The Prayer that Neil Wrote

When Tori was pregnant, she asked Neil to write her "a poem or a prayer or something", for her only child, her Finally Girl. And this is the beautiful thing that Neil wrote.

Aside

Things I am into right now:

Firefly:



Bright sari-colored scarves like Frieda Pinto's:



(I found a similar one at Target)

M.I.A and A.R Rahman.

Reubens served Bronx style(with coleslaw):



American Idol (shame).

Neil Gaiman, Neil Gaiman, Neil Gaiman.



(Start with the short stories--Smoke and Mirrors or Fragile Things. Next, read The Graveyard Book. Then it's time for the Sandman Series--Gaiman's graphic novels. Graphic novels aren't low-brow or less intelligent or less worthy of your time. They're not 'just comic books'. It's a different way to tell a story. Fewer words. More pictures. Art marries literature. How could you complain?)



Smoked chicken with white sauce and Pink Pull Your Panties Down Punch. (The name comes from the fabulosity that is "Peace, Love, Barbeque" by Mike Mills and Amy Mills Tuncliffe.)



Things I am not into right now:

Having a house built one house down from ours. I write this to the sweet serenade of hammering, drilling, shouting construction workers. Not to mention the fact that they can see us clearly every time we go in the backyard to play. Extremely private, it is not.

Kristin Hannah, her Hallmark card novels "Firefly Lane" and "True Colors", and her sudden and inexplicable rise to fame.

My cats. I hate my cats. Every morning, they go outside to escape the tyrannical fists of Thing One and Thing Two. And twice a day, every day, they cry to be let inside THE VERY MOMENT I have finished putting the girls down for nap or bed time and sat down. Girls are in bed. I clean house, wash dishes, make coffee and sit down with a book: Cat wants in. Girls are in bed. I am finally sitting down to eat dinner and watch Idol after a long day: Cat wants in. They drive me nuts.

Coughs that outlast eternity. And running noses. And crying, fusty, sick-babies. Did I mention said virus comes with a yucky tummy component? Or that I have it too?

The Captain's new show, Castle, being on Monday nights. Um, Captain, I work Monday nights, recall? Monday night rolls around, I ain't available. I reckon we're gonna need to suss this out 'fore I can be on my merry. Otherwise I 'spect to have reason to be angry as a Reaver. (And NO, I cannot just record it. We don't have a DVR. We are unwilling to add 30 bucks a month to our cable bill for a DVR. We get basic cable right now and it's $14 a month. I mean, if it was Firefly coming back on Monday nights, I'd get the damn DVR. But it's The Captain in another guise, and I'm afraid this is not enough).

(It's called A Recession. I clip coupons. We don't go out to eat. I check books out from my work instead of buying them. Make lattes at home. Use tax refund to pay off debt. And don't order DVR's. Or HBO. Tragic.)

(Yes I DID just pay $20 bucks for the complete series of Firefly on DVD but only because I had no other way of staving off my crippling withdrawals. After watching the last episode, I didn't feel myself for days. I'm still not fully recovered.)

Even The Goblins are feeling the strain. I mean, as Ayla reminded me today:

"Even cheese popsicles melt."

And she's right, you know.

Then Indy threw in her two cents:

"Stupid monster! Took all my stickers."

(A fitting reference to the previous administration if I ever heard one.)

Saturday Morning, Snow

At seven am, this is how I left my lovelies.

Outside was snow. Inside were snuggles.

Playing outside on the trampoline.

Ayla says she wants to take off all her clothes and lay in the sun. She has a marked propensity for this. She will be naked in the snow, if we'd let her.

So I said ok. I said, keep your undies on.

In the waxing light of February, Ayla suns herself like a gangly lion.

There is a very brief period in one's life when one can lay naked under the sky and feel the heat of the gentle sun. Unless one lives in France, and doesn't mind being naked around strangers.

So today, that's what Ayla did. Then she told me her name was Katie, and asked if she could come inside to play with Ayla.

C'est bon.

Hi ho, Bouguereau!

I have been meaning to share these for a long time. Papa and Grandma took Ayla and Indy to the art museum.

In Denver, at the art museum, you wear cowgirl hats and sit on saddles. (What do you mean, nobody rides saddles at the Met? You're missing out).





Going to the art museum in Denver also means wearing traditional Native American dress:



Yes, the Louvre has the glass pyramid. But we've got bubbles!



MoMA, schMoMA.

What the World Needs Now

Love, sweet love.






Vesuvius At Home is worried today. Worried about her job, and her husband's job. I have no easy, cheery answers. But losing a job can't make me lose these two. Or Mr. Vesuvius.

The greatest of these is love.

Happy Valentine's Day, my friends and family.

I love you all.

The Kid

So we got this kitty for Ayla, because it snuggled with her nicely, unlike Goldie.

Goldie would be "Doughy", in Ayla-Indy-Speak.

We couldn't agree on a name for the kitty. At first Ayla wanted to call it Jasmine. That was fine. Then Pluto, she decided. We liked Pluto too. But somehow, it never really caught on.

Next thing you know, Ayla wanted to call it Wall-E-Eva. All run together. Walleeva. But we never actually called it anything except 'the kitty'. Sometimes, jokingly, we'd call it Jasmine Pluto Wall-E Eva. But of course that is not so very practical.

So, I decided, the kitty's name would be Kid. You know, like The Kid. Billy The Kid? It has a western feel that I liked. And the girls called it Kit, short for Kitty, with a soft t already.

Ayla just came running out of her room. She is supposed to be napping.

"Ayla," says I. "Go back to bed."

"Just a minute," says Ayla, scooping up the kitty. "I have to get my kids."

Crazy Hair, Crazy Cakes

Sorry, future adolescent Indy. I couldn't resist.

At least I didn't title this post 'Indy the Tutt'.

Or maybe Jabba the Tutt woulda been funnier. I don't know.





Could you resist Indy? I can't. The other day, Noah sent Indy to ask me to cut his hair. I hate cutting his hair. But Indy barreled down the hallway. "Mom. Cut. Daddy. Now. Cut now." She commanded. She is so darn sure of herself.

No fair sending Indy, I told husband. You know I cannot resist her.

And I didn't.(I'm kind of afraid of what might happen if I did. Indy would not let me forget).

Indy is awesome, in the truest sense of the world. Wondrous and fear inspiring. Around here, we call her 'wild' and 'terrible'. A great and terrible beauty? That is Indy. Beautiful. Fearsome. Fierce. Glorious. Impossible to resist.

Very much like brownies, now that I think of it.

Bluebird Girl

Today I looked at Ayla and thought: She is a girl.

For the past two years I have told people that I have two toddlers.

But I don't, anymore, do I? I have one toddler and one girl-child who will turn five this year.

Thank God for her October birthday. The prospect of kindergarten in the fall would be too much to face.

We were sitting next to each other in the booth at McDonalds. There was a word-puzzle on the happy meal bag and we were working on it together. And she looked at me. She had braids in her hair and two clips. One was yellow. One was red with sparkly stars.

Don't expect me to explain what it is about the sparkly-star red hairclip that did it. But it is what did it. I looked at that clip and thought: Look at my beautiful green-eyed girl. My funny, smiling little bird. Last night she climbed in bed with me and snuggled so close it was as if she was trying to become a part of me.

Something deep in the breast or the gut. That's where Ayla is.

My girl.