Refueling Station

I consider this tour in Louisiana our Refueling Tour.  And I am standing at the pump with the car off and windows down.

At this billet, Andy has predictable and stable hours.  He is not required to work weekends.  There is even some flexibility in his schedule that allows him to make important kid functions for the first time ever. Here, he can be an active husband, parent, and a Marine.  Whereas before, in all of our other tours, his work was so intensive that all of his time had been spoken for by the Marine Corps.  Not that different from many civilian jobs as I understand it.  I swear America does it the hard way.  We are a strong nation with wide shoulders because of it but it is definitely the hard way.

The kids are flourishing here.  Both love their schools, enjoy extra-curricular activities and have made good friends in the neighborhood to play with which is novel for them.  Before we were motoring to parks to get in a play date with friends before fighting an hour's drive through traffic back home.

While I haven't taken advantage of the Cajun music or food scene much, I am thriving here too.

With more support from Andy on the home front, my time is becoming less frenetic.  I no longer feel so anxious and alone.  Yes there are still uni-lateral decisions, solo trips the pediatrician's, and single parenting schleps to a parent-teacher conference (with an over-tired sibling in tow) but they have lost their weight.  My body is not heavy with the knowledge I must get up and do it all over again alone for months on end.  A new scaffolding exists.  A happy family hammock.

For the first time in several years, we are in place where we can all refuel.

I am filling up my tank that I depleted so much there were cracks in its foundation.  Large, scissoring, wicked cracks.  Nobody but me is responsible for dehydrating my tank so badly.  It was a case of good intentions, fractured exhaustion, and striving for an unrealistic standard I created myself.  Not one of my friends would've cared if they sat in a dusting of dog hair on my couch.  Every single one of them would've come over to make my kids dinner while I went upstairs to fall into a coma short sleep.

That tank might've lasted longer if I forced more naps and attended fewer volunteer opportunities; cared less about seeming strong than being rested.  That tank would've teetered above E if I would've been kinder to myself and let the clean laundry live in the baskets or serve the kids a curb-side IHOP dinner on Fridays. Nobody but me kept that bar up so damn high.    

Ah, but we all have the magic hindsight, don't we?

Luckily, that phase of our life has come and gone and the kids are growing up.  Now that Grayson is at school full time, he requires less direction from me during daytime hours.  He is largely self-sufficient with his morning own care and has become uber responsible about due dates and his homework at night.  We hope this trajectory continues and vaporizes into Abby's mind when it's her turn.

Abby is going to school every day too but only for 4 hours.  She is largely the reason I don't need a gym membership.  We never stop moving.  Abby is a one-person Cirque du Soleil, The Musical.  Because of her age, she leans heavily on me for her personal care and entertainment before and after school.  Most of the time I can hang and come up with fun things but there are minutes when I am 40 and must tap out.  That's when she is parked her in front of Curious George so I can detox from socializing (yes, socializing even with her wears me out.  "It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.")

Those detox minutes are precious.  They are standing at a quiet pump, refueling an empty tank leftover from gritty years in Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Virginia.   Good years but lacking wisdom or grace.

My default detox is grabbing the camera and heading to the duck pond.  I turn, squat, lean, and bend to align myself with the sun to make a pretty glow.  Trying to capture what is only there for a momentary stretch. Nikon Yoga.  

Another creative tank is guitar.  While I still really suck at it and probably never will be able to play more than Jewel's Morning Song, practicing reminds me growth often comes from pain.  The strings physically hurt, my fingers stretch beyond their wildest dreams, and my voice struggles to climb around a harmony.   G chord Therapy.

Finally and maybe the most addictive tank has been advocating for death row animals.  Every free moment brings a chance to sign online and crosspost a sentient life that doesn't stand a chance without it.  Just by sharing, this pet will have up to thousands more people looking at it and becoming aware of its plight.  There can be no empathy without awareness.  The beauty of social networking is that it can be utilized for posting a pic of your Girls' Night Out martini and posting a pet in NYC to be seen across the globe in a matter of seconds...very crucial, life altering seconds.  To me, it's the best use of networking there is.  Dogmatic Truth.

Did my empty tank require a move to Louisiana?  No.  I could've done all of this back in our old place but something about starting over helped me do the same.

It's good to be filling back up the old me.  I've missed patience, a surplus of affection, and time to give myself.  Yes, myself.   When we are strung out and barely hanging by a thread, we don't stop.  The only reason we are still able to give to others is because we are leaching it from ourselves.  We deplete our own tank.  Our kids don't take it without our permission, our partners don't rob us blind in the dark, our parents and/or friends don't strip of energy until we let them.  We push ourselves, cover up fatigue, drag along a weary body that just wants to go to a spa for 60 million hours.

I don't know what it was for me:  this far away move, a death of a beloved one, a click of the psyche.  But I feel we all  get there eventually.  We land ourselves in a place - both figuratively and literally - that allows us to slow down, refocus and refuel.  A cracked foundation leads to erosion of the entire property.  And my property was beginning to recede into the ocean.

My tank isn't full yet and might not ever be but that's ok.  We live in the south now.  There is nobody hurrying me along.  I can sit here with the car off and the windows down for as long as it takes.

Water Balloons and Hammocks

We knew something was up when Abby regressed into not having a "thing to wear" while her wardrobe is filled with the softest clothes this side of the Delaware River.

Andy thought of taking her temperature before I did.

103.9

Aha.  Why don't I ever think of that first?

We Tylenol'ed her right away and felt confident she would be feeling better in 20 minutes.

I took myself straight to Giant for chicken soup ingredients, frosting for a doll party Abby insisted on having, and TP.  Three hours later (Someone got carried away reading labels.), I came back home to find Abby's fever was worse, not better.

Andy was buzzing back and forth talking about emergency rooms and cold baths.  Poor man.  He lives with so much stress on his shoulders all the time and this surprise fever was not on his syllabus.  His motherboard short-circuited so I put grocery bags in his hand to calm him down.  Food and organizing the pantry is his happy place.

Even with Tylenol, Abby's fever sky rocketed above 104.  Thankfully, a kind nurse on the phone squeezed us in as the last appointment for the day.

Abby's doctor couldn't have been better.  She took one look at Abby glossy eyes and flaming throat and called it. "Strep."  She was so sure in fact, that she wrote out a prescription for amoxi before we went to the lab downstairs.

Minutes after Abby and the tech tussled, the strep test came back positive.  Thank goodness, an actual diagnosis; something we can work with.  Not a mysterious ailment bringing with it a fever connected to nothing.  I will take strep any day of any week.

But poor kid, she really did have a rough day yesterday between body aches, chills, and generally feeling like hell.  I knew she was hurting when she shunned a Strawberry Shortcake marathon for her own bed and closed shades.



Grayson watched TV most of the day because Andy was stuck outlining historical wars in the study and I couldn't spin the nurse plate and the 5 yo boy plate just then.

By the time I was finished sponging down Abby's scalding hot body, it was near 4pm.

"Can we have a water balloon fight, Mommy?"

Seriously, kid?  I'll have you know I want to curl up on that there couch you've been camped out on all day to close my eyes and dream of rocking in a hammock over fields of barley.

"A water balloon fight.  Okay, yes. Go get your shoes on."

With that, I forced myself to ignore the great desire so sleep and we had ourselves a grand time.

 Granted, the water hose was not the fastest method but it got the job done.

 Which gave Grayson plenty of time to practice his I-Will-Crush-You-Like-A-Samurai faces

 This one kind of had me nervous.

 "I won't throw these at you, Mom!"

 "I will LAUNCH them at you like the scary ball of boy angst that I am!!"

 Ahhh, the One-legged death toss!!

 He even had the dogs running.

 But look who came outside with us later on for a quick visit?  

She didn't last very long but it was good to see her upright again.

I guess sometimes a water balloon fight really is much better than a boring old hammock anyway.

Geriatric Ruby

Abby and Grayson are being forced into mandatory rest time today. I do this every couple of weeks to recalibrate them since neither one naps anymore.

Somehow Grayson got roped into telling stories about Max & Ruby.

Let's just say the macabre apple did not fall far....

Click here for what is my son's last go at story telling.

"Elk" the Shelf Elf

Have you heard of The Elf on the Shelf?

It's a Christmas gimmick going around this year about a little stuffed elf that has magical powers. He is discovered somewhere in the house and watches over the kids in the house to make sure they are nice and not naughty. He then flies off at night to report back to Santa about his findings.

He is an adorable little narc found by Grayson in our kitchen this morning. Grayson was totally buying what the elf was selling.

Abby?

She is our in house skeptic.

Here's the video.

Abby is now wandering the house with a comforter over her head so the elf cannot see her. I guess naughty is not visible through a cotton and nylon blend.

Happy Friday!

10 Holes are Better than None

Oh you dirty bird, this is not that kind of blog.

The verdict from yesterday?  Mini golf.  I took the kids and I mini golfing for the first time.  Their first time ever, my second time since going en mass with friends in college while drinking cranberry vodka out of paper cups.  Oh my, how I miss those days.  Flannel shirts and hiking boots.  Pear Jam and Speedy Subs.  The Library and Fawley's Music Shop. Poli-Sci and Taming the Shrew.  Walking through cemeteries to feel alive and scribbling in notebooks about the years of those reduced to memories and weathered headstone font, impermanent despite itself. Waiting in between classes under a tree large enough to hug me from the sun and small enough to welcome a cute boy with black rimmed glasses.  I had a goth heart and a Pollyana face but I would never know the difference. Those beauteous days of yore... 

What were we talking about?

Right, kids and making memories, I'm back to 2011, dammit.

Imagine the kids' surprise when we didn't pull up to Target.  They were all, "Mommy, tell me where we are!  Is this the garden we went to with Miss Sara?  Is it?  IS IT?!?" 

Me:  Nope, not the garden.  Guess again.

The Grayson part of They:   The water park we went to with Daddy last Tuesday?  (It was weeks ago and a Saturday but you're four.)

Me:  Nope, and lower your standards please.  Guess again.

They:  JUST SAY IT MOMMY.

Me:  We are.........at the MINI GOLFING PLACE WAHOOOOOOO!

They:

Me:  Hello?

They:  Where are we? (smiling- despite the general lack of terminology)

Me:  C'mon, you'll love it.  Let's go check it out.

And check it out we did.

 Abby made it exactly 2 greens before she decided climbing trees was a better way to spend her time.

Grayson remained poised, however, and ever serious about learning the craft that is getting that little puckered golf ball into the hole in less than three strokes.



I told him he had four but three was his personal challenge because that child is his father's son when it comes to athleticism.  He doesn't know it yet, but not everyone has the hand-eye coordination of a hawk and the patience to steady yourself at age four.  I commend him for his prowess long before he even knows it exists.  Shame on me if this kid does not participate in an organized sport this fall.  He has already graduated from me as his coach and then some.

While playing our game, we got squeezed between a mom and her two boys in front, and a family of mixed generations behind us.  Somehow, on the grandmother's watch, the little girl from her party ended up taking a turn alongside Grayson and by the time we finished they were permanently up in front of us, behind the mom with two sons.

(Abby got a picture of "The Squeezers.")

 I was plenty annoyed but didn't see the point in making a fuss since Abby was scaling retaining walls and climbing the backs of plastic swans.  We were short timers anyway.


 (Another Abby Cam shot.  Apparently, I have a question.)





(Also?  I left my *%$# purse in the car.)


We made it about 10 holes when Sister Meltdown commenced.  She spotted a playground 900 yards away and had to be there right now let's go I want swing Mommy push me high Brubba please oh please can we go.

 (Abby's face after she learned we were leaving the golf portion of our day.)

We went.  Of course we went.  It was only 12:45.

The rest of the afternoon went way less choreographed but well nonetheless.

Kids made their own lunches.  This is new and it is grueling.  A two year old does not belong with a jar of peanut butter, ever. 

After lunch, I glanced at the clock just knowing it had to be almost 2:30.

It was 1:15. 

I grabbed a cold coffee, a smile, and a football as we all made our way to the backyard.  Abby interested herself in giving her baby girls a swim.



 Looks like a tragic afternoon to me but I'm trying to be open minded.

Grayson and I had SO much fun with Abby's pink football.  I think I was meant to be a linebacker.  Or a kicker.  Or some kind of person who throws footballs for a living because holy heavens, you guys, that is a good time.

There was even a football breeze, the kind that makes you hungry for Saturdays.

The autumn's on its way breeze you can smell right before people start hunting for pumpkins and Thanksgiving recipes.  There is nothing better than the fall.  Not even throwing a pink football to my kids in the backyard although that is a screaming second.

So, all in all, we had a DAY.  All our days are capital days it seems.  One afternoon, probably not too far off in the distance, I will look back on my time as their primary fun provider and wish for it all back.  For now?  I'm so freaking glad it's Wednesday.

 Wait, it's Tuesday, isn't it?