One Green Bee Designs

Hallelujahing and Hiding

It's all hallelujahs and hiding spinach around here. Almost 11 months ago, I found myself unable to get out of bed or pick up my baby or hold a cup of coffee. A pesky joint disease altered life for this family. Altered it a lot. It hit when I was finally gaining a little confidence after a bucketload of bewildering newness. We'd kept the baby alive for nearly a year and survived our first months on a new continent. I was back in shape and clocking happy kilometers on long runs, and our first winter in seven years--a long and gray one--was starting to lift. It was a cruel time to find myself abruptly bed-ridden, and I let that disease knock the hope right out of me.

But I've got good peeps and Grace and This Too Shall Pass. And it did. It's not the same body; there are joints that will never quit growling but I can move. Hallelujah, I can move! Today marked a milestone of moving---18 glorious kilometers through Praha with a dear friend. It was hard, but it was beautiful, and I never ever ever thought it possible. I am one grateful girl.

Tomorrow will be Advil and ice and spinach muffins. That's right. I'll take this poor transition from what really is an awfully Big Deal to explain that I obsess over iron intake, and so we've been eating Rebar's Broccoli Soup (take the time to make a pesto to swirl in, toss in some steamed florets and you will never ever ever make any other creamed brocolli soup--or possibly any other soup at all. You'll find the bare bones of it here.), which should really be called spinach soup, and finding other creative uses for the green stuff.

The boys have no idea there is wilted spinach in these delish carrot muffins. 

And tomorrow's fruit smoothies.

Bad photography aside, you have no idea how happy this all makes me. 

I hope I am able to be kind

Since we returned to Prague, Gus and I have been having a hard time speaking each other's love language. He's hid all of my winter accessories. My hands are freezing. He gave me a bloody nose and dropped his oatmeal in my coffee. And then there was Wednesday. When someone you love hands you their own poop, you know your relationship needs some attention.

That night, before he went to bed, we prayed together as a family. Well, I prayed and he poked his father in his closed eye (it really hasn't been easy for any of us). I asked for a little help around here. Help learning to parent with joy.

I've been getting all sorts of appropriate parenting advice and notes and insights from folks, and it's felt sort of bleak to have well-intentioned people say such lovely things like, "Don't you feel like you're just living the best life has to offer?" when I'm scrubbing the toy excavator my son has just filled with his own urine. I've really questioned (and probably will forever) my ability to execute and endure the dirt and grime and nuts and bolts of parenting. 

Thursday Gus and I left early for school. This walk was rich with the giddy anticipation of a breather from one another. And so it was surprising when we found ourselves missing our bus in order to crunch ice. All the puddles from the day before had frozen over, and we are people who do not miss an opportunity to smash things without consequence. So we smashed and hopped and slid and skated and reminded ourselves not to eat dirty ice or to lick the tempting pieces that look like candy. (I thought of you fondly, MS, and all the times we watched the movie Beautiful Girls. I always liked the scene where Natalie Portman is just stomping snow. I share her pleasure in a good snow stomp). While ice chunks flew and Gus learned to land on his knees for a really good ice ride, a neighbor walked by and took in our mayhem. She is not a parent, but she has more parenting mojo than I'll ever muster. I'm bewildered by this girl's kid-magnetism. Kids love her. She loves kids. Oscar is totally smitten. I was pretty sure she walked off making a mental note to investigate Czech child protective services as I yelled things like, "Run over here, this puddle is REALLY slippery!" But I was wrong. Instead she later emailed that she just wanted to share her joy in "witnessing kairos (she and I must read the same blogs)", and how she was so happy to have seen such a beautiful parenting moment.

Argh. What a stinker. I wanted to tell her, "That's parenting? That's the crap Gus and I waste our time doing all day when we should be learning to cut with scissors and sing our ABCs and put on our own coat. That's the stuff that distracts him from eating vegetables and bathing properly. That's the fun stuff I do when I want to avoid what parents should be doing. That is NOT parenting." But, I got it. I get it. Thank-you-very-much pre-eye-poke prayer.

I was pretty happy to pick up Oscar after school and get my buddy back. Affirmed now in our aimless ways, we did all the voices to The Pout Pout fish together when we were supposed to be learning to tie our shoes and may or may not have hung up our jackets. And can you believe it? He even asked to use the potty and not his own hand or the Nepalese carpets. I was shocked.

This is a strange gig, this endeavor growing a human. In an On Being podast from NPR with Sylvia Boorstein, two phrases recently stuck in my head (poorly quoted):

"Your measuring stick that you're thinking clearly is that you are able to be kind."

and

"In this moment, am I able to care?"

I'm looking forward to putting those up on the wall and trying them out on the next day where I find myself gritting my teeth. And while I'm not super keen on the amount of attention fecal matter gets around here, I am pretty keen on living hopefully and on watching someone grow so admirably despite my best efforts at messing up this process. I am grateful for a community of outspoken women who remind me what I am doing and remind me what I should be doing and give me pause. I don't always agree with them, but I am happy to be walking in this path if it is one where Gus and I can take a break from the horror that is learning-to-zip-your-own-coat with an impromptu ice skate.

About twenty blissful seconds before he poured hot chocolate on my shoe.

Happy Birthday P

Fifteen years ago, in the Schroeder farm kitchen, I met my beloved P. Someone asked me the other day if I liked him from the moment we met. I was in a hurry and regretted my quick response. If I'd taken advantage of a moment to sing out our song, I'd have explained that before that encounter at the Schroeder farm, yeah, I had seen P. He'd been in some of my classes at University. He was outspoken and confident and always seemed surrounded by a gaggle of good looking people. At that point in my life, I was unimpressed by anyone that seemed remotely competent and thus ignored him. But when a mutual friend (thanks, SV) had us both over to make a batch of her mother's homemade raspberry hooch, it was like at first sight.

It's only been a few times that I've had the experience where you meet someone and your friend-meter starts shaking. You just know that you're in the presence of Something Good. We squashed raspberries, sang rowdy songs at the top of our lungs, and saw each other almost every day after that. The Schroeder farm (and a nip of raspberry liqueur) has a way of bringing out the humor in folks. We decided we were the funniest people the other had ever met.

I didn't know what love was for nearly ten years (fully aware that everyone around us did). I just knew that P and I were soulmates. We made lists, we laughed, we learned things, we cooked, we crafted, we ran and kayaked and stirred up a lot of silly. P has a way of making the ordinary unbelievably entertaining.

I'm so happy that we both finally figured ourselves out and so grateful that I get to celebrate his 36th year with a gorgeous Gus and a hopeful heart.

Since Gus was born, we've both felt like we are in humilty boot-camp. So, to commemorate our year of new horizons with continued hopes of self-improvement, I painted and drew P one of our favorite (and timely) verses. It's become a bit of a manifesto:

P also got his favorite cake: carrot. Gus was happy (though you'd never know it from his somber face) to help:

And happy to eat:

Happy Birthday, dearest P. You're the best Something Good I've ever met. 

Gong Xi Fa Cai!

It's MY year! The year of the dragon! Put on your red shirts and prepare your reunion dinners! Unaware of Chinese New Year until I moved overseas eight years ago, I've waited a long time for my turn. And, fitting for an Asian symbol that bodes revolution, this year holds a move back to Singapore and back to teaching. Big things are on the horizon.

I just hope my class sizes aren't too big.

 

 

Landed

A place-filler of a post: Gus and I are 36 hours back in Praha. We've not slept as many of those hours as I'd have liked, but we're happy from a long holiday in a very good place. I chose egg nog over blogging, and I think that was wise. With a new year in full swing and the Year of the Dragon (MY year!) looming, I'm in organizing and improving mode. Or at least I will be once the post-flight vertigo stops. 

Gus is in missing diggers, tractors, and good dogs mode. It's all talk of Sable Dog, Cousin C, and Gram and Gramps. Especially at 1:30 in the morning. 

And who wouldn't enjoy a midnight reminisce on good times like this? 

A door opened this week

Gus and I have been walking Stromovka as often as we can. The ice is creeping across the lake and the ducks are huddling in the corners; frosty mornings are now the norm. We have to savor these mornings of silvered trees because they will soon end. Winter will of course linger until May, but after that it could be quite a stretch of hot, welcome years.

Yesterday, P and I accepted jobs back in Singapore. I haven't found my footing yet as to how to explain this to people. There is no short answer. We like it here. We could love it here. I'd return to Prague. There's of course the hassle of snowsuits and cold hands and lost mittens and gray days. But that's not reason to go. And that's what I try to explain to people---there's not reason to leave except that Singapore offers us something that not many other places can in the toddler years of our lives. It offers us festivals and colors and diversity. It offers us monkeys and jungle walks and 365 days a year where we can go outside (granted, often in suffocating heat). It offers us Cambodia and service and travel to places to see things that Gus isn't old enough yet to complain about. I think I better take advantage of the fact that he's too young to gripe about the tuk-tuks and the holidays to places where all we do is wander and not a tv screen is to be found. And then there are the professional gains. And the hope of medical gains. BUT. There is the loss of Prague, and that is a large loss. We chose Europe not as parents and moved here as new ones. We had no idea how parenting would impact where we wanted to work and live (I know. I know. We're the dumbest people on the planet. Believe me. I KNOW.) When Gus is old enough to let me finish my coffee in a cafe or bike beside me on a river path, I'd really like to return. He and I will rip up the trails and sample every offering in the pastry shops. I can't wait.

In the meantime, we'll savor Stromovka and snowfalls and holiday markets and hot candied almonds. We'll get cocoa at every farmer's market and laugh our way through layering up to head outside. 

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This month's sketchbook entry had to be hurried-up since G and I are off to visit the beloved grandparents soon and won't be at the drawing table. The theme of this book was "colors" and I was given black. I sketched up some nocturnal animals hidden behind inked doors. Doors seemed appropriate in this season of Advent. Man, I really love things with doors.

November is ending well

We had a lovely post-Thanksgiving weekend. I baked my first turkey, which we enjoyed with the truly wonderful Rops clan. There were Christmas markets and sunny mornings and gluhwein and chocolate bars and singalongs. Everyone was tolerant of both Gus's runny nose and his hollering. It was good.

Perhaps because of the tryptophan, the good company, Starbucks Christmas espresso blend, the German beers, or the new (and simply glorious) pottery Advent wreath P bought me at the Dejvicka market, this morning we entered the week of Decisions with lighter hearts, which I am also enjoying. 

In the afternoon, I made the Colophon Cafe's African peanut soup with our leftover turkey, which turned out to be a splendid move. It was totally unthanksgiving-dinner-like, and it used up a lot of the bird.

And tonight, I'm packaging cards to sell. 

 

Repeating themes

I'm working on a project at which I'm not very good. It requires repeating patterns and Adobe Illustrator work that this brain just doesn't yet know how to navigate. (and isn't quite convinced it wants to learn)

This workshop showed up in my Google Reader last night just minutes after the email arrived requesting these repetitive designs. Julia Cameron would shout "synchronicity!" and ask why I haven't already enrolled. 

Selling and sketching

If you're going to attempt holiday sales, you should probably get to know my friend K. She took what was a dreadfully boring table and made it look fab:

And then she stayed all day and never ate a single piece of chocolate. I'm not sure what was wrong with her, but she saved my sanity and kept me from shooing away the customers. In the end, she wouldn't even let me give her freebies. What a gal!

I'm not making any more designs for a short bit. Pillarbox has taken my leftovers and now I need to focus on the holiday gifting and a project with Tiny Tales. To tidy up loose ends, I finished sketchbook project #3 today. We're still waiting on Big Decisions and I'm coping with being-very-bad-at-waiting by re-reading Mary Oliver and Jane Kenyon and doodling the best of where we may land.

Happy Birthday, Mama

I'm hoping this card has made its way to my one-year-older mother's mailbox. I wish I was there to take that beloved lady to a high tea or talk her into a pedicure. She's a creative gal that likes yellow and things that are handmade, and so I'm hoping she enjoys her birthday greeting. Happy Birthday, mom. You are missed and loved.