So they grow

A week ago the boy climbed up the steps of a bus for his first trip to school in which one of *his* grown-ups did not escort him into the classroom.

He attended Kindergarten for the first time.

Just days later the girl ran down the familiar hallways of the preschool - also our church. She knew right where she was going. It's the same room she's spent every Sunday morning in for the last year. It was her third year dashing through hallways at drop-off time - but it was the first time she was the one who stayed.

As a parent you worry. Will they listen? Will they make friends? Will they learn? Will they grow? Will they thrive?

Frankly, I found it easy to form an image of my child's preschool day. I get to know the families in her class as we became familiar sights at drop off and pick up. I develop a relationship with the teacher in that same time. I know if my child had a classroom job - it's posted on the bulletin board. It's a routine that I've been exposed to and I know the leading questions to ask to provoke chatter.

Kindergarten is different. I saw parents and classmates once at orientation. I met the teacher for all of 15 minutes. The hallways - although very much a sister school to the one I attended 29 years ago - are forgien terrority to me. I probe with questions and sometimes I get replies and sometimes I pull a few proverbial teeth.

Yet we're learning this tango together. Occasionally a few questions open flood gates and other times it merely leaves the tap open so that the picture of a typical day comes out little by little over time. For example, on Friday, school was simply "good." It was yesterday, I learned that he sits in the class library reading books with one Joshua and a Ben. One of those boys was in "the old Sunday School" class and so a familiar face. The second is a new friend but not to be confused with "the other Joshua in class" that happens to sit with Logan on the school bus for the ride home.

I felt some of the tension leave me as he disclosed this bit of his new life. Suddenly it's a little less unknown. Slowly we're establishing some familiarity. I known enough again to know that he's comfortable and social in his new terriority.

When Logan started preschool there was no melancholy for me. It was new. It was exciting. He loved it and I was thrilled for him. I did, if I'm being honest, chuckle quite a bit at the friend of mine who swore she'd have to be peeled from the classroom windows where'd she by crying her eyes out. Taking Megan this year hasn't been any different.

Kindergarten, however, is different. It's giving up a lot more than just a few hours in the day. It's losing that connection and control of drop-off. It's not just sending your kid to school, its putting them on the bus to get their own way there. It's not having the easy ability to put faces with names when your child starts talking about teachers and classmates.

The reality becomes stark and clear. Your child isn't just growing up and moving to a new phase of their life - something you really do reveal in. Your child is growing up and moving to a new phase of life that includes less of you. It is kindergarten not college, but it is step one in that direction.

It's a selfish thing, admittedly. Even in those moments when you moan a little and wish for just ONE trip to the bathroom that did not include an audience, even then, deep down you feel that warm fuzzy of being part of the center of a child's universe. You are the one to meet every need - not just food and shelter, but companionship and comfort.

Kindergarten, however, is phase one in the path away from all that. You realize that almost overnight you start to inch away from the center and a tiny bit closer to that spot you'll occupy years from now - the one that loops around in orbit.

Let the photo do the talking

The bus just left about a half-hour ago. He had us at the bus stop 40 minutes early!! He was excited. So was I. Then I came in the house and called my husband to tell him our "baby", our first, our son had offically begun his Kindergarten journey.

I got voicemail.

And then I cried.

I'm speechless, and besides, the preschooler (who will start on Friday) is demanding I help her paint with watercolors. Instead I'll let the photos speak for me:

What you'd hear if you were here

Over heard in my house today:
L (my brand new Kindergartener fresh off orientation): I want to do my homework.

Me: You can do your calender page. Remember, it's not due until the actual first day of school next week.

L: I know, I want to do it now.

He works diligently on printing his name in upper and lower case letters then works with utter fixated concentration - coloring in the boxes for Sept 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 with a yellow crayon just like the paper says to do.

L: I'm done. I want to do my other homework.

Me: Honey, you've got to go with Grandma and I have to get to work. You just have to draw a picture of yourself and your favorite stuffed animal. That paper isn't due until next Friday! You have time, we can do it tomorrow when we don't have to rush.

L: But I want to do it now! I want to do homework!

Me: Logan, I want you to remember this conversation when you're 15.

L: Why? (pause) Ok, can you assign me other homework to do at Grandma's today?
--

Also overheard at my house:

Me: So, Meg, are you excited about starting preschool next week? Are you going to make new friends?

M: Yes, with the girls.

Me: Just the girls? What about the boys?

M: The boys can make their own friends.

(Daddy is so relieved and hopes she holds tight to this philosophy until she's 30 or something like that.)
---

Overheard later at my house as Miss Meg is in the bathtub

M: Mommy, come here, I want to squirt you with this water bottle.

Me: No, honey, I don't want to be squirted with your water bottle.

M: But you have to. I will get your foot wet.

Me: I don't want to get wet.

M: Yes, just a quick squirt.

Me: Megan Rose, I do not want to get wet.

M: Mommy, I love you and we are still friends, but you are REALLY starting to fuss-trate me!

When downgrading is good

Three years ago we bought a Mommy-van. I hated it then. I never really got past that feeling.

It's not that it was a bad vehicle, well unless you get a flat. Have you ever priced replacement run-flat tires? Trust me, when you get three flats in 6 months you start to hate run-flat tires at a price of $250 per-tire. Tires that can't be patched. You start to realize that you'd much rather a slow leak and a $40 patch.

Things like stability control were nice; they're nicer if the sales guy bothers to forewarn you that loud screechy whistles and dings go off as soon as you hit an ice patch and stability control kicks in. The safety feature is really quite counterproductive when it causes you to slip into a panic attack the first (and only) time you trigger it.

All-Wheel-Drive was nice; unless gas costs a hair under $3 a gallon and you're considering selling a kidney to fill up your next tank. This also ignores the fact that you rarely encounter conditions requiring the extra wheel control. The raw truth is that you only moaned about not having AWD in a "LONG" vehicle because you were trying to talk your husband OUT of buying the damn thing to being with.

The extra space was nice except it meant you become the designated hauler of all things too big to fit into other family members sedans and pint-sized SUVs. The steering was nice until the little piece breaks off inside and you lose all semblance of power steering but the guy at the dealership service department tells you you're imagining things because it's all just peachy. A little digging finds out this is a common thing for the certain models of this brand. You get a new steering wheel but you're bitter.

Then one day your husband sends you an email as you're sitting at your part-time job stuffing lifesaver roles you paid to have your corporate logo and a snappy little message on into bubble wrap envelopes with a post-card you also designed. The email says "We've got a partner program through work and I can get a good deal on this vehicle."

You start to ponder. Well it's less space certainly. But truth is, we rarely use the space we've got in the Mommy-van. Hmmm, it's not one I see around very often does that mean something? Well, I see the Mommy-van (in the same color!) every other parking space which really sucks when you forget where you parked at a crowded mall.....and frankly, it did nothing to prevent the steering from breaking down no matter what the service manager thinks.

Well, it DOES get better mileage. It does NOT have run-flat tires (have I mentioned how much I loathe run-flat tires?) It is cute. Better yet, it's likely a lower monthly payment than we have today and will have for another two years with the existing Mommyvan.

We make an appointment with a dealer to go in Saturday for a test drive and a conversation. We find a better, closer dealer and head out Friday instead. The sales guy is nice. He's round and he smiles a lot. Logan plops his booster seat in the back of the vehicle for a test drive. Three tire rotations into the ride and Logan announces that we need to tell the man (who is sitting in the passenger seat) that we will buy this car. Mommy tells him we need to discuss it with Daddy. Megan makes herself at home in the cars and trucks displayed in the showroom. She thankfully never learns the horns work in those vehicles.

Daddy and the man head into the tiny little closet of an office to talk numbers. They emerge from time to time to run these figures by me. I sit in the corner of the show room entertaining too restless children with a TV hooked up to a cable system that hides children's programming on different channels than ours at home does, a few old beaten up books, a pint sized block table and one of those beaded maze things. We spend a LOT of time playing Simon says and "pretend you're a dog."

Hours later the four of us sit together waiting for the nice people in the back to spiff up our new set of wheels. We come home with a new "Mommy-mini-mini-van" and car payment that runs $50 less per month....plus better mileage (did I mention that), tires that won't run-flat but won't cost me an arm and a leg to replace and no warning systems that cause my heart to stop and my eyes to bulge out.

The kids love it. I'm finding it peppy and so much more fun than the "wreck my image" mommy-van. ;) I did hate that thing.

It does feature a third row of seating but no one with legs long enough to extend past the edge of the seat will fit in them comfortably. It's ok though because for the two or three times a year we actually drive more than four of us some place, the car seats will fit in the back row and the grown-ups will fit in the middle. The trunk is tiny - but since no one sits in the back row, the seats stay more or less permanently down and the cargo net holds grocery's in place.

I've got a moon-roof again. I so very much missed having the little rectangular spot of my roof open on a beautiful day - or at least the window exposed to let more light in. I have a 6-CD changer. I can load up *my* CDs and theirs without having to hunt them down at a traffic light and hope I can swap them out before the thing turns green.

My favorite feature? I have a remote starter. It's not quite necessary on a regular basis since, you know, I have a garage that sits just under my living room. It will come in handy when I leave the office and would like to get the A/C or heat running before I hit the drivers seat.

And if we're honest, I find a certain amount of glee in freaking out people in the parking lot by starting the car without a body sitting in it. :) I know. It's a bit mean. But frankly, it amuses me.

Freeze frame

Anyone that has had the luck or misfortune (depending on your perspective) to end up on my list of folks to send Shutterfly invites to knows that I take a lot of photos. Truth be told, if you're one of those people, you don't even get the full gamut of what I take. Sometimes I hold back from sharing some albums in an attempt to not bore/bog/pick a nice word here my friends and family with my happy photo-taking-trigger finger.

This isn't a new 'digital' age thing for me. Back in the days of film it was common knowledge that I needed at least one roll of film for each day of a trip - at least. Going digital simply helps me feel less guilt about development costs.

This hobby, ahh, who am I kidding, this obsession owes it's genesis to several sparks. I feel compelled to capture the moment in a literal sense - no matter how inadequate the frozen image may sometimes be in reality. I like the way I can trigger memories by looking over old photos, "Oh, right! I remember when we went. . ."

Sometimes, though, a photo can show you new things you barely noticed in the moment. Little nuances that only the cold-hearted eye of the lens can isolate. Sometimes it's even a detail the speed of life prevents you from seeing. Yet there in that frozen moment it's preserved - evidence of something bigger than a moment.

Over the last week I've taken two different pictures of my kids and a slide. The first was taken during Logan's swim class as he plunged down the water slide into the very deep end of the pool -- and the waiting arms of his instructor. Just after the big moment, he emerged from the water with an apparent swagger and some sense of pride for having survived it despite his then complete inability to swim in any real sense of the word. The image, however, begged to differ. (And for the record, although he swims fairly well today he still will not go on that slide again. On the other hand, shortly after emerging from that slide, he did have a new sense of confidence in the water - something that has indeed led to his new ability to swim both under water and 'on top' with a freestyle stroke.)

The second image was from this weekend. We took the kids to a nearby state park/historic village this weekend for a ride on a train, a hike down a few trails, some time in the old village and then some good old fashioned playground time. There were two slides - one with three 'lanes' and a lot of bumps and one big encased tube. Logan found the tube's penchant for static electricity amusing. He never did see his hair stand on end, but he gathered it was funny based on Daddy's reactions to it. Megan, not to be outdone, scurried up the ladder herself for a turn. I heard a lot of giggles as she came down - it wasn't until I was uploading the photos later that I saw a look that belied the sounds of glee.

Now, the thing about photos is they can't lie. Clearly she was not quite sold on the speed with which she descended. However, the next shot is pretty clear to me too - once passed the initial shock, she had a pretty darn good time with that slide. As I uploaded this image to an album, I started to reflect about what it was really saying to me. It made me think about all those things in life that we approach with some sense of dread and trepidation....and how many of those things end up just fine in the end -- sometimes even more than fine.

And this, these captured moments I did not expect to find, is why I can't keep my fingers from opening and closing that shutter. Sometimes in those photos you capture a moment - and sometimes in that moment you find details you never expected to find. Sometimes you find lessons about life.

Girl time

My daughter, in all her 3 foot glory, is a walking oxymoron.

That might sound harsh unless you recall your High School English teacher defining oxymoron as a figure of speech that combines two normally contraditionary terms. In Megan's case, she's a girlie-girl who is 110% in touch with her inner tomboy.

She delights in climbing whatever is verticle and in her reach. She dives into whatever it is her brother has or does. Set her lose in a yard full of boys and you'll find her quite content to join in the melee. Want to see an unlikely mix of confusion, stinging pain, and awe? Watch the face of the 5-yr old boy who dared pull Meg's hair before you or his mother can intervene. He'll be rubbing his arm and glaring a little with a smirk as you pull her off him -- she would pinned him to the ground and swung both fists repeatedly into his shoulder despite the fact he was a full head and half taller and had at least 10 pounds weight more to his frame. She has no fear. She has no reluctance to stand up for herself. She'll readily punch back just as easily as she'll put her hands on her hips and tell 'em what-for in the way only an almost 3-year old can.

And yet, she'll also readily turn on the water works. Slight her and you might get the barrage of tears that stop just long enough for her to peer under her very long thick lashes to see if you're paying adequate attention. She's climbing yes, but she's likely in something pink or purple. She's convinced putting her hair in two pigtails makes her look at least 4 and, well gosh, headbands make her more like 5. There's yet to be a toy or a person of any age she's yet to figure out how to mother -- much to her big brother's dismay.

She's got a thing for make-up. Now, truth be told, I have a ritual and set of "unlikely to leave the house without" items, but I'm not a big make-up person overall. I'm not even sure the foundation I own is still any good and I'm fairly certain my lipstick is probably too old to admit to being. Megan, however, is all about the make-up. She gleefully sits herself on the closed lid of the toilet and demands her turn when either mom or grandma get the make-up bag out. Meg's routine consist of moisturizer on a foam pad which she smears evenly enough all over her face. It's then an empty brush to swipe over her eyelids and a bit of chapstick on her lips.

Her nails are her big thing. The girl LOVES nail polish. We've compromised - pink yes, green and blue (which she desperately wants to wear) no way. When she goes for her regular sleep-over at the grandmparent's house, she and Grandma do their nails. When Logan left for his sleepover last weekend, Megan announced gleefully, "Girl time!" as she grabbed my hand and dragged me down the hallway. "We're going to get your polish and do our nails!"

Instead we went to the "nail polish store" and picked out a new color. It was a debate. Megan was selecting the hottest of hot pinks my poor eyes had seen since 1980-something-or-other. I was picking out a bit softer selection. We comprised on a bright pink that wasn't quite blinding. The next morning we settled in with a rental movie and set to work on our nails.

Megan, being all about the girlie-girl sleepover, is quite adament that we do each other's nails - I do hers. She does mine. Now, listen, she does a really good job at covering the nail evenly.....and my fingers. I've learned quickly that a little rubbing and some running water is better than nailpolish remover on skin.

Mess aside, this is another of those that I'll cherish long after it becomes taboo in Meg's mind to have your mom giggle and conduct make-overs while decked out in pajamas. When she stops beating Logan's friends up long enough to flirt with them and then pretend those stupid teenage boys annoy her, I'll remember her as a two year old sitting next to them and yammering on about the pink "pom poms" on the handles of her "big girl" bike.

When she's a horomonal ball of teenage angst telling me how horrible I am for something and yelling "I hate you!", I'll smile a little remembering the way she concentrated so hard, my finger held between several of hers, as she applied this bright pink color to my finger tip. I'll remember the way she looked up from her work just long enough to smile and say "Mommy, I love you. We have fun being girls together, right? We're friends."

Catch it before you miss it

My kids are not known for being quiet. In fact, their verbosity is sometimes enough to send me cowering in the bathroom with the door locked and pleas of "I'm in the bathroom guys, just give me a minute. . ."tripping off my lips in the hopes that they buy it. Yeah, they talk. A. Lot.

Hand in hand with the amount of time their lips are moving is a fairly extensive vocabulary for their respective ages. Sometimes I take that for granted; I readily admit it. And although they may use words that seem to be a big fit for such a small body, they still have some of that adorable age-appropriate struggle with enunciation. Logan, for example, is still "Wogan" when his not-quite-yet-3-year old sister decides to actually call him by name.

These are the things I'll miss. Long before they head off to college or their own homes leaving mine dreadfully silent, I will miss the little misspoken words and phrases. The ones I try so hard not to repeat back to them no matter how much I want to hear it again and again. It was cute and smile inducing when Logan did it. It's almost cuter now - not because Megan is the "baby" of the house...but because Logan has become her interpreter. It's like living in the UN with the toddler-oozing-into-preschooler nation trying to communicate with the United-Front of Adults and the Kindergartener standing between them to translate into English.

This weekend my new little fish invited us all over to Grandma's house to see his new skill. Logan has decided swimming underwater is actually a very, very, cool thing that should occupy roughly 90% of every hour he's awake. He prefers to swim with goggles on. It's something his sister copies, just as she copies most everything else he does. The original set each kid had was actually more mask than goggle. Logan had upgraded....Megan has not.

"I want my snorple," she demanded as I held her almost treading water body in the pool.

"You're what?" I said, "I'm not sure what that is Meg."

"I want my snorple! I want to put my eyes in," she explained, clearly annoyed at having to repeat herself. "You know. My snorple. Like Brubee. I want my mask and my snorple."

Logan popped up for air at about that moment and said, "She means snorkle. Her mask has a snorkle tube so she can talk when she's underwater."

Of course, because why should we breathe when we can talk?

Hot off the presses!

If you've not already checked out the collaborative web site The Soccer Mom Vote, then now's a good time to do so. I just hit the "post" button on my latest article which can be found here:
Unjustified fear justified

Go. Read.

Oh, and do feel free to massage my ego a little by leaving a comment. . .unless of course you feel inspired to say something snarky (which seems to be my new favorite word.)

Uh oh

In one month the kids each start their first year in school - one in "big kid" school (aka elementary) and the other in preschool. But this is not what has me a bundle of raw nerve endings. What is? The bigger kid is taking the bus in just a month. The bus.

The bus excites him. It's big. It's yellow. It's not got Mommy on it.

The bus is unnerving me. It's big. It's not got Mommy on it. It's requires the kid to get off and find his own way to his classroom - the kid that can spend oodles of time deeply contemplating who knows what.

I had been semi-successful in talking myself down from this parenting cliff of mild anxiety. "He's not the first kid to take the bus to Kindergarten. *I* took the bus. I survived. . . granted one day I missed the bus on the trip home and I had to wait in the principals office for my mom...but that was Mrs M's fault. The kid across the street takes the bus. Her mom says the driver is fabulous."

Slowly I was feeling less unhinged.

Then I made the mistake of talking to Logan. We talked about Kindergarten and what he was expecting it to be - all the while he worked to shoot his sister with the imaginary laser from his finger tip. Part way through the "getting closer to school!" conversation we stumbled upon the big, yellow, mommy-less bus.

"Hey, I have an idea," he said to me, taking a cease fire as Megan continued to attempt dismantling one of his Transformers. "You can drive next to the bus when I take it."

"I don't think I can do that, Logan," I replied.

He didn't answer at first. The wheels were turning and he was working through the wrench I had just tossed into his carefully crafted plans.

"How will I know where to get off for school?" he asked.

"Well, honey, I think that'd be pretty obvious, right? I mean you get off when you get into the parking lot and see the school building and the driver says 'Ok, everybody out!' or whatever it is the driver says now-a-days," I told him.

"Ok. . ." he said slowly, "But, how do I know when to get off when he takes me home?"

"Logan, sweetheart, you get off when you see home."

"Yeah, but what I'm too short to see out the window?" he asked, clearly looking to find a way to convince me to play escort to the big, yellow, mommy-less bus.

Yeah. I'm back to being unnerved by the bus.

Berry-lious

Every autumn we pack up the kids and the grandparents in the "mommy-van" for an excursion to the orchard. It's a tradition that goes back over 25 years to when my parents used to take my brother and I apple picking at that very same orchard. I can't seem to pass by a tree in that particular set of fields without flashbacks of climbing up their centers in attempt to drop immature fruit on my immature brother's head or of shining up freshly picked gems on our sleeves before biting into them.

But it's not September today. Nor is it October. It is July, of course, and July is berry picking time.

I've not actually gone berry picking with the kids. The last time I went I was still counting years to my driver's license and my kid brother was diabolically plotting new ways to torture me. (Some things don't change, he's still twerp even if he is nearly a foot taller than me.) My soon-to-be-sister-in-law, however, has a favorite blueberry farm and a suggestion that we join her and her daughter on this summer's trip.

It's a good thing to play nice when you're adding members to the family, so I agreed. It was a small jaunt out to the berry patch - you ride from parking lot to trees on a big hay-ride type wagon (sans hay) pulled by a tractor. My daughter, the Thomas the Tank Engine fanatic, dubbed the tractor "Terence."

At the very first bush we reached I pointed a finger to a plumb, dark blue berry, "This is what you want to pick kids. Not purple even if it's your favorite color, Meg. Not green even though it's your favorite, Logan. Dark, deep blue." They nodded gravely and set about the task of filling their coffee cans to the brim. For the record - two small plastic coffee "cans" equated to roughly 2 1/4 pounds of blue berries.

It's been three full days since we went picking. We've eaten berries every night (Megan LOVES blueberries apparently, while Logan is a "in the fields only" berry kid.) We've made the most amazing blueberry coffee cake. We still have berries left.

The yield and baked goods, while delightful, are not the best part of our excursion. The blue-ribbon prize was the experience. No, not plucking berries from their branches, but the warm sun that made Megan's cheeks rosy pink as she worked diligently beside us. It was in the pride-filled grin on Logan's face as he held out his coffee can loaded with sweet fruit. It was in the marriage of "togetherness" and a beautiful day outdoors. It was in creating something to eat from scratch with something you, yourself picked -- topped only by when you create it with something you picked and you grew. (And since we've got tomato plants loaded with green fruit...that's only a matter of weeks away!)

These are the sorts of things I remember from my childhood. The ordinary things done outside the realm of our ordinary days. I sometimes wondered if this particular quirk (remembering the seemingly ordinary as extraordinary) was my own. My family took it's share of vacations - and I can tell you where we went but few specific details from most of those trips. The tradition type events - the seemingly mundane - those are the squares of my fond-memory patchwork quilt. My brother, unknowingly perhaps, offered his reassurance that my desire to give the kids the same wasn't unrealistic.

He watched his niece and nephew giggle over their harvest and lunge back into the branches greedily to snag even more. He smiled a little and looked at me over the rim of his sunglasses. "Do you remember when Mom used to take us to the park to pick the wild berries? That was fun wasn't it? That was summer. That's why I'm glad we could come today."

And with that I knew that this was exactly the sort of thing childhood memories are made of.

If it rains on your parade...splash in the puddles

We got a 1/2 inch of rain in a 1/2 hour. That's a lot of rain. In fact, after a lull in the downpour we're back up to about the same rate as it had been earlier. The ebb and flow of heavy precipitation hasn't slowed us down at all though. As the title says, if it rains on your parade, splash in the puddles:

Truth in cookies

We broke down and had Chinese food tonight. It's not something we eat when Megan's eating with us as Chinese food in general tends to be a high risk for peanut cross contamination. The kids, however, were in bed and we were looking for something different for dinner.

I don't get Chinese food often so when I do, it's hard to "save room" for desert. I tend to fill-up on my sesame chicken. This leaves Bruce with two fortune cookies - a fate he does not shirk from. He snapped open the cookies, munching loudly on them before reading the little slips of paper. Operative word here being little.

Moments later *I* was being handed two slips of paper as he mumbled something about lights and reading glasses in the other room. I stifled my giggle and urge to chide him on age related matters. Instead I read aloud the fortune sitting atop the small stack:

You will have many friends when you need them.

Then, and I am SO not making this up, I read the next fortune:

The time is right to make new friends.

Ahh....think the cookie maker is trying to tell us something?

One of those blatant Mommy-brags

Logan's been tinkering with his shoe laces in recent months. He gets about as far as a string of knots before he throws his hands up and announces the task of tying a bow simply impossible. He'd given up trying, having informed me that he would only be wearing Velcro for the rest of his life if I refused to tie shoes for him. Thankfully, he gave up that idea. Something got him motivated Friday morning, although I'm still not sure what:

I know what motivates Megan. He's in the photos just above tying his shoes. Now that she's got letter recognition down pat, she's decided to pick up on one of Logan's latest hobbies - writing things. Meg's been hard at work trying to write her name. The photo speaks for itself:

Has it been 5 years?

It's 4am on June 30th. Exactly 5 years ago at this very moment I was willing the nice man that puts in epidurals to come back and remove mine so I could finally get some sleep. There are two things different tonight:

1) I have no epidural to be removed.
2) One of the causes of my insomnia is now 5 and doing laps for the bathroom and water instead of causing excruciating labor and birthing pains. :)

There are plenty of things the same though. Just now the boy emerged from the dark hallway. "I'm not tired any more," he lamented. I walked him back to his room with the strong suggestion that he was indeed tired and the thought that he was not tired was more like excitement over the presents he was anticipating.

I sat on the edge of his bed running my hand over his hair as he lay against my shoulder. I kissed the crown of his head gently and whispered softly. He gazed at me for a moment and then humored me by closing his eyes. A satisfied and peaceful wave moved across his face even though it's not yet brought sleep. That's not a whole lot different than those first moments of his life 5 years ago.

Willing him to sleep then was as effective as it is right now - I hear him singing himself to sleep which, to me, is utterly counterproductive. He disagrees. Then again, typing this at 4am is not doing much for my own slumber, so who am I to talk?

Last night after the kids were both breathing deeply in sleep, I released 10 helium balloons into Logan's room with another 6 balloons inflated by my own hot air to drift around his floor. We hung streamers down from his door frame and placed a small pile of gifts at his seat at the kitchen table.

Bruce shook his head and laughed a little as I made myself dizzy blowing up those latex balloons. "I hope they don't expect this every year here on out. Friend birthday party, party when he wakes up in the morning, family surprise party in the afternoon...."

"But he's 5!" I said, as if that should be enough. "Five is special. And the balloons come from the dollar store. Cheap."

Logan has already, obviously, noticed the balloons and the streamers. I'm sure it's not helping his sleep anymore than the singing is. He also likely suspects the "surprise" party this afternoon since he all but requested it last week, "My party with my friends was nice, but some day it'd be nice to have a surprise party. I've always wanted one. I've wanted one my whole life!"

Wow. He *is* now 5. Really, truly 5. That's just a lot to wrap my brain around at this moment. Five. He's the child I had given up the idea of having. He's the embodiment of love that seemed just *this* far beyond my grasp. He's the daily reminder of what miracles can enter our lives when we least expect them.

Logan has grown into this person that finds new ways to turn me to mush every day. He's got an amazing sense of compassion and generosity that moves through him with ease. He's got a wacky sense of humor and a quick mind that compliment each other well. He can be fiercely independent one moment and dreadfully dependent the next. He's a bright boy that wavers between over-confidence and nerves the way a child his age often can.

He's curious - the same quiet hard stare he had as an infant still crosses his face as he studies something new. It makes me think that even as a baby he was cataloging the world around him. He's got a memory that gets me in trouble. He's got a zeal for learning that I pray remains with him throughout his life.

Today Logan is a person that I'd enjoy being with even if we didn't share a gene pool. He's a fun kid. He's a sweet kid. We have a genuine good time together.

This boy who has moved from being that wiggling, reactive bundle of need to being a person is defining his own way - pulling away from his parents little bits at a time even as he fights to hold on tight with both hands. He's cuddles one moment and then "Don't kiss me here Mommy! People can see you!!!" the next.

You often hear (or read) people refer to motherhood as having your heart travel outside your body. It sounds a little cliche and trite sometimes and yet, as I watch this person who lived within in me for 9 (long!) months, I know that such a sentiment falls short of the reality. Giving birth is watching a piece of yourself take on it's own life. Motherhood is a constant process of watching this piece grow away from you - of having the courage to let it form its own identity and praying that as it refines itself over time it still has the desire to speak to you.

Take 8 - a meme

It's been a while since I've been tagged to do a Meme, so when Nikki over at The Guilty Parent tapped me yesterday I figured why not.

It's a simple one - I've got to list 8 things about myself people may not know and then I get to tag eight of you play along. Granted, some of you may know at least a few of the things on my list but humor me and act surprised nonetheless. Oh, and just because you don't see your name on my "you're it" list doesn't mean you can't play along too. And if you DO end up on my list....well be kind. I know you're not all "meme" people but this is an 'easy' one.

Here we go!

1. I had my first article published at the age of 10. I was a children's book reviewer for a program run by our library and local newspaper. The library gave me a book. I wrote a review. The paper ran it the Sunday edition. My "salary" was a pre-release copy of a new book.

2. I earned both my Silver and Gold Award in Girl Scouts. If you're not familiar with them - the Gold is on par with the boy's Eagle Scout award.

3. In 8th grade I won first place in the school science fair. I went on to win honorable mention at the state level. My project fell into an engineering category. I work for an engineering firm today -- although not the displine that would have any use for my little project.

4. For an assignment in a social pysch class in college, I took a male friend of mine shopping for engagement rings -- for him to wear. Want to see a jewlery store clerk panic? Tell her the guy is going to wear the diamond solitaire. Want to get a sizer off a finger it's too small to be on because the lady jammed it on the guy's finger in shock? Use LOTS of hand lotion.

5. I played violin for many, many, many years. During that span I won "most improved" honors, sat 1st chair in the 2nd violin section, sat 5th chair in the 1st violin section, sat behind an amazing violinist with multi-colored spiked hair (I'm talking blue, red, green....) and spent an afternoon with my instrument hooked up to an amplifer.

6. I had a district court judge in my dorm room once who tactfully ignored or did not notice the 'artistic' photo of a pot leaf. ;) It's a long story and no the judge was not related to one of my roommates.

7. I spent one spring break in London. It cost me a whopping $150 - that includes airfare and lodging. It's a perk of attending a college with one of the largest study abroad centers in the nation. Perhaps some day I'll explain that one more.

8. I was once dared to eat chicken's feet at a restraunt in Philadelphia. I declined to take the dare. Other people I was sitting with did not. Have you ever *seen* someone eat little breaded chicken's feet? Ewww.

The next 8? Hmmm....

1. Jenn at Bman and Tink
2. Cath at Just me
3. Sandra at Getting Smaller in the Rearview Mirror
4. Dawn at Decaf, Please
5. Melessa at But I digress
6. Half my Heart
7. Toni at Travels with Toni
8. Naomi at Here in the Hills (And by the way, if you go see her, wish her a happy birthday!)

Of all the changes

Four and a half years ago (give or take a month...or two) our house began to settle into a solid routine. At roughly 7 pm the child would take a bath. At 7:30 we'd read some stories. We'd aim to have the kid asleep around 8 pm. As they moved from infancy to toddlerhood to preschooler we made small adaptations to the routine - gone was the pre-bed feeding, no rocking required, ditched the crib, transitioned to a shower. And yet, with all that change, the meat of the routine remained the same: 7pm, 7:30, 8 o'clock.

Sure once in a while we go a little wild and we let them stay up "late." Bedtime was a bit fluid while we were in Disney this winter. Special nights and occasions sometimes buy the kids 30 extra minutes in their day. It happens. The 'regular', every day routine though has remained in tact and unchanged in every way that actually matters.

Recently, however, my "great" sleeper and bedtime routine observer has gotten into the habit of nudging the routine a tad. He has questions. He needs a drink. The bathroom. Another "I love you." This from a boy that hasn't been a problem since he learned the great skill of "lulling myself to sleep" around his first birthday.

I was lamenting this new phase to Grandma one day and she, being Grandma, presented me with something to consider. "Perhaps the problem is he's not tired yet. Maybe he's ready to stay up a little later. He is almost 5."

Hmmm, ok. Ponder. Ponder. The problem, of course, is the sister. She is NOT ready to stay up later. She may think she is -- but anyone that sees what she's like when overtired would beg to differ. The problem, you see, is that if Logan is up, Megan knows it. If he's being read to, she's in there. If he's not in his room, she's wandering out. The problem is giving him more time without letting her in on the secret.

And then it hit me.

He reads. He can read on his own after "lights out" and she'd be none the wiser.

We talked about this possibility. We talked parent-to-parent. We talked about it parent-to-child. We let Logan know it was a privilege and if he abused it, he could lose it. He reverted back to his best bedtime routine observation habits. He would grin and nod as we said our good nights. He said not another word about this pending change to his routine.

Sunday night I decided to give it a test run. I told him he could stay up a little- but not the full half-hour. He had to be reading, not playing and he had to go bed as soon as one of us went in to tell him it was time. He nodded solemnly and requested his current favorite book for the adventure.

I went in 15 minutes later. He was sitting up half under his covers with his book on his lap and the biggest grin you could imagine bursting across his face. He could barely contain himself. "Did I pass the test? Did I earn the privilege?!" he asked, trying hard to whisper as to not bother his sister.

I nodded...and I realized that that nod was hard for me. I couldn't put a finger on why it was. Instead I pushed the gnawing down and kissed the boy goodnight.

Tonight was his first "official" night of staying up "late." We talked this afternoon about it to review our expectations. "You have to be quiet so Megan can get to sleep. No playing, just reading," I reminded him.

He nodded and then placed his index finger in the center of his forehead. "I'm going to read in my head because that's what you do when you read to yourself. You only read out loud when someone else wants to hear you."

That surprised me. I didn't realize he COULD read to himself in that way before. I thought he was still in the "must read aloud in order to sound out words" stage.

"Right," I said, "But if you get to a word you can't figure out, you can't really be yelling for us to come down and help - that'd wake up Megan. When you get to a word you can't read, use your pencil to underline it and then in the morning you can ask me to help you with it."

He nodded. And I, truth be told, forgot about it.

Logan announced just before story time commenced that he only wanted Daddy to read him one book tonight so he could get started on reading his favorite book, which happens to be a guidebook (of sorts) on the Transformers. He lay stretched out on his stomach with the book open before him intently focused on its pages. I heard him banging around his room at one point but I wrote it off as a trek to his water cup (which actually sits across the room from his bed.)

It wasn't water though. It took me a minute to register the reason even as I started at it. I went in to turn off his lights and say good night at 8:30 and paused to read the word he'd written on his lined pad of paper.

"Hey look at that. You wrote Omnicon very well!" I told him, honestly impressed with how neat his writing of both upper and lowercase letters had gotten recently. It's truly as if fine motor skills arrived one night via express mail or something.

"Oh! THAT's what that word was! I couldn't figure it out," he said. (Oh, d'uh! Yes, I saw the writing on the pad and hadn't connected it to our earlier conversation.)

And that was it. Lights out. Head hit the pillow and he's not made another peep. After nearly 4 1/2 years of the same routine, the boy has gone and outgrown it.

He'll officially be 5 on Saturday. (Until then, he will insist you refer to him as "four-and-eleven-and-half-twelfths.") It's stating the obvious to say that life can change a lot when you hit 5 and yet with all changes that have transpired thus far and all the ones that wait for us in the fall, it seems to be this one I'm feeling a tad morose over.

He was the boy that could read a lot sooner than he *would* read primarily because he was afraid we wouldn't cuddle in close with him and a good story any longer if he embraced the skill. And yet there he was tonight, "I only want one story, Daddy, so I can start reading my other book." With that simple sentence, with that single word written on the pad - one word in a book loaded with words I honestly figured to be a bit too 'tough' for him - that I could hear the door on those 'earliest' years of his life creaking closer to shut.

I knew it'd come to me

About four and half years ago I had a good idea. When Logan was done making fine art with his mushed up baby food, I'd clean the jars in the hot soapy waters and set them aside for an abundance of good crafty-like projects in the future like the sort we used to do in Girl Scouts - the kind that would have you scrambling for jars that you didn't have reason to have.

Today, I have a draw full of baby food jars.

Empty baby food jars. Dozens of them.

I didn't save every one of them, but certainly I saved MORE than enough. I actually did tap into the supply once over the last several years. On Logan's 2nd birthday the kids that attended his little party used the jars to hold their sand art. It wasn't much of a dent into my stash.

I tend to forget the jars are there until I go looking in that drawer for something. I never find what I want - I do find LOTS of jars.

Last summer we (as in Bruce mostly) built a patio in the backyard. There are four flower beds surrounding it. This spring I used two of them for yellow and purple daisy like flowers, a third still hosts the over sized lavender and mint that has been there almost since we moved in. The final side, the one up against the house, is my herb garden.

The garden started with some obvious stables. Then I got creative and started to buy whatever looked nice even if I had no idea what to do with it - African Blue Basil, Tri-color sage, Bi-color sage. . .when you fill a space with a dozen+ plants you have room to go a little nuts.

We've made good use of the plants so far - herb butter melted on steak, chicken roasted with fresh herbs, iced tea with lemon balm and mint. I keep digging for recipes to tap into this new resource.

Yet the plants grow faster than I can keep up with it sometimes and so I opted to hang a few clippings from the four peg rack on the kitchen wall. A mixture of the three sages I have growing (plain old safe, the tri and bi colored sages), some dill, the blue basil, and the two oregano varieties all in their bundles lending their fresh scents to the kitchen.

Then they were dried. They were dry and crumbly looking and no longer quite as "attractive" the wall art they had been at first. I needed to move to Plan B.

Then it hit me - the jars. The oodles and oodles of baby food jars. I spent part of yesterday crumbling dried out leaves into the little jars that now sport new handwritten labels. The jars are resting nicely in my spice cabinet, looking all sorts of official and home spun. Ideas churning in my mind: hmmm....wonder if I can turn this into a Christmas gift for someone.

I still won't make much of a dent in those jars (unless I do come up with a gift idea!) And yet I still can't bring myself to take the easy way out - add those jars to the recyclable bin. They have a purpose. I'll find it. Little project by little project. I am determined to finish what I started.

Backyard Lessons

My mom and I take a girls' weekend to the Amish countryside every fall. Lots of shopping and no housework. Bliss. Really.

This last trip fell in early November. We were gearing up Christmas shopping with hopes of being finished by Thanksgiving to ensure we "enjoyed" the season without the crowded shops. Sometimes we're successful. Sometimes we're not. This particular trip, at least as far as I was concerned, was a good one. I had found my present. I bought it and then later informed Bruce his shopping for *me* was complete. Luckily he was relieved I took the pressure off.

So the gift? Oh yeah. A six-compartment bird house. Big. Birdhouse. It sits upon a 4x4 at one corner of my vegetable garden . It sat through rain. It sat through frost. It sat through snow. It emerged as a popular spot in our yard as spring made it clear it had sprung.

Throughout the last month we've watched busy industrious birds. The kids will sit, yes really, the 2 year old and the almost 5 year old will sit mesmerized by this house. They were transfixed by those small flying creatures carrying twigs and long grasses in and out of that tiny building. Of the six compartments of our birdhouse, at least 4 have some type of nest.

Last week the family thought I was hearing things. (It's a well established fact that I'm slightly off my rocker so why not?) Whenever I got close to the bird house I could swear I heard chirping. I could see nothing -- but I could hear enough to know something had hatched.

Today? Vindication! Today we saw proof. I was outside watering the gardens when I heard distinct, loud chirping. I turned just in time to see a mother bird settle onto the resting ledge and the wide open, small infant bird beak poke out in response to her presence.

So yeah. Listen. I've got cameras and I'm not afraid to use them. In fact, I'm a tad obsessed with using them. I've discovered if you stand quiet and still long enough, you can 'almost' close enough to the bird house to get good photos. In fact, you CAN get close enough that a little cropping produces the shot you had hoped you'd capture when you set out on this audubon adventure. Something like this:

Milestones

Five years ago I was huge. I was perpetually hot. I was swollen so badly, it's amazing the woodpecker that thinks the vinyl on my neighbors trim is yummy did not try to snack on my ankles. My blood pressure was starting to creep to the 'danger zone.' I had a month left to go before life changed completely. At least in theory.


On June 28th, 2002 I would check into the hospital a very pregnant woman with pregnancy induced hyper-tension. On June 30th I'd simply be woman that to used to have high-blood pressure and who had a nifty excuse for not fitting into last year's summer wardrop. I'd also be holding the smallest human being I'd ever seen.

Logan wasn't as preemie. He was considered full-term albeit born before his due-date. He was not "small" as newborns go. He was decidedly within the realm of "average" size - and yet he was the first person I'd ever seen within seconds of birth. Those long, tiny fingers that wrapped so very tightly around my own. Those eyelids that would press so tightly together at the first hint of light. The toes that would spread and stretch if you rubbed the arch of his foot.

He was an alert baby from the get-go. Those big blue eyes staring not just at you, but into you. Logan always had the "wise old man" look from the start. The gaze that made you feel as if he knew all he needed to or could at least take in enough to fill in the blanks for himself.

He was a happy boy. When he cried it was clearly for a reason. He was rarely fussy for the sake of being so. As he grew he displayed a natural curiosity about most things, albeit a comfort level in having someone tackle the mundane for him. I mean really, he *could* dress himself a lot sooner than he actually did so with regularity. . . but those buttons got in the way of some really good play time.

He's not "quite" five yet - but he may as well be. Yesterday was his birthday party - quite early in the grand scheme of things and yet just the right time. The early celebration meant avoiding "summer vacation overlap" that can crop up for "summer babies." He had a nice group of 5 friends from school join us for cake and loads of play. I sat back marveling over how 5, 5-year old boys (or close enough to 5 yrs old) could get along so well. Granted, all of them need to perfect the "Look before you swing the plastic bat and whack the other guy in the head instead of the ball" concept.

Tomorrow I will take Logan to preschool one last time. I'm not sure if I'll manage to do so without tears. He's grown so much these two years at this school. He's made friends that did not involve my 'blind playdate' intervention on his behalf. He's grown more independent in ways it's hard for me to fathom him doing as I look at those earliest photos of him lying with clenched fists and knees pulled in tight to abs.

It's almost not the same person.

And yet it is.

Today, when he tips his head, wrinkles his brow and scrunches his nose as he envelopes himself in the deep concentration of study, I see that same little child. The one that could furrow a brow as he shifted weight from side to side in an attempt to flip over. When Logan's smile takes full possession of his countenance, I see the infant that would fill with pride over getting his toes in his own mouth or at sitting upright for the first time. When he struggles with a new task, shaking fists in frustration before trying again, I see the boy that would take a first step and fall, only to lift his arms for help up so he could give it another go.

This is just a new beginning in what is still the beginning of his life. This milestone, this prime moment for reflection, will likely be dwarfed by future moments - 'bigger' graduations, dates, cars, jobs, marriages, etc. This is nothing in the grand scheme, and yet it's everything. It's standing at the end of an era and start of another.

It won't be a last day looking to the walls of these classrooms to identify the 'right' art project. In three short months Megan will begin her tenure in that same arena. And yet, it is *his* last time and for some reason, that's hitting me more than I expected it would.

Late...again

Logan has spent this last year attending preschool three mornings a week. Each of those mornings had it's own routine - but not in a good way.

Each morning we'd start off great. Moving through paces on time and in good order. And then the final 5 minutes - let's just say it included a lot of me saying things like "Get down stairs NOW or [pick a toy] is in time out for the rest of the day! We're going to be late!"

It seems a lot of my life fits this 'last minute, running late" mode recently - and I can only blame some of that on the kids.

I began this post with the intent of telling you that the ground hog playing Moby Dick to my rendition of Ahab has been relocated several miles away to a park. Yet, it occurs to me that I'm a bit behind in even writing about "Peaho the beast" (name courtesy of Megan) and its lust for all things green in my yard.

Once I covered my victory over my tormentor, I was going to share some photos and/or commentary about the recent "no-kids-just-grown-ups" weekend. But, well, ahhh, I'm about 9 days late about writing something mushy-gushy about my 10th wedding annivesary and just slightly fewer days late in mentioning that we were even taking a trip to celebrate the occasion.

It's not worth the time it'd take to explain why the sometimes vaguely referenced wedding from hell was causing me heartburn again. Let me ask you this though - have you ever known a bride to turn down a bridal shower? Not just turn it down, but get down right NASTY about it? I didn't think so. I may need to investigate all-natural calming remedies before the big day.

I'm sure there are other things too. Things I can't even begin to muster much semblence of memory for. And yet, perhaps that's the answer - you know, to the question of "why am I so far behind and out of the loop lately?" Let's put it this way, although I actually do multi-task quite well, I'm not the best juggler. I've been doing a lot of juggling of late. I'm doing it right now as we speak. I *should* be in bed resting up for the "quite early but it's for a reason" birthday party for Logan tomorrow...but I'm not. I'm writing this rambling incoherent monologue and then I'm going to return a few work related emails, jot a few notes to friends looking for playdates next week that I've not replied to in days and then maybe, just, maybe, I'll wander down to bed -- thankful that the brand new central air unit is finally in and working.