The Church of the Farmers’ Market

Last Sunday we went to the kick-off of a new year-round farmers’ market that’s a four block walk from our house. The place was packed with the cute white nuclear families that comprise our neighborhood. And can you blame them? I can think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning.

Going to a farmers’ market is like tripping on ecstasy for me. It makes me so damn happy. I love it.

First, you’ve got other people in an outdoor setting, and usually on a sunny day. This sets the baseline for bliss. Other humans for me to interact with, warm weather, and not feeling cooped up in the house.

Then you’ve got all the crap to look at: fruit, veggies, soaps, jams, musicians, fresh fish, smoked fish, organic meat, thai food, baked goods, orchids–you name it. Feast your eyes! And having Kate in the Ergo pack kicking her chubby legs with glee and reaching and pointing to it all is the manifestation of what I’d do myself if it wasn’t so socially unacceptable for someone my age. Kate leans out from her roost on my (or Mark’s) chest and frenetically points to piles of broccoli, other babies, blenders churning up smoothies. She greets it all (human and inanimate) with the occaisional ardent “ba-bye,” her version of “aloha.” It works for the coming and going.

Nearly every vendor has samples to share. (Did they get this idea from Costco, or did Costco get it from them?) Strawberries, wedges of nectarines–last week they were even passing out paper cups of pureed organic baby food. And the kettle corn vendor has samples too! Damn that stuff is good. I made my way through a huge sleeve of kettle corn so obsessively and hypnotically once that Mark had to wrench it from my hands while speaking slowly and calmly to me.

And the tasting thing is perfect for a guy like Mark. I take a taste of whatever and love it and just want to buy some then and there. But Mark takes a taste and holds his emotions at bay. “Yeah, it’s good, but I want to try some other ones.” He moves along to the next peach vendor to compare notes. “Nope. These won’t really be ready until next week.” Like a puppy dog I follow along behind him while licking my fingers? “Really? Seems good to me now.” What amazes me is his ability to remember not only what stall had the best peaches and where it was, but he also remembers the varietal. (Who knew there were so many?) I’m just too drunk on the whole sunny scene to make my brain work that hard.

So it’s Sunday morning. Kate is taking her nap and Mark is riding his bike. When she wakes up and he gets back we’ll slap on some sunscreen, grab an empty canvas bag, and make our way over to the action. Some people choose church. For me, it’s the farmers’ market.

Old Friends, New Friends, Red Friends, Blue Friends

A couple July 4ths ago Mark and I were walking past my first grade teacher’s house, and one of her daughters (who was a friend of my sister’s back in the day), drunkenly spotted us from their front porch and dragged us to their backyard BBQ to be introduced to legions of similarly boozed-up folk. My former teacher, Mrs. Parella, was looking terribly old and frail. So after all the nice-to-meet-yous, I sat next to her and in a wave of nostalgia told her I remembered a song she’d taught me back in first grade. It goes, “Make new friends but keep the o-old, one is silver and the other gold.” After singing it to her she looked at me like I was mad and said, “I taught you no such song!” Well, I think the old gal is getting a bit soft in the memory department. Despite her haughty dismissal of my fond memory, I hold fast to the notion that I learned the ditty in her classroom.

At any rate, as it turns out Mark and I are taking resumes for new friends. Which isn’t to say that we’re tossing our current ones asunder. (See “one silver/other gold” lyrics above.) It’s just that A) many of our friends—especially those who Mark brought to our relationship—have left SF, 2) we moved to Oakland, and C) we’ve got the kid now. So, in light of geographical changes and new interests, we’ve got some openings.

A few months ago Mark was in a funk about it. I think it was the Super Bowl, and there was no one around for him to watch with. As he sees it (and of course I’m over-simplifying it), he has his five good friends, damn it, and he doesn’t need other ones—he just needs them all to move back near us. Eternal optimist that I am, I see the sitch as an opportunity to get out there and flex my extroversion. But I’m also the one who likes looking for a job. I guess I’m always convinced there’s something (or in this case someone) great out there.

Though some friends are no longer in our backyard, they are within striking distance. On Friday we ventured to Sacramento for the night to stay with the beloved Mullin clan. I worked with Dave a few gigs ago, and he’s a super good egg. We shared an office, so he’s heard me make appointments for bikini waxes, flirt with Mark on the phone early in our relationship, and have any number of difficult, frustrating and/or weird conversations with clients, bosses, and subordinates. He was also the first to point out that I make a quiet humming sound when I’m typing and really focused. (It’s something Mark has also noticed, but it’s strangely inaudible to me. For all I know, I’m doing it right now.)

When the ship was sinking at our old agency and there was a scramble for volunteers to fill the lifeboats (with nice fat severance packages), Dave signed up. I was crushed when he left. He and Scott, the head of Creative, practically clicked their heels, linked arms, and skipped out of the office that day. It was no doubt my saddest work day. My two closest cronies and allies were giddily ditching a once-great workplace for greener pastures, leaving me to manage the team and to attempt (impossibly) to rectify rock-bottom morale. It sucked.

Dave’s next endeavor was as Mr. Mom. His wife was wrapping up her OB residency and they couldn’t bear putting their newborn in daycare. These days, residency is just a memory in one of Deanna’s scrapbooks. They’re now the owners of an immense fabulous house, take jealous-making annual vacations, and are living quite an appealing suburban dream.

When we’d seen them last I was pregnant, so this time we were able to swap tales of parenthood. We’ve had a lot of fun with Dave and Deanna in our kid-less days, but now that we’ve treaded some of the same path they’ve been on for eight years, it’s fun comparing notes. And those two are rock-star parents, so when they talk, I take notes. They should teach weekend seminars on how to raise sweet, polite kids.

And then there’s their dirty little secret—which actually isn’t a secret at all—which is that Dave’s a (gasp!) Republican. The horror! And yet we still like him! In fact, whenever we see them, I wonder why we don’t see them more.

Saturday night, Mark’s new work friend, Scott, and his wife, Courtney, came over for dinner. Mark likes Scott enough to willingly make back-to-back social plans on a weekend. This cuts into Mark’s time doing nothing, which he cherishes. So, a few hours after returning home from our night away in Sac (as I like to call it), Mark whipped up a delicious dinner and we were showing off Kate, opening more wine, discussing the merits of stinky cheese, and getting to know some new folk.

Scott and Courtney are life-long Texans who pulled up roots in Austin for Scott’s cool new job in SF. In the Lone Star State they had a fab house with a pool, more friends than you could shake a stick at (my Dad’s odd expression), great jobs, and family. Now they’re experiencing the foggy version of an SF summer, trying to find grocery stores that sell the kind of food they like, and carving their way into new social circles. Based on one evening of interaction I sure hope that they plan to stay a while in these parts. What a great couple! And not one of those “I like her so I’ll put up with him” duos. They both appear to rock. It was so easy to talk to them—they’re funny and smart and like stupid movies, and even claim to have a cute dog named Maggie (though that might put them over the edge for being *too* perfect).

As they were leaving they offered to reciprocate with dinner at their house some day, and Courtney and I determined we should get lunch at the Ferry Building on one of my Kate-less Thursdays. She’s going to take a crack at showing me the gastronomic virtues of oysters.

But what made me super happy about the whole evening was despite the mantle of people-aversion Mark likes to pretend that he’s cloaked in, he’s been doing a bang-up job of making new friends lately. He’s been responsible for getting us invited to a few lovely dinners that have caused us to say before turning off our night-stand lights, “That was really fun. Those guys seem cool. We should get together with them again.” Then we smooch and go to sleep.

Head-Banging, Baby J, and Gratitude

When Mark got home from work tonight and was playing with Young Kate she leaned forward, biffed her cheek against the coffee table, and started bawling. After comforting her he started to berate himself (aloud) for being a negligent parent. Yeah, yeah, I thought, and casually interrupted him to say she’d managed to somehow bang her head about six other times today, so he shouldn’t beat himself up over it.

I realize that if I only had an hour a day with her, as Mark sadly does on weekdays, I’d probably be right there where Mark was, tossing on a hair shirt and cursing that I’d ruined a few precious minutes of quality Kate time. But one of the glorious things about being home with Kate is that I have a front-row seat to all the dramatic, tedious, and mundane events of her life. I have behind-the-scenes access to the super-stinky diapers, thrilled-to-see-you post-nap smiles, car-seat babble, food fights, whining, puking, drooling, farting, and everything in between. So to me, a small contusion to the head–even one that’s due to not diligently guarding her noggin–doesn’t really rate. I need to be sure to remind myself regularly how fortunate I am for that.

Earlier today, Kate and I had some fun in the sun with Lisa and beautiful bedroom-eyed baby Jackson. Lisa is one of my favorite humans and friends. She was one of the brave gals willing to wear a flamingo pink dress at my wedding, to grapple with fastening the 2,137-odd buttons on my gown, and to have known throughout our friendship when I’ve needed a sympathetic ear versus a slap upside the head. And yet today, here we were with our 8- and 9-month-old babies who have probably been in the same room a total of four measly times.

Part of the reason is general life busy-ness. Part is geography. When she and Alex left SF they settled to the south of the city, and despite their fervent lobbying, when Mark and I left years later we went east. But the most significant reason why we haven’t spent more mom-’n'-babe time together is that Lisa took the swan dive back into the work world after having Jack.

Unlike me, Lisa found one of those Holy-Grail-like “Jobs You Like to Go To.” Granted, it came after years of crying in the parking lots of jobs she hated. So, when young Jack came on the scene, there was a reason that exceeded sheer finances that bolstered her return to work. As much as she wanted more time at home, Lisa feared that if she didn’t reinstate herself at her job, she’d never find a plumb workplace like it again. I hope for once that her usually stellar intuition was off there.

How does the story end? Well, after 5 months of giving the mother-and-commuting-professional balance an impressive fair shake, Lisa traded in the office job to report to lil’ Jack. She told me today how she realized that at times she was just going through the motions with the baby since she had so many things to do to get through each day. She didn’t have enough time to just hang out and enjoy him. You know, watch him hit his head a couple dozen times in the course of the day and think nothing of it.

Hooray! I’m teary-eyed with the thought that Lisa and Jackson will be able to enjoy life as best chums and partners in crime. It’s such a treat for me, that I can’t help but wish that all my mama friends have as much fun in this job as I do.

Granted, the weeks when you’re housebound from rain, and the days when the half-pint wails incessently for no good reason, can make the thought of a 3-hour conference call or developing a spreadsheet with pivot tables seem like a party. But those times are few and far between. And even with them in the mix, I need to remember to remind myself (a meta-memory task) how lucky lucky lucky I am to have all this time with my little love-bug. And remember to thank Mark for bringing home the bacon (and thereby marginalizing his own Kate-time), so I can be with her.

I’m also happy to report that Lisa, Jackson, Kate and I now have a regular date. We’ll be seeing each other every other Monday (alternating visits between Burlingame and Oakland). And hopefully those dates will breed more gatherings—maybe even an occaisional grown-ups-only night on the town.

Yippy doodle. Life is good.

A Luxury I Can’t Afford

What do you do when your baby is crying unless you’ll hold her, your stomach is growling for a long-overdue breakfast, and you have to pack for a long weekend–including gathering BBQ food, wine, baby food, and clothes for you and the wee one, and somehow get it all into the car so you can pick up your husband from work in two hours? Write in your blog, that’s what! I don’t have the disposable income I once had, nor do I have the unfettered time to check email or get into more than 3 pages of a book at a time, so writing has become my Calgon-take-me-away bath. Even when I should be doing a million other things. (Mark, assume I’ll be late to pick you up.)

I’ve been thinking a bit about communities lately. For many many years one of the most dominant ones in my life was the office. The people I worked for and with, and who–big-girl as it seemed–worked for me. By virtue of simply spending so much time in that world, and being so tired after departing it each day, it was my default community (family, Mark, and friends aside of course). And sadly those folks often did become parenthetical when work demands occupied my psyche.

Like a dinner party where you invite people who don’t know each other and everyone hits it off, it’s nice when someone from one realm of your life makes the move into another. Work is becoming a distanter and distanter memory (a grammatical joke the likes of which my father and I make), but yesterday I had the pleasure of having lunch with someone from that world.

John can not only order sushi in a really good Japanese accent (though, what do I know), he’s a kick-ass creative director and all-around good guy. We didn’t work together for all that long, but did get thrown into one of those understaffed, impossible-deadline plumbs of an account together. And amidst the mayhem, John was always a joy to work with. This is a guy who has not only redesigned and revitalized websites for dozens of Fortune 500 corporations, he’s also a Buddhist monk who has fasted for weeks at a time, and, more incredibly, not *spoken* for several-month stints while meditating. It’s not often that you’ll find these qualities housed in the same human. So, John is also no longer working at The Former Agency, so we were able to talk about Life After as though we both swam across a river full of leeches and got to the other side without a single one sticking to us. Our lunch was essentially us double high-fiving each other on the banks of the new shore, and thumping each other on the backs. Hooray! I am happy that John is now on this side with me. The Former Agency had a lot of issues, stresses and politics, but it also had some extremely talented, smart and funny folks. I’d hate to lose them just because my new job doesn’t require me to have a building security badge.

In my moving-to-Oakland-after-13-years-in-SF, leaving work, and having a baby time (when I go for change, I go all out), my need for new communities was nothing short of desperate. The one that has saved my emotional hide, welcomed me with bleary eyes, and been a haven of humor (and food) is hands-down my Oakland mother’s group. (Hello mamas! I salute you!) This is one extremely fab group of women who Kate and I have spent at least one afternoon a week with since Kate was 3-weeks old. It’s made up of 11 baby-mama couples, and there’s not one rotten egg in the bunch! And I realized a while back that we’re comprised quite amazingly of all straight women, who are even married to the men we had kids with. Did I mention we are in the SF Bay Area? This is astounding. Not that it’s better or worse for us to be this way, just *weird* in these parts. Hell, we could all pick up and move to San Diego or something and no one would bat an eyelash at us. Well, maybe some Republicans would. At any rate, it’s wonderfully affirming to have a group of people you feel comfortable enough around to talk about cracked bleeding nipples (not mine, thank God), the challenges of career and parenting, and the wonders of so-and-so’s head circumference being in the 95th percentile. Whatever your concern, quandary or need for celebration, these women have your back. THANK GOD I found them.

The other community I’m proud and happy to say I found is at Chaparral House–the nursing home Kate and I hang out in on Wednesday afternoons. It’s home to Kate’s wonderful adoptive Grandma Rose, Gladys, and Dorothy, the other volunteers, like Janet, who have so much respect and interest in the residents there, and a caring nursing staff–especially the Tibetan nurse who whisks Kate out of my hands the second she sees her and says, “Tell Mama bye-bye. You come with me now!” This week as we were walking out, I peered into the activities room to see that Sandi was custom-making sundaes for everyone. “Come on in! What topping would you like?” Why, don’t mind if I do, I thought. The grocery store and Kate’s overdue nap could wait 10 minutes. As I ate my sundae with Kate grabbing for the spoon, I looked around at some women in wheelchairs and a volunteer setting up a large-print Scrabble board (who knew?) and realized how at home Kate and I were there. Four months in, Chaparral House has become a super-cool new place that Kate and I are lucky to be part of. Thank you volunteermatch.com!

So here I stand on the far banks of the river barely able to see The Former Agency any more. And the bonfires on this side are blazing. I’m holding on my hip the most important young member of my new life, sweet Kate. At one fire the super-cool mamas and the babies from my mother’s group are gathered. At another the gang from Chaparral House are hanging out in their wheelchairs, with Rose admonishing them to not give Kate the evil eye. And by my side is the love-of-my-life, the one I’ve been luckiest to manage get on my team, Mark.

I’ve made it to the other side, and it rocks here.

Missing Items Returned

I was always amazed when I’d hear about those older couples who had been married for decades, and when one of them died (typically the man) the woman would find herself smack dab in the midst of the 21st century without knowing how to do something like write a check. How on earth could someone let that happen? Needless to say, I’m free and clear of such a fate, right?

Well, the sad reality is that there are some things Mark just does and I steer clear of, and they’ve started to accumulate in our years together. At first it was driving places. I’d just zone out on the way, and years into visiting a friend in another town I’d realize when I was heading there alone that I had no idea how to get there. And all the tech stuff–it goes without saying that Mark sets up every computer, wireless network, etc. in our world. (Etc. in this instance is a placeholder for all the other techie things that I don’t even know how to refer to by name). Mark also pays all our bills online and I have sadly never done this, nor even-sadlier do I know how to. (Let it be known that he’s willing to show me, but we’ve never gotten around to it.) Scary as it is, I fear the can’t-write-a-check syndrome is not out of the realm of possibility for me. Unless I do something about it.

So yesterday when I went out to buy Kate a new high chair, I decided to take things into my own hands. Well, I actually didn’t set out with that intention, it kind of buillt up slowly. First, I decided to carry the large and heavy box from the car into the house *myself.* (Mark, the family sherpa, was at work, and my excitement over the high chair couldn’t be contained until 6:30.) I left it in the front entryway and lamented how nice it would be if only it was assembled and ready to use. Then, like a lightening bolt, the wild idea came to me: I could assemble it myself.

The instruction manual had to be written for the lowest denomenator of American intelligence, right? And sure enough, by carefully plodding away step after step, with Kate rolling around on the floor below me, I did it! Steps 1-19 completed with nary a hitch. My only concern was that either a screw was missing, or I somehow dropped it. As I searched for it on the floor I envisioned it puncturing my sweet baby’s small intestine on it’s way through her system. I couldn’t see it anywhere, so I just decided Fisher-Price just sold me one screw short.

Late last night when I took off my favorite super-big Billabong khaki shorts, I emptied my pockets of various things, and there she be–the missing screw! Huzzah! No middle-of-the-night ER visits once it made it’s way to Miss Kate’s adorable duodenum.

Around 1:45AM (Who am I kidding? It was 1:43. New parents know these things.), Kate beckoned for her once-nightly snack. When I reached into her crib to lift her out, I felt a hard thing inside her PJs. It startled me a bit more awake and I felt it again. Ends up it was one of her plastic stacking cups, the smallest purple one. Seems I’d sealed it up in her PJs when I was getting her dressed for bed after her bath. I know I was kind of rushing, but sheesh. When I’d cleaned up the bathroom earlier that night I’d wondered where that one had gone. Mystery solved.

I Got You a Present

My neighbor Ruth Ann called tonight, and as we were chatting I was cleaning the house in an ADD fashion (start to take the garbage out, then look through the stack of magazines in the bathroom and consider recycling some of them, then rearrange the photos on the mantel).

In the midst of this, I stopped to straighten out the crap on my bureau and came across something Mark gave me a couple weeks ago when he returned from a work trip to Phoenix.

I’d razzed him in the past for not bringing anything back for me when he travelled, so I was thrilled at my success in training him when he announced he’d gotten me a present. He dug around in his bag and withdrew a little Arizona license plate that said KRISTEN. I thanked him (weakly), and couldn’t resist telling him that something like this wasn’t what you’d really market as a “present.”

Thankfully, Mark has managed to bust out some pretty spectacular gifts for me in our time together, so the license plate incident didn’t send me running to the bathroom crying to call an old boyfriend.

Last week Mark was in LA for E3. He got back on Friday, and did that thing where he unpacks his bags within 20 minutes of returning from a trip. (I hope this is not something that is passed on to Kate, as I find it freakish.) He came out to the living room to say he had a present for me. This time it was a small cannister filled with lime green goo. How it works is you stick your finger down in it then pull it out really fast and it makes a farting sound.

Now *that’s* a present.

First Annual Mother’s Day

My first Mother’s Day has come and gone, and I realized that an unexpected by-product this year was that I didn’t mope around looking at everyone taking their mothers out to brunch and feel sorry for myself. It could be intepretted as egocentric, but be that as it may, it seemed therapeutic indulging in happiness about being a mother, rather than spending the day regretting that mine isn’t alive any more.

Generally on weekend mornings Mark and I conduct a groggy early morning bargaining session to determine who will get up with Kate. (Today’s unlucky person gets to sleep in tomorrow.) It’s a time when Mark’s midwestern upbringing leaves him at a terrible disadvantage. The conversation often goes something like this:

Kate: Waa waaa

Mark: Uhhh… Do you want to get her, or should I?

Me: Uhhhh. Um, I’ll get up. I’ll get her. It’s my turn.

Kate: Waaa waaa.

Me: Ugh…. Okay, I’ll get up in a minute.

Mark: Okay. Did you want me to just get her?

Me: Oh would you? Thank you so much, honey.

Invariably, in his half-awake state, my otherwise sharp-as-a-tack hubby reverts to the Midwestern Polite/Indecisive Conversation Format (TM). He manages to back himself into the job, even when the conversation started with me staking claim to it. Poor lamb. I lie in wait, knowing he will offer again, and when he does, I relent. I’m really just being a good wife. I don’t want to argue with my husband.

Anyway, a conversation very much like the one above took place on Saturday morning. I believe Mark had even gotten out of bed and suited up to go fetch Kate, when I explained (since I do have a heart, and it does sadden me somewhat to see him fall into my trap) that he’d also be getting up with her the next day, it being Mother’s Day. Hell if I’m waking up early that day. With that 411, he stripped down and hopped back into bed faster than you can say “return to REM cycle.” It was the closest I’d come to dodging duty, and then having to step up.

So, Sunday, I slept in. Mark made a bacony breakfast. In order to make it a dream day I hit up a few local yard sales with Kate while Mark finished concocting a fancy chicken salad. Then we packed up the Subaru and all went to Lake Anza in Tilden Park for a picnic. It was in the 80s and people were swimming. I don’t know much about lakes, but it looked like good clean fun. There was a 1950′s patina on the whole scene.

Kate clearly doesn’t get the “it’s Mother’s Day so I must treat thee like Cleopatra” thing yet. In fact, instead of changing her own diapers, taking extended naps, and just smiling prettily whenever I looked her way, she was kinda cranky.

Post-picnic I jaunted off for a hot tub and massage with my mother’s group cohort Sacha. It was part of my gift, along with some excellent cherry-pattern PJs and a scrapbook album (more on that later). But when I got back from the spa, the best Mother’s Day gift came when I rejoined my little family. Mark and Kate were on the front porch escaping the heat of the house. Kate took a look and me and absolutely lit up. She had a huge smile and was kicking her legs like she was going to jump out of her pants.

Mark, on the other hand, looked glassy-eyed and exhausted–and chagrined to see Kate being so chipper. He’d spent the better part of the 3 hours I was gone trying to get her to stop crying. Even though Mark had wanted to do all the parenting chores all day, I told him he should take a nap while I fed her. Poor guy could barely keep his eyes open.

I sat on the floor and fed Kate some summer squash puree and she bit down on the spoon with every bite. This doesn’t make for easy-going, but that day I was just loving it. It’s what *my daughter* does when she eats. What a lucky person I was. My sweet husband sacked out in bed, exhausted from putting his all into making my first Mother’s Day perfect. And my little gnawing baby, rubbing squash into her hair and eyebrows and filling her mama with love and gratitude.