Forced Relaxation

Our view from the balcony this morning.

Batman

It's our first morning at the beach and I'm trying very very hard to relax.  It's harder than it looks. I feel like I should be doing something - making breakfast, putting on sunscreen, packing beach snacks, blowing up pool floats, organizing the kitchen - something.  My big kids are on the balcony hanging out and chatting with their aunt and their tiniest cousin, who all seem pretty relaxed.  Going to try that "in the moment" thing this week and not worry about what we're doing next. Who cares if we aren't on the beach by 9am? Or if all the good pool chairs get taken?  Or if it rains later today which means that by staying in this morning we've missed all the best sun for the day?  Well,  I do at the moment but I'm going to try to just let it go. We're currently speculating on what the giant bat we can see down on the beach is made out of.  Black sand? Rocks? Seaweed? The shadow of an actual bat hovering somewhere up there?  And given the events of the weekend, is this a scary or a comforting sign?  I don't know.  Even Joel is pondering the deeper meaning of the Batman symbol as he tries to explain the unexplainable to our own eleven year old Batman fan who's dealing with a difficult dose of reality, wondering why anyone would shoot people in a movie theater. Sigh. I'm going to go back to hanging out with the girls, who at the moment are completely enthralled with the doorstop and how it bounces back and forth and back and forth when you flip it.  Seems like a good thing to focus on this morning.

The girls and the door stopper.

My Chickens Are Roosting

       For reasons that I won't delve into here (for fear that the children might read what I write someday), there was a moment very early in our dating life that I looked at Joel and said, "You know, if we ever get married and have children, I don't think you should be allowed to talk to them until they're at least 18."  It was a good plan and one I probably should have stuck to. Once the children were born, however, the day to day business of raising them necessitated that Joel be allowed to converse with them on occasion. I'll admit that things have been running along pretty smoothly for the last eleven years or so, and to his credit, Joel is a fabulous father. He coaches their teams, packs their lunches, and tucks them in at night.  He's also been known to hand out some words of wisdom on occasion (seriously).  But in between all the time he's spent being a great dad, he's also spent a lot of time (and I'm quoting him here) "being awesome."  Actually, Joel would probably say that he spends ALL of his time "being awesome" because awesomeness is not something you turn on and off, it's just something you are. Recently, I've started to see some troubling signs of "awesomeness" showing up in my oldest child.  He's always been a quieter soul and I had assumed (wrongly, it now seems) that he was genetically predispositioned to follow in his mother's more modest hide your light under a bushel basket footsteps.  Without giving too much detail I will explain that my sweet boy's awesomeness awakening began shortly after his eleventh birthday with a request for sleeveless shirts that would allow him to stage his own gun show and has continued to escalate through last night's dinner that resulted in me posting the following on Facebook:

    What I need to do immediately (TODAY!) is take steps to contain the awesomeness that is currently growing unchecked in my offspring - implement a full scale "Awesomeness Management Program" (AMP) if you will. I know that Joel will scoff at my efforts to dial down the level of household awesomeness because he firmly believes that awesomeness shouldn't be contained, but last night's dinner was a wake up call that the time for awesomeness abatement has come. AMP's first message will be simple - 

"Underwear is NOT Outerwear." 

This is an important lesson that both of our children need to embrace (especially the girl child!). I know that I'm facing an uphill battle. "Awesomeness" is relentless and those who are fully immersed in it's grasp tend to disregard anything that suggests to them that they are less than awesome. There are rare moments, however, when awesomeness fails and important life lessons can be introduced, as evidenced by Joel's recent experience in a local Fourth of July 5K. 

"Hubris is Heavy"

I suppose that "Hubris is Heavy" could serve as the foundation for the AMP campaign, but considering that half of my household is now embracing the "underwear as outerwear" life plan, I'm sticking with my decision to start there.  I've got to get some pants on these people.

 

All's Quiet on the Western Front

      I returned home from an outing with Sarah G. this afternoon to find my oldest child lounging about rather listlessly on the couch.  Annoyed, I asked him why he was just laying around in the middle of the afternoon and strongly encouraged him to get up and do something productive.  He dragged himself up to his room and dug around in his legos for a few minutes before returning to the couch and quickly falling asleep.  The falling asleep, that's what got my attention.  This is a child who has never voluntarily napped - never ever - yet there he was sound asleep with his back to the television at 4pm on a Sunday afternoon.  When I walked over and felt his forehead  it was obvious he had a fever.  The thermometer confirmed he had a temperature of 102.5. I proceeded to violate my cardinal rule of parenting which is "Never wake a sleeping baby" and woke him up so I could dose him up with Advil.  Once he was awake, I asked him how he was feeling.  My main concern was whether or not his stomach was upset because while I can remain calm and collected through a wide variety of illnesses, a potential stomach bug in the house sends me spiraling out of control. (Because everyone knows that a stomach bug has GOT TO BE CONTAINED and the key to containing a stomach bug is to catch it early and quarantine the carrier poor little ailing bunny and then hit the entire house hard with Clorox wipes and Lysol. You've got to stay ahead of it if at all possible, that's what I'm saying.)  Owen assured me many many times (because I asked many many times) that his stomach felt fine and he also said (repeatedly) that he was dizzy and his head was hurting." When I asked how long he'd been feeling this way he said, "since I was out running errands with dad."  Interesting.  "So," I asked, "did you tell your dad that you were dizzy and that your head was hurting?"  He had, he assured me. "And what did your dad say?", I queried. "He said we had to get my hair cut before we could go home."

Happier Hair Days.

     When Joel walked in the door a few minutes later I greeted him with a thermometer that was flashing "102.5" because I'm subtle like that. "You're son has a fever," I told him.  "Did he tell you he wasn't feeling good when you were out running errands? Because he says he did."  Joel said Owen  mentioned something about his head hurting and being dizzy while they were out and about, but by the time they got home he was kind of quiet, and in Joel's words - "quiet can be a good thing sometimes."  And as a longtime parent I would have to concur with that statement, quiet can be a good thing - sometimes.  But then there are those other times, LIKE TODAY, when "quiet" can be something else entirely,  like a fever!

     In Joel's defense (because he did defend himself), he said he assumed Owen was just being quiet because he didn't like his haircut.  Have I mentioned the haircut?  Yeah, it did not go well. Joel and I had already exchanged a few text messages along the lines of  OMG WTH did you let the stylist do to Owen's beautiful hair?!?!? It's WAY too short! Joel's reply -

Yes Joel, he does look tough.  And fevered.  And shorn.  On the bright side, he can now shower in mere seconds and he'll finally be able to put his hat collection to good use.  But still, poor poor little bunny. 

a dim hot airless room

     I hate a dark house, so much so that even on bright sunlit days I like to have lights on in whatever room I'm working in at the time.  But as the temperature outside climbs to over a hundred degrees again today, I've been walking around the house turning off lights and closing blinds. Doing this has reminded me of my favorite opening line from one of my all time favorite novels, Absalom, Absalom!, written by William Faulkner.  

     "From a little after two o'clock until almost sundown of the long still hot weary dead September afternoon they sat in what Miss Coldfield still called the office because her father had called it that – a dim hot airless room with the blinds all closed and fastened for forty-three summers because when she was a girl someone had believed that light and moving air carried heat and that dark was always cooler, and which (as the sun shone fuller and fuller on that side of the house) became latticed with yellow slashes full of dust motes which Quentin thought of as being flecks of the dead old dried paint itself blown inward from the scaling blinds as wind might have blown them."


     After reading some less than stellar books this spring, I've decided to pull from a list of old favorites for my summer reading, beginning with Absalom, Absalom!. And because using a Kindle app to read anything written by William Faulkner seems less than kosher, I'm going to make my way down to my cool dark basement and root out my well-worn, note riddled copy of Absalom. What else is there to do on a day when the temperature is expected to rise to 108 degrees?

Shotgun!

Riding in the front seat of the car.
June 2012 

   A few weeks ago, Joel and I divested ourselves of the trusty blue minivan  in favor of a much cuter but still family friendly automobile.  As I left the dealership that afternoon and headed to pick up the kiddos from their last day of school, I was struck with the idea that it might be fun to ask  Owen if he wanted to ride home in the front seat of the new car rather than in the back seat (where he'd been riding for his whole life, at least as far as I knew).  The back story to my "ride in the front seat" idea was that I was a bit concerned about Owen's reaction to getting rid of the big blue minivan.  He loved the minivan with its automatic sliding doors and DVD player and nifty third row seat that allowed him to ride far far away from the clutches of his middle row riding little sister. He also said things like "You can't sell the minivan!" every time he heard Joel and I talk about selling the minivan. He's a person who gets attached to things. All of that aside, I was feeling pretty confident that my offer to ride in the front seat of a car for the very first time was going to be met with such joy and happiness that he wouldn't care that the minivan was on it's way out. Willing the glass to be half full, I dove right in to the conversation.

me: "So, what do you think about the new car?"

Owen: "It's nice.  Did you sell the minivan?"

me: "Not yet, but isn't the new car pretty?"

Owen: "Sure. Are we still selling the minivan?"

me: "Yes. Hey! Do you want to ride home in the front seat today?

You've never ridden in the front seat of the car before!"

Owen: "Okay, but you know dad's been letting me 

ride in the front seat of his car for awhile, 

usually when we go to the comic book store."

PAUSE

Owen: "Do we have to sell the minivan?"

    

     Fast forward a few weeks to yesterday afternoon. Sarah and I were picking Owen up from camp and as he walked past us and headed across the parking lot to the car, he turned around and shouted back, "Shotgun!". I'm pretty sure there's not a place to record "First Time Baby Calls Shotgun" in his baby book, but there should be.  And I know parents say this all the time (mostly because it's true), but I'm sitting here today wondering where does the time go? It really was only yesterday that I was buckling and unbuckling his little self into and out of his Britax carseat.  (Sigh). And now he's riding shotgun. (Sigh again). 

"Stickers" Vallejo in his Britax Carseat in 2003.
On his way home from his first trip to Walt Disney World.
If you look behind him you can see that we were
literally traveling with everything we owned.
It's shocking how much stuff we thought one baby needed.

   As for Sarah, don't think she's been left out of the new car fun. My first stop after leaving the dealership was at Target where I purchased a brand new booster seat just for her.  A few days ago, she took it upon herself to drag the booster seat from her traditional perch behind the driver's seat over to Owen's old spot behind the passenger seat. At first I thought she might just be looking for a change of scenery, you know, to see what things looked like from the other side of the car. It wasn't until yesterday afternoon that I realized there might be an additional motivating factor behind the move. We were about halfway home when Owen said - "Sarah, will you please stop kicking my seat. You're driving me crazy!" And that made me happy, because as fast as their childhoods are flying by, there's a bit of comfort in knowing that the more things change, the more they stay the same - at least where little sisters are concerned.

'

Sarah (18 months) and Owen (4 years) at

 Uncle Vic & Aunt Stacey's wedding in August 2005.

Riding in the back seat of the stroller and

taking obvious joy in pinching her brother's ears.

Only the Shadow Knows

Setting:

The Backseat of the Family Car

Time:

Thursday Morning, on the way to school.

Owen is riding along, reading quietly. 

He's minding his own business.

Sarah decides to mind his business too.

Sarah: "What are you reading?"

No response.  Although it's clearly a comic book.
She knows what he's reading.

Sarah: "Are you reading a comic book?"

No response. We keep driving.
A few minutes later -

Sarah: "Hey Owen, I'm making a shadow on your face with my hand."

Owen keeps reading.

Sarah (LOUDER): "OWEN, I'M MAKING A SHADOW ON YOUR FACE WITH MY HAND." 

Owen: "So."

Sarah: "I'm making a rabbit."

Owen: "What?"

Sarah: "I'm making a shadow of a rabbit on your face with my hand."

Owen: "Well, stop."

Sarah: "Why?  Am I bugging you?"

Owen: "Yes."

Sarah: "But I'm not touching you.  Why is this bugging you?  It's just a shadow?"

Owen: "Leave me alone, Sarah."

She leaves him alone, briefly.

Sarah:  "I bet I can make a butterfly shadow."

Owen: "QUIT IT SARAH! I MEAN IT!"

Sarah: "I don't know why this is bugging you.  It's just a shadow."

Eleven

Happy 11th Birthday, Owen! You've reminded me all week that you're only 6 days, then 5 days, then 4 days (and so on) away from being eleven.   In the whole of your young life, this is the first time I remember you looking forward to your birthday with anticipation. We (your father and I) spent a lot of time tiptoeing around your birthday in years past.  You were not a fan of getting older and couldn't understand why you had to turn six or seven or eight when you were perfectly content with being five or six or seven.  You also hated (hated)birthday parties and being the center of all that unwanted "blow out your birthday candle" hoopla.  As for the singing of the "Happy Birthday" song, from your fourth birthday on you have given me strict instructions that no one should sing that song for you. Ever. (As an aside, you were so very cute on your second birthday when you sat under the dining room table until the song was over and on your third birthday when you took the Thomas train right off the top of the cake and walked away before we could finish the song).  Of course this change in your attitude surrounding your birthday is just one of the many changes I've seen in you this year. There are the obvious things (you keep outgrowing the bottoms of your pants and the ends of your shoes) and there are the not so obvious too.  You have gained a confidence in your own abilities that you didn't have this time last year.  You're trying new things and it doesn't take nearly as much effort for you to move out of your comfort zone.  More times than not now, you can tell me why you are angry or upset rather than just storming off to your room and closing the door (although this still happens from time to time and since you're related to me, I fear that controlling that angry gene is going to be a lifelong endeavor for you.) I was talking to your Aunt Stacey about you recently and telling her that as difficult as parenting was (at times) during the early years of your childhood, this last year with you has been absolutely wonderful - I'm in the sweet spot of parenting these days. You aren't perfect, but you are, quite frankly, a joy to parent.   If I were to try to come up with a list of things I'd like for you to work on, it would be made up of such mundane items that it's really not worth taking the time to make the list (although I may nominate your room for an episode of "Hoarders" in the near feature - but you already know this).  I hope you believe me when I tell you how proud I am to be your momma - how lucky, how blessed.  And as sad as I am today that your childhood is flying by at warp speed, I'm looking forward to your future.  You, my sweet boy, are a great kid! I'd love to say "let's go eat some birthday cake!", but since you don't like cake all that much, maybe just a sugar cookie?  Or a slice of pizza? Or maybe a movie? Whatever you want, it is your birthday.