All You Need

Night before last, I had a Beatles mix playing on i-tunes as I prepared dinner. Sydney was oblivious, enveloped in her after-school rituals, but every now and then Evan would scamper into the kitchen to shake and shimmy to the more upbeat tunes. I watched as he clapped and shuffled; he watched to make sure I was gazing appreciatively. (I was.) "Yellow Submarine" came on and Syd wandered in to sing along and engage me in a brief fantasy of what life would be like if we all lived in one. I turned back to the stove and realized I was experiencing a moment of pure joy. I'd had one of those moments a few days before, as I lay on my back in the grass at Audubon Park after my first 3-mile run in over 8 weeks, gazing up into the blue, cloudless afternoon sky. This moment at the stove, though--this was a different kind of joy entirely. This was the kind of moment filled with joy but also sadness and fear, of that gasping realization of the fragility of it all, the impermanence--a moment filled with the recognition of everything that can go wrong, all that might not have been, all that might happen. I heard my kids bickering over a toy. I stirred the pot of boiling noodles and the moment was gone.

"All You Need Is Love" was playing and almost instinctively I called out to Sydney. She came into the kitchen with a "what did I do now?" look on her face, and I scooped her into my arms and started rocking back and forth to the music. I felt her wiggle and strain for the smallest second before she realized what was happening and then I felt her relax against me, nestling her head in the space between my shoulder and neck. We swayed together, silently, for however long it was, I have no idea, and then I looked down and there was Evan, watching us with his crooked little smile, and so I bent down and scooped him up and he nestled his head in my other shoulder and it was just the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. I don't even mind sounding corny because damn, good fortune may be fleeting and blessings come and go but memories like these--they last forever.

Happy Mother's Day, ya'll. We are lucky, lucky people.

Evan on the Carousel at City Park

Evan would ride flying horses all day
Originally uploaded by Cade Roux.

Treme

HBO's 'Treme' premiered Sunday night, after months and months of local anticipation. We don't have HBO at home, but as we had a wedding to attend that very night, we found ourselves temporarily child-free, so we ducked out early from the reception and found our way to the Mother-in-Law Lounge, where they had a screen set up across from the bar for patrons to take it all in.

I've been reading this blog lately, so felt a keen awareness of everything that seems to be at stake here. I'm also keenly aware that I can in no be way objective about this show--there is something about seeing the heart and soul and guts of your city spilled in front of a national audience that precludes any sort of objective appraisal. And so much has been said and written about the premiere already, here and here and here, and so many other places, so much more eloquently and knowledgably than I ever could manage. But what's been going through my mind the last few days is what a stark contrast this show is to the one that aired a couple of years ago. Both K-ville and Treme can be thought of as having a similar purpose--to pay homage to a town and its people, to tell the story and profess a set of feelings--but one is like bad, pre-pubescent poetry, while the other is an aria, or a sonnet or symphony. Both hope to obtain the same objective, but only one manages to do so effectively.

The other day someone--someone from out of town--asked me if I liked the show. What could I say? That I absolutely and ecstatically fucking loved it, that I stood rooted to my spot in the bar for 90 minutes and hardly blinked or breathed, except during the scenes when we all danced and sang along to our favorite riffs or when a little sob of grief and shock escaped me while I watched John Goodman bring a little piece of Ashley Morris to the national stage? That being in that room with all of those people and that energy and watching this act of love unfold, so reverently, with such grace and nuance, made me want to get down on my knees on the sidewalk on our way back to the car and thank whatever god I don't believe in for bringing me to this place, for letting me be a part of this place, for leading me to this city I call home.

Yes, I told her. I really, really loved it. But, I also cautioned, I'm probably not very objective.

Zest for Life

I read this article with great interest as I sipped my morning coffee, marveling yet again at the journalist prowess of our veteran T-P writers. Shelia Stroup never fails to capture that perfect, heartwarming story, writing incessantly and with seemingly unwavering enthusiasm about that person-who-seems-familiar-but-you've-never-actually-met-them--those stories that really make you want to clean off the front porch and plop down in that old rocking chair and pass the time with a tall glass o' lemonade. She writes about the Everyman with a style that is unmistakable, and the folks in her stories always tread that fine line between offbeat and just plain fucking nuts. Perhaps, given her penchant for these pieces, Ms. Stroup is just plain fucking nuts herself? Ah, but let's save that for another post.

That article really got me thinking, particularly this part:

One of their favorite chickens was a little bantam rooster named Que who walked into their lives in August 2008. His top beak had been clipped so far back that when he tried to drink, bubbles would come out of his eyes. His neck had been broken and he was covered with lice when they found him wandering a couple of blocks from their house.

They didn't think he'd live a week, but they just lost him three weeks ago.

"He was an inspiration to a lot of people," Katrina says. "He really, really had a zest for life."

My friend Holly called attention to the conundrum presented herein: that is, "how can one differentiate between a chicken with a zest for life and a chicken who thinks life sucks?" How, indeed. I've been thinking about this all day.*

The problem, of course, is not just that chickens cannot speak, and therefore pronounce their zest, nor the fact that they are not capable of exclamations of joy that might indicate zest--the problem is really that most chickens, by their very mannerisms, seem zestful. Have you ever watched a chicken? They strut, they squawk, they flutter their wings in a prelude to flight that seems, at least superficially, to indicate excitement. So how does one detect zest-for-life in these enigmatic creatures? May I offer a few suggestions?

* Gets invited to more parties (H/T mom)

* Caught reading Walt Whitman in the backyard

* Vigorous pecking

* 30 minutes of calisthenics every morning

* Enjoys the occasional cigarette

* Always has dessert first

* Seen leading other chickens in a rousing rendition of "Tomorrow"

What else? Anyone have any other suggestions of what to look for when trying to detect that chicken-in-the-rough?

* Yes, this is what I do with my mind on my days off.

Sydney @ 4 1/2

Syd crazy in soap suds
Originally uploaded by Cade Roux.

* Very girly. Must wear some sort of skirt or dress every single day. Likes her hair long, must wear some sort of headband every single day.

* Smart. Is starting to spell basic words, like "cat" and "dog" and "mom" and "dad". Can write all letters and most numbers. Seems to have great spatial intelligence--very good at puzzles and mazes. Must get this from Daddy.

* Working on self-regulation. Gets very excited and this often spirals into something resembling hysteria. She's having fun, but no one else is.

* Favorite Foods: cherry tomatoes, smoothies, peanut butter toast, apples, applesauce, pineapple, avocado, animal crackers, ice cream

* Very Excited By: seeing friends in unexpected places, riding the rollercoaster at City Park, picking wildflowers, chasing Evan in circles, screaming (happily) with Evan at bath time, visits from/to Florida family, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, trips to Brocato's, running around the block with Mommy, bouncy castles

* Not So Excited By: leaving Abeona House, sleeping in her own bed, brushing teeth/hair, being made to wear pants under her skirt/dress when it's cold outside

Evan @ 20 months

Crazy Evan monkey
Originally uploaded by Cade Roux.

* A tiny little person. 21 lbs., 30 inches at last check-up.

* Favorite Foods: muffins, melon, chicken breakfast sausage, meatballs, kiwi, yogurt

* Excited By: large trucks and machinery ("diggers"), dogs and cats, peppy music, screaming (happily) with Sydney at bath time, anything that Sydney is doing, ants, playing outside, basketballs and footballs

* Not So Excited By: diaper changes, nose wiping, being made to come inside, getting picked up by Sydney

Abeona House

4 years ago, in the spring following Hurricane Katrina, I found myself in a state of frustration, desperation, something closing in on panic. My 6-month-old baby was entering her third month at a day care that was not meeting my expectations; granted, they were high expectations, but this was my child, after all. There was nothing particularly wrong with the place: it was clean, the staff was friendly enough, there were no televisions in the play rooms or creepy boyfriends hanging out in the break room. And Sydney seemed happy enough, although I was starting to suspect that this contentment was more a reflection of her innate disposition, not of anything special the organization was providing. Then, one day, I walked in and found my my child, my precious baby, struggling to wrap her mouth around the nipple of a bottle that had been propped against the edge of her infant seat. That sight, of her struggling for sustenance, haunts me still. I marched out of there with my child and all of her belongings and knew that we would not be going back. I didn't have a back-up plan but could not, I would not, tolerate the idea of not-quite-good-enough child care.

Luckily, that very afternoon I received a call from a friend who knew of a nanny who was looking for another child to join her group. This nanny happened to be a former member of the staff of the Gris Gris House, the childcare center I had chosen for Sydney, before Katrina came, wiped out all their resources, and forced them to close. Some parents from the Gris Gris House had started a nanny-share situation with this woman, who was awesome, and I signed up right away, grateful and relieved and feeling very, very lucky.

I felt even more grateful and relieved and lucky and excited when I learned that this group of parents had banded together to form a new childcare center; it was supposed to open in a couple of months and I knew I had to be in that number. I took my registration form and my deposit and hand-delivered it to the appointed person's doorstep, then waited anxiously to hear if we had been granted a spot.

I don't remember when we heard, but eventually we did, that we were on the list of families to open the center. We went to the open house, met the other families and future teachers, built a ramp, painted, cleaned, sorted through donations--most of what we started with, from cribs and toys to tables and chairs, was second-hand--and just generally got things ready. Meanwhile, I worked on finishing my master's degree and internship and in between things pushed my chubby little baby girl up and down streets littered with debris, through wrecked neighborhoods, past the remains of so many people's lives, so many people who would never come back, and tried hard to imagine the day when things would stop feeling so surreal, so transitional, so impossible, so wrecked. And when I would push Sydney through the streets in her stroller everyone always seemed appreciative, approving, genuinely glad to see such a concrete affirmation of the future of the city; everyone else--everyone I knew who did not live here--made it clear, explicitly or otherwise, that maybe I was just a little crazy, darewesayeven negligent, for introducing an infant into such a lonely, toxic, fragile, wrecked environment.

But then. Then, in September, Abeona House finally opened. The name, when I stop to think about it, still moves me to tears. In Roman mythology, Abeona is the goddess of Outward Journeys--more specifically, the goddess responsible for guiding and guarding children as they take their first steps away from home. I mean, seriously. From the very beginning, I knew we were a part of something very special--I knew we had found that sacred third place, that home away from home, that so-much-more-than-a-day-care scenario.

Maybe you're wondering what's so special about Abeona House. A lot of it has to do with Emmy, our Director, who periodically sends me midday emails, just to let me know that Sydney was gentle and thoughtful with a friend on the playground, or that Evan is having a great, smiley, happy day. For no particular reason--just because. And there's Gwen, the Assisant Director and fearless head of the one-year-olds' classroom, who has this uncanny ability to get 8 toddlers to sit in a circle and sing songs for extended periods of time, who had the entire school chanting "Sydney ROUX!" every afternoon when I would pick her up, who is simultaneously playful, nurturing, and respectful of children--which is indeed a rare combination of skills. There's Alli, the 2s teacher, who engages her young charges in truly impressive feats of creativity, who is gentle and fun and funky and sees every child as a unique, crazy, creative little force of nature. There's the Mardi Gras parade where we march up and down Oak Street with our signature throw--the Golden NuNu. There's Aliza and Nicole, the preschool teachers, who are so patient, so engaged with our children, who seem genuinely happy to be doing what they're doing and who make a concerted effort to communicate my childrens' successes, to problems-solve around their challenges. There's the quarterly work days, where parents show up on Saturday morning and fix things up. There's the teacher luncheons, which happen about twice a year, when parents report for duty in the middle of the workday so that the teachers can go out to lunch with each other. There's the Kids Tent at the annual Oak Street PoBoy Fest, which we host; there's summertime walks to the snoball stand, Friday morning romps on the levee, Yoga Thursdays, visits to a sibling's classroom when one is feeling sad (yes--if Syd is having a hard time, she goes to visit with Evan, and vice versa--amazing), visits by brass and Zydeco and Klezmer bands, Family Nights at a parent-owned restaurant. I could go on and on and on; we have 4 years' worth of experience, and what a rich experience it has been.

When I had Sydney, I knew very few people my age with children; I was the first of my group of friends to take that journey, and so it was unchartered territory, a great and terrifying unknown. So there was no way I could anticipate or understand the great and terrifying dilemma around early childhood education--if I had understood what a tremendous problem it is I might have had second thoughts about having children. But now, knowing what I know, having what we have, I am fully aware, every single day, of how incredibly lucky we are, what a gift it is to have this place, this third place, this community that is helping me to raise my children. In two months Sydney will be leaving for summer camp and then kindergarten; every step of this newest journey has just reinforced for me the knowledge that damn, my baby girl has been shown some serious love, such genuine and thoughtful attention, that I know can never be replicated. My children are thriving, I believe, in large part because of what they have at Abeona House.

But it doesn't come without a price. It's not a painful price, but it takes work. There's the tuition, of course, but on top of that there are the work days, the board membership (I've been serving for 2 1/2 years, now as Vice President), the community efforts, the teacher appreciation initiatives, the fundraising. As a small non-profit, so much of our livelihood as an organization depends upon our fundraising efforts, like the upcoming Crescent City Classic fundraiser, affectionately known as the Reggio Run. Last year I raised almost $700 and ran the 10k in a prom dress; this year I hope to raise even more and run in something a tad more comfortable. If you've read this far, it must mean you're interested; won't you please consider sponsoring my run? Say yes--you know you want to. I'm talking about 5 or 10 or maybe even 25 bucks, which you can donate through the PayPal button on our website, or mail to the center in a check. These funds will help keep our school open, help us keep offering health insurance and paid days off to our teachers.

And my kids will be so grateful.