Saturday, July 31, 2010

Summer Lovin'

Reasons I am deeply in love with summer (in no particular order):

- Feeling the sun's oven-breath on my skin

- Fireflies

- Shoelessness (and socklessness. C'mon)

- The beach

- The beauty of sunburned cheeks and highlighted hair

- The task of "folding" laundry is simpler when it's primarily dresses/skirt to be hung.

- The sound of wind rustling leaves. Oh, I love that sound.

- I became a wife in the summer

- Freezy Pops

- The smell of freshly cut grass

- The look of freshly cut grass

- My kids can play OUTside

- Fires in the pit out back

- Park visits, repetitive as they can be at times

- Longer days

- Summer nights

- Star-watching while laying on a warm, country road

- The pond by my house has frogs that fill the air with their sounds

- Packer fans are on the DL

- Picnics

- I fist earned the name "Mom" in the summer

- The sound of rain

- Playing in the rain

- Playing in the ensuing mud

- Washing the car outside with someone and soaking each other

- Humming birds

- Fresh vegetables

- No need to scrap ice from the car, shovel the driveway, or risk frostbite

- Hammocks

- Cook-outs

- The soothing hum of box fans

- Laughter and screams from children running through the sprinkler

- The blueness of the sky

- The smell of gasoline from a lawn mower, boat, ATV. . .

- Air show

- All the good movies come out

- Taking my kids out for ice cream and watching them eat it too slowly to stay clean

- Spending so much quality time with good friends

- The temperature

- Everyone has their vitamin D, so they're generally happier

- Outdoor coffee dates

- Because of the nice, even heat, I can pick out my kids' clothes for a whole week straight

- Grass under my feet

- Big, dumb June bugs

- Sitting on the front steps to paint my toenails

- Fireworks

- Thunder storms

- Dewy grass

- Sunflowers

- An even layer of sand coating the carpet in my mini van

Monday, July 26, 2010

The Root Note

I attended a 2-hour meeting today. With my kids. Do I have any takers on guessing how much of the actual meeting I listened in on? You get the idea. And since they were basically ignored (with the exception of course of the constant "Knock it off" or "Don't do that again" kind of thing) for the 2 hours, they came home needing even more attention. Making lunch proved difficult with constant demands. Demands like start the movie, chocolate milk please, no, I wanted strawberry milk, pick me up, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, I want to go outside, I need to go poopy. On and on it went. Add to the demands about 200 gigga-Jules of energy (per child), and it was a quick run to my cell phone to text the husband and ask what my chances were of possibly getting out of the house tonight. His response was that he took the night off specifically to spend it with me, but that I could go anyway :) He's my favorite.

I was bragging about this privilege to a friend of mine, and she asked where I was going. I gave her the typical "Caribou" to which she responded, "Have you ever been to The Root Note?" I had never heard of the place, but she said it's "a hippy place," which is a turn-on for me. So I tried unsuccessfully to find it on-line, called to check on the very important "free wi-fi" info, and began my journey to the place.

It must be newer, because even though it's store front can't be found on Google Maps, it's easily found on 4th Street across from Coney Island and Deaf Ear Records.

Off subject a bit, I took a walk around down town a few weeks go with my kids that jump-started a love for this city that I've hated for so many years. I like the artsy, quaintness of its age and it's old, dingy, knick-knacky stores.

Anyway, you walk in the door to an ordering counter, inlaid with natural stones. There is an herb garden growing to your immediate right. A pleasant, very "chill" guy walked up to take my order. I tell him I'm usually a coffee drinker (since their chalk-board menu says nothing about coffee), and he offers me tea as a change-up. My fear was that hippies have outgrown coffee. Thankfully, I was wrong. So I unconfidentally ordered a "mocha-minty thing," completely spacing that I need it to be decaf if I intend to sleep any time in the next several days. Oh well. At least I ordered a small. He says he'll deliver it to me.

So I begin to stroll the lengthy cafe, trying to stay inconspicuous-- like I'm not a nube, but am instead a cool, sophisticated regular. Down with the times. I see several people lounging in the squishy couches. One guy with a fanny pack and beret covered a couch with just his "stuff" but was sitting away from it. I was almost to the end of my loop, so I slid into a table against a wall behind a thin, hat-wearing, multi-braceleted, multi-pierced maybe 18-year-old guy who was writing away in his leather-bound journal.

I unloaded my laptop only to realize I had chosen one of the only tables without an outlet nearby. Of course, the journaling, decorated teenager ahead of me had one just above his head. Another option was directly beside what would be a distracting table of yappy, yuppie businessmen. They turned out to be having a meeting about a play one of the men was evidently writing and possibly directing. Though their clean, dressy appearance put them as out of place as my grandparents at a Metallica concert, they were very much in their own element.

I began my move toward the men and noticed that my movement had attracted the attention of the teenager-- who was actually a woman in her late 30's. Oops. Anyway, I broke the awkwardness and answered her unspoken question with "I need a power outlet. I can't believe I forgot." Without blinking, she offered to pick up all her things and move so I could take the table. "I'm low tech tonight," she assured. I graciously took her up on it, apologized, and moved in.

A few minutes later, a pleasant, "chill" young lady with dreds, uniformed the same as my cashier glided to my table and smoothly, jokingly apologized for accidentally making my coffee a large instead of small. Thinking only of the amount of caffeine I was about to ingest, I returned her demeanor and jested that I wasn't sure I could handle that kind of mess-up, but that I'd let it slide this time.

For the record, it is g.o.o.d. coffee.

Right now, I'm listening to "Stairway to Heaven" on classical guitar, and it's incredible. Just a side note.

The table in front of me has a single, waxy leaf in a vase of water. The entire length of ledge above my head is lined with syrups for coffee. There's a hot-tub shaped wooden box in the corner by the playwrights with big rocks and plants over a black tarp-- as if to make a pond but missing the water. The lighting is accomplished with typical cone-shaped, naturally colored, down-facing glass fixtures.

"Chill" is the best word for The Root Note. I feel as though I should drop my voice low and smooth it out like hot fudge in order to speak here. I should also have sun glasses and a beret. It's a sweet place, and I recommend it.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

On the Offensive

Every now and then, one or both of my kids makes the decision to amp up their energy level. Sometimes it's caused by a lack of sleep. Sometimes it's too much sugar. It always happens to my daughter after bath time. I have yet to fully understand this anomaly. Whatever the reason, my daughter picked tonight as her night to surge our world with electric energy.

It took no time at all for us to decide that our evening plans would include a trip to our local McDonald's Play Place. Of course that room is always a grab bag for who your kids will get to play with. Age, temperament, size, shyness are all unpredictable and uncontrollable variables.

I sent Rodney into the den with our little lions while I ordered a cone-in-a-cup and smoothie to share (which our 1-year-old quickly confiscated). Yes, obviously sugar isn't ideal when the 3-year-old is already off the chain, but I figured she would be playing so hard that it wouldn't matter.

Upon my arrival at our table, a little girl in tears who I would guess to be about 8 rushed past me to her unsympathetic father. Also in tears and on her heels was what I assumed to be her little brother. She complained that "that kid" punches really hard. The dad simply argued that she had been laughing and playing just minutes before and that she was fine.

The only other table in the area was one with a man in his mid to late twenties with the physique of a UFC fighter, a man probably in his early sixties, and four kids-- three beautiful, blond boys and one pudgy little girl. They seemed well-behaved enough. I suspected the man in his twenties was the father, but he said almost nothing the entire visit. It was instead the grandfatherly man (who actually looked a lot like the guy on History Channel's show "Mail Call") who asked if "his kids" were doing anything wrong.

The crying girls' father brushed it off, but the older man forced a little boy to apologize anyway. Fair enough, I guess. Sometimes kids hit, right?

This particular Play Place has several "windows" that allow visual connection between children and adults. And only a few minutes after the kids had cheered up and gone in to play again, I saw one of the blondies punch the previously-crying boy twice. From where I was, I could not tell whether it was provoked, but I began to feel very uncomfortable. I considered heading home, but I figured I was the only one who had noticed, and maybe there was some sort of rivalry going on in the tubes.

A little after that, our kids finished up and joined the other awkwardly playing children. All the girls followed each other and seemed to have fun. Then I noticed again, the same little boy (probably only about 5 years old) leaning over his sister and just letting it go. I saw about 4 punches before she got away. No crying, no screaming for help. Just fleeing.

About this time, our one-year-old decided for the first time in his short life that he too could conquer the tunnel system all on his own. I was so proud that he had done it! He challenged those tubes of pink and yellow and had found himself in a little box with a "window" that faced our table. Beaming with excitement, he yelled for us and, as every kid does, slapped against the plexiglass to get our attention. We returned his excitement, waving, smiling, and blowing kisses to our proud adventurer.

One of the blond brothers (no older than 2) popped his head into the window beside our little guy, and we waved at him too. He quickly stepped back and shoved our boy into the window. My heart stopped. Over the next few half seconds, I convinced myself that maybe it was an accident.

I was wrong.

Our little guy bounced off the plexiglass and staggered backward a few steps only to be shoved again, this time cracking his forehead against the corner by the window and proceeding to smash his face into the window again.

My heart sinks into my chest, causing a physical heaviness just remembering these events. Rodney stood up to offer our baby boy any possible support as he was now crying. The other little boy was still standing by him.

What would you do?

We have no power to discipline the offending toddler. I was in a skirt and unable to crawl through the tunnels. I think Rodney was just too stunned to know what to do, and on top of it didn't want to disappear from our son's line of vision.

Again the grandfatherly man asked if "his kid" had done something. I didn't learn until later that Rodney hadn't noticed our son's head hitting the corner before being met with the window. So he assured the man that although his little boy had pushed ours, our son was exaggerating it with all his crying. The older man sent his girl in to investigate. She found our little guy and brought him down to us.

Rodney and I agreed that we thought it best to head home, but our daughter wanted "5 more minutes" that we reluctantly gave her. Much less than 5 minutes later, she too came out of the tunnel maze in tears complaining that her head hurt. I didn't bother to ask why, but instead gathered up our things and kids and headed out.

The short ride home was full of our emotions. I grew up in a home with parents that spanked, but beyond that, there was no physical touch of any kind really-- good or bad. Rodney grew up in a very different environment.

He pointed out that while we don't know much about those kids' lives, we can logically deduce that violence is the norm for them. And it breaks my heart.

I think about the little boy who was less than 2 years old and about how, unless he gets out of that family and life, he is doomed to live that way. Not only him, but any children he may have after him as well. No woman will be safe with him. Obviously, these are big conclusions to jump to. And even if they're not true about those little boys (and the poor girl), it IS true about others.

My heart is sad and heavy.

When we got home, I threw my kids in the tub. As I was washing my son's hair, I noticed a large knot that had formed from the assault. And at the risk of sounding cheesy, I thought of Jesus.

First of all, my son was completely undeserving of the treatment he underwent. He was innocently joyful to see people he loved dearly. But he was blocking more of the window than the other little boy wanted. So he hurt my pure, sweet son.

Secondly, by the time I had noticed the knot, according to the nature in children, he had completely forgiven the other little boy. My son was playing and laughing. There was no grudge, no attitude of defeat. It was as if he had never been offended.

It makes me indignant to think about someone carrying out an unprovoked attack on my innocent, non-offending son. But God did it on a much larger scale. Wow.

"I'll never know how much it cost to see my sin upon that cross." Thank you.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Ham

Today was around 90 degrees. It was sunny and perfectly matched for a trip to the beach. Thankfully, some friends invited us to theirs. Yes, their own beach. We got to ride in a "lift" to go down to it. It was beautiful, sandy, shallow (which is great for our little kids). The tubing was a blast, no water-skiiers were able to right themselves, and the water was fine.

My husband's brother Timmy was out trying his luck on the skis. I was on shore, insuring that my one-year-old didn't feed all the Doritos to the dog. And I began to hear the word "pig" being tossed around.

"Pig!!!"

"Pig?" Yelling across the lake, of course.

"Yes, pig! Like p-i-g!"

Now Timmy wouldn't fit the description of "thin" or "lean," but pig? Really? But it just kept flying back and forth in our group.

"Pig? What do you mean?"

"It's a pig!"

My mind scanned over every possible meaning of the word. If it's not a demeaning name for Timmy. . . could it be the basketball game? Maybe someone's lake shore cabin has an inflated pig with water lapping at its feet? Are there police scanning the lake? It even traced my mind that there could be an actual pig in the water.

Sure enough, I look out by the boat, and there's a pink-ish thing clumsily jutting in and out of the water. So the guys reached out of the boat, and scooped up the exhausted baby. They were quite literally in the middle of the lake. We have no idea from where it emerged or how long it had been fighting for its little life, but there it was.

They got back to the dock, and my sister-in-law held him on her lap while quickly becoming surrounded by kids and curious adults. It pooped on her lap, thus ending it's relaxation period.

One of the teenagers nearby took it up to the house and found a dog kennel for it to stay in. She proceeded to try convincing her dad that she should keep it.

I called my best friend who happened to grow up on a pig farm. She informed me that given its cat-like size, it may not be weaned yet. And if it was, it would eat more than we could ever imagine, dig huge holes, and completely eradicate any trace of grass in our yard.

My husband wanted it something fierce. It's free Thanksgiving dinner, he argued. He also called our chef friend to ask if he knew how to cook the thing.

At the end of the night, we found a kind lady who takes in every kind of living thing and has a hobby farm of sorts. So off he went to be loved on. Tomorrow we may find a spider web that reads "Terrific" or "Some Pig." Who knows? But a pig that can swim that far for that long would most certainly be deserving of that kind of title.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Unrequited

I love you.
You are the warmth in my days.
Without you, I'm certain my world would end--
not in the proverbial way
most lovers mean.
I would die without you.

Your very face warms
rivers and draws flowers to bloom.

You have kissed my face,
shoulders,
feet,
and left me
more beautiful.
Strangers even can tell when we've been together
your effects are so striking.

But now this?

I have known you my entire life.
I have pledged my allegiance to you.
My undying love.
I boldly defend you against Cloud-Lovers.

I curse the planetary rotation
that takes you from me,
leaving me cold
every day.

I spend time with you,
only to be left hurting more.
Alas, I am left with this unrequited
passion for you.
I will always burn
for your burn.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Outrage

I do not even know how to start an entry like this. I'm emotional. I realize that's not the best time to do anything, but I cannot get on with my day. So I'm sharing it here.

My writing mentor sent me an article about infidelity. It stated that there is "a website" that teaches people how to cheat without getting caught. "The story is, that on an average Monday 3,000 women sign up for the site, but on the day after Mother’s day that number soared to 31,000, ten times the normal amount!" The article goes on to talk about how to overcome feeling unappreciated, since that's one of the major pushes toward infidelity in women. It was a really good article. I've actually already included some of the information in my own material.

But I was curious about this alleged, unnamed website. So I went to Google and typed in "How to hide my affair." My blood is beginning to boil just thinking about those words. Anyway, the first site that pops up is called alibinetwork.com. For $75 a year, you have someone to sweep behind your tracks. They give you an untraceable number, counseling (on how to properly cheat), even doctors notes.

I am completely floored.

What kind of person makes up their mind to take peoples' money to "help" them trash their lives? The idea of the pain this has caused evades me. I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that someone actually started this company. It's like some kind of cloud or mist that I realize is there, but I can't grasp or actually see it.

It's so intentionally hurtful. I don't even have the words.