In The Living Years

It's cliche time! Ready? 

When you see something through the eyes of a child, it really can feel like you're seeing or experiencing it all for the first time. It's one of their many gifts, this perspective adjustment. I love a beautiful day as much as the next person, but when you get to really experience a beautiful day as freely as a little kid can? Well, there's a whole lotta new meaning thrown in there. I get caught up in schedules and activities and routines like we all do (and I like it all. No, really, I do.), but when any of us stop, slow down, and smell those ever-loving roses? Mmmmmh, it's so good. Like my rather terrible driving, I tend go super fast and then slow down and then go super fast and then slow down... and this cycle works for me. I have no idea why I need to constantly pump the gas pedal of life, but it makes me run smoothly, unlike my car. We're entering into one of those periods that just feels slower. As the weather gets nicer and school gets closer to the end, it feels like we're just being a lot more. We're still out and about and visiting but we're doing it more deliberately. And there is that good old examined life popping back in for a visit. 

We went up to San Juan Island a few weeks back and my goodness, it was just simply grand. The day was perfect, with Mainetastic (that's a word, you know) blue skies, mild weather, and no real plan. It made me feel plugged into life, oddly enough, being so far out of our norm. But it was a day that called for just sitting and watching and engaging with the two small and one big person in front of me and that was it. No phones, no books, no computers... just us and sand toys. Little details have become etched in my mind and it's not one of those days that will melt into any other day. I think of our life as a rich tapestry, with our experiences and activities and people creating a really beautiful, interwoven fabric. Every once in awhile, though, there is a big, bright, bold stitch of color that doesn't blend in and those are those big memories that just won't ever get forgotten. I was talking with Mary recently, and she said her girls' teacher asked the parents at a meeting to think of a childhood memory. What pops into your mind? In my mind, and most people's I've asked since, it's some memory of being outside. It's some pop of natural color in their life's tapestry. Rarely, although certainly possibly, it seems that our favorite image of childhood involves a toy or an object, but rather it's an experience. Big or little, it's something that made us feel connected to the world and it etched itself strongly in our mind's eye. I don't know if this day will be my kids' image of their own childhood as they get older, but it might very well be my image of theirs.

Well, hello there beach.

 Miss "I need absolutely no coaxing to don my swim wear" Molly

Booty in the air, shovel to ground

Here is the "Man alive, it's rally cold in there" sequence.  It goes like this: Hop in, come out, stroll in deeper, RUN out (nearly biting it in the process).

Checking out what all this freezing water hullabaloo was about. 

Spotting "creatures"

They work hard for their (sand) money

Really, really hard

Boss and laborer. Again.

A little eye candy for the grown ups, too (of course, the pictures don't do the view justice):

The Olympics in the background

Driving down to the beach, with one of the last naturally occurring prairies in the northwest to greet you

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No description needed. Hubba hubba. 

Cook Off

As a general rule, solo parenting gets easier every time John goes away. When he is gone for a weekend, that can get long, but when it's strictly workweek travel, I feel like we've got this system firing pretty well. Don't misunderstand me, I most certainly appreciate and rely on his contributions to the domestic sphere when he is here but, for the most part, I can navigate the solo life decently and feel pretty good about our adventures when he is gone (hear the sound of me patting myself on the back? Gooooo team me!). Except. Except for dinner. Now, I usually enjoy cooking dinner. I like to peruse my cookbooks regularly. I get giddy when Bon Appetit shows up every month. Giada, Michael, Paula -- they're all regular guests to my home. I have no illusions of being a pro nor do I get especially crazy in the kitchen (except when I go rogue and fire up something with lentils, spinach, and quinoa... and no one eats it so then I go back to baseline). Still, when it's just me and my little people, my cookbooks become horror novels, I can't face the Food Network, and I let Molly get the mail (actually, no I don't since Target has found us and their catalogs seem to show up all the time and it gets spirited off faster than I can say Christmasisn'tforsevenmoremonthsdon'tgetexcited). Instead, I go into food production hibernation. I do know that kids eat free at Ikea on Tuesday nights (although seriously, it's basically free every night), my overflowing freezer (that I usually curse because I have to do the shut and run) can produce some sort of identifiable foodcalleddinner, the farmer's market provides bread, salmon, cheese, and fruit, which I call "city foraging" and the little people are tickled to go along with it, we get special treats like breakfast for dinner, and there are always friends around who will eagerly ditch dinner duty with me if things get especially hairy. I'm not proud to admit that I leave my children's diet in the hands of Swedish furniture designers but there you have it, it's the truth. I didn't realize the extent to which I duck and cover from dinner until today when I contrasted the past three night's worth of meals to what I have hazily planned for the rest of the week (I promise you that I occasionally do something besides think about food) when a certain someone will be back. Can you guess what is all planned and even *gasp* prepped right now? Yup. Dinner. For Wednesday. But, that doesn't diminish one iota for how satisfying tonight's formerly frozen spaghetti sauce was. Nor from last night's Scandanavian fare. Not even from the night before that's chicken soup rerun. It just goes to show that tastiness can be as relative as anything else.
You know what I do enjoy, though? Spontaneous adventures with my crazy monkeys. That is mouthwatering to me all the time.

Chocolate Appreciation Day

This is clearly the best way to enjoy ice cream, no? Slathered, smeared, fully enjoyed. This happy face celebrated the end of our mother's day trip up to the San Juans and a sticky and sleepy ferry ride made for a lovely ending to a gorgeous day.












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Oh Mama

I am lucky, I am grateful, I am blessed. Words won't do justice to how acutely I am aware of the power of moms in my life. From the blogosphere to the domestic sphere and everywhere in between, I rely on and gather strength from my community of moms in the world. From my own mom, I learn about myself and motherhood in big and little ways every day, and always know that I have a well of wisdom and love from which to draw. From my mother-in-law, I learn about balance and calm and grace. From my sisters-in-law, I learn about rolling with the punches. From my friends, I learn about love and laughter and acceptance and support. From my kids, I learn exactly what fierce, deep, unwavering love looks like (closely resembling blond, uncontrollable curls, it turns out). And, I would most certainly not want to be a mom without my saner half. Thank you to the moms and all those who support us -- from here to there and everywhere.

My mother's day weekend has been so lovely. Even mother nature decided to kick in a gem of sunshine and warmth. From a bagel date with the littlest member of my tribe on Friday morning, to a sun-bathed evening at the park and dinner in the neighborhood, to a stunning morning of bike riding and splashing near the lake, to celebrating Emily's birthday this afternoon, I couldn't have asked for anything more to make me a happy mom.

Bike Week

Look out walkers, this lady is a little hellion on two wheels. Last week, Molly asked us to ditch her training wheels and, somewhat skeptically, we did (well, she asked me but I punted and John took them off. I get too impatient and figured I'd break something or other so it's really best to leave these things to be people who are in better control of their frustration levels). She didn't get in much practice time during the week but we took her over to the park on Saturday morning and she was off and pedaling. I have to admit, I thought it would take a few more practice sessions, with a few more tears, and a little more cajoling but even our children whose personalities are seemingly well-established have the capacity to surprise us, I guess. And, not to be entirely outdone, Jack decided to grow an extra inch and finally get tall enough for his balance bike. Are the days of pushing a trike to the park over?! Oh my.

There were also the occasional, rather funny, crashes/steering mistakes...

The tried and true form of bipedal transport also works pretty well in a pinch. By pinch, I mean, that he's ready to move along while the rest of us are chitter chattering.

Teach Me

Two true statements: I love preschool teachers and I could never do that job... never, never, never. I've worked with kids, I've done an internship in a school, I generally love little people but being a preschool teacher? No, not ever. I swear, these people earn their wings on a daily basis for taking care of kids, but maybe they're even better at taking care of parents. Molly and Jack's teachers are very different but very good for my small people's very different personalities. Jack's teacher is warm and goofy and lovely and rolls with the punches really well. She engages my very busy, constantly-in-motion son in a way that I can't and she is sympathetic and kind about the trying moments of this busy stage (have I mentioned that he's busy?). Molly's teachers are unflappable and laid back and deal with my emotionally intense little lady and her knickers-in-a-twist mom with ease and calm and not a lot of hoopla. They're good stuff, these teachers, and I appreciate them with all my heart and patience-taxed head. In the end, our kids aren't going to remember these folks who helped give them a good foundation but we are. We are going to remember the dose of laughter, the dose of sympathy, the dose of "eh, it's no biggie" that they offer along with the glowing (ha!) reports of what our wundkinds accomplished at the art table that morning. They're all part of this old village of ours, these halo-earners, and I really am thankful to have them and all the other spokes in our wheel in our lives.


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