the kid with clown hair

Cass has inherited hair patterns from both sides of the family. Unfortunately, this means that not only did he get the *seven* cowlicks in back from my mother and the distinctive whorl in back from his grandfather, he also got my heads' habit of growing all the (thick) hair forward. Put those together? You get a young boy whose hair sproings everywhere if we cut it too short (the cowlicks asserting themselves with a vengeance) and gets progressively more curly and poufy when it lengthens out.

So, my young son with Clown Head and I went to go get his hair cut yesterday.

He's decided to let it grow a tiny bit longer (I think he just doesn't like it so close cut) so he launched into a flurry of explanations at the poor woman who was poised to cut his hear. She glanced over at me seeking permission, and I nodded.

It is his head, after all.

And he came home beaming. Of course, I think he looked like a pineapple,

(or some other round thing with leaves at the top.)

but this morning I taught him how to use a dab - a dab, dude, not the tube! - of hair goop and

suddenly his hair was all poking up, and he looked


incredibly handsome.
And so grown up.

free air travel

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and I sat on a deck-chair in bare feet

But how could you not, on a day like today??


My quince is quincing.


Lemonade in hand, I clinked my glass and dreamed of what's to come this summer - it was that sort of day.


It's almost June.

miss jackson if you're

(Girl on tummy in bath, doing complicated maneuver where she brings her legs up under herself, then jumps and does a frog kick back while dropping her face into the bubbles. Legs piston. Jump. Frog kick. Piston. Kick. Giggle.)

Mom: Whoa there, jumping bean. Are you an acrobat?

Rosey (grinning) No, Mama, I'm NASTY!

Mom: (the eighties song beginning to beat in her head) Really?

Rosey: Yup! I'm a Nastiest!

Mom: (opens and shuts mouth a few times as visions of far-off proms spent in jail cells run through her head)

Rosey: On the balance beam!

Mom: (relieved) Of course! You're a GYMNAST!



Rosey: Mama? Why are you LAUGHING AT ME?

casa dolce domestica

Today, a rainy drippy day, I made roast chook (stuffed under the skin with butter and basil leaves, rubbed with a a little olive oil and salted) cooked in the pan with long, skinny organic carrots left unpeeled and uncut, basting themselves in the chickeny goodness, and bread salad.

Panzanella, made with italian bread and olive oil,wine vinegar and fresh tomatoes and black olives and basil, thin cut strips of fresh basil, so green among all the bright red and bread chunks, and garlic smooshed to a paste and tiny-cut red onions. Probably not an authentic recipe, but one that filled the house with the scents of my dreams of Italy.

I've always wanted to go to Italy.

It started out being interested in their cookery and multiplied a thousand times when I read (and saw!) A Year in Provence (yes, I do know that's set in France) and the books of Frances Mayes and Ferenc Mate.

So I stood at my oven and dreamed, the sounds of my children squabbling fading away, trying to pretend the flat gray day was the golden light of Italy. That there were Mediterranean breezes blowing through my house, that I was soon to set lunch on the table for my family, where we'd sit and eat the good peasant food, happy just to be with each other.

(There's a subset to this, where I would be basking in the joy of my family's appreciation for the food and not a single person would say 'Yick! Tomatoes!' or 'Oh, Mama. You know I don't like green stuff.')

I was almost there, the children's quarrel sifting into background noise, the smell of the roast chicken and the good wine vinegar whisking me away, when a crash! and a 'He broke my pony!' came through, jarring me back to reality.

Because in my daydreams, Paolo and Francesca don't fight over the demise of a pink My Little Pony. Ever.

in stereo

Have you ever noticed that when one kid begins to cough, the other will start sniffling?

After awhile they can perform an odd sort of duet.

and a cloud went o'er the sun

I worked most of the day,

then we did a little of this...


then we went home and played Crazy Eights and did puzzles until bedtime.

A bucolic afternoon.

I read this post, watched the clip, and then couldn't hide the tears welling up in my eyes from Cass when he swooped in for 'One more kiss, Mom'. After making him understand that Keith Obermann wasn't yelling at me, I ended up trying to explain what he was yelling about.
Oof. Not an easy thing to do with a primary student.

And somehow I thought we'd be having the sex talk first.

But sex talk or no, this is important stuff. And I think he understood that I have questions about why the war began, but he lost interest when he figured out this was all happening in a land far, far away.

I can forgive it from him. But I can't forgive it from myself.

Go. Read Mr. Lady's post. And think of something you can do.

bullets over tuesday

• Boy home today. A *cough, cough* sore throat, j*u*s*t bad enough to make him beg to stay at the house and not go to school. He's had friends over the last two days - I think it may just be exhaustion. R was too tired to go to school yesterday...they and Cass's friend were playing a game Monday where one would take off on a bike, pedaling fast and free into the field, and the other two would run after them full tilt and try to catch them.
  
• Y'know, I have suspected the dog is as dumb as dirt. And now I have proof. R brought home a school project last week - it's potting soil tied up in a nylon with googly eyes stuck on. After a few days of watering it faithfully, grass seed began to grow through the netting. Well, tonight the dog.....ate it. Dirt and all. Yumm-o.
  
• Am trying to convince B he can take R to have her haircut on Friday. I will e-mail a photo of what I want, absolve him of any differences....B is not convinced. He does have a bad history with haircuts.
• Tomorrow night's supper: broccoli and cheese calzones - the bread for the crusts is rising now, and the air is yeasty and sweet.

Except, of course, where the dog is burping potting soil and running his tongue questioningly over his teeth.