I was going to avoid the cliché Thanksgiving post this year, certain that my own thoughts and words were not up to the standards of some of the more eloquent postings I've been reading this week. Then I remembered my purpose; that these words are ultimately for the benefit of my offspring, and decided that I might after all find something to say to them on Thanksgiving 2013. So for you, Emma, Carys, and Cooper, let me tell you all about our Thanksgiving traditions.
Currently, darlings, you are sleeping upstairs at Grandma Bartscher's house. Well, sleeping is probably optimistic, considering I can hear Cooper bouncing on his bed and Emma just came downstairs to tell me that she just finished Harry Potter #4, and can we please please please watch the movie when we go home tomorrow. I'm pretty sure Carys is out cold, as she resembled the walking dead as she stumbled up the stairs a few minutes ago - a combination of sugar crash and food coma.
I don't know where our future Thanksgivings will take us, so I'm going to relate for you what the last 10 have been like, in the years I've been married to your father. For the last 10 years, nearly every Thanksgiving has been exactly the same.
Your dad hasn't missed a Thanksgiving Day pheasant hunt in...I think maybe...forever...and today was no exception. He left the house at 7am (a little later than usual, he is getting older, you know.) He hunted pheasants until 20 minutes AFTER I told him to come home. (Because it wouldn't be Thanksgiving if we weren't late for lunch.)
This year, Gudahl Thanksgiving was held at Missy's. Your Grandma Gail and Aunt Missy cook up some of the best food ever, and it is always an amazing spread. This year you are all old enough to make your own plates and get comfy in your own spot, and it gave me real joy to listen to you chatter on with your cousins about every last little happening in your life. The girls spent the afternoon in make-up and dress-up clothes, creating dance routines in the basement and putting on performances for the grown-ups. The older boys spent the day together playing video games, and Cooper spent the day alternately reading about dinosaurs and learning new wrestling moves from Uncle Shawn.
Your aunts spent the evening plotting their Black Friday strategies (your mother was a rock star in the online deals department this year and therefore will be sleeping tonight.) In the late afternoon Grandma Gail got the sugar cookies ready and the 4th Annual Christmas Cookie Decorating Extravaganza was off and running.
For the evening we headed over to Grandma Bartscher's to spend time with Uncle John before he went back to the cities, and we've been here ever since, warming up leftovers, watching family movies together, doing crafts at Grandma's table and coming up with endless ways to annoy Grandpa into playing/wrestling/giggling/chasing/tickling.
For the last 10 years we have followed this routine with very little variation. It may not be wildly exciting, but there is great comfort to me in the predictable chaos; it makes me feel solid and part of something bigger than me. I am so glad that we don't have far to drive, we don't have to put on airs or keep up appearances. We love each other for all our faults and failings, we love each other for all our gifts and blessings, and being together year after year makes for the kind of sturdy upbringing I want to send you into the world carrying.
Someday you will be out there on your own, and I'll be the first to say that the world isn't always kind or easy. In the midst of life's chaos it is easy to lose your sense of self; it is my goal to create a childhood that builds a solid core of strength and a strong sense of purpose in your life.
These moments, however trivial they may seem, are the building blocks of that strength, and I hope you draw on that whenever you need it.
When we made the decision to move back home, it was the pull of family that brought us here. We were living the good life out there in the mountains, and we were surrounded by good people and great friends. But in the end, there is nothing quite like family, is there? Your dad and I drive around this town together, and there is a memory lurking on every street corner. We often re-tell the same tired stories, even though after knowing your dad for almost 30 years, there aren't too many we haven't already shared.
I'm hoping that these family traditions give you that same sense of belonging. I hope that someday you're sitting around reminding each other of the little moments that seem so insignificant at the time, but end up being hallmarks of our holidays.
Like the way your Grandpa Bruce is always in charge of carving the ham and turkey and how he's always slipping little pieces to little fingers who come sneaking up for a taste. Or the way Grandma Gail is fluttering about the kitchen making sure that we have at least 200 food items to choose from, and every single one of them is perfectly perfect.
Maybe you'll remember the treasure boxes that Grandma & Grandpa Bartscher have waiting for you, and how we always pile up onto the chairs and couches for the evening movie. Emma is usually with Grandpa in his chair, Carys is stretched out on Grandma's lap, and Cooper is with his mama for whatever movie we happen to be watching. (Tonight, by the way, we watched Despicable Me again.)
10 years, 10 Thanksgivings, all of them more or less exactly the same, and that is the beauty of the holiday for me. The routine of the day has tightly woven our family together, and helped create that sense of belonging.
This is important to me, because I get to be your Mama, and that job is not one I take lightly. I'm not sure I would have the proper perspective, if not for the very real responsibility of giving you the best I have to give. Somehow, knowing that I am creating your life experience makes me want differently, and makes me do differently. I'm grateful for that added purpose, and thankful to our families who strengthen our connections through all those little moments together.
So that, my darlings was Thanksgiving 2013. Here's to many more. XOXO
November 29, 2013
October 16, 2013
Grief
Grief been a rare visitor to our house these past few years. Since moving back to Minnesota, I lost both my grandfathers and Aaron lost his grandmother. Those losses were felt very personally, but we tried to shield the kids as much as we could from our personal emotions and let them feel their way through it without the added pain of watching their parents grieve.
Then we lost the Lucky cat this summer, to a semi on the highway. Emma took that one especially hard as she rescued him from near starvation and spent 3 years keeping him healthy. The initial discovery caused a torrent of raw emotion, as I expected, but I didn't expect her to feel the aftershocks for as long as she did. For months, she would become emotional unexpectedly, breaking into tears in odd places and strange moments. I ran out of new ways to comfort her, so mostly I would just hug her when she had a bad day. It is so hard to see your child hurting; in some ways a physical ailment is easier to manage than an emotional one.
I think as parents we take on the role of being strong for them; I too felt the loss of our tough little tomcat, but I thought it would make it even harder on Emma to see me crying. So I did the tried and true "circle of life" and "he was happy while he was here" and "he'll be waiting for us in Heaven" and swallowed my emotion and patted her on the back and hoped her heart would heal quickly. I thought if she could see me being strong it would somehow give her strength.
Then on one unexpected Monday evening, Grief came calling, and this time it came for me. We were finishing up dinner and I was sitting at the table decompressing from the day and contemplating the dishes when I decided to scroll through Facebook. I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook; I hate reading posts from people who use it as soapbox for political drivel, but I truly love to be connected personally to people who are far from me geographically but close to my heart.
I am connected to Colorado in the best way through Facebook; I have watched former students get jobs, get married, have babies, and travel the world. I've watched my friends' children grow up, celebrated their triumphs, commiserated on their woes and been able to stay connected to the dozens of the peripheral people from Buena Vista who helped create such a beautiful feeling of belonging in that town.
It was Facebook, then, that told me about the tragedy in Buena Vista that took the lives of my friend Dawna, her husband Dwayne, her daughter Kiowa and her nephews. By now the story of the rock slide is familiar to most, as it made national headlines.
Nearly every day there is a tragedy to read about on the news, and you can't help but feel a kind of detached empathy for the people affected. But there is a definite difference when the tragedy hits a little closer to home. There is a pivotal moment when Those People become Your People, and nothing prepares you for that.
Dawna and I coached together, and honestly I didn't know her nearly as well as I could have, but we still shared bus rides and practices and long talks about kids and coaching during the 3 years we worked together. And through Facebook she remained my friend; I watched her babies grow up; I watched Dawna develop as a relay coach and as a photographer. She was forever filling up my news feeds of sunrises and sunsets on the mountains that I miss so much. She posted so many pictures of her kids I felt like I knew them, even though they were really little when I last watched them tear around the track field and jump on the high jump pits.
Sometimes people say that loss feels like a punch to the stomach - and you know, that is true. It takes the wind right out of you, and disbelief mingles with heartache and the shock of it is paralyzing. Dawna had posted some of Kiowa's senior pictures just few days earlier, and I thought about opening up a chat message to tell her how beautiful Kiowa had grown to be, and how much Dawna had grown as a photographer too. But I was busy and settled for just "liking" some of the photos, putting that conversation off for a day that would never come.
Sitting there in the kitchen, tears came unbidden and I felt emotion wash over me; I can't remember the last time I cried like that. Thick, choking sobs and of course Emma was the first to pass by and see me like that. I was helpless to it; I felt a combination of horror at the circumstances of their passing, of regret that I hadn't worked harder to cultivate our friendship, and guilt at the strength of my sorrow. That last one is hard to put into words...I felt guilty almost like I didn't deserve to feel so terrible. I hadn't seen her in person in 7 years, hadn't spoken on the phone or visited or anything. I watched her life, that's all. I "liked" her posts, but never called to talk about them. Facebook gave me a window to her world but I rarely stepped out of my routine to make the personal connections that I know are important. I think the guilt, more than anything, fueled the raw emotion I was feeling now.
Emma seemed shocked too; I know she's never seen me like that and I really couldn't make it stop. Her big brown eyes were enormous as she came over and leaned on my shoulder. Her arms went around me and she just said, "I'm so sorry, Mom." What a precious moment: being held and comforted by the child I work so hard to protect and hold and comfort. It occurred to me that she doesn't need my strength; she is plenty strong, and maybe what she needs is for me to be real. To let her see that pain is universal to all of us, and that it's okay to be affected and altered by it.
It is also hard to be far away from those I needed to grieve with; that is one more thing that Facebook gave me. It allowed me to share in the process even if I couldn't be there to light the candles and remember my friend the way she deserved to be remembered. A few hours later when my friend Erin called, I was ready to talk and able to breathe a little as she filled me in on what was happening there.
The next few days were blurry; I was planning our school's Homecoming with the Student Council and it was nice to be really really busy and let the sharpest edges soften a little. I did a little digging and found a scrapbook that the Track team made for me at our farewell party. Dawna had taken most of the pictures, and she'd written a little note inside the cover: "I learned so much from you, how to be an inspiration to these girls. And I will continue that when you are gone, I promise." That is a promise she kept - her girls loved her, and that has been so evident in the outpouring of love that came in the following days.
It's only been a couple of weeks, but I still have unexpected moments when it creeps up on me and I find my eyes filling with tears or a lump developing in my throat. I think it really is a lot of things that contribute to my sorrow; the depth of the loss is so great - it wasn't one or two, but five people lost. The devastation of Dawna having to leave two of her children behind to carry on without her. The vibrancy of Kiowa-Rain who was only 18 (10 years old in my mind - always) and had her whole life in front of her. Her husband Dwayne was a pillar of strength and integrity for the football team he helped coach, and being a teacher myself I know how much leadership a man like that can provide for developing young men.
Somewhere mixed in to all of that are my personal connections to the Falls where they perished; Aaron and I hiked the same trail a dozen times. I have a framed photo of us sitting among the boulders next to the falls with our dogs, looking very happy and very very young.
As hard as it may be to see anything positive come from what seems so senseless, I think I will dwell in the gifts they left behind, and spend my time praying for the health and strength of the family that remains. And moving forward, I think I am deciding that it is okay to be real for my kids. It might even be imperative that they watch me experience real sorrow and deal with it in a healthy way. Is there no end to the lessons we learn in this lifetime?
Then we lost the Lucky cat this summer, to a semi on the highway. Emma took that one especially hard as she rescued him from near starvation and spent 3 years keeping him healthy. The initial discovery caused a torrent of raw emotion, as I expected, but I didn't expect her to feel the aftershocks for as long as she did. For months, she would become emotional unexpectedly, breaking into tears in odd places and strange moments. I ran out of new ways to comfort her, so mostly I would just hug her when she had a bad day. It is so hard to see your child hurting; in some ways a physical ailment is easier to manage than an emotional one.
I think as parents we take on the role of being strong for them; I too felt the loss of our tough little tomcat, but I thought it would make it even harder on Emma to see me crying. So I did the tried and true "circle of life" and "he was happy while he was here" and "he'll be waiting for us in Heaven" and swallowed my emotion and patted her on the back and hoped her heart would heal quickly. I thought if she could see me being strong it would somehow give her strength.
Then on one unexpected Monday evening, Grief came calling, and this time it came for me. We were finishing up dinner and I was sitting at the table decompressing from the day and contemplating the dishes when I decided to scroll through Facebook. I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook; I hate reading posts from people who use it as soapbox for political drivel, but I truly love to be connected personally to people who are far from me geographically but close to my heart.
I am connected to Colorado in the best way through Facebook; I have watched former students get jobs, get married, have babies, and travel the world. I've watched my friends' children grow up, celebrated their triumphs, commiserated on their woes and been able to stay connected to the dozens of the peripheral people from Buena Vista who helped create such a beautiful feeling of belonging in that town.
It was Facebook, then, that told me about the tragedy in Buena Vista that took the lives of my friend Dawna, her husband Dwayne, her daughter Kiowa and her nephews. By now the story of the rock slide is familiar to most, as it made national headlines.
Nearly every day there is a tragedy to read about on the news, and you can't help but feel a kind of detached empathy for the people affected. But there is a definite difference when the tragedy hits a little closer to home. There is a pivotal moment when Those People become Your People, and nothing prepares you for that.
Dawna and I coached together, and honestly I didn't know her nearly as well as I could have, but we still shared bus rides and practices and long talks about kids and coaching during the 3 years we worked together. And through Facebook she remained my friend; I watched her babies grow up; I watched Dawna develop as a relay coach and as a photographer. She was forever filling up my news feeds of sunrises and sunsets on the mountains that I miss so much. She posted so many pictures of her kids I felt like I knew them, even though they were really little when I last watched them tear around the track field and jump on the high jump pits.
Sometimes people say that loss feels like a punch to the stomach - and you know, that is true. It takes the wind right out of you, and disbelief mingles with heartache and the shock of it is paralyzing. Dawna had posted some of Kiowa's senior pictures just few days earlier, and I thought about opening up a chat message to tell her how beautiful Kiowa had grown to be, and how much Dawna had grown as a photographer too. But I was busy and settled for just "liking" some of the photos, putting that conversation off for a day that would never come.
Sitting there in the kitchen, tears came unbidden and I felt emotion wash over me; I can't remember the last time I cried like that. Thick, choking sobs and of course Emma was the first to pass by and see me like that. I was helpless to it; I felt a combination of horror at the circumstances of their passing, of regret that I hadn't worked harder to cultivate our friendship, and guilt at the strength of my sorrow. That last one is hard to put into words...I felt guilty almost like I didn't deserve to feel so terrible. I hadn't seen her in person in 7 years, hadn't spoken on the phone or visited or anything. I watched her life, that's all. I "liked" her posts, but never called to talk about them. Facebook gave me a window to her world but I rarely stepped out of my routine to make the personal connections that I know are important. I think the guilt, more than anything, fueled the raw emotion I was feeling now.
Emma seemed shocked too; I know she's never seen me like that and I really couldn't make it stop. Her big brown eyes were enormous as she came over and leaned on my shoulder. Her arms went around me and she just said, "I'm so sorry, Mom." What a precious moment: being held and comforted by the child I work so hard to protect and hold and comfort. It occurred to me that she doesn't need my strength; she is plenty strong, and maybe what she needs is for me to be real. To let her see that pain is universal to all of us, and that it's okay to be affected and altered by it.
It is also hard to be far away from those I needed to grieve with; that is one more thing that Facebook gave me. It allowed me to share in the process even if I couldn't be there to light the candles and remember my friend the way she deserved to be remembered. A few hours later when my friend Erin called, I was ready to talk and able to breathe a little as she filled me in on what was happening there.
The next few days were blurry; I was planning our school's Homecoming with the Student Council and it was nice to be really really busy and let the sharpest edges soften a little. I did a little digging and found a scrapbook that the Track team made for me at our farewell party. Dawna had taken most of the pictures, and she'd written a little note inside the cover: "I learned so much from you, how to be an inspiration to these girls. And I will continue that when you are gone, I promise." That is a promise she kept - her girls loved her, and that has been so evident in the outpouring of love that came in the following days.
It's only been a couple of weeks, but I still have unexpected moments when it creeps up on me and I find my eyes filling with tears or a lump developing in my throat. I think it really is a lot of things that contribute to my sorrow; the depth of the loss is so great - it wasn't one or two, but five people lost. The devastation of Dawna having to leave two of her children behind to carry on without her. The vibrancy of Kiowa-Rain who was only 18 (10 years old in my mind - always) and had her whole life in front of her. Her husband Dwayne was a pillar of strength and integrity for the football team he helped coach, and being a teacher myself I know how much leadership a man like that can provide for developing young men.
Somewhere mixed in to all of that are my personal connections to the Falls where they perished; Aaron and I hiked the same trail a dozen times. I have a framed photo of us sitting among the boulders next to the falls with our dogs, looking very happy and very very young.
As hard as it may be to see anything positive come from what seems so senseless, I think I will dwell in the gifts they left behind, and spend my time praying for the health and strength of the family that remains. And moving forward, I think I am deciding that it is okay to be real for my kids. It might even be imperative that they watch me experience real sorrow and deal with it in a healthy way. Is there no end to the lessons we learn in this lifetime?
October 7, 2013
Time
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.
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.
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.
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