perhaps it was the nonchalant beginning of my new vocational turn that has deterred me from writing about it here. i did not nail any sort of interview or quake at the sound of god’s summoning. there was no light bulb hovering over my head.

there were late-january margaritas (plural) at las delicias. there was the company of my husband and my children and my friend and neighbor, susan. and then, out of some space in susan’s consciousness reserved for the purely hypothetical, there was the suggestion that she and i open a fabric store. twenty minutes later, there was an impromptu tour of a not-so-hypothetical-at-all space that was for rent at 688 south cox.

was this a serious suggestion, this fabric store idea? i really did not think it was. in fact, i forgot all about it long enough to get the kind of wonderful sleep that happens when my mind is mulling over… nothing! but slowly, over the next few days, i began to feel an unprecedented level of excitement.

i spent more and more time building up the contours of this hypothetical world, designed to celebrate a craft that generations of women have passed down to the next. susan seemed to be living into the idea too, as we exchanged visions of offering sewing classes, building community around an age-old pass time, and of course, selling fabulous fabric!

i don’t even know when the dream shifted to reality. it was sometime between when we started calling it “sew memphis,” and where we are now, spending each day at 688 south cox pricing over 100 bolts of fabric for our may 1st opening. perhaps it was mid-february when we had this picture taken:

you don’t have a photo shoot unless you are really opening a business, right?

last night i read this new york times essay, proud to be a mompreneur, by jill salzman. as i took in the debate about whether or not female business owners should hide or showcase their roles as mothers, i felt different than i usually do when i read about women in business. i am one of these people now!

and as i quickly scrolled through recent memory, it became clear that i have traded the so-called “professionalism” that some think comes with downplaying the motherhood role for a more integrated, transparent, vocational model.

my children help me paint and stock shelves.

we have a playroom in the shop where the kids spend at least half of their days. i have definitely not, as salzman writes, “rejected the mom label.” i also worry about things that more “professional” women probably don’t worry about, such as the sand that my children transport from the school playground to the shop by way of their shoes, and the toys that must be put away before we leave the shop each day. being a mompreneur is gritty. literally.

but i have to believe salzman when she writes,

a parent who can manage the juggling and the balancing that is both running a company and raising a family is someone who can handle anything.

and i also have to believe that even though this adventure has unfolded with margaritas instead of light bulbs and introspection instead of interviews, it is the right thing for me to do. it comes from a place of deep gladness, as frederick buechner writes. and much of this gladness comes from sharing this creative chaos with my children.

if you could take a gander into the recesses of my brain these days, you would see something like this:

yes, this is my kitchen. yes, that is a floaty. yes, it’s january. that about sums it up.

the disarray that once marked only my physical world has elbowed its way into my head. i find myself in awe of mothers who are still able to form and share coherent, insightful ideas. when i rummage around underneath the bibs and soccer trophies from two years ago, all i can come up with is a long-winded, ever-growing, increasingly hostile, feminist rant.

i see friends in restaurants and get random emails from folks who are wondering what happened to my regular posts. i tell them about the not-so-nice rant that i am not-so-eager to share. they all tell me to share it. “your blog is all about honesty, they say.” “aren’t you the one who preaches that it’s our generation’s job to tell the truth?”

yes. dammit.

it’s just that i fear that my writing skills aren’t sophisticated enough to temper and organize the fire that could be unleashed on the internet of all places. for example, this is just a small portion of the mess that has exploded into my thoughts.

+++

observation: a husband arriving home from work with eleven grocery items in tow should not be mistaken for jesus christ.

if you are at my house when this happens, there is no need to make a fuss about this display of ordinary responsibility. it is true that grocery shopping has traditionally been “woman’s work,” and i am thrilled to have a progressive husband. but nobody falls all over themselves when i go to my part time job outside of the home, which greatly resembles what has traditionally been called “man’s work.”

furthermore, when i carry on with all of my work, both inside the home and outside the home, i do so with the constant feeling that i am falling short. there are always mountains of laundry on the couch in my bedroom. there are always dirty dishes in the sink. there are always deeper relationships to forge with the college students i encounter at work. my part-time ministry, though it is gaining momentum, looks meager next to the full-time ministries happening all around me.

my progressive husband (who really is a good one!) experiences the opposite phenomenon. he’s good at his job, and he is able to dedicate the proper time and energy to it. he’s involved in the kids’ lives, and he even folds laundry. in all of his work, inside and outside the home, he blows the expectations out of the water. in fact, he walks on water, some would say.

the problem is not that other wives elevate my spouse to divine status. rather, the issue is that in the south, where i live, the sight of a dad pushing a grocery cart is (apparently) still a shocking display. women working outside of the home? that’s ordinary. but men folding laundry? what a miracle!

and here is my profound conclusion, folks. are you ready for it? okay. here it comes: THIS IS NOT FAIR.

+++

end of rant #1. more to come. consider yourself warned.

p.s. you’re welcome, anna.

dear santa,

you and i have a long and significant history that began when my eight-year-old self questioned the existence of you and god in one fell swoop. so i hope that you will not get your velveteen knickers in a wad over the fact that i have chosen you to be on the receiving end of my latest musings.

first, i should say that all i want for christmas is for my life to slow down. i’m not talking about the way that time creeps sluggishly under the weight of anxiety when sick kids are (again!) home from school.

sick bird

i’m talking about the reinstatement of routines that had their own happy, measured rhythm. i never thought i would ask for something like this, but i just want to wash and fold all of the family’s laundry on mondays while the kids eat popcorn on towels in our bedroom and watch back-to-back episodes of the british cartoon kipper the dog. also, i would love for there to be two (TWO!) nights in a row when the adult residents of our house are free from all recreational, church, work, and civic commitments and can resume the deep spiritual practice of falling asleep while watching the latest season of top chef.

p.s. if this slower-paced life could still include the necessary d.i.y. renovations to our newly purchased mountain house that would be swell.

den before and after

"the mermaid room" becomes "the god's eye room"

i am willing to give up running the half marathon this saturday, creating and distributing our annual christmas cd, and, as evidenced by my behavior in the days preceding and following thanksgiving, major components of my self-hygiene routine.

what do you say, big guy?

second, my children are under the impression that they can ask you for items on their lists without notifying me that they are doing so. goodness knows, at ages five and almost-three, the kids are way too young to start questioning your existence (and god’s), but their unwavering belief in you is making my job difficult. would you mind forwarding me all texts, emails, letters, and telegrams that come your way from our house? thanks. lylas (love you like a sis).

third, and this is a two-parter, when you come bounding down our chimney, would you mind cleaning it out at the same time? ’tis the season. also, how do you feel about entering our home via an UNDECORATED hearth? just think of it as a few less strands of tinsel that ms. clause will have to extract from your beard.

to show my appreciation for all that you do during this busy time of year, i’m going to leave you a little something special to go along with the usual christmas cookies.

peace out,

mary allison

one a weekday morning in 2005, university of pennsylvania psychology professor martin seligman was fortuitously double booked. his contribution to the positive psychology movement had caught the attention of dominic randolph, headmaster of one of new york city’s most prestigious private schools. it had also attracted the company of a pioneer on the other side of the educational spectrum: david levin, co-founder of KIPP charter schools, which exist to “prepare students in underserved communities for college and life” (KIPP website).

seligman combined the meetings. and just for fun, he invited his colleague christopher peterson. the two had just finished co-writing character strengths and virtues: a handbook and classification. the discussion between the four men was an explosion of creativity. randolph and levin found exactly what they didn’t know they were looking for: a breakdown of character strengths thought to produce happiness and success in a variety of cultures.

they found themselves wrestling with questions that have long confounded not just educators but anyone trying to nurture a thriving child or simply live a good life. what is good character? …which qualities matter most for a child who is trying to negotiate his way to a successful and autonomous adulthood? and are the answers to those questions the same in harlem and in riverdale (what if the secret to success is failure, paul tough, nytimes)?

the four worked together in the months that followed to develop a list of character strengths that proved to be even more related to report card grades than students’ IQs. levin points out that the list is not

a finger-wagging guilt trip about good values and appropriate behavior but [rather] a recipe for a successful and happy life (tough, NY times).

so randolph and levin, and those in their increasing realms of influence, began identifying, assessing, and inculcating the following character strengths in their students:

zest

grit

self-control

social intelligence

gratitude

optimism

curiosity

students at levin’s KIPP schools now receive character and academic report cards. newly developed assessment scales for qualities such as grit are routinely used to quantify and improve character markers of success. KIPP students are graduating from college at an increasing rate.

at randolph’s school, the emphasis on character is more subtle. he explains,

i don’t want to come up with a metric around character that could be gamed. i would hate it if that’s where we ended up (tough, NY times).

but it’s randolph’s take on character education that speaks most to me, an upper middle class parent, raising two upper middle class children, in an upper middle class environment that is all about minimizing kids’ suffering and maximizing their success.

faculty at randolph’s school relay that many of their students’ parents hold their children to high standards of performance while they protect their kids from the kinds of hardships that lead to grit, self-control, gratitude, etc. (tough, NY times). sheltered students are deprived of the kind of learning that happens through risk and failure. tough writes,

it is a central paradox of contemporary parenting… we have an acute, almost biological impulse to provide for our children, to give them everything they want and need, to protect them from dangers and discomforts both large and small. and yet we all know — on some level, at least — that what kids need more than anything is a little hardship: some challenge, some deprivation that they can overcome, even if just to prove to themselves that they can.

i’m not sure what this philosophy will look like as i try to put the proper amount of scaffolding in place around my monkey and bird, who are at once rambunctious and sensitive, privileged, and not immune to life’s limits. but perhaps my less-than-perfect parenting will prepare my kids for their less-than-perfect bosses, their less-than-perfect partners, their less-than-perfect surroundings, and their not-yet-realized dreams. what characteristics lead to a successful and happy life? if the answer to this question is the same in harlem and in riverdale, maybe it is the same for my children as it is for me.

hello, my name is mary allison, and i am a delinquent blogger. i know you are all attributing my silence to one of the following things:

1. i joined the witness protection program and am now living in boise, working at subway, and breeding cocker spaniels.

2. my children have finally driven me past the point of insanity and i have taken off on an impromptu cross-country drive with no definite plans of return.

3. a pillow fort has blocked access to my computer:

alas, if my life held the drama and intrigue of items 1 & 2, i would have written a memoir by now, and i walk through pillow forts every day. no big deal.

all i know is that since my last post on august 30th, the following things have happened:

1. my children started back to school after labor day and then had a five-day fall break two seconds later.

2. i turned 35.

3. i started re-reading eckhart tolle’s a new earth:

4. my job at the university of memphis stopped resembling the tv show apprentice and morphed into relational ministry. in other words, my makeshift marketing campaign has given way to face-to-face contact with actual students! i believe in miracles.

5. the monkey started taking suzuki violin, and i rented myself a fiddle too. we make terrible, fantastic music together. remember this post about great expectations?

6. i made good on my promise to mask the bird’s wall doodlings with wild designs. if you stand still in my house for too long, there is a good chance that you will be stenciled.

new obsession: www.oliveleafstencils.com

p.s. did you know you can stencil fabric and flat-weave rugs? good times.

7. i discovered that i can download books via the audible app on my phone and wash dishes and fold clothes to the riveting saga of the hunger games trilogy. i actually look forward to household chores now. for the love of clean dishes and laundered clothes and all that is holy, suzanne collins needs to write some more books.

8. andy and i took a little trip to lake oconee, outside of atlanta. the kids stayed with my folks. we each slept for 12 hours, three nights in a row. i wore my vintage polyester house dress around the hotel like a crazy person. what’s the point in changing clothes just to wander down the hall for a glass of wine?

9. i got to serve communion to my children at our church’s family camp in middle tennessee. the ritual of communion is mysterious and multifaceted, and i will never fully understand it. but this i know: it was bread from heaven. also, the bird spit his portion of bread into the cup.

http://www.nacome.org/

i promise not to wait a month and a half to post again. off to polish the silver, iron my underwear, and plant bulbs in the front beds before the kids awake.

just kidding. i’m still not martha stewart. some things never change.

it is no small wonder that in our culture, a pregnant woman is referred to as a person who is “expecting.” not only are the cells of her child multiplying rapidly in her uterus, so too are the visions of her future multiplying in her consciousness, along with the imagined qualities of a little person who has yet to meet the world. for ten months, expectations build super-human momentum; they crouch, waiting to bully the hell out of the reality that begins on birthing day. starting with variations from the birthing plan, breastfeeding troubles, meconium diapers, and the like, new parents quickly learn to expect the unexpected. but this difficult work is a breeze compared to its necessary and slowly-unfolding inverse:

learning to unexpect the expected.

every day of my last five years has been fraught with compromised parenting ideals in the face of the most unpredictable embodiments of wonder and mischeif. i have not bid farewell to all of my expectations. this is a life-long challenge, i think. but i have gotten used to the exercise of unexpecting in the same way that i am used to my blue jeans. every day, i pull them on. every day, i zip them up. every day, they poke me in the gut just a little.

a few weeks ago, andy and i piled the kids into a canoe and paddled to a swimming hole in arkansas’ sylamore creek.

we enjoyed a picnic while the boys practiced skipping rocks. the monkey, encouraged by his more daring cousins, dropped from a rope swing into the deeper water. we hiked for a mile or so on a creek-side path before cooling off in the water and returning to the canoe.

as we paddled back to our cabin, andy and i had the same thought at the same time.

“this is what i thought having kids was going to be like,”  i said.

“me too,” he said.

and the strange thing is that the summer has afforded us several moments like this — cherished, surprisingly familiar moments. and as we are meandering down a wooded path, or piled into our car on the blue ridge parkway, or looking out from atop mt. mitchell, it dawns on us that these scenes are familiar to us because they are straight from the postcards, sent to us through time from our pre-kid selves. after committing ourselves doggedly to the exercise of unexpecting, we have been shocked when little bits of the hope we’ve released come boomeranging back to us with more majesty and hilarity than we dared to pen in our dreams long ago.

perhaps this is the beauty of unexpecting. when we are occasionally able to stand down the crouching bullies, who loom before us with idealized pictures of ourselves and our children, we will be able to glimpse a life that is really pretty sweet on its own terms.

it’s enough inspiration to keep me paddling on.

is there such a thing as military school for two-year-olds?

this is the question that began to plague me about ten days in to our mountain vacation. ten days seems to be the duration of time that the bird is willing to feign compliance and cooperation in a camp or school-like environment. he affords everyone just enough time to fall in love with him before his teachers report, with measured caution and disbelief:

[the bird] was a little agressive today.

i found myself having the same discussions with the bird’s clubs teachers that i had with his PDO teachers last year. i apologized. i asked for advice. i sincerely hoped that they could impart the key to managing the bird’s behavior and maintaining his magnanimous spirit. but in both cases, the teachers had no new ideas.

i think the moment that elicited images of boot camp and boarding school was when the bird’s teachers asked me how to deal with the bird. this felt very confusing. isn’t it obvious that i have no idea what i am doing?

somehow, and for no clear reason, things did get a little better. the bird did not get kicked out of clubs. maybe he won’t even be kicked out of every school in memphis before he’s ten. one can dream. as i was nursing these worries (as i am genetically prone to do), i shot a quick email to my friend sharon in pennsylvania, who has given me quite a bit of unimposing, sage motherhood advice over the years.

“does it every get easier?” i wrote.

within a few hours i was reading the following reply that was so encouraging i got permission to share it:

parenting gets easier when everyone can use the potty without help, no one is sleeping in a crib (but everyone stays in their bed all night more nights than not), and everyone has at least some ability (however rarely used) to verbalize what they need. it also helps if no one requires a stroller or pacifier or elaborate car seat (belt-positioning boosters are much easier than five-point harnesses).

and finally, parenting is easier when your family figures out a behavior management system that works for you (meaning the kids respond to it and the parents are able to use it somewhat consistently).  we use a significantly pared-down version of positive parenting with a plan (it’s for kindergarten and up, though). friends have had luck with the smart discipline approach (also for kindergarten and up). the point is…IT DOES GET EASIER.  you’re probably at a really difficult stage, i would guess, based on the ages of your little guys.  hang in there.

it’s helpful to know that there is hope (and a couple of new behavior management options) on our horizon. for now, the best i can do is maintain a sense of humor and strive for patience.

…and send the bird to clubs in this carefully selected, organic cotton shirt:

lest you be misguided by yesterday’s blissful notes on camp, i must add the following observation about traveling with small children:

vacations are not really vacations. they are simply the act of schlepping all of one’s stuff, one’s kids, their stuff, and all of the responsibilities related thereto, to an alternate location of one’s choice. kids still hit each other, wake up in the middle of the night, refuse to eat growing foods, and stack chairs in the kitchen in pursuit of chocolate. it’s just that on vacation, parents have the pleasure of looking at the mountains or the beach while they are dealing with the aforementioned issues.

however, july in montreat offers a bit of a vacation from the vacation in the form of “clubs,” a kids’ day camp that meets on weekdays from 8:30 to noon and 2:00 – 4:00 in the afternoon. this is the first year that both of my children have attended both morning and afternoon clubs, which officially makes july of 2011 the most time i’ve had away from my children since they were born. i was musing to my friend, anne, about how this absence was affecting  me, and she (the mother of two grown children and three grandchildren) summed it up well.

it’s all about energy. the more energy we have, the better parents we are. when we don’t have energy, we are simply muddling through.

having my children in other people’s care gave me more energy for the times that i was with them. for example, on the saturday when the bird tee-teed all over the dining table and the monkey promptly covered the rest of the table in glue, i reacted with an uncharacteristic sense of calm likened to that of the dalai lama.

when the bird spent thirteen solid days clamoring for his daddy, who was in memphis, i was able to laugh and not get my feelings hurt as i usually do.

the kids did eventually wear me down though. by the end of the trip, even with the added childcare, i was muddling through. the grand finale, marked by two sleepless nights hovered over a croup-plagued bird, returned me to my familiar listless state.

if only there were a couple of extra hours in the day for sleeping or a couple of extra parents in the household for trouble shooting! in the absence of these wish list items, i can offer you only this: my recipe for muddling through in style (adapted from design sponge):

summer elderflower cocktail

ingredients

• st. germain licour
• club soda
• lime
• mint
• gin

directions:

• muddle mint and juice from half of lime in the bottom of a low-ball glass.
• add ice and throw in the squeezed lime.
• add the desired amount of alcohol (about half st. germain and half gin).
• top with soda and stir.

you might want to purchase one of these.

every muddler needs a muddler.

a few years ago, ira glass dedicated an entire episode of “this american life” to exploring the phenomenon of camp. in his words,

no one back home understands it, none of their friends, nobody. there is just a gap between camp people and non-camp people.

when glass interviews a teen-aged girl camper at an upscale camp in the northeast, she confirms his assertion:

…it’s also like little stories you tell, and you think they’re so funny, and everyone in your cabin understands them, and then you tell them to your friends back home, and they’re like, “that’s stupid.”

our family does camp a little differently than most in that we allgo to camp for a month. the week-long church retreats andy and i attended as teenagers apparently did not satisfy our desires to be part of a small sub-culture of nature-loving people. but though our camp model isn’t traditional, some of the universal camp themes apply.

first, there are bizarre traditions at montreatthat make perfect sense to those who have been part of them since they were in diapers. my children, for example, will probably never question the normalcy of the greased pole competition on the fourth of july, wherein a smooth 20+ foot wooden rounded plank is cemented into the ground, adorned with u.s. currency of various values, thoroughly greased, and scaled all day long by daring contestants as an emcee narrates the events to spectators scattered on picnic blankets all around.

and then there is the fourth of july parade, complete with bagpipes, makeshift family floats, and saved seats along the route for onlookers, whose families have occupied those particular patches of bag-chair-real estate since before bag chairs were invented.

these are the kinds of things that carry a certain meaning that can only be adequately translated by virtue of experience.

the monkey and the bird attend a day camp at montreat called “clubs,” which entails morning and afternoon activities led by college-aged counselors, who bring a necessary coolness to the imparting of silly songs, dances, and story telling that goes on there. the monkey would return to our rental house during lunch and, with eyes dancing, relay tales of how his counselor, ryan, wrestled a troll in the deep end of the pool at the conclusion of a treasure hunt. this event, by some sort of camp logic, resulted in the distribution of stickers to all of the campers. all of this made perfect sense to the monkey and the rest of the “blues,” as his group was called. even at age four-and-three-quarters, the monkey is already what glass calls “a camp person.”

both children look forward to the friday night circle mountain dancing and are committed to mastering the motions to novelty dances such as “the hampster dance” and “agadoo.”

the bird has chosen the car as the ideal place to practice the verses of “i’m bringing home a baby bumble bee,” a song that his older brother helps him with when he forgets the words.

about this kind of camp vocabulary, glass remarks

the special songs and ceremonies are part of so many american camps… these traditions bring kids back year after year….you let them know about all the extra rights and privileges the kids are going to get if they return as older campers. it is using all of the stage craft that all of the world’s religions have always used. the ceremonies, the chanting, the repeated words, the official honors and offices, but for an entirely different reason: to thrill children, to make them feel a part of something big and special.

i’m not going to lie. our annual sojourn to montreat is not just for the kids. i enjoy being part of an alternative, smaller world. my children are in someone else’s care from 8:30 – noon and 2-4 on weekdays. and like an older kid at traditional camp, i have the freedom to choose my own activities. i spent many hours last month in the pottery studio and hiking my favorite mountain.

but my favorite part about julys in montreat really is as glass describes. i love that my children are thrilled. it means the world to me that they get to be a part of something big and special… even if they will never be fully able to convey the meaning of it to their friends back at home.

there are several smells that i associate with childhood. one is the combined aroma of broccoli and chicken that vented from the kitchen of my childhood home into the northern territory of our driveway basketball court. another is the “house smell,” of my friend lauren’s home that was two doors down from ours. this was not a bad smell, mind you. just a distinct smell. but perhaps the most jarring smell to my young nose was the ever-present odor of turpentine and other chemicals used to strip grime, paint, and varnish from old furniture.

i have visions of my parents working all day on a saturday to convert a cheap, ugly dining room table into an attractive gathering place for many thanksgiving and christmas dinners. i have memories of my dad walking without embarrassment from a neighbor’s trash pile with a rolled up rug over his shoulder. my parents’ garage, until a few years ago, was home to all manor of cool pine furniture and even a crystal chandelier, costing my family a sum total of zero dollars. all this is to say that i come from a long line of scavengers and makeshifters. we are proud (and even a little giddy) to be at the bottom of the furniture chain.

there is nothing that i enjoy more than discovering a perfectly lovely piece of furniture by the side of the road, schlepping it home (with the help of my very patient husband), and spending the next few days making it beautiful and interesting. the kids are now in on the hunt as they twist around in their carseats to peer down side streets. on friday, for example, the monkey made the mistake of saying, “look mommy, a treasure!” i stopped the car, flexed my muscles, hoisted this future headboard (old door) into the CRV, and off we went.

the kids and i stayed too late at barbecue fest just the night before, and though we were hurrying home to bed, we stopped for 45 minutes at the sight of this:

even though the kids were cheering me on as i tried to hoist this bad boy into the too-small trunk, my friend susan had to be called in for this job. thanks susan! with just a little sanding and waxing, the wood is now shiny and smooth, and the white paint circle (see above) is gone!

spring treasure season opened this year with a chest of drawers that i spotted while i was on a long run in east memphis. it took our entire family to load this 1950’s nursery centerpiece into andy’s suberu outback. andy removed his belt and used it to “secure” the furniture for a very tedious and risky 20-minute ride home. i wish i had a picture of the pre-makeover ugliness. you will have to use your imagination to envision the tarnished brass handles, the formica top, the off-white grungy glaze, and the cracked peeling lattice that was glued to the top drawers. but here she is in her current state:

until we can figure out exactly what to do with all of this stuff, the ever-patient andy has lost his parking space in the garage. this is a small price to pay, in my opinion, for the thrill of the hunt and the hilarity of my children’s participation in the search and fix up processes. who knows, we might just land a crystal chandelier to live amongst our tools, gardening equipment, and tricycles. then we really will have a treasure island!