Last week, it was Lindsay’s turn to write her school’s morning message, a short, informative passage that is read over the PA system and broadcast to all the classrooms in her school. The night before, we sat together in my office, both of us writing. I tried to concentrate on my projects, struggled not to interfere or hover. I did my best to just work alongside her…two writers, hard at their craft. I peeked only once to see her biting her lower lip and concentrating on what began as an empty page. When she finished, I listen both as a parent and a writer. What I heard made me swell with pride–my daughter managed to squeeze the news of newly hatched chicks and her production of the play “Cats,” into one creatively designed paragraph. A 7 year old masterpiece:

“Good morning chicks! It is the 153rd day of school. Get excited! Today the third graders are going to play with the chicks with us! We have P.E. today. Can you believe it! All the chicks hatched! Today is my play–let’s have fun and be cats!”

Let's all be cats!

And what a cat she was.

Long before we found our wonderful new home and decided to move, we enrolled Lindsay in a theater group. June seemed unimaginably far off as we looked over the schedule for Lighthouse Youth Art Center’s production of Cats. As fate would have it, her much-anticipated debut coincides almost exactly with the final stages of our move. All of our pre-moving work has been accompanied by the unique vocal stylings of Lindsay, belting out chorus after chorus of “Memories.”

But I’ve discovered an excellent cure for moving stress: face painting. For one solid week, I blocked out time to practice under a true face painting master, Ruth Pope. While I am very confident with a leash in my hand, the finer points of faux fur and whiskers eluded me at first. Bohdie was a willing volunteer, graciously allowing me to practice my technique all week long. Not surprisingly, he liked being a dog.

The night of the production went well. Although Ruth cranked out three or four cats to every one of mine, I think I did okay. For her part, Lindsay, resplendent in a black leotard with yarn fur, sang and danced like a Broadway veteran. I thought I had had enough of “Memories,” but I found myself humming it for days.

{ 0 comments }

The day before had been a sunny 69 and as I drove around from appointment to appointment I dreamed of taking my youngest puppy—my two year old son somewhere special the next day. Just me and my boy: Mommy and me time to make up for my absence. The little thumbnails on my IPhone promised another sunny day. It was settled—we were going to Muscoot Farm.

Forgetting to actually look outside I got the kids dressed in shorts and tee-shirts, packed the camera, and was half way to drop off my daughter at school before I noticed the clouds. Should we turn back and get coats, long sleeve, pants? Of course, the cold doesn’t deter my kids or dampen my son’s enthusiasm for pigs, goats and tractors, so I yielded to the chorus of “Nos” in the backseat and drove on. How cold could it be?

Well, it was cold. I was shivering. Miserable…wanting to be somewhere, anywhere, inside and warm. I longed for adult conversation and stimulating interaction, instead I was freezing, inhaling manure…with a looming decision of whether to start with the turkeys or the beeline to the pigs.

But then it hit me: the vision of my son, a boy in shorts, a miniaturized man on a mission. He paused immediately to take in the sheep—her teats protruding with not one by two lambs suckling simultaneously. Now that was interesting. The tractor held unlimited possibilities and photo opps. And then one of those moments every mother lives a question only a child staring up into the face of Bull would think to ask: “Mommy, do cows eat people?” “No, Bobo, cows don’t eat people, They just eat hay.” Relieved, we went on.

And so now as I scan through the memories of the week, one moment stands out—and not because of personal discomfort, but because I was there when my son asked a most important question, and there to hold his hand just in case I was wrong.

{ 0 comments }

In less than 3 weeks, we’re moving out of the house I’ve raised myself in. For almost 16 years, I’ve lived in and loved my little village home. The memories that I’ve packed so tightly into it – of my kids, my husband, my dogs…pretty much my whole adult life – will follow me to my new home, but I look at all the boxes and I can’t help but feel nostalgic, emotional, a little sad and seriously, seriously tired.

Goodbye my sweet village home...

Boxes

Time is flying and I’m spending too much time over-taping boxes and waffling over whether or not to pack certain items. Will we need the wine glasses in the next three weeks? Almost certainly. The blender? Maybe. Popcorn popper? Rice steamer? Lobster pot? No, no, no…and why do we have a lobster pot? I hate the lobster pot! It’s big, unwieldy and really, will we ever boil a lobster alive? I doubt it.

I am beginning to loathe the boxes. I feel a strong urge to pack them, label them and deposit them at the curb with a big “FREE!” sign attached to them. Roman, lover of boxes and all things within them, will never allow this, so I’m free to indulge these fantasies.

The boxes are closing in...

Living on Bohdie Time
In desperate need of a break, I actually let Bohdie talk me in to letting him skateboard to the coffee shop. He’s not yet 3 and oh yeah, he can’t skateboard. So this little venture took almost an hour. The dude-in-training got to practice his low-rider boarding skills, Balder got to practice his herding techniques and I got to caffeinate. So it all worked out.

Herd that boy off the streets!

The Umbrella
Bohdie and Lindsay have been going through a rough patch. For several months, every meal was prefaced by “No hitting, no name-calling and no hair-pulling.” It was like our very own alternative version of Grace. But suddenly, the storm passed. I discovered them yesterday, playing with an umbrella (I’ve packed a lot of the toys), using it as a sort of parent shield. They’ve united against a common enemy: Roman and me. It’s like they’ve discovered their mutual kid-ness, a trait far cooler than our parent-ness. I’ve noticed this behavior in dogs, and wrote a column about it, and it’s surprisingly similar.

A generation divide!

Any tips for surviving the stress of a move would be greatly appreciated. Send your ideas…quick! The boxes are closing in.

{ 0 comments }