Thankful for:

The bald eagle that flew down river yesterday, right past my window. The small rafts of ice that are gathering, clumping together on the frigid surface, gliding past with a noise that I get to hear all night long. The smell of the snow and downed leaves as my son and I walk to the post office together. We don't have to talk, we just walk and absorb the sights and smells of a winter day. The feeling that to be alive is enough, and yet so much more.

The boy who lets me be his mama. The quiet, thoughtful soul who says more with his eyes than his words, which is perfectly fine with me. The healthy little heart of his, the strong body, the soft skin, the clear eyes, the curious mind. He is all of me and all of his dad, and yet he is better, somehow. He is more than us, and it makes me wonder what fireworks we created when he became more than just matter. Sure, every parent thinks their child is special. I think mine is special for me. Not for you. Just for me.

The man who lets me be me. The one who, after 6 years, I still want to write poetry for, but not the flowery kind. The naughty kind you give to someone when nobody else is looking, because you hope they take you up on your offer. The man who fights me back, who lets me win, but reminds me that while I may be right, I am also a giant pain in the ass, and for that, I love him more. The wonderful man who sighs and let me snuggle up to his back at night, even though I am impossible to sleep comfortably next to. He give me presents of books, he reminds me that I forgot to take the trash out, he works harder for us. He comes home to tell me how this woman he saw today doesn't stack up against me, and how he couldn't imagine being with anyone else. He is my comedy and I, his comic book.

The home, the yard, the car, the dogs, the cats, the friends, the shoes on my feet, the ability to type this. The things I am thankful for will go on forever, ever getting smaller and smaller...the functioning mitochondria that make each day possible. And bigger and bigger: the enormous star-studded black sky, in which I can name the constellations to my son.

The family. I cannot elaborate more, they are too much. Too much to describe because there are too many, too noisy, too wonderful. Just keep classy, Curry Family.

Life. You honor me with your presentation of wonderful choices. Thank you.

God. You nameless thing, you. You are the alpha and the omega. You remind me of how very small and how incredibly enormous I really am, all in the same millisecond.

This year has been good. Next year will be better. Happy Thanksgiving, world.

Permission Granted
David Allen Sullivan

You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others pass over.
You don't have to bury
your grandmother's keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.

You don't need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube—the machine's wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.

You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.

You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.

Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune
yourself. Close your eyes. Hum.
Each beat of the world's pulse demands
only that you feel it. No thoughts.
Just the single syllable: Yes ...

Sometimes the desire to NOT choose the more practical items or the less expensive things is so strong within me. Sometimes I feel the urge to dress in heels and silk and simply trip around the world without stopping to think, "oh. Can I afford this?" The fact is though, life takes from you. The deer in the woods don't think about debt or the state of the economy. They are worried about when that damn mountain lion catches them having a sunlit nap. They are concerned that while the weather seems to be holding out, how long will it last? Life just takes, without any kind of discrimination, really. It just takes. We cannot hope to understand the way it happens. But we can hope, we can revel, we can dream. Those things make us different. They make us unique. Our meatsacks really aren't that amazing. It's our ability to be creative with them that makes us so different. My ability to create is unique to me, and if I do nothing with it, that's ok, too. Yes...

Oooohhhhh, terrible blogger I am.

So, I've been busy. Life has gotten so wild as of late, and I love it. It's the kind of wild I want: the real wild. The kind that involves seeing a bobcat run across your path, and realize your favorite view in the whole world is right there in front of you, asking to be taken. I couldn't ask for much more.

My parents bought 80 acres out on the edge of the world. It is untamed and gorgeous. It is raw potential. They are building a house on one corner and we are helping with the plans. But the rest of it is up for grabs, to hike, to rock climb, to picnic,...to consider as a homestead. So here we are, looking at the possibility of being pioneers. Do we go for it? Do we test our potential and say yes to a bare hillside, waving with sage and rabbit brush? Do we say yes to the bob cat, the tarantulas, the deer, the snakes, the coyotes and the very, very black sky overhead? Do we say yes to the hard work, and the tears, and the sweat, to find the perfect fit? It's all so invigorating, these intense thoughts.

And who knows, really? Maybe we will. Maybe we won't. But for now, I have a hillside to hunker down on and enjoy the view that I love so much, hoping the wildlife doesn't come for a nibble.

A love letter

(I wrote this yesterday, but got busy and forgot to post. Sorry!)

Dear Adam-

It's 4 years today. We got married under a yellow tree 1461 days ago. Since then, we have moved what feels like a kajillion times, had a baby, changed our careers a few times, and flipped upside down our way of looking at the world. I wanted to tell you that I would not trade the long nights, the times when we had less than nothing, the moments that felt like they would break us in half for anything in the world. Those moments brought us here, to day 1461 and counting. That, my brave heart, is why we are here. Because the days keep marching on. Because we are only given a small time together, and by God, we plan to use up our days together.

I would not have it any other way.

You don't really like poetry. That's ok, I don't really like manga. Somehow we still jive. But I will keep telling you that Billy Collin's poem Litany is how I feel about you. Depending on how you read it, it can be my mood on any kind of day. I need to write my own version of it, honestly. One where you are the sunlight coming through a dark pine forest. Or the smell of a wheat field warmed by the summer heat. Or the plate of eggs and cup of coffee steaming on the table early in the morning. You are all of these wonderful little things to me, all of these perfect moments smushed together into one being. Sure, we have our tough times. But to me, you will always be the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and somehow, the wine.

Thanks for all these years, love. Can we have some more? I would love that.

To Day One of Year Five! Cheers!

Mush, mush, mush.

Oh, man. Can I just borrow a newborn for a minute? Anyone?

I am seriously struggling right now. I am seriously going through baby smell withdrawal. Leif doesn't smell like a baby any more. He smells like a little boy, which unless he is fresh from the shower, smells kinda funky. I will give it to him that his hair always smells like warm sunshine, but GOD ALMIGHTY, the rest of him is a assortment of downright weird. It doesn't help that he rolls around with the dogs, puts pine sap in his hair, runs around with his hand in his pants, and considers the front of his shirt a good place to wipe his nose. He's a boy, and I'm not blaming him. He's adorable, and he does smell like my kiddo, in that good way I will always love. But I miss baby smell!

I'm also super torn right now about thinking about Rowan 2.0, and enjoying the ability to give Leif tasks and have him be self-sufficient. It's nice to tell him to go play with his toys while I clean, and he actually does it. It's nice to be able to put him down for a nap without tons of crying. It's nice to have him tell me when he's had a poop (toilet training coming soon!) and deal with it before it escapes his diaper. But jeeze, I miss the tiny ones. The little tiny fingers and toes. That perfect smell. The 3 hour naps. The sighs and smiles.

Blurgh. I think I am still waiting to get there. I know that my body still says, "Yeah right, sister. Remember not being able to walk? Remember Braxton-Hicks for MONTHS? Remember crying and leaking everywhere?" Oh yeah. I forgot about that.

So, I'll sit here and remember for a minute, and then I'll go kiss my smelly boy and wash his hands and love him even more. I'll be grateful for his talents and his willingness to help. I'll find someone with a newborn, and have a good sniff, and then be patient.

Good plan.

What to do when you have no money and need more glasses:

Moving is hard on glass objects. Considering how many times I have moved in the last 5 years (more times than I have fingers), it's a bloody miracle I have glass objects that are still intact. So, I realized that in this last move, I needed more drinking glasses, because I'm a broke snob and refuse to buy plastic. That's how I roll.

So, to fix my problem, I took up drinking copious amounts of wine. HAHA, GOTCHA. No, not really. I did steal a few empty bottle from friends and family. I have this crazy old glass bottle cutter, and I decided to get crafty. I have done it before, with mixed results. I have cut myself. I have burned myself. I have almost shot myself with half a bottle. This time, I was determined to NOT do any of that. Yay me.

To start, you bust out bottle cleaning. Labels have to be removed and the glue has to be scrubbed off. Hot water and elbow grease works best. The glue can interfere in the actual cutting, so make it clean.

Once the bottle are dry, clean, and ready, assemble your necessary tools: bottle cutter, candle, matches, grinding powder, bowl of ice cubes, towel, flat piece of glass. Have everything on hand, because it sucks to realize you are missing a step. Then you are going to cut the bottles. Be sure to adjust the height of the scoring blade every time, not every bottle is going to be cut in the same place. I have noticed it is much easier to cut on the flat bit, rather than the curving neck. And then you cut. You place the bottle against the scorer, press down, and turn, as evenly and carefully as possible. You will hear a crunch noise when you are all the way around. If you don't press evenly, you will have gaps. You can go back over those spots, but they create a less even cut, and will result in more possibilities in cracks or uneven cuts. So be consistent. You will get better over time.

My cutter. 

A scored bottle. This bottle cut was very evenly.

After they are all scored, it is time to separate the two halves. I will admit this is the most nerve-wracking part. You have fire, broken glass, ice cubes all over....what a mess. Anyways, I survived. To start, light the candle. DO NOT USE A GAS STOVE FLAME. I did and it was a Bad Time. A candle is plenty hot. Have the ice cubes very close. Roll the score line through the flame, letting it blacken and heat. You will hear tiny little cracks happening. If you hear nothing, you aren't letting it get hot enough. Slow down. Keep rolling it around a few times, making sure to get the score really toasty. Then grab an ice cube and ice the score line down! Get it while it's hot. You will hear the crack reacting to the heat and cold, and if you cut it well, the score will pop, and the two parts will separate. I always keep a hand towel under the bottle, because they break suddenly.

The ice gets black and messy and drippy. Don't wear nice clothes.

Heating up the score line.

If nothing happens, you did it wrong. Just kidding. No, it just means the score isn't perfect and you have to keep trying. Heat it up, cool it down. The more little crackle noises you get, the better. I did one of them 4 times. Sometimes you barely hit it with ice and it just pops right off. (And sometimes you are an idiot and heat it up over a gas range without taking the cork off and run it under cold water in the sink with no towel under it and the parts explode and shatter all over the damn place.)

All 5 of my bottles, cut and ready to polish.

After you get them cut, assess the damage. Some will be really good, a very clean cut. Some will be ok, with some dips that are shallow and can be polished out. Some will be kinda not so great, with big dips and big lumps, making polishing a nightmare, but possible. And some will just be tossed out, because they will be too badly cut. This round I got 2 really good ones, 2 ok ones, and one urgh one. I decided to bust out the polishing of the good ones first, to get it done. Those were the most rewarding. The other ones will take me more time, and I will complete later, when I have a solid hour to work the dips out. The last one I am contemplating cutting it down a little lower, in the hope that I get a cleaner cut.

Rub it out!

You then take the flat piece of glass (mine is from an old picture frame) and pour a bit of water and some polishing grit on it. And then you go to town on that bad boy. It takes a while. You arm will get tired. And the noise is terrible. It's glass, on sand, on glass. I personally don't mind it, but other people can't be in the same house with me while I polish. It's really noisy. You will polish, then wash it off, let it dry, and look at it. The parts that still need polishing will be shiny. You want the entire surface of the cut to be foggy and soft. Run your fingers around it and feel for sharp edges. CAREFULLY. I recommend polishing a while before doing this. Glass cuts hurt!

After you have gotten it to where you need it, wash the hell out of it. The glass shards are not good to drink! It needs a good scrubbing before use.

And voila! You have new glasses! You are dirty, you have bleeding fingers, your ears don't work right anymore, and your arms have new muscles, but by God, you have some wine glass cups you can use. Yay you.

Letting Go

Oh, this title. I have such a hard time with this one. Letting go is never easy. I can let something be forgotten for a while, but letting go completely? Yeesh. Not easy for me. So when faced with letting go of my fears and focusing on what I want, I can get a little caught up in the details.

Lately, I moved. And I quit a wonderful job, one that allowed me to be with my wee Leif. So now I need to figure out how to meet the bills each month, while also caring for my son, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, making meals, etc. Life, ya know? It happens. It doesn't stop because you have less income. It keeps moving forward, despite your fears.

So here I am, trembling like a rabbit, not really sure what's going to happen next, and thinking, "Well, Kate, what do you really want?" So here goes:

What Kate Rowan really wants:

The ability to get Leif to school age with me as his primary caretaker.
The ability to have Rowan Baby 2.0 when I am good and ready.
The time and care needed to cook for my family. I want to be healthy consumers.
I want to feel good about the cleanliness in my house, and feel content that at the end of that day, that I maintained us all.
I want to be able to continue my education. Quietly, part time, without many people noticing, but still moving forward.
I want to have positive financial saving goals established that we meet every month.
I want to be able to enjoy my relationships with my family, my husband and my child.
I want to be able to have hobbies.

I think I can make this happen. Now just go do it!

Observations on Snacks.

My dear son, bless his tiny black heart, has really taken off in his talking ability. We were worried a little for a while. Now we just wish he would shut up every once in a while. His ability to repeat one word over and over and over is incredible. The one that is haunting me in my sleep lately is "NACKS!!" or snacks, because he is a black hole that will only be filled with chocolate. So he yells nacks!nacks!nacks!nacks! roughly 6000 times a day. I'm not even kidding. And I offer him everything. I have been known to make elaborate meals with multiple options, only to hear, "NO! NACKS!"

In desperation, I have been known to throw chocolate at him.

Go ahead, judge me. I know, I'm doing it all wrong. I'm giving into the terrorist's demands. I am feeding the bad behavior. I am also losing my sanity. Seriously.

Luckily, he does eat other food, too. He actually ate peas last night. I've made peas for him so many times, and not only did he eat them, he actually liked them. Victory.

But, DEAR GOD, I wish he would just give the nacks a break.

PS- Other words he knows: hair, kiss, hugs, ambulance, phone, bed, trees, grass, light, balls, plate, cup (but still not water???), blocks, games, toys, run, shoes, socks, pants, shirt, hat, coat.

Day One

I hit the reset button today. Yesterday, I realized that my last blog had lapsed. I had been telling myself to update, to clean it up, to maintain the damn thing. Then I saw the long, long list of 900 posts that desperately needed my help. And I hit the reset button.

I have been meaning to do this for a while. I have been meaning to write better, to acquire more meaningful content. My last blog was very meaningful, but it was also hampered by my bad days, the days when the content was pictures of cats and strange ramblings. I am better than that. I am so much better than that. 

So, here we are. Day One. Yesterday, I also realized that I need to remember all the Day Ones. The days when you start over. We little humans do that a lot. It's so beautiful, and so cathartic, and so fantastic. We recreate ourselves so much! Flighty? Flaky? Sure! But are we always trying to be better versions of us? YES.

So, go, Kate Rowan. Be a better version of you, every single day. Make every day a DAY ONE.