smorgasbord

It's a beautiful morning for a walk or a jog. It's crisp and cool and sunny, and here I am true to form, squandering it indoors, working on my pasty complexion. Above is the chair we found on the curb a couple weeks ago. I covered it with one of those Urban Outfitters bedspreads.

Hamish's first day of pre-school. He found his favorite toy right away, a broken alarm clock in the shape of a robot. The head moves up and down and everything. Today was the first day he cried when we dropped him off because he didn't have time to gather his "bug finders" which are two compass/magnifying glass/mirror gadgets. One he uses himself and the other he shares with his new close friend A____, also from Brooklyn. I was praying there'd be more like us out here—New York City refugees looking for some affordable real estate, natural beauty, good public schools, and an all around easier way of day-to-day living, plus a close-ish proximity to the overpriced apple, and we found our first family who fit the bill. We've already had them over for brunch and they are all lovely, stylish people. When we met we wondered where the others are, but we are totally okay with being pioneers.

I don't structure nap time, which could be a detriment to my mental health, but Stella manages to fall asleep when she needs to, wherever she might be.

Who says sleep needs to happen horizontally?

Ah, sweet rest.
Here is the current state of our kitchen, which am angling to paint something in a jewel-tone or at least saturated, to harmonize with the grey countertops and backsplash and the wood cabinets. I'm thinking yellow-green, but Bryan isn't 100% on board. Light grey looks like ass, you can see the test-patches, and I also thought of a stormy blue-grey but I know it'll just depress me as the days get shorter.

I'm lapping at my new issue of Domino for some inspiration I can pirate, so we'll see what happens. So far, I've been practicing restraint with my paint choices (except for in the kids' rooms) because I get sick of things quickly. It's working so far, but this room wants a darker color, but it doesn't want to sacrifice light, especially since that big gaping hole in the ceiling is being sealed up.

Oh there she is again snoozing away in her ninety-nine cent top from Old Navy.

And here she is awake on her first day of school. We drop the toddlers off in the playground and then they get to watch us recede into the parking lot distance so that they can cry all the harder. Our heartstrings, they weep.
The coffee table we found on the curb a month back. Four cans of yellow spray paint later and YOWZA. 

perch

Kathy Calderwood sent me a present, this beautiful, tiny superball painting. I hung it in the niche at the top of the tiger stairs. I call this niche my perch. Hamish calls it the deck.
The black banister.
Shelves I bought from the deceased next door's daughter. Painted them "Artichoke Hearts." I have next to nothing to put on them yet.
The master bath is 99.9% complete. Still have to hang the hand-towel holders, and I'm sensing the need for a vase of cherry branches. Or something.
I forgot to turn on the shower when I took this pic like they do in the shelter magazines.
Another perch.
This is where I come to blog.
Painted the fire screen white. That was my friend's idea, and a good one.
Painted the porch floor white. I'm going for a space-aged look out here.
My friend gifted me this amazing Maharam fabric as a housewarming. It's called Quatrefoil. I got these consignment shop chairs upholstered in it. Very exciting. I gaze upon them often.
The bedroom is very spare. Some people call it spare. I think it's unfinished. Add a loveseat at the foot of the bed? A settee? A giant flat screen TV that rises via remote control from a custom-designed bench? Dunno. I also wish the headboard were a little higher so I could sit up in bed and lean against it like they do on TV instead of lie practically horizontal with my book, which I suspect isn't as cinematic. But oh well, if that's my biggest problem, right? The mattresses these days are just so darn thick.
Hello again, chairs.

soap for sale!

Nothing like a shot of commerce in the tender arm of a four-year old. Hamish spent a good part of the weekend shilling homemade soap on the front lawn. He made four bucks. What will he buy? Maybe more soap. I found a recipe for homemade soap online that called for shredding unscented soap with a cheese grater and mixing in bits of lavender. Did I mention we have a lavender bush in the backyard?

Maybe next time we'll attempt the lavender cloud cookies. Mmmm, egg whites. Oh yeah, the thing was, I only had Dove soap, the smelly pink kind. But it was either that or order lye online and that was not happening, not for this spontaneous-compulsive project mom. If I can't make it in five minutes from crap found lying around the house than it ain't getting made. Plus I was motivated by my old pal Guilt, feeling a little frayed around the edges after way too much time spent drooling in front of the TV. I needed to be able to say to Bryan, to you, the world, "Guess what Hamish and I did today? We made soap!" And then bask in your approval and mild impressed surprise and possible envy.

Hamish's pal was game to sell as well and everyone who stopped bought, which tells you a little about the pace of our nabe. S-L-O-W, folks. Some people waved charitably from their cars or lawn-tending trucks, which we moms cheerleaded, "That counts! You got a wave!" But more than a few marks were oblivious to the cherubic and hygiene-minded cuteness on the sidewalk, to which we would tell the kids, "They're too busy breaking the law talking on their cell phone," bristling with indignation.

The thing that really puffed me with pride though was Hamish's fearless spirit, the way he shouted to every car or passerby, "Soap for sale! Twenty-five cents!" and shook his cardboard sign at them. I could use a bit of that—the focused intention that doesn't give a shit what other people think, because I don't have time to care, I have soap to move.

you'll choke!

We have raspberries. Growing in our very own yard. I am still blown away by my new life, by my suburban riches. I keep marveling to myself, mouth askew, "I have a driveway, a yard, a raspberry bush..." I must look like a mental patient to the neighbors.

As I nibble a sweet berry I must note, Stella has officially turned terrible two. She still has her positive qualities, but holy magoly.

All she wants when I'm around is her daddy, to pick her up, to help her with her Crocs, to get her cereal, blah blah, and like another little girl we know, only wants to do everything "all by self!!!!" which means that I get to stand outside the car while she attempts to buckle herself into her carseat, or I get to stand holding heavy (reusable) grocery bags on the back stairs while she attempts to open the screen door, God forbid I touch the handle! Who do I think I am? Satan?

Lots of flinging of bananas, smearing of milk, asking for food and then not eating it, refusing to get dressed, insisting on wearing flip flops that never stay on her feet, while I stand there grinding my teeth and talking like a Sleestack in order to keep my cool.

My cool, heh heh. Yeah, right. And then the other night my mom was over, bless her almost seventy-five year old heart, and she was nagging the kids, and doing her worry jig, "don't run around with beads on your neck, Stella, you'll get strangled!" and "Stella? Where is she?" panic mounting in her voice as if the UPS man just stole her out of the house, and then "Hamish! don't put that plastic thing in your mouth, you'll choke!"

And by then both my eyes were twitching, and the words erupted from my mouth like bad fish, "Oh Mom, let him choke!" at which point my mom spit out her seltzer all over me, and I got down on the floor with a wad of paper towels, grateful for laughter, because I'd just about forgotten it existed.

lulu miller 1992 - 2008

Stella's stitches are out, her scar is but a pink wisp, I am happy about the lack of disfigurement and that this ordeal is now behind us. She screamed her head off through the whole removal process while Bryan and I held her down and sung Twinkle Twinkle, ABCs, Baa Baa Black Sheep, Rainbow Connection, whatever we could think of. The songs were the only thing that coaxed her frightened little body to relax beneath our grip.

Turns out we should have removed the band-aid a day or so before we took her to get the stitches removed because everything got compressed under there and the skin had started to grow over the stitches. Remember this, parents, the next time your kid bashes her head into the sharp, unforgiving corner of your otherwise well-behaved furniture. It would have taken five minutes instead of fifteen, but we are through it.

Meanwhile, the cat died Wednesday. She was sixteen years old, hyperthyroid-compromised, and died of heart failure at the vet's, they euthanized her, after collapsing in a pee and drool puddle on the guest room floor. We buried her in one of the boxes my overstocked novels were packed in. I made sure to take the novels out first.

At the funeral we reminisced about how reluctant Lulu had been to accept Hamish into the fold, how Stella pulled her tail and delighted in her kitty-ness. Hamish said he was thankful for the box of Nerds he got from the free snack table at the vet's while Stella cried, "Box! Box!" her small shoulders heaving with sorrow for the dirt-covered corrugated cardboard. Lulu, you are in a better place now. Tell your brother Giuseppe we said HI, and rest in peace, old gal.

stitches

Monday was the day Stella and Hamish were roughhousing in a usual way in Bryan's and my bedroom while I clacked contentedly on my laptop down the hall in my office. Before long, she started wailing and staggering toward me. Nothing out of the ordinary. I said, "Come here, baby, what happened, did Hamish hurt you?" Not to be unfair to my son, but this is how it usually goes.

So I swept my lovey-dovey into my arms and walked toward my bed, laid us down and then got a glimpse of her face, where blood was now pouring. Above her left eye, bisecting her eyebrow was a gash as deep as a Pop-Tart is thick, and twice as long. Gaping. Two dark drops bloomed on my pristine white pillow case (yes, I'm that shallow even in times of crisis) and I was off and running, shouting "Hamish!" in a panic-strangled voice. I'd glimpsed him running to hide among the vacuum cleaners in the crawl space cabinet under the eaves opposite my bed.

Down in the kitchen on the floor with Stella on my lap, I swiped at her head with wet paper towels to no avail. The blood kept coming while she screamed and batted my hand away. I grabbed the phone and dialed Bryan's cell. He'd left for work about fifteen minutes earlier. I begged him to turn around and come home, we have to go to the hospital, Stella's been cut, please come home, pleasepleaseplease. I called my mom, told her to meet us at the E.R.

When Hamish finally came downstairs I had him look at his sister's face, to make him aware of what he'd accidentally done. I stressed that I knew he didn't mean to and that I wasn't angry at him, and felt bad that he'd been the cause of her injury, but I also wanted him to know that his actions have reactions and any time I can teach him to be accountable is valuable, even if it means seeing that a playful shove can lead to a deep gash on his sister's face. His response was typical for his age, at least I like to tell myself it was: he giggled and hopped up and down, flapping his wrists like a dandy fairy. I restrained myself from hurling him across the room.

Five stitches later, Bryan and I have been inducted into a whole 'nother level of parenthood. It makes us stronger, cloaks us in great swaths of character to have held our daughter down in the emergency room, while she lay swaddled taut in a sheet like a Russian orphan, screaming as she was sewn shut until her face turned purple and her eyes bulged.

But she got over it. And even though it's typical kid behavior, it still awes me. The whole victimlessness of it all. Meanwhile I tossed and turned the first couple nights, the image of that wound, so deep, the layers of skin so thick you wouldn't have been able to tear them with your teeth, and hugged myself for comfort. Two mornings later, around five A.M., Hamish screamed, "Mommy! Mommy!" and I went running to him. "I had a dream about the doctor's," he said and I crawled into bed with him, reassuring him that everyone is safe and that he's okay. We fell back asleep. I felt vindicated, for Stella, and reassured that the gravity of the incident really did reach my son. I almost hate myself for not trusting him to have a compassionate conscience. We'll see how he reacts when the stitches come out. 

Changing the subject, Hamish has been flexing his creative eye with some art photography. Here are a few of my favorites.

living room dining room

Dining room before.
Living room before. Those windows look out onto the front porch.
I like mini pumpkins.
Keep your eye on the fireplace.
Dining room presently. The table is a floor sample from Pottery Barn that I got for half-price. It seats up to twelve. I'd better learn how to cook. The only thing is that I just read a little review of Coldplay, possibly in Time Magazine, where they liken them to the "character of a Pottery Barn table." I don't think they meant it kindly. I like Coldplay and Pottery Barn tables, it seems. I guess I'm getting boring and conformist in my old age. I just like things pretty these days. I'm too tired for anything else. I'll leave the pionerring to the childless youngsters.

The dining chairs are from Ikea. Well, four of them are. They're actually comfortable and I was thrilled when I saw them. Can you see the Louis Ghost chair? Can you spot my drool droplets on it? I've been coveting those ever since I saw them however many years ago. They were a housewarming present from my mother.
The living room now. The fireplace now. Painted Decorators White from Ben Moore. I call him Ben. I stripped the mantel. I'm diving headfirst into rustic modern. Can I pair that with lucite? The paintings are Kathy Calderwood originals, symbolic archetype portraits of Bryan and myself. Bryan gifted me mine for my thirtieth and I gifted Bryan for his fortieth. Kathy is the mom of one of my closest friends and just about my favorite painter. Her talent never ceases to drop my jaw, and she does these tiny paintings of a single object, like a feather or a lemon that I am dying for next.
This is the first sofa I've owned that is not a sofa bed. The side tables and the blue lamp are recent purchases from the house next door. The woman who lived there died almost two years ago. I met her daughter who was emptying the house and well, she didn't think it was gauche or morbid that I offered to help her. She was actually really glad to know that her mom's stuff wouldn't get junked. I think it will be happy here. That wall above the sofa is begging to be filled. Working on that.

Thanks for dropping by. Stay cool...

a certain Swedish furniture store

The paint is "Green Wave" by Benjamin Moore.

Hamish is into castles these days so we were psyched when we spied the torch at Ikea. It even flickers like a real flame. COOL. The rug, bed, bedding and side table also happen to be from Ikea. How convenient. The teal (that color again) and red chair is from a friend, a real antique, to you know, offset all the Ikea stuff. I wish it came in my size.

Guess where I bought those shelves? I'll bet you can't guess.
Reading nook. Stella likes to sit in this egg chair from a certain Swedish furniture store and systematically dump all the books onto the floor. To her credit, she actually looks through them too, pretty studiously, bless her.


Hamish's superhero mad skills include looking enthusiastic while wearing a golden mask. He thanks you for taking the time to tour his bedroom and asks that you come back sometime to play, maybe kill some bad guys with him and Diego, or collect some bugs in the yard.

velcome to my room

This is Stella. Hanging out. Doing the Vogue. Behind her is the dining room, since improved. But she's going to show you her room.
Unfortunately the true "before" pics are in my old computer, which is still in the basement in a box. It will be a long time before we have any "during" or "after" pictures of our basement. But hey. We actually have a basement, which is a vast improvement already. So above is the earliest pic I have in my new laptop. Before we got the floors sanded and polyurethaned, before we painted the walls Benjamin Moore "Pale Iris," the room was mint green and scuffed, and filled with another little girl's bedroom furniture. Maybe it's ethically sound not to show another child's bedroom, but you know if I had the pic, I'd show you. Oh I'd show you plenty.
We gave Stella the glass chandelier from our old apartment. And got a rug from Ikea.
Bryan's grandmother made that quilt hanging over the far edge of the crib. It's dated May 3, 1968. For anyone keeping count, you're right. Bryan just turned 40 this past Saturday. Happy birthday, Babe-alicious.
More Ikea. Again, stole the idea for horizontal placement of the Expedit bookcase, basket and book arrangement from Domino. Do I have a mind of my own? Time will tell.
Did I mention I frequent Ikea lately? But I do love red and lavender together. It excites my senses! And hopefully Stella's too. Not that she needs her senses any more excited than they already are. She's a spitfire, always darting this way and that, chasing bubbles, slapping around in mud puddles, begging to go to the playground. About to turn two in a week.

Stella's favorite shirt, for sleeping, playing, or spilling yogurt on. It's a bird, it's a plane, it's "No-Man!"