Monday Musing -- talk before sleep

Some days with homeschooling my three kids in the middle of a northeastern winter, I wonder at my decisions. Some mornings there is so much whip-cracking and bellyaching involved, I'm astounded. My husband is home from Utila right now and has front row seats to the circus that is our morning routine.

J asked me if it is always like this, and I was tempted to use a phrase that has been long-banned from our relationship, Welcome to my world. Because let's be honest, does anyone, especially among the long-married, ever mean, come on in, can I get you a drink, take your jacket, show you around, welcome you to my lovely world?

But the truth is, it isn't always like this. I can appreciate I've got a pretty good gig, here in this momjob. After we got our busywork done, I took all the kids to the rink where we run "Learn to Skate" on Mondays, which means hours of open ice, friends, and fresh air, followed by Hayden's science club and playdates, Max's hockey practice, homemade spaghetti sauce (where everyone detected the spinach and boycotted!) brownie baking and sleepovers. After reading to Piper and Quinn, Piper's sister cousin age 4, who are on an every-other-on-again-off-again sleepover schedule (it's not as complicated as it sounds) I get to eavesdrop on their pre-sleep conversations. 

Q: Piper! Great news! I can feel the little hairs growing in my armpits! I'm so excited!

<Long pause>

P: Quinn, everyone has hairs in their armpits. Everyone has hairs everywhere.

Q: But these would be real hairs. 

P: Mom. Are you still in here?

Me: Yes.

P: I think I burst another eardrum, just now, while blowing my nose.

Me: Sorry to hear that, honey.

<long pause>

Q: Piper, I can't sleep.

P: Try to do some math problems in your head.

Q: <heaving a sigh> What's MATH?

<long pause>

P: You know what I wish? I wish it were a hundred thousand years ago, and I were a baby, but I still had my sense of humor, and I could just go around eating or stomping whatever I want.

Q: <dreamily> yeah....

Three minutes later, it was this:

.

Girly Craft Day

the Mini Boden inspiration

I am forever looking at things in catalogs and craft stores and design mags and thinking, I could do that. Today, I did. 

The boys are in an all-day ice hockey camp so Piper and I ticked a bunch of things off our To Do list and then rewarded ourselves with some leftover won ton soup and the tackling of a craft project. 

I saw the inspiration T-shirt in Mini Boden, a UK based clothing company that I usually enjoy browsing because I like their style and what's more, they interview their child models. I have bought some slouchy skater pants for my boys there but mostly feel it's a little overpriced for kids clothes.

But when I saw these shirts, I thought of the piles of leftover felt in my craft closet after the owl project. I started with the circles, because it was easy. I'd picked up a few blank T-shirts on sale at Old Navy and continously browse our thirft store for decent basics. Note: this project would also work with some favorite T's that got the dreaded grease stains. 

I made two circle templates and cut them out, then played with pinning them in position until I got a pattern I liked. 

circles pinned in position

While I did this, Piper tackled the regluing of glitter polka dots on a pair of really hideous Old Navy leggings we'd snagged for less than a dollar when I was fresh off the plane from Utila and desperate to cover her chilly little legs with anything. I warned her that the gold polka dots or their friends the big hideous rhinestones at the gathered ankles might not stay on through the wash. I was right about the polka dots. 

Pip set to gluing and sprinkling the fabric glitter my brother gave her for Christmas while I fired up the sewing machine. It took about seven minutes to straight stitch the felted circles into position. 

pip in action

I seriously didn't think her pants could be much uglier than they were when I bought them. They are, but infinitely more important, she is thrilled with them. 

The fruits of our labors can be seen below. Next, Piper has to do the backside of her leggings, and I think I'll try either the butterfly or the pear shirt. Total cost $4. Total time: 20 minutes. 

A successful afternoon of crafting with my girl: immeasurable. 

Piper's leggings

Piper models her finished shirt

It's a Christmas miracle. Again.

Let's be honest. Every Christmas is riddled with miracles, not the least of which is that we pulled it off, again. Moms and Dads (and grandparents and generous aunts and uncles everywhere), we did it. This was what J said as he raised his mug of late night coffee to me. We did it. This time last night, we were creeping upstairs knowing the kids were waking up to this:

Christmas eve 2012

I don't just mean the STUFF--the tree and the nativity, the advent stockings, the Elf, the wrapped books and art supplies, the coveted goalie pads and iPads.

As my favorite holiday, I take Christmas very seriously. I have written odes to my favorite books of the season as well as my favorite songs. I carefully consider the impact of gifts, from every aspect. Equitable, environmental, developmental, and of course, the WOW factor.

So when I say we did it, I mean that we followed our family rituals in hopes of creating tradition and maintaining a sense of the magic. This year, that felt extra miraculous. And not for the obvious reason that we hit the ground running from our Utila Vida Tranquila three weeks ago. 

In a whirlwind short span of time, we went from lazy days of hermit crab races, slow snorkeling and boat commutes to fast food, a dozen hockey games and a tank of gas in two jam-packed weekend days. 

Piper, back on the ice

The first wrench in the holiday works was Sampson, who must have gained twenty pounds (fifteen of it fur!) under the loving care of Aunt Kim and Uncle Matt. What's Christmas without a little dog blog drama? 

A week ago, we experienced some unseasonably warm weather and hockey practices were canceled, so the kids took Sampson fishing. What is more idyllic than kids and their dog, fishing? I put down the presents I was wrapping, opened the window and snapped a photo. Shortly after the below photo was taken, Hayden came running to the house and confessed tearfully that as he was changing his tackle from catfish bait (hot dog and hook) to bass lure, Sampson lunged and swallowed the bait--literally hook, line and sinker. 

I'm going to give away a little free veterinary advice, in case this horror happens to any of my dog-loving friends: if your dumb dog swallows a fish hook, you do not rush him to the vet for emergency surgery as we were imagining. Instead, we were instructed to feed Sampson a dozen cotton balls slathered in peanut butter. And bread too, if we could get it into him, also with the peanut butter and American cheese. The idea being that these items would form a protective barrier around the hook and it would pass through safely.

freshwater fishing--kids and their dog

Then, you wait. And watch. And sift hopefully through every cottony turd. Hayden took on this task with me, and sometimes as we shivered outside with a flashlight and some plastic forks, mouth breathing from the steaming stench of it, he would say that this was all he wanted for Christmas, for Sampson to be okay, for the hook to pass through without damage. A Christmas miracle. 

As of Christmas eve, the last time we officially looked, we had not found the hook, (non-chrome hooks can actually be dissolved by a dog's stomach acid) but it looks like Hayden may have gotten his wish, freeing us up to enjoy Christmas. 

This morning, when the kids crept up the stairs and into our bed to wake us for stockings-breakfast-presents, Piper did not say, "Merry Christmas," but instead, "My stomach hurts." We led her down the hall, video camera rolling, to show her the big gift, what had kept me and Mr. Claus up banging around and socket wrenching until all hours of the night, taking the king size family bed out of her tiny room and assembling her new bed. The boys, who were in on the surprise, threw open her door for the big HGTV reveal, and in what is destined to become a home movie classic, Piper promptly threw up.

From then on, Christmas took a slight veer off the predicted path of our usual ritual. Instead of stockings-breakfast-presents, everything was punctuated with vomiting. Poor Pip insisted the show go on, with her bravely participating. She would open a present, give a weak smile, and then yak a little more foamy barf into her bowl. Midday, the two patients retired to try out her new bed. This is how they spent the rest of the day:

The three boys went off to play some family hockey, and I rattled around the house, reflecting and cleaning up. Peeking in on the two of them, counting my blessings that Sampson and Piper both seemed to be resting comfortably, I said a small prayer of gratitude.

We did it. Again. Another year; Christmas miracle. 

* *** *

La Vida Tranquila -- Pint-Sized Tour Guide

I've never been a good napper. When I lived in Tarifa as a single woman, I spent the siesta hours of the afternoon taking long walks with my faithful dog and a Nikon. Peeking through arched white-washed doorways in this Spanish town with 13th century roots and heavy Moorish influence, I assembled a photo essay called Las Puertas Antiguas de Tarifa. I was thinking today that if I ever put together a photo essay of Utila, my common theme could be La parte posterior de las cabezas Bine y Piper since I spend much of my time in Utila following these two around. It's a pretty good gig.

The Backs of Bine and Piper's Heads 1

The Backs of Bine and Piper's Heads 2

The Backs of Bine and Piper's Heads 3

The Backs of Bine and Piper's Heads 4

Bine (pron. BEE-nuh) is Piper's dearest friend here. Her parents run FLOAT UTILA, the world's largest float tank (designed and built by Bine's Dad). They have one of the best love stories I have ever heard and I could spend hours sipping coffee and chatting with her mom while our kids play cheerfully.

Bine is a creative, curly-haired girl with a whimsical spirit and such a transparent, honest streak she often floors me with her direct imperatives and observations. 

I'm noticing a tender innocence to many of the children of my Utila friends. On the one hand, they are exposed to so much on the streets of Town. I often wish for ear muffs for my own kids when we pass the ferry port and there's crazy shirtless Webb greeting the incoming boat with his tarantula on a stick and some pelvic thrusting as he howls, "GOT-DAMN I WANT SOME FAH-KING GRINGA PUSS-Y!" as the horrified backpacker girls scuttle past. Or there's the diabetic bum begging for soda as he urinates openly next to the cafe where we're having breakfast. Or the crackies spitting at each other in a domestic dispute, or the brash potty-mouths of the twenty-something Aussie divemasters as we pile in the bed of the pick-up truck driving out to beach clean-up. 

But here there is also no TV, no commercials, no WalMart; a complete blissful lack of awareness of mainstream juvenile popculture. Maxim (5) only just learned of the existence of Batman. There is a commitment between the mothers here to maintain that innocence, and preserve some of the wonder of childhood, where afternoons are spent finding snails in the harbor, creating castles for hermit crabs on the beach or visiting bats in abandoned hotels. 

Bine, our tour guide

Today, after Piper's BICA school and yoga and workbooks with the boys in Bundu Cafe, we followed Bine on a tour of her version of Utila. We set out with the girls' hands tucked into mine as we attempted a snake-like single-file through the narrow street, the boys running ahead, and Bine and Pip singing in the sweetest improv soprano soundtrack, 

You have to be nice and caring

to fulfill your heart

and your dreams

of love

You can't be aggressive 

like a bulldog

or Piper's brothers...

FIRST STOP -- THE BAT HOTEL

 This place caught my attention the first time I traveled from Utila Town to the South Shore by boat, on our way from the US. It is a distinctly dated but elegant structure clinging to the hillside over the harbor. I asked our boat captain so many questions about it--why had it never been finished? who owned it? who lived there? that my kids dubbed it "Mom's Old Hotel".

Bine skipped ahead up the steep, green-slick street of Colibri Hill past a tangle of woods and barbed wire with the promise of bats on the fourth floor and a breathtaking view of the harbor. 

hiking up the hill 

Bat hotel 

I was fascinated by the wild grounds that showed hints of ambition, intricate tile work and the design of future fountains and gardens.

Bine danced past laundry on moss-slick paths, past an ornate red iron bedframe and turquoise bike and tugged open the unlocked door. All four children raced up the stairs screaming and clapping.

Underfoot, decades of guano and fruit pits crunched, amidst panes of broken glass and construction debris.

beautiful tile workIt reminded me of the Disney World attraction "Tower of Terror", set in a 1940s abandoned hotel with endless attention to historical detail to entertain park guests as they stood in hours of snaking line and waited to be thrilled. Only here, as my children clapped to startle bats and climbed through broken windows to balconies, I was acutely aware that no ride inspector or first world litigious system was ensuring their security. 

potentially stunning botanical and water features

view from the topThe view of the harbor below was worth it.

Bine's mom waved to us from the porch of their house below where she was whipping up one of her signature delicious lunches and toddler Gus was no doubt sword-weilding or plunging into their homemade boat bath in his underwear. 

Back inside the hotel, the startled, nocturnal bats flew in and out as we trekked through their territory. Photos couldn't capture it, so I shot a little shaky iPhone video (in between ducking).

bike and bed on the grounds

After I convinced the kids that dropping broken glass from the windows would be a bad idea, we followed Bine back through the overgrown grounds to lookout points. On the balcony of an outbuilding, a young couple kissed, smoke curling up from the cigarettes tucked in their dangling hands. Leafcutter ants stretched a procession a hundred yards long like a miniature landlocked green regatta.

At a fork in the road, we wound up to the Colibri Hotel with the promise of kittens, only to find they had grown into standoffish cats. Instead, we discovered a bright blue pool in a cove of palm trees, and an overloaded avocado tree that rained down its fruit in a gust of wind.

the backs of Bine and Piper's heads 5

A street puppy followed Piper and Bine over the rise in the hill and down again to town, panting and smiling up at them.

A motorbike carrying a family of four zipped past, the baby straddling the gas tank in an overloaded diaper.

An elderly Honduran cowboy in a bright orange shirt bowed and chuckled as Piper and Bine breezed by him.

"Come on!" Bine cried as she and Piper opened their arms like bird wings and rounded the curve of the hill by Johnny's Water back to Town.

"I know where we can see a bulldog named Ceiba and real live green parrots!"

I hurried to catch up. 

* *** *

La Vida Tranquila -- Night Run

Tonight, as the sun slid down over the casuarinas and the boats made steady progress in front of our house, home from a Saturday at the Cays or back from Town, I was reluctant to run. It had been a full day-- we passed on going to the Independence Day parade in Town and kids yoga on the dock to stay home. We made a stack of thick coconut pancakes and Toledo bacon for breakfast, followed by a family boat trip along the dive sites of the South Shore. We dropped in and out of the water, snorkeled the cave at Big Rock and searched for J's kiteboarding leash in the shallows. We didn't find his leash, abandoned during a dicey shore landing last week, but we did meet a bad-tempered spotted moray. 

Amigo is always up for a runA sunny day on the water takes it out of you, and after editing for the rest of the afternoon, I was ready to sit out and drink a glass of wine at sunset, but Amigo insisted we go. I'm not much of a distance or a speed runner but I am doggedly devoted to logging some miles at the end of the day. (I talk about my relationship with running in this essay.)

After weeks of flip flops, my sneakers feel like stones, like 80's aerobics ankle weights. Tonight I saw fingers of lightning on the mainland, and heard the rustle of wind in the sea grapes. Rain would be good news for our cistern, which ran dry again this week, but bad for my iPod. I went anyway. In spite of the heat, I layered up against mosquitoes and bad weather, sprayed myself with bug juice, called my perro and set out.

The first part of our run is along a narrow trail through a tangle of sea grapes, palm and almond trees, ten yards above the shorebreak. I had my headphones on, so I didn't hear them rustling in the dried leaves and underbrush. Amigo was in a feisty mood, nipping at my side, and when we hit the open beach, he leapt and twisted in the air beside me, demanding attention and some training, so I didn't notice them at first. When I finally looked down, they were everywhere. Dozens of land crabs on the white sand, dukes up, boxer dancing in their side-stepping sashay from the bush to the water.

We had just arrived on Utila when this happened before, a month ago, walking home from the marina after a boat ride home from dinner. One of them managed to find her way up inside my bootleg jeans; I screamed like a gringa. It is breeding season for the Cardisoma guanhumi, or Blue Land Crab. After mating, the females carry their eggs, as many as 700,000 under their armored bellies for two weeks, before they bring them down to wash them and deposit them in the shallows. This happens most often around full moons in the nights from July to November. 

I jogged in the soft sand past the soon-to-be-opened restaurant, west, where it is wilder, where rutted Polaris tracks covered in island pine needles mark the trail along the beach, and everywhere, skittering out of my way, confusing Amigo, there were crabs. I made noise and watched my step, until I came to a point where I simply couldn't go anymore. From the water to the treeline, the ground was a carpet of crabs.

I realized the kids would love to see this and Amigo and I raced the mile home. We abandoned music and came back with Hayden and headlamps as the light was nothing more than a watery gray by then. We ran, clapping and laughing, as more and more came out under the cover of darkness. 

Hayden among the 'Cardisoma Guanhumi'

Generous, Hayden suggested we go back for his brother and sister, so they wouldn't miss this incredible experience. Another sprint back, the ground crawling with them, and now it was truly dark. A cloudy sky, night bird sounds, the increasing wind, the hum and slap of the unlit boats making their way on the ocean, we brought Piper and Max out to the beach. Running was impossible this time. They crawled over our feet, danced out of our way, their eyes glinting. Our lights picked up glowing underneath the crabs, covering the sand and sparkling like diamonds, too far up the beach to be bioluminescence and first I wondered if they were lost eggs, but it was greenish blue gleam of tiny spider's eyes. 

On the way home, we laughed and dodged and made noise, feeling them pass over our feet, marveling at their size, their numbers, hundreds, thousands, "Infinity!" Piper suggested. Amigo darted between us, highstepping like a nervous show pony. We stayed out until the raindrops chased us home. 

* *** *