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Fat Lips

In the morning, it doesn’t look so bad, but I keep Chas home anyway with his fat lower lip because, let’s face it, neither of us slept much after he fell out of the loft last night. We drop Ford off at school and coast back home down the hill  into the pink valley smog. Hot coffee and pumpkin pie.

We discover two eggs from the newest hatch of Orpingtons (who knows which one layed them). They’re still warm, waiting for us under the southern sunshine. So we take them inside to the stove and turn on the flame. Chas picks the small stainless skillet and I let it warm up. He stands on his stool next to the stove, fat lip swollen round cranberry red, watching me grease the pan. Soon it’s hot, and we each crack an egg in, one by one. The yolks shine upright like marigold yellow balls.

With crazed maternal determination I clear a space in Ford’s bedroom for a twin bed that I haven’t bought yet. Chas will sleep in this spot, instead of the loft, because if he doesn’t fall out then eventually he’ll be kicked out and fall flat on his face again. I push furniture around like a house rat, carving a cozy, clean sleeping corner for Chas while he plays alongside me with a small white Lego trooper and a ginormous Burr oak acorn cap.

Somehow I make it home within the next hour from the Ikean labyrynth with a twin boxspring and four bed legs, and then somehow I put the bed together.

Thirty minutes later I arrive at the school. The yellow leaves are falling from maple trees atop the long blue afternoon shadows and while we wait for Ford to appear from the classroom, Chas and I stare out into the open field, quiet as mice. A jet from San Francisco scores the cloudless turquoise sky with a thin white contrail towards Los Angeles by way of the coastline. In the rear view mirror, Chas watches it pass and rests his head against the glass window. Then he asks me when we are flying to Houston.

In one week and two days, I reply, showing him 9 of my fingers, and he bites his lip to stifle his glee; I bite my lip, cringing.

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Booger

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My mornings begin under a pile of cats and children. If the sun hasn’t risen, a cat will. She will begin purring and licking my nose with dry, coarse sandpaper kisses; at this point it’s hard to stay asleep, and Booger kitty has the edge on this game.

On Halloween eve she successfully commanded me to awaken and then feed her, and as I made coffee she stopped mid-breakfast to crunch and smile back up at me, quite satisfied. One can measure the contentedness of a cat quite easily by purr strength and coat gloss, but in Booger one can faintly discern a smile. Her eyes glint.

Our days parted briefly as I drove the boys to school. As we pulled away we watched her bat an acorn through the yellow leaves in the driveway.

When it was time to feed the quail and the chickens, she sat atop the covey box and watched, knowing how good fresh quail taste (she really knows.) And then she climbed a tree for no reason.

Many hours later, the boys were home again, playing Star Wards in the backyard. The chickens were ranging. Booger sprawled flat atop the big white planter on a new bed of borage seedlings, and I, miffed, pulled her off the flattened sprouts and shook my head. I brought her warm fluffy body up to my face and hugged her close, very snug for a cat, but she doesn’t mind that. She is a mellow cat. One thing I love about her, besides her luxurious fluffy, long Oreo cookie coat, is her sweet manner. Again, she is always smiling.

The odd thing is that I have to grieve for losing all of this, because when Damon pulled in from work he found her on the road in front of our house. The pavement, days later, was still shiny and red, and I am beginning to wonder how I can possibly keep enduring these seemingly routine losses of joy and warmth and family from my home. Only two months ago we lost her brother, George McFly, to an early Monday morning commuter.

Damon, the man who steps up without fail, quietly buried her while I cried. I could hear him in the dark outside, an occasional shovel grating stone, while Chas sat next to me on the sofa. Chas put his small hand on mine. He let me mutter my sadness while he listened.
He asked me what it feels like when we die. I told him that I don’t know. I told him that I imagine it’s muffled and peaceful and white, like snow. Everywhere.
And then I felt like crap for being downer mom. Am I supposed to lie?

I can’t lie to the kids. But they are too young to be men, and they already react with a farmer’s mentality, Ford reminding me that “it’s okay, mom, cats come and go.”
But it’s not okay, and the Borage seedlings are now tall again, and the quail are still being fed and the cats are still playing, all as if nothing is changed or missing, even though it just aches and aches in those blank spaces she used to occupy, smiling.

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School Days

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School. The nourishing routine began. They needed this. And Chas started kindergarten.

With this came new friendships, early mornings slicing carrots, spreading jam, checking homework. Chas is eager to please his teacher; he often reminds me of the one important thing to do when I am bogged down in these daily details.

“Mommy, are you staying with me at school today?”

I think will rock kindergarten

I volunteer now, like many other parents at our school. On Mondays I spend the entire day in the school garden, raking, mulching, planting, weeding, thinning, harvesting, my handiwork echoed sixfold by eager little kindergarten helpers. They take turns. When teacher Kathy isn’t looking, I let the most dexterous child handle the pruning shears to collect rosemary sprigs. He is ready, despite the rules.

Chas plays alongside us in the garden, with no interest in garden maintenance. There are bridges to build and battles to fight under the live oak canopy. He steps back into the sunlight occasionally and his flaxen halo glows in the bright morning light.

It is the little school up in the mountain. We love it here.

Ford is in a classroom with seventeen other children, mostly girls, and, according to his teacher, he is raising his hand at every question, jumping at each opportunity. In the whole-school music class, he volunteers to sing solo. At the same time he is navigating new social ground. He made two close friends on the first day of school, a magnetic, spinning connection over goofy faces, animated gestures and general silliness. And he has discovered the comic book.

In the car on the way to Santa Cruz, on a golden Friday afternoon, Ford sits in the backseat of the car with a stack of paper and a pencil. He draws. By the time the sun has set and I lay the board back atop the car, I look into the backseat to find a stack full of comics that he has drawn. They include page upon page of alien species on lush, fruity topography choosing flowers to eat, introducing themselves to other species. There is no war, no battles, no conflict other than which flowers to eat. There are so many, after all, from which to choose.

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