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Entries in Ezra (64)


Signs and Surrender

Ezra has adopted a charming little 3-year-old-ism lately, when he doesn't get what he wants.  It goes something like, I never EVER get (fill in the blank) even if that is patently and demonstrably false.  Even if he just got exactly what he wanted five minutes ago or if exactly what he wants is promised to him five minutes from now.  But it's not RIGHT NOW, and therefore feels like Never Ever. 

I have been in quite a huff this week, feeling petulant and impatient for the life I want to finally start.  My internal iPod has been running the I never EVER get script on repeat and I have been moping around in a fashion totally unbecoming of an adult who already has more blessings that she deserves.

Then my friend Kelly called and said an intuitive told her to "Trust The Process," which made me sit up a little straighter because it is the precise mantra that arose at last fall's photography camp.  Kelly said she is excited to introduce me to a director she is working with and full of ideas and hope about artful collaborations.

Then I got an out-of-the-blue e-mail from an editor I love saying "when are you going to move to LA so you can work with me?  I have so many ideas I can't sleep at night."

Another friend pinged me to say that we have to catch up and she has ideas to share about work to do together.

Then a colleague cornered me and told me that it's time for me to be the change I want to see and make my work.

All this came in a handful of days this week when I was hell-bent on wallowing in stuckness, but even I was starting to brattily concede that the Universe might be trying to tell me something.


I opened Facebook and there was a message from my old friend Jackie, who is moving to San Francisco in a few weeks, asking me if I have a cruiser bike.

Let me preface this by saying that only a few days before, as a girl on a cruiser passed in front of my car, I said out loud to my mom I really want to get a cruiser bike like that, and I want it to have a basket and I want to be able to ride it to the studio that will house my new work life.

So I responded to Jackie that I don't have a cruiser but I'm dying to get one and if she has one she needs to offload before she moves I'm very interested. 

She wrote back that this is a bike her former husband (and my friend) Dylan gave her before he died and she's been wondering for a year what to do with it.  Yesterday morning she woke up with the answer that she needs to give it to me because I loved Dylan and he loved me and it might give me some joy to have something of his.

All of this is to say that I was resisting all that positive feedback that I have been getting from people all week, but then the cruiser bike landed in my lap.  So now I have to concede that, yes, Universe, I know you are listening.  Thanks for the sign.  I surrender.  I will trust your process.

a literal sign, from Camp Shutter Sisters last Fall


Going Up

He climbs.  What of it?

One foot up, good grip with the hands.  Hoist.  Reveling in the sun pouring over his bedhead, the void below him, the sheer satisfaction of the movement.  All his attention in the moment, without a thought to what if someone sees me? or even worse, what if no one sees me?

Though to be fair, he knows without thinking that he has the eternal admiration of his mama, stuck to the ground below him.



Well this was bound to happen.  The time in the life of a (every?) boy when each innocuous thing he comes into contact with gets transformed...


Last week he pulled a dollar out of his pocket (???) and told Will, you can use this to pay the mortgage.

Ummm.  He's three.

My point, between this and the pencil-gun is this: it certainly begs the question Where on earth does he come up with this stuff?  I know it's not from his dad or me.  I'm pretty sure his Buddhist Bhutanese Montessori teacher isn't inculcating him.  And yet there's a mercenary in my kitchen.

What's a bleeding-heart pacifist liberal to do with a sudden rash of gun violence in the house? (Please don't say get him a haircut.)


Fruity Shots and Other Bad Habits

Let the record reflect that I did my taxes last night, February 22, 2012.  And since a tree doesn't make a sound in the year 2012 if it isn't recorded in social media, I mentioned it on Twitter.  To which my oldest friend replied, I'm surprised you didn't wait until April 15.

Last weekend I was complaining to Sarah about how behind I am at work.  Sarah, who signed up for the 8:30 section of Communications Law with me our senior year of college and then proceeded to spend most of the semester next to my empty chair.  Sarah, who invariably watched me sweat out a term paper in the waning hours before a deadline, if I couldn't charm my way into an extension.  Sarah, who regularly witnessed my propensity to put my boobs on the bar and bat my eyelashes just in time for free shots.  (Somewhere in Syracuse, a bartender is weeping at the realization that both I and the stale beer-smelling bar I haunted have moved on.)

The point is, I outgrew the fruity shots.  I outgrew the coquettish shtick.  I outgrew Communications Law (though probably by the skin of my teeth). 

But I'm still sporting this lamest of all lame character traits: procrastination.

You can't stand in line at the grocery story without a litany of suggestions about how to improve yourself.  Bikini Body In 10 Days!  5 Tips for a Flat Belly!  Never Have the "Bra...No-Bra?" Internal Debate Again!

But where is the Get Your Shit Together And Get It Done On Time headline?

Where is the Yeah, You're 38 and Every Cute Part of You Has Fallen or Grayed So Let's Dispense With The Game of Chicken?

Honestly I would rather share my weight or my debt-to-credit ratio here than this little nugget of shame, but I'm hoping that admitting I have a problem will help move me past it.

My name is Corinna, and I have a problem with self-discipline and procrastination.

Of course Ezra was up all night with an apparent ear infection and a bloody nose that left me looking like a mom out of a Stephen King novel.  So, um, yeah.  This whole productivity thing is probably going to have to wait until tomorrow.


Foreign Diplomacy

Ezra is perfect.  Ezra is officially taken with skiing and demands to be given the opportunity as soon as a flake falls from the sky.  He came home from school the other day with a book about space and pointed matter-of-factly at a picture of a nebula and saying that's just the universe.  Just the Universe.  He pointed at a picture of the Milky Way and said that's the Milk Wave.  He has taken to declaring how much he LIKES things lately, even when he doesn't really.  I LIKE beans!  I LIKE tea! 

I desperately need these cute three-year-old-isms right now, since I am the imperfect one.  The one who would have run away to Morocco to drink mint tea and eat lamb weeks ago if it wasn't for the occasional concession to civilization he offers.  I still give him the best of me, of course.  But that may not be saying much, and most days lately that doesn't leave a lot left over for anyone or anything else.

It feels like we are locked in constant foreign diplomacy.  He is a small, intransigent, strategically-important country I don't really understand.  I am the envoy from the United States of Reasonable and I offer physical protection and bribery with the only currency he really values: M&M's, Angry Birds, Dr. Seuss.  I'll give you two M&Ms if you eat that carrot.  You can play Angry Birds for 15 minutes if you poop on the potty instead of your pants.  Brush your teeth now, or there are no bed time stories. 

With the exception of the books, this is a currency made up of things I never thought I would have in my house.  I thought I was on the gold standard, but apparently I'm Ben Bernanke and QE3 is printed on video games and sugar.  It's demoralizing.

But he wants to ski.  And go to Mars.  And as of last night he likes to sip herbal tea with me.  These are small signs that our national interests may one day align, and we can run off to Morocco together.  Or at least meet for negotiations on the slopes at Davos.