It Ain't Just a River in Egypt, Baby

I have been exploring the vast waters of denial lately. 

 It feels good sometimes to pretend things aren't the way they really are,
just for a bit.  

It can take the sting out of reality.

(Hey, shut up, I'm not hurting anyone.)

(Yes, yes you are right.  Therapy might be a good idea.)

This month I couldn't bring myself to clutter up my lovely blank calender.  

For a whole week I left the squares empty.  On purpose.  It was kind of a pain looking in my day planner for our daily to-dos, (um, you see, in the olden days, just after the invention of organized youth sports, people began writing things down in bulky calender books that they lugged around with them everywhere.  You couldn't make a call, play a game, or browse the web with it.  Yep, I still live in 1992)

It just felt so tantalizing - the thought of having a whole month
with nothing we had to do. 

It wasn't true.

Reality has settled in.

My calender now looks like it got in a fight with a dictionary and lost.

It was nice while it lasted.

Best. Moment. Ever.

***

I am working in the studio.  Ethan enters.

"Hey, Mom.  I just realized 

I haven't hugged you yet today."

He bends down over my chair and wraps his arms around my neck, snuggles in and gives me a nice long hug.

  

"You know, it's my new goal 

to hug you every day."

I have noticed that in the past weeks I have been receiving some pretty great hugs.  The boy is bigger than me now, and he delights in slumping onto my shoulders and allowing me to bear his weight.  

Giggles usually ensue. 

But I didn't know it was his goal.  I am so thrilled that he would make hugging me a goal.  I mean, who am I in his teenage world to merit landing on a goal list?  I can count on a very few digits the number of unsolicited hugs I have received from the boy in the past few years until recently.

That

boy

made 

my

millennium.

(Posted with permission from "The Boy I am Not Allowed to Blog About".

Love ya, son.)

Showering Blessings

I'm gonna go out on a limb here
and tell ya' how I really feel.  I know I am going to offend some folks.  Sorry.  Here goes:

I hate baby showers.

They totally freak me out.  I hate the games... honestly, a crossword with the word "cesarean?"  Are we trying to scare the mom-to-be into early labor?  Must we really sniff tiny diapers filled with synthetic poo?  What an insult to perfectly good chocolate.  I get it that I am unorthodox in my birth practices.  I don't want to be shut off to my baby and body, and so the thought of an epidural does not bring to mind "Lifesavers" candy.  I get a braincramp trying to act like every present is cute.  I mean, babies in hot pink leopard print with black netting? Tiny leather mini-skirts???  I want my births to be private and sacred, and I guess I feel the same way about most things relating to the coming of a new little soul.  I don't like to see it being made fun of.  I know, so weird.  You can stop reading now.

Oh, you're still here, waiting for my point?  Well, here it is:  Sweet Kathy, exercise and gardening partner extraordinaire, is having a baby soon (and, by the way, is also STILL doing Jillian Michael's Ripped with me... modified, but still!  There goes your excuse to not exercise!).  I asked if I could host a "shower" for her, all the while knowing I had no intention of throwing a shower, not in the traditional sense, anyway.  She is so soft spoken and gentle.  I couldn't imagine her being put through a big, noisy shower.  So I hosted a blessingway.

A blessingway is created for a mother to honor her unique spirit and her divine roll as a mother.  Though gifts are shared, they are almost an afterthought to the many thoughts and tender feelings showered out upon the mama-to-be.

 

I recruited Krista to help, with her great color sense and her easy way with high-tech decorations.  Each woman arrived with a frozen casserole for Kathy to put away until after the birth, already a wonderful start!  Next we introduced ourselves (though the group was small and we mostly knew each other), by stating our name and the names of our mothers and grandmothers, and then sharing a quick story about one of them that honored the example they set as a mother.  Next we shared how we knew Kathy, our thoughts about what has inspired each of us just from being her friend.  We each brought a note of encouragement or an uplifting quote that was written on a butterfly that is being made into a mobile for the baby.  We told Kathy, each in turn, what we saw in her that makes her a wonderful mother.  We listened as Kathy shared the tender story of her and Bishop's decision to bring this little one into their family, and we gave her a flower foot bath and hand massages.

We then enjoyed Kathy's favorite - Thai food prepared sweetly by my hubby.  It was soooo yummy.  As we visited, we created a baby blanket with our hand prints on it, to remind Kathy on hard days of the wonderful community she has ready to support her.  We ended with a simple piece of string that was wrapped around each of our wrists, connecting us all as mothers and daughters of God in a circle of motherhood.  Then one by one, the link of yarn between each woman was cut and a small strand tied to each wrist to remind Kathy's friends to pray for her in the days ahead.  When they hear that Kathy has had her baby, each woman will clip off her string, offer up a little prayer of gratitude, and stay connected to Kathy so that her babymoon can be as sweet and unfettered as possible.

I am so grateful for the wonderful women that surround me on my own mothering journey, especially Kathy.

Steph and Madelaine

 

Joanna, Mary, Kathy & Krista

Amanda & Steph

*******

(Of course, now I must show off the food!...)

Chicken Satay with Spicy Peanut Sauce

Spicy Coconut, Lime, Cilantro and Chicken Soup

Citrus Coconut Salad

The Thai people are sorely lacking in pastries, so cupcakes filled with chocolate ganache and topped with citrus frosting made their appearance.  I will apologize to Thailand later.

Spicing Up a Marriage

You know how in the movies
a guy pulls over to the side of the road to change a tire and while doing so, he places the lug-nuts into the hubcap for safe keeping?  It is always about this time that a well meaning child with giant clown feet clomps over and flips the hubcap into the air, distributing the lug-nuts into the 4 foot high grass on the side of the freeway.

Now, take this scene, make the lug-nuts into hundreds of tiny beads and the roadside my studio, and make the clown-footed child be Jonah.  Do you have the picture?  OK, now do this SIX TIMES.

Usually, when I am making jewelry, I am doing it as a gift and there is a time-crunch. I mean, I suppose I could plan ahead, be relaxed and take my time, but where's the adventure in that?  So on those gift-making days, when clown-footed children topple thousands of beads across the floor, I scoop them up by the handful and dump them all akimbo into a bowl so that I can keep working.

Everybody say it with me now: "I will sort it out later." (this phrase may also be used with junk mail, laundry, and closets).

I am trying to get ready for my Open Studio Sale.  Mixed beads are not conducive to my creative chi.  While I am getting pottery ready (because sorry, you can't crank out pottery the night before.  People apparently won't like squishy, wet pots), I have asked Guy to awaken the OCD within him and help me get the beads under control.

***THIS IS WHY I LOVE MY HUSBAND***

While I throw pottery (ha ha, you're so funny.  Yes, they would break if I actually threw them, but we don't. It's just the term we use) Guy has spent the past several evenings not just sorting out the bowls of beads that had been mixed like a Three Bean Salad, he is making me a "Beading Station", complete with beads grouped by size, color and type.  He is organizing everything so that I can get to it easily and it will be out of the way of clown feet and sticky fingers.

But wait, there is more...

I came home the other day from Ballet with the girls to see my counters covered with tiny glass bottles.  Guy had hunted out old spice racks from the thrift store in which to organize my beads.

 There is nothing so wonderful as being thought of, but I mean really thought of; remembered, understood, appreciated.  I felt so important to him.  He has plenty to do with his time to not be scrounging around dirty ol' thrift stores or sorting out my messes.  I smiled so hard and said to the rows of little bottles, "Oh, that cute man!"

In the movies, besides rescuing toppled hubcaps, men bring flowers.  But show me a man changing a poop-soup diaper and I'll show you a real hottie.  You can keep your movie man.  In real life - my life, my sweetie brings me old spice jars.

*****

Congrats to my Hubby for the honor he will receive tomorrow night as 

Teacher of the Month 

for all of Sacramento County and Court Classes.

I am so proud of him.

Story Time (or) How to Get Thrown Out of a Thrift Store

Come away with me, boys and girls to a magical place called DI, which is short for Deseret Industries, and also for Downright Insanity, depending.  DI is a thrift store on steroids, quite like a Super Walmart, but cleaner and with less swearing.

Our mission: To get clothing for Ellie.  She was once the tiniest of our children for her particular age, but she has since "outgrown" that illustrious distinction, and lately she has been outgrowing everything else.  The fountain of hand-me-downs that once kept her from going naked has dried up, and so, in a moment of deluded over-self-estimation, I thought, "Hey!  Let's go to DI!  Just Ellie, Tessa, Jonah and me!"

(This, boys and girls, is where the music gets all foreboding, and you shake your head, knowing that only bad things can happen if our characters continue on their chosen path).

We had been in the store about 15 minutes, and had collected a pile of "try-it-ons" that was draped over the mini-shopping cart seat and handle, leaving the cart empty for Jonah.  In a flash - a literal flash of cloth and hangers - I witnessed the shopping cart fly up into the air and completely invert itself, Jonah inside, over the top of Tessa, who had just mounted the front end.  The cart landed on Tessa and thankfully, so did Jonah.  Nothing breaks the fall of a child like another child, that's what I always say.  The chorus of wails that burst from those two small humans was detected by seismographs at NASA three states over.

You know, there is nothing that calls the attention of store employees quite like a good old-fashioned cart flipping.  In a pair of seconds we were surrounded by extremely concerned onlookers, who chose to speak all at once offering assistance and asking what we might need.  Silence, I thought, a few ice packs, a couple of gags and a bag to put over my head, that's what.  Some chocolate might be nice, too.  Thank you.

I sat on the floor with a mostly-startled Jonah and a hurt Tessa both huddled impossibly in my one lap.  Ellie, for once, made herself quite useful picking up the clothing explosion that lay around us like the aftermath of a party at a nude beach.  I probed Tessa's ankle for a possible broken bone, and quickly assessed that she was bruised, embarrassed and otherwise fine.  I had arnica on hand (someday I will write an entire post on arnica.  You will run out and buy many tubes for you and your loved ones, I promise), so we globed some on, picked our selves off the floor and tried to act natural.  Nothing to see here folks.  Move along, move along.  

A moment later a worker materialized beside me and handed my kids stuffed bears.  Used, scary looking stuffed bears.  We all smiled and I assured him the kids were fine.

Now, I know you were thinking that this was my story.  But noooo, boys and girls, because now we get to cram a cranky toddler, a wounded-but-still-lively ballerina, a clothing diva and a half-spent mama into a handicapped fitting room stall for 45 minutes.  You see, Ellie has to bow, shake her booty, kick up her heal and spin in every stinkin' outfit.  Apparently, that is the proper way to try on clothing.  Jonah lasted about 10 minutes before he discovered the 12" gap under the stall door. 

You could almost hear his little brain say "Woo-hoo!  I'm free!"  Every time he got halfway out of the stall, I grabbed his heals and dragged him back under.  It was super fun for him for about 10 pulls, because about 1 in 5 tries he was successful.  By now Tessa had decided that she too, needed to try on clothing, so each time he escaped I would have to open the door to run him down while -not one, but two- girls squealed that I was "showing the world their bums".  Meanwhile Jonah giggled hysterically and dodged in and out of clothing racks like a rabbit with me in hot pursuit.

We did this about 5 times, till I got smart (well, let's say less-stupid) and sat on the floor in front of the door.

(Begin the screaming-toddler soundtrack here.  Continue on a loop, increasing the volume every 4 minutes). 

At a certain point, one of the store's many Oh-so-helpful employees called to me from outside the door, "Is everything alright in there?"

Are you kidding me?  No, everything is not alright in here!  I am at war with Attilla-the-Baby while battling with Miss Ballet who would like for me to buy her 5 skirts-she-doesn't-need, please, and Miss Can-I-skip-ages-10-through-12-and-go-straight-to-obnoxious-teenager?... I have burst a vein in my left eye, I am developing a bruise from a recent unintentional toddler head-butt, and we still have 8 more things to try on... NO...DECIDEDLY NOT ALRIGHT!

I wanted to say all that, but a little voice inside my head (the one that belongs to the mom who discourages me from dolling out pieces of my mind all willy-nilly to telemarketers) tapped the freaky-mom-voice on the shoulder and suggested that maybe we would not like to have Child Protective Services called on us today, especially when we are so close to being done.

"Oh, he's just really, really tired."  I call from my sumo-match on the dirty blue indoor-outdoor carpet in the stall.  Really, he has all the energy in the world, it's me who's really, really tired.  There is no answer.  Good, I think, I don't need another audience.  Was he really thinking he would somehow help?  Did he plan to offer to hold Jonah while I helped with zippers and buttons?  Perhaps he would like to give me a foot massage as well!  Yes, Sir, please.  I'd love your help.  And when you are done here, will you follow me home and clean up my disastrous house while I nap?

We spent $32.  That bought 3 pairs of pants, 2 dresses, 5 tops, a skirt, and a claw toy.  We also staggered for the exit with two very ugly bears and a headache, all free.

As we stepped through the giant sliding glass doors, I heard a sound quite like an enormous sigh.  It could have just been the whoosh of air as the doors slid closed behind us, but I swear it sounded like a store full of people breathing a sigh of relief.

OK, so we didn't get thrown out, but I don't imagine we'll be going back any time soon, either.

Beware the Silence!

When you have a two year old, 

silence is never a good thing unless it is well supervised.

I didn't mean to scream when I saw Jonah with the purple marker.  He lay in quiet repose in his cradle (yes, he is in a cradle on my bedroom floor.  If you have a problem with that, come build me another bedroom), and as I swished into the room (I swish.  Don't judge), I was, for just an instant, caught up in pleasant wonder at a toddler laying so still at 11 AM, and in his bed of all places.  

Then I saw the marker.

He was also swishing, in lazy, happy circles, all over my wall.  The funny thing was how very relaxed the whole thing looked.  He looked like the fat cherubs in those Greek paintings, laying on their backs, holding a cluster of grapes in one hand.  Purple grapes, no doubt.  His leg was even crossed over his bent knee, his foot held aloft and bobbing gently to the rhythm of the marker dance.

Like I said, I didn't mean to scream, but I did.

"Jonah!!!"

He burst into tears from both the startle and the scold.  I felt bad for a moment, but that part of my mommy-brain that cuddles away nightmares and kisses owies was suddenly shoved into a corner by the part that finds crayons in the dryer and bowl-fulls of uneaten cereal in the sink.

I lowered the volume and continued the scold, in very clear baby babble:

"No...color... walls!"

He sobered up, said "Tay", and pitched in to help clean up.

It was a learning experience had by all.

And in case you ever need to get Expo marker off a wall, forget what their website says.  Go straight for the Scrub Free toilet cleaner with bleach and a stiff brush.

 FYI - He is only using soap and water, not the noxious toilet cleaner.
 I am not THAT bad of a mom.

Cooking Lesson: How (not) to Make Lasagne

About two weeks ago my neighbors had a death in the family.  I decided to make them dinner.  They have to eat, I figured.  Food.  It's a little port in the storm.

I got home late from taking the girl's to class, and following my hubby's suggestion to make life easier on myself, I bought a frozen lasagne.

BAD.

BAD BAD BAD.

I wrestled my way through the discount grocery store with the girls and Jonah boy, struggled through the checkout stand, grappled my way through the loading-transporting-and-unloading of the groceries.  Far later than planned, I scurried into the house, arms loaded, to shove the frozen lasagne into the oven.

Oh, wait... preheat.... no forget the preheat.  The lasagne won't know the difference.

Now read the box.  WHAT!?!?!  80 to 100 minutes???  Let's see, it's now 4:50, add 80 minutes, so sometime between 6:10 and 6:30...  "Quick Ellie," I called, " run over and tell them I am going to be about 20 minutes late."  I frosted the cake made earlier, made a salad and garlic bread then headed for the oven at the time dictated by the box.

It's 6:10.  I opened the cover of the lasagne, dismayed at the sight of unmelted cheese.  A finger poke to the center confirmed my frigid fears.  Not only was it not cooked, the lasagne was still frozen in the middle.

I freaked out for about one solid minute, which included a over-exaggerated rant about "trying to be nice always backfiring",  and a scavenge through the cupboards, presumably to look for the nice hot meal made by elves, miraculously hidden there.  Next, I did the "burst" part of bursting into tears, but realizing there was no time, I jammed my gearshift into overdrive and said to Guy, who had come in mid-rant, "OK, let me think!"

I grabbed a casserole dish small enough to fit in the microwave.  I cut the lasagne in half and plopped one side into the small dish and hustled it into the microwave.  This could work.  In about 8 minutes I had a pretty well thawed, and on the outside edges, cooked, lasagne.  But now I had to get at that middle.  Calling Guy, I grabbed a knife and chopped the pasta block down the center.  Using two spatulas I hoisted 'half of the half' into the air, balanced and dripping on two spatulas.  I (kindly but stress-ed-ly) rattled orders to Guy, who tipped the the dish toward the empty gap allowing the remaining lasagne fourth to schplop! into place, bringing it's cold part to the edge of the pan.  A quick plop returned the semi-cooked quarter to its waiting thumb-puzzle place.  Eight more minutes gave me a well "baked" half, and a rerun of the previous 16 minutes with the twin-half gifted me with a belated, but piping hot, Frankenstein lasagne.  A pile of cheese melted by the broiler hid the scars of the patchwork casserole, and the little slops of sauce on the sides of the dish from the slip-n-slide routine gave the meal a convincing homemade-feel.

Forty-five minutes late and accompanied by a hidden humble pie, we trudged our belated offering across the lawns a few doors down; cake, salad, garlic bread ...and Frankenstein, bringing up the rear.  The neighbors were kind and grateful.  I was embarrassed.  But at least it was done.

It wasn't homemade, but if you don't tell, I won't.

Sometimes our very best just happens to also be a sloppy mess.  Frankly, there will always be something we could do better, if each thing we did were done in a vacuum.  But it is not.  We have laundry and driving and diapers and meals and phone calls and friends and pets and yards and tomoato-sauce-splattered kitchen floors that all need our attention.

So your best might just be terrible today, but if it is your best, that's is nothing to be ashamed of.

Just find a way to melt cheese on top.

Catching up

There are about five posts 

backed up on the conveyor belt in my brain 

like chocolates in an I Love Lucy Episode.  

Where to begin?

How about with a few chuckles.

The other day Jonah boy was enjoying a bit of time A'natural. 
He tooted.  Loud.

Suddenly, he spun around to look behind him on the floor,

searching for what he assumed must have 

been deposited there, and asked,

" Ah poot?"

(Where's the poop?)

Two Front Teeth

 Tessa dragged out the Kindergarten Dress, as we have come to call it, this morning to wear to church.  It was a perfect fit, though she is now in first greade, technically speaking.  Now that we homeschool, none of the government-imposed age divisions seem to matter much.  We just learn.  But that is a post for another day.  Probably several.

You may remember the dress (read the post).  

It has many, oh SO many flaws.  

Thankfully we never plan to let Tessa wear it inside out. 

 And I am no photographer, but even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while, and so after about 60 pictures and a little Picasa photo editing (love this program... it's free! http://picasa.google.com/), 

we got our nut.  A few, actually.

I am always, as is everyone who sees them, blown away by Tessa's eyes.  They are so expressive and bright.  In some light, they look almost white with a blue outline.  Her tender expressions are so intense.  But the one thing 

you don't see in these pictures is her teeth.  

Tessa smiles like Adam, who smiles like Guy.  

A sweet grin that holds back a bit of mystery and reveals a touch of their shyness.  Tessa smiled hard enough to show her little clam-shell full of 

pearly whites in only a few pictures.  

Tiny square teeth in two perfect rows.  

As I looked at one toothy picture, not her best per se, I realized that she told me tonight that both of those sweet little front teeth are loose.  She did so (having been sent to bed, of course) after Ellie came out to display yet another molar suddenly lost.  Ellie is at that age when she is shedding teeth

 like a tree drops fruit in a wind storm.  

Yes, tonight it was Ellie, and some night soon, Tessa will bring me the tiny white tooth (that probably will have dangled mercilessly for two weeks) in the palm of her little hand.  We will ohh and ahh and write out note to

 the Tooth Fairy and tuck it away under her pillow.  

And then sometime in the night (if the Tooth Fairy doesn't forget...duh), the tooth will be retrieved and payment left.  I will hold her tooth - even tinier, by comparison, in my hand - and remember the day it first appeared in her pink little mouth.  She didn't even have curls yet, and her eyes had just begun to change from dark blue to that amazing azure color.  She was so serious and stern looking, 

and nearly impossible to coax a smile from.

Not anymore.

 The Imp

Did I really grow that pretty little thing in this belly?

 "Mom!  Can I please stop smiling now?  It hurts!"

I was instructed I could only use the silly pictures 

she did on purpose, not ones like this.

Too Bad!

OK, here are the "on purpose" ones!...

 I dare you to look at this picture and NOT make 

the face she is making.  Go ahead.  Try.

(whimper!)

 Rascal.  

She's gonna have some serious plucking to do
 when that uni-brow comes all the way in, 

but for now she is sa'dang cute I could just roll her up and put her in my pocket.

Next years pictures will feature a new pair of pearlies. 

But we probably won't see those much, either.

First Day (of school) or (the rest of your life)

I get a little fixated 

on beginnings and endings.  I see them so symbolically that I can hardly function within them on a literal level.  I mean, who can enjoy birthday cake when you know this will be the last ever second birthday 

you will ever, ever, ever celebrate with your child!?!?

So my current fixation plays out thusly 

(I know, not a word, at least not in this century):

Last year was my year to "get it all figured out" (homeschool, that is.  I have allotted an entire decade to figure out LIFE.  Wish me luck).  So, this year I should be prefect at it.  OK, not perfect, but totally cool-calm-and-relaxed, man.  

I should have no more doubts, fears or hang-ups.  Smooth sailing.

Ha. 

I have been the one feeling a bit nervous.

We did OK today staying on our routine; exercise, chores, reading, science...

and at some point during the day, somewhere between learning how to fix the electrical system on the doll house (thank you Gatlin, for the lesson and help!) and teaching Ellie how to make chicken noodle soup from scratch, I began to think about "the first day of school".  

For me, as a child, that meant the excitement of new clothes, new shoes, and hair ribbons- those chunky yarn ones.  By the sixth grade it meant a daily stomach ache and throwing up every morning for the first two weeks of school.  At first school was fun, but soon enough it had become terrifying and dreaded.

Even around here it used to mean new backpacks, new lunch boxes, and a picture taken on the front walk as we headed to the car.  Today was different.  Today school meant getting up much earlier than our lazy summer routine, but other than that, there were no jitters, no new clothes, no huge change. 

But by the end of the day something had changed for me.  My neighbor was showing me, with disgust, the assignment her 6th grader had been given.  Her son stated "They are totally giving me college work!" with a head shake and an eye roll.  Mom mentioned she might complain, holding it out to me for my commiseration

 (that IS a real word.  Look it up.).

I read the work.  It was pretty detailed reading, I will admit.  But what I really thought inside my head was, "Well, yes it's challenging.  Isn't it supposed to be?",  realizing that I wouldn't mind reading that text to all three of my home-educated kiddos.  The difference being, we would read it, discuss it, look up words we didn't know, and maybe even go find some follow up information online to learn more.  We would do it together, and each kid would work at their own level of capability.  There would be no test, because I would be able to tell if they understood.  It would never have occurred to me that it might be too difficult, because we work on difficult lessons all the time, and I know that if I take care to explain, even little Tessa gets a lot of the concepts.  

And if she doesn't, I am so OK with that.  

She has the rest of her life to learn.

I began to feel sorry for kids who are isolated in public school,

 expected to do so much learning alone.

This evening as I coached Ellie through making her first pot of homemade chicken noodle soup for her daddy who lay sick in bed, our brains were wrapped up in the science of it.  Interesting how the carrots took a little longer to soften than the potatoes, how the pasta swelled, the way the broth boiled, the movement of the steam.  We talked about our use of leftover chicken with new ingredients, and how that can be done with a lot of things, and not just with cooking.  We talked about time management, how each item is added in a certain order, and how we can take advantage of our waiting time by tidying up the kitchen.  

By the time dinner was served, I had:

- a healthy meal for my sick honey

- several grateful and complimentary soup-lovers around the table

- fewer left-overs in my fridge

- an opportunity to teach my daughter cooking and science 

and planning and re-purposing

and 

- a confident and proud 9 year old

who can now make soup

(and hook lights up to a circuit!)

(I wonder which skill she will use more in her life?)

It was a good first day, 

if you can even call it that.

Lost

 Jonah disappeared.

 Heidi and her family had come for a visit.  The kids flocked outside as Dad was taking Adam to soccer.    Jonah had followed.  I noticed he was not with the kids as they flowed back into the house, and I began looking for him; in the house, in the yard...house...yard.  No where.

Front yard.

No.

Maybe down the sidewalk.

Not in either direction.

I ran passed the neighbor's house and saw that not only was the garage door open,

so was the door inside the garage...

the one that leads 

- to the pool.

I ran hard.

I looked into the bottom of the pool.

I suddenly came into my body and realized 

I was looking for my toddler at the bottom of a pool.

I freaked on the inside as I ran harder.

My bare feet tore on the sidewalk as I blasted from yard to yard,
 up and down the street,

joined by neighbors, friends, children, and even friend Jeff
from church who was driving by.

I ran back into the house and combed every room,

then again the back yard.

He had to be here.  The alternative was becoming unthinkable.

I prayed

"Lord, please, where is he?!"

 I saw the broken fence.

Maybe he was in the next yard over.

No.

But maybe (I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before) inside their house?

Maybe he had walked in and they didn't know.

I sent Heidi running to ask, while I headed for the phone to call 911.

"He's here!!!!"

a voice called.

I collapsed onto the brick wall in sobs.

It was learned later that Jonah had been invited in to play with little Max, 

and it was thought Ellie had seen him go in, but she didn't know, 

and had headed off to soccer with Adam and Dad.

I held him in my arms and kissed him.  

To him, he was never missing.

To me, he was gone forever.

Thank you, everyone, for looking for Jonah.

I'm still shaking and it's been two days.

The River Goes By

 

"Me" - Jonah says when he sees this picture.

"It's the perfect time of day

to throw all your cares away.

Put the sprinkler on the lawn,

and run through with my gym shorts on.

Take a drink right from the hose,

and change into some drier clothes.

Climb the stairs up to my room

and sleep away the afternoon."

-Bare Naked Ladies 

(for my slightly more "mature" readers 

(Hi Aunt June and Sandy!), 

that's a band from the 90's)

(song here)

***

The lyrics from this song 

 have been playing in my mind lately like a soundtrack to my days.  

They seem to epitomize summer.  

Long sticky days, breezy nights with their hot breath 

that starts to cool as the last glow fades from the sky.  

Rainbows of fruit that I can't keep stocked in the bowl on my table, 

and the sticky little fingers and chins of those who devour them.  

Wet swimsuits on the garage floor (though I scold, of course), 

and dirty, bare feet.  

Late mornings and late evenings, and long visits from friends.  

Sprinklers and hoses and grass clippings.  

Firelight and candle light and barbeque plumes.

Though most of the schools in California have made the freaky leap to school starting as soon as the beginning of August, Ethan's school starts (ahhhh!) the day after Labor day (Thank you, whoever you are, that knows that no child can learn anything before the tomatoes are even coming ripe on the vine!).  And because we homeschool,  

AND BECAUSE I CAN,

 I am starting the littler kids back to school the same day.  

But strangely, as the summer days blur into each other, and the windows darken sooner and sooner at the end of each day, the feeling of school is coming upon is.  The other morning, as I read the last few chapters of Jane Eyre (even though dishes and laundry sat competing with the gathering drifts of dust), I became aware of a quiet that had settled over the house.  Jonah played a softly as the girls sat together pouring over workbooks I had brought home.  Adam hung spellbound over his new-found novel.

It felt like we were in school.

And for the first time in my life,
- in my life as a student and as the mother of students-

I felt excited about school starting.

The summer has passed by us like a lazy river that has now picked up speed. 

Ours has been a summer of play and some work,
and of late nights outdoors by the fire.

I can't think of a Summer in years that I have enjoyed more.

And yet I don't think I'll mind so much 

to see it go.

Most decidedly; The Chicken

 "Which came first, Tessa, 

 'the chicken or the egg'?"  I asked

as we stood holding our latest discovery.  

A few days ago I glanced into the chicken coup and, to my utter delight, there, amongst the feathers, lay three tiny eggs.  They were less than two inches long and seemed almost a joke, like a can of fake snakes or a whoopie cushion.

"The egg."  she stated firmly.  "Remember?  

We got the chickens from Kathy, and Kathy got them from eggs."

"And where did those eggs come from?"  I puzzled.

"Oh..." she wavered , her confidence slackening.

"Well, the chicken, I guess.  I always thought God just, *Plink!*,

 put the chicken here with Adam and Eve."

It's an interesting quandary.

I don't mind that I don't know the details of the eternities.  

There are five miracles that stomp the floors of this house daily.  

It is enough to me that they are here.

Yesterday someone said, "I don't need to know exactly how electricity makes my lights work, 

but I have faith that when I flip the switch, the lights will turn on."

There have been some other miracles around here of late.  

One of my sons, one who I am not allowed to blog about, 

came up behind me the other night, pecked me on my cheek and said,

"G'night  Mom.  Love you."

It was the first time in about 6 years.  

I don't need to understand the mysteries of God

to enjoy them.

Welcome, Little One

 I am pleased to present

dear baby 

Anchor Rowan Leach

Born to super mom Robin and her side kick Nathan (holy role reversal, Batman!)

on August 14th.

Perfect from head to ten little toes.

I have held him THREE times.  You are jealous, I know.  Too bad.

He is so itty bitty (down to 7 pounds... her last baby was 10lbs 6oz)

and he makes those amazing squeaky baby sounds
that would make Scrooge smile.

He has so much hair he will be able to dress as Elvis for Halloween.

I am so proud of my friend, Robin.  

It is her story, so I won't tell it for her, but I will say that it was such a hard labor 

with many challenging moments (and one challenging nurse!),

but Robin managed to have a natural, un-medicated birth
even though she was on Pitocin, 

which, in case you didn't know, is like labor-on-steroids.  

She was brave and so strong and she listened to her body so well, she knew right when baby was about to be born even though it seemed to the rest of us like she had several more hours to go.  I feel so blessed that she asked me to come and help her.  When I got up that morning, I never imagined that my day would turn out like it did, but what an amazing day it was!

Mama and baby are doing BEAUTIFULLY, 

in every sense of the word.

WHAT?!?!?

 You postponed my birthday!?!?!

ARE YOU CRAZY!?!?!

You wanna see why they call it 

Terrible Twos, lady?  

Huh?  Do ya?!?!?

Yes, Fems and Gentry, that is a giant bread knife in my toddler's hands.  

Look no further.  I'm the mother of the year.

Actually, he was helping me with his birthday cake by chopping the trimmings into unrecognizable confectionery crumble.  He was well supervised, and I promise that after the photo was taken I did swap his machete out for non-amputating cutlery.
You can take CPS off your speed-dial now.

***

We ended up postponing the b-day-ing till today, two days late.  

There was no way that we were going to pull it off yesterday, what with a dropping-off of teens to the river, a dinner made for a grieving friend, present shopping, cake baking, and the regular rumblings of daily duty.

So today, after exercise, building a pond with Kathy, and babysitting, I hit the road. 

 The fondant and food coloring road. 

 I built the cake yesterday, but all the sugar-bling went on today.

About 3/4ths of the way through the seventeenth shrub,
I began to question my own sanity.

Why do I work so hard on these cakes for the kids?

I started to wonder if my efforts would be better spent... um... well, see, that's the problem.  I could tell myself that maybe I should do something else more lasting and more important, but it seems that nothing in my life is... not lasting at least.  

Is there such a thing a temporary and important?

I think of the things that I spend most of my time doing;

laundry

dishes

cooking

cleaning

shaving

(ok, so that doesn't take all that much time, but honestly, 

is there anything more temporary than a well shaved pair of legs?)

- all things that will be undone inside of a day, or more often, an hour.

What, in these rice-paper days, that melt away one after the other, 

can I do that will matter?

***

At the end of the night, the cake demolished, wrapping paper shreds adorning the floor, 

I turned to face the catastrophe that was my kitchen.  

I wanted to leave it.  I dared not.  

Tomorrow is another full day, and the ants in my neighborhood send scouts to my kitchen nightly.  

One misplaced cheerio and it's a regular

block party in there.

So, I reluctantly began.  Before I knew it, tears were falling into the dishwater.  

Am I the only mom that cries into my sink-o-dirty-dishes?

I was just so tired, and that sad little song from Toy Story Two, where the girl abandons her cherished doll because she grew up, looped in my head like a ridiculous soundtrack to the end of my day.

My baby is growing up, 

my children are changing but I don't even see it until 

I look at a photo from not-so-very long ago,

and I hate that I spend so much of their lives

washing dirty underwear and scraping congealed mac-n-cheese 

out of tired old pots.

I guess I make their cakes because, even though all of my work will be undone in one fell swoop of the only good knife in the house, they will always know I did it for them.  All of the dishes and the food and the laundry is for them too,
but they will never see it.

What is the old saying?

Let them eat cake.

Happy Birthday Two You

Jonah 5 days old

Jonah Boy turned two today.

I have spent some quiet time remembering his birth, 

the days and months before, and the several difficult years before that.  

I am so blessed.

I still nuzzle my nose into his hair while he sleeps, 

though there is so much more than there was before, and whisper,

"I'm so glad that you are here."

This morning the phone rang and one of my dearest friends 

asked me to come help her at her birth.  It was a mournful choice to make:

do I stay home to celebrate Jonah's birthday

or do I go to help another mother with her birth-day?

I asked my kids.

I called my husband.

It was collectively decided that Jonah had no idea it was his birthday, 

or what that even means exactly, so it would be reasonable to postpone the cake

 (that still needs to be decorated) and presents

so that I could go and help her.

I cried a little on the way there, but I knew I had made the right choice.

Any other year I couldn't have done it.  By next year he will know what "birthday" means.

Any other child and I couldn't have done it... they would have been too disappointed.

And how better to show my gratitude at the blessing of having this precious boy in our family,

 than to go and help another mama to welcome her own cherished boy?

So I'm going to go nuzzle him right now,

and we'll have cake tomorrow.