all buttoned up.

Bundts. Happenings.

I have made four Buttermilk Lemon Rhubarb Bundt cakes in the last few weeks. In the past, I've tried to freeze rhubarb in order to replicate this cake in warmer months. As my preserving time will most likely be limited this year, I've decided to adopt the bake-it-or-lose-it philosophy. I suppose this philosophy also includes popsicle-or-don't-buy-it and eat-it-or-don't-pick-it. Besides, by the warmer months, I've moved on to peaches and blueberries, grunts and buckles.

If you are going to have a smidge more hands free time than I am this summer and you're hoping to take advantage of what is looking like a great year for strawberries, you may consider taking Marisa's class here in Portland next month. I love Food in Jars and it's become my quick "I have ___ turning quickly, what could I turn it into?" canning resource. I don't have her new book yet, but that's just because I don't leave the house very often.

Have you seen this new project, Summer Camp Adventure Club? Beth wrote me about this Spring and I totally forgot about it until I was seized with fear over Sam only have 2 1/2 weeks of school left. It's an online craft and activity subscription to see you through the summer months, all geared for pre-K through 3rd grade. Beth is the wonder behind Sew, Mama, Sew's online community and forums and she and her family have designed an incredibly affordable program for those of us who have a lot of downtime/children to fill/entertain this summer.

I wanted to have a garage sale this summer, but I think we're scrapping those plans and going to parcel stuff out to people/craigslist/fundraisers. So if you know anyone in the market for a great, enameled, cast iron double kitchen sink... well, holla' back. There are a hundred more things I wanted to talk about.

I don't know where they went.

The Laws of Physics and Other Lessons I'm Learning

The other day I happened to be in the car by myself for a short drive with the radio on. This was a luxury for many reasons, most immediately was the silence that it offered me. Anyway, I got in the car, turned on All Things Considered just as they were introducing my friend, Molly. As she started talking salad I started shouting into the radio, "MOLLY! MOLLY, IT'S ME!! I'M IN THE CAR BY MYSELF! I CAN HEAR YOU!! MOLLY, YOU'RE DOING GREAT!!"

This is telling on several fronts, most glaringly that I seem to have forgotten how to behave when I am by myself. Also, the radio is not a walkie talkie.

I am here! So is this baby. She is the same sleepy baby who has become quite needy and wakeful in her old age. She hates being in the car. We press on.

***

I've been thinking so much about your comments from the last month-- thank you for putting yourselves out there. Thank you for talking about this stuff with your children. Thank you for not settling with the line of but it's so much better than it used to be and instead striving for how it really should be.

We all notice colour. I'm frequently frustrated by the notion that we shouldn't talk about it, especially with our children, because maybe they won't notice and why would we want to burden them with this world as an imperfect place? You know what? Kids are going to reach their own conclusions about the worth of themselves and others with or without the guidance of adults. I know that I struggle with knowing how to preserve innocence while still preparing my boys to be kind, compassionate, AWARE, little people. If a three year old is having an intense discussion about whether or not that chicken on TV is a "real muppet" or "just a puppet", you better believe that same three year old realizes that people look different from each other. It's my job to help him learn that differences do not equal value. It's a much bigger job than I realized.

***

I've missed out on a bunch of stuff this month and I wanted to make sure I got some of it down:

• Truly is three months and a bit and still fits into clothes designated as such. I never thought I would have a baby that followed monthly sizing! Newborn clothes are finally worth the money paid for them. We drove to Canada. She is a fan.
• Sam turned 8 and we rented a bouncy house again. REALLY, I cannot stress to you what a good decision getting a bouncy house is.
• Sam's front teeth are finally all the way in. They are substantial, as far as front teeth go. He has also formed a band with some classmates. They've named themselves Killer Vomit, and he's been assigned the drums. There has already been some infighting.
• I have horrendous postpartum acne. Really. Someone told me that my skin looked angry with me, and I was not offended because she was totally right. I've been struggling with not feeling like total crap between the extra weight and blotchy skin and nursing struggles... And I know that this is all very temporary and that next year this time (but hopefully much sooner) I'm going to read this like a funny dream I once had.

Not Done. Not Even Close.

I went to a mostly white college in Chicago. I hadn't thought to look at those demographics when I applied, not realizing how important (and polarizing) demographics can be. I was 18! I wasn't too worried about it. Thankfully, I was saved from myself and my naivete by my close friend and roommate during that time. T was (is) black, from Cleveland, and more patient with me than I probably deserved. Let's face it-- I have a big mouth! And I used to use it a lot more than I do now. We were a pretty unlikely pair during those 3 years we shared a tiny dorm room.

One night during that first winter, I returned to our floor to find T gasping for breath in a fit somewhere between laughing and crying. "A riot! They called it a riot...!! Black folk walking down the street and those girls are calling it a riot..." She could barely talk. I went to see what the hell she was wheezing about. The lounge on our floor looked 8 floors down to the street several blocks from what was then an enormous housing project. A large group of folks (mostly black) from the neighborhood had gathered and were making their way down Chicago Ave holding signs and candles, heading for the local precinct. They were singing. Some were shouting. This was right around the time of the horror of Girl X and an uptick of violence in the neighborhood. Apparently some girls from the floor noticed what was going on outside and crowded around the window shouting for everyone to come look because there was a riot going on outside.

Peace March. Riot. Two events easy to confuse. Obviously. 

*sigh*

And that was when my education about white privilege began in ernest. Fifteen years later and I'm still learning what that looks like and how to talk about it without garnering hostility or defensiveness or falling back on stereotypes. Since becoming parents, Paul and I have talked a lot about these issues and how we go about the business of raising a mixed family: like teaching our white child that he may one day have to defend his brown brothers in a conflict. But it wasn't until a few weeks ago that I was gripped with the sickening realization that since we now have a white daughter, we were going to have to also explain to our boys exactly how NOT to treat her in public-- lest some sibling horsing around is misinterpreted by a stranger and leads to an unwanted confrontation. How am I going to teach my children about privilege without giving them all total complexes??

How would you explain it to your children? Do you feel like you need to?

And there's the rub. It wouldn't even occur to a lot of us to give these sorts of conversations voice. For many of us, carting around our moral outrage appears gratuitous. Given the ease at which I move around in this world, I'm either accused of having a giant, white-guilt chip on my shoulder, or worse-- that given the way we've chosen to build our family, I'm acting as some kind of saviour.

Fine. And even though the former is somewhat true and the latter is... well... if you met me, you would quickly see I'm no messiah, I will take those labels if it means we can talk about it. I've got a chip and I would be happy to share some of it with you. When I get questions from would-be adoptive parents and I have some inkling that they are intending on transracial adoptions, I really only want to communicate a couple of things. One of those things involves looking at priviledge: claiming it, examining it, letting it sit really uncomfortably in your stomach for a good, long time. While my skin colour may extend its privilege to my children, it will not shield them from how people ultimately see them. One of my greatest fears is letting their other mother down by not making good on our promises to protect her babies and prepare them for this world. There is no getting around this really (but if you know a way, LET ME KNOW), and if you are not prepared for what you are going to do when (not if) you watch your children being judged by anything but their character, then you might not be quite ready to fill out that paperwork.

Even though I was ready for a lot of these realities, the blind joy of bringing a baby home still catches me off guard some time. Shortly after August came home, I was talking to my good friend who happens to be a public defender in a large city. Paul and I really like that city and it had always been on our list of "one day, maybe" places. When I joked about moving there to be close to her, she quickly got really serious and told me in no uncertain terms that there was NO WAY she would want us to raise our kids there. And it wasn't because of a failing infrastructure or troubled schools, it was because she didn't want to have to defend our tiny baby, who would one day be a teenager, for minding his own business. She might be the definition of cynical, but I'm not going to argue with a woman who prays her (overwhelmingly minority) clients are guilty so that she doesn't have to try and do the impossible to claim their innocence.

Cross that dream city off the list.

I want to find a way back to writing about our life and my sewing projects and the stupid things we try to do as a family and I'll get there-- but this space is and always will be foremost a record for my children. They aren't going to give a lick about how to do a cup sized adjustment on that blouse, but I think that they will want to know that I-- WE-- didn't try to gloss over the tricky stuff. Of course, there are folks out there writing about these issues in ways far better than mine:

Jillian Lauren's post on Micro-Aggressions (via Kristen Howerton). I only ever come up with the really good responses to crap people say after the fact.

A. Bloom's essay on the Baddy Baddy Girl's Club On (Not) Joining the Club. The comments section contains a link to this report released by The U.S. Department of Education's Office of Civil Rights. I first heard about the report's findings on NPR and their findings on discipline in public schools has me lying awake at night.

This is powerful writing. POWERFUL. No Apologies: On the Killing of Trayvon Martin and Being "Good"  Read it and weep.

The Love of Black Mothers and the Care of Black Children

Front Porch for Trayvon

On Monday morning, I forced myself to listen to Talk of the Nation where they discussed the story of Trayvon Martin and interviewed Jonathan Capehart and Leonard Pitts. I say forced, because it is one thing to read and read and read about a story and let the anger and frustration simmer. It is another thing to listen to grown men articulate the issue of racial profiling and describe the lessons they learned as children and the lessons that they must teach their own children.  I cry plenty when I listen to the news on the radio (it's one of the only times I do), but listening to all this... I had to crack the window of the van because I was nearly overcome with a nauseous sort of heartache. I thought I was going to throw up.

That child was somebodies baby. That child might well be my baby one day. And as horrible as this thought is, it was no revelation to me, nor is it to most parents of black boys (and I'm only a relative newcomer here). The burden of information that we must pass on to our boys is going to do more than take their innocence. It is going to completely change the way they see their fellow man. Trayvon was not in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had every right to be exactly where he was doing what he was doing. He was minding his business and trying to get home when he was followed, attacked and killed because he looked suspicious. And he looked suspicious because he was a young black man wearing a hoodie.

When you look at my beautiful, brown skinned boys, and remark on their long eyelashes or gorgeous smiles-- look at them as future black men. Look at them as hoodie wearing teenage boys. Think about Trayvon and young, black boys like him who find themselves in positions where their innocence rather than their guilt has to be proved.

Please, please think of them as holding all the promise and hope that you hold for your own children, and not, as Mr. Pitts conjectured "he looked at this boy, and he did not see a boy.... coming home from 7-Eleven. He saw a threat. He saw, I think, the sum of all his fears."

A Numbers Game

The growing of our family can be measured in lots of collateral ways: loads of laundry, dirty dishes, toys, time it takes to leave the house, etc. The numbers seem to increase exponentially, which can be confusing or perfectly reasonable. For example: Quilts. I live with one child who has some sort of Princess and the Pea complex whereby he sleeps covered in no less than seven quilts all piled on top of him. If he feels like there is improper coverage he demands more, citing mysterious drafts. (He is not alone. The other one preferes a mass of "fuzzy blankets" to tangle himself up in, and has sequestered all the handmade crocheted blankets in the house.)

So to think that Truly might need one quilt or a single, small afghan in her life, would be betting against the odds. And of course, she won't need to worry. Her mother may have neglected the handmade, but thankfully her mother's people did not.

I use Grammie Karol's quilt to wrap up in while I'm nursing. And because she gave it to us at the beginning of December, the boys feel it is communal property. (Do you need your quilt top quilted? You know where to go.)

I'm guessing you've seen Truly's Liberty Quilt. LIBERTY. Gah.

I don't know if April is going to blog about this quilt on the Bolt blog (she should), so I'm going to. It is a beautiful variation on the Ohio star. And she pieced the back using some rainbow fabric I had given her ages ago (and loved but needed to part with), which made it even more awesome.

Then Carolyn's quilt arrived from Chicago! And Sam needed it.

I coveted Blair's granny squares, and then they showed up on my doorstep. If I keep throwing those sorts of thoughts out into the universe, I may never have to learn how to knit or crochet. Also, I may need to start thinking bigger (though not better, because there are few things better).

These gifts that have been given her by our friends, family and Paul's coworkers have moved me to misty eyes and in several cases, real, live tears. We have all felt very looked after.

***

We were expecting her sometime this week. Paul was all, "can you imagine if you were still pregnant??". I could. And I shuddered to think. There have been moments this week and last where I've nearly forgotten that I was very recently pregnant, and then received some sort of rude reminder from my body.

"Sit down. Have a glass of water. For the love of everything, don't carry that 40 pound three year-old down the stairs."

I'm working on it. Seeing as there are piles of quilts around for me to sink into, it shouldn't be that hard. 

And Then She Came

When Augie first saw her he said, "she came out just like I wanted her to."

My thoughts EXACTLY.

Truly Adele was born Wednesday just after lunch. She was 6 pounds and 11 ounces. We were surprised as everyone as to where the long, dark hair came from. Otherwise, she looks just like Sam but squishier.

We are home now  (I'm minus a gall bladder that came out the next day) and besides the sweet relief of a newborn that is being gentle with us, I'm totally happy I got the bedroom painted.

I Let Go of Re-Caulking the Tub

I did not let go of moving rooms around, or painting, or thinking about buying a matching luggage set and new robe (because I'm having a baby in 1963?). I realize my priorities need tweaking.

This baby is coming a bit early.

Thankfully, my people know me and when I say "uh, let's paint the bathroom tonight" they go ahead and either get out of the way or help. (Then they thank the heaven's that they are not married to me). A friend was over tonight and followed me from room to room while I gripped a stud finder and a hammer and started banging nails into the walls. She didn't even blink. And thanks to those same people the fridge is all sparkly, the laundry is up-to-the-minute, and we have plans A through F if we have need of them.

You understand though, yes? You know what it's like when motivation replaces panic and the will to sew curtains overrides the worry that things are very quickly slipping out of our hands. It's silliness, most of it, but it helps.

And in the end it's going to be fine, just maybe not the way we planned. But really?? Have I learned nothing in all these years? It is our way: the plan seems to make itself up as we go along.

(*wall decal is from the super-awesome Shanna Murray. It went up as soon as Christmas came down. She's got NEON in the shop right now. Smarty pants.)

In the End, There was Only One Kind of Cookie

The week leading up to the 25th went a little Crazy Town up in here. Saturday, the 24th, had me standing in the kitchen slowly turning circles wondering what exactly I could cull from the list. This December has not exactly found me smug, but it had found me happily laid back and mostly un-rushed. I had thought ahead! The baking for neighbors and friends was finished! The gifts had been done and wrapped for days! I was nearly annoying myself.

Pride goeth before the fall, friends.

So, on the 24th, while slowly turning circles and alternately wanting to cry and to laugh, I realized that in my planning I had left all the merry making and family cookie baking to the days we had just lost. I pulled out the only recipe that I felt like making and tried to channel some cheer. The recipe was for Peppernuts, which in my family are little crunchy bits: mildly spicy and tasting a bit like orange. I realize there are 100 different variations on these (some are an entirely different cookie all together) and the recipes vary even in my own family. So, for the record, this is my mom and my great grandma's recipe, but not my grandma's. This recipe involves Roger's Golden Syrup and lots of orange rind. We are a picky people.

Pickier still, are my VERY OWN CHILDREN who claim to not even like peppernuts (lest you think this was some kind of love gift for them). I made them anyway and I prepped for lunch the next day. The cookies for Santa were cancelled and there were no cinnamon rolls to wake up to. Last minute handmade gifts had long been abandoned and the stockings were a bit narrow. Still, we opened gifts, we laughed with friends, we marveled (and continue to) at our good fortune, and I ate more than my share of those damn cookies. They were good (and they still are, as most of them are now in the freezer).

Now it's New Year's Eve and I'm just catching up. And I still feel a little behind. But I didn't want this last day of the year to pass without letting you all know how grateful I am that I can come here, check in, write some stuff down, and be the recipient of a whole lot of good love and good humour. This space, with it's never changing header and occasional silliness, has been the source of so many good things and so many good people in my life.

Thank you, thank you. Happy New Year.

A Hex on That Overwhelmy Sort of Feeling

We all got The Sick and frankly, I was a little relieved to wake up with a sore throat on that Saturday morning. I knew it was coming. I just didn't know when and I was ready to get it over with. No amount of preventative measures (short of a bio-hazard outfit) were going to prevent those germs from getting in my body when my sleepy child inadvertently coughs DIRECTLY INTO MY MOUTH repeatedly.

We have had visits from aunts, uncles, cousins and Grammie and Grandpa. I brined my first turkey. The tree is up and the boys went to go see The Muppets. Paul and I got a night out where we ate well and stopped in quickly at Sunday's Best to meet Lynn and hug Shanna. I'm checking in with Crafty Wonderland this next weekend to finish up gift getting. Yesterday there was a little baby shower that was big on laughs and awesomeness. Today I'm going to try and get the rest of the leaves (there are MANY) out of the yard and onto the street for the city to pick up. It is cold and sunny outside.

I have been sewing quite a lot and trying to finish things from The Pile, one of which was this table runner that is too wide and slippery for our table but fits our island much better. Besides, if there's something on the table it will most likely end up on the floor. I initially wrote about this project here and mentioned that I was hand-quilting it. Nope! I pulled out what I had started and finished it up using my machine. I hand bound the edges and gave it a good wash.

I've finished two more quilts for my friends which both involved a lot of hand-sewing, something I'm a little desperate to get better at (because I do so poorly at it for some reason). The friend quilt thing is going to extend into next year as I was hoping to do two more. I got side-tracked. But I'll post about the two finished ones this week. They are the sort of quilts you could still have time for this December. Not that I want to add anything else to your list. Take it easy on yourself, good people.

Polaroid

Our friend and personal family polaroid photographer, Ann McGarry, is having her first opening tonight at Albina Press over on Hawthorne from 6-8. That's her up there. She's going to be smiling JUST LIKE THAT tonight. I'm going to waddle through (I do that now. It's awesome.) somewhere near the beginning. You guys, it is a really beautiful show. It's up through the beginning of January.