Morning At The Monkey Ranch

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

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

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

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.

Beach Boys

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!

The Song Always Ends Too Soon

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.

Harvest

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.

Greased Lightning

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!

Putting the PTSD in Puget Sound

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.

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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.

A Perfect Start

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

Smoovie Night

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.

Chunky Cheese

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.

Spring Break

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

Dude, Where's My Spring?

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.