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- ANIMAL DRAMA! (17)
- BABY BABY (70)
- Music (2)
- Noho (18)
- Poems (4)
- Ponderosa (10)
- Usual Drama? (32)
- Vitals (20)
- World (13)
- 25. January 2010: The Problem With Going Home...
- 25. January 2010: Speaking of Mantas...
- 15. January 2010: Oceans To Write...
- 13. January 2010: Relief For Haiti
- 4. January 2010: Happy New Year! 2010201020102010 etc....
- 25. December 2009: Christmas Break: Pre-Christmas Haircut...
- 18. December 2009: On Things Growing Around Here...
- 16. December 2009: Blog Break: Tree Ornaments...
- 3. December 2009: Zoo Parenting 101...
- 16. November 2009: Birthdays...
- ANNE LAMOTT
- BOB TYLER & THE RECKLESS HEARTS
- BRIDGET HOIDA
- CHELLA COURINGTON
- CHRIS ABANI
- CRABMOMMY
- DOOCE
- ERIN CLENDENIN PHOTOG
- EVE ENSLER VDAY
- FINSLIPPY
- FOODS EXPLAINED
- FOSTER JOHNSON
- JESCA HOOP
- KAYOTIC KITCHEN
- MARTHA!
- MOM 101
- Mom Bloggers Club
- MOMS IN A BLOG
- MOMVERSATION
- Mother of Three: Baratch Family
- MOTHERHOOD LATER
- MOTHERVERSE
- Nicole Strasburg
- PB RIPPEY
- QUINCY
- Rippey Baby Food Maker
- SANDRA TSING-LOH
- SMART GALS
- SUSAN BUSH
- THE PIONEER WOMAN
- UNICEF: DRC SPECIFIC
- ZACH MADDEN
The Problem With Going Home…
25. January 2010 by PB Rippey.
That officially unrecorded song by anon (performed only a few times in dark, semi-smoky locations reeking of spilt beer and wrinkled pimientos before anon’s band became snarling strangers to one another and broke up) plays constantly in my head as we’re hitting the beaches, the harbor, the courtyards, the parks in the early a.m.—parks, beaches, playgrounds 5 minutes from each other—running him, showing him, running after him, strolling him:
Heading into Santa Barbara on a 1/4 tank of gas. Dollar in my pocket, you don’t have to ask me if I’m happy. It’s written in my smile. So the highway captured me, well I turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.
Harbor lights are glowing, there’s a sunset in your eyes. With not a mile between us, you don’t have to ask me do I love you. Loved you all this time. Had a fight with the last horizon. I turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.
Sky to Ocean.
Feel my future open.
I have run from this. Leaving you behind. Had a fight with the last horizon. Turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.
And I want you to know: I’ve loved you all this time.
I want you to know: I’ve loved you all this time.
Cheesy little song. Though apt.
(lyrics reprinted with anon’s permission, because even though she forgets to water plants or remove bagels from the broiler in a timely manner, she actually remembered to copyright her songs)
Posted in Usual Drama?, Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | 5 Comments »
Speaking of Mantas…
25. January 2010 by PB Rippey.
I neglected to add this photo to my last post. I’m told snorkeling—which I’m not afraid to do, not really, not anymore—is far more shark-attracting than scuba diving—which I am afraid to do. But gazing at Mark’s photos makes me want to dive. So some day, when my toddler is all grown and married and I have grandchildren and I’m an octogenarian, say, I’ll have them push me into a pool and I’ll get PADI certified and then go on my first dive and maybe feed mantas. And if it’s that day the mako comes along with a liking for old lady flesh, so be it. I’ll have raised my son, I’ll have seen my grandchildren. And my husband—who is not afraid to scuba dive, despite having seen sharks and eels and monster lobsters protecting their monster young—my husband, who will no doubt live to be 100+—will have mandatory down time from his cuckoo spouse.
Until then, I’ll photo-gaze. Or glass-bottom-boat venture. Or snorkel…WHERE IN BLAZES ARE MY FINS?
Posted in ANIMAL DRAMA! | Print | 1 Comment »
Oceans To Write…
15. January 2010 by PB Rippey.
I’ve been getting my fish-facts straight as they pertain to my children’s (middle-grade) novel. Editing for the 50th time (x 50 to the power of WTF) the fish-infused chapters and finding, to my horror, even now, facts I failed to check previously—tucked into my favorite editing place, my bed, while T naps or helps his Dadda wash dishes or is down for the night—editing, editing, gasping when finding an error (fishy, grammatical, or plot-wise)—editing, fingers tapped blue, neck stiffening despite enough pillows to furnish a Harem—still, I realize that apart from being mother and wife, this is what I love to do: Get my brain-screams on paper, then edit them into readable screamage. I could do it for hours. Weeks. Longer.
Fear lurks, though, like a moray eel slowly hunting in color-matched corals: Each time I edit, I make the story better—so even though the novel is ‘finished’, is it ever really finished? I wake up in the middle of the night muttering, GILLS, OF COURSE, GILLS, WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE, GILLS, GILLS, GILLS! If you were familiar with the heroine of my novel, GILLS would make perfect sense—and had you actually read my novel before I woke up muttering GILLS and inserted GILLS into the story appropriately, you would have thought to yourself: Huh—for the love of sea turtles, why the heck didn’t the author use GILLS in this novel? Yep. Fear.
I suppose there’s more fear, like: My novel never getting published…But that’s such a boring fear. Booooooring. As my friend L, a-real-live-NYC-actress reminds me: It’s a numbers game! You have to hang tough and keep marketing (yourself) if you believe in your material.
In between marketing and responding to LET ME SEE IT PB requests after certain agents read my (freqently more and more) mass-marketed query letter, I edit—I improve my novel and its fish-factiness. And I take my son to the beach and show him what inspires me and what I hope thrills him. I fill his bookshelves with ocean: Have I told you (I ask him, pulling out a well-illustrated, marine science-y little number) about the roughhead blenny? Come! Sit in Mama’s lap and take a look at THIS, my boy, my sweet, my precious love-cup! Ha ha!
Then back to the pillows, until what I read and edit and create loopy marginalia around puts even me to sleep and dreaming about unicorn fish and mantas that sing. To marketing, to marketing, jiggety-jig.
These amazing photos were taken by our dear friend, Mark Snyder, owner of starknakedfish.com. Mark spends much of his life under water, surfacing for the lecture circuit, or to travel to another exotic dive spot, or to hang out on research boats shooting, shooting away into spectacular sunsets. His website is a beautiful place to visit—like stepping into a tranquil aquarium. His innovative way of lighting the world beneath the waves never fails to ignite the imagination of ocean-nerds like myself.
NOTE:
Posted in Vitals | Print | 1 Comment »
Relief For Haiti
13. January 2010 by PB Rippey.
If you can:
http://www.cnn.com/SPECIALS/2007/impact/
Posted in World | Print | No Comments »
Happy New Year! 2010201020102010 etc….
4. January 2010 by PB Rippey.
1st morning. Swell, gulls, surfers, boogie boarders. 72 degrees. O Southern California!
And while I continue working on my next blog post, here is an archive from last year when we were barfing like maniacs and wondering how on earth to handle it with a 1 yr. old, also barfing. That was a time indeed.
And don’t forget to read my poems on Chaparral —because of course you have time to read poetry in your busy day, who doesn’t? Ha ha (uttered with more than a tinge of hysteria).
Posted in World, BABY BABY | Print | No Comments »
Christmas Break: Pre-Christmas Haircut…
25. December 2009 by PB Rippey.
This is what happened today. My fault. I panicked as I trimmed. With Christmas family get-togethers just around the hour—I panicked. Voila:
Luckily a Fantastic Sam’s of Reseda is close to us. I couldn’t go. Nerves. So S and his dad took T for his first formal haircut while I stayed at home. Vacuuming. Worrying. They did this:
And this:
The first (inadvertent) Big Boy haircut is hard! I’m glad he can see without tilting his head back to look out from under his bangs (my little sheepdog!!!), but—where is my baby? Oh, the 2’s are filled with a zillion fine lines.
Hoping the grandmas won’t be disappointed. MERRY — MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!
Posted in BABY BABY | Print | 2 Comments »
On Things Growing Around Here…
18. December 2009 by PB Rippey.
If you look closely (since the zoom on our camera has frozen and I am unable to procure zoomy shots these days), beyond the cactus and hibiscus leaves there seems to be green at long last in the front yard. I am hopeful, anyway. During the last rainstorm I was outside hurling grass seed hither and thither frantically, thinking: This is it! This is our chance for a lawn! I did not wake up to a verdant Home & Garden type scape the next morning, nor many mornings since all that wonderful rain, however this morning—well, the yard was full of surprises.
The backyard, too, shows promise—the green sprouting there is quite luscious. I am hoping it will infect all 6,000 sq ft or so of land comprising the toddler’s playground, replacing the spiky, hurting grass currently in residence.
Bottom line, after having been a boat girl, then city dweller for so, so long I am simply amazed—now that I have my own dirt parcels—that things—you know—GROW. You plant them, and they grow! You give them water regularly and voila: they grow. You don’t even need a spectacularly green thumb for the things to grow. They just do! You feed a toddler healthy food and guess what? Sprouting action all over the place. A miracle! Lovely. Life, life burgeoning across the Ponderosa. I continue to be amazed. The only things that grew on my various boats were book-eating mildew and algae—never exciting.
And where there is life there is also optimism—once I uproot the weeds.
Above is what I believe to be a peach tree (sorry about the blur) though we never saw any peaches this past summer. I was told by someone who knows about such things not to panic when the leaves started falling off, that the tree was going to sleep and would hopefully wake up in a fruit-producing mood at some indeterminate time in the next California Spring. I was also advised to “cut back” the branches. After Googling this process, I’ll take it on myself to do the cutting since my husband—advised to “cut back” what we believed to be an apple tree—did this to it:
You said to cut it way down! he protested when I protested. To be fair, what my husband and I know about trees consists of burning them in the fireplaces of vacation cabins…
And so we persevere with cultivating the Ponderosa. In Winter. Spring/Summer will be so interesting, especially if we can build the deck and add the above-ground-swimming-pool. Adventures ahoy, baby! (I tell my baby). Adventures ahoy! (seriously, though, I’m so glad to be a landlubber now vs. the cold, cramped lifestyle chronically swaying sailboats offer one…)
Speaking of growing, S and I will have our 3rd wedding anniversary next week. 3 years, 1 baby and 1 house purchase later, I had no idea I could love him more than I did that day he bent to one knee on guano-spattered La Jolla rock and, as dolphins frolicked in my peripheral vision, proposed. This married-togetherness and parenting stuff—THIS is what my sisters have talked about animatedly in that strange, baffling language, the one formerly-dedicated-Singletons can’t interpret until—until everything.
Posted in Ponderosa, Vitals | Print | 2 Comments »
Blog Break: Tree Ornaments…
16. December 2009 by PB Rippey.
Stuffed snowman! Felt mice! Wooden apple! Ummm—vinyl gold balls!!! Vinyl silver pear!!! Uh—-oh, oh, I know: angel made of shiny material!!!
Er—things, or rather: Christmas ornaments that won’t break when your toddler yanks them from the tree and throws them at your windows? Or the cats? Or your face?
That’s it! Yes! You have won the $20,000 Pyramid!!! (of goldfish crackers—if you’re lucky–now scram, would ya? Mama needs a nap…)
Posted in Ponderosa, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »
Zoo Parenting 101…
3. December 2009 by PB Rippey.
When you make an excursion to the zoo on a saturday and the weather is gorgeous and it’s the San Diego Zoo so in addition to locals you are in the company of a gazzilion off-season tourists taking advantage of cheap off-season vacation packages—when you are all (tourists, locals, families, random human herds) packed together in a zoo that won’t allow you to walk your kids or strollers on the wide streetways because of the double-decker tour buses constantly motoring by—when you’re forced to walk on narrow sidewalks past the animal exhibits, each exhibit creating instant gridlock, the sun increasingly hotter than the weatherpeople predicted and then there are those gnarly hills, there, at the SD Zoo, red-cheek-creating hills—let’s face it: there are going to be scenes.
My husband and I witnessed many variations on the parenting of uber-hyped-out, tantrum-throwing children of all ages. We paid most attention to toddlers acting out, many by toddling deliberately away from their parents, goofy, gleeful smiles on their faces. Some parents controlled toddler-wanderlust by attaching them to leashes resembling tails of monkeys or elephants. Others had cleverly brought along extended family assigned to race after escapees. The biggest fear at the zoo for parents with small children was not the pacing lion and whether its cage bars were sturdy enough, not the elephant lolling its massive, child-attracting weight against fencing, not whether the foamy-mouthed camels lurched within spitting distance of babies, but whether a toddler was going to dart under the wheels of one of those on-coming tour buses, or vanish forever into the hot-tempered crowds. Many times we heard the following:
GET BACK HERE!
or
GET BACK HERE NOW!
or
WE’RE NOT GOING THERE! WE’RE GOING HERE! HERE! HERE!
or the more frustrated version,
NO! NO! NO! NO!
And, eventually, as the heat bore down, as the hills grew steeper, we heard:
GET BACK HERE OR (plus a threat)
or
GET THE HELL BACK HERE OR (plus a threat)
or
ONE, TWO, THREE—(with the threat of counting to 5—and then what?)
or
IF YOU DON’T LISTEN TO ME, I’LL (plus a threat or stuttered gibberish as the parent melted down inconsolably, irrevocably, before God and Man)
The most disturbing meltdown occurred in the Lost Forest, a shady pathway winding past the slumbering hippos in their fantastic 3D pool, up to the tigers (though we couldn’t see them because of the gridlock) in their shady-rocky abode, past the turtles in their glassed-in-pond—hundreds of thousands of swimming turtles—past amazing, colorful birds you’d never see in my backyard (despite the two popular feeders). A woman approached us as we threaded through the crowds. A child was vice-gripped in her arms, a boy (3 years old?) curled to fetal, who knew he was in the vice, had ceased struggling because he recognized struggle was pointless. His mother’s face was bent over his. She was going downhill, we up and somehow this created an eerie time-slow effect so that I heard, clearly, every single word she imparted to her son. As the mother passed me with her large, slow-motion steps, my head turned in slow-motion, my mouth dropped in slow-motion and I watched her land on a bench and keeeeep ooooooon taaaaaalking to that boy as my brain screamed nooooooooooooo in deep, scary, slowed-down-speak. Nooooooooooooooooo.
If you don’t f***ing shut the f*** up you’re gonna f***ing make me f***ing crazy and do you know what the f*** that means?
Like at Granny’s? (responded the offending son)
Oh, you remember Granny’s, huh? YEAH like at F***ING Granny’s, that’s EXACTLY what the f*** I’m F***ING TALKING ABOUT—
And there was more, but I couldn’t listen. I fell back into real-time and sped after my husband and son.
What’s up? asked my husband when, after I made sure T was rapt before the gazzillion turtles, I turned and hugged him—hard. Did you hear that? I stage-whispered into his neck. Did you hear that woman? Hear what? my husband asked and I let it go, told him later, at the hotel, when T was into his pasta and DVD. Oh wow, my husband said and we were quiet, munching our dinner in a shared moment of sadness—and self-reflection.
Because no matter what you witness in other parents, or what horrifying stories you read concerning other parents, stories centered around some type of baby-neglect (like the guy who left his 3 month old in its carrier beside the treadmill in his gym when he was done with his workout and drove on home like he was a single guy and had never been a parent, la dee da, until a phone call from the gym had him screeching the car into a U-turn)—being a parent and therefore experiencing challenges you couldn’t possibly have dreamt of prior to having children precisely because you didn’t have children and couldn’t know, but now that you do know, you totally “get” how a breaking point such as the one I witnessed in Cursing Mama can been reached. You know what it’s like to approach the precipice of a mental-break, to teeter on the complicated cliff’s edge of your sanity, and then scrabble for an alternative—because that’s what you do—you scrabble for the alternative, find it, use it even if it is VERY, VERY HARD to do so, even if it means you CUSS AT A SLOTH instead of your child. I admit that at that awful zoo-moment I wanted Cursing Mama fenced, fenced in, securely, with electrified bars, away from her child—I wanted the zoo’s on-call Parent Meltdown Psychotherapist to whoosh in with her bag of sanity-restoring tips and a zoo margarita sold throughout the grounds. At that moment, I hoped Cursing Mama’s child would make it to 18 yrs. unscarred, because the power struggle occurring between mother and child was too intense and apparently a close second to Granny’s house and whatever the heck went on there. O Cursing Mama! How you scared me, angered me, left me feeling wasted and shaky and grateful for my parenting books—and desperate for a zoo margarita…
We headed for the exit and miniature train ride instead.
And now——this bit more:
Connection Parenting, by Pam Leo
Playful Parenting, by Lawrence Cohen
Parenting Without Power Struggles: Raising Joyful, Resilient Kids While Staying Cool, Calm And Connected, by Susan Stiffelman
Books. They don’t hurt. They can’t help but help, MOST LIKELY.
Tattling Mama over-and-out.
Posted in World, Usual Drama?, Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | No Comments »
Birthdays…
16. November 2009 by PB Rippey.
T’s first birthday was interesting. S could actually take the day off back then, back in the dark ages of simply 1 eon-ic year ago when he also came home for lunch. Every. Single! Day. We took T to an indoor playground and paid for that later by having a sick baby for the rest of the holiday season and into the New Year. That evening, we presented T with a pint-sized birthday cake he scream-cried about because of the lit candle. Then S and I argued because S didn’t want him to eat cake and have the then unspoiled-by-sugar or french fries tot experience a first sugar high when we all so desperately needed sleep. Me? I wanted a photo and argued that since caveman days babies have eaten a first birthday cake with everyone surviving the damn sugar business. S slammed a door for the first time since I knew him as we experienced our first fight since T’s birth. And I was like, yeah you do that, buddy, you go ahead and SLAM THAT DOOR WHILE I BREASTFEED OUR CHILD AND GET UP 25,000 TIMES DURING THE NIGHT AND—S reappeared and we made up and agreed not to give the kid any cake since he was terrified of it anyway. I think we were relieved to go to bed, even though it was another night of broken sleep.
This year, T couldn’t wait to get his fingers—literally—into his birthday cake. He would have rolled in it if we’d let him, slept with it, slept on it. It was a beautiful thing to witness and a scary thing and what you’ve seen in movies and on YouTube and discovered featured on mommy blogs incessantly and suddenly it was our turn to live it. And not only did we live every single moment so passionately we almost forgot to take pictures, but—we enjoyed the whole experience. Not a door slammed in the house. Not a concerned word was uttered about the wrongness of putting a kid on a sugar high. We didn’t fuss and quibble and relate horror stories about hives or chocolate-seizures and we didn’t mention the possibility of a sleepless night. We. Just. Lived.
We’ve come a long way, baby.
Posted in BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »
Poetry…
9. November 2009 by PB Rippey.
Chaparral took a couple of my poems for the current Autumn/Winter issue. I am so pleased to be included. Gail Wronsky is in a previous issue. Also Patty Seyburn. Amy Gerstler. Dorothy Barresi. Love them.
http://www.chaparralpoetry.net/
Posted in World, Poems | Print | No Comments »
Hump Day…
5. November 2009 by PB Rippey.
Tipping between lost and grateful; sold-off on, bought into, duped; never traveling with grace or without doubt; raking up luck-bits when the world naps in its stifling old box; kissing the future into strum; healing, the healer; hunkering down—more—down to a pebble’s dropped-star appeal, to strokable; keeping up; keeping all life from peril. World without end: what I whisper, believing some other woman’s fluttered-out lullaby used, used into harmless; discovered.
Posted in Usual Drama? | Print | 1 Comment »
Boo Break: Belated…
3. November 2009 by PB Rippey.
Speaking like a giraffe.
And last year: Arrrrrrr! Our little pirate/poet with mega un-sealegs and hair that had no idea which way to grow!
And this year in addition to being a giraffe, a pirate with hair that has figured life out. (same costume! only 12 months later he can wear the pants)
Same goofy parents, though. Poor kid. Arrrrrrr (said like sigh).
Posted in Ponderosa, ANIMAL DRAMA!, BABY BABY | Print | 2 Comments »
Blog Break: Beach Cure For Colds…
22. October 2009 by PB Rippey.
So over sneezing, I decided my son and I needed a Santa Barbara beach cure. I took most of the morning packing: food, clothes, sweaters for the cold, cold North, enough supplies for a week though we were gone only overnight and still I forgot the goldfish crackers, but luckily not the arrowroot cookies and backup sippy cups and extra socks.
In October, my beach is pretty deserted, especially on a weekday. It’s an interesting place to be with no one there—like stumbling into paradise, even though of course I knew exactly where we were going. But the beach is always full of surprises and surprise thoughts and all that beauty—who has time to remember sinus blockage, poor writing habits, pressing goals, housework. All fades when faced with the urgency of beach business.
T busied himself with the rocks we camped next to, later utilizing buckets and a watering can, and then he sat on my lap, snug in a beach towel and munched cream cheese sandwiches as we both gazed at the ocean.
Pelicans dive-bombed the swell. Dolphin fins came and went. Occasionally a beach-walker passed us and smiled our way. The sun inspired a razzle-dazzle from the water. Utterly exciting: all of it.
Next thing I knew over 2 hours had passed. I loaded T into the stroller and we took off up the beach for an hour’s walk. We passed maybe 3 people. The tide was receding into a minus. Starfish were exposed on low, moody-black rock. A small, faintly pink sea urchin was alone in a shallow, sun-warmed tide pool. Crabs shifted in their dark crevices, hidden from the gulls.
Infused with air and sun, I never sneezed. T, already mostly over his cold, sang in his seat. By this time of day both of us are usually passed out in our beds. It was obvious neither of us was going to nap and that neither of us cared.
We stayed until almost 5:30p.m. It’s the best playground in the world, full of constant exploration and the only playground I’ve discovered so far in which my son will come to me for a break, cuddle, content to sit, eat, watch. Beach Magic. I wish it was my backyard.
Posted in Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »
The Mama Comes Close To Tattling…
1. October 2009 by PB Rippey.
Recently I took my son to an aquarium. He says the word fish now, recognizes fish in books and those in the framed pictures on his bedroom walls. He also says seahorse, starfish (yes, I KNOW it’s politically correct in aquariums to say SEASTAR since the starfish is not a fish, but COME ON NOW—the whale shark is not a shark, but who wants to say The Great And Awe Inspiring Whale Fish—the seahorse not a horse, the jellyfish not a—-etc.), and he says an entertaining version of octopus, so I thought it was time we hit the fish-stocked tanks to see those words up-close and swimming around.
What my son preferred more than viewing the marine subjects, however, was pushing buttons on the giant squid that made it squirt water at passersby. He could have done that all day. All. Day. alldayalldayalldayalldayallday…
I was grateful when he agreed to a lunch break.
T never ceases to amaze me: I bought a sandwich and the second we were outside at the picnic tables he zipped into a chair, snatched half the sandwich from me and began chowing down as though high chairs and lovingly prepared bite-sized pieces have never been a part of his life. I took a chair next to him and marveled over eating lunch with my son. Maaaarveled at his big boy bites that included lettuce, marveled that he never eats this way at home, my mind click-clicking away on new ideas for home mealtimes for my normally finnicky son—like, make EVERYTHING sandwiches!!!—T pointing at the pigeons and finches surrounding us and talking excitedly with his mouth full—when I noticed: Them.
Similar to the zoo with its Silverback’s Cafe grilling meat within smelling distance of the gorillas in their little exhibit, the aquarium’s Cafe Scuba sells fish and chips. So you can walk around and view the lovely fish and then——eat fish. Anyway, a group of barely-teens boys sat at the table next to ours devouring cooked fish fare, until they decided it was more fun to throw their food at the birds and kick at the birds with their feet and make a big fuss squealing (yes, squealing) about the birds milling around the tables and then one boy wadded up a piece of bread into a tight pellet and beaned a finch so hard it peeped in shock and no doubt pain.
“No, you don’t hit the birds with your food or kick them, okay? You do not do that.”
The boys avoided eye contact with me. I’d probably humiliated them. I looked around. A table of elders was nearby, totally ignoring the boys. Should I have told their elders? Should I have gone inside and fetched an aquarium security type? Should I have tattled vs. take action? I glanced at my son. He was finger painting his arm with a dollop of mayo and uttering pleasant gibberish. I knew that if it wasn’t for his presence, if it wasn’t for the fact that one day he would be as old as those bird-abusers, I would have confronted the boys more directly, in a manner I would never want my son to see or think his mother capable of, as in:
1. Get the f*#% away from the f*%@ing birds NOW! Okay? NOW!
2. You know what, dude? You know how you look, beaning a tiny bird? You look weeeeeeeeak, dude. Weeeeeeeeak. Now get the f*@% away from that finch!
3. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! (the blood curdling kind that brings the whole world running, emitted while standing atop a chair, fists clenched and shaking with rage)
I’m currently trying to teach T not to pull the cats’ tails or sit on Al the Naturally Large Cat’s enormous belly. I’m trying to teach him the joys of live fish and gorillas. All over the aquarium, dedicated volunteers speak daily, tirelessly to the crowds about conservation and respect for ocean inhabitants. Enter: The Bird Beaning Boys. What to do? How to react? How to prepare my son for field trips in his future? How to point out injustice without humiliating young, developing minds? But why are the developing minds committing injustices anyway? Why aren’t they listening? Why aren’t they practicing what they’re being taught? Why the HELL do I ask why? Why do I feel so clueless? How can I be a mother and be this clueless?
T and I packed up and went for a walk to the park outside the aquarium, the one with the view of the Queen Mary and that pretty lighthouse. T can say lighthouse. And oose iner for cruise liner. But he wasn’t interested in those things or the kids racing around the lawn, 10/11-year-oldish kids running off their lunches. T was interested in sitting under a shady palm tree and ransacking my backpack. As he did so, I watched the children, unable to imagine my baby that old. Hey, a girl running with a pack (pod?) of other girls declared loudly. Who dares me to kick a pigeon?
Oh dear god, I muttered, glancing around for elders, but my intervention wasn’t necessary. The elders blew whistles and children formed lines and marched off towards the lighthouse.
I confess I don’t ever want my son to bean finches with his food or to kick pigeons or shoot elk or polar bears or 3-legged wolves or take out any aggression on any animal. I want him to love Al and the animal kingdom. I may snuff the occasional cockroach or ant legion, but I have always championed for animal rights, saved birds, dogs, cats, mice, squirrels, or tried to. I know children need to flex control and power muscles—but probably I need to read up on teaching limits, or teaching the benefits of not kicking a pigeon or harpooning a whale. Right? Still, I thought, helping T put everything back into the pack. I’m glad I told them to stop hurting the birds, even if I said it in the—in not the nicest way. Maybe there is no “nice” way, or not from a stranger.
I watched my son find the only mud patch in the park and grind his shoes in it gleefully. I cheered him on. Nearby, a pigeon watched us, head cocked, as though really, REALLY listening.
Posted in Usual Drama?, ANIMAL DRAMA!, BABY BABY | Print | 2 Comments »
Blog Break While Procrastination Continues…
28. September 2009 by PB Rippey.
Over the weekend we attended a birthday party—T’s first. Since he was scared of the only birthday cake he’s ever been presented with in his life, I wondered how he’d react a year later to somebody else’s birthday cake.
And the eat-fest went on from here. (It was delicious cake!)
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Zuma Procrastinator…
21. September 2009 by PB Rippey.
Zuma again. No man with the seagull on his head—too early in the day for him. But the dolphins are here, poking their heads out of the Fresca ocean (remember Fresca?), taking a quick peek at the loungers on the beach, then moving on. T and S kicked the beachball, filled the toy truck with sand, pulled the wagon around and tested the surf’s temperature all in the first five minutes of making camp.
Since it’s post Labor Day, my husband was convinced tourist and schoolkid traffic would be minimal at Zuma. Wrong. It’s Sunday! Everyone is here. Tourists, schoolkids and Valley Escapees like us as the weather again reaches for the 90’s, stubborn as some old-ish family member who refuses to turn the oven down to a reasonable temperature when cooking the Sunday London Broil, burning it every time.
Yes. A definite desperate attempt at metaphor as I sit in a creaky beach chair in Malibu overcast, trying to jump-start my creativity.
And what is the nagging wariness I feel here on the beach? Why do my eyes shy from those friendly rollers, that mildly churned surf?
I like Zuma—at least, I like Zuma down by lifeguard stand #13. I don’t like Zuma enough to name my next child Zuma—just like I don’t like fruit enough to name a child Apple. Or Kiwi. Or Papaya Banana Jr. But it’s beautiful here. I like it here. Very much. Still…
Truthfully, I’d like a house with a Widow’s Walk for daily private meandering—a quaintly gated widow’s walk—an open-aired, partial-turret of peace. The fins and spouts I’d monitor! The storms I’d predict and await. I’d haul a desk up there, visit it when the moment struck, then back to pacing before an ocean moodier than sky, than anything.
Which is all to say that even though Part I of my children’s novel has yet to be published, I need to start writing Part II. Even though Part I has come maddeningly, gray-hair-inducing close to acceptance, I can’t use its not being accepted (yet) as an excuse for avoiding Part II, which is packed with even more ocean than Part I, with all manner of beasts on land and sea, includes the return of Architeuthis Dux and the emergence of the Tasmanian Blobster (in pre-blob form, of course). I have begun the research, but not the writing. When I look at the ocean, I am reminded of this. And I feel nervous.
More dolphins. The Fresca has transferred from ocean to sky. The ocean, blueing deeply, flips a surfer as a pelican executes a perfect dive. When my son laughs, so do I. And the Mama-in-me kisses the procrastinator goodbye.
Posted in World, Usual Drama?, Vitals | Print | 1 Comment »
I Had A Feeling And I…
14. September 2009 by PB Rippey.
If I had followed the pediatrician’s advice and that from various books and NOT gone into his bedroom at 9pm, when he’s usually snoozing, but ignored his vocal exercise and let him “work it out” and “self-soothe” himself back to sleep, I would not have known (not having a video monitor anymore because we gave it away when he was 18 months or so thinking that at any moment and certainly by now, at 22 months, we wouldn’t need it because our precious petunia would be sleeping through the night—!!!), I WOULD NOT HAVE KNOWN that he had ripped off his diaper and tossed it out of his crib and was actually a total nudey butt. Had I not gone in to check on his indignant cries, I would have experienced horrible drama at 3 in the morning, no doubt, one involving the stripping of crib sheets and pads and changing a screaming toddler as I struggled to remember how to pull the tabs open on a diaper and administer Desitin. Had I not gone in, I would not have thwarted disaster. More importantly, I would have ignored a little person desperately trying to tell Mama and Dadda: People who take care of me! I have ripped off my diaper! There is cool air flowing around my privates! I may pee!
I entered his room with a sippy cup. He took it from me, swigged with gusto, pressed the “play” button on his crib’s lullaby-maker and lay down. Awwww, I thought, bending over and rubbing his back. He just needed a drink, I thought, then noticed my left bare foot was standing on something that felt soft and odd and just then my hand glided down to the nudey butt. As I bundled him into a freshie diaper (and, this time, pajama bottoms OVER the diaper), I noticed in the half-light that he was staring at me. “Mama,” he said with conviction and I assured him he was absolutely right. He lay down and was out in seconds.
Having grown up with a fear of authority due to living in England in the 1970’s and being subjected to teachers that spanked with plimsoles—spanked hard—when children misbehaved, questioning authority has come slowly to me. But over the years, sometimes dragged kicking and screaming into it by my husband’s support and insight, I have learned to listen to my gut more than my head. As I lie in bed type type typing away, our toddler snoozing for, hopefully, the next 6 hours minimum, knowing I will not be doing laundry at 3, 4 or 5am reminds me of this:
Intuition is a beautiful thing.
(And quite helpful to toddlers learning to master language and communication.)
Posted in BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »
Island Of Discarded Toys…(blog break)
5. September 2009 by PB Rippey.
Posted in Ponderosa, BABY BABY | Print | 2 Comments »
On Wildlife On Human Heads…
1. September 2009 by PB Rippey.
Saturday, late afternoon, feeling my no-no’s weaken from the continuous “Thomas” DVD requests, I suggested the 25 mile drive North—away from the smoke and ash of the fires currently raging—to Zuma Beach. My fatigued husband, who had battled his own personal firestorms all week as a worker back in the corporate world, surprised me with a quick, decisive, “Let’s f*%#*%# do it!”
He didn’t really say that, but that’s how my startled mind interpreted sudden enthusiasm from someone who actually needed a nap worse than me.
So we cooked up the Trader Joe’s cheese pizza, filled sippy cups, stuffed Infant Tylenol, Desitin, matches, scissors, sewing kit, packets of astronaut food, flannels (in case the next Ice Age hit) and everything else we could think of into the diaper bag, grabbed the “Thomas” obsessed little guy and took off, me thinking the entire drive up and over the baking mountain, Crap, what about vegetables, he’s not getting any vegetables tonight, he’s not—oh shut up!
Because sometimes you just have to go to the beach for dinner, even if you have no vegetables to take along. Because when it’s 105 degrees outside and the blow-up kiddie pool is shriveling and it’s late afternoon and grandma’s gone home and you and your husband slept for 5 minutes on your Saturday because that’s how long your son’s nap lasted and the little guy is moving on to the next thing and that’s going to include you getting up off the living room couch and following him from one end of the house to the other, you start thinking about where the coolest place with room to run a 21 month old is within driving distance that is not a crowded mall—and that would be: the beach, the one that everyone is leaving for the day just as you arrive.
Of course the toddler napped on the way there.
But that meant my husband and I could visit uninhibitedly and if we happened to utter an expletive, our little parrot would not repeat it. (Freedom!)
And when we arrived at Zuma, not only did we choose a lovely, sparsely populated bit of beach with a view of several pods of dolphins frolicking, but we happened to be sitting right where the man with the seagull on his head walks by every single dusk.
You really feel like you’ve seen it all when you watch your amazed toddler watching the man with the seagull on his head watching zany dolphins surfing Zuma waves. And then you talk to the man with the seagull on his head and you find out right away that he is not, in fact, crazy. His eyes are lucid and he tells endearing stories about the gulls—birds most people treat like pesky flies, or worse. I encourage every parent of a toddler to go to Zuma Beach near dusk, to Lifeguard station #12 and wait for the man with the seagull on his head to come by. He’s good at talking to children—all calm and happy-docent-ish. When he said goodbye to us, we watched him stroll off up the beach into the sunset, a man and a wild gull (occasionally unfurling her wings to keep her balance on his cranium) connecting. They made quite the catchy silhouette.
I glanced at the ocean as my husband and our son moved on to kicking the beachball around. The dolphins were still there, throwing up tails and flippers and making the water froth. I love dolphins. I wondered if I swam out to them, would they include me in their games? Would we connect?
I walked to the surfline, stuck my toe in the water, shivered—freezing!!!—withdrew. I was pretty sure the dolphins would try to sit on my head, anyway, and I’d drown, or they’d swim away from me and a shark would take their place and bite off my foot like that one bull shark did to that one dude fishing in shallow water and then how effective a mother would I be, hobbling after my son because I was stupid enough to go dolphin seeking at dusk, when, as everyone knows, sharks come out to feed…I breathed in some delicious sea air and joined in the beachball kicking, glad to have both of my feet. High above us, seagulls soared, shrieked delightedly, circling our picnic dinner.
Posted in Ponderosa, World, ANIMAL DRAMA!, BABY BABY | Print | 3 Comments »