Change: For What It's Worth

 

  I think there's something about this time of year that must unsettle me.  When I opened my notebook to put pen to paper I found a piece that I had written just about the same exact time two years ago. It echoed similar sentiments about the change of the seasons that I am feeling now. I know that change isn't generally easy for most people. I suppose I'm no exception. The irony is that my experience so far has been that nothing about my life ever stays the same for very long. Sometimes by my own choices, but more times than not because of the natural fluidity of the constant changing variables as a mother of five.  I guess I can say that that only real constant in my life is change.

      It's been easy for me to share so many of my experiences in the past. I do so for many reasons; sometimes I hope that I can maybe help someone to know that they're not alone, or maybe just to share a humorous take on life or even sometimes it's because I need someone to say, "Yeah, me too." But I generally write for myself. When something is pushing at my insides, taking up all the extra room in myself, I find writing to be like a release of a pressure valve. But lately sharing what has been going on hasn't been easy for me. As I sat wrestling with it all I could barely put it down on paper. Yet not 24 hours later when I decided to type it out, the weight of it all already feels less.

     You see.....I'm at the end of the summer of my 39th year and I'm exactly where I thought I would be and also no where close to where I thought that I'd be. Does that make any sense? I mean I always knew that I wanted to be a mom and here I am the mother of five amazing children whom I am so proud of. I'm also a newly single mother of five children whom I hope that I am enough for. I work hard to make sure that they have everything they need and some of what they want and that means a balancing act that I will never fully master. This is not exactly where I saw myself at this point in my life. And yet, here I am.

    Most of you know that I have an old farmhouse in the woods, something I dreamt of as a little girl reading Laura Ingalls Wilder. It's more than just a house to me, it's my home where I can feel the love from generations past melding with the stories that my family is writing within its walls. With its 200 years comes constant need of repairs that sometimes pushes me to learn that my limits are further than I ever gave myself credit for. Sometimes it forces me to set aside my pride and to ask for help. Sometimes it takes on a life of its own with the needs that it presents and I don'f feel adequate enough to be its steward. I never once considered that a HOUSE would make me feel inadequate, but again, here I am.

     You know that neat little feature on Facebook that shows you pictures from the day of in years past? Well it keeps reminding me that there's more than just some paint missing on my house but also more than one person missing from my annual back-to-school pictures and I feel their absences acutely. As a parent you're supposed to give your children wings to fly. It's part of the job. It is one of the greatest and yet most painful things in the world when you see them take flight. Navigating this season without a partner can be lonely. There's no one to bounce things off of at the end of the day. No system of checks and balances. And the personal pain of their absence is magnified by the knowledge that there are other little hearts finding their way through that realization too.

     No one ever promised that life would be easy. And most days I'm ok with that, I really do love life. Every single beautiful and broken piece of it. I marvel at how my best-laid intentions are dashed to bits only to come together like the most amazing jig saw puzzle. But some days I feel like I'm sitting in the middle of a dust storm watching all of the broken pieces whip by me, and I can't grasp even a one so I just let them fly around and hold my breath and hope for the dust to settle and that I emerge relatively intact. Powerlessness can be an amazingly empowering phenomena if you don't run away from it.

     So how do I handle the realization that life isn't going exactly to plan? Sometimes I cry, but probably a lot less than one would think. I pray a lot. I find that like the rest of my life, my relationship with God is also ever-changing. Not that He has changed, but my understanding evolves. Sometimes I am so very angry and pray with irony and sarcasm through gritted teeth following suggestions of praise even through trials, hoping that my heart will believe my words. Sometimes I feel completely broken and foolish while praying. There's times I get down on my knees to pray and have absolutely no words left. Some seasons I cannot believe the revelations of His love and providence or how i can see them in the darkest of moments. Although I often forget those moments and think that this faith thing comes so much easier for others.

     At night, especially this time of year, I can hear the changing of the guard outside of my window. The singing chorus of the summer frogs and crickets slowly fade to the eerie echoing calls of the owls and coyotes. To quote the popular verse of Ecclesiastes 3, "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." That may be a commercially overused verse but I won't let that dilute the powerful truth in those words for me. I need to remember each moment that I am in is just a part of a season of my life. Each season has its own defining beauty which is brought on by its own necessary loss. It's meant to be fleeting, to make way for the next one. That much I can count on. It's neither bad nor good, it just is.

The Graduate

     My eldest child is moving away to college this Saturday.  There, I said it. I am equal parts ecstatic and heart-broken.  Talk about conflicting emotions. I am so excited for him to be embarking on this part of his life's journey.  The amazing things he will learn, the experiences he will have..this is what it's all about right?  As a parent, we are supposed to raise these little people into confident, respectable, honest big people and send them out to have their own lives. So why does my heart feel like it's being squeezed by a vice every time I think about leaving him at the University?  I mean, he's only going to be 2 1/2 hours away right?
     The truth is, this entire journey has been an adventure like none other.  We're given this being, to watch and protect.  We spend countless hours making sure that it eats, and sleeps, and stays clean and healthy. I mean we have to keep it ALIVE! We start making every decision in our lives with this person's best interest in mind. Our heart begins to feel things it has never felt before. Like, did you know you could cry from happiness from watching someone else succeed at blowing a bubble? Or riding without training wheels?  How about reading their first word? Or tieing their shoe? Did you realize that you could have moments where you were so afraid that what you had just said/done was going to negatively impact someone's life forever? If you just said, "yes" more....or maybe if you just said, "no" more often...You're in fact laying the foundation for a person's life.
     Then, somewhere along the line you learn that you're not the end all, save all in their life.  That they have free will.  There are outside factors that also will help to mold and shape them.  Things that you have no control over.  At first this is scary, but then you come to realize that this is the first moment of letting go...and it's OK. When you watch them walk into school all alone for the first time, or when they go to a play date without you.  The little strings start to get cut one by one. When they call a friend to tell them about a success before they share it with you.  When the bedroom door is no longer left open all the time.
     In fact, the design of it all eases you into it thankfully. It would definitely be more of a shock if we went from diapers to driver's license in one month. There's a reason that just about the time they start to realize that maybe you don't know everything, they get their first taste of real freedom, and you get a serious dose of powerlesness as about a million strings get cut when you hand over those car keys.
     There's also no coincidence that they begin to be, shall we say, less than the adorable little people they once were. It seems that everytime I start to feel the weight of his moving out, he'll make a comment, say for instance, about my "lady brain" (his term) and the fact that it cant comprehend the mechanics of a winch (which may or may not be true), or he'll send me some hideous candid photo that he took of me to send to his friends (haha look at my mom), and I think, "Bon Voyage Buddy, don't let the door hit you!" Then there's the large loads of laundry, the dirty socks on the floor, the unmade beds, the grumpy mornings, the dirty looks.  Man I'm going to miss all of that terribly!
     I guess it all boils down to mourning the passing of time even when you probably should be rejoicing in it.  The logistics aside, there is a sense of loss when you look back as to how fast time really goes by.  How quickly children go from calling you, "Momma," to "Ma." How the rock or Snapple cap collections turn into music libraries. The little tiny toddler shoes replaced by men's size 11's that you nearly break your neck tripping over daily. The little guy who thought you were the most beautiful, intelligent woman in the world who ends up thinking you're slightly ridiculous.
     You also realize that time hasn't stood still for you.  The terrified first-time mother who has the pediatrician on speed-dial ends up turning into the mother who can correctly diagnose most diseases. Moving from being somewhat uptight and judgemental to emphatic and a lot more laid back because life has brought you to your knees more times than you'd like to admit and you know now exactly who you are and where you stand. Your role in their life has changed so much.  You have grown up alongside them.
     Somehow through all of the temper tantrums, scraped knees, night terrors, calls from the principal, and sarcastic remarks he has become my best friend. Not in the way that the line between parent and child is blurred to allow disrespect, but in the way that he's become the best that I could have ever hoped for.  That the piece of my heart that will forever live outside of me and in him is reflected by an amazing and beautiful young man. Here's to the next part of our journey Jason. I love you.

It's Not the Race.....

     As I was slogging it out on the treadmill this morning before work, I was thinking that perhaps I need a new mantra for my daily run.  That somehow, "I hate running," wasn't motivating me quite enough. And yet there I was, panting my way through the mile-marker chanting in my head to the rhythm of my steps, "I hate running...(inhale)..I hate running." It's not exactly the positive affirmation that I would recommend to my yoga students. "As you inhale think of something positive, like how much sitting in cross-legged pose hurts your ass."
     What is it that I don't like about running?  Oh, there's the fact that I'm not very good at it.  If I run a 10-minute mile it's a particularly speedy day.  Even in my younger years my coaches would all marvel as to how a young, fit girl with legs as long as mine could possibly be one of the slowest on the team.  I remember fondly how coach Renz would yell to me, "Hey Sara!  Move it Gruba Dupa."  That would be my Irish/Italian coach calling me a, "fat ass" in Polish to motivate me to hurry up around the track. A veritable ethnic melange of positive reinforcement. Never worked by the way. Fortunately for me I could hit a ball hard enough that I didn't have to be a fast runner.  I played first base so no big charges were necessary and in volleyball there is a relatively small area that I had to cover.  Thanks to that he tolerated me.
     I also experience exercise-induced panic attacks.  Oh, you didn't know there was such a thing?  ME NEITHER.  That is, until spending various moments of my life with my head between my knees on bathroom floors in the middle of a spin class trying to make my ears stop ringing and my heart from bursting through my chest wall.  After a trip to the hospital and a battery of tests from a cardiologist the diagnosis was, "Exercise-induced panic attacks."  Come again?  I exercise to HELP relieve the stress in my life.  I was so offended at first.  I felt like the Dr. looked at my history and basically said, "Well, you have 5 kids...a mortgage...a job...what did you actually THINK was going to happen?"  But wait, I am a YOGA INSTRUCTOR, I can't possibly have stress right? "Well Mrs. Van Goor after a while the body can only take so much." Fantastic, can you please tell my body that things aren't slowing down anytime soon so it needs to pull itself together and get on board here?
     The previous two reasons aside and the little matter of the fact that I hate to sweat, I still find myself running.  Why?  Why would I put myself through this?  Why engage in an activity that a:  I'm not very good at.  b:  I don't enjoy.  c:  Could cause me to pass out in an act of public humiliation that runs through my head way too often.  It's a little something that I like to call "Faking it, till I make it."  I didn't make up the corny little slogan obviously, but it speaks volumes to me.  You see, I am not naturally inclined to do things that are good for me.  Sometimes my best thinking got me into situations in my life where I would have been much better off avoiding altogether. I run, because I know it's good for me.  And I know that there are a bunch of reasons as to why running ISN'T actually that great for me.  I used to quote them smugly to my running friends as to why I didn't run.  There's the high impact on the joints, particularly the knees.  The risk of an enlarged heart.  Foot issues and muscle wear.  The fact of the matter is that running has become a big part of how I take care of myself...in spite of myself.
     I figure if I keep running, eventually I MIGHT learn to love it...OK like it.  I mean I know it's been almost 3 years but it will grow on me right?  Well regardless, the act of running has had a profound positive effect on me.  The most obvious and tangible has to be my weight.  Thanks to that bout of panic attacks that I previously mentioned, I went on some anti-anxiety medication a few years ago.  I gained 40 lbs because of it.  No matter how much exercise I did or how much I watched what I ate the weight just kept on piling on.  I was taking pills because of the lack of control I had over my body's response to stress and was causing myself stress because of the lack of control I had over my body's response to the medication....you see the vicious cycle here?  I decided that I was going to try a different route to deal with this new friend of mine known as debilitating anxiety.  I looked it right in the face and said, "Screw you."  OK, so it wasn't so big and brave as that.  I was terrified.  The first time I went for a run I think I made it about 100' before my heart rate went up and darkness started to close in on me. I walked the rest of the way shaking in my trainers, but I went back.  Again and again I would lace up those shoes and head out.  Sometimes just the thought of running would cause a panic attack to come on but I would say a prayer and make myself a promise, "Just a quarter mile...just a half mile...just a mile."  Then the promises became, "Just one more mile."  It took a full year but I lost all of that weight and more.
     I began to see a change in how I tackled situations in life.  I had previously sunk into a sort of pattern of procrastination that really wasn't who I was.  Pushing myself with mile markers on the track helped me to motivate myself to achieve other goals in my life.  I started to find a better balance between work and motherhood. I saw my career start to grow.  My self-esteem began to get better as I changed my goals from being the idealistic pictures that I daydreamed about to being small, slow steps that I could actually achieve.  I just felt better.  That's not to say that I don't still feel panic attacks coming on.  Sometimes it's so bad that I have to stop what I'm doing and pray that I make it to my car or a bench before keeling over in public.  Most of the time though, I recognize it for what it is and I have learned to squash it right under my track shoes.
     There are so many times in my life where I have to "fake it till I make it."  Where I do what I know is good for me in spite of what I really would prefer to be doing.  I have forced myself to become a morning person, waking up before 6am even though my internal clock rises at about 10.  My days are easier if I give myself more time to start them off right.  There are also many times where I have to force myself to exude an energy and happiness that I am just...not....feeling.  Whether it's at work or with my kids, sometimes I just have to slap on a grin and put on my best show.  Granted, there are times where I wear it all out there, right on my sleeve and I think that's good and healthy too, but sometimes plastering that fake smile on and making the heart-shaped cookies when I really just want to close my bedroom door and ignore everyone, I find myself actually feeling the joy that I was pretending just a moment ago to have. Maybe some day this rule will apply to the times I eat that kale salad instead of the sub sandwich I really want...maybe I'll actually REALLY enjoy it so much more than I would have enjoyed that sub...although somehow I doubt it.  And maybe one day I will put my fears aside and enter a race, not worrying so much about fainting from fear in front of anyone or the fact that I will probably be running alongside the elderly..or behind them. Maybe one day I will have the guts to take some bigger risks that so far I haven't had the courage to do. For now, I will continue to lace up my Nikes and wog (that's half walk/half jog BTW) my way to the next mile, not because I enjoy it, but because I know it's good for me.  I can only imagine where the journey will take me.
   

In Like a Lion......

 

 March has chosen to arrive as a lion this year; a frozen, white, snowy lion.  I found myself home again with the children yesterday brainstorming busy work to keep the cabin fever at bay.  We were able to get out in the early part of the day before what feels like our 20th snow storm came.  We filled our time knitting, baking, reading, watching some tv and playing games. All the while we watched outside as if someone tipped the snow glob once again.
      I really don't mind the snow.  Don't get me wrong, I don't relish in having to drive in it because of my location on top of a winding, mountain road, but if it's winter then I feel that snow has its rightful place and I am fine with it.  I usually enjoy the crisp, clean whiteness that covers the otherwise drab and dead winter landscape.  There is nothing more beautiful than that dazzling, sparkling whiteness in the sun the next day. It feels almost as if a washing, or a cleansing period before the growth that occurs in Spring can begin again (oh there's an allegory in there isn't there?!).  Somehow the cold, raw elements outdoors make it feel all the more warm and cozy inside.  The house fills with a quiet calm now that the children are older and everyone finds their favorite activities to do. It alleviates the pressure of having to be so productive and makes room for precious moments like reading, "Little House on the Prairie," with my youngest.  An afternoon nap is a somewhat less-guilty pleasure for me while it's snowing outside.
     I will even admit that I enjoy shoveling.  I find it to be very satisfying, almost therapeutic, work. You can see the fruits of your labors right away, adding up in little neat rows. Unlike so many jobs that I find myself doing, where you know that you are working towards an end or a goal, but it may take years or even a lifetime (think parenting), to see the outcome.  So many of the tasks that make up my job as a mother yield little tangible results.  I usually do them knowing that the end justifies the means whether I see the means or not with my own eyes.  That can be satisfying on its own level, and a very important level at that, but there is something to be said about a labor that has instant results.          For a while it's just myself in the dark, with shovel in hand.  I can feel the icy flakes on my cheeks and even hear them as they land on the already snowy surfaces.  It's that peaceful and quiet on a snowy night.  I can see my own breath, and feel my muscles strain as I work methodically to free my driveway.  My thoughts can take their time sorting themselves out until I'm really thinking of nothing but the next row to shovel.  Towards the end of shoveling my youngest appears on the doorstep.  She felt that I might like some company.  Suddenly the silence is filled with her happy 8 year-old chatter as she gladly takes the broom to "help," me sweep the steps clean. We finish our job and go back inside where it feels almost too warm now.  I soon find myself surrounded by a wall of laundry piles, which is one of those jobs that there never seems to be an end.  March is here as a lion but before I know it, it will be going out with Spring sports' practices, followed soon after by prom pictures, graduations and my oldest moving out to college.  I'm OK for now taking in each day, even if it's a snow day, because I know just how fast Spring and Summer and the whirlwind they bring will come.

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