The Times They Are A Changin’

When I was a kid I would wave good-bye to my mother after breakfast in the summer and run out the door. I'd ride my bike all over the place, return for lunch mid-day or call her from a friend's house to tell her I was eating lunch there, go exploring in the woods and return home in time for dinner. I rarely watched TV and I managed to keep myself occupied without a Wii or a DS. My, how times have changed.

I decided this weekend that I was going to require my children to play outside a couple hours a day, provided that the weather holds. I have work to do both in my home and writing deadlines so I must have some free time. It's either stick them in front of the TV for a few hours or force them to play outside. I choose the latter. Today was my first day testing this new requirement out. My kids have been outside for a total of 22 minutes and I have had to take disciplinary action 3 times with my son to keep him outside and once with my daughter. I've had to break up three fights and turn the hose on and off four times. I have gotten a staggering amount of work done. Staggering.

I decided, just minutes ago, to try another strategy out. I sent the two older kids and the dog out the door and I locked it. I locked them out. They are confined to a fenced-in suburban outdoor prison that contains such torturous devices as a swing set, a tree house, a waterslide, a sand and water table, and a never ending supply of flora and fauna to keep them occupied. Yep, just call me the warden. It seems to be working. For the first couple of minutes they both just stood right outside the door, turning the doorknob over and over in disbelief. Is it really locked?

Yes, yes it is.

I'm happy to report that, a mere 15 minutes later, they both knocked on the backdoor not to whine and ask me to come in but to show me a big bucket full of magnolia leaves they'd collected. I admired it from the other side of the door and encouraged them to collect as many as possible. I'm hoping that will keep them occupied for a long time. It's a really big tree.

Sweet Nothings

Every morning, as we're getting ready to go to school, camp, the pool, etc…, I get Harper dressed for the day and strap her in her carseat. I leave her there while I get myself ready to head out the door. This process usually takes between 10-20 minutes. Harper has no problem with this as she is the most laid-back child on earth. When I'm finally ready to begin the painstaking process of getting all four of us in the car and strapped in, I herd the older two kids out the door and into the car with strict instructions: Kids. Focus. No dillydallying. Just get in your seats and buckle your belts. Get in seat. Buckle belt. Simple, right? No. Just ask any parent. No matter what I say, one or both of them is still not buckled by the time I return to the car, Harper's seat slung over my arm and ready to be clicked into her chair.

Why? Why? Why? Why can't they just focus on one task for the 10 seconds it takes to get strapped in? Have I failed them in some way? Are they both suffering from ADD? Why?

This is usually the streaming audio in my head during times such as these when, despite the fact that I'm on time and really don't need to hurry, I feel the intense urge to rush. Rush. Rush. Rush. Sometimes I think this is the plague of the modern mother. No matter where we are or what we're doing, we're in a hurry. It's a tragedy that our kids are paying for. We might as well go ahead and prescribe the anti-anxiety medication for them now.

In the midst of all of this self-inflicted stress, I notice a small white index card placed across Harper's legs that says, in red marker, "I Love You." There's one just about every morning, carefully placed in Harper's car seat along with her stuffed monkey. Its Truman's little love note to his sister. I see this and I tell myself: Breathe. Savor this moment. It's life at its best. And I remember that while my kids may be painfully slow at buckling their seatbelts, they are also overflowing with sweetness and light, humor and joy. How did I get so lucky?

Viewing Window

Ugly Dawg, our
beloved pop-up is billed as a camper that sleeps 7. This is not so. Four is
about the max that she will hold comfortably. Toss in a dog and a baby and,
well, you’ve got yourself a crowded house. But we’ll do just that as often as
we can this summer and fall. Right now, the set up isn’t too bad. Harper (the
baby) is so small that she sleeps in an under-the-bed storage container in our
bed. It’s a King sized bed so we have no problem making room for her. The
container she sleeps in is cloth. I bought it a couple years ago to store the
kids’ artwork and craft projects in. We throw a blanket in there and she has no
problem sleeping in it. It has a convenient viewing window on the side so that
I can gaze at her sweet face while I drift off to sleep. I love it. I begged
the Huz to let me use it at home, in our bed, but he’s not having it. He thinks
the crib is a more appropriate place for the baby to sleep in. What’s wrong with him?

I want nothing more than to drift off to sleep each night,
gazing at her sweet face. She’s my last baby. Every first with her is
bittersweet because it is also a last. Her first smile was my last first smile
and it filled up my bliss tank enough to keep me humming show tunes for days. Every
time she nestles up against my chest and drifts off to sleep, I close my eyes
and try to glue the sensation to my memory. I want to remember the way she
smells, the sounds she makes, the warmth of her against me, the way it calms me
to have her there, where she should be, warm in my arms.

So, you can be darn sure we’ll be camping a lot this season.
If that’s what it takes to sleep next to my sweet Harper in her under-the-bed
storage container, that’s what I’ll do.

 

**It should be noted, for the alarmist readers among you,
that there is NO LID on the storage container.**

Almost Perfect

My oldest daughter is beautiful. I know I'm biased but she's not just beautiful by her adoring mother's standards. She's beautiful by society's standards. She has tons of brown hair, giant brown eyes and a gorgeous round face. She's the reason Brown-Eyed Girl was written. When she was born I looked her over and admired the sheer perfection that was her tiny body with one exception. There was a large patch of dark hair on her lower back. Her doctor noticed it too at the 2-month check-up. He said something like, "Oh she's just beautiful," then turned her over and said, "And I see she has a little patch of hair on her back. Don't worry Mama. That will fall out. It's not uncommon in babies born a little early." I tried to hide my relief.

She turned four last week and the patch is still there. It's even expanded a bit to take up a sizable area on her little backside. I guess my princess has a touch of werewolf in her. As long as hair doesn't start showing up on her upper lip, I'm ok with that.

I brought my newest little girl to the doctor yesterday for her 2-month check-up. It was déjà vu. "She's perfect Mama. I see she has a little hair on her back but that will fall out. It's not uncommon." Yeah right. I can say, in all honesty, that my back is hair-free. Both girls have inherited this trait from their Father's side of the family. Thanks Hales! Much appreciated.

Which of my lucky children inherited my non-hairy back? My son. Figures.

**I was initially going to title this Blog, "A Hairy Pair" but thought better of it. It's pretty funny in retrospect.**

Down the Road

My street leaves something to be desired, especially at the end, where it T's into a major highway. There my street, which sounds deceptively bucolic with a name like "Fairway Drive," is flanked on either side by some pretty intense eye sores. On the left side is The Rebel Drive-In. Aside from its unfortunate name, this Cleveland landmark is actually a pretty good place to eat. It's been around for years and I could see it appearing on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. The building is nothing to write home about but it is not particularly offensive either, except right now. The large iconic sign that faces the road is leaning precariously to one side as if it has been hit by a car or truck. It is one of those marquee signs with the removable letters. Right now, however, there are no letters but under the broken sign is a new sign, a portable smaller marquee. This is what it says:

SIGN BEING REPAIRED

Rich.

We've got a new business moving in across the street from the Rebel, the fourth or fifth in a line of failed attempts in that particular building. While driving back from picking my son up from school one day I noticed that the new ownership was doing some redecorating. It's an auto repair shop but they had clearly been shopping in the mismatched paint section at Lowe's because they had chosen a bright coral color for the exterior and a canary yellow for the trim. The front of the building was 2/3 painted and there was no sign that they intended to finish. After uttering some obscenities under my breath, I decided to embrace it. Hell, if our car ever breaks down, we won't need to call a tow truck. We can just put it in neutral and push it to the Backwoods Barbie repair shop down the street. I'm happy to report that the original color scheme was scrapped for a much more tasteful white with canary yellow trim and the shop should be open for business any day now.

The Baby in the Bubble

Just as I am finally feeling secure enough in my baby's immune system to start venturing out in public again, wouldn't you know it, a pandemic strikes. What freakin' luck I have. Now I have to stay at home and listen to Anderson Cooper rattle off statistics about the impending doom of mankind care of the swine flu, I mean H1N1, I mean hybrid influenza. Whatever the name, it is enough to scare the bejesus out of a new mother. So, if you see me about town with an infant car seat wrapped in Reynolds wrap and "Police Line Do not Cross" tape, please keep your distance. I'll be armed with Lysol and enough anti-bacterial gel to sanitize a small town and I won't be afraid to use it.

Adieu

I'm bidding a fond farewell to my beloved blog photo. I love it dearly but feel the need for some changes. And, in all honesty, I've added a wrinkle or two to my complexion in the four years (I think) since that picture was taken. It's time to move on, to usher in a new era with an equally ridiculous, yet more accurate photo.

Special thanks to my photographer friend, Melinda Nicodemus, for taking the picture for me. I asked her to take it specifically for the blog profile picture.