Start. Go Ahead. Push the Button.

Posted on August 22, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

August. END of August. The middles are back in school. The pool is deflated. Summer, all but gone. Late, late at night, I stare at this computer screen, thinking of all the things I could be sharing with you about our lives and then I turn over, ignore you, like a lover with a fake headache. 

Why do I blog more frequently when I am working and parenting? I have all the time in the world to write in summer. Summer, to me, I guess, is a giant restart button… like at the start of summer the button is flat and I am lying on top of it and as the days pass, I am lifted higher and higher until the first day of school and then I spring up and smash the giant red circle as if it is one of those gophers in the arcade.

As soon as I say go, the ideas and memories flood me in waves. My heart pulses under the pressure of the race we are about to start and in my head I can hear little voices . . . little things like, “Don’t forget to tell them about how at the Amana colonies, Quinn stacked up his oyster crackers and declared that they were a cheeseburger. Don’t forget to tell them about how Lizzie wrote a short story with a great line in it about watching a show about poisonous dart frogs.” Don’t forget, don’t forget . . . 

But it is too late. The memories of summer are getting swallowed up by September, recorded only in digital images that we will forget because of their abundance. Summer is gone and I have not created a single drawing (minus the bunny on the birthday card for my momma). I have not baked a single pie (no sugar, remember?). I have not had a single beer (sigh). 

So here, quickly, because I am meeting an old friend in ten minutes, is what I did this summer:

I held a sweet toddler in my lap and watched Daniel the Tiger. I let my fingers trace his sweaty, innocent curls and I breathed in his soft, summer skin. Quinn smells like chocolate milk and the sun. 

I held a sweet teenaged son as he battled with hard decisions and consequences that still scare him. I got to hold him again, too, and found myself saddened at how he no longer fits into the cross of my lap. 

I braided my thirteen year old daughter’s long brown hair, talked about boys and silly Vine’s, and the art of growing up. I taught her how to iron. 

I hosted a birthday party for a twelve year old boy, who has fallen in love with skateboards, Instagram, and late night Facetime calls from girls. 

I helped Noel with her wedding. I spent time with the lovely Haley. I went to Colorado (a road trip where Quinn really did make cheeseburgers out of oyster crackers and snowmen out of grapes). I watched sweet Kyle marry Katie. I held my sick kid. I stayed in a la dee dah hotel. I painted my toes silver. I had coffee with Susie and bought her a platter with a phrenology head map on it. I bought seven little buddha’s, three pairs of sunglasses, six chairs that already broke, and a piano stool with claws. 

It was a good summer and I hesitate to do it, but I am ready to push start. 

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Smoothie Love and Angel Cakes

Posted on July 31, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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I stopped eating sugar in June. June 25th, 2013, to be exact. My health history is long and complicated and just gross, but if you want to hear all about it, you can read one of my very first blogs called Camel Key:

http://camelkey.tumblr.com/post/15220465870/camel-key-an-introduction

I started Camel Key in January, 2012, with high hopes that blogging about my efforts to reclaim my health might actually make me healthy. It did not really work out that way, but about a year ago, I met Dr. Glenn Toth http://springcityhealthcentre.com and we spent all of last year trying to get my thyroid back on track (it was removed in 1997 from Graves Disease; stupid decision). By the end of our year, I was on almost 4x the dose of thyroid medicine that I have been on for the last decade. For those of you who are fellow thyroid sufferers, I currently take 240mg of Armour each morning. 240!

I feel a zillion times better, but still, as of this June, could not rid myself of the constant itching and awful rashes. See post https://kellyinrepeat.com/2013/06/11/you-too-fat-for-your-feet/ for a lovely picture of the rash. We had already tried cortisol to kick start my adrenals, but this did nothing, except to raise my blood pressure. So, on June 25th, Dr. Toth took me off all sugar and yeast (and mushrooms and vinegar) and put me on two heavy duty anti-fungal meds.

This has been life changing for me. I have done candida diets before, but not with the prescription meds and not with a thyroid. I feel better than I did before I got sick more than a decade ago. The rash is gone. The itching is gone. Fifteen pounds are gone. Summer heat no longer bothers me (amazing).  Mostly, the cloud of fog that swarmed me has lifted and I am so happy, so excited.

I had to skip eating William’s birthday cakes though. And last Saturday, my mom made my favorite chocolate squares for Noel’s shower. As it turned out, I could not eat anything at the shower (bbq sauce on the meat, mayo in the deviled eggs, sangria, macaroons). On Sunday, Sean brought home donuts and last night, when I made Indian food I had to skip the naan. I have found myself not minding these things so much though, skipping food like that, I mean. If I really look at the food, I know what it tastes like. I have tasted it before. Plus, Dr. Toth lets me drink coffee and vodka and really, what else is there?

Eventually, perhaps in late October, Dr. Toth will likely start slowly introducing certain foods again. I am not sure, though, that I will want sugar to be one of them. The way I feel is so remarkably different. I literally feel fifteen years younger. I can walk without pain. I wake on my own. Every once in awhile I have some pretty severe die off symptoms and those days are a little harder, but all in all, I am a new person.

I am allowed two fruits a day. I have the same smoothie every single day and it is the most delicious thing in all of the land…at least it is to someone who is not used to the sweetness of sugar. Some of you, I know, are looking for healthy breakfast alternatives, easy breakfasts before you start the work day, so I wanted to share the recipe here. It’s the only sugar (well, and vodka) that I consume:

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KELLY’S “YAY ME” SMOOTHIE:

Blend until super smooth (about a minute in a great blender or Nutribullet)

1 cup of ice (I like ice more than frozen fruit. Smoothie is colder. Fresh fruit, yummier).

1 cup kale

1 tsp. Trader Joes fig butter (the amazing power of figs)

1/2 cup  fresh orange juice (anything not from concentrate is okay)

2 scoops vanilla Aria protein powder (Trader Joe’s)

1/2 cup plain Trader Joes Organic Yogurt (I am not a fan of Greek yogurt and this stuff is really runny, almost like kefir and so far, it is my favorite in smoothies).

1 strawberry (seriously)

3/4 cup blueberries

1 tsp. chia seeds

dash of cinnamon and nutmeg

sometimes, rarely, I add a chunk of a banana (when I am craving sweets)

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This smoothie is my crack. Sean cannot stand the sound of the blender in the morning and I feel bad about that, but not bad enough because pushing the button that says “ice crusher” is thrilling to me. I feel like each smoothie is one day closer to a fully restored me.

I am still going to draw cakes though. Cakes and pies and all the other fancy foods that decorate bakery cases. I love bakery cases. I love pretty wedding cakes and slices of cherry pie and the way donuts look, all lined up in a box. I look at them differently now… not as temptations or sins or delicacies or treats or art. I see them as beautiful things that I really cannot have. I was about to say that they are like a married man, but Sean would freak about that and press me about whether or not I have been longing for some married man out there. No. As a matter of fact, I am not longing for anything in particular, which is a new feeling for me.

There are, of course, things I want, things I wish for, things I am working towards, but it seems like eliminating sugar has also eliminated my need to live in a constant state of anticipation. I no longer lie awake in bed at night thinking about the things I do not have. I do not toss and turn and wiggle in my sleep or wake up scratching invisible rashes on my forearms and feet. Sleep is for sleep. If you have been depraved of that for years, you know what a gift that is.

As I look back on a lot of my drawings from the past few years, I wonder if my spirit was trying to tell me something. Maybe all of the cakes I was drawing were not odes to domestic life, but really, prayers from my core, trying to get me to see these things as “the thing.” The thing that would change everything else. Angel cakes.

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A Dozen Years, Happy Birthday Sweet William

Posted on July 23, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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                                                                                     (photo credit Jo-Nell Sieren, Chicago)

Oh Willy Boy, 

Happy Birthday to you. It is SO nice to have a summer birthday, isn’t it? You, who waited patiently through a long labor, just waiting to be a Leo instead of a Cancer and you made it by three minutes. In fact, you arrived with the moon in Leo too, which, if you believe in astrology, means you are one fierce, fire boy. 

You know who else has both a moon and a sun in a fire sign? Dad. No kidding. You two are so much alike, both so determined and sensitive, creative, and strong. You two are like chocolate covered caramels, smooth and collected on the outside, and rich on the inside . . . taking a long time to “chew,” to know, to anticipate, to love. 

Long before Quinn was born, for nine whole years, I called you Caboose. When we found out Quinn was arriving, I promised that I would still call you that and I told you that you would always, always be my caboose. Funny though, it no longer suits you. You have taken such a leadership role as a big brother that you seem more like a steam engine, directing the way with powerful force. Quinn adores you. Yesterday he picked out a baseball bat at Target and all the way home he said, “I am going to show this to Willy. I am going to show this to my big brother.” To him, you are the moon. 

To me, well, to me you are everything. I am so proud of you and so delighted to be your mom. Yesterday I watched you play in the pool with five of your closet buddies. I watched them watch you . . . how they all laughed at your jokes and crowded around you as you opened your presents. We had banana cake and ate tacos and as I watched you throw water balloons and swim in the rain (it ALWAYS rains during this week in July) I wondered if you would remember this birthday, remember turning twelve, or if it would ultimately become fuzzy to recall. 

A lot has happened since I last wrote a birthday letter to you. You have become quite a photographer, which in a funny roundabout way lead to your modeling contract. You went for your first official shoot during your last week of being eleven, a perfect way to end the year. We have much to look forward to. Tomorrow, we head to Chicago for yet another round of head shots. I never would have imagined that the boy who was so shy as a young child, would be the center of attention at a photo shoot. Geez, when you were little, we couldn’t even sing happy birthday to you because you would cover your eyes in embarrassment and cry!

You are no longer afraid to let the world watch you, to witness your adventure. You, my caboose, are making your mark, full of light and wisdom and humor. I cannot imagine a life without the fullness you bring to mine. You are a wonder and even though we always call Quinn our miracle baby, know that you are equally miraculous and the qualities you hold true to yourself are examples for the rest of us to live by. I love you is too small a phrase. 

Happy Birthday, 

Mom

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Erring on the Side of Hope

Posted on July 20, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I am trying to remind myself that back in the day, when I was a kid, going on a road trip, my parents were forced to search for hotels in a flimsy AAA travel magazine. I recall scrolling for at least three diamonds, tanned fingers brushing against the cheap newsprint, bare legs stuck to the olive green scratchy seats of my Grandma’s Oldsmobile Cutlass . . . 

I suppose I should not complain that in today’s world I have every hotel that ever existed at my fingerprints. I can see photos and reviews and even traveler photos where people post things like bed stains and dirty socks. Still, I am gonna complain. I have had it. 

Here is the thing, America. Am I the only woman out there that has FOUR CHILDREN? WHY MUST I PUNCH THEIR AGES IN JUST TO FIND OUT WHAT YOUR RATE IS? DO YOU KNOW HOW IRRITATING IT IS TO KEEP PUNCHING IN 2, 12, 13, 17  OVER AND OVER AGAIN JUST SO YOU CAN REPLY “Sorry, that number is too large for our search. Please call 1-800-I-HATE-MOTHERS for assistance.”

Some places will only let me pursue a search with three kids in mind. Sophie’s choice. WHO WANTS TO STAY HOME? Hey, and Hyatt House, do you really think a suite is one bed and a pullout? Who gets the springy pullout? Grandpa?

I do not understand why there cannot be an affordable hotel chain that accommodates larger families. I don’t care if the kids sleep in a hammock attached to the ceiling as long as I do not have to pull out some nasty old couch that looks like it was purchased at a church rummage sale. Here is what I want. Listen up, Donald Trump and the Hilton’s, ’cause I am about to make you even richer:

I want one room. One bathroom is fine. We are used to that. Just give me about four thousand towels. Please give us three queen size beds or ample space to sleep six. I do not care how this is done, except that I do not want to have to pull out a couch or order a cot. We need a pool. We need free breakfast. Free parking. No smoking anywhere, please, and I DO NOT WANT TO PAY OVER $150 a night. I am not on a honeymoon. I am not here for a romantic getaway. I am here with FOUR kids. More than anything else I want to be able to search for this room on the world wide fucking web with ease and pleasure. Thank you. 

It is midnight and at this very moment I am feeling two things (aside from my total hatred of all things Expedia, Orbitz, and Trip Advisor):

1. I am insanely envious of people who don’t have to worry about money (envious and full of a seething “FUCK YOU”). 

2. I cannot sleep because I am creating hotel rooms inside my head. Hotels that instead of saying “no one under fourteen is welcome,” say “families of four or less can suck it.”

One hotel in Boulder actually wrote that on their website: “no one under fourteen is welcome.” Isn’t there a nicer way of saying that? Though I am considering putting a similar phrase on our bathroom door at home (yup, we only have one) . . . something like, I am in here right now and no one else in the universe is welcome.”

A few times I made the mistake of stumbling on a hotel and getting all excited. The rooms were spacious, the decor was lovely and contemporary . . . and then I realized that I clicked the wrong icon and that I was looking at a room that was $300 a night. There is this huge discrepancy between la-dee-dah hotels and family hotels and I am not sure why. I have stayed at both kinds and the energy shift is just massive. It’s like the difference between walking into K-Mart and Bloomingdales. Like, “if you have kids, you don’t deserve luxury.”

Yet with shopping, there are all these in between places: Gap, Banana Republic, right? I want the Banana Republic of hotels. Right now my choices are kind of between those boutiques in NYC that you need an appointment to get into vs. 7/11. Sigh. 

I have honestly been looking at hotel rooms and vacation rentals by owner for the last nine hours. Nine. Gun to head. It is perhaps only seven hours if you count all the minutes I lost chasing Quinn to the bathroom. Poor Q has had the worst stomach virus for the last few days and it just doesn’t seem fair to do to a kid who is newly potty trained. I am so sick of cleaning up poop that at this point I am just throwing the underpants out. I washed the first twelve pair. That is my limit. 

I am not sure where the summer is going to. So busy and so fast and so warm. Lizzie is away at volleyball camp, sleeping in a blazing hot shoebox of a ninth floor dorm room. William started modeling (perhaps he can pay for the hotel . . . sweet Jesus, that is a whole new post because yesterday he made more in thirty minutes than I make in a full day of teaching and wtf does that say about our society) . . . Luke is two weeks into a college course at MIAD. He is learning so much. After the third day he said, “No offense, Mom, but I have already learned so much more than I have ever learned in your classes.” He doesn’t quite get that there are eight kids and two teachers in his class and the session is nine hours long, but it’s okay. No offense taken. 

The best thing about this summer is that the older kids are kind of starting to come into themselves somehow, distinguish themselves from one another. I know that one of the real reasons that we cannot really afford this trip is because we afford the kids instead. We are trying, like I think most parents try, to give them an “upgrade,” to make sure their lives are full of opportunity. 

The cost of that to us is that we live in a tiny, falling apart house, and going on vacation doesn’t really happen much. Recently, a classmate of William’s mom told me, “When you have a child, the YOU that you know disappears for a really long time.”

I am not sure that is true, but I do know that when I walked away from Lizzie’s dorm room, where she gave me a giddy hug goodbye and later texted, “This is so much fun! We are blasting music and eating pizza and I can’t wait to go to college” . . . when I walked away from that I had a really sudden realization that one day it all boils back down to me again. Only me. 

I have been thinking a lot about my Grandma Lois lately. I guess because Quinn is just at such a cute age and it just makes me really miss her. I find myself wanting him to know her, wanting her to delight in him that way she did William. Plus, planning a trip to Colorado is something I always did with her. I used to sit in the front seat, in the middle (before things like seat belts and airbags were laws) and we played Old Maid, as my dad drove. She had five kids. She lived this chaos and she would tell anyone who listened that they were her favorite years. 

I don’t think she ever even once took those five kids to a hotel. They grew up in a three bedroom, one bathroom house. There should have been a hotel for them . . . a place that catered to that then, too. A place where she could breathe and let them explore a new town while she imagined a bigger world. Because in the end, my grandma was alone most of the time. She spent a long time dying, thinking it all over, before she let go. 

I wonder, as she sat there, two summers ago, her blue eyes faded, her skin thin, what she thought about most. I wonder if I will look back on this summer and remember my frustration with Priceline and Hotwire, or if I will remember the way Quinn jumps off the pool ladder with complete trust and love into his father’s waiting arms. Will I resent not having the money to travel or will I appreciate the stories that come from living in cramped quarters with the loves of my life? 

I honestly don’t know the answer to that, only the answer that I hope it is. It’s kind of like this vacation. It might be a complete stress ball of a disaster or it might be magic. I guess I’ll err on the side of hope and tonight, when I finally sleep, I will dream of spacious hotels that have the word WELCOME written all over them. I know there is space for the kids. It’s me who needs a room. 

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Circle Games, Cupcakes, Earthquakes and Other Reminders

Posted on July 13, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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So much for writing everyday.

Luke was twelve when I wrote Summer of the Pigeon. That summer, I did write each and every evening. In retrospect, I probably should have been blogging and not trying to make a book. Maybe things would have turned out differently . . . 

When I wrote that book, I had three children, not four. Twelve, seven, and eight . . . kids just out of that “holy crap parenting is impossible” stage to the point where I just wanted to freeze them all in time. I remember writing that if Sean and I ever had a fourth child we would have to name him Oblivious Cliff. Oblivious for the fact that he would have come from a night of drunken stupidity (careful what you wish for) and Cliff, for the one we would surely walk off of if forced to raise another child. 

I think about that paragraph now and wonder if Quinn will read it one day and feel bad. We did, at least, not name him Oblivious. This summer it is William who is turning twelve and I do, indeed, have four children. Seventeen, thirteen, eleven, and two. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the “two” was a surprise. Though if you want to know the whole truth, the only one we planned was Lizzie and even then I’m pretty sure that it was just me who planned it. Sean had no idea. 

When I found out that I was pregnant again I could not bring myself to tell Sean, but it did not take long because I am not very good at keeping secrets, especially ones of  the holy crap variety. At the time, I was part of a job share and so I had the later part of the week off. I remember going to lunch with Sean (after he knew). We ate at Harley Davidson and we could only stare at each other . . . not lovingly, really, just in a “we are in this together and holy shit” kind of way. I remember that they served hot peach cobbler with white vanilla ice cream and I could not get enough of it. Peach cobbler will forever remind me of Quinn. 

Once we were brave enough, we rounded up the older kids in the living room to tell them the news. The boys were really stunned, but happy, and Elizabeth cried and cried because she did not want her family to change. “It better be a girl,” she squeaked between tears. 

We told my parents at Luke’s fourteenth birthday dinner. They thought we were joking. We let Lizzie call other relatives and tell them and they would just say, “Put your mother on the phone,” because they did not believe her. 

Then there was the twenty week ultrasound, the ultrasound where the doctors concluded Quinn was much too small and that I either had my dates wrong or we were in for trouble. This was a turning point for me because I suddenly, desperately loved this unknown baby and felt incredibly guilty for ever having freaked out about it. I played Leona Nass’s song Ballerina to Quinn over and over again: 

I’ll never feel the weight of your hands
Inside mine like diamonds
Lace so fine ballerina
Cupcake and my earthquake
Wakes me from a sleep that
Never comes are you breathing
Waiting for me

I didn’t really want you
But I want you now
Was so foolish of me
To feel you tumbling down
Into that empty room
The lights went out
I want to rescue want to scream out loud

I didn’t think I needed you
But I need you now
Was so empty in me
To feel you crashing down
Into the empty world
The music stops
I want to rescue want to scream out loud
You will always be mine

The room spins 
Pull you from me
My body burns
Tell me of the rainbows
The colors that the rain throws
Ballerina dance softly
She knows when to come only
When she’s called I’m slowly coming to 

I didn’t really want you
But I need you
Was so foolish of me
To feel you tumbling down
Into that empty room
The lights went out
I want to rescue want to scream out loud . . .


Cupcake and my earthquake. I would sing this with tears rolling down my face. I would play this on my iPod, holding it against my belly in the antepartum unit, begging Quinn to stay. Later, once Quinn made it home from the NICU, my lactation nurse stopped by my house and dropped of a Christmas ornament in the shape of a cupcake. I am pretty sure that if the house ever burned down that is one of the things I’d try to rescue. The doctors saved Quinn’s body. The nurses saved my spirit. 

So I haven’t been writing everyday. I think about who I was back then, when I did write faithfully. I can see, clearly, a summer night in which we were watching Michael Phelps swim at the Olympics. Luke’s preteen body was lying on the top of the couch, his two siblings sitting below him, snuggled together, eyes glued to the television. I remember feeling that I was finally over the hump, over the toughest days of parenting (I was an idiot). 

I had a very hard time enjoying parenting when I had three kids under five. This summer I have read a lot of mom blogs and I am sympathetic to those of you who feel exhausted and burnt out and guilty and beside yourselves. I have been there. It was when I wrote Summer of the Pigeon that I finally was starting to feel free of that and felt that it was time to “do me” again. And then came the peach cobbler . . . 

My mom was only five years older than I am now when I had Luke and she became a grandmother. For me, having Quinn is like getting to love a baby like a grandmother, but getting to be his mother. I am so madly in love with him and because I have been down this road before all of the exasperating parts about parenting a toddler again are gone. I highly recommend an oops . . . if anyone out there is reading this, is turning forty and just found out they are pregnant, then all I can tell you is that having another baby later in life is like getting to dance with God. 

So Quinn, if one day you are reading this, know that you are the opposite of Oblivious Cliff. You are my sunshine. For real. Today, while Lizzie and William slept until noon and Luke was away in his pre-collge program, you and I spent the morning swimming in our tiny above ground pool. You learned to blow bubbles and kick yourself across the water. I floated with you in a tube and I said, “Quinn, I love you,” and you replied, “I love our pool.”

I don’t know if it is my destiny to have writing urges on the years that my boys turn twelve, but I certainly hope that it will be more consistent than that. I do think my “pokiness” with writing this summer comes from the fact that I just want to spend time being a mother in a way that I didn’t have the patience for in the first round. Plus, I am kind of hyper focussed on my health right now, but I’ll save that for another blog post (long story short, yay Dr. Toth, you were right and I am better). 

Earlier this week it was really hot and after dinner all six of us jumped into our teeny tiny pool, nestled behind our decaying house. We looked like fat potatoes bobbing to the surface of a boiling pot, all crammed next to each other. Sean joked that this moment was likely to be our Google Earth snapshot and we all laughed until I reminded him that our Google Earth picture, in real life, is of a time when all of the kitchen appliances were on the porch. Just so happens that was the summer Luke was twelve. 

I’d like a retake, Google Earth. Quinn is here now. The refrigerator is back in the house. Take a shot quickly, before Quinn turns twelve too. You can take it tomorrow. I will be back in the pool, floating in an inner tube with Quinn, singing Joni Mitchell’s Circle Game song to him: 

And the seasons they go ’round and ’round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

In case you didn’t know it, Quinn, the circle only became full when you came out to wonder. 

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                                                                                    (photo credit Jo-Nell Sieren, Chicago)

 

 

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Fine for Alaska

Posted on July 1, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I killed an hour by watching Celebrity Wife Swap. Bristol Palin vs. Melissa Rivers. Melissa eats moose, Bristol fake-produces the Fashion Police. Turns out that watching this was not a complete waste of time because when Bristol Palin meets Joan Rivers, Joan does not recall what jokes she has made at the Palin family’s expense and Bristol flippantly says, “You made fun of my weight,” and Joan scoffs that off as “just business,” and then she said the greatest line in all of television history: “YOU ARE FINE . . . FOR ALASKA.” 

That is the best thing I have ever heard. I have made it my new mantra. Every time I look in the mirror and sigh at my fat arms I just say out loud, YOU ARE FINE FOR ALASKA (Alaska, Wisconsin, same, same). I realize that this might be a step shy of a positive affirmation, but close enough, right? Joan Rivers is correct. Am I on the cover of E! or sprawled across a movie screen? Do I live in Boulder? Provence? No. No I do not. I live amongst the Cheeseheads. I live in a place where real half an half is on the table in diners. Puffy winter coats hide most anything here. 

This has brought great relief. I have so much more time to think about other things now that a space has opened up in my brain, one that was previously obsessed with cellulite now has time to imagine myself sitting in a small cafe drawing … I am so engrossed in my work that I do not notice that the Avett Brothers have just walked in to buy coffee. Scott Avett sees me and strikes up a conversation about my work. Later, when he is home, he googles me and falls madly in love with my painting and hires me to do the art on his next album. This leads to a ton of other work, publicity, and then some powerful someone stumbles across this blog and they cannot get enough of me and they contact me about creating a sitcom about my life and are wondering if I am interested in being one of the writers, which of course I am. Ultimately, the show is a hit. This leads to an animated cartoon, similar to Charlie and Lola, but better. This leads to more writing, which leads to a movie, which leads to fame and fortune, all while staying in Wisconsin. 

Even if none of those things happen, the ten minutes I spend imagining them are so much more fulfilling than ten minutes spent staring at my double chin. Which, as it turns out, is fine in Alaska too. 

I am confidant that stumbling across that episode was a beautifully woven piece of fate, designed to help me shift into being a better human. Joan Rivers, of all people, sparked a change in me. I am more than fine, really, I know that I am. Deep in my center there is a knowingness that I am not only fine for Alaska. I am fine for Los Angeles, even. I am amazing.  It’s just that away from my center, in the space that lurks up when I see terrible photos of myself or stare into a fitting room mirror . . . that space of doubt and longing, desperation and insanity…I am finding that filling it with the image of Joan and Bristol, sitting on expensive sofas, alleviates the pain and makes me feel, well . . . fine. 

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Officially Untangled. Hello Summer.

Posted on June 29, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

School ended June 14th. I pulled out of the parking lot with a giant THANK THE LORD sigh and since then (I realize I haven’t written at all) I have been letting my head untangle the year, piece by piece, until I can finally breathe again and know that yes, summer is here. This period of paralysis can last anywhere from one week to three, but I think I am finally free, finally sinking into June (which I guess ends this weekend). 

So no drawing, no writing, no teaching, but lots of driving barefoot with the windows down. I have spent the last 15 days doing this:

1. I took Luke to get his drivers license. I told him to smile for his picture. He will never forgive me because he grinned so large that both rows of teeth show and he looks mildly insane. “No one looks at it anyway,” I explained. “MOM. EVERYONE LOOKS AT IT.” This totally buzz killed the fact that he just got his drivers license. Speaking of which, letting your child take your car and pull out of the driveway, solo, is the scariest and most awful form of torture imaginable. When my dad used to hand me the keys he would say, “Drive reckless,” because that is what his dad said to him, knowing that saying “drive carefully,” is moot. Though, I don’t know about that because when I was sixteen I totaled my parents only car on the freeway. I sliced open my eyelid and woke up in an ambulance. Maybe my subconscious really did hear “drive reckless.” 

2. I drove Lizzie to her first official, non-Quinn, babysitting job. She liked doing it a lot and told me that the younger son asked her if she was going to make babies one day.

3. Took Will to the dentist. Uneventful (though we did try to get Quinn in the chair, but his reply was a big HELL NO). I have got to get that kid brushing his teeth, a task he despises and I kind of freaked out my dentist by admitting that Quinn really doesn’t brush much, a guilt that was compounded by the fact that the boys Lizzie babysat for, reportedly, brush their teeth to a timer. 

4. Made doctors appointments for all four kids. I already forgot about the one I made for William this week and am looking forward to a “no show” bill in the mail. I did spent the first full day of vacation paying off the medical bills from LAST summer, so might as well start a new tab. 

5. Took Lizzie to the same doctor that I blew off because she was sick. He said it was viral, which I think was a lie because he might have been pissed about being stood up.

6. I’d like to say that I potty trained Quinn, but in reality, Luke potty trained Quinn. Three cheers to a huge age gap and no more diapers. I tried to put a diaper on the kid tonight just so that he would not wet my bed as he slept, but he tore it off and said that babies wear diapers, so fingers crossed that I don’t wake up in a puddle. By the way, he doesn’t sleep with me because I am all into co-sleeping. He sleeps with me because he does not have a room. Sean sleeps on the couch. It’s all backwards. Still . . . when I cozy up to Quinn at night he looks at me with his big watery blue eyes and says, “You came back. I love you all of the time,” and then he traces my eyebrows with his fat little toddler fingers and I am in heaven. I would also be in heaven if someone took a bulldozer to this house and gave us all our own rooms with a magical t.v. makeover. 

7. Got a haircut. Sarah, the best hair cutting lady in the land, told me a heart wrenching story that lingered with me for days. 

8. Started the middles on their guitar lessons (for the guitars they got for their birthdays a YEAR AGO). 

9. Changed my Instagram name to KellyinRepeat. Follow me. It will be fun. Promise. 

10. Tried on dresses for the weddings we get to attend this summer. I got stuck in a one in the fitting room at Boston Store this morning. It wasn’t difficult to get the dress on, but I think I stayed in it for a long while trying to decide if I looked like a hippo or if I just looked hip. I must have swelled up in the dress, it was so fricking hot in there. I couldn’t get my arms out of the holes and then I started to panic and sweat more and wrestle with the dress. I debated about shouting the word HELP, but just couldn’t bring myself to do it (it’s not like asking for toilet paper under the stall). By the time I finally wiggled out of the thing, I was beet red and I looked like Sandy Biggelow Patterson’s mugshot in Identity Thief. 

11.  Drove the kids and my mom to Chicago so that Will could be seen by a modeling agency (he is officially signed, yay). Construction workers whistled at my thirteen year old daughter and William stuck up for her by shouting back, “Hey, she’s like nine!” I am not quite sure which thing embarrassed her more. 

12. Learned that an application of raw organic honey over teenage acne is a miracle cure. You are welcome, Lizzie.  

13. I went back to my doctor who prescribed two anti-fungal medications for the next ninety days and took me off all sugar and yeast, with the exception of two fruits a day and vodka. The vodka was at my request because I told him that I can live without sugar and yeast, but I cannot live a summer without vodka. He said that as long as I stayed away from wine and beer, an occasional vodka with lemon would be okay. I left it at that and did not push it by asking if I could have a vodka with lemon every day. 

14. I watched the most beautiful documentary called May I Be Frank about a man who transforms his life with the help of three young college aged kids. I loved it so much that I watched it two times in a row. At one point Frank, who is depressed and suicidal, says “I just always knew their would be a shift. Something, something would shift. I knew it somewhere deep in me and that is what got me up in the morning.” I know exactly what he means by the word shift because I have one coming and I am ready for it and I feel it in the same place Frank felt it. This movie made me proud to be a human. 

14. I got all excited because I planned on going to see the Avett Brothers at Summerfest tonight and even though I hate Summerfest and heat and crowds and fried food, I am mad about Scott Avett. I told Luke, who went to the festival all day today, “If you see Scott Avett walking around tell him that your mom loves him so much.” Really? I couldn’t believe I said that so I texted Luke, “Ack. Don’t say that. Just get your picture with him.” Then I learned that I had my dates mixed up and that the Avett Brothers were here two days ago. Too bad. He would have really liked me. 

So really there you have it. Luke can drive. Lizzie is babysitting. William is a model. Quinn can pee in a toilet. I can drink vodka. All the busy stuff is out of the way and now I can focus on what I want summer to be. 

I will have more time to write. Yay. Thank you to those of you who have told me you love this blog and that you are reading it (in fact, Dan, if you are reading this, let Sarah name the baby). Every now and again I get kind of depressed that my eleven year old son has 276 Instagram followers and I only have 20 blog followers. I think when I hit 276 followers I will give away a free print (anything on Behance is yours). If I never get to 276, at least I have vodka. 

 

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Maria Montessori Did Not Use a Leash

Posted on June 16, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

Last week I finally emptied my iPhone of its photo contents, making more room for songs and videos. As I scroll through the photos I have taken in just the last five days, I am kind of stunned at the schizophrenia-ness of it all. Here, let me explain:

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Lizzie texted a photo of herself “getting her tan on,” while I was knee deep in exam week at East (a week so full of raging mom hormones that I will need much time to reflect and rejuvenate from it). This photo, first of all, made me happy because in all of its nothingness is a message to me that my daughter is having a better life than I ever did or will. It also made me severely depressed. I texted the photo (the whole image displays her next to her bikini clad Syd) to my Susie and wrote, “Isn’t this supposed to be us?”

Next photo in queue is the of Noel’s wedding invites, which I made for her as a wedding gift of sorts (and because she asked me and because I wanted to):ImageImageI was excited to see them actually come in the mail. They sat on my desktop for so long and seeing them actually addressed to me made it all real. We have many fun weddings this summer. I am a sucker for a good wedding, or at least its details, and am looking forward to celebrating young love (though dreading dress shopping . . . I did order one from Zulliy because I thought it was black, but it really was purple and Luke started to sing the Oompa Loompa song when I squeezed into it . . . a giant momma Grimace. Pathetic).

The rest of the week was spent cleaning up my studio at school. I recorded my favorite parts of the room. We have a lot of teachers leaving this year and it made me think about what I would miss if I left too, so I shot this:ImageI don’t know who added the Kung Fu line, but I am guessing it was Kim, a bestie who I dearly miss. Each time I open the supply closet I read that and it makes me miss her even more. I stayed at school late one night and made new bulletin boards for Fall. I strung great quotes about art along the walls, including one that I used in my own high school year book that came from A Sketchbook With Voices: “Our heads are round so that our thinking can change direction.” (I was really excited about that quote when I was seventeen until I read Susie’s quote, which was something quirky from Pink Panther and then I just felt dumb).

I also stapled Guy Smiley to the wall. I love that damn muppet and I hope he stays up there, but I am giving it three weeks before he is stolen: Image

Which brings us to the weekend.

Luke, after getting relatively sick in the studio bathroom before taking a miserable gym exam, took his driving test with the Pee Wee Herman equivalent of Large Marge. If it wasn’t so sad, it would have been funny, an SNL skit in the making. He will take the test again next week. The iPhone feed continues with a screenshot of his testing time and location, which I seriously doubt is worth posting here.

Between a horrible exam week, an emotional week with my students, a chaotic end of the year picnic, concert and all other things final and done, I could not shake the feeling of being crushed with “shoulds” and obligations. I could not even find joy in turning my alarm clock off for summer.

But it IS summer. It’s official. I don’t have to find a sports uniform or matching socks or a lunch box before six AM. I can stay up late and watch bad TV and not worry about Monday. It is the joy of the unpaid vacation of a teacher. Broke, but resting.

However, it seems, there still is a Monday. I saw the calendar on Friday. Orthodontist. Voice lesson. Sand volleyball. (I did mention that she is having a better life than I am right?) Luke needs a ride, William wants friends over. Sean just wants us all to be quiet. So I made a decision.

I decided that this summer I am going to find quiet alone time with my children individually. I want time to inhale them, freeze them in time, without any distractions. The maintenance man at school told me that his young son, who attends MPS, had an all school choir concert last week and not even thirty parents showed up. This made me ache with pity and guilt and in an insane moment of crabby mom, pre-coffee moments, shout at William, “You don’t even know how lucky you are! Your school has to hold TWO concerts just to fit everyone. You DON’T EVEN KNOW!!!”

Sigh. Time to reboot, time to slow down.

Friday night I took Luke to my favorite restaurant in all of creation, Odd Duck. We celebrated a fricking fantastic GPA (in spite of it all) and laughed about his crazy driving tester. Luke loves food the way my dad loves food, with his whole heart. With each new plate, he gushed with approval and delight. He drank six cokes and three cups of espresso and I thought about how the chef at Odd Duck is a former high school classmate of mine and how old we are now . . . so old that my son is older than we were when we met, and I took those black and white photographs of him sleeping on a Pius XI stairwell. This made me nostalgic and kind of frantic so I took lots and lots of photos of Luke enjoying his meal: ImageSean had tickets to the car races at State Fair today. He was impatient with the kids for not being ready fast enough and poor little Quinn raced to put his shoes on and said, “I’m coming Daddy. I am ready,” but Sean had no intention of taking a toddler to the races and the older kids shut the door on Quinn, who looked at me, eyes welled with tears, and silently walked to the couch to watch Calliou for the millionth time (thank, Netflix. Really?).

I nudged my way next to him and said, “You don’t want to go with those guys. They are going somewhere really loud and boring. Stay with me. I will take you to the zoo.”

“Okay, momma. Okay!” He scuttled off the couch and ran to the door. I have only taken him to the zoo once before, on his second birthday. Despite it being really hot and humid outside today and despite the fact that I wore long sleeves and long black pants (because that is what enormous people do), and despite the fact that it is the Saturday before Father’s Day and I knew the zoo would be packed, I got into my car thinking, “It’s only ONE kid. This will be so much fun.”

In spending time with just one child, I have noticed something about myself. Though my children have attended Montessori for eons now, it was not until this Saturday afternoon, that I realized how much Montessori training I have had as a parent. When my first kid went to Montessori I made the grave mistake of carrying his backpack. I was corrected, told to put the bag down, and sternly reminded that we are never to do things for our children that they are capable of doing themselves.

Today, however, more than a decade after that backpack incident, I walked calmly through the crowded zoo, leading Quinn from behind, and watching other parents frantically chase their hordes of children around. If Q did not want to go into a dark aquarium, I did not make him. If he was more interested in the chipmunk eating french fries than he was in the elephant, so be it. If he wanted to ride in the stroller, he rode. If he wanted to walk, he walked. When we got to the train, I said, “This will be fun. We will do this ONE time,” which we did. He would run ahead of me and each time he just got slightly too far, he would turn around, sweaty, and say, “You coming, Momma?” I always answered, “I am coming Quinn.”

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I watched a young mother chase her toddler down a hill, shouting, “No! No running. YOU WILL FALL,” which he did, and then the mother cried and fussed and said over and over again, “Let me see, let me see. I told you that you would get hurt. Oh no, oh no. Are you okay.” She was with a man (a brother, perhaps?) who had his own young toddler tied to a leash and he shook his head at her disapprovingly, tightening his grip on his rope, and I thought about painting a picture of Maria Montessori cutting all child leashes with scissors.

The last thing that Quinn and I did was ride the carousel, which I again, reminded him that we would do once. I paid the money at the ticket booth and let Quinn wander next to me because he noticed a pinecone (just like Calliou did in episode 24). I turned around from the ticket booth and the woman behind me started to scream, “Ma’am. Ma’am. YOU FORGOT YOUR SON!” I looked over, two feet away from me, where Quinn was still busy picking up pinecones, and said, “He’ll follow me. Don’t worry.” She was quite frantic, “Well I was just checking. You could have left him there!” She was clutching her four year old son’s hand  so hard I thought it might fall off. I thanked her and moved to our place in line. As we waited for our turn, I listened to her desperately shout orders at her brood. “No, NO. You cannot go over there. No. We have to wait HERE. Oh, okay. Poppa, you stay here and we will walk over there to pick out our animal.” She literally walked three feet away.

I feel so lucky to have already had that experience . . . that mom who has to do everything just right, who has to hit every landmark at the zoo, who packs a lunch and insists her toddler drink water and not lemonade . . . so lucky that I get to do this again, now, fourteen years after the first one.

We came home, exhausted, hot, and sweaty. We watched Calliou and just started to drift off before all of the others clamored home, bursting in the door with the noise of a thousand bees. Quinn played in his sandbox. Sean, later, gave him a bath (Quinn does not like my baths). He fell asleep next to me by 7:30 and I raced downstairs to try to watch a movie with the older kids. I found Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes. That book was a favorite of mine when I was Lizzie’s age and I texted her to come and watch it with me”

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It made me laugh (and I still dragged her to watch with me), but also reinforced how grateful I am to have the patience now that I did not have a decade ago . . . and that I can just soak Quinn up, breathe in his wet bath hair and little baseball pajamas. If I wanted to put a leash on anybody, it wouldn’t be him. It would be the rest of them, as they are leaving me. I imagine tying a very long rope to their hot air balloons one day, watching them soar above me, but knowing where I stand.

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You Too Fat For Your Feet

Posted on June 11, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I am a Wisconsin girl. I wear a lot of sweaters and jeans, boots and socks, and I do not own a swim suit. 90% of the time, I can be fully covered up and no one has to be exposed to my grossness (thought if you listen to Sean, “no one is looking anyway.”)

Before I begin showing you my most embarrassing photos, I feel compelled to also show a normal photo of me this week. Here I am. Proof that I am not usually a monster, just regular:

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Yesterday I took Lizzie and her friend Sydney for pedicures, where a small man told me, in broken Chinese, that I was too fat for my feet. Had he caught me on another day, I might have crumbled into a quiet mess, but I just started laughing and replied, “That is why I am here! Fix my feet.” He went back to scrubbing my feet and happily muttering, “too many cracks, too many.” These are the kinds of thoughts that are kept on the inside in high end salons, but for $25, you get the blunt truth.

I have struggled with my health since Luke was born when I was diagnosed with Graves Disease seven months after his premature birth. Some young idiot did prescribe Synthroid when I was in labor, which is likely what brought the Graves on. I will not bore you with the sad and pathetic list of the thyroid hell symptoms that have plagued me these last seventeen years, but I am interested in sharing my latest development in hopes that maybe it will help someone else.

By the way, there is no need to inbox me with solutions for thyroid. I do not have one. Radiated that sucker out years ago and know am paying the devil by living without the cornerstone of my endocrine system.  I have a good doctor. I am on Armour (lots). My basal body temperature is above 97. I have done everything humanly possible to stay in proportion with my feet (trainers, gym memberships, crazy fasts, diets, The Plan, The Juice Fast, Atkins, Low Fat, Low Carb, No Wheat, No Sugar, No ANYTHING THAT DOES NOT TASTE LIKE GRASS . . . I have taken Bee Pollen and Green Coffee Extract. I have seen four thousand doctors and nutritionists and acupuncturists and healers. There is nothing, NOTHING, causing hidden trauma, nothing that I have not honored or shed tears for. I have taken raspberry ketones, dandelion, tea, mangosteen juice . . . Just trust me, I have tried it all. I have read the websites. I have meditated the hell out of it. However, you probably have too, so that is why I am willing to show you this (go ahead, click on it, make it screen size, and then audibly gasp):

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Gross, I know. Being too fat for my feet is really nothing in comparison. This started in 2010, during my pregnancy with Quinn. It is not Lupus (unless it is, and all the rheumatologists in the land are wrong). I showed up in the emergency room one night in my second trimester and the whole ER freaked out and brought in all of their friends to see my Elephant Man self. No one knew what my eyes were doing. Allergists did not know. Dermatologists did not know (though one did politely tell me that I was too old to have a baby anyway and that my eyes were the least of my troubles . . . I digress, but he really did shout, “There are mothers out there on crack and sometimes even those babies are fine and you worry about at little steroid cream? I bet you also are the kind of woman who buys expensive shampoo!”).

Since then, I have had crazy outbursts of rashes. They were so extreme this year that I had to leave work twice just to seek relief.  The specialist at Childrens hospital saw me for five seconds, told me my thyroid caused the hives, and to just take Zyrtec for the rest of my life. Then she charged me $2000.

The hives started morphing into bruises and then one day two weeks ago,  I came home to find that my entire thighs were purple. I sat on the toilet, staring at my swollen and bruised and blue legs and whispered to no one, “You are turning violet, Violet.”

It was scary enough that I called my doctor who, on a hunch, thought that maybe all the trouble I have had over that past three years has not been thyroid related after all, but is an extreme intestinal yeast infection. He prescribed diflucan and a probiotic and all of the hives started to disappear within five days. There are still some patches and spots that remain and I am certain I need another round of the poison, but honest to pete, I think that this guy is on to something.

One of the things that Quinn has taught me is that the body is capable of transforming itself in pretty amazing ways. If you don’t believe me, look again (33 months in the making):

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Something about my reaction to that man’s comment has been lingering with me ever since he made it. I was not insulted. I was not defensive or full of excuses or resigned to being frumpy. I did not have the urge to call my mother and cry or complain.  I sat in that pedicure chair, next to two sweet, funny girls, I glanced down at their young and healthy bodies . . .

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… and I felt beautiful.

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When in Doubt, Moose

Posted on June 2, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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I got this tattoo in my mid-thirties when I thought I was done having children. It holds the zodiac signs for each of the kids, plus Sean’s and mine because, well, we made the kids.

Clearly, I had no clue Quinn would enter the picture a few years later. I have been debating about how to modify the tattoo … To figure out a pretty way to incorporate the new guy. I don’t really love the sign Virgo and was considering adding a simple Q hanging from the tail of Williams’s Leo. I also thought about just doing a separate tattoo completely as there is such an age gap between Quinn and the others. But then I just end up worrying about whether he might feel left out…

I decided just to ask Quinn… Let him be the tie breaker. “Quinn, what do you think I should put right here on my back? A Q or a sign?” He answered, “Ummmmm…. A moose!”

I am open to other suggestions.

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