Gone Fishing

I have been fishing.

Fishing things out of the trash.

And out of a 14 month old's mouth.

And out of the toilet.

Awesome.

And super gross.

We are at a new and delightful phase, it's called,

"Steal mom's glasses then see how fast I can run". 

It is made all the more precious by the

 "Now I can open the screen door to go visit the neighbors" stage (terrifying!). 

More award winners include the "Konk the dog with jumbo legos",

the "Sit on sister's head when I get the chance"

 and my all-time fave,

the "Remove my poopie diaper and make a fast get-away".

So.  Awesome.

(Should I take it personally that the boy threw the mom doll into the john?)

Pilgrimage

October may be my favorite month of the year.  It brings cool evenings, red and gold leaves, and our annual pilgrimage to Sonoma County for Artrails.

We have been making this sojourn since Ethan was toddling, and as passing years brought more kidlets to our fam, we schlepped them all, each year, to see art.  Some artists loved it that we bring our spring-offs, but some were visibly horror stricken.  I'd call out "Art hands!" and the youngins would plunge busy hands into pockets or fold their arms snugly across their chests.  Still, it was getting a little hard to enjoy the art, what with all of the car squabbles and "she's-touching-me!"s.  So this year we farmed the littler pumpkins out and took just Ethan -because he likes art- and Jonah -because he likes breast milk.

It was a feast for the soul, as always. 

And we were able to visit with artists we have come to call friends,

 some who have known us since Ethan was Jonah's age.  

Which brings me to Ethan.

(Pause and sigh with me.)

We got to the studio of a wood turner who immediately took Ethan under his wing, flipped the switch on the lathe, and handed Ethan a sharp tool, earning him the status of Ethan's new best friend.  Ethan worked for over 20 minutes, only stopping when we dragged him away, but not before the artist told us about free wood turning lessons given by a master wood turner in our area.  I was so excited for Ethan.

On the way back to the van, I had the following conversation with him:

"So, how cool was that?"

"That was AWESOME!"

"Well, what do you think about taking those free lessons in Sac?  You should totally do it!"

"Nah."

"What?  Why?  I though you loved it."

"I did, but I just don't want lessons."

"But why?"

"I don't want someone telling me what to do."

Of course he doesn't.  He's Ethan.

And now I understand more about the boy.  Scratch that; the young man.  He is like his papa.  He must figure things out on his own, even if it makes his life hard and complicated and miserable sometimes.  When Guy was a kid he refused to let his mom teach him the piano.  Instead, he wrestled with the music all alone, and if she tried to help, he would stand up and walk away.  I, on the other hand will pick the brains of anyone who will hold still (Nice image, huh?).  If I see someone doing something that I want to learn, I fearlessly ask them to teach me.  I have learned how to do lawn mower repair, sculpture mold-making, rose bush pruning, and soon we're learning to make cheese, all because I have cat-like curiosity and a frighteningly low level of stranger-danger.  Despite our differences, there is no conflict between Guy and I because he's pretty much done learning stuff, old dog and all, and because I have learned not to make suggestions anymore while he is driving.

So, note to self: Ethan must be his own teacher. 

Now that I know it, I just have to remember it.

I learned something about me on this trip, too.  As we wandered the studios, we saw vast, organized spaces and tiny nooks, some sparse, some not.  But the one that really got my creative juices flowing was a teeny-tiny studio in the back of an old building.  The ceiling was low, and natural light poured in through the windows from a quiet alleyway.  The artist was humble and kind and cheerful.  But what I loved most were her storage shelves.  They were tightly packed, roughly organized, and dimly lit.  I felt like I was in an Indiana Jones movie, surrounded by dusty relics and rusty treasures.

It was purely inspiring.  But  probably only to me. 

 I have been in a perpetual fight with the clutter in my studio, thinking that it "should" be different; tidier, more organized, prettier somehow.  Buy guess what?  I found out that I am not inspired in a space like that. 

It turns out that the space I have may just be the perfect one for me.

So, two points for me.

I learned that:

 I shouldn't try to teach anything to Ethan

and

that a crowded and cluttered studio is where I find my muse.

Well, that just cleared my calendar. 

I wonder what I will do with my Tuesday?

Today

Today I....

Did level three.  With heavier weights.  Take that, Jillian Michaels.

Acted as a human earth-mover for 2 hours at Kathy's.  Next week it's my yard's turn.

Delivered 4 jars of home-canned apple pie filling made yesterday, along with Spanish notes from yesterday's Spanish Lunch.  10 kids, Spanish and 20 lbs of apples, all at my house.  I deserve the Manzana Award (that's apple, for you uni-linguals in the crowd).

Read two chapters of Watership Down to Addy.  Heavenly snuggles.  The girls have lost interest.  Just when it was getting good.

Did school with the kids.  It's a work in progress, when there is any.

Washed 2 loads.

Changed 3 poopie diapers in as many hours.  Well, one was more of a rescue than a change, as the diaper was already off and a little voice announcing "Uck!" called my attention to the diaper-digger. 

Baths for baby: 2.  Diaper total as of 8PM: 7.

Kept my cool on the outside while I secretly burst a vein in my head dealing with Ethan's constant crap.

Did a load of dishes.  Only got through half of the apple-canning dishes.  The night is still young.

Swept.

Bagged up fridge magnets.  I am done using them as ice skates on the kitchen floor. 

Found the chess pieces stuffed into a sculpture.  Packed them up, too.

Rescued one tomato and one apple moments too late from Mr. Uck.

Dealt with plumbing on the rental I manage.  Stupid plumbing.

Cooked apples that didn't survive the canning process. 

Sorted, swept, and reorganized the studio.  10% done.

Sat on the floor in said studio and cried for about 4 minutes.  Received pep-talk from Guy for 15 more.  Got back to work.

Shared: 1 grilled cheese, 1 rice stick, 1 banana, 1 helping of cinnamon apples and most of my rice and beans with the bottomless-boy (not all at once!).

Sat on the floor and played a rousing game of peek-a-boo...

8:07 PM - Self-extrapolated poopie diaper #4, bath #3.  Gotta go.

*

*

Post Edit: 9:15 PM - Make that 5 poopie diapers.

Reminders

I was on call for almost two weeks, which is pretty average.  The difference this time was that the expectant couple who hired me as their doula did so when they were already three days past their due date.

At the 42 week mark, tests were run, concerns were raised, and the decision was made to set the ball in motion, and by ball, I mean baby.  I don't usually head off to provide labor support until there is actually some sort of labor happening -a watched mamapot never contracts- but when a mama is 4 centimeters dilated before she even goes into labor, there is always the off chance that baby will fly out in an hour or two.  Besides, a pitocin induction,-strapped to monitors and IVs and stuck in a miserable bed -could be used to extract information from foreign spies.  Successfully.  So I went.

I helped with this birth even though I still have a nursling.  Guy brought Jonah to the hospital so that I could feed him at about the 9 hour mark, but baby wouldn't be born for another 11 hours.  

Sometime in between, I looked up at the dry erase board at the date.  

October 7th.   

 Ten years to the day since my first miscarriage.  I looked back over to the laboring mama and felt myself smiling.  Funny how life just keeps going.  I thought about the pain that date used to hold for me, but now as I watched this first-time mother-about-to-be as she welcomed the pains that would bring her baby to her arms, I felt only gratitude - that I could be there to help her, that I have had three healthy kidlets 

since my October 7th, and that, 

all in all, 

life is good.

The baby came the next day.  I was tired, but couldn't, absolutely could not, complain.  I got to witness a life begin.  I was blessed to see a family come into being.  I had the opportunity to lend my hands to help.  How often in a day do you get to say that?  I went home later that day, took a little nap, and then dove right back into my life.  

Well, maybe I stumbled groggily, but happily, nonetheless.

I love being a mom.  I love my adorable husband.  Sadly, I need reminders, like seeing a sweet, shiny little family with that new baby smell, to help me look past boogers wiped on walls and uneaten sack lunches shoved into the backs of closets (I know, nice, huh?).  But it is also good to remember those days that we thought we would never be able to live through - the ones so full of anguish and heartache that next week and next month seemed insurmountable - just to realize that life goes on. 

Joy returns,

kids fight,

 babies are born,

and boogers

get wiped on walls.   

See Above

Mom at age 28, from a photo I found this week in a box.

I've been lookin'
at my neck lately. 

Blame late night infomercials with 50 year old former super-models that look all hot and perky. I seem to have lost my perk somewhere (maybe with my cell phone?).  My neck is getting all... gross.  Loose, and... crinkly.  Oh, and when I suck in my belly (besides that it pretty much just laughs at me and says "Whatever, lady.") it gets all puckery.  My eye lids no longer retract when I gently brush them with makeup.  They just stay there, all crookedy-weird until I push them back into place with my finger.  When I look down, besides the fact that I am seeing that my once lovely cleavage (and trust me folks, it was Streisand in Funny-Girl lovely) has begun forking at the top and resembles an aerial view of the Sacramento River delta, now I can also actually feel my double chin as it rides up.  Sometimes when I blink, one of my eye lids just skips the whole folding-up thing and just droops onto my eyelashes.  It's night of the living dead over here, ladies, and that's at 8AM.  Add a hump to my back and I'm ready for Halloween.

When did this all happen?  I mean, duh, I know I'm not 20.  Or 30.  Or 40... (ouch.  That one hurt.).  I'm just saying, when the heck did I grow up?  I look at Ethan and I remember 14 like it was September (which I am lucky to remember at all.  Let's just stick with the body though, the memory thing is a whole other post).  It happened one insidious little wrinkle at a time, each wrinkle with a corresponding moment.  And the moments are popping up more often than the weird hairs that are showing up in the general lady-beard area:

While cleaning out the fridge at 6PM on Saturday night, I was anxious to finish so that I could get in one more load of laundry.

My favorite songs, the ones that really rocked my Kazbah, are now being used in mop commercials.

Talk Radio.  I mean, seriously, when did I start caring about my retirement?

I found myself in a conversation about aches and pains, and dude, I was winning.

I made a file for coupons.  Oh, honey, it gets worse.  I am getting excited about shopping sales with coupons. 

I seriously considered buying some Spanx.  And I thought nothing could be worse than my skirted one-piece bathing suit.

I complained that the skirt on my one-piece isn't quite long enough.

I no longer shave above the knees (see above).

I got a zit in a wrinkle.  Seriously? 

My nursing bra is currently the sexiest bra I own.  Oh, well, wait, there is my jogging bra; nothing says sexy like a uni-boob.  I better get back to ya' with this one.

I could have been my doctor's babysitter.  That one just sucks.

I got excited about the fact that my gray hair is clearly the "silver" kind, not that dull yellowish stuff.  I wonder what pastel shade I will choose?

I have a garage full of total crap.  That doesn't happen over night, people.

I could have ice cream right now, but I won't, even though I want some.  That part of being a grown-up is just lame.

Even though I work out every day, I still look 3 months pregnant.  Ok, four.  Five... oh, shut up.

I don't know any singer's names on the radio. 

I kinda don't care (see above).

My son accused me of listening to froofey music on the radio and I couldn't argue with him because (you know the drill, see above).

The newlywed couple at church seriously looks like they are both twelve. 

I am planning my Saturdays around things like garage sales, soccer games and yard work.

I don't like roller-coasters anymore.  And frankly, the whole wait-in-line-two-hours for a ride just ain't worth it, what with my aches and pains (see abov... never mind).

I used to want to lose weight so that I would look like I used to.  Now I am afraid that if I do, I will just look like the saggy-baggy elephant.  Oh, and it is no longer about looking hot, it's about not embarrassing my kids. 

***

Not long ago I wiped the makeup smudges from under my eyes and Ethan leaned in real close and stared at me from about an inch away.

"You.  Are.  OOOOOOLD."  He said flatly.

A week or so later he let me know that
the pores on my face are "becoming giant holes."

"Look,"  I said, "It's all down hill from here, kid.  You better get used to it, cause this is as good as I'm ever gonna look again.  *So DEAL*."

Sound, and rather depressing advice. 

I know... I hear you.

*see above*.

With Age Comes Wisdom

"Grils use hairspray

and boys use jello

 to get their hair nice and pretty."

"You know what?  Once I was four I went into the baffroom to go potty

and I shut and locked the door and then I was playing wiff hairspray."

"So you lied?"

"Yes, I was four."

Someone to Watch Over Him

Jonah has a shadow.  A four foot, 10 inch shadow.  Pretty much since Jonah-boy started stomping around on those ham-hocks of his, Addy has been close at his heals.  He is actually a lot like a mama with that whole crazy radar that makes their ears prickle as soon as baby gets near a flight of stairs.  Jonah finds something delightfully chokable, and Adam is there making him spit it out.  Jonah wanders more than ten feet in any direction in a public setting, there is Adam, shepherding him back to safety.  He can hear Jonah cry even before I do after nap time.  It's a gift.  And a curse. 

Poor Adam has gotten so concerned about Jonah's safety that he is a little paralyzed by it. 

"Are you watching Jonah, Mom?" he asks. 

"Uh, yeah, it's kinda my job." I say

"I'm just worried..." he says.  Worried that Jonah will fall and get really hurt. 

Worried that he will choke, bonk, scrape... 

It's sweet and a little worrisome in and of itself.  I don't like seeing Adam so fretful.  But I am grateful that Jonah has someone to watch over him the way Adam does.  I am sure it will take on many forms as the years go by.  I picture Adam teaching Jonah how to kick a soccer ball, rescuing him from a tree, and telling him knock-knock jokes.  Oh, I can't wait!  There is nothing better than the knock-knock jokes of a three year old. 

Yup, Adam is my wing man.

It sure makes my job easier, because let me tell you, it is such a chore looking after this yummy, chubby, squishy-soft, hugs-you-back-baby.  I am completely put out by it.  Really.  It is just entirely too exhausting gobbling on him day in and day out.  My pucker is all sore from kissing him under his double chin, my cheeks are fatigued from smiling all the time, and then there is all the peek-a-boo and tickling.  It's just too much.

Honestly, I'm suffering.

Holding My Breath

Jonah has had a few seizures since we got back from our trip, most being what I call "Blip Seizures" because they really only last a moment, just long enough for his eyes to roll up into his head and his body to go stiff for one second, and then it is over.

Tonight was a little different.  Tonight Ethan accidentally bonked Jonah-boy's head on the door jam and it set him off pretty badly.  He bellowed and then was silent, but steadily turning blue.  It went on and on, mouth open wide, face becoming a deeper and deeper blue.  I always wait for the breath that will make it all stop and bring back the wailing, which is somehow blissful once it starts back up.  When his eyes roll back, I know that the ride has begun.  "Here it goes" I find myself saying.  This time his eyes rolled back for several seconds, and though he began to make crying sounds, he also began seizing.  His arm shot out from his side and his little body tensed and jerked in my arms.  The whole thing probably only lasted 10 seconds before he went completely limp, but he was pale and still wasn't breathing.  I blew in his face and he took a small breath, but remained motionless, limp and blanched.  Three times I blew on him to get him to breathe, and finally he roused and began to cry.

I am finding that each time it happens, I am holding my breath,

waiting for him to come back. 

I hate it.

(A quick nap on the stairs)

Sweet Little Prayers

12 AM: Tessa wanders out of her

room for the 4th time, sick to her tummy, feeling like she may give us

a dramatic re-enactment of dinner-in-reverse. 

Also, she had the sniffles.

*

"Baby, what are you doing?"

"I need to find a quiet place to say a sweet little prayer so to make me

not be anymore sick, but you keep making all that noise."

(I wish I can hear her words, but from the hall I can only hear her tiny voice

murmuring as she kneels beside her bed negotiating

with the Great Almighty for her health).

*

12:15 AM: Tessa is on the toilet crying.

"I am just not ready!"

"For what, baby?"

"I think I am just not ready to be very sick."

*

12:17 AM: She does the dry-heave fake-out, 

her expression, one of shock that her body has betrayed her.

"My heart is like a drum, like someone is beating it hard."

*

12:30 AM, after a battle over taking some medicine

("But what if it taste-is nasty?"),  she compromises and allows me to give her some homeopathic remedies.  Her legs have fallen asleep

from being on the pot so long.

"Do you feel better?"

"Well, I don't feel great-great, because it feels like

it's getting my foot squished because it's asleep."

*

At least something is getting some sleep around here.

No Way to Treat a Friend

My kids get a cute church

magazine called The Friend. 

This is what happens when you leave your Friend

in the bathroom with Jonah.

At this very moment, he has my electric toothbrush in his mouth. 

Yum.  Can't wait to use it again.

Yesterday, he pulled a poopy diaper off the counter

and spilled it's grass-green, marble-like contents on the floor.

Last night while I was silk painting, he grabbed my brush-rinsing cup

by the handle and dispersed it's colorful contents on the floor.

And earlier this week I walked into the kitchen to find him standing

 on the kitchen table like he was up on stage, joyously devouring a pear.

Babies rock.

A Thousand Words

It hardly seems possible

that September is more than half gone.  There is a funny nip in the air at night, and more and more leaves each day on the patio from the mulberry trees.  The kids keep asking me to take them swimming, and even though the 10-day forecast calls for high nineties, I know I had better do it soon.  It feels like Halloween will soon be ringing my doorbell and saying "trick-or-treat!"

And it seems it can't be a whole year since the last time Francine was here, but it was.  She came to see Jonah-boy be born, to rub my back and smile at me and tell me how strong I was.  Now he is tumbling along on fat, dirty feet and jabbering like a blue jay.  It has indeed been too, too long.

Francine arrived last weekend with baskets full of goodies - organic farmer's market finds; white peaches and nectarines, raw pasta sauce from her own garden (can I say "wow!"???), fresh brick-oven bread and garlic butter, and astonishingly, gluten-free ravioli, though she had no idea about Tessa's new diet.  She even brought dessert - a gorgeous hand-made blackberry pie, "The lady at the farmers market said she picked the berries just yesterday.  Her recipe won the gold ribbon at the fair."  Francine told us. 

It was a gold ribbon meal all the way around.

The whole evening had an air about it, a sort of "just right" feeling, like comfy old shoes.  But there were times, many of them, when things sort of fell apart, as old shoes do.  The kids fought, Ethan dodged work - and my camera, the dog was under-foot and the kid's manners were often under-par.  I have learned not to feel embarrassed around Francine - she truly accepts us with all of our familial flaws.  And let me tell you, we were exceptionally flawed on this particular night.

As I looked at the pictures from that evening, in my mind I could see all of those moments in between them.  The fuss Tessa made when I tried to take "just one more" picture,  Ethan filling his mouth with water and spitting it in a grand spray all over his brother,  the setting sun right in our eyes, the flies and mosquitoes, my fretting over messes being made and time marching too swiftly. 

I think sometimes as I sit down late at night, like now, to write about our life and our experiences, I find myself doing a lot of editing.  Maybe I am trying not to complain.  Maybe I want to remember to have gratitude for my blessings.  Maybe I don't want to "air my dirty laundry" too much, as my dad would say.  I cut out the moments in between, the squabbles and the burned food, the barking at the kids (mine, not the dog's), the times I sit down on the floor and cry because it all seems so overwhelming.  And I think, that's not really very fair.  I would like my life to be like it is in the pictures, and it is... and it's all of the other things, too. 

I freely confess at this very moment, that I have bellowed the phrase "I AM NOT THE MAID!!!" not once, but twice this week.  I have changed 3-6 diarrhea diapers a day for four days.  I have eaten half of a container of chocolate frosting all by myself.  I don't know where my cell phone is, again.  And there are - count 'em- SIX laundry baskets sitting in front of me on the floor right now.  I worry about my kids.  I hate being broke.  I dread that my skin is changing, that parts of me are drooping, and that if I stop dyeing my hair I will look like the bride of Frankenstein.  My garage looks like a box store threw up in it, and was then hit by a cyclone of bikes, recycling and baby clothes in trash bags.

Oh, yeah, and I have three overdue library books.

I don't suppose I have a moral here.  If I were Maya Angelou I would find a poem in it all.  But I am just a regular mom, trying to live the gospel, trying to keep a clean house and to raise good honest people to send out into the world.  I am trying to overcome my short temper, my big mouth and my sweet tooth. 

I am flawed, but I try to hide it. 

I guess that's why I am the one who takes all the pictures.

It is easier (to hide) on this side of the camera.

Gardenias from Francine; the first of many gifts.

After many tries, I finally get a genuine smile from Ellie.

A feast, garnished with edible flowers by Tessa-loo.

Is it my imagination...

...or is everyone looking at me funny?

See the flower in her hair?  That means Tessa was here.

That's quite a scrumptious dish.  The pie looks good too.

I can see Francine's love for my children

 reflecting back at her in their faces.

You can keep your durn'ol genetic relatives...

 We have adopted a grandma that jumps

on the trampoline with our kids!

Early Autumn

A crispness has come to the morning air, and though fall hasn't officially arrived, Autumn has, in all her splendor.  Only 11 months ago my dear friend Ruth said goodbye to her stillborn babe, little Rhys, who passed away at full term while she was in labor with him.  In the time since, we have all been strengthened and awed by her grace as she tenderly grieved.  Shortly after Rhys left this world, another little being came to occupy that same womb, and just two weeks ago Autumn Faith was born.  She came earlier than planned, surprising us all, but none more than her mama.  She was a perfect 6 pounds 7 ounces.  I got to hold her, and I felt like she might just slip right through the crack between my arm and my chest.  When my children were that size, they were 7 month fetuses!  Oh, she is so itty bitty and sweet.

Ruth has been so amazing and brave through out all of this.  It was not an easy pregnancy as she learned to live with the loss of her baby boy, then learned she would soon have a baby girl.  She has been an example of patience and true faith.  And now her waiting is over, her little girl is here safe and sound, and perhaps now, there is some portion of her heart that can rest.

A new mother's heart is tender.  It is an open wound, a bubbling spring, a nest.  How much more so is true for Ruth, who holds such a precious harvest in her hungry arms.

Early Autumn.  Early Thanksgiving.

Just minutes old.  Welcome to the world, little one. 

It just became a much better place! 

 

Oh, my gosh, don't you just want to gobble her up?  As my mother used to say:

"Please pass the baby!"

Can you say Glu-ten?

God Job!

Now, can you say

Glu-ten free?

So about a month before our big trip, Tessa began complaining of a hurting tummy. 

The complaints went from weekly,

 to daily,

to many times a day,

to all darn day.

The doctor ran tests.  She was a trouper, and never even flinched when they took five vials, or as she tells anyone who will listen, "five bottles!" of blood.  Double stickers for the brave one.  They said they have grown men who can't do what she did.  But when all the tests came back on blood work and other *a-hem* bodily excretions, all were:

negative.

Good, I guess.  And not.  Then what is hurting my little girl?, I needed to ask.

"Maybe it's Irritable Bowel Syndrome" says our pediatrician, who, up till then I had liked.  "Go look it up on the Internet and you will find all kinds of information and helpful hints."

You are kidding me, right?  How many times have I been scolded by thems wiff high-falutin' medical degrees for my looking online for answers.

Besides that, my Mom-dar (that's Mommy Radar, of course) went off right away.

It ain't IBS.  I hate to say it, but...

I knew it in my gut.

Then, via answer-to-prayer mail,

an inspiration came;

What if it's gluten?

Easy enough to check for.  We took her off gluten.

Three days and not-one-complaint later, I asked her how her tummy was doing.

"Fine, ah'cept for when you gave me that cookie."

Oh, yeah.  I forgot and gave her a cookie.  Good job, Mom.

It's been almost 3 weeks now, and (almost) no complaints.

Plus, she loves it that she gets special food just for her.

We put it in her "Tessa Cupboard".

It makes her feel pampered.

For now. 

She knows, now, how to look for "wheat" in the ingredient label,

where to find the allergy information, and how to read the words,

"gluten free".

*

Yesterday was my birthday.  In the car the day before she spoke up.

"So, tomorrow is yer birffday, huh?" Very matter-of-fact like.

"Yup." Sez I.

"How old ya' gonna be?" she asks, all casual, like she's asking what's my sign.

"Twenty-eight"  comes my standard annual reply.

"Oh," she says, hardly listening, then moving right along, 

"so I was thinking, maybe we should have a gluten-free cake,

 'cuz it would be sad if some people in our family couldn't have

 birffday cake on some people's birffday."

Yeah, I think she is going to be just fine!

Tribute

When I got up that morning the boys had already turned on the TV.  They were on this funny kick of watching the Spanish station, so as I came into the room, I wasn't quite sure exatly what I was seeing.  A wall of smoke swallowed people who were running, and buildings disappeared into it.  An excited voice chattered away, and though I am fluent in Spanish, I could only make out a few words; explosion, fire, smoke, planes...

I called Melissa and asked what on earth was happening.

"Oh, my gosh, you don't know?  They flew planes into the World Trade Center."

I sat on the floor in front of our 13 inch TV and watched in horror as what she told me began to make the images more terrible than what they had already been.

I just sat there and wept.

I didn't know what to do.  I called my mother.

Dad answered.

I asked him, Did he know?  Had he heard?

"Cut the tears," he said, "it's not happening to you."

That's just Dad's way of detaching from it all.

And he was wrong, because it was happening to us, all of us.

Of course, not like it was for them.  But still...

I wanted my little boys, just 4 and 2 years old, to remember that day somehow.

We sat and made little red, white blue lapel pins out of ribbon and we

filled a basket with them, then walked around handing them to strangers.

Some people refused to take them, not really understanding what we were doing and why.  Most met our gazes, smiled and thanked us, and somehow we felt each other's hurt and soothed each other a little bit.  One man offered us money for the pins.  I told him that we didn't want money, we just wanted to connect with people in our community that were feeling as shaken and confused as we were.  I told him I needed my boys to know what a blessing it is to live in this country.  He thanked me, and then shook they boy's hands, and accepted a lapel pin from one of them. 

They were too little to be told about all of the horror.  I only told them that bad people had hurt some Americans, and that we should pray for them, and we did, that night and every night for months.

I still weep when I think about that day, those people who lost everything, and the way our country has been changed because of it.  But I am proud of the way it unified us as a nation, and made us stand up for our flag and our freedom like we hadn't done in a long time.

"Love your country. Your country is the land where your parents sleep, where is spoken that language in which the chosen of your heart, blushing, whispered the first word of love; it is the home that God has given you that by striving to perfect yourselves therein you may prepare to ascend to him." ~Giuseppe Mazzini

How Super Heros Spend the Weekend

 

Everybody sing with me!:

"Spiderman!  Spiderman!

Sleeps where ever a spider can!

Naps on socks,

all the time

with princess gems

it's a crime

Look out!  Don't step on Spiderman!"

 *

Have you ever sent your child to clean up their 

(if you don't clean up this) room (I'm going to throw it all away!) ???  

Do your angel children try your (I'm loosing my) patience

by, instead of cleaning (I swear, I am setting the timer) their room

(is such a mess I'm gonna come in there with a bag, I'm NOT KIDDING!) 

they begin playing?

That NEVER happens

around here... (...I come!  Time's up!  

What ever is left on the floor is going to GOODWILL!)

His Way

I didn't expect much. 

 I have learned not to.  When Ethan left this morning, his kiss barely

hit my cheek before he was out the door. 

"Have a great first day of High School!"  I called. 

"Uhhh."  he faintly replied before the front door slammed.

I couldn't help letting my mind trip back over the years. 

When I picked Ethan up from his first day of kindergarten and enthusiastically asked,

"How was your day, son?!?" 

he had frowned and barked, "I ain't tellin' you." 

Emphasis on you.

So when Ethan trudged up the walk late this afternoon, black pants, black shirt with the Jolly Rodger on it, black back pack dangling, I didn't expect much. 

 Nonetheless, I still asked, with all the enthusiasm of 9 years ago,

and none of the expectations.

"How was your first day?"

"Alright I guess.  I'm tired.  I don't feel good."

It all tumbled out of his mouth in one continuous stream, and before I could say anything he was through the screen door and into the house.  Guy came up the walk then as I called behind Ethan with a tease,

"Nice to see you too, son!  Thanks for the kiss hello!" 

"I'll kiss ya!"  Guy smiled. 

 He told me fragments of what he had been able to wrestle from Ethan

on the way home from school in the car. 

I finished up my yard work and headed inside. 

I found Ethan curled up on the love seat in the den trying to fall asleep before we could make him do anything, like chores or homework, or - heaven forbid-  talk.  I plopped Jonah onto his back (he never gets mad at Jonah for waking him).  He rolled over and told me he thought it would be cool to "sleep forever".  I asked about first period, then second, and so on.  Each time he started with, "I don't remember", but eventually a little of his day leaked out between quips of sarcasm and exaggeration.  No, he hadn't made any friends.  Yes, a lot of other kids brought lunch from home.  And surprisingly, when asked if he had any lame teachers, the answer was a simple, "no".  He had overheard a senior talk about him to a friend, "That kid looks mad", and thought it was funny.  He did his best scowly face at me and  grrr-ed like a pirate, then laughed.

I will hear more about his day over the coming hours. 

The big picture will take shape slowly over days. 

It's not the easiest way to communicate, but it's Ethan's way.

Boys and Girls

So, I may be a really bad mom,

 but I'm afraid I don't listen to Barney or hymns in my car.  I listen to rock. 

Hence, so do my kids.

Ethan's first sing-along was to a song by Shawn Mullins called Lullaby.   I can still hear his gravelly little voice singing "Rrrrrrrock-a-bye!" 

Adam sang along to Coldplay's Yellow.

For Ellie it was Weezer and Beverly Hills.  Some how she was hearing a little voice saying "Honey! Honey!"  We have never figured out what they are actually saying, so I love Ellie's version.

The other day Tessa was busy doing "stuff" (I really have no idea what she was doing,

I am also not super observant.  Bad, bad mom!) and singing her latest fave,

 Hey Baby by No Doubt.  You know the one;

"Hey ba-by, hey ba-by, hey!  Girls say!  Boys say!"

At one point in the song, Tessa, in her best imitation of a reggae voice,

spoke her version of a tag, "And the boys and the girls in the back!"

Then she suddenly stopped singing and said, "Hey mom?"

"Yes?"

"If the boys and the girls are in the back,

who's driving?"

*

Almost as good as the time Ethan heard

 "Gloria, Hosanna!"

and was heard to be singing

"Hurry up, old fella".

*

That's ok.  Today in the car when "Pour Some Sugar on Me"

by Def Leppard came on the radio, Guy confessed he used to sing,

"Awesome, shoot the hombre!"

It must run in the family.

One: Amazing Year!

What can I say?

Life is full of contradictions. 

Like when you swear you will never:

get a facebook account,

dye your hair,

use a glue gun...

As promised, here in living color, is 15 minutes in pictures

of Jonah discovering the joys of sugar, chocolate and Blue #5.

*

"Aha, what is this technicolor delight?"

 "Alright, I'll try it, but just a taste..."

"Sacre bleu! Zis is incre'able!"

 

"Ok, if you insist, but just one more bite..."

"Did you say, "Dig right in"?  Well, okay..."

"It's sweet, it's squishy... it's a sensory extravaganza!"

"People just don't understand my art."

"My hair?  Oh, you know, dah'ling, nothing special.  Baby shampoo,

a little tear free conditioner, and about a pound o' yuuuuummm."

"Can you believe they plan to destroy this masterpiece by giving me a bath?"

*

If you have ever read more than a few of my posts, you know, of course, of my utter thrill at having Jonah boy in our lives.  I am so blessed to have been given the privilege of sharing my life with this peaceful being.  When Jonah had that horrid seizure a few days before his birthday, I spent several hours in the familiar fear that we might lose him, and in the time since it has served as a reminder to be ever grateful. 

If you have met him, you know what a magical soul he is. 

Every single day since his birth, I have whispered in his ear, "I'm so glad you're here."  And his being here has made me more grateful for each of my ten-toed blessings.  He has brought calmness to Ethan, playfulness to Adam, responsibility to Ellie, maturity to Tessa, tenderness to Guy, and to me?

Pure, chocolaty joy.