These days I’m grateful more than ever that Rob has a good job. Not just a good job, but a job he likes. A career that has allowed me to stay home with the kids while they’re small.
Skills! Here he is, turning an ancient hand-me-down computer into a kid-computer. Brilliant. (One of the many reasons I’m grateful for him too).
To all the mamas. Mine, and hers, and hers, and all the way on back. To my mama friends, who love my kids. To the mama-figures, in my life, past and present. And to all the future mamas, who will share this gratitude someday.
Not just a break for the kids.
A break from: packing nightly lunches, dragging the girl out of bed in the morning, watching the clock at breakfast, drop-off, pick-up, homework, bath-brush-books-bed, routine routine routine.
No, the routine is not actually going completely out the window; I’m just grateful we’ll have a little room to breathe. More time to play with friends. More time to jump in the leaves. More time to run around the yard until dark. Or even after.
And I’ll also be grateful when school starts again.
I’ve mentioned that I’m surrounded by musicians, but I’m also surrounded by pilots. Growing up, other kids had dads working on old cars in the garage. Mine was working on old airplanes.
Family trip? Head to the neighborhood airport and pack the 4-seater Cessna. My stepmom took her first solo flight at 40. I’m getting close to that age myself and don’t think I’m brave enough for a pilot’s licence. Despite the fact that I grew up in small aircraft and love flying, I think the pilot gene passed me by.
I wish this wasn’t so. Maybe it’s because my early driving record was not… stellar. And there is no such thing as a flying fender-bender.
So perhaps the pilot gene skips a generation? Last year my dad completed building his RV-8. It’s a speedy little stunt plane and unbelievably fun. Violet was just tall enough this summer to see out the canopy with her booster seat strapped into the cockpit. Her first flight.
I assumed she would get a little nervous, maybe even air-sick. So I suggested my dad just run the flight pattern and land. But oh no. She could not. Get. Enough.
She was fascinated and thrilled didn’t bat an eye at any kind of turbulence or G-force or speed. I think she would have begged for a barrel roll if she knew what one was.
Afterwards she immediately went to the fair and rode the roller coaster 27 times.
So yeah. She could be a pilot. Violet the Pilot. I would be proud.
It’s true. My parents are cooler than me, and my daughter is too. At least I get to hang out with them.
I think the way we humans grow teeth is pretty disgusting. First of all, whoever thought it was a good idea to slice open tender baby gums with sharp pointy bone is really very sick. Then those hard-earned chompers fall out. With blood. And leave gory holes.
It’s a horror show.
Yet the kids make it look awkwardly cute. They’re so excited and proud and full of anticipation as they tuck their tiny pointy bloody prizes under their pillow. What could be sweeter?
And now I know that we don’t call them baby teeth because of when they appear, but because each time one falls out, the child looks less and less like the baby they used to be.
This week, all the lights went out in my kitchen. (Aside from a solitary mini over the sink.) Graham was sick, it was cold and rainy and I just didn’t have it in me to climb a ladder, take apart the fixture, drag the boy to the store, find the proper bulbs, and do it all again in reverse. So this is how I cooked for several days:
Awesome!
I’ve spent a lot of time cursing the blockhead who designed these cookie-cutter 1970′s homes. Why would anyone purposely put a galley kitchen in a house? Of course, until the kids were born we didn’t spend a whole lot of time in there. So it didn’t seem much of an issue when we bough the place. Now, however, I dream of an expansive kitchen… maybe an island… lots of counter space and storage… open to the rest of the house so I don’t feel like some kind of scullery maid… big enough to entertain guests (who always end up in the kitchen, no matter the size). Ahhhh…
But, this week, as I smoothly moved around my nearly dark cave, I realized it isn’t all bad. Such a small space has forced me to be rigorously organized. I have only the tools, dishes, appliances and supplies I absolutely need. Cleaning takes no time. I can put away groceries, empty the dishwasher, cook meals and do the dishes without taking more than two steps in any direction. These are things I will miss when I have my dream kitchen.
And also? When the polar ice caps melt and we’re all living on boats, I’ll be totally prepared.
Remember when Graham was born? And the first thing barely two-year-old Violet said when she saw him was “I hold him!” And she would cover him with stickers and crush him with hugs? Well, she has been crushing him with love ever since. She is always thinking of him, protecting him, helping him, teaching him, sharing with him. She really is a sweet big sister.*
Case in point (written when Graham was sick):
Translation:
“My Wish List
*When they’re not trying to kill each other.
Okay, I don’t mean “Yay! My kid is sick!” Of course I hate to see them suffer. And I don’t love the sleepless nights and rivers of snot and feeling like every surface will be covered in germs forever.
But there is something sweet about sick days. No to-do lists, no gym, no errands, no chores, no TV rules. Toast for dinner. The only thing that needs to be done is to help a little body feel better while it fights off the Yuck. And that duty mostly amounts to making tea and snuggling on the couch while watching loads of TV.
This sweetness does have an expiration date. After about 2 days the novelty wears off and we all start to get sick and tired of being sick and tired. So I’m hoping for a sudden miraculous recovery tomorrow, and praying this particular illness passes over the rest of the household.
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