Picking My Battles

There’s something really liberating about doodling in ball point pen.  You know  you’re gonna make at least one screw up so you might as well enjoy the ride.  I know, I know… the ride is the whole point.

Last year Thing2 learned about loss – real loss – when his teacher died of cancer  in the fall.  There were many nights of holding him while he cried – wanting to know what was fair – for the loss of his beloved friend.  Even after the tears subsided, the rest of the school year was not a good one for him.  Thing2’s teacher was a legend, and filling his shoes in a few weeks or even months was impossible.  The year was chaotic and confusing for our little spirit.

Wanting a fresh start, we switched him to a new school with kids his own age (he’d been a year ahead before).  There hasn’t been much excitement this year, but we knew he was happy.  Every Monday he brought home a homework pass – the prize for a perfect spelling test on Friday.  Most nights he had a newly-illustrated, self-published and assembled book to show us.  And on every report card we learned from his teacher that he was getting all A’s but he really likes to talk  (you coulda knocked us over with a feather).

It’s only now at the end of the year that drama develops.  The night before the last day of school, he put himself to bed and summoned me for his goodnight hug and kiss.  We chatted about the day and tomorrow.

“It’s been a great year for you,” I said to him.  Thing2, curled up on the top bunk, nodding solemnly at me through the bars.  Then he turned his head into the pillow, and his body began to shake.

“I don’t wanna leave Ms. Wright,” he sobbed.

I spent the next 25 minutes sitting on the top step of his bunk with his arms wrapped around me in a strangle hold.  I patted his back, trying to convince him he would see his teacher at school next year and that he would love the next teacher too.  Exhaustion fuelled some of the tears, but only the thought of leaving a teacher who had given him a wonderful year – punctuated only by typical first grade diversions of playgrounds and construction paper projects and success – could inspire such sorrow.

I was happy to hold him through his tears, and there wasn’t one part of me that was sad at that moment.  After all, he wasn’t learning about loss this time.  He was learning about love, even if the rest of the lesson won’t become clear to him until a few years from now.

Saturday on an ordinary visit to the state capital of Vermont, a father reprimanded a seven-year-old in  a music store and got him to laugh at the same time.

A Mom marched her son into and out of the kitchy-cool art supply store on the corner of Main Street before either of them got into too much trouble.

A group of bicyclists rode altogether in their altogethers through the center of town.

A teenager who swore he wouldn’t have any fun separated from his newly-earned computer was heard to say, “This has been a really great day,”  as a family of four that is too often going in four different directions came together for a meal that turned into a group meditation on how fun it is to spend an afternoon together.

And that’s something you don’t see every day.

For the past year and half, I’ve been searching for a room of my own.  I’ve battled insecurity (am I enough of a writer and artist to need one) and laundry lines looking for a place in our home that I could dedicate to creativity.  Last week I decided to plant my flag in the attic space we use for a guest room and began culling shelves and tables and recycled doo-dads together to make a workspace.

And now it’s mine.

I am surrounded by paper and pencils, and from my new spot, I can see the weeded part of my garden.  I once read a jaded comment by a jaded photobuyer that once you begin taking pictures of flowers, your photography is reaching a dead end (Loving photos of flowers, I had to disagree).  I’m not a photobuyer or a photographer, but I can say that when you’re looking at the glowing green through your studio window (yes, I called it a studio), your drawing life gets a huge jump start and so does your blog.

Saturday morning, however, I ran away from home again.  I had to.  As an exercise in discipline, I set a deadline of this weekend to finish the writing portion of an eBook I’ve been working on.  When I woke, I headed up the stairs to the Attic Studio, automatically reaching for my colored pencil case.

I’d seen a bluebird crash-diving Thing1’s bedroom window. Had to draw that.  There was that gorgeous garden last night.  Had to draw that and write about it.  The raspberry bush is consuming my garden arch – ooh, that would make a great doodle.

In my own space, I suddenly faced a dilemma of too many images and ideas, and it was definitely delicious.  I just hope it doesn’t go to my thighs.

 

So, I know it’s an addiction, but I’m not sure that it really rises to the level of the problem. After all, it’s not as if I don’t produce something useful with my habit. I mean, name any other substance you can abuse all summer, and end up with a bowl full of cherry tomatoes.

Speaking of tomatoes, non-gardeners will say that the one you grow in your backyard has a bigger carbon footprint or costs $64,000 more than the faded orange excuses for tomatoes offered in neat pyramids at the big-box grocers. Well, instead of falling back on a trite “If it’s too fresh, you’re too old” or “If I have to explain the dirt under my fingernails you wouldn’t understand,” I’m conducting a little experiment this summer to see just how expensive my fresh tomato is.

This summer, I’m going to keep a record of how much is spent on seedlings and other garden paraphenalia, as well as time used that could be spent making money on other endeavors. Then I’m going to calculate the returns on my investment.

A disclaimer, I can’t promise not to recruit any other younger people to gardening. It is not my fault they just wander into my garden and start snacking on cherry tomatoes or that they assume the sweet peas are candy.  I do think, when food finicky seven-year-old Thing2 is munching on a chemical free tomato he didn’t have to wash first, my justification will be written all over his face.

There is a point in the career of any professional fussy eater, where his pickiness threatens to shred his parents’ last nerve.

Seven-year-old Thing2 is is getting to that point.

I know this point. It’s the point where that microscopic spot of salsa on that piece of broccoli makes it inedible, even if he loved spiced tomatoes just the week before. It’s the point where the number of foods he’s willing to eat can be counted on one hand – the same hand that somehow – after over 13 years – manages to refrain from exploring the concept of spanking.

Fortunately for Thing2, however, his 13-year-old brother taught us long ago that neither threats nor bribes will convince a seven-year-old that the spaghetti sauce made from your organically grown tomatoes and basil and imported extra-virgin olive oil is half as good as the orange tinted mystery sauce that coats a can of processed pasta.

Our seven-year-old social butterfly added another layer of complexity to his heroic fussy eater endeavours. Even supplied with goodies guaranteed to please, he was reguarly returning home with an untouched lunch box. A parent teacher conference revealed that our first grader preferred chatting to chewing (his diet book,Talk Yourself Thin, is due out soon).  When I had finished pulling a few more of my hairs out, I seriously began considering obtaining a court order to install a feeding tube to ensure Thing2 was getting enough calories.

Despite his finicky food habits, however, Thing2 still manages to get taller, and my pediatrician father reminded me once again that even the fussiest eater will do  more than pick at his plate when he’s truly hungry.

“Just make sure he has something healthy to eat when hungry” he advised once again.

So, unless it’s leftover night, everyone at our table gets the same dinner.  I long ago refused to be a short-order cook.  But when I get truly frustrated I look across the table to 13-year-old Thing1 — willing and able to consume every edible item on his own plate and others nearby.

Six years ago, it was his turn to give us grey hair at dinner.  Back then,an impromptu experiment in Thai food flipped the switch on his appetite and palate. We have yet to find the appetite switch for our younger child, but it’s the words of two experiencee grandparents as much as the advice of a season nutritionist that keep us looking for light at the end of this tunnel. However much of a pain in the fussy eater we’re seeing right now, we know that this too shall pass.

I’m already budgeting for the grocery bill.

June is busting out with the Common Threads Give-a-way. This month’s artist is Jon Katz who is offering a 5 x 7 digital photograph.  Printed by the legendary George Forse. this picture is titled Timeless Fanny.

Also, Jon and his wife Maria will be hosting an open house at their farm in Cambridge, Vt. at the end of June.  It’s a fantastic chance to meet the animals at Bedlam Farm and buy Jon and Maria’s art.   I will also be selling my sketches at the open house.

To win this piece, visit Maria Wulf’s web site Full Moon Fiber Art  and leave a comment between now and Wednesday. She’ll announcing the winner, chosen at random, on Thursday morning. And, please check out the work and web sites of the other participating artists including me: Jane McMillian, Maria Wulf, Jon Katzand Kim Gifford.