Common Ground

I should be cleaning in preparation for Mom’s visit or pre-reading Jurassic Park for Jack or planning school for next week or sorting laundry.  And I will do all those things today.  And I’ll cook and do dishes and exercise.  I love ticking things off a list and I love an organized house.

But for the past hour I’ve just been looking out the window at the clumps of snow blowing off the trees and listening to the sounds.  The jays, the furnace, wind chimes, the boys…

They are squabbling good-naturedly over legos and making exploding sound effects as they “blow up” each other’s creations.  Gosh, the years have gone fast.

We’ve been in our new area for over five years now.  The kids have really grown up here.  They are less like transplants and more like natives.  Their accents have changed.  Ah well, it’s been good.  They have a freedom here they never could have had back home.

Me too.  I have become strong and confident here.  The space has given me room to grow in ways I was afraid to.  But

truth?

I still feel like a stranger here.  There’s a feeling of always having to explain myself.  It’s not exactly homesickness.  I don’t miss the noise, the lights, the crowds, the litter, the smells, the sadness.  But sometimes I miss the energy, the common ground, and yes, the pizza.

Crazy.  I didn’t move to Thailand, just a different part of my own home state.  But it really does feel very different.

 

Dennis the Menace Lives Here

This is what I pulled out of the washer yesterday.  Why yes, that is a sling shot, a deck of cards, marbles and nails.

Enjoying Today

Bright yellow light is filtering through green leaves. I’m feeling all the promise of an unspoiled day.

The house will stay messy today because we are going out right after school. We’ll go look at the falls and climb some stairs and take deep fresh breaths and exert our muscles and use all these gifts that we take for granted too often.

Then tonight we’ll stay up too late waiting for the last light to leave the sky while we collect lightning bugs and poke the little flame in our ring of creek stones which doesn’t really approach the magnificence of a bonfire but which we give that name anyway. We’ll come home filthy and tired, covered in charcoal and bug bites, grateful for a shower and bed.

What a luxurious life! Hot coffee, slow starting, warm air, interesting children, books to read, clean sheets, comfy chair, creative projects, long walks. My favorite things. What are yours?

Went Looking for an Adventure Book and Got a Surprise

They don’t make ’em like Huckleberry Finn anymore.

The kids and I finished a new read-aloud last night.  We really like Jean Craighead George’s My Side of the Mountain and went looking for something similar.  We wanted a straight up survival/adventure story without the complicating “coming-of-age stuff” which, being interpreted, generally means early and unpleasant sex.  We settled on Ms. George’s Julie of the Wolves thinking it would follow the same general structure of MSotM.

Well, NO.  Julie of the Wolves deals with attempted rape, child marriage, alcoholism, spousal abuse, menstruation.  Nothing wrong with writing about those things, but not what we expected and not what we were looking for.  I got the feeling that Ms. George was trying to write something “real” a la Judy Blume and fell short.  I was never much of a fan of those sad and disappointing books foisted on me in my childhood and adolescence anyway.

It’s not that I think authors should only repeat the same old story again and again because it’s what their readers expect, but I also don’t see why I should pay to read an author’s writing exercises.  Besides, well-written adventure stories are a more rare and exceptional thing than this angsty crap.

I’m guessing the unsettled ending might have been intended to get readers to buy and read the sequels but nah.  Not happening.

The Marshmallow and Bluebird Trail

I didn’t take many pictures of our hike today because I was too busy bribing the kids with marshmallows.  Two ‘mallows for every ten minutes of hiking without complaint.  But only on the way in.  I figured they’d be motivated enough to hike the heck out.  And they were.

Actually, I did spend a few minutes madly snapping photos trying to catch a flock of Eastern Bluebirds.  They were so beautiful, so many, and so elusive to my camera.  I felt like we were walking in a fairy tale movie – they kept fluttering just ahead of us.  I finally gave up trying to photograph them and simply enjoyed the moment.

We hiked a little over two miles in and the same out.  That’s quite a lot for slow, old, and fluffy.  Our pace was faster than usual.  We only added ten minutes to our time but we added almost a mile to our distance.

Then I was useless the rest of the day.  Tired, hungry, and I couldn’t get warm even with two comforters and a hot water bottle.  It wasn’t even uncomfortably cold outside so I don’t know why it hit me like that.  But I ate a delicious, hearty dinner a little while ago and I feel much better.  Maybe I needed more calories.

Children’s Art – What’s On Your Walls?

Anita wrote in the comments here that she likes to display art created by her children when they were little.  I like this idea because it’s sweet, and because it’s a way for people of modest means to enjoy original artwork.

So, I thought I’d show you some of my kids’ art that we’ve hung up around the place.

by Neil

Medea and Her Chariot by Jack

I have some by the other kid, but I don’t feel like going upstairs to take a photo.  Maybe I’ll feature him next week.

What’s on your walls?

Teaching Risk Assessment to Children

by the rocket’s red glare

Do you have any idea how hard it is to photograph fireworks?

It was a very nice Fourth.

We have a tradition where I come from, maybe you do too – right around Independence Day we share stories about this and that kid we know or heard of who lost a finger or an eye or a hand because he mishandled fireworks.  The story I had to add this year was tragic.  The only possible good that can come of it is as a word of caution to my children about the dangers of alcohol, youth, foolishness, and explosives.

My husband and I try to explain to our boys that sometimes young people make foolish and dangerous decisions because they don’t accurately assess the risks (and benefits) of their actions.  So we ask the boys to work through it with us: “What bad things could happen?  How likely is that to happen?  Are there things we can do reduce the chances of bad things happening? In light of the possible consequences and how likely those consequences might be, is the benefit we might receive still worth it?”

And very often, the risk is worth taking.  We climb high trees (and sometimes the woodshed roof) and hike along ravines and walk barefoot in the grass and have great big bonfires that we like to poke with sticks.  We’ve thought about the risks involved with these activities, devised plans to minimize those risks, and we truly enjoy the benefits.

I try to have them practice assessing risks for themselves, but they are young and I am the mom and I still sometimes overrule and they just have to trust that I am wiser than they are and that I love them and that I’m really not the meanest mommy in the world.  Or not, but they still have to obey me.

I know it’s not just my boys who have a wild daredevil streak.  I don’t want to break them, but I want them to learn to harness and train that adventurous spirit.  I want them to live long enough to do truly risky things.

---

It occurs to me now that there are also risks that we might choose to take in which failure is almost certain, but conscience demands that we go forward anyway.  Another topic for another day.  Maybe.    

Don’t Bring Me Down

“Tell us about when you were a little girl,” my children want to know.  And I’m  afraid I’ve exhausted my supply of childhood stories appropriate for children.  Is that irony?  I’m never sure.

I’ve told them about lemon ices and pets and fireflies and fire hydrant sprinklers.  I’ve told them about camping and Cooperstown and the smell of my father’s bread truck.

But how do I tell them that these few bright stories are memories I had to dig for?  That most of my childhood was pretty dark.  Not completely somebody-needs-to-go-to-jail dark, but some of it was close and it was certainly not happy.  What do I tell them about divorce, extreme bullying, loneliness?  What can I say about parents who “date”?

I told them about the time when five-year-old me  threw my spinach off the balcony, but I didn’t tell them I was able to do that because I was  alone in the apartment – my mother gone to school or work for the night and the babysitter downstairs in her own apartment.  and me alone.  at five.  Sobbing at the sliding glass doors of that balcony, looking in the direction she’d gone – until I noticed two big boys on the street mocking me.  Watching Welcome Back Kotter on a tiny t.v. on the floor outside my bedroom until I fell asleep waiting for Mommy to get home.  I do sometimes cry for that child.  I’m sorry for the self-pity, but it’s true.

I’ve  told them that their great-grandfather  was a mean man, but I certainly can’t explain how even thirty years after his death, the family still feels the effects of his sickness and cruelty, and that even though I was not a direct victim, I still suffered the trickle-down.

So, looking at the bright side is necessary for me.  I seek it out.  I focus on it.  I hold on to it.  I don’t deny the bad stuff, but I cannot dwell on it or it will suck me down.