For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 112

For me, things happen one small fragment at a time. The laundry gets done in partial, interrupted cycles, my train of thought lulled away by requests for sippy cups or a make-it-up-as-Audrey-goes game involving "abc" flashcards at the kitchen table as the dryer buzzes (resulting in extremely wrinkled clothes and Jason's dress pants crumpled in a corner to be washed again). From the passenger seat, a design on the latest craft project comes to be, a stitch at a time, the car arriving in a parking lot or driveway before I can get the current row finished. Books are read a paragraph at a time (several with a notebook and pen close by with the hope that I if I take a few notes, I might just remember what I've read). And, ironically, for every task I complete, the to-do list seems to grow by two.

My children are different. For them, things happen in bounds. Something clicks - a letter finally pairing with a sound - and suddenly words come alive to Audrey as if she has swallowed a magic pill sending her down the vocabulary rabbit hole, leaving her brain ten inches taller. A father-son game of "catch" inspires Nate to stretch his muscles and I find myself with a new pastime of pulling him down from the couch and the stool his big sister uses to help me cook. The children move about their days, laughing and running, masquerading their lessons as play, until I find myself caught off-guard by the words sounded out, written with magnets on a cookie sheet, and the ball that lands by my feet, kicked by this little man who seems less baby and more toddler at every glance. They like to pack a punch, double-teaming me with these milestones, growing by twos.



Luckily, laundry (and most any mundane task) goes down better with a little shock and awe (not to mention laughter) to keep you company. Here are the moments of childhood wonder that kept us company this week:

Audrey began Tuesday morning by telling me she wished to call her father to tell him something (he had already left for work before she woke up). I knew he had a morning conference call scheduled, but told her she could send him a text message. She agreed, and promptly dictated the following:

I hope you'll be here for my tea party. I hope you won't have to go to work. I love you, too. And listen to your boss. Listen to all your bosses and do what they tell you to do and just do it if you care. You really have to listen to your bosses. And eat all your food. And I love you.


Tuesday afternoon we were in the car when she informed me, "I already named the baby."

"Our baby?"

"Yes."

"What did you name him?"

"T-bone."


Tuesday night, while eating, she saw Jason put his piece of garlic bread back on a plate sitting in the middle of the table rather than in his bowl. She asked him why he did it. "I don't have room on my bowl, so I put it back on the plate," he said.

"That doesn't make sense," she said.

"Honey, sometimes, little girls don't get everything," he answered.

"No, I get it. You don't have room in your bowl and you don't have another plate, so you put it back on that plate."

"If you get it, then why did you say it doesn't make sense?" he asked.

"That's just something I said."




Jason has been packing Girl Scout cookies in his lunch this week. Tuesday night, Audrey drew him a picture of cookies and left it on the counter to remind him not to forget to take them. The next morning she asked me if he had remembered. "I'm sure he did," I said.

"He's only allowed to take two," she said.


Wednesday morning, I read Audrey the story of Zaccheus out of her illustrated children's Bible. Later, while running an errand, I asked her what she had learned from the story.

"If you climb a tree and there was a mama bird and a baby bird in a nest, you might scare them," she said. (Oh the power of illustrations).


Thursday, Audrey began her morning in song. And dance. She crafted lyrics, swaying her hands in the air, occasionally turning in circles. Her brother watched, a couple feet away. Audrey paused, "Your turn, Nate," she said. He bounced up and down and suddenly began singing in nonsense syllables, matching her volume. Then he stopped and she picked up the tune, again pausing to tell him it was his turn, to which he began to bounce and sing.



Friday, I was trying to get everyone ready to attend a meeting of my mom's club. I had five minutes to get the breakfast dishes cleared, Audrey's teeth brushed, both kids into shoes and coats and car seats, and the car loaded to make it on time. Odds weren't good. Audrey watched me as I helped her brush her teeth. "Mom, are you mad?"

"No."

"You look like you have a mad face," she said.

"Honey, I'm not mad. I'm just focused. I'm trying to get us there on time."

We finished brushing her teeth. As she fumbled with her coat and shoes, I finished getting her brother ready and into the car. Then I went to strap her into her car seat. "How long are you going to have a mad face?" she asked.


Each of us gets twenty-four hours a day. What we do with them is up to us. I spend mine growing a to-do list - one that will probably never be completely crossed off. It's not that I want to procrastinate on everything, or that I don't wish the house were a little cleaner or a few more rooms were painted. But the simple truth is this: I have better things to do. I have wonders to witness and impromptu concerts to attend. (Not to mention, a new face to grow.) And, at the rate these two are growing, if I spend too many moments hidden in the laundry room, they just might pass me by - by next week.


*The bottom two photos were taken by Jason on Saturday at a Lowe's Build & Grow workshop where Audrey completed her first woodworking project. She spent the rest of the afternoon telling me about all the projects she intended to hammer.

Digging

Today the world is awash with the scenes of moody watercolors, grays and browns swirling together in puddly masterpiece. But yesterday, the world was cast in a different palette, that muted-before-the-storm hush of barely-there blues.



As the temperature crept up into the mid-fifties, we crept out to join it, one with pitchfork, one with plastic shovel, and one empty-handed, to get ahead of the work of spring. I thought I might begin to turn the garden soil, pull out the rocks or wayward toys left behind from winter's play. I thought Audrey might want to help - in her own way. I assumed Nate would roam the yard playing with the half dozen balls strewn about, uninterested in our muddy ventures. Ahem.



Apparently, he likes mud as much as his sister. I wonder what his stance will be on worms...

For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 111

The morning is blurry at best. It involves crying. A lot of crying. I've been up, off-and-on, since what I believe was 3:15 a.m. Nate began crying around that time, Jason and I taking turns going to check on him, finding him asleep in his crib, his cheeks wet with tears. His tears would subside when we placed a hand on his head, so we finally resorted to moving him to our room and rousing him enough to give him a dose of Tylenol. By 3:45, he was awake, crawling on top of my head, over my stomach, making wiggly use of every last inch of himself. The two of us retreated to the kitchen until five o' clock, when I finally managed to shift him back to his crib, sound asleep. I hoped to join the rest of my sleeping crew, but the mind is an awful, funny contraption. As my head met pillow, a running to-do list reel began to play of all the things left to accomplish in the coming months, until it rested squarely on the quandary of finding a baby name. I began thinking of the children we had just spent the evening with, of their names: Cole, Wyatt, Audrey, Caedmon, and Thaddeus.

Suddenly, I was in middle school Home Ec class, sitting next to my friend, Sarah, the two of us having just received matching baby boys, of the hard-boiled egg variety. We discovered we both wanted to name them Zachary. Instead, (because, really, the confusion and horror of having two egg babies named alike, just think of it!) I named mine Thaddeus. I carried Thaddeus with me everywhere, for the period of the assignment - one week. I was an involved parent, even taking my egg child out of his crib (or basket, as it's more commonly referred to), which is where I made my mistake. Unlike the smarter students, who left their eggs resting on shelves, I took little Thaddeus out, and a day before turning him in for my grade, cracked his little bum. A hairline fracture. Minuscule. I went for some scrap fabric and a glue gun. I fashioned a cloth diaper around his tokus and bought the kid a pair of plastic shoes from the cake decorating aisle of Wal-Mart, because that's what crafty, pragmatic girls do when faced with a cracked hard-boiled egg - that, or make egg salad, but it wasn't really that kind of assignment. My teacher was none the wiser.

Our class used eggs again that year for a science project. This time they were uncooked, and this time, we were dropping them from the extended ladder of a fire truck, raised above a blacktop parking lot rather than toting them around in baskets from our lockers to social studies class. We were given a few materials: straws, tape, an individual-sized milk carton, and string. The objective was simple. Build a contraption for your egg to protect if from the fall. My friend, Jill (who went on to become an engineer), and I had just finished building a bridge in Tech Ed out of toothpicks. The boys in our class used boxes of toothpicks, gluing them on top of each other until they had amassed the Monster Garage versions of toothpick bridges. Jill and I used 54 toothpicks, strategically placing trusses. (What can I say, I was the runt of my middle school class, the size of one's toothpick contraption never impressed me much.) Our bridge didn't hold much weight, but at the end of the day, it withstood more in relation to its size than the rest. So when it came time to protect my second egg, I created straw trusses and built my contraption like a bridge. We worked on our projects for several days, testing their durability by hefting them off the top of the bleachers lining the football field. My contraption was sturdy, shaped like a trapezoid with the milk carton (my egg's cocoon) secured in the center. It was also heavy. The day they dropped it from the firetruck, it made an audible "thud," echoed by the "oohs" of my classmates. But when I retrieved my contraption and opened the cocoon, there was my egg, nestled inside, still in one piece.

Some weeks are like that, well-thought out, planned, and buttressed to perfection. And some, despite your best efforts, are filled with the spontaneous - sometimes rich, sometimes challenging, and sometimes leaving your bum a bit bruised. The week past was a bit of the latter. While we don't have any cracked tokuses to tend to, we're a little short on sleep and desperately hoping for a surge of energy (well, the adults anyway). Nate, poor kid, decided to excel in teething last week, skipping filling out his bottom front gumline and opting for breaking out a couple upper molars. (This weekend, he decided to start on that bottom gumline.)

Audrey, not teething and sleeping just fine, kept us all in check with her typical perspective:

Sunday evening, she began discussing dinosaurs before bedtime. "Why don't we have dinosaurs anymore?" she asked.

"I don't know, honey, something happened a long time ago that made it so they couldn't survive anymore."

"Maybe God decided it was better to have people and the meat-eaters would have eaten the people," she said. "But it would be nice if he would have just made plant-eaters."


Everyone has their drink of choice when they have a sore throat. For me, it's typically Gatorade. Lately, for Jason, it's been hot apple cider. Both were in use the past week. On Monday, Audrey asked, "Can I have Ciderade?"


Wednesday, she drew a map of the neighborhood, including the houses of her friends. When I asked about the houses, she pointed to one in particular, a house where she spent some time last year playing with a girl older than herself. Last year, Jason and I were a bit surprised that Audrey followed this girl's every direction, letting her lead games of school and being the one to make up the rules for games in the yard. Apparently, this year, Audrey has changed her perspective. When she pointed to this house, she informed me that she made the house ugly because she doesn't like the little girl telling her what to do, since only moms and dads should do that. Ahem.


Saturday evening, we asked Audrey to go wash her hands for dinner. She ran into the bathroom. Minutes passed. More minutes passed. When this much time lapses, it usually means some science experiment is underway involving soap and mass quantities of water. Jason went to investigate. He found her sitting on the toilet reading a book. He decided to give her some privacy. She finally came out, ten minutes later. "My leg hurts," she said. "I can't walk." We had to explain that she had sat reading so long on the toilet that her leg had fallen asleep.

Life is like that. Those things that bring you the most joy, occasionally make your legs fall asleep. Or, they bring you no sleep. All we can do is prepare as best we can, be optimistic, and hope that when all else fails, there's a glue gun nearby.

Right Now

:: The sidewalks are wet, but we are dry in spite of a drizzly walk.

:: A picture has been delivered to friends and a collection of leaves found along the path home.

:: One snuggles close, drowsy from sleep, while another creates a picture of a far away place as her father drives home.


:: Pumpkin bread crumbs peek out from under drawing paper and leaves litter the closet floor.

:: My hands smell of fresh pizza dough rising on the counter.

:: My lids are heavy from the events of the week; my head is focused on (and hopeful that rain won't hinder) weekend events to come; and my heart is filled with gratitude for this warm house, the ones who bring joy by crossing its threshold, and the calm of this moment as the day creeps to its edge.

In Progress

Every toy and book Audrey owned used to fit into two small bins in our playroom. The space was efficient, with a large open space to run and play - just the thing a child needs most from a playroom. A funny thing happened as Audrey grew, in essence, needing more room in which to run and play - those toys grew. They seemed to multiply as we slept, soon spilling out of our two bins. We cleaned them out and trimmed down the contents, but with the addition of another child and more birthdays and Christmases, those toys never seemed to get under control and running in that room became a challenge.

Taming that room has been on my mind for some time, but I like to take my time with these projects, figuring out what I want from a space before I invest time and money. I've never been an impulse shopper, or much of an impulse anything, for that matter. (Part of me would also just rather give most of the toys away. I prefer a few quality items and lots of space for imagination over a packed playroom). But, for those things that the kids come back to again and again - especially those things with multiple uses that encourage creativity, some storage is definitely in order. When I ran across this pattern a few weeks ago, I knew I'd found what I was looking for. Spare moments over the last week have been spent working on three of these baskets, two still in progress. With the exception of some interfacing, which I had to buy, the other materials were fabrics left over from other projects. The inside is cotton quilting fabric, while the outsides are the scraps of a painter's drop cloth, used to make Audrey's indoor playhouse. They won't contain all the ruckus that has become the playroom, but it's a start. At less than $1.60 each, it's a very effective start.

*This pattern calls for a lot of hand sewing, with no visible machine-stitched lines on the outside of the baskets, which might just make it an ideal first project for someone, especially a child learning to sew.

For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 110

With a little over two months before we meet our newest little man, it's safe to say that nesting has taken up residence in our home and my mind. It's taken root here, which may explain why I've promoted it from a verb to guest status. (Although, true be told, it's just that kind of a year - a reevaluation year, if you will. A new job for one family member, a growing girl with growing stuff and activities, a boy suddenly on the move, and another boy about to move in. It just seems smart to take a little time to make sure everything is working for us and not against us as we embark on all this newness). I find myself in the thick of it, spending each free moment sorting, making, redesigning, and reading all manner of how-to manuals and organization books. While I tend to enjoy the process (and get embarrassing huge thrills out of taking the smallest of measures to improve a room or system) I don't want to get too busy to record a few stories from the week past. Turns out, I'm not the only one with much on my mind. Here are a few of Audrey's thoughts from last week (and a small indication of just what we're up against daily with this one who is a little too smart for her mama's own good):

Wednesday night, Jason took Audrey up to bed. As he tucked her in, she asked him about monsters. Jason told her not to worry that he was bigger than monsters.

"Are you bigger than the Abominable Snowman?" she asked. (We had let her watch an old version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer last Christmas, which I forgot included the Abominable Snowman).

"You're bigger than the Abominable Snowman," he said.

"What!" she said, before asking about the elves and how big they were.

"The elves are tiny. They only come up past your ankles," he said.

"But they were bigger than the reindeer," she said.

"Yes."

"But the reindeer pull Santa's sleigh, Dad."


Thursday night was one of those evenings where, by morning, everyone was in the master bed. I woke up to a child nestled on each side. Audrey woke up first. I told her I was going to the bathroom and would be right back. I forgot to tell her not to wake up her brother. I came back to find him wide awake.

"Did you wake up your brother?" I asked.

"I did this (touching his face) and it didn't wake him up. I did this (poking another spot), but it didn't wake him up. Then, I did this (tickling his leg) and he woke up!"

Luckily, she was in the mood not only to poke and prod her brother (trial-and-error style), but also to play. As I got ready and cleaned the bathroom sink, she led him on a search through the master bedroom and bath for Emmy (who had already taken her leave downstairs). Not able to find Emmy, she led Nathan on a scavenger hunt for things that are soft like Emmy - stray pillow feathers, stuffed animals, and the like. I cleaned and listened to the PBS special unfolding in my bathroom.


Friday night, she was praying with Jason before bed.

"God, why do lions roar?" she asked. "God, why are wolves meat-eaters?"

"That's not how you pray," Jason said. "When you pray, you ask for help for something or say thank you for something."

"God, help me understand why lions roar. Help me understand why wolves are meat-eaters."


Nathan has his own thought processes fast at work, ones that involve motion and figuring out how to pull himself up onto the couch with (and sometimes without) assistance, thoughts that cause him to break into dashes around the kitchen island and into the family room in pursuit of his sister or the dog. His thoughts cause him to burst into laughter (the contagious belly kind that don't seem right coming out of one so small) at the smallest sights: blocks tumbling out of bags, a ball almost caught. These are the moments, those breaks in the nesting process, that bring me back to why I spend so much time preparing, clearing spaces for play, building tools and stocking cabinets in preparation for growth. Because, that's what we're doing - building little people, one big thought, one belly laugh at a time.

It's a Plesiosaur Wall Decoration, didn't you know (the plesiosaur, a sea creature who lived at the time of the dinosaurs laid its eggs on the beach and is suspended in tissue paper water, above, surrounded by red fish)? She's the latest dinosaur creation to leave our kitchen table - again from the book Crafts for Kids Who Are Wild About Dinosaurs.

This week

Between a little man pulling long hours cutting teeth and fighting congestion, a trip home to begin the process of reading applications for an annual family event, and attempting to fit in those things that make our days feel like our own, the computer has been a bit idle this week. So here's a little recap of the week so far and the ways in which I've been spending my time:



Seeing :: (and cleaning up) a lot of mud. It may be in the mid-thirties, but a certain someone has convinced herself that these are the early days of summer, which means she wants to be in the garden, come what may. Turns out, "what may" is mud - lots of mud, on shoes, pants, door frames, and rugs. The late-afternoon bath has become a bit of a ritual this week as we take our mud parties to the bathtub, exchanging garden trowels for boats with water spouts and our dirt-showered hats for a dab of shampoo.



Imagining :: this one sailing down Niagara Falls in her newfangled, ahem, costume.

Reading :: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot and finding myself amazed, yet again, at the stranger-than-fiction life of an "ordinary" woman and the value of a mother.



Trying :: a new pencil grip to hopefully improve Audrey's writing grip, which is typically a fist. (And, grateful for the free tracing pages here - thanks for the link, Jenny!)

Sharing :: my snack space with elephant and our latest creation, The Giant Apatosaurus Model, found in Crafts for Kids Who Are Wild About Dinosaurs by Kathy Ross. The dinosaur (christened Miss Ruby and carried everywhere by her doting owner) is supposed to be covered by an old t-shirt decoupaged to the cardboard using a glue solution, but that's a step I think can wait for a warm day and tablecloth outside.

In awe :: of all the dinosaur teaching aids used by this resourceful mama.



Ready (or not so ready) :: to attempt a new, to me, knitting technique that will bring a project to completion.

Hoping :: for a few more hours of sleep, and many more of the smiles, laughs, and hugs that make these sleep-deprived hours so worth staying up for.