They’re Still Mocking Me

The record heat we’ve been having here has been rough on a lot of things.  My tomato plants would probably argue they’ve had it the worst.  I just can’t seem to water them enough to get them through the daily 95+ degree temps.  Other people seem to be doing alright.  I see huge, healthy plants dripping with ripe red fruit.

Mine have decided to live despite me.  Or perhaps to spite me.  I don’t know which.

I’ve kept them on life support long enough for the ones already there to ripen.  And I’ve picked a few, and (despite the appearance of the branch from which they were plucked) they tasted really good!

Perhaps I should just stick to flowers.

Hard-to-kill Black Eyed Susans

Hardy Mandevilla

Even the drought-tolerant daisies are looking sad.

Transforming Grief

Yesterday was a rough day for me and Mr. Wonderful.  We attended two funerals.  Two funerals for men about our age.  Two wives much like me burying their husbands, children much like ours saying goodbye to their dad.  Two mothers grieving for their sons.

It was hard.  And by the end of the day, I was in a very contemplative mood.  Once we got home I began to recall the words I’d heard earlier, promising myself to find the lesson in them, and to put it to use.  It was the only gift I had left to offer the two friends I’d said goodbye to.

My mind went to something a friend recently posted on Facebook.  It was a message about good intent being of little value if not backed up with action.  I thought about all the times I say I’m going to do something, and don’t.  Specifically about all of the times I tell friends we need to get together, but never do.  I let the trivial actions of my days take over, and my well-intentioned invitations go to the back burner until next week.

That’s not good enough.  I have to do better.  Because I was reminded yesterday that next week doesn’t come for everyone.

So I’m challenging myself – and you – to think about the separation that sometimes occurs between feelings and intentions and actions.  And close the gap.  I want to reduce the regret I have over phone calls I don’t get around to making, visits that I’ve left unscheduled.  I want to know that I’ve offered my hand to those in need.  I don’t want anyone to wonder whether or not I love them.

In the Lord’s Prayer we say “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”  The Golden Rule speaks of action: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”  It is clear that God intends for us to receive in the manner in which we first give.

♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦

It’s not enough to love someone.  You must tell them.  You must show them.

It’s not enough to feel compassion.  You must reach out to those who are in need.  You must touch them.

It’s not enough to foster relationships that are easy.  We must find the good in others, even if it is buried deep.

It’s not enough to love God.  We must live according to His word, and be disciples of that word.

Not in my Job Description

There are a couple of things I just don’t do.  I don’t cut grass.  I don’t climb on the two-story ladder.  And I don’t buy cups.  I’m talking about athletic cups, not the kind you drink out of.

The only illustration I'm using for this post.

One of my kids returned home from a week at the beach with a friend’s family last night.  He looked exhausted and had a beautiful tan (obviously no SPF 100+ sunscreen applied).  I knew exactly what would happen without my intervention, so to avert crisis this morning, I gave him two tasks:  unpack your bag from the beach, and get your lacrosse bag packed and in the foyer.  (Lax camp began this morning.)  I even gave a deadline.  9:00 P.M.  I was very proud when (a few minutes before 9:00) he went out to the garage to gather his gear.

He returns with the bag, then goes to his room, and begins making noise that indicates he’s looking for something.  Soon thereafter, he appears downstairs and asks if anyone knows where his cup is.

Now, as his mother, I feel it’s my job to stay on top of certain things.  I make sure he has clean underwear and socks with no holes no more than a few holes.  I keep shampoo and soap available, and provide meals.  But I will not be responsible for his cup.  I just won’t.

Mr. Wonderful remembers seeing one in his closet, so goes to help him look.  I’m having no part of this search — just shaking my head and fetching a wine glass to be an observer.  They find one.  My son announces that it’s too small.

I just walked away.

If any other male made that statement I’d have been on it like gravy on rice. There are sooo many punch lines.  But this is my kid, so it’s a little creepy going there.

As it was now too late to go buy a “bigger one” I listened as his dad asked him if he could manage for the first day of camp with the one we found.  He said he could.  This afternoon I’ll hand him some cash and send him in to Academy Sports to go resolve this issue.  By himself.  Because I’m not going to get into a discussion about what size cup he needs.  Ever.

P.S.  For the love of all things sacred, please don’t tell him I wrote this. 

It Was Only a Dream… It Was Only a Dream…

Last night I had a wild nightmare.  It must’ve been a subconscious reaction to my gloating about how independent my kids are now.  Or maybe it was my social conscience telling me there was more work to be done.  Or maybe it was my good sense kicking in to give me a subtle reminder not to do anything crazy.

Anyway.

I dreamed I adopted babies.  Not one baby.  Babies.  Triplets.  A girl and two boys.

In my dream, I go through the adoption process to arrive at the moment the adoption counselor is going to present me with the baby I’ve been waiting for.  But when they bring her out, it turns out she’s part of a set – of triplets.  They explain it’s a package deal only.  So I say Yes.

I bring these babies home, and I realize I can’t tell the boys apart, so I resort to putting initials on their feet in Sharpie so I can remember who’s who.  The girl’s easy to identify, because she has blond hair and green eyes and looks just like me.  Just about the time we’re ready to announce to the world what we’ve done, Mr. Wonderful wakes me up.  Thank God.  Because my dream mother-in-law would’ve dropped dead on the spot if we’d told her we got more kids.

So to those of you who can interpret dreams, have a field day with this one.  I’m obviously no longer capable of taking care of babies who don’t come with labels.  And I’m obviously afraid of shocking my mother-in-law. And my husband has really good timing.

All I know is, I’m sticking to my story that I’m glad my kids aren’t little anymore.  And I’m glad I can tell them apart.

These are the Good Old Days

There are a lot of changes taking place in my world these days.  Lately I’ve been pondering the differences in life now, and life as I used to know it.  And I’ve been really happy with my findings.  Many things have changed about my boys, and about our lifestyle because these pesky kids are growing up.

Back in the Day -- when we needed a babysitter to leave the house.

I remember when silence in my house meant disaster was brewing. I rarely had to look far for the source of the silence, for there was usually a trail.  Freshly cut hair, water dripping through the downstairs ceiling from an overflowing sink, or the gentle scratching of a kid drawing on the walls.  Silence will freak out a Little Kid Mom.  Now, silence means harmony.  It means Slick is playing X-Box with his noise-cancelling headphones on and The Caboose is listening to his iPod.  Or it means they’re not home, which happens more and more often as they get older.  (There’s always something better going on somewhere else.  Always.)  Which leaves ME with silence.  I don’t feel the need to put the TV on for background noise or listen to music.  I’ve been waiting a long time for this silence.  I’m embracing it.

And hygiene has changed.  My kids think they invented the old run-the-water-and-put-on-Axe-Body-Spray trick.  (They’re so clever.)  Ha!  I was doing that back in the 1960s.  I recognized it as a sign of maturity when my kids realized showering was actually a good thing.  Back then, I couldn’t get them in.  Now I can’t get them out.

There was a time when sending my kids to their rooms to lie down was used as a threat.  It was actually one of my better negotiating tools.  “If you’re going to be cheeky, then it’s nap time.”  Much like showering, I realized my kids had come around to the next phase of life when they no longer saw sleep as punishment.  I grin when The Trailblazer says he’s going to take a nap in the afternoon.  He’s officially a grown-up.

The simple pleasures of being a Big Kid Mom are definitely suiting me.  I smile at the Little Kid Moms in the grocery store juggling toddlers and balancing a baby in a sling and pushing a cart.  I offer to reach things for them and smile at the “cute” things their kids blurt out.  I’m glad I’m no longer one of them.  I like being a Big Kid Mom.

I love eating in restaurants and not fearing the disapproval of my waiter when we get up to leave, and the table looks like a F2 tornado has ripped across it.  We no longer need to haul crayons and books, sneak in chicken nuggets in my purse, or ask for special concoctions from the kitchen for my picky eaters.

I’m happy that there are no longer designated “play areas” downstairs.  Just a couple of dumbbells (the weight-lifting kind, not the kids) sitting next to the TV.

I cherish days that are free from meltdowns over trivial things and drama, drama, drama.  (Well, those aren’t completely gone, but they’re less frequent.)

I have a few friends who are struggling with having Big Kids, starting to fear the days when our nests will be less crowded, and we’ll start re-feathering them with sewing rooms and home offices.  Not me.  I’m picking out the drapes for my woman cave.  The one that will have no sports memorabilia or wipe-clean leather furniture.  Just a pretty table for my laptop, shelves for pictures of my kids, a comfy chair with floral upholstery and a wine fridge.

So to all you Little Kid Moms, take heed and take heart.  It goes by fast.  You need to enjoy every moment of diapers, sticky hands, Nick Jr., and kids’ menus.  For being a Little Kid Mom is short-lived.  Thank God.

Lovin’

Here are a few things I’m Lovin’ these days. (In no particular order of importance.)

  • Sleeping late.
  • Phone calls from friends.  Even though I’ve lost my voice.
  • Serving God.
  • Serving my family.  Even my MIL.
  • SPF 100+ sunscreen.
  • White wine, served in a chilled glass.
  • My son’s anticipation of his new school.
  • NO HOMEWORK!

Tell me what you’re Lovin’ these days!

It’s a Good Thing I Drive a Big SUV

Yesterday, we went to the beach.  I’m so sorry I didn’t have my camera — because the visual image of us going to the beach speaks volumes about my family.  As there are no photos, I’ll just have to give it the thousand-word description it deserves.

For most people, going to the beach would conjure up images of a tote bag, a bottle of sunscreen and a floppy hat.  For us, it’s more like moving a 1-bedroom apartment out to the shoreline.  Mr. Wonderful is called Mr. Wonderful for many reasons, but chiefly because NOTHING is too much trouble for that man to do for his family.  So when we go to the beach, he hauls enough crap equipment for us to spend the rest of our natural lives in comfort at the water’s edge.

As we pulled out of the driveway, the back of my SUV was packed tightly with all the necessities, barely leaving room for our three kids + one more.  We have shelter from the sun for me (I’ve had malignant skin cancer), chairs, a table to keep our shirts and towels out of the sand, food, beverages, skim boards, boogie boards, goggles, towels, shovels… I think you’re getting the picture.  The hour-and-fifteen-minute ride was relatively pleasant, thanks to a couple of fully charged iPods and an air conditioner that reaches back to the third row.

We met our friends en route and arrived at the beach just before noon.  Out pops my BFF, a feisty Cuban-American schoolteacher who has skin that is genetically perfect for tanning.  (Her dark brown eyes make her the lowest possible risk for skin cancer.  I hate that about her.)  She’s holding a tote bag and a bottle of SPF 4 sunscreen, and her skin begins turning a shade of golden bronze the moment she steps out of the car.

My group starts hauling crap equipment through the sand, setting up Base Camp in a lovely spot.  20 minutes later, while my friend has already turned over twice and taken a walk, we’re ready to sit back and “relax.”  I let the kids shed their shirts (so I can apply Neutrogena SPF 100+ sunscreen to their pasty white skin) and let them play, because by this time I’m needing a drink and a chair.

The weather was perfect.  (90-ish degrees is a lovely day for us on the Gulf Coast.)  There was a gentle breeze, and the sun sparkling on the water was mesmerizing.  The kids played in the sand and swam out to the pilings where piers once roosted (before Hurricane Katrina).  At various times they were throwing baseballs and lacrosse balls, digging holes, and burying The Little Guy in the sand (because he’s the only one who still thinks it’s fun to get sand in every orifice of his body).

Then, when everyone was tired, and the spots where we missed putting sunscreen were starting to sting, it was time to pack it all up and haul it home.  This is where it gets tricky, because it never goes back in the car the same way it came out, and inevitably, something gets pitched so we can see out of the back window.  (This time it was a blanket that we didn’t use…)

Today I’ll pull it all out and clean everything, because a lifetime of going to the beach has taught me NEVER to put things away without cleaning them, lest you be surprised by the Most Horrific Smell Ever next time you want to use any of that crap equipment.

So the images of this day at the beach exist only in our memories.  Next time I’ll try to remember the camera, to record it for posterity.  For a day at the beach is definitely a metaphor for The Lucky Mom’s life:  be safe, have fun.  Then blog about it.

As our children grow older, it’s really hard to find activities that everyone can get excited about.  With kids ranging in age from 10 to 19, someone is usually being dragged against their will to family outings.  But the beach is a great equalizer.  Everyone acts 10 years old at the beach.  Some of us just bring more equipment.

The Clean Up.

The Clean Up: Those boogie boards have been to beaches from Florida to Hawaii. Really. We've actually checked them as luggage.

My preferred sunscreen. {http://www.neutrogena.com}

My tomato plants are mocking me.

My tomato plants are mocking me.

I’ve had a crazy-busy last couple of days, and we actually got some rain yesterday, so it’s been a few days since I went out to give them any TLC.  Today I walk out with the watering can, and what did my eyes see??  A beautiful orange-red tomato!!

Wait.  It’s a lacrosse ball.  And there’s a broken branch.

Looks like a tomato, doesn't it??

Lacrosse ball. 😦

Lots of tiny green tomatoes. We're waiting...

Maybe next week.

Hello, Summer. I’ve missed you.

When your children are little, time is measured on the Julian calendar.  Years begin in January and end in December, and you recall the year by the age your little ones were at the time. Once they start school, you recall the time by what grade they were in, and the calendar changes: years begin in August and end in May. The time in between is the wonderful period known as Summer.

As for me, I’ve finally realized what summer really is to us: A cleansing. A renewal. A release. (To my IT-guy husband, a reboot.) And we’ve developed a few rituals to welcome it, and habits to make it fun.

The 2011 Burning of the Notebooks.

One of the rituals we began many years ago is the event we call The Burning of the Notebooks.  After cleaning out backpacks (and checking for things others might be able to use) we light a fire in the backyard fire pit and ceremonially toss in the notebooks of the subjects that caused us the most grief that year.  The Trailblazer gave up on this ritual a few years ago, opting to just toss them in the trash.  But Slick gets a perverse particular pleasure out of it, so it continues.  This year the only subject to make it into the pit was Latin.  The curriculum this go-round included the mastery of advanced grammar, as well as the translation of Cicero’s orations and literary works.  (Makes my head hurt just thinking about it, so I’ll indulge him whatever release he needs.)  He had hundreds of pages of translations reduced to ash in just a few moments.  But the smile stayed on his face all afternoon.

We also dispense with haircuts.  Attending Catholic school, my kids are told what to wear and how their hair must be cut 9 months out of the year.  Mr. Wonderful and I figure the least we can do is lay off during the summer.  (Slick has figured out how to gradually eek by on haircut standards for the last month of school, so he usually starts the summer already looking a little shaggy.)  One summer there was a family wedding, and I figured a good chance for some lovely photos, so I insisted on a trim.  But we usually let them look like homeless dudes if they want to, because it’s only for a short time.

Our laid-back look from last summer.

Shoes also become optional.  There was a time when leaving the house (or returning home from someone else’s) meant a shoe-check.  More than once I got phone calls from friends giving me the count of how many shoes were left behind.  I was always a little puzzled when it was an odd number.

My favorite summer accessory is the attitude I get to assume:  Being Agreeable About Things.  From August til May, my role is that of Drill Sergeant.  Get up on time.  Get dressed in the right uniform.  Brush your teeth.  Eat your breakfast.  Load the car.  Go to school.  Do your homework.  Feed the dog.  Clean your room.  Eat your dinner.  Take a shower.  Brush your teeth.  Go to bed.  Whew.  It’s exhausting.  And most of the time we can’t vary from the routine, or all hell breaks loose.  So when they ask to do something off the regular path during summer, I like to say yes.  I like to surprise them with my agreeability, hoping to send them the message that sometimes you have be disciplined, and sometimes you get to go freestyle.

Summer has already commenced for the two oldest boys.  The Caboose has a few days of school left.  Once those days are over, you’ll find us hanging out, often doing nothing in particular.  I checked the calendar this morning to see just how long I get to be laid back.  As school starts earlier each year, the summer gets a little shorter.  This year we have until August 15th.  That’s long enough.

What are some your favorite summer activities??  I’d love to hear about them!

I thought it was the most important meal of the day…

A few days ago, Mr. Wonderful and I were at the grocery store, picking up a few things to get us through the weekend.  As we strolled through the dairy aisle, he put eggs and biscuits in the cart, saying that with all the kids at home, it would be nice to have breakfast together this weekend.

During the school/work week mornings go at a pace just short of a frenzy.  The first round of alarm clocks goes off before 5:30, the first round of waking up kids at 6:00, and the first carpool run leaves the driveway at 6:30.  To have an organized meal on these days would require an even earlier wake-up, and since we value sleep here as much as food, grab-and-go breakfast during the 30 minute commute to school has become the norm.

Our kids go to “academically advanced” schools, and they work really hard (4 years of Latin hard).  Harder than Mr. Wonderful and I ever dreamed of working in high school.  (OK, harder than we worked in college, but don’t tell the kids that.)  They make good grades, stay out of trouble, and basically, do what we ask of them.  So when we have the chance to do so, we like to let them have some latitude.

Which brings me to breakfast.

We never eat breakfast together anymore.  I mean, hot breakfast, served at the table.  (Don’t call social services yet on me… we have lots of food in the house.  As I write, Mr. Wonderful is whipping up waffles for The Little Guy.)  He and I have had coffee, and Slick is still up in his room, either still sleeping or playing Xbox quietly (so we don’t know he’s awake and demand that he come down for breakfast).  The Trailblazer spent the night out, so that chair’s empty, too.  I guess the eggs and biscuits will have to wait for another day.

The Little Guy LOVES waffles. (Please no comments about the nutritional value of waffles. I'm aware. But he likes 'em.)

Maybe we’ll have breakfast for dinner.  I can usually get them to show up for that meal.

P.S. Look what Mr. Wonderful did while I was writing. This is why I call him Mr. Wonderful!