Bubbles and Balloons

 Water gun fights. TV tag. Lunch on the porch. Reminiscing. I want more than ever to hold my child close to me. To feel his heart beating. He is slowly creeping away from me. Far away. So I'll take any chance I can to be close. No matter the cost.

It starts early. Earlier than I expect it to. First it is the underhanded grumbling, usually about our weather. Will it ever warm up? Then a few weeks before school dumps our children into our laps the real complaining begins. What are you doing with your kids this summer? Camps? Daycare? Grandma's? Most mothers look to other mothers to lead the way. An open ended question that seems full of expectations, more routine and little down time. The topic of year round school usually enters...now. What are we going to do with the children?

Last summer, as a new stay at home mom, I saddled up to these conversations with a fury. How and when could I discharge my child into someone else's care so that I did not have to deal with the chaotic happenstance of summer? These summer conversations seemed natural. Of course, they have to do something. They cannot just sit at home.

This summer however, it did not come naturally. I watched from the outside as mothers began the first bits of noodling. I flinched at any talk of camps. I watched summer calendars get used up in a matter of minutes. I fought hard against any summer planning. As summer break drew closer and closer I felt myself getting excited and giddy. I wanted the school year to be done. I wanted so badly to go through a whole day without having to mention homework, without having to be uniform dressed and out the door by 8:45am, without having to hurry up bedtime, without having to wake a slumbering child and scold them when their breakfast couldn't be eaten fast enough, without having to pack a lunch, without having to talk with teachers about misbehavior. I wanted my child back. I eagerly looked forward to having him all to myself. No outside influences. No routine. No rules. No uniforms. No recess drama. No teachers. No six hours of sitting in a desk. No more boring hours spent zoning out in front of a white board. No more school.

I had changed. I don't want to let go of my child. I want to hang out with him. Snuggle with him. Play Wii with him. Go to the beach and hit DQ on the way home. Last summer these thoughts somehow paralyzed me. I couldn't deal. This summer I hesitate to give him up for a day.

There are such few moments left between him and me. I recognize this.

So we started our summer break with no plans and no routines. After two weeks of no routine, my child has finally emerged. He had been under water for so long. Weighed down by life's expectations. He had gotten out of whack. He had traveled too far to course correct - didn't know he needed to. The discipline mounted. The misbehavior rose to the occasion. The exhaustion had set in. Sickness and school work were relenting.  And then school let out for the summer.  My child is back in all his fullest. Laughter abounds. He hasn't picked up a pencil in eleven days! We explore, we swim, we eat whenever we are hungry, we are lazy, we read, we run, we bike, we sleep when we are tired, we hug and we snuggle. There is no time.

For me, this is the ultimate gift of summer. Reuniting with a struggling child. Bonding with a sensitive child. Laughing. Water gun fights. TV tag. Lunch on the porch. Reminiscing. I want more than ever to hold my child close to me. To feel his heart beating. He is slowly creeping away from me. Far away. So I'll take any chance I can to be close. No matter the cost.

Too Cool

A too cool moment

I happened upon my own blog today and decided that this was a good day to drop all my thoughts onto paper. I was ready to pen something fantastic. My thoughts were jumbled but usually once I start writing I hit on one topic and can run. These mixed and shaken thoughts all fell to the floor when I saw my last unfinished blog entry. The title was interesting and it made me curious to see what was written. "Too Cool," was my title. I stared at a blank page. I had written nothing. Nothing? Not even remembering when I began this entry, I gave a slight chuckle. What had been so cool? It could have been a myriad of different items, people, thoughts, quotes, nature (my list could go on). But what was "too cool," I wondered? And why did I not carry it through? Write it down? Was I interrupted? Was it a sarcastic title? I looked at the ordinary date. There were no clues. I had no idea what was "too cool."

There are so many not cool times in our lives. Struggles, races, sickness, headaches, disorganization (this list could also go on and on). I write about these times. I feel my not so cool moments deeply. These moments seem to carve me into the person I am today. But I am also, more importantly molded by my so cool moments. I would like to remember these "too cool" moments more. Write more about the happiness I am feeling. Sometimes I think that snapping a couple pictures will do the trick. But obviously, for me, I need to write more about the awesomeness that happens every day. The smiles, the eagerness, the laughter, the contentment, the messy morning hair of my two children, my husband's work and ultimately, my happiness.

So, other thoughts will come on a new day but for now I will be happy to go retrieve a waking child from her nap and have a nice cup of coffee and then maybe a tea party. Too cool.

30 years later

I stood outside my house today watching my not so little bundle of joy flitting back and forth between trike rides and water play. I felt the sweat dripping off my forehead which comes from mowing an entire front and back (too big) yard. I stood motionless listening to the wind whipping through the trees. Lately every emotion brings me to an utter stop. I wonder if I will ever feel this exact way again. I am on the move. In a moment I may disappear. This may disappear.

A black Mercedes drove up and slowed way down. I am used to this. My FOR SALE sign begs that people slow down. But this time it was different. the car slowed down and stopped in front of my neighbor's house. I extracted myself from my emotions and made sure I could lay eyes upon my little girl. Then the engine cut out.

A blonde haired woman stepped out. "I hope you don't mind," she stated. "I grew up in this house. I just want to snap a few pictures."

I wished later that I had asked her name because our interaction was instantaneously friendly.

"Wow," I stated, "how long has it been?"

"I grew up here, moved out when I went to college, oh about 30 years ago."

30 years ago, I thought? That was just about the time that my parents moved me into this town. I immediately was drawn to this ironic stranger. We spoke about remodels, driveways, neighborhood kids, rotten porches, bathrooms,  grass, history. I didn't want to let her go. She was a part of me. She had grown up in my bestest neighbor's house and knew so much about my house and it's surroundings. I was mesmerized.

"Well, thanks so much," she called out when she finally made it back to her car. "Good luck with your move."

This is what I needed. I needed to meet her. I needed to watch her drive slowly down the street and then stop and get out to take a picture of her childhood home. A sense of relief washed over me. I connected to my house's history. She connected to her neighborhood's future. It was a pure moment. In that moment, I released my home. I released my hold.

I imagine that one day (in my 60s) I will drive down North 34th, slow down, get out, apologize and take a couple snapshots. I am hopeful that there will be someone outside willing to chat about histories and futures.

My Sincerest, To My Bestest Neighbor Ever.

Thank you for the willingness. Thank you for the conversation. Thank you for the afternoon sidewalk bicycle chats. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for the smiles. Thank you for the honesty and the understanding. Thank you for holding my children. Thank  you for ignoring my children. Thank you for your intelligence and your supportive teaching. Thank you for the parties. Thank you for the late night beer. Thank you for your cheerfulness and your realism. Thank you for your phone number and the key to your house. Thank you for moving your car for basketball championships. Thank you for the early morning commitment (even when I wasn't able to follow through). Thank you for the home baked warm cookies. Thank you for the spontaneous play dates. Thank you for the sidewalk chalk. Thank you for the warm and caring, genuine person that your are. I will miss our greetings - our comings and goings. I will miss sharing our driveway. I will miss sharing our kids. I will miss your curly spunky hair. I will miss laughing with you. I will miss our summers. I will miss your routines. Most of all though, I will miss you. You are a dear friend. Thank you.

I hold the keys.

As the key turned in the lock the door opened to reveal a cold and vacant house. Every visible nail hole, the picture shadows, all of the awful forest green molding, the fancy floral curtains, each stain in the carpet, the bright blue paint, the knob and tube wiring, the lack of ventilation in the bathroom, the quaint original kitchen, the scary unfinished basement, the painted white brick fireplace and the original window panes all called out to me. The day was, June 5, 2004. It was the day we closed and gained access to our new lovely house. I worked tirelessly scrapping and sanding the forest green paint. My hands broke and cracked. I picked out a nice whispering white paint and slowly painted every foot of molding in our house. The place seemed brighter. My Love and I visited every light fixture store within the state and still had a hard time choosing the right fixtures. Rooms were painted. Ventilation was installed in the bathroom and kitchen. The curtains were taken down. The carpet was removed. The brick fireplace was sanded down and tiled over. Our electrician pulled out 300 feet of knob and tube wiring. Our kitchen was remolded. Our basement renovated. More lately we have installed a new bathroom, gutted our possessions, cleaned our roof, painted the exterior of our house, replaced our front porch and repainted all the molding. My yard will be saved for a different post. My hands are still broken and cracked.

Most notably though, we have lived. We have lived in our home for 8 years. It is our first home. We have loved and we have cried in this home. Both kids were brought from the hospital to this home. This home has hosted countless parties and has entertained friends and family. This home has kept us dry and safe. This home has awaken us with its creeks and groans and has rocked us back to sleep. This home has been witness to our happiest moments and to our most regrettable moments. Our home holds us in time and in space. It grounds us to our community, to our family and to our memories. Living is not easy. We have struggled with our home and it has struggled with us.

And now we are about to part ways. How is this properly done? I am not sure. Tonight I am wishing my home could talk. We could laugh about the dust and the clutter and ponder the more significant topic of relocation. After May 25th my home will cease to be mine. I will never enter this house again. We will never again commiserate together. It will melt into the background for me. It will become someone else's home. I dont think I am ready.

How do you properly say, good-bye to a house?  Anyone out there care to comment?

Limbo Land. Too Many Questions. Not Enough Answers.

So it is a new year. A year that will be better (different?) than the next.

Here I am, 12 months later. I wonder if there has been any growth? Any forward movement? Biologically, my kids are one year older. My relationship with My Love is one year longer. My kitty has stopped biting. My house has turned 100 years old. My hair has been growing. There have been really fun moments. There have been really sad moments. There have been really angry moments. There have been really overwhelming moments. There have been really loving moments.

But what does this all mean for me? It seems a bit ironic (is this the right word?) that I started writing in April. My son turns seven (7!!) in two weeks. What a peculiar month. Not winter - spring wants to begin, but there always has to be something holding it back. Limbo land. March has blown it's winds. April tries so hard.

I remember laying in bed with my almost seven year old when he was just a newborn. Both of us falling asleep right after eating. Lying in any position - just tyring to get the sleep that our bodies were due. I would wake sooner and gaze out our window. Stuck in my position until he woke I would dream about my yard and what I wanted to accomplish. The weeds needed pulling. There were blooms that I was missing. I longed to feel the wind that the trees were experiencing. But I stayed put. Allowed him to wake naturally. He ate again and again we were plunged into a deep sleep. Waking only to dream and eat. I missed an entire season. I think now, that is why Spring is so important to me. I don't want to miss another one. But really what did I miss? So much had been gained, right?

So here I am. Happy spring. Happy writing. Happy growing. The catch is, however - I am hard pressed to come up with any non-biological growth. Where are my dreams tonight? What do I yearn for? Has the moment become too big? Have a stopped looking beyond it? There should be goals, right? I yearn for dissatification. I need to pry the bodies off of me and get up, right?

Limbo land. I am an imperfect soul. I want to grow. I want to do right. I want to expereince the joy that happens spontaneously - but I also dont want to lose track of the weeds. I think I have lost track. How do I envelop both?