thoughts from the red corduroy couch

“We’re making brownies now and we’re licking the batter from the bowl. We have 4 minutes until we can taste that,” Pinkie says of the lemon bars baking in the oven.  “No.” Annie says. “Like 9 minutes?” she asks. “No, they won’t be cooled off yet.” “Like 50?” she persists. “Mmm hmm…” Annie caves, absentmindedly. I’m sitting at the booth table in the kitchen on Florentia Street, in Seattle, Washington. Annie and Pinkie lick brownie batter from a bowl, and Cait tools around in the kitchen. We’ve  just declared Thanksgiving Stone Soup our new tradition, inspired by 1 st grade; Pinkie picked the rock from Cait’s yard.  Pinkie started too early, but the rest of us patiently went around the table, said what we were thankful for, mostly being together: friendship, food, family.  It’s scary, starting fresh in a new town, but Cait did it anyway, moved up a few months ago , and being here IS better, for her. And now we are here , are all together. Cait ...

Girl 1 did this: Clear Your Conscience, Not the Rainforest It's her 2013 EF Global Citizen Scholarship Contest entry. If she wins, she'll go on six days' exploration of Costa Rica followed by a two-day global summit on environmental sustainability in San Jose.  She's never done anything like this before and it's the caliber of what she pulled together that has my hair blown back. I am just beginning to discover what makes her tick, and appreciate her unique and totally authentic point of view.  Winners will be announced in January but if you ask me... I think you know what I'd say.

This is a fish ... They called him Rainbow fish. (Girl 2 records her thoughts on a computer, first time, from the red corduroy couch, tonight)  

On August 6, 2011, my youngest child’s 5 th birthday, in the middle of a sleepover, at 9:30-ish pm, a family friend, 2 years old, sleeping in her car seat, was shot and killed inside her father’s Toyota 4runner in a remote area in Placer County. It’s an unthinkable cold fact, and really hard. Since August, we’ve kept our antennae up, alert for signs of the girl’s playful spirit. I work hard at being notfurious. At about that general time, I had come to terms with time itself, its coming and going, my calling to jot some things down, make sense of mine, reconcile it, set things right, quiet myself down. My people have occasionally encouraged me to set thoughts to paper. My girl soulmate fanfriend Kellye once had simply said, “You have an interesting story to tell.” Being in my own skin, my story is unremarkable, plainly simple to me. I don’t know anything otherwise. But with this seed planted, in quiet pausing moments, a new question arises now and again: I’m off to Russia...

we stood on the porch and gossiped you are not boy crazy quietly, you applied for a money job after volunteering all day at the zoo you are so done needing me little, no more this summer, driven crazy like coffee: places, work, things to do amazed, flawed, independent, and you -- annie, annie it’s ok mommy, mommy, it's -- today you are sixteen

It’s June 11, 2012 and Cait brings me some melted-strawberry Gunther’s ice cream. Man, this stuff tastes good on a hot night. Sitting on the Red Corduroy Couch, ABBA playing on the record player in the bedroom, we decide to have a spontaneous pajama party. A crazy idea if you think of it; it's a Monday night, a work night for both of us. Thinking of it, I take a deep breath, maybe be the first focused, intentional breath of the day. Sigh. The guitar makes that certain sound, the sound of a cat – meyowwww – in the Mamma Mia! song, taking me instantly back to road trips in Annie's car, the Golden Princess, when we played this album incessantly. She liked ABBA for the cat’s meow, I liked it because there’s nothing like an ABBA album to get a girl up and dancing. I am, always have been, always will be, a dancing queen.  Cait turns the page, we write side by side, silently both together and alone. The air conditioner kicks in. I’m tired, it’s hot, and I notice the sou...

Me and mom at the ballpark tonight eating pungent hunky chunks of salty garlic glopped onto greasy parsley fries. “So delicious, but I can’t eat them all,” she says. “Who will share with me?”    Al’s face puckers as he says she shouldn’t sleep with him tonight. Pinkie earnestly asks if Grandma will spend the night with us, then. You know she fervently hopes the answer is yes, but everyone just laughs. We sip Coors Light from our silver cans and share a gigantic bag of pink and blue cotton candy. Pinkie sits on Grandma’s lap, helps her clap. Mom notices when the blue guy’s bat flies off and hits another of his own players. Pinkie remarks with wide-eyed amazement how fast the guy in white runs around the bases, just like that. She finagles a mister out of Grandma on a trip to wash stickystuff from her hands. This is our first ballgame together, the sun is gone; it is not hot. We don’t need a mister, but that’s not the point. Anyway, we can use it tomorrow at the zoo. ...

Annie's in the kitchen fumbling with the dishwasher, a dirty dinner dish in her hand. "Those dishes are clean. You can make money by emptying that," I say. "I need to shower," she says, abandoning the dishwasher. Annie never valued money enough to faithfully execute chores. I'm not so good at that myself. She's leaning over the sink, and I notice her tan boot slippers, black short shorts, grey tank top, and black and grey hoodie. Batman belt. She's cute. "I'm addicted to you," Shakira's belting her new song from a pink iPod in the other room.   "Mommy what will get me money?" My little one Pinkie has noticed there is money to be had. "Going to bed will get you money," Annie says. I'm taking notes. Annie and I share the red corduroy couch tonight, now. She's curled up with a book, the second in the Hunger Games trilogy. I'm just glad she's found her book lust. We do family readi...