The Terrifying Trip to the Zoo

It's been an "interesting" week. But as I say this, I realize that I've been saying it for the last several years on a regular weekly basis. I guess I'm waiting for that quiet idyll where everything works like it should to come back into our lives. I wonder if that will ever happen?

Well, this week, on Monday, it was Jared's class field trip to the Woodland Park Zoo up in Seattle. I've been eagerly waiting to go ever since I heard that that's where they were heading. So, naturally I volunteered to be one of the parent chaperons so that I could go. I haven't been to the Woodland Park Zoo since Maia was a baby. That was back when Mike's health first started to decline and we had no idea what was happening to him.

That seems like an eternity ago. Another lifetime. That was a scary time when his heart would skip beats or beat in crazy rhythms and there were days when he'd be so exhausted that he would fall asleep mid-sentence in the middle of the day. We learned a while later that he has hypothyroidism that was probably exacerbated by his work environment (chemical exposure in an ill-vented warehouse). We're still, nine years later, trying to dial in his prescriptions. How crazy is that?

Anyway, this time, I was looking forward to visiting the zoo without a cloud of worry and uncertainty hanging over me. I was ready to enjoy the zoo, to take in the sounds and sights of the animals, to delight in the beauty of the worlds' nature, to capture a moment of relaxation in my world of perpetual worries and stress.

My plan would have worked had it been for the fact that I was put in charge of three young men - two of which were feral. Yes, my son was one of those two. I had hoped that he would've behaved himself much in the way he normally behaves himself when we go out as a family to do stuff. He's pretty well behaved, so it was quite alarming to me that he had turned into a crazed monkey in the presence of the other feral boy in our group. They just kind of bounced off each other. The third boy, to my amazement, was quite thoughtful and far less rowdy than the other two.

In fact, he and I had a pretty good time together. He would let me explain things about the animals I knew something about. He would laugh at my stupid jokes. He even tolerated me helping him sound out the words to signs we saw along our route. It felt nice to be able to help him read, as I got the impression that he had been struggling with it and might not have had anyone at home to help him. I hope he appreciated my efforts.

But back to my two feral boys. I expected a certain amount of excitement. I mean, this was their first field trip after all. That's a very exciting thing. But these two took things to an absurd level - climbing on EVERYTHING, pulling me in opposite directions to look at different displays so much that my shoulders hurt at the end of the day.

At one point, the two reach a fevered pitch and run totally amok. I was flabbergasted. We went into a building, I'm not sure what it was for to be honest. I was trying to control the two and so I wasn't as observant as I ordinarily am. While I was chasing down one of them, Jared bolted out the door and disappeared. Gone. Vanished into thin air. I tried to tamp down that feeling of dread growing in my stomach that my child had gone missing - the parents' worst fear. I called out his name and there was no response. Dread, cold and unyielding, overtakes my reason. I go back into the building, thinking he must've slipped back in unnoticed, because there was no way MY son would do something so stupid as to run off and get himself lost. There was no sign of him at all. Desperate, I go back outside and call, once again, fearing that he's been snatched away and I'll never see him.

I spot some movement, hidden in some bushes away up the path. The form of a hunkered down child and the impish grin on his face fills me simultaneously with rage and relief. Jared's head pops up, all smiles and lightness, completely oblivious to the terror he raised in my heart. I explain, very carefully, very slowly, to him the error of his judgement. I'm quite pleased with myself that I didn't scream or unleash the irrational demons in my head. I wanted this to be a reasoned conversation so that I could impress upon him that running off at the zoo (or anywhere else for that matter) was not the wisest of choices. He nodded his understanding and reluctantly accepted his punishment of having to hold my hand for the rest of the field trip. He was considerably more subdued, but no less enthusiastic about the zoo.

The other feral boy, however, was not deterred by Jared's confinement. He continued to run and jump and climb and shriek at the animals and bang on the glass windows. At the end of the walk through the zoo, while we waited to board the buses, he threw himself on the ground, rolled around in circles, and howled that he needed a penny for the souvenir penny machine. It was embarrassing. Finally, I had enough and told him to get up off the ground. To my surprise, he actually listened that time and got up and was "normal". Weird.

Meantime, the perfectly behaved young gentleman had turned sour all on account that I wasn't buying him ice cream. It didn't matter that there was no one at the ice cream stand, nor that I informed him that I didn't have any money to buy anyone any ice cream. Suddenly, his perfect day at the zoo turned into the "worst zoo visit ever". He became sulky and sullen and dragged his feet and was generally unpleasant until we got back on the bus.

But you know, none of that mattered. What mattered was that I had Jared with me and hopefully he learned a valuable lesson about running off. At the end of the day, I had my perfectly Jared young boy, who in the grand scheme of things is pretty well behaved, and not some other feral child who yells and screams when he doesn't get his way. I have my children and that's what's important.

The Meaning of Life

Well, it's been an interesting couple of days. We went to Roseburg to visit Mike's parents. While we were down visiting, a dear friend of the family passed away, Penny Gerking. It brought into sharp focus the transitory nature of life. You never know when someone who is close to you will be gone forever. It makes you stop and think about things.

Penny was a beautiful, grandmotherly type of a woman. She had befriended Maia, our daughter, a few years ago at our church. Penny volunteered as a teacher in the children's religious education program as well as sang in the church choir. She was always generous with her spirit and was always happy to see us, particularly Maia.

She and Maia became better aquainted when they became Lighthouse Pals, an interegenerational activity at our church - something along the lines of Secret Santas, but designed to bridge the gap between the generations and foster stronger connections within our church community. Every week they would exchange notes and gifts and try to guess who their Lighthouse Pal was. Maia would be delighted with the little notes and presents Penny would leave her. One in particular was a crown made of streamers and this became Maia's favorite thing. We kept it safe so it wouldn't get ruined in the kids' rooms. I think Maia still has it hidden in one of her treasure boxes.

Penny's death was out of the blue. Well, not entirely. Penny's family kept the church community aware of what was transpiring after Penny's initial stroke, subsequent coma, and final passing. But it happened in the span of a week or less. A blink of an eye, really.

And then we were in Roseburg, hanging out with my in-laws. It occured to both Mike and myself that Kay and Marilyn won't always be around, that one of these visits might be the last one of its kind. That's kind of sad, really. I have always enjoyed my visits to Roseburg. Kay always cooks me my favorite foods, although this trip there was a decided lack of buffalo steak. I enjoy Kay's diatribes. They are entertaining and educational. All his kids have heard them before, so he seems to enjoy the fact that he has a willing audience in me. This visit presented me with the topic "The Tomato Garden Theory of Child Rearing". Strange as the topic may sound, Kay is a bright man and he has some compelling theories on life.

Marilyn is such a wonderful source of comfort for me. I can call her and talk to her about my problems and she listens carefully and gives me sage advice. I love the fact that she can fall asleep in the middle of a maelstorm and won't even bat an eye. I wish I could sleep through most things. She bakes really lovely pies, too. I think between her and Kay's cooking I gained two pounds while we were visiting.

It will be sad when things change for our visits, but we know that at some point they will. It is inevitable. So we did the best we could to enjoy the time we had while we were there. We'll try and make it down more often, now that we have a reliable car to drive.

When we came home, or rather a day after we came home, my grandmother collapsed in the home she's staying at. She was rushed to the hospital where my mom and dad met her. Her blood pressure was unusually low and they suspect she suffered a TIA. She's still in the hospital and the doctors still don't know what's going on with her.

I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I love my grandmother very much. On the other hand, she's 92 and has Alzheimer's. I know that the grandmother that I know doesn't exist anymore. This is just the body of my grandmother - still deserving of love and attention, but just not the same person she was. She is incapable of being that person and I have come to terms with that.

But I feel for my parents, who are the primary ones to take care of her. They visit her frequently at the assisted living facility and they make sure that all of her needs are being met. They really do take good care of Grandma, and I know that it's hard on both of them, particularly my father. It's his mother who is gone and still there.

So what do I hope the outcome of Grandma's hospital stay? It's hard to say. I don't want to have to say good-bye to someone I love very much, but at the same time, she's slipping further and further into her dementia and it's taking its toll on my parents, whom I also love.

Why does life bring us so close to one another that we can hear each other's heartbeat only to snatch it away, leaving only the faint trace of the connection in the void left between us? Why must one go quickly while another lingers, transformed into something unrecognizable? Both losses hurt.

Whether or not we like it, no matter its form, death does come. But life wouldn't be as virdent and meaningful if we kept our distance in order to avoid the end of life loss. We must connect and love otherwise we grow cold as stone and our own soul dies long before our flesh. We risk the loss at our first embrace, but I would have it no other way. I have grown knowing my grandmother and loving her. I have grown knowing Penny and loving her. I have grown knowing both my grandfathers, knowing Donna Frisk, knowing Cheryl Kreibl, and loving them all.

Back on the Blog - Chicks, Frogs, and Chalk Pie

Well, it's been a while since I've blogged, as you can probably guess from the date of my last post.  I kind of feel like I don't have anything significant to say or write anything that anyone would find of interest.  But then a friend of mine who regularly blogs about the goings on of her kids and their lives together showed me a book her husband had published of her collective blogs from the previous year.  In it she included pictures and updates on things that the family had done.  She writes her blog every two weeks.  It was really a cool idea, in my opinion, as she was doing it so that the kids would have something to help remember what it was like when they were growing up.  Pictures only take the memories so far.  Writing about the things that have occurred take the memory that much further.  

So, maybe I'll start doing that here.  Record the events of my life, and those of my children.  Add a few pictures, maybe throw in some of my artwork as it becomes available.  Then maybe in a year I'll publish it for the kids to have.

Plus, it'll be a good way for me to let the in-laws and other relations know what's going on because I'm dismal at e-mailing them pictures, or posting the stuff on facebook.  Next thing they know the kids have grown three inches and haven't a clue what we're doing.

Right now I'm at my in-laws' house, typing on their computer.  We came down for a couple of days while the kids were on Spring break.  We're heading home tomorrow, because the day after that (Thursday) I have a board meeting to go to.  But right now things are quiet.  Kay is teaching the kids to play pool in the basement.  Mike is staring blankly at the smiley-face ceiling lampshade.  He's asking if one can have parody without irony?  He's so deep.  Or weird.  Or both.

Earlier in the day we went out to dinner at Abby's Pizza with Mike's folks.  It was not the best of eating experiences, sad to say.  Kay ordered a ton of food, which wasn't bad, but the food itself wasn't all that great.  It made DiGiorno's Pizza seem like gourmet cuisine.  There was some ruckus over the bill.  The staff insisted on shrieking and throwing their feces at us.  In revenge for my father-in-law's tirade, they're now using his credit card number to order "the Best of Hee-Haw" on e-bay.  

The highlight of the meal, however, was when I turned to face my oldest boy, Jared, only to see he had shoved a straw up his nose, either end in each nostril, making an absurd "U".  Makes me glad we're not at the piercing stage.  My eldest daughter, Maia, got into a burping contest with an imaginary hippo.  She won by default but we were slathered by river planton by the imaginary hippo.  So...budget isn't the only reason why we don't go out to dinner more often.

Other highlights from our trip to Roseburg.  We went out to see "Alice in Wonderland" in 3D yesterday (Monday March 29, 2010).  Colin (my youngest) sat next to me and whispered at the top of his lungs that he was firsty (thirsty).  Being 3 1/2, he doesn't yet have the capacity to understand that whispering doesn't require the full use of his vocal chords.  But there it is.  He was scared a couple of times and buried his head in my arm calling out "oh my goodness!".  The audience thought that was particularly amusing and were good sports about his outcries.  

We got to see my sister-in-law, Krista, and her husband, Dave, which was nice.  They came down from Eugene for the weekend to see us and take Mike fishing.  It WOULD be the one time that Mike didn't bring any of his fishing gear.  How's that for irony?  But he managed to put together something to fish with (go figure).  Mike caught a nice little trout which my mother-in-law, Marilyn, promptly ate.

I'm glad he went fishing.  Mike's been needing to go for quite some time.  He gets kinda of...strange if he doesn't go fishing on a regular basis.  Believe me when I say this.  He NEEDED to go fishing.  Now that he's gone, he's much more reasonable.  I can't explain it, but it grounds him.

Other than that, it's been a nice visit.  Marilyn made Mike the apple pie she'd been promising him for five years.  She also taught Maia how to make her (or rather Kyla's) chocolate pie.  Actually, they call it "Chock Pie" which everyone thinks they're saying "Chalk Pie", which is amusing in a Bjornson kind of way.  (I find it funny, too - but then again I've been assimilated into the hive mind.)

Maia and Jared and Erin and Colin have had a really good time playing with all the toys here.  There's Legos and Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys and some kind of contraption that you build into a marble track.  The kids figured out how to make crossbows and arrows out of the Tinker Toys this morning and have been shooting the hound out of everything.  They are inventive if nothing else. 

OH, and I forgot to mention the chicks.  The baby chickens.  Kay and Marilyn disappeared one day, early in our visit.  They were gone for something like two hours.  We thought they had just gone to the grocery store, but it turned out that there was much more in store than a 12 pack of Coke and bacon.  Imagine our surprise when they came in with a container of no less than 15 baby chicks, all squawking and scrabbling.  Maia was immediately in love with them and adopted one as her own.  Colin named no less than two of them "Baby Colin" and one "Kid Colin".  Jared was reticent, but he enjoyed holding the chicks in his hands.  Erin kept her quiet distance, plotting ways to turn them into something edible, I'm sure.

Kay and Marilyn set up this huge cardboard box in the living room where the chicks would live until the weather warmed up and they grew up enough to handle living in the chicken aquarium.  Kay set up a heat lamp to keep them warm.  The kids hover over the box, for the first two days its in the living room.  At this point, however, the box and the chicks have become innocuous, as slaying one another with Tinker Toy arrows is much more entertaining.

Personally, I think Kay and Marilyn bought the chicks just to drown out the sound of the frogs croaking in their backyard swimming pool.  Those frogs are extremely loud and only are slightly quieter than the chicks.  It's a different story when the chicks are asleep and you can really hear the frogs then.

Oddly enough, the first night we were here, the frogs shut up when Mike mentioned making frog legs.  True story.

Frazetta, Forza, and Kidney Stones

This month has been "productive", but not in ways that I had anticipated. It started out innocuous enough. Nothing on the horizon, but a vague urgency to work on some art. The kids would have one more month of fun in the sun before heading back to school and I was in the throes of trying to get myself into some kind of routine where I could manage housework and artwork, parenthood and playtime.

It's always an ugly battle. Scrapping together enough self-confidence to allow some unadulterated creativity without guilt or interruption has never been easy. The looming sense of failure because there are dirty dishes in the sink and an absolute terror that my mother would show up to pass judgment on the disarray in my living room cause my engine to stall while I flounder in front of my muse.

So, it was a certain ambiguous excitement that crept over me when I learned about a Frank Frazetta tribute contest put together by Blues Dragon hosted over at DAZ3D . I have been a huge fan of Frazetta's since I was a young teen, pouring over the covers of dozens of fantasy and sci-fi books he illustrated, wishing I was the voluptuous babe wielding a sword and saving the universe. In my heart of hearts, I knew that this was who I was meant to be. Too bad reality had the upper hand.

In the course of preparing for this contest, where I would be competing with my contemporary 3D artists, I poured over hundreds of Frazetta's artwork, trying to define his style and then use those elements in my submission piece. I had grand dreams of winning. But not for the prizes that would be awarded. No. My prize would be knowing that my work would be seen by Frank Frazetta Jr (the final judge for the contest) who would probably share a peek with his father. My heart was giddy with the knowledge that Mr. Frazetta himself would be casting his gaze upon this mere mortal's feeble attempt to do him homage.

Heady stuff for a woman trapped in her mid-forties, ruing the fact that she STILL wasn't the voluptuous babe wielding a sword and saving the universe.

I guess that's why I was intrigued when my husband bought Forza The Samurai Sword Workout
for his birthday. He used to be a fencer, but after having shoulder surgery almost five years ago, he feared he would never be able to return to the sport. He thought that this exercise DVD might be the road to recovery. He never suspected that I would blatantly steal it and make it my own.

Actually, I was kind of surprised at how much I enjoy it. I HATE exercise videos and DVD's. Young know-it-alls flaunting their skinny, toned bodies, shouting encouraging platitudes that sound more plastic than heartfelt. More fluff than honest concern. They're in it for the money. Wiggling and gyrating in a hedonistic frenzy, moving their bodies in meaningless gestures. It's a power party exalting their own magnificence and clever marketing strategies. It doesn't inspire me.

But Ilaria Montagnani does inspire me. She doesn't spout nonsense, her instruction is clear and meaningful. The movements make sense. You're wielding a sword, for heaven's sake. You can't mistake the meaning in that. No "jazz hands" here. You spend the time concentrating on coordinating the movements of your body in tandem with the arc of the practice sword in your hands. You feel the sense of history, imagining yourself transported to the practice fields of yore where soldiers are running through their daily drills. You flow in a moving meditation as you practice this art, and have a sense of stillness and poise that is sadly lacking in the blaring romp of other exercise programs.

As I do the Forza, I think about my Frazetta contest piece. For the first time I actually feel sort of like the babe with the sword in the book covers of my youth. Granted, I'm still overweight and I have a frumpy hairdo, but the spirit comes alive. As does my artwork.

I frantically work on the piece, but I suffer a blow. A week before the deadline, I'm doubled over in pain, whimpering like a child on my bed. There's a clamping pain from my mid-back around my right side to my lower right abdomen. I can't stand up straight. It takes every ounce of Forza strength concentration to make my way out to the car where I have to drive myself to the hospital. My husband stays home with the kids, as it would be extremely miserable for them and me to bring them all along for the ride.

I am brought down with a kidney stone. A 3mm pellet from hell, ripping its way from my kidney to my bladder. Too small to pulverize, I am told, so I'm sent home with a prescription for pain medicine and a screen to pee through. I bet the Frazetta babe never had to fight a demon like this. A twisting, burning demon that causes anguish and confusion in the faces of my children who cluster around, patting my shoulder and whispering "poor Mommy. Poor, poor Mommy."

A break in the maelstrom in my bladder and it's less than 12 hours before the end of the contest. I frantically coax both my computers to chunk our renders as fast as their CPUs can muster. Foolishly, I had planned to do my submission in layers to be composited in Photoshop. This adds more time that I don't have. I frantically piece each layer together on one machine as another layer slowly renders on the other computer. Beads of sweat burst out on my brow faster than doing Forza. I'm in a blind panic. Pain be damned, I have to get this piece in before the deadline.

Gasping and fumbling with the keyboard, the hour of truth approaches and for a brief moment, my brain turns to jelly. I managed to get a workable image together for the contest. I have it uploaded and in my artzone gallery, but I can't for the life of me figure out how to submit it to the contest. I break down in tears. To have come so far only to fail at the end. Tragic, the hero is conquered and alone. Alone but for the pain in my side and the mound of dirty dishes in the sink.

But then reason sets in. I re-read the instructions. Stupidity subsides and I have my piece sucessfully submitted to the contest with a fraction of a moment remaining. Cheated death again, I sigh, deeply relieved. The poise and stillness return to me and I take a brief moment to check out my work, to make sure I really did get it in on time.

As I sit there, stupidity returns. I stare, disbelieving. I had uploaded the wrong image. Half a boob is missing from the central character. My heart sinks. THIS is what Mr. Frazetta will be seeing and I am embarrassed.

What would the babe with the sword do? I wondered. Would she skulk away, embarrassed and beaten? No. Frazetta would never paint her that way. She wouldn't take it lying down. Or if she was lying down, she'd still have the sword in her hand. She would stand her ground and fight the good fight. So would I.

I decided to submit the correct image, though a half an hour later than my first image, with the explanation of what had happened, hoping that the judges would understand. To my good fortune, they did.

Now to wait to see if I won....

We've MOVED!!!

Well, it's been a while since I've written. I have a very good reason. We've moved. And it was a sudden move, out of the blue, hit without warning.

I got a call from a friend of mine, asking if we were interested in moving into a house. A three bedroom house with a yard. I looked around our squalid two bedroom hovel of an apartment, and I couldn't help but say "yes!".

She made us a very good deal, allowing us to pay what we were paying on the apartment. But part of that deal meant having to clean up after the previous tenants in the house, which I don't have a problem with, because it's been an amusing adventure to say the least. And it meant we'd have to move quickly, without seeing the inside of the house. At least at first.

There have been so many anxieties about moving for me, that I don't really know where to start. First of all, I like to plan for things like moving. I grew up in the Air Force, and we moved every two or three years, like clockwork. I learned a lot about moving from my mother, who would be meticulous and methodical in her approach to packing and getting us from abode A to abode B. She was awesome.

Although I learned a lot from her, I never managed to grasp the organizational skills required to pull off a truly masterful move. But that was ok for me when I was younger. A college student doesn't have a lot of stuff and all can be easily crammed into a suitcase or two, adding a box or so for each year. And my early adult life outside of college was equally carefree and unassuming. Yes, I had more crap to cart around, but nothing major. Or rather nothing major that I put a lot off stock in. I could move easily and freely, with one notable event. I moved from a house in North Seattle to a small apartment in Manhattan. Times Square, to be exact. And I had to do it entirely by myself while injured. I had two arms that were non-functional. And my spouse at the time (the reason why I was moving to NYC) refused to fly home to help with the move. Needless to say, it was ugly.

But then I had several moves since then that weren't so traumatic or grueling.

It wasn't until this move, that I realized how utterly over my head I've become in terms of the sheer amount of crap I own. Granted, not all the stuff is mine. I have four kids, two cats, and a loving husband, all who have stuff of their own. I had also amassed a sizable collection of boxes of crap from my past that I had, up to now, refused to deal with, sitting in a storage garage that also had to be moved.

And I had to do it alone.

Well, to be fair, not entirely alone. My husband did help out as much as he was able. He has an injured shoulder that prevents him from lifting anything heavy, and he has a medical condition that leaves him drained and unable to do much more than his basic, day-to-day stuff, while also holding down a job. There was no way I was going to ask him to do more than he could physically do on this move. He was already expending his energy going to work and making sure that we had money to pay bills and make ends meet.

And I had the kids, who, although young, were able to occasionally help me, when they weren't getting underfoot, or undoing the work I had just finished completing. But their hearts were in the right place.

The cats, obeying the order of things. They neither got in the way, nor did they help out.

On top of that, I had never seen the interior of the new house. This is something that I never do. I HAVE to see what a place looks like before I can move into it. I have to be able to see myself in the space, to visualize what it would be like living there, before I can totally get behind the move. Here, I had no way of seeing the inside without being rude and going up to the front window and peeking in while the previous tenants still lived here.

When the previous tenant DID finally move out (15 days AFTER they were initially to move out), my husband did come by and peek in the window and look in the backyard. His report was this, "I think we're going to lose some space moving in. The rooms look small. But the backyard is nice."

This did nothing to encourage me, as I was frantically packing in what could only be described as a random pattern throughout the apartment. I tried to pack up the stuff I thought we wouldn't need first, just to get it out of the way. And then as we'd get closer to moving stuff to the new place, I'd start to pack up the more essential items. To me, it seemed very haphazard and disorganized, but I tried to stay true to "the plan".

Finally, my friend called me and asked if I wanted to come see the house. She and her husband were legally able to enter the house and start clearing things out. I leaped at the chance and I loaded the kids in the car and we drove the two blocks over to see where we were going to live. At first, I was all giddy with excitement. But that was swiftly snuffed out when I walked in the front door.

The place was a shambles. Rubble and debris littered the floor. There was a hideous garland of plastic leaves running the circumference of the living room ceiling. There were huge burn marks in the carpet (not even near the fireplace) and char marks on the walls. There was the horrid smell of rotten food permeating the entire house. Apparently the power had been turned off and the food in the refrigerator had long rotted. My friend was busy unloading the fetid contents into a large garbage can when we arrived. Later, the kids confided in me that they were worried that the new house would always have that smell, and I had to do a LOT of convincing that the smell would be gone by the time we moved in. I don't think they entirely believed me, but they put on a brave face.

The rest of the house was no better than the living room. Although one of the bedrooms had a decent paint-job. Or rather, the interior decorating in that room hadn't gone horribly awry and it was almost pleasant. The master bedroom was just aweful. The silhouettes of playboy bunny heads adorned the room, and there was far more burn damage than in the living room (although nothing rivaled the huge burn hole in the living room carpet.) One of the mirrored closet doors was adorned with a sticker of a scantily-clad woman with large breasts starting to take off her underwear. Charming. Not that I have anything against that, mind you. It was just in context of the larger picture of the room that made my mind reel. Oh, and I forgot to mention the bolt hole that was cut into the floor of the master bedroom. The crowning turd of destruction, in my opinion.

There were other bits of destruction, too. Holes cut out in the dry wall. A broken window. Filth and garbage everywhere. Lots of discarded oxygen tanks. And interesting, angry murals painted in the garage depicting demons and naked women, proclaiming to be the "ruin of man". The kids refer to the garage art as the "bad art" and my eldest son doesn't even like going into the garage because of it. Needless to say, it will get painted over.

My heart was pretty low that day when we left the house. It was not a great first impression. I wondered if we had made a mistake in taking this opportunity. Was moving out of the apartment and the bad neighborhood we lived in, worth moving into what appeared to be a cesspit of despair? I tried to console myself with the thought that it was a good opportunity and that we wouldn't be able to move into a house otherwise, but it was cold comfort against the images running through my head.

I went back the next day, with my camera. My husband wasn't there on that first trip and I thought pictures would better describe what we were about to move into. In the light of day, the house had a mellower feel. It seemed to almost welcome me. The rooms were larger than I had remembered. The destruction was still there, but my friend and her husband had picked up a fair bit of the garbage and so it didn't look, or smell, as bad. I took pictures of all the rooms and showed them to my husband that evening. I was beginning to have a better feel for the place, and it didn't seem so bad.

Then a few days later, I went back to the house with my friend, and we had discovered that the previous tenants had come back and took more stuff. Stuff like the vanity mirror out of the half bath, the shower head in the main bath, the chain ladder to the tree house, light bulbs all over the house, and then they also did more damage like smashing the mirrored closet door (the one with the sticker with the large hooters on it).

It was then that I discovered that my friend wanted me to clean the house for her, which is fine, but I had to also clean my apartment so we could get our deposit back. All this while packing and managing four young kids.

It was a frantic three weeks. I did as much as I could on the new house, which admittedly wasn't much. I figured in the scheme of things, it was lowest on the priority list. I can always paint and get things deep cleaned after moving in. My priority was packing our stuff and moving it over to the house, followed by cleaning the old apartment up before the first of the month. I think I did pretty well as we're getting back a majority of our deposit, which was much more than I was expecting. I also lost eight pounds.

So, now we're moved. The new place has revealed itself to be a wonderful, lovable house. We fit very nicely into the new space, which my husband admitted on the second night here, that maybe he was wrong about estimating its size. It IS bigger than the apartment. Problems are getting dealt with. We're moving in. Very little troubles me about the new home. Just one thing has me flummoxed. I STILL can't find my box of hardware that contains the bolts and screws for my bed, the computer desk, and the kids' bunk bed. I have no idea where I packed it!

A Bold Foray into Literature

Ok, so maybe not as bold a foray as much as a moment of quiet triumph. I wrote my first article today and posted it online. I wanted to write a piece about how traditional artists bridge the gap into digital art. I think in the end it just wound up being a piece about my thoughts on various "paint" programs out there. Who knows if anyone will find it helpful, let alone read it.

But you never know, someone might. And if I don't take the risk and try, then I'll have let another opportunity to follow my dream pass me by. That's not exactly the lesson I want to be teaching my children. I want them to believe in themselves and fight for their dreams. Best way I know how to do that is to lead by example.

So, I have to get off my duff and actually start putting my money where my mouth is.

It's kind of scary, following a dream. There's the distinct possibility that I'll fail. Another distinct possibility that I'll pass through unnoticed. And the slimmest chance that someone will read my articles, see my artwork, and validate my existence with wads of cash, or praise, or both.

But I'm also afraid of succeeding. Weird, I know, but there it is. I'm afraid that if I succeed and people notice me and what I'm doing, then I'll have to keep doing it, even when I don't feel like doing it any more. I'd have to (shudder) apply myself!

The joy of apathy is that I have the freedom to do whatever I want whenever I want without worrying about disappointing anyone...other than myself. I set my schedule, call the shots, and then pine about how I'm not famous. And I know it's all me, and not some other entity dictating to me that's set me on this course.

But then when I look down into my eldest daughter's eyes and she has nothing but admiration beaming back up at me, and she says in her most sincere voice that I'm the best artist in the whole world...well, I figure I'm letting her down if I don't at least try to make my way in the world.

Oh, I won't let her down if I try and fail. She'll still love me and think my art is wonderful. But I will be letting her down because I'm showing her that it's ok to hide her talent, and to not be disciplined in her art. She and my eldest son are exhibiting artistic talent at their young age. I suspect my youngest two will also follow suit.

So, I bravely took a step forward today and wrote an article. If I don't develop a readership, that's ok. At least I will be teaching my children well.

In the Beginning there was Art and Sleeping Babies

It seems like I've spent a lot of time sitting at the computer with a sleeping baby on my lap. Usually it's not too bad, but today is hot and muggy and the added weight of my heat generating youngest sprawled across my lap is not its usual pleasant experience. There are beads of sweat on his chin and his arms and legs are splayed out trying to occupy as much space (and my lap) as his young body can.

He turns one a week from yesterday.

I'm trying to balance him as I type over him, careful to not ram an elbow in his face. He's now at the age where if there's anything REMOTELY interesting (and sometimes it doesn't have to be that fascinating) he will fight sleep so that he can participate, despite his desperate need for sleep.

I ought to transfer him to a better place to sleep, but the thought of moving him so that I have better access to the computer (and my life), kind of fills me with a melancholy and a slight dread that I might jostle him awake during the move. It's not fun dealing with a crabby baby, woken before his time, when all you want to do is get on with the dailiness of your life.

Don't get me wrong. I fiercely love Colin, as I love all of my children. There are four total. But I like to delude myself into thinking that I am much more than my children's mother. And I'm not talking about being the chauffeur, the maid, the nurse, the coach, the teacher roles I engage in when I'm parenting.

I'm talking about something much deeper. Something that goes beyond my need to connect to my progeny. Something that reaches further than the embrace of my loving husband. I'm talking about the fire that burns at my core.

I have to create. It's as essential as breathing. If I don't create something in some way every day, I go a bit nutty. I get maudlin and crabby. It's a lot like being constipated, and if I'm not manifesting something from the bowels of my imagination then I'm physically uncomfortable.

But it's never very easy creating, daily. I have the business of running my household as well as ensuring my children make it to adulthood. There's dishes to do, floor gidgets to vacuum, kids to cajole and potty-train. There's cats to flea comb, bills to pay, meals to prepare. The dailiness of life intrudes upon my incessant need to create.

I can't give up the kids, because I need them. I can't give up the art, because I need it. I can't give up the housework (no matter how much I want to) because, well... then I'd be a slob.

It's a delicate balance. Giving too much attention to one will neglect the other. Life versus art. But somehow I manage to create my cgi art or write while holding a child or two on my lap, and slowly the apartment pulls itself into shape around us.

I guess if it's important, it will manage to find a place inside the turmoil of life.