Skinned Knees

When your kids are little, your life revolves around them. If they are sick, the world stops and you take care of it. And everyone understands.
Stressful, yes. But then you are assured by those older and wiser that it won't be this way forever and soon they will be older and it will all get easier.
Those people lie.
It doesn't get easier. Your sick kid still needs you, but you feel guiltier for taking off work. And people tend to roll their eyes when you stay home with a 13 year old.
So tomorrow is my third day of school with students, and I am trying to do my job as a teacher and my job as a parent by scheduling a doctor's appointment after school but before open house. Parker had a very manly bike wreck a couple of days ago, managing to grind several layers of skin off his knee. Of course, I washed it with peroxide. Of course I have tended to it every day since with Neosporin. It's only a skinned knee, right?
Wrong.
It is not healing.
Ironically, the same thing happened to Hillary (even the same knee!) a few years ago and I let it go for quite a while before I broke down and took her to the doctor. It was infected, required a prescription, and healed almost immediately when we finally got the right med. So this time, I vow to head it off before he has to start school on Tuesday.
Unfortunately, our doctor is an hour away. I know, there are those who think I'm too...finicky (to put it kindly) for not using our local quacks. But I've been there, done that, and been given the wrong diagnosis and prescription.
I guess tomorrow will be one of those days where there isn't time for anything to go wrong. And if I so much as stub my toe, the whole carefully planned schedule will come crashing down.
But I will look on the bright side...
At least I have a job. And it could be worse than a skinned knee. And I have health insurance...and a doctor I trust. And my children are still home to mess with my schedule.
For now.

Through the Ghoul Gate

I just love read-alouds. I've read to my children since they were in the womb. I've even been known to tape record myself reading aloud to my husband so that he could "listen" to a book I knew he would never read. And if you think that my children growing up would stop storytime, you would be wrong. They still indulge me. Especially in the summertime. We find a few minutes almost every day to gather and share a book. (No small feat considering that everyone has something to do...and all those doings overlap or leapfrog each other so that getting all 4 of us in the same room at the same time is a small miracle). Everyone gets comfy and the only rule is that there are no rules. Text if you want...interrupt with a question or comment...request a "pause" to stick a pizza in the oven. Every summer I think "this will be the year they lose interest". But at the end of each chapter, someone asks for just one more. And if we skip a day, someone asks "Aren't we reading today?"
This summer we are reading "The Graveyard Book" by Neil Gaiman. We love him because he is wildly imaginative and creepy enough to send a chill down our spines between chuckles. Anyway, the boy in this story is being raised by ghosts in a graveyard, and has adventures and learns lessons just like any child would. And today he went through the Ghoul Gate. He was feeling unloved and put-upon by the ghostly adults in his life and went to a deserted corner of the graveyard to sulk. Three ghouls came along and convinced him to go with them. They made it sound so good that he said yes.
And I stopped to inquire of my listeners thoughts on the matter. Good decision or bad?
Hillary paused in her texting and said, "Bad"
Parker immediately said, "Good!"
Good? Why?
"Because he'll have an adventure. And by the time he gets home, he will have learned to appreciate his life and all the people in it."
Pretty deep for a 13 year old. And of course he was right. But how many of us can see at the beginning of a hard and scary thing that we will be better off when it's over? Even the bible tells us to give thanks in everything and rejoice when we are persecuted. Easy to read...hard to do. But in the end, isn't that what life is about?
Having an adventure.
And appreciating it.

So You Think You Can Dance

Hillary has always been a dancer.
When she was little, she would turn on her music (via her indestructible Fisher Price tape player) and gyrate and jump til she was completely out of breath. Her moves consisted mostly of jumping quickly from foot to foot, throwing her arms wide, and then slicking her hair behind her ears, just to start all over again. And, being the proud mama I was, I would clap and cheer and video it all.
And now that she's tall and willowy, every move she makes seems set to music. And she picks up new dances with ease.
I guess she doesn't get it from her mother.
Just last night, I was putting cookies in the oven, she was perched on the counter top, texting and talking all at once, and Parker was turning up the music (because it's never quite loud enough). I closed the oven door, potholder in hand, and got the sudden urge to try my hand (or butt as the case may be) at "popping". I loosened up...planted my feet...put my hands on my knees...and shook my booty. Parker said nothing, but moved behind the safety of the bar. Hillary glanced up from her texting.
"Is this how they do it?" I asked, now jumping slightly with my calves and succeeding at jiggling not only my "junk" but my upper arm fat as well.
"Is that how they do what?" she asked skeptically.
"You know...that dance. I've seen people do it."
She raised one eyebrow and said, "I've never seen anybody do that!"
Nevertheless, I kept at it, watching my reflection in the glass patio doors and trying different methods. Hillary proceeded to laugh herself off the countertop and into the floor.
I have to admit, I've never been known for my rhythm. During one high school dance, a group of well-meaning African American friends circled me, determined to "get Fonda her groove on." And they gave it a good go. But they weren't miracle workers and eventually admitted defeat. Hillary, being young and optimistic and ignorant of past failed attempts, gamely suggested I try something easier...like a dance with actual steps.
As luck would have it, it was time for the cookies to come out of the oven. So the dancing stopped and the eating began. And thank goodness...my calves were cramping and my fat was starting to hurt.
I guess I'll stick to baking and leave the dancing to her.

Walk this way

I miss my kids.
As they get older, they have a way of finding things for themselves to do that don't include me.
As I write this, Hillary is off on an adventure with some girl friends. They drove two hours away to eat at a famous restaurant that throws your food at you. Although, she did text her dad that the main reason for the trip was to scope out cute waiters...and theirs is NOT. Oh well.
And Parker is in another state, traveling and visiting relatives with his grandparents. And loving the fact that he's the "only child" for a while, I'm sure.
But the silver lining is that, with no one in the house but me and Yancey, we can take the time to snuggle a little longer. Then have coffee on the couch. And take our morning walk.
How luxurious to spend hours a day in focused conversation with a man who loves me.
So as hard as it is to watch your kids grow up and leave the nest (even for short, trial flights!) I'm glad that God is helping me learn to walk this way.

Empty beach...full heart

My sister and I arrived at the beach early this morning. We wanted to beat the heat, and the tourists. No matter how many times I've seen it, the ocean never disappoints. The blues and greens..the crashing white foamed waves...the soft wind and the deceptively friendly sun. As I walked along the edge, looking for shells for Cassie, I noticed a small boy and his mom building a sand castle. I smiled, remembering the castles I've built (or watched be built) with my kids. Being here without them has been different. Every time I see a dolphin I want to turn and say, "Look, kids!" When we ride in the boat with Stewie (the dachshund) standing guard with his long chocolate ears flapping in the wind, I want to laugh with them. But they are living their own life back home. Marching in the Fair Parade, going out with friends, and visiting grandparents. And I will see them in a few days.
So I sit here on the beach. It's empty except for an old man with a metal detector, and a mother and child building a small city. And I smile and thank God for all the memories I've been allowed to collect over the years. Each one as beautiful and as different as the shells Cassie is picking up. And my heart is full.

Hmmm

Yes, that is a firecracker in a slingshot.

As creative and daring as this trick is...I fear it could give new meaning to the old phrase, "Look, ma, no hands!"

Engineer in the Making

An old piece of siding, a patio table, a firework, and a lighter...just imagine what the boy could do with a roll of duct tape!