Ahhh, Vacation

daphne on July 13, 2011

There’s nothing like it.

The crisp scent of ammonia in the morning.

The precious squeak of white shoes on linoleum.

The fluorescent lights and the beeping machines.  Nothing says vacation like the emergency room.

And this year, instead of wasting time with pedestrian trappings like sand castles or sailboats we simply unloaded the suitcases and the children and were on our way.

If you remember Jack Nickolson in Something’s Gotta Give,

then you’ve got a pretty good idea of how our first few nights at the beach went down.

We loaded up for the big road trip as planned, last Tuesday. The only addition to the car load of snacks, bathing suits and t-shirts was a bottle of ibuprofen for Dave’s unusual fever and stomach pain.  Funny thing; his appendix, which burst somewhere between Iowa and Wisconsin, didn’t slow him down a bit.  He sill managed a week’s worth of driving, basketball, jump rope and kickball games on the road out east.

The CT Scan tech asked me if he had a high tolerance for pain.   I think he just hates the idea of missing a game.

Understandably, Dave didn’t sleep well the night of the surgery, but it was not the beeping machines or the nurses in and out of his room demanding vitals that he blamed.  No, it was the screams of “STOP HIM HE’S GOING TO JUMP!” and “SOMEONE CALL THE ER, HE’S JUMPING!” that kept him up.

Turns out that one of the druggies from detox decided he’d had enough of the cafeteria food and thought he’d sail off into the sunset instead.  Hard to blame him considering the tantalizing view from the hospital windows.

Don’t get any ideas, dear husband.  My only wish is that you mend well and come back to me and then, I promise, we will sail off into the sunset together.

Silver Bells, Cockle Shells, they’re all just fine without me

daphne on July 1, 2011

While I’ve been busy with a bunch of this

and a whole lot of that

I haven’t had much time to pay attention to what’s going on in my own backyard.  Yes, you’re seeing right.  It’s time for the Aerial Squirrel Olympics.

And the garden, while not defying gravity, is worthy of some medals of its own.  Fat snap peas hang from stalks that sail skyward

We’ve had fresh salad every night

The strawberries are ruby red gems of tasty goodness

Even those I have neglected are putting out.  Ignore an onion long enough and she’ll do something to attract your attention —

Likewise the weeds.  I knew it would pay off to put off pulling this guy.

And just like that the summer is sailing past, and it is time to hang up the jump ropes and the swim goggles, wish the veggies good luck with their battle against the weeds, and load up the car for the jumbo July road trip.

We’ll catch you from the road.  ‘Til then…Wagons East!

What I don’t know about chickens

daphne on June 16, 2011

Chicken:

Not a chicken:

Hang tight. We have just about reached the end of my knowledge about chickens.

They have beady little eyes.

The color of the eggs they lay is directly linked to the color of their earlobes.  Impressive sounding, right?  At least until you get to the obvious follow-up question.

So no, I do not know how one locates a chicken earlobe.

I also do not know how the eggs decide who will go on to become a big chick and who joins us for breakfast.

Nor do I understand what drove the children to spend copious amounts of time passing weeds into the coop.

Perhaps it had to do with the pathetic state of farm strawberries this year.  Hail damaged and dusty, we picked barely enough to squeak out 4 jars of jam  Hardly enough to get us through the summer, let alone the school year, but I am not concerned in the slightest.

Who needs cowboy-hick-farmland berries anyway?

Not us.

We are partial to their beautifully bountiful backyard suburban cousins.

Arrrr, Keep Ye Quarters (& bring me them toys)

daphne on June 6, 2011

We’ve spoken before about my aversion to teeth. I especially deplore this habit they have of being cohesive team players in the mouth one day and walking the plank the next.

Warning: this post features a picture of one terribly frightening mug

Isn’t it horrible?  The mish-mash of unevenness and drool and bloody gums.  This maw only an orthodontist could love.

But be yea warned.  The pirate behind these pearls is one tough negotiator. She who takes her fairies seriously and who frankly has had it with quarters.

If she really considered herself a friend to the fairies she might have thought twice about throwing a wrench into the tooth fairy’s already tight schedule.  The poor fairy, who not only had to deal with the existential parenting conundrum of keeping faith alive, but now had to scramble and rummage through the dark house in hopes of discovering an unfamiliar yet worthy toy.

Impressively, I happened upon this.  One perfect glass frog.  More than equal in value to one bloody little baby tooth.

The next morning breakfast was full of musings.  Yes, my pirate was thrilled with her bounty, but how had the fairy found such a gem?

And if she had such awesome toys in her arsenal, what’s the deal with the lousy quarters?

What exactly are the logistics of maneuvering it beneath the pillow?

And what on earth could she be planning with all those teeth?

Blame it on the Rain that keeps fallin’ fallin’

daphne on May 25, 2011

Ahhhh.  Hello my beautiful sunny iris.

If you squint just right it don’t you think it almost looks like that smoking hot orb that used to hang in the sky above this fair land?

Forgive me the sarcasm.

It’s not as if I’m one of those cheery sunshiny types.  I don’t need the sun to make me smile.  I like dreary rainy days that dispense permission to lounge in sweatpants with each thirst-quenching drop.

But enough is enough. I’m getting kind of cranky.

Maybe that has something to do with swim team practices in the cold rain and my inability to differentiate between a character-building, commitment-keeping lesson and being a mean parent.

But never mind a couple of wet, whiny kids, we’ve got strawberries bursting out of their patch–

My favorite flower flax is flexing its, um, floral-ness

And speaking of things that are taking delight in this everlasting deluge, there’s this, er, thing

This unidentified random weed that I neglected and it grew and grew and just when it started towering over me and hungrily licking its chops it burst into lovely light pink blossoms and now it’s not that scary anymore. In fact, I’m renaming it ‘flowering bush’ and inviting it to stay.

This is the garden.

Unfortunately, that big bare spot to the south represents the broccoli, pepper and eggplant sprouts that, like my shivering swimmers, proved not to be fans of icy rain.   But it’s okay, because I’m sure these guys will fit in just fine–

They look so hearty and tough.

And I’ll just bet they don’t complain to their mother even though she’s hardly the one who voluntarily begged to be signed up to swim.

Outside.

In Colorado.

In stupid old unpredictable May.

Surprisingly Entertaining Pets

daphne on May 17, 2011

My kids have been asking for a pet since they could speak.  Something warm and fuzzy they could cuddle and love.

Hello Fluffy

Who cares that this adorable critter arrived alongside 30 pounds of his friends to take a spicy steam bath?  If my babies want a pet, then a pet they shall have.

At least for an hour or so.

And nothing says cuddly and sweet like a crayfish.  True, online experts claim them to be “incredibly aggressive, territorial and even cannibalistic,” yet they also find them to be “surprisingly entertaining pets to keep.”

And if by entertaining they mean catching the little mud-bugger as he leaps from his tupperware and sprints across the lawn, then I guess they are spot on.

***note to the greener reader***

Yes, I do realize that nothing in this post could possibly be construed as green.  Some might even call it tactless and carnivorous.  And for that I am sorry.  But hey — you know what goes really well with crawfish? Nudity.  It’s true, just ask anyone who’s spent time in New Orleans. So if it helps at all, I did also talk today about getting naked;  just click over to Mama Bird Diaries and check it out.

Mouse Skulls and Mother’s Day

daphne on May 10, 2011

Do you want to know the best thing about this plastic baggie full of mouse skeletons?

It’s not my maternal pride over the obvious CSI skills my daughters’ exhibit.

It’s not knowing that our neighborhood owls are eating well, controlling the mouse population, and selecting our pine tree for the repository of their pellets/gifts.  Though all those things are clearly good things.

No, the best part about this cluster of doom is that it was not my Mother’s Day gift.

Because while I appreciate the heck out of every thoughtful token my daughters have bestowed over the years, it would have taken considerably more energy then I’ve got to muster up the necessary ooohs and ahhhs over this bag o’ bones.

In between dissections, the little naturalists did make themselves available to do mom’s bidding.  They scowled and declined happily lent a hand.  All it took was a subtle reminder that IT IS MOTHER’S DAY THAT’S WHY.

And in honor of Mother’s Day the hammock was to be hung.  I held the image all day as I seeded and weeded, knowing that soon I would be rocking gently beneath the trees.  Relaxing.

Sure enough, there was plenty of relaxing on Mother’s Day.

I know what you’re thinking, but you’re crazy.  It’s enough for me to simply watch my offspring relax with a good book.

Besides, between the children reading in the hammock and these love doves being all lovey dovey

And strawberries putting out their flowery best

And rhubarb so ripe it practically crisped itself,

And our future salads poking through to say hello

The day was perfect.

Especially since the mouse skulls weren’t destined for my room.  They were for the 2nd grade teacher.  Because nobody musters up excitement over mouse-parts-in-a-bag like a teacher.

Free-Ranging It

daphne on April 27, 2011

Is what’s good for the goose chicken . . . good for the gander children?

These children that I have coddled and cuddled for over ten years? The ones who, yes, have a tendency to fall on their heads but otherwise have demonstrated good judgment and responsibility in spades.

Free range these children? These peace-loving, tree-hugging, flower children o’mine?

Yes.  I know the answer is yes.  It is time to let them out into that big bad world out there.

And in defense of that world, it’s been putting on a good show.  You’d never guess that she’s hell-bent on scaring me to pieces.  What with the blushing blossoms on her fruit trees

And her sweet young sprouts,

the world is practically bursting apart with displays of innocence.  It’s as if Mother Earth has draped herself in springtime in an evil attempt to forcefully loosen my hold and get my precious babes out into her play-land.

Which I know to be full of danger.

But it’s working.  I’m breaking down.  I am being fooled by Mama Nature.

Fooled into letting them ride their bikes without tethering them to bubble-wrap.  Fooled into giving them opportunities to flourish and the freedom to fail.  Fooled into free-ranging my chickadees.

No, not because it would make their flesh succulent and tender.

It’s because the little box that I yearn to keep them in is busting at the seams and at some point they may want to do things, like go to college.  Or get married.

And I hear that’s kind of hard to do when you’re being raised like veal.

The Answer is Blowing in the Wind

daphne on April 11, 2011

The question, of course, was the one I posed in a round-about way last week:  How do you protect your sprout-lings from the cold winds that blow?

You can plant the seeds.

You can nurture the little guys as they poke their heads into the world for the first time.

You can shower them with smothering love and affection as you watch them grow with pride but soon enough they will be begging to be set free, demanding to stand on their own out in the wild blue yonder

Oops.  Wrong sprouts.

Pardon the mistake but that’s bound to happen when you take parenting advice from a gardening site.  Which I have.  I read that in order to prepare your sprouts for the real world, you must blow on them.  This simulated mini-hurricane hardens your sprouts, making them stronger, thereby preparing them for the strong Colorado winds.

Or big bad life lessons, whichever nemesis applies.

The answer is blowing in the wind.  Or blowing on your plants.  Or letting your kids out into the world despite the fact that it can be a dark and scary place.

And so it was that our veggie sprouts began their training regiment of standing up to the fan.

And I, with a kiss and a forced smile, relinquished my sprouts to a panel of 12 judges.  The girls bent calmly into the wind.  They put themselves out there, faced their music, and wham bam 13-hours-in-a-gym later, they came away intact.

Not just intact, but ecstatic.  And bedecked with ribbons.

Here are the videos–

Kira’s Freestyle took first place for her age division.

Acadia’s Freestyle took first place for her division.

Kira’s Pairs Freestyle also took first.

But Honey — Mommy Thinks You’re Terrific

daphne on April 4, 2011

I’ve been thinking.

Thinking about all the blather I spew to parents of newbies about the dreaminess of life on this side of infancy.  About how parenting older kids is a walk in the park where that park doesn’t insist you follow slippery tots in and out of sand piles and up and down ladders and slides.

It is true.  Most days are just easier now that they’re grown.  But then I’ll go and do something dumb, like remembering when they looked like this

Back when I could bind them up in a cotton burrito and hold them close

So sweet.  So unaware that just a few years down the road lurk life lessons hungry to bite them in their unsuspecting little tushies.

Not that I’m against life lessons.  They are, no doubt, vital stepping stones on the path towards becoming well-adjusted human beings.

Scratch that.

I hate life lessons.  They are big and mean and hurtful and I want them to go away.

I do not want them sneaking up, threatening to snatch away my girls’ dreams in the name of building character.

I hate character.

Why can’t childhood just be a succession of blissful little images of quiet innocence?

You know, the way it is in my selective memory.

All I took was a few tentative steps down baby lane and now I’m a total wreck.  I am awash in images of days that sped by

Days in which achieving perfection in mama’s eyes alone was enough

But they are content no more.  They have turned their noses up at pacifiers and swaddling blankets and this decidedly lop-sided opinion I’ve got of them.  They have moved on to challenges that will no doubt prepare them for life and destroy my sanity.

How will I protect them when they insist on heading out into the cruel world to be judged by strangers on merits alone when they could stay home with me and bask in my tales of their brilliance and talent?

What if they go out there and do not succeed?

What if they are crushed with disappointment despite working determinedly towards a singular goal?

There is no certified program for soothing big kids.

No book of miracles beyond the swaddle and gentle bouncing.

There is no 5-point harness to shield them from the shocks delivered by mean girls or tough breaks or tournaments with undesirable outcomes.

They want to compete.  And my baby-no-more wants to be judged, not by jaded parents or gushing grandparents, but by an objective panel.  And she wants to come out on top.

I am proud of her.  Of her lofty goals and her determination and hard work.  On paper, I will spout that win or lose there are valuable life lessons to be learned.

Blech.  Life lessons.

I hate life lessons.