I was canning tomatoes one night in my kitchen when one of those rare moments of introspection crept up on me. It was kind of a perfect storm of events; I tend to be sensitive to atmosphere and I suspect the timing of the moment was just right for an almost-mid-life-crisis.
I'm a night owl; I have always preferred the quiet of the late nights to the brightness of early mornings. When I'm canning alone, I prefer the 10:30pm to midnight shift for the sense of solitude it brings. Kids and husband are all in bed by 9 so evenings are the time when I am all me and just mine; I have no requests to answer or responsibilities to fulfill. I do my best thinking at night in the peace of a sleeping house, but I am also extremely susceptible to bouts of emotion. The older I get, the more of my life I have to evaluate; I have a tendency to come to sweeping conclusions about life in general when the nights are deep and dark and still.
I was six quarts of tomatoes in when the playlist on my stereo clicked over to Norah Jones and the first bars of Come Away With Me filled the room. Norah and I are old friends, and her music is a staple on my late night playlists. I was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen chair and scrolling absentmindedly through Pinterest on my tablet while the pressure canner boiled and steamed behind me. I stopped on a photo of a mother and her baby standing near the ocean with a caption that read, "There are only 940 Saturdays between the birth of your child and the day they leave for college."
What? I had to read it again. 940 Saturdays...is that all?
As I continued to drop tomatoes one by one into a boiling water bath, I started to really think about those days. How many have I wasted already? How many Saturdays have I devoted to housecleaning and yard work? How many days did I let my kids be entertained by something on TV while I folded laundry or talked on the phone or - oh man - took a NAP? (I love a good nap, not gonna lie.)
Am I spending enough time with them? The right kind of time? I already know that it isn't enough to be physically present; I need to be connected to them on a deeper level now, before the madness of their middle years begin. If you don't listen to your kids NOW and be part of who they are NOW, there is no way in the world they will want you later, when your presence is the most crucial. I watch them, the lost ones, file in and out of my middle school classroom, and I know instinctively that there is no one at home investing in them - you can tell. How will I know when enough of me is enough of me?
I'm a joiner - ever since grade school and I joined the Girl Scouts, I've been on a mission to be part of everything in the world I could possibly be part of. I'm the one whose hand shoots up when someone asks for volunteers. My parents made me feel like I could do anything - and be really good at it - if I really wanted to, and I test that theory every chance I get by taking on just about any challenge put in front of me. My plate is full, and when it isn't, I begin searching for something to put on it.
Aaron knows this about me, and for some reason he married me anyway. I know I drive him crazy - one time I asked him if he thought I should take on a new coaching opportunity. His response was, "you're going to fill up your time with SOMETHING, so it might as well be something you love." I knew then that he understands who I am.
Tonight, however, those words are haunting me a little bit. I do fill up my life - but am I filling it up the right way? The days are coming (faster than I want to believe) when my kids will be filling up their own plates with friends and sports and activities, and family time is going to take a back seat to their social agenda. Why in the world am I wasting ANY of my Saturdays?
The music in the background plays on...Norah's sweet voice fades and the early bars of Van Morrison's "Days Like This" fill the room. That song always evokes nostalgia in me, and I see now that the universe is speaking to me in this quiet space. How many silly Saturdays are left? How many days of jumping in leaf piles or playing dress-up or bike riding or tree climbing are there? How long before board games (which are already in steep decline in this world) are replaced by hours holed up in bedrooms with a cell phone and a Face Time app? How many days left to go to the zoo, to take a nature walk, to curl up with a family book?
Yesterday Cooper was telling me a story about the kitten we found in the shed outside and I swear it was the story with no ending. He kept on and on and on and I found myself so distracted and hurrying him up a little because I had Things To Do. I have to force myself to just stop. Stop and listen and s-l-o-o-o-w down to enjoy these little moments. They don't last forever - I know that, I do - so then why is it so easy to put everything off until tomorrow?
940 Saturdays. As I pulled the last batch jars from the pressure canner I made myself a promise: no more taking those days for granted. No more looking forward to the weekend as my chance to "catch up" on my life. I need to look forward to Saturday as the day I connect with my children; the day I devote to knowing them, learning who they are, and inserting myself into their world. And I'm asking God (in whatever form He needs to take - Pinterest included) to remind me once in a while of what really matters.
October 7, 2013
September 6, 2013
Julie
We had a big life change happen for us this year, and I have attempted to write about it many times this summer. I am always stopped short of completion, though, and I decided finally that I needed a little time and space to work through the emotion of it before I commit it to paper.
To be brief, we have decided we no longer need daycare services. When I write that cold and precise sentence, it seems so trivial, so banal, that one might wonder what the big deal really is. In our family, this marks the end of an era, and is something we are still, three months later, coming to terms with.
I often run across articles or blogs about the value of stay-at-home parenting. I don't think anyone anywhere doubts that stay-at-home-parenting is awesome when it can be done. Implied, however, is the idea that anyone who chooses daycare is somehow inferior to those who do not. I have encountered friends who comment that they are so glad they don't "have to have daycare" and have "strangers raising their kids." It is difficult for me to tamp down my fires when I hear that statement, because I utilized daycare services for the last nine years, yet I have never seen it as a business transaction, nor have I ever considered our providers to be "strangers." In fact, I can barely call them "providers"...it seems so impersonal and cold.
When Emma was born, I admit that I had a mini panic attack at the thought of handing her over to someone I didn't know very well, to be surrounded by children I didn't know very well, to have experiences I had no control over. I was saved, quite literally, by a dear friend who was already staying at home, whose children were already in school, and who would really enjoy having another baby in the house. Roxie was Emma's second mommy and her family became our second family. I grew terribly attached to the Green girls - they babysat and spent the night and basically became Emma's three big sisters.
Because Roxie incorporated us into her family, she set the bar very high for future providers. When we came to Fairmont, it was impossible to find someone with three openings, especially one with room for two children under 2 years old. We ended up with all three kids at three different daycares.
That, my friends, was a real eye-opener. With three kids in three different places, we were working with three different routines, three different sets of rules and procedures, and a whole lot of driving. We knew we had to find somewhere central for everybody.
I found Julie through a friend at school. I set up a meeting with her and knew in about 5.7 seconds that I would do almost anything to secure a spot for my kids. I could bore you with details about how clean her house is, or launch into a description of her play schedule, or her meal plan. None of that, while stellar, is what makes her so special to us.
Julie is that rare person who God clearly created to be a mentor/caregiver/second-mommy to children. She has a gentle and kind spirit; in 5 years, I never heard her raise her voice beyond a cautionary tone. She laughs easily and often, and has such a genuine love for the families in her care, that I felt instantly that I had a partner in parenting. She fostered their little bodies with homemade meals, outside play every day, lots of activity and exercise. She fostered their minds with a daily art project, with regular story times, and in fact taught all of my kids their alphabets and numbers before they even started pre-school.
Every day I got a full report of all of the little things that happened that day, good or bad. When my kids made bad choices, she and I discussed how to handle them together. I always felt like she was an extension of my own thinking, she was so eager to collaborate on the rearing of my babies. More than once, when I was at home in the evening a problem arose with my kids, I consulted Julie's wisdom to ask how she was handling that at daycare.
The biggest thing to me, though, is how excited my kids were every single day to see her. I never had one day that they didn't want to go. Sometimes when we would do something fun on a weekend I would hear, "I can't wait to tell Julie about this tomorrow!"
I've read that sometimes parents feel threatened by the influence of a non-family provider in the lives of their children; I can't say that I ever felt that way. To me, the happiness they had with her did not make me less of their mom, it raised my esteem for Julie. If they considered her a second mom, then she was loving them the same way I was loving them. And really, can kids ever have too many people who love them?
This summer, we determined that our schedules no longer required day care. The kids were all starting school in the fall and would be going to and from the building with me each day. We made the heart-wrenching decision to give up our spot.
When we sat down and discussed it with the kids, all three of my little ones cried. I struggled to frame it appropriately, because it felt like the loss of a family member. I finally was able to explain that if we let go of our spot, it would give three new kids the chance to grow up with Julie, and we wouldn't be there enough to need our spot anymore.
They seemed to understand that, but as Emma said, "I get it, Mom, but it still makes my heart hurt."
On our last day at Julie's we brought her a hydrangea bush for her garden (our favorite perennial - may it last forever and bloom often enough for her to think of us) and I paid her our last bill, minus $1. I told her if I didn't pay her that last dollar, I wouldn't be officially off her books and there would still be a reason to come back. We left that day, but I have to be honest with you - we've been back there 3 times this summer just to see her and play in the yard with the rest of the daycare kids, our extended family that we don't get to see every day.
The kids miss her terribly, and it is a sure sign of the stamp she left on our lives when they will slip and say something like, "Is today a Julie day?" One evening we were making late-night cinnamon rolls and Emma said, "Let me make the frosting - Julie taught me how!" And then her eyes filled up with tears and she dripped a few salty drops into the powdered sugar.
From my perspective, I miss Julie's friendship the most. I miss that "partner-in-crime" feeling I had when she and I conspired to parent my children. I miss hearing the stories that she had to tell about their daily adventures, and I miss that quiet, calm, and gentle spirit that became both a grounding and a guiding force in our world.
She is really something special, and I hope that the family that finds their way to her door really understands the value of what they have found.
To be brief, we have decided we no longer need daycare services. When I write that cold and precise sentence, it seems so trivial, so banal, that one might wonder what the big deal really is. In our family, this marks the end of an era, and is something we are still, three months later, coming to terms with.
I often run across articles or blogs about the value of stay-at-home parenting. I don't think anyone anywhere doubts that stay-at-home-parenting is awesome when it can be done. Implied, however, is the idea that anyone who chooses daycare is somehow inferior to those who do not. I have encountered friends who comment that they are so glad they don't "have to have daycare" and have "strangers raising their kids." It is difficult for me to tamp down my fires when I hear that statement, because I utilized daycare services for the last nine years, yet I have never seen it as a business transaction, nor have I ever considered our providers to be "strangers." In fact, I can barely call them "providers"...it seems so impersonal and cold.
When Emma was born, I admit that I had a mini panic attack at the thought of handing her over to someone I didn't know very well, to be surrounded by children I didn't know very well, to have experiences I had no control over. I was saved, quite literally, by a dear friend who was already staying at home, whose children were already in school, and who would really enjoy having another baby in the house. Roxie was Emma's second mommy and her family became our second family. I grew terribly attached to the Green girls - they babysat and spent the night and basically became Emma's three big sisters.
Because Roxie incorporated us into her family, she set the bar very high for future providers. When we came to Fairmont, it was impossible to find someone with three openings, especially one with room for two children under 2 years old. We ended up with all three kids at three different daycares.
That, my friends, was a real eye-opener. With three kids in three different places, we were working with three different routines, three different sets of rules and procedures, and a whole lot of driving. We knew we had to find somewhere central for everybody.
I found Julie through a friend at school. I set up a meeting with her and knew in about 5.7 seconds that I would do almost anything to secure a spot for my kids. I could bore you with details about how clean her house is, or launch into a description of her play schedule, or her meal plan. None of that, while stellar, is what makes her so special to us.
Julie is that rare person who God clearly created to be a mentor/caregiver/second-mommy to children. She has a gentle and kind spirit; in 5 years, I never heard her raise her voice beyond a cautionary tone. She laughs easily and often, and has such a genuine love for the families in her care, that I felt instantly that I had a partner in parenting. She fostered their little bodies with homemade meals, outside play every day, lots of activity and exercise. She fostered their minds with a daily art project, with regular story times, and in fact taught all of my kids their alphabets and numbers before they even started pre-school.
Every day I got a full report of all of the little things that happened that day, good or bad. When my kids made bad choices, she and I discussed how to handle them together. I always felt like she was an extension of my own thinking, she was so eager to collaborate on the rearing of my babies. More than once, when I was at home in the evening a problem arose with my kids, I consulted Julie's wisdom to ask how she was handling that at daycare.
The biggest thing to me, though, is how excited my kids were every single day to see her. I never had one day that they didn't want to go. Sometimes when we would do something fun on a weekend I would hear, "I can't wait to tell Julie about this tomorrow!"
I've read that sometimes parents feel threatened by the influence of a non-family provider in the lives of their children; I can't say that I ever felt that way. To me, the happiness they had with her did not make me less of their mom, it raised my esteem for Julie. If they considered her a second mom, then she was loving them the same way I was loving them. And really, can kids ever have too many people who love them?
This summer, we determined that our schedules no longer required day care. The kids were all starting school in the fall and would be going to and from the building with me each day. We made the heart-wrenching decision to give up our spot.
When we sat down and discussed it with the kids, all three of my little ones cried. I struggled to frame it appropriately, because it felt like the loss of a family member. I finally was able to explain that if we let go of our spot, it would give three new kids the chance to grow up with Julie, and we wouldn't be there enough to need our spot anymore.
They seemed to understand that, but as Emma said, "I get it, Mom, but it still makes my heart hurt."
On our last day at Julie's we brought her a hydrangea bush for her garden (our favorite perennial - may it last forever and bloom often enough for her to think of us) and I paid her our last bill, minus $1. I told her if I didn't pay her that last dollar, I wouldn't be officially off her books and there would still be a reason to come back. We left that day, but I have to be honest with you - we've been back there 3 times this summer just to see her and play in the yard with the rest of the daycare kids, our extended family that we don't get to see every day.
The kids miss her terribly, and it is a sure sign of the stamp she left on our lives when they will slip and say something like, "Is today a Julie day?" One evening we were making late-night cinnamon rolls and Emma said, "Let me make the frosting - Julie taught me how!" And then her eyes filled up with tears and she dripped a few salty drops into the powdered sugar.
From my perspective, I miss Julie's friendship the most. I miss that "partner-in-crime" feeling I had when she and I conspired to parent my children. I miss hearing the stories that she had to tell about their daily adventures, and I miss that quiet, calm, and gentle spirit that became both a grounding and a guiding force in our world.
She is really something special, and I hope that the family that finds their way to her door really understands the value of what they have found.
June 12, 2013
Water
Aaron and I have been looking at buying a boat. Not terribly seriously, yet, as we'd like to get our finances a little more in order before we make a purchase like that. But we have gotten into fishing more and more these past couple of years, and you can't really graduate beyond pan fish from the shores of the nearby lakes. So I think a boat is in our future eventually.
Recently, a friend of Aaron's lent us a small aluminum fishing boat for use in getting off the shore line into deeper water. We had our first opportunity to take it out on Fox Lake on Sunday afternoon.
Aaron went over to the lake ahead of us, to take the boat out on the water and get comfortable using it. We followed behind a couple of hours later. The sun was shining (finally!) and the kids were jumping out of their skin to get out into the middle of that big ol' lake.
The boat fit our our family of 5 rather neatly; not a lot of room to wiggle or walk around, but room enough to cast and sit back comfortably enjoying the sunshine. With a top speed of about 10mph, and a water line high enough for me to trail my fingers in, we moved easily across the water and headed to the west end of the lake to try out a recommended fishing hole. For those not familiar with Fox Lake, it is roughly 1000 acres, with a maximum depth of about 20 feet. It's fairly large, as far as our local lakes go, and gliding along in the center of a small little fishing boat made it seem perhaps larger than it actually is.
About 15 minutes in, and halfway to our intended destination, the motor cut abruptly.
I glanced back at Aaron, a question in my eyes, and I recognized that deer-in-the-headlights look he gets on rare occasions when he feeling panicked. He fumbled with the motor a few times and it wouldn't even sputter.
The kids were chattering ceaselessly, about this that and the other, completely oblivious to the fact that we are a looooong way from shore, with only a single paddle in the boat, and not a single other boat in sight. Aaron was on his feet, playing with this, messing with that, trying this, loosening that, tightening this, and trying not to let his anxiety show.
I was oddly detached.
Detached because as soon as the motor cut, 27 possible outcomes of this problem flashed through my brain in about a millisecond. And before I could settle on any one plan of action, I had one clear thought.
Every time my husband has put me on the water, and I do mean every single time, something BAD has happened. And not little tiny "oops" bad things. I'm talking "Oh My God" bad things. (Pardon the swear word.)
Aaron has always been a boater; on our third date he put me in a kayak and took me down the river in Mankato. (I cried for about 45% of that trip, because I am a great swimmer, a trained lifeguard, and smart enough to know that you don't want to be swimming in any moving water unless you really have to be. And I was unskilled at kayaking; no way could I roll that thing over, and I knew that if I flipped it, I was coming OUT of that boat.) That day was mild, just tears mainly, but no serious injuries.
A year later I was navigating that same kayak down Boulder Creek in Colorado. I cried about 60% of that trip, because I DID come out of the boat on that one, several times, and they don't call it Boulder Creek for nothin'.
A few months after that, I was navigating that same kayak down the Blue River in Summit County, CO. I cried for about 99% of that trip, because I came out of the boat, got rolled in a rapid along the bottom of that rocky terrain, washed up on the wrong side of the river, and realized I would have to GET BACK IN the river to get my sorry butt home.
**Side Note: Aaron is an excellent boater. I know that he harbored dreams of me becoming one as well, and God love him for trying, but there is apparently a steep learning curve in this sport, and I could never quite get the hang of things.**
A short two years after that, we abandoned the kayak and put me in an inflatable sit-on-top hoping that would provide me with the stability I needed to stay in the damn boat. On that trip, I wrapped my inflatable on Raft Ripper, at the bottom of the Brown's Canyon Run in Buena Vista. It took three private boats, two throw ropes and 3 hours to get me out of that one.
That was my last boating trip with Aaron until Sunday.
So here we are, in the middle of Fox Lake, in a boat that is getting smaller by the second, on an evening that is getting darker by the second, with the three most important possessions of my life on board, and the motor stops. I admit it, I thought I might throw up for a second. My heart skipped about 27 beats and I was close to pulling out my phone and dialing 911 when Aaron realized that he had inadvertently leaned on the fuel line and cut fuel supply to the motor.
Within seconds, the motor was up and running and we were scooting along again.
I didn't say anything, just swiveled in my seat to look at him. My face must have said it all because he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me and laughed that easy laugh and just said, "It's okay."
When we buy a boat, I swear to God I will mortgage the house if I have to, but we are buying a 20' Glastron that is sturdy enough to SLEEP on if we have to. I don't care if it goes fast, I don't care if it's pretty, I just want, for once in my life, to feel safe on the water.
And maybe pull a tube for the kids.
And maybe catch a few fish.
Recently, a friend of Aaron's lent us a small aluminum fishing boat for use in getting off the shore line into deeper water. We had our first opportunity to take it out on Fox Lake on Sunday afternoon.
Aaron went over to the lake ahead of us, to take the boat out on the water and get comfortable using it. We followed behind a couple of hours later. The sun was shining (finally!) and the kids were jumping out of their skin to get out into the middle of that big ol' lake.
The boat fit our our family of 5 rather neatly; not a lot of room to wiggle or walk around, but room enough to cast and sit back comfortably enjoying the sunshine. With a top speed of about 10mph, and a water line high enough for me to trail my fingers in, we moved easily across the water and headed to the west end of the lake to try out a recommended fishing hole. For those not familiar with Fox Lake, it is roughly 1000 acres, with a maximum depth of about 20 feet. It's fairly large, as far as our local lakes go, and gliding along in the center of a small little fishing boat made it seem perhaps larger than it actually is.
About 15 minutes in, and halfway to our intended destination, the motor cut abruptly.
I glanced back at Aaron, a question in my eyes, and I recognized that deer-in-the-headlights look he gets on rare occasions when he feeling panicked. He fumbled with the motor a few times and it wouldn't even sputter.
The kids were chattering ceaselessly, about this that and the other, completely oblivious to the fact that we are a looooong way from shore, with only a single paddle in the boat, and not a single other boat in sight. Aaron was on his feet, playing with this, messing with that, trying this, loosening that, tightening this, and trying not to let his anxiety show.
I was oddly detached.
Detached because as soon as the motor cut, 27 possible outcomes of this problem flashed through my brain in about a millisecond. And before I could settle on any one plan of action, I had one clear thought.
Every time my husband has put me on the water, and I do mean every single time, something BAD has happened. And not little tiny "oops" bad things. I'm talking "Oh My God" bad things. (Pardon the swear word.)
Aaron has always been a boater; on our third date he put me in a kayak and took me down the river in Mankato. (I cried for about 45% of that trip, because I am a great swimmer, a trained lifeguard, and smart enough to know that you don't want to be swimming in any moving water unless you really have to be. And I was unskilled at kayaking; no way could I roll that thing over, and I knew that if I flipped it, I was coming OUT of that boat.) That day was mild, just tears mainly, but no serious injuries.
A year later I was navigating that same kayak down Boulder Creek in Colorado. I cried about 60% of that trip, because I DID come out of the boat on that one, several times, and they don't call it Boulder Creek for nothin'.
A few months after that, I was navigating that same kayak down the Blue River in Summit County, CO. I cried for about 99% of that trip, because I came out of the boat, got rolled in a rapid along the bottom of that rocky terrain, washed up on the wrong side of the river, and realized I would have to GET BACK IN the river to get my sorry butt home.
**Side Note: Aaron is an excellent boater. I know that he harbored dreams of me becoming one as well, and God love him for trying, but there is apparently a steep learning curve in this sport, and I could never quite get the hang of things.**
A short two years after that, we abandoned the kayak and put me in an inflatable sit-on-top hoping that would provide me with the stability I needed to stay in the damn boat. On that trip, I wrapped my inflatable on Raft Ripper, at the bottom of the Brown's Canyon Run in Buena Vista. It took three private boats, two throw ropes and 3 hours to get me out of that one.
That was my last boating trip with Aaron until Sunday.
So here we are, in the middle of Fox Lake, in a boat that is getting smaller by the second, on an evening that is getting darker by the second, with the three most important possessions of my life on board, and the motor stops. I admit it, I thought I might throw up for a second. My heart skipped about 27 beats and I was close to pulling out my phone and dialing 911 when Aaron realized that he had inadvertently leaned on the fuel line and cut fuel supply to the motor.
Within seconds, the motor was up and running and we were scooting along again.
I didn't say anything, just swiveled in my seat to look at him. My face must have said it all because he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me and laughed that easy laugh and just said, "It's okay."
When we buy a boat, I swear to God I will mortgage the house if I have to, but we are buying a 20' Glastron that is sturdy enough to SLEEP on if we have to. I don't care if it goes fast, I don't care if it's pretty, I just want, for once in my life, to feel safe on the water.
And maybe pull a tube for the kids.
And maybe catch a few fish.
May 26, 2013
Irony
Last summer we planted cucumbers. Lots and lots of cucumbers. Way too many cucumbers. Aaron loves pickles; he loves them passionately. My friend Melinda loves pickles passionately too, so I knew I would be able to make lots of pickles and have homes for them. So we planted 20 hills of cucumbers.
That's right, 20 hills. (Go ahead, snicker, I know you want to.)
20 hills of cucumbers makes a lot of cucumbers. A lot of cucumbers.
I made pickles. Dill pickles, Garlic Dills, Dills with Peppers and Onions, Sweet, Refrigerator-Style. I pickled and pickled until I couldn't pickle any more. (70 jars, 5 kinds!) But the plants kept making cucumbers. I tried to sell cucumbers, but I felt so guilty about charging for these unwanted veggies that I started giving them away. By the box. Pretty soon all my friends said, "We've had enough!"
And those dang vines kept making cucumbers. We were desperate to get rid of cucumbers, so we started feeding them to our chickens. It turns out that our chickens LOVE cucumbers. We would slice them lengthwise and set them on the floor of the chicken coop, and our chickens would get so excited they would run across the coop, fluff up their feathers and go to town on the cucumbers. I felt much better, knowing that they wouldn't be going to waste. They made the chickens happy, and happy chickens make really exceptional eggs.
But as the garden wound down last fall, I told Aaron that one thing was for sure: in future we would only plant 4 hills of cucumbers. I just could not deal with that many cucumbers again, happy chickens or no.
Fast forward to this spring.
We rotate our garden crops and spend a lot of time meticulously planning what goes where, how much goes in, when it goes in, whether we can get two plantings in per summer, etc. We tilled up our plots, which had been resting quietly under a bed of organic compost (thank you, chickens!) and began planting carefully according to the master plan.
Fast forward 2 weeks.
I went out back one afternoon to do a little garden maintenance last week. The potatoes and peas are already 8 inches off the ground; the carrots, onion, turnips, and beets are up. The tomatoes, green peppers and beans are going strong. Only one thing seemed strange...there was quite a lot of green in between our carefully planted rows.
I'm used to tilling up weeds; we have to till or hand remove weeds all summer because we don't use any herbicide to kill unwanted growth. But there just seemed to be an awful LOT of the same little green 2-leafed weed all over the place.
And that 2-leafed weed looked awfully familiar.
It took me a full 5 minutes to realize what it was. Cucumbers. And I'm not talking a few random volunteer cucumbers. HUNDREDS of cucumbers, and they were EVERYWHERE. It looked like a helicopter had dropped a bucket of cucumber seeds in my garden. They were in between the rows, in between the new plants, choking out my carrots, strangling my onions, and intertwining with my peas. They were in the middle, on the edges...they were everywhere. Every. Where.
I was so flabbergasted, I was at a loss for words for a few minutes. How can this be possible? We hadn't planned to put cucumbers in these beds; the four planned hills are in a different plot in the back. At first I thought maybe Aaron snuck a bunch of cucumbers into the plot hoping for another pickling extravaganza. One summer we had volunteer tomatoes, and I couldn't bring myself to pull out a perfectly healthy plant so we just let them grow. I had way too many tomatoes too, but I vowed that I would remedy that problem this year too. Perhaps he was hoping to sneak the cucumbers by me? Then again, Aaron is quite particular as to how things are planted (our rows are perfectly parallel, exactly 36 inches apart) and he would never have planted these in such a random, haphazard pattern.
I was just about to holler for Aaron and demand an explanation when it hit me.
We compost. From our chickens. And guess what our chickens ate quite a lot of last fall...?
The irony is almost too much for me.
That's right, 20 hills. (Go ahead, snicker, I know you want to.)
20 hills of cucumbers makes a lot of cucumbers. A lot of cucumbers.
I made pickles. Dill pickles, Garlic Dills, Dills with Peppers and Onions, Sweet, Refrigerator-Style. I pickled and pickled until I couldn't pickle any more. (70 jars, 5 kinds!) But the plants kept making cucumbers. I tried to sell cucumbers, but I felt so guilty about charging for these unwanted veggies that I started giving them away. By the box. Pretty soon all my friends said, "We've had enough!"
And those dang vines kept making cucumbers. We were desperate to get rid of cucumbers, so we started feeding them to our chickens. It turns out that our chickens LOVE cucumbers. We would slice them lengthwise and set them on the floor of the chicken coop, and our chickens would get so excited they would run across the coop, fluff up their feathers and go to town on the cucumbers. I felt much better, knowing that they wouldn't be going to waste. They made the chickens happy, and happy chickens make really exceptional eggs.
But as the garden wound down last fall, I told Aaron that one thing was for sure: in future we would only plant 4 hills of cucumbers. I just could not deal with that many cucumbers again, happy chickens or no.
Fast forward to this spring.
We rotate our garden crops and spend a lot of time meticulously planning what goes where, how much goes in, when it goes in, whether we can get two plantings in per summer, etc. We tilled up our plots, which had been resting quietly under a bed of organic compost (thank you, chickens!) and began planting carefully according to the master plan.
Fast forward 2 weeks.
I went out back one afternoon to do a little garden maintenance last week. The potatoes and peas are already 8 inches off the ground; the carrots, onion, turnips, and beets are up. The tomatoes, green peppers and beans are going strong. Only one thing seemed strange...there was quite a lot of green in between our carefully planted rows.
I'm used to tilling up weeds; we have to till or hand remove weeds all summer because we don't use any herbicide to kill unwanted growth. But there just seemed to be an awful LOT of the same little green 2-leafed weed all over the place.
And that 2-leafed weed looked awfully familiar.
It took me a full 5 minutes to realize what it was. Cucumbers. And I'm not talking a few random volunteer cucumbers. HUNDREDS of cucumbers, and they were EVERYWHERE. It looked like a helicopter had dropped a bucket of cucumber seeds in my garden. They were in between the rows, in between the new plants, choking out my carrots, strangling my onions, and intertwining with my peas. They were in the middle, on the edges...they were everywhere. Every. Where.
I was so flabbergasted, I was at a loss for words for a few minutes. How can this be possible? We hadn't planned to put cucumbers in these beds; the four planned hills are in a different plot in the back. At first I thought maybe Aaron snuck a bunch of cucumbers into the plot hoping for another pickling extravaganza. One summer we had volunteer tomatoes, and I couldn't bring myself to pull out a perfectly healthy plant so we just let them grow. I had way too many tomatoes too, but I vowed that I would remedy that problem this year too. Perhaps he was hoping to sneak the cucumbers by me? Then again, Aaron is quite particular as to how things are planted (our rows are perfectly parallel, exactly 36 inches apart) and he would never have planted these in such a random, haphazard pattern.
I was just about to holler for Aaron and demand an explanation when it hit me.
We compost. From our chickens. And guess what our chickens ate quite a lot of last fall...?
The irony is almost too much for me.
April 17, 2013
Special
More than once I've been inspired to write about Carys, our middle child, our special one. I can't seem to finish a post to my satisfaction, though. If my goal is to paint a picture of who she is, to chronicle the moments that are important, I fail at every turn. She is so unlike any child I've encountered so far, that I truly struggle to make her personality come to life on the page. She came into the world in the most unusual way, in a hospital in Joplin, Missouri that would be wiped off the map less than 5 years later. She was born with a hearing loss in her left ear and an intolerance to lactose. She was born quietly and without fanfare, big blue eyes that stared intently at anyone who held her.
We are learning to drum to the beat of a different marcher in our family. A few examples: she refused to sleep anywhere but in my arms for the first year and a half of her life. When other children were busy playing with toys, Carys was trying to take them apart to figure out how they worked. At pre-school screening, the evaluators had to take us aside for a special consultation because Carys wouldn't do the tests the way they asked her to do them. When they asked her to catch a bean bag with her hands to test her motor skills, she caught the bag between her knees. On purpose. She said she didn't want to catch it with her hands. When they asked her to list as many colors as she could (looking for the basic 8) she listed 14 colors and called them names like "lemon-yellow, and grass green, and indigo." Seriously. When they asked her how high she could count, she announced that she could count to 100. Then she said, "one, two, skip-a-few, 99, 100." I have no earthly idea where she came up with that, it was the first time I had ever heard it. The bottom line was that the evaluators were unsure how to score her development because it was on such a different plane than what they were looking for.
She says the most unexpected things at the most unexpected times, and Aaron will sometimes shoot me a look that says "who the heck IS this child?" And I don't have the slightest clue. Take last weekend, for instance. The weather has been crazy around here lately, and we had a little bit of thunder the other night. Carys and Cooper were brushing their teeth for bed when Cooper told me he was a little bit scared of thunder. I launched into a flowery description of angels bowling in heaven (we had just been bowling that weekend, and I was having a private little personal high-five at how nicely those circumstances appeared to work together) and the entire time Carys was just listening intently with narrowed eyes. In the middle of patting myself on the back for the smile that now appeared on Cooper's face, I was suddenly stopped short by Carys who panned, "Mom. That is not true. Thunder is caused by cold air and warm air colliding in the atmosphere."
Oh. Well thank you, Miss Meteorologist.
I anticipate that raising this one is going to be interesting. Of all her quirks and notions, however, the one trait that has devloped the most prominently is a soft heart. This child has empathy for others and for animals to such a degree that it is more than likely that living on the farm is going to make a vegetarian out of her some day. One day we passed a semi-truck on the gravel down from our house. Carys said, "Mom, why is that semi full of pigs?"
Before I could answer, Emma says, "Well, where do you think bacon comes from?"
There was a shocked silence in the back seat and I was wondering how in the world I was going to get out of this one. (Thank you very much, Emma-Smarty-Pants.)
Carys gasped, "Mom! You mean, people EAT them?"
I still had no good answer, I just kind of coughed a couple of times, floundering.
Then, she saved me. With a choke and a sob, she said, "Well people don't eat them until they're dead, though, right?"
Whew. "No, Carys, we definitely don't eat them until they are dead. We wouldn't want them to go to waste, right?" And that seemed to satisfy her. She does still eat meat, and she doesn't seem to mind watching 60 live chickens get loaded into a truck and then 60 frozen chickens coming back in coolers, but maybe that's because she hasn't thought too much about the in-between yet.
Every time we watch a movie and the impending death of a character approaches, I need to be holding her on my lap and talking her through it. She grieved over the Lion King's Mufasa for days. She even cried when the scorpion killed the ant in Honey I Shrunk the Kids. It hurts me to see her hurting, but I don't really want it to change. There is so little compassion in this big bad world sometimes, that a sensitive soul might be just what it needs.
I worry sometimes about the "middle-child" dynamic that I always read about. Being the oldest child in my own family, I don't really relate. But I am definitely sensitive to it; I'm on the look-out for times when she is separate from the other two. She is very unlike her siblings, which is a dividing characteristic already. I just make sure she gets a lot of mommy-time. I want her to know that I celebrate her differences, and love her all the more for them.
My greatest wish for her is that she is able to hold on to that sensitive heart; that the world outside will be unable to harden it when she encounters its obstacles. I'm sure somewhere along the line she will be hurt, maybe have her heart broken a few times. And that's not necessarily a bad thing; it builds character and makes us unique in our life experiences. But I just want the core of who she is to remain that free-spirited, forward-thinking, sassy, gentle, soft-hearted person that I was blessed with.
We are learning to drum to the beat of a different marcher in our family. A few examples: she refused to sleep anywhere but in my arms for the first year and a half of her life. When other children were busy playing with toys, Carys was trying to take them apart to figure out how they worked. At pre-school screening, the evaluators had to take us aside for a special consultation because Carys wouldn't do the tests the way they asked her to do them. When they asked her to catch a bean bag with her hands to test her motor skills, she caught the bag between her knees. On purpose. She said she didn't want to catch it with her hands. When they asked her to list as many colors as she could (looking for the basic 8) she listed 14 colors and called them names like "lemon-yellow, and grass green, and indigo." Seriously. When they asked her how high she could count, she announced that she could count to 100. Then she said, "one, two, skip-a-few, 99, 100." I have no earthly idea where she came up with that, it was the first time I had ever heard it. The bottom line was that the evaluators were unsure how to score her development because it was on such a different plane than what they were looking for.
She says the most unexpected things at the most unexpected times, and Aaron will sometimes shoot me a look that says "who the heck IS this child?" And I don't have the slightest clue. Take last weekend, for instance. The weather has been crazy around here lately, and we had a little bit of thunder the other night. Carys and Cooper were brushing their teeth for bed when Cooper told me he was a little bit scared of thunder. I launched into a flowery description of angels bowling in heaven (we had just been bowling that weekend, and I was having a private little personal high-five at how nicely those circumstances appeared to work together) and the entire time Carys was just listening intently with narrowed eyes. In the middle of patting myself on the back for the smile that now appeared on Cooper's face, I was suddenly stopped short by Carys who panned, "Mom. That is not true. Thunder is caused by cold air and warm air colliding in the atmosphere."
Oh. Well thank you, Miss Meteorologist.
I anticipate that raising this one is going to be interesting. Of all her quirks and notions, however, the one trait that has devloped the most prominently is a soft heart. This child has empathy for others and for animals to such a degree that it is more than likely that living on the farm is going to make a vegetarian out of her some day. One day we passed a semi-truck on the gravel down from our house. Carys said, "Mom, why is that semi full of pigs?"
Before I could answer, Emma says, "Well, where do you think bacon comes from?"
There was a shocked silence in the back seat and I was wondering how in the world I was going to get out of this one. (Thank you very much, Emma-Smarty-Pants.)
Carys gasped, "Mom! You mean, people EAT them?"
I still had no good answer, I just kind of coughed a couple of times, floundering.
Then, she saved me. With a choke and a sob, she said, "Well people don't eat them until they're dead, though, right?"
Whew. "No, Carys, we definitely don't eat them until they are dead. We wouldn't want them to go to waste, right?" And that seemed to satisfy her. She does still eat meat, and she doesn't seem to mind watching 60 live chickens get loaded into a truck and then 60 frozen chickens coming back in coolers, but maybe that's because she hasn't thought too much about the in-between yet.
Every time we watch a movie and the impending death of a character approaches, I need to be holding her on my lap and talking her through it. She grieved over the Lion King's Mufasa for days. She even cried when the scorpion killed the ant in Honey I Shrunk the Kids. It hurts me to see her hurting, but I don't really want it to change. There is so little compassion in this big bad world sometimes, that a sensitive soul might be just what it needs.
I worry sometimes about the "middle-child" dynamic that I always read about. Being the oldest child in my own family, I don't really relate. But I am definitely sensitive to it; I'm on the look-out for times when she is separate from the other two. She is very unlike her siblings, which is a dividing characteristic already. I just make sure she gets a lot of mommy-time. I want her to know that I celebrate her differences, and love her all the more for them.
My greatest wish for her is that she is able to hold on to that sensitive heart; that the world outside will be unable to harden it when she encounters its obstacles. I'm sure somewhere along the line she will be hurt, maybe have her heart broken a few times. And that's not necessarily a bad thing; it builds character and makes us unique in our life experiences. But I just want the core of who she is to remain that free-spirited, forward-thinking, sassy, gentle, soft-hearted person that I was blessed with.
March 1, 2013
Nostalgia
I got a phone call from my friend Erin last night. These days we are long-distance friends; yet strangely, the distance has made us even closer than we were before. We mostly talk about where our lives are at and where they are headed, but last night she reminded me of where we used to be. And it got me feeling all nostalgic.
It is really true that our past shapes our present; we are who we are because of what we have been through. The hard times make us wiser, and the good times give us a reason to keep going. Erin and I were new teachers together; I only had a couple of years head start when she joined our District. I had the pleasure of being her mentor as she got her start, but it wasn’t long before she and I were working side by side on everything from classes to coaching.
I believe that for 3 short years, we were living in a bubble of the best of the best of the best of times. Nothing will ever replicate it, and I don’t believe I would even like to try.
Our Language Arts department had 6 members, and it might be hard to believe, but we were 6 women who liked each other. Actually liked each other, genuinely and truly. In any other universe, 6 women together for any length of time would be trouble just waiting to happen. But like I said, we were living in a bubble…it was perfectly perfect, however brief. I write today in tribute to my colleagues, my friends, who built me and serve as the fondest of my recent memories.
We were led by Linda, the Queen, who knew what it meant to make every single day count. She came to school in costume, she had unconventional lessons, she used tough love, and when school was over she turned her ministrations to her coworkers and friends. She cooked for us, she hosted parties for us, and she taught me how to laugh. Linda interviewed me; she told me straight out in the interview that I had the job (despite the Principal’s attempt to downplay and remind her that there were other applicants left to interview) and then she promptly invited me to her house for lunch. Her wit was unmatched; she could pull an innuendo out of almost any innocent line, and knew instinctively when I needed to laugh, and when I needed her to put her arms around me and let me cry it out. I learned from her that teaching is only 10% curriculum and 90% love.
I taught alongside Linda and Mel and Kathy and Erin and Leslie for those 3 wonderful years, and the way that we collaborated with each other and spent time together inside and outside the walls of the school was the key to what made it special. We never did anything half way; when it was Dr. Seuss’ birthday, we sewed Cat in the Hat hats for every teacher in the school, we performed Reader’s Theater versions of his books, had green eggs and ham for lunch, and made a red and white paper chains that stretched down every school hallway. When we taught medieval civilization, we created a “renaissance festival” of our own in the school gym replete with shops and performances and costumes and music and props.
We hosted our own dress-up days, we surprised the students with projects and field trips. We planned dances and pot-lucks and family nights. We searched for ways to teach literature outside the room, to blur the lines between school and real experience. We took them to high-ropes courses in the mountains, we took them camping, skiing, swimming. We wrote nature poetry on the banks of the Arkansas River , we performed plays and sketches in the courtyard.
Outside of school we spent time together because we genuinely liked to be with each other. We made gingerbread houses at Kathy’s, went horseback riding at Leslie’s, had parties at Mel’s, had drinks at Erin’s. There were countless lunches and campfires and river trips and bike rides and walks between each other’s houses.
I don’t mean that we didn’t each have our troubles; of course we had our problems, our personal challenges. I, for one, certainly didn’t recognize at the time just how extraordinary this experience actually was. Marcel Proust said, “Remembrance of things past is not necessarily remembrance of things as they were.” Maybe I’ve got it wrong, or maybe others will remember it differently. But since it is my memory, it remains this way: perfect.
It isn’t until now, looking back, that I can see with such clarity how amazing those three years really were. Those remarkable women made my first teaching experience as positive and welcoming and wonderful as one could ever have hoped for. Each one of them made life more livable, and work never felt like work. I left the house each morning and went to see my other family. Mel was the spunk, Kathy was the southern lady, Erin kept us young, Leslie brought the crazy, and the Queen ruled over us all.
Like all good things do, our time together came slowly to an end. It wasn’t a recognizable end at the time, of course, but as life evolves and moves and changes, the magic of those perfect three years faded and dissolved. I was the first one to leave; my husband took a job in Missouri Kansas , Kathy went home to Kentucky Erin remained, and nothing since has ever been quite the same. This was the heart of our conversation last night, because she too, is moving on. She said, “Do you remember how good it used to be?” And yes, I do.
I miss you all, my dear friends, despite the time and distance between us. I keep a few photos from those days on the bulletin board next to my computer at school. One of my favorites is a series of photos we took on one of our many dress-up days, I have no idea which one. Linda is wrapped in multiple feather boas and is sporting a tiara and scepter. Mel and Kathy are arm in arm wearing cowboy hats, vests and boots. Leslie is wearing a red wig and enormous false eyelashes and she laughing out loud. Erin and I are in matching go-go boots and have serious 80’s hair. We are so young; we are so happy. I love to look at that picture when I need a little boost.
I’m not sad, though. To quote that tired old cliché, time cannot stand still, after all. Even if we tried we could never return to our former selves, never replicate who we were and where we were and what we were.
So I’m not sad, I’m simply grateful.
I think we had something kind of special, and it is sweeter because it was short, and rare, and ours.
February 8, 2013
Call Me
I did something I swore I would never do. Emma turns 9 in a couple of weeks, and I bought her a cell phone for her birthday. I know, I know. I can’t believe it either.
If you had asked me that question a year or two ago, I would have told you that she wasn’t getting one until she was in 7th grade and that is that. And I was thinking that 7th grade would be a generous concession. But the truth is I caved. I waffled, I conceded, I gave in to the paranoia only a mother feels when she is out of the immediate control of her child, and am buying her a phone at age NINE, an absolutely unheard of age for a girl to be getting her own phone.
Let me first qualify my decision a little bit. I’m not buying her iPhone 27 for heaven’s sake. She’s getting a Tracfone, prepaid with no contract. I’m going to monitor her usage with the same ferocious attention that I do what she wears, eats, watches and reads. (Good Lord, I sound like a Tiger Mother…)
Here’s the situation, friends. We live on a farm (you know this already) in the middle of nowhere (you know this as well) and drive in to Fairmont
We do our level best to keep everything on track, but life happens, you know? Sometimes something comes up at school and I can’t leave right away. Sometimes someone gets sick and Aaron and I have to shuffle who gets who and when. Sometimes somebody just forgets what day it is and where all the kids are. (This is when you are REALLY glad you got a spot in Julie’s daycare. She is on top of things and will call me immediately if some kid somewhere does or doesn’t do something out of the ordinary.)Have I told you yet how much I love her?
Anyway, in the last month, 2 different situations came up that caused a panic. First, Emma was invited to be a skills tutor in an after-school group for math. We then had to coordinate her pick-up time with my basketball practice schedule and Aaron’s work schedule. We were doing just fine until I went to an after-school meeting that ran long. All of a sudden I looked at the clock and realized I was already 15 minutes late to pick her up.
I can’t describe my panic to you; I ran to the phone and tried to get the teacher who was supervising on the phone – no answer. I then called one of my friends in the elementary building who happened to still be there who went wandering around the school looking for Emma while I drove like a bat out of you know where to get there myself. Turns out Emma was pretty cool headed; she went down to the CER office and asked them if she could wait for me in their office. (I teach a lot of Community Ed classes through them, and Emma is used to being there with me.) My friend in the office, Kris, promptly took her down to one of their after-school programs where she was busy doing arts and crafts and eating a sandwich when I finally dashed in, heart racing and breathless.
This is a great example of what kind of an environment I teach in. These people will do anything at all for anyone, any time, anywhere. It made me feel so good to know that my child wasn’t standing outside on a sidewalk wondering if her mother was ever going to show up. I still felt horribly, terribly guilty, and it took me a full hour to calm my heart rate the heck down.
We used to live in a world where kids could find a phone on a street corner; where kids could play on random playgrounds for hours waiting for a ride home. Remember when you could just let your kids walk home or to a friend’s house or to the neighbor’s? Maybe the town kids still do that; I suppose living on a farm gives me a distinct disadvantage in this arena. My kids don’t know their way around town because they’ve never walked anywhere or biked anywhere; I just drop them off and pick them up.
And I know we are in what would probably be considered a small town, and it is nice to believe that Fairmont
(Yes, I’m being dramatic. I know. I can’t help it.)
To make a long story shorter, a similar event happened just a few days later when Emma thought she had Choir practice after school. She didn’t get on the bus, and by the time she realized she didn’t have practice that day, the bus had already left. She went down to the gym where she knew I sometimes have basketball practice and waited (hoped!) for me to show up. By the time I got there she had herself pretty worked up worrying about whether I was really coming and whether I would be mad that she had not gone to daycare on the bus.
So I bought her a phone.
It really does give me peace of mind to know that wherever she is, I’m just a phone call or a text message away. And honestly, if you had looked into those golden-brown eyes bright with unshed tears and seen the waver of her lower lip when she came running over to me, you would have caved in too.
Here’s the fun part of the story.
Her birthday is still 2 weeks away, but once I got the phone loaded with contacts and minutes we decided sooner was better than later. So we took the family out to eat at the Chinese restaurant in the mall last night. (I feel very lucky that my kids love Chinese food…yum.) We finished eating and the kids went over to feed the fish in the koi pond. I slipped the new phone into Emma’s coat pocket and then announced we were going to walk around the mall for a little while and do some shopping.
As we wandered through the mall, Aaron sent a text message to her phone that read “Happy Birthday!” She didn’t hear the beep of the text alert. So as we walked, Aaron repeatedly called the phone. Finally, she notices the music and says, “Mom, what is that sound?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It sounds like it’s coming from you.”
She held the coat up to her ear and went digging through the pockets. When she pulled it out, she exclaimed, “Mom! I think I got someone else’s coat accidentally! There’s a phone in my pocket!”
She was looking back and forth at us, and we were both kind of grinning and waiting.
“It says there’s a message! Should I open it? It says, ‘Happy Birthday!’ Whose phone is this?”
When she got no response from either of us except stupid grins she finally says, “Is it MINE?”
And then the floodgates opened. She was so happy she was fighting off tears and Aaron was laughing and Carys and Cooper were actually speechless for once.
That made for a pretty awesome Wednesday night.
Of course we followed up the evening with explaining what a Tracfone is, how it works, and what the rules were going to be for having one. Maybe I’m just trying to justify this to myself, but can you really put a dollar amount on peace of mind? Or your child’s safety? (And hey, maybe I can swap some chore time for phone minutes – that might be a good idea…)
Despite all my resolve and earlier reservations, I think I can call this a win.
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