It's a Matter of Perspective

     "Mommy, why do so many bad things keep happening to us?"  ...Sigh...and as my eight year old throws herself in a fit of gut-wrenching sobs, it takes everything in me not to join her.  This was in the wake of what was probably a scary moment for her as we had a tire blow out while merging onto a busy highway.  As I maneuvered over to the shoulder and the 18-wheelers zoomed by, it seemed to occur to us all , in an unspoken moment of horror, that just recently someone was killed sitting on the shoulder of this same highway only weeks ago.  I took a deep breath and with my hazards blinking in their rhythmic fashion, hobbled back onto the highway to make the few thousand feet to the closest exit ramp where we were able to pull into a gas station, (all the while with three nervous children all telling me how to drive, how helpful).  I put the music on and suggested reading from our library books as we waited for Daddy to come and help us (and as I steadied my shaking hands).  Because nerves weren't tested enough, as the kids were still in the van while it was being jacked up, ("Isn't this fun?!), the van rolled off of the jack and bottomed out onto the concrete.  Ashen-faced children were ushered out and arrangements were made to get us home safely, notwithstanding the fact that the other car available was pulled off of a lift for a much-needed brake job to come and rescue us.  Happily, we're home safe and, well apparently not quite sound.

     Can I be honest?  I feel like some sort of human pinata lately.  I could write a novel about the last decade or so, but most recently it has been a storm of sorts around here.  For whatever reason, there is usually some generous amount of nonsense happening.  Whether it's water leaking from the roof on my bed at night, sliding off the road into a retaining wall with a car full of kids and their presents on Christmas Eve during a sudden snowfall, or more recently the drying up of our well.  These meddlesome adventures are where the name of my blog came from.  Understandably, life with five children pretty much guarantees a rollercoaster ride of not only emotions but of circumstances.  However, my life in and of itself, kids aside, sometimes plays out like the Benny Hill Show; granted more slapstick, less smut.

     While raising a gaggle of kids is definitely a challenge even on the best of days, add a household that barely has running water and you've just kicked the insanity level up a notch.  (Disclaimer alert:  I am aware that for people all over the world clean running water is an unfound luxury and I am in no way forgetting that and therefore read to the end and then feel free to scold me.)  In my busy house I find myself rationing toilet flushing and dish washing, cooking with only bottled water (rich girl problems I know), showering at the houses of generous family members and friends and doing the 3+ loads of laundry (moment of gratitude:  we have enough clothes to constitute that much laundry!) a day at various satellite locations keeping me on my toes more than I really ever wanted to be.  I have spent an incredible amount of time in mental conversation.  Sometimes with God (that's between He and I), but more often with myself and yes I realize I just admitted that I may be going a little nutty.  The conversations with my frustrated-self are often filled with the things that I put in parenthesis, that constant struggling with what I find difficult and yet knowing deep down, that my problems really are high-class.  It has become a mental yoga-class of sorts where I have to force myself to bend and become more flexible in my ability to accept what I am powerless over (I still haven't figured out how to make it rain.), to become more trusting in myself and my situation and that there is a higher plan for me, (making the calls to find out how in the world I am going to come up with the money to drill my well deeper.) and to finally and most importantly keep it all in perspective.  The kind of perspective I shared with my daughter tonight in spite of the real despair that I felt.

     As she stood there with that quiver in her lower lip that signaled an inevitable break down and she asked me that question while the sobs escaped, I was able to ask my little girl, "Charlotte, can you see me?" (nod of the head), "Charlotte can you hear my voice?" (again a tearful nod)  "Charlotte, can you use your legs to walk over to Mommy so that I can give you a big hug?"  As she ran with those healthy little legs over to me and I was able to wrap my strong arms around her and smell her shampoo and feel her warm tears against my skin I began to believe the message that I was about to tell my little girl.  That the things that have been happening are indeed not fun and they are upsetting, but to remember that the most important things in our life, such as the ability to hold each other are still intact.  We know people firsthand who can't hold each other because continents and evil separate them. That we are blessed with bodies that work and not everyone has that luxury. That our love for one another cannot be ruined by broken material things in this world.  Houses may fall apart, wells may dry up, cars come and go and as we age our health begins to fade too but the relationships in our lives are where are true legacy lives.  How we touch one another's hearts can last forever.  No matter where I hang my hat or what I drive or even  if I can see or hear, I can only truly put the value of my life in the love that I choose to be a part of. 

You Can't Get Water From an Empty Well

 

Where the journey begins

 On the last official weekend of summer, I decided to take time to do one of my favorite things and go kayaking  It was kind of ironic that on the day after we realized that due to August's sparse rainfall, our well was dry, and I found myself surrounded by thousands of gallons of water.  Not too long ago, I would have never dreamt of leaving a box of cereal and a bowl of fruit on the kitchen table with a note saying, "Went kayaking, be back by lunch!  Love, Mom."  I would have felt guilty for not being there when the kids woke up.  I most likely would have talked myself out of doing something solely for me.  I've come a long way in that respect.

      Early in my journey of motherhood, taking care of myself was something I wasn't very good at.  When I first became a mom, I worked sixty-hour weeks and was riddled with guilt for not being with my son.  Any spare moment I had I made sure that I spent it with him .  Years later, after having the twins and making the decision to be a stay-at-home mom, I felt that I somehow had to shift proving my self-worth from my paid job, to making sure that I was fully engrossed 100% of the time either in my children or in housework.  It had taken years of being burned out to silence that little voice that told me I was only worth how much I was doing.  I was a walking human-doing, and not a human-being.
     We're surrounded daily by images of supposedly perfect parenting.  Just log into Pinterest if you ever want to feel less-than.  Social media has allowed us to take the picture-perfect moments in our lives and piece together a flawless mosaic for others to see.  I'm not exactly sure when I started to shed this notion that I had to be the "perfect" mom, or when I began to feel like it was OK to start doing things for myself.  It has been a process for sure.  Maybe it began with the once-a-month Twins' Club meetings I went to.  I could rationalize the one night out of a month that I took to meet with other moms of multiples.  Somehow my mommy-guilt allowed me to enjoy those nights mostly guilt-free because I truly felt they were helping me to be a better mother.  There-in lies the absolute truth of it.  Taking a moment for myself, helps me to be a better person for others.  At that time I wasn't aware of it though.  I do remember a defining, "a-ha," moment where I really grasped that notion.  I was twenty-nine, I had just had child number five and we almost immediately moved into the house we now live in.  The year leading up to my youngest's birth was particularly difficult for many reasons and I had just spent the last decade completely absorbed in my children.  I was anxious to lose my baby-weight and saw an ad for a free yoga class in town.  I had started practicing yoga before I got pregnant with Charlotte but hadn't really given it much time.  After struggling through that first class, thinking of nothing other than trying not to fall on my face in front of everyone, I realized that it quite probably was the first time in ten years that I thought of nothing other than where my own two feet were.  No thoughts of what happened in the day preceding the class, no lists of what I had to do after, just a pinpointed focus on where I was at that moment.  It also challenged me to be aware of my physical self.  My breathing, my alignment, my posture, it was all...about...me.  When I came home that evening, I found that the bickering children didn't make my blood pressure rise so high.  The baby's cries seemed less urgent.  The housework even seemed less daunting.  I'm not saying that yoga is for everyone, or that it guarantees a personal epiphany, but it definitely has played a large part in my journey.  Since that class, eight years ago, I find myself enjoying cups of coffee on my porch, taking short trips alone, making time for even just a walk once in awhile.  The old mommy-guilt voice has been mostly quieted because I know that I am a better person for everyone when I have taken even just a short, unapologetic moment to recharge.  I also hope that I am teaching my children something valuable along the way.  I hope by having a better balance in my life, that they still feel loved and important, but not that they are the most important people in the world.  Now don't get me wrong, my children ARE the most important people in MY world, but in any healthy relationship, there needs to be space for each person to be content with themselves first, before they can be good for others.  I hope my kids can learn that balance through my example.

    As I paddle in the morning sun, listening to music and I am surrounded by the peace and serenity that being alone on the lake brings, I can focus on and appreciate the strength of my arms instead of beating myself up for the softness of my middle.  I slow down my paddling and pause to watch the water birds put on a show seemingly just for me and simultaneously feel insignificant in this enormous world and yet completely an intricate part of its miracles.  I push against the wind and feel the light spray of water on my face until I find my favorite spot near the cliffs that for some reason remind me of California and allow myself to float aimlessly with my thoughts while dangling my foot in the cool water.  As I row back towards shore and home, I know I'm bringing back more to my children of me to share than I left with.

Monday Morning Porch Musings in August

 

   Sitting on my porch this Monday morning, I want to slow the clock down.  In one more week the alarm clocks will be set to an un-godly hour and I will resume my position as taskmaster, torturer, and angry cheerleader trying to get all seven of us out the door to school and work.  I will also officially be the mother of a High School Senior, three middle-schoolers and one third-grader.  Where has the time gone?  I know it's not just me who feels that as we get older time goes by so much faster.  Wasn't it just June yesterday after all?
     As a kid, I remember feeling like the days of summer went on forever.  I'd start my day with a healthy breakfast, in front of the TV, of Lucky Charms and Tang.  Magically delicious and NASA-approved.  Thinking back, I probably glowed in the dark a bit those days.  I would then put on my favorite Smurfette tank top and shorts and head outside.  There weren't always other kids to play with and I was the oldest of two by a lot of years but somehow I don't ever remember caring.  I would keep myself busy with adventures I made up for Malibu Barbie and I in the swimming pool or perhaps a Jungle safari for her in the hosta that decorated our property line.  There was ample time for jumping rope, or donning my Strawberry Shortcake roller skates and navigating the uneven and broken sidewalks.  There were walks with my Pop-Pop to Colonial Market for an ice cream treat.  My favorite was the cone you had to peel the paper off of to reveal the crushed-peanut-topping deliciousness. There were indoor memories too of sitting on a towel in the middle of the living room floor because I was still too damp from swimming and I just HAD to get in a game or two of Atari Pinball.  Then I would drive the adults crazy as I talked into the giant window fan practicing  my best Darth Vader impression.  This usually got me sent promptly back outside.  Sometimes the neighbor's grand kids would visit next door and their grandfather would line a large pit in the backyard with a plastic sheet and fill it with water.  Nevermind the fact that I had a perfectly fine pool in my own yard, this make-shift inground pool was the most fun place to swim...ever.
     I remember the smell of charcoal grills in the evenings.  Suppers of burnt hot dogs followed by juicy, red-dripping watermelon.  The adults would venture outside into my world as the sun started to make its way down in the sky.  Sitting in their lawn chairs on the paved driveway, sipping Old-fashions (I can still smell the bittersweet orange peel), listening to the church bells play a familiar song.  We would watch the sky over Passaic's smoke-stack-peppered skyline turn the colors of rainbow sherbet.  Then I would fill plastic cups with as many lightening bugs as I could.  Sometimes sadistically (or just child-like curiosity?) smearing their glow-in-the-dark bodies on my skin to make myself glow.  I actually remember the deliciousness of sinking into the sheets that my mother had hung on the line that day, after an Avon Pink Bubbles, bubble bath.  Nothing in the world, except maybe a newborn, smells as good as line-dried bed sheets.
     I sometimes wonder how my kids' summer memories will measure up for them as they get older.  I have more of an adventurous spirit than my own mother did so I know that we take more day trips to the shore or the lake or to go hiking than I did as a kid.I sometimes wonder if that makes their summer days speed along faster.  There are definitely similarities to our summer experiences.  Sure, their breakfast cereals are a bit less day-glo, they catch lightening bugs in mason jars not plastic cups, and their sunsets aren't watched over the smoke stacks of a crumbling industrial town.  Still, there is swimming, ice cream, and yes, video games.  Do my kids feel like their summer is flying by or do they, like I can remember my little-girl-self, get to August and feel as if summer has gone on forever?  Do they, like I did, welcome the smells of opening a new box of crayons, and hearing those school bells ring?  I know that nostalgia can paint things in a rosier glow than reality  I just hope their summer memories are as warm as mine.
     This last week of summer vacation I'll have the adult ability to try to savor the moments a little more.  To take a conscious mental snapshot of mornings like today, sitting on my porch, surrounded by the chirping of the birds, the busyness of the bugs, the humming of my youngest as she comes out to join me in the dappled sunshine.  When she wraps her tan little arms around my neck in a, "Good morning Mommy," hug and I can smell the sweetness of her sung-bleached hair.  We giggle together at the noisiness of the cicadas.  We'll take the time to point out the spider web shapes from last-night's trap and appreciate how its the prettiest sun-catcher we've ever seen.  There will be no talk of school or work of next week, only plans for trips to Grandma's, giant ice cream cones and sandy toes at the shore.  Hopefully it will be the longest week of our year.

Bed-head Charlotte

Pulp Non-Fiction

     With Mother's Day this coming Sunday, I thought it would be apropo to share about the amazing experience that motherhood has been for me.  My life has been richly blessed and forever altered since that first butterfly flutter in my stomach 17 years ago.  My days have been filled with everything from marveling at the intricate details of my newborn's little fingers, to peanut butter and jelly kisses, to crying as I left my baby at their first day of school, nights laboring over homework together, to yelling at the top of my lungs at sport's functions, cheering on my grown athlete.  And then, and then there are days like today, the kind of day that can't be found in any self-help mothering books.  The type of day that when other, more seasoned mothers say, "Just wait.." are talking about ....

     After a morning at work, and an afternoon weeding the flower garden, fertilizing the vegetable garden, getting the backyard toys out and marinating chicken in preparation for tonight's dinner, I left my house feeling accomplished and ready for the task ahead of me.  I had to pick up 3 of my 5 children, head to my teenager's baseball game and arrange transportation for my middle-schooler from her track meet which was about 10 minutes from NYC and a whole world away from my house in the country.  After much driving, texting (not at the same time, relax) and some playground time, I loaded the 3 into the van and took them to 7-11 where they could fill their MEDIUM Slurpee cup with whatever flavor combination their hearts desired and headed to the teenager's  baseball game.

     I'm a huge sports fan.  I played sports in high school, I love to watch games on tv, and I love watching my kids play (well, relatively...see an older post).  My sophomore "plays" for Varsity.  Basically, as a sophomore that consists of mostly sitting on the bench.  I still love to go to his games and route on the team.  I sit on those splintered benches and gratefully accept the bouquets of weed flowers my 7 year-old brings me.  I wipe the baseball dirt mustaches off of my 8 year-old's upper lip, and dish out many a Goldfish Cracker while celebrating the victories and mourning the losses of the team that my son graces the bench for and I paid $250 for him to do so.  I also take many trips to the bathroom with the little ones.  Today, one of those trips proved epic.

     During the 5th inning, my son Luke informed me that he had to go to the bathroom.  The bathroom is located in the HS building and quite a walk from the ball field so I told him that I'd go with him.  He took off ahead of me like a bullet.  I resigned that he'd be fine without me and followed as far as the outfield where I decided to stand and watch the game while waiting for him to finish his business.  After some time, I realized that 1/2 an inning had just passed and Luke hadn't emerged.  He is prone to long public-restroom visits so I wasn't too alarmed but I decided to check on him.  I stood at the door of the men's room and called his name.  I heard a timid, "Mom?"  And then a panicked, "I need your help!"  Oh boy....  I made sure that the locker room/bathroom was clear of any other men and walked into a mess of Biblical proportions.  There was my little guy with his pants in his hands and, well.... a "mess" all over the place.  Apparently when you weigh 54 lbs. and drink a MEDIUM Slurpee, it can lead to bouts of explosive expressions that may or may not make it into the appropriate receptacles.  The poor kid tried to take care of the mess himself and in doing so managed to grace the sink, floor and top of the commode with his gift.  The remainder of articles of clothing he was still wearing were also decorated.  I had one of those moments where my mind traveled through so many different scenarios that I had a momentary out-of-body experience.  I grabbed the pants, cleaned the sink with locker room paper towels and closed the stall door on my son reassuring him that I'd be back ASAP.  I had no idea what I was going to do.  I ran to my car where I deposited the soiled and soaking-from-"washing" pants on the blacktop and then ran to the bleachers to get my keys.  My 7  year-old was happily rolling down a hill with her little friend and the middle-schooler was chatting with a friend so I quickly went to the van and took stock of my options.  I had a plastic shopping bag....and a rainbow parachute.  Taking said items back to the locker room, I ran into a very surprised older gentleman wearing a cowboy hat.  I made my apologies, mumbled something about my little guy having an accident and proceeded as if I were The Wolf from Pulp Fiction.  I needed to erase all evidence that this bio hazard ever occurred and safely get my now naked son from the crime scene.  I ushered him to the locker room shower where I turned on the ice cold water and handed him a bar of soap.  I stifled any complaints of water temperature with a stern look and headed to the bathroom.  My only options of cleaning supplies were the paper towel dispenser, the hand soap from a pump and the trickle of water from the motion-sensor faucet....Awesome.  I proceeded to pump soap, lever down paper towels and trickle water like a mad woman until the sink shone, the floor no longer looked like a barn and the toilet was as clean as a high school boys' locker room toilet should be.  I forced the boy out of the shower prematurely (he likes long showers like his father) and wrapped him in the only thing I had....the rainbow parachute.  The job was almost done.  I only had to get him through the outfield, to the parking lot and into the van unnoticed, piece of cake?....I started to walk trying to block him with my body, but he was falling behind so I grabbed his neck and held him next to me...a few steps to go and my 7 year-old appeared out of nowhere jumping up and down, holding herself and yelling, "I have to go BATHROOM!!...WAIT,,,WHY IS LUKE IN A PARACHUTE?!!"  I shushed her, ignoring the snickers from a mother sitting near the parking lot, told her to wait a moment, to which she responded with throwing herself on the ground, continuing her potty dance prostrate, and got my naked, rainbow-parachute-wrapped boy safely in the minivan, with his integrity somewhat intact.  I deposited the plastic bag of soiled clothing in the trunk and took the diva to the ladies' room......The rest is a blur...I do know that my middle schooler fell in a ditch, twisting her knee and that the baseball team won.....

     My marinated chicken was forgotten, baseball game was over at 7:00 and pizza was ordered.  The windows were wide open on the ride home to air out the contents of that plastic bag,  and I sat, the matriarch, driving my minivan....my victorious bench warmer to my right, the non-stop-talking diva behind me, kicking the driver's seat the whole way, my ballerina with the twisted knee plugged into her ipod in the back seat, my naked-rainbow-parachuted brainiac discussing his class-trip to the Sterling Cave like he wasn't naked or wrapped in a parachute, and my middle school track runner getting chicken pot pie at a friend's house.

     So tonight, my kids ate pizza instead of the healthy homemade dinner I had planned.  My 1st-grader didn't complete her homework because dinner was finished at her regular bedtime.  I ended up doing an extra load of laundry I hadn't anticipated.  I assured Luke that what happened happens to everyone (doesn't it?) and that even though Mommy seemed like it, she wasn't angry with him.  She was just overwhelmed with the situation.  My teenager, who painted my barn doors this weekend, went to bed early to get a jump on tomorrow.  The twins put away their laundry and are tucked in...and I sit exhausted wearing the $2.00 ring my son bought me today at the souvenir shop from his class trip, knowing that I am the luckiest woman in the world.

    

Baby It's Cold Outside

     Happy New Year!  OK, so it's been a new year for 18 days now and it seems that the last time I posted a blog, I was working on embracing a farewell to summer and a hello to fall.  It's now mid-January and with the holidays behind me, I'm deep in the trenches folks.  Gone are the crisp autumn days with their flirtatious reds, yellows and oranges.  Everything now is either a chilly steal gray or icy white.  Since I last wrote, we've weathered (quite literally actually) a major hurricane that devastated 1/2 of the tri-state area and displaced us for 2 weeks, a car accident on Christmas Eve that totaled our family van and about 2 weeks of the flu that ran through almost the entire household.  Yay winter!

     I really want to love winter.  Truly, I do.  I was actually born in winter so it should be a time to celebrate.  However, I remember many of my birthday parties cancelled due to illness and in many of my childhood birthday pictures I'm sporting a rather bright red mustache from wiping my nose too often.  Having a birthday so close to Christmas also meant the well-intentioned but totally lame Christmas/Birthday present.  I have to say that one year though it really paid off with a Cabbage Patch Kid and a trip to see Annie on Broadway.  Did I mention that I had the best grandparents ever?

                                      Notice the slight red-stache?  Dig the Holly Hobby plates!


     I guess I have a love/hate relationship with winter.  There are some redeeming qualities.  I love the way everything looks covered in newly fallen snow.  I love how silent the world seems as the snow falls.  It's almost as if you can hear each one of the flakes landing.  I love the smell of fireplaces warming my neighbors homes. I love being the only one on the hiking trails and hearing my steps crunching on the frozen path. Also, there is something so satisfying in a cup of hot chocolate or bowl of savory soup after a day of sleigh-riding. 

                                                            Just needs marshmallows

     I remember the excitement of waking up to snow as a kid.  I'd wait in the early morning gloom to hear how many whistles would blow from the fire station.  After the last blessed blast that signaled a snow day I was too excited to possibly fall back to sleep.  My house was always freezing in the morning as my frugal grandmother who controlled the thermostat for the whole house wouldn't turn the heat back on until around 8 am, so I'd wrap myself in an afghan (strategically made by said grandmother) and make my way to the kitchen.  I could always count on a hearty breakfast from my robe-clad mother who would be drinking black tea as if her life depended on it.  As soon as the hissing of the radiators started, that meant that I could start to get my clothes on, huddling as close to the radiator as I could (geez, you think I grew up during the Great Depression!).  Now, I don't know if snow pants didn't exist in the 80's, but if they did, I didn't own a pair.  I'd don my dungarees (oh yes, that's what my mom called them) and my sweater, and the hat, mittens and boots
(generally quite mismatched)  and head outside into the winter wonderland.  There were some snow storms where I could barely make my way through the snow.   I'd drag my Radio Flyer sled (you know with the wooden planks and red metal blades) to the County Park and attempt to steer that thing away from trees and other children all morning. I could play for hours if only my damn dungarees didn't soak through and the frost bite didn't begin to burn my thighs.  That was always my signal to head home.  The burning of my flesh.  I'd strip off  my soaked clothes and lay them by the furnace to thaw and I'd drink Ovaltine in my pajamas until my my clothes were dry and then I'd start the whole process over again.

     As a former frost-bite victim I have acquired an impressive collection of snow gear for my children.  No child of mine has ever played in the snow without at least 4 inches of thermal, water-proof fluff to protect their chicken legs.  I have bins of the stuff.  Bins upon bins.  When friends come over with their kids, I have enough gear for my kids and theirs and some strangers that may show up.  My kids don't have to pull a rusty sled 8 blocks to a county park.  They're blessed with a pretty amazing sledding track in their own backyard.  They also have snow boards and plastic sleds that don't require a perfect snow terrain to whiz them down the hill.  About three years ago I decided to join them and hot-dog it down the hill...threw my back out for 2 months.  I wish I was kidding.  I'm a bit more careful about sleigh riding now.

     That's not to say that I don't get to have my fun.  When I'm not mopping up the mounds of snow my kids track into the house, or drying my 20th load of snow gear, I get to have my own fun.  I love simmering the Dutch cocoa on the stove for my kids knowing that their Rosy-cheeked faces will be looking for it as soon as they come back in.  I get to go ice skating now as an adult and take my kids with me.  This was something that was never an option in my childhood home of non-athletic and pretty much all-the-time-broke parents.  I also get to watch my kids do something that I have never done (and probably never will)...snowboard.  It's exhilarating to see your children master something that you know would put you in traction if you ever tried it.

     Do I love winter?  No.  I can't lie.  I will be doing a dance with the first sign of a crocus popping its head up through the thawing ground.  However, that doesn't stop me from appreciating the beauty of this time of year.  I love the fact that we're all kind of forced to slow down and spend more time together in our home.  We don't participate in organized sports during the winter so we get to play more games with each other.  I am grateful for my cozy house and am happy to say that I've become quite adept at building a mean fire in my wood-burning stove.  I love my heated seats in my "new" mini van.  I absolutely live to see my children's excitement when they wake up to a white world and watch as their imaginations emerge from their electronics and they build forts and igloos and snow people. 

     I have a confession to make.  This year, late at night during one of our snow storms I was, shall we say...moved.  All of the kids were in bed and it was snowing outside.  The glow from our Christmas lights was playing on the falling snowflakes and I couldn't stay inside any longer.  I put my coat on and went outside.  I just stood there and listened to silence and then I did it.  I allowed myself to dance.  Throwing my arms out wide, I gave in to that inner-child-like rapture and twirled around in the snow.  It only lasted a moment, and I laughed at myself, but I didn't feel foolish.  I still don't.  I felt as if winter and I made peace with each other if even for a fleeting moment.

Welcome Fall, albeit begrudgingly....

Did I ever mention that I don't like change?  Perhaps the only time I truly embrace change is when the warm weather rolls in and school comes to a close.  I find myself welcoming the changes of summer easily and with open arms.  It's like a reunion with a long-lost friend.  The older I get, the faster that reunion comes to a close.  When I feel as if I've just sunk my toes into the warm sand, summer waves goodbye and the lists of school supplies wave hello.

Unlike the ecstatic shopping cart-riding parents in the commercials, I do not find this to be the most wonderful time of year.  I love the free days of the summer months where my children and I can explore the dragon flies' flight patterns in our flower garden, where my garden calls to me each day for a visit, where I can sit on my porch and watch the kids catching lightening bugs (fireflies for some of you) and listen to the frogs sing their summer symphony. 

Once September comes I find myself reluctantly thrown into the realm of tight schedules and a break-necked pace of life that comes with a job and five kids.  Suddenly mornings of loafing in our pj's are filled with alarm clocks screaming before dawn, and rushing out the door fueled with too little sleep and too much coffee along with sun-glare and traffic.  Afternoons of sun-bathing are replaced with work, school and errands being run.  Late afternoons of lazy BBQ's give way to rushed dinners, homework, sports and community events. Evenings of porch-sitting give way to driving all over creation to find the right cleats or desperately needed notebooks.  How can I possibly embrace fall like I do summer?

There was a time, during my youth when the sounds of the crowds cheering on the football game down the street meant seeing old friends again. The smell of sharpened pencils and new paint on old high school hallways were a welcome change to the boredom of late summer.  The smell of fall leaves brought a sense of comfort to me.  When the hissing of my parent's radiators and the scratchiness of a sweater worn out of storage made me feel warm and snug.  The promise of the excitement of the upcoming holidays..Halloween candy, Thanksgiving turkey and football games and the pinnacle of all holidays:  Christmas.

I find that anticipation gone.  The excitement that once came with it is replaced by the stress of being an adult responsible for making it all come together for my children.  The driving to the sports events so they can experience the roar of the crowd, the money to purchase the long list of school supplies and the tuition payments for a better school experience than I had.  The beautiful fall leaves need to be raked and composted.  The radiators only radiate heat if we pay the high oil bill.  The sweaters only come out after a week's worth of dragging bins down from the attic and organizing and sorting.  Holidays are exciting still, but also exhausting and expensive.
                                           

However, I refuse to give in to the negativity that the responsibilities of adulthood bring.  It may take me longer to embrace fall, but I find myself harvesting the last of summer's treasures from my garden and jarring them.  Perhaps it's one small way I can have a taste of summer all year long?  I enjoy the pride I feel while watching my children have their successes and in how they handle their failures in their own school and sports experiences.  I love watching them jump in the piles of raked leaves or when they climb the apple trees in the orchards we visit.  I happily bake apple pies and crisps, filling my house with the smells of autumn.  I decorate my house with pumpkins and share in my kids' excitement over their Halloween costume plans.  I make the 8 hour trek to Ohio every year for Thanksgiving so as to give my children the kind of memories that fill my husband's heart and that have made a place in my own.   I excitedly use my Christmas Club money to purchase gifts for my kids, picturing their smiles on Christmas morning.  Even as the lover of summer that I am, I am not immune to the amazing beauty that fall brings.  The crisp, bright colors of the leaves, the soft muting of the garden's grandeur.  The smells of fireplaces and wet, newly fallen leaves.  The sounds of the summer frogs replaced by the hooting of the evening owls or the howling of coyotes. 

 

I find myself pulling on extra layers and my wool-lined boots and make my way to the one place that I always feel at-home, no matter what season...the woods.  I inhale the subtly changed air with a deep breath and although I miss the salt-air of the ocean, I cannot help but be pulled in to the earthiness of the forest's beauty.  I can see summer's last green breath being transformed into the fiery colors of autumn as a fitting send-off to the beauty and peace of my favorite season.  In nature, fall becomes a rich celebration of summer's life.  It's right there for all of us to participate in.  I hope that I always choose to be a participant, even if at first I'm reluctant.

 

Basil, Garlic, Cheese and Olive Oil...You Can't Go Wrong!

I love basil.  The fragrance is amazing and the flavor is so fresh.  I prefer to use it at the end of a cooked dish or keep it raw to capture that bright characteristic taste.  Pesto is one of my favorite ways to use basil as you don't cook it and it goes with so many wonderful things.  We love to make grilled pizza with pesto, mozzerella and grilled chicken.  Pesto with some crusty bread and roasted vegetables is another great summer meal that is light but satisfying.  Last summer before the hurricane in August I harvested all of my basil and made jars and jars of pesto that I froze.  We enjoyed pesto made with cream sauce, used as a rub for meats and our favorite, pasta with pesto.  This post showcases pesto with pasta.  The original recipe called for a pestal and mortar.  I use my good old food processor!  Easy as can be and your kitchen will smell wonderfully!

1/3c. of pine nuts (if you don't like nuts you can omit them, but they give the pesto a more complex flavor...once I was out of pine nuts and used some roasted almonds I had on hand, it was delicious!) and 4 cloves of garlic....take them for a whirl..

                                                            Add 2 c. of the green stuff

                               1/2c. pecorino romano cheese and 3/4c. of parmesan, salt/pepper to taste

Add olive oil while the food processor is running (I eyeball it till I like the consistency but approx. 1/4c.)  In the meanwhile cook up your favorite pasta (I use spaghetti) al dente.

                                Toss and serve from cute bowl that my Momma painted for me! :)