Fish Swarm

You know those big fish circles in the ocean? Thousands of tiny fish swirling around together really fast -- I guess to make themselves look like a bigger fish?

I'm still stuck in one of those.

I need to get out of the fish tornado and start writing again. Believe me, it's on the to-do list. I just can't quite get there.

Damn fish.

Currently overwhemed (again) with life -- nothing too scary, thank various divinities of your choosing, but just the usual stuff.

Baseball games. Baseball practice. Baseballs underfoot. Soccer practice. Soccer games. Soccer balls underfoot. Birthdays. Holidays. Homework. Dioramas. Diapers. Doc appointments. Prescriptions. Receptions. Girls' night. Grocery shopping. Fundraisers. Freelance work. Laundry. Always the effing laundry.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Anyway... in the meantime, here's one of the little things that keeps me going. Hiya, beautiful boy.

Happy Birthday, Boy

40 birthday balloons.

Yesterday, Ian Anthony Howard Beeaker turned two years old. And God knows that if you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you will have read his birth story -- I bring it up as often as I can and whenever I can. (Because it's the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me. There were firefighters involved.)

Every day since that morning, despite the mess, I have realized how great a decision it was to have another kid.

At first I wasn't into it. I was more than happy with one kid. I had finally regained my sense of self, as well as my original dress size. But Jon argued that it would be smart to provide Finn with a sibling, so I threw up my hands (skirts?) and nine months later, Ian arrived.

I give thanks for Ian. He is such a fun, smiley, stubborn little person. He is absolutely adorable to me in every way and I could stare at his sweet face all day long. So while Finn is starting to test boundaries, pushing away and lengthening out and spouting nonsensical inaccuracies as if he wrote the book, I still have my roly-poly Ian.

A Book Report

Finn is reading the kids' version of The Three Muskateers. Here is the book report he wrote about it:

Assignment: Tell me three or more reasons you would or would not want to live where the story takes place.

"I would not like to live their because I don't like those places in Paris. Every second people are being hung up. When you get hung it means that you did something bad. When you are famous in Paris most like you are going to be killed. That is why I would not like to live their."

How Did I Get Here?

Have you ever had one of those moments where you stop, look around and say to yourself, "What the eff...?"

I did that this weekend. It was a mind-bending "what the eff," though, not a despondent one.

I was running around the perimeter of a muddy, unkempt baseball field. There was no one else in sight. I was 30 miles from downtown Portland, in a quiet town named for Sam Barlow, one of the original Oregon pioneer entrepreneurs.* My husband and boys were on the other side of the hill, playing in and watching a soccer tournament. The sky was brightening from pale to rich blue. The dandelions underfoot were trippy-bright against the grass. My iPod had keyed up "Southbound" by the Allman Brothers.

And suddenly, my axis shifted, my brain blipped, and I almost fell over -- "How the hell did I get to this place in time on this spot?"

All these thoughts rushed by in random fashion:

I am running. I never thought I'd be a runner.
I am a mother. I am the person those two little boys depend on most in the entire world.
I live in Oregon.
I married my first serious boyfriend. And it's working.
My shoes are full of mud.
I'm going to be 40. Forty. Maybe more than halfway done.
I am happy.

I had to stop, turn off the music, and take a second to appreciate everything and everyone that has been thrown my way. After a minute, I kept going, and nearly stumbled over a baseball, lost in the grass. Picked it up, and it was heavy with rain. So I threw it into the trees surrounding the field.

Just one of those moments.
******

*Turns out Barlow was a tailor/ax murderer/entrepreneur/justice of the peace. 

Hiya Beautiful

This is where we live. I love this city.*

Enjoy!**

* Even if the threat of a major, vicious, liquifying earthquake "is not a matter of if, but when." Even if we are a source of ridicule, thanks to Carrie Brownstein, Fred Armisen and our own pretentious selves. Even if our school system is, to put it gently, broken. Even if you're a total dork unless you have a beard, wear glasses and drive a fixie bike.

** I actually do adore this place. It is a cool spot in which to be raising little people.

Yoo Hah-POON T'ings Like a Chiiick

I recently got into a new reality TV show. It's called "Wicked Tuna," on the NatGeo channel.

It's about five tuna fishing boats from Gloucester, MA, and how they compete for fish and how they find the fish and how they have to battle the weekend "googans" (amateurs) who just follow them off the docks and drop anchor wherever they do.

Even as I type this, I am thinking every word in my mind in an awesome New England accent. It's the best show. Best show to watch on a drizzly, deary Tuesday night, anyway.

And I love it because it has lines like this [as said in a thick New England accent]:

"You harpoon things like a chick."

Not so funny out of context -- unless you say it in character:

"Yoo hah-POON t'ings like a chiiick."

About the Show
From the NatGeo website:
Fishing is a hard life, and harder with bluefin stocks depleted. In Gloucester, Massachusetts, there's a special breed of fishermen. For generations they've used rod and reel to catch the elusive bluefin tuna. They depend on these fish for their livelihood, and the competition is brutal.

Over the next 10 weeks, the most skilled fishermen will set out in the frigid waters of the North Atlantic in hopes of catching the valuable bluefin tuna. When one bluefin can bring in as much as $20,000—they'll do whatever it takes to hook up.