Falling off the wagon

Last night I fell off the wagon. Hard.

Our nearest park is a lovely, lovely green place with a rolling path around it for walkers, joggers, and bikers. We try to walk it every night to get in a little exercise. There’s also a great playground that Jack loves. Last night we did our usual– walk to the park from our house, let Jack play at the climby structures, get popsicles at the stand, then walk towards home. Part of the ritual is that, on the last little hill at the end of the park, Jack and I get into his wagon and ride it down the slope. We’ve done it dozens of times. I sit in front and steer, Jack and the black pup sit behind me. (One little black face looks around one side of me while one little sticky popsicle face looks around the other…)

Last night Jack didn’t want to ride the hill. So Philbin and I were prepared to go the distance.

I’m not sure what went wrong– was it the weight difference? Did I sit too far forward? Did we start to high up on the hill? For some reason I felt like I was going faster than usual so I stuck my foot out to slow down. My heel went to my toe which then bent backwards and rolled under the wagon, pulling me out in the process.

I gashed up my ankle on the axle and my knee on the pavement. Pretty.

The boyscout took good care of me and got me all cleaned/bandaged/iced/ibuprofened up. And today I’m none the worse for wear– just a little slower and achier.

I’m an idiot, I know. It was stupid… next time I won’t try to slow down.

Zoo-topia

As a parent there are some things you intend to do and then forget to do. Which might be why I was over 20 before I ever was taken to the circus. But that’s another story.

We’ve intended to take Jack to a zoo for quite some time. We’ve toyed with wondering which zoo it would be for his first visit– London? New York City? Chicago? Columbus? Cinncinnati? San Diego? Detroit? Toledo?

There are a lot of zoos that have been on our radar. But then the summer would pass and we’d have to add it next year’s list. Yesterday we finally managed to check it off.  We loaded up my mother’s snazzy car (it holds us all) and took Jacky to the Detroit Zoo.

The Detroit Zoo is actually in Royal Oak. Confusing tourists and residents alike for years. I lived in Royal Oak for a few years when we were first married. We liked it there– it was a fun place to live when you have only another adult to think about. We could easily walk downtown from our apartment to eat or window shop. There was a great arthouse theater and a favorite boutique and a fantastical grocery store that I still miss at Christmas. The zoo was there, too. We passed it all the time but never managed to walk through the gates and see what was on the other side of the thick brick walls.

I assumed that I’d gone there as a kid. I had vague memories of trips to the zoo when I was small. There are photographs of my sister and I sitting on a giant tortoise. (I don’t suppose that’s allowed anymore? There’s probably some ethical group out there to prevent that from happening.)

In the middle of the day yesterday I turned to my mother and said, “It’s weird that absolutely none of this is familiar.”
“Not really. We never came here. We always went to the Toledo Zoo.”
Oh.

The Detroit Zoo, it turns out, is really nice. It’s huge. Sprawling with scattered picnic areas and lots of green places. It’s a great place to take a small child which I’m sure seems like a dumb thing to type– but there are an awful lot of places that proclaim to be Family/Child Friendly and, in actuality, are really only meant for well-mannered adults to enjoy. At the Detroit Zoo there are lots of little statues to climb on and garden walls to balance on and an amazing playground that is just the sort of place you can’t quite keep your eye on your child easily– which makes it a great place for a kid.

At the Prairie Dog area there are clear tubes jutting out of the ground big enough for a child. You’re looking at the little colony of prairie dogs skittering about their tunnels when suddenly your own kid pops his head up his own tube. It’s a great idea and well executed.

We saw almost everything. The river otters were off exhibit (a grave disappointment for Momma and I who both love otters) and there was only a very lazy gorilla and two chimpanzees to see in all of Monkeydom. [We have a theory about that. One of the two remaining monkeys on display had the horrifically engorged arse of a she-monkey in heat. Momma noted that on an earlier and other zoo excursion with one of her 5th grade classes she learned that monkey, uh, love isn't exactly gentle and sweet. Apparently there can be a lot of violence and sometimes a monkey doesn't survive the, uh, encounter. So our working theory is that this seemed like a REALLY good time for the zoo workers do be able to do some necessary work/repair/cleaning to Monkeydom. We had a thousand unanswered questions... where do the monkeys all go? How do they herd them there? Why couldn't they tell us where and why the monkeys were?] We also didn’t make it to the zippy little train ride– we’d gotten tangled up in the snare of the spitting froggy statues and a very hot little boy whose mother had the foresight to pack a swimsuit…

We had a great day. Momma and I coordinated a picnic– we’ve had two great picnics, the five of us together– the last one was in Ireland where we feasted on the spoils of a local farmer’s market. This one, under the trees of a shady area, was just as good– croissants and chicken salad and ham, olives, chips, strawberries, cookies, and cold drinks.

We took advantage of the opportunity to “feed a giraffe”– the zoo has a clever fundraiser where 50 people get to feed the giraffes twice a day. You pay $5 for a piece of giraffe food and get a ticket. The money all goes to the zoo so it’s a win-win for everyone. We bought 4 tickets and lined up when it was our turn. I come from a family of good line waiters. We don’t freak out at the length of a line. We wait, mostly patiently, for our turn at something. The people behind us were insulted at the wait. It makes me grateful that my parents weren’t greedy and wouldn’t let us be greedy in turn. At the right time we were given, one-by-one, a piece of Giraffe Food– or, as you and I know it, Rye Crisps. (Blech!) We pooled ours and let Jacky feed the friendly giraffe from the platform up in the trees. The zoo rangers let us break our pieces into halves so we had 8 pieces to dole out. I got to feed one, too. It was cool. We all thought it pretty neat. Jack wasn’t scared at all. He cackled when the giraffe made his funny burping noise and stuck out his quivering black tongue for more.

It almost put out the sight of zebra sex from our minds. That was pretty graphic and something I might have happily gone for another 39 years without seeing. Poor lady zebra stood, looking annoyed, while man zebra climbed on her. Momma and I both assumed she was thinking, “Really? Now? We have like 18 hours of the zoo being closed but you’re choosing to do this now when everyone’s watching?”

Jack, for his part, noted, “That funny zebra is climbing on the other zebra’s shoulders!” Much easier than the poor schoolgroup chaperone next to us trying to find the right words to explain the sudden and large appearance of the man zebra’s, uh, part.

We all had favorite areas:

Jack liked the hippos. We learned that they excrete a sunscreen. It’s the pink on their cheeks. This made us happy. And it made re-applying sunblock to a tired little boy in the middle of the afternoon much easier. Jack was also keen on the “fairydog holes” — the tubes at the prairie dog enclosure– where he would pop up suddenly in one, disappear, then reappear in another.

Momma and Eric liked the Artic Ring of Life area where we saw polar bears up close. And the icy wall at the end of the underwater walkway. We marveled at the construction of it and the way it cooled off our hot necks when we put our chilly hands there. We also laughed a lot at the seal that was treading water in front of an airjet. It reminded us of our Little Black Pup putting his nose near the air vents in the car…

Robby got the biggest kick out of watching Jack and I feed the giraffes. (Partly because he thought the giraffe might yak up some Rye Crisps at one point.) And liked the meercats. One meercat stood guard while the others were eating the pink pills in the back– he stood so straight and erect. Robby does a great impression.

I liked the meercats best if only because Jack called them “fairycats” after I’d explained, “They’re kind of like prairie dogs.”
“Fairy dogs, Mommy. Let’s go see the fairy cats!”

The zoo was very clean– the bathrooms and picnic areas and pathways free of litter. The little toilets in the family bathroom delighted Jack and Robby (and the fact that Robby used the family room on the Women’s side delighted Momma, Eric, and I). There are great FYI signs everywhere– little historical factoids about the zoo. All of us grown ups really liked them.

And kudos tenfold to the many zoo volunteers we encountered– they were fantastic. Informative, kind, patient– one guy sat near the Lion enclosure with a piece of lion hide for us to touch and a chewed upon, clawed up ball that the lions had nearly destroyed. He answered the questions peppered at him from school groups with a grace and ease. He told us how that the two of the three lions in front of us were rescued from Detroit– one from a crack house. Idiots emulating idoit rappers who purchase illegal exotic animals. Make that two lions in front of us. The former crack house lioness was in the back. “Katy” doesn’t like male lions so she waits till he goes in back to come out in front. Poor Katy. The rainforest immersion volunteer helpfully pointed out all the animals we were missing– the iguana (who sat blissfully on the air vent), the stingray, and the toe of the sloth. (Robby’s convinced there is no sloth– just a toe.) The frog volunteer found all the frogs we couldn’t possibly see easily.

We stayed until they closed. A full 8 hours of zoo and we still didn’t see absolutely everything. Jack watched Madagascar in the backseat with Momma and Eric on the ride back home slack-jawed and droopy-eyed. Last night he barely made it from bath to bed.
“Mommy,” he informed me soberly, “I have to go to bed now because I’m very tired.”

Now about that circus…

K-K-K-Kutcher

In light of all the many, many school adventures in front of us let’s file this one under Are We Being Punked?

We’re at the 2nd of Jack’s Kindergarten Round Ups (a blog for another day). Today’s featured a power point and a lot of “This will make sense when the kids are actually in school” information… The principle pointed out that their school, like the others in our district, use D’Nealian Penmanship. She told us we would find an alphabet sample in our packets.

There was other information– the usual stuff. And then Principle asked if there were any questions regarding the information she’d just covered.

A man sitting a few rows back and quite possibly the infamous Louis of our Birthing Classes (or at least a reasonable  facsimile) asked, loudly, “Why is there a cursive k instead of a printed one?” (A D’Nealian lower-case k is loopy– it’s like a more traditional cursive k… D’Nealian is supposed to facilitate fewer strokes in the writing process. I’ll stop but I could go on about this. Penmanship fascinates me.)

Principle: “We use the D’Nealian method of penmanship…” She went on to expound on the district’s choice to use that particular method.

Scary Man Who’s Son Will Be in Close Contact with My Precious Baby: “Well my mother was a schoolteacher for 30 years and she said printed ks shouldn’t look like that. I just want you to know that we will be teaching our boy to make the right k.” 

Principle: “Well sir, we can talk about this further later.”

Terri’s thought bubble: Hooray! I finally get to meet Ashton Kutcher. How fun that will be!

Surely Nancy Reagan didn’t mean No to Valium??

So now I’m on drugs.

And I kind of like it.

I had to go to the dentist this morning. A specialist dentist– so the fear and horror were heightened. Apparently the root canal I had a few years ago had a problem and needed to be redone.

Specialist Dentist Man: When did you have that root canal done?

Me: Uh. You know– I’m not really sure. I kind of try to block that stuff out… I think it was before my son was born? So, at least five years ago? I really couldn’t say.

Specialist Dentist Man: [withering silence.]

Me: [uncomfortable silence]

Specialist Dentist Man: Oh.

Specialist Dentist decided that “we” needed to redo said canal. I asked what exactly they could do in terms of me being comatose for the big renovation. He thought I was kidding. And then told me he could write a prescription for Valium. The receptionists assured me that Valium would put me in a state of not really caring that I was in the dentist chair. (HA! I thought… we’ll see about that.)

I did have high hopes for the magical little pill. I grew up in the 70’s so it was the drug of choice in soap operas and television dramas. People took their Valium with vodka in fancy glasses. Besides, years ago Robby had to have some major dental work done. They put him on Valium and he was loopy as all get out. When I came in the office to retrieve him the dentist carefully gave me instructions and sent us on our way.

On the way out of the office I led Robby to our Explorer and he insisted, “Oh good grief! I’m fine! I can drive!”

After I buckled him in the passenger seat and started the car he repeated, “Really, I’m perfectly fine! Let me drive!”

I turned on the ignition and backed out of the parking spot. “Terri! Really! I can drive!”

I sighed, “Honey, you ARE driving.”

“Oh. Okay!” And he looked so happy while he fell asleep, thinking he was driving.

Yesterday I filled my Valium prescription at Meijer’s. Meijer’s had a promo for a $10 off coupon for new or transfered prescriptions for any item more than $19.99 (which, by the way, is a complicated sounding promotion to market)– I needed a blowdryer. It was very kismety. The line to pick up my prescription was very unkismety. It snaked all the way back to nearly the baby section. I stood patiently. More patiently when I watched a sad little tableau played out in front of me of a shabbily dressed family agonizing over whether they could afford the $40.21 inhaler the Amigo-riding father needed. Their shopping cart had only a loaf of store-brand bread. Waiting for 4 Valium pills seemed suddenly frivolous. I felt like I should be wearing a fur. And sitting in a limo so I could snap at the driver for taking too long.

Last night at bedtime,  per instructions, I took Pill No. 1– sadly, with water, not vodka in a highball glass. Sigh. I turned to Robby, 10 minutes later, “I don’t feel anything different. When does it kick in?” ”Shhh. It’ll work. Just curl up and be patient.” Twenty minutes later, curled up, “I still don’t fe—-zzzzzzzz.”

Best. Night. Of. Sleep. EVER. I get why people are hooked on this stuff. I woke up refreshed. Happy. And then I remembered that I had to go to the Specialist Dentist Man.

I took Pill No. 2 (again, per instruction) and waited the hour before my appointment. My mother dropped me off with a Post-It note saying, “Please call Terri’s Mother when she is ready to be picked up” and her cell phone number. I asked if I was supposed to stick it on my sweatshirt but she said I could just hand it to the receptionist.

The receptionists, by the way, weren’t quite right– I DID care I was in the dentist chair. I balled my hands into fists in the kangaroo pockets on my hoodie. And I curled up my toes. For an hour I stayed that way. Specialist Dentist Man isn’t one of those chatty types. No, “Hey kiddo– we’re almost through now!” or “Doing good!” kind of dentists. I had no idea when he would be done with the drilling and prodding and whatever else he was doing that I was trying to block out. (Think happy thoughts. Think of tiny Jack snuggling. Think of paragraphs of good books. Think of Mr. Darcy in Pride & Prejudice…)

He wrote me two more prescriptions. One for penicillan. The other for some lovely Tylenol with a narcotic in it. It’s wearing off now– the narcotic– but for a while there– with the overlapping of the Valium it was warm and happy and nice. A bowl of my Mommy’s smokey corn chowder soup and I was out. (Luckily, so was Jack. Motherhood takes the fun out of drug addiction. That whole “I love my kid more than myself” really puts a damper on the buzz.)

I have no idea what the follow-up appointment has in store other than the promise of Pills no. 3 & 4. Too bad I don’t like vodka.

I think I have a highball glass though.

Thanksgiving

A snowman called "Georgia"

I overheard my sister once, in a quiery about her growing girls, respond that this was her “favorite age”– she has said that at each stage of their childhood. Each new phase passing along new adventures and new advantages so that she never really mourned the loss of the old phase.

When I overheard her Jack was a tiny babe. He was nestled in the crook of my arm and I thought, “Oh! but how, how could anything be as wonderful as this?”

Four year old Jack is darn near perfect.

Last week was his little preschool’s Grandparents Feast where he was sufficiently feted over by his Grumpa, his GrandLady, and his AunT (who stood in for his Momma in France). Our holiday table now has a wobbly little paper turkey with feathers and featues glued carefully on by Jack. (He loves to glue.) And on Tuesday, fighting the cabin fever that came about by way of all of us being sick, Jack and I escaped to the afternoon movie. We watched Madagascar 2  and shared a ginormous and full-priced popcorn (who knew that Tuesday is Bring-Your-Own-Container day???) He’s a good movie date. He’s still small enough to sit on my lap without impeding my view.

This weekend we’ve come up to The Lake where a blanket of perfectly sticky snow allowed Jack and his Daddy to make a magnificent Snowman. His name is Georgia, if you’re interested.

Last night, after a huge Thanksgiving Feast that left 13 people dazedly fat and happy (Jack, no. 14, ate Fruit Loops), the smallest pilgrim was ready for bed. Dressed in his footie jammies and yummy smelling from his bath, he snuggled up against me and whispered, “Mommy. I love you most more.”

Four year olds whisper about as subtlely as a Belle Tire ad. The addition of the “most more” comes from a little thing he and I do where I say, “I love you, Jacky” and he responds, “I love you, too, Mommy” and then it’s a matter of “I love you more/I love you most/I love you most more/I love you most most” and on and on until we give up for giggling.

And then it was on to playing spider. We make little spider hands and sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” which segues into a weird little adventure for Mommy Spider and Baby Spider or Jack Spider where they eat breakfast, get dressed, go to school (enter Mrs. Brown Teacher Spider), and run errands… Jack delights endlessly in the Spiders going to the Doctor Spider because, inevitably, the little spider will need “pokies” in his legs and that will set Jack off on either acting very brave or crying out on his little arachnoid alter-ego’s behalf.

Because we aren’t at home– but in the great white north for the Thanksgiving weekend, we are, Robby, Jack, Philbin, and I, in one big bed. The little spider game is indicative of this rare treat– and I am, at the end of a really great Thanksgiving, most grateful for this little exchange between my too-quickly growing son and me.

I’d freeze him at Four Years Old forever except that I’d hate to miss out on what Four And a Half and Five bring.

My sister, for one brief shining moment is right. Yikes.

Listening to the new Durian Durian album…?

Our pals took a recent trip to the foodie mecca that is Jungle Jims. I’ve never made the trek there but was pleased to share in their bounty which included durian fruit, a cheramoya, and Uncle Joe’s mint balls.

So, after heaping servings of Shepherd’s Pie and beer (the boys), Woodchuck cider ale (me), and Vernor’s (the Pregnant One) the weird fruits were presented.

Cheramoya taste like bubble gum perfume. They are somewhere between a cantaloupe and pineapple in texture. One down, one to go.

Durian fruit are about the size of a football and spiny as all get out. They grow in big tall palm-like trees. It wouldn’t, we agreed, be good at all to be under one should it fall.  We touched it gingerly. We sniffed it. The weird food guy, Andrew Zimmern has waxed rather poetically about the horrors of the durian. The Today Show hosts have pronounced it wretched, too. The four of us decided it smelled woody. (It reminded me of the inside of furniture from India. I used to spend a lot of time at Pier One and World Market.) We cracked it open and scooped out the custardy fruit. And, again, disappointedly, found nothing offensive in the taste or texture of it.

We wondered what people do with a durian. There’s a lot of fruit in it. It’s not like a neat little banana or orange– there’s enough to feed several people. We fired up the laptop and did a quick search for durian recipes. We vetoed the originally promising “Durian Gingerbread Pudding” when it needed spinach and fresh ginger. The photo of it was green. Green and pudding are not appealing.

Durian ice-cream? Durian coconut surprise? Durian cake? It was during the reading of the Johnny’s Durian breakfast muffin recipe that the phrase “never drink alcohol while eating durian fruit” jumped out at us. WHAT? A quick google search brought up a slew of old wives tales and anecdotal references to a theory that drinking alcohol while eating durian fruit leads to certain death.

Oh dear.

We push our nearly finished bottle of Woodchuck (me) and glasses of Scotch (the boys) away from us and wonder how long until the Pregnant One will have our three bodies to deal with plus Jack who, all the while, was trying desperately to play with Sadiedog.

A little more searching had us convinced that probably our night will yield only a hangover (it would be my first. How exciting. I’m 19 again. Go College Team! Yay!) and possibly a night or two of diahreaha. (Oh, joy.) Durian apparently sucks the water out of you– we immediately all filled glasses with water and started to drink while laughing off the psychosymatic effects of too much book learnin’.

(It also occured to us that perhaps we should run a google search on “pregnancy + durian”– all’s well there. The three of us still should have a driver to get us to the hospital…)

Poor Pregnant One. She left the room to return to the three of us laying on the floor as though dead. She was nonplussed and set the dog on us.

Uncle Joe’s mint balls were minty but not very ball shaped. Unless your ball had rolled into the street and been flattened by the durian that had fallen out of the tree… They were one of the odder flavors– the mix of toffee and mint was akin to brushing your teeth after eating a slowpoke. Not bad– but odd.

If this is my last blog, however, you’ll know not to consume the very deadly combination of cheramoya and durian. Live and learn. And enjoy a mintball.

For the Love of Peat

Our trip to Ireland was wonderful. We saw a lot of the southern part of the country with daily excursions from our little cottage in Terryglass. Robby had a Guiness at just about every meal (I think the only exceptions were breakfasts and on the plane?) and I indulged my love of all things Cadbury. JackRabbit loved the colorful death-trap playgrounds. Momma and Eric discovered soda bread and are now life long converts to its ministry.

And we all got pretty good at “recycling” peat. Our little cottage had a stove suitable for burning wood or peat. We had beautiful, unheard of weather the entire time we were in Ireland. Apparently, before we arrived, the region had endured two solid months of rain every. single. day. Every conversation we had along the way included some variant of, “Oooooh! You’re so lucky now aren’t you? Sooch lo-vly weater we are having now, aren’t we?”

Still– there is an eternal dampness to the country. Our damp towels, laid out to dry, were just as damp in the morning… so a nice fire was an appealing way to create both atmosphere and dry out things. At every store there were bundles of “peat” briquettes but they had the appeal of a fake fire log.

And then we saw a chunk of peat on the side of the road.

We never bought any peat– fake or real. It became part of each days adventure to find peat. Ireland had maybe two straight roads in the entire country. The rest are twisted and wobbley and akin to a very poorly designed roller coaster. Momma and I, in the back seat of the rental, were jostled and jarred about. The daily “Peat Watch” gave us something to focus on. By the third day we were able to anticipate where the peat would be– which kind of twist in the road or bump along the way would be enough to dislodge a brick of peat from the delivery wagon. We carried an old shopping bag designated for peat and counted it a successful day when we could return to the cottage with it full.

At night we’d fire up the little stove with sticks from behind the cottage and toss on a chunk or two of peat and enjoy the radiating heat. It seemed right to sit by the peat fire with our journals and postcards and books and puzzles. Nibble on bourbon creams (which have nothing to do with bourbon at all– they’re chocolate biscuits with chocolate cream filling) and sip our tea.

They’re doing all kinds of construction in Ireland with European Union funds to “improve” the roads. Around Limerick there are all kinds of modern highways being built with overpasses and entrance ramps. It will completely cut out the lost time in traveling around that city.

And the peat industry should see a real decrease in their product losses.

Tis a shame it is.

September 19, 2008

Dear JackRabbit,

You will turn four this weekend– or at least you will technically. You keep insisting, “I stay three!” whenever we remind you of your birthday.

There’s a big difference, it turns out, between three and four. In the last month you’ve been a different kid. At choir you’re a good listener– you participate in all the little singing games like “sleeping” during “Frere Jacque” and all the little motions of the Echo Song. Last year each week was an exercise in me holding my breath that you didn’t cause too much of a disruption. (The week that you enlisted Brandon into running through the racks of choir robes until Mrs. L had to stop. STOP. the class and untangle the two was a real highlight…)

You seem to be doing well at school, too. Your vocabulary has exploded again– Daddy and I are amazed at how much better you are able to express yourself. You’ll tell us, “I’m feeling angry right now!” with such a scowl that it’s hard not to laugh. You’re negotiating our world a little bit more each day– figuring out that being a good listener and using good manners can be rewarding. There are grown-ups who don’t have that down, kiddo.

You still like watching your stories– Caillou, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Sesame Street, The Wiggles, “The Camel Story,” and Thomas. You’ve (FINALLY!) come to appreciate Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood with me (”He’s home from working Mommy!” is what you said the other day when he took off his suitcoat to put on his cardigan). Cars and Mickey Mouse Christmas are still your favorite movies. You play with your trains and Cars cars and blocks. At restaurants you ask to play with your “lemons” wire toys and the little Mickey Mouse figures we picked up at Disney last year.

You can run very fast. You like to jump off things and climb a little too higher than I’d like sometimes. This month you figured out how to really pedal your little trike. I think it was after the day you and Trey played together that it clicked for you. You love to sing and pick up songs very quickly. Sometimes we sing whole conversations to each other. It cracks you up.

Every night you say prayers and we’ve been trying to teach you that we go to church because we love God– not because we’ve “been bad” like you say.

You’re very affectionate. You still love to cuddle us both– which is good. We can’t get enough of you. Your sweet kisses are our favorite part of having to send you off to bed.

I wish, JackRabbit, that you didn’t have to grow up quite so fast. But I so love the kid you are in this moment that I can’t really regret that you are already (nearly) four either. Our hearts have grown so much since you came into our world. We really are the luckiest Mommy and Daddy.

Love,

Mommy

First Day

We had our first day of preschool today.

I think all three of us did okay.

I didn’t cry. (Or at least not much.) Jack made it easy on his old mother. His face lit up in the parking lot and he was all about the wearing of the very cheap Cars themed “pack back” that we’d bought for him until his grandmother’s present of a Land’s End monogrammed pack arrives. Once he had the straps slipped on his shoulders he was up the sidewalk in a shot towards the door. His teacher, Mrs. Brown, was there to enthusiastically greet him, “Hello Jack!”

I’ve dreaded this day. Last night I tossed and turned and thought only of me and wishing I could have all four years back again. Until today, for the most part, he was all ours. We didn’t have to share but for an occasional moment here or there. In the wee smas Jack fussed enough in his own bed (still his crib, by the way) that Robby brought him into our bed where he slept between us. He’s a sound sleeper. This morning I curled up around him and smelled his still baby neck and whispered good thoughts.

We celebrated the day with a First Day breakfast– Jack’s cousins brought over McDonald’s hotcakes. McDonald’s hotcakes are easily one of Jack’s favorite foods. And then– merciless clock ticking all the while– it was time to drive to school. All the way there we did the usual things– sang Johnny Cash songs and made faces in the mirror at each other.

And my heart skipped when it was time to unbuckle his car seat. For a second I thought, “we could still slip out of here… run home. Put our jammies back on… watch some Caillou and make block towers or Thomas tracks…”

Jack, however, was so gleefully excited that my heart skipped back to its normal beat– how can I wish this away from him? This tempura paint crayoned world of letters and numbers and games and new friends?

I at least got a kiss from him– his poor Daddy only rated a, “Bye Daddy!” and then, when the Daddy lingered for a minute an exasperated, “Dad! Bye!”

Jack was already on the little carpet with Mrs. Brown and a box of little trucks and cars. We were forgotten. Or at least he took for granted the fact that we’d come back for him eventually. So, not necessarily needed, we hovered for another minute or two out of Jack’s eyesight then walked quietly to our cars. I went into the office but it was a dysfunctional day– my coworkers were off in 10 different directions and I was watching the clock until 11:45.

We met Jack again on the playground. He was in the tire swing with two new little pals completely oblivious to our arrival. When he did see us he squealed and ran to give us kisses. The realization that he’d have to leave behind his “painting! my picture!” was the only dark spot in our understanding of his day. The painting was wet. It needed to dry. On Friday it will come home in his little pack-back.

Later, a very exhausted little man fell asleep on the couch next to me– Mr. Independent is still cuddling with Mommy at naptime.

That was good of him. First Days can be tough you know.

Home is Where the Sand is Brought

I’m back from the Woods. It was a good escape from the reality of losing my hard drive. At camp there is only the reality of, well, camp. And that’s a good thing. Cooking, for example, even the abbreviated camp food version, is a process that requires you to slow down. Showering is a 75 yard walk through the woods to the bathhouse. Fires need to be built. Tents swept out.

All those little tasks add up to fill your camp day. It pushes out all the thoughts of files that have to be recreated, rebuilt, remembered. The photos that don’t exist anymore. The banked episodes of “Deadliest Catch” that I didn’t get to watch.

And then there are all the camp activities that we look forward to– the campfires and singing and comraderie. The hike to the beach. The hobo pies and s’mores. Those things that work their way into the cracks of the walls you build the rest of the year.

While we were at camp our phones had spotty coverage– we’d get text messages hours past when they were sent. Most of the time the little bar was through the little phone icon meaning we had no service at all. When my nieces left in the middle of the week we abandoned our phones entirely. It was nice.

I read a couple of books– my Friend Wallis’ Dad’s book, Deep River was the first on the list. Family seemed simpler when I was younger. The older I get the more I realize how very complicated families are. And how schewed our individual ideas of “normal” are because of our families. Wally is a true patriarch in all the best senses. He, the Christian pilgrim, is relatively uncomplicated. Yet only a generation separates him from the chaos and destruction of an alcholic grandfather. The book I read is an account of his father’s early life and conversion and subsequent ministry. Wally’s born in the last third of the book and it was startling to remember that these weren’t just characters in a story but flesh and blood people that I’ve met and loved. Weird.

A Year Without Made in China was my beach reading. It’s one family’s attempt to give up anything made in China– to extend their consumerism to other countries and other economies. Wal-Mart gets a lot of the brunt of the experiement– but really, my beloved Target isn’t any better. The fact that it is almost impossible to buy shoes manufactured this side of the Great Wall is scary. What kind of world will Jack grow old in? Will there be any industry left in the good old US of A at all?

It was good to read. Even better to have an excuse for not bringing along my laptop and work. Good to shake sand out of my shoes at night. Good to shiver in the 45 degree mornings waiting for the tea kettle to hiss. Good to see my little son take such joy in the singing.

And good to be with the church family for a week. They’re good people. Reality snuck it’s way in to the camp. One of the families at camp– a big, rollicking clan with three generations that are nearly impossible to sort out– had a hole in it. the oldest generation, the mother and father, weren’t at camp as one of the middle generation had just had a baby that wasn’t doing too well. On Tuesday we got the news that the little babe had passed away. His aunts and uncles and cousins stayed at camp and shared their grief and resilience, too. It tempered the rest of the week in that the petty annoyances disappated in the face of their loss. My lost laptop was suddenly less of a tragedy. The headcolds that Jacky and I were hosting were only a nusiance.

A lot of our friends don’t really get why we go to camp with our church. Or why we go to church for that matter. Maybe this year I can learn to articulate why it is worth the sand in the dryer vent and all the bother of organizing equipment and supplies and cooking under a tree.

Did I mention the s’mores?