a muted palette

exhausted

2009-04-17T20:55:00.001-07:00

I thought it was hard work maintaining a home for sale. And then we came into true Hell Week, otherwise known as The Close.

I'm way too tired to even go into it right now.

Just wanted to tell you that I'm still here, barely clinging to the ability to communicate cohesively. But still here.

The house is supposed to close on Monday.

I hear this will all be over soon. And soon, we can all get back to a new normal. You know, where strangers aren't all up in my personal space, and business, and traipsing on my last nerve.

Yeah. That'll be nice.

The move happens next weekend. Our yard sale is tomorrow. And in between, lots more sorting and stressing and probably sobbing. It wouldn't be going out on a limb to guess that I'll be snorting and weeping in the not-too-distant future.

Someone remind me, strongly please, to not enter the real estate game again for a long, long while.

I'll smile and thank you for it when this is all over.

messy growth

2009-04-10T13:23:00.000-07:00

It seems like only yesterday I was driving myself crazy wondering whether I was going to have a boy or a girl. Now, my beautiful big boy Felix is four months old and already taking on solid food.

Yeah. I'm heading for a metaphor.

Similarly, it surely had to be just yesterday that we were driving ourselves crazy wondering whether it was the right time to take on a move, buying and selling homes in this turbulent market, and doing it all with a newborn. Now, here we are on the verge of successfully relocating our happy family to a more suburban Utopia just 20 minutes south.

I have a hard time understanding how we did it all. More than a lot of it is a big blur.

As Felix begins to learn how to chew and take food from a spoon, pablum goes all akimbo. Thin gruel ends up in the least likely of places, and some of it even in his mouth. Sometimes there are tears. To the uninitiated, it might look like chaos.

Likewise with our home. As moving boxes and flying newspaper replace the known and gentle order I had created (and relied upon), turbulence seems to reign. But I know that just underneath the controlled violence, the tectonics are reshaping a better future for us all.

So I let the pablum fly, dig in and keep packing.

sick but well

2009-04-04T15:43:00.001-07:00

Stacked, by Diana Crites

I have just enough time to share my latest drawing with you, which is to say no time at all. Between a rollicking phlegmy virus that has wiped out all joy and will to live this week, and packing our home between taking care of three sick kids...

I lost my train of thought. Serious sleep deprivation makes one very wacky.

The saying 'no rest for the wicked' keeps going through my head, but there's also no point to that at all.

Oh yes, I remembered. Between all of that, I managed to take sips of mental vacation in the form of drawing. I love drawing, especially in a pen and ink crosshatch style. It's very satisfying, especially in that it quiets the static-filled stimulus in my over-tired mind. Stimulus like replaying odd sayings that may or may not be pertinent, and trying to decipher whether I really think that I'm wicked or just really, really tired.

I should stop typing and lay down.

Please come see my newest drawing, Stacked. It's one of my very favorite subjects, Boston Terriers. I like it a lot and hate the thought of parting with it, but I told myself that everything I make right now I'm putting for sale in my shop. In that way I'll be motivated to keep creating.

Thanks for sharing with me. Be back after the virus has had its way and made room for sleep.

Glorious sleep.

the birthday march

2009-03-25T08:49:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I do extraordinarily well, it's beat myself up.

And so I've been luxuriating in feeling really guilty for publicly commemorating just one of our special days in March. Let me correct that and ease my heartburn, pretty please.

If your family is anything like mine, then March is the birthday-est month of the year.

Not only do we get to celebrate my beloved husband, but--

my second and most rapscallion son, Edward (March 5)
my gorgeous and incredibly bad-ass Mom (March 18)
one of my very best friends, the beautious Miki (March 6)
and twin wonders, best friends to my boys and Miki's own miracles, Annika and Aaron (March 4)

I think by the end of March, I could easily pass for the biggest and fluffiest of marshmallow treats. That's how much cake we consume. Well, me anyway.

I would have liked to have blogged about each date as we passed them. But I've been really bogged down with buying and selling and cleaning and staging homes. It's not that any birthday is more special than another, it's just that I've got enough gray hairs and stress wrinkles and comfort eating pounds from this particular March.

And so hopefully this tribute to March birthdays will suffice. Happy birthday and all my love to you all.

Happy Birthday, Mom and Edward!

I hope all your wishes come true, my handsome little devil

Happy birthday, Miki, Aaron (not shown here) and precious Annika! You guys light up my life.

Aside from the added pounds and the added stress, this March has been really incredible. Having special days to celebrate some of the great loves n my life just make it more so.

___

In between home stuff and baby world, I'm still finding some time to draw. It really helps keep the brittle nerves in check. Drawing cross-hatch for me almost fills the void that was left when I quit smoking. I love to have something to keep my hands busy and my mind from nibbling on itself.

This drawing is of a brave little monkey in a clown hat. On a high wire. If you're thinking that I tend to illustrate what I'm feeling at the time, you'd be correct. This is going to be a full-size pen and ink drawing, and it will be available as an unframed original in my shop very soon.

in thanks of the day

2009-03-24T07:08:00.001-07:00

Although doubtless you would have called me every kind of fool at the time -- and you wouldn't not have been wrong -- the best thing I ever did was to marry my husband.

Sure it looked terrible on paper. We'd only been dating for four months, had known each other for well less than a year, and eloped to a quiet cemetery-side ceremony presided over by our mutual friend. But that leap of faith, quite unbeknown to us at the time, fast-tracked us to the rest (and the best) of our lives.

One day I'll have to tell you the story of how we met. It's really funny. I'd been brainwashed to believe that he was an ultraviolent misogynistic monster. But when I came face-to-face with his downward slanting blue eyes, his deep dimples, and his devil-may-care sideburns it was all over, ridiculous reputation or not.

Don't even get me started on his crazy-sexy Popeye forearms.

He's always been my guardian angel, and for the last seven years I've been lucky enough to have him, too, as my best friend and faithful husband. Today is his birthday. and I just want to tell him (and the world) how goddamn much I love him.

I love you, Mike. Happy Birthday, baby.

ring of fire

2009-03-14T10:48:00.000-07:00

Faith (detail) by Diana Crites

It hasn't been an easy two weeks.

I'm only being so coy because I hate to hit you in the face with vulgarity. I know you can be a little sensitive to that, sometimes. But, listen: honestly? It's been fucking awful.

I thought it would be really crazy to have our home listed for sale. Staging and maintaining a home with the potentially-buying public in mind is a really difficult standard to adhere. Particularly while in the home all day with your three children, aged 3, 2 and 3 months.

You clean and they naturally destroy. You become shrill and hysterical over the once-unimportant things, like a spilled drink or a spilled diaper. You hand out snacks and wipe away crumbs simultaneously, until even you make yourself nauseous. You wait for the phone to ring, tell yourself not to get anxious, wait for the phone to ring, wait for the phone to ring. Get anxious. Get sick anxious. Then when a realtor does call you talk their ear off in gratitude. Then you make yourself nauseous again.

You pack up the kids and dogs for day-long sessions out, trudging through rain, mall, logistical nightmare and meltdown. After meltdown. Sweatily pushing a double stroller with an infant bjorn'ed to your chest, you inadvertently invite all manner of jovial public comment, the most original being, "Well you've certainly got your hands full!" You want to go home, you know: the home where you can hide away from the rest of the world in comfy cotton pants with elastic. Not the home where suited realtors guide strangers through your corridors and former comfort zone.

Instead of relaxing, you clean. Instead of resting, you clean. Instead of taking a breather, you survey what you have to clean next. You take mental inventory, check off mental lists. Go mental.

You Windex the faucets just about every hour, until the faucets are begging you not to touch them anymore. Your nails are brittle from exposure to bleach.

Your nerves are brittle from exposure.

And then, out of nowhere, you get an offer.

I can't write about it yet; it's all new and surfacing. But in case you were wondering: yes, it's been bad. But YES! It's all been worth it.

Back soon with hopefully very great news.

P.S. I drew this lucky star pen and ink ACEO whilst (unbeknownst to me) an offer was being drafted on our house. I'm convinced that this little drawing is very, very lucky. Come get it if you need some good fortune to smile on you!

stages

2009-02-28T12:06:00.000-08:00

My beautiful, sparkling son in my beautiful, sparkling living room

I'm sorry I haven't written in forever. Sorrier still that it will probably be a little while until I'm back on a regular basis. I do so enjoy our conversations.

I really don't mean for that to read condescendingly.

The truth is that there is sparse little to truly absolutely no "me" time to be had right now: no creating, no writing, and hardly any reality television.

I really don't meant for that to read self-pityingly.

We are full-out sprinting to get our home ready to list on this tempestuous real estate market. We're cleaning to the bone, staging and re-staging after our kids wreak havoc, have had never-ending sessions of throwing out, pondering worth and re-organizing.

It's enough to keep a mother of three in a perpetual hair-rending state of business!

Right now as I type, Mike and the older boys are at Home Depot for about the fourth time this week. Baby Felix is upstairs napping. And a contractor is in the bathroom, fixing a leaky faucet and making just enough noise to keep me on the edge of my seat as I expect to hear the aforementioned sleeping baby no longer sleeping sweetly. A hauler is coming shortly. The basement, the last bastion of our own Wild West, needs to be handled somewhere between further naps (not for me; I wish).

We list on Monday.

Our 1947 Cape Code, polished and ready for someone else to fall in love with it.

I feel really good about it. We absolutely love our home. But there are so many reasons why it's time for us to put our roots elsewhere. We bought our gorgeous 1947 Cape Cod when we were freshly married and didn't have to worry about things like trekking three flights with three boys three and under a gazillion times a day. Our new home (currently in escrow) is much closer to Mike's work, right around the corner from my mom, associated with incredible schools, in the middle of fresh suburbia, and best of all: a meandering dayranch style!

Please send us all the best wishes you can spare for a fast, painless sale! It's a tough market, but we're doing all we can to come out on top.

In the meantime, the boys and I are learning very useful skills in picking up after oneself, organization (at which I've always seriously sucked), and the value of routines. All of which will serve us well in our new home.

I'll keep you abreast of the latest developments and check in when I can. I exist in a perpetual state of bleach fumes, furniture polish, and low-level anxiety. But also with a strong sense of purpose and determination, which ain't such a bad thing at all.

Wish us luck!

change your luck

2009-02-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

Drawn by Diana Crites

It's Friday the 13th! Yay!!!

I've always found that I've actually usually had the best luck on Fridays the 13th. Perhaps it's because I tend to embrace the typically shunned. Or perhaps it's just one of those things.

In any event, I don't know about your day but mine is going incredibly, especially for a new family of five who's just signed on the dotted lines to buy and sell homes. The kids look to be almost over this mucus-filled tidal wave that the latest cold had brought; Felix is suddenly very amenable to sleeping sweetly in his crib; we are really making progress in getting the house ready for sale; and most wonderful of all: one of my best friends in the whole world has given me the joyous news, that another little miracle is in the works!

I don't want to jinx anything, but that's pretty freaking good luck right there.

Whichever side of the superstitious fence you fall on, don't forget to enter my giveaway contest! Today is the last day, and the rules are super easy and fun. Please go to TotusMel's blog for all the details and to enter.

Good luck!

giveaway! a very vicious valentine

2009-02-04T08:09:00.000-08:00

I have never been a fan of Valentine's Day.

Perhaps it the inherent Ugly Duckling in me, growing up awkward and morose, certain that no pre-packaged professions of affection would be waiting for me in my decorated Valentine's sack. Much like the game of Duck Duck Goose, it can scar you. Although I did find my own version of Prince Charming in the end, I never believed in the concept in the interim.

I am not what you'd call a romantic.

But.

This year, in honor of Valentine's Day, I've got something special for you: carved from the recesses of my thorny heart.

You can win the set shown above: a limited edition reproduction ACEO (6/66) of my painting, Drawn, and this OOAK death's-head moth magnet, in solid muted green. I will even throw in a pre-packaged profession of affection.

To enter and for all the details, please go to TotusMel's blog, Needle Tatting and Other Nonsense. Pam of TotusMel is a personal Etsy hero of mine and a mentor, and I'm so thrilled that she's hosting this giveaway (while you're there, check out her own dark art, which captivated me from the first moment I saw it).

Come enter and have fun! There are lots of ways to play. I love a giveaway and hope you do, too. The element of luck is perhaps more viable than the fear of an empty Valentine's Day sack. Hopefully.

the spreading of wings

2009-01-30T09:36:00.000-08:00

Death's head moth magnets (preview) by Diana Crites

Metaphors can be as bad as puns. Which is to say pretty bad. My first husband loved puns, but that's neither here nor there.

What I want to say is "things are starting to take flight." But I don't want you to stop reading before you begin.

So I'll just skip it. For now.

At the risk of jinxing myself, I have to tell you that everything's really great around here. There seems to be an undercurrent of riding this fabulous momentum that's gliding us towards greener pastures. Closer to everything we want.

God, I hope I'm not jinxing myself.

Baby Felix, almost 8 weeks old, is incredible. Healthy, fat and sassy, and just as sweet as you please. Although he's not doing great at night, he is doing better. And I'll take what I can get. The healing salve that makes all the affected hurts go away is his great, big, sunny smile. Oh, that kid.

We are undertaking a huge and consuming project in the short term. For many reasons and to make giant strides towards many of our goals, we're looking to sell our home and move southward, towards my mom and Mike's work. We're looking to take advantage of low rates and even lower home prices. If you have any encouraging words, please send them our way! It's intimidating, but I know we can do it. I'll keep you informed of our progress. We're looking at homes this weekend, and getting a market analysis of our home early next week.

And, I'm making stuff again! I love it. Although I don't have much time or space to take on huge projects, I'm creating smaller ones that I can work on in sips and starts. It makes me happy. So does having my Etsy shop open again. The new death's head moth magnets, pictured above, will be in my Etsy shop in the next day or two.

Oh, and I'll be having a giveaway very soon! I'm hoping to get one of my friends and Etsy mentors to host it. Look for details in the next little bit.

don't call it a comeback

2009-01-20T12:00:00.001-08:00

Path (detail), by Diana Crites

Friday, without fanfare, I quietly reopened my Etsy shop. For some reason it was a big, hesitant step for me.

I should have expected the internal resistance.

The postpartum period is a funny time. Not ha ha funny. Funny strange. In addition to the profusion of physical wackiness -- not "ha ha" wackiness -- there is an emotional plateau that has to be crested in order to be believed. Oh, the dizzying highs and nauseating lows! You could seriously be chuckling to yourself over a one-liner in a situation comedy one moment, and then crying for the sake of the SAG union the next. When in reality you couldn't give two shakes about either the union or situation comedies in general. And then you forget about the whole thing because you're overcome by insatiable hunger.

Yep, it's fun like that!

One curious by-product of this hormonal miasma is a strong, almost palpable cocooning. It must be nature's way of ensuring that new mother caretakes new infant, this inescapable drive. You do but you don't want to do anything else. This could include showering, at its highest point.

So not only have I been battling the perpetual artist's conundrum of, "am I good enough?" but I've also been struggling to pull myself away from my postpartum hypnosis. Finally, tired of the dueling thoughts within my head, I just went forward and switched on my Etsy shop again. Satisfied that I had done something outside of mothering, I crawled back into my milk-scented cave.

And then a few hours later I found that, without even trying, I'd sold one of my original oil paintings (Path, shown above).

Do I even need to tell you how good that felt?

With that rousing validation, I'm joyfully carving out tiny moments of time to create again. I have so many projects to finish, more to start, and all that I'm excited about. Creating something, anything, is one of my strongest drives. Although I battle the odd mommy guilt when I'm not spending every moment fawning over my fellows, I know that at the end of the day a happy mommy means a happy family. Means a happy me.

If you haven't done so, or so lately, please come check out my Etsy shop. I've just added two framed pen and ink illustrations that I love, both starring Br'er Rabbit. Later this week, I hope to add some new pieces of functional art I've been working on. And in the coming months I'll be adding more Woebegone art dolls!

the objects of my (time and) affection

2009-01-15T14:44:00.000-08:00

Time is fast getting away with me.

No new story there, save for the cast of players. All is well and all is harried, but all is all too good.

I'm working on a lot of things, including finding tiny pockets of time and create to carve out some new fun stuff. I'll be reopening my Etsy shop very soon, and will be adding new pieces over the next little bit.

In the meantime, and before I let another month pass me by without blogging, here is a photo of the centers of my world, my three boys.

in with the new

2009-01-01T19:08:00.000-08:00

I just wanted to take a moment to wish all my friends a very happy New Year. May all your most heartfelt wishes come true. And may 2009 be just the beginning of something wonderful for us all.

press the reset

2008-12-27T13:16:00.000-08:00

My husband, Mike, trying to shovel us out from enforced hibernation

So I've got a question: what the hell is going on around here?

I would like to say our Christmas was incredible. The best ever. But I'd kind of be stretching it and I don't want our relationship to erode like that.

The truth is that we spent Christmas and the many days preceding it snowed in, trapped in our home and the worst storm to hit the Portland area in 50 years.

In many ways, it was the best Christmas ever because my family is all together for the first time, since our darling Felix has arrived. But the first 30 days post-baby are a real wash, as you sleep walk through your former routine being blown out of the water, and try to get used to a new order of business with an incendiary infant and two cranky little guys not used to sharing attention. When you add enforced hibernation in 2000 square feet with groceries dwindling, well: it's nothing Normal Rockwell would preserve.

We did the best we could.

Now, two days after Christmas the big thaw has begun. We've lost about 40% of the ice and snow outside, enabling us to bundle up and awkwardly make our way out, a new family of five blinking and excited to be in the outside world again. Sure, we were just going to Target for some diapers but it beat the same 5 rooms. We were going to rejoin society.

Yeah.

So to get back to my original question: What the hell is going on around here?

Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, throughout the local mall and Target was so damn surly it might have been tax day. I have never in my life seen so many evil eyes flashed in every direction at the same time, so much venomous grumblings and begrudged moves out of the way. Isn't this supposed to be the season of joy, or something like that? Who are these assholes and where did I take a wrong turn?

We couldn't get out of there fast enough. Then, just to really put a period on it, as I'm crossing the parking lot in icy rain, with newborn Felix bjorned to my chest and Vincent in hand, some total douche in a Blazer refuses to slow down and yield. "Motherfucker!" I mouth at him, giving in to the blackness. "Rrrr! RrrrRRRR!!!" he revs, just to show me what big balls he has, and hightails away through slush and ice.

When we get back to the car, I strap us in and wonder about the state of the world. Is this the result of the economy? Has everyone drunk the Kool-aid and bought the seasonal disorder hullaballoo? Did Santa leave burning bags on porches this year?

I have no idea. The only thing I know concretely now is that I'd really like to collect all the cast-off snow and bury us deeply once more. "Home, home," I think ever so fondly. "Take me home."

And so, to commemorate how much I'd like to kick civilization squarely in the balls sometimes, I am publicly printing a short story I wrote last year that deals with some of the same emotion. Enjoy!!!

The exchange of information

I like to think I lead a pretty peaceable existence. I don't hoist my opinion on anyone else, let alone my physical presence. I stay out of political discussions, for the most part, and tread very lightly on the subject of religion and faith. When my eyes meet those of a stranger I will smile; I am very kind to support staff in any capacity, and always, always say, "please," "thank you," and "excuse me." I believe very strongly in personal space, and take special care not to negatively impact anyone's day inasmuch as possible. Aside from temper tantrums, we don't encounter any violence and we certainly don't shell it out.

So you can imagine it came as a real goddamn shock when that truck crashed into my parked car in the Walmart parking lot today, with me, the kids and the dogs in it.

It hadn't been my morning.

The kids are getting over the latest rollicking cold. Edward, the first to contract the germs, was on the upswing, but my Vincent was in its throes. A very dramatic fella to begin with, illness pushes him into the red with no reservoir. We'd had back-to-back timeouts, multiple meltdowns, brother-on-brother turbulence, a mommy pushed to the brink... and it wasn't even noon. Fastening shoes and appointing jackets, I loaded up the troubled troops, called the beleaguered dogs, and headed for an oasis.

We were going to Walmart.

The boys like Walmart and so I like Walmart. Despite the fact that our local store is chock-full of IQ-challenged, style-ignorant, vapid bumpkins, it does have its good points. The aisles are wide and well lit, there's always something for the boys to see or do, and I won't say no to a bargain.

I had thought ahead and brought a short list. As a bonus, my mom was going to meet us there and do some tandem shopping. She's great for entertaining the kids and feeding me some adult companionship as we get the task done.

The shopping was such a well-needed respite from the morning's ruckus. Edward and I were able to find what I needed in short order, while my mom and Vincent played with bouncy balls. They were 2 for $5, so I added them to the cart and checked out. The kids were all smiles.

My mom helped us get loaded into the car; I buckled in Edward while she put Vincent into his seat. He had a small tantrum but it was to be expected; it was getting near naptime. This was a small blip on the tantrum radar screen. No worries. We said goodbye and I climbed into the back of our van with the boys. Because I am a safe driver, I make sure the kids have what they need before we head out. I put a beloved kids CD on, doled out snacks, and was feeding Edward a bottle so he wouldn't fuss.

"OH MY GOD!" I screamed without even realizing it. The past second was filled with a violent shake and the sound of crunching metal. It had passed but still felt like it was going on. I could hear it in my head although it wasn't there any more.

"Rrr! Rrrrr!!!' revved the truck next to me, as it pulled away from the side of my van. The side close to Edward. The truck was attempting to back up into the parking space next to mine.

I ran out the driver's side door. "You hit my car!" I screamed at the driver. He turned to look at me. He was very old.

"Yeah, I know!" replied the doddering old fuck. He was still trying to back into the space.

"I'm calling the police!" I yelled, then headed back for my van and shut the door. The kids just looked at me. I dialed 911 and made sure there was a song on that they liked. I handed out more snacks.

Judge Judy always tells you that if you have any doubts about the situation, about your safety or about the other person involved in an altercation, you should call the police. I did not know the mindset of this fossil, other than the fact that his wide eyes appeared to be rolling and he put my children in jeopardy. I was not going to go out and have a tete-a-tete with a madman.

"I have my information right here," stuttered the wretched old douchebag through my closed window. I continued on with the 911 operator. I described what had happened, our cars, our location, then had to step out to get his license plate number. "I have my information!" farted the ancient shitbag, but I ignored him and locked myself in again.

I called my mom on her cell phone. Thank God she'd met us for shopping. She would come back out to us.

I called my husband, Mike. He wanted me to assess the damage, so I had to step out and take a look. It was the rear wheel well, and it was scraped and dented. I know nothing about cars, so I couldn't tell him if it would affect the driveability. I'd call him again after the police got there.

"Are they coming or what?" shouted the crazy old man. I couldn't believe it. He was getting impatient with me? He had to be nuts.

"They're on their way. You just wait right there!" I yelled back.

"Do you have insurance?" sneered the old fuck.

"Yes, I have insurance!" I tossed back over my shoulder as I headed for the safety of the van.

"Good for you!" I heard as I shut the door.

I hated people.

My mom arrived and kept the kids and dogs entertained while I glared out the window, repeatedly shook my head in the negative, and waited for the cops. I love the police. I love that they enforce order and societal mores. When you are one of the good guys, the police are your deus ex machina. I was a good guy. I waited for the calvary to arrive.

It was taking them a long time.

"Maybe you should just exchange information with him," my mom told me. "That's what I would do whenever I'd get into a fender bender."

"Mo-o-om!" I wailed, "I called the police. We don't know if this guy is on something. We don't know his state of mind. I don't want to talk to him!"

"Well, he looks like he's getting impatient."

I wanted to tell my mom that he could go fuck himself, but it wouldn't have gone over well. I went back to shaking my head, and watching the minutes tick by 'till naptime. And the inevitable meltdowns.

"Toot-toot!" went the horn next to me. The diseased waste of air was bleating on his death trap. "Toot-toot!"

A sheriff's car had arrived.

I got out confidently, breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank you for coming, officer," I began--

"You should have just exchanged information," stated Officer Helpful, cutting me off literally and figuratively. He was surveying the damage. "That's all that was called for here."

"Th-that's what I tried to tell her!" drooled the infirm menace, exiting his truck.

"But, but what about a police report?" My voice was losing its confidence and its volume. Tears were imminent.

"Nope," chuffed the useful officer. "But I do have some forms to help you in the exchange of information."

I turned my back on the two as I grimly filled out my form. I surveyed the sky and felt my eye pools filling with useless water. All my life, I couldn't get into a confrontation without crying. A 36-year old mother of two, and I was crying like a little girl. I filled in my form and tapped Edward's window. He looked up at me and grinned, and seemed a hundred miles away. I could still hear the crashing metal in my ears.

I gave the officer my paperwork and he filled in some more details on the back. "[Senile Driver] admits he backed into Diana Crites (sic) parked car," it reads.

I put my paperwork in the car and then went back out to close this miserable session.

"I would have given you my information!" said the old fool. I wiped away hot tears as soon as they would fall. "Mm-hmm," I nodded. Run away, run away, a voice screamed inside my head, get away from all these people.

"Thanks for your help officer," I intoned. I needed to leave. The snot would soon start falling.

I left them chortling together. I heard the officer tell the dinosaur, "enjoy your shopping now!" I wished I could turn invisible and kick the officer square in his pudgy scrotum, and kick the devil out of the fossil's inevitable colostomy bag.

I'm buckling myself into the driver's seat and thanking my mom for her help. The tears are falling fast and furious and my breath is starting to hitch. Soon I won't be able to talk. I hate feeling helpless.

"Get something to eat. Don't drive crazy. Blah blah blah." My mom kept going on and on, while I tried to acknowledge her words and get her out of the car so I could drive away from this whole ridiculous excursion. The safety of my house glowed like a far-off beacon, offering its solitude and known parameters.

"I just want to go home! I WANT TO GO HOME!" I yelled. My mom hadn't taken a hint, but now she recognized how close we were to the edge.

She got out and I locked the door and finally let the floodgates drop. The kids don't mind copious mucous. They're even familiar with it themselves.

I drove back home and -- miraculously -- there were no further incidents. No meltdowns, from any of us. The car drove fine. The boys are napping and I am starting to de-stress. My left side is already sore from ear to armpit. It must have absorbed the blow. I haven't even begun to think about how I'm going to have the time to coordinate all it's going to take to get the car fixed.

That old fucker. I silently wish him some painful hemorrhoids. Incontinence, impotence. Uncontrollable flatulence. I stop short at wishing him a terminal disease.

I don't want to be violent.

guts and glory

2008-12-20T12:57:00.000-08:00

We're tight, you and I.

I share my heart with you regularly, at least I always did so when I had the time and physical ability to sit while proverbially standing naked and vulnerable. I'll get there again: I have so many stories to tell, you've no idea.

But in the meantime, want to go literal? What I mean is, want to know me inside and out? Here's your chance.

Mike took a small video of Felix's birth. And, I guess I'm one of those type of people because I'm posting it here, for your viewing (and/or cringing) pleasure.

Nope. No crotch shots, I'm delighted to tell you. This is a surgical birth. So what you'll see is a bunch of able medical staff delivering my son safely into the world. Through a gash in my stomach. You'll be able to hear his first cry, which to my mind is a little slice of heaven. You'll also be able to hear my husband all high pitched and excitable, which he blames on the adrenaline of the moment.

And here now, I present one of the pivotal moments of my life, the birth of my son, Felix.

Thank you for sharing with me! Let me know if you puke. (My dad refuses to watch it.)

To see wholly non-gruesome baby pics, please scroll down to this post.

my baby

2008-12-19T20:10:00.001-08:00

Since he's entered our lives, it's been a nonstop blur, full of crying, sensory overload and bodily fluids. And I'm not just talking about the kids!

But seriously.

It's been amazing. It's been exhausting. It's been incredibly fulfilling and truly exhausting. Exhausting on a marathon scale.

But all worth it to look into that little face.

My baby, Felix Valentino Crites, was born on Monday, December 8, at 12:42pm (just hours after I blogged below).
He was delivered in a serene and celebratory atmosphere, despite the surgical aspect, and it was positively beautiful. He weighed in at 7 lbs, 5 oz, and was 19.5 inches long. Healthy as all get out, he scored perfect 10s on his APGARs. He was not separated from me for a second, and as he was handed over to me it all clicked in place and everything, everything: the uncertainty, the mourning my previous loss, the nausea, the identity crisis, the full hold on my art, the reset on the mommy clock... infinity, ad nauseum: it all made sense.

This was how it was meant to be. And I am so glad.

Our family is thrilled to have baby Felix with us safely and happily. He is a true joy, despite not yet knowing day from night. He looks like the perfect combination of his two brothers, and was gifted with his daddy's deep dimples. He's our baby, and we love him.

I'll post more as soon as I can carve out another second. Personal time is (for now) a thing of the past. Or maybe I should say of the future. But life doesn't have to be balanced to be beautiful.

A little sleep wouldn't hurt though.

across the universe

2008-12-07T19:00:00.000-08:00

Untitled by Diana Crites

I am at the end of my pregnancy road.

I can feel it, in more ways than one. On so many levels, I've just reached completion. All tasks -- physical, mental, agility -- are well beyond me at this point.

My gait, once designed to convey an enigmatic vulnerability, is now a pendulous gait difficult to stop once in motion. Oblivious to all lifeforms smaller than the current center of my gravity, my protruding bell button. "Gang way!," I would holler mid-sway, if only I could see them in the shadow of my oncoming path.

It's a real party pooper when absolutely no position in which you can assemble yourself is comfortable. Standing, sitting, leaning, or heaving: they all have their downsides. I get feet lodged at the top of my ribs, writhing bits grating heavily on my internal organs. And I won't even tell you about the state of affairs with urination, except to say that I have a profound respect for senior citizens, right about now.

But the funny thing, the really ironic thing, is that I know I'll miss it. I know this because I kind of already do.

You spend almost a year growing a new life. You are its whole universe, and it is your pearl. You change despite yourself, tied universally to this incredible, amazing, kinetic something. There is another body inside of you. You measure it at first in terms of quantifiable objects: now it is the size of a poppy seed, now a grape. It is your secret prize: an unknown world within you, feeding from the best of you. It gets bigger, it kicks. You can feel its strength growing and know that unequivocally so, too, is its potential. You take this life with you everywhere, stroking it gently through the barrier of your belly. It is yours.

And then, one day, you have to say goodbye and it is the world's baby again.

Maybe it's because I've only had c-section births. When you go through a surgical birth, you are bound, passive. It seems as though the natural act of birthing enables a mother to be an active part of a necessary and powerful ritual, using her body and everything within her to bring her baby into life. Strapped to a table, blocked by anesthesia and a blue curtain, you wait and breathe, pensive, until the doctor announces your baby is here. Later, sewn, drugged and recovering, you are united with your baby. But it always still comes as quite a shock.

It was your baby and then it's the world's baby again, seemingly away from you.

Um. Ok.

Ahem. Sorry for the interruption. I have to publish this, mid-thought and unedited because it looks like the baby has other plans. I am having regular, strong contractions and need to hightail it to the hospital for monitoring, and likely delivery. I am writing this at 8:24am on Monday morning. Leaving soon. Very ouchy.

I would really appreciate it if you'd send us prayers and thoughts for a safe delivery and a happy, healthy baby. Here comes another contraction.

Watch for updates on the Twitter feed!

Much love,
Diana

grateful

2008-11-27T20:59:00.000-08:00

It occurs to me today that true gratitude is not just the act of being grateful. But also the deliberate absence of negative thought, deed, and emotion.

And really, truly: I'm so grateful. So much so, that I'm putting aside my long-ingrained dark internal monologue to fully embrace all the riches that consume my life.

Just for today, I won't beleaguer my thoughts with angst over wrinkles and weight gain, the state of what my body will be like after the baby comes. But instead to focus on things that really matter.

Like my husband. My best friend in the whole world, the one person who really and truly gets me and still thinks I'm pretty awesome. For so much of my life I felt alone, and full of affected black solitude. Until I met Mike: my hero, the funniest man in the world, my handsome husband.With him by my side, it's as though I've always been lucky.

And my kids. I spent years wondering if I'd ever be able to become a mom, struggling against an unknown infertility and invisible barrier to my heart's desires. When I became a mom, I became. My children are remarkable beyond anything I could have imagined, once upon a time. They show me new worlds. Through grace and something beyond me, I stand on the threshold of becoming a mom for the third time. And far and away from any petty discomforts, I am beyond blessed.

My amazing mom and my stepdad, Bill, the foundations of our family in so many ways. My true friends and chosen family -- Jodi, Holly, Jenn, Miki, Heather, Tina, Viv, Liz, Kinneret, Cc, and Dani -- true bitches and saints all, in the most marvelous and karmic fashion. My Etsy friends and mentors, who I've been absolutely privileged to get to know through their creations, their art, their words. My Twitter friends, keeping me company and allowing me delicious sips into their fascinating lives. I am so thankful for all of you.

I am thankful for new beginnings, the infinite opportunity to reinvent and rediscover oneself.

And as Thanksgiving comes to a close, I realize that one glutful day is just not enough time to set in motion all the gratitude that comes pouring out when you shut off the internal negativity tap for a peaceful, quiet moment. I wish every day could be Thanksgiving, stomach ache aside. Maybe, with some work, it can.

paying the present price for crimes of fashion past

2008-11-11T08:04:00.000-08:00

An undated, overexposed Polaroid depicting my fashion prowess. Note the unwalkable 7-inch stilettos.

My ribs are killing me, and it's my own stupid fault. Not in a "it comes with the pregnant territory" fault kind of way, but because -- in my hedonistic phase -- I knowingly chose a torturous form of fashion over function. And now I'm paying the cruel piper.

When we are (relatively) young, and naturally self centered, vainglorious, we don't often consult the potential future versions of ourselves for the sanity check before forging ahead. If I had at the time, for instance, I would have never gotten involved with my dubious ex-boyfriend -- who shall be referred to as "Evil Incarnate" -- and I would have been a little less willing to fork over large sums of money to institutions in search of the promise of self realization. And certainly, surely, I would not have knowingly deformed my ribcage for fleeting attention.

At least I like to think so.

I have never been a fashion magnate. I am not that type of girl for whom style comes readily or easily. When I began dressing in black-on-black as a young girl of ten, it was as much to project my inner self image as it was to simplify the getting ready process (not to mention in self defense against such things as teal pantsuits, which my mom had assured me were entirely appropriate).

As I grew up, things didn't necessarily improve. I've always been a one pair of shoes and one purse gal: no fuss, no thought, always clearly in fashion nomansland. As I moved into my death rock graveyard trash phase, at least the look lent itself to my ingrained predisposition. Although, shamefacedly, it took one of my best friends, Lori, to point out in no uncertain terms that one can not mix velvets, no matter how black. After a time and within a niche of a niche, I actually began to develop my own style and attitude (within carefully predetermined paramaters).

Enter my clandestine weapon of mutilation.

The corset.

Often, I like to raise the bar. At this time in my life, I had a ready supply of expendible income and a seemingly never-ending vat of self absorption. It was a logical style step, I thought, to buy my very own rib-deforming corset and evolve.

It's called waist training. You buy a professional corset, suffused with heavy canvas construction and yards of cord. And then you begin. After learning the proper way to lace the device, you set your goals on it one day coming close to closing the inches-wide gap, and start out by wearing it for one hour a day. It hurts. It's hard to breathe. You can feel claustrophobic. But with your eyes solidly set on a wasplike silhouette, you keep going.

I worked up to 12 hours; I could wear it while I slept. Small sips of air, even while smoking (to project an exponential image of super cool) became the norm. I could and did freqently go dancing in it. I had more than one occasion where I almost fainted. But I would caress my deforming ribcage, nod and smile the ridiculous smile of the self righteous. I was coming right along.

I got so carried away with my modern primitive experiment in image extremes that at one point I was contemplating the surgiccal removal of my lowest rib.

My style grew to envelope what I like to refer to as my deathrockabilly phase, and my waist training went along with it. I'd gotten serious, and bought an incredible custom corset by Dark Garden in San Francisco, one that was specially designed to help you get to wasp bone-crunchingly quick (see the example on the right).

With the able-bodied assistance of my especially virile buddy, Thane, who would plant one humongous foot against my back while pulling laces deftly with his man paws, we were able to finally close the gap in my corset. Thereby achieving a waist of a scant 19 inches.

I wish I could show you a picture of what this looked like, because it looks like an illusion, actually, but due to a cd accident I can not. I'll just tell you that you could wrap both hands around it. It looked both awesome and grotesque. And, the other day just for fun, I measured my three year old's belly circumference. Yeah, it was 19 inches.

Times and priorities change. I grew up, fell in love hard, changed focus. And never thought about my corsets and erstwhile waist training at all, except for a vague smile and negative shake of the head about my once silly dreams and aspirations.

Until I got pregnant.

Now, as I go through the reverse process of waist training, as what was once concave maddeningly -- protestingly -- becomes convex, you can bet I think of it often. And shake my fist petulantly at that naive whirlwind who was once me. The one who is making me suffer tenfold presently for horrendous crimes of fashion past.

I just hope that my tattoos age more gracefully. Yeah, I can hear you chuckling to yourselves.

in praise of my stepfather

2008-11-02T08:31:00.000-08:00

Vincent, Granddad (Bill), Edward

The pillars of our support systems are often the strong, silent type. And so it goes with my stepfather, Bill.

As humble as he is kind, it would be uncomfortable at best (if not near impossible) for him to sing his own praises, beat his own drum. And so I know he may be grinding his teeth at the thought of me exclaiming his virtues for all the world to see, but sometimes you just gotta.

I love my stepdad. He is one of those people who do what they say and say what they mean. He gives unselfishly to his family as he does his community, and does so without ceremony or expectation. He's one of the good guys, of the vintage caliber who do the right thing on the principle of doing the right thing.

And he's an incredible granddad to my children. They worship him. It's easy to see why.

You never really get the easy opportunity to tell someone how you feel. Especially when you've spent the majority of the last several years in the throes of pregnancy hormones or post-partum hormones or somewhere in between. Now is as good an opportunity as it gets, on the heels of the latest miracle my stepfather's created.

My stepdad, Bill, saved my computer.

You may remember, a while ago, how it just completely died. Died, died. In tring to determine if it was at all salvageable, I saw that my entire computer identity was fractured. No return. All of my archives, my unpublished writing, my last few years of graphic design work and portfolio: gone.

Or so it seemed.

But on top of everything else he does so benevolently, he recently undertook the project of saving my system. And, he did it. I still can't believe it, but he did. I know it took so much work, and so many hours, and I'm so grateful and can never thank him enough.

I've been begging him to take his talent and passion for computers and technology, come out of semi-retirement and build a business helping computer-challenged people (like myself) with their home systems and networks. On top of his experience, skills and techno-intuition, his genuine warmth and care would go so far. Just like it has with me.

I may never get the opportunity to tell Bill how much he means to me and my family. But I hope that this is a start.

your life summed up in six words

2008-10-21T14:49:00.000-07:00

Deep, an original oil painting by Diana Crites

“Everyone who loved me is dead.”
--uncredited six word autobiography entrant

I'm often a bit behind the times.

Gestating, and being a stay-at-home mom/struggling artist can be an entirely insular existence. In truth, I like it that way. But it doesn't mean I stay abreast of current things.

So when I read a New Yorker article that excited me greatly in my doctor's waiting room, I was very motivated to share it with you as soon as possible. That was in February. I'm just getting around to it now. Sorry.

It may be old hat to much of the world, but as the saying goes: it's new if it's new to you. So allow me to finally share an exciting "new" thought.

Have you heard about the six word autobiography?

Apparently, it began as an online contest in SMITH magazine. And quickly became something of a national buzz. Now the idea that six words can tell a story is even the subject of a book. They say the forebear is Hemingway. (Legend has it he wrote a miniature masterpiece. “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”)

Read the article and see what you think. I thought it was an interesting challenge.

Can you sum up your life in six words, no more and no less?

What would you focus on? Where do you begin; how do you end? Can you find the six words that satisfactorily spell out your life?

After some false starts, my husband and I were able to make it work. The best part is that it just has to be right for you and no one else; this is an autobiography after all.

Before I tell you ours, you have to promise to tell me yours. Please leave a comment with your own 6 word autobiography. I find them fascinating!

Ok. This is my husband, Mike's:
"Awww, look: he thinks he's tough."

And this is mine:
"Bitter tears cried over absolutely nothing."

all a-twitter

2008-10-19T10:54:00.000-07:00

I Did Not Grow This Mustache To Tickle Your Ironic Funny Bone, This Is Serious Business by mincingmockingbird

You can say it's SailorJenny's fault.

Ever since I ran into her in a corner of Etsy, I've known her to be one of the coolest cats around. Sure, she doesn't nearly update her blo g often enough to satisfy my fix, but I'm one to talk in that regard. I've watched, though, poised and curious as she added Twitter updates to her blog.

What was Twitter? And how were these conversations going on beyond me?

My technology-passionate husband had spoken to me about it, and tried to show me how it worked. But like with most things these days, my attention wanders as my jaw unhinges and sucks noisily at oxygen; in the eighth month of my pregnancy, it's no exaggeration to say I tire easily. It wasn't until Mike himself began Twittering -- or Tweeting, as the nomenclature goes -- that I couldn't stand to be left out any longer.

And you know what? I was instantly hooked.

Twitter is used by many for many different objectives. Keeping in touch with friends and family, having a captive audience of business network acquaintances, growing relationships with people along the same lines of thinking... it goes on. It's a pretty fascinating tool for tapping into or creating your own groundswell of communcation.

So now I'm Twittering. Or Tweeting. Whatever.

I find it very easy to update. Checking your email? It takes less than an additional minute to type out a thought, any thought. So much less time and effort than forming a cohesive story or objective for -- let's just say -- your blog. The one that nags at you to not be so ignored, so put on the shelf where once you slavered over it.

I'm also going to use Twitter to instantly post any maternity-related updates. So you, my invested friends and family, won't have to wonder if I go AWOL on posting because I'm polishing the electrical outlets in a nesting-induced mania.

In the hopefully not-too-distant future, I'll be using Twitter to update on all the art projects I'll be hopefully delightedly grinding out, once I get over the hump of adding a brand new baby to the mix.

You'll find my Twitter updates at the top of the page, under my banner and above my latest blog post. Want to join me? Create your own account on Twitter and jump in. I'd love to say hello and get the instant gratification of knowing your innermost fleeting thought even as you're force-fed mine.

And then you, too, can blame it all on SailorJenny! (But only in a great way.)

lost in la la land

2008-10-16T14:47:00.000-07:00

Still by Diana Crites

A funny thing happened on my way to create a new post.

Not really. I mean, not really funny or anything. I just got a little bit lost.

It's so easy to do these days. I have most solidly entered that last phase in one's gestation cycle. The part where you can get very easily distracted by the dust motes collecting viciously on the ceiling fans. Or the utter importance of crib dressing more than two months in advance of its occupant. Or ponderously balancing on spindly knees and behemoth belly to disinfect the vent grates.

I'm in la la land. Otherwise known as The Nesting Phase.

I feel everything else shutting down. It begins with my mind. Perhaps all of the first generation of oxygen, energy, and vitality get shuttled hungrily to my little passenger. With whatever's leftover then going to feed my starving brain. The one that forgets everything important but will absolutely not let go of some inane effluvia (like the fact that Angelina Jolie is ready to adopt again).

My creative endeavors have been left far behind for now, I'm afraid. And it's ok. There's not much leftover right now to be able to tell my hand how to hold an ink pen, let alone chart its course.

And it is totally ok! It's kind of a nice place to be, la la land. My belly is huge but my body seems to have found its stride. I find myself organically sheltered from things that might otherwise drive me to drink, like a poossible recession. Politics. Angelina Jolie.

I am absolutely loving this last part of my pregnancy. It's been a wild ride, looking back. The shock of it all, the inital mourning over the course we'd charted for ourselves (including refinding my art). The nausea. The fatigue. The nausea, fatigue and shock of it all when my husband got laid off. But, through it all, a growing sense of wonder and fulfillment as this little stranger, my last child, gets bigger and stronger and more ready.

These are the days when I can watch my belly roll and jab on its own volition. Where strangers puncture my privacy bubble to lay their hands all over my sacred dome. Where I can lose myself in the great mystery of wondering whether I'm carrying a son or a daughter.

It's great fun.

Oh, sure: since I've last posted we've had even more vomiting, cold viruses, sleepless nights, and computer crashes. But it's easily tempered, these days, by the knowledge of what is forcing my belly button inside out.

Eight weeks. I've got eight weeks to go.

As holiday decorations take over shopping displays, and the air gets colder and darker earlier and ealier, there is no denying that soon -- very soon -- I will be able to look my new baby in his or her eyes and smell their unique baby smell for the very first time.

It's very easy to get lost.

the good with the bad

2008-09-19T13:34:00.000-07:00

Vincent and Edward, my best creations

Sometimes, often, you gotta just roll with it. Even when you're hit with vomit. Copious vomit.

But let me back up.

If I wouldn't look so utterly ridiculous, like a lampoon of my former self, I'd invite you to join me in a manic victory dance. Because -- with so many thanks to you -- we won! we won! we won the Etsy Daily Challenge!!! Yay! Woo hoo!!!

I'm not even being facetious here. I wasn't being dramatic when I told you I get all weird about competitions. You couldn't even wipe the smile off my face last week my painting, Delve, surged ahead in votes after a very right race.

And then the mucous fountain began flowing and the smiles grew dimmer. But, again: getting ahead of myself.

Thank you so much for taking the time and interest to vote in the Etsy Daily Challenge. It was so much fun, and not just because I won. Etsy sellers, take note: my shop received many, many views and hearts that are directly attributable to my time in the spotlight there. Consider entering one or a few of your pieces in this fun competition! I feel richer for it in many ways. And the creator, Rod, is a pretty cool guy, too.

Yeah, that was a good day.

I've had several really good days recently. In hindsight, aside from the computer problems you could say we were having a spate of great times. Maybe everything is just colored so much rosier because -- this last week -- I've been sleeping at night.

I've written about my persistent state of sleep deprivation before, but only hedged about the reason why. And that's only because I didn't want you to think I was certifiable.

You see, since the kids were born we've been co-sleeping with them.

We didn't set out to purposely sleepwalk down this path. But with a high-needs infant and a pushover mama, this is the path we've firmly trodden down. Now, with a third baby on the way, and the boys being older and more able to comprehend, we're working overtime to get everyone into their own beds. And me a much-needed, desperately owed, intimate nocturnal date with the sandman.

It was working. We'd finished the boys' new room, complete with a rollicking space theme. The naps are absolutely perfect now, as they each sleep in their own bed. Nighttime, another story, but definitely heading in the right direction.

And then, out of nowhere: vomit.

Yesterday was one of those days where you know with a full certainty, before breakfast even, that you should have just stayed in bed. It began with Edward projectile vomiting his stomach contents all over me, himself, the couch, the floor. And it ended this morning, seemingly full circle, with a surprise mobius loop of exactly the same thing again, and all over the couch I'd just taken apart, cleaned, and put back together. In between, we had both boys being overtaken with one hell of a mucous-laden cold, our backup computer taking a massive nosedive, and my getting the dates of my doctor appointment hopelessly mixed up.

Just for fun, midway through, I came down to find my beloved Boston Terrier, Finnster, himself having copiously vomited all over the matching loveseat. Woo hoo! Our washer and dryer didn't get a break.

And those are just the highlights!

It's difficult, I'll be honest, sometimes juggling your dependents' bodily wastes and need for attention and entertainment, particularly when you're in your seventh month of pregnancy and need to put your feet up lest you develop raging tankles. But, truth be told, my worst day as a mom doesn't even hold a candle to my best day in my previous life as a single person. Oh, I'd had some amazing adventures, truly, but the triumphs and tragedies that come just from innately being a parent so absolutely deepen your life, and the meaning of all things, that nothing else can ever compare.

Not even a day without the ammonia stench of someone else's stomach acid.

please help me be a big winner

2008-09-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

Delve by Diana Crites

... at least in one perspective.

Competition stuff drives me nuts. Always has. So now I just don't know why -- on a day when I must have been feeling rather bold -- I entered a piece of my artwork in what is known as the Etsy Challenge.

I thought there was just one contest into which you'd be thrown, and I was prepared for that (my contest, by the way, is in early October. Watch for the beseeching language to appear around that time). But what I didn't know about is that there is also a Daily Challenge.

Mine is today. Gulp.

I'm trying not to go all Woody Allen at the prospect of having my art judged. I've never been in that spot before, and it's more than a little strange.

My opponent today is a lovely pastoral scene with a biblical theme. Seemingly the polar opposite of my artistic perspective, which makes it interesting. I'm just glad I'm not going against -- and possibly losing to -- clown art. That would really suck.

Anyway, the point of this whole nervous post is to ask that you please visit The Etsy Challenge and vote. I'm not going to ask you to vote for me, because that seems weird, but I will ask you to vote for your favorite. And I'll just hope that it's me.

I seriously am glad it's not clown art, though. Ew.