Mother's Day

Today was extraordinary.  I have been fighting a cold all weekend, and I feared of that I'd be too sick to take up my sister-in-law's great offer to watch the boys for us while Aaron treated me to an afternoon in Portland.  But there was no room to be under today.  I was summoned out of bed to discover an array of beautifully drawn pictures from the boys and a tender, loving card from my husband, along with the sweetest little hand painted clay vase containing three velvet red roses.  We had coffee and breakfast, then we showered, and in our "hot weather clothes" (since it was over 85 today) we went to church.  I even painted my toe-nails.  There Pastor Fitz spoke on a series about the elements church foundations and specifically relationships.  It tied in nicely with Mother's Day, and I was glad that in his closing prayers he mentioned mothers who lost children, and childless women who carry out the work of God by mothering in other ways.   They handed out carnations to all the women in the pews.  It was touching.  The children had loads of little crafts they had made in their Children's Church, and I was showered yet again.

After church at home, we fed the boys and when Cris came to babysit, who also gave me a loving card and treats, we slipped out into the sunshine with a spring in our step and the afternoon wide open.  We didn't really know what to do, or where we were going, so I said "To Powells!" like some kind of declaration.  But it is Mother's Day, so I felt sort of authorized to make decisions.  Around the corner from Powells is a new McMinnimen's restaurant, that just happened to be void of the Mother's Day Brunch crowd, and we were seated immediately outside in the shade with a great view of downtown Portland.  We shared some salads, and I had amazing cucumber cilantro mojito, chatting with no agenda or rush.  Real conversation.  No interruptions.  Just me and my soul mate, my best friend, the dearest man I've ever known, and idle talk about this and that, of our children, always our dear boys.  Even though it's such a great break to have time together, alone, to be adults, it's funny how we miss them and always resort to talking about them anyway.  Then we went to the bookstore where, if you haven't been to Powell's, it's hard to describe, I was euphorically lost in it's towers of books.  I managed to find a book about character traits that I've had my eye on for four years and some others, and just so happened to have a gift card that more than covered the cost!  WOW!  Afterwards, we visited a little gelato cafe that holds a dear memory for us of when I was days from birth with Andres.  Then we came home, to find Tia Kissie had everything under control, and the boys smiling with their deep dimples and arms open wide.
It was really an extraordinary day.  I was so abundantly showered with love and reminded over and over that I was loved.
Sometimes I often don't feel like I deserve this life.  Today I was honored for being a mom, but really I walk away feeling humbled.  Truly, deeply humbled.  Who's to know what we deserve or don't deserve, that is for God to work out.  But I know I'm called to be grateful and content, and I open my heart wide in that knowledge.
But I remember my own mom.  I miss her everyday.  I nearly sent her a card, expressing that I love her and have forgiven her, but I know it would stir the pot of anger that is always constantly simmering.  So I lifted her in prayer instead.  

Quote of the Day

"I don't want any slugs in this house, regardless if he's your new friend."

Homecoming

This is the 3rd weekend in a row that has caused me to pack my suitcase and left me bereft of sleep.  The first weekend of the month on Easter we drove an hour and a half to spend time with my husband's parents.  Last weekend we blitzed Spokane.  This weekend was the culmination of almost 4 months of committee work and planning for our church's annual Women's Retreat to Menucha, Oregon.  It was a wonderful experience.  I had the best time hosting our women, and it was weekend weighed with so many stories of hurt, longing, and hope.  The sky paused it's torrential downpour, and the scene in the Gorge was ripe with bursting Rhodies, tulips, daffodils, and colors of all kinds.  I loved it.  Although I confess I'm tired.

Our committee hosting the Saturday evening wine tasting before dinner.  Look at that spread!

Most of our attendees responded on their evaluations that this was the best retreat experience they had been on.

But I come home to my husband's warm smile, AJ's wide open arms and R's big gap-tooth grin.  I missed my guys this weekend, and relish being home.

Wet Oatmeal Kisses

When I was little, the oldest of four children, my mother's grandmother sent a newspaper clipping from Forsythe, Montana to encourage my mom through what I imagine was a rough time for her, on a big farm far away from her family, raising four wild kids.  I remember my mom reading it with a quivering chin, tears brimming on her lashes and rolling over the soft mounds of her cheeks.  Then she tucked that bit of gray-inked paper in the front of the huge antique desk that sat in our entry on the farm.  I thought someone had died.  My mom wasn't a crier.  


When I was old enough to read, and the clipping was yellowing around the tape that held it to the desk cabinet, I couldn't understand why it had made her cry.  My mom was a yeller.  And she yelled at us the very things mentioned in the clipping.  It made sense that she'd long for the day that life would be orderly, and we wouldn't be around causing her all that anguish.  Why cry about it? 
But when I became a mom, the message became clear to me, a kind of cautionary note to my future self.  I struggle--constantly struggle!-- not to yell at my boys.  I hunted the poem up online, and once found, I too wept at the words.  
This morning, a Friday, I made oatmeal.  It's never been my favorite breakfast, or food, for that matter.  But recently I introduced it to the boys, who love it.  And R with his curls loaded with sticky oats, reached out to hug me, his little arms and fingers sticky with oat starch and brown sugar.  He smelled like a memory, a toasty, maple syrup memory from my own childhood.  He's not one for affection, our R.  He's completely unlike his brother who still snuggles and sits on my lap and holds my hand.  So he reaches out for me with this glorious mess, and I know that this is the moment.  I can't close my eyes, because when I open them again he'll be a big stinky teenager, or a clean shaven man with kids of his own sitting there, and me clinging to this fraction in time as distance memory when he was but an oatmeal covered toddler.  I open my arms and embrace his soft little baby body that is slowly growing lean with his busy-ness, his sparkling brown eyes shadowed with long brushy lashes.  The smile on his face, as he holds out his hands for me reveal the trademark gap between his front teeth that just add to the comedic character he is. And for just a moment, we hug, and I absorb it, holding tight, feeling his soft hair against my cheek, and smelling his wonderful oatmeal smell.  Then he's off.  He's running down the hall, and I stand there watching him, marveling at the sight of this little man, and relishing the miracle we shared.  
Wet Oatmeal Kisses
The baby is teething;
The children are crying.
Your husband just called and said "Eat dinner without me."

One of these days you'll explode and shout to the kids,
"Why don't you grow up and act your age?"
And they will.
Or "You guys get outside and find yourself something to do,"
and "don't slam the door!"
And they don't.

You'll straighten their bedrooms all neat and tidy;
toys displayed on the shelf;
Hangers in the closet; animals caged.
You'll yell, "Now I want it to stay this way."
And it will.

You'll yell, "I want complete privacy on the phone -- no screaming!
Do you hear me?"
And no one will answer.

No more plastic tablecloths with stains of spaghetti.
No more dandelion bouquets.
No more iron-on patches.
No more wet knotted shoelaces,
muddy boots, or rubberbands for ponytails.Imagine a lipstick with a point!

No babysitter for New Year's Eve.
Washing clothes only once a week.
No PTA meetings or silly school plays where your child is a tree.
No car pools, blaring stereos, or forgotten lunch money.
No more Christmas presents made of library paste and toothpicks.
No wet oatmeal kisses.
No more tooth fairy.
No more giggles in the dark, scraped knees to kiss
or sticky fingers to wash.

Only a voice asking - "Why don't you grow up?"
And a silent echo -- "I did."

Author Unknown

Adventures in Meeting Matthew

We drove all the way to Spokane to meet our new baby nephew, Matthew.

He's an absolute blessing to our family, so sweet and handsome!  He's long and skinny, with sharp eyes and has a proud Aztec profile.  He reminds me of my own AJ when he was that age and it moved me to nostalgia to hold him.  We've waited a long time to meet this little man.  His mommy was my friend nearly 18 years ago when I was a senior in high school.  She introduced me to her big brother, whom became my best friend and soul mate, my wonderful husband and father of my children.  It took her a little longer to meet her Mr. Right, but the wait was worth it for he's a wonderful man.  Their dream of finally becoming parents was realized when they held their first born child in their arms two months ago.  It warmed my heart to see them as parents, so natural and easy going.  Matthew is immensely blessed to have them as parents.  My boys would pause in their play to show genuine interest in their new cousin, staring at him, caressing him tenderly with their fingertips before running off again.  It was precious.

We couldn't afford time off with Aaron's work and school schedules, so we drove the 700 miles in less than 36 hours.  We stopped at the midway point to stay the night at my Grandpa's 20 acre cattle farm, where we camped in my dad's trailer on the lawn.  The boys thought it was a real adventure!

AJ reading his favorite Calvin and Hobbes book, R looking dapper in the back seat.

Having our PB and jelly picnic at the Sprague Lake rest area outside of Ritzville.  The boys were elated to have juice boxes, a treat I reserve only for long car trips.  The vegan jello from Trader Joe's not such a hit.  

They both fell in love with the farm.  AJ was elated to see "real cows," exclaiming as he pointed to them, "Look!  They have hooves!  Real hooves!"  I never thought I'd have city kids.  I was riding horses as soon as I could sit on a saddle (Click here to read"Bucephalus").  Of the nearly 8 tractors and various farm equipment and machinery parked about the farm yard, AJ climbed up each one to feign driving it.  R was so happy to be out of the car, he set about right away to play in the dirt, starting out at first driving his cars in it, and swimming it, dowsing his hair and clothing with it.  I smiled at the sight of him.

My grandpa is really the last surviving cowboy.  He's raised beef as long as I can remember.  I grew up in this cattle farming family, witnessing cow births, branding, butchering, selling, buying, hauling and driving (that is to mean "cattle drive" them in a herd from one graze land to another via cowboys on horses with a gangle of border collies to nip the ankles of wanderlings).  He chews and spits tobacco into old bean cans littered around his house,  poor-man spittoons.  He used to break his own horses, train his own dogs, grow his own hay, repair his own tractors, lay his own fences, and any old thing that needed doing, he just did it.  He had his face kicked in by a horse when he was a young man, and the scar remains on his mouth like a hairlip, while other scars are less visible, but still there.  I mean he's a real cowboy.  The breed of such men is fading into history.

Grandpa's diagnosis of cancer was a shock.  He was old, mean, and tough.  He could beat the living tar out of a bad-attitude colt or dog (not that I personally condone that treatment of animals, but I've grown soft in the city life, and have to remember on a farm an animal is not a pet, it's a commodity), he could do the same to this disease.

His kitchen cabinet is plastered with pics of AJ when he was a baby.  They've been there for years, curling at the corners, fading under the scotch tape that holds them there.  His eyes sparkle something devilish when he sees my boys, his great grandsons.  He seems to grow younger right before my eyes, and a smile tugs at his mouth as he watches them.

So I guess it shouldn't be a surprise to see my boys finding a slice of heaven on a real cow farm.  It's in their blood.

R was delirious with the farm and all it's wonders.  

Look closely.  It's really the Millennium Falcon.

He felt so proud, like such a big boy!

All kinds of amazing machines on the farm!

Papa and his big boy watching the calves.

Boy (n): a noise with dirt on it.

I love this shot of R bathing himself in dirt.  This is the essence of being a little boy.
He had the time of his life right there along the shed, one little blue car in hand and
all the dirt he could want.

Since before he could crawl, R has balanced his chakras with yoga.
Seriously.  When he gets over-excited about something, he often
drops into a Downward Dog, then rises up calm again.  I never even
 taught him this trick, he discovered it on his own!

Aside from random lazer blasts and car muffler noises, these guys were content and fairly quiet.

Climbing the windmill that remains in the yard at Grandpa's house.

My little city boys amazed by the cattle in the pasture.
"What are they saying," AJ asked.
"The Mama cows are calling for their babies," I said.
He stared at them then said, "I hope they find each other."

Huge piles of wood, a broken down trailer, corrals, tire rims...one huge playground to explore.

AJ was shocked at the sheer size of the tractor tires.

"Two people can fit inside!"
Yes.  Two smallish people, my love.

R rushing to the tractor.

R was a smidgen too short to climb up, but patting its big tires as if it was a giant pet expressed his adoration.

The arid and aromatic sagebrush was a new thing to my west-side boys.
I offered a bit to R who wanted to eat it, then to AJ who inhaled it's sweet, wild scent.
"The Native Americans would burn this to perfume the air when they prayed."
"Why?"
"They thought it made God happy."
"Did it?  Did it make God happy?"  he asked.
"I think it did."

Papa and his little men at a rest area along the Columbia River on the way home.  It was a magnificent view.

AJ expending energy at a rest area.

Papa taking R on a little walkabout at a stop in the gorgeous Gorge.

Exploring the terrain.

Still expending...

R needed to expend most of all.  He really doesn't care for long rides in the car.

But the trip was long and fast at the same time.  We camped in a trailer,  had something of a field trip to a dude ranch, stopped every hour along the freeway to let the boys out and exhaust their energy at rest areas or eat the sandwiches I had brought for our meals, and met our little Matthew.  It's good to be home, but I believe getting out once in a while, visiting our loved ones, is (although hard for us) helping our boys explore not only the big world outside our little corner of it, but explore the mysterious, blood-deep inner parts of ourselves, too.

La Vida Loca

The Laundry Chair

There are peas, hard and shriveled, scattered about on the linoleum under the dining table.  They keep company (among other unidentifiable items) with the stiff and brittle ramen noodles that resemble beige snakes frozen with shock.  Something of mysterious origins, sticky and brownish gray, has been splattered, dribbled, then dried on the wall in the living room.  The supposed-to-be white Ektorp sofa from Ikea has mud, blood and green marker all over its cover, like a post modernism work of art.  Tiny rock-hard pieces of purple and yellow playdough have fossilized into the carpet, and remain impossible to extract without a chisel.  All the light switches, each and every one, in every single room in this house, has a solid film of mud covering it.  The windows are smeared with greasy, grimy fingerprints, and would act in some blessed way like a sunblock.  If we ever had sun.  There's a chair in the corner of the living room that we've labeled the "Laundry Chair" because usually as many as five clean loads sit there waiting to be folded, like a disinterested pet, one more body taking up space in our limited space of a place.  The real pets, the cats, should grow thumbs and change their own stinking litter box for once.  AJ's art is not only hanging on the fridge but painted onto the table, spilling out of the quaint boxes I bought to (ironically) organize his craft stuff.  The dishes in the sink could nearly wash themselves.  I secretly hope they do.

These are the days that cause me to wonder.  How can we live in so much disarray, filth, and chaos?  And--for the most part--be okay with it?  For me, I've let myself become tempered, adjusted.  It's not that I like it.    Or simply ignore it.  I see it.  How can I not?  But letting it consume me and take me away from my family time, or worse, pummeling myself for not being capable of executing the endless myriad of tasks and chores, is not an option.  Granted, there are those days when the house smells like wet dog (we don't even HAVE a dog!) and I feel myself sinking into that dismal abyss that makes me greedy:  more space, cleaner kids, less mud-making rain, no cats, etc.  Those days push me to the brink of insanity and I snap, then in a flurry, with lots of yelling at small people under toe who want food or water or attention or other basic life-sustaining necessities, the dishes get done, the floors get swept, the laundry folded and put away.  And those days have taught me, as I reflect in bed at the end of it all, to question was it worth it?  If I could do it all over again, would I?

This is the life.  I love it.  It's at times muddy, bloody, messy, and smelly, but there are so many blessings in this box we call home.  Four brightly shiny souls dwell here, and God sings over us.  This is the season we're in, a brief snap-of-the-fingers in the timeline of our lives.  I cling to it, breathe it in, wallow in it, because it's precious and fleeting. I imagine one day, soon too soon, I'd gladly trade a clean and tidy home to have this crazy life with my boys small and wild again.

Ringing

Trees are measured by the rings of bark.  Hair by inches.  Roads by miles.  Children by months or years.  Or worse, academic achievement.

I think my growth is more vague than years, far more obscure.  I have wiry gray hair sprouting at the roots, and my skin has undergone the change of time, losing the supple smoothness of a young adult, to the brittle, spotty canvas that colors me now.  I love my crows feet, though.  I believe they are the relics of the laughter that carved them there.

I feel my growth is like the rings in a tree.  Internal, private, but there nonetheless.  Fires have left scars, and strong winds have twisted the limbs, but despite the mess, the growth continues from the inside out, shaping through the damage a thing that is knotted, crippled, and breathing, inhaling and metabolizing the smallest bit of light in the hopes that there, in the deepest darkness, form the sprouts of green and radiant life.