It's been a few weeks, that's all it's been. That Tuesday marked the end of a big chapter, and the dawn of a new chapter in my life as Mama.
It was the last day of preschool for my third and last child. It was the end of a five-year run at our parent-participation school. To sum it up, that's a lot of friends, fellow parents, beautiful children, all of whom span a spectrum of personalities that have shown me not life as it should be, but life as it is. I appreciate the yearn for "should," but I have certainly learned to embrace "IS." With love and admiration for our littlest people, our next generation, I hope I never forget this eternal mantra:
Embrace Life As It Is.
Prior to that Tuesday I had already had my moments of bittersweet sadness, so I was ready (á la Spongebob), with strength and happiness, to face the day that marked the end of preschool for my daughter (and for Oh-so-selfish Me.)
Little Sophia's carpool buddy was dropped off at the same time as any other day, like it was any other day. I took photos for the memory books of these two little pals outside running around the tree. I corralled them into the car for the last ride to school. Clicked into reverse and turned on the tunes. The little ones have no understanding of the end of preschool. Luckies!
I reversed out the driveway while, no exaggeration, the beginning of this song filled my ears... name that tune in three notes, I knew it, and I knew I could no longer pretend that this Tuesday was like any other:
When the night has come,
And the land is dark,
And the moon is the only light we'll see,
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid,
Just as long as you stand, stand by me.
For the fifteen minute drive to school I lapsed between fog, daze, and tears. I thought about how this preschool was created for the kids. Yes. True. But I was also thinking of the parents I had connected with. Friendships that began with casual hellos and friendly complements like, "Your kid looks awesome in that LedZep black T... reminds me of when..."
Just five years. Some have moved out of state. Some have or are facing serious health concerns. Most are struggling with an uncertain economy. Working Moms, SAHMs, Hover Moms, Soccer Moms, Single Moms, Super Moms. (Feel free to apply these titles to Mr. Moms, too.)
With my mind filling up with all these memories, this Taxi Mom was still able to answer the important questions from my two little co-passengers on our way to Ice Cream Day at preschool.
Mama: "Yes, of course, I was once a Pirate Ship Captain of the Sea. Such a silly question..."
Child: "Mommy, I said, is there mint chip ice cream for me?"
Mama: "Oh, right, yes, ice cream just for you... made by pirates...just for you..."
Just five years. I have met many, many great kids. Many Mini-Inspirations. And their parents. Some of whom—obvious to the outside world—my family would have not crossed paths with if not for this little preschool. I try my best to keep in touch with the special ones (the ones who unconditionally accept me and my family.)
I have helped coax little rambunctious tots to sit still on the learning mat. I have hugged a parent after an unimaginable chemo-treatment. My GalPals and I played Tooth Fairy together, giggling while spraying glitter on a dollar bill for a one-tooth-less child whose parents could not attend the summer camp out. The doors of my friends' homes wide open for my own kids, while I needed something for just me. Likewise, my friends' kids enjoy play dates with us. I hope that Super Mom or Mr. Mom relish the breather, a little bit of time or sleep... these are silent gifts.
When the night has come,
And the land is dark,
And the moon is the only light we'll see,
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid,
Just as long as you stand, stand by me.
XOXO Breeze
Friday, June 24, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
"___Other Explain___"
Toughen up, Kid!
As a Mama o' Three, every day I hear tragic stories of playtime war wounds that go something like:
"Mommy, I want to tell Daddy about my scraped knee. Kiss it first."
"Mama, you can't see it, but my finger really stings even though you can't see it. Can You see it?"
"Mom, check out this bleeding cut here, right here... and over here... and on my toe. Doesn't even hurt!"
Seems like eons ago (only 8 years) that I was full of overwhelming anxiety when I had to carry my precious first newborn to the kitchen sink for his bath. What if I dropped him on the way? What if I tripped, or sneezed? What if I blinked for too long and he slipped out of his plastic bath tub and flopped on the tile like a fish out of water? I do distinctly remember being so exhausted that closing my eyes for too long—even while walking—was indeed very plausible. And I'm a notorious klutz, so dropping anything, even a kid, was very likely. It can be a cruel twist of fate for new mothers, so darn tired from nursing and caring for a beautiful new baby during all odd hours of day and night. Time ticks sooo friggin' slow during cries of a newborn and tears of a mama. On the flip side, days and weeks fly by too fast when you just want to take it all in. (Hey, Mr. Sands Of Time, you are not playing nice... you need a Time Out!) Meanwhile, coos, giggles, tiny-toe-nibbles, first words, first crawl, couch cruise, and big little steps... and falls. Here is when you wish time would stand still.
Life don't work that way.
You become Mom amidst the Blur.
And "quick trips" to the grocery store, well, those are, quite simply, a world away from your single days.
---------
If you had to write on my Owie Report with your green sharpie pen, it would read:
" F' Yes Other Explain My nerves are shot!"
My nerves are fragile at best. At worst, they are shot.
I've been a Mama for 8 years now. Fragile nerves won't stop me from going to Trader Joe's grocery store with three kids in tow, 30 minutes to kill, and "milk" on the list.
We landed a great parking spot; we have a little list in hand; we have grabbed the beloved hummus. Smooth so far. "Mommy, I have to PEE!" Aw, Sweet Pete! I said something I thought I would never say in public, and especially in the vegetable aisle, "Honey, how badly do you have to pee right now?" "Right now, Mommy!" Hhhmph.
I scanned the store as I have not had to right-now-pee in this particular store before. I spotted the restrooms and the pizza sampler bar nearby. I told my two older boys to sample pizza while us girls use the potty. Lo and behold, there was a line for two co-ed restrooms and a bit of a wait for both—which is NOT good for the next in line, am I right? Yes. My boys were already bored after their samples so I invited them to stay with us in line. We waited and waited and waited. Finally, our turn came after a bunch o' singles slo-o-o-owly sauntered out the stalls, and our party of four dashed in.
Sophia took the throne. The boys talked about if they had to go or not go, big decisions for young boys. I encouraged them to go. My patience thinning, I said, "JUST GO!" Nope, they are old enough to decide for themselves. Aidan, the oldest, had decided to be in charge of the door. Tristan decided to be in charge of lights. The lights went out. It's pitch black. I barked, "OMG! What's going on?" The lights flashed on for a split second, then off again. Sophia, still on the pot, started screaming. I said, "Aidan, open the door!" "But, Mom, I can't see where the door is!" Lights flashed on again. And off again.
On. Off.
On. Off.
On. Off.
"Tristan, turn ON the lights!" "But, Mom, I'm trying!!!" The lights flashed back on for a second and I spotted the "cage" around the small light switch, and I spotted my son's even smaller finger desperately trying to turn the caged switch on/off, meaning this bathroom is really weird, and also that the lights will be off for the remaining customers. Mama finally figured this out right quick, Friends, and we made a dash for it... after Sophia washed her hands, of course.
As you can imagine, my anxiety was elevated that day. But I can happily say, I was with an anxiety unmatched to trying to over-cautiously carry my first born to his first baths. This day's anxiety was much more fun. We were in it together. Me and my kids in the dark, the light, the dark, the light. Little Sh*ts.
We landed home two and a half hours later... with no milk.
The sun had set. The day was done. The moon was full. The night had come.
XOXO Breeze
As a Mama o' Three, every day I hear tragic stories of playtime war wounds that go something like:
"Mommy, I want to tell Daddy about my scraped knee. Kiss it first."
"Mama, you can't see it, but my finger really stings even though you can't see it. Can You see it?"
"Mom, check out this bleeding cut here, right here... and over here... and on my toe. Doesn't even hurt!"
Seems like eons ago (only 8 years) that I was full of overwhelming anxiety when I had to carry my precious first newborn to the kitchen sink for his bath. What if I dropped him on the way? What if I tripped, or sneezed? What if I blinked for too long and he slipped out of his plastic bath tub and flopped on the tile like a fish out of water? I do distinctly remember being so exhausted that closing my eyes for too long—even while walking—was indeed very plausible. And I'm a notorious klutz, so dropping anything, even a kid, was very likely. It can be a cruel twist of fate for new mothers, so darn tired from nursing and caring for a beautiful new baby during all odd hours of day and night. Time ticks sooo friggin' slow during cries of a newborn and tears of a mama. On the flip side, days and weeks fly by too fast when you just want to take it all in. (Hey, Mr. Sands Of Time, you are not playing nice... you need a Time Out!) Meanwhile, coos, giggles, tiny-toe-nibbles, first words, first crawl, couch cruise, and big little steps... and falls. Here is when you wish time would stand still.
Life don't work that way.
You become Mom amidst the Blur.
And "quick trips" to the grocery store, well, those are, quite simply, a world away from your single days.
---------
If you had to write on my Owie Report with your green sharpie pen, it would read:
" F' Yes Other Explain My nerves are shot!"
My nerves are fragile at best. At worst, they are shot.
I've been a Mama for 8 years now. Fragile nerves won't stop me from going to Trader Joe's grocery store with three kids in tow, 30 minutes to kill, and "milk" on the list.
We landed a great parking spot; we have a little list in hand; we have grabbed the beloved hummus. Smooth so far. "Mommy, I have to PEE!" Aw, Sweet Pete! I said something I thought I would never say in public, and especially in the vegetable aisle, "Honey, how badly do you have to pee right now?" "Right now, Mommy!" Hhhmph.
I scanned the store as I have not had to right-now-pee in this particular store before. I spotted the restrooms and the pizza sampler bar nearby. I told my two older boys to sample pizza while us girls use the potty. Lo and behold, there was a line for two co-ed restrooms and a bit of a wait for both—which is NOT good for the next in line, am I right? Yes. My boys were already bored after their samples so I invited them to stay with us in line. We waited and waited and waited. Finally, our turn came after a bunch o' singles slo-o-o-owly sauntered out the stalls, and our party of four dashed in.
Sophia took the throne. The boys talked about if they had to go or not go, big decisions for young boys. I encouraged them to go. My patience thinning, I said, "JUST GO!" Nope, they are old enough to decide for themselves. Aidan, the oldest, had decided to be in charge of the door. Tristan decided to be in charge of lights. The lights went out. It's pitch black. I barked, "OMG! What's going on?" The lights flashed on for a split second, then off again. Sophia, still on the pot, started screaming. I said, "Aidan, open the door!" "But, Mom, I can't see where the door is!" Lights flashed on again. And off again.
On. Off.
On. Off.
On. Off.
"Tristan, turn ON the lights!" "But, Mom, I'm trying!!!" The lights flashed back on for a second and I spotted the "cage" around the small light switch, and I spotted my son's even smaller finger desperately trying to turn the caged switch on/off, meaning this bathroom is really weird, and also that the lights will be off for the remaining customers. Mama finally figured this out right quick, Friends, and we made a dash for it... after Sophia washed her hands, of course.
As you can imagine, my anxiety was elevated that day. But I can happily say, I was with an anxiety unmatched to trying to over-cautiously carry my first born to his first baths. This day's anxiety was much more fun. We were in it together. Me and my kids in the dark, the light, the dark, the light. Little Sh*ts.
We landed home two and a half hours later... with no milk.
The sun had set. The day was done. The moon was full. The night had come.
XOXO Breeze
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
New Day, New Story
A new day brings a new story. I have had many little mama stories to tell since my last blog. But no time to tell them. Sure, I could have made the time to write. But I didn't. I felt a lot pressure to write on Mother's Day. This is a Mom Blog, after all. But I didn't. Geez, I should have at least sent a "shout out" to you moms the day after Mom's day, or at least an inquisitive, "Hey, fellow Mama, are you as tired-arse as me, today?" But I didn't.
I feel so guilty, but I know you understand. I am not a professional mom-blogger. Do not expect me to blog every day, that will not happen. I get moody, tired, distracted, in the least. Then, on top of that, life throws that curveball. Thankfully not directly at our family, but to a few of my close friends as of late. We all can relate to that. The rumor, the call, the announcement, the caringbridge site, and the worst news.
Some of our family friends are in the Valley of Darkness, not my favorite phrase, but it's universal... moving on. We can and should help them in any way. And we do—through delivered meals, promises to babysit or chauffeur, and donations of any kind. To pray. To listen. To offer a shoulder to lean on or to cry on. We offer to help in any way, and we hope they take us for our word, yet we know they will not accept all of our promises. But our promises are there for the taking. Unconditionally.
-----
My 4-year-old daughter brought home an "Owie Report" from preschool today. Our preschool is parent-participation, so the note is signed by a fellow Mama. Among other scribbles, I read, "Sophia was very brave and cute as always!" Hand-written green sharpie on a scrap of white paper. And it is now one of my most valued treasures. Testament to her bravery... and cuteness. In ink. 2011.
We all warrant an "Owie Report" from time to time. But us adults have to pretend that green sharpies on white paper won't cut it. To that I say, don't insult the intelligence of our youngest generation by not writing your thoughts down...now. Even if you are at the last option—and likely most important—option on the "Owie Report" typed:
"___Other Explain___".
XO Breeze
I feel so guilty, but I know you understand. I am not a professional mom-blogger. Do not expect me to blog every day, that will not happen. I get moody, tired, distracted, in the least. Then, on top of that, life throws that curveball. Thankfully not directly at our family, but to a few of my close friends as of late. We all can relate to that. The rumor, the call, the announcement, the caringbridge site, and the worst news.
Some of our family friends are in the Valley of Darkness, not my favorite phrase, but it's universal... moving on. We can and should help them in any way. And we do—through delivered meals, promises to babysit or chauffeur, and donations of any kind. To pray. To listen. To offer a shoulder to lean on or to cry on. We offer to help in any way, and we hope they take us for our word, yet we know they will not accept all of our promises. But our promises are there for the taking. Unconditionally.
-----
My 4-year-old daughter brought home an "Owie Report" from preschool today. Our preschool is parent-participation, so the note is signed by a fellow Mama. Among other scribbles, I read, "Sophia was very brave and cute as always!" Hand-written green sharpie on a scrap of white paper. And it is now one of my most valued treasures. Testament to her bravery... and cuteness. In ink. 2011.
We all warrant an "Owie Report" from time to time. But us adults have to pretend that green sharpies on white paper won't cut it. To that I say, don't insult the intelligence of our youngest generation by not writing your thoughts down...now. Even if you are at the last option—and likely most important—option on the "Owie Report" typed:
"___Other Explain___".
XO Breeze
Monday, April 11, 2011
Confessions of a Soccer Mom
That's right. You heard me. I am officially a Soccer Mom now.
Soccer Mom is a title I had hoped to avoid... er, like, forever. But here I am, Soccer Mom. I claim this title with love and jest and angst and irritation.
Straight to the point: I did not want any of my kids to excel in soccer. My oldest, Aidan, started playing organized soccer quite late. In my social circle, I would frequently receive comments like, "Your kid is not in AYSO??!!" And I would reply, "No, I cherish my Saturdays." I had good reason for my anti-AYSO insanity.
My big brother told me what AYSO stands for: "All Your Saturdays Occupied." My brother raised his own two super soccer players. He was Dad, Coach, Ref, and now–10+ years later–on some sort of "Administration" (cuz AYSO is that huge.) My niece and nephew excelled in soccer. Of course, we are all so proud of them. Yet, selfishly, I thought for many years, when is there a weekend for us as family without circumventing the friggin' soccer schedule?
Oh, I was so naive... way back when...
My Aidan, age 8, has quickly advanced to Club Soccer. Two practices and one skills class per week, a phat check, to boot. As a mom, it feels like too much: the commitment, time, money. But as a mom on the sidelines, it feels just right. He is not perfect. He trips, falls, mis-kicks. He unconsciously grabs his crotch when he is nervous, which absolutely drives me insane in the membrane. I watch him listen to his coach... My young Aidan's eyes averted to the grass but listening attentively to his coach. I know the lesson sinks into his brain. I know he wants to excel. I know he wants to prove that to everyone. I quietly want him to prove that to everyone, too. This makes me an official Soccer Mom.
When I, Soccer Mom, am on the sidelines, I am trying my best to entertain a 6-year old, a 4-year old, beach blanket, spilled munchies, pencils, paper in the breeze, and an iphone with low-battery. Then, when you'd least expect it, Aidan is racing down the field, focused like a predator, and low-kicks that soccer ball hard into the corner of the goal! That moment is the BEST! That kind of moment eclipses everything of my day. That moment he is so proud of himself, and I am so proud of him. That moment will be part of our bedtime chit-chat that night. The BEST part of his day. It's a big deal for a little eight year old. It's a big deal for Mom.
That Big Moment will have faded by breakfast time.
The new day will surely bring a new story.
xoxo Breeze
Soccer Mom is a title I had hoped to avoid... er, like, forever. But here I am, Soccer Mom. I claim this title with love and jest and angst and irritation.
Straight to the point: I did not want any of my kids to excel in soccer. My oldest, Aidan, started playing organized soccer quite late. In my social circle, I would frequently receive comments like, "Your kid is not in AYSO??!!" And I would reply, "No, I cherish my Saturdays." I had good reason for my anti-AYSO insanity.
My big brother told me what AYSO stands for: "All Your Saturdays Occupied." My brother raised his own two super soccer players. He was Dad, Coach, Ref, and now–10+ years later–on some sort of "Administration" (cuz AYSO is that huge.) My niece and nephew excelled in soccer. Of course, we are all so proud of them. Yet, selfishly, I thought for many years, when is there a weekend for us as family without circumventing the friggin' soccer schedule?
Oh, I was so naive... way back when...
My Aidan, age 8, has quickly advanced to Club Soccer. Two practices and one skills class per week, a phat check, to boot. As a mom, it feels like too much: the commitment, time, money. But as a mom on the sidelines, it feels just right. He is not perfect. He trips, falls, mis-kicks. He unconsciously grabs his crotch when he is nervous, which absolutely drives me insane in the membrane. I watch him listen to his coach... My young Aidan's eyes averted to the grass but listening attentively to his coach. I know the lesson sinks into his brain. I know he wants to excel. I know he wants to prove that to everyone. I quietly want him to prove that to everyone, too. This makes me an official Soccer Mom.
When I, Soccer Mom, am on the sidelines, I am trying my best to entertain a 6-year old, a 4-year old, beach blanket, spilled munchies, pencils, paper in the breeze, and an iphone with low-battery. Then, when you'd least expect it, Aidan is racing down the field, focused like a predator, and low-kicks that soccer ball hard into the corner of the goal! That moment is the BEST! That kind of moment eclipses everything of my day. That moment he is so proud of himself, and I am so proud of him. That moment will be part of our bedtime chit-chat that night. The BEST part of his day. It's a big deal for a little eight year old. It's a big deal for Mom.
That Big Moment will have faded by breakfast time.
The new day will surely bring a new story.
xoxo Breeze
Friday, February 25, 2011
From Broken Pieces to Ten Bells
[I have to side step "Confessions of a Soccer Mom" for now.]
Yesterday was one of the days I call "A Day in the Life." To me, it's an ordinary day made more ordinary when enlightened by an extraordinary event. A day to appreciate the ordinary, the rut, the stride, the laundry piles, the broken pieces around the house.
All in all, life around the homestead has been progressing smoothly. So the other night, my mama balance tipped over when my second son, Tristan, could not shake off the night terrors. Perhaps it was a fever, I suggested. We took his temperature, but it did not read out of the ordinary. My stomach sank with dread remembering when I was young and how I had the worst nightmares that just never went away. I knew exactly the horror he was feeling even though I could not see the images of his complex imagination.
And then a deep, soothing voice filled the bedroom:
"Son, it's gonna be okay. You're okay. It's just a dream. Daddy's here. Mommy's here. There's nothing to be scared of."
We all finally fell fast asleep through to the dawn of yesterday. The Ordinary Day.
----------
Just Another Day in the Life began with bumping into the trash compactor. It broke a few days ago. Actually, it started to smoke and I had to call Hubby at work for his step-by-step instructions on how to unscrew the machine. Not the first two screws I unscrewed - not those - screwed those back in before unscrewing the other two screws. Then I had to muster some muscles to pull the compactor out of its tight under-counter cave. Little peanuts from the gallery chimed in: "Mom, what are you doing?"; "Mom, what's that smell?"; "Mommy, is our house on fire?"; "Shoo, Flies!!!" The smoke dissipated. And the compactor has been sitting broken, unplugged and pulled out of its domain for a few days.
Yesterday afternoon, the kids delighted in playing soccer and football in the front yard with Daddy while I nailed and netted a new chicken run in the backyard. Everyone was busy and happy. But when I overheard that they needed to take break, I joined them in the house. Aidan, our almost 8-year old, had retreated to the garage crying. Apparently Daddy's super goals and light-hearted "In Yo Face!" unsportsmanlike conduct were too much for our first born child. With a bruised sensitive ego and tears running down his dirty face, he sulked in the garage, aka: the playroom-in-progress, where he played Wii Madden instead (to build up his football confidence again.)
So during half time, Hubby decided to try to fix the broken fire starter pipe in our fireplace. I had started this filthy ungrateful (get it?) chore a few days with no luck at all despite the fact that the expert at the fireplace equipment store assured me replacing a fire starter is easy. Hubby was discovering for himself how not easy it was when he exclaimed, "YES! I got it!"... "NO! I broke it!" in one breath. He held the old pipe in his hand, but the pipe's threads were still in the L pipe. We need wrenches and all sorts of gadgets to unscrew the rusty L hook without damaging the gas line that runs under the house. (Because that means calling the plumber, which we all know is the very last resort!) While I frantically forged through the garage to find a tool, I knocked over a glass jar filled with tidbits like random buttons, broken toy parts, beads, dust bunnies, marbles. Glass shattered all over. At least this gives me chance to share with you one of my Mama-isms: There are Three things that will guarantee that your child(ren) will run to your side, like moths to a flame. 1) The Almighty Cookie, 2) The Important Phone Conversation, 3) The Sound of Broken Glass.
Two hours later...
which included a can of WD40, 5 various wrenches and a trip to the hardware store, the broken fire starter pipe was in the trash, the new shiny one still waiting on the floor next to its future home, and the kids started the second half of football. There was a trail of ash across the floor thanks to the tiny hole in the trash bag. I went to yoga class. And I came home to a kitchen filled with the scents of steak, fries, herbs. Hubby handed me a glass of Chardonnay. Everyone was happy and hungry, and a little bit chilly.
The later evening brought a task I have not needed to do in quite a long time. I needed to press my husband's Navy Class "A" Uniform. I pulled the freshly laundered dress trousers from the dryer - the ones with the bleach stains in the crotch - held them up to him and asked, "Do you have another pair?" "No, those are my best ones." I do not understand why these have been the best ones. Why these? Has he gained weight? Lost weight? Comfy because they are old? Comfy because they are the newest of the old?
I examined this only pair of uniform trousers in this house. Before I ironed, I whipped out my black Sharpie and blue Sharpie and started to "paint out" the Gawd-awful bleach marks. The Nomex fire retardant fabric resisted the ink, but I kept "painting." I thought it looked pretty decent... Until my son sauntered passed and inquired, "Mom, why are you drawing poop on Dad's pants?" He has since regained his confidence, I see. Undaunted by my little critic, I continued on my artistic quest.
Finally satisfied with my work, I pressed the pants and dress blues shirt. His bell cap and tie waited on the table until morning. End of an ordinary day.
----------
Today is an extraordinary day. He left early in the morning, dressed for the Walking Procession. The last thing he does before he says goodbye is put on his Black Bell Cap. Today he is one of thousands of Firefighter Brothers attending the Last Call of a Fallen FireFighter, an extraordinary man of family and service.
Today Ten Bells ring.
“Since the beginning, in the Fire Service the bell started the day, rang through out the day’s work and at the completion of each every alarm, the fire department signals that they have returned to the station and are ready for duty. The next Alarm.
Yesterday was one of the days I call "A Day in the Life." To me, it's an ordinary day made more ordinary when enlightened by an extraordinary event. A day to appreciate the ordinary, the rut, the stride, the laundry piles, the broken pieces around the house.
All in all, life around the homestead has been progressing smoothly. So the other night, my mama balance tipped over when my second son, Tristan, could not shake off the night terrors. Perhaps it was a fever, I suggested. We took his temperature, but it did not read out of the ordinary. My stomach sank with dread remembering when I was young and how I had the worst nightmares that just never went away. I knew exactly the horror he was feeling even though I could not see the images of his complex imagination.
And then a deep, soothing voice filled the bedroom:
"Son, it's gonna be okay. You're okay. It's just a dream. Daddy's here. Mommy's here. There's nothing to be scared of."
We all finally fell fast asleep through to the dawn of yesterday. The Ordinary Day.
----------
Just Another Day in the Life began with bumping into the trash compactor. It broke a few days ago. Actually, it started to smoke and I had to call Hubby at work for his step-by-step instructions on how to unscrew the machine. Not the first two screws I unscrewed - not those - screwed those back in before unscrewing the other two screws. Then I had to muster some muscles to pull the compactor out of its tight under-counter cave. Little peanuts from the gallery chimed in: "Mom, what are you doing?"; "Mom, what's that smell?"; "Mommy, is our house on fire?"; "Shoo, Flies!!!" The smoke dissipated. And the compactor has been sitting broken, unplugged and pulled out of its domain for a few days.
Yesterday afternoon, the kids delighted in playing soccer and football in the front yard with Daddy while I nailed and netted a new chicken run in the backyard. Everyone was busy and happy. But when I overheard that they needed to take break, I joined them in the house. Aidan, our almost 8-year old, had retreated to the garage crying. Apparently Daddy's super goals and light-hearted "In Yo Face!" unsportsmanlike conduct were too much for our first born child. With a bruised sensitive ego and tears running down his dirty face, he sulked in the garage, aka: the playroom-in-progress, where he played Wii Madden instead (to build up his football confidence again.)
So during half time, Hubby decided to try to fix the broken fire starter pipe in our fireplace. I had started this filthy ungrateful (get it?) chore a few days with no luck at all despite the fact that the expert at the fireplace equipment store assured me replacing a fire starter is easy. Hubby was discovering for himself how not easy it was when he exclaimed, "YES! I got it!"... "NO! I broke it!" in one breath. He held the old pipe in his hand, but the pipe's threads were still in the L pipe. We need wrenches and all sorts of gadgets to unscrew the rusty L hook without damaging the gas line that runs under the house. (Because that means calling the plumber, which we all know is the very last resort!) While I frantically forged through the garage to find a tool, I knocked over a glass jar filled with tidbits like random buttons, broken toy parts, beads, dust bunnies, marbles. Glass shattered all over. At least this gives me chance to share with you one of my Mama-isms: There are Three things that will guarantee that your child(ren) will run to your side, like moths to a flame. 1) The Almighty Cookie, 2) The Important Phone Conversation, 3) The Sound of Broken Glass.
Two hours later...
which included a can of WD40, 5 various wrenches and a trip to the hardware store, the broken fire starter pipe was in the trash, the new shiny one still waiting on the floor next to its future home, and the kids started the second half of football. There was a trail of ash across the floor thanks to the tiny hole in the trash bag. I went to yoga class. And I came home to a kitchen filled with the scents of steak, fries, herbs. Hubby handed me a glass of Chardonnay. Everyone was happy and hungry, and a little bit chilly.
The later evening brought a task I have not needed to do in quite a long time. I needed to press my husband's Navy Class "A" Uniform. I pulled the freshly laundered dress trousers from the dryer - the ones with the bleach stains in the crotch - held them up to him and asked, "Do you have another pair?" "No, those are my best ones." I do not understand why these have been the best ones. Why these? Has he gained weight? Lost weight? Comfy because they are old? Comfy because they are the newest of the old?
I examined this only pair of uniform trousers in this house. Before I ironed, I whipped out my black Sharpie and blue Sharpie and started to "paint out" the Gawd-awful bleach marks. The Nomex fire retardant fabric resisted the ink, but I kept "painting." I thought it looked pretty decent... Until my son sauntered passed and inquired, "Mom, why are you drawing poop on Dad's pants?" He has since regained his confidence, I see. Undaunted by my little critic, I continued on my artistic quest.
Finally satisfied with my work, I pressed the pants and dress blues shirt. His bell cap and tie waited on the table until morning. End of an ordinary day.
----------
Today is an extraordinary day. He left early in the morning, dressed for the Walking Procession. The last thing he does before he says goodbye is put on his Black Bell Cap. Today he is one of thousands of Firefighter Brothers attending the Last Call of a Fallen FireFighter, an extraordinary man of family and service.
Today Ten Bells ring.
“Since the beginning, in the Fire Service the bell started the day, rang through out the day’s work and at the completion of each every alarm, the fire department signals that they have returned to the station and are ready for duty. The next Alarm.
In times past, the bell was used as the signal. We signal today with Ten Bells that our brother, Firefighter Glen Allen has lost his life in the Line of Duty and has returned home safely and awaits his next assignment. Gods Speed”
xoxo
Breeze
Friday, February 18, 2011
Lifetime Mama Club
Did you know today is Platypus Day?
No? Well, my 4-year old daughter is wishing everyone a Happy Platypus Day! Why not?! THAT is the big lesson: Why... Not?!
Tonight, I overhear my little Sophia do the platypus dance in front of her semi-annoyed older brothers who are meanwhile trying very hard to focus on that cute husky-voiced girl of Disney's "Wizards of Waverly Place." Each of them have their focus right now. Just as we all want and need a focus. What was your focus today? Does it match your focus right now? {insert wicked laugh}
I'm not sure what my focus was today. Being Friday, just to get to 8pm with kids sans hubbie was a good aim for me. That's usually the goal I set by 6am when hubbie dashes out the door to make le bacon. I'm seasoned enough to know it does not work that way in reality. And I am always ready to bend...
I had an attainable schedule today. 2 out of 3 kids in school. A little time at the gym. Groceries. Painting. Replace the fire lighter pipe in our old fireplace. Finalize the old-to-new computer transfer. All fun things.
Thankfully, I read an early morning email that erased most of my chores. My Tristan was to receive a coveted Gold Card Award at school today. Mama's schedule has changed. I ditched the gym, I was there at school with Sophia in stride. At the all-school-assembly, I tried in vain to get Tristan to notice me, but that's not how he thinks. And I have to let that go and hope to get in his face with my camera after he gets his award. He is so different than the other two, and so much like me.
Gold Card Awards are handed out by our school's principal who encourages a quick reception of award, brief applause, blah, blah. Well, Tristan has been waiting since December for his Gold Card Award... and the rest of the world was waiting today while he sauntered... I mean, sauntered... to the stage, in his own sweet time... meanwhile the rest of the school assembly giggled and applauded. My Tristan showing his peers, his teachers, his family, his world, to just friggin' chill. Take it all in. Take it all in stride.
This is my motto for the Lifetime Mama Club: Take it all in. Take it all in stride.
My fellow mamas, plan your day loosely because you never know when it'll be Platypus Day!
Next stop... Soccer Mom Confessions
xoxo
Breeze
No? Well, my 4-year old daughter is wishing everyone a Happy Platypus Day! Why not?! THAT is the big lesson: Why... Not?!
Tonight, I overhear my little Sophia do the platypus dance in front of her semi-annoyed older brothers who are meanwhile trying very hard to focus on that cute husky-voiced girl of Disney's "Wizards of Waverly Place." Each of them have their focus right now. Just as we all want and need a focus. What was your focus today? Does it match your focus right now? {insert wicked laugh}
I'm not sure what my focus was today. Being Friday, just to get to 8pm with kids sans hubbie was a good aim for me. That's usually the goal I set by 6am when hubbie dashes out the door to make le bacon. I'm seasoned enough to know it does not work that way in reality. And I am always ready to bend...
I had an attainable schedule today. 2 out of 3 kids in school. A little time at the gym. Groceries. Painting. Replace the fire lighter pipe in our old fireplace. Finalize the old-to-new computer transfer. All fun things.
Thankfully, I read an early morning email that erased most of my chores. My Tristan was to receive a coveted Gold Card Award at school today. Mama's schedule has changed. I ditched the gym, I was there at school with Sophia in stride. At the all-school-assembly, I tried in vain to get Tristan to notice me, but that's not how he thinks. And I have to let that go and hope to get in his face with my camera after he gets his award. He is so different than the other two, and so much like me.
Gold Card Awards are handed out by our school's principal who encourages a quick reception of award, brief applause, blah, blah. Well, Tristan has been waiting since December for his Gold Card Award... and the rest of the world was waiting today while he sauntered... I mean, sauntered... to the stage, in his own sweet time... meanwhile the rest of the school assembly giggled and applauded. My Tristan showing his peers, his teachers, his family, his world, to just friggin' chill. Take it all in. Take it all in stride.
This is my motto for the Lifetime Mama Club: Take it all in. Take it all in stride.
My fellow mamas, plan your day loosely because you never know when it'll be Platypus Day!
Next stop... Soccer Mom Confessions
xoxo
Breeze
Monday, February 7, 2011
The One Day Knitting Club
I am blessed. I have a special group of gal pals that I adore, admire, and will cherish forever. When I thought of starting a Knitting Club (of non-knitters), I was sure I would start a new über cool mama club, with the aforementioned group of über cool mom gal pals. A Knitting Club for Moms, no kids allowed. No metro-sexual husbands allowed neither. We could express our creativity through yards of 50% wool, 25% cashmere, 15% nylon, and 10% organic cotton. More importantly, we could gab about our mama lives, the ups and downs whilst knit one, purl one. Creating something.
We will make history!... inspired by all crafty women before us throughout history. That's right, I'm even claiming that our club would add a little smidgen to women's history! Bold, yes, I know. Be as excited as I am at this point, unknowing to the reality check that comes next...
Reality check: We didn't need yarn n needles to bond. We already had US. I didn't see that on this night of knitting, pathetically knitting. One gal pal crocheting, which meant the club was already getting complicated...sheesh! Wine was readily available, but, wouldn't you know, we creative mamas were all so dang set on learning to knit or crochet that barely a drop of alcohol was consumed that night. We were all trying so hard to concentrate, to focus, to cast on!
I call it the One Day Knitting Club because that's exactly what is was. One Day. Of Knitting. Of the Club. An outsider might see this as a failure of sorts. But for me, not at all. I will never forget that night because it unknowingly highlighted a big aspect of Motherhood. We long so much to gather together with kids, without kids, with the whole family (birthday parties seem to fulfill this need), with ANY excuse to meet over coffee or wine. We simply need each other. We need adult company. We need to bounce our thoughts off of a "fellow" female.
And we laugh together. Like when my long lost panties found its well-earned place neatly tied in the most beautiful festive bow, hugging the stem of my chilled "Winter Formal" wine glass at My Beloved Friend's holiday party. Those In The Know knew. Kinda like a club... a Lifetime Mama Club.
xoxo Breeze
We will make history!... inspired by all crafty women before us throughout history. That's right, I'm even claiming that our club would add a little smidgen to women's history! Bold, yes, I know. Be as excited as I am at this point, unknowing to the reality check that comes next...
Reality check: We didn't need yarn n needles to bond. We already had US. I didn't see that on this night of knitting, pathetically knitting. One gal pal crocheting, which meant the club was already getting complicated...sheesh! Wine was readily available, but, wouldn't you know, we creative mamas were all so dang set on learning to knit or crochet that barely a drop of alcohol was consumed that night. We were all trying so hard to concentrate, to focus, to cast on!
I call it the One Day Knitting Club because that's exactly what is was. One Day. Of Knitting. Of the Club. An outsider might see this as a failure of sorts. But for me, not at all. I will never forget that night because it unknowingly highlighted a big aspect of Motherhood. We long so much to gather together with kids, without kids, with the whole family (birthday parties seem to fulfill this need), with ANY excuse to meet over coffee or wine. We simply need each other. We need adult company. We need to bounce our thoughts off of a "fellow" female.
And we laugh together. Like when my long lost panties found its well-earned place neatly tied in the most beautiful festive bow, hugging the stem of my chilled "Winter Formal" wine glass at My Beloved Friend's holiday party. Those In The Know knew. Kinda like a club... a Lifetime Mama Club.
xoxo Breeze
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