We'll Meet Again

Kara, pictured here with my son, Ben, loves to travel. She loves exploring new places and partaking in big adventures and has the wherewithal and energy to plan them. Months ago, Kara, who lives in Arkansas, and my sister-in-law, Paige, dreamed up a weekend get-a-way for "the girls," including the both of them, Beth, Jennifer and I. We'd all converge by plane and car at my house in Indiana, and then we'd hit the wineries in Michigan, go antiquing, stay over-night at a Bed and Breakfast and eat dinner out... at a restaurant (can you believe it?!). "O.K." I said, "I'm in," never imagining that October would actually arrive and that this rare, and I mean rare, privilege of meeting up again with my dear old college friends in such an idealistic setting would really, really and truly become a reality.

But what do you know? Today I am packing my things. "You're leaving?!" the kids ask me every fifteen minutes, aghast at the thought. I am I tell them, trying not to sound too excited, which is difficult. I've been lecturing myself for hours now about the importance of letting go and not fretting over the children, the house, or "work" of any kind while I am gone. Just be thankful, Molly, thankful, and enjoy it.

a little motivation

"Would you like to play," I asked my niece, Isabelle, "over there on that hill for awhile?" Oh boy, she did, did she ever, and so I stood down at the bottom of it while she ran. It was a brisk 60 degrees outside but within seconds that sweater would be shed, and sweat would wet the curls bouncing wildly around her face. Up and down and up and down again, Isabelle climbed then descended that kid-sized mountain - laughing, screaming, delighting in the moment. I have so much to do this week and there's so little time. This photo is my inspiration. It's like a way cooler version of those goofy "Teamwork" and "Determination" posters they used to hang in our cubicles when I worked in the city. And this song, this auditory display of Dolly Parton's can-do spirit and versatility (did you know she also covered Stairway to Heaven?) is my substitute for R. Kelly's, I Believe I Can Fly, which kicked off every team building event I attended in the late 90's. So this morning, let's Just Do It and refuse to Sweat the Small Stuff. Grab your favorite denim button up with the logo on the pocket and get a move on!

well it's you girl, and you should know it

This is Carrie, my husband's sister. Isn't she beautiful? I took this photo of her on Saturday because on Saturday she was over at my house. Carrie owns her own condo in the city; she's a hard working professional, a single, independent kind of gal (think Mary Tyler Moore). I'm a stay-at-home mom with four rowdy children, live in a small predictable neighborhood, and divide my time equally between the grocery store, library, and the YMCA. "You want to come and keep me company while Troy is out of town?" I asked her on a whim, without getting my hopes up, assuming she'd have plans - like really big ones involving a theatrical production, a wine bar perhaps, maybe a dinner cruise around Lake Michigan. But yippee for me, she said yes and we had a lovely time together, and she helped me put the kids to bed, and we ate take-out food, and watched a movie, and sat leisurely around my kitchen table in the morning, talking and drinking coffee. Thank you, thank you Miss Carrie Marie, for a wonderful weekend!

comfort you

The way they were sitting there, so close to one another, her teeny head up level with his own, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. "They're twins," I thought "she and him, born six years apart!" No wonder his fuse is longer, so much longer when he deals with her than with anyone else. But it's not always kisses and smiles around here between siblings who know exactly how to nit and pick their way into squabbles that seem to bleed from one into the next from sunrise to sundown, oh mercy. "Separate!" I call out to boys red with fury, to girls screeching frenziedly over small dolls and their small clothes and their even smaller accessories. "Please," I beg, "Please, children, be good to each other."

The other day, Elijah, when Benjamin was cowering in the corner at the library because a clown, a rather scraggly looking, raspy voiced clown, showed up for "Circus Day" in the kid's department, when he wept with fear until I led him out the door to the safety of the parking lot, I saw you wrap your arm around his shoulder. And you, Priscilla, you reprimanded me, harshly, when Mary fell backwards off her chair. "Mama!" You screamed in panic, "Why didn't you catch her?!"

I've witnessed it, my loves, your fierce loyalty to family when one of us is hurt, embarrassed, disappointed. "Remember," I am begging you, "Remember, children, always, that pouring comfort onto wounds (his, hers, ours, theirs) speeds growth and healing.

'till then I hope my heart will do...

She worked so hard this afternoon, wrestling scrapbooking shears too large for her seven-year-old sized hands into submission. The hearts were noticeably, charmingly, misshapen.

"Here's one for Bella, Ben, and Mary," she told me. "Oh my, there's a lot to do."

It's cooling off. The stores will be stocking their shelves soon with roses and boxes of chocolates, much sooner than might seem necessary. But come on now, is it ever too early to start planning for love - true love, homemade love, love glitter-glued and sealed with sticky sweetness?

I'll have to side with my girl, knee deep in pink construction paper, on this one.

In the Jungle

My brother (before he became a father) used to tease me about the "gifts" I had started giving to my family members since having children. There were the Sears Portraits, the tiny hand prints in clay, and the crayon scribbles matted and framed, then wrapped in festive tissue paper - all of which, while certainly treasured, were giggled about during the holidays when I (and he, eventually) would purposely up the cutsie-ness and admit that our adorable offspring and their above average talent ("They're so advanced!" my grandma would tell me when my babies would lift their heads as newborn infants or eat with spoons as toddlers) had provided us with a consistent, convenient, and inexpensive supply of presents for aunts, uncles, Papas, Nanas and siblings. We all think our children are brilliant because...well, duh, they totally are, but I've tried on this blog to refrain from exhibiting an excessive degree of mommy bias or from scanning all of the artwork currently decorating our refrigerator and then posting those pasted, glued or painted portraits and landscapes, here, for your viewing boredom pleasure. But sometimes, sometimes, I can't help myself.

Elijah, my nine-year-old, had a writing assignment this week: create a short story using "Story Starter Picture" #1 (see above), which is a drawing of some kids on a raft extending a stick to a girl in the water. I, immediately, thought of summer camp - maybe somewhere in the woods of Wisconsin. There was some horseplay, perhaps. One of the campers lost her balance, fell in the river, and was being fished out by her friends. When I was his age, that is probably the angle I would have taken, using the minimum amount of sentences required to craft a straightforward beginning, middle, and conclusion with a couple of predictable similes thrown in for good measure. But my son doesn't think inside (or even know how to locate) "the box." The same picture that elicited from myself a rather dull and tired tale about a bunch of rowdy twelve-year-olds on a tippy raft inspired the following amalgam of poetry and fiction from Elijah:

AAAHHH!!! A scream stunned all the creatures outlining the Amazon, but not the gator.

Thrash! Thrash! The kicking scared all the aquatic creatures in the water, but not the gator.

Tug! Tug! The sound that stirred the water made the eels slip, but not the gator.

Whew. Whew. The sight of her relieved expression soothed the men after the rescue, but not the gator.

Itch! Itch! The feel of scratching on her sweaty face as she wondered how she’d survived.

Yea! Yea! The sound comforted all the creatures outlining the Amazon, but not the gator.

So yes, as his mom who happens to be quite fond of the written word, I love the subtle way he shows, without telling the obvious, that the girl in the water has just been saved from the jaws of a now disappointed Alligator! I still can't believe, I suppose, that the sons and daughters I carried and delivered are going on to become individuals with their own unique perspectives and tastes. I have to tread carefully through this next stage of parenting, lest I squelch in them something I should have allowed to flourish or fail to reign in the impulsiveness a future spouse might not appreciate or eventual boss will not tolerate in the workplace. It's difficult, right? Remembering that our children are not extensions of ourselves or possessions to manipulate into a mold of our own design. Pray first, respond second, I should tattoo that to my forehead so that everyone I come into contact with will remind me of it and hold me accountable.

In the meantime, I'll be printing off a hundred copies or so of the above Jungle piece and decoupaging it to any hard surface it will stick to. That way, when your birthday rolls around, I'll be all prepared.

be joyful...

It was a real challenge, let me tell you, to find anything special or noteworthy about yesterday.

When prior to going to bed in the evening you fail to either wash the dishes, fold the massive heap of laundry piled messily on the living room floor, tidy up the cluttered odds and ends that seem to multiply like rabbits overnight, or prepare in anyway whatsoever for the next morning's school lessons, the order you've worked so hard to establish up until that point disintegrates instantaneously irrespective of your previous efforts, of the progress you managed to wrestle into existence before you crashed and burned with exhaustion.

So needless to say, no heartwarming conversations with my children took place. Nothing of beauty was spied beneath the dust and dirt and grime spread thick and gunky over appliances, dressers and counter tops. No poetry was overheard amidst the whines and moans of the kids, or in the noise of myself cursing that earlier decision to surrender to my sleepiness and therefore fall behind on everything.

But then...aha! There was soup, homemade Chicken Noodle Soup that I haphazardly threw together and which, miraculously (and no, I am not using too strong of a word, here, to describe the unlikelihood of this ever happening again), turned out perfectly. It being dusk and all, I realized that the soup would have to be it: my muse for attaining some semblance of joyfulness. And thus I slurped and sipped my way into an albeit tenuous still a genuine state nonetheless of appreciation for comfort foods, turning a deaf ear to complaints from my picky eaters about the visible spices and too many carrots. "That's fine," I said. "Now there's more for me and dad."

I filled my belly. Troy cleared the table. It was a not too shabby ending after all.