sometimes

Sometimes I think I do more wrong than right. I worry about decisions regarding their school and discipline and health and life in general. I think you all know by now that I am also delightfully neurotic and so it isn't simply that today I've a small worry about, say, sleeping habits, whilst making toast and leave it at that. It is more like when I start to worry about sleeping habits, these worries quickly tumble into logrithmicly expanding terrains that end up in my having an existential crisis on behalf of everyone in the family. Really, I know it's a favor and a skill that I know they could do without. It is simply too much to put on such small people - nevermind my own growing soul. But then, I find a photo like the one above. Then, my delightfully neurotic side shuts up. For a very long time. Because, you see, there is evidence that I need not have existential crisis, even for the youngest of my family. There is evidence, photographic evidence, that I am doing things alright. Sometimes.

Notes on the Isle of Barra

I thought rural was driving out to my grandmother's or my uncle's farm in Minnesota. Both were about a twenty minute drive outside of town and they seemed far sitting in the backseat with the winter sun long set after a family celebration. Now that I'm older and I've lived in Scotland, I realize that is not rural. It is certainly not city or suburban - even with urban sprawl taking place. But it is not rural. Maybe country, but not rural. Rural, I've found to mean something a bit different since traveling to places like the Isle of Barra or even twenty minutes outside of Glasgow. Rural is access via a road only large enough to fit one car with pull-out spaces for the rare car to car meeting. Rural is difficult for a visitor to find a phone or surf the internet. It is static-y radios and busy days filled with fresh air. Rural is where sheep and cows graze with a view and have more motorway rights than cars. Rural is a place and time where you realize how very loud the quiet can be. And, in this quiet there is comfort and an invitation for all the creatures roaming about a 5 y.o. boy's head to come out and play...

gimme a gun?

Nothing screams "sheltered middle class white mother" like my shock over a recent gang beating that took place on the main road to my husband's work.

http://www.blogtopsites.com/outpost/c2353a973a60fdcf20886363e9b3e046

The Brits think the Yanks are nuts for the amount of guns available and sold in the States. The U.S. is also apparently also one of the main manufacturer of guns for the world.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2010/sep/01/photography-zed-nelson-best-shot

A part of me, maybe, if I'm honest, it is the "sheltered middle class white mother" part of me, sees the Brits' point of view. There is gun violence and a sad amount of deaths involving guns in the U.S. Why have them available if there are accidental and not-so accidental deaths from them? Here they are heavily controlled, yet, I'm not finding a void of gun violence.

http://news.uk.msn.com/in-depth/raoul-moat-manhunt.aspx
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/glasgow_and_west/8457418.stm

If anything, there is a remarkable number of violent gun deaths considering this strictly gun-controlled island country is not much larger than Minnesota and Iowa put together.

http://www.sarmonster.net/UK.htm

The native Glaswegians I've asked about this recent event shrug it off. They say that gangs hurt gangs and that innocent bystanders rarely get involved. I dunno. If I'm about to die, innocent bystander or not, I'd rather it be quick - the way an abbatoir kills the animals we eat - than being shoved off the side of the road and beaten beyond a hair's breath and then live knowing someone wants me gone.

No, I'm not saying I want to be caught in crossfire or that I have a deathwish or even wish to belong to a gang. But I am tired of this stereotyping of gun-users in the States. The U.S. is not filled with rabid gun slingers ready to pop innocent bystanders for not correctly ordering a mocha at Starbucks. My uncles are hunters. My kids' uncle is a hunter. My husband learned to shoot cans in the Arizona desert with his grandfather. For him, it was time in the quiet without the worries that come from a child stumbling through adult concerns. No one has been hurt. If there is to be an end to gun violence, even in heavily controlled societies, then thoughtful teaching of gun use and the value of life has to happen. Not juvenile fingerpointing at cultural preferences founded in historical necessity. I want my children to neither be caught in crossfire nor be beaten to a pulp.

for lack of an ode

A while back I wrote an "ode" to both G and my husband. These odes were the result of my being quite grumpy with news articles that just promoted yucky views on family. I've been wanting to write an ode to my son, to keep it balanced, but each time I start, I get sidetracked into telling stories. For example;

"I love my son because he lives in a fantastical world where anything is possible for anyone...like the time he found out I was pregnant with Babe Newt. He has a brain fascinated with natural history and understands life cycles like few kids do. So while I was surprised when he first said that he knew I was going to have another baby but even more surprised when he then he said that he didn't think it would be a baby dragon but he just wasn't sure."

Ahem. Let me begin the ode again without being sidetracked into a story.

"I love my son because he is interested in people and their stories. He wants to know about you; what you need, what you like, where you come from and where you'd like to go. He wants to help you on your way. We went to the beach to build a fire and watch the sunset on the Isle of Barra. He and G both needed to use the toilet whilst on the beach. He quietly went about digging two deep holes. One for each bodily function. He also spelled the world -toilet- in the sand. He and G used these as the sunset and the waves crashed. Not as sweet as we thought the evening might be, but Big M and I sighed and thought, well, what is the harm? What is the point in stifling such creativity? The next day, at another remote beach, he did the same thing. But, another family came upon the beach. G was running half naked down the chilly shore shouting I-used-the-potty-on-the-beach! as her brother asked the couple if they too needed the toilet. This couple's children were too cold and wouldn't venture off the dunes to the beach. They stared at our family's mayhem and we could see their juvenile wheels turning to use our children's behavior as proof why they should remain in bed despite the beach seals groaning on the rocks beyond. To them, this sad scene is clearly what happens when you commune with nature. Random Americans ask you if you want to relieve yourself on the beach. It was clear, this couple's children were civilized. We were left a bit confused. Do we explain that our son is a caretaker? Only interested in the well-being of others? Do we explain that we really aren't red-necks? Or maybe own up to our apparent red-neck tendencies and offer them some of our lunch too to show that being a red-neck also has a hospitable side? Or would all this talk just make it worse? We really couldn't make a decision in a timely manner as we were laughing too hard. The family left quickly."

I think I will try to write my ode when I'm grumpy with a family image in the newspapers. I seem more succinct when grumpy.

almost

Often, I marvel that we only have the one word "love" to mean so many things. I mean really. I love my new vegan chocolate sauce and I also love my family. I think the reason we don't come up with more words for the different kinds of love that exist is because there are simply too, too many ways to mean the word love. Better to give up, use the word "love" as often as possible and move on to more easily attainable goals.

I love pictures like this of my family. People I love more hugely than words and laughter or my ego or my joys and desires and failures. I love them so much that every day I learn yet another way to understand and use the word "love." Yet, they are here, these people I love so very large and in such variant and strong ways. These people, bearers of my large love, look small traipsing through the earth's secrets in sands and dune grass. In these pictures, the landscape almost looks bigger than my love for them. Almost.