Summer vacation already, are you sure?

Today is the day, the last day of school. The air smells of excited kids and anxious parents. What am I going to do with them home all summer? You are probably asking yourself that same question. I know I am. Are there enough summer activities for them to do to keep them from driving me crazy? There isn’t enough stuff to do under the sun to keep me sane over summer vacation. I think my sanity returns every year to “normal” around March, just in time for a couple of nice months of clarity before I loose it again to summer vacation.
The kids have summer activities planned: golf lessons, library visits, playground trips, swimming lessons, picnics, beach days, summer camp, hikes, music lessons, vacation Bible school, Scout meetings, and maybe a museum trip or two. My head swims with keeping everyone’s schedules straight. This doesn’t even include anything of Max’s or mine. Our summer calendar looks crazy busy. I know it looks like a lot of activities, but six days into summer vacation, I’m going to get hit with a whinny, “I’m bored. There’s nothing to do.” Heaven forbid, they just go outside and play or read (“read, are you kidding, its summer vacation mom. Geeze!”)
Remember summer vacation when we were young? I think I spent most of the day outside playing, building forts, exploring and in the evenings the baths left dirt rings in the tub. I remember running barefoot everywhere. The souls of my feet getting thick and tough, and not being able to even find my shoes for church on Sunday. A trip to DQ was a treat and Saturday mornings were prime cartoon time. I’m getting wistful just thinking about the freedom of summer vacation. Maybe this summer won’t be too bad…

Kids Figure Out Some Things Just Too Young

Kids figure out some just things too young. They pick up on ulterior motives and fibs. This past weekend the kids were fighting in the house and driving me crazy. I sent them out into the balmy spring weather on a hunt to find a broken Robin’s egg. I told them the beautiful blue Robin’s egg was “somewhere out under the trees.” The house was peaceful, at least for a while. After a thirty-minute unsuccessful hunt, the kids trudged back in the house. Their previous argument was long forgotten as the kids discussed bird vs. dinosaur eggs. Tess, my four year old, walked away from the egg discussion and bluntly asked me, “was there really an egg, or were you just lying to get us to go outside?” Bingo, give that girl a prize. It sure didn’t take her long to figure out my sneaky motives.
It reminded me of the time that my oldest son Leif, also came to that same conclusion. He was six years old and desperate for a pet turtle. He asked several times a day, everyday for many weeks. A weaker parent might have given in, but not me— Super Mom. I always answered, “we’ll see.” I must have been saying this a lot because when his younger brother asked for a fish and I said, “we’ll see,” Leif turned to his little brother and said, “ ‘we’ll see’ really means no.” Kids figure out some things just too young.

The Zen of Lawn Mowing

I live in the country and (I don’t mean to brag, but) I have a huge yard. My husband Max used to be the official lawn mower. A few years ago, we had a patch of daisies grow free in the lawn. I loved the wild and pretty look of them and pointed them out to Max and asked him to mow around them. Max mowed around them one week and then the next week forgot. I was walking by the window and noticed he was headed straight for the daisies. I pounded on the window and shouted, “The daisies! Don’t mow the daisies! The daisies!” Max couldn’t hear me over the lawn mower, but the neighbors across the road heard me. I saw them look up from their gardening, point and smile. I’m sure I looked like a crazy woman, they were probably thinking, there goes that weird woman—again. I could either put a picket fence around the daisy patch (which would just be silly) or mow the yard myself. I choose the less ridiculous option and that was the start of my future as the new official lawn mower of the family. A strange thing happened; I discovered I love to mow. I know it might seem strange to some people, but I love the Zen of lawn mowing. It’s interrupted alone time and my form of meditation. Nobody asking for more juice or asking me to wipe his or her butt. I mow different designs into the grass; figure eights are my favorites. I think about life, make decisions and smile at the strange songs that are usually stuck in my head. Yesterday it was “Henry the Eighth.” Don’t be too quick to judge me; I’m happy and pretty much harmless.

Flower Sniffer

There’s just something about lilacs. They smell so good. I find myself running up to them and sticking my face into the flowers and breathing deeply. Out in public (who cares how crazy I look in the privacy of my own yard) I must look like a maniac. Running from lilac bush to lilac bush with a stupid grin on my face, smelling the flowers. Rose bushes do the same thing to me. They leave me powerless to walk by without smelling them and smiling. Forget a quick trip to Como’s Conservatory. I can spend hours in bliss with my face buried in the plants. They even have herbs and fruit tress to enjoy.
I’m in Heaven at greenhouses too, wandering up and down the isles. The sales people eye me suspiciously. They’ve seen my kind before. “Can I help you find something? You’ve been looking for over two hours.” They can recognize a flower sniffer when they see one.

Crank Up The Radio

I have a theory: you can tell the age of a parent by what songs the kids sing. I was a young adult during the 1990’s— when grunge rock ruled. My hubby, Max liked the harder rock. As teen, we both loved punk. These music choices are mirrored in what our kids love. For example, Tom, my six year old, sings songs from Nirvana. ‘Heart Shaped Box’ is his favorite. There is something adorable hearing a six-year-old singing, “Hey, wait, I gotta new complaint.”
Oscar, my ten year, old likes Black Sabbath. He loves anything from the Paranoid album, and cranks up the radio when ‘Iron Man’ comes on. When Leif was the same age, he also loved them and the first CD he bought with his own money was Black Sabbath’s Paranoid. I was so proud; Leif loved classic rock (and not rap.) I bragged to family members, “My boy just bought his first Black Sabbath CD. He knows good music when he hears it!” My Brother-in-law Chuck quickly brought me back down to Earth when he said, “Ahh, Black Sabbath, the first step to a 12 step program.”
Leif has moved on from classic rock to scary stuff. Slip Knot and other creepy bands are now his favorites. I can’t complain too much. I blasted some pretty interesting music when I was his age. Compared to Leather Nun and The Sex Pistols, Slip Knot is tame.

Ah, Track And Field Day

Today was a glorious track and field day. I live in a small town and “Field Day” is an annual right of spring. The school hangs up posters listing the past winners all the way back to the 1970’s. The kids compete in all the usual events and it’s a real community tradition. The school fields are pure chaos; kids run this way and that. Parents and grandparents bring coolers and picnic lunches and spend the whole day watching and visiting. Concessions stands sell lemonade and popcorn, and everyone who is anyone is there. The unbridled joy of kids running amok fills the air and everyone enjoys the excitement. Another tradition is for the kids to autograph each other’s shirts.
My family is no exception. I took Tess and we went and spent the day watching Oscar and Tom compete. It was a beautiful day, the sun was out and sunscreen applied. Towards the end of the day, Oscar took his purple Sharpie marker and drew a purple mustache on himself. I saw this and said, “Dude, that’s a permanent marker. It’s going to have to wear off.” Oscars response was to smile and draw on another. He now has two purple mustaches. Just in time for a family Baptism on Sunday. Life with kids is never boring.

Kids Say The Funniest Things

These are things my kids really have said. It's proof that have the funnies kids around.

For breakfast I asked which kind of cereal the kids wanted. “I want the cereal that turns my poop green.” Tess was talking about Trix, and yes it does turn your poop green.

My teen son, Leif has hair that is wild and curly. He's wearing it in the 'too long and in your eyes' look. Last week I was asking when we could get it trimmed. He pulled his bangs up into pony tail on the top of his head and said, "Maybe I should just wear a pony tail up here? What do you think, it's a smokin' hot look. " I took a picture, but I love him too much to embarrass him by posting it.

Tom was complaining about eating dinner. “I don’t like this,” he whined. Oscar, my ten year old, responded with, “Well, do you think John McCain doesn’t like not being president? Just eat it.” Oscar is such a savvy ten year old, I can see he has a bright future as a writer.

Um, Can I Get Those Back?

Years ago, when Oscar was eighteen months old, I caught him snooping in my jewelry box. He found an old glass beaded necklace that was my great grandmothers. The string was ratty and broke when he stretched it. For some unknown reason Oscar shoved the loose pink glass beads up his nose. I tried and tried, but I couldn't retrieve them. Off to urgent care we went. The doctor pulled out two beads from each nostril. The beads went into a small dish and the doctor was going to throw the dish away, beads and all.
“Um, can I get those back?” I asked the doctor. He turned and gave me a look that was priceless. “You really want them back?”
“They’re antique beads from an old necklace that was my great grandmothers. I’ll clean them up myself. Thanks for getting them out. And can you check his ears for beads too?”
Sure enough, more beads were found in his ears. My necklace was still short three more beads. I would clean up beads from his nose and ears, but I drew the line at looking in his diaper.

A Mothers Good Advice

In honor of Mothers Day, here is some good advice:
Be yourself; Those who mind— don’t matter and those who matter— don’t mind.
People treat you how you let them & treat people how you want to be treated.
Don’t be a pest.
Never pass up the opportunity to use the bathroom.
Make your own money, don't look for someone to support you.
Save your pennies (Max’s least favorite mom saying.)
Nobody has it all and everyone has problems.
When people show you who they really are, believe them (Ok, this one is from Oprah not my mom.)
You can’t have it all at the same time, it’s all about timing.
I was having terrible cramps and though it was my appendix. My mom told me to get on my hands and knee, put my butt up, head down and rock. I released some “pressure” and felt better. This works like a charm and is a great parlor trick too!
Live in the moment and like every day is your last.
Always carry chocolate (it helps for all sorts of emergencies.)
Don’t lend out what you can’t afford to lose.
Marry someone you like as well as love and make sure it’s someone who treats you with love and respect.
Return a borrowed car with a full tank of fuel.
Always say please and thank you. Manners do count.
Sometimes having balls can get you further then having brains (be bold and take chances.)
Don’t wear anything too small, too low cut or too short; leave something to the imagination.
Better to be silent and thought intelligent, then to speak and be proven an idiot.
What’s the worst they can say? Hearing no won‘t kill you.
Well-behaved women rarely make history (this one I learned from watching my own mom.)
The kids will only be small for a short time, the laundry can wait.
You can’t succeed if you never try. Dream big.
Always have a plan B.
Question authority (this one has gotten me in more trouble.)
Ask how you can help.
Think before you speak because you can’t un-ring a bell.
When in doubt, say nothing.
It’s ok to say “I don’t know” and “I’m sorry.”
And my personal favorite— don’t pick at it.

Self-Tanner Nightmare

It’s getting nice out—time for a nice healthy tan. I know that phrase is an oxymoron, but I like looking tan. To save my skin I use a sunless self-tanner every summer. I tried a new sunless self-tanner and the tube of cream claims to be streak free. Yeah, streak free my butt. That phrase is another oxymoron. I complained to my husband Max about the creams false claims. Max said, “streak-free? Well, did you streak? Then it worked.” I had to smile at the song that started playing in my head, “well that they call him the streak—whoo look at the bodgidy, fastest thing on two feet.” I laughed but still complained about the streaks. To cover them up, I put on more cream. I turned orange and now look like a streaky Ompa Loompa (the little orange people in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory) and I have orange palms. To make it even worse the cream smells like vinegar.
My grandma had a similar thing happen to her. We had family pictures and she wanted to look tan, so she used a sunless tanner. This was back in the 1990’s. The creams were even worse back then; she also turned out streaky orange. I giggled then, now I have more sympathy. Maybe this is payback for laughing at my orange grandma.
I’m sure I’m not alone. There must be other orange-palmed tan people out there. We could start our own club. George Hamilton and Lindsey Lohan would be honored members. We could recognize each other by our orange palms that smell like pickles.

Not Cool

The year was 1998 and a new Star Wars movie was finally coming out. My husband and brother had tickets for the midnight show. My four year old son Leif, was a Star Wars fan and also wanted to go. He wasn't happy that he couldn't go, but his dad promised to bring him something "special" back from the movie. Max and my brother went to the midnight showing and brought back a cool collector Star Wars cup for Leif. The next morning after breakfast, Max showed the cup to an excited toddler. He was expecting a cool toy, not a cup. Leif took the cup, looked at it, and then looked at his father and said, "what the hell is this?" He was severely disappointed. He handed the cup back to his dad and said, "not cool."

Everything Just Stopped

My son was five when he played his first soccer game. The parents (me included) lined the field and cheered on our young kids. Watching a group of five year olds play soccer is unbelievable. They really don’t understand the rules of the game yet. The kids just love to kick the ball. There is pure chaos on the field, kids running this way and that. The ball might be kicked into the goal, but it’s more likely to be kicked into the parents on the sidelines. One memorable spring day a frog was discovered on the field. The game came to a complete halt, as all the five year olds on both teams had to examine and touch the frog. After the frog hopped off, the game picked back up where it had left off. It’s beautiful how kids live in the moment, they don’t care about the score or that the clock is running. They want to stop and examine anything and everything that look interesting. There is always that one kid who’s too busy picking flowers for his mom or watching a butterfly to pass the ball. If only we all can be a little more like that, purely in the moment. I can’t remember the score of that memorable spring game, but I’ll never forget the wonders of a frog on the field and how everything just stopped.

His Pride Took A Hit

Years ago when Max had long hair, he used to pull it back with a cool skull and cross bones “doo-rag.” Under this cool-ness was a secret. He had to use one of my barrettes to hold back his hair. At his job was a new employee, she was young and very pretty. One day at work, he noticed her staring at him, she motioned for Max to come over. Thinking to himself 'I still got it,' he sauntered over. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “your barrette is showing.” Crash and burn baby. His pride took a hit that day. That's OK Hun, I think you still 'have it.'

I Made A Great First Impression

When I met my future step mother-in-law for the first time, I tried hard to make a good first impression. We met her and my father-in-law at her cabin up north. It was a beautiful fall day. We spent the night at the cabin and the next morning we were sitting on the deck enjoying the sunrise and continuing to get to know each other. Max and I have a private joke about cold weather being not nippy but nipply. So this thought was in my head. We were discussing the chilly morning and I was trying to say, “I like it nippy out,” but that’s not what came out. What actually came out my mouth was, “I like a little nipple.” That was a conversation stopper. Everyone stopped talking and turned to look at me with their months hanging open. I blushed, stammered and tried to explain what I meant, which was worse then just pretending it didn’t happen. Trying to make a good first impression—oh, I made an impression alright.