wanted

A few years back, I was in the wedding party of friend. I had been looking forward to this wedding for a while. It was the first time my baby daughter was going to sleep over at my sister's.  I was back to my regular dress size.  My husband and I booked a hotel room. We would have the whole night to party. Woo Hoo!

Well, I threw my own wet blanket on myself by figuring out that I was pregnant with our second child.  It was about a two days before the blessed event that the reality of my situation started to come to light.  I was barely pregnant. I hadn't even taken the over-the-counter test, but I knew.

I decided to keep it secret for the time being.

My plan was to order seltzer with lime so it would look like I was having gin and tonics. Later, when I was ready for bed by 9:30pm it wouldn't seem so strange.

As I was dancing around with my daughter's secret sister or brother, it occurred to me that both the bride and the groom had only one sibling.

She had a brother and he had a sister. I was trying to imagine what that would be like. I have three sisters and a brother. The one of each deal is much more common than the variety pack of five, but it is a weird concept for me.

I know that not every kid who comes from a big family has a good experience. I also know that the size of your family doesn't give you a better experience, only different. To quote your middle school English teacher, "quality not quantity".

I can't really imagine it though, just like a twin can't imagine being a single.  Absolutly everything about my life would be different.

These are the kinds of things you obsess about when you are pregnant at a wedding, where you are not drinking and the banquet chicken cannot be served fast enough.

At one point I turned to my mother, who was also in attendance and is one of seven kids. I nodded towards my newly wed friends and their siblings.  I asked her, "Can you imagine having only one sibling?"

She replied, "Can you imagine not having any?".

I put my hand on my belly and for the first time that day felt happy about my expectant state.

Illustration Friday-beginner

crash

I want to be brave.

I am willing.

The problem is knowing which scary choice is the one worthy of my valor.

I guess that is what makes the choice brave, not knowing it is the right choice.

When I played baseball as a kid I would just pray that I would hit the ball and then I would run like the wind if I did. I never knew if I should stay on first base or not.  I would keep running, until I was out or until I landed safely on base.  I figured that, the faster I ran the sooner I would be safe at home.

I thought you were either good at baseball or you weren't. I had no idea that a little coaching or practicing of technique could get you further in the game.

I got through most of my childhood and adolescence using this swing and run technique. I don't recommend this style, it leaves a pretty spotty record on subjects ranging from algebra to modern dance.

When I got to college I realized that many of the things that I was natural at could be taught to just about anybody who had the will to learn. Sure, natural ability give a person an unfair head start, but not much.

This set off another light bulb; I could learn to do things that I had the will to study and practice.

Der, I know.

This leads to much reading.  This leads to trial and error.  This leads to planning, organizing, more reading, thinking, preparing, practicing, taking a class, attending a seminar, trolling the Internet, second guessing, erasing, writing, asking opinions, getting second opinions.

Eventually, the time comes to take what you know (even if it is not everything) and pray that you make contact.

Then, run like the wind.

Illustration Friday-lesson

lesson

Illustration Friday-bicycle

bi-bicycles

write

There are often debates about what is art? What is literature? What is serious music?  We're always doing that, labeling, sorting. 

There must be something in our DNA, that as a species we feel the need to but things into categories. Once upon a time this instinct must have been critical to our survival. I like to sort things. One time when I was babysitting at a house that didn't have a T.V. or a radio, I separated a large bag of peanut M&Ms. I own a label maker, I get it. 

It still annoys me though when it comes to artistic endeavors.  

My answer is, "Who cares?". 

Here are some more important questions to ask of a work of art:

Does it capture my attention? 

Does it stir something in my mind or heart? 

Does it evoke a memory? 

Does it get me up dancing?

Does it make me laugh?

Does it take my breath away?

Is it something I want to share?

Is it a good story?

That's the real genetic trait that separates us from the Bonobos, storytelling. 

And it is all storytelling.

Illustration Friday-journey-Maria

by Maria Swiatkowski

My daughter and I were talking about the Illustration Friday word this week, "journey".  I told her that the word reminded me of the band by the same name. 

I explained that they did the original version of that Glee song she likes. I then Googled them, so she could see what they looked like.  

A picture of the same cassette that I had won in the seventh-grade for the foreign-language-week-poster-contest showed up in the images. This was the one cassette that my older sister and I could agree on.  We would listen to it as we fell asleep, one side each night.

I explained what a cassette was. I told her it was what we used to listen to music, in the old days of the nineteen eighties. 

Before I could get a Journey video up on the screen, my daughter grabbed her markers and a piece of paper out of the printer tray and said, "That's what I'm doing for Illustration Friday".

Illustration Friday-journey

journey

special

We've got a lot of breakfast joints around here.  There are more breakfast places than ice cream parlors here on sunny Cape Cod.  Most places have lines out the door in the summer and a decent crowd of regulars in the off season.

I love to go out to breakfast.

I usually get one of those big meals with a name like, "Farmer's Special". Eggs, bacon, homefries, toast and coffee. Yes, please. I'll have some coffee.

I got this love of breakfast from my dad.  

When we were kids, Dad worked a lot of hours as a repairman for for the phone company.  On weekdays, Joe would pick him up in the New England Telephone van before we left for school in the morning. We'd see Dad again at dinner and shortly thereafter say we'd say "goodnight". 

Saturdays were for running errands, doing yard work or repairs to the house, as well as keeping an eye on a good percentage of us five kids.

Sundays were a different story.  If you got up and went with Dad to the early Mass at St. Mary's there was breakfast in the deal.  

I'm no early riser.  There are few things I cherish more than sleeping in.  Breakfast with my dad is one of them.  

From my Sunday morning slumber, I would hear Dad getting ready to go. In a semi-conscious state I would get myself dressed and in the kitchen just in time to go with Dad. "Ready?", he'd say and we'd be out the door.

There wasn't a lot of conversation. I would still be waking up on the short ride to church. Other than, "Peace be with you" we didn't talk during Mass.  At the diner, Dad would say, "Hello" to a few folks. He'd say a few words about the headlines or the Red Sox to the guys sitting at the counter seats. Those guys would wave to me as he reminded them which kid I was.  

The meal itself was usually pretty quiet. When we were done, Dad would say, "All set?" and we'd head back home.  

These days I see Sunday morning from the mom's perspective.  My husband takes the kids out to breakfast and I stay in bed on the one day that I can.  I don't do this purely for the love of my comforter and down pillow. 

I'm staying out of the way of breakfast with Dad.

Illustration Friday-bottled

bottled