Category: Family

Swimming Pools and Cherry Pies

.Reading time 4 minutes.

This morning I was due to be at my parents’ house at 11 for a pre-lunch kid swim on our Pre-Father’s Day Lunchabration. (You know you wish you’d thought of that word. Patent pending. Step off.)  I was responsible for a cherry pie and Todd’s Rockabilly Texas Slaw. I hate cole slaw. I LOVE this stuff. I knew I had to get up and get going this morning to make sure the pie was done ahead of time.

Beloved loves to help. Always. As you know if you are a parent, a nanny, an aunt, a grandma, or a person with a strong pulse, a child’s help isn’t always super-duper helpful. Often it adds a 1/2 hour to the task and means cleaning up a can of beans off the floor (hypothetical example here, as there are no beans in my cherry pie recipe). This morning, though, I woke up in a dandy mood and decided to EMBRACE the help. Invite the help. I was surprised how nice it was to have her helping with just a wee attitude change on my part. I need to embrace this now, because I think she’s smart enough to be making the pie on her own in about 6 months and how great would that be?

Anyway, once we got the pie in the oven, I continued with my 1000 other tasks to ready one child for summer camp and other children for just…you know…the day and stuff.

And the pie cooked. And cooked.

And soon the house began to smell really good. You thought I was going the “house on fire” direction with that, didn’t you? Not this time.

Mama’s Boy, who loves to eat, started to notice the smells and ask for pie crust. He loves the days when there’s leftover pie crust that we slather in butter and cinnamon and bake for him to munch on. Today there was nothing leftover. He was bummed. But once he got over his initial disappointment, he just announced with glee, “I’ll just eat the pie at Grandmama’s house.” And that was that.

We went. They swam. We lunchabrated. And then it was time to go.

So we left.

And at 4:30 this afternoon, Mama’s Boy stopped dead in his tracks and said, “What happened to the pie?”

What do you mean, what happened to the pie, boy?

“I mean what happened to it? I was supposed to eat it.”

“Well, it was there, right with all the other desserts. I thought you changed your mind,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Nobody offered me pie,” he woefully concluded.

And then, after he had fallen asleep, I read his journal (he has authorized this, just so you don’t think I’m a total weasel). This is what it said:

SATURDAY

Today we went swimming. I had a great time, but I forgot about the pie. But anyways, it rocked. We came home and watched Karate Kid.”

I hate it when I swim and forget about the pie. It happens. Happy Father’s Day to every cool dad out there. Mine is better than yours, but don’t feel bad. Yours is okay, too. 🙂

Oh, it’s Krazy, all right

.Reading time 6 minutes.

So today I had to drive to the Grand Hyatt Hotel, just past the airport. It was to purchase a gift for my daughter’s upcoming birthday. And since you may already know that I am the Queen of Craigslist, this was a craigslist exchange. The lady meeting me was a professional. She said, “You’ll know me by my blue shirt and grey pants. And I have my hair pulled back.” I replied, “OK, great. You’ll know me because I’ll have 4 feral children with me that do not belong in a Hyatt lobby.”

Self-fulfilling prophecy.

They were wild all right.

None of this is at all important to the story, except to say that I was kinda grumpy with the kids after that. It is in these moments that you wonder where you’ve gone wrong. Actually, I know where I’ve gone wrong. I just don’t know how to make it right. But we’ll get there.

So part of the purchase from today included a case for my son’s ds. This was just a bonus. But there was a piece torn on it. So after nearly wrecking Wendy’s (more grumpiness from me), we walked over to CVS to buy some superglue. This is where the story takes a macabre turn. I opted to buy Krazy Glue, instead of the standard super glue. I don’t know why. it seems like I would have intentionally avoided it over the “k” thing alone. I am very against cutsie misspellings in brand names. Even Krispy Kreme drives me nuts. But the product stands on its own in that particular case.

I was so confident in my gluing skills that I did not read the instructions, prepare a surface, or have any type of back-up plan in place. I just jumped willy nilly into gluing. Before I even realized I had successfully opened the tube, it was oozing everywhere.  My thumb was now glued to my index finger on my left hand. On my right hand, my index finger and my thumb became bonded to the tube of glue, which was still oozing.

I realized immediately that I was in trouble. I think I began making weird wheezing sounds and even the heads of the children playing Wii turned to see what was up.

“Ohhh, nooooo,” I said, with Mama’s Boy watching intently. I immediately pulled on my left thumb and managed to free up that hand. Then I focused on the right hand and managed to free my thumb. The index finger was done, though. There was no going back on that one.  I was now attached rather permanently to the tube. I at least managed to stop the eruption of fresh glue.

Krazy, I tell you.

At this point, I went to the instructions. The instructions I needed were listed under a bold section called: WARNING:

“Avoid contact with skin and eyes. If eye or mouth contact occurs, hold eyelid or mouth open and rince thoroughly but gently with water for only 15 minutes and GET MEDICAL ATTENTION. (Heavens to BETSY! I cannot IMAGINE getting the stuff near my eyes.) If skin bonding occurs (ok, I’m listening now), soak in acetone-based nail polish remover or warm soapy water and carefully peel or roll skin apart (do not pull).”

So, I fixed myself a nice large bowl of warm, soapy water and poured a bottle of nail polish remover into it, for good measure. Then I sat down to wait. And soak. This was at 2:56 p.m. Actually, I really didn’t have time for these shenanigans today. At 3:06, I pulled out the finger to work on it.

Still stuck. Back in the bowl.

Snuggle Monkey needed some assistance in the bathroom. She just had to go it alone today.

And at 3:15, I finally rolled and peeled my skin free. It was red and irritated and still covered with a gluey film. But at least I was free of the tube.

So what does that K stand for? Killer glue substance. Kranky lady kould have read the instructions and didn’t. Kall the doctor immediately, something horrible is klinging to me. Krud.

Speaking of Kranky, in the middle of all my grumbling about how I wish the kids could just put on their best Grand Hyatt faces and sit like angels, Mama’s Boy piped up from the back of the van.

“Mama, I wrote today’s entry in my journal. Can I read it to you?”

Sure, boy. Shoot.

“So far this day is pretty bad. We just can’t act perfect. But luckily, I am going to a sleepover to turn things around. Hopefully it will go well.”

Wow. Now if that doesn’t bring things into krazy klear perspective, nothing will.

We did turn things around.  In more ways than one.

 

Country Miles

.Reading time 7 minutes.

People don’t go running in the country.  Ever.
I mean it.
But I live in the country. And I go running. So now there is one person that goes running in the country– if you can call what I did tonight running.
There is a recent rash of people I know joining Couch to 5K programs. There are websites and podcasts and probably many other instructional forums that teach a person how to go from slug to sleek. I don’t seem to know where any of these instructions are. I thought about asking my neighbors for advice, but again–they don’t go running. So I was forced this week to come up with my own program for couch to 5K.

Day One: Get off the couch and go to bed. I did that one on Monday.
Day Two: Get off the couch and think very hard about exercising. Then eat Cheetos. I did that one on Tuesday.
Day Three: Stay on the couch and plan the exercises you will do on Day 4. That was yesterday for me. It went well.
Day Four: Get off the couch and do the exercise you planned yesterday. This was today. I ran–hobbled, really–to the Shell station down the road. It is exactly one mile from my house. So if I hobble there and back, I have hobbled 2 miles.

It was 6 o’clock tonight when this plan came together and there was no more avoiding the 5K portion of the Couch to 5K program. It was time. I put on actual running clothes and actual running shoes and I headed out the door with money in my pocket. If I was going to end up at the Shell station, I didn’t want to be limited by being broke. I was thinking I would reward myself with a cold bottle of water.

In my mind, I could envision myself completing this mission. I would be agile. Nimble. Impressive. Not at all winded. And as I started down my driveway, this was the picture in my head that i carried with me. Out on the main road, I shook my head to catch the wind in my hair. I actually had the “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick” thing rolling through my mind. There were a couple of problems with making that whole nimble thing happen: (1) I was running on a busy, busy road without much shoulder. This meant that most of my run was cross-country, in a sloping ditch. In the country, there are a lot of ant beds. Jumping over these ant beds on the side of the road was nimble one time. 500 times, not so much. Don’t even ask me about the incline.  (2) I haven’t gone running in 6 months. Maybe STARTING nimble was too lofty a goal. Let’s back it up to: Don’t throw up within sight of a passing monster truck.

I discovered a heavily guarded section of road as I lumbered along. It surprised me, too. I didn’t see that one coming. Perhaps the volume of my huffing and puffing kept me from hearing the bounding and barking of the largest german shepherd I’ve ever seen. When I did spot him, it was a “Whoa, nellie” moment and I immediately crossed the road to the other side. But as I did so, I got hit with a two-dog combo unit. A chihuahua and a rotweiler team. GET OUT, was the message. Go home, sweaty girl. People don’t run here. Clearly. These dogs were fenced, so don’t be alarmed. But I wasn’t totally convinced the fences would hold them. They did not like me being there.

I finally made it to the Shell station. I only stopped to double over and pant like 13 times. I retrieved a bottle of water as my reward and then began to think about lunches for tomorrow. We needed Ritz crackers. You know how convenience stores sell those, right? You get one sleeve of Ritz, boxed neatly inside a very expensive Ritz package. It’s like $11 for one sleeve of crackers. Still, I was there. And I needed them. And it was cheaper than the kids buying school lunches. So I took my bottle of water and my skinny little Ritz box up to the counter and smiled at the scruffy fella behind the counter. I decided not to shrink back from people, in spite of my smell and appearance. There are a lot of sweaty people in country stores. Many of them do not even have shirts, so I was way ahead of that game.

He rung me up and I handed him my five dollar bill. He handed me my change and slid my water and my crackers back across the counter to me. What? No bag? I guess this looks like a very simple and portable purchase. I, however, still had that final mile to run. I decided to take what he had given me and not ask for a bag. After all, a bag couldn’t help me now anyway. So, because the first leg of this journey had gone so well, I decided to add an awkward and delicate item to each hand for the journey home.

And off I went, with a half-empty sloshing bottle of water in one had and a sleeve of Ritz crackers in the other.
This was not in my Couch to 5K plan and this is not done in the country. People walk home carrying 12-packs of Miller Lite. They do not run home with Ritz crackers.

There is a reason people coined the phrase, “country mile.” It’s because one mile feels really, REALLY far. There is not a phrase, “country mile with crackers.” Well, maybe there is. But it means something entirely different.

 

Yesterday and Today were also anniversaries

.Reading time 3 minutes.

May 23 and 24 might not seem special to you, but they are anniversaries too. They are 11 year anniversaries of my asking the question, “Now what?” about raising a child. What now? What do I do with it? What if it cries and I can’t help it? What if the neighbors call the police? What if the department of children and families decides to investigate our diaper changing techniques or how often we bathe? What then?

Eleven years later, I am still asking those questions. Now there are four children, instead of just one. We moved to the country so we wouldn’t have to worry about the neighbors calling the police. In fact, we are considering calling the police on some of them. There is a small boy that enjoys biking in his underoos. Is that okay? I kinda don’t think so, but I guess we’re in the boondocks now.

I digress.

I remember 11 p.m. on the night of May22. Mr. and Mrs. Informinator were the last people to leave our “homecoming party” for our new baby boy. We were petrified to see them go. Once they pulled out of the driveway, we were alone in our cluelessness.

Yesterday, I celebrated that anniversary of the realization that I know nothing by knowing nothing yet again. Beloved had been saying all day she didn’t feel well. She doesn’t feel well a lot, truthfully. I think she is afflicted with Middle Child Illness at least some of the time. Yesterday I logged her complaints as just that.  I tried everything. Tried to hydrate her. Tried to feed  her. Laid her on my bed. Hugged her. Sympathized with her. Unsympathized with her (suck it up, teeny one, you’re fine!). Etc.

I was bustling around with her not eating dinner when Todd called to me from the dining room. The unthinkable had occurred. I won’t describe it. I’ll just give you a few words from basic German Shepherd.

Carnage. Lysol. Pine floors (so thankful). Bucket. Emergency phone call to get a sub for my bible class.

Middle Child Sickness.
Not so much

Happy Anniversary to me. Maybe next year the knowledge will come.
Surely next year…

A continuance of the anniversaries

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I can’t help it. I just can’t not observe this day. Sometimes I am inspired to write. Today I am not. But last year, on May 22, I was. So tonight, in remembrance of one of the greatest days of my entire life, I will link to last year’s post. I will also post a picture of the little weed, as he looked on Sunday. Still not an ounce of fat on the kid. Not one ounce. Oh, for that situation.

The Boy’s Sweet Homecoming

It’s the little things

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This morning was slightly busier for me, since I was driving the kids to school and the little one had to be awakened for the ride along. Still though, there was very little stress and we were relaxed and happy. We left right on time. After being on the road a couple of minutes, Mama’s Boy piped up from the back of the van.

“Do you know what my favorite sound is?”

I didn’t know.

“You know the sound of the tires on the road? Well it’s that–with voices talking in the front seat.”

Wow. The boy likes a good road trip.

Mama’s Boy has always had a different perspective on the world. He’s special. I found a video of him at 4, “reading” to his little sisters. His voice is very much a live manifestation of the Linus character. I miss his voice as much as I miss anything in the world.

Reality

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I just saw a commercial for knee replacement surgery. Sometimes circles just make sense, they said. So make sure to get a circle fake knee. Getaroundknee.com is the website, in case you find yourself suddenly needing major joint replacement surgery. The whole thing was so weird that I found myself needing to blog, just to make sure some part of the regular world was still there.

I have been reflecting on things other than knees for a few days now. Today is May 21 (in case you didn’t know that). It is the 11 year anniversary of the happiest phone call I’ve ever gotten. It was our caseworker telling us we had a son. Usually people know they have a son without someone telling them. But our boy was hidden from us until the very last second.

It is 10:58 p.m. Exactly 11 years ago tonight, I was in Walmart with a friend. Todd was at the friend’s house, with her husband. We were both undone. We were purchasing things we figured new parents need, like diapers and receiving blankets and a single outfit to put a child in. A kid needs at least one outfit.

I was in that 24-hr Walmart until after midnight. At that point, I went home and cleaned my house until almost 3. I will never forget staring at my ceiling in wonder. Wondering how it could be that my son was waiting in a hospital 2 hours north. How it could be that the next day our lives would change so drastically. How it could be that people with absolutely no experience with a baby could come home with one without some sort of license. Wondering how I’d ever get to sleep.

I finally did.

And in that 11 years, with 3 extra blessings added, I’ve gotten about 6.5 hours of sleep. And it’s been well worth it.

My Birthday Boy

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May 19, 2012

Dearest Boy,
Eleven years ago this night you were on the brink of being born. I didn’t know my missing piece was about to be placed into the wedge nothing else could fill. I didn’t even know you existed. I certainly didn’t know you were about to be mine. I get weepy just typing this note to you. You cannot know how much love was sewn into your life’s garment. It’s baffling, really. It took almost 4 years of thinking I knew exactly how God was going to bring my children to me–and failing utterly–to bring me to a quiet, humble place where I could grow into your mom. Without those years, without the emptiness, without my casting around in desperation, I would not have been ready. I wasn’t ready before you. I didn’t know this.

God knew.

Four years of powerful aching was pacified by a wriggling 7 pound baby with big red lips and a deep, beautiful dimple.

Four years of pain now buried under 11 years of the greatest joy your dad and I have ever known.

You were the perfect baby for us–hand-picked by your Creator.
You were perfect.
You are perfect.

Perfect.

Happy birthday, sweet son.

I’m a farmer now.

.Reading time 2 minutes.

Not really. But I call myself that. And I am definitely not scared of being dirty or fighting possums or creating ramps to roll trashed barbecue grills into the back of the golf cart thingies to drive to the street for trash pickup. I also have many other very marketable skills. I’m working on writing them down and marketing them. Because they are marketable. And there’s a market for these things. Maybe even a farmer’s market.

Or something.

I have much to say, but every time I try to, I end up looking at a paragraph that’s pretty much nonsense. (See above.) I am settling in to a new home and a new kind of life. I’ve decided not to trade in any of the people, though. I like them. Everything else is up for grabs. I’ll even sell you the van for the right price. It handles tight parking spots quite well.

There is a future post in the works about the garden that is growing out back. I have to give a huge shout out to my parents in law, who will remain unnamed for privacy’s sake. Since this blog got 2 views this morning, I have to think about privacy. We’ll just call them Barrell and Plank Flap. Let it go, people. Do not try to figure out who they are. Get your own gardening in-laws. Stop stalking.

Pheww.

See why I haven’t posted? It’s ugly.

Until I can string some thoughts together into something that would have made above a C in 9th grade, I will leave you with a couple of harvest photos. The garden is amazing. And fun. And tasty. It’s turning out some pretty large stuff. God grows really neat stuff. I’m glad my kids are figuring out that grocery stores are not where things grow.

Even these guys like it…

We had to take her to the chiropractor after she hoisted this thing up against her shoulder. Yes, that IS a zucchini.

Eat your heart out, Publix.

 

Mama’s Boy survives 8 years in a world that may not quite understand him…

.Reading time 5 minutes.

Today is the anniversary of the birth of one very amazing kid. Mama’s boy was born 8 years ago today. I am grateful beyond words for him. Last year I wrote a post on his birthday and if you’ll indulge a re-read,I’m just going to repost that entry. It ws better than one I could write after a night of thunderstorms on the mountain. I am grateful to be here in the mountains, with my freshly 8 year old boy.
——————————

It is 2:13 a.m. on March 16, 2011. It is my Mama’s Boy’s birthday. Every part of my back and eyelids are telling me to climb in bed next to Jingle Joints (my 9-yr-old. Why he is here on MY side of the bed is a lengthy, rather dull story, so I’ll skip that one for a slow day in Blogville.), but my heart is telling me to take a few moments and honor one of the most extraordinary boys ever born.

He truly is. Extraordinary. Almost extra-terrestrial really.

He was born on a Tuesday afternoon and placed immediately up against me for a first hold in this world. After about a minute of a strained cry, the doctor determined he wasn’t quite all right, so they ushered him away from me and he was gone for the next 8 hours. That was an exhausting 8 hours, swollen with anxiety about what was actually happening in the NICU. As it turned out, it was fairly standard stuff. But it isn’t standard to not have your arms around the baby you’ve loved for 9 months and who has only been in the world for a few hours. There is nothing that feels standard about that. When they finally let me see him, it was about 8 p.m. I was shot. But I was so happy to be headed down that corridor in a wheelchair. He was hungry. And screaming. Really. Really. Screaming. He can still scream, 7 years later. I scrubbed my hands, rolled around by his bassinet, and the nurse handed me my pink, wrinkly disgruntled baby. I laid him up against my chest and said,

“Hey, boy. It’s mama.”

And in that exact instant, he stopped crying. Not a peep. And then I started up. Because I couldn’t believe that he was here. That he was mine. That the sound of my words could be a salve to anyone’s soul. It was a moment I will remember until I don’t remember how to string two words together anymore.

That was the day he became my mama’s boy.

I ruined that beautiful scene 10 minutes later by almost passing out, actually throwing up into a cup, and handing that sweet swaddled nugget back to a stranger. Who knew having a baby could be so hard? Oh, yes. Everyone. But it got better from there. And it has ever since.

Since it is 2:27 now, I will not try to recap the 7 years following. They have been amazing. How can he be that cute? That smart? That weird? How can he not know that someone is about to club him for being so annoying at the worst possible moment? How does he not sense when the joke has gone too far? How can his jokes make me laugh so hard right before they go bad? How could God have been so good to me?

I need to find him a good wife. He’s amazing…but he’s going to need a good, good wife. I have begun praying on that one and will continue. But as with everything, I believe I should try to do my part. And so I will post a video that I hope will serve as a Meet the Arranged Husband audition tape. Have your daughters watch it. Send me one in return. And we’ll talk.

Happy Birthday, boy. You are amazing.