A Pineapple for Mother's Day

This is what I read to my family when I gave the moms in it pineapples today for Mother's Day.  Maybe you'd like to read why I would want to give one to you, too.


A pineapple doesn't seem like a typical Mother's Day gift, but then, there are no books to tell you what is just the right thing.

What is just the right thing for my mom whose job has fewer years ahead of her than behind her?
What do I get for the mom whose life intersects mine because the men we each love are father and son?
What gift honors my older sister, the mom who blazes the motherhood trail in this family and leaves a path anyone would be proud to follow?
What's the perfect gift for my younger sister, the mom whose next child doesn't grow inside her womb, but in her heart?
 What would be the perfect gift for you?

Maybe a pineapple is as good as anything else.  I think a pineapple can be a little picture of our lives.

The pineapple has its sharp parts. When the  grocery checker moved it along she exclaimed, "Ouch! That really hurts!"
And so does life.

The pineapple is sweet.  Sometimes, surprisingly so.
And so are our lives.

The pineapple follows a plan written into its very design--the Fibonacci sequence.  Its parts and pieces are arranged in a beautifully designed way.
And so are our lives.   (even if we can't see it right away)

I recently learned that the pineapple has an interesting history as the international symbol of hospitality.  It represents generous welcome.
And isn't that how we want to live our lives? When we are open, honest and vulnerable with others--when we strip away our prickly self-protections, isn't that when the sweetest things happen?

So moms,
this is what I know.

Life is hard.  It really hurts.
Life is sweet.  It's really good.
Life is wild, but it is ordered by a creative God.

May God bless you in this hard, painful, sweet, wild, God-led life as a mom, today and always.

Blown Fuse

"Please make those damn jingle bells stop."

Do you know that moment of chaos where you don't think anyone but the person you are talking to will hear you, and then suddenly everyone in the room does?  It stretches out long and awkward, doesn't it?

It was Christmas In the Mountains.  Estes Park.  My Aunt's house was filled with family, fun, food and plenty of Christmas cheer.  Little feet running everywhere, with big ears.

And here was Aunt Jodi, bah-humbugging about socks with jingle bells and cussing to boot.

I can still remember the surprised look on my sister's face and the tone with which she said something like, "I'm sorry.  With all this noise in the house, I'm not sure I get why these bells are so aggravating.  Don't be such a Scrooge!"

I felt ridiculous.

And with no words to describe how those adorable little bells were fraying a nerve that left me feeling raw and edgy.  I couldn't explain it to myself.  Somewhere along the way I had reached critical mass and that one little noise seemed to have pushed me there.

Fast forward many, many years later.

My capacity for noise and chaos has certainly grown to contain a career working with kids, children of my own, and better tools to reduce that anxiety before it reaches blown fuses.  But I am still the girl who can get overstimulated by too much.  Noise. People. Clutter. Small Talk. Music. Blinking Lights. Overlapping Conversations. Screaming Baby. Smoke Alarm.  Screaming Baby & Smoke Alarm at the same time.

Sure, I'll admit, I have better tools for coping with this aspect of myself,  but sometimes I forget to use them, or I don't see the need to bring them out until it's too late, or the situation escalates faster than I can unlatch the hinge on my mental toolbox.

Or I get pregnant, hormonal, and fuzzy-brained and my fingers feel fat and clumsy and I can't seem to access the tools at all.

Then I go wildly waving a verbal sledgehammer and coming off as though I'm trying out for a part in a foreign-made soap opera.  Yeah.  It's funny--but not.

Yesterday I found myself in the "stop-the-jingle-bell" mode for the first time in awhile.

There was a pair of Micah's overalls in the dryer.

And that was IT.  I could not STAND the noise of the little metal parts clanking around in there.

So now an adorable pair of Osh Kosh's sit in the Goodwill box in the closet and this mama humbly acknowledges that sometimes, I have to go ahead and blow the fuse.

   

What Would LaDonna Do?

Sometimes there is no plan.  There is no menu, there is no agenda, there is no to-do list prewritten for the day.  I just wake up and wonder how the day will unfold, hoping I'll get through it with some strength and grace and patience for the people I care for most.

For you Type A's I know this must sound ludicrous.  How do I ever get anything done?  All the rest of us know.  One thing at a time. Sometimes the unplanned days are a sad, pale tale of listless unproductivity and worse, not even any fun.  And sometimes we surprise ourselves and get a bunch done, and have a lot of fun, or some acceptable combination of the two.

But do you ever wake up and feel no inspiration for anything?  Zilch.  Your drive and fun have both flatlined.  There isn't a cause you want to contribute to, a recipe you want to try, a friend you want to catch up with, nothing.

How's a day like that gonna unfold?

That's when I'm grateful for LaDonna.  Today being a flat Monday and all.  Monday, in the world LaDonna created for my husband's childhood, was Laundry Day.  Reliably as a metronome, they could set their watches by her ability to keep their household organized. Before I met my husband, I did not know that people had an assigned day for laundry.  In the world my mom created for my childhood, laundry was done perpetually--as needed.  All the time.  Anytime.  The night before your uniform was needed, if necessary.  If you had nothing clean left to wear. If you borrowed your sister's sweater and were hoping to return it to her closet without her noticing.

As a single girl, I got in the terrible habit of not using my hamper to contain the dirties as much as my entire laundry room to contain the piles of dirty clothes that I would let stack for weeks until I imagined you could have mogul ski competitions in there if they were snow.

What are we going to do today? Landon asked me with innocent expectation.  In the wake of a wonderful, busy Easter hosted here and prepped for for days, I truly didn't know.

Today is Monday.  Laundry Day.  And Landon, getting half his legacy from those organized Browns loved the sound of that and went off cheerfully to get his hamper.

At dinner, Bill asked us what we did today.  After a bit Landon said, "Well, yeah, Dad.  You know it is Monday.  It was Laundry Day." as if that was the sum total answer to explain it all.  Predictable productivity to kickstart our week.

Thanks, LaDonna. I've never met you, and yet, I owe you.
My free-wheelin', random girl really needs A Plan sometimes.

Food Equals Love

Food equals love in my world.

Before you suggest a good therapist, let me explain. 

Umm....Food equals love.

Just kidding!  I realized as I was about to try to explain that it all seemed so self-evident; what could I possibly need to explain?  But then, believing that something is glaringly obvious is usually the first hint that it may be an opinion deeply particular to yourself.

So I'll try.

When people put thought, effort and energy into planning, preparing, and presenting food (of almost any caliber) I see it as an act of love.  When I eat food prepared by people I know, I feel a little bit more loved by them.

So when my dad prepared food to feed 50 for any party over 5, we all could eat from the bounty of his generous heart.  And when my mom got into "food ruts" and we enjoyed chicken burritos or stir-fried mixes from the red wok every week for three months in a row, we could all eat from the well of her deep love.  Food like that says, my love may not be fancy, but it will be here. Every week. In repeating themes. When my Aunt puts as much care into the way the table looks, with coordinating dishes and napkins, setting plated visions of beauty worthy of five stars, her food says, I honor each of you with royal treatment because my love finds you worthy.  This day, this family, this moment is worth my love and attention because some things are just meant to be special. My love celebrates you. When people send me food after babies, during grief, when I'm sick, we eat each bite in overwhelming grattitude, tasting the message, "Whatever it is, may this food give you comfort and strength.  We love you." 

Sometimes love tastes like a vegetarian pizza from Papa Murphy's that your sister has waiting for you when you get home from the doctors.  Sometimes it looks like the last bit of dessert that your husband left for you without being asked.  Sometimes love smells like breakfast being cooked while you get to stay in bed.  Sometimes it's the way fresh basil from your in-laws' garden elevates the deliciousness of everything you add it to.   

Holidays come around and we look for familiar favorites on the menu. Why? Because the memory of this special food, served with joy each year on these special days, is like singing the chorus to the song of our food stories.  Our food stories that tell the story of our lives and of our love.  All mixed up together in ways that I don't easily separate.

So yes, I know love is love in my world. 

I'm just saying that sometimes, it also looks, smells and tastes an awful lot like food.

I Skipped Step 11

Do you ever have a moment that you think would be perfect for a hidden camera?

The other day, when butternut squash soup went splattering all over the place in my kitchen (borrowed a blender when my food processor broke) I had to pretend it was for a film crew.  What else?  I wasn't so amused; surely somebody should get to be.

But that's just a moment.  A big, messy, dramatic moment.

What about when your whole day starts to feel like you are in some kind of classroom where the instructor uses your story to explain Murphy's Law? Can't you just see the PowerPoint?  Exhibit A: see how the tall, full glass gets spilled at the table while the Sippy Cup will stand the ages...Murphy would have appreciated that.

So here is our day that professors of Murphy's law wish they had photo documentation of:

It is the day of The Wedding.  Our dear friend is getting married one hour and eight minutes away (by Mapquest's estimation) and we are going.

We have nothing planned but to get ourselves out the door two hours before the start time.

That was our one and only plan.  We are doing nothing else that does not support that plan, people!  Stick to the plan.  The wedding is today.  Today is the day.  Let's stay focused and stick with the plan.  (I start to sound like the wedding planner, instead of a guest, but I can't let my guard down.)

At 9am I mapquest the destination and write down all the directions, including all the "if you get here, you went too far" little tips.

We lay out outfits (some of which we bought and washed and dried the night before) and get ready for showers.

The power goes out.  Welcome, Murphy.
Ok, ok, so you can drive to your dad's house to iron your pants.  How are we going to reheat leftovers for lunch?  I've already taken a shower, so I guess I'll just style my hair in some slicked-back bun concoction that will attempt to look stylish since I can't use my hairdryer to style it properly.

While I'm still getting ready, Bill calls to tell me: our sitter has gotten a flat tire en route.  Does he change it or let her wait for her roadside assistance plan to send someone?  Change it.  Change it.  They could take forever.  Landon can have some dried apricots to tide him over.  (Unknown to me he ate nearly the whole bag)

Bill comes home.  Our sitter arrives.  We gather ourselves and our wits and are only 15 minutes behind schedule, but this is ok, because we are 1 hour, 45 minutes from Wedding and only 1 hour, 8 minutes from destination.

See how that should have worked out just fine?

But we've skipped lunch and have grown hungrier than I think will be tolerable.  (I rue this thought)  Let's just pull over and get a quick snack.  So Bill runs into Vitamin Cottage and buys food we feel too paranoid to eat and roll with so we take another 15 minutes to eat and drink and settle our grumbling tummies. I'm so paranoid about Landon spilling on his new sweater, in fact, that I have him take it off and eat shirtless.  Chocolate milk gets all over his face; crumbs spill all over his front.  It doesn't matter that we are not rolling.  This is how my four-year-old eats, and I should have remembered that.

Let's move on down the road.  We are now 30 minutes away with only 45 minutes to get there.

I read my carefully copied directions and we follow them perfectly.  We read each road sign to each other so we won't miss a turn.  And we get hopelessly, terribly lost.  Out on country roads with little to nothing in between.  We are so close, and ridiculously far at the same time.

As panic starts to circle in for a landing in our car, I start jabbing at Bill's smart phone that often makes me feel like a fat-fingered moron, and this time is no exception.  I can't get mapquest to actually search for the address I entered.

I call my sister for help.  As we get farther out toward Kansas she says, "Turn right at"

"Turn right where?!  What? Where?" I plead with dead silence.

She calls back.  She tries talking faster.  The smart phone wises up and cuts us off sooner.

Finally, like an air traffic controller landing a disabled plane, she guides us in with urgent precision, rattling off directions and crossroads without waiting for reply.

Bill drops Landon and I off at the door to go park the car in the totally full lot.  And now Landon has to "go".  Poor kid, the apricots are catching up with him and will not be ignored.  There's just no rushing some things, I'm afraid.

So finally, and at long last, after making it our only mission to get to this wedding, we slip in the back 11 minutes late looking for that last-row pew to settle into.  It is not to be.  The guests are all seated at round tables that will double for dinner reception seats.

But we saw the wedding.  The songs. The candles.  The radiant bride, the handsome groom.  It was beautiful and sacred.  Landon sat as attentive as I've ever seen him.  I settled down and enjoyed the moment.

Of course, I mislaid my glasses at the reception and had to go back and fake-casual search while Bill found them in the car and hoped our cell phones would work one last time to bring me back. But that's not really a Murphy thing.  That's kinda par for the Jodi course.

Our names are in the Guest Book.  And I was gratified to see that they were not even the last.  Had the pen run out of ink right as we went to sign I would have said Murphy got the last word.


PS: The confession is in the title.  I skipped step 11 when I wrote the directions.  When I told Bill today he said, "I wasn't going to say anything, but I was pretty sure that was what must have happened."

Dear beautiful, sparkly-eyed bride, may you live with a love that does not call you out on your mistakes at unproductive times, is not quick to blame, and just keeps driving til you get where you need to go.  Even when Murphy rides your coat tails all the way there.  

Serendipity

We went back to where we began.

  The small town we started in when we first got married.

  We drove around gravel roads nestled in the foothills, remembering old running trails and walks with our first baby.  

The air was thick with nostalgia, and it was sweet.

And then we drove past this:

Would you have had to investigate this?  Would it be compelling to you?  "Are you serious?" Bill asks, and then decides to humor me and pull over. "I'm not sure this is public property," he cautions.  "I intend to find out," I tell him without looking back.

This structure is a dovecote.  It is designed to house pigeons or doves.  If you look at the top, you can see the windows they fly in and out of.  I know this because I opened the door and climbed the ladder that led through the ceiling.  Landon needed to check it out, too. 

 Bill was tasked with keeping watch over the less intrepid Micah.

The garden had a plaque that explained the particulars and invited us to stay and enjoy the peace and beauty that a family had created to honor and remember their peaceful son.

It was beautiful. Unexpected. Poignant.

Across from the garden bench was this little gem:

This begs to be part of a novel

For a few minutes, Ordinary slipped behind the tree and we glimpsed a bit of the strange and wonderful.  Why not an empty phone booth in the middle of the woods?  Why not a Medieval-styled dovecote honoring a beloved?  Why not a little plot of whimsy and beauty tucked away and unexpected?

serendipity  1. the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this

 

It is along the way, and not upon arriving, that life is really happening, isn't it?
Serendipity reminds me to keep noticing that we really are traveling along a beautiful path.

Almost a Textbook Scenario

"Ok, you're clear to go," I said to my sister as she started backing out of her driveway in her SUV.  Children accounted for.  Until he wasn't.  Instead of holding my hand like I asked, Landon insisted he wanted to see Daddy and pulled away and into the path of the moving vehicle.

Yelling ensued. Enough adrenaline to satisfy even the most hard-core adrenaline junkie shot through me.  And my extreme fear morphed instantly (as it usually does) to anger when the danger was past and Landon was safe.

At that moment I was sick and tired of having a kid I cannot count on to obey.  (Do those kind exist somewhere that I don't know about?)

In a calmer moment Bill and I talked with Landon about what happened and emphasized the need for him to trust that when we ask for something, we have his best interests in mind.  I don't think I micromanage him.  So mister, if I'm making demands, it isn't because my ego won't let you walk out of the house with your shirt on backwards.  I'm picking my battles, buddy, and they are ones I demand to win.  Running around moving vehicles: that's a no.  Wearing long sleeves and pants in hot summer weather?  Well, if you must.  Sweat it out, I guess.

Landon's response to our conversation?

"The answer is stuck in my brain mom, and I can't get it out."

The question was the super-complicated, "What are you going to do the next time we ask you to do something?"

Hmph.  Are we getting through to this guy at all?

Fast forward to tonight.  Landon and his cousins were given goody bags of noisemakers and other kid kitsch. Kids love it.  Easily overstimulated moms like me wonder if the giver hates us.  Noise issues aside, Landon bagged all his up when he was done playing with it. I told him to keep it in our diaper bag or it would get thrown away since it didn't look like anything special and everyone was cleaning up.

I turn around, and his plastic bag and toys are strewn all over the counter.  My swoop instinct takes over and it all goes in the garbage.  (confession: a teeeeny part of me was happy to be justified to throw that kind of chaos away)

As we were leaving Landon asked, "Where are my toys?"
"They should be in the diaper bag, where I asked you to leave them," I tell him innocently. (My poor nephew beheld the swift swoop moment and is a little puzzled)
But they are not.  And Landon knows they are not because he didn't leave them there.  I didn't gather them. I didn't retrieve them. He knows I am not taking responsibility for them.

When we get home I tell Bill what happened.  I am happy.  Now here's a lesson that I think is really going to hit home for my little boy. I am willing to sacrifice one bag of plastic trinkets if it means Landon will be more likely to obey next time.  Because next time might be like last time: a situation with high stakes.

I am fed up with negotiating.  I am done wheeling and dealing.  And I think we sometimes couch being softies in the phrase, "showing you mercy" to justify being pushovers.

Request. Disobedience. Logical consequence.  Textbook scenario.  This should work.

Bill gets a funny look on his face.  "Umm, Jodi?  Cam (Landon's cousin with a heart of gold) showed me the garbage and told me that Landon's toys had gotten thrown away so I fished them out for him and we took them home with us in the green car."

Ahaahah!  Foiled again!

Good thing I have a new set of plastic hand clappers I can use to shake out my frustration.

The Halloween That Almost Wasn't

I've just never been that into Halloween.  Not when I was a kid, not now.
Even so, sometimes I can sense that I'm leaving gaps in my son's childhood that he may feel wistful about later.
Most times, I don't really mind. I figure we'll fill them in with our own traditions and memories that will be just as meaningful and evoke enough nostalgia that will make up for the fact that his parents weren't always culturally mainstream.

But this year I decide to give a nod to one of the biggies and have Landon participate a little in Halloween.   Translation: I really want to justify buying a bag of snack-sized chocolate.  Three, actually.  We should be prepared and do this right.

So I tell Landon that in a few days some kids are going to come over in costumes and ask for candy and would he like to pass it out?  This idea is thrilling to him and I get no end of reminders to buy the candy.

All afternoon he is running around talking about how it's all going to go down.  He preps the foyer with the candy bowl, a chair to set it on, and one for himself so he can camp out and be ready for each kid.

I dig out a doggie costume my sister gave us last year (or was it the year before?) to snap a few pictures of Landon as proof that we didn't totally neglect his childhood.  He seemed happy with it; happier still with the prospect of my putting "cara" on his face for a few whiskers and nose.

At the last minute he decided to wear some new footies my mom had bought him that had a racing motif on them.  "I want to be a race car driver, mom.  Can you draw a number on my face instead?"

Sure thing, buddy.  Two eyeliner-drawn threes coming right up.

We are ready.  I stopped counting how many times Landon climbed to the back of the couch to check the front window to see if any kids were coming.  I lost track of how many times he asked me where the kids were.  I was in awe of how many times he asked if he could have a piece of the candy himself: once.

My in-laws called to say that their neighborhood was beginning to get active (and fearing that mine was going to be a complete dud) we packed up the half-prepared dinner and the candy in a cooler and drove over there in hopes that some kids would come.

We were ready.  They had way better candy and had already had one group stop by; I felt hopeful that the real event was just about to happen.

But darkness got darker, minutes kept ticking and things were not looking good.  Am I the only nonHalloweener wishing I lived in a neighborhood smitten with it?

Finally the doorbell rings.  It's Landon's face I wish I could have photographed at that moment; not any costume.  We ran to the door a little wildly and flung it open in such happy anticipation.

There was my father-in-law, on his knees, hands up by his chin like little paws and wearing black mouse ears squeaking, "Trick or treat.  Trick or treat!"  I started laughing so hard my belly hurt.  Landon was completely befuddled.  Even after he gave him some candy.
When he came in he said, "You are such a goofball, Grandpa," and I had to to agree.  In a good way.  Oh the lengths we'll go for those we love.

Landon settles back in to eating one of the custom-decorated lollipops when the doorbell rang again.  Here we go, I think.  So I ramp it up even more; you would think I thought we were being filmed for a million dollar prize or something.  Grab the candy.  Fling the door!

It is some guy with his jacket pulled up over his head saying in a raspy, creepy voice, "Trick or treat.  Trick or treat." and for a moment both Landon and I are taken back.  Until I realize it is Bill, trying to be the headless horseman (I think).  Landon looks at me like, "What is this, mom?" and asks quite innocently, "Where are the kids?"

Does young at heart count, buddy?

At long last we get a group of bona-fide, costumed children who are properly delighted that we have double doses of candy for each of them.

My favorite line as Landon troops back to the kitchen to finish off that lollipop,

"I knew they would come mom.  I knew the kids would come."

He seems so genuinely happy that all this hoopla has been for all of six kids diminishing our outsize stash by precisely 12 pieces of candy.

I don't know what his take-away from all this is going to be, but I know I won't soon forget the two goofy guys who tried to make sure there was one.

Soaking It In

Our house overflowed with family and I looked around and felt so happy.  19 of us gathered on the deck and ate homemade chicken tortilla soup, salsas and guacamole.  Two decadent birthday cakes and righteous chocolate chip zucchini bread were still ahead.  19 of us.  All squared away on what I have decided must be an enormous deck.

The cousins ran wild all over the yard.  They tossed and tussled and threw balls and jumped rope and made each other laugh.

The women danced a prep in the kitchen, with only small missteps as I often had to think pretty hard to remember where certain items had found their new home.

The men talked, and drank drinks from the cooler, refereed the kids, got wrangled into helping with odds and ends, and roamed in and out doing quality control on the dips.

Until all 19 of us ended up on the deck, with twilight approaching and a sunset starting to paint the sky spectacular.

I wore a huge grin on my face and my heart was full.

We have come home, I thought to myself.  We gather to celebrate my mom's birthday, a big decade one, and we come to laugh and remember and cherish and hug and talk and make the memories that fill this house with love and make it a home.

It's a bittersweet moment, how time marches on and not everyone I want to make these memories with can be here, but it's still a moment worth cherishing.

Our caterpillar of a collection of home repair projects is emerging as a butterfly of a cozy home, and I loved, loved loved having my family around for one of its first big flights.

Our lives are fleeting and beautiful and terrible and extraordinary, and celebrating my mom's journey today was a joy and an honor and causes me to pause and say to myself, "Remember this.  Soak it in and enjoy each moment. You will never come this way, exactly like this again."

It has been a great day Along this Beautiful Path.

Oh, Never Mind

My family is in a gypsy mode, displaced from our permanent home and still waiting for the next.  This is a good thing, since we sold our home, packed our belongings in storage, and spent time racing around the Front Range looking for a new house like party-goers playing an expensive game of musical chairs.  Just when we would muster the guts to put an offer on one, boom! By morning it was gone; we had waited too long by wanting a mere eight hours to go by before committing to such a significant decision.  Our agent said maybe we should bring the offers to our first look appointments.

As you know from other posts, neither Bill nor I are "fall in love at first sight" kinds of folks.  At least, not with something as big as a house.  Sure, I can be bedazzled by a layered fudge-chocolate-mint-concoction of all things delicious and declare it my instant new favorite, and Bill can see the latest model of something drive by and decide it is worth a serious investigation whether it belongs on our family's dream list for a future car, but this is not the same as being willing to plunk down our entire savings on a twenty-minute whirlwind tour.  Sometimes I was just trying to disassociate myself from the thematic decorating and the unusual pet? smells to really form any opinions at all!

So the process continues. But in the meantime, we have sold our house that was the midpoint between our significant commutes.  We are road warriors, Bill and I, and if it seems melodramatic to you that I would use the word "warrior" to reference my commute, it means you have never been one.  (A road warrior, that is, not a commute)  Bill moved in with his parents, closer to his job in the south, and Landon and I  live with my mom, closer to my job almost two hours north of his.

Until I got the brilliant idea that we should go visit him and all have a slumber party at his guest quarters this last Thursday.  Yes, that's a school night for those of you who don't know that Bill is a teacher. Who thinks these are ever going to be good ideas?!

Well past bedtime we are still trying to get our dearest little boy to settle down and go to sleep. But the house is not his home, and the noises that we can disregard become monumental to my three-year-old.
This transcript seems funny to me now, but at the time I was cringing--would it ever end?!

"I can't sleep!  It's too noisy!  What's that noise?  Daddy, what's that noise?"
"It's a big fan, Landon, go to sleep." (they had an attic fan blowing outside the door of our room)
"A pig fan?  What's a pig fan?  Where are the pigs?  I don't hear pigs."
"It's not a pig fan, Landon, it's a big fan.  It the attic.  Go to sleep."
"What's an attic?"
"Go-to-sleep."
"Why a fan?  What's it doing?  Why it so noisy?  What's an attic?"
"You know, a fan, with blades spinning around, trying to cool us down.  GoToSleep."
"Knives?!  There are knives?  Why there knives daddy?  Are those for the pigs?  It's too noisy.  I can't go to sleep."

Pigs and knives and noisy attic fans.

We might be gypsies with a little bit too much imagination.

One Man's Gas

When do you start teaching a child about money?  I figured when Landon's piggy bank was full would be a good starting point.

This weekend, it finally was.  So technically, he's been learning a bit for months now as we've gathered loose change and let him put it in the slot.

I told Bill that I thought it would be a great plan to put some aside for giving, most for saving, and one dollar (plus tax) for Landon to spend at the dollar store. 

I came home late Saturday night, and the very first thing Landon says to me (skipping, "hi, mom,") was, "I bought something from the dollar store."

I couldn't wait to see the bubbles or car or stickers or puzzle he had picked out.

Instead: Flarp! Noise Putty.

I'm not kidding.

Some weird pink goop in a little container that when you pressed your fingers in, made realistic noises of the most unpleasant kind of flatulence.

"Really?" my eyebrows asked Bill.

Landon demonstrated and was so hilariously amused, I had to crack a smile.  Bill was laughing so hard his eyes were crinkling up.  Watching the two of them reminded me that there is, indeed, a realm in "boy world" that will always be just slightly beyond my understanding or appreciation.

Although I think it might be kind of funny to tell Landon that at his very first opportunity to make his first self-directed purchase he bought a fart.  Or, more precisely, a "flarp!"

On the Teeter-Totter of Parenting

One day, I'm regretting not having a camera with me at all times to capture all the adorable, milestoney type moments that seem too precious to let slip by.

The next, I'm grateful nobody can hear my frustrated thoughts, hoping that this is not the scene that becomes an indelible childhood memory.

So here was the "teeter" day:  (Teeter is the high side of the apparatus in my book)

Landon and I see a crew of guys putting down new asphalt in a fast food restaurant parking lot.  I pull in and park and we get ourselves front row seats on a grassy part to watch this motherload of fascination: men building a road.  At first, I'm doing it for Landon.  I'm remembering the trucker we met a while back and enjoying another moment to learn something about the world Landon is drawn to like a magnet.  But then, the scene is pretty interesting.  They steam-melt the old surface, rake it up, pour new asphalt to mix with the newly softened patch, rake some more, and then--grand finale--steamroll it.  The steamroller comes so close, Landon shudders in that mix of fear-turned-happiness to be near.  He's grinning so huge and talking a mile a minute, alternating between asking questions and explaining the whole thing to me as though he were the narrator of a documentary we should be filming.

And I'm happy.  Happy just to sit on the grass with him and watch the world get built.  And those guys are happy.  We give each other that little chin-up nod that is acknowledgement without being too gushy.  And they wave and grin at a little boy so completely enthralled with their every move that his mother would let him sit and watch it as long as he wants.  It's hot, hard work.  I tell one of the guys so and he says, "Yeah, and I yove it," and his accent suggests that he is probably working harder than I can guess.

So before we leave, I follow an impulse and buy them all a drink at the drive through and we drop them off before we head on down the road.  And still I'm happy.  Happy all around.  Those guys, my little guy, me.  

But the teeter-totter stays on the move.  And the moment finds its counterpoint today when I try to take a walk with Landon and Bill to the local grocery store. Is it worth detailing all the ways my patience wore thin, my nerves frayed and I finally snapped?  Near the end, I felt like I could not endure one more moment of fussy, whiny, crying, inconsolable behavior.  I'd already said a number of regrettable things; I didn't want to keep adding to the list.  So I begged the house key from Bill and left him to get the trike and tike home, and hightailed it away from them as fast as I could before I had a meltdown as ugly as my toddler's.

I felt like such a meanie.  I tried to make up for it by making our dinner salads especially nice.  Lots of chopping.  By hand.  Folded napkins.  You know, little touches I'm sure would mean the world to a three-year-old and his harried dad.  I wished I could get off that simply.

Instead, we had to chalk it up as "not one of our better days" and hope the bump of these "totter" days doesn't negate the "wheee!" of the teeter ones.

Maybe I need to find a better parenting metaphor.

Thinking about it, this one really stinks. 

Let's Go Fly (or watch) a Kite

"This is going to be awesome!"

He says it so loudly, and with such conviction, I think everyone on the shuttle bus is inclined to believe him.

For my part, I'm just thrilled to be on another family adventure--a serendipitous one because a day before, a stranger told me about Arvada's 10th Annual Kite Festival. Now we find ourselves shuttling over to the park, eagerly awaiting a sky full of kites.

We were not disappointed (though the picture doesn't show it well)

touring a fire truck and learning what a spanner is and how it is used

sweet Bill to indulge this whim of Landon's

the adventure continues at IKEA

We ended with homemade Boboli pizza (a slice of my own childhood), and a movie from the library.  

A great day, from start to finish, top to bottom.

Underwear

We three were lying in bed with Landon in the middle.  I was reading a joke book that was making me laugh every so often.  Eventually, Landon poked his nose in it to see what was so funny.  Wanting so much to be a part of things, he pretended to read, "Underwear. Underwear. Underwear," and then glanced at me sideways to see if his funniest word would have the desired effect.

I can hear Captain Underpants giggling in the distant future.  He knows he's got another reader coming his way.

But who am I to complain?  Am I not the mom who just let him run around with a diaper on his head a few weeks ago?

Yep, that's my child.

His First L

Ka-pow!  A new milestone just drops itself into an ordinary Sunday night and I scramble for the camera, Landon starts a happy dance and daddy is properly proud and congratulatory.

I was printing something off the computer.  Bill was reading.  Landon was coloring.

And then he says,

"I made an L for me!"

When I look over, sure enough, he has written an L, clear as anything.

Whoa...wait a second!  Who taught him to write?!

Well, naturally, being parents who never want to give our child a performance complex, we made a big huge deal of this accomplishment and Landon got so wound up.  He started dancing around the room exclaiming "I'm so skited.  I'm so skited," until he kind of forgot what he was excited about and just started saying random stuff about princesses and pencils and who knows what.  Phone calls ensued.  Family was told.  "You are ill?"  No....I made an ELL!


We finally returned to the regularly scheduled evening.  Landon preceded to write the rest of the alphabet (just kidding!!)  He actually couldn't really replicate his first triumph, and instead settled for the practice of writing the straightest lines he could, kinda hoping for a party for each one.  He was like a little cave-baby who found fire by accident...and then couldn't get it relit.

Sensational while it lasted.

My favorite part was as he worked on his new attempts at straight lines he said so earnestly, "I writing, mom."

And so you are, son.

Welcome to this family.

Little Moments

mesmerized

intent

Elati lights: we had to visit twice

exuberance

anticipation

focused

finished work

daddy's helper

this is childhood

and motherhood

the joy comes round and round

"We do not remember days, we remember moments."  ~Cesare Pavese

Little moments: some on film, some in my heart, some in my less-than-reliable memory (hope they find their way to the back room labeled "long-term"!) It was a season of many, and I treasure them all.

Confessions of a Lazy Girl

In a rare moment of honest clarity, I realized something about myself: I am lazy.

It stings to type it.  Just as it scraped to even think it.  I certainly know how to work hard, and do when I am getting paid to, but in my personal life, I think it's time to admit that laziness is a deficit I need to address.

If you're wondering how I could just now be figuring this out, read on.  Perhaps your laziness has been masquerading as other things, too.

• "I feel so overwhelmed."  This past year, I have said this to Bill a few times, and to myself, many more.  It is such a solid, legitimate, unarguable statement.  And over and over, the train of thought that follows this engine is, "I'm so overwhelmed, I don't know where to start, I can't get anything done."  At the end of the day, the caboose comes rolling in, "I'm so overwhelmed, I've gotten so little done, I am feeling paralyzed by how much there is left to do, I just need a break from it all."  

So I spend the day in a state of panicky inaction because there is a lot to do.
The evening is a state of regretful inaction because so little got done.
And the morning becomes frustrated, frantic action as I scramble to get to work on time because I spent a fair two, three hours past my bedtime "taking a break" from my stress.

To be fair, it has been an overwhelming year.  Death and loss came knocking at our door, and on the doors of many we love.

And the sadness of it all, the deep heavy ache, of things gone wrong that can't be righted, of people gone who we won't see again this side of Heaven, of a baby we briefly held, of our own two we didn't get to meet...these were no small sorrows, indeed.

So when it seemed like I was surviving better than thriving, I chalked it up to the circumstances.  How could I expect myself to be productive, considering??

But here's the raw truth: I was no more productive before this difficult year.  Now, I've simply been sad and unproductive.

• "I don't have the capacity for this."  This is not a train of thought.  This is a steamroller of thought that barrels through and leaves me flat.  I do not brainstorm how to increase my capacity, I just decide I've reached it, and can't do another thing.  (Except maybe go watch a movie, read a book,  or waste an hour online)  My capacity limit doesn't send me to the logical place: bed.  Instead, I almost guarantee to keep my capacity low by not getting enough sleep.

• "I am the fun one in this family.  It's my job to make sure that we don't miss out on the good times because we're so busy checking off items on a to-do list."   I love how I'm the hero in this one.  The trouble with it, though, is that it is just NOT fun for my family to function in varying states of chaos, varying degrees of lateness, and varying levels of unpreparedness.  It's really hard to take advantage of a beautiful day with a spontaneous picnic if nobody went grocery shopping and bought a few basics.  Kinda hard to see what's so fun about taking a drive in the mountains in a car that resembles a rolling trash bin.  (Sure, I'm painting it bleak, but it's easier to see in exaggerated sweeps.)

It brings me back to laziness.  Seems like I've realized three things my laziness might be hiding behind:

A sense of being overwhelmed

My sense of capacity: what I can do, or be expected to do

A sense of identity

What I haven't yet thought through: how does one go about getting that balance?

Between taking time to grieve and getting on with what needs to be done

Between working hard and renewing myself

Between getting things done and letting the beautiful happen

Even as I type this, my favorite little boy has crawled up into my lap and is ready to spend time with me again.

Days off with him: sum total of my to-do list: BE with Landon.  Somehow, that never feels too lazy.

Pumpkin Patch, City Style

Grandpa Bill goes back to buy him a mini

Roses

I wanted to go the rose garden park because we had never been there when the roses were in bloom.

The roses were blooming;  our affection had room to grow, too. Little moments to cherish.     This day, it took really, truly smelling the roses to remind us to "stop and smell the roses."