I'm All Grown Up

About a week ago, after I dropped my not-so-little three-year-old off to preschool, I was pondering on a flurry of thoughts as I drove through the parking lot in my car--thoughts of parental pride, excitement, and optimism of my preschooler's experience with his new routine and environment. That day, I explained to him that he would go on a field trip with his classmates.

"You're going to ride a bus today to visit the apple farm. Won't that be fun?"
"Listen to your teachers, okay? Please follow directions."
"You get to ride a school bus today...isn't that cool?"
"You're gonna love field trips, buddy."

It's hard to say which of us was more excited about the school bus because as I waited at the red light, I heard the low grumble of an engine with a half-sized yellow school bus that followed it. The bus passed me and continued its journey up the hill towards the school. My heart jumped and I immediately felt a thrill like electricity in my bones. Then, without a moment's notice, water started jerking out of my eyes. I wasn't being emotional because "my baby" was now in school and doing the stuff "big boys" do, it had more to do with the fact that I had arrived in that certain niche in adulthood.

"I am old. Like really old." I thought. An unexpected feeling, that's for sure.

I don't remember other milestones in adulthood that impressed me as much: living on my own in another state after high school graduation, leaving everything again to serve an LDS mission, getting my first job after college and becoming financially independent from my parents, getting married, having a baby--those events were expected to be life-changing. And I still felt young...young enough to continue feeling inexperienced and incapable as a growing adult. Now, I'm pushing 32 and my child has embarked in school--if you call less than 2 hours a day for three days a week "school". My world has now shifted from a controlled home environment of my constant teaching, disciplining, instruction, and love to a new environment with outsiders who are taking quantitative time to shape my child too. (That proverb of "it takes a village to raise a child" comes up to mind.) It's taking a little bit of bravery on my part to hand my most precious possession to someone else. And from what I've observed so far, I like what I've seen.

And her? Indy thinks she, too, belongs in preschool the way she sets foot into the classroom behaving like a pop star. Everyone there knows her name. From showing the teachers the hat on her head to being stubborn about heading out the door, this girl makes her presence known. School for her is right around the corner.

She's becoming an independent and vivacious toddler. I love it.

Maybe I'm oddly unemotional about my kids moving on to bigger things. I get nostalgic for their tininess like any parent, but I am more eager to push them to grow and learn about the big wide world out there. What has surprised me is this new chapter in life. The responsibility for my kids is now newly anchored with the involvement of others; our lives will be getting more complex from here on out. Parent Teacher Conferences are for those old and seasoned parents. Am I really there now? Gosh, I'm old. What next? Will I wake up to teenagers and feel really, really old? I have lines on my face and silver hairs spotting my hairline. I don't need any more reminders. I never knew that becoming aware of myself growing up could be, well, trippy.

Here's to getting old.

 

Adios to Summer

Summers ago as a child--long before summer became tainted with high school boys and jeep rides--I remember spending the dog days in Utah's dry heat at my community swimming pool. My skin would brown like toast, my stellar underwater handstands (hands up, stands up) would outlast my friends, and I'd snack on a bagel cream cheese shmear from the concession stand and frozen grapes brought from home. Me and my wet friends would dry off in the breeze and hot sun, sitting in the back of my dad's pickup as he drove us all home. By the end of the summer, my swimming suit was saturated with a permanent stench of chlorine no matter how many times it ran through my mother's washing machine cycle.

Thirty years from now, my kids won't be talking about their cherished memories of the Summer 2012. They're too young to remember much of the life they will have spent here in our little mint green home. As their mother, summoning up those memories for them will be my responsibility. Photographs must do their job to help me tell their stories:

I will tell them of walks to the duck pond up the street, a sack of dried white sandwich bread in hand, to not only feed a family of ducks, but the catfish and turtles as well.

I'll describe our backyard--a critter wonderland--and explain how we'd catch and release the frogs jumping in our lawn and when we kept long green caterpillars hostage in mason jars with punctured lids.

I'll think of all the rows of blueberry bushes growing on the wayside of the Connecticut River; filling our pail and filling their tummies during an impromptu game of hide-and-go-seek.

I tell them of all the summer festivals and local events that we were able to attend--while their admission was still free: Quechee Balloon Festival, Norwich Fair, WRJ Glory Days Festival, Lebanon Coop Dairy Days, and the local farmers' market.

Did I miss anything? Probably. We tried to make Saturdays more enjoyable than a day of mowing the lawn and scouring the house clean.

And we can't forget our outing to our local theme park that tries very hard to be Disney: Story Land. Deep-friend Oreos and riding the train was enough to make all of our eyes pop out.

I'll pull out the bright orange Home Depot apron and say, "Hey, can you believe that this used to fit around your waist?" and explain how hard they worked on once-a-month building projects.

I will tell them of weekly visits to the library story hour. I'll tell them of their fondness for Mrs. Frappier at the "Reading Room" and how she'd always have clever crafts to tie in with the story she read aloud.

What fun we had meeting up with friends at the park, swimming at the pond or at the dam, canoeing on the Connecticut, feeding fish at the hatchery, petting farm animals, riding bikes in our driveway, counting down the days to reunite with family they barely got to see.

Our summer was not too full, not too boring...it was just right.

My heart might be getting sick typing out all these memories. Nostalgia for childhood always gets my nose hurting. I don't like wanting the feeling to chase after the past, yet those dimpled faces, chubby cheeks, sticky hands, girly squeals, and evenly spaced out teeth that appear as miniature chicklets encourage me that they will stay just a wee longer. As long they run downstairs to the master bedroom to climb into bed for early morning cuddles, they're still little ones to me. They won't remember how small they used to be, but I will. Oh, yes I will. I will cling to it like any parent would. In another thirty years, it will seem like another lifetime.

I'll try not to start thinking about that. Enough nostalgia for one day.

Quadrennial

There are many things in life that I want to remember.
Today wasn't one of them.
Instead, I want to remember what would have likely happened instead.

I hope to remember when my little mop head requested to eat Kashi [read: little puffy nuggets of sweetened cardboard.] for breakfast for several mornings in a row.

I hope to remember that the only way carrots were appetizing to eat was to refer to them as 'snowman noses'.
I hope to remember that when I secretly water down my children's orange juice, they don't notice a thing. 

   

I hope to remember how encouraging I was with my budding artist by providing her with crayons and coloring book pages.
I hope to remember--sad, but true--the accidental sacrifice of my coffee table that served its purpose well from the exploration of a new art medium. (Crayons vs. markers? No contest.)

I hope to remember snowy afternoons, just him and me, sledding down the hill in our backyard during his sister's nap time.
I hope to remember the fragility of her tiny body when she sobbed in my arms after jamming her mouth against the bedroom windowsill and later doing a face-plant into the driveway.

I hope to remember that to her, I am her favorite parent. Most of the time. For now.

I hope to remember providing lunchtime entertainment to two beaming faces (correct interpretation: "Is our Mom insane?") by cranking out the running man to Ne-yo's "Mad." 

I hope to remember when I shared with them their first Twinkie--a favorite childhood treat of mine. 

I hope to remember the days they get along...
those constant hugs,
kisses,
sibling smotherings,
and the way they get the other one to giggle.
I hope to remember them as they are now...
so small,
inquisitive,
innocent,
generously loving,
forgiving,
and perfect in my eyes.

BUT.

Let's not remember what really happened today, February 29th, 2012, the day that will forever reign in utmost infamy.

Diary. No, not that word...a word with foul and rank connotations (and no, I am not correctly spelling it out). 

Diary during toilet training. Diary every five minutes when he asks to use toilet. Diary in underwear. Diary all over my bathroom floor. Diary like the Nile. Diary as if it were bottled up in air freshener. Diary for two full days and counting. Diary so stinkin' much--no pun intended--that I was begging him to wear diapers.

[Warning: the following information may be extremely inappropriate, but necessary to get a certain point across.] 
Me:  That's it. No more underwear. You need to wear a diaper today. You're sick.
Him:  No diapers, Mom! I want un'wear.
Me:  No underwear today. You've got sick poo. When your sick poo is gone and you start making snake poo again, then you can wear your underwear.

There are a lot of things I can handle. But not this. An unyielding child who previously refused potty training in every thinkable way, and now this? Perfect timing.

It's a good thing a day like this happens every four years. I can accept that. Don't convince me otherwise. Happy Leap Day!

I Think I Get It

"A Fox Books Superstore."
"Quel nightmare."
"It has nothing to do with us. It's big, impersonal, overstocked, and full of ignorant salespeople."
"But they discount."
--dialogue from You've Got Mail.

When I blogged about needing to buy a cow to supply my family's milk drinking needs, I soon discovered a much more practical, and more affordable answer: Walmart.

Uggh. Does anyone really like Walmart? It's the Mother-of-them-all Superstores. The "but they discount" excuse drones into my head every time I step inside. I can get a nice gallon of skim milk for $2.09. Drinking our calcium has never felt so good. Thanks, Walmart.

But that is not the "Vermont Way". I've heard the phrase often, but I would ne'er be so bold to define it. Two years ago, during my first visit to Burlington (VT), a local I met at a chocolate store defined the Vermont Way as "growing your own food, preserving your own jam, and hunting your own venison." From my observations, Vermonters religiously follow the days of yore American motto "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without." They are also well known for their passionate boycotts of big box enterprises such as Walmart and Target. You will find thrift stores around here to your heart's content. This same attitude applies to rural New Hampshire. I would dare say that the state's motto "Live Free or Die" speaks volumes about a lifestyle promoting a dependence on self. Here in the Upper Valley, I see a satisfaction and pride behind buying most things local and supporting the family farm just down the road.

And I love it.

What? This city girl transplant is loving it?

Didn't I mention this before?

I fear that I've all too often been one of those shoppers, Fox Books Superstore bags in arm, passing by the window of The Shop Around the Corner, while Kathleen Kelly is hanging up her twinkle lights. For a movie that I've seen hundreds upon hundreds of times, that sad scene tugs at my guilt every time. I wanna leap right into the screen to save Christmas.

So, rescuing The Shop Around the Corner I must! "One, two, three, four! We don't want this Superstore!" While I still frequently enter the previously mentioned evil chain store (the shame!), I'm trying to mend my ways by evaluating how I shop. Some of my favorite products:

Killdeer Farm--my CSA that I support.
Cabot. (The best dairy ever.)
Stoneyfield Farm organic yogurt.
King Arthur Flour.
Vermont Country Store. (It's even Martha Stewart endorsed.)
Garnet Hill (I lied. I haven't made a purchase yet. Everything in their catalog is on my wish list.)
Ben & Jerry's ice cream.
Pure Vermont maple syrup.
Pick Your Own Farms.
Farmers' Markets.
Local diners--for the occasions that we go out to eat.

This past Christmas was the first year that I was able to kick Fox Books and Tom Hanks to the curb. Not perfectly and completely, but a couple of locally made purchases created some New England flavor to our Christmas magic.

These toys will be treasured forever. I dread the day when expensive electronics will take its place. In a few years when a job may take us away from New England forever, I'll be extra glad that we have these as reminder of this time. But, as I've timidly confessed to my mother who lives over 2,000 miles away, I love this place and would stay if I could.

Even if Target and Costco are over an hour's drive.

P.S. As much as I hate to see The Shop Around the Corner going out of business, I support American capitalism.
P.P.S. Kathleen Kelly still had a happy ending. Happy endings come with time though.
P.P.P.S. It may sound like I have a hidden agenda, but I do not.
P.P.P.P.S. Vermont has the best cheese on earth. They need to do a better job at capitalizing on that. I've spent my entire life wasting my cheese experience on less worthy cheese.
P.P.P.P.P.S. I prefer drinking the delicious milk from the local dairies, but quite honestly, I can't spend that kind of money to feed my family. Walmart wins.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I really don't have a hidden agenda. This is a family-friendly, politics free, and self-indulgent blog. Pinky swear.

And another thing...wanna take a guess what my favorite movie is? Nora Ephron is kind of a big deal to me.

Driving Along the Connecticut

Saturday.
And it's the Boy's day off.

October 1st--a drizzly first day of the month.
The four of us are buckled inside our puddle-jumping Xterra.
Raindrops lightly tap dance across the windshield.
Tip, tap.
Clickety-clack.
Shuffle-step-ball-change.
Tip, tap, tip, tap. 
With windows down, we feel the brisk air blushing our cheeks.
And inhale the smell of Fall.
But, a little voice from behind begs for the windows to 'go up'.
'Please,' he adds.
I love it when he remembers his manners.

As we hum along the Connecticut, listening to the syncopating rhythm of rain, the river looks precariously high with brown swift-moving water.
We cross a covered bridge.
Cornish, NH to Windsor, VT.
It's massive; I think this is now my favorite one.
Clickety clack we go as we hear its echos from beneath.

We admire the countryside's rolling green hills with hints of lovely colors on the horizon.
And lots
and lots
and lots
of cows.
Vermont cheese-making cows, that is.
And a whole lot of mooing.
One kid was in awe.
The other just sucked her thumb, scowling at the cows.

Week after week, drive after drive, I think this place really feels like home.
Although my mind may change once January comes...

My Summer Is

...a slice of morning's white light cutting through my window blinds.
...humidity's soft mist slowly ascending to the sky.
...chilled homemade lemonade tart on my tongue.
...deep red raspberries awaiting for further eating.

...a fragrant marriage of fresh dill and olive oil sizzling over yellow summer squash.
...small toes and fingers examining its first sand.
...an exchange of whimsical giggles between two little humans of mine.

...verdant forest canopies impervious of the sun's fire.
...thick heat wrapping around my sticky skin with its muggy blanket.
...a nakie little boy dozing off for an afternoon's nap in his mom and dad's bed.

...star-spangled colors waving along a road of an American prophet's birthplace in Vermont.
...an evening's whistle of wind hushing the day to end.
...a cacophony of frogs and crickets heard on the banks of the nearby Connecticut.

This is my summer--my first New England summer. Not to be forgotten.