A Funk, A Moose, and (hopefully) a Miracle

"While you're at it, why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?"

(Miracle Max, The Princess Bride, 1987 ... what? 1987?! Oh, man, that's depressing ...)

The Princess Bride -- one of my all-time favorite movies. Once upon a time, like many teenagers, I had pretty much the whole movie memorized. Priceless quotes. Timelessly applicable to any and all circumstances. Like Miracle Max's hilarity above -- kinda of fits my mood as of late (21 years later -- ouch!).

More often than not, I'm OK with where I am. I've learned to be. I've learned to be OK. It certainly wasn't easy to get to this point -- that's why it's called a "journey," I suppose. But more often than not, as of late, I've learned to look past the hurts -- or, at least try to -- and bathe myself in the blessings. Yes, there's been a lot of those.

But then -- dash it all! -- dash it all? Who really says that anymore? Oh well -- I can't put a "stronger" word in here because my parents read this -- I get stuck. I trip up on a rock on my path. My foot gets stuck in a dark hole. I stumble. I don't feel blessed. I feel angry. Hurt. Something comes up and forces me to think about it all, when really all I want to do is forget. It's frustrating. It's aggravating. I get mired in the now, wondering "is this it? Is this the end of the vocational/ministry end of things?" Hey -- it might very well be. I have to be OK with that. But the crazy thing is, that I'm more and more becoming almost too OK with it. I kind of like being where I am, not mixed up in "church" and all that comes with it. What I do with that is beyond me. All part of the whirling. But it's hard, this journey ... it's like pouring lemon juice into a cut.

I think our impending visit to PA has put me into a funk. Memories, all of our hopes and dreams filed away into a drawer somewhere. A friend told me yesterday, "All of this will be used, somehow. It has shaped you into who you are. It's now a part of your history." I kind of laughed a whiny laugh (oh, so that's where my kids get it?!) -- I don't want that to be my history!

Ugh. 'Tis my funk for today. It's been a whirlwind day, trying to put PA out of my mind yet all the while it's there before me, tomorrow's destination. I trekked out with the kids, visiting the groomer for a quick doggie nail trim and ear-cleaning, then to the bank, then to church ... Grace wanted to swim, so I blew up the kiddie pool, got her favorite bucket, cup, sponge, and watering can (all the girl needs for a good time), slathered her fair still-baby skin with lotion, and clad her little self in a cute two-piece bathing suit (which she promptly ditched, having no liking whatsoever for swim suits at all). I started packing, realizing that this once-upon-a-time normal routine for us -- travel, travel, travel -- has fallen by the wayside, now that we're here near family and have no need to hit the roads much. At least, not like we used to. I'm out of practice and find myself wandering around, fiddling, not accomplishing much.

I think the kids are sensing my quagmire too. Everything went south after lunch -- the kids are restless, edgy, following me around everywhere I go ... which is the very worst thing to do to a person in a quagmire. I finally escaped to my room -- which really isn't much of an escape, considering the kids were a mere three steps away in the living room --to lay down on my bed for a few moments of peace. Yeah. Right. As soon as I put myself in a prone position, I heard the muted thumps of little feet. Then the pulling of the bed cover as a little girl climbed up. She thought it was a riot, laying down behind me. Then my boy came, all bony and gangly, snuggling up in front of me. I was sandwiched, and while I should have appreciated that sweet, sweet moment ... I didn't. I couldn't. Ach.

So now we're nearing the close of a very frustrating day. It literally took me all day to write this, adding to the funkiness. Every time I sat down to write, someone needed me -- Grace needed a new diaper, Aidan needed juice, Don needed help with lunch. Not much is packed -- the kids' stuff is about done, ours isn't even started. There are so many last-minute things to think about -- toothpaste and snacks for the car and a hair dryer. All will wait for tomorrow. Don's preaching again, having spent all day -- again -- writing his sermon, with the computer crashing left and right ... all adding to the funk o' the day. Tonight after the kids are bathed and put to bed, we're going to crash. Savor a few beverages, finish up Season Five of Northern Exposure ... Ah, yes, another funk-element. We have one more season to purchase, thereby finishing our collection of one of the all-time best TV shows ever. I read a brief synopsis of Season Six and felt an incredible sadness, oddly enough. Watching this series so many years after my first introduction, I saw new things, learned new things, connected with the characters in a very different way than I did in my carefree, happy college days. One more season to go before I bid farewell to Joel and Maggie, Holling and Shelly, Chris, Ed, Maurice, Ruth Anne ... another good-bye. Boy, this is one hefty funk if I'm now waxing melancholy about a TV show! Sheesh.

What a day it's been. Funks are weird, aren't they? Tomorrow we leave for our journey. More to come, more to come ...

Trigger Alert & Mama-Guilt: It's Been A Doozy of a Week

OK, so how weird is this ... We are traveling to Philadelphia on Sunday for Grace's annual appointment with her clubfoot doctor, scheduled for Monday afternoon. We haven't seen him since last June, when he said she's doing beautifully, wear those danged shoes, and stretch stretch stretch that little foot. Gotcha.

It's strange to think that a whole year has gone by, and now it's time for the verdict. And boy, did we come up short. Grace's treatment, since birth, involves what's called the Ponseti Method, at least for the most part. If I'm not mistaken (from what little I know of all of this), a true Ponseti follower seeks to avoid surgery, going by the route of serial casting and orthotic shoes. While our particular doctor, who works out of the Children's Hospital of Pennsylvania, studied at the knee of Ponseti himself and works with the method, he does involve surgery as well. So our little Grace had the surgery, clipping her little heel's tendon, at the age of 3 months. It was one of the worst experiences of my life to date, but Grace sailed through. Since then we've dealt with her sweet little leg in a cast for months on end, followed by the dreaded shoes. We've struggled with that blasted footwear. And in the course of this past year since her last visit, the shoes continued to be a terrible ordeal. She'd wear them for a bit, then develop horrific blisters, so the shoes stayed off so the toes could heal. Shoes back on, same festering blisters, shoes off. Off-on, off-on, week after week, month after month. Finally, a couple of months ago, she officially outgrew the shoes, and we were faced with choice: buy yet another new pair (straight out of our near-empty pockets, with no insurance coverage for such "optional" items) for the last couple of months before the appointment, or just wait and see what the doctor says. We opted for the latter, to forgo the shoes until we meet with the doc, but try to stay diligent with the stretching. Yeah ... that wasn't as easy as it sounds. I tried, usually during diaper changes while she was laying on the bed anyway, but it didn't last very long. The balm to all of this was a comment made to me by the guy who sold us the shoes last year. He was floored to see my prescription for the clunky contraption, saying in his 30 years of business, he hasn't seen these in nearly 15 years. What?! What do clubfoot patients do around here, I asked? He wasn't sure, but he said that docs here in northern NJ don't use them anymore. Just surgery and stretching, I guess. I was surprised but secretly glad, feeling a bit of that Mama-Guilt starting to slip away. I hoped for the best.

This has been a stomach churning week for me, for two reasons. First, I've gone into trigger-alert mode ... for traveling back to PA means traveling back in time, to the place of our nightmare. I felt this way last year too and wrote about it, finding that I'm feeling pretty much the same way but thankfully feeling blessed that the emotions are not quite as strong as they were last year. Healing is definitely occurring, thank God for that. Yet it's still going to be hard this time around, no doubt about it -- seeing the same roads, the same sights, the same stores, the same everything that we lived. Thankfully we won't have to see the church -- that would be torture, driving by that structure and recalling everything that happened within. I wish there was some kind of pill I could take, to simply wipe all of those memories out of my brain. I don't want to think about those people, those events, those shattered dreams. But our medical trip back to PA will indeed put it right back into my face, with no dulling pills to swallow. It's so hard to let it all go, to put it all behind.

On top of that emotional ride, I'm also starting to get nervous about Grace's foot and what the doctor might say. Now back to the weirdness of this tale. As the nerves are starting to brew, I get two hits on my blog from other moms of clubfoot kids -- two! What are the chances of that? Right during this same time where I can't get "clubfoot" out of my mind? Both moms were great, kind, empathetic, and supportive -- cool. I don't know anyone going through this so it was neat to feel connected in some way. And yet ... I then crossed an imaginary line into discovering too much information. There were links to other websites, to learn more about clubfoot and what's involved, what's to be expected, and so on. Unfortunately ... I kind of freaked.

One extremely informative site called Six Feet was unbelievably detailed, put together by a mom who needed a site years ago and never had one. Cool, I thought. Very helpful. But as I read, the Mama-Guilt kicked into full gear, especially when talking about the shoes, and statistics, and how crucial-vital-imperative it is that your child wear those shoes, no ifs-ands-or-buts. Many parents think they can relax when the child is "out of the woods" at age two or three, believing the foot looks OK so all is well, where as the statistics shake you up, with super high percentage rates of relapse during this oh-so-seemingly-comfortable phase ... yikes. I had been very upbeat and positive going into this home stretch before the appointment; now I'm scared silly. I look at her little foot constantly. Is it curved more than usual? Is it dropping when she walks? Does it feel tighter than usual? Is she doing this, or that ... ugh. Drives you crazy.

Is it horrible to say that I kind of like being a little ignorant? The more information I get under my belt, the worse I feel. Some folks feel encouraged by gathering facts and information, and that's great; apparently it doesn't work so well for me. I have no idea what to expect on Monday -- will she need a cast? More surgery? Or nothing at all? Prayers are appreciated, my friends -- for the emotional baggage opening up on this trip as well as the medical needs. Yes, it's been a doozy of a week, slugging down this heavy cocktail. But we'll get through it ... we always do. That's what grace -- and Grace -- is all about.

A Boy Never Really Grows Up (Or: Don's Contribution Today)

Last night Don and my oldest brother, Steve, went to a free concert down along the Hudson River somewhere to see the Smithereens. It began at 7:00 p.m. (what does that say? No more midnight gigs for these aging rock stars, or their aging fans), so Don left work a few minutes early, zipped home to change and pass around kisses and hugs, then charged back out the door. He got home around 10:30 p.m. or thereabouts, all smiles and energy. Apparently they had a really fabulous time -- right in front of the stage, talked to the guys afterwards for a while, got autographs and pictures. Unfortunately I just couldn't muster up any enthusiasm; I nodded and "hmmm'd" and "ooh'd" while I continued to read my book as he retold the events of the evening. I don't know anything about the Smithereens. I had no desire to go to that concert, and even if I did I had to stay home with the kiddies anyway. Fine with me. I had checked out a non-husband movie from the library -- "Mona Lisa Smile," a girlie version of "Dead Poet's Society," with girls instead of boys, art history instead of English literature, same snobby prep school venue, but not nearly as good as the Robin Williams' classic -- and had a fine evening all on my own.

Both Steve and Don asked if I would post these cell-phone produced pix on my blog. I'm feeling gracious. Here they are. And that's the end of this post. (I am glad they had a good time).

A 5,000 Year Old Puzzle Solved (Or: Who Needs Jigsaws When You've Got Stonehenge!)

Ground-breaking news in the history world -- looks like archaeologist Mike Parker Pearson put the last piece of the puzzle in place, solving the mystery of Stonehenge. That's pretty huge, if you think about it. Archaeologists have come and gone over the years, each supporting their own theories of what the mysterious, massive structure meant. Is it a hospital? A place of sacrifice? A place of worship? Is it Druid? Celtic? Roman? Well, according to MPP, none of the above. It goes back even farther than that -- try 2,500 B.C.

I watched the 2-hour documentary about this discovery the other night, and I was absolutely fascinated. It reawakened the archaeologist-wannabe in me, and I drooled over each word, each reenactment, each theory, each discovery. Stonehenge wasn't a solitary structure, but rather was linked to another wooden circular structure about a mile away. The wood, of course, is long gone, but the post holes are still there, placed in a nearly identical pattern as the famous stone monument. And not only that, but MPP and his team uncovered an entire village nearby, which would have housed several thousand ancient people, gathering there twice a year to celebrate both the summer- and winter-solistice. Life and death -- honoring both. Wood and stone. It's really extremely fascinating. Here's the link if you're into this kind of thing like I am. This is a page in the history books being written, folks. It's cool to be a part of it.

But what really blew me away was the timeline involved. As Don and I were talking about it, my mind started whirling, dates and events and people falling in place along my mental history line, and discovering that these ancient people were not Druids, Celts, or Romans, but rather contemporaries of ... Abraham! How weird is that? Ancient Biblical characters mesh with the builders of Stonehenge. That was really incredible to me. But then I posed a question to Don:

How in the world did they get up there? The British Isles are a long, long way from Palestine ...

He smiled and laughed a bit. Good question, right? He made an interesting point -- ancient Hebrews really didn't care about that stuff. That wasn't their purpose. Nor is it the purpose of the Bible (the Old Testament in particular) to serve as a history book. "And while Abraham and his family traveled to Canaan, there was a sect of pagans to the north, called Britons, and they henceforth commenced the building of a massive stone structure ..." Nope. That wasn't the point at all. But it does pose an interesting question -- one that, I suppose, goes all the way back to Neanderthals and Lucy and the first homo sapiens and Adam and Eve ... A whirling, twirling historic blur.

Faith kind of plays in a role in this sort of thing too. History (especially Biblical) and science so often intersect, causing some concern among Christians. I find it all fascinating, but some are genuinely alarmed by this intersection. This can be pretty controversial stuff. Don recalled a moment during his days as a restoration carpenter, working with one of his colleagues named Fred, an Amish guy (or was he Mennonite? Amish, then Mennonite? Whatever -- picture a typical Amish man complete with hat, beard, and dark clothes and you've got Fred) who worked with the company for a while. Don once asked him what he thought about dinosaurs, and Fred scowled. "God put those dinosaur bones into the ground to fool us," he said. "There's no such thing. It takes faith to believe that." Interesting. I wonder what Fred would say about Stonehenge?

Wherever you fall in the spectrum, this sure is great stuff. Time to add that to my list of places to visit some day.

I've Crossed Over (Or: Girls Will Be Girls)

Wow. I've done it.
I've officially crossed over, into the realm of ...

Girlie-hood.

I decided to paint my toenails, as I often do throughout the shoeless summer. I selected a nice shade called "Silver Plum" and set to work. It wasn't long until Grace was by my side, curious.

"What's that, Mommy?" she asked. I told her what I was doing.

"Oh! I want that too!"

I think I surprised myself a bit when I quickly decided to indulge her whim. Why not? It'll be cute. I chose a different, fun shade for her, a pale silvery blue called "Sky," and we switched seats at the kitchen table. I picked up her little foot ... and stopped.

It just so happened to be her right foot. Her clubfoot. It's chunky. It's shorter than the other. It's very wide. It turns inward a bit. It's curved in shape, toes included. Everything is in tact. It's just ... different.

I looked at that chunky little foot in my hand for a few moments, really looking at it. When Grace was born, we knew what was waiting for us, and I couldn't bring myself to look at that foot during that first day of her birth. I avoided it. I looked at every other part of her beautiful self, except that foot. I realized that I still don't really look at it, unless it's out of concern. Is she walking OK? Is it turning inward too far? Is she walking on the ball of her foot? Does the heel touch the ground like it should? Is her leg that noticeably thinner than the other?

But that morning I held that little food in my hand and really looked at it. I then looked up at her face. She was beaming, all smiles. She has no idea ... nor do I want her to know. I don't want this to stop her. It certainly doesn't have to. But I've read far too many stories of grown-up folks who struggled with a clubfoot -- women who hate themselves, men who are embarrassed, those who haven't worn a pair of shorts in decades because they're ashamed of their skinny leg, those who suffer from chronic pain. Is this what's in store for my little girl? It breaks my heart sometimes.

But in that moment she had no pain. She had no idea. All she saw was Mommy holding her foot, ready to paint her tiny toenails. When finished, she danced around the house, informing me she was now Cinderella.

My twinkly-toed princess.
I squeezed that chunky little foot, and kissed it.
She giggled.

My Own Miranda

Northern Exposure
Season Five
Episode Fifteen
"Hello, I Love You"

"It looks like a fine winter's morning out there at the 63rd latitude. Jack frost is tagging up those window panes, hot java, english muffins, locked and loaded. The word on the street is that the Tambo-Vincour addition is due to pop out and see it's shadow mañana. From the safety of the womb to the bright unknown. Hey little one, you got 843 expectant aunts and uncles out here all queued up for a little koochie koochie koo." (Chris)

Shelly Tambo-Vincour is about to have her baby any day now. In fact, she's two weeks overdue and is scheduled for a C-section in Anchorage. At first she's nonchalant, then increasingly anxious about the whole ordeal -- whether her little baby will like her, and how her life will change forever.

On the scheduled day of delivery, Dr. Fleischman walks into the bar, informing Shelly that it's time to pack up. She's not ready; she hasn't even given it any thought. Joel gave her until 4:00 p.m. at the very latest. She drooped.

She shuffled out of the bar and made her way over to the laundromat. There she sees a little girl, about 5 years old, playing with Barbies. Shelly warms to the little girl, talking "shop," recalling her own days of Barbies, clothes, and accessories. When she's about to leave, she asks the little girl her name: "Miranda," she said. Shelly is floored -- the same name she plans on giving her own baby.

Shelly is puzzled. What are the chances of meeting another Miranda in Cicely, Alaska of all places? She decides to go back to the laundromat to talk to the little girl some more. Instead, she meets a pre-teen, full of attitude. They chat, Shelly connects, and once again discovers this girl's name is Miranda. Shelly is stunned. This is no longer a coincidence.

Later in the day, she finds an excuse to return to the laundromat. The young girls are gone, and now she sees a beautiful young woman, ready to hit the road, on her way to the Dallas Cowboys' cheerleader tryouts. They have a heart-to-heart chat, and Shelly now knows who she's been talking to all day. Miranda. Her Miranda. She's been given a gift of sorts, seeing her own little girl in different phases of life. She's overjoyed and, finally, she's at peace with her future. All of those unknowns, all of those fears, are now gone. She knows everything will be OK.

I watched this episode a few nights ago and it struck a chord with me. Part of it hit my motherhood nerve, watching this new mother embark on her own journey, bringing a new baby into the world ... all this right on the heels of my own chapter closing, having given away my baby things. But more than that, I appreciated this episode on a level that I never paid much attention to in the past, for I never had to -- this fear of the future, the unknown. That's kind of where I've been over this past year and a half, having no idea whatsoever where this journey is taking me. While I do know that the answer, for now, is "just wait," I'm usually OK with that. This is where I'm supposed to be, right now, and perhaps someday I'll know why. I'll see it within the greater context, the bigger picture. Usually I'm OK with that. But then there are those days, like Shelly, where I would love to meet my own Miranda, to see with my own eyes a quick, tangible glimpse that everything is going to be OK. I guess we all have that little part of us, no matter what our situation. We all want to catch a glimpse.

Shelly had Miranda.
I have my faith.
Still ... I do have that little part in me that wants to visit the Cicely Wash & Dry ...

Summer Vacation Check-In: On to Week Two

Don't fret -- I don't plan on writing a weekly update on how our summer vacation is going. But after last week's interesting revelations (about how my boy is wired, how I react, etc.) and squashing strange motherhood-fears, I was quite amazed at the transformation of the week, from the unexpected start to the equally unexpected finish. Things are looking up, I believe!

Of all the ideas poured over the phone from the crankings of my sister-in-law's sharp and creative mind, one in particular stuck in my head -- the idea of an activity chart. Aidan craves structure, so (as April suggested) just work with that. Don't play for him, but it's OK to set him up, get him started. An activity chart seemed like just the ticket -- enough structure for comfort, yet enough freedom within that structure to help him on his way. I brought up the idea to Aidan, who gleefully jumped into the idea-pool, surprising even me with his own creative workings. Ha -- he has no trouble with creativity when it comes to inventing the structure itself. I'm truly fascinated with this boy, let me tell you ...

So later in the week, we sat down together with pad and pen and wrote down all of the ideas we could think of. But first, before we pulled out the big guns, Aidan had another idea. "I'm big now," he said. "Let's make a chore chart for me." Oooohhhhh ... cool! So together we created "Aidan's Chore Chart," filling in the three chores he said he would like to be in charge of: feeding Jack breakfast, setting the lunch table, and feeding Jack dinner. So far, so good.

The creation of the Activity Chart was an activity in and of itself, taking up Grace's entire nap time, and proving to be a great bonding time for us. He got a kick out of the old Twister spinner, and since it's color-coded (red, green, blue, and yellow) he decided to match his chart to the spinner. It was a joy for me to watch his little mind go to work, and here's what he came up with, now hanging on our kitchen door:


Each color has four activities, (obviously) pertaining to the color blocks on the spinner. Since he's usually OK during the Grace's "awake" hours (you can't beat having a playmate), this Activity Chart comes in handy during her naptime, when he can't figure out what to do. He spins the spinner, matches the color to the chart on the kitchen door, and chooses one of four activities listed there. Pretty cool.

I had to laugh at the first try, though. After we finished the chart, Aidan was ready for his maiden voyage. He gave the spinner a big twist, and watched it land on yellow. He looked at the corresponding offerings, "hmmmmm'd" a bit, twisted his little mouth in thought, and then he said, "I think I'd rather have red. I want to play with my Hot Wheels outside." Hey, I'll take it. For the next 20 minutes he played happily and quietly outside with his cars, until Grace woke up from her nap. I actually got some laundry folded.

The Chart has been in action for the last few days now, with great success. Will it last? Who knows. But the last few days have been great -- limited fighting, great camaraderie (on all our parts), lots of play. I too have been trying to be diligent, interspersing my own "Mommy Time" into the mix, making sure I play with my kids, or at least involve myself in some way. On Friday afternoon, the three of us played Hullaballoo outside on the lawn, and actually had a pretty fabulous time. Aidan helped me transplant a few flowers, Grace helped with the watering (herself more than the plants, I think). Today is a new day, the start of our second week. I'm OK with the structure, knowing now what can come of it.

Summer Vacation Check-In: One Week Down

We are now finishing up our first full week of summer vacation, and in those few moments of clarity where I can sit back and observe, I see that I'm morphing into a big bundle of cluelessness, head shaking, frustration, and downright awe at the complexity of personality.

The last thing I want to do is stick my child into a nicely labeled box, but I really do feel that he has some "issue" with playing -- just easy-going, childlike, good-times playing. Snow will fall in July before you see him playing for any length of time in the dirt with trucks. My giving up of chocolate forever has a greater likelihood of happening than Aidan coming up with something creative to do on his own, and sticking with it. Give him a book to read -- fine. Give him some activity to figure out -- great. Give him structure -- he's in heaven. But say, "Go on and play?" Forget it.

In all honesty here, it's indeed frustrating. I just flat-out don't get it. The first few days of our summer vacation were difficult, with a lot of whining and exasperation (on both our parts). The other day, with a gigantic sigh, I decided to forgo my duties for the day and just play with the kids. It was fun, actually. The bike riding experiment in the park didn't work out so well, for within 2 minutes he gave up, saying his knees hurt. (I think it's the bike -- a hard-to-ride $10 piece of junk). Thankfully a huge "jungle gym" set-up was just down the path, so the kids and I played on that for quite some time (no imagination required -- it was all there for him), and then we walked farther down to peek through the bushes and trees at the quarry work down below. After a trip to the library, we made it home in time for lunch, an entire morning spent. I figured I would catch up on my ignored tasks in the afternoon, but even then we fell back into our old habit: "Mommy, I don't know what to do. I'm bored. I want you to play with me ..."

Finally I decided to call my sister-in-law, April, in the Midwest. She's a teacher, she's a mother of five children (twin girls and triplet girls), she home-schools the twins, and she just has this knack with kids. We had a great talk where I spilled my maternal guts -- about my frustration, my concerns (is this something to be concerned about?) and yes, my awe at how my boy is wired. I've never quite run across another child like this before, and since he's mine I have a responsibility to figure this out, or work with it, or something ... (Mama Bird, Mama Bird -- channeling Mama Bird ...)

In a nutshell, my boy craves structure. If I set up some kind of play situation for him, he'd be OK. But on his own? It's a challenge. If I got out the shovel and dug up dirt piles in the yard and created jumps and paths and whatever else, he could then get out his monster trucks and have a pretty good time. If I got out the Hot Wheels tracks and set up an elaborate system with jumps and tunnels, he could then get out his cars and play. If I got out the sidewalk chalk and started drawing something (something to do -- not just random pictures) he would then probably get the idea. But that's the catch -- I have to do it all. I have to be the imaginative one, I have to set things up, I have to get him going. And while I want my boy to have fun and to play, I don't want to have to do this all the time. I can't do this all the time. It's just not practical, for either of us.

I guess there's a part of me that thinks if I structure these carefree summer days now, he'll never get it. Is it a form of enabling, in a way? He can't go through life having someone set something up for him. And yet ... that seems to be how he's wired. So how do I manage this? In my conversation with April, she said it's actually OK to do this, at least for a while. She commented that we adults tend to expect too much of our little kids. They haven't been around on this earth very long to wrack up experience, or context, within which to play. Couple that with not being wired to do that in the first place, my boy does indeed have a challenge to contend with. Her advice to me was just to bite the bullet and figure that these next few weeks will be trying to teach him how to play. Set aside those dishes (again!) to teach him how to play with his pirates. Put the bills off another day to teach him how to create a world for his Rescue Heroes. Forget dusting; teach him how to build something with blocks. And then maybe, just maybe, after a week or two, he'll watch what I do and might begin to do it himself.

Ugh. I'm tired already just thinking about it. I love my boy fiercely, but during times like these I see how truly different we are. April suggested I create (with Aidan's help and/or direction) an Activity Chart -- list the activities he likes to do and put them on a chart of some kind, so when Grace is napping and I'm busy and he has nothing to do, he can go to the Activity Chart and see what he can do, put an X in the box, or whatever. I spoke to Aidan about this idea yesterday, and I was surprised at his response. The mere mention of this perked him right up; his little scientific brain started whirling. And -- gasp! -- the ideas started flowing. He got a pad and a pen and told me to write down his ideas, and we created a list of some of his favorite things to do. He even suggested we get a spinner, so the activity selection could be chosen that way, randomly, by spinning an arrow. I recalled our old game of Twister in the basement -- we could modify it for this chart. April said we could create this within the framework of 20 minute blocks -- that's all he needs. Darn -- 20 minutes will go fast! Outdoor time needs to be included, and she had the fabulous idea of setting up an obstacle course in the backyard -- again, something that I would need to do for the first few times, but hopefully he will then get the idea and be able to do it himself. Wow ...

My sister-in-law needs some sort of a medal. During our brief conversation on the phone (with 3 babies on her lap, she can only talk for so long) she said that the ideas were just overflowing in her head ... while mine felt quite empty. When I embarked on the motherhood journey, I had no idea it would involve anything like this. You deal with baby phases, and then when your kids get older they just play, right? I never dreamed I would produce a child who is wired this way. And yet ... what a child he is. He is absolutely priceless. Sure, it takes work -- a lot more work in ways I never dreamed of -- but I am just amazed at how different we all are. Aidan, April, myself ... just three figures in this recent scenario, all very different. Wow. It really is incredible.

And what did Aidan say to me first thing this morning?
"Mommy! Today we'll make the Aidan's Activity Chart! And you can get the spinner from the basement, and then we can put them in groups, and then ... and then ..."

God sure created an incredible little being.
Yes, I get frustrated and impatient and exasperated.
But I am so glad he's mine.

Summer Eating (Can't Beat It)

This is nothing new, really, but I still feel like raving about last night's dinner. We had the last of the back-yard lettuce to use up, so a big salad was definitely on the menu. I raided the fridge (which was looking pretty bare) for accouterments, wanting something light following a Cajun chicken risotto from the night before. 24 hours later, I think I was still full from it. I found half a container of grape tomatoes, some fresh mozzarella, and my brain got to work. Insalada Caprese! Or, at least, some version of it ...

I went out to my little potted herb garden and picked some wonderfully aromatic basil leaves, a must-have for the "salad." We had half a loaf of a rustic Italian bread, so that was quickly sliced and brushed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Then came the basil leaves, tomatoes cut in half, and topped with the sliced mozzarella and a sprinkling of freshly ground black pepper. Into the broiler it went, very lightly toasting the bread and melting the mozzarella.

Don dubbed this little treat the "Mob Sandwich." Apparently, in my haste and my brain being elsewhere earlier in the day, I wrote "Calabrese" on the marker board (to remind me to pick basil) instead of "Caprese." Don saw the notation and wondered why I referenced a Mafia family. We got a good laugh about that one. I guess from now on this concoction will forever be known as the "Mob Sandwich."

Regardless of its new name, it was fabulous. A perfect side to go with our salad. This obviously wasn't rocket science, nor some never-before-attempted culinary masterpiece. But for us it was new, and delicious! Give it a try, summer eating friends! It's quick, easy, and wonderfully fresh. You can't go wrong.

Ready for Take-Off

Less than a week after the sad obliteration of the family of birds who took up their short residence in our back yard's bird bottle, a new feathered couple began setting up house. Back and forth they flew, with twigs and grass and other nesting material, busy at work stuffing the bottle to suit their needs. They do indeed work fast, those little birds.

Part of me wanted to warn them of the potential dangers involved of setting up a nest so high off the ground. We saw three tiny babies fall to their deaths; we wanted to spare this new family the same tragedy. But come on ... they're birds! This is what they do! Calm down, Sue. You're too soft.

So we watched the nest-building, and we waited. And waited. Finally, one afternoon, I heard sounds that differed from Mama and Daddy Bird. I heard little squeaky chirps, much higher pitched, much more frantic. I tried to look inside the nest but couldn't see any movement. We waited some more. I noticed that when Mama Bird flew to the bottle and perched on the stick, the squeaky chirps got louder, but still I couldn't see anything.

Then a couple of days later, I was sitting outside while my kids played. Mama Bird flew back to the stick with something in her beak. The chirping sounds flew to a frenzied pitch. And then I saw one, two, three tiny heads pop right up, mouths opened wide. They're here! The babies are here! Oh, please Creator God, do not let these little ones fall out ...

I was a bit surprised at my reaction, how protective I was of these little birds, getting more and more nervous with each passing day. The chirping got louder as the babies got bigger; I could see them more clearly as they grew, tiny black eyes looking out of the bottle. My fear was that as they got bigger, they would begin to crowd each other out ... and then one would fall. Oh, don't grow too quickly! Don't jostle around too much in there!

Just a few days ago I noticed the babies were getting bold. They would come out to greet Mama Bird now, squishing their bodies at the bottle's opening, craning their little necks, heads now exposed to the outdoors. I saw one little claw grasp the rim of the bottle, almost ready to take its first step out completely. My heart jolted a bit when Mama Bird was finished dishing out dinner, and the three squished babies tried to turn around to go back inside. Little bird bottoms hung out of the bottle; one little claw slipped out and the baby tumbled against its sibling. Don't fall! Don't fall!

Then the day came yesterday -- their version of "Platoma Day." A milestone. Yesterday afternoon as I was talking on the phone in the kitchen, I stood by the window and casually looked out. I glanced down and saw a surprising sight. There, on my window sill, was one of our baby birds, sitting quietly, looking right back at me through the screen. See? it seemed to say. I'm OK. I took my first flight and I made it.

I must have moved too quickly, for the baby flew off, a bit haltingly at first. He flew to the arm of a patio chair, then over to the lettuce patch where I then saw another baby hopping up and down, trying to get some leverage. There was Mama Bird, right with them. That must be their practice field. Up and down they fluttered, one poor guy repeatedly hitting the foundation of our neighbor's house in the back.

Last night I joined the kids outside in the back yard. I looked up at the bottle but saw no movement. Perhaps they're resting from their big day, their first moments of independence. Suddenly I saw Mama Bird fly to the stick and look inside. But this time I heard no chirping. I saw no babies cluster around the opening. It was very, very quiet. The babies grew up.

I guess I am now experiencing Empty Nest Syndrome. I miss that little family -- the family that actually made it. I found myself so happy for Mama and Daddy, their diligence and protectiveness (many a day had I watched them defend their bottle from other aggressive sparrows) and devotion to their babies having paid off, watching them grow safely, and finally helping them out of the nest for good. I can't believe how attached I got to this little family.

There's a good lesson here, riding on the back of a daily reminder to "live in the moment." These past few weeks were a condensed version of my own parenting, my own little birds needing me, my own responsibility in raising them and feeding them and caring for them until they, too, are ready for take-off. Did I once hear Mama Bird screech impatiently at them? Lose her patience with their constant squawking? Roll her beady bird eyes with exasperation? No, she had a job to do, and she did it well. This summer especially I need to strive to be like Mama Bird -- patient, above all thing. Certainly not something I do well ... at all. I lose precious moments with my kids when I roll my eyes, when I frown at them, when I screech with impatience and frustration, when I get irritated every other minute. I have a job to do ... and sometimes I feel that I don't do it very well. And before I know it, my baby birds will have reached the point of independence, of not needing me anymore, and they'll step out of their bottle and spread their own little wings, leaving me standing on a stick, looking inside to an empty nest.

I spent these first two days of summer vacation feeling frustrated, tired, and exasperated. This lesson came at a good time. Let's see if I too can become a good Mama Bird. And I'm going to make a start this morning. The dishes can wait (don't they always?!). The usual Wed. a.m. grocery shopping can be put off for another day. In a little while I will throw some bikes in the back of the gigantic rented blue minivan and take the kids to a local park, find a flat area, and (try to) teach my boy how to finally ride his bike. Then we'll head to the library, get some books and movies (myself included), and pray mightily that Grace won't destroy the place or break into her who-needs-a-microphone?-orator voice. Doesn't sound like a big deal, right? Why it is for me, I don't know. It certainly shouldn't be. But hopefully today will be a "moment" day. Thanks, Mama Bird. Good luck, babies.

Summer Break is Here (Or: 79 More Days Until School Starts)

Yesterday marked the first day of summer vacation for our family. Here are a few things I heard, saw, and did to commemorate the day:

- Brought our car in for repair (after having been hit by our new neighbor), and drove home in a mini-van. A mini-van! I felt like a bus driver.

- Dealt with a relapse of Grace's sickness, after a surprising fever-spike on Sunday. Dispensed Tylenol, delivered juice, and handed out Sanity Pills as an antidote to the cranky-whiny sounds wafting through my house.

- Brought Grace to the doctor after repeated cries of, "Mommy, my ear hurts!"

- Discovered that Grace is not sick, but only teething. Teething?! Was consoled by the doctor, not to worry, you're not the only one, parents get "fooled" all the time ... OK. But never in all these years has something like this happened. My kids' mouths filled up with teeth all on their own, without any symptoms ... until now, it seems.

And then here's what I heard from Aidan all ... day ... long ...

- "Mommy, I'm bored."
- "I don't know what to do."
- "I don't want to play with my cars" (after I suggested he do so).
- "I don't want to play with Lincoln Logs" (after I suggested he do so).
- "I don't want to play outside" (after I suggested he do so).
- "I don't want to work in my activity book" (after I .. yeah, you get the idea).
- "Can I play on the computer?" (no.)
- "Can I watch TV?" (oh, no.)
- "Is it computer time yet?"
- "How about now? Can I play on the computer?"
- "I'm tired."
- "I'm hungry."
- "I don't know what to do." (Oh, yeah, I wrote that one already).

That was yesterday, for two straight hours.
It was a long, long, long day.

Today I looked at the calendar, and started counting the days, one by one.

It's a shame, really. I was heartily embracing the idea of "living in the moment," of embracing these carefree summer days, of recalling my own joyful childhood during these months. So much for that. Already I'm hitting the calendar.

79 more days ...

"Platoma" Day

Have you ever heard a 5-year-old kid try to say "diploma?" Yeah, it's funny. Aidan's version: "platoma." And yes, Friday was "Platoma Day." My no-longer-baby-boy graduated from kindergarten. Sniff sniff.

You'd think we were on the brink of Christmas, with all the excitement in the house -- myself included. It was a big, big day for this boy, a milestone of great proportions. The day was beautiful, breezy and not so hot. My little man got all dressed up and at 1:00 p.m. we were off.

But guess who was lurking in the shadows, smiling his oh-so-devious smile ... My Friend Murphy. Yes, Murphy's Law accompanied us to the graduation ceremony. But that's OK -- as usual, it makes for a great, memorable story.

Don used his lunch break to attend the ceremony, which sent Aidan over the moon. I dropped Aidan off at his classroom at the designated hour, and as I walked over to the church where the ceremony would be held, I noticed Don's work truck parked in the lot. Oh, good, he's here. I entered the church and saw my parents saving a seat. But where's Don? Hmmm ... Five minutes to go. I'd better go back outside and see what's going on. I walked over to his truck ... where Don was taking a nap. Oh, boy ... Here we go.

We walked hand in hand back into the church, myself nice and clean in a cute white skirt and sky blue top, and Don all sweaty and scruffy and somewhat dirty in his work jeans and old t-shirt. Hey -- at least he was there, right? Right. We sat down and I asked Don if he would be the camera man, relieving me of my usual duties so I could, for once, wholly enjoy the event. He agreed and started snapping away as "Pomp and Circumstance" blared from what sounded like some tiny tape recorder. It was beyond cute, watching these little kids process down the aisle, the familiar tune grinding away, all smiles, black caps positioned every which way on their heads.

Don had grabbed a seat on the front pew, along with other camera-happy parents, and right before the giving of the diplomas, Don raced back to our pew, a few rows back, franticly whispering, "The batteries died!" Thank goodness I popped a few extras in my bag, just knowing Murphy would pull that old trick. Batteries in, back to the front row. Phew.

The kids stood neatly in a row, squirming a bit, the girls fiddling with their frilly princess dresses and the boys bouncing around like they had to pee. Names were called, kids marched across the stage one by one, hugged the teacher, grabbed their rolled up diploma, climbed up the two steps back to their seats.

"Aidan Sehulster." What a smile! What confidence! What exuberance as he marched across the stage! My heart almost burst. He gave his teacher a big hug, then hugged the teacher's aide ... and then promptly wiped out on the steps. Flat on the ground. Yep -- my kid slated to crash. The only one to do so.

The whole ceremony was incredibly sweet, though. The kids sang their little hearts out, and tears threatened to start rolling as I watched my boy belt out, "I love you! I love you! Say to the Lord I love you ..." You could just about see God smiling at His little ones ...

Later that afternoon, back at home, I downloaded the pictures my diligent husband snapped. I couldn't wait to see them. I waited as iPhoto loaded up and there they were, all 29 pictures. Wow, Don, great job! I thought. But then I saw the photos ... 98% of which were junk. Red-eye, dark, blurry, horrible! Oh, no! I quickly skimmed through the shots, wanting to see the one we were all waiting for: the giving of the diploma. But wait, where is it? There's the smile (dark), there's the march across the stage (blurry), there's the ... wipe out. No diploma, but a perfect shot of my boy sprawled across the steps. Oh, brother. The control-freak in me screamed, "That's what I get for letting someone else take the pictures!"

Ah, My Friend Murphy wasn't finished with us yet. Later that evening, after dinner, we had promised Aidan a trip to Carvel to celebrate the big day. My parents came along with us, and we arrived at our destination. Aidan was ecstatic, ordering his favorite -- a chocolate milk shake. The evening was lovely, with the sun beginning to set and a cool breeze keeping the heat away. We sat on benches outside of the store, recounting the day. Then I looked at Aidan, who suddenly became quiet. His eyes looked weird. His face looked pale. His hand was placed across his stomach.

"Mommy, my tummy hurts." Uh-oh. He stood up. He thought he had to go to the bathroom ... no, wait ... that's not it ... it's ... it's ...

Yep. He puked all over the sidewalk.

Thankfully, for the second wave (those things never resolve with one shot, do they?) we hustled him over to the bushes, where the rest of the milkshake fertilized the plants. He stood up and smiled.

"Hey, I feel better! And it felt cold!" What a comment.

Sigh. What a way to end a big milestone day.
And as usual, what a story to tell, and to remember.

"Encourage Your Child to Read" ... yeah, and then what?!

I am a bookworm. Am I ecstatic that my kids also share my passion for reading? Am I overjoyed that they voluntarily pick up on books on their own, without any prompting from me? Does my heart overflow when I hear them quoting lines from favorite stories? Well ...


Maybe.

(Jack is saying either "I didn't do it!" or "Yeah, good luck with that, Mom. That's what you get for encouraging them.")

How Do They Do It?!

YESTERDAY:

Well, just read the post if you haven't done so already. If not quite "hell on earth," then it definitely qualified for purgatory, or a layer of Dante's Inferno. The kids were awful. Nothing went right. The kids were awful -- did I say that already? Fighting, scrapping, screaming, whining, crying, fighting some more. They couldn't stand to be near each other, and yet they seemed glued together.


TODAY:

How do they do it?!?!?!


Clearly, no more words are necessary.
I think I need an ice pack or something.

If Only I Believed in Karma ...

A few weeks ago, someone hit our car and, of course, didn't stick around to take responsibility. I filed a claim with our insurance company but then dropped it after finding out the damage, while appearing quite white and hideous, was really only cosmetic. Did I really want to spend $750 to get rid of a few superficial scratches? Ah, no. So those white scrapes joined the ranks of the few other dings and scratches on various other parts of our car.

Early this morning I was sleeping very soundly, when suddenly the doorbell rang and Jack, who was snoozing by me, started barking. It scared me half to death. It was one of those moments where you try to hang on to that delicious sleep, but now your heart is racing and you're quite confused at the events suddenly going on around you. I struggled to a sitting position while Jack, still frantically barking, wriggled out from under the sheet. I looked at the clock. 6:45 a.m.!!! What the heck ... ?!

Then my foggy brain kicked in. Kids sleeping ... dog howling ... must stop the noise ... must keep those kids asleep ... Ha. Too late. The kids were already up and playing (indicative of what my day is going to be like, with another too-early start). "There's a lady at the door," Aidan informed me. A lady ... ?

A few minutes later Don came back inside, shaking his head but smiling. "You'll never believe this ..." he said.

That "lady" was our brand new neighbor, a woman who had moved in next door over the weekend with her three kids. (Yes, my friends, the infamous Chatty Cathy is GONE!). From the few chats-in-passing we've had with her, she seems very nice. She had gotten into her car this morning to go to work. She backed out of the driveway.

She hit our car.

I would probably say, by this time, I believe we must be cursed. Someone, somewhere has a tiny replica of a Ford Freestyle and is sticking pins in it. But this morning's events were actually quite welcomed, because she hit the car in the very same spot as the hit-and-run driver a few weeks ago!

The damage this time around is much greater, however. The corner of the front bumper popped off, and the entire front part of the bumper is smooshed in. But still ... it's the same spot! And she took responsibility for it (or at least she will later, when she gets home from work. We know where she lives). So that means our patient accepting of those events from the other week will be redeemed! And we won't have to pay a dime! We'll be without a car for a little while, of course, and I feel a bit sheepish having to call our insurance company again, but at least this time I have better news.

Wow. What a way to start your day, huh?
Definitely time for more coffee.

A Day in the Life ...

I have decided that I do indeed have a boiling point. A screech along the lines of "Moooommmyyy!!!" will get me there in a hurry. This afternoon I encountered a very interesting (albeit frustrating) exercise (to put it nicely) where I found myself in somewhat of a "split-personality" or "out of body" situation -- where I reached a boiling point of volcanic proportions while maintaining a strange, detached viewpoint, watching myself through it all. I did not possess the powers to stop myself from feeling what I was feeling, or (most unfortunately) expressing what I expressed, but nonetheless I found it somewhat oddly fascinating (and exhausting) to watch my afternoon unfold. But enough of the intro (and parentheses) ...

At some point during my almost-ready-to-have-kids stage of life, a friend of mine told me that having two kids was really no different than having one, that the "wives' tale" of having double the work was false, and that actually it was easier having two kids than one. A few years into this gig now, I'll agree with the last point of her statement -- in some ways it is indeed easier -- but I heartily disagree on the second. The work is indeed doubled -- double the amount of laundry produced, double the amount of food consumed, double the amount of decibels screeched throughout the house. And most definitely double the amount of needs that must, must, must be met.

One aspect of my role as mother to these two particular children is that any to-do list I create might as well just be scribble paper. On Monday, the primary asterisked item was "do the dishes!" That was, as I said, Monday. The day came and went, and the dishes remained. Tuesday surfaced, and the dishes not only stayed put but also multiplied. Today is Wednesday, and at 4:00 p.m. I stood in my kitchen feeling like I was being swallowed whole. The table was full of who-knows-what, the groceries from this morning's shopping remained bagged, lined up around my kitchen like chunky yellow soldiers. My only workable countertop -- 18" total -- was filled with dishes. I had no stove, for it too became the resting place of pots and pans needing a good scrubbing. The sink was filled to faucet level, and the worktable played host to a few overflow pieces that had nowhere else to go. It's horrible, I know (my mother is now starting to feel the onset of cardiac arrest as she's reading this post -- I can hear the rasps through the floor boards), but every moment of every day since Monday's demand of "do the dishes!" has been filled up with ... KIDS. Sickness, school, laundry, school, fighting, school, other kid messes, school, impromptu cupcakes for an impromptu birthday, fighting again. You get the idea. Dishes tend to pile up under dire circumstances, and unfortunately each day seems to dawn as a dire circumstance as of late.

I now had no stove, which means if I don't do the dishes we can't eat, because that would mean I would now have to start shuttling dirty dishes to other parts of the house, and I do have some scruples. The clock flashed 4:00 p.m. (I would write "the clock struck" but what clock strikes anymore?!). Aidan's computer time was up and the kids were shoo'd outside. I picked up my lime green scrubby thing in my right hand and took a deep breath. I reached for --

"Moooommmmyyy!!!!"

I closed my eyes. I took another deep breath. I walked to the back door, lime green scrubby thing still in hand. There was some dilemma with a ball.

I walked back to the sink. I reached for --

"Moooommmmyyy!!!"

My teeth involuntarily clenched together. I think I might have cussed in my brain somewhere. I could feel tension slowly creep like sinister tentacles into my shoulders. "What?" I yelled out the window. There was some dilemma with the slide.

Phew. The water is at least running now. Oh, wait, the dishes are piled right up to the faucet; it's too crowded to wash anything. I looked at my 18" counter to my left, moved a few things around to make room, and took as much out of the sink as I could. OK. I turned the water back on.

"Nooooo, GRACE!"
OK -- I'll let that go.

"Nooooo, GRACE!"
Ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore, ig --

"NOOOOOO, GRACE!!!!"

I'm not even sure what that one was about anymore, it's all starting to blur. But I did yell. I'd say we're on a good simmer about now. Back to the sink. At least I now have some soap on the sponge, and three coffee mugs are on the drying rack. Time to tackle a bowl, and then --

"Ooowwwww! Grace! Stop it!"

This is how my afternoon went. They needed watermelon, and by the time I cut it all up, put it on plates, sent them outside, and got back to the dishes they were back inside, crowding me, finished with their watermelon, now wanting Cheez-its. Then a drink. Outside, then back in. Back and forth. A dish, a scream, a plate, some spitting, a pot, then crying. Back and forth. I boiled, big time. I threatened. I yelled. Yes, it got so bad that I even spanked, which means some hard-core missteps were taken on their parts. Each whine, each screech, each scream was laid brick-and-mortar-like, filling me up entirely until I was about ready to freak out myself. I think I did, maybe. I'm not sure anymore.

I don't think I will ever, ever understand how you can so completely and fully love these little creatures, yet at the same time have moments like these where they drive you absolutely crazy, to the point of feeling intense anger and resentment and this fierce need to run away and who knows what else, bubbling along in a frenzy in the pot called "me." I have never, ever in my life experienced such complexity.

5:20 p.m. -- over a full hour later, I finally wash the last knife and put my lime green scrubby thing back in its holder. A full hour and then some, the knowledge of which made me want to scream. It shouldn't have taken that long. It wouldn't have taken that long had my kids not been ... kids. If they played with their toys instead of purposefully going out their way to annoy each other, the dishes would have been done. If they had done something constructive instead of purposefully needling each other, I wouldn't be on the brink of some explosion.

Then with weary eyes and slumped shoulders, I looked at the stove. It was covered with ... well, I'm not sure. But in order to eat I would now have to exert time and energy I did not have into cleaning the stove first (before crapping it up again with dinner-to-come). As silly as this might sound, I wanted to cry. This kind of thing just builds, and builds, and builds. I didn't cry, though. I looked at the fridge instead. There, hanging on the side by a Bob the Tomato magnet was a flier from our local pizza joint. It's Customer Appreciation Week. This week is "Hero Week" ... how ironic.

Instead of reaching for the Lysol, I looked in my wallet. It's a good thing I saved up a little babysitting money (boy, do I sound like a teenager now?!). I picked up the phone.

"Honey? Feel like being an appreciated customer tonight? I sure do. It's Hero Week."

Yes. Ironic. In so, so many ways.

The Beat of a Drum

My son is of a very literal, letter-of-the-law kind of bent. After he brushes his teeth at night, he first has his vitamin and then his allergy pill -- not the other way around. And heaven forbid you wash his face in the wrong sequence of the above mentioned events, for you'll have quite a battle of wills on your hands. He eats his fruit only in the afternoon, not in the morning. He grieves mightily when I have to wash Blue Blanket, for he detests the smell and feel of its altered (albeit clean) state. He completely freaked out at bedtime a few nights ago (unfortunately on my mom's watch while we were out) when he realized that, after I changed the sheets on his bed earlier that day, I did not put the matching pillow case on from the set (which had shrunk in the wash), but rather another solid blue one that I had handy. He cried and wailed and was completely unable to go sleep in this condition. The thing is, he's not kidding. This isn't some kind of kiddie-rant "I want my way" temper tantrum -- he was very serious, and very particular. He's OK now about the pillow case, but it took a while to get to this point.

Grace, on the other hand, is a fly-as-you-go kind of girl. She could care less what's on her bed. She wouldn't pay any attention to the way her bread is cut. Vitamins and teeth brushing -- who cares? And when it comes to swimming ... well, who says you can't use the other side of the kiddie pool? Who says you can't flip it over and have just as much fun on the other side, taking a nap or star-gazing? I enjoyed watching her ... especially toward the end, when her little shape somehow turned the pool into a heart.

Two very different kids marching to two very different drums. And boy, do I adore them both.

Happy Birthday ... of sorts

"Mommy, when am I going to get to wear the crown?"

That was the random question of the day, as I drove Aidan home from school the other day. And as often is the case, I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Everyone has worn the crown except me."

OK, back up. What's the story here? Ohhh, right ... the birthday crown. As it turns out, since this is a TK class (transitional kindergarten), most of the kids fall into the category of having been birthed around most schools' cut-off dates for class entry. Aidan's birthday is early September, before school starts, and many of his classmates have summer birthdays. So throughout the school year, the child is allowed to pick a school-year birthday to celebrate with the class, complete with treats (provided by the parent, of course), the coveted crown, a song, and lots of attention. Every child in the class had their "birthday" already ... except Aidan. Oops. Looks like I dropped that ball.

This is the last week of school, so time's a-tickin'. I talked to the teacher yesterday and she said that today is the only day where it would fit, so today it is. Phew -- that was close! I did a lot of scrambling yesterday, scouring my mom's cupboards for cake mix and icing (since I so rarely -- if ever -- have that kind of thing on hand), and I cranked up the stove in my already-stuffy kitchen in order to bake 24 chocolate cupcakes, three or four of which somehow burned. What mom burns cupcakes?! This morning I'll slather on the icing, complete with red sprinkles, and this afternoon I'll have one happy little boy.

This is a nice little thing to offer the kids, I guess, this opportunity to celebrate with their classmates. Yet there's a part of me that feels, at least at this age, that "what they don't know won't hurt them." Aidan would never have had any inkling to do something like this if the teacher didn't say anything, so why even start? Michelle, my sister-in-law, told me yesterday that teachers nowadays do make a really big deal of this sort of thing in preschool and kindergarten, but then it stops.

It's not so bad, I suppose. You should have seen Aidan's face yesterday, as he told me he picked out a red crown for himself to wear this afternoon. He's been talking about that crown ever since. He insisted on wearing a red shirt today to match his crown, since red -- after all -- is his favorite color. He even wanted to wear red shorts, which I vetoed because it would have been horribly tacky, even for a five year old. Even now Aidan is standing by my left shoulder, saying, "Mommy, I am so excited to wear my crown today at school!" And Gracie is now standing on my right side, perfectly pouty, saying, "I want my own crown, Mommy!" and having no idea what we're talking about.

Happy Birthday, sweet boy.

... And Will Continue to Be Boys

I told Don about my post from yesterday, about boys (generally) gravitating more toward factual or informational reading rather than possessing a more literary bent. He laughed in a "See? I told you so" kind of way -- no, he's not crazy, just ... a boy, I guess. He then went on to explain why he gave up on Henry VIII.

Yes, he did find himself getting bored, but he was only about 30 pages into the book. Of course, it started with Henry's early days ... "I don't want to read about what Henry did as a kid, what his tutors taught him, what sports he played," said Don. "I want to get to the good stuff, like when and why he went crazy."

Oh, but my dear deprived husband, you must read about Henry's childhood! It is, after all, what shapes the man! The pressures of his insanely intense father, figuring on the priesthood rather than an earthly kingdom (since that, of course, goes to the elder brother), assuming kingship at the not-nearly-ready age of 17. Don was even fortunate enough to have gotten a glimpse of Henry the Child -- the fabulous rare book library in Washington, D.C. at which I worked for a few years possessed part of Henry's library, including books from his early years, books which displayed rich and marvelous marginalia, scribblings and doodlings by the very same hand of this child of whom Don is reading about, 500 years later! How can that be boring?! This is the foundation, the building blocks which shape the crazy man later to come!

Nah. It's boring.

Last night we came home from a rather ... ah ... umm ... lively, spirited ... congregational meeting at church. Since we were still a little juiced up from the evening's events, we sat in the living room for a little while, books in hand. Yes, books -- plural. There was Henry VIII, back in Don's grasp. Ooohhh ... so you're picking it up again?

"Yeah, I decided to keep going with it." Yes! I was encouraged!

But ... "I think I'll just skip ahead to the good parts."

Ugh. Philistine. Neanderthal. Barbarian.
Boy.

Boys Will Be Boys

Ignat Bednarik

In the many years Don and I have been together, I have never been able to understand the fact that he's not what you would call a "reader." Of course he is literate, but his preference of reading material is in some other realm than mine. While I love the feel of a book in my hands, he prefers reading from the glow of his palm pilot, stylus in hand as he scrolls down the tiny page, line by line. The number of works of fiction that he's read for enjoyment purposes only I could count on one hand ... maybe. Usually I laugh it off, occasionally I shake my head, and on the rare occasion I admittedly do get a little frustrated with it. If I read a novel of profound importance, of fabulous writing, of great plot development, I want to share it with him ... but I can't. He's simply not interested. Period.

Now, this doesn't apply to all boys, of course (thank goodness!). In college, I found a way to function within this complexity. When I met Don, I was in the throes of my literature major. We shared just about everything in common ... except literature. I wanted to talk about authors, poetry, literature, symbolism with him ... but I couldn't. He simply wasn't interested. But there was a boy in my life who could share this with me, my friend Jeff who was also studying for a literature major. He was my male-literature-buddy-counterpart, eating and drinking and discussing Yeats and Dickins and Hardy and who-knows-who-else, bringing a boy's perspective to the world of literature I loved so much. It can work.

And then yesterday my friend Jacie informed me of a startling newly discovered fact: that after studying boys' reading habits in elementary school, the report declared that boys tended to avoid novels and fiction, and gravitated toward more factual works. The light bulb suddenly lit up, the switch went on, the choral "aaaaa-aaahhhh" rang forth from the heavens: that's it! That makes sense! To prove the point, Jacie showed me her husband's growing pile of books he plans on taking with him on vacation in a few weeks: books about faith, team building, Christianity, and -- for fun! -- a mammoth rock of a book having something to do with military conquests shaping the character and office of the presidency, from Theodore Roosevelt to George W. Bush. Yikes. Where's Harry Potter? Where's John Grisham? Nowhere to be found. He likes this stuff.

I had to laugh ... Don's pile wouldn't look much different. But I did declare to Jacie that this week, Don got a book out from the library. By himself. With no prompting from me. And I was even more encouraged by the topic: Henry VIII! And by a renowned author! Woo-hoo! I was excited for him. Now, this wasn't an inspiration out of the blue -- we've been watching The Tudors, and many an episode is followed by questioning: Sue, did that really happen? Was she really like that? Was Henry really such a madman? And so on and so on. So, he got a book. A real book. I was greatly encouraged.

But then ... it happened. Last night we settled down in our cool bedroom, thanks to the air conditioner running in the living room (yes, I finally broke down). I dove right into my Helen of Troy, and Don picked up Henry VIII. I smiled to myself as I read, savoring the moment that I knew was rare and precious. My eyes grew heavy before Don's, so I turned off my light while he continued reading. Not long after, though, I heard his book close, the book light turned off ... and out came the palm pilot. Groggily I asked, "What's the matter?" His answer --

"I don't like this book. It's boring."

Henry VIII -- boring?! I think I actually felt my heart break a bit ...

Oh well. I guess boys will be boys -- even when it comes to their reading material.

Laugh Lines for the Week

Here are a few lines o' humor, to start the week off right, and to put a smile on our faces before we leave this afternoon:

- Aidan is doing a smashing job in the reading department, loving both being read to (phew!) as well as sitting quietly by himself with a book on his lap. While some of the words that spill out of his little mouth blow me away, he still does get hung up on a few tricky ones. He's only five, after all. And the winner of all flubs came when reading the back of a box of ice pops. It had something to do with using your imagination, being creative, thinking of fun things to do. He read along at a good clip, and then said something about "using your cavity juicies." Ummm .... what? Yes, Mommy, your cavity juicies.

My dad looked over his shoulder and read it correctly: use your creative juices.

Oh, said Aidan. What's that?
So, we explained it to him.
My dad then told him to use his imagination.
"No, Grandpa!" he said, somewhat indignantly. "I can't use my imagination. I have to use my creative juices!"

Duh!

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Aidan sleeps in boxer shorts and t-shirts -- a cheap and comfortable alternative to higher priced pj's. One of his favorite bottoms are made up of some Hawaiian design -- hibiscus flowers, or whatever looks rather tropical. For the top, he was given a few tank tops -- those tight-fitting cotton "Grandpa-type" undershirts. Aidan loves them. So when he first put on that particular outfit, ready for bed, he was ecstatic. Not only did he prance around the house, doing his own version of a hula dance (now that's a sight), he also exclaimed, "Look, Mommy! Now I look just like Grandpa!" And with that, he ran upstairs to show Grandpa his new version of mini-me. My parents roared. What's that saying, about imitation and flattery ... ? Love it.

The List

What is it about "human nature" that pushes one to look ahead, to set one's eyes on future events (known, not yet known, or completely dreamed up), to ultimately forget the very moment in which one lives? Is it really a "human nature" thing? Does it affect individuals differently, causing some to struggle with this more than others? What is it about the "now" that seems to difficult to live with? Why is it so hard to see that more often than not the "now" is what we have really dreamed for all along?

A dear and wise friend often exhorts me to do just this, to live in the moment (especially in regard to my kids), to embrace the "now," and roll with what comes my way later. It sounds so ... easy, inviting. But why in the world is it such a struggle?

I've contemplated this before, as it pops up on my radar from time to time. If I actually take the time to think about, I see that it comes in ways both subtle and grand-scale. My kids are playing so nicely outside ... but I need to get dinner started in an hour, so I tackle the kitchen instead of their play. Summer break officially starts next week, but I am already looking ahead to events and appointments planned for later this month as well as next. Is it really so hard to embrace the cliché, "one day at a time?"

An interesting thought came to me a couple of days ago as I sat outside in our yard. When we first moved here over a year ago, I couldn't help but tell myself that this was just a stop-over, a temporary set-up until we regrouped. The apartment was too small (forgetting that we were blessed with lodging), the area is expensive (forgetting the blessing that we are surrounded by family), Don feels exiled from his church (forgetting the blessing that we are in the healthiest place we've been in years). But over a year has passed and we're still here, settled in and quite happy. Yet oddly enough that little voice whispers occasionally, like the quick prick of a thorn reminding me of things I'm trying to put behind me. We're here because of ...... Our lives are such because of ...... But why is it so hard for me to say, we're here because this is where we are supposed to be? This is part of the journey? Why is it so hard for me to embrace this "now," where I am -- not just as a stop-over but as the place where I will thrive and grow and heal and really live? What in the world is stopping me?

Lots of rhetorical questions here. But then came the revelation, as I sat on the bench in our yard as Don grilled up (yes, grilled) a fabulous cowboy steak and asparagus. In some dark cob-webbed corner of my mind I suddenly (and Holy Spirit driven?) recalled an exercise we did before we moved to our last church. For the final two years or so of our second church, we experienced a great deal of turmoil and we knew the end was in sight. We were very ready to go, but we felt God telling us just to wait. Waiting is difficult, but we were grateful that God gave us the peace to do so, and it was good for us. But when finally we felt that we received the green light to start the process of moving onward, Don began meeting regularly with a Christian career counselor -- a woman of great insight and admirable gifts. A woman you could trust with tremendous confidence. She helped Don work through some issues with his experiences in ministry and what he encountered, and then she began to focus on our next place -- where it should be, what it should look like, and so on. She gave Don an exercise and asked him to write down a list of criteria -- the sky's the limit -- of what he wanted in his next situation. It could be anything, from the smallest and most insignificant of needs or "wants," to the grandiose and ridiculous of desires. We did the exercise together and actually had a lot of fun. It was the first time we allowed ourselves to dream, to think as small and as big as we liked. Some of our items were serious, such as desiring a healthy Christian community that was missionally-minded and "on fire," to so speak. Other criteria included fun, dream-like points such as a good-sized yard for the kids, sidewalks, a neighborhood community, within two hours of "home" and family, and so on. You can imagine our amazement when Don got "the call" from what turned out to be our last church -- a church that met just about every item on our list! We fell on our knees; we were in awe. But little did we know that the gleaming sheep before us actually hid a sharp-toothed, snarling wolf. No list in the world can prepare you for that.

So here we are. And a few days ago, as I sat on the bench, that list suddenly popped into my mind seemingly out of nowhere. I talked to Don about it, and suddenly I realized something. I asked him if he remembered every item on that list -- he didn't. I couldn't recall all of them either. But I said to him that I bet if he brought that list out again and we looked at it now ... I believe every item would be fulfilled. Here, of all places! Not in our last church, not in PA, but here, in the place we never dreamed we would be. Of course, the context would be different in some ways -- one of Don's contributions to the list was his desire to serve as an assistant, not as rector (having "been there, done that" and needing a break from that role). No, he's not technically an "assistant" at our church now -- he's not even a member -- but he is assisting our pastor. He's on the praise team and loves his role. He leads worship occasionally. He preaches from time to time. He pastors individuals. You get the idea.

I think we need to pull that list out again and take another look. We had prayed over that list, and while the church didn't turn out to be what we had hoped for or expected, and while we didn't expect to end up here, I wonder if in such a crazy, mixed-up, unexpected, God-way we did indeed receive an answer to our prayer. The world might have turned upside in the process, but here we are. I need to see that list again. I need to cease looking ahead in some respects, and take a good, long, hard look at what I have right in front of me. I need to pray for contentment, for perhaps after all this is my dream, and the beautiful part of my journey.

Laugh Lines for the Week

The first heat wave is in the process of slamming the Northeast ... or at least, northeastern NJ. It's dang hot today, promising a number in the mid-90's, if not higher, lasting for the next several days. We still haven't put our air conditioners in the windows, although Don has told me repeatedly this morning, "We're going to need them ..." I hate them. I don't really care for air conditioning, but my loathing of extreme heat outranks my dislike of fake cool air, so they do eventually go in. I don't like blocking up a window, eliminating a much-needed light source. I don't like having a blocked up window, too, for those days when we don't need the a/c but want fresh air -- one less window to open for circulation. So far it's OK ...

And of course, Grace is sick. One of those hit-and-run viruses ... fine one minute, 101+ the next. That was Thursday -- unfortunately striking in full force just after a little friend came to visit. He left, Grace melted down, fever struck, and our little friend woke up with a fever the next day. Boy, did I feel horrible about that ... No laughing matter, that's for sure. So now I have a little sick girl begging to go on the Slip-n-Slide with her healthy brother ... how in the world do you keep a sick kid indoors, while the other plays outside? I asked Aidan to wait until Grace takes a nap, so hopefully that solution will work.

But on to the humor of the week, despite sickness and the oncoming days of swelter:

- I was upstairs in my mom's kitchen, chatting by the open door, when Aidan decided to go back downstairs to our home. Suddenly I heard bump-bump-bump-bump, in rapid succession ... the sound of someone falling down stairs. My heart momentarily stopped as my head swung in the direction of the stairwell. There was Aidan at the bottom of the first series of steps, one foot on the bottom step, the other on the landing. His body was in a very strange contorted position, leaning far backward, trying to hold on to the railing and balance himself in a wobbly fashion. Phew -- he didn't fall. "Are you OK?" I asked, knowing this could go either way -- a quick brushing off and moving on, or an all-out whine-fest for over-exaggerated (and most likely non-existent) injuries. He was quiet for a moment and then answered,

"Oh, man! That was SO AWESOME! Totally cool! It was like I was FEET-BOARDING!" He was all grins and giggles, so pleased with his feat. What a fun way to describe it, feet-boarding down the stairs ...

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- With Grace sick, lying listlessly on the couch this morning, Aidan ended up by himself outside. That lasted for about 30 seconds. As soon as I popped in a video for Grace, Aidan appeared.

"I need my sister," he said. "I can't play out there by myself. I'm all alone." Well. That sentiment makes my life a whole lot more cumbersome, but at least they adore each other!

So I took a break from the particular chore I was working on and decided to give Aidan a new change of scenery, a distraction. Don needed a prescription from CVS anyway, so we headed down to our little local strip mall to get the meds, as well as look for a bug/door screen at the hardware store. We stopped in Payless Shoe Store for a minute, to see if they had any fun good-for-your-feet flip-flops (they didn't -- just strips of colorful hard plastic, guaranteed to cramp up your feet) and Aidan asked to browse the kids shoes.

"Look, Mommy!" he exclaimed. "These are like the sneakers we bought for me a long time ago! The ones with the mouth on them!"

Mouth?! What in the world are you talking about? I had no idea. He was insistent, it was indeed a mouth (and how stupid of me not to remember!). But I was clueless.

So Aidan picked up a pair of sneakers to show me what he was talking about. "See? This is the mouth!"

It the "C" of the "Champion" brand logo. A mouth? Maybe. Made sense to him!