Under the Tulip Tree

The First and Second Born

My mom teaching Perry how to crochet.

I used to love reading about birth order. The concepts (and generalizations) about how birth order determines and affects our personalities used to fascinate me. Mostly because it described (and still describes) my family to a T. We were the perfect case study for it, too. Three girls—a first, a middle, and a last born and no other siblings or a different gender to influence the experiment. It explained so much about who we were and who we would become.

I think one of the biggest if not the biggest difference between being born first and being born second (or third or fourth or fifth) is that the second born has never done, said, thought, breathed, looked at, or believed anything without a comment, opinion, or assessment from the first born. The second born doesn't often have the luxury of doing anything unwitnessed. Not only is the first born allowed and able to do whatever she wants first, she does so without a running commentary from the younger sibling. That's the way it is in this house anyway.

The second born will do and say what he wants to, though, despite being scrutinized and analyzed by the first born, and despite watching her do it first. He will even have the audacity to try and do not only what the first born does, but what the first born does all the time. One day, the second born will ask the first born if she would teach him how to crochet. To this she will reply, "No way. You'll get frustrated and freak out on me." Probably true, their mother will think. But the second born won't give up quite so easily and he'll keep asking and asking until finally his grandma (also a crocheter and a second born) will step in and say, "I can show you how to do it."

The first born will go into her room, unable to watch the second born attempt to do this in what is sure to be an imperfect manner. (She will provide the necessary parties with some rainbow yarn first, however.) Then the second born and his grandma will sit in the green chair while his mother listens and watches quietly off to the side. There won't be any freaking out but there won't be a lot of love for the craft either. After a few attempts, the second born will let out a big sigh, push the rainbow yarn away and look at his mother and say, "Geez, Mom. I don't even know how to tie my own shoes, how do you expect me to do this?" Then he will walk over to the piano and start playing Showboat.

The first born will hear the piano playing and came out from hiding in her room, knowing now that the crochet lesson is over. She'll ask how it went. She'll see the crumbled yarn on the floor. She'll turn to her mother and give her a sympathetic smile, showing just a little bit of sadness over it not going as well as she apparently hoped. And her mother will think that underneath the scrutiny, and underneath all the critique of the second born, the first born wants him to do well. The first born wants the second born to know how to do things, how to succeed, how to be happy. Now if the mother could only get the first born to show that once and a while…

ANY

Staying Home for Vacation

Last week was our spring break and it was one of the fastest moving weeks ever in the history of the world. I really don't know how it happened, because we didn't go anywhere and we didn't do much of anything.

I had a bunch of work to do so I spent an inordinate amount of time with my nose to my computer screen (that wasn't my favorite part) but we managed to make it to the park on our bikes every day, rain or shine. Yay, Mommy!

And we went to the movies and spilled (on two separate occasions) enough popcorn to cover a 72 mile radius. One day we went out to lunch and one day we got frozen yogurt and the rest of the time, we crocheted and drew pictures and baked cakes and ate chili-cheese fries (me) and played way too much Wii basketball (Perry).

Michael took a surprise day off from work and took the kids to the arcade. And then on Saturday, he took the kids to the Audubon to hike and see the animals.

Yes, there are lots of people around town looking tan and happy, having just returned from Maui or someplace equally cool, and yes, the Smith's are looking as white and pasty as ever but there is a certain and absolute joy in the nothingness and in the laziness of just staying put, right here.

I think so anyway.

ANY

Photos taken by Michael.

ANY

Being Ready for Spring

This time of year, I'm usually more than ready to start my garden projects. Usually, when spring officially comes, I've already been out there for weeks, digging and pruning, getting ready for the main event. Not so much this year. My garden is already looking neglected, not tidy or prepared for the explosion of growth to come.

Some things, thank goodness, survive with very little care. I'm grateful for that right now. Grateful for their diligent beauty.

But I didn't trim back the forsythia before it bloomed and I didn't trim back the clematis and now they're both growing all crazy and bonkers. I haven't pruned the ornamental grasses or the hydrangeas and I've only sorta started the veggie plots and my progress has been slowwwww…

I realize that the pressure to finish these garden chores is totally self-imposed and that the world does not give one single care whether I do these things or not.

And, besides, spring isn't only for the garden. Spring is for waking up to a light gray sky instead of a black one. It's for birds singing new songs, and in louder voices. It's for baseball and kickball and bike riding, too—even if it's all done in the rain.

It's for a light-filled kitchen at dinnertime and enough sunlight left after dinner to play wiffle ball in the backyard. It's for hearing the shouts and fits of laughter from the kids playing outside again. Spring is for simply feeling alive again.

The garden will grow without me just fine, even if it's not tidy and prepared and "ready" in the way that I want it to be. And, besides, who really cares anyway?

ANY

Piano Bag for Perry

After the heaviness of the past few days, I needed a little lighthearted sewing project to help take my mind off things. Gardening helps, too, but it's too soaking wet out there for me. This time, I decided on a project for Perry.

When he started taking piano lessons back in January, it became abundantly clear that some sort of bag or satchel or holding device would be necessary to contain the six slippery lesson books he needed to bring with him to class each week. And after having had them slip out of our hands and fall onto the floor for two months straight, it was finally time to put something together. The idea for this little design came together pretty quickly and he was very excited about it.

The construction is really simple: Two rectangles sewn up the sides, the back piece bigger so that it flaps over the front, and a long strap stitched to either side. I added some rows of turquoise stitching to the top, and the treble clef and the piano keys were cut loosely from fabric then top-stitched to the front. I wanted it to be a little rough and playful and not too plain.

He thinks it's just right. Someone else liked it, too. Can you guess who that was? Can you guess who wants me to make her one, too? That's right, and she's already picked out the fabric.

ANY

Different and the Same

A few weeks ago, a boy we know lost his six-year battle with the cancer he'd been fighting since he was three. He was only nine. The stars would just not align in the way he needed them to, no matter how hard he fought or how hard his parents tried or how hard the rest of us hoped and prayed. On the day he died, it poured like crazy. It stormed and stormed and the wind howled and the skies unleashed everything from pelting rain to piercing hail to furious snow. I remember staring out the window, nervously folding laundry, and being overwhelmed by the force and sadness of it all.

Last Friday was the memorial service. That morning I watched the tv coverage of the devastating earthquake and tsunami in Japan. I thought about the boy's parents and how they must know what that feels like, to be overtaken by an insurmountable wave of grief and pain. I thought about the people who didn't survive the earthquake, and I thought about the people who were still missing and about the families who were still wondering, searching, hoping, praying to find their loved ones safe, and I thought again about the force and sadness of it all.

At the memorial service, the boy's friends wore t-shirts from a drawing he'd made shortly before he died. There was a sea of green t-shirts and of faces of children who sort of knew but also didn't know the enormity of what had happened, of what was happening, and it was almost too much to bear. It was too much to bear. I couldn't think through my tears so I forced myself to separate slightly from what was happening. To separate from what was happening all around the world.

That night I was restless and unsettled. I kept trying to push the images and thoughts of the day out of my mind. Something about the memorial service happening during the aftermath of the earthquake had made everything more real and more personal somehow. I was reminded of how confusing and chaotic grief can be, how vast it is. And I can neither deny nor describe my belief that these things are connected—that all grief is connected. We are connected by oceans and we are connected by grief. Oceans of grief.

Are we connected by joy and love, too?

ANY

Finishing the Trim

Well, the last seven days have been a total blur but I finally did it. I finally painted every stinkin' square inch of dark-orange-brown-ugly-varnished-wood trim in the entire house. I started this project two years ago and I honestly never thought I'd finish it. Ever. There was just too much trim. And it took three (and sometimes four) coats to cover it all. But I did it. I had to ignore my children for a week and I had to ignore a bunch of other projects for a week but when I look at the shiny-new-white-clean trim, I feel a sincere sense of relief and accomplishment.

I didn't like the "ignoring the kids" part, however. So when I was finally done painting and I apologized to them for being so busy lately, they both looked at me like they had no idea what I was talking about. I'm pretty sure Perry thought it was a trick question. And then Arden said, What do you want from us exactly? So I dropped it and figured what's done is done.

Because it's finally done!

ANY

Kids Book Reviews: Animorphs

Title and Author.

The Animorphs Series by K.A. Applegate

Hi Arden. Can you summarize the books for us?

They're pretty much about these five kids who turn into animals so that they can fight these alien parasites that are invading the earth.

Whoa. Parasites?

They're these sort of slug things that crawl into people's ears and take over their brains and thoughts.

Sounds uplifting. Are the Animorphs winning the fight?

I'm not really sure. They have battles but they don't win them all, you know? The aliens are taking over other parts of the galaxy, too.

How many books are in the series and how many have you read?

I think there are 40 or so in the series. I can't remember. I'm on my 18th one. I usually take out four at a time from the library and finish them all in a week if it's a good reading week.

The covers freak me out. I think they're grody.

I think they're grody, too, except for a couple that don't look that bad. There's this one where the kid is turning into a leopard and it's actually pretty cool.

Would you recommend these books to a friend?

Definitely.

Are we done now?

No. What's your favorite one?

I don't really have a favorite.

Okay, we're done. What are you going to do now?

Draw.

Bye.

ANY