I Wouldn't Trade Them For the Trains Either

It is the first of my most favorite-est mother's day cards ever. And it reads: (with Caed's contributions in bold italics)

My Mom
She's as pretty as a ladybug.
She is 19 years old.
She has green eyes and red hair.
She weighs 411 pounds.*
Her favorite food is chocolate.
I think my mom is funny when she is silly.
But I know she is really angry when Dani has a bad attitude.
I wouldn't trade my mom for the trains.
I love my mom because she is nice.

*In his defense, he meant to write 114, per his teacher's note.
::

Now for a Dani story. Yesterday at breakfast she announced out of the blue, "I painted a power (flower) pot pink and lellow (yellow) por your present when I was a baby. And den you trew it away."

"What Hon? What are you talking about?" I ask, guilt seeping slowly in as I remember the pot she painted--the one that cracked after a year of holding geraniums.

"I painted a power pot at my old 'chool and you trew it away. And DAT IS RUDE, Mommy. You are RUDE."

Seriously. She remembered a flower pot she painted when she was not even 18 months old? Perhaps only because it rested on the kitchen sill for over a year before I recycled it, but still. How on earth did she remember that?

I am so busted. And rude. But at least Caed still thinks I'm as pretty as a 411 pound ladybug.

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Flat Out

I am stretched by the daily doing,
Flat out,
Every moment double-booked.
I thought I'd get ahead,
Get it all done
So summer would feel like summer.
Thought I'd hear the shore lapping louder than the washer rinsing.
Thought if a fingertip bled I could blame the hermit crab
Instead of the paperwork.
But here I am.
Flat out.
Weeding, packing, sorting, scrubbing, faxing, and only sometimes sleeping.
None of it is high stress.
I mean, no one dies because you forgot
to free-cycle the lumber scraps or pick up the dental records.
It's all just high volume--
A great many details to supervise,
An endless juggling of must-remembers.

So you will understand if I beg off from Flashback Friday indefinitely?
And if I rarely comment? And only post sporadically?

I want to enjoy my final (for now) season by the rocky shore.
I want to be all here, even if "all here" means buried between cardboard and Craigslist.
I need to go all in, even if it means I'm flat out.

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Boston: Day Two

What, did you think I was done with the family vacay stories? Ha! You wish. We've still got two more days to cover, my friend. TWO. MORE. DAYS. Did I mention I took more than 300 photos? Yeah, so we're gonna need to stretch this one out a bit.

So where was I? Oh yes, Day Two.

We made it to the Science Museum just as the doors opened.
We spent the entire morning at the museum and came back for more after lunch. There was just so much to see and learn for science lovers young and old.

Within a short distance of the museum, we found a playground where we stocked up on fresh air and smiles.
Then we headed back in the direction of the hotel, on foot of course.
We stopped for an early dinner in Beacon Hill, and then wound our way through the Boston Common in all its spring glory, discovering ducklings of both the real life and statue variety.


And just as the sun began to drift downward, casting long swan boat shadows across the pond, Caed found the perfect climbing tree. And of course, because Caed climbed the tree, Dani had to follow suit. And hey, while they are both up there, might as well turn it into a photo op, right?

Quick! Larry--get in there! Everybody say BOSTON!

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Oh No He Never Returned (No He Never Returned)...But We Did. And This is the Recap.

(This ridiculously long title is brought to you by the song "M.T.A.", a tune I carelessly began singing to Dani when we rode the T. It's been stuck in my head for the past three days. Now it's probably in yours. Sorry/You're welcome.)

It's been on the list since we came to Maine; and with another move looming, it was now or never.

So we boarded a train to Boston on Saturday. The kids weren't excited or anything.

First on the docket was the USS Constitution. Once again, not excited at all.

And while I staged a shot to remove all doubt about our tourist status, my two little patriots were already looking to the next thing.

Can't say I blame them. The ice cream was pretty darn good.

This might have been the time when Caed declared that, "Boston is awesome," and put in a request to "live here next."
From the shipyard, we walked the Freedom Trail back into the heart of the city. The kids loved following the red brick. The grown-ups loved how the novelty of a path to follow kept the kids from complaining about walking a mile and a half.

I am tempted to leave out the part where I tried to explain to the children the significance of Paul Revere's ride only to be upstaged by pigeons. Yes, you heard me--pigeons. The kind that let you get just a bit too close and then flap away in a big ruckus. Yeah, those pigeons. Caed and Dani and a random toddler chased them all over the courtyard, garnering smiles from several elderly onlookers and evil bird eyes from the displaced fowl. (Note to self, when a pigeon the size of your neighbor's cat gives your children the stink eye, it's time to leave.)

So a funny thing happens when you get up early, skip a nap, walk a couple miles in the sunshine, and chase sky rodents. You get tired.


Really, really tired.

One day down. Two to go. Tune in tomorrow (or whenever I get around to posting it) for the next installment of our Boston adventure.

::

Have you ever been to Boston? If you had just one day to spend there, how would you spend it?

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Flashback Friday: Man's Best Friend (Emphasis on Man's)

"Is Calli a boy or a girl dog?" Caed asked.

"She's a girl," I replied.

"Well, if she's a girl, then why does she follow Daddy around everywhere and like him the best, but not you?"

Good question, Son.

I think I can trace the shift in loyalty back to the point in time when Daddy allowed her to sleep on the bed. She was but a wee pup, the runt of the litter, and she couldn't bear the thought of spending the whole night on the floor beside our bed. It was just too far away by springer standards. So after she whimpered and whined for 20 minutes, your Daddy asked, "What can it hurt to let her up?"

Well, you know what they say. If you give a dog an inch, they'll take a mile. Or maybe just the spot on your pillow.

When you were first born, Calli made a habit of moving to my spot (my pillow!!) every time I got up to feed you. She'd hear you cry, wait a few minutes for me to vacate the premises and then plop herself down right on the sheet as if it was exactly where she belonged.

One night when I was particularly tired, I confess I slept through a solid five minutes of your cries. But Calli didn't.She heard the crying, waited the appropriate five minutes and then moved up to her rightful spot at the head of the bed--my pillow.

Only problem? I was still on it. Oh yes she did. That dog circled twice and laid down directly on my face.

Needless to say, I woke up. Quickly.

If you ask her about the situation, she'd probably concoct some excuse about how she was emulating Lassy. But, you know, instead of the typical Timmy's stuck in the well....she was trying to tell us Caed needs to eat! Yeah, nice try, girl.

The truth is, she only has eyes for Daddy. She just uses me to get to my pillow.

::

Your turn! It's an open theme today, so anything goes as long as it requires you to go back in time a bit. You can link up an old post, write a new story about an old memory, post embarrassing 80s pictures, you get the idea. Just be sure to link to your specific post and not just your blog.

Happy Friday!

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The Last Word

The wind slams doors, dots the yard with cans and cardboard, making dandelions look sweet by comparison. The trees throw tantrums in return, blossomed fists flailing at the sky.

I sit on the other side of the glass, in stillness and silence save the whir of the dishwasher. But beneath my sheltered skin pounds a wind-blown heart, a thousand thoughts knotted and wild from the wind. I feel about as rooted as the soda bottle floating across my yard. (And to give you an example, I don't even know whether I call it soda or pop or coke. Where am I from, anyway?)

I hear howling in the windy landscape of my head. I hear that I don't belong anywhere and that I never will. That I am not getting enough done (and that I shouldn't be writing unless it is for that article due in two days--that I'm just wasting time). I hear a list--line by line by scary line--of things I cannot control. I hear Anxiety conspiring with Uneasiness about how they'll convince me to throw away a perfectly good month of Maine sunshine. Uggh. Why do I put up with those two?

If ever there was a time to take these pointless thoughts captive, it is now. And so louder than the lonely-not-belonging, I shout back the promise of eternal home. I shush the task-driven stress and give voice to the wisdom of being still, of knowing He is God. I scratch out that growing can't-control-it-list and write on top: NOT. ONE. CUBIT. Whatever a cubit is, I know I can't add it by worrying.

And so goes the daily argument between Faith and Unbelief.
Oh, that Faith would always have the last word.

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Piling Up

Blogging is a bit like laundry. Words pile up like wrinkled pants and scrunched socks and I think to myself, I should sort those out tonight, start a load, write a post--before I forget and before we run out of clean jammies.

And then I don't. And the next night comes along. And not only are we out of clean jammies, but the words are piled so high in my head that I can't think straight. I open up the screen and stare. Where do I start?

The first few paragraphs I type come out accidentally bleached, white with "he did this", muted with "she did that". And then I delete. Because my demons taught me that if you can't write something good, don't write anything at all. I backspace my way back to a blank page.

I stare some more.

And then I go to bed, tell myself I'll write tomorrow. On my way to sleep I decide my words are officially bottle necked, jammed like barbecue sauce in a full bottle. And then I smile to myself because here I thought I had this great analogy, but I can't keep a straight face when I picture myself the shape of a bottle, flailing upside down to extract honey-chipotle flavored words.

(Also, I confess it just took me no less than 8 tries to spell barbecue correctly.)

I realize I've made a mess of this point. I should know better than to mix metaphors of laundry and barbecue sauce. But this is where I'm at. I'm spending far more time decluttering the house than decluttering my head. And while that bodes well for the condition of my hall closet, the deep-down me only piles higher.

Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I'll sort it out, tackle the piles.

See? Blogging really is like laundry.

::

Speaking of blogging, remember Flashback Friday? Yeah, me neither. Oh, I kid. I remember. I just am a wee bit behind on choosing a theme, much less writing a post. So let's go for it again this Friday, but with an open topic. If you must have a prompt for inspiration, try writing about:
1) Your first home (as a child, as a grownup, whatever)
2) A time of change
3) A memory from the 80s. I know, RAAAANdom. But the 80s are just so flashback-able, you know?

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The Quotable Kids: Animal Edition

"Mom, why don't we have a cat?" he asked.

"Because I'm not much of a cat person. I like dogs." I replied.

"Yeah, cats are boring. All they do is walk around and sneak up on people."



"Mom, how do animals work at the hospital?" he asked.

"Well, their job is to help cheer people up...." (Insert long-winded explanation about the link between happiness and health, and the joy that animals can bring to long-term care patients.)

"Yes, I bet the dogs do a good job. But not turtles. They would just be like sitting there doing nothing and staring at people." (Insert imitation of a turtle climbing the stairs at the hospital and then laying around.)

::

Caed isn't the only quotable kid around here these days. Dani is stepping up to the plate with some fun stuff as well, although it's far more fun when you hear it directly from her little voice. This morning I caught her with her hands around Calli's face, staring down the poor dog saying, "Now you need ta listen to my words. You do NOT step on my puzzle and wreck it up cuz dat is making a BAD choice, ohKAY?"
Calli's response, of course, was to lick Dani's face. To which Dani threw her head back and giggled. If ever a dog is going to heaven, it's my Calli-girl. She's a saint for the way she puts up with her little sister.

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City Mouse Versus Country Mouse

We are home after a week of house hunting, and I simply cannot decide whether I am a city mouse or a country mouse.

I wake up feeling in love with the little old houses oozing charm at the expense of closet space, standing shoulder to shoulder on the tree-lined street like smiling toy soldiers. I picture myself walking the kids to the library, to school, to the park, to grab a cocoa and a coffee. I envision cook outs and community and a short commute.

And then I go to sleep picturing myself lounging on a deck on a summer's evening, gazing into a dark wood while the crickets fiddle a thousand good nights. I imagine Larry stoking the fire in the wood burning stove while the snow silently spreads a blanket on the lawn. I wonder if when Saturday breaks on the country lot, my children might already be the age at which I say, "Go play!", sending them into familiar acres behind the house to explore creeks and to fashion twigs into forts.

Of course, I could be happy anywhere as long as we are together as a family. But it doesn't stop me from asking--from wondering--what suits us best? Where will we be the happiest? What is the best choice for us?
::

So what are you--a city mouse or a country mouse? What do you love most about the city or the country? And--whether you know me outside of this blog or not--what do you picture me as--the city or country type? (C'mon! We could use some swaying to one side or the other. Although, that being said, if we end up where you sway us and hate it, you know Larry is going to blame the blog for all eternity. But no pressure or anything.)

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In Which I Wear my Grateful Little Sister Hat

The days (and children) bounce past me in a blur.
There is so much I want to remember and to write. But I have shifted close to my entire supply of "record the moments" time to the wildly obsess over finding a place to live "hunt for houses" column.

My sister cleared her entire week to help me on the hunt. She put on her school teacher hat when we visited elementary schools, her organizer/visionary hat when we visited houses, and her auntie hat when she declared we would have smores on a school night.

(And I don't think I've taken off the deeply grateful little sister hat since I stepped foot in her home.)
(Confession: I almost titled this post "I Couldn't Ask for Smore". But it registered so high on the Corny-Cheesy index that even I recognized it and rolled my eyes at myself in response.)

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