymously and I am relieved of the debt.

It’s the only debt I have.

Which is great on one hand.

The interest rate is low.

And sucks on the other.

I still owe $31,000.

Still.

But I know that I had a lot of wreckage there financially for a while that I had to clean up and all things considered I worked and paid and worked and hustled and did the deal and got out from under all my other debt.

Which was considerable.

I tried to log in again to my student financial aid server and there’s just something wonky with my account.

Tomorrow I’ll call the office, find out when I can bring down the paper work or if I can actually just mail it in and have them mail it back to me.

I do have time for the deferment to go into effect.

I will make one more payment this month then in August I should be stopping.

It’s all happening.

In a rapid fire kind of way.

It’s been such a long time since I have been in school, I feel rusty thinking about it.

But I feel comfortable with the idea of doing the reading and doing the writing, hell, I’ve had a pretty good run of things for a while with my writing practice.

I told my friend this morning that there are some women I work with who are in absolute awe that I get up two and a half hours before I have to be at work so that I can do my morning writing, so that I can have some time to myself to attend to the things that make my life a pleasure to live.

The insight I get from doing my morning pages is astounding.

So too this blog.

The act of showing up to the page and letting go of the words and seeing what comes out is always revelatory.

It’s a kind of living breathing inventory of my day and my process and who I am and who I am becoming.

I am proud that I have been showing up to this pages for over five years.

So to the morning pages, but those I have been doing for even longer, 8 1/2 years.

That’s a lot of writing.

Which makes me feel fairly comfortable with the idea of being in graduate school and the amount of writing that I will have to do for the program.

It’s a lot.

There are a lot of papers that I will be writing.

But I can do it.

A month from today will be my first full day with my cohort.

One month.

This is happening.

Then the burning of the dude in the desert.

And who knows what adventures await in the next four weeks.

I suspect they shall be grand.

As long as I can make it through the week with the grandparent visit and the sugar bombs that implode with little warning.

Hell if I can do that.

I can do anything.

Total Change of Plans

I was supposed to sleep in today, relax, write, maybe work on my craft project a little–you know, more fun with glitter–then take a BART to Castro Valley to see me some Joan.

Not what happened.

In fact, all of today is a not what happened kind of day.

I was woken up quite early by a frantic mom looking for help, their regular nanny called in sick.

Actually, she showed up sick, and threw the entire household into a bit of an uproar from what I gleaned upon arrival.

I was in bed, naked, still warm and sleepy and I don’t know what compelled me to pick up that phone.

I mean, I am glad I did, although when I showed up and realized there was a full house–grandma and grandpa making a visit before the family leaves for Burning Man–I might have passed on answering.

That sounds like it was a horrible day, it wasn’t, it just threw a monkey wrench into my thoughts on how it was going to go.

Like I quoted the mom a time I could make it in, calculating skipping breakfast and going straight to BART.  Just roll out of bed, make bed, kneel down, take a moment to put on head, pull on clothes, and roll out the door.

I figured I would grab breakfast at the house.

I know there’s coffee there, oatmeal in the cupboard, and I have my own little stash of apples and humus and string cheese in the fridge, I’ll eat when I get settled in.

Surprise!

Grandma is in the guest room.

Frogs.

I had completely forgotten they were going to be there.

Breakfast took some time to get together and I had to pause and look at how I was going to take care of myself and the kids and also allow for the grandparents being there.

Super sweet, but they don’t know the routine, and well, hell, the routine is already thrown and I am scrabbling to get myself straight, let alone make sure all the baby stuff is aligned and ready to go.

You miss the magic window on a nap or a feeding time and all hell can break loose.

Things managed to pull together, without too much stress, but I will say, there are few things that can strike real dread into the heart of a nanny and it goes something like this:

Me–“it’s so nice that you can come and visit before the event!”

Grandma–“We’ve seen the playa, it’s really amazing, we’ve just never gone to the burn.”

Aside–got to love a grandma that is down with going to the burn.

Me–“do you have any special plans today?”

Grandma–“Just sitting around watching you!”

Oh my fucking god.

I just about peed my pants.

I smiled, and said I hoped to be entertaining.

Grandma–“there’s not much to do with them when they’re this age, is there, you just need to be there to watch.”

I smiled and nodded, yup, sometimes, that’s all you need.

And sometimes it is baby juggling and the babies have sharp little teeth.

Both babies are teething.

Both babies had interrupted nap times.

Which in the end actually worked out alright, the afternoon nap went longer and I actually had an overlap of a half hour when both the babies were down at the same time and the grandparents were out to lunch.

Heaven!

A cup of tea and a moment to sit down and finish a New Yorker article I started three weeks ago.

That may give you an idea of how much down time I have when I am nannying.

Sometimes, and I won’t lie, there are great big wonderful chunks of time to kick through a book or check your e-mails, or take a phone call.

Sometimes you can’t keep up with the naps and the poops and the snacks and the walks and the diaper bags and the swaddles, nooks, socks, shoes, water bottles, milk bottles, burp cloths, biodegradable diaper garbage bags, favorite toys, rattles, and teething rings.

Today was somewhere in between.

I like to think that I am a good nanny.

Somewhere in that is the ability to make it look like what I am doing is easy, that I am just chillaxin’ while the babies are goo goo ga ga’ing.

But it takes some organizational skills and some tactical planning.

I shit you not, there are days when a strategically placed warm bottle and can and will make all the difference.

Ah.

Breathe.

I am not a work anymore.

And today’s unexpected shift will cover the hair cut I am getting on Thursday.

A little Solid Gold action with my friend Calvin.

It’s been a hot minute.

Almost a year.

I was going to do something wild, glitter extensions, but I think I am just going in and getting a trim.  Nothing over the top here.

Although it is Calvin, I might walk out with neon pink hair, who knows.

But it won’t be short, I am still toeing the line with keeping the hair long.

The blog digresses.

Off into hair landia.

Back to babylandia.

Tomorrow is my normal Tuesday in the city, well, with the absence of my little girl, who I am missing!  What that means, is an early start to my day, so I am going to wrap this blog up, make a quick snack, have a cup of tea, and get my rest in.

I shall be girding my loins for the grandparent babypalooza on the morrow.

I bid you an early adieu.

Sweet dreams, may they not be about teething!