Little and Big Earthquakes

Parenting, (and apparently, life in the Mid-Atlantic region), is a series of little earthquakes.

That first cry. That life-affirming smile. A chubby foot striking the earth.

Belly laughs. Spontaneous dancing. Sweaty heads resting on shoulders.

Moments that make a forever.

And then, there are days like this, when the earthquakes are not as little.

And when your baby enters the big, big world? You trust that your foundation is rock solid, and hold on.

And smile when all is calm again.

(Happy first day of Kindergarten, Buddy.)

Batshit Shopping

I've never been much of an emotional shopper. I tend to focus on eating when I'm having a rough patch (Although after seeing Cheryl's post about deep fried butter, I may never eat again.)

However, this behavior has recently changed. It started with my purchase of a Nook, otherwise known as The Evil Money Suck of Doom.

I've prided myself on using libraries. They are free, they foster life-long learning for my children, and they are conveniently located next to Panera Bread. But recently, my children have seen the library as their own personal climbing gym, and I'm tired to being shushed by the homeless people on the computers.

I learned that our local library will begin checking out titles on Nooks and Kindles. I told myself that an e-reader is a more ecologically sound choice--less paper, less processing, less clutter in my home. And the kicker was that with Nook, you can swap titles with other users (message me your info if you want to do that).

I didn't realize how easy it was to buy titles. It's connected to my wi-fi, and I can be reading a downloaded book in seconds. The first book I read was The Hunger Games.

And now I'm supposed to wait to check out the other two books in the trilogy? Or Jennifer Weiner's newest one? Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen. Click. Click.

I'm book broke.

Like I said, dangerous.

But that's only the start of the madness. My oldest needs school supplies for starting kindergarten this fall. So, we bought him an LL Bean backpack. In theory, this thing will last him until he goes to college. At least that's what Bean would have you believe.

So far, not bad. But wait.




I needed to buy a lunch box. I heard that Bento Boxes were cool, so I did some hunting. After much speculating about plastics vs. stainless steel, simple vs. fancy, I bought him a PlanetBox.

A $70 lunch box. Environmentally sound and designed for optional nutrition, if I follow the guidelines. I may need to enclose a spreadsheet for his teacher in case he needs assistance.

This? Is kinda batshit. I ate out of a paper sack my entire life. But like I said, this is all about my baby starting Kindergarten, me working through some stuff, and the power of the shiny, pretty Interwebs.

So tell me...any ridiculous emotional purchases on your end? Share so I feel less....well, broke.

And Then What Happened?

We were on Maryland's Eastern Shore, eating Pho. Because that's what we do, when visiting the land of crab cakes. The sky was blue, the children were smiling, and I felt compelled to read aloud from promotional tourism brochures.

I am my mother's daughter.

I turned to my oldest, "Owen, do you want to hear how we defeated the British Navy here?"

He munched on a chicken tender, "Okay."

"The people of St. Michael's hung their lanterns way, way high in the trees so that the British overshot with their cannons. They people were safe, and the town didn't get hit. Only a few trees." As I spoke, I attempted to focus on the details that would interest my son---fire and cannons.  

Owen finished chewing, "Then what happened?"

"Well, then, we eventually defeated the British and the United States became an independent nation," I replied.

"Then what happened?"

"Well, then we started our own government. But the British didn't like that, and they started another war in 1812." My voice grow louder as I elaborated, "There was a battle right by our house! With big ships and more cannons!"

"What was wrong with those British?" He twisted his fingers a bit as he spoke.

"Nothing was wrong with them," I said. "They just thought they knew how to govern this country better than we did."

"What ELSE did those British do?"

'They did the thing that makes Americans really, really mad," I answered. "They made them pay taxes."

I glanced at my husband. "Am I starting to sound like Sarah Palin here?"

"A little," he said, "Are you going to finish your Pho?"

"Anyway, Owen," I replied, passing the bowl to Paul, "Americans wanted to have a say. No Taxation without Representation!" I pounded the table, as my fellow diners asked for the check.

Owen nodded as I detailed the Stamp Act, the Boston Tea Party, and the Shot Heard Around the World. He asked questions, specifically, "And then what happened?"

And I realized something. I was having fun. A lot of fun. For the first time, Owen and I were talking about something of mutual interest to us both. We were building a bridge out of words and ideas, and together, we would reach the other side.

I thought about field trips. Mother-son trips to Bunker Hill and Harper's Ferry. We could listen to the whispers in graveyards and yellowed documents. He could learn about the flawed, but strong people who built this land--Jefferson, Cady, King, Lincoln, and Sitting Bull.

And we could build a history of our own.

Sequels and Nonsense

On Friday, I wrote a post about dying my hair. The story is featured at The Red Dress Club today if you would like to read it. (And I'm honored to be there).

Several people asked me to post pics, but the fact of the matter is, the events described happened over a year ago. I haven't had my hair dyed or highlighted since Thanksgiving.

That is, until Saturday. Finding myself with a free morning, I drove myself to Food Lion to buy hair dye. I picked out a color that looked crazy, flaming red.

After the fact, it still looks kinda brown. I believe the universe wants me to have brown hair. But at least the cost was $8 instead of over $100.

(I tried to post pics. Blogger is being evil. Again.)

***
Knock Knock jokes have hit our house hard. Both boys love them. Here's one from Joel:


Joel: Knock Knock, Who's There?
Me: Who's there, Joely?
Joel: Flower!
Me: Flower who?
Joel: Flower going to step on your face!

Owen goes for a subtler approach:

Owen: Knock Knock
Me: Who's there?
Owen: Dragon
Me: Dragon who?
Owen: Dragon going to throw a squid at you!

***
Just now, as I was typing this, I felt something squishy on the chair. I picked it up, thinking to myself, "I hope this isn't a piece of shit."

Thankfully,  it was just play-dough.

***
Over the weekend, I went to my friend's beach cabin on the Chesapeake with three other girlfriends. We drank sangria by a bonfire and walked up and down the shores of my beloved bay. It was all quite lovely.

That is, until the horseshoe crabs started humping. That's some prehistoric flailing right there.

***
I had a thought the other day. What if I didn't need or expect praise for the things I do? Wouldn't that be liberating? To do things just because I love them, or know that it's the right thing? To expect nothing in return? To live life without expecting others to comment?

I realize that most adults already think this way, but it still was a revelation for me.

***
Yesterday, The Red Dress Club memoir prompt asked us to share something we knew by heart. The first thing that came to mind for me was the Arizona Public Service Announcement about Hepatitis. This aired on TV in the early eighties. It came on during airings of a local kid's program, Wallace and Ladmo.  My brother and I know every word to this day.

Here's a twangy version I found on youtube:



***
I'm not sure there's much that can follow up the Hepatitis Song. I bid you all a lovely Wednesday, free of hurt tummies or yellow eyes.

Two Bulbs

He sat next to her, and they nestled together like two bulbs planted in the same hole.

Owen and Grandma. She read him a book, and before turning the page, she lingered. Asking questions. Nodding her head as he replied. She studied his face and ran her fingers through his course hair.

Her cancer is not a secret. On the way over he asked,  "Is she better yet?"

"She's getting there," we said. "She's getting stronger every day."

He had an entire Sponge Bob gift bag of homemade cards for her---probably fifteen.  Many of them were his patented big ears, big body:

 "Grandma, those Gs are tricky," he said, pointing to her name. He had sat at our kitchen table, his tongue wedged to the roof of his mouth, concentrating. Perfecting the arch and crossing the line.

"I'll bet," she said. "Can you put this on my pile of special things?" Owen nodded, and placed his bounty on her pile, which included his drawings, letters, and get-well cards. On the very bottom, there was a poster, on which he wrote, "Grandma, thank you for being kind to me."

He didn't stay by her forever. Grandpa was there too, so there were pellets to put in the stove, cats to feed, and rivers to forge.

But when it was time to leave, he returned. He rested his head on her pillow, soaking her up. When he hugged her goodbye and whispered, "Love you, Grandma," her eyes grew softer and her voice cracked.

Two bulbs, forever intertwined. Two lives, pushing through the dirt. Escaping darkness. Blooming.

My mother-in-law is awaiting next steps, but the prognosis, today, at this moment, is good. Thank you for your support and prayers.

The Numbers of My Heart

36, 37, 2.5, and 5.

Our ages. A combined number of eighty and a half years on this earth. Two completed childhoods. Two master's degrees. Two careers. Two children.

Two lives just beginning, and yet moving with heartbreaking swiftness.

I close my eyes, and he's resting in my arms, sated and full after a feeding. His eyelids like rice paper, his mouth opened into a rosebud. For hours, we sat together in that glider, and I held him. I whispered my hopes and felt gratitude grow inside me, a new organ pumping humility and awe to each corner of my body.

And then came our second. I couldn't bask in him, as I did his brother. Preferring open spaces and sunlight, he wanted the freedom away from my arms. When he did allow me to smell his little head, it was like eating a truffle, each moment fleeting and delicious.

Now neither is a baby. The oldest is riding the big yellow bus next year, and my baby will start preschool two days a week. They need me less and less for basic functional needs, proving adept at making their own sandwiches and selecting clothes for the day.

It's just the start of their lives, and I feel like mine is shifting yet again. As it should. As magic as those moments were in that glider, my hands did grow numb, and my mind yearned to discuss ideas.

There were many days blurred with the heavy curtain of exhaustion. Many days of tears.

I'm leaving that behind, the sweetness and the drudgery. I am the mother of children, not babies.

As they begin their lives, which are separate from my own, I too, must separate. I must rediscover who else I am.

It began with the travel. It continues with the morning pages and the running. And yet, I long for more.

I return to those numbers, the four frames of my heart home.

37. I strive to read for at least thirty-seven minutes each night. To rediscover the books that challenged me, inspired me, helped me see the world.

36. I will do thirty six push ups or sit ups each day, so I can continue to keep up with the many men in my life, and live as long as I can.

5. I will reach out to five people outside of my family each day. I will pick up the phone, send a card, or meet in person. I will make human connections.

2.5 I will meditate. I will stop, listen, and simply wait for the still, quiet voice of the divine to guide me. For at almost three minutes a day, I will turn off the volume.

These numbers are as part of me as my skin, my hair, my daily breath. Even as circumstances and the numbers themselves change, they still inspire. I lean on them as they lean on me. 

Light and Air

I bought my oldest an alarm clock, and told him that under no circumstances, "unless [he was] bleeding or on fire" was he to go downstairs until the clock read 7:00 AM.

Both boys woke up at 6:53. I heard their footsteps slam on the carpet as they ran in circles, squealing.

Seriously. Every morning they do this. 

Owen said, "Wait, I need to check the alarm clock."

"Alarm clock, Owen?"

"Yes, Joel, alarm clock."

There was silence as he examined the numbers. "Six-Five-Seven. Too early."

"Too early, Owen?"

"Yes. GET BACK TO BED!"

I heard the thump of his body as Joel hit the floor, wailing in protest. He wasn't really crying as much as making crying sounds.

I generally ignore these tantrums, which sprout like mushrooms, and are smashed just as easily.

But my first-born does not share my resolve. He cooed, as one would to a small child (unless--ahem--one is heartless), "It's okay, Buddy. I love you. We can go down soon, I promise."

His brother hiccuped and sniffled, "Hug, Owen?"

"Okay." The wailing ceased. They paused for a moment, then my youngest yelped, "I happy now!"

"We can go downstairs," Owen said, "The clock says Seven-Zero-Zero."

I listened to their footsteps tumble down the stairs, and blinked back my tears.

Yes, they will fight. Joel antagonizes. Owen is insufferably bossy.

But, for a moment, grace floated, as effervescent as light and air.

Geode

Here I am, circa 1978.

 

Here is my Owen, circa 2009.

***
My second grade report card: "Nancy is very smart, but she rushes through her work and doesn't always take her time." 

Owen's parent-teacher conference: "Owen is a smart boy, but he rushes  so he can get back to playing blocks. He doesn't take his time." 

*** 
1988: My racing suit clung to my skin as I slumped in the backseat. I crushed the red ribbon into a ball. Third place. My best butterfly stroke had not been enough. My dad glanced at me through the rear-view mirror, a thin smile spreading across his face. He liked that I was angry. I would use it the next time I stepped on the starting block.

2010: Owen hunched in his booster seat, his face flushed from playing T-ball. He mumbled to himself, "I didn't get the game ball. Next time I will try harder." I smiled. I recognized that hunger. 

***
We are alike.

We love people and books and attention.

We dip in our toes instead of doing cannonballs.

We notice when people need love.


We chat up the baristas at Starbucks.


And yet...he is not me.

He's meticulous. 

He takes direction and advice. 

He is spatially gifted.

Today, he is five years old. He's a geode. Each day, I view more of his precious, secret light. I discover more of what's inside. 

Every glimpse takes my breath away.

"We Don't Keep Secrets in Our Family"

I was driving to the post office while listening to Def Leopard, as one does.

In my rear-view mirror, I saw the all-too-familiar blinking of flashing lights, and realized that I was going to get my annual speeding ticket from my friendly deputy.

A year ago, almost to the day, I received a ticket for going 40 in a 30 MPH zone. And yes, it was in the exact same location. I'm nothing if not consistent.

I spent the subsequent Saint Patrick's Day in traffic court. Dressed in my festive green, I waited next to a man wearing dirty overalls and no shirt. I also reconnected with at least four former students. Good times.

I did not want to repeat those good times. I sat and answered the deputy's questions softly, attempting to summon a tone of great remorse and utter shame. I think my hands trembled a bit when I handed him my license and registration, and he went to his car to check my record.

As I whispered expletives to myself, my older son had a series of helpful comments:


Mommy, why are you such a bad driver? 


Mommy, why do we always get pulled over? 


Mommy, why aren't we going to the post office? 


Mommy, are you going to jail?

Because I was presently in the presence of a lawman, Owen got lucky and was allowed to live. The deputy returned with a warning, so I genuflected before his benevolent presence, and crept off to the post office.

I'll have you know, 30 mph feels very slow.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I cleared my throat and said,  "Owen, can you please not tell your father about this?"

His voice sliced the air, sharp like steel. "Mommy. We don't keep secrets in our family."

Right. Ugh. Busted.

I recently read a book called Off Limits by Wurtele and Berkower, which discusses ways to prevent childhood sexual abuse. It's an awesome book, and I highly recommend it.

One of the tactics abusers use is secrecy. Therefore, a phrase that we now use in our home is "We don't keep secrets in our family."

We can have surprises, because a surprise means that we will tell somebody something soon that will make him or her very happy. For example, presents are surprises. Folding Daddy's clothing is a surprise. But we don't keep secrets.

This phrase has worked beautifully, and it has stuck. While Owen was preparing for his Christmas pageant, his teacher often told the kids that there were secrets---harmless things, like the songs for the little play, or the ornaments they made. Each time, Owen's voice boomed from his carpet square, "We don't keep secrets in our family."

He badgered his teacher so much that she eventually changed her language to the proper word---surprise.

I didn't have to say a word, because my son was empowered with words of his own.

Because warnings from the deputy don't really qualify as "surprises," I took my medicine and told my husband. He was concerned, mildly annoyed, and it was over. 

Not keeping secrets means that there is another layer of honesty and mutual dependence in our family. Yes, sometimes it's a pain. Sometimes it's harder. But I promise you---we would have it no other way.

Dolphin Day

For the second year in a row, Owen's school Christmas pageant was postponed because of snow.

Last year, I took it pretty hard. Unless, that is, you think tears and fist-shaking-at-the-sky are reasonable responses to missing a few songs and post-show cupcakes.

This year, I just rolled my eyes and laughed at the absurdity of it---December is a most inconvenient time of year to do musical productions, don't ya think?

Perhaps we should do more pageants for Waiting for the Barbarians Day (November 4th).  The costumes alone are a win.

However, because I am not in charge, it is unlikely that my suggestion will be taken seriously.

Instead, because we suddenly had a morning free, Owen and I went sledding. We drove to the elementary school that he will attend next year, a warm, boxy building with truly excellent hills. Our feet crunched in the slush as we walked to the steepest hill. He flashed me a grin, gave himself a running start, and rocketed down.

He spun in circles, like he was a pin in an icy pinball machine. He swerved left and right, leaving crests of icy slush in his wake. He crashed into a bank of snow, seemingly miles from me. For a moment, I heard nothing. Then, I heard his distant voice, "Woo-hooo! AGAIN, Mommy!"

And again we did. And again. And again. There was nothing on earth but his icy, still playground. Adventure awaited him with every ascent and descent.

It was perfection.

As Michelle reminds us, the Universe is Abundant.

Several years ago, my husband and I took a boat trip to the Channel Islands, around Ventura County, California. At least that was the plan. The waves were especially choppy that day. The boat heaved and shifted like a giant rolling over in his sleep. We were forced to turn around.

Although I was disappointed to not see these islands, which inspired the Island of the Blue Dolphin books I devoured as a young girl, we were okay with it. Why? Because on that rollicking boat ride, we saw dolphins. Pods and pods of liquid-dancing dolphins, silvery and magic. They jumped around our boat, each one a honest-to-God miracle. It was majesty in motion.

Who needed the destination with a journey like that?

I feel the same way about the school pageant. If it hadn't been canceled, I wouldn't have had that wintry small moment with my son. I wouldn't have shared a hot chocolate with him at Starbucks, and possibly wouldn't have heard him whisper, "You're the best friend to be around," before he drifted off to sleep that evening.

He will have his pageant, and it will be heart-swelling adorable, I'm sure.

But--- because I was lucky enough--this time---to recognize the opportunity, we had a dolphin day. Those you never, ever forget.

Knuckleheads

I was at a playgroup this morning. My friend watched my two-year-old repeatably attempt to scale  a couch, in efforts to climb upon a counter-top, and perhaps swing, Tarzan-style from the ceiling fan.

She shook her head, and observed, "You know, Nance---your husband is such a mellow guy. I'm really surprised that at least one of your boys isn't like him."

I rolled my eyes, pulled Joel away from the fireplace poker, and replied, "You and me both, sister."

My husband, whose legendary cool makes Barack Obama look like Macho Man Randy Savage, apparently kept all the Chillaxing Genes to himself. My two knuckleheads, as I now call them, believe that life is better as a Mountain Dew commercial minus pesky details like helmets or common sense.

I thought about her comment all day today. I thought about it during preschool pickup, as Joel rode a couch like the late Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider.

I thought about it on the drive home, when I noticed he was missing his glasses. I asked, "Where are your glasses, Joely?" prepared for another rousing game of Find The Eyewear.

"I don't know," he replied. Then, after a few moments, he found them. There were on his forehead, hidden by his mop of frat-boy-after-a-great-night hair.

Don't even get me started on his older brother.  The shenanigans with the Little Tykes car alone causes me to reach for the whiskey.

After pickup, I had to take the knuckleheads to the special store to pick up the super-special pizza dough and olive oil. As we perused the wine aisle, I heard Smashmouth's "Rock Star," playing over the intercom.

"I LOVE this song!" I squeed, and started dancing in the aisle. Hands in the air, like I just don't care and all of that. Owen joined me, doing his patented bend-and-creep-with-devil horns dance move. Joel sat in the cart, shaking his head back and forth.

So where do these boys get it from? Oh....right....me.

***
Speaking of my younger knucklehead...there were four amazing entries in the Pontify My Son Contest:

Salt:

The Blogging Goddess:

dek:

My Life in Purple:

All were beyond amazing. Truly. The mind, it is boggled. However, I consulted my team of experts and it was determined to be a two-way tie between...The Blogging Goddess (those shoes!!!) and Salt (the throne!!!).

Salt gets the Eddie Murray bobblehead and The Blogging Goddess and I will negotiate something cool for her prize.

Thank you, everybody for your indulgence. (Get it? Indulgence? Reformation humor! The best!)

The Most Pointless Build Up to a Cookie Recipe Ever

After yesterday's insomnia post, I decided to drink a purely medicinal glass on Pinot Grigio (Mommy's Time Out, if you're curious) before bed.

I woke up nine hours later, fresh as a daisy, and channeling my inner Miley Cyrus. I was both shaking my hips and nodding my head like yeah. Good thing that Britney song wasn't on, or I could have injured myself.

(Thanks, MamaPop, incidentally, for bringing that song back from the dead for me.)

We had a busy day today.

I decorated for the Fall Holidays:

Awesome

TERRIFYING. 

Other highlights include Owen eating a carrot: 

Also, me pretending to eat his carrot, much to his amusement and my dorkosity:

Joel felt compelled to share that he was enjoying his peanut butter:

He also ate my face.

As you can imagine, all this pouring candy corn into jars and taking blurry pictures with a cell phone can take the Miley right out of a girl.

So, I did not make delicious cookies, as I had planned. Trust me, they are really good. Have I let you down yet?

Don't answer that.

Awesome Cream Cheese Cookies
1/4 cup margarine or butter
1 package of cream cheese
1 egg yolk
1/4 teaspoon of vanilla
1 package of yellow or chocolate cake mix.

Cream butter and cream cheese. Blend in egg yolk and vanilla. Add cake mix (just the dry cake mix) and cover and chill for approximately thirty minutes. Heat oven to 375 degrees. Roll dough into balls and roll in sugar. Flatten on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 8-20 minutes.

They are to die for. Check in with adrienzgirl if you want to see other delicious cookie recipes.

My Clean Slate

Owen finally started preschool today. It was about a week later than everybody else. It makes sense, since it's a Catholic school.

They're always a bit behind the times.

I kid.

It's a wonderful place, with caring teachers, big jars of tempura paint, and kid-size nooks and crannies. For three days a week, Owen gets to live in a larger world, one that belongs solely to him.

I wasn't prepared to feel any emotion about this. It's the same school, with most of the same friends as last year. It's preschool, for Pete's sake. 

But--My God--where is my baby?

He already looks like the man he will be someday. The soft cheeks, the dimpled elbows--they belong to the son of my memories.

I thought he was so big when he was two---the age Joel is right now.

I didn't know that he could be so protective. 

Or such a caring, trusted friend.

I watch my inquisitive first-born discover his world, and kiss him goodbye.

When I pick him up three hours later, I ask, "Which friend did you like seeing the most?"

He replies, "You, Mommy."

When Owen was just a distant hope, I taped this poem to the wall by my desk at work.

Every time I read it, I dreamed of being a mother:

You’re

by Sylvia Plath

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,   

Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,   

Gilled like a fish. A common-sense   

Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.   

Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,   

Trawling your dark as owls do.   

Mute as a turnip from the Fourth   

Of July to All Fools’ Day,

O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.   

Farther off than Australia.

Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.   

Snug as a bud and at home   

Like a sprat in a pickle jug.   

A creel of eels, all ripples.   

Jumpy as a Mexican bean.   

Right, like a well-done sum.   

A clean slate, with your own face on.

My Owen. My son.  My beautiful clean slate.

Delighted and Complete

I heard the door crack, followed by the soft-puttering of my oldest's feet. It's our daily ritual...I pull the covers over my head, while he straddles my torso and bounces.

It's a bit unorthodox, but it works for us.

He looked to the empty side of the bed, and amped it up to eleven: "Where's Daddy! I want Daddy!"

I grumbled, "Owen, you know where Daddy is. He's at work." I could tell by his tightly clenched fists and the particular timbre of his whine that he wasn't letting go of this one easily.

Sure enough, he barreled on,  "Why does he have to work?  He's my favorite guy. Let's get in the car right now and go get him."

"Yes Owen," I replied, "Let's load up you and your brother,  and drive to downtown DC at seven fifteen. We can then buy a security clearance from a local vendor and sneak into his office. Maybe we can download some files or call Yemen.*"

"Great!" he yelled. Sarcasm is lost on a four year old.

Trying a different approach, I said, "We can't see Daddy until later. But we can do fun things together. Maybe go to the park? Play with play-dough?"

He crossed his hands and said, "I don't want to do that. Mommy is boring. I want Daddy."

Dagger. In my heart. His twisting technique was quite advanced for his age.

"Well, Owen, " I said, "You're just stuck with me."

***
Intellectually, I know that familiarity breeds contempt. Because Paul is gone for much of the day, he is special. Besides, I get it. Paul is that kind of dad.

When it's raining, Paul  takes Owen out to splash in the puddles. Every evening, Paul and Owen play catch in the backyard. In between throws, when Owen declares he needs a "little rest," my boy will sit in his father's lap, and they click together like two Legos.

Yesterday, Paul and Owen were talking about college. I heard him say, "You can go anywhere you like, as long as you work hard and try your very best."

I would have added "Except Arizona State," because I like to amuse myself.

Paul, however, wasn't about getting the self-serving laugh. He listened to his son, as he bounced ideas around, catching and releasing the words with a practiced ease.

Owen glowed.

***
I know that Owen loves me very much. I know he enjoys my company.

I also know that when Paul's side of the bed is empty, Owen feels a loss. A loss that I cannot fill, because I am not Daddy.

On good days, I understand that this is the way of things, and that Owen blows smoke with increasing, attention-seeking frequency.

On less secure days, I worry that my lack of essential Dudeness will cause my boys to pull away. Or, worse yet, I fear that they will prefer Paul, not because I lack the proverbial "package," but because I lack the parenting package.

Yet, even if I am boring, I still did something right. I chose their Daddy. I chose the man who allows the boys to tell their stories, as he listens, delighted and complete.

I thought this was a good fit for Shell's Pour Your Heart Out meme. Go check out other heartfelt entries.

*As far as I know, Paul has no business with Yemen. I think his most exotic business dealings are in  Ft. Worth.

Playing Greener

In a possibly-reoccurring series, I will attempt to share some of my green tips without coming across like a sanctimonious prig.

Knowing myself as I do, this could be a challenge. After all, I'm the kid that announced to her kindergarten class that Mr. Bubbles, the class puppet, was not magic.  

"The teacher was just using food coloring," I spat contemptuously during recess.

As you can imagine, I was invited to all the parties.

Anyway, most of my green efforts stem from my general laziness and my natural tendency to nurture the cobwebs growing in my wallet. I'm sharing these because they have worked for me, and I hope that they might work for you as well.

I'll start today with green toys. I'm not talking about hand-crafted toys made by ancient Baviarian wood-sculptors, although those are very nice indeed. Rather, I'm talking about how to make toys out of common objects.

Before you liken me to Miss Hannigan from Annie or compare my sons to characters from Oliver Twist, let me assure you that the boys have toys. Lots of 'em. In fact, I'm not sure where my living room went, because it looks like Hoarders: Toddler Edition on most days.

But yet, their absolute favorite toys aren't really toys at all.  These three objects are cheap, fun, and easy. As a bonus, they aren't packaged with twenty bazillion pounds of cardboard, nor are they (hopefully!) made in a third-world sweatshop.

Green Toy #1: PVC Pipes

For about six dollars, we bought some PVC pipe, stoppers, and connectors at our local hardware store. Owen's world has never been the same.

He makes sculptures out of them.

He runs sand through the pipes. He uses them as tunnels for his toy cars. On hot days, he runs water through them using a kiddie pool full of water. They have worked as makeshift baseball bats, swords, batons, and trumpets.

And yes, they work as showers as well.

(This wastes a lot of water, thus, isn't all that green. In my defense, this happened while I was inside making lunch. Since I wasn't watching them, I'm totally off the hook, right?)

Green Toy #2: Spray Bottles

I have bought many a cheap, one-dollar squirt gun at the grocery store. I am happy to bribe my children for a dollar's worth of peace. Unfortunately, most of them break before they are even buckled into their car seats for the ride home. 

For the same dollar, I purchased a bunch of squirt bottles at the Dollar Store. I fill 'em up with water, and let the kids squirt away. They work in the tub, provide a nice mist to dry sandbox sand, and cool off the kids in the pinch. I've seen Joel pretend to wash my sliding glass door with his bottle, and Owen has used it as a "spray painter" on our deck.

This makes me very happy. Since I envision a long future of sitting on my ass, watching them work, they best start developing their skills now. 

Green Toy #3: Water Spicket

We bought this two-gallon water-spicket so that Owen could serve water to guests at Joel's birthday party, thus forgetting he wasn't center of the universe for an hour or two.

We have since discovered that, in this age of water restriction, this bucket is a nice way to do water play with less guilt. I fill the thing up once, and tell the boys, "Once the water is gone, it's gone."

It becomes a game to see how long they can be water savers by reusing the water several times over the course of the day.

They play kitchen, car-wash, restaurant, and lemonade stand, while I sit back and try to stay out of the way.

Now, I recognize that all of these green toys involve water. That's my kids. They're obsessed. I'm hoping for future careers in hydro-engineering.

It works for us. It may, or may not work for you.

I would encourage you, though, to think creatively. Playing greener may be easier than you think.

What are your kids' favorite "non-toy toys"? What green toys have worked for you? Recommendations? Insights?

Anything On Earth

Today, the weather was almost pleasant, and we took the boys to the sculpture garden so Owen could show his grandfather how he bikes, "Faster than my Dad runs, faster than a car, faster that anything ON EARTH."

We're working on his confidence.

He pedaled faster than I could walk, so I let him go ahead, stopping him periodically by yelling, "Red Light!" He would freeze in position and wait for me to catch up, then zoom off into the distance once again.

As I walked, watching my boy navigate his world, I thought about autumn, and how pleasant it will be to visit this park. I thought about the crunch of the leaves and the bite of the air, and my boy, pedaling without consequence, without purpose, just simply because it's so much fun.

Then, it hit me. He will be in school three days a week.

Three days a week, he will not share these gorgeous moments with me.

Three days a week, he will belong to his friends and his teachers.

For three days a week, he will have a world entirely apart from me.

This is how it should be.

Yet, as I watched him, I realized that with every day, he is pedaling away from me.

At this time next year, he will be on the cusp of kindergarten. And then it will be first grade, than middle school, and on and on it goes.

So incredibly fast. So incredibly soon. He's pedaling away, faster than his Dad's powerful strides, faster than a car, faster than anything on Earth.

Sundays in a Historical Tourist Trap City

I am sneaking onto the computer for a minute because my parents, who are visiting from Colorado, are both reading The Washington Post quite happily.

I expect that I will continue to be a spotty poster/commenter for the remainder of the week.

I notice that I have new followers and I love you. Let's get married.

I will visit you soon.

I will also be a better reader/commenter once I return to my hermit-like normal life. The life, that is, where it is not considered socially unacceptable to be on the computer numerous hours each day. 

***
While I was away, the boys and I met up with my parents at Colonial Williamsburg. With the temperatures soaring around 103 degrees, we all got a true taste of what it would be like to live in the days of wool breeches and hand-powered air conditioning.

Miserable.

We did a forced march up and down Ye Olde Roadway, pushing or pulling the red-faced, whining children. We almost got Ye Olde Heatstroke, were it not for Ye Olde Starbucks.

We quickly returned to the pool, where we engaged in a turf battle with Ye Olde Teenagers and their ancient squirt-muskets of annoyance.

***
It wasn't all historic ass-tractions, though. We also went to Busch Gardens, where I learned that my children are stubborn as mules.

Thanks to my parents, who attended a root-canal of a time-share presentation, we got discounted tickets to the theme park.

We went straight to the Sesame Street Children's Lollapallooza of Awesome, where my children refused to play in the specially designed sprinkler park, preferring to frolic in the blazing sun.

Owen was quick to dismiss most of the rides as "too fast" or "too scary," although there were infants riding the rides unaccompanied.

Eventually, after some careful analysis and study, Owen determined that these rides were not designed to torture or injure, and he decided to take the plunge. Joel was quick to follow.

I think they enjoyed themselves.

***
After Busch Gardens and the historical death march, there was only one place left: Bass Pro Shop.

Owen is into fishing, you see, so I thought he would like the fly-fishing demonstration.

I didn't realize it was also a home-design mecca.

I invite you to give me the best idea for how to incorporate this unique and timeless piece of decor into your life. The best entry, as determined by my Dad, will win the title of MOST AWESOME COMMENTER.

Have at it, and I'll see you when my parents find another newspaper or a good episode of Walker, Texas Ranger.

(Thanks to Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City).

Mikveh

When Charlotte converted to Judaism on Sex in the City, During a self-imposed study of world religions, I learned about the Mikveh.

A Mikveh, according to Rabbi Wikipedia, is a pool of natural water used to, "... regain ritual purity after various events, according to regulations laid down in the Torah and in classical rabbinical literature."

I'm not going to pretend to know anything more than that (although I welcome the insights of those who do). I attest, though, that water can indeed heal.

When the boys and I went to the pool yesterday, they weren't thinking of my impatient, "Owen, get in the car seat right now!" or my mumbled, "Joel could you be more annoying?"

No. Through the ritual cleansing of water and chlorine, they became more fun, and I became less testy.

Magic stuff, that water.

Owen did his awkward little frog-paddle, bravely dipping his head underwater, and saying, "Mommy! Did you see what I did? Aren't I very brave?"

"Yes," I said, "You are super-duper brave." He paddled off to do it again, as I watched Joel jump onto a little fountain, shrieking with joy, his face a perfect, yellow daisy.

In the water, it's so easy to love these boys. Perhaps it's because I have to be so cautious. There's no text messages or magazines or phone calls. There's no gossip, no blogging, no bitch sessions. It's just us.

Focused. Present.

I think I need a Mikveh  in my house. Since I bathe and shower only periodically, that won't do.

Perhaps if every time I wash my hands, I attempt to shed away distractions, I will enjoy my children more. I will regain my pure love and my best intentions.

Or, perhaps I will develop Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

Like most things regarding faith, one person's reality is another person's  hoo-hah.

But this I know: When I toweled off those boys, and we drove home, pruny and soft-skinned, we were at peace. I felt the spirit of love in that car as surely as I feel the keyboard beneath my fingers.

And so, I will continue to seek the water.

Redemption Via Naptime

On the way home from Owen's day camp, I stopped the car on a side street, turned around, and told him, "You need to stop kicking my chair."

Owen retorted, "You need to stop kicking my chair!"

I shot back, "I'm not kicking your chair! You need to stop talking back, young man."

Owen, eyes flashing, replied, "You need to stop talking back!"

"Owen," I said, "You're not the parent!"

"You're not the parent, either. Stop talking to me, Mommy. Please."

Joel chose this moment to fill his diaper with something inhuman and foul. Gasping, I rolled down the window and  said, "We'll talk about this when we get home, Owen."

As I started up the car, he muttered, "I don't want Mommy time. I want Daddy time. Mommy time is boring."

So, when did my four year old morph into a surly eighth grader? I am decidedly not liking this development.

***
It's so hot that I can barely function. I would take pictures of my living room, strewn with laundry, toys, and discarded sippy cups, but I am too lazy to move. I am  certainly too lazy to cook, which is why my boys had Popsicles, crackers, and cheese for lunch.

After Owen's time-out, talking-to, and the healthful meal listed above, I called Paul and whimpered into the phone, "Please come home early today."

"I can't," he said, not unkindly. I sat on the bed, phone in hand, willing him to call back and change his mind. Instead, I had boys to put to bed for naps, an action that drives me to drink on the best of days.

I have spunky, willful boys that do not like to go to bed. On good days, I tease them into their rooms. We read stories and hug night-nights. On bad days, I say things like, "Get in your room or I'm going to start throwing toys in the trash can!"

I lacked the patience for a good day, and the heat had drained me of any will to yell.

So, I put down the baby, and then I got into Owen's full size bed with him.

"I'm going to take a nap with you," I said.

He smiled at the novelty and said, "You nap, and I'll play."

"No," I said, "Playing is too noisy. You need to help me sleep."

I rested in bed, my eyes closed, my breaths deep and rhythmic. I felt him rustle against me, and it reminded me of the summer days of 2005, when he was growing inside me, too small yet to flutter or kick, but there, nevertheless.

As I drifted into that hazy valley between awake and asleep, I felt him kiss my cheek and heard him say, "Sleep tight, Mommy."

I awoke after a dream, and he was sleeping. His eyes were closed, his hair tossed and sweaty.

It was my own Redemption Song.

Mad Science

We have completed week one of Operation: Summer Learning, meaning we went to the library and checked out some books on simple machines. All week long, we've been reading about levers and pulleys and wedges.

Although this appears to be the overzealous efforts of a mother that really needs to get over herself and her precious snowflake of a child, I swear to you, he loves it.

One of his books talked about the siphoning of the water in a toilet tank, and, I shit you not, we spent a good forty minutes watching the water do its thing with each flush.

While we drive, he asks the best questions---about day and night, about the different colors of the sky, about the mechanism of my stick shift.

I have to start reading up, because I'm presently making up about fifty percent of my answers.

He reminds me of my brother, who was a bit of a mad scientist himself. He used to run around the house in a costume lab coat, mumbling about "gigawats." (Thank you, Back to the Future).

Owen, well....look for yourself.

Yes, that's my child wearing lab safety goggles at his school beach trip.

As an English major, I hope he continues this scientific (and profitable) line of thinking.

After all, he may be selecting my nursing home someday.