Monthly Archives: August 2011

Oh, Deer

When we saw the deer, it was stradding both lanes.  Like it was waiting for something.

Only we weren’t sure it’d still be waiting when we got close.

Which was when I stomped on the brakes and listened as our tires signed their names with a thirty foot strip of rubber.

The deer watched…appeared to sniff the van as we swerved past…and then turned in our wake and gently trotted up the opposite embankment.

We…

we gasped.

The deer hadn’t lost a hair.

Us either.

We shook our heads.  God must’ve been driving our van.

Twenty minutes later…twenty minutes without talk of the deer, my daughter raised her voice from the back seat.

“Was that deer…” she started.

“Was that deer male or female?”

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Someday…

Someday…

he may build for real.

With a hammer of his own.

Or operate a digger that’s not pink.

Someday…

he might have a collection of something other than driftwood.

Or fix a toilet…

Or two.

Someday…

Sweet someday.

He may look at this picture with his daddy and remember how he said, “I want to be just like you, Dad, when I get big.”

Someday.

 

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Mystery Gas

We were both standing at the pantry debating on cereal when my son crinkled his face and grabbed his nose.

I caught a whiff.  And staggered.

He wasn’t kidding.

A doozer.

“What’d you eat, bud?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I didn’t eat anything.  It camed out all by itself.”

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No Sew Lion

Several weeks ago our September 2011 Disney Family Fun magazine came in the mail.

And sat somewhere.  Like in a basket.

Which wasn’t on purpose.  I just couldn’t gather 30 minutes together to look through the thing.

Until Wednesday night when I was willingly confined to a chair while someone cut my hair and turned it brown again.

I brought my magazine.

Which did more than bide time with me– it planted the inspiration to try the No Sew Lion craft on page 10.  With my kids.

Here’s what Thursday afternoon looked like.

The directions said we had to cut out two 20 inch fleece circles from maroon and yellow fleece.

Which I took to mean I shouldn’t free-scissor the thing and hope it was twenty inches, so I made a pattern.

Technical.  Ahem.

And then I cut the thing out.

About this time I mentioned to my kids the idea of making pillows.

Which promptly made them start pinging off the walls, the couch and the back door while asking 85 questions I didn’t know the answers to.

Next time…I’ll get everything together first.

Here’s what we needed: Different colored fleece, sewing scissors, sewing pins, a 20″ pattern, polyester fiberfill, and an extra day’s worth of patience.

The lion on that page right there.  That’s what we’re aiming for.

There wasn’t a lot my kids could do just yet except pick out their fleece colors and hand me the sewing pins.

My daughter went the semi-classic lion route and chose orange and yellow fleece.

And my son chose pink and black.

His lion–were we to make it that far–would be unique.  Or sunburned.

Okay…so here are our circles.

They’ve got one more prep stage.

All the way around the circles we’ve got to make a 3 inch-long fringe–about an inch wide.

Until we’ve got a sunshine.

Now we’ve got to tie each fringe pair–a yellow and an orange fleece strip–into knots.

Same as if we were making a no-sew baby blanket.  Just knots all the way around.

My daughter loved this part.  She tied knots around hers and then tugged her brother’s fleece from my hands and volunteered to finish his.

Hallelujah.

Here are both ‘lions’ mostly knotted.  We’ve left about a five-inch gap in each to stuff them with the fiberfill.

Now stuffing his fleece was something my son could do.  Easy. Messy. Lumpy.

Here’s my daughter stuffing hers.

And here are both pillows–stuffed and knotted.  We finished knotting the rest of the fringe after we stuffed ‘em.

Now…what turns the pillow into a lion or anything else is an assumed amount of creativity.

Which means you might not end up with a lion.

Gasp.

But rather Senor Sol.

Or his more-contented cousin.

But eventually…if you stick with it long enough, as in, you cut and re-cut fleece pieces and finally smear ‘em all with glue, you end up with something that–sort of somehow–resembles a lion.

 

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Sweet Reunion

We’d prepared our daughter for the birth of her brother the best we could.

Only moments before she met him, we worried that it wasn’t enough.

Would she feel dethroned?  Resent us?

Would she ask us to send him back?

We’d heard of angry siblings–had even seen some–and we didn’t want that.

Which was when we decided that my husband would be holding our son when our daughter walked into our hospital room.  I would reach out to hug her, and she would know how loved she was.

That was the plan.

Only as our daughter rounded the corner, eyes like Christmas lights, she headed toward me with arms ready to hold the brother she’d been waiting for.

But then she stopped.  This wasn’t right.  Where was he?  Her eyes searched the room again.

Which was when I pointed to her daddy who crouched down with our swaddled son and scooped our daughter up as she ran to share his lap.

Yes…this was what she wanted.

This was her brother.

And she was in love.

Him and her.

Her and him.

Our daughter returned late last night from half a week with her cousins.

A long time for a little brother.

So as our son thumped from his bottom bunk this morning and leaned his head on my pillow, I said, “go wake up sissy.”

He didn’t bite.  ”She’s not here,” he moped.

“Seems you better check,” I said.

At which time he slunk around our bedroom door and into his sister’s room.

We listened.

Shrieks.  Giggles.  Hair pulling.  Hugs.

It was a sweet reunion.

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The Age of Responsibility

I trusted my son with a steak knife this morning.

The equivalent of saying, “I love you.  I’m so proud of you.  I can’t believe how much you’re growing.”

At which time my son started slicing mushrooms with the air of someone trusted.

His whole being resonated with worth and purpose.

And he sliced as if nothing else mattered but these mushrooms.

And nothing did.

Until he ran outside and found this worm.

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A Really Cool Show

Our son’s voice was above a whisper in the backseat.  We heard every word.

“Hey, sissy,” he said.  “You want to see a really cool show?”

I turned from the front passenger’s seat.  “I do.”

Our son blushed, and covered his crotch with both hands.  I clearly wasn’t invited to the show.

But my husband and I persisted.  “What’s the show, bud?  We really want to see.”

At which time our daughter slid her book from her face and said, “he pushes his weanie down, and then we watch it come back up.”

Um…this was some show.

My husband and I found ourselves clarifying with growing smirks.  “He pushes his what?” 

“His weanie down,” our daughter answered.  And then finished in giggles, ”And then we watch it come back up.”

Let’s see…

The show was cancelled last night. 

A combination of stage fright and parental persuasion.

Will know more the next van ride.

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Stairway to Sleep

I’ve heard of it happening.  Children falling asleep on the stairs.  Supposedly in bed…but not.

Only it’s never happened to us.

Forty-eight trips up and down the stairs with petty requests.  Yes.  That’s familiar.

Which was why when my husband stepped over something dark on the stairs instead of on it, he also sucked in his breath.

He wasn’t expecting this.

A child in half his pajamas on the sixth stair.

Completely succumbed to sleep.

 

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Where They’d Rather Be

Eight and half months ago we surprised our kids with a one-night stay at Great Wolf Lodge.

Apparently the highlight of their lives.

While they bobbed in the wave pool just out of reach, I craned to keep track of their heads or their hair or their flailing arms.  When they stood in line for the kiddie slides, I did, too.  In a swimsuit.  While others sat in lounge chairs, I patroled the pool deck wary of my non-swimmers listlessly floating like driftwood in their life jackets.  When my youngest sprinted past me on the wet cement, I shouted into the noise of ten lawn mowers.  He kept on running.  And I yelled myself hoarse.

It was awesome.  I can’t wait to go back.

For the last eight months, give or take an afternoon, our kids have asked endlessly to return. Or rather when we’re going back to Great Wolf Lodge.

They haven’t forgotten.

But what they don’t realize is… neither have I.

Yesterday I sat outside to finish a book. 

A rare privilege. 

Only when I peeked in on my kids, I found they’d packed up the firetruck bed with games, books and blankets–all they thought they’d need for their trip.

“Where you goin’?” I asked.  I marveled at their efforts.

And in unison they shouted, “GREAT WOLF LODGE!”

 

 

 

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