Hot Syrup

 

When we arrived at the park on Sunday a most heavenly scent lured us from the parking lot.

 Hot maple syrup.  Sausage.  

Pancakes.

Breakfast in the woods.

We could not clamber fast enough to the pancake tent. 

First stop was the How To exhibit.

Two women were showing us how they tap trees, collect syrup, and cook it down to its most celestial forms.  Did you know that maple candy is what happens last when all the liquid evaporates and nothing but the sugar remains.  It was $15.00 per bag.  Which was fortunate because that seemed too steep a price to pay for more junk in my trunk.

 

   

And the angels sing.

Hallelujah.

The Pancake Cabin!
The origin of heavenly hot syrup love.

 

Kid Approved.

Not so much canine, though.  

 I stayed outside with Sadie Girl while the hungry ones dove face first into gigantic homemade pancakes inside the magical smoking house.

I tried to convince her we had it better outside near this sparkling lake but she was not impressed with our crystalline surroundings.

 She was not impressed at all.

 Sadie (and maybe me too) spent the whole hour staring at the elusive pancake building that seemingly swallowed her entire family whole.

 She (we) didn't smile until they returned...with pancakes.

And sausage.

Next up was time to play on the rocks...even though there was a perfectly great playground less than 8 feet away.

Kids preferred to helicopter with Dad and sun on the beach with Mom.

Which was more than okay with Mom and with Dad.

 

Abby has informed me that I am to sign her up for Rock Climbing and Sand Castling class this summer. 

 

I will see what I can do.

If not, I can always look for Flashdance Class.

And perhaps a dog obedience class too.

Ah, who am I kidding...

We love 'em naughty around here.

68

(We're getting a jump start on our tans around here.  By July we will go from toothpaste white to savagely eggshell.)

The thermostat climbed to a delicious almost 70 today.

So of course the kids wanted to go swimming.

Wonder how long before they realize neither of their post toddler bodies fit in this little tub.

(The water was as warm as bath water, I swear.)

And still, there were neighbors walking by with winter jackets, gloves and hats on.

I know, right?  Gloves and hat?

A little excessive.

Happy almost 70 degrees, east coast. 

(I'll write again tomorrow from the pediatrician's office after the kids spend all night sneezing and coughing because their mom can't wait for June.  We had a SUPER busy weekend that I can't wait to tell you about but right now my husband just got home early and I'm going to celebrate by making dinner for the children.  Something different for a Monday night.)

Together

Abby is balancing on the rock wall in our backyard, tipping herself this way, then that. She is completely unaware that her blonde locks are flowing like golden tendrils in the sky.

She has no idea she's beautiful.

Grayson, a dirty stick in each hand, is only paces ahead of her. He keeps looking back to make sure she hasn't slipped yet.

He has no idea he's the reason she feels so safe in a world that could swallow her whole but won't when he is by her side.

*************************************************************************

On our way to school there is a mom, a teenage boy and a teenage girl, I imagine her son and her daughter, in the car next to ours. They are not talking. They are not smiling. They've reached the point in their relationships when all things are separate. Separate minds, separate private bodies, separate and probably polar opposite ideas about what is important, I imagine.

Is there any way around it?

I close my eyes to listen to my children in the backseat. Abby chatters sweetly and Grayson chooses the last three words of hers to repeat again and again.

"Stop it!" she demands.
"Stop it!" he mimics.

"Grayson Noooooooooooooooo!" Her eyes burn hot with tears.
Grayson Noooooooooooooooo!" he tries out in a voice meant to sound like hers.

I remain neutral and mute. Their symbiotic fussiness comforts me and allows me the chance to drive right past the car with all the flatness, the separate people, the people who prefer silence.

**********************************************************

"Wait in here with me until the tornado stops, Abby." Grayson rushes her in the sunroom and heaves the sliding glass door closed. "It will pass soon, the trees were bending super low, Mommy."

"I am still alive, Mommy. I have berries in my basket to get the torn-in-nado!" Abby beams.

Grayson eyes the trees leaning over and decides it's safer inside. He locks the sunroom door for good.

We are all together feeding off each others moods, interfacing expressions, and imaginative play.

The day impacts us all the same way and I know this can't last forever.

I will just pretend it does.

Number 48

 

Hello you beautiful people 

An update about the Circle of Moms contest:  The Top 25 contest for blogs with Inspiring Families ended yesterday at 4pm and when I checked we were still in the forties, number 48! 

(Click here for the final 25.  They are an impressive bunch for certain.)

For this here small time family blog that doesn't register on many radars I think 48th is quite an accomplishment.  Personally, after reading through the others competing, I wondered what I was doing there at all so feel doubly grateful for your votes that helped rank us in the first place.  

The others listed are written about truly inspiring families overcoming obstacles far greater than our own.  I urge you to check them out.  And when you're sick of grabbing tissues, hop on over to the Top 25 Funny Moms contest.  The titles alone will make you giggle.  (Things Mommy Lied About, Nucking Futs Mama, Motherhood on the Rocks, Playgroups are No Place for Children, Wait in the Van, are some of my favorite titles.  

Another one I spent a long time reading and laughing about last night is called, Mothersofbrothersblog.  This author is friends with another blog called, Crack You Whip and  I'm pretty sure I fell asleep reading the  post about Wal-Mart because I couldn't let go of the funny and it was midnight.  

So yes, we may be small potatoes in a garden of plump zucchini but we are in the garden for sure.

We competed, you voted and I am ever contented to know my readers are the greatest gift to this One-Sided Momma and her small...potatoes.

Thank you.  Thank you so much.

xoxoxo

OSMA

Like Father, Like Son

Lately, Grayson has been waking up when Andy does.  Around 4:30am.  Grayson finds his daddy somewhere in the house and curls up next to him if he's asleep, waits for him on the stairs if he's putting on his boots or makes ridiculous requests for breakfast if he is reaching for his car keys.  

I didn't grow up with my dad in the house so I grew very attached to my uncle, my grandfather (with whom we did live) and later my step dad. Excellent and substantial substitutes for a girl missing her own dad.  

What I realize more than ever, now that I see it with my own eyes, is just how much a little boy needs his dad.  

 There is just so much to watch,

to learn,

to feel,

 

to become,

to follow.

Hard to substitute that.

You Have Mail

The thought occurred to me that I might give the impression of always loving my role as a stay-at-home mom. No? Not in the slightest? Why are you laughing?

Okay so humor me.

Just in the million to one chance you think I am always snapping photos of my children while getting my hair cut too short whilst also admiring the serenity and slime of my kitchen sink here's a peek into the real me. The me who most likely needs to apply to some part time job that requires intellect beyond Go Fish and ninja warrior overlords.

I love my family but Dear Heavens am I ready for some new blood experiences.

Case in point. An email I just sent to my husband. Please excuse the potty mouth. I'm not without every single flaw possible after 4pm. God save the queen.

Sent from my iPad

On Mar 5, 2012, at 4:04 PM I wrote:

omg if I have to play another round of ninja Lego warriors I'm going to take a ninja start to the jugular.  Is it possible to die of boredom?  If so, be sure you remember to clip Grayson's fingernails when I'm gone.  Abby's too but Grayson's grow like lies on Pinnochio.

Honey.  My brain is effing pissed off...NEED MORE MENTAL STIMULATION or else I'm going to throw myself into the computer and never come out.

Xoxoxoxox

(Then I realized there was a typo so I followed up with this:)

* ninja star to the jugular..that was STAR TO THE JUGULAR in case you missed that desperate cry for help.  Bring me home a dictionary or something.  Maybe a Reader's Digest?

FML

xoxoxoxo

Confession:  Playing ninja Lego warrior overlords with Grayson was actually a good time.  For an hour.  Then it got to be pretty much an exercise in maternal abuse wherein every move I made was criticized, corrected, and ultimately rejected from the game altogether.  Basically a metaphor for parenting young people.

(I put this on FB and immediately deleted it because Grayson looks completely nudie Buddah here.  He's actually in his undies which is still not FB material so that's why the disappearing status update act.  But how stinkin' cute are these little ninjas?)

Spring Sprang Sprung

 

By popular demand, here's another "spring" pictorama.

Though the fact that it was February and we are getting snow here today makes this anything but appropriate.

Most of these were taken at a local park we frequent when we don't have enough snacks to get us to Baltimore or D.C.

This day was fun because we all just went with the flow and the flow ended in hot cocoa and couch snuggling after we got home.

I really don't like to be vertical, do I?

This is "blueberry pie" which was prepared with a shovel and two loving little Abby hands.

 

Ah yes, this is the day I came down with the stomach bug.  No wonder I was jones-ing for lazy couch time.

I'm on the Edge

I heard the shutter this morning before opening my eyes.

Andy was taking pictures of something and I prayed it wasn't me sleeping.  Like a zombie.  A super unattractive bedhead zombie. 

It wasn't.

He captured a moment between friends.

Some time between midnight and 4am Abby slings our bedroom door open like a drunk cowboy, marches up to our bed, tosses both of her pillows on Sadie, and nestles down for the night.

Looks like Sadie has resigned herself as armchair. 

(P.S. The lump under the covers teetering off the mattress cliff is me.  The repelling dreams make sense now.)

Wild Life

 

"There is a keeyah way-al in my juice."  Abby decides coolly as she scoots her cup away from her plate.

"A...what?"  I ask.

"A keeyah way-al, Mommy.  I do not like keeyah way-als in my juice."

"Ohhh...a killer whale.  In your juice?"

"Mm Hm," she nods crunching on lettuce.

Abby's juice was a blueberry acai blend and it was darker than dark.  I watched her as she brought the little green cup to her lips, scanned its contents and placidly reject it by pushing her cup toward the middle of the table. 

Why she believed there to be a killer whale lurking in the shallow pool of her cup, I don't know.

But I admire her vision very much.

"There. I saw its tail splash,"  I report.

"You DID?"   Grayson's eyebrows hit the ceiling.

"Yes, definitely it was a splash.  Watch kids, watch closely now."  Grayson's smile spread across a scrunched up nose already sniffing toward the suspicious little green cup.

"Told you. A keeyah way-al."  Abby imparts.  "May I peas have a jooce-box?"

Because the Night

 

All my life, I've been a Night Owl.  My pale skin possibly to blame.

I'd typically slog through daylight hours.  Pretend my way through the loud and the bright work of responsibilities.  Then, about 8pm, a nocturnal surge would take place and my blood would run warm with the promise of all things possible under a handful of city stars. For years the moon was the pulse to my cellular makeup;  pressing me into streetlights and shadowy profiles. Everything is interesting in the dark.

In college, it's when I'd write papers or visit friends playing their cello in a private concert for five.

In high school I'd write in journals or hang out at the foot of my grandma's bed to watch the last half hour of Johnny on Late Night.

In elementary school, I'd sneak out of bed to eavesdrop on the low voices and secret adult conversations happening under yellow lights and crossed legs.

Night time was exhilarating, mysterious, romantic, and when all the really good stuff happened.

Now?

I cannot keep my damn eyes open after 8pm.

Best I can do is whimper to my pillow about how much my head hurts.

Gone is the mystique and l'amour of midnight.  I miss those blue hours where you get to play, express, explore or just meditate on sweetness.

Begrudgingly, I have become a Morning Person.

An annoying chipper, will probably telephone you at 7 a.m., Morning Person.

My kids are demanding Pop Tarts and chocolate milk by 5:45. I am pounding OJ and vitamins by 6:00.

Lunches and water bottles stand ready and able in the fridge, next to groceries just bought for actual recipes I intend to follow.

Clothes set out the night before are yanked on (backwards by Abby) and punctuated with toothpaste dots by 8:00.

I am holding metal strips on elliptical bars trying to get my heart rate above 136 an hour later. On purpose.

Nobody is more surprised than my mother.

Or more confused than me.

Who is this poser? Where did the real me go?

Maybe when the kids are older, things will get back to normal around here and I will slow dance with midnight again.