tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57323873057566693612024-03-12T18:31:16.015-07:00Geralyn Murraygeralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-32920082074461742172009-07-05T09:14:00.000-07:002009-07-05T09:17:59.682-07:00Big Shot Writer: Life As Amazon Sales Rank #825,166.Check it out at:<br />www.bigshotwriter.blogspot.com.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-14614124809119396312009-03-24T13:51:00.000-07:002009-03-24T14:14:19.357-07:00That's all she wrote.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFo6sWrGhqZNSjriz5ArqDH-myNffYE_E9JyvgHw9u-hu4cPriDE8SPmIXU4KqrbFBJjlmXH1HhixGW_Lu7E1prTxPOQX_fUBs4Qb5wg7cqixK8aSHdSGuh14qrvsLWs3qyiewbs_cqU/s1600-h/photo-33.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFo6sWrGhqZNSjriz5ArqDH-myNffYE_E9JyvgHw9u-hu4cPriDE8SPmIXU4KqrbFBJjlmXH1HhixGW_Lu7E1prTxPOQX_fUBs4Qb5wg7cqixK8aSHdSGuh14qrvsLWs3qyiewbs_cqU/s200/photo-33.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316864676369423746" /></a><br />I think the time's come: I've seen the light at the end of the diaper pail and it's a good one.<br /><br />I started this blog back in November of 2007 to promote THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE DIAPER PAIL: INSPIRATION FOR NEW MOTHERHOOD. It was simply a way to reach out to new moms and spread the word about this sweet little book of mine. Instead, though, this blog has become an pretty accurate recording of the last year and half of our lives, the life of me and my dearest ones, and because of that, it's proven more valuable than I ever imagined. Moments I know I would have missed or forgotten are here now, forever proof to my family of my boundless love for them, along with my daily impatience, lack of exercise discipline, passion for chocolate and readiness for good humor at all times.<br /><br />I had no idea how much writing these details of our lives would move me. And would touch others. I am incredibly grateful for this.<br /><br />Reese and Finn are five and two now; we are rapidly moving away from the diaper pail and toward preschool and kindergarten, soccer and ballet. I can see a Sippy cup-free household in sight and it's a sad one and a sweet one as well. As much as I will miss the deliciousness of my babies and toddlers, I find actually being able to get to know these babies as people is the unexpected delightful gift. Both of them, as every mother I'm sure believes, are so amazingly special. Funny and open hearted. Warm and playful. They are each not to be underestimated.<br /><br />This has also given me a place to praise my closest friend, the love of my life, Christopher. All I can say is that I must have done something good. Very good.<br /><br />It's time to move on to the next project. The next phase of our lives. The light at the end of the preschool. One day, the prom night. Beginning our family with this blog has been so special and I will miss it tons. I look forward to what lies ahead of us and writing about that someday.<br /><br />For now, as I look over the entries here, the theme of kindness reigns through and I still feel the way I did in my first post two Novembers ago; that we are raising kind people here. And for this, I am proud.<br /><br />"At home, Finn sleeps and I eat and Rose pouts. I don’t notice it at first. She’s parked herself in our room, big black and white body on the carpet, sad muzzle on the cold bathroom floor, like a hairy teenager with a bad hangover. Hours pass, the rest of the family comes home and she remains unmoved. Maybe she’s sick? Depressed? Reese, my four-year-old strolls in while I’m assessing the situation; I tell her Rose was probably sad at Dog Camp. Without a word to me, Reese lays down on the floor next to Rose, her head inches from Rose’s, her feet aligned next to her paws. She takes one of Rose’s paws in her hand and starts talking in a low, kind voice, like the one I use when Reese is sad or sick or otherwise not herself. I hear her say, “you’re OK, Rosie, you didn’t like Dog Camp, but you’re OK, you’re home now, I love you, sweet Rose.” She makes these little sounds, these little comforting sounds to Rose, while stroking her snout with her stubby little four-year old fingers, fingers which, just months ago couldn’t find their way around a pen or a toothbrush. Her kindness overwhelms me; my heart is in my throat, savoring this victory, this evidence that no matter what failures we have in store for us as parents, no matter what fights, what cigarettes, sex, rock and roll and “you don’t understand me’s” lay before us, for this single moment a goal has been met; the kindness chip is in place and it’s functioning on all four cylinders."geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-33849371530811137152009-03-18T10:56:00.000-07:002009-03-18T11:17:21.433-07:00Flash Forward.I'm never content to worry simply about what's in front of me. I like to borrow worry ahead of time. An acquaintance of mine calls this pre-worrying. It doesn't negate worrying later; there is no higher purpose, actually. It's just worry for worry's sake.<br /><br />My recent bout of pre-worrying began as my babysitter began telling me about her little sister, who is in third grade, and how she is being teased by the other girls at her school. She, the little sister, doesn't understand why. They call her fat, they make fun of her clothes, they are in general the horrible girls that terrorized me once, years ago. Little girls like that don't grow up, I've decided, they just hang around the cafeteria, waiting for the next victim. Like ghosts of Elementary School Past. Some of those third graders are probably like 54.<br /><br />This makes me fear for Reese, my soon to be Kindergartner. She is decidedly a ham at home, less so in public. She is definitely not the hanging from the chandeliers type. At least, not yet. She is smart and sweet. But interestingly, as middle of the road, no feathers ruffled type of girl that she is, she makes friends like nobody's business. <br /><br />We go to dance class the other day and before we leave the building, she's been invited to a birthday party and is being hugged by Alicia, a girl she met twenty minutes ago. We go to a birthday party one weekend and before the cake is served, Reese is running off into the sunset, holding hands with her new best friend, Mia. We're looking at a map of the United States last night and Reese reminds me that her best friend in Hawaii lives there. The one she met on the beach on vacation last July, who glued herself to Reese's side like a cuddly starfish.<br /><br />If we traveled like ever, this girl would have friends in all fifty states. <br /><br />Always up for advice, I ask Reese how she makes friends so easily; I tell her she collects friends like other people collect stamps. She must wizen these girls, I guess. She does have an irresistable smile and dresses like Punky Brewster. Maybe the color combinations have a friendmaking effect.<br /><br />"You're so silly Mama," she says to me, laughing, "it's so easy. They ask if I want to be friends and I say 'sure' and that's it. We're friends."<br /><br />That's it, I ask.<br /><br />"Yes, it's so easy to make friends," she says dancing off, probably to pick up another forty or so friends at the park. And I think, OK, maybe I shouldn't worry about her and the meanness of girls. Perhaps her sweetness, her kindness, her humor, her wardrobe has bulletproofed her from harm. This I pray.<br /><br />Then I realize I'm probably not worrying about what I should be worrying about. Like the world class worrier I am, I scour my brain for new issues: teen pregnancy, drugs, dirty school drinking faucets, lockers slamming on fingers, teenage driving, girl scout cookie drives, BOYS, tampons, bras, periods, puberty, hormones, my hormones, her hating me, her never hating me, high school math.<br /><br />OK, I think I'm good for today.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-53151893126301644522009-03-08T19:25:00.001-07:002009-03-08T19:39:45.542-07:00Eavesdropping.I'm working in the bedroom. Chris is getting ready to brush the kids' teeth. <br /><br />(SOUND OF REESE RUNNING DOWN HALLWAY): Owww. Owweee!!!!!!<br /><br />CHRIS: What's wrong?<br /><br />(NO ANSWER)<br /><br />CHRIS: OK, I'm looking for a girl who went to a birthday party today...<br /><br />REESE: Me! Wait! I need to pee really bad...<br /><br />CHRIS (SINGING WITH VIGOR, CLAPPING): Here we go lubby loo, here we go lubby loo all on a Saturday..<br /><br />REESE: Finn turn that water off!<br /><br />CHRIS (SINGING): ...all on a Saturday night!<br /><br />MORE CLAPPING AND WATER RUNNING FOLLOWED BY HORRIBLE DROPPING SOUND.<br /><br />REESE SCREAMING LIKE SHE'S LOST A LIMB.<br /><br />REESE: FINNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!! You made me all wet because of you!!<br /><br />CHRIS (CALMLY) Reese, you're not that wet.<br /><br />REESE: Yes I am! Just because of you FINNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!<br /><br />UNDER HER BREATH BUT NOT REALLY: Finn is so mean!<br /><br />CHRIS: Finn, what do say to your sister?<br /><br />FINN (REMORSEFULLY): Sorree. THEN SPRIGHTLY: It happens!<br /><br />EXPLOSION OF LAUGHTER FROM ALL THREE OF THEM.<br /><br />FINN (SENSING A WINNER): It happens! It happens. Sorry Reese it happens!! (NOW DELIVERS THE LINE IN LOW TONES, HIGH TONES AND SINGING TONES, LOOKING FOR THE BIGGEST LAUGH)<br /><br />LAUGHTER.<br /><br />REESE: Finn, you're hilarious.<br /><br />I have to write this down so on the days Finn says to Reese, "no look at Finn" and Reese says "mom, finn says I can't look at him" and I want to poke my own eye out with a ball point pen from the frustration of it all, from raising two "spirited" children, I will read this and thank heaven for them and the chaos they have transformed my life into, for the laughter, for the love of it all.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-52657483272361498072009-02-01T06:54:00.000-08:002009-02-01T07:22:20.958-08:0025 Random Things About Reese and Finn.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3pDfvmK3CNKvBjiYiPPZjoSywavd3kUpoOQ3J0Uiox_PfpGsXl1DEKfz4ogieiQZDPQub_oYTG-1BUv5X8NOUOjXdveZRZQpwWkKL5VVXquT8AB_UpEb6gl-Il6dBtmK7MIuAZ5hwap8/s1600-h/Reese&Finn.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3pDfvmK3CNKvBjiYiPPZjoSywavd3kUpoOQ3J0Uiox_PfpGsXl1DEKfz4ogieiQZDPQub_oYTG-1BUv5X8NOUOjXdveZRZQpwWkKL5VVXquT8AB_UpEb6gl-Il6dBtmK7MIuAZ5hwap8/s200/Reese&Finn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297844577020746498" /></a><br /><br />I am loving reading everyone's "25 Random Things About Me" on Facebook. It is such a neat snapshot into the lives of good friends near and far. It inspired me to do a list for Reese and Finn, my five-year old and two-year old, if they were to do a random list about themselves at this moment in time, February 1st, 2009 at 7:05 AM. I think it would go a little like this:<br /><br />25 Things about Reese and Finn, by Reese and Finn<br /><br />1. Mom made us do this list.<br />2. Finn is way too bossy.<br />3. Reese is way too bossy.<br />4. We want breakfast.<br />5. We want to play Legos.<br />6. Scratch that, Finn wants to play Legos.<br />7. Now Finn wants Reese to play Legos.<br />8. Reese doesn't want to play Legos, she wants Finn to play dance party.<br />9. We love dance party. Finn loves to wear Reese's red sparkly shoes and her orange headband with yellow stripes.<br />10. Finn loves yellow.<br />11. Reese loves pink.<br />12. Reese loves chocolate.<br />13 Finn loves chocolate.<br />14. Who doesn't love chocolate?<br />15. Reese says she loves tap dancing the best and that the reason she came real quick out of mom's belly was because she wanted to get to tapping.<br />16 Finn says um, um, tap, yeah. Tap. Love. Tap. Dance. Party. <br />17 Finn loves playdough. All the colors together.<br />18 Reese reports that watching too many videos is "wearing her out" - enough Jack's Big Music Show. <br />19 Reese says that we really love playdough and that her favorite things about playdough are her favorite things about playdough. They love to make "spaghetti." See #17.<br />20. Reese loves her blanket and her Bubba and her Ojo and her Homa the "special-ist".<br />21. Reese says Finn loves his blanket the best. And the dog that he sleeps on every night. That dog is not a real dog. <br />22. Finn really likes Reese. <br />23. Reese is fair. And wants to be like Martin Luther King Junior. Peaceful.<br />24. Reese likes Finn. He's the specialist boy in the whole entire world. Because he's her brother.<br />25. Reese and Finn are brother and sister because we're in the same family and we share things and we don't whine about it because we know not to.<br /><br />#26 Reese says she wants me to type my name too, so here goes: G, E, R, I.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-34639091232898479032009-01-30T06:54:00.000-08:002009-01-31T21:32:52.063-08:00"Eggos, Mama?"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjM4DGuHy2d6D3DHj_kEjQK2E19HWmeA6dJIdR39mM12YRa-DlmTq3LnHOEcGFrGRS7Xu9D-dBHMnYPurvczYhxDg7SDURt42BqhIxOK0o0x6_u4WR0UOSmbEEXrQCkgElR7fW8r48hI/s1600-h/StephanieGeri73.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjM4DGuHy2d6D3DHj_kEjQK2E19HWmeA6dJIdR39mM12YRa-DlmTq3LnHOEcGFrGRS7Xu9D-dBHMnYPurvczYhxDg7SDURt42BqhIxOK0o0x6_u4WR0UOSmbEEXrQCkgElR7fW8r48hI/s200/StephanieGeri73.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297101111208120690" /></a><br />That is what Finn says when he means, "Legos, Mama, play Legos."<br /><br />Legos are his current obsession. Building, building, building, this kid. Bristle blocks, Tinkertoys, wood blocks, and of course, "Eggos". But the thing is, he'll play for a few minutes by himself and then I get the call to join in on the fun. And, you know what? It IS fun. I love to play with my kids. For ten minutes, a half hour. And then, I get the strange idea that since they're engaged and having fun, I'll slip away for a moment and do a load of laundry or unload the dishwasher or repair the breakfast damage.<br /><br />This is obviously delusional thinking because within moments I get the call. And who can turn down:<br /><br />"Eggos, Mama? Eggos with Finn?"<br /><br />That is not an invitation to be refused. So, the dishes wait. The clean clothes pile up, homeless, sometimes never leaving the basket, just to be put into rotation again. Bills, returning phone calls, filling out forms for school and insurance: all of that is pushed to the side as I am a partner in painting, playdoughing, block building, and fort making. <br /><br />I am a thirty-eight year old woman spending a good portion of her day as a toddler. <br /><br />And most days, I allow myself the privilege of being my children's playmate, along with their mother. When Reese gets home from school, we do "dance party" all of us wiggling crazily and both of them wearing "heels" and me in my stocking feet. We bake gingerbread. We read books. We watch Jack's Big Music Show. We hand clap the ABC's. We dress up and they do my hair. I watch them put on shows and get into arguments and laugh and cry and grow up in front of my eyes, slowly.<br /><br />And then I say:<br /><br />"OK, now you guys play."<br /><br />And then I make a three-minute attempt at the laundry, the bills, the dust bunnies. I get dinner started. I feed the dogs. I clean up the heels and the books and the gingerbread. I make them clean up the heels and the books and the gingerbread. I think about my childhood, pictured here, me in my mother's arms and can't remember ever laying on the ground with her building anything. I don't remember us playing. I know that this is a generational thing. I know that "helicopter parenting" is the phrase my generation is supposedly guilty of, and maybe I am an offender. But I know this:<br /><br />My mother didn't play with me but she loved me SO. She hugged and kissed me all the time and once, we sat in the movie theater and saw The Sound of Music, TWICE. She talked with me a lot. She stayed up with me when I was sick and was the best nurse ever, cold wash clothes to the head, toast with lite butter. She was always real with me. And I always knew I was loved.<br /><br />AND I know:<br /><br />I might play with my kids too much. And I might lose my patience too much. And allow them to eat too many snacks. And I might underschedule them with formal activities and overschedule them with a different arts and crafts activity every ten minutes. But I love them SO. I hug and kiss them and talk with them and stay up with them when they are sick and use a cool wash cloth and buttered toast. And I am real with them and I hope against hope that they will know how very much they are loved.<br /><br />This is when I realize how the very tough the job of mothering, of parenting, becomes so amazingly simple when you peel away all of the expectations and comparisons and pressures we put on ourselves and each other.<br /><br />I can't remember ever sitting down and playing a single thing with my mother. I don't know if my kids will remember that I played playdough and trains and Legos with them, and in the end, neither will matter. What will matter is what Reese and I talked about on our way home from dance class this morning:<br /><br />"Mama, what if you move to Asia or something and you are far, far away from me?" she asked, sounding a lot like she was reading out of RUNAWAY BUNNY.<br /><br />And I said:<br /><br />"We're not going to Asia, but if we did, you can come with us. Wherever Dad and I are is home. You can always come home."<br /><br />She didn't answer, but I looked up into the rear view mirror and saw her staring out her window with a smile, looking for all the world like she believed me.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-68586799160464607512009-01-27T12:56:00.001-08:002009-01-27T14:35:13.117-08:00Can a dining room table be your North Star?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0IYU13WGAda9PB9HRR6gFr05rfuYOSuoIVrY1s8eh32O2bn-P5zlSw1OPb4Ttfb3EdSpwT8C59mzMGsYtAd48r4c-i6JuigKMGTw_myoS8l_JpapIWWB-9sANm0kY6CsmNlXPOgdP6E/s1600-h/table.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0IYU13WGAda9PB9HRR6gFr05rfuYOSuoIVrY1s8eh32O2bn-P5zlSw1OPb4Ttfb3EdSpwT8C59mzMGsYtAd48r4c-i6JuigKMGTw_myoS8l_JpapIWWB-9sANm0kY6CsmNlXPOgdP6E/s200/table.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296081521221062946" /></a><br />This is what my dining room table looks like at 12:49 p.m. on a Tuesday. It's my favorite spot in the house. It gets the best light of the day, and like all things in good light, it flourishes.<br /><br />It's not actually my dining room table though. It's my grandmother's. Or it was before she died two Decembers ago at age 93. When she asked me what I wanted after she died, way back before her dying was not nearly in sight, I told her then: I don't want anything, but if you have to leave me something, leave me the dining room table. <br /><br />So she did. And the china cabinet and hutch too. I don't know why I asked for the dining room table, when it was really the breakfast table where we spent our lives. It was the place where she mourned her husband when my mom was just seventeen, where my mother told us all she was getting married again, where I came home to when I came home: it was the last place I saw her alive as she cupped my face in her strong hands and told me that I lay in her heart. That I laid in her heart.<br /><br />But now, when I open the china cabinet to put in a dish or a cup, I can smell my childhood. I can smell the safety of my grandmother's house, my Bubbie. When I open that cabinet, I could climb in and lay down, for how comfortable and familiar it feels. And when I sit at her table with my children, I am sitting at every dinner I ever went to at her house, everyone joking and loud, the chopped liver, the brisket overflowing, and the conversation too.<br /><br />When I open the doors of the hutch, I can hear the laughter of my cousins and I running through the hallways, sucking down orange Push-Ups and teasing each other about our tight Jordache jeans, racing Hot Wheels and growing up noisily together. When I open the doors of the hutch, I am seven again. And I am so light.<br /><br />The dining room table came here a few months after Bubbie died and there was already something in it's place: my father's dining room table which I inherited when he died seven and a half years ago, and is just as special, but not nearly as old and therefore, had to go in the garage since we really don't even have a dining room anyway. I say dining room, but I mean: our one and only dining/eating/congregating/noshing area. So, out to the garage went my father's light oak, heavier than rock, table with it's white painted legs and it's Shabby Chic paint peeling chairs. <br /><br />Oh, how I love that table too. <br /><br />I sat at that table when I opened the first present that had ever taken my breath away: a Canon EOS camera. A real camera. My first. My Dad and my stepmom pushed it across the table to me and, with it, the power to see deeper, more purposefully, and with entirely new vision. At that table, my stepmom made her art, my father cheering her along, her devoted fan. The paint is still on the table today, in specks and drips here and there, like she just finished up and is in the kitchen washing out her brushes. And my dad served up my first perfect taste of fish at that table: red snapper with brown rice and asparagus. He placed it in front of me like I was royalty.<br /><br />After we got Bubbie's table, which came with five upholstered chairs as well, my Dad's set reclined in the recesses of the garage alone, until we realized that five upholstered chairs and two children age five and two don't mix. That's when we brought out the chairs from my Dad's set - modern, sturdy wood with peeling paint- and married them to my grandmother's 1940's dark wood, unblemished antique table. The table where it sits now, in the light, is always covered, protected and my Dad's chairs surround it like armed soldiers: an unusual pairing, but perfect for our eclectic house where nothing matches, where nothing is a set. But where everything just seems to work together with some kind of unplanned harmony. Or unusual fate.<br /><br />For the last thirty-seven years, I have made my way home to these two tables - in two different houses, in two different cities. I have grown up at them: and now that I have, they've both found their way back to me. <br /><br />So now my North Star sits in my dining room, in the house that's home to my world.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-76894643605889191962009-01-24T15:35:00.000-08:002009-01-27T09:33:18.847-08:00"Why is the grass wiggling, Daddy?"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYV6SPh4l3aGeXcafMSo-RzwhHpuBP2yibYgf7Dfd4vKkQW9mflTSy479gBFb3zeWoGMUbZafOOdZSsLro0p2XTS_sqtDJpaW3ATD296DMDCScyX-IWzk79ezafaCuA-gXs7Gh9JR0s8/s1600-h/finngate.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYV6SPh4l3aGeXcafMSo-RzwhHpuBP2yibYgf7Dfd4vKkQW9mflTSy479gBFb3zeWoGMUbZafOOdZSsLro0p2XTS_sqtDJpaW3ATD296DMDCScyX-IWzk79ezafaCuA-gXs7Gh9JR0s8/s200/finngate.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295008236248567490" /></a><br />That was actually Reese's question today as we were driving in the windy weather and she was gazing out the window.<br /><br />"It's just blowing in the wind, baby," I answered, even though it wasn't me she asked.<br /><br />A few minutes later, while watching her first play, a children's theater performance, she leans over and breathes hot into my ear:<br /><br />"How can they NOT be real people, they're SO funny!"<br /><br />This, the wonder of childhood, has to be one of the greatest gifts of parenthood: like a secondhand smoker, I get to inhale the shiny new discovery of my children's experiences. And since it usually happens in the midst of chaos, it's tough to stop and hold onto the feeling right when it's happening - the contact high of wonder, if you will.<br /><br />But right now, I'm feeling it, I'm feeling it big.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-18854314230231186602009-01-22T14:01:00.000-08:002009-01-22T14:14:55.734-08:00My dear Finnie Boom.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSHd5zzO7qa-yPQEGBpXsV3MTJKgDE2VT5CtBiewskWLUH2rLi2EF74r-vze0RalWUzSwZs_Z7xPRTAq8D2fzcLLibWMivHAs_zK1aSWPQ9qh9q05cexk4ez3fmBh2MuP0yp47OVC7dyY/s1600-h/finnpond.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSHd5zzO7qa-yPQEGBpXsV3MTJKgDE2VT5CtBiewskWLUH2rLi2EF74r-vze0RalWUzSwZs_Z7xPRTAq8D2fzcLLibWMivHAs_zK1aSWPQ9qh9q05cexk4ez3fmBh2MuP0yp47OVC7dyY/s200/finnpond.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294242031947689842" /></a><br /><br />I had to talk your sister down last night. She decided she didn't want a brother anymore.<br /><br />That her life is really, as she put it, rough.<br /><br />All because of you and how she used to be everything to you and now, when you're not pushing her or biting her or dumping her hair bows all over the ground or taking off your pants in public, you're refusing to kiss her goodnight or scrunching up your nose and growling:<br /><br />"Not nice, Reese! Not nice!"<br /><br />About what, we don't know. Anyway, I had to explain to her about the Terrible Twos. I explained they were like an affliction and we needed to help you get over them and get to the Three-riffic Threes. And the Fantastic Four's. And, of course, the Fabulous Fives.<br /><br />So this morning, as you were pulling one of your more endearing moves like pushing her out my lap or making weird faces over breakfast, I heard her say to you:<br /><br />"Oh, Finnie, you're just TERRIBLE. You can't help it - you're two. I'm FABULOUS and five and you, you are TERRIBLE."<br /><br />And honestly Finn, Reese has it right, mostly. You are a terror, everything in your path knocked over or stepped on. Screaming at the top of your lungs regularly. Not wanting to do anything anyone wants you to do. And then, there's today. Just you and me at the little music time at the park and you sat when you were supposed to sit and danced when you were supposed to dance. You laughed out loud at all the songs and put your right hand in and your left hand out. We walked to the car, your little hand in mind. We looked at the ducks in the pond behind you and I took this picture of you today: I asked you to smile and you did. An amazing smile. Completely for me. <br /><br />Finnie, you are terribly WONDERFUL. Terribly LOVELY. Terribly MINE.<br /><br />I love you, sweet boy.<br /><br />Mamageralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-29899559276671289972009-01-19T15:47:00.000-08:002009-01-19T20:28:28.998-08:00From the mouths of babes.At pre-school, Reese is learning about Dr. King and is completely taken with him. I'm not quite sure how they explained the MLK legacy to five-year olds, but Reese now speaks of him in hushed tones, usually the ones she reserves for Santa, Dora and The Wiggles.<br /><br />Apparently, MLK has trumped them all.<br /><br />She knows that today is his birthday and that tomorrow Barack Obama will be the next president of the United States. She knows that Martin Luther King had a dream. Reese explains his dream this way:<br /><br />"His dream was that his kids would grow up, his four kids, and no matter what color their skin was, they would be able to be in the same world - he changed that no matter if you're pink or yellow or brown, he changed with his heart, that everyone can go to the same places."<br /><br />Yes, Reese, he changed hearts. He made change with his heart. All of it: yes, that's right. <br /><br />And when they were done studying MLK in class, every child got to pick out a typed quote from Dr. King and glue it onto one of an assortment of different colored hands. Reese's chosen hand was green and it's hanging in the classroom line amongst all the other hands and it reads:<br /><br />"Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability, but comes through continuous struggle."<br /><br />I can only think that change is coming. That change has arrived. That five-year olds understand the idea of racial equality like they understand that blue and yellow make green. That 25-year olds and 95-year olds and everybody in between voted with their heart this election and that can only mean one thing: the struggle continues, but change is definitely rolling in.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-56134714547272276502009-01-16T07:23:00.000-08:002009-01-16T08:38:02.884-08:00The Light at the End of the Diaper Pail: The Movie.Check it out. Please pass it along to all the new moms in your life. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ffHXGnqpyA">YouTube video</a><br /><br />Enjoy.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-70748702001618597032009-01-14T22:03:00.000-08:002009-01-14T22:12:26.322-08:00The one who sleeps around here.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoayZ7owKnGG5Z6BvZKZhRhFFyQYsejUkAYLzELoe7vZHalv8MZeRB1KQNBQOCx5Y-WpPaJnwqdNQNqSwKlaqvNx6ONg_rieT5QOc3eaBiwYuxB0z7lqiYYVrNSYcyjNwcguwhWnC9ycA/s1600-h/logiesleeps.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoayZ7owKnGG5Z6BvZKZhRhFFyQYsejUkAYLzELoe7vZHalv8MZeRB1KQNBQOCx5Y-WpPaJnwqdNQNqSwKlaqvNx6ONg_rieT5QOc3eaBiwYuxB0z7lqiYYVrNSYcyjNwcguwhWnC9ycA/s320/logiesleeps.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291397452874403122" /></a><br /><br />I know, I'm only jealous, but how is it our dogs sleep like 19 hours a day and they don't even DO anything? They're not the ones up to their eyeballs in snot and art projects and picking up kids from school and trying to help two-year olds get to sleep with a binky AND a stuffy nose, making dinner and doing laundry and watching just the TINIEST amount of Top Chef: heavens, what have they been doing all day anyway, except making me clean up their poop and let them in and out of the door four hundred times?<br /><br />OK, so as you can see, I'm cranky. It might have the slightest bit to do with 1400 calories a day, which I've decided is less than goldfish need to survive. Also, I'm home full-time with children and working in the cracks and it is hard work, this not working business. Or always working. I'm not sure which. Anyway, like I said, CRANKSVILLE over here.<br /><br />My shining light is that it was a gorgeous, unseasonably warm day today with more forecasted to follow. Also, that Reese told me I'm the peanut butter AND the jelly in her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. So there is hope.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-41382358215199844882009-01-05T09:51:00.000-08:002009-01-05T10:03:22.552-08:00Resolution.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxnR2Oj6F4p6apYOCTXBzyRZY2y46W3UQtT6-wT2bUBw6AnOK974VBJE3yq_c7HK0BKKauuaR_LzgLEMNo3_Wl7ctp-JU8G31Xb1jKrainQuC9d0SYxjQ4c86u8R8SLJPwRb52xi8OVVY/s1600-h/ball.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxnR2Oj6F4p6apYOCTXBzyRZY2y46W3UQtT6-wT2bUBw6AnOK974VBJE3yq_c7HK0BKKauuaR_LzgLEMNo3_Wl7ctp-JU8G31Xb1jKrainQuC9d0SYxjQ4c86u8R8SLJPwRb52xi8OVVY/s320/ball.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287871540548872834" /></a><br />After resolving to give up exercise, I hereby unresolve to give up exercise due to the fact that my favorite pair of Lucky jeans are compromising my waistline in ways I can't even begin to go into here.<br /><br />Wish me luck.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-19383596740871093122009-01-04T14:20:00.000-08:002009-01-04T14:37:37.850-08:00Up to my eyeballs in fun.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqBfOiADn-c44cWDt7KaghX37AVz5UNFwJQ0ZnhBN2srGaVFgTlWbYurRqBGUWeC1DnZ2u8yoi05AlCup5ge6SLVPSLfMNVKRcgo5FkC7rWsvJrjT454U05z2KFpM1D9NpitfhK7QCVvQ/s1600-h/playdoh.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqBfOiADn-c44cWDt7KaghX37AVz5UNFwJQ0ZnhBN2srGaVFgTlWbYurRqBGUWeC1DnZ2u8yoi05AlCup5ge6SLVPSLfMNVKRcgo5FkC7rWsvJrjT454U05z2KFpM1D9NpitfhK7QCVvQ/s320/playdoh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287568828088507938" /></a><br />Chris was off on a well-deserved mountain biking break and it was the kids and I this morning convened around the dining room table, constructing the best 2009 has to offer in play-doh creations. It was arts and crafts craziness I tell you. We made play-doh bugs and play-dog monsters and babies and baby monsters. We also danced and sung and brought out the guitars. We played dress-up and we drew and we got dressed and went over to a friend's for a play date, where even more fun was had.<br /><br />So much more that Reese said to me in the car going home:<br /><br />"Sophia's house is WAY more fun than our house."<br /><br />That's when I took off my fun hat and crumpled to the ground in defeat.<br /><br />No, just inside. Actually I explained that everybody else's house always seems more fun than ours because it's new and different and blah blah blah. <br /><br />But, Reese is right, Sophia's house is more fun than ours. At Sophia's house you get to write on the walls of her room in crayon and there's Christmas lights strung up beautifully and persimmons to eat and hard boiled eggs you get to throw on the ground outside and peel and then put in the compost heap when you're done. <br /><br />Sophia's house is MORE fun. I had a great time myself.<br /><br />And the truth is, maybe I'm just not that fun.<br /><br />Lord, I try. Really I do. I color and draw and make believe and read a million stories and make up lots of them too. I try to not be rigid and a no fun ninny. I try to be game. I try to be the kind of mom I would want: a FUN mom. In a fun house.<br /><br />But at Sophia's you can draw on the walls. With crayon. And there's this really great playroom out back and a beautiful deck you can sit on outside and eat persimmons that grow on THEIR OWN TREE.<br /><br />Maybe Sophia's parents, who I also adore, will adopt me. Then we can all live in a fun house.<br /><br />Probably not. <br /><br />Anyway, it was a great day. Maybe I'll let the kids draw on a wall or paint the laundry room or tie dye their coats after nap. I'm inspired now. I may never be the FUN queen, but darn it if I'm not going to try.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-69004652696916819772009-01-03T10:54:00.001-08:002009-01-03T11:03:49.579-08:00Patience and the lack thereof.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPs02uN19ACmkPxQU47Qq0Pd0tdGain3T4OmjMAzjknZ9xl8deA5ZQkK_qxtQi6ahB2lkIe4WhsMNHhdz6YU4SP9wMvR5sLhqdcU0AEij1X0lyKCkhx_Ff0N5nXgdK2tLSd_ipbxiBXw0/s1600-h/finnwcrumbs.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPs02uN19ACmkPxQU47Qq0Pd0tdGain3T4OmjMAzjknZ9xl8deA5ZQkK_qxtQi6ahB2lkIe4WhsMNHhdz6YU4SP9wMvR5sLhqdcU0AEij1X0lyKCkhx_Ff0N5nXgdK2tLSd_ipbxiBXw0/s320/finnwcrumbs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287143006144667762" /></a><br /><br />My boy turned two today. <br /><br />Metaphorically, that is.<br /><br />He turned the actual two about two months ago. But today TWO arrived.<br /><br />It started about 1AM this morning: wouldn't go back to sleep. Comes in our bed. Tosses and turns and doesn't let us sleep. Doesn't let me sleep. Finally falls asleep. I'm still awake and go out to the couch where I still can't sleep. When I finally fall asleep, I waken to the sound of he and his sister padding down the hallway.<br /><br />"She's in here," my daughter says, the lucky winner.<br /><br />I cringe and sink into the blanket I've hastily thrown over myself. My eyes have sandpaper lids. My mouth tastes like smoke.<br /><br />They pile in on me and with me. Sweet and cuddly, I forgive all momentarily.<br /><br />Moments later I am in waitress mode: movies, breakfast, blankies, etc. By 10 AM, Finn has been in time-out, a tool I'm gathering is losing effectiveness rapidly, three times already for various offenses: hitting his sister, hitting me, and the other one I can't recall but I'm pretty sure it was your typical toddler fare. Non-punished offenses, though thoroughly irritating nonetheless included throwing a tantrum while being dressed, throwing food while eating and throwing me for a loop.<br /><br />Sweet, sweet Finn, where are you?<br /><br />I am in a heap with the lofty goal of a shower while everyone else is at the market. I know there were at least two moments of voice raising and then, on his way out, he tried to run into the street and received a certified stern talking to by his father, who was scared out of his mind and pissed off to boot.<br /><br />So, 11:02? Where do we go from here? I am heading to the shower to calm my nerves and wash my hair. I am hoping to emerge a new woman with bottomless patience and good humor. Or at least clean hair.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-68511699192055090622009-01-02T11:15:00.001-08:002009-01-02T11:21:03.047-08:00Day 2.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1g5kc2tNLRB-K9MChGDtglxXpAYJl36ZPVNtRYiE7D4_4OZ0ZBKzMdb5JdAjXjShlZm3O-z7As8evRVfvE38ANjqjStYR6aZVPQ3DQqqzFy8gVbHjAmSSj6qyU_SrX1ON4f6_IJEyMEA/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1g5kc2tNLRB-K9MChGDtglxXpAYJl36ZPVNtRYiE7D4_4OZ0ZBKzMdb5JdAjXjShlZm3O-z7As8evRVfvE38ANjqjStYR6aZVPQ3DQqqzFy8gVbHjAmSSj6qyU_SrX1ON4f6_IJEyMEA/s320/photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286777261113507346" /></a><br />It is rainy and cold and we are all tired of celebrating and ready for rest except two of us are five and under and two of us are parents of those five and under so rest is not in anyone's vocabulary.<br /><br />So we opt for second best. We stay home. It is 11:15 and we are still in our jammies.<br /><br />We have played three games of Candyland and I still lost every time even though I was mostly in absentia. We unwrapped more holiday gifts. We ate yummy pumpkin muffins and did somersalts on the living room carpet. We watched Sesame Street and we watched Finn try to juggle. I contemplated lunch.<br /><br />I think it's going to be a good year.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-76246863062567638692009-01-01T09:44:00.000-08:002009-01-01T09:53:28.671-08:00Happy New Year.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7AhIBiVPe3qBa92NAtjXEsotNE5580AGOVQYKca5j5Dxc4tNQVRZ89kkBOci-s4bTsYreiJ3-ZGEn258Pd1D4vNf_fJMOQe1QIQg2LLm5ASBrxuQTvMJ-MhZKNP-wpur3OF4aPhlrogk/s1600-h/REESESMILE.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7AhIBiVPe3qBa92NAtjXEsotNE5580AGOVQYKca5j5Dxc4tNQVRZ89kkBOci-s4bTsYreiJ3-ZGEn258Pd1D4vNf_fJMOQe1QIQg2LLm5ASBrxuQTvMJ-MhZKNP-wpur3OF4aPhlrogk/s320/REESESMILE.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286382816032251106" /></a><br /><br />Last night, after a rollicking New Year's Eve of toddler mayhem, I was checking in on Reese before I went to bed and she was sound asleep. I went in to give her my usual kiss on the forehead and she opened her eyes and looked straight into mine as though she had just been in a play pretending to be a girl asleep. <br /><br />"Hi, Mama. Watch this."<br /><br />She proceeded to put her index finger square in the middle of her bottom lip.<br /><br />"OK," I say,"what's that?"<br /><br />"That's it," she says proudly, as though what she had done actually qualified as an actual something.<br /><br />Then:<br /><br />"Mama, will you come back and kiss me goodnight?"<br /><br />"Of course, sweetheart."<br /><br />"Always you do?"<br /><br />"Always I do."<br /><br />My first promise of the year: kept.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-83190756259511997612008-12-16T20:10:00.000-08:002008-12-16T20:50:29.492-08:00Our new family portrait.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXwql5_X9QeBk2Niynxx6-vJ_-xYP9K90ZN-XqU51gSWUaj_PQxo43Czn2ZKWvsD6RRwccrbncBSlzEThaxh_h2NQVGyUAOs8GUZXAY9KpJiBHR7dBQloi4ZPSZaYb2nWXziBUaILMKk/s1600-h/familyportrait2008.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXwql5_X9QeBk2Niynxx6-vJ_-xYP9K90ZN-XqU51gSWUaj_PQxo43Czn2ZKWvsD6RRwccrbncBSlzEThaxh_h2NQVGyUAOs8GUZXAY9KpJiBHR7dBQloi4ZPSZaYb2nWXziBUaILMKk/s320/familyportrait2008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280606888475706690" /></a><br /><br />Reese brings home A TON of art from school and bad mother that I am, about three-quarters of it gets tossed in the circular file when she's not looking. C'mon, I can't keep every elbow macaroni, collage of toothpicks the teacher loads into her "art file" each day, now can I?<br /><br />After all, as I've previously stated, we have a small house. <br /><br />That said, I do keep a lot of it and I have a bursting at the seams notebook full of the especially sweet pieces she's amassed since first picking up a crayon a few years back.<br /><br />But, this picture today was a first.<br /><br />Maybe she knew I've been trying to schedule a family portrait for the past three months to no avail. But now, for this year, I think we have one. She nailed 2008 better than the Picture People ever could have.<br /><br />It's been a crazy year. It began with a bang and it's certainly taken it's share of shots, some documented here, some not. But through it all, including this morning when yet again Chris and I had to scramble to make sure everyone, including me who was home sick with the flu, was taken care of, we've weathered most of the craziness with a minimum of fuss and a generally large amount of affection and humor. And sometimes even grace.<br /><br />As money has gotten tighter for everyone, as our house has gone from confining to cozy, I look at this picture of us, well-rendered by our five-year old and think, yeah, that's about right. The rain is coming down, sun just behind it shining brightly and we're all standing tall, really, really close together. With especially big hair, even for Chris, who in his baldness has earned a generous sprinkling of spikes from the artist.<br /><br />I like how Chris and I have our feet firmly on the ground and we're well-attached at the hair, at the head, and then the kids are attached to each other and to me, again at the hair. They're floating just a bit, especially our two-year-old, Finn. Again, I think: an accurate perception. Perpetually dancing or tumbling or climbing or jumping, it seems Finn is often in mid-flight.<br /><br />We each have belly buttons and shoes and matching blue outfits and eyes and ears and noses. We are green in palor with what I'd have to say are looks of surprise on our faces, especially Chris', who looks a little like he's just seen a ghost, or perhaps his hairdo. None of us have necks to speak of. I, for sure have the biggest mouth. Coincidence? I think not. <br /><br />What I really love though is how there are just a few elements in the picture, a few units: the sun, the rain, the mountain behind us, and us. US. One complete unit. There's the sun. And then, for better or for worse, green or otherwise, there's us. <br /><br />It's a good picture I think.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-19821679055455245582008-12-10T12:05:00.000-08:002008-12-10T21:46:36.444-08:00Five, oh my.My lovely girl turned five today.<br /><br />Just for reference, this was what I had to say right here on this blog about her turning four:<br /><br />"I have to say, this first week of Reese being four has thrown me for a loop. All of a sudden, seemingly overnight, my chubby, pot-bellied little baby has leaned out into a stringbean. All her softness seems to be disappearing right before my eyes. Everything's too short for her ever-lengthening legs and too big for her shrinking waistline. She is so rarely out of her dress-up shoes and lip "glass" and play jewelry around the house, I'm starting to feel as though I'm living with an extremely petite - for lack of a better word - streetwalker. And she's got the lip to go with the lip gloss - sassy and broody, I had no idea that my introspective, sensitive toddler was capable of such a dead-on imitation of Molly Ringwald in any John Hughes' movie."<br /><br />Well, thank goodness for us all, the moodiness and broodiness has been transient and has been mostly replaced with helpfulness and smartness. Knock your socks off smartness, actually. Reading sight words. Adding up numbers in her head. Imagining and acting out stories. Telling jokes. Making wisecracks like this one earlier today:<br /><br />"I'm already smarter this morning 'cause I'm five. See, you C-H-R-I-S spells Chris. G-E-R-I spells Geri. And R-E-E-S-E spells five!" (Doubles over laughing hysterically.)<br /><br />As to those skinny arms and legs, they've become stronger this year, and faster too. Running on her first soccer team, learning how to jump rope, trying to learn to swim, even riding a dirt bike with her very patient uncle this past weekend. Yes, she still likes the dress-up clothes and the lip gloss, but she's also picking out her own clothes, mixing and matching stripes and patterns and pulling it off like only Punky Brewster once could. Maybe it's her hair that saves her: wildly curly and with a mind of its own, it trumps any outfit. <br /><br />One of her main activities is advising her two-year old brother who at the moment is alternating between throwing fits and being the cuddliest kid in the universe. She lectures him about school and he sits in rapt attention as though Gandhi himself were speaking:<br /><br />"Finnie, I'm going to school today because I have to LUUUUUUURN. I've gotta lurn Finnie and that's what you're gonna do when you're big too."<br /><br />He nods, eyes two big brown marbles, blinking in the information.<br /><br />She informs him about ding dongs (good) and shots (bad) and all foods yucky (raisins, nuts, shrimp) and all activities fun (jumping off the couch, watching Jack's Big Music Show and Sesame Street). She is, by and large, amazingly kind and patient with him, never hitting back, sharing all her jewels and shoes and puzzles and art things. I think he is her favorite person and I am sure that she is his.<br /><br />I love that Reese is five. I love that we can go to the movies now. And that she, nor her brother, need a stroller or a wagon to get around, we just take off down the street, headed for the park or just a walk around the block. I love that her mind can figure things out now on her own, but that she still has the innocence to see things clearly and without predjudice. Like just the other day, when she was explaining to her one year younger cousin Charlie about God. From the odds and ends I could pick up from their conversation, I think she's definitely onto something.<br /><br />After a lifetime of soul searching, what if Reese-ism is the religion for me after all?<br /> <br />First off, I know anything she would subscribe to would include large quantities of inclusiveness, manners, hula hooping, books, art, friends, cozy warm blankets and her favorite of favorites (and mine too): chocolate. <br /><br />Wait, no, she would correct me there, she would say, "no Mom, chocolate CANDY is my favorite."<br /><br />I would point out that chocolate is a candy so you don't need to say candy too.<br /><br />Then she would say, yes mom, yes you do.<br /><br />That sums up Reese at five, and I have a feeling will describe her well at twenty-five too: passionate, specific, confident; a girl of conviction, especially about the things that matter most. <br /><br />Happy Birthday my sweet Reese. And many, many more.<br /><br />Love,<br />Mamageralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-51656702511003952442008-12-07T21:16:00.000-08:002008-12-08T07:20:17.260-08:00A cause for celebration.Chris, the love of my life, turns 37 today.<br /><br />At the risk of getting all sappy, I've forced myself to constrain the waxing on of my darling husband's spectacular attributes to a list of ten:<br /><br />1. He gets up with the kids twice as much as I do. Maybe even three times.<br /><br />2. For our 5th wedding anniversary, he made me a photo collage that spelled out our anniversary date, "MAY 18TH" using photographs representing some of the "firsts" in our past together: the first place we kissed, the location of our first date, the screen door of our first house.<br /><br />3. He is laugh out loud funny and it's rarely at anyone's expense. <br /><br />4. He is even nice to telephone solicitors and customer help operators. "You have a nice day too, OK, thanks a lot for calling, bye." I don't give my mom the kind of treatment he gives people calling to see if we want to refinance.<br /><br />5. When I say "I'll be with you shortly" I can count on him to say "Don't call me Shortly" with a laugh. When I say, in the middle of unpacking groceries or opening mail, "Go ahead honey" he'll say, chuckling, "You don't have to call me Goat Head." There's something so comforting, not to mention sexy, about a man secure enough to make bad jokes and make them repeatedly, knowing all the while how horrible they are. You gotta love that. At least I do.<br /><br />6. When asked by his four year old daughter what the best part of his birthday celebration was today, he told her it was watching her go for a motorcycle ride with her uncle. Because she was so happy. Because she discovered something new. Because she was brave.<br /><br />7. When he brushes the kids' teeth at bedtime, he calls it like he's an announcer at the Olympics or at a horse race. Big, deep voice, hands cupped around his mouth: "Will he do it, this time ladies and gentlemen? Will he brush the BEST EVER? Oh, he's coming in fast, it's a longshot, but I THINK HE'S GOING TO DO IT!!! And the crowd goes wild!! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"<br /><br />8. He calls for no reason every single day. From wherever he is, even if it's just down at the market. And when I stop and think about it, I realize that since the very first time I heard the sound of his voice, it's always felt like coming home.<br /><br />9. He lets me pick the movie, the side of the bed and the first slice of anything. But he makes sure he gets what he needs too.<br /><br />10. On our third date, I felt so comfortable, so more at ease than I had with anyone before, I thought: this couldn't possibly be real romance - and promptly told him so. At which point he said: no problem, that was cool. Unmoved and unfazed, he went on to talk about other things. I immediately understood that my interest or lack thereof had no bearing on the fact that he was so perfectly, irresistibly OK with himself. <br /><br />That was the point I realized I wanted to jump across the table and kiss him. <br /><br />Nine years later, I still want to. Nine years later I am still awed by being with someone so kind, so good, so obviously further along the number of lives completed than I. For everything I am thankful for in this life, for every amazing gift I've been given, Christopher has been the gift of all gifts. <br /><br />Happy birthday baby.<br /><br />All my love,<br />Gerigeralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-744624766459180972008-12-05T06:42:00.000-08:002008-12-05T07:01:45.355-08:00A crappy start to the day.6:02 a.m.<br /><br />Reese's panicked voice from the hallway breaks into my dreams:<br /><br />"Mom, I stepped in something!"<br /><br />As a sad commentary on the un-hygenic state of our home lately, I knew instantly what had happened.<br /><br />Logan, the Westie we adopted in April, had yet another incident. And this time he didn't mess around. With his mess, that is.<br /><br />Whoa.<br /><br />Twenty minutes and one million paper towels later, not to mention a generous dousing of this probably toxic stain remover called Nature's Miracle, we're still miles from a miraculous recovery. Luckily, or unluckily, our carpet has been ready for replacement since we moved in four years ago. But, we've been waiting until we're a bit more in the clear from moments like this.<br /><br />When exactly that will happen remains to be seen.<br /><br />Oh, I love my dogs. I LOVE LOVE my dogs. But for some reason the three dogs we've owned in six years have all had something very wrong with them: a biter, a tearer-upper, and now, a serial pooper and pee-er.<br /><br />Oh my.<br /><br />I'm starting to think it's me.<br /><br />Can someone fail miserably at dog ownership? Perhaps I am blazing the trail over here.<br /><br />Your tips, stories, or recommendations on stain removers welcome.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-193004128873159192008-11-29T09:42:00.000-08:002008-11-30T08:19:06.566-08:00A tragedy of immense proportions.Certainly, children lose parents everyday. But this week, five of these children have names for me, have stories. Five of these children have broken my heart just a bit, thinking of them and what's been lost forever.<br /><br />In one of these families, a mother died just a week after giving birth to her third child, a son who would join two sisters, age five and seven. In the other, a father leaves two young boys, also five and seven.<br /><br />One family I don't know at all, but is here in my community. The other is the family of an old friend.<br /><br />And for both, I am grieving today.<br /><br />And strangely, it's not only for the future of these children in two different families, two different cities even - Mackenzy, Kacy, Jake, Jacob and Joshua - it is for their past, too. Of course there will be the future proms and graduations and weddings that will be less joyful because that parent isn't there. And there will be the chair at the dinner table that is so very empty at every special meal - and the ordinary ones too. There will be infinite future losses every single day, some too tiny for words.<br /><br />But it is for what has already happened, that might also be lost, that is on my mind.<br /><br />It is the little moments, the special shared intimacies between us and our children that, as they grow and change, are forgotten and replaced by other traditions and rituals that we and only we share, that I am dwelling on today. I think of our own family of course, and of the tiny, silly but oh so important exchanges, trials and tribulations - ones that have passed between us so sweetly as our children have grown from newborn to infant to toddler and child. <br /><br />I think of the countless moments these parents, who've gone so suddenly, must have shared with their own children. Now those memories, along with the parent, might be gone forever.<br /><br />So as a testament to them - and for our little ones too - I write down here as best I can the things I just don't want to be lost. As our two sweet peas richochet from one milestone to another on the way to growing up, I can feel the days, the moments, slipping away underneath me, like sand being pulled away by the tide.<br /><br />For Finn. For Reese. And for the children everywhere who have lost parents, you must know this: there are a thousand moments that happen everyday that fill your parents' hearts and crush them and make them fill with pride. Know that beyond the birthday parties and graduations, there are these instances that truly bind us to you, that make us know you better and ourselves, too. <br /><br />Finn: there will always be the night you fell asleep on my shoulder, your profile lit by the streetlight outside our window. There will always be the two weeks you were sick everyday with a different ailment and we clung together bracing for the next onslaught. There's you saying "bah-a-ball" for basketball and "gigi" for orange and "Ree" for your favorite person, your big sister Reese. And Reese, there is always the colic that plagued you for three solid months and not a day less and watching your dad walk you round and round the house for hours, holding you like a football, the only time you were content was there in his arms. There's you loving the water from minute one and dunking your own self underwater at eight months old, trying to swim like Esther Williams, smiling all the while. There is you teaching your brother everything you know, mostly sweetly, sometimes not so sweetly and him looking at you like you are the sun. Which you are.<br /><br />Reese and Finn and Mackenzy and Kacy and Jake and Jacob and Joshua: know that even if you don't remember these moments one day, know that they, or something like them, something equally sweet and warm and life changing, happened and that those moments piled on top of one another to create the unbreakable bond that we will have with you, no matter what. No matter where we are. Or where we go. <br /><br />Know more than anything, know above all, that you were loved.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-36261210615246254472008-11-20T19:18:00.000-08:002008-11-20T19:39:55.502-08:00Recession ConfessionsIt's hitting home now, this "economic downturn" as they call it. Not that I hadn't known/seen/heard it was coming.<br /><br />Now I'm feeling it though.<br /><br />I go into the neighborhood dry cleaners, the one I've been going to as long as I've lived in the neighborhood and find it's been taken over by "the franchise" which sounds a lot like "the firm" when I hear it come out of the mouth of the new manager that's greeted me and my dirty laundry. She doesn't know where the old owners are. She never knew them.<br /><br />They had owned the business for over twenty years.<br /><br />And in one day, it's like they were never here. Wiped clean.<br /><br />I remember coming in and the lovely woman who ran the business would always call out my name, pulling up my account, bringing out my order without me saying a word. She always had a smile and a booming welcome. She and her husband, the quieter of the two, always kept some little candies by the door. She had carried my laundry out to the car many a time, full of compliments and coos for my children, pleasantries for me.<br /><br />And now, it's like they were never here. Candy, pleasantries and coos a thing of the past. Now it's all business. I'm back to spelling my last name. Now I'm just a phone number and a tag. <br /><br />I don't know if it was the economy or just plain tiredness or something else entirely that drove the kind owners from their business. I just know I miss them. And I missed getting the chance to tell them that.<br /><br />I also know that I was waiting in line at Starbucks this morning with all the other folks who rank coffee up their on their list of necessities apparently, when out of the blue, the woman in line next to me starts telling me about her failing business, an Asian restaurant; she doesn't know if they will make it, her husband and she. This time, she says, she doesn't know if they can do it. Their house in the suburbs, they're going to have to try and short sale it, she says, her eyes fastened on the morning buns in the case. It's already lost half it's value.<br /><br />She can't believe it she says. <br /><br />We bought it for $750,000 and now it's worth $319,000 they tell me.<br /><br />I want to wrap my arms around her, this stranger, and tell her it's going to be OK. <br /><br />But I don't because she is a stranger. And I don't because I don't know if it's going to be OK. <br /><br />I don't know when it's going to be OK.<br /><br />But I suppose the fact that I'm caring more now about the folks who run the dry cleaner down the street, the stranger next to me in line, the whole world outside my doorstep that used to be noise and wallpaper and has suddenly become flesh and bone, is a good thing. A sign perhaps that things will not only be OK. But better.<br /><br />Maybe in losing everything, we're gaining more. The luxury of being insulated from the rest of the world, from its pain and its loveliness both, is gone and in its place is hard cold reality, as well as opportunity to learn from one another, to live in tune, to live with less than before.<br /><br />Yet, it seems, with more, too.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-17488187609798368532008-11-04T21:24:00.000-08:002008-11-04T21:50:09.194-08:00A new day.This morning, my four-year old told me she was excited it was today, Election Day.<br /><br />I was a little surprised that she remembered.<br /><br />Oh, yes, she said, they were getting to vote at preschool today. They would vote on what special snack they would have: pizza or popsicles.<br /><br />Popsicles, unsurprisingly, won by a landslide.<br /><br />Then tonight, before bed, before it was announced that Barack Obama had been elected the 44th president of the United States, we sat in our usual nighttime spot, our rocking chair, the one my mom rocked me in when I was a baby and my sister too.<br /><br />As we rocked and talked, her feet dangling way down near mine, her long body all pretzeled up in my own, she said to me:<br /><br />"I like that Barack Obama. He is a good person. I think he will be a good president."<br /><br />And I told her I agreed.<br /><br />She also told me she thought he was pretty.<br /><br />I told her I agreed.<br /><br />I cannot wait to tell her tomorrow that the pretty, good person won. That the good person, the best person won. And that I believe her life, the lives of all of us will be better for it. That forty years after someone had a dream, it actually came true.<br /><br />I cannot wait to tell her.<br /><br />And when I do, first thing tomorrow, I'm betting she will say two things. One: oh, that's good. And two: what do we have for breakfast?<br /><br />And I will get her breakfast and I will pack lunches and I will find her brother's tiny orange basketball for him and I will make beds and answer email but it will all be better and done with less anxiety in my heart than I've had in a long while and I will breathe easier and I will be grateful, grateful to be here seeing our country doing well. Moving forward. Making change. Having hope. Believing.<br /><br />And for today, that is exactly enough.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5732387305756669361.post-35688768501819939802008-10-02T11:11:00.000-07:002008-10-02T11:41:29.475-07:00A room of one's own.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmG9BAaxTQCYV6mvR_seZexgGUs5ZVR3mzWfp0wjMin154U7hHdLEU1gBkBnrvnIX9pC-oS-Ly2qke8t934aMbZZS1CVap2X_oRiAyiKaUo249ydQ3dgk18ZTB0Ea6CV3-YriExY-71I/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmG9BAaxTQCYV6mvR_seZexgGUs5ZVR3mzWfp0wjMin154U7hHdLEU1gBkBnrvnIX9pC-oS-Ly2qke8t934aMbZZS1CVap2X_oRiAyiKaUo249ydQ3dgk18ZTB0Ea6CV3-YriExY-71I/s320/photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252622575367192690" /></a><br /><br /><br />"...a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction..."<br /><br />-Virginia Woolf, 1928<br /><br /><br />Well, I don't know about the money, but I do now have a room of my own. <br /><br />After writing in my bedroom for the past nine months while my babysitter tends to my sweet baby a few hours a day and my preschooler is in preschool, I have lucked into a wonderful arrangement: what appears to be the boiler room of a 1890's Victorian in mid-town.<br /><br />I cannot tell you how much I love my boiler room.<br /><br />For one, it has two windows, one which actually opens and allows me to hear the nice hum of the cars and trucks passing by on 21st street. Not one of them stops and asks me for more milk. Or where their blankie is.<br /><br />My little room has a kitchen table as my desk and all of the paintings I have that are too disturbing to be hung in a family home. The walls are taped with pictures of my husband and my two kids, in all of there beauty and humor; they are also a gallery of my children's art: in fact, just today my four-year old handed me the "art project" she had just completed in her room moments before. She bequeathed it to me while still in her pajamas, a one inch by two inch piece of yellow markered paper - a pair of sunglasses, she explained.<br /><br />"Mama, you can take it to work if you like, then you can look at them and think of me all day, every time you look at them."<br /><br />I am looking at them now, Reese and am thinking of you, and so grateful I have the luck and priviledge to have a "room of my own" in which to work and dream and write, to make money for our home, to create my stories, to write my various clients' pieces which will help them sell more washers, or trips to the mall, or shows on TV. Because this keeps our poor, struggling economy going. And the words- they keep me going.<br /><br />And for you Reese, for you and your brother and your Dad, for being the ones I get to come home to.<br /><br />For all of this, I am grateful.<br /><br />And for every woman out there who dreams of a tiny little space of her own, to house her dreams, to create her vision, to have a few moments of selfishness: you are welcome here in my boiler room anytime.<br /><br />Bring snacks.geralyn broder murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06384654956684268614noreply@blogger.com2