The girls have been in school for four weeks now and something has become painfully clear... there is a huge shift in the parent/child relationship once kids hit middle school.
This is how parenting feels to me right now...
I picture myself standing in cement. My feet are firmly planted and cannot move. While my girls were younger, I held them in my arms or held their hand as they stood next to me. I have held little girl hands for nearly 12 years now...
As they hit Kindergarten (Wren is now in Kindergarten), they take a step away from me. I can still hold a hand, and it's not a strain to do so because they aren't so far away from me...just a step.
Then there's third grade, which Ella started this year. It feels like she has taken maybe three steps away from me. I can still hold her hand, but it's hard to do for a long time because she's nearly out of reach. Unless she reaches to hold my hand, it's nearly impossible to get ahold of hers.
And now there is middle school - Abby started 6th grade this fall at a 6-12 integrated school. It truly feels that she has taken so many steps away from me, that there is no way I could ever hold her hand unless she turned around and walked back to me.
This is not to say that she is "out of my reach" or that she doesn't need me or that I don't know what is going on in her life. And I am not necessarily lamenting...it is my job as a mother to grow them up to be independent and self-confident.
But it is this...an odd bittersweetness that has been driving me to sit with Wren in my lap more than I used to or to grab Ella's hand as we walk to the car.
I remember the last time I was able to visit my Granny Lil. It was Easter and I went with my mom. Her sisters were all there too. Grandma had a hard time remembering who I was on and off, but every time I sat next to her, she reached for my hand. And every time my mom or one of my aunts sat next to her, she reached for their hands. She passed away last fall.
So we start holding hands and we end holding hands.
And in the middle, we need more hand holding... even if they think they're too old for it.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Speaking of panties...
I am nothing if not a practical kind of girl.
That is why when The Butcher and I were getting married 15 years ago, all those fancy see-through babydoll top and panty sets went straight into my underwear drawer (folded neatly into one corner - ok, the back corner) only to be seen on birthdays (his) and sometimes an anniversary... or maybe when I'd had a bit too much wine. I had a friend in college who was working her way up the Victoria Secret retail ladder and I'm pretty sure she gave all my other friends deep discounts the week or so before the shower they threw me. So I ended up with quite a few of these types of things... all folded neatly and placed in the back corner of the drawer, as I said.
As the years passed, my mother got into the habit of purchasing underwear for me wherever she went. I'm not sure why exactly. But trust me when I say, I ain't hurting for underwear. But they have all been very practical, no-panty-line, full-coverage type things (as you would expect a mother to supply). And these take prominence at the front of the underwear drawer.
And so, with each move (this being our 8th), the drawer has been pulled out while the dresser was placed in some moving truck and promptly put back in. For 15 years I have had no need to go through this drawer... or at least the things folded neatly in the back corner of this drawer.
Until our last move...
In trying to figure out how to get everything into Ella's room (bed, desk, dresser, side table, and on and on), we decided her long but short dresser was not going to fit. It would, however, fit perfectly in our room where my narrow but tall dresser would have trouble backing up to the pitched-ceiling walls. So we swapped. (A bonus of not having matchy-matchy Pottery Barn type things - finally, a small bank account pays off.)
This was a great idea and I set Ella the task of emptying my drawers into a basket and taking the contents up to my room to put (dump) neatly on the floor (middle of the floor). She is the kind of kid that needs a task or she feels left out. This was working wonderfully until I noticed she was nearing the top (underwear) drawer and so I took over and carried the contents of that drawer upstairs and placed everything (discreetly) in a corner. (I'm beginning to think I have a thing with corners.)
The next day, I set to putting all of my things into what was Ella's dresser. Trust me when I say it is hard to change things like "where my socks go" after 15 years of them always being in one place. Anyway, in putting all these things away, I was confronted with the "back corner of the underwear drawer" items. I have three children... I work two jobs from home... I like to fall asleep by 9:15... don't judge me...but these things had not been gone through in a long time.
And that is when I found the blue and white polka-dot panties. I pulled them out and held them up and realized that perhaps elastic is not meant to keep its stretch for 15 years, or just maybe I lost 300 lbs since I was married??
Truly, all three of my kids can fit into these...and the (evil) cat. They are wider than my toaster oven and my computer (yes, I have been carrying them around comparing their size to household items).
Are you ready for a size reference? Those who are easily offended may want to skip this part.
They are longer than my (evil) cat. (And yes, I did for a bit contemplate if I could get them on him to prove my point...I need to get out more. Good thing no kids are home.)
I am not intrigued with how big they are. I know there are big panties out there... or at least I hope there are for bigger people. It's that they were once smaller. And how many years have I been carting around these panties that truly will no longer stay on my hips? I like getting value out of things, but my God, do I need to hang on to things for so long that they morph and (quite possibly) disintegrate?
But, I am a practical girl...
...and while these won't fit me anymore, I do see a potential Halloween costume for The Butcher...
(An apology to my Instagram followers... yes, I did Instagram a few pictures of these panties... solely for artistic purpose. Hope you aren't/weren't offended. And you blog readers should be happy I chose to stick with just this one picture. The one of the panties on the toaster is truly disturbing.)
That is why when The Butcher and I were getting married 15 years ago, all those fancy see-through babydoll top and panty sets went straight into my underwear drawer (folded neatly into one corner - ok, the back corner) only to be seen on birthdays (his) and sometimes an anniversary... or maybe when I'd had a bit too much wine. I had a friend in college who was working her way up the Victoria Secret retail ladder and I'm pretty sure she gave all my other friends deep discounts the week or so before the shower they threw me. So I ended up with quite a few of these types of things... all folded neatly and placed in the back corner of the drawer, as I said.
As the years passed, my mother got into the habit of purchasing underwear for me wherever she went. I'm not sure why exactly. But trust me when I say, I ain't hurting for underwear. But they have all been very practical, no-panty-line, full-coverage type things (as you would expect a mother to supply). And these take prominence at the front of the underwear drawer.
And so, with each move (this being our 8th), the drawer has been pulled out while the dresser was placed in some moving truck and promptly put back in. For 15 years I have had no need to go through this drawer... or at least the things folded neatly in the back corner of this drawer.
Until our last move...
In trying to figure out how to get everything into Ella's room (bed, desk, dresser, side table, and on and on), we decided her long but short dresser was not going to fit. It would, however, fit perfectly in our room where my narrow but tall dresser would have trouble backing up to the pitched-ceiling walls. So we swapped. (A bonus of not having matchy-matchy Pottery Barn type things - finally, a small bank account pays off.)
This was a great idea and I set Ella the task of emptying my drawers into a basket and taking the contents up to my room to put (dump) neatly on the floor (middle of the floor). She is the kind of kid that needs a task or she feels left out. This was working wonderfully until I noticed she was nearing the top (underwear) drawer and so I took over and carried the contents of that drawer upstairs and placed everything (discreetly) in a corner. (I'm beginning to think I have a thing with corners.)
The next day, I set to putting all of my things into what was Ella's dresser. Trust me when I say it is hard to change things like "where my socks go" after 15 years of them always being in one place. Anyway, in putting all these things away, I was confronted with the "back corner of the underwear drawer" items. I have three children... I work two jobs from home... I like to fall asleep by 9:15... don't judge me...but these things had not been gone through in a long time.
And that is when I found the blue and white polka-dot panties. I pulled them out and held them up and realized that perhaps elastic is not meant to keep its stretch for 15 years, or just maybe I lost 300 lbs since I was married??
Truly, all three of my kids can fit into these...and the (evil) cat. They are wider than my toaster oven and my computer (yes, I have been carrying them around comparing their size to household items).
Are you ready for a size reference? Those who are easily offended may want to skip this part.
They are longer than my (evil) cat. (And yes, I did for a bit contemplate if I could get them on him to prove my point...I need to get out more. Good thing no kids are home.)
I am not intrigued with how big they are. I know there are big panties out there... or at least I hope there are for bigger people. It's that they were once smaller. And how many years have I been carting around these panties that truly will no longer stay on my hips? I like getting value out of things, but my God, do I need to hang on to things for so long that they morph and (quite possibly) disintegrate?
But, I am a practical girl...
...and while these won't fit me anymore, I do see a potential Halloween costume for The Butcher...
(An apology to my Instagram followers... yes, I did Instagram a few pictures of these panties... solely for artistic purpose. Hope you aren't/weren't offended. And you blog readers should be happy I chose to stick with just this one picture. The one of the panties on the toaster is truly disturbing.)
Monday, May 21, 2012
To panty or not to panty... that is the question
This is truly my fault and I take full responsibility. But I thought I had fixed the problem...
I learned this weekend that I had not.
The problem is this: when to wear panties with tights and when NOT to wear panties with tights.
It all began when each of my girls started taking ballet lessons at the ripe age of 3 (ish). As someone who has spent most of my life traipsing through ballet studios, I sent each of my toddler dancers to ballet class without panties on. Gasp if you want... how crazy of me...
I have been in enough classes and taught enough classes and sat through enough dance recitals, that I didn't want my girls strapped with the shame of trying to hide pink polka-dot panties by hitching them up under their leotards when they should be dancing. And what's a little pantilessness when your young and at ballet class?
Inevitably, each girl would go through a Sunday morning (or two) of confussion about whether or not to wear panties. "I am wearing tights to church, therefore I do not wear panties..." WRONG. It became connected in each of their minds that if they were wearing tights, they didn't need panties. But I truly feel that things like church and school and birthday parties require panty wearing.
So the lesson became "Always wear panties with tights unless you're going to ballet." And I thought they got it... truly. For awhile we always did Sunday morning panty checks. Things seemed fine. Panties were always on.
When Ella started gymnastics, I kind of felt the whole panty thing was similar to ballet. I'm not sure I'm right on this, but all the giggles that occured when gymnasts tried hiding panties during floor routines at her first meet led me to believe I was right. Although I'm still not sure...
And so, I thought I was safe and out of the woods about the whole panty issue. But this weekend has taught me I will never be safe on this panty issue...
Ella's gynastics team was to walk in the local parade with the theme of "Remember When." Each of the girls was to dress in 80s garb and I thought we pretty much nailed it. Neon green shirt off the shoulder, fluffy net skirt, neon pink tights. We even faked crimped hair by braiding it the night before.
As I left her with her group of neoned friends with ripped T-shirts and side-ponies, I thought we were all set.
We sat and watched the parade go by and cheered Ella's group as they passed. A few of them did cartwheels and front walkovers. 80s music was blasting from their float. It was great.
On the way home, Ella mentioned that there was a hole in her new pink neon tights. I didn't notice any hole, so I asked where. "On the butt." Well... of course...
And The Butcher, remembering our panty problems from their youth said, "At least you had your panties on."
At which point Ella admitted that, no, she was not wearing panties. "You're not supposed to wear panties with tights. That's what you taught me," she moaned from the backseat.
Luckily, she only did a few cartwheels on the parade route because they were behind some horses and some goats. It's also a good thing that not too many people know us here... if it had been SJ - oh my...
And now, I guess, we are back to panty checks... (sigh)
I learned this weekend that I had not.
The problem is this: when to wear panties with tights and when NOT to wear panties with tights.
It all began when each of my girls started taking ballet lessons at the ripe age of 3 (ish). As someone who has spent most of my life traipsing through ballet studios, I sent each of my toddler dancers to ballet class without panties on. Gasp if you want... how crazy of me...
I have been in enough classes and taught enough classes and sat through enough dance recitals, that I didn't want my girls strapped with the shame of trying to hide pink polka-dot panties by hitching them up under their leotards when they should be dancing. And what's a little pantilessness when your young and at ballet class?
Inevitably, each girl would go through a Sunday morning (or two) of confussion about whether or not to wear panties. "I am wearing tights to church, therefore I do not wear panties..." WRONG. It became connected in each of their minds that if they were wearing tights, they didn't need panties. But I truly feel that things like church and school and birthday parties require panty wearing.
So the lesson became "Always wear panties with tights unless you're going to ballet." And I thought they got it... truly. For awhile we always did Sunday morning panty checks. Things seemed fine. Panties were always on.
When Ella started gymnastics, I kind of felt the whole panty thing was similar to ballet. I'm not sure I'm right on this, but all the giggles that occured when gymnasts tried hiding panties during floor routines at her first meet led me to believe I was right. Although I'm still not sure...
And so, I thought I was safe and out of the woods about the whole panty issue. But this weekend has taught me I will never be safe on this panty issue...
Ella's gynastics team was to walk in the local parade with the theme of "Remember When." Each of the girls was to dress in 80s garb and I thought we pretty much nailed it. Neon green shirt off the shoulder, fluffy net skirt, neon pink tights. We even faked crimped hair by braiding it the night before.
 |
| Cute, no? |
We sat and watched the parade go by and cheered Ella's group as they passed. A few of them did cartwheels and front walkovers. 80s music was blasting from their float. It was great.
On the way home, Ella mentioned that there was a hole in her new pink neon tights. I didn't notice any hole, so I asked where. "On the butt." Well... of course...
And The Butcher, remembering our panty problems from their youth said, "At least you had your panties on."
At which point Ella admitted that, no, she was not wearing panties. "You're not supposed to wear panties with tights. That's what you taught me," she moaned from the backseat.
Luckily, she only did a few cartwheels on the parade route because they were behind some horses and some goats. It's also a good thing that not too many people know us here... if it had been SJ - oh my...
And now, I guess, we are back to panty checks... (sigh)
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
One year...and counting
It has been one year and three days since we loaded up my friend's minivan with suitcases, my kids, and my parents and headed to Midway Airport. It has been one year and three days since my kids ooohhed and ahhhed over the "fancy" hotel Grandma booked for the night before our big trip, trying calamari at dinner. It has been one year and three days since Wren had a panic attack at the security gate and almost vomitted all over TSA while trying to wave goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa.
One year and three days...
At the beginning of April I had grand plans to mark the one year anniversary of our arrival in Washington by taking the girls to the same restaurant we visited after climbing off the plane...to maybe have a deep conversation about how they were feeling with the move, the things (and people) they missed, the new things they loved...but it just didn't happen.
No one took notice. The girls played. The Butcher and I worked in the yard. We went about our day in total obliviousness to the anniversary - which is probably a much better way to mark such an anniversary.
We are setting roots here. We have bought a house - that I love and dream of growing old in (I will figure out the stairs, Mom, I promise). We have set the kids on some great paths for school and they love planning the next steps. We are getting involved in activities, making friends, setting memories...
Which doesn't mean that we don't have those days when we are so lonely for the people and places we love so much in Michigan. Ella keeps talking about wanting to get married in Michigan. Wren, out of the blue, will say, "I miss Sudzy" (her best friend and neighbor in Michigan). Abby doesn't say much about Michigan, but writes lovely, touching poetry about her friends there.
I'm not quite sure how to end this post. I just wanted pay homage to one year and three days.
One year and three days...
I'm truly looking forward to the next year and three days...
One year and three days...
At the beginning of April I had grand plans to mark the one year anniversary of our arrival in Washington by taking the girls to the same restaurant we visited after climbing off the plane...to maybe have a deep conversation about how they were feeling with the move, the things (and people) they missed, the new things they loved...but it just didn't happen.
No one took notice. The girls played. The Butcher and I worked in the yard. We went about our day in total obliviousness to the anniversary - which is probably a much better way to mark such an anniversary.
We are setting roots here. We have bought a house - that I love and dream of growing old in (I will figure out the stairs, Mom, I promise). We have set the kids on some great paths for school and they love planning the next steps. We are getting involved in activities, making friends, setting memories...
Which doesn't mean that we don't have those days when we are so lonely for the people and places we love so much in Michigan. Ella keeps talking about wanting to get married in Michigan. Wren, out of the blue, will say, "I miss Sudzy" (her best friend and neighbor in Michigan). Abby doesn't say much about Michigan, but writes lovely, touching poetry about her friends there.
I'm not quite sure how to end this post. I just wanted pay homage to one year and three days.
One year and three days...
I'm truly looking forward to the next year and three days...
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Pork Chops
Look at those little legs at the top of this page... aren't they the cutest things?
That picture is from about two years ago...maybe more. Those are Wrenny's tan legs in her brand new pink shoes that she just had to have (they are long gone). And I love those little legs...
Somehow a game formed between the two of us...I started grabbing her thighs to tickle them and called it "checking her pork chops." This poor child is going to start Kindergarten in the fall and, when the teacher asks "what are these called" while pointing to her legs, Wren will yell with all her might, "PORK CHOPS!" I already blame myself...
But I love her pork chops! There is something about chubby little girl thighs that just wraps up the whole joyfulness of toddlerhood. Maybe it's the last bit of "baby" that hangs on in a body quickly turning into a "girl" and no longer a "baby."
One of Wrenny's pork chops has a birth mark (so adorable) which we talk about a lot because I have one too and I don't want her to feel about hers the way I felt about mine as a kid (I used to ask my dad to cut it off...what's funny is it's on my butt - who sees it {but The Butcher...maybe}?)
I love to squeeze them and watch her wiggle and giggle with glee. I love a good "pork chop check."
Check these pork chops from last summer...
But those pork chops are disappearing. It makes me sad. She is fast approaching 5 and a half... Kindergarten in the fall... starting to read books... no longer a baby, for sure.
And she's been doing gymnastics which is making them disappear even more quickly.
What am I gonna do without those pork chops? (sigh)
That picture is from about two years ago...maybe more. Those are Wrenny's tan legs in her brand new pink shoes that she just had to have (they are long gone). And I love those little legs...
Somehow a game formed between the two of us...I started grabbing her thighs to tickle them and called it "checking her pork chops." This poor child is going to start Kindergarten in the fall and, when the teacher asks "what are these called" while pointing to her legs, Wren will yell with all her might, "PORK CHOPS!" I already blame myself...
But I love her pork chops! There is something about chubby little girl thighs that just wraps up the whole joyfulness of toddlerhood. Maybe it's the last bit of "baby" that hangs on in a body quickly turning into a "girl" and no longer a "baby."
One of Wrenny's pork chops has a birth mark (so adorable) which we talk about a lot because I have one too and I don't want her to feel about hers the way I felt about mine as a kid (I used to ask my dad to cut it off...what's funny is it's on my butt - who sees it {but The Butcher...maybe}?)
I love to squeeze them and watch her wiggle and giggle with glee. I love a good "pork chop check."
Check these pork chops from last summer...
Her pork chop cup runneth over...
or - pork chops in a bucket...
But those pork chops are disappearing. It makes me sad. She is fast approaching 5 and a half... Kindergarten in the fall... starting to read books... no longer a baby, for sure.
And she's been doing gymnastics which is making them disappear even more quickly.
What am I gonna do without those pork chops? (sigh)
Monday, April 23, 2012
Color Therapy
A year in a rental house with white walls is too much. At least, too much for me to handle. I would sit on the couch and stare at the white wall and think of all the colors it could be...if only I had the time, money, and inclination to waste all three of these on walls that were not mine.
It is hard to tell the passing of time with a white wall...the sun looks the same shining on it coming up as it does going down.
It says nothing...conveys nothing...adds nothing to the mood.
Have you tried enjoying a glass of wine in a white-walled room recently? I barely survived. I had to choke it down in ambiancelessness...(I am a trooper though)
So when we were under contract for this house, I started dreaming of colors...and spending a stupid amount of time on Pinterest pinning any color combination I liked.
Until one day when The Butcher and I were walking through Target pricing vacuums (stinkin vacuums - still mourning my Dyson) and we passed a KitchenAid stand mixer in orange. And an off-handed comment of "I really like this color for some reason" has turned into this...
"Donald Orange" it's called - and yes, we did find it in the Disney color section at Home Depot (however, "more saving" my butt).
And I paired it with a lovely grey, which is now looking a bit blue to me...
But it's not that the color is looking blue-ish that bothers me... it is THIS:
It is hard to tell the passing of time with a white wall...the sun looks the same shining on it coming up as it does going down.
It says nothing...conveys nothing...adds nothing to the mood.
Have you tried enjoying a glass of wine in a white-walled room recently? I barely survived. I had to choke it down in ambiancelessness...(I am a trooper though)
So when we were under contract for this house, I started dreaming of colors...and spending a stupid amount of time on Pinterest pinning any color combination I liked.
Until one day when The Butcher and I were walking through Target pricing vacuums (stinkin vacuums - still mourning my Dyson) and we passed a KitchenAid stand mixer in orange. And an off-handed comment of "I really like this color for some reason" has turned into this...
"Donald Orange" it's called - and yes, we did find it in the Disney color section at Home Depot (however, "more saving" my butt).
And I paired it with a lovely grey, which is now looking a bit blue to me...
What do you think?
(and yes, those shoes - or a combination of shoes - are always in the hallway - and usually many more than this...)
But it's not that the color is looking blue-ish that bothers me... it is THIS:
Now, please don't start in on me...I know that I should mix two gallons (if using two gallons) so the color is consistent - but honestly, I have NEVER, NEVER done that before and things have always turned out great (and I have painted a lot of walls). Until yesterday...
And after a weekend of busting my butt to get it all done (and asking my 11 year old to make her 8 year old sister's birthday cake so I could just keep painting), well, I'm just really pissed...
But on the bright side - I now have something new to obsess over, proving once again, I am my mother's daughter.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Birthday Gifts
The problem is this... I have great expectations.
Years ago, before kids, when time was our own and so was the money, we created The Birthday Extravaganza Weekend (or week, depending on how the bank account was). We went out to dinner, we went to shows, we went shopping, we spent a weekend at the coast. We did what we wanted and didn't pay too much attention to the details...
But change is inevitable... and change is good.
And now, a story in which I look like a selfish child (and I was, for a bit on this day)...
Friday was my birthday. It hadn't quite dawned and the evil cat was up to his chirping, scratching, and general PIA tricks. Immediately I thought, "It's my birthday. Certainly The Butcher will jump up and toss this stinkin cat in the laundry room (latch problem solved, by the way) so I can sleep in a bit."
But The Butcher didn't move... or make any noise, by the way, so my next thought was "Great, my husband has died on the morning of my birthday," only to be greeted by the softest of snores escaping from his mouth. And the evil cat continued his antics.
So then I thought, "Wait a minute... I went to bed before The Butcher did last night and he certainly can't really be sleeping through this cat's noise, so maybe he left me a gift downstairs and he's pretending to be asleep so I'll find it." There's nothing quite like thinking there's something good waiting for you to get you out of bed. I grabbed the cat and we started down the stairs.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I scanned the kitchen. Nothing on the table. Nothing on the island. But wait! It looked like there was a box placed next to the coffee maker! How brilliant of The Butcher! He knew that's where I would head first. And as conflicting thoughts ran through my head (a small box! Wait, we can't afford things in small boxes!), I made my way to the coffee maker to discover it was not a small box. It was a small sponge Abby had left out from her science fair project... sigh...
And then I felt sorry for myself... enter the selfish child.
Because as each person woke up that morning, they brought me an offering... nothing huge and extravagant, but heart felt...
Wren drew a picture of me blowing out candles on a cake and woke up early to slip into Ella's room for help with a bracelet.
Ella made me a card and wrapped one of her hard-earned dollars in toilet paper, placing it in a small box and then wrapping it with a picture she'd painted. (And later, she asked for the box back... and a little later, she asked for the dollar back...sigh.)
And Abby made me a card too, declaring in it that I "work too hard."
And The Butcher handed me a card with a promise for dinner at a restaurant I've been wanting to go to.
But it wasn't just these things that were Birthday gifts to me. My weekend was filled with small moments, and if I just looked at them for what they really were, I could see that they were all gifts...
On Friday night, we went out to dinner with the girls... a rare treat. And not only was that a gift, but so was the fact that there was no sister fighting or complaining, or 18 trips to the toilet with Wren.
And then when I was tucking Wren into bed, she asked what she always asks, "What's tomorrow?" So I explained that Aunt Caryl and Aunt Cheryl were coming for dinner and cake. Wren asked, "What kind of cake?"
"Plum Pretty Cake - like Daddy makes me every year."
"What's Plum Pretty Cake?"
"It's red with a yummy frosting. My Granny Bert used to make it. I love it. And you will, too," I answered.
"Granny Bert? Who's Granny Bert?," Wren asked.
"She was Grandpa's mommy. Her name was Bertha, but people called her Bert, so we called her Granny Bert."
"Oh, so 'Bertha' is a lot like 'birthday' and that's why you have the Plum Pretty Cake?"
Wow... how, in 14 years of The Butcher making me this cake for my birthday, did I not see what my five year old saw? And my eyes welled up... what a wonderful gift she had given me without even knowing it. And while I have always thought of my Granny Bert when the cake is made, now it's even more special to me.
The gifts continued with a full weekend of sun... SUN!
And a great dinner with great friends...
And awesome, powerful Easter worship at church... with tears in my eyes.
And playing in the dirt with The Butcher as we "surveyed the land" and got dirty and finally declared it Miller (Lite) Time so I could sneak in a tiny nap before a wonderful, memory-invoking dinner of leg of lamb, potatoes, and spinach (just like mom's!).
I am truly blessed... thank you for everything on my Birthday.
Years ago, before kids, when time was our own and so was the money, we created The Birthday Extravaganza Weekend (or week, depending on how the bank account was). We went out to dinner, we went to shows, we went shopping, we spent a weekend at the coast. We did what we wanted and didn't pay too much attention to the details...
But change is inevitable... and change is good.
And now, a story in which I look like a selfish child (and I was, for a bit on this day)...
Friday was my birthday. It hadn't quite dawned and the evil cat was up to his chirping, scratching, and general PIA tricks. Immediately I thought, "It's my birthday. Certainly The Butcher will jump up and toss this stinkin cat in the laundry room (latch problem solved, by the way) so I can sleep in a bit."
But The Butcher didn't move... or make any noise, by the way, so my next thought was "Great, my husband has died on the morning of my birthday," only to be greeted by the softest of snores escaping from his mouth. And the evil cat continued his antics.
So then I thought, "Wait a minute... I went to bed before The Butcher did last night and he certainly can't really be sleeping through this cat's noise, so maybe he left me a gift downstairs and he's pretending to be asleep so I'll find it." There's nothing quite like thinking there's something good waiting for you to get you out of bed. I grabbed the cat and we started down the stairs.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I scanned the kitchen. Nothing on the table. Nothing on the island. But wait! It looked like there was a box placed next to the coffee maker! How brilliant of The Butcher! He knew that's where I would head first. And as conflicting thoughts ran through my head (a small box! Wait, we can't afford things in small boxes!), I made my way to the coffee maker to discover it was not a small box. It was a small sponge Abby had left out from her science fair project... sigh...
And then I felt sorry for myself... enter the selfish child.
Because as each person woke up that morning, they brought me an offering... nothing huge and extravagant, but heart felt...
Wren drew a picture of me blowing out candles on a cake and woke up early to slip into Ella's room for help with a bracelet.
Ella made me a card and wrapped one of her hard-earned dollars in toilet paper, placing it in a small box and then wrapping it with a picture she'd painted. (And later, she asked for the box back... and a little later, she asked for the dollar back...sigh.)
And Abby made me a card too, declaring in it that I "work too hard."
And The Butcher handed me a card with a promise for dinner at a restaurant I've been wanting to go to.
But it wasn't just these things that were Birthday gifts to me. My weekend was filled with small moments, and if I just looked at them for what they really were, I could see that they were all gifts...
On Friday night, we went out to dinner with the girls... a rare treat. And not only was that a gift, but so was the fact that there was no sister fighting or complaining, or 18 trips to the toilet with Wren.
And then when I was tucking Wren into bed, she asked what she always asks, "What's tomorrow?" So I explained that Aunt Caryl and Aunt Cheryl were coming for dinner and cake. Wren asked, "What kind of cake?"
"Plum Pretty Cake - like Daddy makes me every year."
"What's Plum Pretty Cake?"
"It's red with a yummy frosting. My Granny Bert used to make it. I love it. And you will, too," I answered.
"Granny Bert? Who's Granny Bert?," Wren asked.
"She was Grandpa's mommy. Her name was Bertha, but people called her Bert, so we called her Granny Bert."
"Oh, so 'Bertha' is a lot like 'birthday' and that's why you have the Plum Pretty Cake?"
Wow... how, in 14 years of The Butcher making me this cake for my birthday, did I not see what my five year old saw? And my eyes welled up... what a wonderful gift she had given me without even knowing it. And while I have always thought of my Granny Bert when the cake is made, now it's even more special to me.
The gifts continued with a full weekend of sun... SUN!
And a great dinner with great friends...
And awesome, powerful Easter worship at church... with tears in my eyes.
And playing in the dirt with The Butcher as we "surveyed the land" and got dirty and finally declared it Miller (Lite) Time so I could sneak in a tiny nap before a wonderful, memory-invoking dinner of leg of lamb, potatoes, and spinach (just like mom's!).
I am truly blessed... thank you for everything on my Birthday.
Granny Bert's Plum Pretty Cake
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Surveying the Land
The Butcher and I have a ritual of sorts. On nice evenings (or mildly nice because you've got to take what you can get), we grab a glass of wine and mosey through the yard checking to see what's new, making mental lists of things to do, and dreaming of what the yard could be...some day... with more money, more time, more motivation...
With each home we've owned we have done this. It started with the first house we owned where the backyard was just a patch of dirt and we had unlimited weekends (and more money and no kids) to work away the day, or part of the day, and then stop when we felt like it for a beer.. or a nap. And we've kept up the ritual with each house we've owned... sometimes it took 5 minutes (our downtown SJ house), sometimes it took a half hour (our Woodland house... so.much.to.do)...and now, with this house, it's also become a treasure hunt of sorts.
And so, let's survey the land...because the SUN came out on Monday. And it was GLORIOUS... truly...
They lead down to one of the old out-buildings that is made of what looks like railroad ties. There's a horse trough in the corner of the small building. The kids have plans to take the building over this summer.
Last Sunday, on a survey of the land, The Butcher and I found something we thought we'd keep to ourselves for awhile (or indefinitely)...
We thought we'd keep it from the kids... okay, mostly from Ella. A ladder on the side of a tree?! Are you kidding me? She'd be up that ladder in no time... and then promptly falling OFF that ladder about a half a second later.
So when I looked outside the other day to see what she was up to, it was no surprise to me to find myself yelling out the door, "Not any higher, Ella!" (sigh)
Then I ventured to the "back 40" - okay, the bottom of the hill on our property. It's overgrown and full of grass clumps and junk bushes and trees. But I found this, which was so pretty...
And then I heard buzzing... and anyone who knows the story of the lawnmower and the bees (trust me - twasn't pretty) knows I will not stick around to find out what the buzzing is about... so I ran up the hill. Yes, truly, ran... and then panted as I roamed around the front yard for a bit so the kids wouldn't know that running up a hill made their mother winded...(so out of shape).
And one more... because it's so pretty and makes me so happy and won't stay like this for much longer...
With each home we've owned we have done this. It started with the first house we owned where the backyard was just a patch of dirt and we had unlimited weekends (and more money and no kids) to work away the day, or part of the day, and then stop when we felt like it for a beer.. or a nap. And we've kept up the ritual with each house we've owned... sometimes it took 5 minutes (our downtown SJ house), sometimes it took a half hour (our Woodland house... so.much.to.do)...and now, with this house, it's also become a treasure hunt of sorts.
And so, let's survey the land...because the SUN came out on Monday. And it was GLORIOUS... truly...
Our new casa - let's start in the front
A deserted nest in a sickly rhodie...
LOVE these moss covered stairs.
The Butcher is NOT allowed to take the power washer to these.
They lead down to one of the old out-buildings that is made of what looks like railroad ties. There's a horse trough in the corner of the small building. The kids have plans to take the building over this summer.
Nature is taking over.
The house has been vacant for nearly two years. A neighbor told us the previous owner had put a lot of money into the backyard. It slopes down pretty dramatically and there are two tiers of retaining wall. I found this on the first tier... it's one part of the base of a bench.
Then, on the next tier down, I found this:
The top of the bench.
This was covered in mud and old grass. I wasn't sure what I'd found until I dug it out.
Last Sunday, on a survey of the land, The Butcher and I found something we thought we'd keep to ourselves for awhile (or indefinitely)...
A ladder...on the side of a tree...
on the side of a tree that matches the height of THIS tree...
So when I looked outside the other day to see what she was up to, it was no surprise to me to find myself yelling out the door, "Not any higher, Ella!" (sigh)
Then I ventured to the "back 40" - okay, the bottom of the hill on our property. It's overgrown and full of grass clumps and junk bushes and trees. But I found this, which was so pretty...
And then I heard buzzing... and anyone who knows the story of the lawnmower and the bees (trust me - twasn't pretty) knows I will not stick around to find out what the buzzing is about... so I ran up the hill. Yes, truly, ran... and then panted as I roamed around the front yard for a bit so the kids wouldn't know that running up a hill made their mother winded...(so out of shape).
And one more... because it's so pretty and makes me so happy and won't stay like this for much longer...
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Poekserbell Painybutt (for Luke)
We have a cat.
I don't think he really enjoys being our cat, but it's not really up to him, so he puts up with us... mostly.
And he looks sweet and cuddly. But I always warn people who try to touch him, "He is not a nice cat. He seems nice, until he bites you." Which is very true, until he proves me wrong and actually lets someone pet him.
Proof that he looks sweet:
And now, a story for Luke:
There are two doors in the new house that seem to have faulty latches... two very important doors. The first is the door to Abby'scloset room. Until we build out her bedroom in the basement, she has taken over the small corner room (and truly, I use this word loosely) as her sleeping place with her bed, desk, and dirty clothes basket (the essentials). THIS door does not latch properly.
Every night after all the kids have said their good nights and gotten their hugs and kisses, we find Abby at the top of the basement stairs with the evil cat weaving between her legs purring.
"He won't leave me alone."
My reply, "He likes you. Let him sleep with you." (Between you and me - I'd rather he slept with her than with me.)
"No. He takes up too much space on the bed."
"But he's your brother from a kitty mother." (I use this one often when the girls are annoyed by him.)
"I don't like my kitty brother." (This is often the response I get when I use the whole "but he's your brother..." Anyway, you get the idea.)
I then have to forcibly hold him on my lap and convince him he enjoys being with me while she runs downstairs to hide from him. It's a terrible cat and mouse game where the mouse is an 11 year old girl who simply wants to sleep alone.
Now, I would just toss him in the laundry room and close the door. But this is the other door which does not latch properly.
We discovered this approximately on the second morning we moved in - which just so happens to be the second time we tossed him in there at 5:30 in the morning.
The evil cat would prefer we wake up at 5:30. We would prefer not to wake up at 5:30. But every morning, starting very near to 5:30, he begins "chirping." I don't know if there is really a word for the sound he makes, but it sounds like a chirp mixed with a rolling of the tongue with a question mark at the end. Some are short, some are long. Chirp? Chirrppp? At some point, I begin to believe Timmy has fallen down a well somewhere and our (evil) cat has taken it upon himself to let us know. Chirp?
If the chirping fails to get our attention, his next line of attack is scratching the carpet. Oh how I rue the day we decided we didn't have enough money to take out his claws. Looking back, it would have been worth a dry month or two (or three - hey, we're not that bad). It is usually at this point that the Butcher fast-balls a pillow at him - or - one of us gets out of bed to try to catch him and throw him in a locked room.
So on the second morning after we moved in, after the chirping and the scratching and the pillow throwing (and if all else fails, he likes to sit on your chest and "touch" your face with his paws), I scooped him up and crept down the stairs... and down the second set of stairs... to the laundry room where I did the toss-and-close-the-door-with-great-speed-but-very-quietly. Slowly I made my way up the first set of stairs. Slowly I made my way up the second set of stairs. Slowly I climbed into bed and adjusted all the covers just so (and this could truly be a post all to itself...) and began to drift... off... to.... sleeee
CHIRRRPP??
RIGHT NEXT TO THE BED!!!
And then I was reminded of this terrible song my little brother used to love to play on his record player and that my mother had the brilliance to put on a cassette for our two day drive to West Virginia one summer (and therefor two days back to Michigan)... "But the cat came back the very next day, yes the cat came back the very next day..."
And there is my story for Luke... hope you like it little brother.
I don't think he really enjoys being our cat, but it's not really up to him, so he puts up with us... mostly.
And he looks sweet and cuddly. But I always warn people who try to touch him, "He is not a nice cat. He seems nice, until he bites you." Which is very true, until he proves me wrong and actually lets someone pet him.
Proof that he looks sweet:
"Ah, rub my belly. You know you want to."
But really, don't. He'll eat your hand off.
And now, a story for Luke:
There are two doors in the new house that seem to have faulty latches... two very important doors. The first is the door to Abby's
Every night after all the kids have said their good nights and gotten their hugs and kisses, we find Abby at the top of the basement stairs with the evil cat weaving between her legs purring.
"He won't leave me alone."
My reply, "He likes you. Let him sleep with you." (Between you and me - I'd rather he slept with her than with me.)
"No. He takes up too much space on the bed."
"But he's your brother from a kitty mother." (I use this one often when the girls are annoyed by him.)
"I don't like my kitty brother." (This is often the response I get when I use the whole "but he's your brother..." Anyway, you get the idea.)
I then have to forcibly hold him on my lap and convince him he enjoys being with me while she runs downstairs to hide from him. It's a terrible cat and mouse game where the mouse is an 11 year old girl who simply wants to sleep alone.
Now, I would just toss him in the laundry room and close the door. But this is the other door which does not latch properly.
We discovered this approximately on the second morning we moved in - which just so happens to be the second time we tossed him in there at 5:30 in the morning.
The evil cat would prefer we wake up at 5:30. We would prefer not to wake up at 5:30. But every morning, starting very near to 5:30, he begins "chirping." I don't know if there is really a word for the sound he makes, but it sounds like a chirp mixed with a rolling of the tongue with a question mark at the end. Some are short, some are long. Chirp? Chirrppp? At some point, I begin to believe Timmy has fallen down a well somewhere and our (evil) cat has taken it upon himself to let us know. Chirp?
If the chirping fails to get our attention, his next line of attack is scratching the carpet. Oh how I rue the day we decided we didn't have enough money to take out his claws. Looking back, it would have been worth a dry month or two (or three - hey, we're not that bad). It is usually at this point that the Butcher fast-balls a pillow at him - or - one of us gets out of bed to try to catch him and throw him in a locked room.
So on the second morning after we moved in, after the chirping and the scratching and the pillow throwing (and if all else fails, he likes to sit on your chest and "touch" your face with his paws), I scooped him up and crept down the stairs... and down the second set of stairs... to the laundry room where I did the toss-and-close-the-door-with-great-speed-but-very-quietly. Slowly I made my way up the first set of stairs. Slowly I made my way up the second set of stairs. Slowly I climbed into bed and adjusted all the covers just so (and this could truly be a post all to itself...) and began to drift... off... to.... sleeee
CHIRRRPP??
RIGHT NEXT TO THE BED!!!
And then I was reminded of this terrible song my little brother used to love to play on his record player and that my mother had the brilliance to put on a cassette for our two day drive to West Virginia one summer (and therefor two days back to Michigan)... "But the cat came back the very next day, yes the cat came back the very next day..."
And there is my story for Luke... hope you like it little brother.
"Chirrrppp???"
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Unraveling a sweater
On any given day, it could all unravel... everything.
Everything you've interwoven into everything else could come undone, almost like that game with all the sticks holding up the marbles. You pull the wrong stick and all the marbles come tumbling down, clanking and banging and rolling under the couch where you'll never find them.
And what can cause the unraveling?? Oh, well...
Yesterday it just so happened to be a bad sitcom on CBS. I was sitting on the couch after a day of working and running kids and laundry and cooking dinner and everything else we all try to shove into a day, enjoying a glass of box wine (I have finally understood the concept of "budget") when a small Asian man walks into the scene wearing a sweater I own. Gasp.... Why is a small Asian man wearing a woman's sweater.... that.I.own???
Now, I have never claimed to be fashionable. I know I am not. If it isn't put together on a mannequin for me to buy, I can't figure out how to combine things. I inherited this from my mother.
But - there is something about a man who is made a goof of on a show wearing clothing that is currently IN your closet (that I'm certain I wore two weeks ago), that really rattles your cage and makes you start thinking about other shortcomings.
Like... not realizing your child needs glasses. I was surprised to hear the nurse at Abby's yearly check-up tell me she was having trouble reading the eye chart. The third line down on the eye chart to be exact. So, I took her to the eye doctor a few weeks later and we picked up her new glasses this past Sunday. I tried them on yesterday.... my eyes started to water because they were so strong. How does a mom not know her child can't see?! AND wear a sweater that apparently is NOT fashionable...
Like...agreeing to giving your daughter a haircut (after a glass of wine). I find spending money on trimming their long hair is kind of a waste - especially since I only get a haircut about once a year (again, this stupid "budget" thing). So when Ella asked me to trim her hair yesterday, I said yes. We gathered all the necessary tools, discussed how much to cut off, and started at it. I always start in the back, so when I finally got around to her right side where she could see what I'd been cutting, she burst into tears. TEARS. Now, admittedly, Ella is a cryer. But these tears really shocked me. How could I have misunderstood what she wanted so terribly? AND wear an ugly sweater...
The funny thing though... I cannot bring myself to get rid of that sweater. I mean, it cost money, and I hate being cold... and maybe no one else saw that terrible sitcom. I just hope TBS doesn't pick it up in reruns.... (sigh)
Everything you've interwoven into everything else could come undone, almost like that game with all the sticks holding up the marbles. You pull the wrong stick and all the marbles come tumbling down, clanking and banging and rolling under the couch where you'll never find them.
And what can cause the unraveling?? Oh, well...
Yesterday it just so happened to be a bad sitcom on CBS. I was sitting on the couch after a day of working and running kids and laundry and cooking dinner and everything else we all try to shove into a day, enjoying a glass of box wine (I have finally understood the concept of "budget") when a small Asian man walks into the scene wearing a sweater I own. Gasp.... Why is a small Asian man wearing a woman's sweater.... that.I.own???
Now, I have never claimed to be fashionable. I know I am not. If it isn't put together on a mannequin for me to buy, I can't figure out how to combine things. I inherited this from my mother.
But - there is something about a man who is made a goof of on a show wearing clothing that is currently IN your closet (that I'm certain I wore two weeks ago), that really rattles your cage and makes you start thinking about other shortcomings.
Like... not realizing your child needs glasses. I was surprised to hear the nurse at Abby's yearly check-up tell me she was having trouble reading the eye chart. The third line down on the eye chart to be exact. So, I took her to the eye doctor a few weeks later and we picked up her new glasses this past Sunday. I tried them on yesterday.... my eyes started to water because they were so strong. How does a mom not know her child can't see?! AND wear a sweater that apparently is NOT fashionable...
Like...agreeing to giving your daughter a haircut (after a glass of wine). I find spending money on trimming their long hair is kind of a waste - especially since I only get a haircut about once a year (again, this stupid "budget" thing). So when Ella asked me to trim her hair yesterday, I said yes. We gathered all the necessary tools, discussed how much to cut off, and started at it. I always start in the back, so when I finally got around to her right side where she could see what I'd been cutting, she burst into tears. TEARS. Now, admittedly, Ella is a cryer. But these tears really shocked me. How could I have misunderstood what she wanted so terribly? AND wear an ugly sweater...
The funny thing though... I cannot bring myself to get rid of that sweater. I mean, it cost money, and I hate being cold... and maybe no one else saw that terrible sitcom. I just hope TBS doesn't pick it up in reruns.... (sigh)
Monday, March 19, 2012
There's one movie I will always try to catch if it's on TV. Now, don't laugh... it's "Under the Tuscan Sun." Perhaps it's the idea of leaving everything behind to live a life in Tuscany, or maybe I just love how it all comes to a sweet ending where everything has turned out beautifully. I have seen it probably a dozen times and no one else in the family can stand it anymore. The room clears quickly when it comes on.
So when we were in the waiting stages of getting into our new house, I had "Under the Tuscan Sun" delusions of how I would approach our home. In the movie, there is a part where she talks about slowly introducing yourself to the house and taking one room at a time and not hurrying. I thought "this house is old and needs a slow introduction to us." I fantasized about deliberate cleaning-off of age-old grime while a bright (yet sentimental) melody played in the background (while perhaps I discovered a painting of the Madonna somewhere hidden in the dirt). And yes, I'll even go so far as to admit that I was kind of hoping The Butcher would speak in an Italian accent as he fixed the toilet innards that wouldn't stop running...
That sounds SO appealing... but in reality, when you have a husband and three daughters, there is no "taking your time" and no "slowly" anything. We came crashing into this house like a tornado... hurricane force winds sweeping through every stinking room leaving a path of pink litter dotted with Polly Pockets, Littlest Pet Shops and holiday-themed pencils (why do I have SO many stinking Halloween pencils?!).
The cleaning was not slow and deliberate - it was more like Dessert Storm's "Shock & Awe" movement (I know I am probably mixing my military metaphors, but just go with it)... with my mother's voice in my head about filth and grime as I scrubbed the bathroom floor for hours. And looked forward to scrubbing other floors, and windows, and walls, and...
And now I sit, a week and two days after "moving in," with cardboard boxes in corners, the Swiffer Sweeper propped up against the wall, and St. Patrick's Day pencils on the living room floor.
I guess there's one thing I know for certain... my life is not a movie, but I'm pretty sure a soundtrack would make this mess look better.
So when we were in the waiting stages of getting into our new house, I had "Under the Tuscan Sun" delusions of how I would approach our home. In the movie, there is a part where she talks about slowly introducing yourself to the house and taking one room at a time and not hurrying. I thought "this house is old and needs a slow introduction to us." I fantasized about deliberate cleaning-off of age-old grime while a bright (yet sentimental) melody played in the background (while perhaps I discovered a painting of the Madonna somewhere hidden in the dirt). And yes, I'll even go so far as to admit that I was kind of hoping The Butcher would speak in an Italian accent as he fixed the toilet innards that wouldn't stop running...
That sounds SO appealing... but in reality, when you have a husband and three daughters, there is no "taking your time" and no "slowly" anything. We came crashing into this house like a tornado... hurricane force winds sweeping through every stinking room leaving a path of pink litter dotted with Polly Pockets, Littlest Pet Shops and holiday-themed pencils (why do I have SO many stinking Halloween pencils?!).
The cleaning was not slow and deliberate - it was more like Dessert Storm's "Shock & Awe" movement (I know I am probably mixing my military metaphors, but just go with it)... with my mother's voice in my head about filth and grime as I scrubbed the bathroom floor for hours. And looked forward to scrubbing other floors, and windows, and walls, and...
And now I sit, a week and two days after "moving in," with cardboard boxes in corners, the Swiffer Sweeper propped up against the wall, and St. Patrick's Day pencils on the living room floor.
I guess there's one thing I know for certain... my life is not a movie, but I'm pretty sure a soundtrack would make this mess look better.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
A Room With a View
There is nothing quite as chaotic as moving... at least in my mind (except perhaps a new baby, but a new house is almost like a new baby). And all our moves are ribbon-tied in chaos... this one did not disappoint. Let me share...
I had grand plans on Thursday evening to sneak into the house on Friday and clean the bathrooms. The house has been empty for over a year and the filth had taken over - plus the children had all said they wouldn't use the scary bathrooms. I realize I have a problem when cleaning bathrooms is exciting... but they are MY bathrooms. Unfortunately, the sound of vomit hitting a wall at 12:15 a.m. and the frantic call of "Mommmmm" shattered those plans. So instead of cleaning toilets, I spent Friday fretting over a feverish girl who wouldn't eat while watching 8 Barbie movies (not. even. kidding.) because I had scheduled the cable service to move to the new house that day.
We got word the deal was closed on Friday afternoon and the Butcher spent most of the evening loading up the minivan and carting things to the new house. At least the fishing boat made it there.
I woke up Saturday with new excitement. Wrenny seemed better, the sky was clear(ish)... it was gonna be a good day. That is, until the Butcher tried to vacuum the couch crumbs. The vacuum rebelled, making a high pitched whirring noise and emitting the lovely smell of smoke. I have a love-hate relationship with this vacuum (if you know the story of how it fell on my head causing 3 staples, you understand), and right at that moment, I mourned its demise and furiously hated it for crapping out in my hour of need.
So we loaded the van again, crumbs and all, kids and all, and went to OUR house. Our glorious house (where only one toilet worked at the time - and did I mention it was a dirty toilet?). We spent the next bit of time unloading the van, cleaning, etc. The Butcher went to rent a big truck for the stuff we can't cram into the van. Then I hopped into the van around noon to go get lunch... key into ignition, seat belt clicked, turn the key and ... nothing. NOTHING!!! Thank God my friend Caryl was there so I could borrow her BMW (and sweat buckets the whole time I drove it to Taco Bell - my van is OLD and beat up and this is a BMW! and now it smelled like Taco Bell...).
But chaos is nothing compared to a room with a view. And truly... THIS is the best view in the house.
And yes, I "Instagrammed" it for you so it would look all sexy... because, after all, it WAS dirty...
I had grand plans on Thursday evening to sneak into the house on Friday and clean the bathrooms. The house has been empty for over a year and the filth had taken over - plus the children had all said they wouldn't use the scary bathrooms. I realize I have a problem when cleaning bathrooms is exciting... but they are MY bathrooms. Unfortunately, the sound of vomit hitting a wall at 12:15 a.m. and the frantic call of "Mommmmm" shattered those plans. So instead of cleaning toilets, I spent Friday fretting over a feverish girl who wouldn't eat while watching 8 Barbie movies (not. even. kidding.) because I had scheduled the cable service to move to the new house that day.
We got word the deal was closed on Friday afternoon and the Butcher spent most of the evening loading up the minivan and carting things to the new house. At least the fishing boat made it there.
I woke up Saturday with new excitement. Wrenny seemed better, the sky was clear(ish)... it was gonna be a good day. That is, until the Butcher tried to vacuum the couch crumbs. The vacuum rebelled, making a high pitched whirring noise and emitting the lovely smell of smoke. I have a love-hate relationship with this vacuum (if you know the story of how it fell on my head causing 3 staples, you understand), and right at that moment, I mourned its demise and furiously hated it for crapping out in my hour of need.
So we loaded the van again, crumbs and all, kids and all, and went to OUR house. Our glorious house (where only one toilet worked at the time - and did I mention it was a dirty toilet?). We spent the next bit of time unloading the van, cleaning, etc. The Butcher went to rent a big truck for the stuff we can't cram into the van. Then I hopped into the van around noon to go get lunch... key into ignition, seat belt clicked, turn the key and ... nothing. NOTHING!!! Thank God my friend Caryl was there so I could borrow her BMW (and sweat buckets the whole time I drove it to Taco Bell - my van is OLD and beat up and this is a BMW! and now it smelled like Taco Bell...).
But chaos is nothing compared to a room with a view. And truly... THIS is the best view in the house.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
A Practice in Patience
This morning I found myself being yelled at by a 5-year-old stuck on a potty with no toilet paper. Before I could get a word out of my mouth, she yelled again... which then required an explanation of what "patience" is and why you need to "be patient" when yelling for toilet paper.
And then I realized I have been stuck on the toilet since last week yelling for toilet paper... and all because of this house purchase.
When we moved here in April, we planned to stay in this rental house for a year and then buy something. All summer I had grand visions of spending entire days driving from house to house, critiquing and ohhing and ughhing over all the different aspects of all the different houses. But it quickly became apparent that all the savings I thought we'd amass wasn't happening and the dream of sifting through pages of listings started to wane.
I am learning though, that God has plans, and I don't need to know them, I just need to go with them.
The Butcher called late one afternoon during the kids' Christmas ("winter" - ugh) break, telling me to toss on some shoes because he was around the corner and we were going to leave the kids alone for 10 minutes and check out a house. He is impulsive. Sometimes his ideas are half-thought-out and absolutely off the wall. But I'm pretty sure I need all that in my life.
So we drive off, past Ella's school, down a hill, up a hill, into a neighborhood, into a cul-de-sac, and down a long and lonely driveway. At the end, is a squat brown house with a detached garage and an overgrown yard. "Keep an open mind," he says.
We open the front door and the entry hall is lined with bookshelves. I almost swooned... we have been married for 15 years, have moved 7 times (this will be our 8th), and my books have never been unboxed. Then I noticed the windows with the beautiful moldings... and the character that is just oozing out of the glass doorknob in the room we'd already dubbed "Ella's room."
It also happened to be a rare sunny December day in the northwest, and as we made our way to the kitchen, Mt. St. Helens was framed in the window - large and beautiful and covered in snow.
I could go on and on... with all the moves we've made and all the places we've lived, I truly just wanted a house with character. You know, the one you drive by that sits up the way a bit and you can just see the front half of it and you wonder what it looks like inside... And this house was it.
Then everything just started falling into place... they accepted our ridiculous offer, they accepted our ridiculous close date (2-1/2 months out), they accepted to pay closing costs!
So I have been waiting patiently (truly patiently) since December for this house I have been waiting for my whole life... until Friday when our mortgage guy said everything was set and we should be getting a call to close... and still no call... and so I sit on the toilet waiting for paper...
Will someone just get me some damn toilet paper!?! (sigh...)
And then I realized I have been stuck on the toilet since last week yelling for toilet paper... and all because of this house purchase.
When we moved here in April, we planned to stay in this rental house for a year and then buy something. All summer I had grand visions of spending entire days driving from house to house, critiquing and ohhing and ughhing over all the different aspects of all the different houses. But it quickly became apparent that all the savings I thought we'd amass wasn't happening and the dream of sifting through pages of listings started to wane.
I am learning though, that God has plans, and I don't need to know them, I just need to go with them.
The Butcher called late one afternoon during the kids' Christmas ("winter" - ugh) break, telling me to toss on some shoes because he was around the corner and we were going to leave the kids alone for 10 minutes and check out a house. He is impulsive. Sometimes his ideas are half-thought-out and absolutely off the wall. But I'm pretty sure I need all that in my life.
So we drive off, past Ella's school, down a hill, up a hill, into a neighborhood, into a cul-de-sac, and down a long and lonely driveway. At the end, is a squat brown house with a detached garage and an overgrown yard. "Keep an open mind," he says.
We open the front door and the entry hall is lined with bookshelves. I almost swooned... we have been married for 15 years, have moved 7 times (this will be our 8th), and my books have never been unboxed. Then I noticed the windows with the beautiful moldings... and the character that is just oozing out of the glass doorknob in the room we'd already dubbed "Ella's room."
It also happened to be a rare sunny December day in the northwest, and as we made our way to the kitchen, Mt. St. Helens was framed in the window - large and beautiful and covered in snow.
I could go on and on... with all the moves we've made and all the places we've lived, I truly just wanted a house with character. You know, the one you drive by that sits up the way a bit and you can just see the front half of it and you wonder what it looks like inside... And this house was it.
Then everything just started falling into place... they accepted our ridiculous offer, they accepted our ridiculous close date (2-1/2 months out), they accepted to pay closing costs!
So I have been waiting patiently (truly patiently) since December for this house I have been waiting for my whole life... until Friday when our mortgage guy said everything was set and we should be getting a call to close... and still no call... and so I sit on the toilet waiting for paper...
Will someone just get me some damn toilet paper!?! (sigh...)
Monday, October 10, 2011
School of Choice
We have moved from a school system that has three elementary schools, one middle school, and one high school to a school system that has 21 elementary schools, 7 middle schools, and 6 high schools.
On Friday I had the opportunity to visit two of the schools through a series of "Patron Tours" put on by the school system. It's a way to let people in the community know what is going on with the school system and the various schools and programs offered in the schools. I am truly overwhelmed by the choices here. Someone asked me today what high school the girls will go to. There is no simple answer to this question... all the "ifs" and "maybes" play too big of a role.
Our first stop was the Arts & Academics school. It cover 6th - 12th grades and, as the name implies, works to integrate arts and academics together. What an amazing school. We visited a video editing classroom where about 20 7th graders were working on editing footage... each on their own computer. No one had to share. Then we went to a science room where the teacher could ask a question and each of the kids could repond immediately on a handheld device so the teacher could decide if he should go over the material more in depth or move ahead. We saw the "Composition" room where over 20 keyboards/computers were set up to allow kids to create their own music.
And this is just the proverbial scratching of the surface of what's available at this school. There is dance and literary arts and dramatic arts and... well, you get the idea. All I could think is how the kids leaving this school are probably already half-way to a career... and then, "how do I get my kids in?" See, you have to apply to get in and there are only about 80-90 new students accepted each year with over 300 applying.
Then we went to an elementary school. The principle there described it as a "true urban school" with lower income families and a wider ethnic diversity than most of the schools in the system. We watched 4th graders look up vocab words on iPhones and watched 2nd graders "tape" themselves reading for fluency on iPhones.
But what I found truly amazing this day was where we went next... to a classroom filled with low-functioning autistic children. We were warned before going in that a lot of them didn't like noise or commotion, that it was probably best not to try talking to them like we'd been doing with the other students the rest of the morning, that we should just quietly observe. The kids in this classroom had just gotten some iPads with a special program that allowed them to communicate with their teachers. For some of these kids, it was the first time they were able to communicate. The iPads were customized to each child and what "motivated" them, whether it was M&Ms, the swing, a string of red beads they liked to play with, or wheat crackers. Each kid was learning to touch what they wanted to do or have.
As I watched these kids, I was hit square in the chest by the amazing blessing I have in my three daughters. They are healthy. They have no learning issues... no speech issues... nothing to stop them from understanding me or communicating with me (except perhaps their own stubbornness on some days).
And the problems I was fretting about that day and the day before melted away. And since Friday, I have tried to keep hold of the picture of the boy trying to press a button to tell his teacher he wanted to swing... and be thankful for the noisy, talkative chaos in my life.
On Friday I had the opportunity to visit two of the schools through a series of "Patron Tours" put on by the school system. It's a way to let people in the community know what is going on with the school system and the various schools and programs offered in the schools. I am truly overwhelmed by the choices here. Someone asked me today what high school the girls will go to. There is no simple answer to this question... all the "ifs" and "maybes" play too big of a role.
Our first stop was the Arts & Academics school. It cover 6th - 12th grades and, as the name implies, works to integrate arts and academics together. What an amazing school. We visited a video editing classroom where about 20 7th graders were working on editing footage... each on their own computer. No one had to share. Then we went to a science room where the teacher could ask a question and each of the kids could repond immediately on a handheld device so the teacher could decide if he should go over the material more in depth or move ahead. We saw the "Composition" room where over 20 keyboards/computers were set up to allow kids to create their own music.
And this is just the proverbial scratching of the surface of what's available at this school. There is dance and literary arts and dramatic arts and... well, you get the idea. All I could think is how the kids leaving this school are probably already half-way to a career... and then, "how do I get my kids in?" See, you have to apply to get in and there are only about 80-90 new students accepted each year with over 300 applying.
Then we went to an elementary school. The principle there described it as a "true urban school" with lower income families and a wider ethnic diversity than most of the schools in the system. We watched 4th graders look up vocab words on iPhones and watched 2nd graders "tape" themselves reading for fluency on iPhones.
But what I found truly amazing this day was where we went next... to a classroom filled with low-functioning autistic children. We were warned before going in that a lot of them didn't like noise or commotion, that it was probably best not to try talking to them like we'd been doing with the other students the rest of the morning, that we should just quietly observe. The kids in this classroom had just gotten some iPads with a special program that allowed them to communicate with their teachers. For some of these kids, it was the first time they were able to communicate. The iPads were customized to each child and what "motivated" them, whether it was M&Ms, the swing, a string of red beads they liked to play with, or wheat crackers. Each kid was learning to touch what they wanted to do or have.
As I watched these kids, I was hit square in the chest by the amazing blessing I have in my three daughters. They are healthy. They have no learning issues... no speech issues... nothing to stop them from understanding me or communicating with me (except perhaps their own stubbornness on some days).
And the problems I was fretting about that day and the day before melted away. And since Friday, I have tried to keep hold of the picture of the boy trying to press a button to tell his teacher he wanted to swing... and be thankful for the noisy, talkative chaos in my life.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Mornings... with a (small) side of applesauce
Mornings. Need I really say more? I don't know of anyone with kids who has a smooth, peaceful morning.
Ours is always filled with griping and complaining.
"I'm tired."
"My finger hurts."
"I can't find anything I like for breakfast."
And then there's the jockeying for position on the couch, or the tug-of-war over the favorite blanket.
"She's touching me."
"I was sitting there."
Inevitably, someone spills something, and then it feels like everything goes to hell.
I have been trying to be more pleasant. More accommodating. More slow-to-anger. I have been trying to make mornings better around here. (I have been trying to embrace the morning chaos.) But sometimes I don't have any control over what happens. Like this morning.
As I scooped applesauce into a container for Abby's lunch, Ella let out a blood-curdling scream. I am not even kidding. This is NOT for dramatic effect. It scared the snot out of all of us.
Then she burst into tears. This is not unusual with Ella, but the screaming is.
Turns out that, as she sipped from her water bottle for school, she sipped a bug. Not just any ol' bug... an earwig. Ewwww.... If there's one bug I can't handle, it's a earwig.
And then sat crying... and crying... and crying...
I was already feeling a bit on edge from all the standard morning complaining, but then Abby went to the counter, picked up the applesauce I was getting ready for her and said, "Is this all the applesauce I get for lunch?"
REALLY?! Her compassion is just overwhelming. I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped open.
So I am standing there, hugging Ella with my heart breaking for her and the way her day has begun, and then feeling like an utter failure as a mother because my other daughter can't seem to muster any compassion for her sister... or maybe even finish scooping up her own applesauce. She's nearly 11 for &#@! sake (I am trying to stop swearing... sometimes it works, sometimes my daughter nearly swallows an earwig and all I feel like doing IS swearing)!
The worst part... it was time for Ella to leave for the bus. So I watched her drag her feet down the driveway, looking over her shoulder at me, with tears in her eyes.
I don't have a happy ending for this one. I'm still crushed and on the verge of tears myself.
Mornings suck.
Ours is always filled with griping and complaining.
"I'm tired."
"My finger hurts."
"I can't find anything I like for breakfast."
And then there's the jockeying for position on the couch, or the tug-of-war over the favorite blanket.
"She's touching me."
"I was sitting there."
Inevitably, someone spills something, and then it feels like everything goes to hell.
I have been trying to be more pleasant. More accommodating. More slow-to-anger. I have been trying to make mornings better around here. (I have been trying to embrace the morning chaos.) But sometimes I don't have any control over what happens. Like this morning.
As I scooped applesauce into a container for Abby's lunch, Ella let out a blood-curdling scream. I am not even kidding. This is NOT for dramatic effect. It scared the snot out of all of us.
Then she burst into tears. This is not unusual with Ella, but the screaming is.
Turns out that, as she sipped from her water bottle for school, she sipped a bug. Not just any ol' bug... an earwig. Ewwww.... If there's one bug I can't handle, it's a earwig.
And then sat crying... and crying... and crying...
I was already feeling a bit on edge from all the standard morning complaining, but then Abby went to the counter, picked up the applesauce I was getting ready for her and said, "Is this all the applesauce I get for lunch?"
REALLY?! Her compassion is just overwhelming. I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped open.
So I am standing there, hugging Ella with my heart breaking for her and the way her day has begun, and then feeling like an utter failure as a mother because my other daughter can't seem to muster any compassion for her sister... or maybe even finish scooping up her own applesauce. She's nearly 11 for &#@! sake (I am trying to stop swearing... sometimes it works, sometimes my daughter nearly swallows an earwig and all I feel like doing IS swearing)!
The worst part... it was time for Ella to leave for the bus. So I watched her drag her feet down the driveway, looking over her shoulder at me, with tears in her eyes.
I don't have a happy ending for this one. I'm still crushed and on the verge of tears myself.
Mornings suck.
Monday, July 4, 2011
The Fourth of July - Oh boy...
For the last three years, Fourth of July weekend has meant one thing in our house... Red Bud (which you must yell in your most red-necky voice.)
Red Bud... (sigh) is a national MotoCross race. I'm sure I don't have that quite right, but it's something with motorbikes that takes up the whole weekend and crams thousands of people into a small plot of land somewhere near Buchanan, MI.
It's not that The Butcher is a big MotoCross fan. And it's certainly not that my three daughters are, or, God forbid, me. It it this... one of The Butcher's best friends owns a porta-toilet business and usually is the one to clean out the crappers of the huge, giant RVs that are camped there. And... The Butcher... helps.
Yes, you read that right... my husband helps clean out the crappers. But money is money, and friendship is friendship.
So our Fourth weekends were usually taken up with camping in a private lot at Red Bud (because, really, who wants to be by the crapper trucks?), listening to the engines rev until the wee hours of the morning, only to be awakened bright and early to some disembodied man yelling "Good Morning, REEEEEEEEEEED BUUUUUUUUUUD" at a truly ungodly hour.
Admittedly, the kids loved it. No bedtime, junk food, four wheeler rides with dad, red neck watching. Me, not so much - don't get me wrong - I do enjoy some good red neck watching.
OH - did I mention the helicopter rides that fly out over our campsite every 20 minutes? Yeah... fun.
With the Big Move, I thought for sure this Fourth would be better... but, alas, this is not to be true. The Butcher's been working on a roof all weekend (because, ya know, money is money), and I've been trapped in a rental house with three bored girls trying not to drink the rest of the box wine by myself...
At least Poirot was on last night... oh and there are no helicopter flyovers.
Red Bud... (sigh) is a national MotoCross race. I'm sure I don't have that quite right, but it's something with motorbikes that takes up the whole weekend and crams thousands of people into a small plot of land somewhere near Buchanan, MI.
It's not that The Butcher is a big MotoCross fan. And it's certainly not that my three daughters are, or, God forbid, me. It it this... one of The Butcher's best friends owns a porta-toilet business and usually is the one to clean out the crappers of the huge, giant RVs that are camped there. And... The Butcher... helps.
Yes, you read that right... my husband helps clean out the crappers. But money is money, and friendship is friendship.
So our Fourth weekends were usually taken up with camping in a private lot at Red Bud (because, really, who wants to be by the crapper trucks?), listening to the engines rev until the wee hours of the morning, only to be awakened bright and early to some disembodied man yelling "Good Morning, REEEEEEEEEEED BUUUUUUUUUUD" at a truly ungodly hour.
Admittedly, the kids loved it. No bedtime, junk food, four wheeler rides with dad, red neck watching. Me, not so much - don't get me wrong - I do enjoy some good red neck watching.
OH - did I mention the helicopter rides that fly out over our campsite every 20 minutes? Yeah... fun.
With the Big Move, I thought for sure this Fourth would be better... but, alas, this is not to be true. The Butcher's been working on a roof all weekend (because, ya know, money is money), and I've been trapped in a rental house with three bored girls trying not to drink the rest of the box wine by myself...
At least Poirot was on last night... oh and there are no helicopter flyovers.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Chaos Wins
Okay, I'll admit it. I have gotten to a certain age where I find it necessary to use two kinds of deodorants. I think it's one of those perimenopausal things that Oprah was going on and on about a few years ago... back when I was too young to pay attention to it.
Anyway, I like to use one that you twist and the stuff pops out of some little holes at the top. Do you know what I mean?
This morning, I hopped in the shower after my new crunch regimen (another necessity from this "aging" thing), lathered, rinsed (but did not repeat - have you seen how long my hair is?!), hopped out and went to apply my deodorant.
Open, twist the knob and apply to the left arm pit... twist again... nothing happens... twist again... nothing...
Sadly, deodorant is not like hand lotion. When you're running low, you can't rub two armpits together to spread out the last little bit of deodorant.
Luckily, as I mentioned, I use two kinds. So I think perhaps chaos and I came out even in this one.
Anyway, I like to use one that you twist and the stuff pops out of some little holes at the top. Do you know what I mean?
This morning, I hopped in the shower after my new crunch regimen (another necessity from this "aging" thing), lathered, rinsed (but did not repeat - have you seen how long my hair is?!), hopped out and went to apply my deodorant.
Open, twist the knob and apply to the left arm pit... twist again... nothing happens... twist again... nothing...
Sadly, deodorant is not like hand lotion. When you're running low, you can't rub two armpits together to spread out the last little bit of deodorant.
Luckily, as I mentioned, I use two kinds. So I think perhaps chaos and I came out even in this one.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Distraction
In my last post I wrote about my recital sickness... how I was missing the annual dance recital. We didn't really talk with the girls about it, but I thought they were probably missing it too. So we decided to fill their day with distractions. And what a neat one we found too...
Okay, a confession...WE didn't find it. Our friend Caryl asked us to meet up down there. So, in the interest of full disclosure, it was her idea.
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We took them to Portland's Rose Festival. The Rose Parade was on Saturday, but since we're not really "parade people" (I'm sure our kids are parade people - John and I just are not), we skipped that part and took them to see the floats on Sunday. This was MUCH better because we could get up close and see all the cool details of the floats. Like the bee above...his beads are painted walnuts, hazelnuts, and well, other kinds of nuts.
I liked these:
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And the girls really liked these:
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This parade is like the better-known Rose Parade (you know, in Pasadena) where every covering has to be from nature: flowers, seeds, grasses, etc.
Then we walked along the river, sidestepping copious amounts of people, their children and dogs. The girls were excited to see a man with a huge yellow snake around his neck...just walking through the crowd. Nope, not a side show...just keeping Portland weird.
During the Rose Festival, they also have dragon boat races. Not that I'm into rowing, or anything requiring physical exertion, but this looked like fun. Some of the teams dressed alike or had funny names (for the life of me I cannot remember a single one right now!). A crowd had gathered on the grass to watch and cheer them on.
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We finished off with a libation at Rock Bottom Brewery and a Max ride back to the car. And yes, the girls loved the Max...their first real "train ride." (But trust me, that's a post all to itself - such interesting people ride the Max. I kept having to remind the girls to stop staring.)
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Okay, a confession...WE didn't find it. Our friend Caryl asked us to meet up down there. So, in the interest of full disclosure, it was her idea.
We took them to Portland's Rose Festival. The Rose Parade was on Saturday, but since we're not really "parade people" (I'm sure our kids are parade people - John and I just are not), we skipped that part and took them to see the floats on Sunday. This was MUCH better because we could get up close and see all the cool details of the floats. Like the bee above...his beads are painted walnuts, hazelnuts, and well, other kinds of nuts.
I liked these:
And the girls really liked these:
 |
| Abby and Caryl checking out the flowers |
Then we walked along the river, sidestepping copious amounts of people, their children and dogs. The girls were excited to see a man with a huge yellow snake around his neck...just walking through the crowd. Nope, not a side show...just keeping Portland weird.
During the Rose Festival, they also have dragon boat races. Not that I'm into rowing, or anything requiring physical exertion, but this looked like fun. Some of the teams dressed alike or had funny names (for the life of me I cannot remember a single one right now!). A crowd had gathered on the grass to watch and cheer them on.
We finished off with a libation at Rock Bottom Brewery and a Max ride back to the car. And yes, the girls loved the Max...their first real "train ride." (But trust me, that's a post all to itself - such interesting people ride the Max. I kept having to remind the girls to stop staring.)
Monday, June 13, 2011
Recital Sick
This weekend was truly the first time I spent most of the weekend thinking, "If we were still in Michigan, I would be (insert activity here) right now."
It was recital weekend there and I kept thinking about my fellow dance teachers (I really want to write "comrades in arms") at Connie Cassidy School of Dance and all the struggles/problems/frustrations... and joys... that occur in these two short days. Saturday is spent filling the stage as quickly as possible with class after class for rehearsal. Shoe changes happen rapidly (and not so rapidly), last-minute tickets are sold, and questions about nearly everything are answered. And on Sunday, nine months of weekly classes boil down to two hours on a red-curtained stage.
For nine years, I have spent a weekend in June in that theater, and I really missed it this year. I kept remembering all the things I would do to move things along and solve problems and help where I could. I kept thinking, "I should have told (insert name here) about (insert problem here)." But I'm not so deluded as to think it can't be done without me. And perhaps that bothered me a bit too...
But I also missed seeing all the hard work come together. There have been years when I felt like certain classes would never pull something off, and they did. There have been dancers that I thought would never "get it" and they did. Strangely, I also missed all the goofs and problems and catching the eye of a fellow teacher with the look of "What just happened?" flashing between us. And I missed seeing each dancer grow up as the years passed.
This year I'm also filled with guilt over the-recital-that-wasn't for my own daughters. I miss the after-church rush of eating lunch and getting dressed into beautiful costumes. I miss the frustration of trying to get Abby's long hair into a bun (or whatever she has in mind), and trying to get Ella to do something (anything PLEASE) with her hair. I missed the battle over just how much make-up I would allow. And the excited car ride to the high school...
And I missed the goofy grin I would get watching my girls dance... (the same grin I once chastised MY mother for wearing during my performances).
We didn't talk about it much at our house. I know the girls are disappointed. They love recital. And we were so close... the costumes are hanging in their closets. But it was time to put our family together again.
So I spent this weekend being "Recital Sick" (like being home sick) and trying not to show it. I think we did a good job of distracting the girls from the day (and I'll tell you about that later), but it didn't work so well for me... (sigh)
It was recital weekend there and I kept thinking about my fellow dance teachers (I really want to write "comrades in arms") at Connie Cassidy School of Dance and all the struggles/problems/frustrations... and joys... that occur in these two short days. Saturday is spent filling the stage as quickly as possible with class after class for rehearsal. Shoe changes happen rapidly (and not so rapidly), last-minute tickets are sold, and questions about nearly everything are answered. And on Sunday, nine months of weekly classes boil down to two hours on a red-curtained stage.
For nine years, I have spent a weekend in June in that theater, and I really missed it this year. I kept remembering all the things I would do to move things along and solve problems and help where I could. I kept thinking, "I should have told (insert name here) about (insert problem here)." But I'm not so deluded as to think it can't be done without me. And perhaps that bothered me a bit too...
But I also missed seeing all the hard work come together. There have been years when I felt like certain classes would never pull something off, and they did. There have been dancers that I thought would never "get it" and they did. Strangely, I also missed all the goofs and problems and catching the eye of a fellow teacher with the look of "What just happened?" flashing between us. And I missed seeing each dancer grow up as the years passed.
This year I'm also filled with guilt over the-recital-that-wasn't for my own daughters. I miss the after-church rush of eating lunch and getting dressed into beautiful costumes. I miss the frustration of trying to get Abby's long hair into a bun (or whatever she has in mind), and trying to get Ella to do something (anything PLEASE) with her hair. I missed the battle over just how much make-up I would allow. And the excited car ride to the high school...
And I missed the goofy grin I would get watching my girls dance... (the same grin I once chastised MY mother for wearing during my performances).
We didn't talk about it much at our house. I know the girls are disappointed. They love recital. And we were so close... the costumes are hanging in their closets. But it was time to put our family together again.
So I spent this weekend being "Recital Sick" (like being home sick) and trying not to show it. I think we did a good job of distracting the girls from the day (and I'll tell you about that later), but it didn't work so well for me... (sigh)
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Edgefield
I have found that with each of our moves, we have been left with a hankering for some restaurant or place we've left behind. When we moved from the Northwest ten years ago, that place for us was Edgefield.
It holds special memories for us because it was one of the first treasures we found when we hit the Portland area. A little poor in both cash and friends, we'd head around the corner to Edgefield. It's the county's old "poor house" that the McMenamin troupe has refurbished into a B&B, complete with gardens, extra restaurants, a brewery, a winery, a distillery, a three-par golf course and more. Our "night out" would consist of wine tasting in the grotto-like wine bar while we dined on oyster crackers. Sometimes we would splurge on the fifty-cent tasters.
But more than that, it's enchanting. There is artwork everywhere - and I mean everywhere. Even lighting and the necessary evils of buildings (like exhaust systems) are turned into something beautiful.
Tiny, old outbuildings become charming settings with tables for two. Winding paths lead to unique finds... like this one:
So, we were excited to take the kids there on Memorial Day. The weather was iffy (and always is here it seems), but we were able to get in a few holes of golf - Wren only had "to go" once on the course - and end our time sitting outside while the kids slurped up chocolate shakes in the sun/rain/sun.
It was a good day...
But now I could really go for some Glenlord pizza... (sigh).
Walking up to Edgefield's side entrance
It holds special memories for us because it was one of the first treasures we found when we hit the Portland area. A little poor in both cash and friends, we'd head around the corner to Edgefield. It's the county's old "poor house" that the McMenamin troupe has refurbished into a B&B, complete with gardens, extra restaurants, a brewery, a winery, a distillery, a three-par golf course and more. Our "night out" would consist of wine tasting in the grotto-like wine bar while we dined on oyster crackers. Sometimes we would splurge on the fifty-cent tasters.
But more than that, it's enchanting. There is artwork everywhere - and I mean everywhere. Even lighting and the necessary evils of buildings (like exhaust systems) are turned into something beautiful.
Edgefield outdoor light
Tiny, old outbuildings become charming settings with tables for two. Winding paths lead to unique finds... like this one:
So, we were excited to take the kids there on Memorial Day. The weather was iffy (and always is here it seems), but we were able to get in a few holes of golf - Wren only had "to go" once on the course - and end our time sitting outside while the kids slurped up chocolate shakes in the sun/rain/sun.
It was a good day...
But now I could really go for some Glenlord pizza... (sigh).
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