Posted on

Oops

I’m scraping dried droplets of Danimals yogurt off the monitor and keyboard on our old iBook that we retired to Ford. It has served as his personal, portable Harry Potter and Bil Nye cinema for about six months or so, and it’s seen better days: like, when responsible adults used it. Chas has popped off the keys many times; I’ve rescued some letters from the dustpan more than once. And in the center of the browser I see a large rainbow-colored diffraction that is likely a dent made by a Matchbox car. My guess is that Chas disaggreed with the content?

At any rate, here I am using the kid’s laptop, because my Powerbook’s hard drive died. Blip. Just like that.

One drawback to blogging in the wee hours, as I do, is that my time is short at the computer. I sit down, type, nearly fall asleep, and then fall asleep. Hopefully, somewhere in there, I’ve recorded something important about my children or my daily experience (I’m trying to remember little things that I might otherwise forget, if I didn’t take the time to write).

So, while I’ve been dutiful to record moments of firsts and little epiphanies, nature walks, whatever, I’ve been forgetting to do the necessary backup work: I’ve been forgetting to back up my work. And I can’t say I haven’t been warned. Damon’s raised eyebrows more than once, pointing his finger at the hardware before going to bed. But it’s in his nature to back up his machines every night, to dock into that little corner of his office, rejuicing fones and updating files, compiling this and that, reconfiguring hard drives, installing this, extracting that, blah blah blah. It’s all so left-brain.

But look at me, the right-brained artist, the distracted mother, using the high-maintenance, technical, inorganic hyperjournal. It’s like asking a Moose to gether nuts for ye coming winter: sure, it can be done, but why bother? And what do moose eat, anyway?

What I need is a good squirrel, I guess. To keep me from losing another six months of priceless data. Actually, and FYI: some data may be recovered for $500-700. Just to drive the point home: Don’t be a moose. BACK IT UP!!!

Posted on

Turbulence

I am sitting on the grassy slope, keeping an eye on the kids and our bikes. Chas is lying on his back, arms wide, laughing at the twilight and the moon. Ford is networking with another stranger. They’re wild and free. I’m in a funk, but Damon encouraged this bike ride. And here we are, downtown, waiting for the bats. Emotional management.

A colossal thunderhead looms over downtown, rolling south. It’s insides churn with lightening. We pack up the kids and head back, weaving through pedestrians on the bridge. Half of them are holding camerafones to the sky. Passing them, we feel a headwind as the storm sucks up our warm air, wafting guano up from beneath the bridge: intense and murky, like cultured warm beef agarose.

Faster we pedal back, past the biggest pillowfight I’ve ever seen, diffusing with hoopla under police megafone. I want to be in it, to detox. I can’t clip through the shadows fast enough for all the angst. Instead, I whiz through the trees wondering whether my kids will grow up as moody as me. While some parents hope their children become pro basketball players, I hope my children become rational problem-solvers. Fortunately, I am married to one. The odds are even, I guess.

Posted on

The Butt of My Brain

Img 0210

We meet our friends every afternoon to play at a playground. It’s a standing date: around 4pm every day. By that time, at least one of the toddlers has taken a nap, and the big boys have built up considerable steam. They scamper, laugh, and shout potty talk like nobody’s business. Polly and I stand, exasperated, torn between roles of shadowing the little ones as they teeter on the edge of tall perches and jumping into the storm to interrupt the trashy talk. We wonder why they can’t just use other words, when quiet time at home consists of lengthy discourse on subatomic particles and static electricity. Why Ford can’t make any word substitutions when he’s so clever to point out that “I don’t like to snuggle in the bed like a pack of batteries.” Instead, we hear endless “BUTT-HEAD!” and “BOOTY BUTT-HEAD!” and “PENIS HEAD!” in the drone of play combat that orbits around the playscape following a stampede of little feet.

To make matters worse, Chas loves to follow them around the playground, bouncing and roaring, tumbling every now and then as he tries to keep up, but occasionally shouting, “BUTT!!!!” He bends forth with a red face to proclaim the profanity as loudly as possible. It’s hard enough trying to get him to say normal words, like “sock” and “help” and “horse,” but I get so irate when I catch Ford leaning into Chas’ face, to teach him to properly pronounce “BUTT.” At the playground, when people hear “BUTT-HEAD” coming from Chas, they turn to me, surprised and amused. At these times, my eyes try rolling back into the nether region of my skull, to a place where fading dreams linger: where my house would always be tidy, where I’d ride horses while the kids napped, and where my boys would grow up perfect.

Img 0232