The Catch-Up: A Breath Away from a Pulitzer

In another life I am a brilliant novelist.  Every day I wake up at 5:00 to a fresh pot of coffee, and I sit at a beautiful white desk which is by a window that looks out on Lake Minnetonka, and while the sun comes up (and until it reaches its noon height) I pound out a flowing and elegant prose chock full of truths about human folly, the indomitable human spirit, society, love, the Arts, all cleverly interwoven into a story with a legitimate Hero who goes on a legitimate Quest and becomes a legitimate Christ-figure. 

Or at least I pen something about a vampire, or a werewolf, or a zombie, which can make me a billion dollars.  At this point I think all the undead creatures have been covered, which is unfortunate.

But the closest I get to “brilliant or mediocre novelist” is my recording of the lives of my children on this blog. 

One problem (of many, admittedly) is that I write too infrequently.  The rule “If you want to be a writer, you have to write every day” is fairly widely accepted, I think.  At least, I’m willing to bet it’s more widely accepted than the one about not consuming raw cookie dough, so it must have some merit.  I break the writing rule (and the cookie dough rule), so my blog posts are infrequent and I have to do a catch-up post with a lot of pictures.  Every time I do this, I state to myself that this is the LAST TIME, and I renew my promise to write every day.  I always believe myself.  (So there’s a little “indomitable human spirit” for you.  Or maybe “relentless power of human denial”).     

1)      We took a road trip to Kansas City to celebrate my Grandma Tholen’s 85^th birthday.  The entire extended fam was there (minus two cousins), which is actually extremely impressive, since we represent Minnesota, Kansas, Maine, Virginia, Oregon, and Hawaii. 




The Tholen side

2)      It snowed. 

3)      Cecilia really enjoys doing whatever her big sister is doing.  Right down to time-outs. 

4)      The Busytown Mysteries obsession continues.  Here is Ellen’s interpretation of Lowly Worm.  I’m not sure what else to say about it, but you can come up with your own caption. 

5)      Auntie Laura came from Florida for Thanksgiving, and we went to the Macy’s display for a visit with Santa.  Ellen’s request: “Busytown Dudes.”  Dudes is our name for little figurines.  Last year Cecilia was fascinated by Santa’s beard.  This year, not so much.

6)      Uncle Pat came (also from Florida, but not with Auntie Laura) for Thanksgiving, and he took us to the Mill City Museum.  If you haven’t gone, you should.  It is really cool. 

7)   Ellen’s “sticky cannonball” at swimming lessons.  I. Love. This. Picture.

 

Just Here to Help the Teacher

Ellen loves art.  If you ask her, she doesn’t just love art, she is “an artist.”  To nurture this budding interest, I enrolled her in an Abrakadoodle preschool art class through St. Louis Park Parks and Rec.  So far it’s great.  Parents and kids do messy art projects together, and get to explore mediums other than old favorites like crayons and markers. 

Our first class began with all the kids sitting in a circle in front of their teacher, Miss Michelle.  After singing “hello” to one another, then reading a story, Miss Michelle gave a word of advice:

“Okay, friends, let’s go make our first project!  Remember, if any of you ever have any questions about art, or about what we’re doing, you can just raise your hand and say ‘Miss Michelle, I have a question!’ Don’t be shy!”

At this point, Ellen raised her hand.  Miss Michelle looked her way and gave an expectant nod and smile.

Ellen lowered her hand and said:

“I don’t think I’ll have any questions, since I’m already an artist.” 

All the moms quietly laughed, and Miss Michelle (bless her) deadpanned:

“You are?  Well, I am VERY glad you are in this class.”  



Owl - with oil pastels, paper, glue, and feathers

Goings-on

It’s November 5, and when I was 16 years old, I would have noted in my calendar that today is the birthday of Art Garfunkel.  It seems silly that I have that information, but I really, really (no, really) liked Simon and Garfunkel in high school, so I put a lot of energy and time into learning all about them as individuals, their five-album partnership, and the reasons behind their break-up.  Then there’s the fact that my brain sort of freakishly holds on to details like dates and names.  I remember a lot of birthdays, even of people from high school whom I would not label friends, but who visibly celebrated their birthdays at school with locker signs or balloons or whatever.  Paul Simon’s birthday is October 13, by the way.  He and Art have reached the milestone of 70 this year, since they both were born in 1941.  Madonna’s daughter was born on October 14, 1996, and one year later on that same date, John Denver’s plane crashed into the sea.  TWA Flight 800 – July 17.  See, this is weird.

I’m not exactly sure, but I think I’m beginning this post with this information because in a way it illustrates how much brain power I put into things when I was growing up.  Anything below A- was just a slap in the face, and an affront to my extreme effort to gain admission to St. Olaf (which I received early-decision on December 6, 1996…on which date Ellen was born 11 years later…yeah, that’s an easy one).  Since I was so “THIS WAY” in high school, it is bizarre to me that I can’t keep up with blogging, or laundry, or making my bed.  Did I burn myself out before my Glory Years (which I hope are still ahead, since I don’t believe I am very glorious these days, and I think my sallow skin and under-eye circles would agree.)?   

Anyway, operating under the contention that Motivation follows Activity, and not the other way around, I am taking time this Saturday morning to share photos and regale you with some tidbits of Ingham life these past few weeks.  We’ve only had one casualty, and it was the TV remote. 

·         Halloween.  We didn’t nail down our costume choices until about a week before.  Ellen wanted to be Huckle Cat, which is the star character of her favorite show, Busytown Mysteries.  She’s actually displaying some obsessive qualities (a genetic gift from me, surely) over Busytown.  I couldn’t get Huckle Cat together.  Maybe with more effort, but, you know…(reference Cyndy’s Burn-out, above).  Then I thought maybe she could be a tiger, which has the same coloring as Huckle…but that didn’t happen either (Ibid).  Finally she found a Thomas the Train costume and was super pumped about it.  Luckily Cecilia is still too little to care what she is for Halloween.  In an ironic twist, she went as a cat.  Not Huckle, though.



  ·         Ellen’s preschool class put on the Pumpkin Parade at school, which involves the kids marching onto the auditorium stage in their costumes and singing a few songs (in between waving furiously to Mom and Dad, of course).  I wouldn’t say Ellen participated with extreme enthusiasm, but she also didn’t suck her thumb shyly up there, which Dave and I considered as a distinct possibility.  She sang several words, and gave a respectable “BOO” at the end.  She definitely took ownership, though – when I picked her up after school, she said to me “well, how’d ya like us?” 

·         Cecilia is showing much improvement in the area of Food Consumption.  She is a mac and cheese genius.  She also enjoys dog food, and mud.  She’s got a lot of words now – doggie, cheese, mommy (finally, though it sounds like bobby), bottle (ba), paci (ba-ba), Charlie (cousin), Ellen – to name a few.     

        

      There have been some good Fall leaf-pile jumping days.  Also, we enjoyed a trip to Emma Krumbee’s with stepsister Amanda (Aunt Mimi) and cousin Walker.  Racing trikes down the driveway was a favorite pastime when the weather was still nice.  (Dave helped Celie).  Cecilia thinks her big sister is the bee’s knees.       

Enemy Perfectionism

I am a perfectionist, though sometimes it doesn’t look like it.  If you were to walk through my front door right now (that is, if I were to allow you to walk through my front door right now) you would see, among (many) other things, a large pile of unopened mail, a laundry basket full of unfolded towels, dried leaves, shoes (some with a match, and some single), a bunch of musical scores, a plastic slide whistle, several backpacks, DVD cases with no DVDs in them, DVDs with no cases…you get it.  I don’t want to mention the dirt, because that’s embarrassing, and I don’t need to mention the toys because OBVIOUSLY. 

In a freakish way, this disaster can be seen as evidence of what I like to call “Enemy Perfectionism.”  Sometimes, if I can’t do a perfect job of something (or a job that is near-enough to perfect that I am satisfied), I won’t do it at all.  “Perfect” becomes the enemy of “good enough.”  Unless I’m going to carve out an entire weekend, or pull an all-nighter, my entire house won’t get cleaned in one shot.  Or, my entire house will get cleaned, but in the shoddiest way possible. 

I need to remind myself, often, that Good Enough is way better than Not At All (if those are my only two options).  I demonstrate Enemy Perfectionism with my blogging, as well.  (I’ve alluded to this before).  Until I have a knockout post, I refrain from posting anything at all.  But if it’s been too long, I have to accept that I just need to post something sort of lame. 

So here it is.  I’ll include some pictures, to combat overwhelming lameness. 

Thursday, I took the girls down to St. Olaf, just to walk around and spend money on unnecessary clothing at the bookstore.  I enjoy seeing my girls at St. Olaf, and I enjoy seeing the students’ reactions to my girls at St. Olaf.  (Let’s face it, when you’re living in a college bubble, the only thing more squeal-inducing than seeing a small child is seeing a puppy.  And every mom loves to see other people thinking her kids are cute).  Some pint-size Norwegian sweaters would’ve had more effect, but I’ll save that for next time.  It was hot, anyway.

Celie in particular walked around like she was already a student.  Class of '32, everyone.

  

Oh, No She Didn't

You know those moments when you have to discipline through stifled laughter at the very act you’re condemning?  I had a golden moment like that tonight.

We have swimming lessons at Foss on Fridays.  I love Foss for many reasons, but here are the top two: 

1) Ellen’s awesome teacher Jared, and 2) Panera across the hall.  After today’s lesson, we headed over for a snack.  While we were back a few feet from the counter, vacillating between cookie or brownie, Ellen pointed at something in front of us and giggled.  I looked up and saw an extremely obese woman placing her order.  I asked Ellen what was so funny.  (WHY did I do this?  WHY?  As much as I wanted to believe that Ellen was not laughing at the sizable rear in front of us, I knew deep down that she was). 

With a huge smile and somewhat declamatory volume level, Ellen said, “Look at that HUGE bum!”

She did it.  She went there.  I knelt down to her level and said very quietly, “Ellen, it is extremely rude to make a remark like that about someone.”

“But Mom,” she continued, “I just saw something silly.” 

“Even if you think it’s silly, you should not say things like that.  You need to be quiet right now.”

Ellen pointed again.  “Well, you can see it right there.”  (I think this was intended to make sure that I actually got a visual on the bum in question.  Certainly in Ellen’s mind, if I had seen the bum I would be laughing right along with her, and therefore my discipline could not really be justified).

“Okay,” I said, “I think you’ve lost your snack.  Let’s go.”   

I sort of regretted this for a split second after saying it.  For one thing, I really wanted a snack too.  But also, I realized that she couldn’t actually understand the reasons why her behavior was inappropriate.  In her world, the bum was indisputably funny, and not attached to a real person with feelings.  And for Pete’s sake, her mother in her own childhood would probably have snickered rudely (albeit quietly) at such a bum, and at a much older age than three-and-a-half.  I thought of reneging.    

Alas, a screaming tantrum ensued, and as soon as a screaming tantrum is involved, there can be no turning back.  Obviously it would be bad enough to renege on a disciplinary measure without the provoking tantrum, but it is exponentially worse to renege after behavior gets worse, regardless of how embarrassing the entire situation is.  We had to leave.  On the way to the car, I was laughing to myself. 

Oh, and don’t worry – I stopped at Starbucks on the way home.  I got two red velvet whoopee pies.  Ellen got nothing.

Summer Cries Uncle

I’m so glad that Fall is here.  Choir for me is in full swing, and all our activities and preschool have begun, except for two straggler classes (Art for Ellen and ECFE for Cecilia, both of which start next week).  We enjoy having legitimate reasons to leave the house. 

Here is Ellen on her first day of preschool.  I don’t know which face is more classic, so I’m including both of these shots.  She was excited. 

I think she looks sort of stereotypically butch, in the most adorable and hilarious of ways, what with her jorts (that is, jean shorts, though I guess technically they’re capris), oversize t-shirt, sneakers, and short hair which, by the way, she has decided she would like to grow out again.  (“Mom, I’m done bein’ like Auntie.”)  She came running out of preschool on the second day with an art project which she offered to me, saying, “Here ya go Mom, I made it just for you.  I knew you’d like the glitter.”  She was right.  Mrs. Gallagher’s words to me were, “She’s such a happy kid,” which is something I always love to hear (what Mom doesn’t?). 

Cecilia is a happy kid as well, though slightly more dramatic than Ellen.  She could benefit from having a few more words in her arsenal.  She’s definitely got “yogurt” down, “bah-bi” (for paci, or baby, or baby with a paci), and a few others, some of which are unintelligible, but clearly and consistently linked to a specific object to which she’s pointing.  She’s a nurturing type, as well as a seasoned shopper.  Here she is, working it. 

Grammy had neck surgery and has been wearing a collar since late August.  Strangely, Ellen’s neck began bothering her on the very same night in which Papa and a be-collared Grammy came for dinner.  This proved convenient.

Ultimately, Ellen's neck did not require surgery, since her symptoms abated quickly after Grammy and Papa's departure.

All Good Things End in Tears

We try to go somewhere every morning, including on weekends.  I’ve stated the importance of these outings in previous posts, but in case you didn’t read those, I’ll restate it here: when we don’t get out of the house in the morning, we all go stir-crazy.  Think Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.”  (And he had a whole hotel at his disposal).   

So this past Saturday, we packed some sandwiches and headed out to Excelsior to bum around.  My stepsister Amanda and nephew Walker joined us for lunch, and then we met with my sister Rachel, B-I-L Jim, nieces Bryn, Scout, and Anya, and baby Charlie. 

Our picnic lunch culminated in a little game of soccer (otherwise entitled “I try to steal the ball from you and you try to steal the ball from me”) between Ellen and 2-year-old Walker.  Amanda took some great pictures, and here’s an action shot:



Ellen and Walker play soccer

Now, there are a few things to notice in this photo. 

Item 1: Proximity of Ball to Lake. 

            Dangerously close, right?  It seems that all Ellen’s backyard dribbling practice with Daddy has paid off in a big way.  Her kick is strong and her aim almost impeccable.  Almost impeccable.  You can imagine what happened.  A video metaphor for you:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wO_MYX_Oto0&feature=related

Like Tom Hanks, who watched helplessly as his poor volleyball Wilson drifted toward the open sea, Walker watched helplessly as his poor nameless soccer ball drifted toward downtown Wayzata (despite Uncle Dave’s valiant attempt at a rescue).   That put a swift end to the soccer game.  So we headed to the swimming beach.  There was some more excitement there, the retelling of which requires my reminding you to take a look at the picture of Ellen and Walker again, so that you may observe…

Item 2: Fit/Sag of Ellen’s Pants

SAG award



   Dangerously loose, right?  Ellen got dressed entirely by herself, down to picking her outfit, and I thought she did a great job.  Then when we got to Excelsior I realized that she had picked the pants that are too big, with the non-adjustable elastic waistband.  Any person who’s had to wear maternity jeans will be familiar with the problem Ellen faced that day.  As they sagged lower and lower, they brought her underwear with them.  So there we were at the beach, the whole lot of us…actually, Ellen and Amanda and Walker were down by the water, and the rest of us were up on the grass lounging at a picnic table.  There was only one couple lying on towels at the beach, since it was getting cold and breezy, and lunchtime was over.  I looked over at them and noticed that they were looking toward the lake at something that they found pretty amusing.  Intrigued, I followed their gaze, which landed on Ellen, obliviously bending over time and again to pick up rocks, pants and underwear half-way down her legs, and full moon shining.  It was a pretty ridiculous sight, though probably not any more ridiculous than the sight of her parents doing nothing about her exposure except laughing and yelling into the wind “ELLEN, PULL UP YOUR PANTS!” between sips of cold beverages.  Ah, good parenting there.    

Well, we were having such a good time in Excelsior that we stayed right up to Point Meltdown.  Mix “overtired” with just a drop of “disappointment” (the ratio is probably something like that of gin to vermouth in an extremely dry martini), and you have your basic shitstorm.  As my stepsister says, “You know you had a good time if you stay long enough for tantrums.  All good things end in tears.”  True dat.

The Way She Sees Him

The new cousin is a hit.  Cecilia can say “Chah-lie” (still conspicuously missing from her vocab – “Mommy”), and Ellen has created what she calls her “Charlie face.”  Apparently she believes that Charlie looks like a total stoner, because here it is:  

"Charlie face"

 You’ll have to ignore the Hello Kitty band-aid on her face, which in this photo is covering a scratch that was remarkably smaller than the allergic reaction she subsequently had to the band-aid.  

Requiem for a Restaurant

After two less-than-satisfactory outings on Wednesday, I’m declaring this family’s restaurant days officially on hiatus.  Wednesday at lunchtime, my sister and I headed to Original Pancake House – a long-time favorite.  Our waiter said to us, “Today all our specials have fresh peaches – waffles, pancakes, or crepes.”  When Ellen exclaimed, “I LOVE peaches,” he didn’t miss a beat.  He bent right down to her level and said, “Would you like me to bring you some peach pancakes, sweetheart?”  Ellen nodded.  “And would you like some chocolate milk to drink?”  She nodded again.  (Really, his entire pitch could not have been more tailored to Ellen).

When our food arrived (after ten minutes of trying to get Cecilia to eat something, anything), Ellen’s peach pancakes came with a humongous dollop of real whipped cream.  She stuck her finger in and licked.  “Mmm.  I LOVE whipped cream,” she said as she swiped again.  Rachel cut her pancakes into bite-sized pieces, and Ellen continued her Whipped Cream Finger Dip.  “No more finger dipping,” I said.  “Try your pancakes.  You’re supposed to eat them WITH the whipped cream.”  Ellen’s response to this request was to attack the whipped cream with her spoon instead of her finger.  While I silently gave her props for considering that the introduction of a utensil might improve her chances of being allowed to continue a whipped-cream-only course of action, I said to her, “Enough of the whipped cream.  You need to take a bite of actual pancake, or peach, or both.”  Again, she took a cream-exclusive bite.  “Okay,” I said.  “Next time I see you eating only whipped cream and no pancakes, I am going to remove that big dollop.”  She looked me straight in the eye, slowly put her spoon down, extended her pointer finger, and gave her whipped cream a little test swipe.  I grabbed my own spoon and relocated her whipped cream onto my plate.  Next came the eruption of tears and screaming “I NEED MY WHIPPED CREAM!  I NEED MY WHIPPED CREAM!”  Her whining did not stop, so I got up from my own chair, picked her up, and carried her out of the restaurant, where she continued her tantrum for another minute or two.  Then we snuggled, sang the alphabet, and went back inside, where Rachel and Cecilia both greeted us with smiles.  Rachel said to Ellen, “I will fix for you the Perfect Bite – peaches, pancake, and whipped cream – and then we can ‘cheers’ and take bites at the exact same time.”  The Perfect Bite was carefully constructed, Rachel put together her own perfect bite of strawberry crepe, and she and Ellen clinked their forks together, opened mouths wide, and stuffed them in.  “Mmmmm,” said Rachel.  “Yuck,” said Ellen, after reopening her mouth and letting her Perfect Bite fall back onto her plate without even chewing at all.  “What, you don’t like pancakes with peaches in them?” Rachel asked.  “No way,” replied Ellen.  She sat there with the pain of the world on her face for a few minutes, periodically taking little sips of chocolate milk, and sighing dramatically.  Finally I said, “Do you think you might like to try your peach pancakes with a little butter and syrup?”  She shook her head and said slowly, as though the thought was just occurring to her, “Maybe they need some whipped cream or somethin’.”   Aaaand…we’re back.  She downed a grand total of zero bites.          

So Wednesday night, Ellen had swimming lessons.  Our usual routine is to have Panera right after lessons, since it’s so conveniently located across the hall from Foss in Knollwood Mall.  But on this particular night, we trekked a little further to Applebee’s, to meet Dad and Sami for some dinner. 

This time the dining ruckus was caused by Cecilia.  She just really doesn’t care much about eating.  This is a quality that will serve her well later (ability to refuse unneeded brownie), but doesn’t serve me very well now (inability to distract with snacks).  When she wasn’t shoving away the hand that was holding her spoon, she was reaching out for me and letting loose her shriek.  (You know the shriek.  The other times you’ve heard it, it was coming from the kid in the seat behind you in the airplane, and it was so ear-splitting that it made you turn around immediately, almost involuntarily, to give the mother the stink-eye).  Taking her out of the high chair resolved the shriek, but presented a new problem – uncontrollable wiggling, which eventually necessitated restaurant bail number two for the day.  We returned to the table just in time for our waiter to arrive and ask if we’d be interested in having some dessert.  I laughed and said, “Only if the kids can go hang out in the kitchen with you while we eat it.”   He should’ve taken me up on that, because I would have left one hell of a tip.             

Arrows and Flowers

On my right forearm is tattooed an arrow with its tip encircled by cherry blossoms.  The image is inspired by a story in a book by Buddhist nun Pema Chodron, in which she discusses the ability of mindfulness (being fully present in each moment) to transform evil/difficult/ugly things into beautiful things – in other words, to “turn arrows into flowers.”  The “turning arrows into flowers” story is one that has stuck with me, and its representation on my forearm is intended to remind me of the value of embracing whatever “the moment” can throw at me, particularly where parenting is concerned.  Admittedly this is usually way harder than it sounds (and I think it even SOUNDS hard).  There are a lot of Arrow stories – bad moments in my life as a mom – and plenty of Flower stories.    

Arrows

·         When Ellen was 2.5 and Cecilia was 6 weeks old, Dave took his close-to-annual trip backpacking with Pat and left me to fare alone.  If the post-partum depression, extreme newborn colic/incessant screaming, and slow-going adjustment to two children weren’t enough for me to deal with solo (and I assure you, they were enough), during that same time Ellen suffered a bowel obstruction which caused her to throw up in her sleep in the middle of the night, over the course of several nights.  I’ve known very few people (sober ones, anyway) who sleep through throwing up but for some reason, fast asleep is the only way I’ve seen Ellen do it, excepting the one time which also involved Cecilia’s rolling off our bed.  It’s not good.  Awake throwing up leads to immediate cleanup and therefore saves the parent from the confusion that I suffered on the morning after the first time this happened, when I found a perfectly content and clueless Ellen sitting in her bed with a mysterious dried substance in her hair and on her pillow.  I examined quizzically, touched, and sniffed before figuring it out.  Gross.

·         Since we’re on the subject, the following pregnancy Arrow counts as a parenting Arrow, since while I was dealing with the effects of Cecilia on the inside of me, I was also dealing with Ellen on the outside of me.  One morning at about six months along, I left Ellen to play in the living room while I went to take a shower and brush my teeth.  When a hard kick to the ribs caused me to inhale sharply, some toothpaste flew back into my throat.  I should’ve gotten a glass of water right then, but since I was already completely undressed, I did not go to the kitchen to retrieve a cup.  (I’ve made this mistake before, and our lack of kitchen window treatments combined with my lack of motivation for bathrobe retrieval has resulted in more than one accidental show for our very close neighbors).  No, I figured I’d be fine for a few more minutes, and I stepped in the shower.  The intense minty-ness of the ill-lodged toothpaste became more and more irritating as I lathered, rinsed, and repeated.  A coughing fit ensued.  Finally, the heightened gag-reflex of pregnancy bit me in the ass.  And so began a cycle of gagging, purging, and repeating, which lasted long enough for me to bail on hair-rinsing and step out of the shower, where I continued the purging, naked and dripping wet.  As my sister would say (sarcastically of course), “[Pregnancy] is a beautiful journey.”

·         See these sweet faces?  This was five minutes before Ellen decided she wanted to continue browsing through the greeting cards that sing when you open them, against my firm directive to sit back in the cart so we could leave.  She had a public tantrum so loud, and so great, that we bailed on our completely full cart in the middle of the store and tried to ignore the stares of everyone around us as we walked out (I guess I basically dragged her out while carrying Celie).  Of course I couldn’t remember where we parked when we got outside, so it all continued for much longer than it should have.  When we finally drove away, I started crying too.  It’s an irrefutable truth that if you have children, you will someday be “that” mom.  And then you will cry and momentarily dream of your life without children while a maniacal voice inside you says “mwah-hah-hah-hah…it’s too late…you can’t give them back…” and a maniacal voice in the back seat screams “all this cryin’ is makin’ me hungry, and I NEED fruit snacks!”     

Flowers

·         Ellen says so many things that make me laugh.  Yesterday, out of the blue, she told me that she would LOVE to be able to fly.  “Where would you fly?” I asked.  “Everywhere,” she said.  “Okay, where would you fly FIRST?” I asked.  “To the bank,” she replied.  I thought to myself, “That’s a good plan.  If you’re going to fly everywhere, you’ll need some cash.”  I said, “The bank?  Why?”  Her answer – “To get a sucker.”  And at the hospital the other day, after meeting one of Dave’s colleagues – “What an interesting doctor.  Some doctors are interesting.  Daddy’s a doctor.  But he’s not very interesting.”

·         My girls showing their love for me, which at these ages they do both willingly and often, is a great big Flower.  I love when Cecilia reaches out her arms and shrieks for me when I’m the first person she sees in the morning.  Her hugs are the best, bar none – they last forever and her head rests on my neck while both arms hang on.  A few seconds in, she’ll start doing “The Pat” – rubbing and patting my back very gently.  I’m sure “The Pat” is a genetic inheritance from my mom.  So adorable.  Ellen can show her love with words now, which is so fabulous.  One night when Dave was putting her to bed, she came out and gave a goodnight hug to Uncle Pat, then headed back to her room.  “Hey, what about me?” I said.  She turned around and said “MOM, I could NEVER forget about YOU!” as she ran over.  Lately she’s been trying to think of ways to quantify her love – “Mom, I love you as big as that building.  Mom, I love you as much as I love Thomas.  Mom, see that huge cloud?  I love you as big as that.”  And yesterday, an All-Star moment, while singing along to a Kindermusik CD – “Mom, I think you are a LOVELY singer.  You are the best singer in town.” 

·         I love how my girls love each other.  Often, while we’re driving down the road, I’ll look back and find both of them stretching their arms so they can hold hands across the middle seat.  Other times, I will see them playing together and hear Ellen saying things like, “Celie, that’s the GREEN crayon.  Watch Big Sister use it to color leaves.”  Ellen is a natural protector and teacher, and Cecilia has such a loving and trusting nature that she would follow Ellen to the end of time.        

Before I had kids, or even knew for sure that I wanted them, I would hear parents relay their own stories, so similar to these.  I would think to myself that the horror stories sounded so horrifying, and the good stories so lame, that the scale was clearly tipped to the “No Kids” side of the debate.  I mean, if a few hugs and cute comments are all you’ve got to redeem waking up to puke all over a bed, then those toddler and preschool years are just not worth living through.  But here’s the remarkable thing – when these stories are about your own children, the Arrows are the ones that seem lame and ridiculous.  And the Flower stories are so wonderful that they change your outlook on the world at large.  They are a garden.  And the scale tips over to “I Can’t Imagine This Not Being My Life.”

Hot Town

August typically drags for me.  By now, I’ve pretty much had enough of all the summer things that I dream about from December 26^th until April-ish.  When we don’t have preschool and story-time and choir and other things to keep us busy, I have to think of things for us to do which are entertaining (or at least distracting) and cheap.  (Away-from-home morning activities are at the top of the list of things that I need in order to maintain some sort of maternal Zen.  If we’re not out of the house by 9, my desperation to flee the four walls starts manifesting as extreme impatience with normal levels of Preschool-Putz.  Sometimes I explode and have to apologize later; just the other day Ellen and I had the following conversation over PB&Js: Me: Ellen, I’m sorry that I yelled this morning. I was very angry, but that wasn’t a good way to show it.  Ellen: It’s okay Mom. We can still be friends.)  Thinking of something to do every day is drudgery at this point.  I recycle things from June and July, and those things were lame the first time around.  I’m bored and ready for my life to resume.  Plus, there’s still at least four more weeks until State Fair cheese curds. 

So, I tried to get away.  I took a solo getaway while Dave was hiking in Yellowstone.  But I was lonely and sad, and coming home and getting a giant Cecilia hug (she puts her little head on my shoulder, wraps her arms around me, and doesn’t let go for a long time) was the best part. 

Now I’m trying to focus on the little moments of good stuff until September rolls around to deliver me.  Here are a few that I’ve captured.        



Ellen and Auntie Rachel being silly



Ready to create a masterpiece



Walking together



Charles James Hatten, Nephew Extraordinaire



Charlie likes his cousin



Ellen and Moddy enjoy the carousel



Celie and Auntie nap together



Little Cutie