Monthly Archives: September 2011

Pink Paper Accordions

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I only nodded as my son ran inside for more paper.  It seemed easier than asking questions.

But on his fifth trip, I raised an eyebrow.  At which time my son smiled, fingered another sheet and then slunk speedily out the back door.

I followed.

Only there…there on the play toy was the smallest two-person assembly line of pink paper accordions.

My daughter sat cutting paper into strips and taping the ends.

And my son sat anchored in the maple tree…

concerned with nothing but criss-crossing his pink paper strips.

I don’t know what started the paper folding.  Nor how it could continue for two hours.

I’m just certain that the folding of pink paper into tiny accordions has never brought such satisfaction.

Or produced such purpose and peace.

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In Search of Clean

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I didn’t know where to begin this morning.

Which was how I ended up vacuuming the van.

I’d already stepped on the same piece of scrambled egg on the kitchen floor six times, thrown together sandwiches on bread from the freezer, quizzed my daughter on the times tables she didn’t feel like learning and picked through a basket of questionable laundry for a clean pair of little boy underwear.

I’d added more mail to the stack on the counter, listened to the dishwasher belch and wondered if the fruit flies weren’t procreating on my tomatoes on the sly.

They probably were.

It seemed that the speed of my hands to wipe, put away, fold and straighten would always be days behind.

Which was when I got into the van and started excavating.

I needed something to be clean.

Just something.

And so…I collected single flip flops and reunited them with their mates inside. I scooped up water bottles that had logged a quarter mile from the floor of the back seat to the front.  I threw out carcasses of snacks, gathered crunchy socks and made nine cents in pennies.

When I’d hefted the last of the vacuum cleaner into its closet, I paused again in the driver’s seat.

This was what I needed…

a moment alone…

in something clean.

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Living Room ‘Dig’

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Maybe it was appropriate that we studied archaeology this morning in our introduction to history…

because we didn’t have to dig much farther than the black trash bag my mom dropped off on Saturday with a smile that said, “have fun going through these.”

I’d hefted the bag into a side room and shuddered.  I’d even waved my kids away with, “not now.  ”Later.”

Which…I suppose it was.

I closed the history book and drug the black bag to the living room.   A purple prom dress sagged to the carpet and my kids’ eyes tripled to frisbees.

Washed up winter coats.  Dresses with lack-luster lace and limp buttons.  Forgotten frocks.

For the next quarter hour my kids ogled through the past…

and armed themselves in my ‘antiques.’

I smiled.

It was, I suppose, my contribution to history.

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Underwear Connection

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The black clouds had already rolled in.  And the rain was smacking sideways on our windows.  At which time the rest of us put on sweatshirts, nabbed rain jackets, dug for gloves and headed to the van.

Our son also headed to the van–wearing his swim trunks, a gray tank top and somebody else’s flip flops.

So, we started over.

Beginning with the underwear.

Only our son dropped his shoulders and whined, “why do I hafta wear underwear?”

My husband handed over the tiny briefs and spoke little boy logic.  ”Son, how are you going to put underwear on your head later, if you aren’t wearing any?

A second passed.

Then our son smiled from deep within.  ”Yeah, dad!”  he said. “Okay.”

And my husband merely winked my way.

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When You’re LAST

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We were still in the garage when my son snapped his seat belt and threw up his hands.  “I’m first!” he shouted.

My daughter grappled for hers, clicking just as quickly.  “And sissy’s second!” my son added.

I fumbled for my seat belt as we drifted out of the garage.  “I’m third,” I announced.

Only my son got serious.  “You’re not third, mom.  You’re LAST!”

Which reminded me of what I knew all along.

During my seventh grade summer, my middle school P.E. teacher encouraged me to turn out for TAC track.  Which was like AAU basketball.  Or USVBA volleyball.  Something with an acronym that no one can remember.

I did.

And I ran the 200 meter dash at a track meet in Seattle.

Or rather, I was on the same track at the same time as ten other girls—none of them white—who zipped past me to the finish line.

Last, my friend.

Very last.

But apparently there was good news…

Only two people in my age group were entered for the javelin.  Just two.  If I but walked up and tossed the javelin—anywhere–I was guaranteed a medal.

A medal.  Glory be.

What no one bothered considering was that I’d never thrown a javelin.

Correction.  I’d never touched a javelin.

Well…

it is possible I set a new record for how un-far a javelin can be chucked in the grass.

As well, I stood on the podium with my third place medal.  Earned by embarrassment alone.

But as my son would remind me, I was hardly third.

I was LAST.

…I knew it.

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Our Reflection

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Two seconds into a hug with my husband, our son danced at our side, gripping a leg of each of ours and looking up as we looked down.

He clung to us like a crab, desiring only to be a part of the hug.

But it wasn’t his turn.

Our daughter stood by the stairs smiling.

And…

and our son, seeing no break in the citadel, unfastened himself from our legs and flung his arms around his sister.

“Let’s be like mom and dad!” he shouted.  And the two of them crashed against the stairs locked in a laughing embrace.

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Origami Paper Cups

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The hard part isn’t finding a craft to do.

Or even the time to do one.

It’s finding a craft my son can do…

all by himself.

Amen.

Well…we did a little paper folding today.  Nothing radical.  Nothing every kid hasn’t already done, except mine.

But it was the process that mattered.  My kids, um…followed directions.

And consequently, were so proud of what they created.

And we’re talkin’ a paper cup.

Here’s how we got started.  We wanted to make origami paper cups.  Which meant all we needed was a square piece of paper and five folds.

Only we didn’t have special square paper…so we made our own…

by folding the corners of our paper together until it looked like we had a triangle and a rectangle.

And then since we didn’t need the extra rectangle piece, we just cut it off…

in whatever form our scissors would work.

Were we to open our triangle, we’d have had our square.  But since our first fold was to create a triangle like the one we had, there wasn’t any need to open our triangle to recreate the square.

So…first fold is done.

For the second fold, we need to make sure the open edges of the triangle are at the top.

Then, picking either the left point or the right, we fold the point to the opposite side about 1/3 the way down the paper.

Here my daughter has brought the right side point over until it just touches on the left side.

The second fold is done.

The third fold is identical to the second.  Just from the opposite side.

Here my daughter is folding the left side point over to the right side, lining this fold on top of the other.

Fold three is complete…

and looks like Chinese take-out.

For the fourth and fifth folds we take the pointed flaps on top and pull them down–one in front and one in back–creasing them where they meet the second and third folds.

And that’s it.

At this time my daughter squeezed her cup and watched it open.

And my son…well…

he didn’t hurt anybody.

We didn’t make anything more than a paper cup x thirty.

But what I loved about it was this:

his folding…

his focus…

his fun.

Her patience…

and product.

Paper cups, anyone?

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Sunday’s Specs

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My husband pulled his glasses from the floor of the van.

At which time we both gasped.

They didn’t look like he remembered they ought.

Nor did they fit as well.

It seemed he had one of these perfectly…ahem… normal children to thank.

Specifically the kid in the red who donned football cleats for church and who blurted fearlessly in the direction of the sagging specs, “I did it, dad!” and then went back to picking the raisins from the trail mix.

Let’s see…

down a pair glasses.

But kid tells truth.

Guess we still come out okay.

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The Loaded Baguette

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While I picked out cilantro, my son slunk behind the bell pepper display armed with the baguette loaf I’d hoped would make it home for sandwiches.

He aimed and fired at any shopper that moved.

Brrrrrrrrrrr.

A woman with a full grocery cart.  Brrrrr.

A man swinging a bag of lettuce.  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

He aimed at the ceiling.  Brrrippp  Brripppp.

He zipped ahead of me to the check out firing at tomatoes and carts.

Before I could pay, he dropped the bread.  Picked it up.  Swung it around.  Picked it up again.

By the time we fumbled into the van, our baguette was in two pieces, had a preschooler’s footprint on its paper and appeared to be out of ammo.

Which was when my son found that firing his finger worked just as well.

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Still with Jesus

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Crammed on this computer or the one across the room are memories of our kids learning to walk, of kids growing hair long enough to cut, kids toting cats, carving pumpkins, running through sprinklers, kids…growing up.

Only they exist in pixels.  Strictly…in pixels.

Some time around my son’s first birthday I stopped printing our digital pictures.  Or having them printed.  Or whatever it is that means we no longer passed around a stack of 4x6s or taped one to the fridge.

Seemed easy.

Um…

Or lazy.

And it’s possible something was sacrificed.

I’ve realized from the number of times my kids have pulled the tiny, red picture-wallet from my purse to reminisce about their smaller selves, that they long to see more pictures.  They long to remember being older than one and four.

Yesterday my son pointed to a small photo of just his sister.  He turned to her in the van.  ”Was I still with Jesus?” he asked.

She put her arm around his car seat.  He leaned in. “Yes,” she said.  ”I was two, and you were still with Jesus.”

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