The Mother Road is Paved in Good Intentions

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

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'

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...

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

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

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

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

Grandpa Ralph
October 29, 1919 – October 8, 2008

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

Champs and Grips

If you're ever looking for the right medicine to deliver to a nursing home, I highly recommend bringing something like this:


Ice cream is optional



Well, maybe not.

Sam and I took a trip back to the Midwest to visit my grandparents after getting some sad news about my grandpa's health. My brother joined us, which was very special considering that he and I shared so many memories of visiting the family farm together as kids. Now the farm has been sold, we've grown and created the cousins for our kiddos that we never had, and age is catching up with all of us

But corn is still king, my grandparents are still our biggest fans, and hey, how 'bout them Cubbies?


Sam cruised around Pinecrest Manor in style, rotating between my grandpa's ever-present silly side effects (always a hit with the toddler set), and my grandmother's fleece blankie on her lap.


We took the folks for a ride in the country, and I totally forgot to warn Sam about "The Grip", my grandma's trademark move.



I'm not sure what this yoga move is called, but I'm calling it "Showing Off At The Nursing Home". He likes to call it "Rook at me, guys"


It was a very memorable visit for all of us. No better medicine.




Ok, Cubs, let's go all the way for RW.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A clean canvas (and clean boy)


Before anyone gets concerned or worried that I'll be getting the blow torch or chain saw out shortly, those aren't safety goggles. They are swim goggles.

Swim goggles that Max wears on his head regularly. Like during air travel (he had them on when we flew to visit my parents last week), meal times, art projects and any other opportunity where they might be needed.

Just not in a pool, or any other swimming environment. They don't feel good over his eyes, but apparently, they feel very good on his head.

Go figure.




Later today, when the boys were out playing and I was doing something inside, I heard the blissful ring of cheery voices and jubilant giggles.

Awww, now that's music to a mama's ears. Nothing makes me happier than the sound of my children's laughter.

And nothing concerns me more, either.


Upon further investigation, I found the entire box of chalk dumped in the garage, where it had been mutilated by a big wheel.

When my jaw dropped, Max explained that he had done it because he knew that I liked rainbows and that he wanted me to have a rainbow racecar track.

Troubles melting like lemon drops in the land of lullabies and Nascar racing.

You gotta smile at this guy...


"If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow
Why, then oh why can't I?"

He's No Potato Bug AND he can make Samurai Pie

"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."

-Robert Heinlein
Time Enough For Love, The Notebooks of Lazarus Long

This wouldn't be my list, but it sums up Mr. Wonderful -- and why I admire him so much -- perfectly . With one exception, I've known him to accomplish each of these listed above.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Wonderful.
No rush on the exception, you gallant and magnificent man.
I love you and all of your mad skills.

Exalted Ruler Meets Bon Jovi (and it was All Good)

Samuel P. Taylor State Park - August 2008

Walking down the road today on our weekly garbage mission, the boys and I noticed that Summer is easing into final boarding stages before she departs and leaves us with her chilly sisters Fall, Winter and Spring. Today's wind was cool and crisp on my cheek, and the long shadow of Max pulling Sam in the Red Flyer wagon was noticeable in the morning sunshine.

With blue sky and delightfully ripe and juicy blackberries welcoming the little fingers and lips of my baby bears, this garbage day is far removed from the cold and wet walks of Winter. But it occurred to me today that the pleasant garbage walks of 2008 can probably be counted on one, or maybe two, hands. With that thought I couldn't help but feel a little of Summer's joy fading. Also present are the stirrings of anticipation as we head back into the routine of preschool, activities, and the ever-important friends of toddlers and their parents: structure and consistency.

The past two weeks have been filled with travel, family, reunions, and reconnections. We have been blessed with the fulfillment that comes from warm and full days shared in joyous exaltation at the ballpark, the sandbox, the playground and the backyards of those we love. The boys are growing physically, transforming dramatically under the shade of hot afternoons. Sammy speaks new words and is able to communicate his needs so that others can finally clue into his sweet and sensitive world. Max is able to control his engine and keep it running "just right" most of the time, allowing us to relax and enjoy his magnificent personality minus the goofy and wild side of four year old boy rambunctiousness.

Last week I got to reconnect with people who are near and dear to me, even if not in close proximity. I treasure their friendships and am so grateful for the ties that bind.



Big boys on big wheels. The littlest cousins show that they have what it takes to ride on the wild side.


Pictured above are two key components to pleasant air travel for one adult traveling with two small children. New tractors opened at the Starbucks near the departing gate. Diggers and cranes are shown here with a heavily bribed set of oatmeal raisin cookies. Not pictured: a Grande Americano in the photographer's hand, ensuring the optimum levels of caffeine (high) and whining (low) necessary to await the rigors of a two hour flight.



Cracker Jacks snuck in a diaper bag: $2.99
Anchor Steam Beers served in a ballpark plastic bottle: $8
Garlic Fries (aka Heaven in a grease bucket): $4.
Being with my father as he turned my son into a SF Giants fan: priceless


Peanuts and tractor jacks...I don't care if I never get back...



Hey Trojans! My best buddies from High School all dolled before heading out for our 20th year reunion


Friends from kindergarten and preschool. Hard to believe that I was Max's age when we first hugged and now we show up unintentionally coordinated in green together. Is this some latent Crayola fascination or are we on the forefront of a new fashion trend?


That would be the Exalted Ruler of the Elk's Lodge where the '88 Trojans reunited to "Never Say Goodbye" (shown here with my dear friend, Amy, who traveled from Hong Kong and was fabulous).


Doing the best Rick Astley impersonation EVER! (I got moves don't I?)
Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you


A perfect summer day with good friend Alli B., great food, hair-of-the-dog blood orange mimosas, and the closing ceremonies of the 'Lympics.


Bubbi, bikes and redwood trees. Summer just doesn't get much better than this (matching shirts are really just icing on an already damn tasty cake).

Chicken soup

The sweet, candy-like smell of our refrigerator's newest tenant, Amoxicillin.

A vague memory of the bedroom clock as I snuck back into bed at 1:30 a.m., again at 2:20 a.m., sometime during the 3 o'clock hour, and again at 4:27 a.m.

The groggy morning shuffle completed with a sobbing koala clinging to my weary and sleep-wanting neck.

Hot baby breath on my cheek as salty tears mix with kisses.

Big brother finding favorite books for the cranky crier.

Sammy's got an ear infection.

At least the snuggles and hugs are good for both of us.


Red leather chairs, penicillin, plaid pjs and the Summer Olympics.

Bad mittens and diving towtrucks

There are days, many of them in fact, in which I feel that there should be some sort of medal given to the moms, dads, and caregivers who chase after, nurture, instruct, feed, and did I mention chase? young ones all day long. Its a marathon of its own kind, with a grueling training regime, very little coaching and no definitive "event". No awarding of medals, national anthems or bragging rights, no studio sessions with Bob Costas or Leonard Holt visiting your playgroup and interviewing small children who admire you and call you a hero.

Which is totally appropriate.

Of course, parenthood is an experience to which competition never adds value. We must each accept our own strengths, enjoy the journey and not focus on besting anyone on any day. Besides, it would be impossible to handicap appropriately, what with cultural differences and all.

Our family is really enjoying the 'Lympics this year. Mr. Wonderful and I were so impressed with the Opening Ceremonies that he even carried a half-asleep Max to the couch to snuggle with me and watch part of it. It was a beautiful moment and I will remember the '08 games differently because of it. Max will remember it because it was the first time he got to see prime time commercials (Hello, Budweiser? Or should I say Bon jour? Yeah, your beer and your commercials suck. Thanks, er, Merci non).

Last night they wanted to stay up to see 'Nastics. So I popped some popcorn, gave them pedicures and offered to braid their hair, but they didn't like that. Sigh. We watched synchronized platform diving and Sam squealed with delight when the men dove backwards, shouting "Bah-wood di-ing, Bah wood di-ing May-ER!" which translates into "Backwards diving, backwards diving..MATER!" over and over again. Max picked up on my vocabulary (a habit that's become quite dangerous) and morphed my "Holy Guacamole" (I'm trying to be good) into "Holy Cock-a-moly!", which takes a bizarre twist when you watch these men in very tight itty bitty Speedos showering together between synchronized dives. Maybe the generic cursing would have been a better choice.

After breakfast this morning the boys wanted to watch Curious George, and since our t.v. is generally only tuned into PBS, I didn't even bother to check the channel after I turned it on. As I was loading the dishwasher, Max yelled out, "Mom, I think the bad mittens are on again." I see color commentary in this kids future for sure.

I think I'll pass on Archery today.



Opening Ceremonies, Beijing Summer Olympics, 2008

You don't say?

In an effort to help Max turn the word "fro" into "throw", I showed him how fun it is to stick out your tongue while making a "th" sound. He tried over and over again, unsuccessfully, and then sighed and shrugged, "You know, Mom, we don't speak the same language. I think I like to say it my way."

Obviously, our discussion about the different languages spoken during the Olympics is really helping him grasp linguistic variation.

Max has also decided that he needs to wear a belt with every item of clothing, particularly over long shirts and outer wear. This was a look that I experimented with in the 1980's, (unsuccessfully, much like my attempt at speech pathology above), so I don't really feel like I'm qualified to critique his fashion choices. But I do question why it has to be cinched so tight that it feels like I'm dressing Scarlet O'Hara at Tara before Ashley Wilkes comes by for an Iced Julip.

Mr. Wonderful refers to Max's belt as an Obi and encourages him to "be wise". Because four year olds who can't master a "th" sound are so often capable of jedi-like wisdom.

Sam sees the belt more as a "Bob The Builder" functional fashion choice, calling out "WORK IT!, WORK IT!" to his brother, who begs for it to be pulled tighter, as if they're auditioning for America's Next Top Model.

Maybe it's time I fro away some of my own belts and share them with a jedi or worker. It would be far more entertaining and much more comfortable.

Random thoughts

1. Max wants an earring and not a pirate kind.

2. When we go to heaven, Max would like a white Volvo like Ellie's mom drives. How do I teach him that heaven is not a vacation destination from which we can return (or, hey, what do I know? Maybe we can???)?

3. Mr. Wonderful's grandma gave the boys a pocket poker game, because, you know, kids need to learn these skills and schools just aren't keeping the standards up. Four year olds need to learn patterns, shapes, numbers, chance, strategy and random order. I guess I should be happy it's not served with a side of second-hand smoke and Jack Daniels straight up.

4. Sam lovingly refers to our favorite toast topping, Apple Butter, as Apple Belly. He cheers for it over and over again until the pop appears on his high chair... "Apple belly, apple belly, apple belly!", building into a crescendo of giggles and lip smack. Truthfully, we're more pear shaped in our family.

5. Forget about the drama at Wrigley Field yesterday. Grandma was evacuated from her nursing home to the storm cellar due to high winds and a big storm. I want to put on my red ruby slippers, grab Glenda and Toto, and make sure she's okay. Not sure I really want to fly, though.


May 2004 - Max and Grandma

Brangelina's twins are SO last week

I know that the world is all a twitter about babies Knox and Vivienne, but there are lots of other awfully cute ones out there, too. Like this one:


Payzlee Aurora, born August 4th, 2008



"So, umm, Tess, how'd you get your baby out of your belly?" Dude, that was what the milkshake was for. Put the straw back in your mouth and don't ask questions.

Today we sang "Happy Birthday" to our 89 year old neighbor and said "Welcome" to 7 lbs, 4 ounces of 15 hour-old rooting, cooing cuteness.

I think August 4th is a great day. Happy Birthday Grandma Hearts and Baby Payzlee!

"A flush is better than a full house", or so says the septic inspector

As in most homes where two small boys reside, the arrival of large vehicles is generally met with great glee and excitement around here. UPS trucks (hey Sluggo!), Fed Ex trucks (shout out to Nick and Jeff!), Propane delivery, dump trucks, etc. are all worthy of a lawn chair, a cold one, and setting down for a spell to watch.

Imagine the getsitement when this one pulled into our driveway last week:

The big, giant truck o' poo. Also known as the septic inspector's rig.

Max and Sam immediately begged to go outside and watch. There are few things more frightening to me than the idea of my offspring falling into a hole of poo, so I superglued their bottoms to the front porch. OK, I really didn't need to do that, since the smell of raw sewage offered its own natural repellent and kept them a good ten feet or so away.

The boys watched in awe as the inspector stuck a large shovel! into the tank! and measured! the sludge! and scum!. It was all very getsiting and interesting and prompted Max to announce that when he grows up, that was what he wanted to do.

And I flashed back to the endless nights when I rocked, nurtured, fed and soothed my little babe, filled with all the hope and awe and wonder of new motherhood. Secure in the knowledge that all that sleep deprivation, weight gain, hormonal wack-a-doodle-ness was going to someday pay off as I presented this world with a great intellect, artist, scientist, peace negotiator or NY Times crossword puzzle solver.

Septic dredger; not so much.

But I understood where Max's drive was coming from, and although the interests were probably well aligned, I'd like to find something else that would meet my sons' sensory interests and not require them to stick their hands into Other People's Potty (OPP).

Enter Low Tide:



Marine biology, anyone?

Time Travelin' Tractor Boys

Okay, Internet, I hear the collective groans "Ugh, Donkey Camp AGAIN?? Can we move on, puhlease?"

No. No I can't. I can't really move anywhere due to the chest constriction and piles of laundry all over my house, but that's a whole other whine which I'll save for my stable boy. And my mom (thanks Mom. And stable boy - you're fired).

I wanted to share the pictures of this cabin that "we" helped repair. It was built circa 1910 and was used during the summer for "fire watchers" who lived in the mountains while they played on their Wii and ordered takeout and got all spooked reading the latest book in the Twilight series. Ever-alert for the smell of smoke or the crackle of lightening.

Seriously, these were people, like my husband's grandfather and Max's namesake, who spent almost half the year living alone in tiny cabins or lookouts. Hiking or riding through the vast and wildly unpredictable world of lightening and snow, bears, huckleberries and illegal hootch stills. To me, getting the opportunity to literally walk in their boots without the kitsch of Curry-run souvenir shops with bus-filled parking lots, or Williamsburg actor-types with fake accents and intrusive conversation, was humbling. And enlightening (pardon the pun, and in no way in reference to McQueen).


This cabin is located in the Eagle Cap Wilderness Area, which means that no power-operated tools or vehicles can be used. So chainsaws are right out, and hand saws are right in. When trees fall (which they do, a lot) on the trail to the cabin, one gets off of one's mule and grabs a buddy and starts cross cutting with a huge saw the likes of which most people only see at a "Paul Bunyon Days" Festival. And then you move on for another 20 yards and do the same thing over again. For miles.

And then, when the commute is finished, you get to work.

And, as you can imagine without any power tools, these things take time. There is no "instant gratification" in historical preservation. Because, just as you start making progress and figure things out, it's time to get down the mountain. And that's a commute that makes LA at rush hour seem speedy.

Down the mountain on mules, with dogs running at their feet, over and under wild brush, balancing on sides of cliffs that make you wonder if it's really that wise to be so dependent on a creature that drank her breakfast from a creek filled with giardia and other bacteria. Stopping for a quick break at the snow bank to retrieve the now-blessedly frigid beers that we'd tucked in the snow earlier on our ride up the mountain. Counting the minutes until Motrin could enter the bloodstream.

After returning to base camp and finishing the work of unsaddling, feeding, watering and praising the packs who really did the hard work of the day, they earned their reward in a shady spot with wild strawberries and fresh hay.

And our reward was found in lawn chairs and silence and the happy, still haze that comes from a day of hard work and exhausted muscles. The beauty of nature, the respect for that which has gone before, and the absolute amazement that anyone could do THIS after eight miles on horseback:



I think everyone is trying to kill me.