I'm So Getsited!

Snuggle Nest

2010-05-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

Whew

2010-05-02T21:22:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to report that our little patient is recovering well from his medical ordeal. He has really powered through the discomfort and pain with great fortitude, and shown enormous restraint in hoarding the consumption of frozen sweet goodness over his brother. Sleeping is a real challenge, but during the day he's pretty happy and chipper. That may have to do with his steady diet of television, board games, snuggles, pain medication and copious amounts of high fructose corn syrup at every meal.

Additionally, Max is doing a great job on inventory management. Each day he monitors any potential inequity of Sam's diet (liquid and sweet) over his (solid and full of vitamins and minerals). When Max leaves the house he's prompt upon return to inquire as to how many servings of ice cream his brother has had, how many t.v. shows he's watched, and diligently counts the empty juice boxes in the recycling bin. I'm honestly not sure which is more trying - keeping up on Sam's pain meds or making sure that Max feels that he hasn't been jipped of the greatest opportunity available to small children. We've tried to explain to Max that he's the one receiving the good deal here as he's riding the popsicle/Penguins of Madagascar wave right along with his brother, yet without the loss of glandular tissue. But each time we offer up a Danimals yogurt smoothie to Sam, Max's shoulders shrink down to his dairy-allergic belly and his lower lip quivers from the injustice of it all.

Sam handled all aspects of his brief stay at the children's hospital with his usual subtle humor and low key one-liners. Without argument, but with clear disdain, he put on the hospital gown that was covered in ridiculously animated dogs, shaking his head at the nurse "But my don't like dogs. And..there's a hole in the back", as if she hadn't noticed about that tying action. When she offered him a green stuffed bear with a soccer ball on it that he'd be able to take home after the surgery, Sam just shook his head and said "No sanks. Max he will just take it from me" (a valid point). Instead, he chose the bland beige bear with "1999" lamely embroidered on it, proving that he's the only child in 11 years who was able to overcome impulse and was willing to take the plain and boring bear rather than deal with the painful fallout of his older brother's anticipated drama.

With the gift of childhood innocence, Sam seemed pretty un-phased by the somber nature of our time at the hospital. During the pre-op exam in which they asked me about his medical history, Sam looked at the nurse with a completely straight face and told her "My only allergic to monkeys". After requesting a "Little Mermaid Night Night Story" from the anesthesiologist, Sam took the masked-man's hand and walked right with him into the operating room, Scooby Doo doll in hand, bypassing the nurse/gurney that was ready to rip him from his nervous mother's arms.

Modern technology allowed us to view the progress of surgery much like the status of an order of fries and a cheeseburger: each child is given a random number and it's posted on an electronic screen in the waiting room. It's color coded to let you know when your child is in pre-op, surgery, incision closure, etc., and then onto the recovery, which can be an additional hour before the child can be seen by anxious parents. Sam knew that time line just wasn't going to work for me, so he made it pretty clear that any recovery that he was going to have needed to be in his parents arms. Which, of course, was just what I needed and he knew that.

This little episode has proven to us we are enormously blessed to have a thoughtful, tough, and hilarious little son. And that hopefully, however enlightening they are, our trips to the hospital will be few and far between.

Ice Cream You Scream

2010-04-28T21:33:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow morning Sam will be undergoing the Ear, Nose & Throat Triple Play - ear tubes in, adenoids and tonsils out. I took him to the grocery store today and we loaded up on popsicles, ice cream, juice, otter pops and other cold, liquid treats.

I let him stand in the freezer aisle, door wide open, and told him to pick out popsicles and ice cream. He warily asked if he could have the red, white and blue rocket ships and was shocked and awed to watch me put them in the cart. "What else, Buddy?, I asked as I lifted frozen fruit bars from his icy fingers. "Anything else in there look good to you, Sam?"

He looked up, grabbed his arms around me, snuggled his little face into my belly and kissed my hand over and over again, proclaiming his undying love for me and frozen dairy products.

I'd be lying if we both didn't consider it one of our best days ever at the grocery store. Tomorrow. Yeah, that probably won't be so fun for either of us. But at least we'll have ice cream.

He Be Nimble, He Be Quick

2010-04-28T21:22:00.000-07:00

Max got to be in his first school play today: an all-kindergarten rockband tribute to Mother Goose. I loved watching him let his little light shine as he poured himself into the nimble and quick character. I could see him react to the audience's cheers and delight in the joy of performance. Given how much he loved the whole experience, I have a feeling that we'll be watching this boy on stage for a long time.

Ka-Chow Max!

Rainbow Connections

2010-04-26T13:03:00.000-07:00

I've missed posting some really important moments of the past six months on this blog. I've finally resolved a highly irritating issue that I was having with photo organization on my computer, and going back and re-dating/sorting everything is just way too boring and overwhelming for someone who has no Virgo compulsion for order, nor uninterrupted time for such detail-oriented tasks.

So instead of linear/chronological order, here's a reflection of the absent months of 2009-2010 in Rainbow Order (ROYGBIV).

Today I'm seeing life through rose [red] colored glasses:

Like the reddish curls of Sam's hair.
These curls continually melt my heart and bring smiles to my crankiest days. They are as much an expression of Sam's buoyant personality as his light-up-the-sky smile, twinkling eyes, and precocious vocabulary. It's just that we get to admire this feature quietly, from behind his face; making him pretty much 360 degrees of precious, 365 days a year.

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"Look at me! My flying!"
Little red airplane at Train Town in Sonoma, CA
February 2010

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Spokane International Airport, September 2009

If anyone ever asked me to summarize my two children in one photo, I would probably reference this shot. I snapped it while while I was talking on my phone as we were waiting for some friends to pick us up at the airport. Tired of sitting still, Max cleverly set up an obstacle course out of car seats and luggage. Max is giving his body what it needed - movement - without running away or complaining (believe me, he's done both of those things plenty of times, too). But here he jumped, swerved, spun and ran about a mile, all within about a 10 foot radius. Sam, who was also tired of traveling and was well, just tired in general, joined right in on Max's action and appointed himself as supervisor/cheerleader. Like most of us watching, Sam enjoyed and admired Max's unique energy and entertainment style.

My Mom bought that little red suitcase for Max when he was about 10 months old. She thought it would be perfect for him on overnight trips to visit the grandparents. Okay, so she gave it to me, but I think we both knew for whom is was really intended. And she was right, he loves traveling with it all over the country, but especially going to visit Bubbi and Grandpa.

Sunday Night Bath

2010-04-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

Who ever knew the poetry of bath time could be so sweet?

But my don't like dogs

2010-04-24T11:14:00.000-07:00

In honor of Sam's birth nearly four years ago, my parents purchased and planted a beautiful little tree in our front yard. It's a lovely dogwood that comes into bloom each year right before his birthday, and Sam proudly refers to it as his "Dog Tree".

As if we didn't need enough reminders that this little guy's birthday is coming upon us shortly, the dogwood began blooming this week. It's gorgeous and delicate and abundant with fiery color. Sam loves to come out and look at it and point at the opening blossoms.

In addition to the wonders of a bloom that coincides with one's birth EVERY year, Sam also is quick to recognize the irony. Without any measure of irritation, Sam easily explains to us all that the tree is his, "but...my don't like dogs."

At least he appreciates the tree. We'll work on dogs later.

Happy Earth Day

2010-04-22T09:44:00.001-07:00

My blogging has been dormant for the Winter, but with Spring in full swing, I intend to get some more posts of my little seedlings sprouting.

The boys are growing, blossoming, digging in roots and stretching their boundaries. Spring will always remind me of the beautiful season of their births, and how much richer my life is with their presence.

Bursting from the slow, dark days of Winter, we are a flurry of activity around here. Everything seems to get crammed into this time of year - sports, birthdays, school plays, science fairs, bike-a-thons and other endless requests for our limited free time. This morning we enjoyed acknowledging Spring and Earth Day with the simple act of planting seeds together.

Jack Be Little pumpkins, Marigolds, Sunflowers, green gourds, and summer squash made a new perch behind our kitchen sink. I'm also pretty sure that Sam planted a few errant globules of oatmeal left on the table from his breakfast. He's hoping for a bumper crop this summer.

It's Not Officially Christmas Until..

2009-12-13T13:57:00.000-08:00

..someone cries at the tree farm.

Fortunately, he was quick to recover. And proclaim every single tree in the forest "Perfect!"

Ultimately, it was time to be done. The nearest tree became the perfect tree, and was chopped and hauled to our home..

..by the Pied Piper of Grand Firs leading his merry minions back to the truck with the siren song of hot cocoa and ginger snap cookies waiting at home.

Testing, testing, 1..2..3

2009-11-22T08:57:00.000-08:00

Just making sure this thing still works. Feeling a bit creaky, almost forgot my password, but we're back in business.

Can you tell I've got a bazillion things to do to prepare for our Thanksgiving departure tomorrow? I'm desperately procrastinating on all the packing decisions that need to be made, laundry that needs to be tended to, facebook updates that must be read, etc.

Come on over..cinnamon rolls are the oven, I'm about to start a craft project with the boys, and I'll probably come up with some other monumental distractions.

Or, maybe I'll just post the pictures that I've been neglecting for the past two months on here.

What A Difference A Bus Ride Makes

2009-09-09T21:18:00.000-07:00

Max on his first day of Kindergarten, feeling a wee bit nervous and silly.

At the bus stop, the boys and I had a little snuggle before Max climbed onto the bus and bravely waved goodbye.

But here he is, all grins and accomplishment after he got off the bus at the end of a long and memorable day. And look! He remembered his sweatshirt! So proud!

Ready Or Not..Here We Come!

2009-09-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

Max will soon be waking and getting himself ready for his first day of Kindergarten. He's excited, anxious, and very ready for this new transition.

I tucked the very getsited Max into bed last night and his little body was a mess of wiggly dinosaur fleece and story-time anticipation. I snuggled up next to him on his bed and we listened to music in the dark and tried to find stillness.

I thought of all the attributes of Max's that I love and strive to bring more of into my own life: his sense of humor, his enormous heart and compassion, and his irrepressible curiosity and wonder. He will love school and the joys that are ahead.

I'm just a little sad that the apron strings are being loosened a bit today. This new joyful adventure will be one that he discovers without me giving him the high-fives, good-job-hugs and laughter that we both find so satisfying throughout the day. I will miss his giggles and wonder and curiosity, and especially his enormous hugs and smiles.

Now it will be Max's chance to filter out his day and share the highs and lows with us with the benefit of past-tense. High-fives and hugs will be delayed until the tail lights on the bus blink and we trudge back up the dirt road together.

He is ready for this. He will shine.

Morning At The Monkey Ranch

2009-08-27T21:26:00.000-07:00

Our new camera arrived this week to replace its worn and weary predecessor who has opted to no longer point nor shoot. As soon as my new toy was out of the box I took these photos. I love how they reflect the peaceful (albeit rare) moments around here when the boys are engrossed in their world and I in mine.

Summer Nights

2009-08-26T21:06:00.000-07:00

This is what I'm gonna remember come February when I haven't seen the sun for 93 straight days and the lawn is too wet to walk on, let alone lay down and dream upon:

I'll remember this ordinary, yet magical, night when the boys came home from swim lessons and launched their new foam rockets with the force of air and laughter and joy.

I'll remember how they burst over and through the ripe blackberries with the fuel of giggles and cheers, smelling of summer's magical mixture of pool chemicals and fresh tomato sauce. I'll remember how Summer serenaded us with birds in the woods and speedboats on The Sound.

I will remember the far-away laughs of neighborhood children and the nearby tackles and songs of my Monkeyboys launching their rocket ships to the heavens as they aimed for the nearest cloud.

And I'll remember how we all seemed to sense that nights like this were going to end soon as the days grow cooler, damper and darker and school and responsibility creep upon us. And I'll remember how, on this ordinary and yet magical night, we all wished that we could have this feeling forever.

Freedom's Just Another Word For Nothing Left To Lose

2009-08-26T08:52:00.000-07:00

Among Sam's many charms and endearments is the adorable way that he says his age, "My Free" and holds up five fingers.

Our little "free"dom rider has been in quite a state of three this week. He's been defiant, objectionable and veeerrrrryyyy whiny. Part of this may be attributed to the lack of sleep he's been getting as he's transitioned to a "big boy bed" and has been staying up very late reading and playing. He's also been deprived of his normal nap ritual this week due to some scheduling craziness surrounding his brother's sports camp. Sensing that he really needed some quality sleep last night, I put Sam to bed back in his crib and watched him fall into peaceful slumber faster than you could say "Meltdown at Target".

He awoke this morning and yelled from his crib "Mommy! Get me out of here! Right now!", then proceeded to kick me and wiggle out of my arms whining about how he didn't want to be carried. Charming. Clearly, he wants some independence and to be a big boy, and yet, sometimes, he's all about being the baby.

This attitude continued this morning as I made the wrong breakfast, put his bowl down at the wrong chair and did, in general, all the wrong things. I made it clear I didn't appreciate the way he was acting. Then, he brought me over to the fridge and asked me to pick him up and talk about the picture of me and my Grandpa Ralph on the horse.

He asked if it was him and his Grandpa. When I told him (for the umpteenth millionth time) that no, it was me when I was a baby , he said oh so sweetly..."When you whined?"

I smiled and hugged my impressive little man. Yes, Sam, that one time that I whined. That one time that I felt conflicted and confused and not quite right in my skin. That one time that I didn't quite know who I was or how to act or why people were expecting so much of me. That one time that I was learning all sorts of new vocabulary and trying to figure out a new schedule and just really wanted to hug somebody all the time but also felt like I needed to act like I didn't need a hug all the time.

Kind of like that one time when my first child started Kindergarten. Kind of like that time when I have to start thinking about putting the kid who cheers for firetrucks! and cement mixers! and garbage trucks! onto a school bus while praying that he gets from my hugging and high-five-ing arms into the arms of someone else who will love him, understand him and honor him as much as we do. Kind of like learning about late-start Wednesdays and manipulative math curriculum and literacy boxes and lunch boxes and peanut free zones and filling out a field trip permission slip for the child who still can't even make a trip to the bathroom without some parental assistance.

Kind of like that time that I whined.

Freedom, Sam. It's not *just* another word for nothing left to lose, as Janice Joplin said. It's a little about loss, and also a little about something to gain. Like more time to spend with your sweet little face...

Outin

2009-08-12T07:26:00.000-07:00

Last month we took a little family road trip to see my in-laws and their adored farm. Along the way we drove through an eternity of forests and mountains; following long, wide highways with pull-outs perfect for viewing volcanic destruction or for disciplining small children, depending on your needs. We also traveled on the treacherous dirt roads normally driven by the Forest Service and logging trucks. "Roads" that bump and haul their way up and down winding, steep passes while jostling the minivan's suspension and sloshing my vertigous stomach juices. It's never a good sign when your vacation involves focusing on the horizon while telling everyone in the car to stop talking; especially if they are under the age of five.

Fortunately, some technology saint invented this cure for road-weary travelers:

On our travels, we even drove by to catch a closer glimpse of Mt. Rainier, whose majestic white tip is visible from where we live. Each day, the boys eagerly await the moment when we cross the bridge to see if they can be the first to spot it or if it's hidden by the clouds. Locals refer to a day when she's visible as "The Mountain is Out"; but in the getsited way that Max enjoys abbreviation and contraction, he has come to simply calling it, "Outin'".

It was certainly "Outin" from up there.

We stopped for a picnic and our ever-present travel buddy offered up his interpretation of the National Park:

These Happy Campers were far more interested in the pic-a-nic basket.

And asking the age-old question on the meaning of life and true existentialism... "Are we there yet?"

Yes, boys. I think we're right where we need to be.

Simply Splendid...

2009-07-19T07:55:00.000-07:00

One Stitch, Two Stitch, Red Fish, Blue Fish

2009-07-14T21:01:00.000-07:00

I'll admit that I've been enjoying sewing recently, but I really wasn't a big fan of yesterday's new stitch.

On the back of Max's head.

Thankfully, Grandpa Tom was able to take us to Urgent Care where he gave us some moral support and even some bonus commentary on Le Tour de France.

He also snapped a photo while we waited for the analgesic to take effect.

Nothing like a little bump in the road (or head) to make me realize how fast it can all go downhill, and how grateful I am for my pit crew. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Now, where did we put that helmet?

Great Balls of Fire

2009-07-10T09:05:00.000-07:00

Once again, our home is buzzing with getsitement in anticipation of a summertime visit from my folks who are estimated to arrive tomorrow. Max and Sam are bouncing off the newly painted walls (thank you, Mr. "Mellow Yellow" Wonderful). The boys are digging out all the toys that they CAN'T WAIT to show Bubbi and speculating on how much fun they'll have watching "Cars" with Grandpa Tom.

The total self-absorption that defines this stage of child development matches perfectly with my parents' cross-generational adoration and delight in playing with their grandchildren; even if it's the same toy/movie/book played/watched/read a thousand times before on previous visits. Fresh and new is not what it's about.

It's not about scheduling an itinerary of activities to keep us busy and connected through similar experience; those days will come when we have teenagers with acne and ipods and attitude. Right now we have two little snuggle bunnies who want nothing more than to jump and run and show new tricks to an adoring audience. They can't wait to find a loving lap to snuggle on and someone who will read to them about sharks, or dinosaurs or Tow Mater without saying "Ok, I gotta get moving here guys, times up..."

This is what it's all about.

After having lost my own grandmother this Spring, I am especially nostalgic for that remarkable, unconditional grandparental love. I know how lucky our kids are to have this unique and rewarding relationship; and also how lucky I am to have the support of two sets of parents who think their grandkids are pretty special. This kind of love will build us up and stand long after the seeds we sow have been harvested, long after the lego towers have been knocked down or the sand castles washed away.

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So, here's our itinerary for the next week: Lots of snuggles and books and playing trains and racecars. Lots of walks in the woods, along the beach, and down the dirt road. And, of course, a bit of dirt digging and planting seeds with Grandpa.

Dirt under the fingernails and hugs around the knees. THAT's what summertime is all about. Ooooh, and some of these great seedballs, too...

Bed shmed

2009-07-08T10:45:00.000-07:00

Big boy beds are highly over-rated; the floor works just fine and is actually Sammy's preferred locale for catching some zzzzzzs.

Piston (the) Cup

2009-07-06T10:13:00.000-07:00

Sam has been a diligent and dedicated potty learner (Oh Lord, yes, I am really posting about this) who tolerates our eager Getsitement over his voiding accomplishments with mild disdain. Giving what is clearly the toddler equivalent of an adolescent eye roll, he waves me away from the bathroom after I place him on his thrown with a request for "Primacy, please". We are admonished to "No clapping" and there is a great deal of modesty about the accomplishments and newly acquired undergarments. He doesn't quite have the hang of anticipating how the plumbing all works - which I'm sure will come later - but he's doing a great job of making regular pit stops.

Right now we're staying focused on the fundamentals..keeping the race car dry and being reassured that life does indeed go on when we have to stop the fun and run to the bathroom. In order to keep things dry and happy we've been setting the timer for every 30 minutes to remind him (and me) to take a trip into the bathroom.

Consequently, we are a house full of interruption and crazy energy as I madly try to wrap things up in tidy 30 minute windows before the kitchen timer forces us to huddle in the powder room. This has resulted in dry underpants (yay!), constant interruption (boo!) and keeping our eyes on the prize...total independence of diapers (yay yay!). It has also resulted in some veeeerrrryyyy loooooonnnnggg days as we hang out around the house rinsing out odorous, wet underwear while waiting for the timer to ding! This rhythmic shift of constantly having our self-imposed exile and total boredom interrupted by the kitchen timer calling us to the bathroom is aggravating for all members of the household. Much to Max's disappointment, there are never freshly baked cookies when that dinger goes off...just a fast dash to the home of the poopy prize.

Fortunately, Sam's a lot like his dad and is pretty easy to reward with small amounts of chocolate. We're big fans of the miniature M&M's, which he has affectionately termed "Chocowit baby gum" as a reward for making a show at the porcelain racetrack. Today I even looked up to see if I could order some Cars M&Ms and was delighted to find that yes, you can get everything ever imagined off of these here internets.

When placing the photo on here to share with all of you, I noticed the photo's title: DISNEY_CAR_lentils.jpg

With those colors, I can see why the good people in Bangalore who are working diligently on the website for Mars North America might be confused and assume that us crazy Americans are buying lentils with pictures of a rusty tow-truck on them.

Ka-Chow!

Beach Boys

2009-07-05T06:45:00.000-07:00

We celebrated the 4th at a friend's beach house and enjoyed an amazing afternoon that transformed into a mystical full moon evening. The boys played in the sand, moved water from buckets, built sand castles, snuck cookies and paddled in the frigid waters of Puget Sound.

Sam demonstrates his patience and determination by delivering water via net. Once again - despite my suggestions to use a bucket - I learn from Sammy that the joy is in the process and not the finished product. This little guy has so much to teach me.

Sam practices sand dives while his Daddy and Max paddle out to the water slide.

Later, as the hot blazes of a glaring mid-Summer sun began to set, we took a magic boat ride. This gave me ample opportunity to cuddle and nuzzle with pudgy arms and thighs that were slippery with SPF and smelled of salt and sun and sandy goodness.

Sam's cheers of "Faster! Faster!" were surprising and delightful to all of us.

Summer...I adore you!

Independence Day

2009-07-04T07:03:00.000-07:00

Operation Queen Car Underwear is officially underway at the Monkey Ranch.

While at the park with a friend yesterday, Sam decided that he was done with this messy diaper business and snuck into the woods, removed his diaper from beneath his pants, and handed me his diaper while proclaiming that he wants to wear underwear. Always.

Fire up the washing machine, load up on poopy prizes, and here we go! Here's to independence!

Real Live Nephew of Uncle Sam

2009-07-04T06:59:00.000-07:00

Happy Fourth of July!

Max, age 3 months
What a firecracker!

The Song Always Ends Too Soon

2009-07-01T20:31:00.000-07:00

Words I will *never* tire of hearing...

"Mommy...come dance with us!"

Why yes, Freddy Mercury, you are correct. It most certainly is a Crazy Little Thing Called Love.

Metamorphosis

2009-07-01T06:44:00.000-07:00

On Max's last day of preschool, his teacher led the class out to the school's Friendship Garden to release little butterflies that had transformed in the weeks before the school year ended. It was magical to witness the little insects fly for the first time after being caged in net. The children and parents had followed their amazing transformation from caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly inside of a classroom full of screaming and curious banshees.

Max was mesmerized and quiet during the entire process, and in this rare opportunity for stillness, one even landed on his red shirt. He stayed very calm until it flew off, and then he cheered that little butterfly's journey as if it's soaring arches were powered by the sheer getsitement of Max's jumps.

Shark Camp

2009-06-29T15:37:00.000-07:00

I'm a veritable machine of efficiency this afternoon as I enjoy the first quiet moments in my house in over two weeks. Sam took a nap (bless you, dear boy) and Max got packed off to "Shark Camp" at the local zoo for the afternoon. Two hours of Nirvana and accomplishment for me.

The quiet stillness coupled with the ability to complete a phone call or task (of which there are many) without someone crying, bleeding, sneezing or fighting is positively motivating. Which is why I'm logged onto this here Internets.

Alright already, Laundry. I hear you whimpering down there.

Photos taken at the Maritime Festival earlier this month.
Video of trout gut removal to follow at a later date.

Harvest

2009-06-29T12:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we harvested garlic and got our garden ready for planting pumpkins. There was much digging, smelling and cheering for the odorous bulbs, as well as discussion of future jack-o-lanterns.

I love how the garden writes chapters in our lives complete with foreshadowing, plot development and the occasional conflict (with pests, weather and sharing of the water hose). Mostly, however, I love the character development of plants and humans as we get to know each other just a little bit better while crouching on the edge of a garden bed.

No One Wants To Be Defeated

2009-06-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

While there is no illuminated staircase and I doubt that Max could defeat an entire street gang in this particular get-up, I hope you still enjoy this little video. It's dedicated with great admiration for the King of Pop and all that his music meant to me in 1983 when I wore out my "Thriller" tape on my Sony Walkman. Sigh.

The 3 minutes of blank screen at the end are due either to (a) my ineptitude at movie editing or (b) a moment of silence as we remember the musical genius that was Michael Jackson. Feel free to acknowledge and move on. Maybe do a little moon walk while you're at it.

Mom - if you have trouble playing the video, try quitting your web browser and then re-opening it and returning to the website. Love you!

Finally

2009-06-28T22:50:00.000-07:00

Really? Has it been THAT long? I guess it has been a while since I've updated on the getsitement around here. Forgive me, peeps.

Summer is in full swing, the sprinkler giggles with nearly naked tots, and I am soaking up sun, dirt, and fresh summer fruit like it might go out of season. The garden beckons at all hours and I find myself resenting the staccato of constant interruption that is the soundtrack of life with two small boys.

We wound up the school year two weeks ago with a mad bonanza of sewing projects, good-bye events, thank you gifts, play dates, and then...Wham-Bam! Right into some out-of-state air travel -- standby style.

We actually did relax a bit while visiting my folks and the rest of my family on a slow, unexpected and relaxed pace. In addition to all of our relaxing, we also managed to squeeze in some swimming with the cousins, a Solstice Water Soaker Fest, Father's Day, multiple Farmer's Markets, a round of antibiotics (Sam), a triathalon (Mr. Wonderful) and a raging bout of GI distress (party of four).

Sure feels good to be back home again...

Atta Boy

2009-06-05T21:00:00.000-07:00

Milestones, Progression and Sunshine have been the themes of our week.

On Wednesday, Max and I went to Kindergarten Orientation to meet his upcoming teachers and schoolmates. The highlight, of course, was that Max rode a school bus for the first time. A big, yellow, "real" school bus from which he might see deer sometime and on which he has to sit on his bottom the WHOLE time.

Clearly, the perspective of viewing the world from the inside of a yellow bus has changed things for Max in ways that I can't really comprehend. I have bittersweet feelings about seeing his little head bopping up the aisle and grabbing a seat, pulling his backpack off and inspecting his lunch before the bus even eases back into motion, driving him down the road and into a world that is his own. I lose my breath for a minute trying to imagine how this can be happening when I remember the tender days in which he'd gleefully scream "SCHOOBUS!" "GAR-BAAAAGE TRUCK!" BACKHOE LOADER!" from his tiny car seat. It never, ever occurred to me that on those buses were someone else's babies who'd been unable to say "Firetruck" without making it sound obscene. Now, it will be our little one taking this new journey.

Max also started swimming lessons this week from the Jedi Swim-Whisperer Magic Swim Coach who has molded the spastic and distracted Max into a focused and hard-working "Super Scooper" in just four short hours. Although we've tried lessons in the past and he has loved them, he never really got the hang of swimming on his own and was terrified to jump into a pool.

This swimming gig has boosted his confidence exponentially and we're delighting in seeing its manifestations throughout the day. He's cooperative, eager and secure; and that makes for a kid whose ready to dive into anything.

Including Kindergarten. Even if he needs a friendly push now and then. Watch how he keeps plugging on...I think he'll make it just fine wherever he needs to go.

Greased Lightning

2009-06-03T07:46:00.000-07:00

The irony of attending a muscle car show the day before GM fell into bankruptcy was not lost on many of the adults waxing nostalgic over the Pontiac GTOs and bitchin' Camaros this weekend. However, all symbolism and nostalgia was absent for my boys, who were much more interested in sticking their tongues out to see their reflection in the shiny and twinkling paint jobs and seeing who could closest to a car WITHOUT touching it.

Sam was also very insistent that he be photographed with all the RED cars and wanting to know when we would go inside and watch the "Cars" show. There are only so many times you can tell a person "This IS the car show...DON'T TOUCH!" before realizing that a Subway sandwich might be much more up his alley.

We met a very nice man who offered to let the boys and one of their buddies climb on into his antique 1923 truck. Which they "shifted", pressed pedals, and turned knobs. The guy laughed as I continued asking "Are you sure this ok?" He seemed delighted that the old girl was still getting giggles from the kids and was very relaxed. Then he told us that his car was one of FIVE still in existence.

I'm pretty sure he was looking for an insurance payout.

And, then...there was a race car that was very kid friendly and clearly the hit of the day.

Oh. Yeah.

Ka-Chow!

Doesn't Miss A Thing

2009-06-02T08:26:00.000-07:00

Preparing for departure to his T-Ball game this weekend, Max looked out the window and calmy stated, "I think we're taking the truck today."

"Oh", I replied "Is Daddy taking the truck?" while quickly running a car seat location /calculation formula in my head.

"No, he didn't say that. But when Daddy wears his brown pants with the paint dots on them and his gray shirt, that usually means we'll be driving in the truck."

It's good to be predictable.

For the record, Mr. Wonderful changed his clothes and they drove in the car. He's crazy like that.

Happy Birthday, Jellie Bean

2009-06-01T11:44:00.001-07:00

Don't look now, but I think someone's got his eye on you :-)

Putting the PTSD in Puget Sound

2009-05-30T15:40:00.000-07:00

I took the boys to the beach one day this week and an array of events occurred which led to much crying, howling, wailing and shivering.

The boys had a bad day, too.

I think we all have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and I'll slowly be working on some beach therapy to get us recovered and geared up for the glorious salvation of Summer.

I'll be introducing sand into the bathtub and adding salt to the sippy cups, hoping to get us all comfortable and ready for more beach play. Or, maybe, we'll just go to the beach and sit on a towel and play quietly as we build sand castles.

Naaah. Not likely.

The boys walked out to this island not normally accessible (nor visible) except during low tide. Note the boots being used as a creative focal point for my picture, not as footwear. Consider this foreshadowing.

The boys had a wonderful time running back and forth to "Candy Island", scooping up kelp and sand dollars and pointing out crabs and jellyfish in the water.

Our friends joined us shortly afterward and I got distracted and the next thing you knew the tide starting rolling in fast. Sammy was up to his neck in COLD tidal water and not happy. I waded out to get him, shuffled the kids back to shore, and resumed crab hunting.

The kids found a lagoon to play in filled with murky black mud that smelled like that doggy bag of garlic clams that you forgot about and left in your car overnight and didn't discover until after it had baked in the hot sun all day. Or the entire month of August.

Sam got stuck in the mud and began crying slash wailing slash shrieking, especially when Max and his friends weren't able to lead him/pull him back to shore. So I went in again. Fully clothed.

I picked Sam up and had to forcefully heave him out of the muck while a ginormous Hoover of mud sucked his crocs down into Middle Earth.

Yes, sigh, The Lightening McQueen Crocs that Sam received for his birthday and that HE LOVES! And that I have yet to even acknowledge with a proper thank-you note to his ever-so-thoughtful Auntie and Uncle and cousins (hi guys! private gratitude to follow, I promise!) Oh, God. I suck.

There was crying and wailing and enough tears to fill that salty lagoon back up to high tide. I offered up an ice cream cone to any kid who could find a shoe.

And then we started salvaging items from the deep that had been buried since 1978 and I began to fear that someone was going to pull up Jimmy Hoffa or a jellyfish.

Did I mention that it smelled bad?

We pulled up something vaguely resembling a human limb and my peeps abandoned me.

Except for Sam, who was Never Ever Not Ever Never going to leave until he had two red plastic "Ka-Chow!" crocs back in his ever-loving Queen Car hands.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

There comes that point in parenthood (ok, life) when you just have to step back and look at yourself. Look at yourself in all your ridiculousness trying to make it all better for your kid and at the same time sinking further and further into the detritus of Jimmy Hoffa and jellyfish and ooze. And you shake yourself sober and make the rational decision to release the Queen and offer up a single red croc as a gift to the Sea.

Yeah. You can imagine how well THAT went over.

Just as I was hauling the shivering, salty mess of sorrowful Sam from the burial at sea of his beloved Queen, Max decided to show me the bottom of his foot.

Which I will spare you, and will now attempt to fill my mind with pictures of newborn puppies and alpine wildflowers and a rhapsody of harp music. "Lalalalaalala can't think about the foot" Gag.

Let's just say that there was much gash and ouch and salt and, well, discomfort. And a two lane road to cross at "rush hour" on the island.

Like the limping little sobbing Froggers that we are, we made it across the road and cleaned ourselves off as best we could with 14 wet wipes and a couple of beach towels.

"Hey guys..." I asked when we were back in the car..."Was this fun or WHAT?"

You be the judge.

"Fun" Run

2009-05-29T20:56:00.000-07:00

The boys and I "ran" in a local 3K tonight. Max was off like a rocket at the start and Sam burned all his fuel in the first 100 yards trying to keep up with him. But he made a strong finish to the cheers of admiring fans and the motivational coaching that I gave him "to finish fast like Lightening McQueen!" It was all grins and bouncing curls from Sam until Max yelled out from the crowd at the finish line, "MOM! They're out of Otter Pops AND Popsicles!"

It sounded like reverb to me. Echoing over the cheers - in Chariots of Fire style slow motion - I watched the descent into total meltdown as Sam realized he would be denied. Surrounded by over 300 children slurping down frozen corn syrupy goodness; their elbows sticky with orange happiness and Fudgsicle wonder. Right in front of him. And. there. was. none. for. him. My ears will forever echo with the wails.

Fortunately, a quick stop at the mini mart saved the day. And a phone call to Daddy to tell him what great little racers he's got:

"My won the race, Daddy!"

"I picked it up right at the 2K mark like we talked about and still had a kick at the finish, Daddy. I think the key was running through 4 lawn sprinklers to stay hydrated"

Excellent post-race recovery, Sam.

A Perfect Start

2009-05-29T08:33:00.000-07:00

I was aiming for a morning with no whining and lots of smiles.

Whole wheat and chocolate Dutch Baby with a hot cup of coffee.

Whole Wheat (and other additives) American Preschoolers.

Things worked out just as I'd hoped.

TGIF!

Summer of Love

2009-05-27T20:39:00.000-07:00

My Free!

2009-05-06T23:25:00.001-07:00

Ask Sam how old he is, and he'll happily reply, "MY FREE!" and hold up the appropriate number of fingers. Or not.

Today was his birthday, and well, it kind of got consumed with other events. As per usual with Sam, he just rolled with it and was happy to have a "hot dog day" in which his mother offered him nitrates at every meal and shouted out "Freebird" like the true Lynyrd Skynyrd fan that I'm not. I guess I should probably put that lighter away, too.

I love you, little Sammy bird. Hot dogs and 'queen cars the whole year through for you, my darling boy.

Wisdom Beyond Years

2009-05-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

"I already know what a funeral is.." Max softly told me this morning when I shared sad news with him.

"..it's where you look at someone's picture and you know that they'll always be with you."

Grandma LaVonne
December 16, 1916 - May 6, 2009

Smoovie Night

2009-04-24T08:23:00.000-07:00

The hour(s) between dinner and bedtime can get pretty silly and whiny and destructive with two tired little monkey boys and a worn-out Mama.

Last night we made strawberry yogurt "smoovies" and headed for a relaxing bubble bath. The perfect way to end a long and busy day.

Out On A Limb

2009-04-24T08:15:00.000-07:00

I predict that Max (and eventually, Sam) will go lots of fun places in this tree. On any given day, it's either a horse, or an airplane or rocket. I stay pretty close to him while he's on these journeys; weeding the endless abundance that is sprouting around our yard. I just love to hear where he's going and how fond he is of this special, quiet space.

Happy Earth Day

2009-04-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

Painting by Max, age 5

Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chunky Cheese

2009-04-19T22:32:00.000-07:00

I took the boys to a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese this weekend.

The End.

PS: We survived. Barely.

PPS: This is what happens to your brain if you go to a Chunky Cheese. You are never able to form an original thought again. This is a result of the creepy mouse and all his carni kicks who suck the thinking parts of your brain out and replace it with the part that enables you to scan two small children in a moving, whining and germ-laden crowd.

Leather Racetracks

2009-04-12T21:55:00.001-07:00

I knew I was doomed.

There's nothing quite like a dinner party audience peering from the window of a delicate sans children home in a torrential rainstorm to make the unloading of a minivan with two small boys look like "Hi, we're your hillbilly cuzins from the south comin' to move in fer a spell, don't mind if we chain our dog to yer fence, do ya?" We were an assembly of raincoats, backpacks, books, Legos and matchbox cars; the Easter Lily in floral wrap that had crashed madly on I-5 and dumped soil on my seat yet narrowly missed the freshly baked hot-cross buns; the stomping in puddles and inspecting of worms on the walkway into the house.

We can hardly spell subtle, let alone demonstrate it.

Our gracious hosts were lovely, inviting and warm. As coats were hung and a tour given, I noted that there was crystal on the table. And china. And chocolate Easter bunnies in pretty gold ribbon so confidently placed in the white cloth seats where the children would sit.

I was doomed.

This lovely Easter dinner was at the home of friends who are newly married and in that blissful cocoon of "kids are something cute and sweet to LOOK FORWARD TO" portion of their lives. Max hadn't even taken his shoes off before asking where the toys were, and I ssshhhhd him immediately with THE EVIL EYE as our happy hostess escorted him to a coffee table with ink pens and construction paper. And olives. With pits. Which he ate and then nearly choked on and spit/dribbled over the other guests.

"At least he likes vegetables" they offered weakly.

I was doomed.

There was a lovely little girl there, close to the same age as Max, who quietly put on headphones and plugged in her personal "My Little Pony" DVD and was never heard from again. Until she blasted the boys on Wii bowling and the entire dinner party apologized without sincerity or irony that she was a "wringer".

I was doomed.

There were salad plates each adorned with a chocolate brown, jewel-sized box of truffles decorated jauntily with yellow marshmellow Peeps placed on top. Which my boys demolished before ever a green leaf could come between their lips OR the Easter blessing could be given by our generous host.

In that quiet moment of grace, when not even a single serving of tossed greens had been tasted by any dinner guest, Sam was screaming "MEAT!!!" at the succulent Easter ham sliced at the center of the table.

I was doomed.

I begged forgiveness and quickly added some ham to my salad so that I could slice it for the meat-eater on my left. At which point the meat-eater on my right whined about wanting his "BIG" and *not* cut into non-chokeable portions. I sliced, I diced, and wait - there was more - passed the green baby peas and asparagus with sliced radish, yes I know you don't want yours cut but you'll choke on this grizzle, hold on, I'm cutting it as fast as I can, no you may not eat that Peep, no you may not leave the table, use your manners, please, try some of these potatoes, they have cheese - your favorite!, no more bread until you finish what's on your plate, yes, I see that you have a knife, please don't put it in your mouth, NO MORE PEEPS!, say "no thank you", yes, I'm getting you some more meat.

I was doomed.

Our host madly searched the inventory of Nickelodeon, Sprout, Disney, etc. to provide the necessary kid crack for us to finish our delightful meal. I suggested we consult our savior, Roary The Racing Car. "But, it's only 11 minutes", he replied with regret and apology.

Dude. That's MY 11 minutes of peace and quiet for the day and it's 11 minutes more than we're getting right now. I say it's worth it, don't you? He smiled in silent agreement.

I was doomed.

We wrapped up a lovely meal, delightful conversation, and the kids were quiet for 11 minutes. A wineglass was broken AND IT DIDN'T INVOLVE ONE OF MY CHILDREN! I started to not feel so doomed.

I excused myself from the clean-up because the last thing an embarrassed guest needs is an audience (spoken from the voice of experience). I casually walked into the t.v. room to see what was going on with the Sproutlets, only to discover to my horror that the nubby soft leather sofa had a distinctive "Sammy Swirl" etched into it. In BALLPOINT PEN.

Choking back tears and rage, I sputtered out the "WHO DID THIS", only to get the cheerful reply of my primary suspect, Sam "My did it. My made a racetrack!" So proud.

So doomed.

Holy &*\ *($% @&)*@. Seriously. Could this get any more painful? I guess it just did.

With a perky criminal on my hip, I went back into the dining room to face the music.

"I'll see your broken crystal and slightly torn tablecloth and raise you a ruined Corinthian leather sofa."

Our host scoffed graciously, waving his hand as in "no big deal". Then he grabbed the sofa seat and a leather-cleaner-kit still in its box, scurried off to the kitchen and went to town. Serious work and life-saving attempts were made on the sofa.

I was doomed.

And then there was dessert. And an Easter Egg hunt.

I offered up Mr. Wonderful's mad skills at tanning animal hide and suggested a particular cow at the family farm that I had in mind, but people thought I was joking.

I was doomed.

Doomed and blessed. Blessed with a minivan of monkeyboys who are nothing less than exuberant, eager, and excited. Easter and otherwise.

Upon returning home and after getting the boys to bed, I called my friend and apologized profusely. She laughed it off in that way that proved that she has perspective and elegance and a keen sense of humor.

I told her that when she has kids, they'll be welcome to come to my house and write on my sofa, key my car and vomit profusely on my carpet.

I'm doomed.

I hope she takes me up on it.

Muddy Morning Easter

2009-04-12T12:22:00.000-07:00

What's a Mama to do on a muddy, rainy Easter morning with two candy-infused bunnies who woke before dawn and are bouncing off the walls (and each other)?

The same thing I always do when Mr. Wonderful's out of town and I'm a loss for activity and at the end of my rope....

Find a tractor.

Easter Eggs hide very nicely on a road grader tire.

I was particularly proud of this one.

My bunny loves a big tread.

Who needs bow ties and white shoes when you live on a dirt road?

Eggs also hide very nicely on a roller, too. I think Max just found a green egg!

Hoppin' Down the Bunny Trail

2009-04-11T22:32:00.000-07:00

Spring Break

2009-04-11T20:28:00.000-07:00

Last week's vacation brought us closer to bright sunshine, warm hearts and unrestrained Joy. A winning combination.

"It's like a hot tub full of SAND!" - Max

Carry That Weight

2009-03-31T09:39:00.000-07:00

My grandmother, age 93, is resting comfortably today after undergoing surgery yesterday to remove a cancerous tumor. The burden on my father to coordinate her care and fill the void of last year's enormous loss of Grandpa has been great. Dad has rallied, organized and supported a team of cousins, friends, nurses and doctors to help manage his mother's care; all from nearly 2,000 miles away. He does so with humor, friendship, love and a remarkable capacity to curb his frustration as he deals with the bureaucracies and complexities of caring for a loved one from far away.

The love that my father has for his mother -- and her for him -- is a beautiful example of our capacity as humans to experience devotion and respect and appreciation throughout a lifetime. Just five minutes with them offers a glimpse of tenderness, concern, love and usually, a hearty laugh. She gave him the gift of total, unconditional love as she raised him and now he offers it back to her in spades.

The decision to operate on my 93-year old grandmother has weighed heavily on Dad, and it was hard for him to consider putting her very fragile body under the stress of surgery and recovery. I know he questioned it and worried over it, but apparently, it was the right decision to make. The relief for my father, and those who care about him and Grandma, is enormous.

++++++++++++

Some might consider my father's interest in YouTube videos to be yet another addition to the eccentricity column for my old man. On a semi-regular basis, Dad finds videos that he considers might be of interest to our boys and e-mails them to me. Over the past year, I've probably lost nearly a day of my life watching home-made videos that he's forwarded of animals at "watering holes"; tractors plowing wheat fields at record-breaking speed while backtracked to an Aerosmith song; and ancient folk singers scratching out decades-old recordings on tinny black and white film. Many of them I've viewed while shaking my head at my old man; many others have remained neglected in my in-box.

Today he sent us this little diddy from his i-phone, "Ikey", with the note that I may or may not want to share it with my boys. This generally means that they would probably get immense pleasure and delight from it, but that I might not want the behavior replicated in my living room.

He's thoughtful like that.

In fact, my father is one of the most thoughtful people I've ever known. Quirky, for sure, and absent-minded on occasion, but truly at the top of the list of thoughtful and caring human beings to ever walk this great, green earth.

And so today, while I watched this video, I thought of my Dad. Not just because he sent it, and not even because the Beatles will always remind me of my childhood lived to the soundtrack of Abbey Road. I was reminded of he Christmas when our family received a book on juggling and Dad learned a few tricks. Wham-bam, next thing you knew, the guy was constantly in motion. Oranges, apples, softballs, and small animals were tossed in the air -- much to the delight, laughter and cheers of us small kids.

I also thought of my dad as the man he is today: Juggling his mom, career, marriage, fatherhood, grandfatherhood, and the enormous heart of his that feels so much joy and pain. Carrying that weight a long time.

But, no matter how many balls in the air, TJ still makes me laugh and cheer for him.

This morning, Dad is sitting in a hospital watching over Grandma's golden slumbers, hoping to make it back home soon, and searching Ikey for some distraction. And I am still laughing and cheering for him.

Thank you, Dad. Thank you for showing me that the love you take is equal to the love you make.

+++++++++++++++++
In honor of my Dad and his 65th birthday that I did not acknowledge on the internet last week, I offer you this four minutes of spectacularness:

Seem's Like Just Yesterday...

2009-03-30T11:33:00.000-07:00

Happy 5th Birthday, Max. Thanks for the laughs, the smiles and all the hugs. You make me very getsited to be your mama.

Dude, Where's My Spring?

2009-03-15T11:15:00.001-07:00

The Ides of March brought a little winter tease. The barely bursting buds of Spring are not happy. The monkey boys, however, were quite delighted...

I call this photo "restraint". My arm still hurts from to holding myself from shoving snow down his pants.

Mancakes

2009-03-15T07:31:00.001-07:00

Kitchen Krakatoa

2009-03-13T20:32:00.000-07:00

Max burst into the house upon arrival from preschool asking if we had the "gredients" in our kitchen necessary to make a "balcano", like, um "NOW!". The urgent young vulcanologist barked out "baking soda, food color and binegar" faster than you could yell Vesuvius, so out to the yard we went with all the makings of sodium bicarbonate lava.

Pompei Before the Flow:

It was pretty exciting, in a bubbling pink kind of way, and I'm sorry that I don't have any action shots to show for it. But photographing an erupting volcano requires skills that I apparently don't possess. Getsited little boys...those are not nearly as rare around these parts.

Fountain of Youth

2009-03-12T13:14:00.000-07:00

I've found the secret to feeling like a 5th grader = get a new little bike and a cavity filled on the same day.

Who says you can't go back?

WonderBowl

2009-03-10T21:05:00.000-07:00

Check out Sam in his bowling shoes. This week, he LOVED wearing someone else's shoes. Which was good, since Elton John didn't seem to mind that he was borrowing his cape, either.

Win-Win.

Queen Car Smile

2009-03-08T22:04:00.001-07:00

Prepared For Emergency Landing

2009-03-07T08:54:00.000-08:00

Much to our collective delight, we're enjoying a spontaneous visit from one our favorite people this weekend. The boys and I loaded up for a late night airport pick-up last night; dragging blankets, dollies, sippy cups, books, bathrobes, etc. As we sleepily stumbled into the car well after 9 pm, Max scurried back to the house to get his shoes.

"Oh, sweetie, you don't need to bring shoes..we won't be getting out of the car," I explained.

"I'm bringing them just in case..." he offered, sounding just like his emergency-contingency plan father, who would be so proud. And then he completed his sentence,

"...we want to stop for an ice cream cone."

My sweet-tooth DNA overpowers the always-be-prepared chromosomes. Yes!

Time Marches On

2009-03-06T15:00:00.001-08:00

Oh, thank goodness it's March already! I had been fearing that February would last forever. It's not even the end of the first week of the month and we've already jumped some big hurdles that were hampering us last month.

On Monday, Max got to spend some time at the hospital getting tubes in his ears to help ward off the transient synovitus that rendered him unable to walk twice during February. He's happy, healthy and selectively tuning out my requests for him to wash his hands while simultaneously jumping off the furniture. Never again will I take his bionic hearing/jumping achievements for granted! Additionally, both of our cars were returned (finally!) from the collision repair shop where they each had multiple visits due to our "his and hers" car accidents of February. I will forever fear the little red corvette (baby, you were much too fast) and won't ever again curse a safety restraint after both boys escaped unscathed from their first vehicular bang up. No one has fallen down the steps yet in March, and the sun is shining in all her Springtime glory. So far, March is singing a pretty pleasant tune.

And today, I registered my baby for kindergarten. I'm not sure how it is that I was able to unstrap him from his infant carrier and watch him bound into the gymnasium of an elementary school, because I swear he just spit up all over my nursing bra. Gaaahhhh! Where is the damn pause button on these kids????

Our tour of the elementary school went exceptionally well and I was delighted to see how eager and curious Max was about all the new places to discover at school. His favorite was the library where he found books on diggers, dinos and whales faster than you can say dewey decimal. I think he'll do just fine.

To celebrate his foray into academia, we went out for a warm cocoa in the sunshine. We talked about all the neat things we'd seen at the school, what he was getsited about, and then gulped down the whipped cream while contemplating the sweetness of life.

While sipping my coffee and smiling at my big kid smeared with cocoa and cream, I looked out the window of the cafe at a group of moms who were gathering with strollers and tiny tots with fists full of cheerios and sippy cups and blankies tucked warmly around their pudgy red cheeks. Some of the babies were nodding off, others were fighting the restraint, and the moms all had a familiar look. Distracted, eager and exhausted. Ready for some exercise after being up for seven hours already and desperate for the fellowship of a kindred soul who was sleep deprived but still making a go of it.

I watched them gather, hug, and coo; recognizing myself in each of them. And I suddenly ached. I ached for the stroller that I no longer push. Lumps formed in my throat as I tried desperately to swallow my coffee; struggling with balancing the passage of time and a hot caffeinated beverage. The next thing I knew, all the patrons of the coffee shop joined in singing the chorus of "Sunrise, Sunset" while I watched my former self out the window and saw the reflection of my current self tearing up.

That was when it hit me. Max is totally ready for kindergarten, and I am so confident in his ability to thrive and shine and learn and discover and wonder. He will be fine.

He will be fine without me pushing him along, handing him Cheerios and cheering for the garbage trucks, airplanes and doggies. He's no longer a tot in a stroller with floppy hat tied underneath his three chins. He's a running, jumping, getsited big guy who is ready to learn and discover and begin a new voyage.

All aboard? I guess so...

3 days old, which was really just last week. I swear it was.

February: So Short, Yet Soooo Loooong

2009-02-22T14:22:00.001-08:00

Dark, gloomy and cold February has never been one of my favorite months. She's bleak and boring and seems to drag on forever, despite her fewer than normal days on the calendar.

I'm guessing even the Romans were a bit tired of February's drearyness and figured that by shortening it up to a tiny little 28 days (with the bonus "leap!" every four years), we'd be able to move on with Spring so much faster. Oh, if only we could just hit the "fast foreman" button, as our kids like to call it, on the entire month of February and start the revival of Spring and her beauty of new growth and rebirth that comes in March.

Poor Max is really not digging this particular February. We just returned from urgent care where they confirmed his second ear infection of the month and he is now on his third round of antibiotics with a prescription date beginning in month 2/2009. He's a fevery, whiny and cranky little guy who needs lots of cuddles and loves and assurances. Right now he is snuggled up on our bed napping. Yes, you read that correctly. Max is NAPPING! Napping! For the second day in a row, the child who never ever would nap as a baby without a Barnum and Bailey type production involving the entire four-book volume set of Curious George stories, a giant burrito wrap to house his flailing arms and legs, and 6 disc concert medley of lullabies and yoga music, has gently fallen asleep on his own.

Maybe those hibernating bears are onto something. Next year I might recommend just sleeping through the 28 days.

Mine?

2009-02-13T18:39:00.000-08:00

The boys worked very hard this week to show the Valentine love to their friends at preschool.

Max carefully cut out nearly 35 hearts for both his class and his brother's class.

What Sam lacks in fine motor skills, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm for his brother's mad skizzor skillz.

"Give me a 'V'!"

It would not surprise me in the least if I were to discover 34 new gray hairs this week. The fact that 34 happens to be exactly the same number of Valentine's cards that needed to leave the house this week may or may not be coincidental.

Pet Shop Boy

2009-02-12T07:57:00.000-08:00

Max has discovered a recession-proof business and I'm encouraging him to hash out the details in a business plan. Right now, he's really in more of the pre-planning stages where we act out what's going to happen when his retail shop goes live. I'm sure Sam Walton's mother or Donald Trump's did the same thing with their kids.

We've been playing "International Pet Store", because domestic retail is just too limiting for his clientele. The young proprietor artfully displays his stuffed animals throughout the living room, sorting them by category, and then invites me into his shop.

Yesterday, I scored a great deal on an Orca whale for a buck and he even threw in the fish that I'd need to feed it for free. I couldn't get out of there without a Mama horse and her baby colt, and he suggested that I go next door to the feed store to get her some oats. Then, because he understands service, he offered to get the feed for me and even loaded it into my truck.

But here's where I think his business will really succeed: As he walked me to my truck he gave me a 100% guarantee that none of my pets will ever die.

I'm looking forward to investing in this kid and expect phenomenal returns, with or without an economic stimulus package.

You're Kidding, Right?

2009-02-10T14:07:00.001-08:00

Please smack me around at tell me this isn't really happening today.

Please tell me these aren't really MY children in MY yard.

Please tell me that isn't MY driveway that will soon need to be shoveled in order for me to leave the house today.

Tell me that THIS kid isn't totally getsited.

This one, too!

Please tell me that you'll be stopping by with a snow shovel and a margarita or three. Brownies wouldn't be a bad idea, either. We'll be here...

Some Like It Hot

2009-01-31T09:40:00.000-08:00

Admittedly, my game was not on yesterday.

Thinking that Sam's shoes and socks were in the car, I took him to preschool in bare feet (it's the way we roll around here; it being the Season of Mud and little kicking feet). Alas, no brown sneakers, or any other pair of shoes for the boy were to be found in the nether region that is my rolling wardrobe, also known as the minivan. Another mom at preschool had my back with a spare pair of shoes in Sammy's size in the trunk of her car.

Great!

Except that they were pink Chuck Taylor's like this:

Adorable. Crazy Cute!

Sammy, not such a fan.

I really didn't think he'd notice or care about them being pink, but he knew they weren't his and he kept crying, untying them, and wailing "Take OFF! Take OFF!, NOOOOOOO. Not me shoe. Not me shoe".

I can't wait to take this kid bowling someday.

Sam managed to pull it together and suffer through the indignity of 1.5 hours in pink high tops and didn't ask for a Cher CD or request Birdcage in the Netflix queue.

Not that I would have a problem with either of those things, nor do I have a problem with boys loving the rose and purple hues and wanting to wear them. As for us, I think there is enough John Deere green and Caterpillar yellow around here to overwhelm any eclectic celebration of pink.

Garbage Day :: Pele style

2009-01-28T21:02:00.000-08:00

The bane of my existence, the thorn in all my sides, and the straw that will eventually break this Mama's back just became eligible for the Euro league.

Max's new constant sidekick, the soccer ball, decided this week that it needed to be a participant on our weekly garbage retrieval mission. A very active participant.

With his trusty black and white sidekick at his feet, Max was running in lime green boots, jumping through muddy and rocky puddles, kicking his ball into landscaping, down ditches, and into every thorny briar patch while completely oblivious to the world around him. He aimed for the goal which would be his brother's "go cart" which was in constant motion as little Sam propelled it over the lunar-landing sized pot holes of our dirt/mud road.

Someday this won't be fun. Someday it will just be a chore that I do on a lonely morning as I head home from the bus stop with a cup of hot coffee that will still be hot when I get home. I'll miss the busy feet and bopping heads of these precious boys who do not yet grasp the efficiency of a straight line.

Though never fast, getting from Point A to Point B with these two monkey boys is always entertaining. I just need to convince David Beckham [and myself] be that the future of soccer depends on the joy of rainy Monday mornings and a full recycling bin.

F-Bomb Right on Target

2009-01-27T20:27:00.000-08:00

Sammy dropped his first F-bomb yesterday.

Getting out of the car, he looked down at his feet, realized that his shoes were off, and said, "Fwuk".

Like he owned the word.

"What did you just say?" I asked with a cross of astonishment and incredulousness.

And again, "FWUK!", he repeated, this time louder.

Before I could say another word, he told me straight up,
"Me say like Daddy."

Of course you do, my son, of course you do. Because apples don't fall far from targets or trees.

Encore!

2009-01-26T13:21:00.000-08:00

Being four years old, Max's experience with symphony concerts is pretty much limited to the end credits of "Little Einsteins". So before taking him to the local youth symphony this weekend to hear "Peter And The Wolf", I had a chat with him about how it was a "sit down and listen" kind of place. His response was "Will there be CURTAINS?" and much getsitement over the drapery potential. Then he added that he might need to wear a button down shirt.

And then he told me about the portfolio he's putting together for next week's episode of Martha Stewart Living. Draperies and collars, sheesh.

While he was hardly able to sit still for like, um, a note, he really enjoyed seeing the instruments and watching the musicians, all the more intriguing because they were teens. Almost kids! With trumpets! Dreams really do come true!

There were two exceptional moments of the afternoon. The first occurred when the African American conductor came out to great applause in his tuxedo and acknowledged the crowd with a slight tip of his baton. As he turned to face his orchestra, and the concert hall hushed in anticipation, Max asked in a stage whisper, "Is THAT RockoBAHma?". Hi..it's us...from the sticks..don't get out to the CITY much over here. But truly, it made me smile, and not just from awkward embarrassment. When a small child sees a person of a different race whom he mistakes for the President of the United States, that tells me that trumpets and curtains aren't the only dreams that really do come true.

My favorite memory of the afternoon was watching Max and his buddy, Charlie, silently "conduct" Eine Klein Nachtmusik from their seats. The boys were too small to hold down the seat bottoms and their little legs kept folding up on them like manila envelopes. There they were, sunken down with knees at their chest, tennis shoes banging at the edge of their rising seats, grinning wildly to Mozart and sharing the joy of the violins. When the piece was over, Max told me he couldn't WAIT to tell to Sammy about it.

The violins weren't the only thing pulling on the [heart] strings.

We The People

2009-01-20T14:38:00.000-08:00

Under the Influence

2009-01-16T12:04:00.000-08:00

Influenza. Nothing fun about it. My cells are hosting some sort of viral "Burning Man" festival in which there is much dividing and raging and kinesis going on. I'm the last person in our household to host such and event, and based upon my heightened state of whinyness, I'm thinking that I host quite the flu rager.

Note to self: Next time, try not to be so hospitable.

Photo courtesy of yahoo.com

Coffee Talk

2009-01-14T13:10:00.000-08:00

Looking up from the Wall Street Journal, Mr. Wonderful comments with coffee cup in hand...

"He really does look like Hugh Hefner right now," directing his glance to the couch across the room.

Max, a mess of fever and bed head, has his flannel pajama top unbuttoned; all the better with which to prominently display his prized shark tooth necklace. The shark bathrobe adds a finishing touch to preschool's patriarch of the grotto.

If it weren't for the 45 decibels of Go, Diego Go! blaring from the t.v., I might be mistaken, too.

Happy Birthday To You...

2009-01-13T15:03:00.001-08:00

Virtual hugs, virtual kisses and virtual birthday wishes. May the year ahead bring great happiness, health and humor. Thanks for all that you are.

I love you, Mom.

Stawberry Sharkcake

2009-01-09T10:27:00.000-08:00

Our kids really love hearing stories about me and Mr. Wonderful as children. I imagine it's because they can't believe that their Mommy in child-form ever existed. Apparently the thought of me in pig tails on a Big Wheel is not unlike imagining a dinosaur...alluring, intangible and well, extinct.

This Christmas, Max really wanted to hear about what Santa brought me as a child. I know that I obsessed over presents like any kid, and I remember the utter delight and thrill of Christmas mornings on Oak Street. I also remember my parents drinking lots of coffee and looking really bed-heady while my brother and I jumped around and shrieked and had all kinds of discovery fun. But upon reflection, I couldn't easily remember what I got when I was four. And naturally, that's what Max was curious about... what I got when I was precisely four, five and six, etc. I'll admit, I faked my way through most of his questions, but I did remember one year with distinct clarity.

My mother made me a beautiful dark blue dress with tiny red strawberries and a white collar that I affectionately and cleverly termed my "strawberry dress." I loved it. I loved it because it was adorable and pretty, but also because it was made especially for me. Even at the age of five I knew that no one else would have one like it. Later, in my teen years when I just wanted to blend in with the crowd and be EXACTLY like everyone else, that would be a huge detraction. But as a little one with straight bangs and red mary janes, I really dug my unique strawberry dress.

This year I decided to borrow a tip from my mother's playbook and make adorable, matching fruit-themed dresses with Peter Pan collars for the boys for Christmas.

JUST KIDDING!

Instead, I made these bathrobes. I chose something that wouldn't have to be worn in public because my handywork is less than handy. However, I prefer to view a crooked seam as a sign that it's handmade by someone who cares about you and doesn't happen to work in a Chinese prison camp. Max loves his robe and calls it his "snuggly" and wants it on as soon as he gets out of the bath and first thing in the morning. I love how he is a 75 year old lady who is ready for a re-run of Murder, She Wrote and a side of Metamucil while being trapped in an active shark-obsessed preschooler's body. Sam, on the other hand, screams and cries whenever the plush straight jacket comes near him. Even hanging on the towel hook, the vintage race car fleece makes him upset and elicits long wails of "Nooooooo! Me no wear it!"

I'm totally not taking it personally, but you know, if Santa forgets to fill his stocking next year I won't be demanding a recount. Maybe I'll take him to the mall next year and make him get his picture taken in it on Santa's lap. I'm totally not petty.

I think I will title this photo "Ironic Moment of Christmas Morning 2008".

This was taken during the only three seconds of Sam's entire life in which he will smile and wear a bathrobe simultaneously. Caught on film ... brilliant. I think Max was pouting because I asked him to put down his Orca Whale Rescue Helicopter. In addition to petty, I'm also mean.

It was our nephew who really stole the fashion show later and showed how to wear a robe like you own it. This kid's got style.

Giggle, Giggle, Read

2009-01-08T14:40:00.001-08:00

I especially enjoy reading books to the boys that does not involve things that (a) destroy the earth, (b) eat other members of their species, or (c) make me queasy trying to sound out the 45 syllables that only a paleontologist would find pronounceable.

Aside from its obvious developmental and "intellectual" benefits, reading gives me that fleetingly rare opportunity to snuggle and cuddle my very busy boys, while also getting me in close proximity to gently pull their fingers out of their noses without having to actually say the most oft repeated words of motherhood..."fingers out of noses".

Much to our collective delight, Santa brought some great books this year. This one is a huge hit:

We've been huge fans of they whacky antics of Duck since we first laughed together in Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type. Other than by enjoying an ice cream cone or being hungry for change, the boys have learned almost everything that they know about the US electoral process -- other than that Mommy and Daddy disagree about it a lot -- from Duck For President.

Thump, Quack, Moo hit the nail on the head again and had the boys giggling and begging for me to read it again. And again. And again. When we read this book together they lean forward, one on each side of me, and look at each other to share the joy of hysterical laughter. Sammy won't do it until he gets the cue from Max, and then he's a mess of lumpy laughter. Max just giggles until he can't hear a word without laughing.

Of course it's contagious, and since laughter is the one thing I will never complain about catching from my kids, I love this book.

I Can See Clearly Now (although, still got the rain)

2009-01-07T14:22:00.000-08:00

While going to pick up my new eye glasses today, Max wanted to know why he and Sammy weren't getting them and Daddy and Mommy were (ever the egalitarian). I explained to him about how our eyes age and we start to see differently etc., and that we have to take good care of our eyes to keep them healthy and strong. We do that by eating our vegetables and not watching too much t.v. and reading lots of books with good lighting. Admittedly, I had a minor agenda to share, but it's a parental right, er, obligation.

Taking it all in, Max asked...

"Does planting things make your eyes healthy?"

"Hmmm", I replied, "I think planting is always a good choice, Max."

"Good. Because that's what I love to do most!"

Healthy choices for 2009.

May we all see things so clearly in the year ahead.

Bloggers note: my prescription sunglasses were not correct and had to be sent back. The optometrist apologized and asked if a week would be okay or if I'd need them sooner? Dude, you know where I live. No, I don't think I'll be seeing the sun until April, so next week should be just fine.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

2008-12-24T22:57:00.000-08:00

And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Just this blogger's mouse.

Stop on by, Big Guy. Cookies and reindeer treats await...

Merry Christmas to All
And to All A Good Night!

Snowmageddon 2008

2008-12-24T11:23:00.000-08:00

I never thought I would ever write these words...I'm so glad it's finally raining!

The cozy blankets of snow that have been falling for the past 10 days have been a blessing of sorts. We're healthier than any December since bringing the little petri dishes into our lives, since we've been unable to interact with the outside world and therefore unable to collect its germs. Long, hibernating nights during this Solstice week have made for happy little morning bears (and well-rested Mama and Papa bears, too).

The week before Christmas this year has found us gift-making instead of buying, since driving to shops is on the list of dangerous activities that might also include eating radioactive waste and playing hide and seek with tiger sharks. We've enjoyed extraordinary meals prepared from the contents of our freezer/pantry and have managed to get equal amounts of energy-sapping snow shoveling and cozy couch cuddling in each day. Mr. Wonderful's daily trek to the gas station to see if the paper delivery truck made it (Yay! Boo! Yay!) have kept us connected to the outside world and its necessary provisions.

I've really enjoyed this week of having our family together to focus on what matters most to us this season...each other.

Well, that and dry socks.

Just a little off the top, please

2008-12-23T08:11:00.000-08:00

It was time. The curls were fraying out and my little man was beginning to impersonate a small troll spinning upon the top of a pencil. The little devil wings above his ears were sprouting into horns and we made the family decision for a FIRST HAIRCUT.

Mr. Wonderful and Max have built a beautiful relationship around their trips to the barber together; replete with lollipops, trucks and a stop at the Daddy Store (aka hardware store). Although it was very hard for me to undo the apron strings and let Daddy take him for his first haircut, I decided that this was a gift that needed to be shared with Sam, too.

I only cry about the lost curls three or four times a day and keep wondering who this big boy is who showed up at our house and keeps calling me "Mommy." He's cute, though, and he seems to really like it here, so we're going to keep him. And the little bag of curls that I've taped to the refrigerator.

Happy Golden Days of Yore

2008-12-17T20:35:00.001-08:00

I've been searching in my ornament boxes for something to put on our tree that doesn't have wheels, treads, propellers, a sword, or a corn cob pipe. Even my favorite glass icicles, dangling all shimmery and oh-so-breakably, add a rather phallic tone to the Man Tree in our living room. The Man Tree is complete with a star on the top of it that Max made in preschool out of an empty roll of toilet paper covered in aluminum foil. If an empty roll of toilet paper doesn't scream male to me, then I don't know what does.

While plucking through these boxes of Christmases-past in search of something that represents the feminine in our family, I came across a picture.

A family photo taken ten Christmases ago, when my brother and I both had hands without gold bands and not even a glimmer of the little monkey boys who would one day change the holiday season forever for us. We look well-rested, unfrazzled, and well, calm.

It was the Christmas in which Mr. Wonderful asked me to do him the honor of becoming his bride, and my grandparents had come out to visit. Grandma has on a festive vest and I'm sure she told Grandpa to wear The Red Shirt. Or maybe she didn't say a word, but after fifty Christmases together, he knew.

We went to visit my mom's cousin and his family and shared our last Christmas with my Great Aunt Valerie, who had a tradition of sewing matching night gowns and night shirts for me and my brother every year. We joked about sleepwear while drinking martinis and eating cannelloni by candlelight. My little cousin, who now towers over me and knows all the songs being played in the Brass Plum section of Nordstrom, was five and she BELIEVED. Her mom believed, too. We all believed that year.

The next year, for the first time in my life, I didn't come home for Christmas. Mr. Wonderful and I shared our first Christmas tree and started our own family traditions that continue now and will continue for our boys in the Christmases to come. Hopefully some of these traditions and memories will even remain well after I'm no longer in the picture.

The holidays, while certainly merry and bright, also bring out the ghosts of Christmas Past, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. The ache can be overwhelming, especially at a time of year when we're supposed to be happy and bombarded with imagery of family and sentiment and mournful versions of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".

Today I send out hugs to all who are missing dear ones. Whether that footprint is fresh or old, it still leaves a mark. Polaroids don't replace the hugs and laughter shared over a glass of eggnog. But I'll offer a toast to those no longer decorating the tree, and to those who still make it merry and bright while feeling the pull of the past.

*Clink*

It's not just my tree that needs more angels.

All The Way Home

2008-12-17T08:54:00.000-08:00

It was a Winter Wonderland at our house with about six hours of snowfall today. The view was beautiful and bright and beckoning to our little boy who just cannot resist Mother Nature and Her gifts; wintry and otherwise.

Shortly after waking, Max was out the door in the falling snow without shoes, hat, coat or mittens. And back in. And out. And in. And out. Cheering with glee and getsitement and proclamation and anticipation while I was making eggs for a sobbing, starving and very impatient Sam.

Out and in. Out and in. The golden jingle bells hanging on our front door announced his indecision each time, until the door slammed and there was a crash and a "MOHHHHM!"

**********************

On the floor next to the door lay a crippled wooden horse that used to hang in my grandparents' farmhouse welcoming their guests. With two freshly broken legs. It's a sentimental item, and, along with the countless other holiday items that are missing feet, arms, wings, hats, etc. due to little hands dropping or squeezing them, kind of broke my patience. I burst into tears and mumbled about how everything gets broken around here and I can't have special things out and Wahahhwaaaahwaaah. Totally ridiculous, but thoroughly shocking and unexpected - for both them and me. The boys became hushed and apologetic, exchanging worried glances and wondering, hopefully, if I was just laughing.

Max even suggested that I might need to go to my room until I could stop crying.

Dude. If only I could.

My frustration was brewing faster than my eagerly anticipated morning coffee until I looked out the window. And what to my wondering eyes did appear?

A reminder...

That in the midst of the chaos and the cold, in the bleak and long gray days when I am stuck in the house with the ricochet of two preschool-aged boys, there is beauty. And stillness. And a tiny imprint of what will one day be much bigger and won't return back to my door in such a rush.

Wooden horses? Those can be replaced. These little piggies?

Irreplaceable.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas...

2008-12-16T19:37:00.001-08:00

The One Where The Minnesotans Totally Laugh At Us

2008-12-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

We got a little dusting of serenity this weekend in the form of the season's first snowfall. People who live in parts where this is a frequent occurrence might find that we are making a big deal out of something fairly mundane, but for the kids around here, the cold white stuff is pretty getsiting.

Max wanted to go out and touch it immediately. As soon as he was done with breakfast he was pulling his boots on and running out the door and licking the lawn and asking if he could half-pipe down the driveway.

This dusting of snow completely shut down our world for no obvious reason and made people drive like frozen lobotomized bumper car operators. The snow also resulted in the cancellation of pre-school. On Max's sharing day.

And it was Garbage Day.

The universe is clearly out to get me.

After dragging the kids, the garbage and the recycling down to the road, we got the sled out and had a little lesson in friction and speed that was highly disappointing and rather like launching a bottle rocket without any fuel.

Leave it to Max to find his own propulsion.

Winter X-Games, anyone?

This is Max attempting to sled backwards down a hill into a semi-frozen creek. And me standing up the hill taking a picture. The DNA is so not working in his favor.

Fortunately, he's got his brother to slow him down.

His dear, sweet, obliging brother who had to wear a size 12 month snowsuit. Sam is, oh, say, 31 months old now? A very large 31 month old, I might add. A very large 31 month old who had to squeeze into that thing two winters ago and yet again today. I'm quite certain he will never forgive the snow (or his mother) for such a painful experience. He also may never be able to father a child or sing baritone after I hung him by his underarms and shoved his long limbs into the powdery blue suit of doom that zipped him right out of potential puberty.

But at least his butt was dry.

Holiday Math: or how to divide the joy

2008-12-03T07:59:00.000-08:00

Karma, you certainly have a sense of humor.

About ten years ago I sent my future nephews (ages 4 and 6 ish at the time) an advent calendar filled tiny pieces of chocolate, one for each day in December until Christmas. One chocolate advent calendar: two boys. I'm pretty sure that someone could develop a mathematical equation termed the ratio from hell and it would involve those two numbers. But that's about the extent of my mathematical genius (thank you liberal arts degree), so I will leave that bit of configuring to the geniuses at MIT or wherever those smart types hang out these days. Clearly, it's not at my house.

2:1

Because counting down the unbearably long days until Christmas comes so easily to small children, and sharing a miniscule tidbit of a petroleum-based sugar product is always so rewarding. It was one of those good intention gifts that really ingratiated me into my future family and warmed them to my generous spirit.

2:1

This year I spotted a darling advent calendar that I was sure that I had checked to make sure that was NOT of the chocolate variety, because who needs candy to further flame the countdown? Apparently not only am I not good at math, I think I may have also failed vocabulary. Of course it's filled with chocolate.

Which I didn't discover until making a really big deal about letting the boys each open their advent calendars (my brother got us one as well - yippee, one for each! I thought). The only thing worse than having to divide a piece of microscopic candy is to have to explain to the child who opened said piece of candy that he needs to share it. Yeah, that ratio just got a whole lot harder to work out.

So from now until the day the fat man wiggles down our flameless chimney, I will have the evening ritual of dividing the mini-est of bells, snowmen, and stars into two equal pieces (again with the math, ugh).

2:1 - Really spreading the spirit of season.

Home Sweet Home

2008-12-01T20:41:00.000-08:00

An hour after bedtime:

Max 's Big Boy Bed is covered in tractor blankets, books, dinosaurs, orca and humpback whales, sharks, books, monkeys and other prized collectibles. Looking like an oversized baby doll, Max is passed out dreamily among the menagerie.

Sam's little toddler-sized bed across the room is Empty.

A quick survey of the room draws my eye to the wall next to the bed stand. Two large pillows are propped up against the wall, behind them Sam's wild and crazy curls calm my panicked heart.

"Shhhhhh" he hushes, little curls peaking above the denim pillows, "Max is seeping, me hiding."

I scoop him into bed, smiling into his tired eyes. Queen cars are tucked into awaiting fingers, blankets nuzzled around, and kisses placed on his chubby cheeks.

There's nothing better than your own bed, little one.

Night Night.

Over the River and Through the Security Line

2008-11-22T18:12:00.000-08:00

Millions of Americans this week will stick their hands into the frigid neck hole (or worse) of a cavernous, slippery, naked and butchered bird to retrieve a dismembered neck bone and livery innards. As they silently make a prayer to the Holy Defroster that everything will turn out okay with El Butterball, they'll be thinking that this is one of the more unpleasant aspects of the holiday season.

They'd probably be correct, unless they'll be traveling via airplane with small children during peak traffic times.

Much like stuffing a turkey, there are no holiday warm fuzzies when navigating (a) the holiday season and (b) TSA and (c) anyone who requires you to yell "RED LIGHT" in public.

I'll do whatever it takes to get my kids through the parking lot, ticket counter, security line, and boarding gate without a meltdown. And THEN I can deal with hours of restrained seating in a hurling sardine can full of germy, antsy strangers and my own un-napped and over-stimulated little ones who know that they've completely got me because hey, there's no 'time out chair' on a Boeing 737.

I understand how much I ask of my kids to be cooperative in stressful situations, and travel messes with the holy trinity of sane children: food, sleep, and sanitation. In a world of long lines, loud noises, irritated travelers and over-stimulated and over-restrained toddlers, a mama needs more tricks up her sleeve than Q offers to Her Majesty's secret service.

One of my favorite tricks is the "Airport Nack". This is when I break down all my self-imposed rules and prejudices about fast food, sweets, and overpriced junk offered up as a source of nutrition. It's pure distraction and bribery and I'm completely down wit' it.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

On a trip home from Chicago a few months ago, I bought a very large bag of artery-busting buttery popcorn for our flight. After strapping on our seatbelts and getting our groove on with Bob The Builder in the DVD player, I pulled out the popcorn and put it between me and Sam to share. We collectively munched away, our hands rubbing up against each other in the buttery bag as he happily watched the movie and I ever-so-happily read a magazine. Ah, bliss.

And then it started to smell rather ripe around us. There were several small kids nearby and I remember thinking "Ugh, someone's gotta deal with thaaat", and then naively popped another crunchy kernel and went on reading about Gwenyth and her secret to happiness and beauty and other important nuggets of truth (FYI: eating no white food and hiring a staff of minions will make a girl happy and waifish).

And I should put it out there that Sam does not so much dig the dirty D; he's pretty clear with me when he needs to be changed and seemed to be quietly enjoying his dinner and a movie.

Denial. It's not just a river in Egypt.

After a few sideways glances where I'd seen the little guy happily mesmerized by the wonders of Scoop, Muck and Dizzy, I did a double take and watched as he stuck his hands up through the leg opening of his shorts, into his diaper, retrieved his own scoop of muck, and mechanically wiped the contents of his diaper onto his seat back. And then took another handful of popcorn out of our shared bag.

Yeah, there's a reason they no longer serve food on airplanes and it has nothing to do with cost savings, by the way.

With eternal gratitude to a very helpful and mortified flight attendant, the mess was quickly cleaned up and disinfected, Sam was changed into a new outfit, and I'm pretty sure that a call was made to notify Haz Mat to meet our plane at the gate when we landed. The teenage girl sitting next to us probably is still having poo nightmares or seeking counseling. She never spoke to me again after I saw her covering her mouth in a blanket while making gagging noises at the window. Clearly, there will be no need for a "family planning" talk with this girl. She may never try air travel again, either.

I, however, I am just not that smart.

Earlier this month I got caught in the poo triangle when BOTH boys decided to simultaneously empty their bowels as our aircraft descended. If you've never had the privilege of having to make choices about your children and whose poo is going to get ignored the longest, consider yourself very, very lucky.

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Somehow the snow covered sleigh being pulled by horses who know their way to Grandmother's house seems a whole lot more appealing.

Smells Like Toddler Spirit

2008-11-21T09:03:00.000-08:00

Our very vocal, social, and earnestly sweet little Sam sometimes struggles with being understood. His words - though loud and vibrant - are difficult to decipher and result in an adorable, albeit frustrating cocktail of conversation. We get about 80% of his words and guess at the rest based upon the pretty predictable pattern that is the world of a preschooler. Time spent with him is like being in a foreign country where I kind of get the gist of what's going on, but the details are fuzzy and imprecise and the language is clearly not working in my favor, but hey, it's fun and new and pour me a glass of wine and I'm just gonna roll with it and act like I know what's going on. Shhh, it's my secret to surviving motherhood.

Sam seems content with his interactions with the world 99% of the time, but then, there's the rest of the time. The times when he wilts into a ball of mucus-y ooze with a wail that could call the Yeti down from the North Country. Oh. My. God. The horror. The screams and tantrums. The flailing, kicking and fetal positioning. But enough about my PMS. This kid really knows how to turn the drama flame up high (I have NO IDEA where he gets it) and demonstrate what a two and half year old who can't find the words to describe his emotions, wants, demands, should look like.

And people, it's not pretty.

Sam has the benefit of a highly skilled interpreter in his brother, who sometimes tells us what Sam wants, "He wants that bran muffin that he shoved under the couch this morning" and other times Max just rolls his eyes, shrugs his shoulders, and mumbles, "Red", referring to his sobbing baby brother as the quick-to-cry, scared-of-his-own-shadow 1960's-era fire truck character from the harbinger of all culture in our home, Pixar's CARS.

And although I KNOW I'm not supposed to EVER compare my two children, because they are both individuals, different spirits, different learning styles, yadahh yaddah yadahh, I am baffled with this sensitive and mysterious lad. Max pretty much came out of the womb ordering a cheese pizza with aged Italian pepperoni with no mushrooms, unless you have fresh morels and then I'll take them, but no tomato chunks and a fine shred on the fresh mozzarella, please.

Sam, he just lays on the floor clutching the Domino's ad and wailing. But is he crying about the pizza ad or the $3 off car wash coupon on the back? I NEVER KNOW!!!!

We've tried lots of tricks, techniques, approaches and well, a lot of wine, too. I know this stage will pass, that he will master language very soon and there will be a day in the very near future when I will be thinking (because I'll never have the chance to actually TALK), that "Ugh, will this little guy EVER stop talking about catalytic converters and fuel gauges and tire treads?"

Until then, we just continue with lots of talking, reading, playing and loving our little guy. Last week, I took the boys over to see their cousins, including the cutest little 3 month old baby boy that you have ever seen. And while saying our goodbyes, Sam knelt down and kissed his baby cousin, wiggled his pudgie fingers in a tiny wave and said, "Bye bye Babee Ashah. Come ovah foh dink suhtime, ok?"

Mama's never been so proud.

Dude

2008-11-07T19:31:00.000-08:00

I totally saw this one coming...

If you are going to wake the entire house up at 4:30 a.m. while recruiting me to read you a book about the Mesozoic Period, I predict that you won't make it past 6:30 p.m.

Fifteen hours ago I would have predicted that you wouldn't make it past 4 1/2 years old, but lucky for you, I think you're cute.

Now get some sleep and no questions about brachia-whats-his-ass until at least 8 a.m.

VOTE!

2008-11-03T15:26:00.000-08:00

The election process just got a whole lot sweeter...Ben & Jerry's ice cream shops are giving out free cones to voters tomorrow! I think some Half Baked, Phish Food and Cherry Garcia are great ways to celebrate the privilege of democracy. We can all agree on that, right?

Tricks and Treats

2008-10-31T00:09:00.000-07:00

Costume parades, sugar rushes and night night walking ..it is all beyond compare. Halloween is connecting us with neighbors and family and dear devils who delight us with their unbridled joy, mock fear of fleecy dorsal fins, and enjoyment of all the wonder and surprise that childhood represents.

I love how Halloween brings out the sideways glances in the boys who can't really believe that this is for real. Costumes! Candy! Walking OUTSIDE at NIGHT! This could NOT get any better! And yet it just does and does and they keep peering to us and to each other as if they can't really trust that this will continue to be so fun.

The boys are a sea of getsitement and stirring even in their sleep. I am reveling in the memories of my own fascination and childhood delight with this holiday of dress-up fantasy. Like so many aspects of parenting, I find myself immersed in the experience and yet only half experiencing it in real time. The other half is being replayed in the reel of my own silent and scratchy home movie; not quite in focus and playing the same scenes over and over.

It's a candy bag filled with childhood friends, costumes of tuille and tap shoes, flashlight walks through the neighborhood of my youth, and finally the sweet satisfaction of Starburst and SweetTart sorting, exchanges and bartering.

Yes, Halloween is bizarre and awkward and a mountain of work if you're stupid enough to try to take on costume preparation while home alone for 10 days with two preschoolers. But like so much of this chapter in my life, the sweetness far outweighs the salty and the bitter. And isn't that what Halloween is really supposed to be all about? Letting the sweetness overcome us while acknowledging the scary, the dark, and the fantasy? While never, ever letting anything win out over a roll of Smarties, a miniature Hershey's bar, or fabulously over-the-top attire? Life lessons, I say, all wrapped up in a plastic mask and wax lips and pure chocolatey gooey goodness.

Tricks and Treats to all!

Autumn son

2008-10-27T21:50:00.000-07:00

2008-10-27T19:59:00.000-07:00

Couger and her cub

2008-10-26T09:23:00.001-07:00

In Mr. Wonderful's absence, my main man Max took me out to dinner on Friday night. I had planned on going out to eat with both boys, but after chatting with the kind of friend who knows when to stop you from doing something horribly stupid, it was decided that Sam should opt out. Dodi and Aaron graciously offered to entertain the wiggly two-year old so that I could spend some quality time with my Max.

I suggested pizza, and he said he knew the perfect place..."Costco!" Considering that it was my birthday, I wanted something without cement floors. High maintenance, I know.

My date was charming, witty, very affectionate and enormously appreciative of the opportunity to be alone with me. Every date should go this well. Except, of course, that I drove and picked up the tab. Hmm, kind of like college all over again.

It's probably in bad form to take a video while on a date in a restaurant, but I couldn't resist:

Ahhh, saved by the arrival of the good ship lollipop beverage delight.

Table manners aside, it was a wonderful date.

Sharkskin Sweatshop Closed Due to Poor Work Conditions

2008-10-25T13:37:00.000-07:00

AP News Feed: Authorities report that the chief seamstress at the Monkey Ranch Sweatshop has closed her shop due to poor work conditions and possible shark sightings. It is not known at this time what made the operator of the one-woman sweatshop throw up her hands in victory and yell "DONE!", but speculations abound. Perhaps it was the disastrous condition of her working environment, as evidenced by the piles of laundry, legos, blocks, Thomas the Train parts and roving dinosaurs scattered throughout the operator's shop. It is also presumed that when the bags of recently-sorted items destined for Goodwill were discovered and dismantled by the two minors employed as reluctant costume models, the operator may have issued some obscenities and considered closing her shop at that time. In addition to unusually late work hours, authorities are also concerned about the hygiene of the work space. Dishes in the sink may have been there for quite some time and it is believed that the seamstress may not have received a hot meal in days. When asked why she would attempt to operate under such conditions and without adequate supervision or assistance, the Sweatshop Owner had only this to say, "Trick or Treat!"

Mahalo

2008-10-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

I could not let this day go by without some heartfelt and way overdue gratitude.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for caring for the little keiki while we sunned and snorkled. Your gift was immense and will be treasured always. Now go sleep.

Thank you, Mr. Wonderful, for saving the tiny umbrellas from our Mai Tais and promising to return them to me in the dead of winter when I'm rainlogged, overrun by muddy and stir-crazy boys, and my eyeballs are receding into my skull from the absence of sunshine.

Thank you, Max and Sam, for understanding that Mommy and Daddy needed some time to finish their sentences, meals, thoughts, and laughs. We even managed to talk about a few things other than the two of you.

Thank you Ocean, for your soothing sounds, salty silences and tireless reminder that the constants in our world roll back to us like waves. Some days are gentle and warm, others are fierce and chilling in this limitless sea called LIFE. Waves return, though never in equal form, and it all rolls on.

Mahalo nui loa.

The Mother Road is Paved in Good Intentions

2008-10-23T20:07:00.000-07:00

It was a spontaneous click, a little "just to let you know I was thinking about you" purchase I made last week.

I never intended for it to go so horribly wrong.

Nemo and his brother needed turtleneck shirts to wear under Halloween costumes. While at the virtual check stand, I saw some cute little underwear with dinosaurs on them that I thought the Maxosaurus would get a kick out of, so I tossed a pair in my virtual cart. And what with bundled shipping and my moral obligation to keep the economy rolling because obviously neither the free market nor our government can handle this mess alone, I grabbed a few other shirts for holiday gifts and voila!, my internet shopping was done and never a tear was shed.

Ahhh, so much easier than actual shopping. No strapping balls of butter in and out of car seats, no tug of war with fragile arm sockets and slippery hands in a parking lot of racing SUVs, no chasing of toddlers through open spaces and cranky crowds. The right size, the right color, and right to my door. Ahhh, so much easier.

I should know better.

While exalting in all the glory of today's sun and mud and tractor Tonkas, the boys were delighted to have their ears perked to the sound of a truck rumbling down our quiet road. The truck of brown goodness slowed at our driveway and the jumping began!

"It's for us! It's for us! We got a PACKAGE!!!"

Faster than you could ask what could Brown do for two getsited little boys with a truck! in their driveway! that delivers packages from places like Bubbi! And Santa! And toys! And TOYS! and Remote Control Dinosaurs!, I found myself simultaneously working on a signature, repelling the knee nibblers, and attempting to manage dinosaur-sized expectations. I told the boys that this was part of Sam's Halloween costume (since Max's size was on back order), a little something for Max, and the other items would be gifts for our cousins.

Never, ever did I utter these words: Remote or control.

I might have mentioned dinosaur.

The package got opened, the color for Nemo was a little off but certainly workable, and the size of the cousin gifts seemed within range.

The dinosaur underwear...not so much.

Did you hear the shrieks? At about 12:45 this afternoon? Yeah, that was what will forever be known as the "The UPS truck brought a shirt for my brother and all I got was this lousy pair of dinosaur underwear" Storm of 2008.

It was pathetic, it was loud and inappropriate, and it was funny as hell.

Once the crying slowed down and the breath began a regular pattern of inhale, I learned that there had been very high hopes for a remote control dinosaur. Tyrannosaurus Rex would be best, of course, but Stegasaurus or Triceratops would be fine, too.

Apparently Brown did not deliver. And neither did Mama.

Later, once the emotions had been thoroughly exhausted and discussed, we rode off to preschool.

"Mom, it's a good thing those guys are long necks on my new underwear", Max offered chirpilly.

"What's that?" I asked without the benefit of context or cohesive train of thought.

"I said, it's good that those dinosaurs on my underwear are longnecks because that means that they are plant eaters. I wouldn't want meat eaters down there where I couldn't see them."

Meat eating underwear: a very bad thing.

Form Follows Function

2008-10-21T20:48:00.000-07:00

Nope, it wasn't created out of worry about the economic downturn, although that is certainly on my mind.

Nor was it my concern over saving our precious planet from the enormous Yeti-sized carbon footprint of trade-deficit inducing, pieces of crap, decidedly un-green and unfairly labored Chinese-imported plastic badness.

I wish I were that noble.

Instead, I tossed some pieces of cardboard packing material into the recycling bin, more concerned about calculating my garbage day strategy than being virtuous.

The boys saw opportunity.

For mess.

Er, I mean ART.

One man's box is another man's racetrack.

The racetrack transformed to a beach that sharks could jump out of, or dinosaurs, or whales. "Race car" yelled Sam, so Max suggested that race cars could jump out of the ocean, too, if they are blue like blue whales. Or, white like Belugas. But not red, like McQueen, since whales aren't red. **

A born negotiator.

Ocean meets up with the jungle and a surfin' safari is born. A surfin' safari with big-engined cars. I think The Beach Boys produced a similarly themed album circa 1962.

Fun, fun, fun 'til Mama takes the paintbrush away.

** You're right, Max, whales aren't red, except when they're harpooned, I thought. But I didn't say that out loud. I'll wait until they're in kindergarten before I go all Greenpeace on them.

Fallin'

2008-10-17T21:36:00.000-07:00

Today was Sam's day to be Special Person at school, which involves a little extra craftiness, coordination, cooking and pulling things together at the home front. After completing a three- dimensional photo montage of his life and moments worth remembering, I wasn't up for making the meatballs that he wanted to bring for snack (who is this kid and why isn't he asking for cupcakes?). But I jumped at his suggestion of oatmeal.

Yep. It went over like a lead balloon with the preschool set.

I'm figuring their unhappiness with 4 grams of applicious fiber had less to do with the old family recipe than the fact that the weary toddlers were tapped out from it also being Picture Day. Picture Day for a classroom of two year olds.

I'm pretty sure that feline portraiture is more rewarding.

At any given point for nearly two hours, there was at least one child screaming, shrieking, wailing or heaving sobs of despair. Another mom and I referred to the photo room as the "torture chamber" when selecting who should be next to sit on the adorable red wooden chair with 4000 watts of flashbulb aimed at chubby cheeks streaked with tears.

They should put Advil in the apron pockets for parent volunteers on Picture Day.

After we were home, settled, napped and fed, the boys and I took a nature walk to discover the changing of scenery. We take these walks regularly and they generally involve lots of gathering of sticks, leaves, slugs, prickly stems and other foliage items that later require large dosages of Benadryl.

Today, I suggested we bring the camera and take pictures of what was changing around us. Here's a little of what Max captured from his unique perspective on Autumn:

"You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose...

2008-10-16T21:02:00.000-07:00

But you can't pick your friend's nose."

A little wisdom passed down from Grampa Tom. Not really all that enlightening, but it was a guaranteed giggle or groan inducer when I was seven. At thirty seven, I still find myself thinking it and mentally smacking my head back and forth to make the rhyme go away.

And yet.
Still.
It's there.

Max and I had a rough bout before bed last week that involved a re-occuring toileting issue that just grosses me out. I'll spare details, but the boy got to learn how to clean a toilet seat. Enough said.

Needless to say, I think he got pretty down on himself and he felt ashamed and I felt badly. So for a bedtime story I read a favorite book of his and then picked "I Like Me!" by Nancy Carlson . Generally not a favorite of his since it involves a pig in cute tu-tu outfits and frilly dresses and absolutely no excavators, but the theme is sweet and I thought offered the right "tone" after our little feud.

The theme of the book is the pig is her own best friend, takes good care of herself, and has a healthy body image. I asked Max a few questions and got something like this in response:

Me: Do you have a best friend, Max?
Max: Sammy. Sammy's my best friend.

Quick, grab a bowl, a towel, something! I need to collect this melting pool of my heart off the floor. I'm wrenching from the tenderness, the love, the blatant and effective attempt to bring me back into his camp.

Me: Look, (pointing to a picture in the book), She's brushing her teeth and taking good care of herself. You do that!
Max: But... you do the best job of taking care of me, Mom.

Okaaaaay, um melting, tender, and feeling really sad that I upset him earlier. Yes, fiddle, I am being played like you by a 4 year-old maestro.

Me: Piggy likes her curly tail and round tummy. What do you like about your body?
Max: How my finger fits right in my nose. (Demo follows)

I am now a giggling seven year old. A giggling seven year-old being played like a fiddle and loving the sound of our song.

Pick your nose, pick your seat, pick your battles.

But I just couldn't pick a better kid.

Unmodified - Genetically or Otherwise

2008-10-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

Corn has been KING near my grandparents' farm since I was a child. Perhaps (gasp) even before that. But in the age of ethanol and high-fructose corn syrup and corporate farming and corn subsidies and sugar tariffs and a myriad of other modern developments that may eventually lead to our downfall, corn is now higher than any elephant's eye and is everywhere. Regardless of how one may feel about genetic engineering and the decline of the family farm, even our youngest family member is noticing that something peculiar is happening in America's heartland.

I made this little video while out for a drive with my grandparents last month. My brother quietly drove, my grandfather told him where to turn, sometimes without words and only the point of a thumb, and my grandmother gripped Sammy's delicious thighs and kissed his chubby cheeks with the silence of a cat tracking a mouse.

Sam, as you can see, does not subscribe to the virtue of a peaceful Sunday drive.

And for that, and so much else, I am truly grateful.

Picnic in the Potty

2008-10-15T09:24:00.001-07:00

There's something about the evil combination of returning from a family funeral with a nasty, energy-sucking, chill-inducing head cold that brings out the pushover in me.

PJ's until noon?
Fine with me.

Little oatmeal for breakfast?
Don't fight about flavors, pick the ones with the most sugar, and dump half the packet on the floor.
I'm good with it.

Marathon Backyardigan's session?
I'll bring the blankies.

I was even ready to let Max pull his favorite black glow-in-the-dark spider shirt out of the dirty clothes pile to wear to school for "black" day. Except Mr. Wonderful had the energy and efficiency to wash every item of clothing in our household (and fold it!) while I was gone. No one come over for dinner until December, though, because it will probably take me that long to get it off the dining room table.

I'm not complaining.

I'm not complaining about the little things right now, and when the boys asked for popcorn for dinner last night, I didn't say "no". They looked at eachother, slowly, as if to make sure that they'd really heard me right, and then giggled hysterically.

Partly it was the lethargy and absence of any form of taste bud in me that said "yes" to popcorn, but also part of it was nostalgia. My grandfather ate popcorn every Sunday night, since that was Grandma's one night off from cooking. He'd pop a big bowl, pour enough salt to fill the Utah desert, and go sit in the living room and watch football or 60 Minutes or Hee Haw or whatever.

Popcorn for dinner.

Max, being the crafty little negotiator that he is, suggested that popsicles might be a good dessert.

Sure, I offered, we could make it "p" day for dinner and only eat things that started with the letter "p"!

Then, pizza got thrown in, and I was all ... Yah! Pizza! There's tomatoes and cheese in that...it rounds out our meal perfectly.

And they started jumping and laughing and thinking who is this crazy lady in her pjs at 5 pm who's saying "yes" to everything? We LOVE her! Which is just what I was aiming for.

Let's have pizza and popcorn and popsicles as a picnic!

Laughs, giggles and craziness ensued.

And then, the cold medicine made me a little goofy and I said "Let's have pizza and popcorn and popsicles at a picnic in the POWDER ROOM!"

And they looked at me with cocked heads and Max said "What's a powder room, Mom?" And I should have just shrugged it off, but I told him that's what some people called the bathroom.

Picnic in the potty - who wouldn't love that???

Not me. My laziness only goes so far and there are standards and eating in the bathroom is just a little too "preparing for the hurricane-y" for me, so we sat at the table.

Popcorn for dinner.

I think the old man was on to something...

Sailing through the heavens

2008-10-13T23:50:00.000-07:00

Today we buried Grandpa.

We lay him into the fertile farmland not ten miles from which in came, in the very month that gave him life 89 years ago. We set him down in the cemetery surrounded by family and brown corn stalks tinged with the memory of green. We listened to Taps on a lone bugle, serenaded by the whistle and hum of the 2:20 train. He would know that train. He would tap his watch to that train. He would mimic its whistle, as if to announce that which we'd already heard. Just as the VFW did when they presented Grandma with a perfectly triangulated flag on behalf of a grateful nation. It was so long ago, so deeply buried, and yet not. Still fresh. The whistle of a train. Still stuck in sorrow and honor and the knowing of that which has just passed.

My soft, sweet, gracious and ever-loving grandmother said goodbye to the good man who had held her for seven decades. The man who opened the door for her and wore the sailor's uniform of a grateful nation when she was a wavy-haired young mother standing in front of a Buick with the excitedly constant movement of her four year old boy, just as I do today. She poured her heart into that tender child and give him all her love and nutrient and heart and let him know that he was the light and love of their lives.

Together, they raised that sweet boy who would become my dad. They guided and loved others that they collected along the way; continuing to feed and harvest the fruit from their own family tree. Grandpa, with the arms and hands the size of tree limbs and the strength of a machine, could hold and hug and laugh and dance as if it were his last. And yet, it never was.

Today, as the autumn sun angled lower over the last of summer's red-ripe fruit, we put Grandpa back into the very earth that had borne him and sustained him. We honored him, loved him and recollected about him. And in that honor, we acknowledge those who created him, molded him, loved and accepted him. Those who escorted him into the dark days of passage and made his farewell a gentler goodnight.

And yet, we also say good morning. To the four year old boys who love tractors and snow plows and horses and harvesters. Good morning to the sisterhood of widows who will hug, and hold hands, and pour over the recipe books of family memory and life not yet lived.

As the County road intersects with the State highway, I merge onto something new. Just paved, fresh and dark and unmarked. The rear-view mirror reminds me of the cornfields from which I have been and the dark clouds through which I have passed. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The blinker acknowledges my airport exit and I say goodbye.

Fair winds and following seas, Grandpa Ralph. Much love and laughter to the original R.W.

Happy Trails

2008-10-10T21:37:00.000-07:00

Grandpa Ralph
October 29, 1919 – October 8, 2008

“Happy trails to you,
Until we meet again.
Happy trails to you,
Keep smilin' until then.”