8 Hours in the Car with a Toddler: Endure or Enjoy?

We've all heard (or lived through) a few distressing travel stories: ears that wouldn't pop, kids who won't stop crying, sanity drizzling away faster than the miles gained.  So it wasn't without evidence that I felt a bit nervous about embarking on an 8 hour car ride with our two-year-old.  Could he make it?  Could we?

East to Nebraska

First stop: still in his pajamas

A stop at a museum lets us all stretch our legs

There are rules: you must take pictures
in front of large statues.

on the road again

letting the baby drive gave Bill and I a nice break

secret weapon brought out on the return trip

he's mesmerized

last of the secret weapons: needed for the final hour
coming home in Denver rush-hour traffic

hope he doesn't delete all my photos!

As it turned out, Landon was a little super-trooper, better than I had even hoped for.

We made it with flying colors.  And a one-pound pack of Red Twists.

A First Time For Everything

In the planning stages, a road trip to Nebraska didn't exactly sound like a huge bag of thrills to me.  Of course, I was looking forward to the time with family we would get to have, but other than that, I didn't have high expectations.  I completely underestimated (again) how fun it is to be with someone for whom most everything is new.  His first road trip.  His first time out of the state.    Here are a few of the things that were Landon's "firsts" on our first-ever, family road trip:

first time swinging in this kind of swing by himself

magical moments with the first fireflies

First movie in a theater: IMAX Tornado Alley

• First time eating at an all-you-can-eat buffet
• First time climbing out of a Pack and Play and opening a bedroom door (I wish I had a picture of the satisfied, mischievous expression he wore when he came into my bedroom and said, "hi," as if monkey antics of this scale were totally normal.)

first time to see a penny souvenir machine--
will he collect them with the same delight I do?

first time to see a wax person

first time on an escalator this big 

Being with Landon IS the adventure.  One that I never tire of--first time around, or two years in.

Double Rainbow

Summertime in our neighborhood is busy. People roam the streets much later, or sit out on decks or porches well past our bedtime.  Without many yards to speak of, the whole street becomes a kind of playground for children of various ages and sizes, some remarkably little to be riding around at dusk without helmets or regard for approaching cars in the street.  I drive slowly, cautiously in my neighborhood in the summer.

Summertime in our neighborhood is loud.  With all these people spending more time outside, we are more aware of their noise through our own open windows.  When I heard a croaky voice shouting across the neighborhood the other night, I wasn't surprised that I could hear every word.

Sometimes I'm annoyed that in this little pocket of humanity, we bump up so close to each other that nobody can have a party without all of us feeling like eavesdroppers.

But the other night, I was feeling more impish, so when the yelling began I ran up to my closet window and called out in reply to the invisible shouter, "What?!  What are you guys seeing?  What rainbow?  I don't see a rainbow!"

I grabbed our camera and went out to see what all the ruckus was about.
Two kids were on my grass, raptly looking at a double rainbow.
By the time I got my camera out, this was the best shot I could get:

"We almost saw where that one ended!"  they told me excitedly.
"Did you find the pot of gold at the end of it, then?" I asked.
"Almost!"

I couldn't tell if they believed themselves or not.
But the moment felt friendly and fun and for once, I was glad I hadn't been such a party pooper.

Maybe double rainbows aren't such a bad reason to shout across the whole neighborhood, after all.

Flight of the Imagination...or Squirrel

flitterbick: a mythical flying squirrel that moves so fast no one has ever seen it

Did you know that you have thus far missed a flitterbick sighting? I didn't, until three nights ago, when this was revealed as the definition of a Balderdash word. Presumably a real word, though I don't have a print dictionary  thick enough to confirm it.

Maybe that just fits the flitterbick: as difficult to find in reputable print as it is in its mythical world.

At any rate, I like this new word and its quirky definition.  I'm going to pretend that the flitterbicks only come out whenever there is a double rainbow.
Very elusive.  Very fast.

If you're ever doing time-lapse video of a double rainbow and catch a smudge of one when you slow the film down, be sure to let me know.

I've been longing to catch sight of a flitterbick for ever so long.

Landon's First Real Haircut

10 Little Reasons I Love my Husband in a Big Way

When I got married, I was not so head-over-heels in love with Bill that I couldn't imagine my life without him.  Maybe I have an excellent imagination, maybe having lived without him for more than 30 years gave me enough material to work with.

I knew that I loved Bill and wanted to make a life with him.  I knew that the journey would be entirely and irrevocably set on a specific course from that day forward.  I knew that by choosing him, I was "unchoosing" every other possible person and path.  I was taking this path, with this man.

So it has surprised me, that three years later, a more sentimental, romantic side of my personality has emerged.

Now, when I look at Bill, I cannot imagine my life without him.  Because "my life" has become "our life" and if he isn't in it, then the magnitude of that goes beyond my own reasonably good imagination.

And it is a a dozen--a hundred--a thousand little things that I love about him and our lives together that I never could have detailed before we got married.  Sure, I love the big things, too, but everyone who knows him well can see those things.

This is my list of seemingly small things that I love about Bill Brown.
Seemingly small, taking up much room in my heart.
I could write many, many things, but 10 seems to be the listy norm:

1. I mislaid my car keys.  Again.  The search escalated from frustrating to frantic.  I called Bill.  Any ideas?  I'm already late.  He had a spare buried in his sock drawer.  I love Bill for having contingency plans.  Vicariously, I feel smarter and better prepared--because he is.
2. Bill brought me a small stuffed rat that, when pushed, does a funny rendition of, "I like you.  I la-la-la-la-like you.  (Random person from YouTube recorded it)  It seemed a strange gift to me.  As it turns out, he bought it on "Market Day" from a student.  I love that, when presented with options to "purchase" something from the kids, he is always thinking of me.  These gifts that seem a mismatch to his age and income level are endearing because they remind me that Bill was once a young boy, perhaps shyly offering the best Market Day find to a girl.  We're not kids anymore, but I love that I'm his girl.
3. Bill kills all the spiders in the house.  Soundly.  Thoroughly.  Unflinchingly.  He has no strange hang-ups (like I do) with them.  This practical matter takes on heroic proportions in my mind.  To have someone vanquish my irrational fears on my behalf...this I love.
4. One Christmas long ago, I received a poinsettia.  It didn't live through January.  Bill and I were given a poinsettia, too.  Come Easter, I could only marvel that it shared display space with the Easter Lily.  Bill keeps plants alive.  Plants breathe air into our home.  Bill's skills are like a breath of fresh air to me, one I didn't know I was waiting to take.
5. One day, I picked up a pair of Bill's shoes to put away.  It was a startling discovery to realize that it was the first (and perhaps only) time I had ever done so.  The man simply does not have the habit of leaving his shoes about.  Is this normal?!  My own experience of shoes around the house is a long and storied saga; Bill would have no such dramatic tales to tell.  I don't know how his shoes find their way to the closet all the time; they are like mysterious creatures that can return to their birthplace year after year by instinct.  Some women love their man's mysterious ways.  So do I.  I love the way he mysteriously manages to minimize hassle in my life.
6.  Bill loves to read.  Deep, thoughtful books that are often just "too much" for me to rally interest in.  Long words with longer sentences. Complex, it seems, for complexity's sake.  And he loves being a reader of such books.  What I find endearing is the numerous nights I discover him fast asleep with some such intellectual book propped up on his chest.  Oh, my sweet, hopeful, studious husband.  Even the best of us can't always stay awake for our best intentions.
7. Bill is a good cook.  An improvisational cook who can make meals without recipes, using only the ingredients we have in the house (and not fancy, overpriced, one-recipe kinds of obscurities).  His repertoire of food is not huge, but it works.  And nothing tastes better than food prepared for you.  Who knew that I would love a fried egg sandwich from his hands more than grilled chicken from mine?
8. He is the cook who will make me chocolate chip pancakes (which I adore), and then be sure to save the very last pancake for me.  Because everyone knows that is where all the chips will be.  And he knows that I adore a little pancake with my chips.  And he likes making me happy.  Indulging me with these little treats.  The chip-iest one....always for me.
9. Okay, this next one is huge.  You'll see why in a second.  I almost don't want to share it because it will reveal an area in which I'm spoiled, and so while it makes Bill so lovable, my insecure side wonders if it will make me look like a diva.  But this is truth, so I must say: I love how in the two years of Landon's life I have never, not once, had to be the one to deal with the diaper genie.  Not replacing the garbage liner inside, not removing the full and disgusting bag for trash day.  Not one time.  Who could dream that this act of service would make me love him so?  But it does.  I'm wildly grateful, and whenever I see a blue sausage bag of all things stinky lined up, ready to go out, I cannot help but love him.  In that very moment, I love him more. Again.  Anew.
10. I know that Bill really knows me.  And I hate that.  And I love that.  I love him for extending grace to the worst parts of me; I love him for acknowledging the best.  We do our best, and sometimes, in fact, our best just isn't good enough.  I love that he can accept this truth, and still say, "You're my Jode," at the end of a terrible day. (Admittedly, these last two were not "little reasons," but I wanted them on the list anyway!)

 My life with Bill does not follow a movie script.  He does not complete me.  He did not have me at hello.  But he gives me countless completely good reasons to love him. And he'll have me, God willing, all the way up to "Good-bye for now,  Love."

No Facade, Only Liner Notes

I read an online writer remark the other day that he hates bloggers who write "with the facade of having it all together."

And yet, we all know that nobody has it all together.

So if someone wants to gather up and post a few sparkly parts of their day among the otherwise chaotic, confusing, and disappointing jumble of messy parts, I say, bravo.  Way not to wallow; way to focus on the things that make you smile.  (Maybe Martha Stewart would have blogged about how to make small spaces feel cozy instead of claustrophobic.)

Conversely, if someone wants to push back the curtain on the parts we often leave unexamined and unsaid, if someone braves the criticism and misunderstanding and says, this is backstage and sometimes we're frantic back here, I say, bravo.  It takes humble courage to put your truth on the table and not mind that some people might deem it too raw for their taste.

It sounds so trite, you wouldn't think it was true, but it is: you can't please everyone.

So I'll write with glittering happiness so sharp it hurts one day, and equally painful frustration, misgiving and discouragement  the next, and hope I will simply be seen as real.

Don't we all swing between our best and worst selves on a regular basis?  Yes, I get that if we start swinging too fast, too extremely, if our pendulum goes wildly out of control, we have diagnosable problems with medical names.  Yes,  I get that.

A wild pendulum is one thing.

But tame it just a bit, and doesn't it become a metronome?

Could these contrasts be the things that help us keep pace?

Would my song fade out listlessly without the metronome of my contradictions pushing the music forward?

Keep playing.
Play through the hard parts; tick.
Play through the easy parts; tick.
Play when you're bored; tick.
Play when you're passionate;tick

Let the contrasts keep you on pace,
Let your own contradictions steady you

joy and grief

order and chaos

generosity and selfishness

confidence and cowardice

peace and perplexity

trust and fear

near and far

The song goes on.

We write these blogs; they are just a few notes in the margin of the sheet music. Liner notes for the cd case.

You catch me on one tick: life is grand

The metronome moves: life is horrible

Next stanza: I am a loving, vibrant woman

tick

Please leave me alone

If the contrasts serve as a metronome and somehow help me keep pace, I guess the more important question is:

Whose music am I playing?

The Form and Function of Books

You could buy this at Saatchi

I have definitely found books to be of comfort and support throughout my life,

though perhaps not this literally.

Here is probably something more feasible in my world. 

I work all day among "front-facing" books....how fun to have them at home, too.  

Doesn't this look like something you could do?!

More pictures and instructions

Another lovely decorating site

I don't suppose anyone else is going to be posting my brilliant book idea on their blog, so I'll share it here: 30+ books are always on standby in a laundry basket near my front door.  

Just in case, 

you know, 

I might want to read something.

Confessions of a Children's Librarian

I don't know how many "confessions" (plural) I'm really prepared to make, but the one that is on my mind today is this:

I am a better book advocate for boys than girls.

I read so-called "boy books."  I like them better.  Sometimes my favorite readers are 9-14 year-old boys who love all the same books I know about and can't believe I have such "excellent" taste.  Once I establish my credibility by recommending a book they thought was great, I'm golden.

I love that moment when suddenly I'm not just this random lady their mom made them talk to.  I can watch their semi-interested politeness transform to avid interest in what else I might know about if I thought that book was good.

Today, two boys came in with both their parents.  They'll be flying around the country on cool vacation plans, and their parents are desperate for something without a battery that will hold their interest.  I'm enthralled by the chance to make their summer something they will laugh about later....as in "Remember when I was reading The Riot Brothers and I snorted milk through my nose, and dripped it on the library book, but nobody got mad because they were just so happy I was reading?"

Because I know books that are snortably funny.

I bought a "boy book" for Bill that he read--at first to humor me-- and then because it was so humorous.  He laughed so hard, he cried. (ok, maybe not that hard--but his version of this phrase--which is really saying something)  I showed that same book to these two soon-to-be travelers, and the older one's face lit up:

"I read that book.  That IS a really funny book."  (Golden moment; I'm in!)  And then he surprised me by continuing, "My favorite part was about the sword fighting."
And I couldn't help exclaiming, "That was one of MY husband's favorite parts, too!"

You see, the book was an autobiography from a wacky children's author.  A brother among five other boys, a saint of a mom, and a gem of a dad.  He shares funny, poignant stories of what it was like to grow up in his wild, warring, wonderful little tribe.  And we can't help but laugh.

"Sword fighting" was the game he and his brothers played when more than one of them would use the same toilet to pee at the same time.  You can probably fill in the gist of the game, given it's name.

Before I became a children's librarian, this book may not have struck me as a notable read worth recommending.  Boys peeing?  Really?  This is what we want to read about?

Maybe not, but there is an authenticity about this book that is unmistakable.  And from what I can tell, boys gravitate toward that.  They don't read books that don't read well.  They are harder to please, loyal as Labradors, and like funny, plotty, or fantastical books that claim the truth of adventure, heroism, and courage against all odds.  It helps if the main character is a boy.

So give me a "boy book" any day.  I'll read it like a crazy girl so that I can unexpectedly make his day when I say, "You liked that?  Then you are going to love THIS."  And he'll believe me one hundred percent.  That moment of confidence is what keeps me slogging through all the lame, boring books to find the ones that are going to make those readers wonder, What else does she know about?


What else, indeed?

Wee-Hour Ramblings

It's 3:50 in the morning, though  it feels like the middle of the night to me.

I finally gave in to the insomnia and came downstairs with a laptop, a sweater, and a container of icecream.

My neighbors don't seem to notice this middle of the night feeling.  I think I could decipher what they are talking about, or name their tunes if I knew anything about that kind of music.

I check in on Facebook, hoping someone is updating their status...proof that I'm not the only one whose night is is drizzling away without sleep.  But that's mean; why would I want anyone to be glassy-eyed and fuzzy-headed just because I will be?

I am not happy with you, Mr. Rob Bell.  Along with everything else jostling in my mind that is incapable of producing answers, I have your challenging thoughts to contend with, too.  Tonight I started to read Love Wins, his newest book.  And then I really couldn't stop reading it.  Not because I could understand it all, or wrap my mind around it all.  It is a book that was asking me to view my faith from a completely different paradigm.

Not a few degrees differently.  I mean, a completely different paradigm.
I'm not sure how I even managed to make the journey with him to the end of his book.  I even reread a few parts I wanted to try to understand better.
He's not a complex writer.
But he's certainly sharing a viewpoint that is new and challenging to me.
I'm suspecting that 4:30 (now) is not the time to sort it out.

Half a container of Haagen Daaz later, I might be able to slip back into bed and feel absurdly jealous of the man who always falls asleep faster than I do, and who always awakes before I do.  It seems unfair.

Seriously?!  Are my neighbors cheering for a pinata?  It seems a bit much.

But then, everything seems much too much.
My friends, amid sorrow and heartache of their own, told me to "take time to grieve," and I didn't admit that I don't really know what that means.

Does it mean staying up half the night with too many thoughts and not enough rest?
Does it mean eating chocolate icecream at odd hours because this is oddly comforting?
Does it mean trying not to cry at work, but finding a closet and sobbing anyway?
Does it mean being angry--about things that would barely bother me before, and getting on soapboxes and making speeches and taking up causes and then fizzling out, deflated and confused?

Maybe it is just acknowledging that everything is kind of confusing right now.  We're back on that shoreline of the ocean of suffering.  And I'm seeing so many, many bottles holding the grief of those all around and dear to me.

The waves keep pounding in.
I am sad...

...and outrageously annoyed that my neighbors are having a party and are THIS loud, THIS late.
I wish there was a crazy lady who would yell something shocking at them and make them all be quiet.  Instead, I'm heading back to bed.
Wee-hour ramblings are just that: ramblings.  It doesn't seem like I've gotten anywhere.
Or that there was even a destination to aim for in the first place.
 

Beautiful Day for the Zoo

serious boys

riding this train was a highlight

The animals were nice, but I think Landon's favorite thing was watching all the people.  Pointing out boys and girls and babies and papas....he is an enthusiastic people-watcher.

For us, the time was a gift.  Just to wander.  Just to look.  A distraction from things that weigh heavy on our hearts.  Watching Landon watch the world.  Loving that we are all three together.

Two Boys and a Bike

Uncle Lem gave us a bike trailer for Landon' birthday.

Landon wasn't sure about it at first

Daddy was thrilled

Have fun, boys!

In Which Bill Rescues our Wedding Anniversary

Today is our three-year anniversary.

We meant to reserve a seat at a nicer restaurant.
We meant to dress up and look better-than-bedraggled for each other.
We meant to write romantic cards, give each other significant looks over dinner, and celebrate a marriage that has been everything we wanted and not quite what we expected--at the same time.

Three years with Bill have been a tremendous gift.  HE is a gift to me.  I feel lucky and blessed to be on the journey with him.  I feel lucky and blessed to know he feels the same way.

So when we got derailed last week--into territory neither of us wanted to travel again, I think the caboose with all our lovely anniversary intentions never made it off the tracks with us.

Last night my sister called to wish me happy anniversary early; I had to think a beat to remember anniversary of WHAT?

We gave each other grace as we admitted to each other that we had "kind of" forgotten about it--that we had no cards or gifts or reservations.  We admitted that we weren't faking a forget like people do for surprise parties, only to make the remembering sweeter.

And we said goodnight, Love.
Each on our side of the bed-- exhausted, heartsick.

Under other circumstances I might have worried that my marriage was showing signs of wear and tear.
I might have fretted that we weren't cherishing our moments enough, honoring the day "I do" became, "We will."  Under other circumstances.

I got home from work today and Landon and Bill were out on the trail, enjoying summer's benefit of long daylight hours.

I found a card for me.  An Anniversary card specifically, one he must have bought today.
Funny, sweet, kind.  (Those card writers can really get it right!)

Here we are, sitting among the rubble of our derailed plans, still not sure how to get back on track, what track, or if we even want to get on a train.  We're just trying to let some hurts heal before we ask too much of ourselves.

And he gets me a card anyway.
He tells me I'm cherished.
I'm not a defunct baby-carrier.
I'm the mother of our dear son,
I'm his wife.

And we will.

Happy Anniversary, Love.  

Sorrow is a Heavy Stone

It was a beautiful ten weeks.  Ten weeks of having a secret between us, the joyous knowledge that a little life was beginning inside me again.

It was an exhausting ten weeks.  Ten weeks of being so all-consuming tired, there were nights it seemed too much work to put on pajamas.  Days when I would set my cell-phone alarm clock and literally try to nap in my car on my lunch break.

And it was a nerve-wracking ten weeks.  Ever hopeful, cautiously optimistic, how do you not grow attached to a person who makes their presence known in increasing measure every day?  I could relish the exhaustion, knowing that only a thriving little baby would be draining me so.  Come on, little baby.  Let's just get past this first dicey season together and then I'll more than make-up for this quiet time with you.  You'll be my favorite topic of conversation, my favorite person to think about....but right now I'm trying too hard not to grow too attached. 

Which is kind of silly, because you are already attached to me.

So we make our first trek to the doctors at ten weeks.  I have learned a thing or two after last time, so Bill was with me, Landon was not.

And it only takes two seconds to see a stillness on the screen that settles in my core like a heavy, heavy rock. So heavy I cannot speak.  So heavy I cannot cry.  So heavy, so still.  The nurse is talking and I am  listening but already this heavy rock is filling me up and I am so, so weary.  

So weary of the hope.  So weary of the heartbreak.  So weary of carrying this secret that was supposed to bloom into joyous news.  It has sunk to the bottom of my heart.

There are only metaphors.

I feel like I am standing in the middle of a vast, empty space.  The wind howls around-- I cannot properly hear, even those closest and dearest.

I walk around in a mechanical stupor, going through motions that pass for functional.  

"I'm fine, thanks, how are you?" still works as a pat answer to a friendly coworker.

 I talk.  I chat.  I chatter with the patrons.  I can avoid awkward silences with my coworkers.  I can converse with my husband about what to eat and who has eaten and what will we eat tomorrow.

But when I lay down at any time: morning, noon or night, all I want to do is sleep.

It is exhausting to hold together a broken heart.

It is a lot of work to compartmentalize when you don't have a compartment strong enough for pain so persistent.

It leaches out.

A patron asked me Saturday, "Are you ok?"

A sweet dad who has watched me for weekend story time for almost a year.

Putting on my game face, making it fun, knowing their names, and sometimes, earning my own Academy Awards for Best Actress.

Because I'm a professional.   

"In a bad mood/having a bad day" goes in a compartment and the show goes on.

I don't have a compartment secure enough for "We've lost a second baby."

I don't have a buck-up, come-on-cowgirl pep-talk  for the way fear and sadness rattle through me. 

I wonder if I take time off work whether I will go into some weird hibernation mode.  Wrap myself up in sleep like a cocoon.  Emerge beautified and transformed.

Or pale and listless.

It's hard to say.  Seems like a risky toss-up.

So I keep moving.  Through the motions of a day.  Into the night.  

Sleepless.  Restless.  

And oh, so very, very weary.

9 Parenting Tips During a Toddler Meltdown

Landon was being less than adorable--by such a large margin that I just sat there frustrated, wanting to get through the bedtime routine with less crying, kicking, writhing and insistent demands. (on his part--I was too tired to do anything but sit there and watch the drama) While waiting for one of Landon's little fits to lose steam, Bill handed me a typed paper with this at the top:

You're a Better Parent Than You Think!

It was so unexpected that it made me smile.  What is this?  Commentary on my parenting in the middle of a "moment"?

It was a list he had found somewhere.  And remarkably, it was just what I needed as a runny-nosed, watery-eyed, exhausted little boy rolled around near me, voicing all the frustrations of not having enough "tools" in his box to cope with the disappointment of the last story of the night.

Maybe you will need this list sometime, too.

1. Discipline is love in action.  It is teaching at the most gentle hands a child will ever experience: a loving parent's.
2. Good discipline is grounded in good sense.  New & improved parenting theories are new, but aren't always improved.
3. Good parents make mistakes (lots of them) and learn from them.  Disciplining in fear of mistakes only erodes your self-confidence.
4. Strong discipline isn't complicated.  It's founded upon a few basics and the will to persevere with those basics.
5. Discipline is action, not talk.  Discipline with consequences and you'll discipline less.  Discipline with words and you'll discipline more.
6. All discipline interacts with a one-of-a-kind child.  Some kids require 1/10 of the average amount of discipline.  Some kids....10 times the average.  Good parenting is parenting up to the level required.  Do what it takes for as long as it takes.
7. Kids are built to misbehave.  It's in their essence.  It's who they are.  Expect misconduct for years.  Expect to discipline for years.
8. Humans resist discipline--some a little, some a lot. It's a fact of human nature that we often fight what is good for us.  Resist your child's resistance.
9. Good parents are misunderstood.  Really good parents are really misunderstood.  Strong parents face a lot of opposition these days, not because they are wrong, but because they are right.

 I wish I knew who wrote this.  Parts of it really resonate with me and point to areas I could grow as a parent.      Bill was pointing to number seven as the one he wanted me to take heart from, but I think many of them have something to offer.

It's a grand and noble goal:  I'd like to become a better parent than I am today.

I guess it wouldn't hurt if I got a little more sleep so I'd be able to access the tools I supposedly have in MY toolbox to deal with frustrations!

Good night, sweet friends!

Meeting the Mailmen

How does a person develop their interests?

Neither Bill nor I are passionately interested in the precise name of every kind of construction vehicle known to man..
Or every four-wheeled vehicle, for that matter.

But Landon is.

He requests the same vehicle book with such persistent regularity, that I sometimes hide it to spare myself yet another boring rendition of it.  There's only so much energy I can infuse into, "Excavator!  Dump truck!  Cement mixer!  Oh look!  A combine harvester...how about that?"

But he truly loves vehicles.  When we drive around, Landon is all eyes looking for vehicles to identify for me.  From the back seat comes a steady patter of, "Bus!  White truck!  Digger!  Van!"


And Landon truly loves mail.  He loves trying to fit the key in our box, and grabbing the goodies inside.  He loves carting the postcards around saying, "mice, mice"  (mine)  He likes to pretend to read them and then wants me to prop them on the mantel with other special cards.  He likes sifting through the shoebox of postcards we have collected from our postcard trading hobby.

Landon can spot a mail truck like a safari guide can find big game.  From startling distances he'll begin calling out, "Mail truck! Mail truck!" and I have to focus on my driving instead of peering three lanes over at opposite traffic to find what he has seen.

So when the mail truck turned up at OUR house, with the mailmen having a little pow-wow near it, I knew it was a moment we couldn't miss.

Kinda starstruck

Landon was quiet and attentive to every detail of the inside of that truck (which the driver kindly let us inspect).

And then he couldn't stop talking about it for the next three minutes when we drove away.
Letters.  Truck. Mailmen.  House.  Letters.  Truck.  Mail truck.

It was, indeed, a grand moment for my little vehicle and mail enthusiast.

Landon is Two! (x 3)

For a boy who didn't get an official birthday party planned for him, I'd say he did pretty darn well in the birthday department.  Instead of parties with invitations, themes and decorations, we more had "gatherings" to celebrate Landon turning two.

With whoever could come.  On very short notice.  And always there was cake.

First round: my parents' house.  Aunt Marilyn, Uncle Brian and Aunt Ali and the kiddos and my mom all shared with us for this Friday-evening-after-work gathering to say happy birthday to Landon.  The first time.

Then Saturday we got to be with the other side of our family, with Bill and Martha.

Round three was at Beth's house with her kiddos with the cookie cake.

So happy, happy, happy birthday, dear Landon!

Whose Kid is This?

 I think I read somewhere that having a routine makes bedtime easier.  Smoother.  Less drama.

I want to find that book and say poo-pah to that one.  Write a snippy little comment in the margin for others who would be so easily misled....

Here's what it has come to: Routine can morph into sacred ritual.  And a sacred ritual is not something you want to get wrong.  Not even a small detail.

I can understand having the same elements of the routine, and in the same order.  So we do.  

But last night when Landon got increasingly hysterical about his pillow, I was at a complete loss.  He was not crying the "I'm overtired and just need a few minutes to cry it out and then I'll be ok" cry.  This sounded more like, "There are snakes in this bed biting me and you are cruel and unusual to leave me in here with them."

Very strange.

So I break one of my general rules and go back in to see why he's not settling down.  My Hardy-boy- reading beloved joins me to help solve this puzzle.

And because BILL has some pretty set bedtime routines of his own, he DOES.
He takes Landon's pillow, and returns with the right color pillowcase on it.  NOW it is Landon's pillow.  NOW he can start in with the "I'm really overtired" cry.

If I had not seen this transformation myself, I'd be hard pressed to believe it.  I went to bed asking myself, Really?!  My baby is that caught up in his pillow?

I snuggled into bed, because the whole thing had worn me out.  I lay down on my own pillow, the one that has literally traveled around the world with me,
the one that probably smells unusual to anyone but me,
the one that is a running joke between Bill and I because I call him a Saboteur of my Happiness if he even gets close to it---
and I had to smile.
Yep, I guess he really could be that into his pillow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Landon loves grapefruit.  He eats them with baby-bird enthusiasm--eagerly opening wide for each bite we scrape out for him.  He likes it when we squeeze the extra juice into his sippy cup.  And he'll drink it all.  I don't think he has ever turned down an offer to share a grapefruit with daddy.  I don't think I've ever accepted the offer.  It's just one of their things.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On any given night, Bill and I will close out the day with reading.  We're nerds like that.  We both genuinely enjoy reading, and always have something going.  I bring home movies from the library, but we never watch them.  With our limited time, the movies generally get crowded out for the greater pleasure of reading.  Plus, screen time doesn't help me fall asleep, but a poorly written children's novel can work wonders.

Landon, on the other hand, is still trying to decide where his loyalties are.  He will occasionally knock on the closet that houses the tv and ask, "moo-ee?  moo-ee?"  I admire his random efforts.
So one day I asked him, "Okay, Landon, what would you rather do?  Read stories or watch a movie?"

I can tell you, he melted his librarian mama's heart when he said, "Read sories!" and then "Yap" as he chose a book and plopped into my lap.

This is our son, alright.  Oddly quirky, grapefruit-eating, book-lovin' little boy.

Discovering him is more interesting than anything I've ever done.

My Favorite Book of 2011 So Far

Out of my Mind by Sharon Draper

This book is remarkable.  Truly.

I would reccommend it to a fifth grader.
I would reccommend it to a teen.
I would reccommend it to an adult.

What other chapter book has something profound to offer so many ages?  That's just the start of why it is remarkable.

This book made me cry. 
I don't remember if that has ever happened before.  Or when.  I read on in dumbfounded amazement that I was crying over a book.  We're talking fiction, here.

Melody is almost 11.  And she has never spoken a word in her life.  She has cerebral palsy and is confined to a wheelchair: "By the way, there is nothing cute about a pink wheelchair. Pink doesn't change a thing."

But Melody is brilliant and amazing and full of so many thoughts and feelings she longs to be able to share.  She is trapped in her body, and worse, in her mind.

Initially this first-person narrative wasn't entirely grabbing me.  How long did I want to feel sorry for poor Melody and her seemingly hopeless plight?

But then the author starts adding PLOT.  Lots of it, and with a few layers.  And before I knew it, I was just-one-more-chapter-ing my way to the dramatic end.

Many hours past my bedtime.
On a night that I thought I was exhausted when I picked up this little gem.
It has been such a long time since I've read a book this compelling.

I can't even give you plot points without giving too much away.

Just read it.
Look through the eyes of a person whose life may look nothing like yours.

Melody may have felt "out of her mind" at times in this story. 
She blew mine.

Are You Married to Santa Claus?

Now that is a good question, my friend.
And one I considered before answering.
Not because I am under any illusions of being married to Santa Claus, but I was trying to figure out what prompted this little patron to ask me such a thing.  I don't look like a Mrs. Santa Claus.

So I thought a moment.  I got nothing.

Random just swooped in again and dealt his best.  Caught off guard, all I could do was laugh and admit that I don't have any ties to the man in the red suit.

You know I like to collect these little exchanges that bring a smile to my day (and hopefully yours when you imagine them)

 I liked the one where the boy came in and asked if we had any books about an obscure Explorer.  You know, a LaSalle, or Cortez, or Cabot.  As we were walking to the section, completely deadpan he says, "It's for a report."  I am not a sarcastic person with kids (and certainly not with one that I don't know) but a little mischievous voice inside laughed a little and said, no kidding. I never would have guessed.  Instead, we just got the book and I was rewarded with his sincere gratitude.

Last one, and then I'll stop.

One little girl asked me if we had any books from the 19's.  At first I thought we were having a Dewey Decimal moment, (if a little off in the numbering).  But she clarified, "You know, really, really OLD books from 1990 or something."
 
Ahh, yes.  The ancient tomes written in the distant 19's.  I think I can round something up.

If only because Charlotte's Web deserves a few more readers.

My Brilliant Baby

I don't really think Landon is brilliant.  At least, not in the sense that he is remarkably smart.

I have no idea how smart he is.

Just watching him develop from a little bundle of noisy need to a little person capable of occasionally reciprocating has been such a fascinating journey, every milestone seems genius.

Landon IS brilliant in the sense that he is often the brightest spot of my day.  The person who leaves me smiling...on the inside, long after my face has changed expression.

Needless to say, I'm pretty smitten.

Tonight, I thought I heard him singing after he was put to bed.  Singing?  Of course I had to check this out.  Jungle Book's "Bear Necessities" was playing on his goodnight cd.  Wheedle as I may, apparently the solo was a private affair and he wouldn't continue with me looking on....

even when I leaned into his crib and used his little foot as a microphone and sang my favorite parts with all the wonderful horns and "yeah mans!"

My reward: that belly laugh I wish was my ringtone.

My punishment for bugging him: "Foot!  Foot!" said so beseechingly every time I tried to let go of his foot "microphone" and leave his room.

Nobody else thinks I'm this funny, or wants to be with me to the last possible moment before sleep.

So shine on little brilliant baby; even in the dark you light up my life.

How a Gas Station Bathroom Inspired me to Blog

Oh, so many scattered thoughts--none of them make a coherent "POST".

Bathroom breaks on a long road trip: aren't these a dreaded bane?  You know it will be a mix of grunge, irritated gas station attendant, and the scramble to figure out if one is required to go IN and ask for a key or go around back and use a poorly labeled door, or go in and use a poorly labeled door....or what.

But we were on the road, and our destination was too far off to wait, so we stopped at a franchise gas station.

The bathroom was just NOT what I expected.  It took me a moment to realize it, so different was it from any gas station bathroom I'd ever been in.

Someone had painted all the walls with a floral mural.  Nothing professional, just a lot of swirls and and flourishes and a penchant for purple.  A sweeping signature.  Flowers everywhere, and even more color--an unexpected smile to an ordinary moment.

I am grateful for that maverick bathroom artist, though.  In a strange way,  she inspired me to keep trying with this blog.  I had gotten discouraged, wondering if my life was consistently worth blogging about...

But blogging isn't professional publishing.  I don't have a contract to write something that sells or I ought not try.

Maybe some other day that is a mix of grunge, irritation and scrambling, this post will be a reminder to bloom where we're planted, and make our own beauty.  Even if, like bathroom girl, we are more eclectic and exuberant than talented.

Avoiding Volcanoes and Making Me Smile

On the children's desk at the library I get all kinds of questions.  It's like a box of chocolates...and sometimes it is the earnest, deadpan seriousness of our youngest guests that make for the most interesting conversations.


Very small patron: I'm looking for a movie like Dinosaur King.  Do you have anything else in that series?

I look it up on my computer to discover that "Dinosaur King Volcanic Panic" was the only one in our collection from that series.

Me: We have other dinosaur movies you might be interested in, though.  Land Before Time, Ice Age, that kind of thing.  Should I check to see if any of those are available?

Very small patron: Land Before Time.....hmmmm.  I'm just not sure if I'm ready for that yet.  Does it have an active volcano in it?

Have you ever tried not to laugh and know that eye contact with anyone will crumble your resolve?  That's what happened when this tiny little girl said this completely seriously to me. I glanced at her mom and we both had to look away because we were going to lose it.  The randomness of it just struck us as pretty funny.

Me: I'm not sure how active the volcanoes are.  Your other dinosaur movie had a volcano.  Is that what makes you know that you don't want any more movies with volcanoes?


Very small patron: Well...just not SUPER active.  I don't think I want to see a VERY active volcano.


Me: Okay.  Got it.  I bet we can find just the thing.


And so we did.

7 Across

I was working the online reference service for the first time today.  Ready to tackle the really tough questions.  I had gone to training on the software.  I had been reading my training manual on how to provide good reference service online.  I was sequestered in our quiet room and I was ready.

The second question seemed totally cryptic and I thought, Ahh...this is what I have been reading about.  I need to get more information to find out if this is for a school project, or personal research, or what.  I was ready to follow all protocol and make sure I understood, what exactly, the person wanted to know.

"Can you tell me a little more about what kind of information about x you are looking for?" I typed.

Not really. I'm working on a crossword puzzle and that's all the clue says.

Reference librarian?  Not so much.  More like crossword puzzle consultant.

Okay...it's a start.  Maybe I can work my way up.