Cluck and Tweet

What I was going to do, but didn't. And what I did do. Thank goodness.

I was going to write about some to-die-for pesto and some fabulous-to-freeze carrot soup (I'm in fully freaking out it's almost fall stock up the icebox mode).  Or, I was going to write about Alison's great houseful of art-- ps, she and Sam used to give each other the gift of said art for anniversaries-- and how we have a few pieces of great art, but I've got an ever growing list I thought I could share of the "someday" works we hope to own.  Or, I was going to write about Max throwing the longest temper tantrum in the history of four year olds last week (but not really, because there wouldn't be much to say besides headache. scream. headache. scream. fast forward until past bedtime, and big. glass. of. wine).

But I can't write about any of that, because really, my week was just too busy.  I mean, who has time to create a post when the fair is in town?  

I HATE THE FAIR, by the way, and never, ever would have taken them if my mom wouldn't have said that four letter word in front to two very elephant-like in memory grandsons.  

But I went. And my kids truly had a lovely time, getting on rides run by men who were definitely possibly stoned,

 and learning how it feels to have a rifle in their hands. 

Good times, people. Good times.

And when I wasn't running around the midway this week? I was clamoring through a slide far too small for adults.

 And loving every minute of it, because it meant I had a solo date with my girl. 

No errands. No big plans. Just sharing a scone, playing at the park, and eating lunch-- just the two of us, although it was unexpected (the boys clearly needed a break in routine that involved putt putt golf and an adult that was not their mother) and required me to totally juggles my schedule.

And this weekend? Well, this weekend we traveled to Traverse City, to watch this hot guy 

(I mean, come on-- look at those legs!) rip it up with his buddies on a crazy in-town race course one day, and a monster climbing hill course the next.  It rained like crazy the first day, and was windy and cold the next-- and those are some tough conditions to do the "hurry up and wait" game with three littles beside you. 

 It didn't matter one bit though, because I forgot how fun it is to be on the sidelines cheering for someone you love doing something they love-- 

and doing it well, I might add.

So that's it, folks.  My last week of August, wrapped up in the joy of being open to whatever opportunities came our way-- even if they seemed less-than-ideal upon first glance.  It's a good reminder for me as we head into September, and a good opportunity for you to practice some free family fun of your own this week (unless the awful fair is in your town now. Then you're going to have to shell out the dough).  Otherwise, just do this:: clear an afternoon or morning...or a day or a week... from your schedule and just see what pops up. Or plan a solo date with one of the kids. Or do something with your partner that is all about their passion, just to watch 'em light up.  What a way to welcome in the month that brings us closer to warm fires and lots of tucked in family nights...

Use Your Imagination

Today I have no pictures for you except for the ones in your head, because I am not at home.  I am at my parents' house, taking care of my mother who is 78 and has dementia.  So I'm just going to help you imagine what that's like. 

First, a disclaimer:  I know it could be a lot worse. 

Imagine:  blue skies, white clouds, boat horns, whisper winds, bobbing daisies....and Clorox cleaner.  My proud father, bless his heart, will not take more help or ever complain about anything.  But he's one man.  And he's 81.  And a half.  So I look to this as a great opportunity to reach some cobwebs that are out of his reach or take some rugs to the laundromat or wash some floors.  And, honestly people, I really am happy to do it.  It's productive, I'm here and able, and my mom needs constant vigilance, but she doesn't need me hovering over her all day.  But it just so happens that after a summer of rainy-cold days, this week has had beautiful weather.  Of course.

Imagine:  orange barrels, flashes of traffic, whooshes of cars, McDonald's Mocha Frappe, someone in the passenger seat who is 78 and has dementia telling you, in no uncertain terms, how to drive.  As she spills her coffee (which is half cream and a little ice, so don't worry about a burn, I've got that covered at least) all down the front of her white shirt.  Which is kept immaculately clean by my father.  And which I cover with a jacket for the rest of the day because I can't get her shirt off of her.  

Imagine:  shiny floors, fresh rugs, Wii whees, shuffling feet, abandoned walkers, "Hot, hot, hot!"  Jimmie is here with me.  And he really has been great.  Of course he has gotten to play the Wii three-times-more-per-day than he would at home with no chore to earn it.  He had McDonald's for lunch.  With a strawberry shake.  He had ice cream for dessert after dinner.  Did I mention that it's been sunny?  Because I have a bit of guilt that my son will turn into one of "those" kids.  While I was cleaning my mother was hanging tightly to the counter in the kitchen.  She doesn't have a lick of balance and the walker is not always remembered so she hangs on like a it's her parachute line, the deck rail of a keeling boat, the edge of a bridge where she's decided the bungee jump is not such a great idea.  Yesterday she was hanging around the stove as I cleaned the kitchen.  All of a sudden I hear, "Hot! Hot! Hot!"  and I look over to see the front burner on, coils red, heat exploding.  I shuffle her away, again.  Again.  Until it cools.  Because this adds a whole new element (no pun intended) to this story. 

Kate had the great idea of taking off the burner knobs.  She has a toddler.  There are similarities.

Imagine:  Granny from Madagascar2 showing up at 8 pm and staying until 8 am.  Except add a halo above her head.  And call her Marie.

Imagine:  sitting with family you haven't seen in a year, not worrying about laundry, sleeping more than 3 hours at a time, laughing, clearing your head, letting someone take care of you, putting your feet up, allowing someone else to drive, seeing every day worries flit through your head, briefly, occasionally, an not running after them because there's nothing you can do about them.  Except let them go.  And enjoy where you are. 

That's what I hope my dad is doing. 

Just One Of Those Days...

You know the one.  The day that you get stuck in the laundry basket and can't get out and your mom won't help you until she finds the camera and takes a bad picture.

Yeah, it's one of those days.

My children will so need some good therapy.

...alison...

I Heart The Library... Which Is Just A Really Geeky Thing To Admit.

This is a picture of our library.  

Go through the left-hand door, up some stairs, turn right, up some more stairs, and turn left through the old wooden doors and you've found the Harbor Springs Public Library.  Or is it private?  I'm not sure, but it's small and quaint and crammed full of books and the librarian scares me.  Which is what librarians are supposed to do, right?

In fact I would have some pictures of the inside of the library, but the last time we were there, Jimmie got yelled at for sliding his feet across the carpeting in an effort to build up static electricity to shock his sister.  He handled the admonishment quite well; I was embarrassed beyond belief.  

Also, we have a couple of books overdue.

It has a cozy seating area that kind of looks like this:

but imagine more eclectic seating, windows that look out onto Main Street and books, lots and lots of books. And the smell of fudge, because there's a fudge shop right below the library.

I don't know about you, but fudge and books really might be heaven.

When I go back to my home town, from time-to-time we'll stop at the library.  It's a beautiful facility, not at all the library I remember downtown, next to the fire station.  The one where I knew exactly where to find all the Edgar Eager books.  The one where you wrote your name on the inside cover right next to where the librarian stamped the due date.  When I go to the new library I can still find my name in the old books.  It's a kind of magic all to itself.

I love exploring libraries and realizing all of the information and stories and thoughts that are out there to be explored.  Last visit to the local library we scored this book:

Anna and I are working on one the projects from this book and will be posting it soon, I promise.  It involves sponges.

Checking out books involves giving the librarian your name.  She hand-stamps the books and you're good to go.  I love that.

There's been talk about a new library.  One with computers and lots of books and access to much more than this library has to offer.  I'd like to say that I would prefer the old over the new, but that probably wouldn't be true.  I'll like a new library.  I love technology.  Any place filled with books is my kind of place.  But I won't give up the old, either.  

I think there's always room for both.

...alison...

To become a more mindful mama, I wash. I dry. I repeat.

I know, I know, some feminists will shudder when I say that right now, this

is one of the holiest places on earth to me. A place where my actions are defined, a place where my breathing is slow and purposeful. A place that embodies what I love about my life, my work, my purpose.

I am reading an amazing book right now, An Altar in the World, by Barbara Brown Taylor.  In it, I'm remembering, or awakening to, the very real possibilities to see divine in the everyday world.  This is not a post on finding God, or on faith, or even on my need to have a spiritual life guiding my world. 

Instead, it is going to simply be this: a post on washing my family's dishes.

When I take time to focus all of my attention on washing the dishes, I notice things.  I am aware of the warmth of the water on my skin.  I can smell the sweet basil fragrance of the dish soap. I can taste the last bites of waffle and strong morning coffee. I can give thanks with my breath for the fact that I am able to experience these senses.

When I take time to put the dishes away-- without making the next to-do list in my head or dancing around to the radio or shouting at the kids to "hurry up and get ready" (for something, always something), I can pause and smile at the red ring of crayon that never comes out of my white mixing bowl, unsure if it was Max or Lizzie who put it there. I can trace that circle and feel my love for my children exploding inside me.  

When I take time to dry the silverware, or wipe the last bits of water off the counter, I can soak in the music of small voices, the laughter and arguments and growing abilities to make-up all by themselves.  I can give myself a few minutes to recharge.

I'm not a person who comes by a zen-like nature naturally.  I'm the first to jump on the self-deprecating bandwagon on this front.  Yet, there is something about washes dishes, something beautiful and simple, that makes me understand that I have that peace inside me.  I only have to make room for it to surface. 

My real life, grown up pen pal. That still loves to color, I might add.

I was supposed to post yesterday.

But I have a really, really good excuse for why I didn't post. Ready?

Because I was meeting-- as in, really meeting-- this wonderful, intelligent, articulate and lovely person:

Oh wait. Sorry. Max was the photographer, so there are several grass shots before one with actual people.

Ah, much better.

This is Sus.  Sus and I "met" in the blogosphere what seems like forever, but was maybe a year, ago. We have so much in common that meeting in person felt more like catching up with an old friend-- right down to the unfinished thoughts that kept coming out as we switched subjects to pack in the most conversations possible.

With Lizzie and Max in tow, we met in a little lakeside town on the coast of Lake Michigan.  Throughout lunch my children wiggled and squirmed, or just played with the playdough and crayons my friend was kind enough to bring along for them.  And like any other long time friend with small children, Sus just rolled with it, helped where she could, and graciously ignored the fact that still-- 17 months after giving birth to my daughter-- can barely eek out a sentence without the brain spasms that induce words like "like" and "um."

So there you have it.  I couldn't post yesterday because I was driving and lunching and laughing and talking with my friend.  Who is not crazy or really a 50 year-old man or any of those other possibilities that people draw up in their minds when they here the words "we met on the Internet."

A friend, by the way, who is a fabulous writer and designer and mama who just so happens to be delivering a guest post right here on Cluck and Tweet on Monday.... 

Book Worms

So it hasn't exactly been summer around here lately.  I'm not complaining, really, because the not-summer action that has left us donning wool socks and fleece during the day and dragging out the winter duvet at night, has also given me plenty to giggle about with the little ones.

Max, for example, has made his fall boots a wardrobe staple, even when he braves the elements in shorts.

We've also made quite a game out of flying Bla, Lizzie's favorite doll.

And of course, I've been taking a lot of pictures of myself. Because that soooo passes the time.

Ahem.

While we would maybe, possibly, sort-of SO prefer to be out soaking up sunshine and temperatures above 50, we have been taking advantage of the time inside by curling up with a lot of books.  Summer reading, to me, is meant to be fun (for the most part) and just in case you are having weather like ours, I thought I'd give you a peek into what is filling our lazy couch (and porch, bundled in rain coats and blankets) days.  

Me:

Okay, notice how I did the whole disclaimer about summer reading being FUN? Notice how I did not say "good" before books?  This is the whole reason why:

I'll just come out and say it: if you need to pass the time with mindless reading that involves the kind of romance that you'd never really want your daughter reading but you are happy to get lost in yourself-- look no further.  I swear folks, it takes a lot for me-- the person with a creative writing degree, the person who has studied literature and written countless papers about the craft-- to admit that I actually devoured the entire series in four or five days.  But I did. The writing is not good. The story, well, I guess the fact that I read it in less than a week says something.

Okay, we need to move on, before I start waxing poetic about Bella and Edward. I mean, seriously??

The Outcast

I just finished this the other night. It's a heartbreaker in a lot of ways, but it was a good story with pretty good, solid, and simple writing.   I like summer books that I can read quickly and still get lost inside, and this was one of those reads.

Buddhism for Mothers of Young Children

While I am not a Buddhist, I have studied Buddhist psychology rather extensively, and find so many principles of this religion appealing.  This book is more about applying the Buddhist principals of presence to mothering, and it is so full of little gems that this is actually the third time I've read it. 

Oliver Kitteridge

I'm reading this now and like it so far. It has this interesting mess of characters-- including people you love to hate, which normally turns me off-- but the New England town and its cast of true Eastern folks has me.  It won the pulitzer this year, and I can tell you right now, it is a lot easier to digest than last year's winner, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.  

I'm also going to attempt to read some Tolstoy this summer. 

Because I always feel like trying to revisit a classic after indulging in, um, vampire smut.

Oh, and with the kids?

Max and Lizzie and I are lost in the world of Beatrix Potter, for the thousandth time.

And Noah? He's re-read the Percy Jackson series at least twice, and is now re-reading all of Harry Potter. Please, someone suggest something else for us! 

I Have Been Hit by a Truck, Plus... $50 Radishes!

Most of you will be glad to learn that I have not, technically or literally, been hit by a truck. No, I was hit by the 4th of July.  

The recovery period might be the same.

I'm not a big holiday person.  I don't like having a day where everything is scheduled and I have to be somewhere at some time and people have expectations and they sometimes are disappointed.  I don't like those days.  

To me the best days are usually surprises.  Something happens that you didn't expect and you remember it forever.

I love surprises.  But not surprise parties.  

Remember that, now.

So the picture above is not of the 4th of July because the only picture I have of that day is this:

Can't you just feel the excitement?

The picture that's at the top of this post represents a good day.  We were at our local farm market, a place that usually is the antithesis of 4th of July in downtown Harbor Springs.  In addition to the little garden we've planted, Pond Hill also has a trout pond, and for 25 cents one can buy little nuggets of fish food:

to throw to the fish:

Which, in their teeming masses, kind of do represent Harbor Springs on the 4th of July:

It's still rather calming:

Even though I know that some kind of vicious circle-of-life thing is going on underneath it all, it's always thrilling to track down what you think is a gaggle of geese and find this, instead, making all the racket:

He has a way with the ladies.  And I prefer him to firecrackers at 1 in the morning.

Yesterday, as we passed the farm, which we inevitably do twelve times a day on the way back from school/barn/town/doctor/coffee, we pulled in to actually find a mass of humanity parked all the way down to the road.  Apparently 15 baby pigs (okay, piglets) had been born.  

We never saw them.  Remember my aversion to crowds.  Plus, how much larger can they get in a few days?

Instead, we checked our garden plot and came away with these:

Amazing, little dollops of red radishes that Anna grew from seed.  SEED, I tell you!  Okay, we all know that's how it works, but really, to plant a seed in the ground and see it turn into something you can eat, it's pretty miraculous.  And I don't really even like radishes that much.  

So far it's all we've harvested from our $50 garden plot.  Therefore, 5 radishes at $50 = $10 a radish.  

They were delicious.

...alison...

Earning Freedom...to blast the heck out of each other

Let me begin by admitting that I am a peace-loving, tree-hugging, homespun granola mom.  I'm the kind of mom who swore she would never, ever, ever let a "violent" toy of any kind anywhere near her house. In fact, I probably preached it to every other mother who let their child run around with cap guns or G.I. Joes. And those mom's will probably call me laughing and saying "na na na" if they read this post. Or, more accurately, if they see this photo:

or this one:

um,or this one:

Sometimes, the ideals we dream up don't always match reality. Like when a certain first born turned four and everything in the house-- from cooked pasta noodles to his toothbrush-- became a gun or a bazooka or a laser blaster, even though he'd never had any exposure to such things.  Slowly, slowly, Noah (and Justin) wore me down. We got squirt guns. And then, after a trip to Florida in which we found a closet full of Justin's old green army guys in his grandmother's condo, I caved on those too.

And now? Now, we have had to institute a "kill only on Tuesdays" rule with Max, because his favorite game in the universe is to seek and destroy the lives of little plastic green (and red and blue) men.

I will admit to having a pretty serious complex about all this.  I will admit that I have spent many a day fretting about the mini wars that are taking place in my sandbox, or the galactic light saber battles occurring in the field behind our house.  I also am aware that in many ways, this has been one of the biggest lessons in mothering for me.  I am learning to be a little more fluid in my parenting. I am learning to be a lot less judging and a lot more accepting. Because I have a couple of those boys who still-- despite the squirt guns and green army guys-- turns every stick he finds into a gun (Noah, of course, needs to add historically appropriate marching to whatever weapon he's using).

Yes, it often puts me into a tailspin of "does nothing I say sink in?" or "how can we talk about peace and have this be the reaction?" But then, I remember these things:  The way both boys are so gentle and kind and patient with their sister.

The way Noah is a dedicated friend, who would never hurt anyone's feelings on purpose. 

In fact, he's the kid that would rather carry an ant outside than actually squash it.  And Justin and I basically committed vole genocide this spring, thanks to seven dead lilac trees which resulted in a call to a pest management firm. Hmmm.

The way Max prays for peace and joy for all kids in this world (by his own volition) each night.

The way they use their imagination to make up these universes they get lost in, even if it isn't exactly the way I would envision their play. 

Because after all, it is their play...I am just here to keep reading the books of love and compassion, keep talking about the importance of using words and not fists, and keep giving them hugs. Because in the end, I think those things might just be sinking in after all.

How Can I Top This? Dying, Affairs, Divorce, Father's Day. All Wrapped Up in One.

Did you hear?

1.  Michael Jackson died.

No, really.  I think the TV stations may be keeping it all hush-hush for some reason.  You'll be hard-pressed to find anyone talking about it.

2.  Farrah Fawcett died.

Did you covet her hair?  Even though I always played Kate from Charlie's Angels, I got up extra early to feather my hair just right.  Now, 30 years later, when it's no longer in style, my hair feathers just beautifully.  Go figure.

3.  Jon and Kate are divorcing.

I don't watch this show.  She appears to be a shrew and he is lackadaisical as a parent.  I just can't figure out why that marriage didn't work.

4.  The governor of South Carolina flew to Argentina for 5 days to break up with his married                      Argentinian girlfriend, and covered it all up by saying he was on the Appalachian Trail.  That's some      quick thinking, I tell you.

You can't make this stuff up.

5.  My dog is chewing a bone.

This is the excitement that is my life.

But on Sunday, let me tell you, on Sunday it was a whole different story entirely.  Perhaps you remember it was Father's Day, and while Kate was being all crafty (and sly, because she's just that way) I was my husband's slave.  

That's not entirely true.  On our birthdays and Father's Day and Mother's Day, we don't necessarily buy anything for one another, but the person who is being feted doesn't have to lift a finger all stinkin' day and gets to decide what activities we'll be doing.  It works really well on November 23 and Mother's Day.  That's all I'm saying about that.   

So I got up with the dogs (Sam does this 363 days out of the year.  Every relationship should contain one person who sleeps well and another who doesn't.) before 6, let them out and hung with them in the yard, fed them and then took them into the TV room and promptly fell back asleep until 8 am.  

At 8 in the morning Sam was raring to go on a 5 mile walk with the dogs.  He wanted company.

Check.

We came back and Jimmie and I made eggs benedict.  It was very good and I should have posted a recipe, but Ah!  The sauce separated!  Basically it was a lot of butter and in my opinion anything containing a lot of butter has no choice but to taste good.

At two o'clock we kayaked into town.  It took 3 hours.

Let's just say that even if the weather had been wonderful, we wouldn't have done this on Mother's Day.

 

It was awesome.  Just simply a great day.  Filled with sunshine, two kids who aren't whiny and just may have restored my faith in humanity, and a happy husband:

  

Who gets me out doing things I normally wouldn't do.  Which is one of the greatest benefits of being married to this man.  That and his arms.  Muscles aren't bad, either.

Oh, and he's a pretty fantastic dad, too.

But don't you dare tell him I said any of this.

Chores

Our kids have been getting allowances of $2 a week for awhile now.  I'm not even sure what they do to deserve such charity, but we've now determined that at 10 and 12 years old, they need to earn the money we give them.  

That's one of the good things about the downturn of our economy:  our children might, just might, value the dollar a little bit more.  And perhaps not feel so entitled.  And maybe realize all that we actually do for them.  And learn the value of working for a dollar, not simply declaring your room a National Park and charging 50 cents admission.  Jimmie, I'm talking to you.

We're of the mindset, my husband and I, not the children, of course, that some chores need to be done simply because you're part of this family, and because we feed and clothe you and show you a good time, the least you can do is the following:

1.  Make your bed.

2.  Set the table.

3.  Fill the water glasses at dinner.

4.  Feed the pets.

5.  Clear the table.

6.  Wash dishes.

7.  Empty the dishwasher.

8.  Put away clean clothes.

And we have additional requirements for family movie night and/or earning your 30 minute - 1 hour of computer or Wii time which might include any or all of the above plus:

1.  Cleaning your room.

2.  Cleaning the playroom.

Until today, June 20, 2009, this all has been enough to earn $8 a month, plus time off for good behavior.  But times, they are a changin', and today I made up a Chore Chart and Payment Sheet.

The Chore Chart includes chores (duh!) and their corresponding payment.  Chores like cleaning bathrooms (1/2 bath = $1, full bath = $2), and washing Mama's car (inside = $4 maximum... depending on the quality of the job done, outside = $4 maximum... for the same reason).  Sam's cars are not included because he's a bit of a perfectionist.  A bit.

If you'd like your own, personal chore chart, here's a link to mine.  Change it however you feel necessary or keep it the same or just take a peek at it and laugh at our attempt at slave labor:

Download Chore chart

Our Pay Sheet is for the kids to keep track of the chores they've completed for the week and it gives them the opportunity to add up the amount of money they've earned.  (It's actually my lame attempt at having them do some math during the summer.  Shhh!)

Download Pay sheet.4

I would really love to hear any and all ways you have to entice your kids to help around the house or what your personal philosophy is regarding allowances.  Leave a comment with your suggestions or advice.  This parenting gig needs constant tweaking.  

Had I known...

...alison...

I'm Only Doing This Because I Have To

I love what having children does to you. 

Oh, I'm not talking about the stretch marks, the sagging parts, the interrupted sleep, the constant headache, the repeated phrases.  

I'm thinking about how having children expands your world, makes you stand in sleet in order to watch a soccer game, forces you to read the whole Twilight series to make sure it's appropriate (for the record, the first two were okayed, the second two were not, unless our 12-year-old was willing to have "the talk," and discuss appropriate behaviors.  She hasn't had the least bit interest in the second two.  I can't figure out why.), it gives you an excuse to watch the movie to make sure it's appropriate (which we decided, it is, with discussion related to the fact that you, my daughter, will never meet an Edward Cullen because he doesn't exist),  requires you to play games like Michiganopoly which hails the University of Michigan, the arch rival of the university I attended, Michigan State, or Risk which always makes me feel attacked since, well, the whole game is about attacking or being attacked.

I'm constantly being forced to do things I wouldn't normally do.  

I like structure, although I'm not structured, and I'm not great with change, although I'm trying to change that.  And I prefer to know all about something before I do it, like knowing how to swim before taking swimming lessons.

All of this in an effort not to look stupid.  

How am I doing?

Two years ago I was initiated into the world of football when our son (who I would refer to as my baby if that wouldn't be totally embarrassing... you may admire my restraint and aspire to be as... as... well, as restraining, I guess).  When I saw the pads go on those 8-year-old shoulders (really?  I let him play football at 8?!) I may have audibly gasped.  The dads around me chuckled and patted me on my own shoulder and told me how safe football is, safer than soccer, but my mind is thinking, then why do they need all those pads?  And then the helmet got stuck on his head because this boy has an abnormally large head, I'm not kidding,  and that was probably the most traumatic incident so far of his football career.

I've since relaxed, and help him on with his pads, and cheer like I'm at an NFL game when Jimmie gets a tackle, and don't say anything when his father tells him to hit the other guy before the other guy hits him.  I don't admonish him to play nice or smile at the opposing player when they're down in the three point position.  I used to.  But I don't now.  Is that a good thing?

They're so cute in their uniforms, almost like a Halloween costume.  I'm sure that's the look they're going for.

Anna's new obsession love is horse shows.  She likes to ride Western.  

English riding is elegant, poised, fashionable:

kind of like the English.  

Western is all flash and a blatant overuse of the Bedazzler:

Subtile, isn't it?

Anna competed in a borrowed outfit:

She asked after the show if she could get a Western outfit of her own for the next competition.  There was a girl at the competition, a really good rider, by the way, whom I made fun of.  I know that's awful and very immature of me, but the girl was decked out, head to toe, in yellow:  yellow hat, yellow shirt, yellow pants, yellow boots, yellow blankets.  Imagine something like this, only in yellow:

  

And remember, I am new to this.  And I once broke up with a guy because he wore Wranglers.  

Wranglers are cool in Wyoming.  Not so much in Michigan.

So, being the mature mother that I am, not at all catty, when Anna asked about obtaining a Western outfit all her own I couldn't help myself and leaned over and whispered,

"How about one that's all yellow?"  *wink*wink*

She looked at me like her eyes had been bedazzled and said, "Really?!  That would be so cool!"

I'll be ordering my own Bedazzler* soon and should you see me at either a football game or equestrian show I'll be the one yelling the loudest, sequins sparkling in the sun.

*In case you're wondering, despite the many times I mention the Bedazzler, I have not been paid to endorse it or any other product.  In fact, I can safely say I rarely mention said product in general conversation.  Just ask my friends.  

...alison...

The difference a year makes

I'm just wondering if anyone has seen my baby girl?

You know, the itsy, bitsy red-head with the big blue eyes?

Because I can only find this lovely little person running climbing all over the place.

I mean, really?

Good thing she's still so. darn. cute.  Because she's growing up waaaaaayyyyy too fast.

Get. Dirty.

Summer's here!

So please, stop what you are doing and go dig in the dirt...

or splash in the lake (and then dig in the sand)

Whatever you choose to do, let this pile up on sunny days

because in one or two cycles, it becomes this instead, which feels like meditation, not housework.

So go on. Go PLAY.  And if you'd like come back here later and tell us what ways you soak up the great outdoors in the summertime...

Who Are You? Who Who Who Who?

Sometimes my children do something and I think to myself, "Who are you?"

You in your western wear (that isn't yours) and on that big thing that looks like a horse, acting like you know what you're doing, tightening a girth, running around a barrel:

When did it happen that you know more about something (in this case, horses) than I do?  That in this area I would have to ask you for advice instead of the other way around?  I'm not sure I like this.

And you, Mister Goalie Mon, you know that a ball will be heading for you any moment, right?  Followed by a foot?  A foot wearing cleats?

You might want to move.

And, by the way, where did you learn to do this?  Because it's not something I taught you.  Remember me?  I'm the mom.  

I'm at that place with my kids where I have to learn to let go a little bit.  Separate from them a little bit.  Let them lead the way.  A little bit.

A woman I know used to talk about "honoring" who her kids are.  And although it's the only sane thing she has ever said to me, it makes sense.  I'm not at the "friend" stage with either child, but some day I hope to be.  And now is the time to lay the ground work for that future relationship.  By honoring and admiring and liking who they are.  And they aren't me.  

But there might be a strong family resemblance.

Woof! (There It Is)

 I can tell you how this sweet, cherub-cheeked child o' mine

 

whose first word was dog and who called forget-me-nots "forgot-the-polka-dots" became this

 

my 12-year-old tween whose vocabulary consists of the words "horse," "dog," and "kitty," and who is WEARING MY HAT!  I know.  It could be worse.

 

And I get how this hunka hunka burnin' love (whose mother may or may not have thrown out her back carrying this child) can turn into this:

 

a ten-year-old boy who can tell you who won the Kentucky Derby three years ago, who loves the University of Michigan despite (or because of) the fact that his mother graduated from Michigan State, and who is not allowed in the bathroom with any type of reading material.

What I can't quite figure out is how this demure little puppy with the ginormous paws who could pass for a black lab in a heartbeat

 

became this Great Dane puppy with ginormous paws in 7 months:

 

A puppy who has chewed up her owner's glasses, and shoes, and has an affinity for toilet paper (what is it with the toilet paper?), and who loves the corpse bear she brought with her from the kennel:

 

This puppy who has a really tough time getting comfortable:

 

And who has stolen our couch.

 

We kind of love her.

My own personal mini me

I'm just wondering...

do you see ANY resemblance?

We laugh at so many photos of me as a baby, because the boys are always going, "What's Lizzie doing here?"

And even Lizzie herself is amused:

probably because this is as close to a time machine (as in, "this is you, in three years") as she'll ever get.

Super Max: take 1001

The Super Superhero out-takes. Sometimes, a camera is lucky enough to capture the essence of its subject-- that core energy that is life and personality and all that good stuff. When taking pictures for the capes section of this post, Max and I had quite the photo shoot.  We laughed. He jumped. And Jumped. And said "lemme see, lemme seeeee Mama!" no less than a thousand times after hearing the shutter click, click, click.  So here's a few of the out-takes, because for some reason, I think they sum up my middle child just perfectly.

Please ignore that gross mess of cords on the floor, and instead think of some photo shoot you could do with your one child-- every time I've done this with either of the boys, their personalities shine through the lens in amazing ways.

Never mind the fact that these are all blurry-- blurry and Max go together just fine. --K

Amen, Sistah

see more dog and puppy pictures

I grew up with a mother who often called upon the name of the Lord.  And not in vain, either.  No, more like, "If the Lord wills...," or "Do you know the Lord?" or "This is the day the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be glad in it!"   Lordy, Lordy, that woman could talk some Jesus.

I grew up with a father who is a Gideon, those people you can thank for reading material when you've forgotten your book and you're alone in a motel room.  My dad talks to Jesus like the Man himself has just cooked him breakfast, like they just finished a great round of golf (Jesus won, of course, but complimented my dad on his great game), like they're Facebook friends.

That man can pray.

I grew up watching the Billy Graham crusades.  It didn't help that we only had three channels on our TV, and that was when the aluminum foil was placed just right on the antennae, the wind was coming from the East and I was standing on one leg, breathing out of my left nostril.  There just weren't a lot of choices for my viewing pleasure.

 

He looks rather mild here, but homeboy had some scary eyebrows.  And at the end of every night of every crusade he would call people to the altar.  If you had even a shadow of a doubt, that you were going to heaven, you needed to get your butt down that aisle and in front of that altar.  Or at least you should call their 1-800 number.  Operators were standing by.

A shadow of a doubt.  I've always had a shadow of a doubt.  Not that I don't have faith, I do, but who am I to say that I should be let into Heaven?

This little "shadow of a doubt" has always haunted me.  It's the reason that when I would come home from high school and no one was home, not even my mother who, to the point of being annoying, was ALWAYS home, I was sure the Rapture had come and left me behind.

 

I'm at home in the closet, hiding under some dirty clothes.  If you, too, have been left behind in the Rapture, that's where you can find me.

I do pray, a lot, about all sorts of things like the lonely person I see standing on the corner, please sweet Jesus, send him some lovin'.  Or for my children, lots and lots of pleas for their well-being.  The occasional thank you, which is so important, but not as urgent.  The rote prayers before dinner and bed.  But I hate to pray out loud.  To me it's such a private, personal time, a time that is fraught with great potential for embarrassment. 

So I avoid it.

The month of May is my month for teaching Sunday school in our little church.  I teach the 4th and 5th graders, but I haul in anyone from 3rd to 8th grades if they want to join us rather than sit in the service.  I'm an equal-opportunity Sunday school teacher.

This month I threw the curriculum to the wind and decided to talk about prayer.  And guess what?  My first week teaching was prayer week. I hadn't even known, so I know it was a sign. 

Our first week (and second, and part of the third...) we made Prayer Journals.  I bought stickers and brought out the scrapbooking supplies I have at home and each kid designed his or her own prayer journal.

 

I love the idea of a prayer journal.  I had used prayer journals myself and wanted our kids to understand how writing down prayers, especially worries, is a great way of relinquishing them. 

 

We talked about some prayer warriors of different faiths, like Gandhi, who meditated for an hour a day and two hours on stressful days. 

Some kids wrote quotes on their journals.  Bow wrote the quote from Gandhi, "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."  Kate's Noah wrote, in stickers, "God, we are forever friends."

 

As usual, I learned more from them than they did from me. 

Without a shadow of a doubt.

Amen.

--A

 

 

Photoshop...Fun for the Whole Family

 

Yesterday two of my favorite people and I went to our creek.  When I wasn't being devoured by black flies, I snapped a couple of pictures.  Just the thought of those evil little creatures is causing me to itch:

 

So, although the picture above (Anna in the creek, not the black fly) looks idyllic and peaceful, in reality it was more like being pecked to death.  That's the wonder of photography, really; the ability to create a separate reality. 

Today I allowed each kid to edit his or her own picture.  This is what Anna came up with.

What she loved about this picture is how Zoe stands out.  We have our priorities. 

I've never played with the different effects available through Photoshop Elements until today.  I just clicked, clicked, clicked and Voila!  The brown image you see before you.  The one that apparently shows Zoe's best side.  I saved it as a GIF 64 Dithered file.  Whatever that means.

 Notice the concentration, the focus, the "spear" in his right hand.  Meanwhile, when not sacrificing my blood to black flies in order to take pictures, I'm running around maniacally, swatting at the gnat-like bugs, screaming at my children to get moving.  "They're biting me!  They're biting me!"  Why my kids were spared, I don't know.

This was the result of Jimmie's editing:

an image he chose because it looks like he's in a jungle. 

Maybe he is.  After all, pictures obviously don't document the reality of the moment, but rather what we want to remember.  There are no black flies in this picture.  Anna is not wading through ice-cold creek water that leaves her feet numb.  Dogs are not pulling at leashes or eating deer poop.

Ahhh...what a great day.

--A

The moral of the story...

 

On Friday we had the opportunity to attend the annual school carnival, an event that raises money for field trips and extracurricular activities...things not included in the regular school budget.  It's a necessary event, I suppose, but I paid each kid $20 last year not to go.  And I saved money.

So, imagine my glee when neither kid wanted to go this year.  And neither one bribed me, either.  I think it's the constant running, running during the week that made them both want to have at least one afternoon when nothing was scheduled, no times were set, and nothing had to be done.  So we picked up their dad and, after I saved our cat from a rabid fox (that's a whole other story...but suffice it to say that I am quite the superhero), went out to look for morel mushrooms, the holy grail for mushroom hunters in the Great Lakes region. 

 Sam and Anna love mushrooms.  Jimmie and I, not so much, but that doesn't mean it's not fun to go looking for them.  And it's not easy.  People guard their morel hunting grounds like Great Aunt Fanny's award-winning chili recipe.  On their death bed they may tell a close relative their secrets, but even that is not a sure thing.  The recipe for Coke is probably more accessible.  With rain the night before and sun and warmer temps on Friday, it seemed like conditions were ripe.  But, what do we know. 

In the tradition of the legendary truffle hunters of France (the fungus, not the chocolate), I brought the dogs.  Anna wanted Zoe, of course, since she hadn't seen her for probably a whole 7 hours:

 

Which meant that I got Holy Moly.  I had a sneaking suspicion that she might have an innate talent for sniffing out mushrooms.  I was wrong.  She has an innate talent for eating deer poop and wrapping the leash around juvenile trees.  Not to say that she didn't work hard, however:

 

Notice the tongue.  And, by the way, that Gentle Leader might be the best thing for walking a dog since legs were invented.

We walked for an hour-and-a-half.  All of us together, but yet alone in our thoughts:

 

Noticing things that we wouldn't have if other distractions like iPods or cell phones or computers or plastic toys had been accessible or available.  And looking down at the mulchy leaves, all shades of brown, in various states of decomposition, I noticed this:

which, honestly, would be a unremarkable and plain and ordinary sprig of green were it not for the drab surroundings in which it chose to sprout. 

I also appreciated the Spring Beauties, little bits of pink and white, hardly noticeable:

 

along with the Trout Lilies and the delightfully named Dutchman's Breeches shown at the top of this post.  We came across one living creature who was quite menacing and hissed ferociously at Moly:

Oooh!  Scary!  I did have the fleeting thought that it might be a rattlesnake, because that's how my mind works, but it's obviously not.  Jimmie wanted to take it home, but fortunately couldn't catch it.

But we didn't find even one morel mushroom.  Not even a spore.  Not that spores are detectable by the human eye, but still.  Sam declared the day a failure.  But I don't think he could even agree with that statement.  Because we took a day that looked like this:

 

a not-so-very special day, not real warm, not terribly colorful, just the bones of Spring, and found the beauty in it.

And we didn't have to go to the school carnival.

And Sam found these Saturday morning when out for a walk with the dogs. 

 

Not every story has a morel.  Some just have bad puns.

--A

    

Sundays

One of the things I love most about springtime (in addition, of course, to the fact that I can stop downing a bottle of Vitamin D everyday and my long johns can have a break and my children sleep in that deep, fresh spring play kind of way and color starts sweeping across the landscape) is weekend movie nights outside. With extra-stuffed blankets and pillows, the kids hit the deck in their PJ’s and pop in a great DVD like Planet Earth (the incredible BBC mini-series). They snuggle up and settle in and ever-so-often fall asleep.

It may not be as exciting as a drive-in, and may lack wow-factor of a big screen showing, but there is something so simple and sweet about a bucket of popcorn and a sippy cup on the back porch that makes weekend movie nights fantastic. What warm-weather activities are you most looking forward to with your family?

 

Mom, the Musical

Here’s a picture of my mom and dad on the occasion of my dad’s 80th birthday. There’s no music, so if you came for that part, just hum something in your head. Or out loud. Doesn’t matter either way.

Here they are, back in the day, probably close to 60 years ago. Even in a black-and-white photo I can feel the sunshine blessing them, the future holding out its hand, and the two of them looking forward to all the good things life has waiting for them. Like me.

My dad is a handsome devil. Still. He’s so not devilish. He’s about as devilish as a deviled egg. Or deviled ham. I like deviled ham. I like my dad, too. He takes full care of my mom. But that’s not why I like him. That’s one of the reasons I admire him. Because I couldn’t do it.

The mom at the top of the page is my mom, and it’s also not my mom. Which sounds like I’m disowning her, but I’m not. It’s just that neither one of these moms in these pictures is my mom, the 1970s mom who did ceramics and ran a sheltered workshop for young adults in the area with Down syndrome. I don’t think you ever really know your parents, but neither mom shown here is the mom I have stored in my head. Who actually may never have existed.

My mother was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma about 13 years ago. I was still teaching at the time and I remember my mom and dad stopping by to tell me about her diagnosis. I remember that feeling of not being able to breathe. I remember feeling so scattered; life had turned chaotic and unpredictable in the expanse of seconds. I remember wondering that fall day, air crisp and smooth, sunlight on the turning leaves like shards of crystal, how did the earth still rotate? How did people simply continue on with their lives when mine had just been ripped up and thrown into the air, floating and spinning and landing somewhere. It would have to land somewhere, wouldn’t it?

The internet had not yet been fully developed at that time, which is probably a good thing. I didn’t have a chance to look up all of the awful outcomes that were a possiblity. I’m one of those people who doctors love…the ones who google every symptom. I’ve so far self-diagnosed myself with tuburculosis, breast cancer, gangrene, and melanoma. And, recently, hip cancer. That one turned out to be strep throat, but I was on the right track. Fortunately my doctor is used to my hysterics. And, more importantly, she has a sense-of-humor.

This is not my doctor (she's much prettier), just a representation of what she probably does after I leave her office.

The woman who began this journey is not the woman you see here thirteen years later. Actually, none of us is. Because when someone you love goes on the trip through cancer, you go on it , too. I’ve stood by when she was misdiagnosed (there are many, many types of lymphoma, all with different protocols) and then required to endure week-long chemo treatments in the hospital when really she only needed one treatment, out-patient, once-a-week. I’ve answered the phone call from my sister who, thank God, was home to help our dad when my mom broke her arm after the lymphoma ate away at the bone. Somewhere in there she broke her leg and had a titanium rod put in, and somewhere in the last 3 years the titanium rod broke (yes, the titanium rod) and needed to be removed and replaced. And I’ve watched both parents try to shield their children from the brunt of it all. Because that’s what parents do.

One of the biggest gifts of having children is the ability to appreciate your own parents. My mother, who has gradually been losing her mind in the last 13 years, drove me insane as I was growing up. I realize this is common. I keep asking Anna (who is 12) if I’m annoying her yet. Because I know I will.

The mother who annoyed me talked about “the Lord” to anyone and everyone.

And she talked to anyone and everyone, which might be the most embarrassing thing ever to a teenager who simply wants to be the stage hand, not the star of the play. And the two things together were mortifying. Now I see her as a woman of strong faith who raised her three children to have a strong faith. Hey, I love me some Jesus, but I’m not going to be talking to you about “the Lord” anytime soon. That still embarrasses me.

This woman packed the worst lunches ever. I never, ever had anything that anyone would trade their Doritos for. Ever. A typical lunch consisted of a grated cheese sandwich with mustard and a banana. You’ll notice the lack of Doritos. Because Doritos contained the preservatives BHA and BHT. No one ever read labels in the 70s. Except for my mom. Cap’n Crunch? Oh no, that would be Team flakes for Alison. Twinkies? Tang? Not even Kool-Aid. It was practically un-American. But I have to admit, my kids have been trained to read labels and look for high-fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oils among other things. I buy organic if at all possible. And I realize and appreciate that my mother was ahead of her time. I might even brag about it a little.

This is a woman who nursed the baby me when formula was considered best. This is the woman who started me in school when I was 5 going on 6 (I’m a November birthday), to give me more time at home to mature and grow. This is a woman who read to me every night before bed until I was 12 years old. She taught me to embroider, she taught me to read, she told me you can never spoil a baby. She loves me like no one else ever will. And I get that, because I’m a mom.

When I first realized that my mom was not quite my mom any more I called my brother Phil. “What are we going to do about Mom?” I asked, more than a little panicked. I don’t know what I thought he was going to say, but he’s the oldest in the family, almost 10 years older than I am, and he lives 3 doors up the road from our parents, so I just wanted him to fix the situation. “What do you mean?” He asked back. “What do I mean? I mean, she’s losing her memory! She’s forgetting her grandchildren’s names! She can’t remember birthdays!” Just typing this leaves me with a jarring sense of what I’ve lost. But Phil, who lived with the same mom I did, but also a different one because of all the years between us, said the one thing that has made me okay with losing the old mom. He said, “This is the mom I’ve always wanted.” And I get it. This mom doesn’t complain about the restaurant food and send it back to be warmed up. This mom doesn’t ask if you’ve washed your hands in that accusing tone that suggests you might be Typhoid Mary. This mom whispers, “Buddha,” to me in church on Easter Sunday. This mom offers Motrin as an appetizer before dinner. This mom makes Phil laugh.

So, I miss the other mom. I wish my children knew her like I did. I wish I could have appreciated how smart she was, how intuitive. I would have enjoyed the time to become her friend, not just her daughter. I’m pretty sure she had a wicked sense-of-humor that propriety kept from us when we were younger.

But I can also see the blessing in having the mom I have now. And instead of wishing for what I don’t have, I’ll enjoy the one I do.

“Buddha.”

–A

Sometimes, it's serious.

I'm going to offer up a disclaimer here: this in not going to be funny. In fact, I will admit that I have been shedding tears all night on and off, and it is in that state of mind that I'm writing this post. Ok. You've been warned. I was almost late to pick Noah up today. The sunshine and warm morning put us behind schedule with naps and lunches and chores, so when my husband told me what time it was, I bolted out the door and into the minivan. The door shut. The seatbelt clicked. My mind was on auto-pilot, ready to tear out of the driveway-- like I do so many times when I'm late-- without looking or thinking or doing anything but hitting the gas pedal as soon as I geared into reverse. And then, as I turned the key I heard a little boy's voice. My little boy's voice. "Hello?" I didn't have to ask where Max was. I shut off the ignition and stepped back out of the car. A red and yellow and blue kite tail was floating off the driveway with the breeze. I followed it behind my rear wheel. Where my four year old sat, happily playing. It wasn't until I turned the corner out of my subdivision that I started to shake and sweat. My eyes blurred with almost tears. Almost. A close call. A "what if." These things always catch us as parents, make us hold our breaths and thank God for the alternative scenerio. For me, however, these moments of awareness, the sudden insight into the fragility of life, fade all too quickly. Soon, I'm back to rushing around. Crossing off items on my to-do list. Getting caught in the net of housework or exhaustion or simply the daily stuff of life. But today was not an ordinary day. Today I stumbled across this blog, one that tells the most heartbreaking story of loss. There is not a pithy remark or a way to explain the death of a child. A toddler. A little girl with huge blue eyes and a smile so infectious that it radiates to complete strangers-- like me-- through a computer screen. Maddie, who had been a preemie and championed through her initial health struggles, came down with what appears to be RSV. And following her mom's twitter accounts, there is this moment that goes from talk of hospital food to raw fear...and then, nothing. When my daughter was born she had severe jaundice and was hooked to a bilirubin light for 14 days. One week laker, she developed a cough. Two days after that, she made no noise when she cried and I rushed her over to the doctor's office. Within an hour, we were in the hospital and my baby girl was hooked up to a million wires. She had an IV coming out of her head. She had a severe case of RSV. And she just laid there. Not moving. Not doing anything. I've never shown this picture before. I cry even now, though I know the story ends happily and that today my girl looks more like this: When I took that first picture of Elizabeth, I did so because I was afraid she was not going to get better. Her lungs were full. She was so small. The child life specialist was somber and did things like call to check on us even after she'd left for the night. No one was giving me the phrases I wanted to hear, like "she'll be fine." Sitting in the hospital room in the middle of the night, holding but not rocking (I wasn't allowed) my sweet girl, I remember staring out the black window. Snow was falling, lit by the hospital parking lot. I would follow one flake at a time from the top of the window until it had drifted out of sight. I promised myself that if she got better, if we made it through this, I would never, ever take a single second for granted. Not one second. It is the same thought every parent would have in that moment. Five days later, I took another picture of Elizabeth. And another on day six And I've taken thousands of others since that afternoon, when I finally heard the pediatric hospitalist say "she is going to be fine." There is a part of me that is aware of how her sickness, and that "what if" changed me as her mother. I have left her side so rarely. I have held my breath at every cough sniffle. But I haven't been able to hold on to that promise. Earlier today, I was so frustrated and annoyed and ready for it to be 5:30 so my husband would be home and I could share a beer and rant on the litany of issues my morning kicked forth. Those little things like Lizzie dumping an entire box of cereal while I unloaded the dishes and refusing to take a nap when I needed to clean the house, things that added up to me looking into her big blue eyes and saying with disgust, "just go to sleep. Now. I've had it." We all have those days and times when the task of mothering is just, well, overwhelmingly hard. And I'd be lying if I didn't say there weren't moments when all of my happy thoughts were directed at the minute I could escape to somewhere (anywhere) for twenty minutes without. any. children. But seriously. How insane. When I read the raw and real and horrifying loss of Heather and Mike, I felt so, I don't know, sick? I have three healthy children. Three. They had one beautiful daughter. A daughter who went into the hospital with oxygen levels hovering between 65-75 percent. My Lizzie was at 70-percent when she was admitted. It feels surreal and wrong to compare the two, because my little girl is sleeping in my bed as I type. She's right here, and today reminded me just how huge of a gift that is. They are all right here. I know psychologically we mamas could not function if we went through life assuming anything other than the fact that our children will remain healthy. I understand that it is human nature to get frustrated, to forget to be grateful, to get caught up instead of caught in the moment. But after watching the slideshow of that little Maddie posted on Heather's blog, after hearing my Max's small voice echo out from behind the car, after tucking Elizabeth into bed and listening to Noah's tales from soccer practice, I feel like I have an obligation-- no, that sounds forced-- that I have the privilege of choosing gratitude over any other emotion at any given time. Any of us who have children are so very blessed. While we can joke about the trials and tribulations of motherhood, while we can wink about counting the minutes until bedtime and the peace and quiet it brings, we also better be sure we check ourselves-- that we pause a thousand or a million times every day to let thankfulness wash over us. I don't like the idea of another person's loss serving as a lesson for me, but that is, in some ways, what today has been about in this house. I keep looking at these three beautiful beings and finding myself saying "thank you. thank you. thank you." Just now, Lizzie began to whimper. When she starts sleeping restlessly this early, I know I am in for a long night. And the only thing I can do is feel so humbled. So blessed. So glad that she is here to wake me. I think I wrote this so I could reinstitute my promise. Maybe I'll break it a hundred times. Probably more. But I want to record it all the same. I want to try with all that I am to never take a single, solitary second with my children for granted. I want to celebrate each moment of each day. Because I am lucky to have them. And because as a mom, I should never, ever forgot those who would give everything they have for such a luxury. If you would like to make a donation to March of Dimes in honor of sweet Maddie, a page has been set up in her honor here.

Happy Earth Day!

In honor of this glorious planet of ours, I’ll be bundling up the wee ones and heading outside for our daily dose of nature. Despite the fact that it is snowing. And I’ve packed away all the winter clothes.  And they will whine for the entire time (or at least the first five minutes, and then they will be numb to the cold and get lost in that world of play I can only glimpse into).

But still.  There is something so simple about just getting outdoors and walking, breathing, being that reconnects us with the natural world.  And in turn, I hope that will reconnect a certain somewhat sullen 10 year old with his desire to take the compost out every night.

Regardless, we’ll go out. Because we are blessed to live in a place where this is just outside our back door.  

 

For lots of great ideas for getting outside with little ones, click here.

Weekend Blessings

A blessing:

Spending a Saturday morning romping in the wet, awakening woods with my four year old.

Where I live, spring is

Where I live, spring is called "mud season." As the snow melts, banks as tall as me shrinking and turning brown with dirt and sand from the roads, the ground reappear in all of its wet, sludgy glory. It is a time, traditionally, when sports are in-between seasons (or practices are only getting started), a time when everyone seems to just emerge from their winter layers, stretch and happily walk, run, skip-- or just breathe-- soaking in the long forgotten sun. Spring is all about rebirth, renewal, reawakening, and there is no where we feel this restoration more than outside. This energy of spring is contagious, which is why I'm so excited that a good friend of mine just launched the No Child Left Inside movement, based on the book "Last Child in the Woods" by Richard Louv (if you have not read it, and have children, grandchildren, friends with children....get it) here in our little town. As we greet the return of longer days, it is the perfect time to be reminded of how important it is to get our children outdoors-- simply to play. The Getting Kids Outdoors Initiative has an amazing website filled with a variety of ideas and activities that can be tailored to anyone's backyard. The importance of play-- unstructured connection time with the natural world-- is gaining momentum with child-focused professionals (doctors, teachers, psychologists...and of course, PARENTS). We live in an age where this is more prevelent than this: And folks, I have to say, there is no better way to get your children to sleep, learn leadership skills, develop curiosity, and have fun without stuff than to open your back door and say "go play." Celebrate spring with us by doing just that...or by hooking a mattress up to a four wheeler, if you are Alison, and get pulled around the yard that way. Because that is being in nature at its finest. Really.

It's the Big One!

We're dog people.  We have a cat (and this is not it.  I just spent an hour looking for the really cute pictures we have of our cat and then just gave up, but just take my word for it, she's really cute) but by-and-large we are a dog family, a large dog family.   A dog hair family.

The first time Sam ever made dinner for me is a memory I'll never forget.  We had gone ice skating and then came back to his house where he made wild rice with broccoli and salmon for dinner.  I reached over to my wine glass to take a sip and there, floating on top of the wine was a black dog hair.  Here is where you need to know that I grew up with a mother who had me wash my hands so often that I swore I would never require my children to wash their hands ever.  Here's where you need to know that my mother poured boiling water over the sink after chicken had been prepared there in order to annihilate any germs.   Not the cute germs you see here, but the ones that try to KILL you.

Here's where you need to know that had hand sanitizer been invented when I was a child I would have bathed in it daily.  So a dog hair in my wine glass was something I could not ignore.  I pointed out the hair to Sam and he replied, "Well, if you're going to be with me you're just going to have to get used to it."  Now our motto is "If it doesn't have dog hair, don't eat it."  But I digress.  We have a little dog (see below, way below.  Below the picture of Mr. Incredible).  She's not a big dog.  And she wasn't a puppy when we got her.  We always knew that our children would need to have the experience of a puppy, so for the last year-and-a-half or so, we've had puppies in the backs of our minds.  Labradors are always a possibility, but over-breeding has made us question this choice.  Then I found the Leonberger: I even found a registered breeder who lived 2 hours away who had a litter of puppies.  Too bad she turned out to be insane!  Around this same time we came across a flyer in the local IGA that advertised AKC Great Dane puppies.  Because finding your breeder at the IGA is really a good move.  We tracked down the breeder (a couple who love the breed and have a backyard kennel), quizzed our friend the vet, Sam's mom (who had a Great Dane 60 years ago, so that makes her an expert), and people who knew the couple on a social level.  All of that and none of that helped, so after driving by the house where the puppies were five or six times (yes, we're puppy breeder stalkers), we stopped and looked at those little puppies.  And that was it.  Because if you've ever stopped and looked at puppies, you'll know.  That. Was. It. And we brought her home and treated her with kid gloves.  Because apparently Great Danes are fragile little creatures.  Or so we thought.  I read, and read, and read some more about Great Danes.  Don't feed them around the clock.  Leave their bowls out so they can eat when they want to.  Don't exercise them too much or they'll grow too fast and have bone problems.   We tiptoed around this puppy and were rapidly raising a dog with issues.  We were rapidly raising a bratty teen who was going to demand a new BMW when she turned sixteen.  When she growled at a couple kids and snapped at our favorite coffee shop owner, we knew something had to be done.  Thank God for this woman:

This is Patty of Northwoods Dog Trainingand I don't know where we'd be without her.  Okay, I do know.   We'd be slaves to our dog.  At our first session with Patty, Moly (Holy Moly is her full name) whined, cowered, and actually bit Patty.  We were under orders to sit in our seats and not move no matter what Moly did.  She bit the dog trainer.  I was so upset and unnerved by the time we left, I wanted to cry.  Patty is just as much a psychiatrist to dog owners as she is trainer of dogs.  We were taught over 4 weeks of training to use a clicker to signal to Moly the behavior we liked.  We were also trained to go through doors first, to have her earn treats, and we now pretend to eat her food before giving it to her.  Pretending to eat her food is all fine and dandy unless the washing machine repairman is working on your machine during feeding time.  Then it's a little hard to explain. We also changed her food from expensive food that has corn gluten  in it, a common cause of allergies and a possible anxiety trigger, to really expensive food that I could serve at a goumet club dinner.   Not that I'd do that.  All of these changes, plus walking her twenty times a day and bringing her to doggy day care once a week so that those little dogs don't scare the daylights out of her have made all of the difference in the world.   Just ask Mr. Incredible  Four months ago, that little move could have been really dangerous. Should you live or vacation in the area and need help handling your dog(s), do not hesistate to contact Patty.  That woman is a saint.  And I don't mean Bernard.

Jimmie's haircut

  This is about Jimmie.  Actually, this is about Jimmie's hair.  This is about how much hair can come from one head.  Jimmie's hair once inspired his Halloween costume: And although it may look like a Christmas tree, it is actually a bush and won him a large Hershey's candy bar from the woman who lives across the street from our friend John.  Alas, it was a Hershey's bar with almonds and what kid wants that, but it was meaningful to Jimmie nonetheless. I digress.  This is also about cutting hair.  Tina, who will be my personal hairdresser when I become rich and famous, don't read past this point, because I'm going to give you all some pointers on cutting hair.  I don't know anything about cutting hair.  I have some clippers and I kind of rock them like you see in this video, but I do this over the whole entire head, trim up any stray areas with my scissors and pray for the best.[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHd33bvXqUc]  Fortunately my customer is not too picky. And in case you think I exaggerate on the amount of hair this kid's head can hold, here's a picture of all of the hair that I cut, and there isn't even dog hair in that pile, swear to God.

Here is a good resource for do-it-yourself haircuts for boys and girls from wikiHow  http://www.wikihow.com/Cut-Kids'-Hair .  And I've always wanted one of these

  the Flowbee.  They claim, "Save money, save time, and have fun!" and who can argue with that? Another satisfied customer. --A

Gone to the Dogs

Los Perros, Parte Uno

I think that every dog I ever had when I was growing up got hit by a car. Or the snow plow. Or ran away. So you'd think that maybe I would have had my share of heartbreak and sworn off dogs forever. Nope. Sam, on the other hand, grew up as a very responsible dog owner, the kind who walks his dog on a leash and has a fenced-in yard. Ours ran around the neighborhood like little hussies until all hours, deficated in every yard but our own, got pregnant, had puppies, got in fights...we were a family who probably shouldn't have had any pets, now that I think about it. But I have seen the error of my ways. When we were married Sam already had a dog, a beautiful black Lab named Bailey who is now referred to as St. Bailey, because she was perfect and no other dog will ever compare.  After Bailey died of old age (because she was walked every day and had a fenced-in yard), we resisted getting a puppy. We had 2 young kids and did not want to end up with a poorly trained dog for the next 15 years, so we got a mutt, a humane society dog who for her first 1-1/2 years had lived with 3 families: an old man who had died (she was found lying next to his lifeless body), a family (their little girl ended up having severe dog allergies and was sick all the time), and Sandy, the woman who raised her from a pup to be a companion dog. Sandy gave Zoe to us.  Anna immediately loved her like no one else. One time I remarked that I thought she might like the dog better than me and she replied, "Oh no. I love you both the same." She's not kidding.  I'd hate to be in the position where she'd would have to choose between Zoe or me.  If there were a way to be surgically attached to that dog she would probably do it. Zoe is a big dog in a small body. But even though she has been known to take down many big dogs, she's not adverse to being dressed up in a wedding dress or playing the game "Zoe Has Babies." This game can be played with any willing dog.  All it requires is that the dog remains prone with a blanket over half of her stomach. Under the blanket place as many small stuffed dogs as can be gathered. Think Beanie Babies. Or WebKinz.   Here she is in the throes of labor: Reach under the blanket and pull out the dogs. It's miraculous.  A beautiful, little husky puppy. Zoe also has issues. Should you come over to our house you will see that parts of our deck railing have been shredded to toothpicks. Zoe will see or smell some sort of critter outside the fence and go completely psycho, tearing at the railing like she's on the Titanic and the last life raft has just been launched. It is a quality does not endear her to my husband. She has also chewed through a seat belt in my car, chewed a hole in the side wall of my mother-in-law's car, and she chases our cat. But she is cute. And she loves us. And that counts for a lot.  Now if someone could just convince Sam.

pennies for peace

We at "cluck and tweet", when we're not clucking or tweeting, are trying to figure out ways to bring out the best in our kids. Their spiritual lives are very important to us; their investment in our earth and environment, their spiritual and emotional health, and their empathy for the least of these is still in our power of influence as mothers and we don't want to screw this up. This spring we're hoping to get the kids excited to raise money forPennies for Peace, Greg Mortenson's foundation that provides schools for children in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Pennies for Peace is ingenious since it's based on the premise that something essentially discarded by Americans (even in this economy), has the power to change lives in Pakistan and Afghanistan. The program is also idiot-proof (which we, the idiots, really appreciate). All of the information is on the website, including a Tool Kit teachers can use. Greg is a modern-day hero, and his book Three Cups of Tea is so inspiring. I heard him speak in January, expecting to see someone a bit aloof, stand-offish. He couldn't have been anything but. He wore what looked like his one good suit, stumbled over the microphone cord, and humbly accepted money from two young adults with Down syndrome. I thought I would cry through the entire presentation. He's proof that one person can change the world. We'll keep you posted on our progress and would love to hear about the ways God works in your family's world. --A

how do we go from this...

How does it happen? How do we go from this to this in the blink of an eye? One look at my baby discovering a new baby, and I'm just about cooked. You might as well just make me pee on the stick right now (just kidding honey. Three is a great number. Really....)

family meetings

When the gavel, er, dry erase marker, hits the table on Sunday evenings, my squirmy boys clamor onto a chair and pull themselves up to the kitchen table. Time for business. Family meetings happen weekly in our house, mostly because running through schedules for the upcoming days helps me stay sane, but also, we want to keep the lines of communication open with our kids.  Noah will be 10 (10!) in a few weeks.  Suddenly, I feel very aware that one day, he won't open up for fun and gush sentences like his tongue is about to be cut out. Or maybe, because he is Noah, he'll talk and talk and talk in his teen years, just because he won't be able to stop himself.  But that doesn't matter, because when I look at him, no, when I listen to him as we sit around the kitchen table on Sunday nights, I am simply awed. Awed by this person unfolding before my very eyes. While a family meeting should be tailored to your needs (and your children's ages) a few guidelines will prevent whine-fest 2009, or opps-we-forgot-again-every-Sunday, or tattle-tail dispatch.  Not that we ever experienced that. Ahem. We keep a dry erase board on the kitchen desk all week. If any family member has an issue they want to bring up at the meeting, they write it down there, and that becomes the "agenda."   We start every meeting by going around the table and saying something nice or appreciative about each person, and we also add a general gratitude-of-the-week idea/thing/event to share. Once we've done that, we dive into the agenda, which usually consists of a reminder to turn off lights (dad) a request by mom (can we start nature journaling again? Will you boys bring down your baskets each day to collect toys and books that need to be returned to your bedroom each night? Can mama maybe pee in private once this week?) The boys usually throw in one wish for the other-- as in, please stay out of my room when I am not home (Noah) and please play with me everyday this week (Max). And let me stop for a second to say, doesn't this picture look like a commercial for an after school special??  We keep it short-- no longer than 15 minutes tops.  Otherwise, you're only talking to yourself, because the kids, yeah, they are so not listening. And we always end by going over our family values (which we did very first meeting we held. A good idea to hang them somewhere visable. Also, keep them simple. I used the word "empathetic" in ours, and for the next two months, "empathetic" had to be our "word of the week" just so both boys understood its meaning). Once the meeting adjourns, we try and play a board game or do something else easy and fun as a family.  Because after all, it is the uninterrupted time together that make these meetings worth their weight in, um, bailout bonuses.   Some tips to start your own family meetings: -Pick one day a week (or every other week, especially if your children are really young) and set a time and place-- and then schedule it into your planner as if it were an important business meeting that cannot be changed.  It is important to let your kids know that family meetings rank high on your priority list.   - Have a structure. It helps to do the same thing every week. This makes it easy for the kids to follow along and feel more a part of the whole process because they know what to expect.  Have a way you start the meeting on a positive note, have an agenda, and then end with something fun (this way, meetings don't become things the kids groan at attending).  -Keep it short, keep it simple. If in your meeting you are trying to implement something big, like a chore chart, make sure there isn't any other major changes or projects you are rolling out in the same meeting.   -- Make sure everyone practices their best listening skills, go through the family values each meeting, and most of all, have fun and enjoy the time together.

mud season

Where I live, spring is called "mud season." As the snow melts, banks as tall as me start shrinking and turning brown with dirt and sand from the roads; the ground reappear in all of its wet, sludgy glory. It is a time, traditionally, when sports are in-between seasons (or practices are only getting started), a time when everyone seems to just emerge from their winter layers, stretch, and happily walk, run, skip-- or just breathe-- soaking in the long forgotten sun. Spring is all about rebirth, renewal, reawakening, and there is no where we feel this restoration more than outside. This energy of spring is contagious, which is why I'm so excited that a good friend of mine just launched our own No Child Left Inside movement, based on the book "Last Child in the Woods" by Richard Louv (if you have not read it, and have children, grandchildren, friends with children....get it) here in our little town. As we greet the return of longer days, it is the perfect time to be reminded of how important it is to get our children outdoors-- simply to play. The Getting Kids Outdoors Initiative has an amazing website filled with a variety of ideas and activities that can be tailored to anyone's backyard. The importance of play-- unstructured connection time with the natural world-- is gaining momentum with child-focused professionals (doctors, teachers, psychologists...and of course, PARENTS). We live in an age where this is more prevelent than this: And folks, I have to say, there is no better way to get your children to sleep, learn leadership skills, develop curiosity, and have fun without stuff than to open your back door and say "go play." Celebrate spring with us by doing just that...or by hooking a mattress up to a four wheeler (if you are Alison) and get pulled around the yard that way. Because that is being in nature at its finest. Really. --K