tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-111695792012-01-26T14:48:04.047-08:00numbmumBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.comBlogger2151100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-11983497162584571742012-01-19T17:20:00.000-08:002012-01-24T08:35:44.696-08:00A whole lotta horse shit
Saying goodbye to Ian, again, in England has left me feeling flat. As flat as a human can be and still be breathing.
I am a piece of cardboard. A cereal box, empty and folded. Ready for recycling. A newspaper, read, handled, folded in half and shoved under the bed.
I feel it most upon waking. Deflated. All my air, inspiration, hope has leaked out of some invisible hole overnight.
My sleep Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-67088466531995524562012-01-13T06:42:00.000-08:002012-01-13T15:27:29.575-08:00Mother Nature hosts a playdate
I have said it before and I'll say it again, I do not know how to parent in a northern winter without the aid of snow and ice. The kids keep looking at me, like starving dogs, to feed their hunger for entertainment. And I keep looking at the sky for help.
Case in point, we went for a walk-- yawn-- through the brown landscape, sprinkled with hints of what could be, and just as everyone was Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-80753459539670623112012-01-09T08:00:00.000-08:002012-01-09T09:06:35.633-08:00Perspective, and then someI just read an Op-Ed piece in the N.Y. Times written by a Nigerian man, Lakhdar Boumediene, who was detained in military custody, without explanation, at Guantanamo Bay for SEVEN, yes 7, years.
His children grew up while he was inside being tortured, interrogated and treated like a terrorist despite the lack of any evidence against him.
Seven years.
They were not allowed to talk to him.
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-59592568746067162402011-12-31T05:29:00.000-08:002012-01-02T04:28:33.770-08:00Be here nowThe year is winding to a close.
It's as if I can hear the clock ticking the seconds away.
But it's not really the seconds left until the New Year that concern me so much as the seconds left until we have to leave Ian again.
"It's weird. I want to go home, but I don't want to go home," Esther said yesterday.
"I know exactly how you feel," I said. "Exactly."
We are all stuck somewhere in Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-19364356998302437542011-12-16T03:01:00.000-08:002011-12-18T05:33:33.599-08:00Together again, for now
Poor Ian.
I tried to leave the house yesterday morning, bright and early, before the kids woke up, to walk to Thames path to Marlow and get some work done at the Starbuck’s there.
The only internet I get here, my life story, is standing in the picture window of Granny’s sewing room, the only room in the house without heat. It’s not conducive to working.
So Starbuck’s is my office.
So Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-78566363730784734732011-12-14T16:52:00.000-08:002012-01-11T12:47:37.659-08:00What I learned in Guatemala
My recent trip to Guatemala with Save the Children was the kind of
experience that cannot easily be processed and captured in tidy sentences and paragraphs.
But, after almost two weeks of rumination, I've tried to spit it back out for you here:
Things I observed and learned and thought about in Guatemala:
Women and girls carry babies. Men and boys carry machetes.
The women were Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-15068725298175082602011-12-02T09:57:00.001-08:002011-12-02T11:11:48.750-08:00Secret agent wifeBack in France, ah France, I used to insert lots of descriptive setting info into my posts: The sun is melting, golden and syrupy, into the distant hillside, the leaves are dancing, like twirling acrobats, on the balmy breeze, the air smells of Pixie Stix. Remember that? I don’t either.
Life is in overdrive today. I'm leaving for Guatemala tomorrow for my Save the Children trip. I would be Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-4066336905352201112011-11-28T10:48:00.001-08:002011-11-29T06:05:30.174-08:00Due date , ten years later
I feel kind of as if I have been shot out of the ass end of an overstuffed turkey.
I survived hosting Thanksgiving dinner. Luckily some family members couldn't make it so it was only ten of us. I only had to call Ian three times while preparing and cooking the turkey. I'm proud of that. I'm not proud of the fact that I still have trouble distinguishing the turkey's head from its bottom. Ian Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-39685000836705126272011-11-21T12:38:00.001-08:002011-11-21T16:47:25.367-08:00Motherhood is lousy
I have four words for you:
Head
Lice
Happens
Help
Wait! Let me rephrase that:
Holy
Head
Lice
Batman!
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-42638295145270633892011-11-15T11:40:00.000-08:002011-11-15T17:56:02.484-08:00Is there an E-brake on this thing?
I once saw a bumper sticker on a pickup truck, I may have written about it before, that said,
"Get in, sit down, shut up and hang on."
That is exactly how life feels right now.
This is not a complaint, but rather an explanation of sorts, as to why I cannot tell you where I have been or what I have been doing. I am, however, feeling compelled to write a list in hopes it may speak for me. Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-35840264269134453072011-11-07T21:28:00.000-08:002011-11-07T21:40:51.959-08:00Notice of actionIt's two minutes to midnight.
What the heck am I doing here?
My eyes are so heavy it feels as if they are filled with sand.
The moon was so bright tonight it lit the tin roof of our barn up like the ocean.
I have been feeling guilty for not telling any of you that Ian's petition has been approved on Halloween Day. Spooky. Ian and I had both given up on going back to the website to check the Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-19408920298815970632011-11-03T18:52:00.000-07:002011-11-03T19:03:59.379-07:00Out car shoppingSheesh.
I wish I had some wild excuse for my bloggy absence. Wish I could tell you I've been working on my novel, or jetted off to some writer's conference or even have been on some sort of hedonistic child-free bender.
But no. No. I've been right here letting life kick my ass as usual.
Sorry to be so profane. But really, sometimes it feels that way, does it not.
It was Halloween that did me Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-41530659307131592652011-10-28T07:11:00.000-07:002011-10-28T09:10:10.274-07:00Cold, white and perfect
There is nothing less conducive to sleep than cold snow on bare feet.
We went out there anyway, just before bed time, with no shoes on, to cool off after an impromptu after-dinner dance party.
The snow was fluffy and cold and perfect.
Impossible to stand still in.
It was still there in the morning, quietly waiting for us.
Like a loyal dog,
or sturdy little Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-78957600585517777902011-10-27T10:42:00.000-07:002011-10-27T11:08:37.749-07:00This snow, I could eat it
It's snowing!
It's snowing!
It's snowing!
I woke up this morning wondering if I would ever wake up without my first word being "shit," ever again.
There is hope.
I can lament all I want about being old and jaded, with not one speck of childish wonder left in me, but it seems I am mistaken.
Snow still excites me. And the first snow of the season is the mot exciting of all.
It is fallingBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-3842410158776508092011-10-24T09:21:00.000-07:002011-10-24T09:26:40.824-07:00Through a new lensOkay, I did it.
Even though I am driving an old jalopy Volvo wagon, which my sister refers to as a "horror," and which my mechanic has taken to pleading me to break up with, and now even my kids are turning on, I've been far more open to and concerned with the fact that I needed a new camera.
I've been in denial ever since my trusty Panasonic Lumix drowned in the lake way back in July. I Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-193677128189584452011-10-20T11:16:00.000-07:002011-10-20T16:56:22.461-07:00It can't hurt to askWhen relating our family' s little immigration saga to a friend who
went to hell and back to adopt a baby from Rwanda, said friend mentioned
a woman who works for our state senator and might be able to help us:
"She has phone numbers, direct lines, civilians don't have access to," she said.
I
was appreciative, but humbled, especially in the face of the crazy
bureaucratic hoops she and her Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-43780870836633747602011-10-17T19:53:00.000-07:002011-10-18T10:06:55.329-07:00Fallen leaves and circus acts
We had a remarkably relaxed weekend, including an anxiety-free Saturday morning. It wasn't a conscious effort on my part, it just seemed to work out that way. On the menu today: Supreme contentment and nothing else.
I made waffles and we ate them with butter and maple syrup.
It was blustery. The kind of day that would make Piglet's ears stream straight back behind him.
We made a wet leaf Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-21726070786479388482011-10-13T19:56:00.000-07:002011-10-24T18:16:11.494-07:00Past lives
I’m not sure my parents knew what to think when I brought Mostafa, my Egyptian boyfriend, home for dinner, on my 21st birthday.
It was 1986. When we walked into the bright kitchen I felt the urge to say, “Mom, Dad.... this is Muammar.”
I met Mostafa in Switzerland while I was "studying" abroad. I went to Zurich to study German, Swiss culture and history. I spent much of my time speaking Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-31730321976544875422011-10-11T11:42:00.000-07:002011-10-12T07:55:23.414-07:00Fire on the mountainsThe whole of Vermont, everywhere I look at least, reminds me of a sprawling Cliff Huxtable sweater. (My apologies to anyone who does not remember The Cosby Show.)
Death, it seems, can be stunningly beautiful. Stylish even.
I could wear it.
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-86583359645955834062011-10-10T10:27:00.000-07:002011-10-10T15:07:47.865-07:00Can't talk now
I've been busy blowing my nose with one hand and folding laundry, or stacking wood, with the other. Why is it that Fall colds invariably coincide with Indian summer. Is it so freaking hot out or do I have a fever? The sun is trying to kill me.
The majority of this unfolded, clean laundry was never dirty in the first place. It was, however, suspect, since it had been lying on beds or floors orBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-52730713862455868052011-10-04T08:20:00.000-07:002011-10-04T10:57:07.022-07:00On the way to school
Our school is celebrating National Walk to School Week this week.
We have left the house at 7:20 a.m. without a hitch two days in a row. Having somehow volunteered myself to be the parent leader, being late was not optional. Isla is not sure why we call it the "walking school bus" when there is no bus at all.
Though it's been foggy and wet, gray and grisly, the scenery is striking.Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-73721503047572084362011-10-03T06:39:00.000-07:002011-10-03T06:39:20.967-07:00Doing Sunday afternoon right
We went to a fundraiser concert on Saturday night and saw Anais Mitchell and her Hadestown orchestra. We love Anais. She's written a folk opera of sorts based on the tragic tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. (Bon Iver, Greg Brown and Ani DiFranco sing on the soundtrack.) Esther knows this story, in which two lovers are separated and almost come together again, but for a momentary lapse of faith Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-34042347191924061942011-09-30T04:10:00.000-07:002011-10-02T10:58:23.720-07:00Horses in the back yard
We have horses in our back yard. I don't talk about them a whole lot, mostly because they don't technically belong to us. Their names are Maggie and Norman. There's another horse, a mare, named Sweetie, but she's just visiting, helping the other two eat all that grass, for the summer.
Norman and Maggie belong to my sister, Nancy, who doesn't live anywhere near here but who loves her some Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-74340852956023847162011-09-29T06:20:00.000-07:002011-10-02T11:01:19.622-07:00Fed up mom kicks melancholy out on its ass
Last Saturday was the first Saturday in a while I didn't spend having mini anxiety attack after mini anxiety attack. (In layman terms, that's tantrum after tantrum.)
I am really good at ignoring the fact that this house, and, in broader terms, this life, is/are still very much in disarray during the week. But Saturday always coincides with the donning of my glass-half- empty goggles and Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-65788512986850337912011-09-27T05:51:00.000-07:002011-09-27T08:28:15.220-07:00And now, we wait
The petition for alien relative, along with all the accompanying documents, I hope, and reluctantly -written check for $420-- what price for a husband-- is in the mail.
My hands shook as I sealed the priority envelope, after checking and double checking I had included everything. I'm not sure why, but the feeling of powerlessness, of vulnerability in the face of bureaucracy, is a potent one.Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-71601472725206427282011-09-21T09:21:00.000-07:002011-09-21T09:52:44.847-07:00When in doubt, call Delilah
As I mentioned over at Momformation today, it's our anniversary.
Problem is, I've been less wife and more trouble and strife lately.
If I were the type to call into a radio show, and Ian were the type to listen to a radio show, I might consider calling into Delilah right about now.
What would I tell Delilah?
I would tell her I've been unfair and unkind to my husband, who is not with me Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-56196515016022634572011-09-19T05:14:00.000-07:002011-09-19T05:16:22.295-07:00Sunday night, after the party
"Mommy, I'm going to sleep in my mask. Okay?"Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-34349807321876906142011-09-14T08:21:00.000-07:002011-09-20T07:26:03.165-07:00Chez nous
Domestic update:
We’re, well most of us, off the floor.
We had been camping out in one bedroom, mattresses on the floor, clothes and books and art supplies strewn about the place just like a college dorm, minus the beer bottles, for far too long.
For some reason, we, okay, I, couldn't get any further than this. My bedroom became our buffer zone. United we lie down. All Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-44339831628373347622011-09-09T09:10:00.000-07:002011-09-09T09:10:43.536-07:00Just for a momentJust for a moment
I let myself imagine
that you are dead
something happened
something terrible and unexpected
sudden and instantaneous
you are gone
I am left
alone
the pain of this thought
overwhelms me with sadness
I wonder how
could I imagine such a thing
Me alone in this house
In this kitchen
where you so often kiss me
Alone on the bed
I lay in silent question
my morbid reverie is interrupted
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-53311751858404928982011-09-07T19:26:00.000-07:002011-09-08T06:26:03.263-07:00Immigration ate my husband
I'm so angry at Ian right now I could scream. In fact I have been screaming. Usually the f-word, at the top of my lungs, deep in the woods where no one but the coyotes and barred owls can hear me. Or so I assume.
We don't fight often. We're not fighters, us two. I've tried, but it's really not rewarding, in any way, to pick fights with him. He just won't get emotional or immature, even in Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-25446233137219563512011-09-04T04:54:00.000-07:002011-09-04T09:02:49.742-07:00Internet cleanses don't work like colon cleanses, I guessAs I explain, with varying levels of eloquence, over here, I attempted an internet cleanse last week.
Speaking of varying levels, my success at this was questionable. While I proved incapable of physically leaving my laptop behind on vacation, I did manage to leave it behind mentally for some significant chunks of time. It spent most of the week in the bag, despite the temptation to keep up Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-3199028148895614252011-08-24T09:59:00.000-07:002011-08-24T17:35:18.924-07:00Last(ing) impressionsI am the luckiest girl in the world.
Perfectly timed with my unspoken threat to run away with the circus, my biggest sister stepped in and swept my children away from me, all the way to Massachusetts, overnight for two nights.
They've been away for less than 24 hours, and I am beside myself with the strangest mix of apprehension, giddiness, liberation, and the most profound sense that Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-26727404944461402212011-08-22T14:00:00.000-07:002011-08-22T14:03:24.825-07:00Full moon swimmers
This full moon was actually a week, or more, ago. I only just imported my pics and remembered I took some photographs of the shimmery path it lay down, so enticingly, on the water.
My camera seems to work fine at dusk. The ghosts only come out in the daylight. As you can see here, it's nothing but cool, blue, wet perfection. There are kids in that water, but you can't see them.
I envied Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-11831352474151650892011-08-16T05:01:00.000-07:002011-08-16T05:02:44.975-07:00The rewards of rastling with pricker bushes
We are still discovering, or, should I say re-discovering? the many splendorous things about summertime in Vermont.
After what feels like years of unremarkable blackberry picking on my parents' property, the blackberries I remember from my childhood, plentiful and, some of them, almost as big as our thumbs, are back.
Everything has its year. And for that, we're glad.
We went out one lazy, Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-44041595864593611732011-08-08T09:12:00.000-07:002011-08-08T09:26:31.234-07:00Friends don't let friends eat with ugly forksOn the way to the car the other day, I nearly tripped on a package that was lying on our porch floor.
Curious, but in a hurry, I stepped around it and continued on my urgent way to pick up children and get somewhere-- I don't remember where--on time.
When I got back, I picked up the box and carried it into the house. The return address said Amazon.com. Hmm. Have I been online shopping in my Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-66524863361033002332011-08-04T11:18:00.000-07:002011-08-04T18:59:05.633-07:00What I've learned from an incontinent dogIn my darkest hours, when I truly cannot stop wondering if we made a big mistake by rudely dumping Europe and getting back together with Vermont, and I'm lost in idealistic reveries of wandering the Marais district of Paris, or taking that last top- to- bottom run of the day in Courchevel, after downing the $8 chocolat chaud, I am often interrupted by the sounds of heavy panting, licking, whiningBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-87675944142545414452011-08-01T12:01:00.000-07:002011-08-01T12:07:43.371-07:00I still can't find my toaster
As much as I want to discuss the embarrassing little problem I have of having NO IDEA how to hook up our television, or even if our television, an 80s model, will even work anymore, or if I have to actually go out and buy all- new digital appliances, I am far more concerned about the whereabouts of our toaster.
My toaster, along with my silverware, my salad spinner, and my supermodel potato Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-18316570235409439932011-07-28T07:40:00.000-07:002011-07-28T10:47:56.141-07:00Something foundWhile sweeping, awkwardly and angrily, at the walls corners and nooks and crannies in my bedroom with the vacuum cleaner nozzle, trying to make our house look less like the Addam's Family mansion and more like home, I happened upon an old Polaroid image Ian magically transferred to the beam that stands, tree-like, in our bedroom.
It's high up, where no one can see it, unless you are searching Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-1453274073172490572011-07-22T21:08:00.000-07:002011-07-23T14:52:28.244-07:00Putting things in drawers has never been my forteWe are all still sleeping together in the same room.
Isla and I normally share the double bed. I am constantly pushing her little body over to her side, all night. She inches, instinctively, back towards me, her little hot water bottle body sticky with sweat. She is a sticky -tree- frog child. In this heat, it's torture.
When I tell people we have moved in, sort of, but are still camping, Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-61541711475402752702011-07-19T09:32:00.000-07:002011-07-19T20:33:59.072-07:00Cannon balls are the gateway drug Esther taught her little sister, Isla, how to do a cannonball into a hotel pool a few weeks back.
Isla has been seeking bigger, better, higher, thrills ever since.
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-90619205344643223372011-07-12T13:47:00.000-07:002011-07-12T16:52:31.297-07:00Waking up at home
We've spent two hot, sticky nights here so far.
All our fans seem to be either missing or broken, sigh, all except the one tiny one I plugged in and pointed directly at Esther's bed.
We stayed all in the same room, on mattresses on the floor, Isla and I in my double mattress and Essie in a single at the end of our bed.
The first night Isla didn't want to stay.
We had been at the lake. We Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-60945019999311466652011-07-06T19:39:00.000-07:002011-07-06T19:46:29.983-07:00Selective compassionI found two mice dead in one trap this morning.
They looked like siblings. Not yet teenagers.
They looked so impossibly cute, side by side, their heads caught, like little, gray, furry Marie Antoinettes, in that horrible spring.
I felt somehow reassured to know they didn’t die alone. Poor suckers.
While I feel only the vaguest sympathy for the cheeky mice who've died in this kitchen, the Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-48491133101823780992011-06-30T13:36:00.000-07:002011-07-05T19:56:21.023-07:00Okay okay, I'll stop whining now
With the fresh new layers of beautifully- restored wood brought to the surface, I suppose my cover is blown. I do have a beautiful house. Stunning, actually.
And I am extremely grateful for that.
Ian built this house for us. Have I ever told you the story?
Maybe next time. For now, I will let the pictures talk.
Seems a shame to fill it up with furniture. Ian suggested I just get Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-81188572831131413522011-06-24T13:16:00.000-07:002011-06-24T13:18:08.148-07:00Floor refinishing is better than ProzacAs I write, a capable carpenter/friend (as much as I want to, I won't mention his cuteness) is refinishing our downstairs floors. I am paying him to patiently sand layer upon layer, however many it takes, and strip all the evidence of debauchery, disrespect and corruption away.
We peeked through the windows the day before yesterday to see him barefoot, God-like, walking slowly, intently, Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-27803245863617660082011-06-22T16:38:00.000-07:002011-06-23T11:42:23.806-07:00I can stand the rain
I walked my dog through the foggy meadow today as the softest rain I have ever felt fell on our heads and rolled off. I have missed soft rain.
While everyone curses the water that falls from this swollen, bruised, overwrought sky, I have been rejoicing in all things rainy and wet. I have missed the rain.
It rained in France, sure, but never for long. I cannot remember a single rainy day. RainyBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-68491906457968350222011-06-17T13:47:00.000-07:002011-06-17T13:51:38.109-07:00Mailbox is up, anybody home?
It's done.
In what was an elaborate, somewhat messy, collaboration, our custom-designed mailbox is fully painted and fixed to its new perch-- a solid, beefy post stuck firmly into the ground. Let's see if it's vandal proof.
I still haven't done a thing on the inside of the house, other than blow some dust around and stare in disbelief at the wide-pine floors on the first floor and wonder justBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-78108339098717671262011-06-09T19:48:00.000-07:002011-06-10T08:32:13.638-07:00Signs of life
Not my photo. I stole it from here.http://flowergardengirl.wordpress.com/
After a week of fantasizing about delivering a festering couch and various other scraps of junk to the new front lawn of my pesky rental tenant, I pulled into my drive this evening to discover that said couch, which my grunting dad and I hoisted and dragged out to the porch, and those other unsightly life scraps, were Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-3533261979322262702011-06-05T17:06:00.000-07:002011-06-05T18:55:56.558-07:00I'll deal with it tomorrow, or next week, maybeThe day has come. My tenants, who were actually down to one, the last man standing, in recent months, have officially moved out.
Strangely, I am not leaping at the chance to move myself and my children back into our beloved house. Not just yet. Because, you see, I'm still in the processing stage. The girls and I wandered around our sadly uninhabited home, lingering in every single room, for the Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-63106884774547760282011-06-02T16:00:00.000-07:002011-06-03T05:15:20.783-07:00A girl and her dog
As much as I have complained about my dog over the years--I just spent a good ten minutes with a friend, lamenting the ways in which adding a needy, shedding, dirt spreading, tick-attracting, barking, begging, drooling dog to the mix of an already chaotic household takes a certain amount of mental imbalance-- we are ever so happy to be together again, flesh and fur, with our favorite dog.
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-75027220821922628522011-05-30T09:43:00.000-07:002011-05-31T06:15:16.286-07:00Eating my words
(I swear we're not some sort of jingoistic, flag-waving, boasting patriotic zealots here, but the concept of nationality keeps coming up for us in unexpected ways lately.)
Esther is proud of herself. I am proud of Esther.
She wrote a poem for her school's annual Memorial Day poetry contest and it was chosen as the winner.
It's a good poem. And, embarrassingly, I didn't have a whole lot of Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-50479713891388698802011-05-26T13:22:00.000-07:002011-05-27T12:31:25.877-07:00Talking underwater
I feel kind of like I'm on maternity leave. My new baby is, um, me. And I might possibly, thanks Emma, have a touch of post -partum depression.
Every since we returned to America I have felt somewhat newborn: exposed, awkward, wobbly-legged. I've also felt as if a long-awaited event has come to pass so quietly, so swiftly, I can't remember it happening. How long have we been home? Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-11429157455745220832011-05-22T07:07:00.000-07:002011-06-13T06:35:47.202-07:00Who sent us this book?I found a package, delivered by my tenant, yes I still have a tenant, on the already- cluttered passenger seat of my car the other day. I did not recognize the return address; someone, somewhere, in North Carolina.
Curious, I ripped through the yellow envelope reinforced with packing tape to find a book-- this book you see above-- inside. Nothing else. No note. No explanation. No sign of who on Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-55737340753587493832011-05-14T18:16:00.000-07:002011-05-17T09:54:41.821-07:00In which I attempt to portray life as perfectI realize I've been leaning heavy of late on pictures to speak for me rather than words. Pictures speak half truths. They only tell one- sixteenth of the story. I can choose which pictures to share with you, and they are certainly most often the pictures that show the more beautiful, more seemingly perfect, sides of life. Life as I wish to see it: Simplified.
Pared down.
Uncomplicated.
I don't Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-19695190596545324802011-05-10T19:15:00.000-07:002011-05-10T19:19:13.555-07:00Halfway house
Thank God the mountains are still there. Always there. It's comforting to know some things are permanent.
By the look in her eye I would say she is still a bit skeptical we're staying.
Esther teaching her friends how to tickle frogs.
Remember screen doors?
How wonderful to have a pet again.
Isla is so thrilled to discover she has a dog.
It won't stay looking this serene, Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-28991302100024865392011-05-05T19:50:00.000-07:002011-05-07T18:33:10.630-07:00Back to abnormalIt's like we never left. Except, of course, I have changed. We all have changed. This place, this amazingly- beautiful, frozen- in- time place, has not.
I miss Ian.
We’ve been here for less than 24 hours and I’ve pulled two ticks out of loved ones--one from Ruby’s back and one from Esther’s belly button.
Already I am realizing the getting used to that not having Ian’s adept hands to remove Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-59337818687605111422011-05-02T13:59:00.000-07:002011-05-02T14:03:46.508-07:00Welcome to the United States of America
We're home. Not in our house, yet (I saw some dude in a tye-dye T-shirt, who looked a lot like Jerry Garcia on my front porch yesterday), but home nonetheless. Our rental tenants still have to take their final exams, pass their final exams, graduate, then throw a graduation party at my house, then clean my house and move out, before we can move back in. They have kindly invited me to the partyBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-76593786506341491062011-04-27T15:27:00.000-07:002011-04-28T01:19:35.196-07:00On the road again
We're hitting the road, or the skies, tomorrow.
Xanax: check
Afrin: check
Kleenex; check
Passports: check (Essie is working on one for her bear Bernose as I write this.) "Mommy, what day was Bernose born? Was he really born in China?"
I've got some fat magic markers, some sculpting clay, and some books.
I'm still missing the candy, but I'm sure we can pick some up along the way.
But I'm Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-63533180390486239552011-04-21T08:03:00.000-07:002011-04-21T09:51:03.776-07:00The final crossing
We are gliding through the gathering darkness towards Great Britain as I write this. The dark water looks like it's been beaten, bruised. We seem to be slowly pushing pushing towards England, leaving France behind, moving away from her inch by inch, ripple by ripple, wave by wave.
Goodbye is behind us, for now. Our French life is back there. We are here.
The moving out of our rental house Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-83497465122669750182011-04-11T14:12:00.000-07:002011-04-13T01:34:30.431-07:00France has turned up the volume on her charms
I’m having all of the necessary, predictable reservations about our decision to leave.
Just like a woman who decides to leave her gorgeous, interesting, successful, but -not-exactly-right-for-her boyfriend, the finality of the decision has left me fraught with nostalgia for France’s sweet side.
Her apple and cherry blossom gauziness has returned to woo me, visually, romantically and Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-4282617238145791592011-04-06T06:21:00.000-07:002011-04-07T04:13:12.766-07:00What, or who, we're leaving behind
Did I forget to mention Ian isn't coming back to America with us?
Not right away, anyway. We are leaving him behind to get on with finishing, or at least somehow wrapping up, the farmhouse project--no, it's not done--while we get on with reclaiming our former life and homestead.
Daunting is not a big enough word.
And is this arrangement even sensible? I don't know. But I do know that weBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-75741097998146781742011-04-03T13:56:00.000-07:002011-04-03T14:04:20.242-07:00The grade-A truth of the matterI can go on all I want, in overly-dramatic detail, about sense- of -place this, cultural -barrier that, and the harsher, more surprising realities of rootlessness, but the real reason we have to come home all boils down to one simple-yet-essential thing:
The indignity
of having to rely on Canadian maple syrup,
which costs us
about $12, for four ounces.
Could you imagine?Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-7728347704441678212011-04-01T06:24:00.000-07:002011-04-07T04:18:13.690-07:00Time to go home
I am a thief. The wrecker of childhood friendships. Meddler in junior international relations.
We are going back to America. Abruptly.
After getting a depressing e-mail from our rental tenants back in Vermont, a long tale of roommate dysfunction and financial woe, I crawled into our dark bed, snuggled up next to Ian and worried.
Though he was still awake, I said nothing.
The next Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-57733609946432062912011-03-24T03:41:00.000-07:002011-03-24T13:39:47.430-07:00Backyard funeralEsther came running into the kitchen yesterday afternoon, breathless and rosy, to tell me the funeral was about to start.
"What funeral?" I asked.
"For the bird that Jesse killed," she said.
Jesse, is the neighbor's cat. She spends a lot of time in this house, skulking around corners, crawling into drawers as if she lives here. I am forever shooing her out of the house and am amazed at how Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-81929238444438360262011-03-18T08:19:00.000-07:002011-03-22T05:42:07.194-07:00The birthday that never really got off the ground
It’s been exactly two years since we left America. Two years away from home. Two years in Europe.
Two years in France. And we're still not French. I'm okay with that.
Two years of rootlessness. Two years of no dishwasher or clothes dryer. This is possibly the most amazing thing: That I have survived two years of hanging clothes up to dry all over the house, and outside when the weather Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-86452081464477556912011-03-15T16:20:00.000-07:002011-03-18T01:23:58.168-07:00Missing friends in Japan
I'm worried sick.
My 12-year career as a professional snowboarder took me to Japan four, or was it five, times. It's a mystical, frantic place, overwhelming in its embrace of modern technology, and beautiful in its ability to maintain ancient culture, tradition and rituals.
I regret that I was often a typical American when I was there, complaining about the omnipresence of fish, even for Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-90735603340223350202011-03-13T13:55:00.000-07:002011-03-13T14:16:12.773-07:00Never try to high five a Brit
Being married to a British man is amusing.
There are certain things, quintessentially-American things, Ian just doesn't get and certainly won’t stoop to.
Baseball hats, for example. He sees them as the socially-acceptable security blanket for the American man. He's speaking, of course, of those types who essentially wear their hats from the minute they wake up, to the moment they get in bed.Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-4043799319553500842011-03-04T07:25:00.000-08:002011-03-06T03:58:38.086-08:00Learning how to walk together
"How about you and I go to Paris tomorrow, just us?” I asked Esther, just before bedtime.
Her eyes opened wide, and I could hear the echo of a scream bouncing around her throat before it even made it to her lips.
“Shhhhh,” I said, putting my finger to my lips, and smiling, "Don’t wake up Isla.”
She channeled the scream into an impressive vertical leap, then a little dance, a few suppressed Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-41272941319325816792011-02-28T05:25:00.000-08:002011-03-06T06:59:22.196-08:00Still learning how to say goodbye "Oh revwah!" I say after collecting my receipt from the nice lady at the gas station where I stop to fill up the tank with $100 worth of gas almost every week. Where does it go?
"Ah revwahrr," she calls back to me in that sing-songy French that is reserved for the very beginning-- bon jour-- and the very end-- au revoir-- of a conversation. The tone in the middle does not always sound so Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-12164549800811981362011-02-24T01:35:00.000-08:002011-02-24T03:22:12.460-08:00Things that get us throughWinter without snow is stupid.
Never did I realize before just how much easier it is to parent when there is snow on the ground.
Every snowflake is like another free toy fallen from the sky.
Snow fills up the landscape, like drawing a bath. You dress, or undress, your kids accordingly, plop them into it, and they are happy, self entertained, for hours.
They dig holes in it, they build houses Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-41055098158062804622011-02-20T08:22:00.000-08:002011-02-21T08:21:43.117-08:00Homeschool fantasiesOne of the things I like so much about our little foray into French living, is how easy it is to pretend we're home schoolers. (I'm a long time homeschooling wannabe.)
Despite the longer hours in French schools-- school here is only four times a week-- they have three recesses, and lunch is 90 minutes long. Those that stay and eat at the cantine get treated to a four- course meal made from Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-14626985278943771892011-02-09T19:09:00.000-08:002011-02-09T19:18:17.725-08:00Don't it always seem to go
I am in California, finally meeting with the BabyCenter editorial staff and fellow bloggers. What a ridiculously long way to go:To the other side of the world, for a meeting.
But I am happy to have been invited. I feel validated after all these years of dutifully sharing every last painful detail of my experience as a mom. It's nice to finally know who I'm working for. They have faces and Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-29200368424715003702011-01-30T00:56:00.000-08:002011-01-30T08:13:12.571-08:00A life well decoratedSometimes I just don’t have anything to write about being a mom.
I could regale you with the minutia of my everyday here with my children. Not a day goes by when they don’t amaze me with something they say, or do, or how they blink their eyes, or shrug their shoulders, or dance to music that is inside their heads.
They are life personified. They are hope in a jar. They are love without Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-14750864338086642692011-01-21T05:10:00.000-08:002011-01-21T05:10:37.941-08:00The final pieceBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-51999383143590851282011-01-15T12:20:00.000-08:002011-01-18T01:37:00.349-08:00Destiny, or why I'm glad my mom's not a tiger
I cannot shake the haunting effect of this article I read about "Chinese mothers."
If I understood the article correctly-- knowing that it was given a healthy shot of gratuitous controversial spin by some savvy editors-- "Chinese Mothers" seems to be a euphemism for mothers who are intensely involved with, concerned about, and in full control of their children's destinies.
What haunts me so Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-64266615170694645272011-01-14T05:01:00.000-08:002011-01-14T05:02:38.195-08:00Dance with Daddy{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. Inspired by soulemama.Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-20125454622323446382011-01-08T08:11:00.000-08:002011-01-09T11:20:58.909-08:00The lives of othersI love France most when I'm in my new French class.
When I'm in my French class I am exactly where I want to be. When I'm in my French class, I am me, the American. Nothing more. Not mommy, not former pro snowboarder, not blogger, not wife, but Me. Me. Pure and unadulterated. Free from labels and nicknames. (The teacher and my classmates call me Elizabeth and I don't correct them.)
And in my Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-3059993546563018762011-01-07T06:55:00.000-08:002011-01-07T09:52:52.016-08:00Winter night
I've never taken part in this lovely idea before, just admired it from afar, but, here goes: {this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. Amanda Soule, from Soulemama
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-84239958076238677422011-01-03T15:20:00.000-08:002011-01-04T04:38:19.821-08:00Life catches up with even the fastest runners
I would swear my inlaws tried to kill me with food and drink. The torture went on for 10 days straight. It was brutal. In a pleasant sort of way.
I have never met an entire family of naturally-thin people who love to prepare and eat food, continuously, as much as these people do. It’s hard not to be a bit intimidated by it. It's like being Betty Crocker in a house full of Julia Child Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-23977433511384375562010-12-19T10:17:00.000-08:002010-12-21T15:40:29.612-08:00In good hands
I've always half joked that I married this man for his hands.
But it's partially true. As a woman who has spent a lifetime feeling shy about the less-than-petite size of her hands, the first time I felt his large, warm hand confidently take mine, as we rushed down a side street in Lienz, Austria, after our very first official dinner date, I swear I heard the universe exhale.
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-85142582067682539422010-12-16T07:23:00.000-08:002010-12-16T07:23:37.928-08:00Time in a bottle“I sharpened all these pencils,” was the first thing Isla said to me this morning when I came lurching, all out of focus, into the cold kitchen.
She’d been up for a while, but had moved around the house so comfortable in her skin, quietly sharpening her colored pencils, that none of us noticed. She wasn't even bothered by the freezing floor tiles on her bare feet. The rest of the world didn'tBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-63506420321304708522010-12-14T05:41:00.000-08:002010-12-16T05:25:03.916-08:00Haircut regret and recovery, and why I'm glad not Meg Ryan
I just found out that a guy I once knew, not an old boyfriend, but the friend of a brother of an old boyfriend, won an Academy Award for a documentary film he was involved in making.
The film, called The Cove, exposes a massive dolphin-slaughtering operation in Japan. It's one of those powerful artistic projects that evolve organically from passion to product.
It’s a film meant to create Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-8043863477599859042010-12-04T02:59:00.000-08:002010-12-04T06:42:49.527-08:00Cute French waiters, new boots and snowWalking the streets of Dijon in the snow last weekend, despite the mushy mushroom moistness of my not-waterproof boots and sopping-wet socks, was perfect.
Just like I remember feeling on our yearly November trips to New York City as a child, Essie and Isla were humming with enthusiasm, plugged into the people, the lights and the action.
We licked practically every store window we passed. Isla Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-5442842456548079722010-11-29T13:19:00.000-08:002010-11-30T00:32:41.531-08:00There's a certain slant of light
We visited these woods on Halloween day, I think, or maybe the day after. Just about one month ago. (This is some indication of just how out of step with the moment I've been lately.)
Even so, I find the French woods to be magical and there is always a fairy rock or fairy cave or ancient bridge to spur the kids' imaginations with. I can't help but wonder, when I'm in the midstBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-25079294080876947112010-11-20T03:29:00.000-08:002010-11-20T03:51:29.877-08:00Some poor old dobbins are made into glue
Rapidly approaching my 45th, yes, you heard that right, birthday, I am living proof that horseplay is a lot like riding a bike. It all comes back to you as soon as you take hold of the reins.
Granted I had to fall out of line after three of four laps, bend over and pant to catch my breath, and there was a moment when I was worried I had pulled a muscle slipping on the slicker-than-snot, FrenchBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-70679658041154732242010-11-14T10:09:00.000-08:002010-11-14T10:31:05.283-08:00The perfect twirl
No words necessary
No music either
Just a girl
and a dress
and a camera
and a little ham, is all you need.
Thanks for the dress, Zsa Zsa and Papa
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-21808554752588635312010-11-12T06:14:00.000-08:002010-11-12T08:39:45.814-08:00The world according to Isla
Thanks to Meara for the most fantastically stunning, mind-blowing princess dress ever.
Thanks to daddy, a.k.a. Marty Stewart, for not just one, but two birthday cakes.
Isla is five. Five. Cinq. Funf. Half of ten. One quarter of twenty. On tenth of fifty.
Okay I will stop now because I never got higher than a C in any math class I ever took. This might have something to do with the fact Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-74739191796029697812010-11-07T07:47:00.000-08:002010-11-07T07:47:18.579-08:00Your shoes are on the wrong feet again, dear
We're on the eve of Isla's fifth birthday, and, well..... Isla still doesn’t seem to get it.
I don’t think she cares, really. Why should she?
But I can’t help but wonder, when will she care? When will she try? Does it matter?
Will this apathetic little habit lead to a lifetime of chronic, pathological odd -sock wearing? (I was an odd sock wearer. It was a possibly one of my first, in a Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-52532528080418223112010-11-02T07:43:00.000-07:002010-11-05T01:54:08.989-07:00One wants candy
Halloween, French style, was a trip.
I had expected nothing. I didn't say a word about it in the week leading up to it for fear of getting my kids all excited about what may potentially turn out to be a big fat disappointment.
But, as it turned out, I was underestimating the French.
So there wasn't a Disney Princess in sight, only sorcieres (witches), mummies and skeletons. (Esther was Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-9796187337076714022010-10-31T05:59:00.000-07:002010-10-31T06:26:59.586-07:00Our winged friend
It seems we have a new friend.
He found us last weekend. He flew down and perched upon our window sill-- the ornate French- style window sill, it's actually more like a guard bar to protect children from falling out-- and tilted his head and pecked the window a few times.
He seemed impatient. As if we should have been expecting him.
"Do you think he heard the music," I said. IBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-13481722126075899822010-10-25T08:34:00.000-07:002010-10-26T00:21:47.123-07:00Well, how did we get here?It's day one of the October school vacation (Toussaints) and, already, I'm on the verge. I knew it was going to be a long day when Isla asked me for a chocolate cookie immediately after breakfast.
Then there was that little regrettable instant when I tried to help her into her tights-- she was trying to go outside bare-legged, it's frigid. The kid still hasn't learned that tights go on much Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-81585687495212069172010-10-22T10:58:00.000-07:002010-10-23T11:53:10.646-07:00Hot burn the baby
Dragging Isla's burn story out of the archives for enlightenment's sake.
This is not the same version I wrote for BabyCenter. The accident happened four years ago this month. Warning: high word count and high drama.
On a not-so-ordinary Autumn afternoon, my baby girl, not yet walking but intent on discovering life above floor level, pulled a scalding-hot mug of herbal tea onto herself while Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-58725325816356973592010-10-19T06:33:00.000-07:002010-10-20T07:00:26.744-07:00What happens when we turn off the TV
This is the Firebird who flies with wings of flame.
And this is Prince Ivan, the only other living thing in the tangled wood...
Prince Ivan has to do a dance to tame and catch Firebird
It works... he's caught it in his hands.
Firebird flung itself against Prince Ivan's hands, but it could not escape.
Oh Prince of Russia, set me free, a magic gift I will give thee.. (It doesn'tBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-88888389234307024822010-10-11T05:14:00.000-07:002010-10-11T05:35:21.303-07:00Found pictures
Isla looking ever so much like her daddy. Was this child really ever in my house? I'm loving the one Cinderella shoe and princess dress hanging out of the closed trunk in the background. I'm wondering where the pumpkin is.
That's Boomer, a friend's dog. He's no longer with us now. I'm seeing yet another princess shoe, a frilly plastic one, the ones I like to throw out, in this shot.
Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-77144082706623094932010-10-07T02:34:00.000-07:002010-10-07T02:36:22.812-07:00Happiness is red boots
I think the real reason we went all the way back to America was so I could be reunited with my favorite red boots. What was I thinking leaving them behind?
Since it is hunting season in France, which means the woods and byways are filled with overzealous, gun-toting Frenchman eager to mistake anything that moves for a wild boar, I have taken to urban hiking.
As much as I still want to Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-72040366199030159012010-09-29T06:16:00.000-07:002010-09-30T03:31:33.253-07:00When the mean reds come calling
Funny, I had to break down sobbing three times in the past week, one of them in broad daylight on a busy bridge across the river Saone in Lyon, to realize I might be a bit, um.... depressed.
How His Dark Lord manages to find me in the most unlikely of places at the most inopportune of times, I will never know.
I do know that simply knowing this is what is happening and knowing it's not Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-44192281743452092302010-09-22T13:30:00.000-07:002010-09-24T00:12:35.304-07:00I sucked at pregnancy
(Just like my labor and deliveries, this is a long one.)
Pregnant with my second child and determined to take control of something, I popped into Jiffy Lube for an oil change. My serviceman was a woman named Ali. She looked fabulous in a blue jump suit with a smudge of grease on her cheek.
“How far along are you?” she asked, motioning towards my protruding belly.
“Just about 20 weeks,” I Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-61164179927252166152010-09-17T08:50:00.000-07:002010-10-03T02:42:56.078-07:00How my life does not resemble Eat, Pray, LoveWhile watching the movie Eat, Pray, Love, I couldn’t help comparing the main character, Elizabeth Gilbert’s, life with my own.
On the surface, there’s nothing similar there. But, underneath, the whole concept of longing to leave your comfort zone, and the nagging feeling that there is something else you have to do or find before you buy that leather sectional couch with matching recliner, or Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-28561311888012269202010-09-04T16:35:00.000-07:002010-09-07T09:19:07.574-07:00Gold in the airMy family has always rented a house on the beach in the last weeks of August, and, recently, the first week of September. Which leaves all of us, essentially, counting the days until summer ends.
This most recent Maine session was especially poignant for me since we've been living in France and missed last summer's beach session. On the drive from Vermont to Maine, I found myself getting overly Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-76197330863059243732010-08-27T13:35:00.000-07:002010-08-27T13:35:50.170-07:00Things we like to do in VermontComing home to Vermont just to visit has been overwhelming. I can't help but want to try to do every last thing I have missed doing. Things we can't, or don't, do in France. It is a mission doomed to fail. But we have made it to the dentist, and to the swimming hole, and the racetrack, and across the Pawlet Flats a thousand times, and up to deer knoll, and, of course, to Martha's house. martha'sBetsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169579.post-14231963365991401122010-08-23T00:52:00.000-07:002010-08-23T01:30:37.310-07:00Mountain stream
Some days are better than others.
But when you come home after a long time away,
and you happen to be home in time to catch the late August butterscotch-sun season,
and you find your favorite swimming hole
and nobody else is there,
and you've got your long lost dog with you,
and oh how you've missed your dog,
and the maple creamee stand on the way home from the swimming Betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03146269455952869492noreply@blogger.com4