In which we celebrate eight years

Read more...

Come what gray

She had us outside twenty minutes early to look for the bus. Yeah, I'd say she's ready.

Kindergarten is only a half day in our district, so there was no time to waste crying in the coffee. Instead, I rejoiced my way to the gym to do one mile repeats (the silence, it was golden). The rejoicing stopped right after I finished the mile warm-up and began running the second mile "on target pace", also known as the "watch out, blissfully-unaware-treadmill-neighbor, because I haven't ruled out puking" pace. Speed workouts are for lunatics. (That would be me.)

Last week at this time, we were still in Maine. It feels worlds away now, already sorted among the stories we'll soon tell about "last summer". The only remnants are the tiny pile of shells in the corner of the car trunk and the staples in my son's head. Yes, folks, the beach is not without its hazards. I told my seven year old there were easier ways to visit Daddy's old hospital, but he insisted on the dramatic way.

He's fine, and we are fine, and everything's fine. Sometimes almost too fine, such that my anxious heart warns me in a low and steady beat: this fragile perfection can only last so long. 

We have only so many moments of silent harmony, of loud joy, of health, of stepping forward without fear,  before it is painted over with the hurdles and the brokenness and the arguing and the disappointment. I know I'm singing an Eeyore and Debbie Downer duet, which is not what you're supposed to sing when you just had a dreamy first day of school send-off with your two perfectly healthy children.
But screw what you're supposed to sing, because life isn't black and white, not enough to say "life is good" or "life is bad".  Life is a mostly a canvas of good-mixed-with-bad gray; and these mythic moments, these milestones, these places of bone-deep contentment, these are the splatters of wild color. These are the hues for which you hold your breath, the colors for which you hold out hope.

But here's the rub. No sooner do the bright swirls appear on the canvas, then I am plotting how to keep them there, how to keep the silt and dust that permeates the air of my regular old life from rendering the colors dull. I know from experience these joyful colors will be dull by dinner time, when everyone is back to complaining about the zucchini.

I don't know what to do, how to live with this constant gray blurring, other than to gaze with gratitude at the colors as they come. And today, there was color. Last week in Maine, there was color. Splattered throughout this summer, there was color. So I pause and enjoy the color, come what gray.

Read more...

Then & Now: A Dental Retrospective

 

There was a time, not so long ago, when all he had were two front teeth.

And now, that's all he's missing.

 

(If you'd asked me back then, I'd have said his smile couldn't possibly be cuter. 

But if you asked me now, I'd say anything's possible.)

Read more...

The Dance

Her dusty brown ringlets had disappeared before the opening act, the outcome of our first experiment in gravity versus hair spray. She might as well learn early that gravity always wins.

She perched herself atop a red booster and craned her neck expectantly, eying the stage for the slightest sign of movement. She fingered the unfamiliar string of pearls  around her neck, smoothed the green and gold plaid skirt over her knees, admired her black velvet "high shoes". No matter all of it had been handed down, she owned every bit of her outfit.

"That side is fancy, and that side is fancy. All the sides are fancy. Even the sky is fancy." She said, pointing to the balconies on either side, the ceiling above.

When the organ faded lower and lower into the orchestra until disappearing entirely, when a voice from overhead boomed welcome, she grabbed my arm and scrambled to sit on her knees. The curtain rose.

We traveled with Clara to another world, my girl and I. She leaned forward, riveted, entranced, mouth agape. Her eyes never the left the stage.

Torn between two beautiful scenes, I divided my gaze between the dancers and my daughter. I watched her watching, her lips never quite closed, her eyes never still, dancing along. I saw in her face the promise of a childhood memory that will never be forgotten. This was my Christmas gift to her, the "big gift", and we will wrap it under the tree in a picture frame to help her remember this special day.

But really, this was her gift to me, an archetypal yet altogether original scene of mother and daughter, of ballet and beautiful dresses, a gift of moments perfectly stranded together. And I'll wear them around my neck as long as I live.
 ::

It's been a long time since I've had the chance to join Emily in Tuesdays Unwrapped. Sure, it's a Monday post, but as I'm only writing once a week (if that!) these days, I can stretch Monday into Tuesday, right?

Read more...

Disguised as an ordinary day

In minutes, the sun will rise on the first day of second grade. I look out the kitchen window while I pour the coffee, notice the black backdrop still hanging from the sky. The sun must have hit snooze, pulled dark clouds back over her head. She hides while the rain bullies the height out of the grass. My unsuspecting windows stay open, and morning creeps through the screens smelling like wet bark and frizzy bangs.

I wonder where I'll stage the first-day-of-school picture. I wonder where I put the umbrella. I wonder if it will always feel this anti-climatic--like why wouldn't the bus be stopping to pick him up in half an hour--hasn't it always?


I finish packing the lunch. I set a bowl of yogurt in front of him, a spoon to his left.

I find the umbrella, drape his rain coat over his backpack. It stops raining (and only because I finally found the umbrella).

The dogs paw at the screen door, desperate to join this front porch photo shoot. He says things like "I'm only gonna do lip smiles" and "Dontcha think that's enough pictures, mom?"

 And I say things like "show me that smile, mister too cool for school" and "just a few more pictures, just a few more."

 And just like that, there goes another First, slipping by disguised as an ordinary day.

Read more...

The Most Amazing Day I Ever Had Yet

Warning: This post may contain excessive levels of shameless bragging and unbridled parental pride. Potential side effects include nausea, excessive eye rolling, and a sudden urge to click away. Should you experience any of these symptoms, please consult your browser for less inflammatory content.  

How is it that winter plods at marathon pace and summer feels like an all-out sprint? I feel like I'm shoving a seven-course meal into my mouth in the same amount of time it takes to eat a PB&J. I'm so very full. All delicious things, and it's impossible to say no to another bite.

On Monday morning, we woke the kids up at 6:30 a.m. to head out for Caed's first race. That's right. We woke the kids up. Have we lost our minds? Quite possibly.

But our little guy really wanted to participate in a local fun run/ 1-miler, and had proved his determination in a "training run" with me on Friday. And, seeing as I planned to run alongside him as his designated "trainer",  I was admittedly just as excited as he was.  Maybe more so.

The last time Caed and I ran together, he kicked his legs against the stroller's foot rest and shoveled goldfish into his two-year old tummy for the entire three miles. And now would you look at him?

 

Four years of fitness makes quite a difference, eh? I don't know if this will be a landmark memory for him. But as his mother? This race was unforgettable. 

And did I mention he won 2nd place in his age group? And that he ran the mile in 9:05? And that I am so stinking proud of him I just might explode?

He ran his heart out, and took mine along with him.

But the day wasn't over. Not even close. (This post, however, might have to be, as the kids just woke up--not by my doing this time--and the day is about to get crazy again.)

Later that afternoon, when we met up with the cousins to watch a parade, Auntie 'Chelle bought everyone snow cones--a first for both my children. And within a few bites, Caed's second loose tooth came wiggling out.

On the way back from the parade, Caed reflected on the last several hours. "Second place in my first race, a snow cone, and a lost tooth! It's like the most amazing day I've ever had yet."

Yes, big guy, and the fireworks are still to come.

Read more...

Mountaintop moments at sea level

Remember what I said about the valleys of motherhood, the thorny places we travel in between the mountaintop moments?

 On a morning like this one, you almost forget about those places.

Funny how most of my mountaintop moments show up at sea level.

(Or lake level--if there is such a thing. Erie may only be an understudy to the understudy to the understudy of the Atlantic, but she still gives a performance worth applauding.)

Read more...

O Captain my Captain

That was us. We were those kids. College finals finished one week, vows exchanged the next. And the soap-scribbled "just married" not yet worn off the car window by the time he caught the bus to basic training.

When I saw him march the graduation formation six weeks later under sultry Texas sky, I swore he looked taller. And neater. As in don't freak out, honey, but I believe in ironing my tee shirts now, neater. (This proved to be a short-lived habit. It didn't take long before he returned to the way of his species and learned how to throw his dirty clothes on the floor--just feet from the hamper--like a proper man).

To say it's been a long road is like saying Caed had a smidgen bit of baby fat at five months old.

See? It's been a LONG road. (And aren't those the most adorable cankles you've ever seen?)

I could tell you the whole long story of the last 15 years, about the winding road to (and through) medical school, his desert detour, the setbacks, the loss. I could tell you about the long hours and the wondering what the heck we were thinking when we headed down this crazy path.

But I'd rather just skip to the present and tell you what happened last night.

My brother in law, home just days ago from Afghanistan, says, "Repeat after me..."

My husband solemnly (and smilingly) swears to serve faithfully. They salute.

"Congratulations Sir!" my army brother says.
"Aim high!" my air force husband says.


And then someone asks, "So will you go by Captain or Doctor?"
And he says, "I'll just go by Myles."

And if this were Hollywood, that would be our cue to hop up on a desk and salute, "O Captain my Captain!" But since I didn't have a desk, and this is Ohio we're talking about, we all just laughed and hugged and high fived and asked, "Now who wants pizza?"


We used to be those kids--the ones sporting the frizzy red hair and the Airman Basic blues, the Goliath dreams and the David odds. Now it's mostly scrubs and straight hair (thank you, pregnancy). Now the long way is the customary way, and nothing is quite as familiar or quite as astonishing as His grace in bringing us this far, as His grace in leading us home.

 

Read more...

Eyes on the Giver

"When someone is counting out
gold for you, don't look at your hands,
or the gold. Look at the giver."
-Rumi 

Eyes on the Giver, the counting continues...

#86 Always room on Nana's lap 
 
#87 Little legs kicking up cartwheels.

#88 Being asked to refereee donkey kick contests.

#89 Catching her in the middle of a made-up song,

#90 How she kept singing.

#91 Secret hideout under the drooping pine.

#92 Cross training opportunities springing from a snow-filled driveway.

#93 Ibuprofen. (I might have mentioned this one already?) Because shoveling snow is apparently much more taxing than running a half marathon.

#94 How they only came in after two hours because I bribed them with hot cocoa. 

#95 A truly wiggly tooth, not just his imagination.

#96 Sweet nieces who double as babysitters.

#97 A menu with no kids' options, and

#98 An evening with no kids.

#99 Muddled mint and lime.

#100 Latin American inspired calamari. Who knew?

#101 A forced early reservation turning into a chance to hit the bookstore after dinner,

#102 And then Trader Joe's.

#103 And I could list another dozen right here, all of them TJ's food,

#104 But I'll just mention the crispy crunchy chocolate chip cookies and leave it at that.

#105 A tooth lost!

#106 A note imploring the tooth fairy to please let him keep his first tooth,

#107 A note from the tooth fairy, allowing it, asking him to keep brushing his teeth well and to help his sister too.

#108 Under the pillow, a special book about Babe Ruth.

#109 His newly-gapped grin,

#110 Dani asking, "How did the tooth fairy know Caed is such a good reader?"

#111 And Caed adding, "Yeah, and she knows I have a sister too."

#112 Toothpaste all down her chin, from Caed "helping" her brush teeth, just like the tooth fairy told him.

#113 The way she danced down the aisle with the car seats, then stopped, hands on hips, pointing.

#114 "This is da booster I was talkin' bout! The one witd pink flowers!"

#115 Ahh, my baby-gone-girl buckling herself in.

#116 Bargain curtains, newly hung across the front window. (It only took me eight months after moving in.)

#117 Watching Ohio State win the Big 10 basketball tournament--

#118 Without broadcasting the full footage to the nice folks driving down our road. (Seriously, why did I wait eight months to put up a curtain?)

#119 Woodburning stove ablaze.

#120 Night pulling dark blanket over our heads.

Read more...

Dear December

Oh December. I love you, really I do. But you need to slow down, lay off the caffeine, maybe take a lesson from February on how to last forever.

You hosted our wedding fifteen years ago, sifting snow--white as a wedding cake--across the church lawn, spelling congratulations with your confectionery weather. And here we are again after fifteen winters gone, back in the snowbelt, battling icicles with broomsticks for control of the gutters. Here we are, not so far from the little church on Satin Street.

You were the one month in which I didn't want to be due. "I want to have another baby," I announced to my sister. "Any month but December--I don't care which one."

Next thing I know, I'm talking with the hostess at the Capital Grille.

"Yes, it's our 11th anniversary."
"Congratulations!"
"Thank you."
"And when are you due?"
"Monday! Oh, and I don't think a booth will work for us. I'll need a chair that scoots back. Way back."

Oh, dear, dear December, you gave me my baby girl.

And as if all of this isn't enough. (It is. It is.) You brought your traditional holiday blend again this year...

Visits with family and old friends, a day in pajamas, a hike in the snowy woods, 25 days of advent, a hint of wonder, a dollop of joy. (If we're being honest, you also brought a fair share of stress and scrambling, but I'm going to do you a solid and overlook your decidedly less magical side.)



Dear December, please don't make me beg. You know I love you. It seems like you've only just arrived, and now you're gathering your things, ready to split, leaving me alone to face 2011 and three more months of snow. Are you sure you can't linger, just a little bit longer?

Read more...

She's Four. My Baby is Four.

Read more...

Six. As in Years.

He is six. And I don't mean months. I mean years and how is this even possible?
Last night we celebrated with a small gathering of extended family. It was everything he hoped for, and probably more. Ice cream (dirt) cake, stories and marshmallows by the campfire, and sleeping in the tent with the "boy cousins".
I think back to six years ago, the day he turned me into a mama, and I start to lose it. Words fail and my eyes go blurry trying to explain this miracle smiling back at me.

Happy 6th Birthday, little man.

Read more...

Cutiebatootie Goes To School

Guess who finally got to go to school?
Excited much?

Reportedly, her favorite part of school is snack time, with playground time taking the runner-up spot. I'm sure that deep down she really goes just for the academics. She's probably just pretending to like recess the best to blend in with the cool kids. You know, the ones with the Dora back-packs and the light up sneakers.

::

This morning I was combing her hair, and she handed me the two (mismatched) barrettes she wanted to wear. I clipped them into her fine strands, and she smiled in the mirror. "I look cutie as a tootie," she declared.

Oh yes you do, Darlin'. I might go as far to say you look cuter than a tooter.

Sigh. I love that girl.
(I also love that I now have two whole hours to myself three glorious days a week, but I'll save that for another post.)

Read more...

Nothing Like I Pictured

I sent the camera off with Dad, asked him to please take pictures. "It's your first father-son trip to see the Tribe play," I reminded him. "It's totally picture-worthy." (And blog-worthy. Don't forget blog-worthy. Because as much as I love the picture of that barn in the last post, Grandparents can't survive forever on my dear diary diatribes and my what-does-that-even-MEAN poetry attempts.)

So he obliged. He took four pictures, even though I would have taken forty (and not just of Fausto Carmona). But I digress.

Apparently, while Dani and I stayed home and read every last Lily book until she fell asleep I couldn't take it anymore, Caed was trying Cracker Jacks for the first time. At a ballgame. (Mythic moment, if you ask me.)

Then, to top it all off, the home team won. Commence the fireworks.

My boys came home beaming. Caed chattered in rapid fire glee, describing in great detail how the Indians beat the team that is higher up in the scores (first in division), and how the big hot dog ran right into the ketchup guy and mustard guy and made the mustard fall over, how his 3D glasses made the fireworks fall right onto his nose. And he leaned in close, lined his twinkling eyes right up to mine and then poked me right on the nose with his finger. "Like that!" he giggled.

I looked over at Larry, and there was no holding back his smile as he watched Caed carry on, now three hours beyond bedtime, about this big league game.

Never mind that the tickets were free or that the seats were fantastic.

The day I found out I was carrying a baby boy, I pictured moments like this. And now, here we are. Here they are, nothing like I pictured, right in front of me. Closer than fireworks with 3D glasses, crisper than air on an autumn evening, brighter than stadium lights in celebration sky.

Nothing like I pictured.
So, so very much better.

Read more...

Ohio Has...

Several weeks ago, on our way out of Maine, Caed asked, "So, I know Maine has lobsters and beaches and lighthouses. But what does Ohio have?"

I was tempted to answer "losing sports teams", but took the high road with an enthusiastic "we'll see when we get there!"

Well, we're here. And I admit, I'm starting to see.

1. Three months of apple picking season and farm stands on every other corner. (Did I mention we live in the country?)

2. We can get to Trader Joe's in 15 minutes. Cue the angels (in organic cotton woven robes).

3. Corn Sweet Corn. And we're talking fresh. As in picked-at-7-a.m., buy it at 9 a.m., tempted to eat it for lunch but the plan was to wait for dinner fresh.

4. Sushi. (Oh not really, not at ALL. Just seeing if you were paying attention).

5. Libraries that rock the proverbial party (albeit quietly). We've been to the library as many times in the past two weeks as we've been to Home Depot, which is somewhere in between too many freakin' times and infinity. Only instead of coming home (yet again!) with the wrong size plastic anchors or completely unusable--yet oh so energy efficient--light bulbs, we come home with another Ladybug Girl book, a new Jack & Annie book!, and Mamaphonic (a collection of essays my friend Elizabeth accurately predicted I would love.)

::

Today was Caed's first day of first grade, his first day in public school. I know that great teachers and fun school buses and sweet new friends aren't unique to Ohio. But they still count as something Ohio has, right?

And because I don't want to forget, I've compiled a comprehensive list of the information I extracted from Caed after his first day of school:

1. I made a friend from my class who is on the same bus as me, and we're going to sit together every time we go on the bus.

2. I only got one minute to eat my lunch.

3. I was only on the bus like one minute, and then BAM! I was home.

4. My friend--the same one from the bus--he sat next to me at lunch and he asked to try one of my red peppers. So I shared with him. He talks to me a lot.

5. (Upon being told that the hot lunches aren't free) Why do they expect kids to pay for lunches? Don't they know that kids don't carry around money?

6. For my one thing special about me, I told my teacher I was a lefty, and she went crazy. She said, "A lefty! A lefty! Everyone run!" But she was just being silly.

7. I played basketball at recess--it was all the older kids against me. And I won.

8. I think all the work today might have been kindergarten work. I didn't even see one compound word ALL day.

9. We got to do gym! Soccer AND basketball! But not that long really, cuz it took our teacher forever to get us organized-ed.

10. Remember in the Laura story (Little House) how the boys were giving the new teacher a hard time and not listening? Well, at my class, it was the opposite. All of us boys were quiet and shy. And the girls were the ones talking. And we boys were just looking at each other like (insert eyebrows raised facial expression).

::

Exactly four weeks ago, I pulled up in my haphazardly packed (to the hilt!) car, turned up the driveway toward the house we now call home. The propane tank, the one I forgot I'd have to take with me, lurched forward, smashing the bag of snacks and doing a number on the already brutalized dried flower arrangement. I wanted so badly then to just fast forward to a cleaned out car, and a cleaned up house (with a couch and a table and a bed that I didn't have to blow up). So here I am, four weeks later, and I know what Ohio has.

Ohio has apples turned into crisp,
backyards with more weeds than grass,
more tree frogs and crickets than you can shake a stick at,
and plenty of sticks to shake.
Ohio has summer and fall and the season in between
when you don't know whether
jeans will be too hot
or tees will be too cold.
Ohio has all of us, home for dinner,
all of us, waking up
under the same sky
and sometimes covers.
Ohio has infant Home,
Just four weeks old, but
growing like you wouldn't believe.
If this is four weeks, can you imagine four months?
And that's the crazy thing.
I totally can.

(Hooray! Longest post EVER is finally over.)

Read more...