We had a good weekend: my sister-in-law's 30th birthday, which merited a cozy dinner at The Chop House; my brother and sister-in-law's backyard wedding reception, which involved two big white tents and lots of casual, yummy food with family; blueberry pancakes; a family bike ride and playground stop; hot tub baths last night before the thunderstorm; farmers' market; morning runs; burgers on the grill; a quick visit to Lake Michigan on Sunday afternoon.
And then today was back to normal: dentist appointments, groceries, errands, laundry. (Am I the only one who feels like a hero when I wash all the sheets and re-make the beds? I feel like that implies that I don't do it that often, which I'll neither confirm nor deny.) Tonight, Jason and Annie were taping a segment about the upcoming piano concert at a local TV station (I'll try to say that casually, as though my eight-year-old being on TV is no big deal). Jemma and I decided to bake something (I voted for this; she overruled me with this), so we were in the kitchen together - aprons on, little chair pulled up to the counter by the sink, flour and butter and measuring cups everywhere.
As I was peeling peaches, she stuck her little face close to the bowl to smell them and I could see the sun-freckles on her nose. I fed her a slice of peach and we talked about getting more tomorrow from the market, then putting on old clothes and eating them outside, letting the juice run down our chins and get all over our shirts.
"Did you ever do that?" she asked.
"Yep," I said. "Peaches only taste like this for a few weeks. You have to eat them as much as you can."
I sunk the paring knife into the skin of the last peach and slowly pulled the skin off the flesh in a big chunk. I was thinking about how some moments are extraordinary, like watching the moon rise over the Swiss Alps or under the Eiffel Tower, and some are ordinary, like teaching your daughter how to peel a peach. I showed her how I tugged the skin away slowly, pulling off a wide swath before starting again at the top. I told her how, in a few years, I'd let her practice doing it herself with the knife, and a few years after that, she'd be doing it all by herself.
"And someday, maybe you'll have a little boy or girl, and you'll teach them how to peel peaches in your kitchen," I said, thinking about baking with my mom and feeling all Circle of Life about this cinnamon-scented baking moment. "Who do you think taught me how to peel peaches?" I asked.
"I don't know," said Jemma.
"Guess," I said.
And she said, "Mrs. McIntosh?" Her kindergarten teacher.
And though my friend Katie did not, in fact, teach me how to peel peaches, I love that Jemma thought she might have. Because in Jemma's little almost-first-grade mind, her beloved kindergarten teacher can teach us all anything she wants to. Because in reality, that idea is actually pretty true in its own special way, especially this summer. This summer, Mrs. McIntosh is teaching me to treasure the moments - both extraordinary and ordinary - that make up a life, including a Monday night making peach and blueberry crumbles with my Jemma.
Showing posts with label Ordinary Days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ordinary Days. Show all posts
Monday, July 22, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
In the Middle
Our Memorial Day weekend was the perfect mix of doing things and not-doing things: biking, having friends over for dinner, celebrating my dad's birthday, going to a graduation open house, gardening, reading, running, lounging in jammies, cooking and baking, relaxing. And though today's chilly rain wasn't the perfect end to the weekend, weather-wise, I think we're all heading into the week relaxed and refreshed.
At the graduation open house - our babysitter's, the first I've been to in years - I realized while talking with her mom that Annie has lived with us now for about half of the total time she'll likely live with us - a little punch to the gut on a gorgeous spring day. She's right in the middle of her life as a child growing up in our house. I stood in a big backyard near a white tent as I said it, patting Annie's sun-kissed head, but I thought about it off and on for the rest of the weekend, as she and Jemma both did things that seemed both "big-kid" and "little-kid," proving that they really are in that in-between sweet spot of childhood.
Sometimes, they're still little ones. On Friday afternoon, they walked home from school to find us unpacking some new patio furniture and they immediately seized on the big cardboard box it had come in. Before I knew it, they'd constructed a functional door with a jump rope, cut windows, decorated it with markers, and spent time eating snacks and blowing bubbles in it with friends for the rest of the night. On Sunday morning, Jemma squirmed and whined and laid her body over me like a noodle all throughout church, and on Sunday afternoon my brother hung her upside down by her feet and made her helpless with laughter. Tonight, Annie asked me to paint her toenails before dinner and both girls danced a self-choreographed modern dance for us before their showers, complete with matching costumes, fans, and lighting. Jemma cried over a broken keychain and over gum. Annie threw a fit about going to the garden store and brought a stuffed animal along in the car. They constructed an outdoor fairy garden and can still fully immerse themselves in the world of magic. A million little moments of being little.
But then sometimes I can hardly believe how big they are. Jemma helped Jason string up patio lights - holding the ladder, fetching tools, genuinely helping instead of "helping" the way a toddler would. She read three Ivy & Bean books this weekend. Annie helped make dinner on Saturday. They clear their plates after a meal, spread cream cheese on their own bagels, put away their own laundry. When we stopped into the brewery for Jason and Trevor to play a couple quick guitar songs together Sunday night, Annie said she wanted to play, too - and she calmly blew the whole place away with Styx while Jason sang along. We can take long family bike rides now - no training wheels, no bike trailer, just the four of us pedaling around town to smell the lilacs and play at the playground and get ice cream.
They have two weeks left of this school year, and I'm in denial. I'd like for them to stay in third grade and kindergarten for a long time. I'd like for them to live at our house with us for zillions more years, instead of just ten or so. As we kick off this summer, though, I'm going to try to keep them right here in the middle for just a while longer.
At the graduation open house - our babysitter's, the first I've been to in years - I realized while talking with her mom that Annie has lived with us now for about half of the total time she'll likely live with us - a little punch to the gut on a gorgeous spring day. She's right in the middle of her life as a child growing up in our house. I stood in a big backyard near a white tent as I said it, patting Annie's sun-kissed head, but I thought about it off and on for the rest of the weekend, as she and Jemma both did things that seemed both "big-kid" and "little-kid," proving that they really are in that in-between sweet spot of childhood.
Sometimes, they're still little ones. On Friday afternoon, they walked home from school to find us unpacking some new patio furniture and they immediately seized on the big cardboard box it had come in. Before I knew it, they'd constructed a functional door with a jump rope, cut windows, decorated it with markers, and spent time eating snacks and blowing bubbles in it with friends for the rest of the night. On Sunday morning, Jemma squirmed and whined and laid her body over me like a noodle all throughout church, and on Sunday afternoon my brother hung her upside down by her feet and made her helpless with laughter. Tonight, Annie asked me to paint her toenails before dinner and both girls danced a self-choreographed modern dance for us before their showers, complete with matching costumes, fans, and lighting. Jemma cried over a broken keychain and over gum. Annie threw a fit about going to the garden store and brought a stuffed animal along in the car. They constructed an outdoor fairy garden and can still fully immerse themselves in the world of magic. A million little moments of being little.
But then sometimes I can hardly believe how big they are. Jemma helped Jason string up patio lights - holding the ladder, fetching tools, genuinely helping instead of "helping" the way a toddler would. She read three Ivy & Bean books this weekend. Annie helped make dinner on Saturday. They clear their plates after a meal, spread cream cheese on their own bagels, put away their own laundry. When we stopped into the brewery for Jason and Trevor to play a couple quick guitar songs together Sunday night, Annie said she wanted to play, too - and she calmly blew the whole place away with Styx while Jason sang along. We can take long family bike rides now - no training wheels, no bike trailer, just the four of us pedaling around town to smell the lilacs and play at the playground and get ice cream.
They have two weeks left of this school year, and I'm in denial. I'd like for them to stay in third grade and kindergarten for a long time. I'd like for them to live at our house with us for zillions more years, instead of just ten or so. As we kick off this summer, though, I'm going to try to keep them right here in the middle for just a while longer.
Friday, May 17, 2013
The Best Moment of My Day
Admired writer Shauna Niequist recently wrote a post about the best moment of her day and invited readers to share their own. I'm not sure I've ever really thought about it. I love the first sip of coffee in the morning, my morning run, praying before dinner when all four of us are there together, almost-daily phone calls with a certain friend, kissing Jason when he gets home from work. But if I had to choose a favorite, it'd be this:
The girls, freshly showered and be-jammied, snuggled next to me while I read to them before bed. Our family, together again at the end of the day. A book (The Secret Garden, Amelia Bedelia, anything by Kate Di Camillo) holding our attention. The promise of a glass of wine on the couch or the back patio in fifteen minutes. The knowledge that we're all home safe for the night.
I don't particularly enjoy the lead-up to this moment (hurry, take a shower, brush your teeth, stop petting the cat, brush more, fill your water bottle, choose a book, leave the cat alone), but it's awfully hard to top those few precious minutes when the three (sometimes four) of us are huddled together over a book on that darn couch Jason and I bought from a used furniture store in Ann Arbor in 1999. It's right where I want to be, at least six out of seven nights of the week. It's the best moment of my day.
 |
| Bedtime stories, Mother's Day 2013 |
The girls, freshly showered and be-jammied, snuggled next to me while I read to them before bed. Our family, together again at the end of the day. A book (The Secret Garden, Amelia Bedelia, anything by Kate Di Camillo) holding our attention. The promise of a glass of wine on the couch or the back patio in fifteen minutes. The knowledge that we're all home safe for the night.
I don't particularly enjoy the lead-up to this moment (hurry, take a shower, brush your teeth, stop petting the cat, brush more, fill your water bottle, choose a book, leave the cat alone), but it's awfully hard to top those few precious minutes when the three (sometimes four) of us are huddled together over a book on that darn couch Jason and I bought from a used furniture store in Ann Arbor in 1999. It's right where I want to be, at least six out of seven nights of the week. It's the best moment of my day.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Right Now
:: listening to the birds chirping outside the dining room windows.
:: taking Instagrams of the magnolia trees in full bloom, waning daffodils, and my first tulips in the yard.
:: coping with the accompanying pollen-related allergy issues.
:: knowing I'm going to be sore from a tough yoga class this morning.
:: hydrating for tomorrow's last long run before the 25K.
:: procrastinating a few little writing assignments that need to get done before this event next Thursday.
:: wondering if it would be so wrong to make pineapple mojitos for the third night in a row.
:: wishing the laundry would fold itself.
:: feeling proud of my little writer and the great poetry she shared at yesterday's reading.
:: still giggling at Jemma's television debut this morning, announcing "This is FOX 17 morning news" before her class was featured on air to honor her teacher.
:: slowly learning just how much you find out by driving carpool.
:: looking forward to the weekend: soccer game, baking, piano recital, a little surprise date with a certain 8-year-old, gardening, grandparents, and friends.
:: taking Instagrams of the magnolia trees in full bloom, waning daffodils, and my first tulips in the yard.
:: coping with the accompanying pollen-related allergy issues.
:: knowing I'm going to be sore from a tough yoga class this morning.
:: hydrating for tomorrow's last long run before the 25K.
:: procrastinating a few little writing assignments that need to get done before this event next Thursday.
:: wondering if it would be so wrong to make pineapple mojitos for the third night in a row.
:: wishing the laundry would fold itself.
:: feeling proud of my little writer and the great poetry she shared at yesterday's reading.
:: still giggling at Jemma's television debut this morning, announcing "This is FOX 17 morning news" before her class was featured on air to honor her teacher.
:: slowly learning just how much you find out by driving carpool.
:: looking forward to the weekend: soccer game, baking, piano recital, a little surprise date with a certain 8-year-old, gardening, grandparents, and friends.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
In Which I Get Overly Proud of the Kindergartner
She's in the shower and she asks innocently, "Is she really naughty?" She's referring to a classmate who I guess might struggle with some sensory or learning issues. Tonight, Jemma's been telling me about all the times this little one has needed extra help "making good choices."
"No," I tell her. "She's just learning how to be in a classroom. Some kids just take longer than others to learn those kinds of things."
Jemma is incredulous: "But mom, we've been in school for 130 days!"
"Well, I'm sure you're a good friend to her and to everyone, right?" I say.
"Yeah," she says, her voice mixing with the shower steam, "Sometimes I hold her hand and ask if she wants to sit by me on the rug. And Monday she was wearing leopard pants, so I promised her I'd wear my leopard leggings on Tuesday." I think back to yesterday: leopard leggings, purple shirt.
"I bet she loved that," I say.
"Uh-huh," she says, and she finishes up making a potion for her sister to find when it's her turn in the shower next.
*****
Her homework one day was "List five words that describe you." Jemma's list:
AwSoM
Feryis
FredLy
MAD
haPpy
I suppose she thought she should keep it real - you know, talk about how awesome she is, while also admitting that she's occasionally furious and mad.
*****
Her New Year's resolution was, in part, to try more new foods (YESSSSS!), and now at least once a week at the dinner table, she'll pause before a bite of broccoli or cannellini beans or pork chop and ask, "Will you tell Mrs. M?" And I say yes, and I end up texting her lovely teacher the details of just what Jemma tried that night. I'm going to get as much mileage as I can out of that resolution.
*****
Before Spring Break, Jemma came down the stairs one morning, casually sporting a green skirt around her shoulders, with her neck and head sticking through the opening where her waist would normally be. (Additionally, she was wearing a green-and-white striped shirt with navy-and-white striped leggings.) She seemed quite proud of her look, so off to school she went. Fifteen minutes later, a text from her teacher: "Love her style. A skirt as a wrap!" She did it the next day, too (different skirt, of course) and we began referring to her as Project Runway. I think she was trying to start a trend, but sadly, the other kindergarten girls didn't seem to catch on, and her coat interfered with the flounciness of the skirt-as-shawl look, too. I have my fingers crossed for a resurgence later this spring, though.
*****
She wrote a poem yesterday after reading a book of poems and patterning it after one she'd liked:
SLeping
Do you Like Blue? Do You Like red? Do you Like SLeping in your Bed?
do You Like YeLLow? do You Like WHite? do you Like SLePing At nigHt?
She brought it to school this morning, then brought it back home this afternoon with a glowing note on it from her teacher. I was praising her efforts and creativity when she got it out of her folder this afternoon, but she looked less than thrilled.
"What?" I asked.
She pointed to the first line. "I like this line the best."
"Yeah? Why?" I asked.
"The other one . . . there aren't enough words in it," she said.
I was secretly thrilled. I mean, I don't want to brag, but she's basically scanning poems correctly at age six. I see a bright future! Like . . . being an English major! Everyone knows that's where the big money and abundant jobs are, right?
*****
Her teacher and I have decided to keep her in kindergarten forever.
"No," I tell her. "She's just learning how to be in a classroom. Some kids just take longer than others to learn those kinds of things."
Jemma is incredulous: "But mom, we've been in school for 130 days!"
"Well, I'm sure you're a good friend to her and to everyone, right?" I say.
"Yeah," she says, her voice mixing with the shower steam, "Sometimes I hold her hand and ask if she wants to sit by me on the rug. And Monday she was wearing leopard pants, so I promised her I'd wear my leopard leggings on Tuesday." I think back to yesterday: leopard leggings, purple shirt.
"I bet she loved that," I say.
"Uh-huh," she says, and she finishes up making a potion for her sister to find when it's her turn in the shower next.
*****
Her homework one day was "List five words that describe you." Jemma's list:
AwSoM
Feryis
FredLy
MAD
haPpy
I suppose she thought she should keep it real - you know, talk about how awesome she is, while also admitting that she's occasionally furious and mad.
*****
Her New Year's resolution was, in part, to try more new foods (YESSSSS!), and now at least once a week at the dinner table, she'll pause before a bite of broccoli or cannellini beans or pork chop and ask, "Will you tell Mrs. M?" And I say yes, and I end up texting her lovely teacher the details of just what Jemma tried that night. I'm going to get as much mileage as I can out of that resolution.
*****
Before Spring Break, Jemma came down the stairs one morning, casually sporting a green skirt around her shoulders, with her neck and head sticking through the opening where her waist would normally be. (Additionally, she was wearing a green-and-white striped shirt with navy-and-white striped leggings.) She seemed quite proud of her look, so off to school she went. Fifteen minutes later, a text from her teacher: "Love her style. A skirt as a wrap!" She did it the next day, too (different skirt, of course) and we began referring to her as Project Runway. I think she was trying to start a trend, but sadly, the other kindergarten girls didn't seem to catch on, and her coat interfered with the flounciness of the skirt-as-shawl look, too. I have my fingers crossed for a resurgence later this spring, though.
*****
She wrote a poem yesterday after reading a book of poems and patterning it after one she'd liked:
SLeping
Do you Like Blue? Do You Like red? Do you Like SLeping in your Bed?
do You Like YeLLow? do You Like WHite? do you Like SLePing At nigHt?
She brought it to school this morning, then brought it back home this afternoon with a glowing note on it from her teacher. I was praising her efforts and creativity when she got it out of her folder this afternoon, but she looked less than thrilled.
"What?" I asked.
She pointed to the first line. "I like this line the best."
"Yeah? Why?" I asked.
"The other one . . . there aren't enough words in it," she said.
I was secretly thrilled. I mean, I don't want to brag, but she's basically scanning poems correctly at age six. I see a bright future! Like . . . being an English major! Everyone knows that's where the big money and abundant jobs are, right?
*****
Her teacher and I have decided to keep her in kindergarten forever.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Things They Say: Books and Words Edition
Jemma, looking at a reusable Lululemon bag while eating breakfast one morning:
"'Friends are more important than money'? Pshaw!"
Me: " . . . . well, don't you think we care about people more than we care about things?"
Jemma: "No!"
Me: *questioning overall success as parent, person*
Jemma: "Mom, you buy FOOD with money, and you NEED food to LIVE."
Me: "True."
*****
Annie, talking about a book her teacher is reading aloud to the class:
" . . . and then it was time for Spanish, so we had to stop! so I don't know what happens next. He always stops at a really tempting part."
*****
Jemma, scanning the titles of the stack of books on my nightstand:
"Why do you have THIS one?" narrows eyes, points to How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk, which lives permanently on my side of the bed.
Me: "Why do you think I have that one?"
Jemma: "Humph. So you can be BOSSY to us."
"'Friends are more important than money'? Pshaw!"
Me: " . . . . well, don't you think we care about people more than we care about things?"
Jemma: "No!"
Me: *questioning overall success as parent, person*
Jemma: "Mom, you buy FOOD with money, and you NEED food to LIVE."
Me: "True."
*****
Annie, talking about a book her teacher is reading aloud to the class:
" . . . and then it was time for Spanish, so we had to stop! so I don't know what happens next. He always stops at a really tempting part."
*****
Jemma, scanning the titles of the stack of books on my nightstand:
"Why do you have THIS one?" narrows eyes, points to How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk, which lives permanently on my side of the bed.
Me: "Why do you think I have that one?"
Jemma: "Humph. So you can be BOSSY to us."
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Right Now
I'm:
:: still feeling a bit teary after yesterdays Veterans' Day assembly at the girls' school. There was Annie, waving a red streamer in the air; there was Jemma, singing her heart out: "When I am older, I will be stronger, You'll call me freedom, Just like the waving flag"; there was a ninety-year-old veteran speaker with profound wisdom and his sense of humor still intact; and there was my dad, smiling and winking at his grandchildren even as he was honored for his years-ago service.
:: grateful to be back on my (hot) yoga mat these last couple of weeks after a summer off.
:: finding myself with a bit of writing or editing to do almost every day, which is just the right balance for me.
:: missing the unseasonably warm weekend we had, which included hiking in the dunes, dipping toes in the lake one last time until spring, raking, hot-tubbing, walking to the grocery store, grilling, running, and gulping in fresh air through open windows.
:: noticing that the kittens have almost entirely taken over my Instagram feed. I don't know what to say about that. Apparently I've become the crazy cat lady. I'm sorry. (I'm not really sorry.)
:: Looking forward to listening to Christmas music (even though I haven't yet purchased a single Christmas gift).
:: Drinking a green smoothie and waiting for the girls to get home from school.
:: still feeling a bit teary after yesterdays Veterans' Day assembly at the girls' school. There was Annie, waving a red streamer in the air; there was Jemma, singing her heart out: "When I am older, I will be stronger, You'll call me freedom, Just like the waving flag"; there was a ninety-year-old veteran speaker with profound wisdom and his sense of humor still intact; and there was my dad, smiling and winking at his grandchildren even as he was honored for his years-ago service.
:: grateful to be back on my (hot) yoga mat these last couple of weeks after a summer off.
:: finding myself with a bit of writing or editing to do almost every day, which is just the right balance for me.
:: missing the unseasonably warm weekend we had, which included hiking in the dunes, dipping toes in the lake one last time until spring, raking, hot-tubbing, walking to the grocery store, grilling, running, and gulping in fresh air through open windows.
:: noticing that the kittens have almost entirely taken over my Instagram feed. I don't know what to say about that. Apparently I've become the crazy cat lady. I'm sorry. (I'm not really sorry.)
:: Looking forward to listening to Christmas music (even though I haven't yet purchased a single Christmas gift).
:: Drinking a green smoothie and waiting for the girls to get home from school.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Sixteen Years On
At about this moment in 1996, Jason and I were on our first date. Actually, by this time, he was probably dropping me off in front of my dorm then pulling away in his gray Honda Civic that was missing a passenger-side rearview mirror. He made a mix tape for the date (though he didn't tell me at the time) so that he could impress me with his great taste in music while we drove to Grand Rapids and back. I can't remember a single song on the tape, but I bet he could.
Today (many many years later), it's been packing lunches and making dinner, piano lessons and math test review, kindergarten sight words and paying bills, grocery shopping and working out, haircuts and watering window boxes. No mix tape, just the sound of the dishwasher humming away, the crickets out the open window, the kitties romping around the house to fight over a milk jug ring, the television on in the living room.
(We got kitties on Saturday - two tabby brothers who have already stolen our hearts. What can we say? Our children finally broke us.)
Sixteen years later, it's less glamorous and heart-fluttery, that's for sure, but it's more solid and comforting, too. I love these ordinary days. I wouldn't trade them, not even the kitty litter.
Today (many many years later), it's been packing lunches and making dinner, piano lessons and math test review, kindergarten sight words and paying bills, grocery shopping and working out, haircuts and watering window boxes. No mix tape, just the sound of the dishwasher humming away, the crickets out the open window, the kitties romping around the house to fight over a milk jug ring, the television on in the living room.
(We got kitties on Saturday - two tabby brothers who have already stolen our hearts. What can we say? Our children finally broke us.)
Sixteen years later, it's less glamorous and heart-fluttery, that's for sure, but it's more solid and comforting, too. I love these ordinary days. I wouldn't trade them, not even the kitty litter.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Day In the Life, September 2012
Little snapshots of our day today, minus the two meetings I went to at school (because Instagramming photos of myself at the PTA meeting and the 3rd grade Parent Information Night would have certainly seemed creepy and odd):
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
The Calm
This weekend we were mostly at home - filling a rainy day with puzzles and art projects and books, having guests for dinner, celebrating a good friend's birthday with a night on the town, running the lake Saturday morning, and spontaneously driving to Saugatuck to hike the dunes and grab dinner on Sunday afternoon. It was cool and quiet in the woods, and as I watched the girls run down a dune toward the lake, I realized it's basically impossible for me to be unhappy there, and I wondered if this should be a major goal in life: to realize where your happy places are, and then to arrange your life so as to spend as much time in those places.
This week feels like the calm before the end-of-summer, start-of-school storm. I made this excellent salad, the girls spent an afternoon at Gymco, Jemma found the first fall leaf, we're still eating peaches and blueberries and cherries every single day, and we did art projects around the dining room table before dinner tonight. We have one last hurrah of summer ahead of us, then one last week of unscheduled time, then school. School. I can hardly believe it.
Annie has a very loose front tooth. I can't stand for her to lose it, because after that she'll look so much less like a little girl. She spends half her time with her nose in a book: in the car, on the stairs waiting to leave the house, on the couch in the morning before breakfast, sometimes even while walking down the sidewalk in Saugatuck on a Sunday evening. She desperately wants a hamster for her birthday.
We have an ongoing family gratitude chalkboard wall near the old back door. Every once in a while, I instruct one of the girls to go write one thing on it - whatever they want - when they're hanging around in the kitchen. This week Jemma wrote "SNUGGLING." She made me a marshmallow-toothpick sculpture today, then got into an argument with me because I said No to watching a show for the 47th time.
Right now the windows are open. I hear the crickets, the ice-cream truck playing Popeye the Sailor Man, Jason making the coffee for tomorrow morning. I'm reading Anne of Green Gables, checking to see if I should read it aloud to Annie next week or if she needs another year before meeting that red-headed sprite. I'm writing something long and hard - a shitty first draft, as writing idol Anne Lamott is known to say - and I'll share it here eventually, maybe. I'm going to go get in the hot tub and talk to my husband for the first time today.
This week feels like the calm before the end-of-summer, start-of-school storm. I made this excellent salad, the girls spent an afternoon at Gymco, Jemma found the first fall leaf, we're still eating peaches and blueberries and cherries every single day, and we did art projects around the dining room table before dinner tonight. We have one last hurrah of summer ahead of us, then one last week of unscheduled time, then school. School. I can hardly believe it.
Annie has a very loose front tooth. I can't stand for her to lose it, because after that she'll look so much less like a little girl. She spends half her time with her nose in a book: in the car, on the stairs waiting to leave the house, on the couch in the morning before breakfast, sometimes even while walking down the sidewalk in Saugatuck on a Sunday evening. She desperately wants a hamster for her birthday.
We have an ongoing family gratitude chalkboard wall near the old back door. Every once in a while, I instruct one of the girls to go write one thing on it - whatever they want - when they're hanging around in the kitchen. This week Jemma wrote "SNUGGLING." She made me a marshmallow-toothpick sculpture today, then got into an argument with me because I said No to watching a show for the 47th time.
Right now the windows are open. I hear the crickets, the ice-cream truck playing Popeye the Sailor Man, Jason making the coffee for tomorrow morning. I'm reading Anne of Green Gables, checking to see if I should read it aloud to Annie next week or if she needs another year before meeting that red-headed sprite. I'm writing something long and hard - a shitty first draft, as writing idol Anne Lamott is known to say - and I'll share it here eventually, maybe. I'm going to go get in the hot tub and talk to my husband for the first time today.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Right Now
A little snapshot of July 2012 for me. Right now, I'm:
:: trying my hardest not to let all our newly-planted landscaping die in this never-ending drought, and spending a great deal of my time spraying things down with the hose twice a day.
:: loving night runs, zucchini bread, smoothies with fresh berries, hot tub conversations after the kids are in bed, Hendrick's gin and tonic (with cucumber!), watching the girls play tennis every morning this week, and our lazy afternoon today: art easel outside, books scattered everywhere, dinner in the backyard.
:: noticing that every single throw pillow in the house has been commandeered for doll bed construction projects in the upstairs playroom.
:: relatedly thinking that the tough thing about having a weekly babysitter at your house is that you can't pretend that this mess or that rotten tomato or that pile of laundry just happened. She was here last Tuesday; she knows.
:: cracking open a window in the living room so that the fairies can get in and spend the night in the elaborate house Annie and Jemma have spent parts of the last three days making. (Also sprinkling glitter and chalk dust around the front steps as proof that they came.)
:: loving that they still really, truly believe in fairies.
:: feeling grateful that the girls have been playing together so incredibly well these last few weeks.
:: trying to start keeping a gratitude journal - just a few short lines each night right before bed - and encourage the girls to keep them, too. (This has actually happened on two of the last nine or ten days, but! two is better than none.)
:: being amused at the phone conversation I had a few days ago where, when I called a source for an interview for an article I'm writing, I was told there was a "new media policy" and the source "couldn't talk to the press" about this issue. Gosh, am I The Press? I was thinking I was just a mom at her dining room table with a laptop while her daughters were at tennis for an hour, but I guess I sort of am. Hee.
:: feeling a little sheepish that two separate people commented incredulously on the stack of library books I was checking out this morning, one of whom was the librarian. "Wow! Going on a trip?" she asked. "No, that's just my normal." What can I say? I am a nerd. (In the stack: Mitten Strings from God by Katrina Kenison, Perfect Madness by Judith Warner, Jesus Wants to Save Christians by Rob Bell, The Lake Shore Limited by Sue Miller, Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks, and a few more I chose at random and can't remember offhand.)
:: having the first, sneaky thoughts about fall, but still trying mightily to block them out.
:: trying my hardest not to let all our newly-planted landscaping die in this never-ending drought, and spending a great deal of my time spraying things down with the hose twice a day.
:: loving night runs, zucchini bread, smoothies with fresh berries, hot tub conversations after the kids are in bed, Hendrick's gin and tonic (with cucumber!), watching the girls play tennis every morning this week, and our lazy afternoon today: art easel outside, books scattered everywhere, dinner in the backyard.
:: noticing that every single throw pillow in the house has been commandeered for doll bed construction projects in the upstairs playroom.
:: relatedly thinking that the tough thing about having a weekly babysitter at your house is that you can't pretend that this mess or that rotten tomato or that pile of laundry just happened. She was here last Tuesday; she knows.
:: cracking open a window in the living room so that the fairies can get in and spend the night in the elaborate house Annie and Jemma have spent parts of the last three days making. (Also sprinkling glitter and chalk dust around the front steps as proof that they came.)
:: loving that they still really, truly believe in fairies.
:: feeling grateful that the girls have been playing together so incredibly well these last few weeks.
:: trying to start keeping a gratitude journal - just a few short lines each night right before bed - and encourage the girls to keep them, too. (This has actually happened on two of the last nine or ten days, but! two is better than none.)
:: being amused at the phone conversation I had a few days ago where, when I called a source for an interview for an article I'm writing, I was told there was a "new media policy" and the source "couldn't talk to the press" about this issue. Gosh, am I The Press? I was thinking I was just a mom at her dining room table with a laptop while her daughters were at tennis for an hour, but I guess I sort of am. Hee.
:: feeling a little sheepish that two separate people commented incredulously on the stack of library books I was checking out this morning, one of whom was the librarian. "Wow! Going on a trip?" she asked. "No, that's just my normal." What can I say? I am a nerd. (In the stack: Mitten Strings from God by Katrina Kenison, Perfect Madness by Judith Warner, Jesus Wants to Save Christians by Rob Bell, The Lake Shore Limited by Sue Miller, Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks, and a few more I chose at random and can't remember offhand.)
:: having the first, sneaky thoughts about fall, but still trying mightily to block them out.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Snippets
Days one and two of no Internettes, done. Already my mind is clearer, my patience longer, my eye contact with my children better, my voice stronger. The only things I used it for today beyond email was to listen to Pandora, update Jason's company Facebook page, look up appropriate attire for the weekend dinner reservations, check Chicago weather, and peruse the spa menu at our hotel.
Both girls had Winter Break from school today, so we started the day cuddling on the couch in jammies and finished it, predictably, with Little Bear and sponge rollers. (I will never get tired of watching Little Bear; could anything be sweeter? When my kids are too old for it, which they will be in a year or so, I will console myself by thinking about watching Little Bear with my grandchildren. Is it creepy that I am thirty-four years old and thinking about my grandchildren? Probably.)
The girls played Sorry! and restaurant while I showered, and then we went to Wealthy Street Bakery mid-morning, just because. It was quieter there than usual, so we loitered at a table, our threesome with our scone, our danish, and our cookie, and we just talked while the sun streamed in the windows and the espresso maker steamed noisily.
We baked cookies later in the day (more sugar!) and packed bags for sleepovers before dance. It felt like the old days, back when nobody had school and every day stretched out long in front of us, but since there was only one of them and not 377 in a row, it was okay. It was good.
Now, Land's End totes are crammed with footie jammies and favorite stuffed animals, night lights and church clothes, for a winter weekend at the grandparents'. My suitcase is full-to-bursting, too; two nights in a big city, and I throw it all in: blazer, flats, boots, jewelry, running clothes, cozy lounge pants for the morning when we order room service and read magazines. I love a fancy hotel.
(One time Annie wrote me a note and ended it by saying, "I love you as much as anyone could love anything." It may be my favorite thing that anyone has ever written.)
Both girls had Winter Break from school today, so we started the day cuddling on the couch in jammies and finished it, predictably, with Little Bear and sponge rollers. (I will never get tired of watching Little Bear; could anything be sweeter? When my kids are too old for it, which they will be in a year or so, I will console myself by thinking about watching Little Bear with my grandchildren. Is it creepy that I am thirty-four years old and thinking about my grandchildren? Probably.)
The girls played Sorry! and restaurant while I showered, and then we went to Wealthy Street Bakery mid-morning, just because. It was quieter there than usual, so we loitered at a table, our threesome with our scone, our danish, and our cookie, and we just talked while the sun streamed in the windows and the espresso maker steamed noisily.
We baked cookies later in the day (more sugar!) and packed bags for sleepovers before dance. It felt like the old days, back when nobody had school and every day stretched out long in front of us, but since there was only one of them and not 377 in a row, it was okay. It was good.
Now, Land's End totes are crammed with footie jammies and favorite stuffed animals, night lights and church clothes, for a winter weekend at the grandparents'. My suitcase is full-to-bursting, too; two nights in a big city, and I throw it all in: blazer, flats, boots, jewelry, running clothes, cozy lounge pants for the morning when we order room service and read magazines. I love a fancy hotel.
(One time Annie wrote me a note and ended it by saying, "I love you as much as anyone could love anything." It may be my favorite thing that anyone has ever written.)
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