•gratuitous jammies post•

With bonus golden-hour shot of family on the UFO at Arroyo Park. Happy Holidays, everyone!

xox

•it's beginning to look a lot like giftwrap•

Winter is coming, the goose is getting fat. Rather than put my penny in the man's hat, let me introduce you to No New Christmas. Particularly, the rules.

No New Christmas was an effort by my family, put forth a few years back, to gift things of a recycled, made, or otherwise stridently not-purchased variety. When I say family, I mean Troy and myself. It was easy when we began, to include Penn in the fold. At two, he didn't have much of an opinion about NITB vs. No New. That's all different this year, as Lego has tightened its grip. Troy and I have been avoiding the topic. To No New, or not to No New? That is a different blog post.

I've never actually set about creating guidelines for NNX (sounds like a boy band), but I'm inspired by the recent ferver (my own) for advent calendars. You've seen these things–they number one through twenty-five, they help you while away the days until Christmas, they usually involve the popping out of wax figurines that taste sort of like chocolate. I started making a tiny-art shadow-box version last year, then abandoned it for baby socks. Until I get pictures, don't ask. (Ask Pinterest.) Lego has an advent calendar. There is now a Whisky advent calendar, recently admired by Huffington Post. Which brings me back to NNX (No New Christmas): could you D-I-Y a booze advent calendar? Could you keep it NNX? Perhaps. It all depends on the rules I am about. to. set. forth. Right here:

How To Achieve No New Christmas 

(or #howialienatedeveryone)

1) Use these guidelines to help shape your gift-giving season, not everyone else's. Be a good sport, and always be gracious when receiving any gift. From anyone. See Rules #7-8.

2) Gifts must be recycled, reused, repurposed or hand-made.

3) Consumerism is not the enemy–waste is. Feel free to buy something recycled, reused, or repurposed. Feel free to buy something hand-made by someone else. But before you wander into the gray with a plastic-wrapped bar of soap from some small company in Vermont, ask yourself. Is it really No New? (See Rule #8 for wiggle room.) A human hand may have, at some point, touched a set of Legos. Doesn't count. (She said to no one's husband in particular.)

4) Hand-made gifts can incorporate new purchases of ingredients. We need food to live. Seems like it should get a pass. Also, I don't want to be the one to begrudge you your peppermint bark. (She said, hoping her friend would read this post and made that flipping peppermint bark again.) Finally, it's unwise to recycle chocolate.

5) Gift Wrap must conform to Rule #2. But see Secret Rule #10.

6) Stockings must conform to Rule #2.

7) Service Gifts must... these are tricky. Are massages new or made? How about that wine-and-cheese-of-the-month-club? This is a wild card rule. Totally your call, whether or not that heifer is new. (Spoiler alert: you actually get to decide on all of these. It's Choose-Your-Own-Advent, and you're winning!)

8) Bonus Rule: when one of your gifts is made entirely of repurposed/recycled/reimagined items that you did not have to go out and purchase, you gain a little wiggle room. For other items, like the Death Star 10188.

9) Since there is no zero-waste alternative, I hereby sanction use of the USPS.

Secret Rule #10) Gift wrap you purchased at 90% off last year totally counts as NNX. xox

November 19, 2012 update! I finished my sock advent calendar. It was actually as much fun, start to finish, and it looked and sounded. I did manage to get some no-new Legos in there, as well. (Thank goodness for teen-aged neighbors!)

I've always loved Boxing Day. And the absence of the need to do anything on the day after Giftmas. The day deserves its own compartment and surprise.

One Snowy Day gave its life for this advent calendar. All beat-up, beyond-repair books should go to such fine resting places! xox

•every so often•

I think, I'm doing it. The sun breaks through the clouds, the pavement shines with promise. It's a good feeling. xox

Penn's "habitat."

"Can I sleep in my habitat?"

•survival doesn't have to be elegant•

Seeing what is there, and celebrating the tiny things, and acceptance. And knowing when my expectations are a trip-line in the dark on the stumble-y way to water. Those are a big help.  xox lis

•what happens•

Right now, there are a bunch of 'draft' posts littering the backstage here at HalfAssedMama.com. The titles are interesting. "Englandia." "Long losts." My favorite is simply "the toyotas."

There are a great many things preventing us from blogging. We both just landed ourselves new jobs. In my case, I got a text in England from my boss. One of our co-workers was leaving; would I like to apply for her job? After five weeks, Troy, Penn & I returned home to a swirl of jet-lag-interview-hired!-ready-set-full-time-job-for-mommy on top of (p.s.) a week-long conference that took Troy to Massachussetts. I'm still skinning my knees daily, just trying to keep up, but it's good to be working at a new velocity for That Store we love so well. It will let up, in December. So look for that "Englandia" post, then. Right now it's swim lessons and scraped-together meals and piles of suitcase innards.

For Amy's part, it's packing and working, not sleeping and tidying up loose ends, because her new job means a rather abrupt move, cross-country. Which means, first and foremost, we will be half-assedly blogging from opposite coasts of the US! (Thank you to Bryn Mawr for proffering this upgrade in bloggerly coolness.) Amy has accepted a dream job as a production manager for the Bryn Mawr theater department. She moves to Philadelphia on Sunday. I went to her house a few nights ago in a work-induced stupor, and she sent me away with a giant ceramic ladle, a box of beads, an oversized bag of clothes, and a book of our blog. Of course, all the clothes are still in the bag. The beads have been picked over by a small child. And the book is right here, online, for anyone to comb through. But there's something different about seeing all those early posts in pages. I can open to a random date, as though our posts are part of a larger story. And so they are. Once upon a time, Amy wrote, "Right now, I'm going to go put one small piece in the kiln to see what happens..."

Right now, I'm going to go.  

xox

•half-assed, remember?•

(I've been sweating over posts and the lack thereof. Given our blog title, it's a wonder it took me this long to come around. Just write, dumbass.)

We're not all built the same. Yet we're so much more alike, we humans, than we are different. Is everyone destined to pine? I have a piney history. I'm not particularly piney at the moment, having just affirmed that I live where I want to live, and love the family I've been given. And manifested the job, literally of my dreams. (Still reeling from that turn of events.) But I tend to pine. I'm good at it.

I am happy. I am even working on the illusion that I'm ready. For change, which is possibly more inevitable (and less comfortable, in some instances) than death. But I have that tendency to pine. Even in the middle of my big pile of joy, I yearn. And it's not unpleasant, either. I've ALWAYS been this way. Pining is a core trajectory of my personality.

Or maybe it's not. Could it actually be something else? Not yearning, or ambition... could it be hope? For more? I am hopeful, rather than pineful? I certainly prefer that spin. My superstition is creeping around the edges of the screen, whispering things like "dangerous," and "greeeeeeed." I guess that's true, as well. My heart is a greedy thing, and my eyes, wide enough to swallow everything.  xox

And now, a propos of nothing, a soft egg from a complimentary hotel breakfast in Trondheim.

•happy monday•

We could do worse than have a slightly manic one. I'll take mine in Purple Haze. xox

A Small Confession and a Care Package

The confession is that I never did manage to see the small boy this week, and therefore, I finally just took it upon myself to choose a name for our little blog-o-versary game.

(Don't worry though--I adhered to the highest ethical and technical standards in making my choice.)

(Well, okay. The highest ethical standards.)

And the winner is...Gisele! With whom I've been in touch already. But thank you to all of you who left us comment love! What a lovely group of people this blog has helped to gather around us this year--it's so nice to know you're out there reading.

Off to make a care package! (Not really. Off to get some work done. But soon! Soon, we will make a care package.)

•birthday photo essay•

colour

salt

god

neighbor

flavor

blue

•a very merry HA birthday•

Turns out the age for which you must get the birthday cake right is 4. Any variation on the theme, no matter how delicious, will be rejected--nay, rewarded!--with apocalypse now, toddler edition. Complete with hyperventilation, and outbursts so simultaneously piteous and hilarious you will be unable to stop laughing. Which won't help matters.
But there are no strawberries!!!! < sob sob sob >
Where is the....fraaaaaawwwww-ssssssting!!!!?
The earnestness. The confusion. The terrifying (if it weren't so adorable) rage. To be fair, it was his last night of toddlerdom. Perhaps he realized he ought to go out in style.

What I did next was, perhaps, not my finest flourish. But it had been a week of napless, back-to-school madness. And we were celebrating with an all-adult birthday dinner (save the guest of honor, of course) in our friend's extremely echo-y, amplifying living room. Oh, honey, you thought cake and candles were tonight? Actually, that's tomorrow. We'll have cake with frosting and strawberries and candles on your real birthday (thankgoditsnottoday). Tonight's cake is just a nice dessert for after dinner... That's right. I groveled.

And then I regrouped.


The next morning, I gathered my triage materials. Frozen cake, leftover frosting a friend made, strawberries, jam, old cereal bag for piping on accents. Things were looking good. And then I started to go a little nuts. Turns out, there are a great many images on the Interwebs of various "bus cakes." Inspiring. Could I free-style a bus that would meet with the child's approval? Could I, in fact, half-ass it?


Fortunately, my ambition knows no bounds. And I had a few hours o' free time.



I started to lose it a little with these strawberry "bushes." Not an essential feature, but...



It worked in my favor. My son appreciated the sugary offering, and accepted the whole monstrosity as a "fire bus." He even forgave its chocolate exterior. (Note to parents: white frosting is like gold. If you attempt a four-year-old's birthday cake without enough of this stuff, tread lightly and prepare for war.)

Turns out, if it's worth doing, it's worth over-doing. Within half-assed reason, of course. xox


©2011 Lis Harvey

•you up?•

whatcha thinking about

are you dreaming of
a tiny frog, or a very, very,
very long fishing line
and a golden fish?

or a lego house so big you can sleep in it
or a house with trampolines for floors
or a bed made of kitten fur

or a common meal
cooked by Leila and Tatum
and cleaned up by Freija, or
a banana that tastes like raspberries

and breakfast made of ice cream, or
pancakes made of cheese

or a birthday cake made of kisses
and kisses that taste like frosting, or
a moon who laughs and sings songs to you

like the mama who always loves you
and the daddy who always loves you
and all the cuddles to come
in your fifth year
while you're four
and we three
are too busy to notice how we've become
one.



Popsicle people in the park (party picture), after the jump.

Read more »

•backlog•

Generally, most of my projects fall by the wayside. Unless, of course, they come into their own. Hard and fast and on-top-of-one-another. I like it that way. (And that, says a small voice, is your downfall.)

Read more »

•in the all-together•

I have locked myself in the bathroom to write this. (Going on a full month without any toddler-free time, here.) But wait! I have news! Silvery, shimmery, glittery news! Today I achieved a personal dream. I turned on and used my outdoor shower. Twice. The conditions were perfect: toddler asleep, 103 degrees in the shade, and an apparatus so cobbled-together as to make my usual half-assedness look meticulous (the pictures don't exactly capture the hose-to-pipe-to-hose connections; they also elegantly hide the PVC aspect of the whole affair). I twisted our garden hose into place, turned on the spigot at the house, and scampered back to a little hummingbird brimming with promise. Then, wriggling out of clothes and giggling like an idiot, I turned that bird. And showered. It was so very short, but so very delightful. It was glorious, refreshing, and everything I'd hoped it would be. Finishing up, I peered out at the apartment complex behind our house and, well, I was not alone. Not sure exactly what I'd thought (that people wouldn't be home? that no one would notice me, naked and laughing on a Sunday afternoon?), but it was odd to be seen at that moment. I can't really say that I cared, but I felt some distant shade of indignation. "I can see you, you know," I called, as if pointing out that I could see the man would make him somehow less interested in seeing me. He did not move. Maybe he wasn't looking at me. Or maybe he didn't care, just as I didn't care, and was going to watch, damnit, in the same way I am going to continue to shower, damnit, outside. What might he have seen? Nothing porn-r-ific. Just a tired mom's bodkin, the color of cottonwood... a woman ablaze with satisfaction. I skittered away toward the spigot (off) and my clothes (on), skin prickling with joy. xox

•happiness is a jerry-rigged screen door•

~ a hug from a neighbor

~ a sign on cardboard (FREE)

~ a blog post so Hallmark, it leaves a sweet aftertaste

and you, of course. Sorry to be so absent, during this month of crazy vacation and transition. :) What is your happy?

House Rules, Hearts, and Half-Assed Love

When I was a child, the only real rule in our house was loosely derived from the book Summerhill, by A.S. Neill.* It was more or less this: You can do anything you want, as long as it doesn't hurt or annoy anyone else, and as long as you don't hurt yourself.

Even as a child, I found this rule elegantly simple and fascinating in breadth. It covered everything, really. As long as you weren't infringing on anyone else's rights, as long as you were acting with an eye to your own safety, you had pretty much absolute freedom to follow your heart.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

There's a lot of talk these days (maybe especially in the bloggy world?) about following your heart. Or following your true path, erasing the word "should" from your vocabulary, getting unstuck in your life, etc. I suppose these aren't exactly new, blog-world-related themes—consider the idea of "finding yourself." I have no real evidence to support this, but I feel like that one's been around for forty or fifty years or more, like it goes hand-in-hand with the advent of beatniks and hippies and "following your bliss."

(Still, I'm clearly a product of my own generation—I find the current incarnation of these ideas far more appealing. Give me Jen Lemen's beautifully articulate musings on what it really means—and how painful it can be—to follow your heart, and her scrupulous commitment to honesty, kindness, hope, love, joy, and really seeing, over the seemingly somewhat simplistic "follow your bliss" any day.)

I believe in these things—as core values, really. I'd be the first one to tell friends to follow their own hearts, to be true to themselves. If a friend is feeling stuck, I'll tell her to make a change, even if it means ignoring how she thinks she "should" behave or risking the disapproval of others.

And on the surface of it, all of these ideas seem to fit in nicely with the house rule of my childhood. And yet, for all my unwavering support of friends, when it's about my own heart, I find myself wondering: Where are the edges? At what point does following my own heart crash headlong into someone else's needs? At what point do I decide that that simply has to be okay? At what point do I decide that it might be necessary to toss out the house rule, buckle my seat belt, and knowingly cause that crash? And if I cause it, how much damage will I have done in the long term?

How can I be at peace with following my heart, knowing that I’ve hurt someone else? Or that the person I’ve hurt doesn’t understand, or disapproves, or perhaps will even come to hate me?

Most of all, can I trust that truly following my own heart is a way of plugging into a kind of universal balance—that even if my actions hurt someone else's heart for a time, if I'm being as honest with myself as I can be about what I need, then it will all work out for the best for both of us?

I don’t have answers.

But I don’t believe we can afford to spend our lives with our hearts slightly broken by our own resistance to doing what feels right for ourselves. It’s no way to live a life, and frankly, it seems disrespectful to those who love us, because if our hearts aren’t well tended, we just don’t have access to all the love we’re capable of. The kind of love we all deserve to give and to receive.

Because as much as we love the half-assed around here, half-assed love is really never okay.

*Am I supposed to say something here about how clicking that link will not in any way earn us one cent--or any fraction thereof--here at HAMAMA? Okay then. Consider that done.

•it's time•

Motherhood's awesome
because the most mundane shit
is suddenly art.


Sometimes, exactly
when you no longer have time,
it's finally time.


Sometimes, the thing you
dread most is the thing you need.
Just well-dressed in fear.

•dream post•

I dreamt Amy put a post up, in this very spot. She wrote about a long walk, with green photos and jaunty prose. Vintage Amy. Oh where, oh where is my better Half? Dear Readers: do not forsake us. We'll get our mojo back. It's been hailing and frigid here in Davis, and tender shoots have been under attack. In so many ways.

The toddler is going through a grueling growth spurt. It is the only explanation for the kicking, pinching, biting, pulling of my hair, mewling, and simultaneous refusal to leave our sides. My back hurts! Massage my feet! My tooth is loose! It hurts! Massage my hand! I have a bug! I want some MILK! Cut your eye off with a sharp knife! It's a constant stream of vitriol, from the moment he growls awake to the second he passes out. Then Troy and I wiggle in beside him, and marvel at his wonderful stillness. Nights are welcome around here. Sleep is holding this family together. xox

•rhino in the tea room•

Man. Sometimes a person needs to vent. But can't exactly front-and-center the venting on her cutesie blog. Grr! And arg! And a generous helping of boo-hiss. At least there's a precedent for this at Half-Assed...

Do tell, dear reader: what's stuck in your craw today? Feel free to post your unbloggables in the comments. Bury them here, if you must.

And now, an idyllic picture of the maple syrup my brother sent from Schenectady:

Art's neighbor made it, and it is delicious. Grade S for "Suburban"!

xox

•placecard•

Rosemary.


Pie.

xox

•just this•

Feeling kind of square in a round, round world. xox