Roller Coaster

Finally--the last day of March.

I lived on a roller coaster ride for the last eight weeks (and hung onto my might by the hairs of my chinny chin chin). For some, a roller coaster is a voluntary thrill-seeking joy ride. For me? Never. I don't see it any different than turning on my vacuum and inserting the hose into my mouth. No, thank you.

March's roller coaster was testy. It wasn't easy and it wasn't nice. As sickening as roller coasters are, whatever comes down can always roll back up.

Down:  March began with Boy's new family friendly schedule in the ICU.
Up:  In like a lamb--sunny blue spring skies.
Down:  The 'diary' continued for more than a week to end its course. Coughs and runny noses then kept us locked away from civilization for another four or five days.
Up:  We tried almost every flavor of Gatorade.

Whee!

Up:  After a hard day of the sickies, Little Blue Eyes climbed up the couch and lay his head on my lap, asking for me to stroke his hair. For the first time ever, without being prompted, he looked up at me from my lap and said, "I love you, Mom." He added, "You're the best Mom." Happy tears for me that night.
Down:  The same little tender-hearted boy found me with sad tears the next day as I was kneeling in prayer. "Why are you crying, Mom?" he inquired as he tried to uncover my face buried in my arms. It wasn't long until his two little feet made off downstairs to alert his sleeping, overworked, post-call dad. "Mom sad! Mom sad! Wake up, Dad! Come help me!"
Up:  We had family come to visit for a few days.
and higher: We spent a day in Boston, ate at my favorite breakfast place in Hanover, and shared favorite places in the Upper Valley with them.
and highest: Boy had a day off to see them and we made the most of it.
then down, down, down: Their presence lasted only a few days and then they boarded a plane home.

Whee!

Up: celebrated the birthdays of the two boys in my life.
and still Up: went to the theater to see The Hunger Games with girlfriends I barely ever see.
Down: got sick on my birthday.
Lower: ICU got the best of Boy. His poor brain got fried. A little amnesia maybe?
Lower: then it snowed...a little.
Then up...up...UP: a belated birthday surprise and weekend getaway to the Maine coast.

Life wouldn't be a life without multiple highs and lows, but with March ended on a high, I'm content that this triple birthday month didn't crash and burn. After celebrating my 30th birthday--for the second year in a row, this year has finally started right after all.

Gratitude 
turns what we have 
into Enough. 
--author unknown

Summer decided to leap frog over Spring this year.

The first day of Spring brought us a balmy sizzling 80 degrees. Weird. This confusing heat wave continued all week long. My kids, running barefoot on our brown matted down grass, wore bathing suits instead of what normally should have been snowsuits. Yet, all I could think of were our poor maple syrup farmers. No sugar-on-snow this year. Bummer.

The freckles on my nose are beginning to appear again--hello, sunshine! Mud season? What mud season?

My Indy girl, like a true Midwesterner, ain't buying this nonsense. She knows fickle sunshine when she sees it. If there's one thing about Spring that I don't miss, it's tornado season--and this year, it wasn't at all kind to this little girl's home state. So far, New England hasn't produced the extreme weather that I've been warned about.

For now, we're counting our (limited?) days of sunshine as days of outdoor fun. Pretty soon, April will surely give us lots of rain, mud, and all sorts of bugs and baby ticks. Can't wait.

Flavor of the Month

Before sugaring season in many parts of Vermont ended earlier because of the unnatural Spring heat, I got to see a maple syrup farm live in action for the very first time.

To see a live-working, sap-boiling sugar house is a unique amenity of living in rural New England. At only a short drive away, we can see a long-standing tradition that has made Vermont's sugar maple trees famous. While there are places I've seen that still tap trees from traditional metal buckets, the modern-day way is through a series of tubes weaving through the trees.

The beginning of March marks the start of sugar season. To put it all simply, sap is collected after a cold night and a warm day, loaded into big white tanks, and hauled to a sugar house by a tractor.

I'll let you follow along with pictures to see it travel all the way down to our favorite sugar house.

The white pipe from the tractor takes the sap to a holding tank, and then the white tube across the bottom takes it inside to be boiled. After it has been boiled (after tons, and tons, and tons of water has been evaporated), you've got delicious maple syrup for drizzling atop a stack of your favorite buttermilk pancakes. Or for marinating your favorite breakfast sausage. OR (my recent favorite) for sweetening a berry New England pandowdy.

Wonder why it's so expensive? Perhaps because it takes roughly 50 gallons of sap for every gallon of maple syrup. Just my theory.

The different grades of syrup is determined by the weather. This year, I've been told most of this year's tapping has produced lots of dark amber. Blame it on the warmer-than-usual winter that we just had.

Did I get that right, Vermont?

I have nothing against New Hampshire's maple syrup--my loyalty is with the Vermont brand. We just don't bother buying the less famous kind.

Finally.

After eighteen solid months of nothing, two little piggies have finally come out to play.

Two little words: About time.

Words cannot describe the joy I feel to run a comb through those tiny wisps of Indy's hair. All of that Barbie brushing and styling I did in the 80s and early 90s was not done in vain. 

Beware the Ides of March

Last year on March 15th, I was with my mother and two kids at the airport looking forward to a flight back home. After I had rolled in my luggage for the skycap to slap on some tags, he asked to see our boarding passes.

"And for him?" he probed, nodding over to my son.

"He doesn't have a ticket because he's not quite two yet. He'll be sitting on her lap." I said, pointing to my mom.

"Do you have his birth certificate with you?"

"Excuse me?"

"In order for him to be a lap child, he needs paperwork proving he's underage."

I was stupefied. Stuttering in shock, I explained to him that I had never been asked this kind of information before. He apologized (yeah, whatever) and directed me over to the check-in desk.

I've traveled a handful of times before, and not once had I been asked for a birth certificate. Dude, does he really look like a two-year-old? Have you heard him try to talk? A month previously, we had a much-anticipated flight to see our faraway families on a one-way ticket from a different airline. The airline was provided with his birth date when asked, but nothing more.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. It's our policy and you'll have to purchase another ticket," droned the woman behind the counter. Behind her unapologetic eyes, it was as if she were saying to me, Did you really think your lying, cheating face was going to get away with this? You can plead all you want. I feel no sympathy for you. All we care about is your stinking money.

I repeated to her what I said to the skycap: My son wasn't two...I've never been asked for documentation before...my mother was accompanying me on the flight so I could manage the airport and a four-hour flight home with two children under two...I was trying to get back home on the last possible day before he required a plane ticket. My jaw was quivering and the tear drops couldn't be kept at bay any longer.

And then somewhere in my blubbering, I mentioned that today was his birthday.

"Oh, so he turns two today? He'll need a ticket then."

Something about her tone of voice, made me lash out my infuriation.

"Excuse me. If you're going to be technical with me, he's not two years old. Not until 11:28 tonight, if you really want to know."

I don't recall what she retorted back at me, but the airlines won of course. If my anger bubbled up any further, it's quite possible that I would have been escorted away in handcuffs. Now that I think of it, I had never traveled on this particular airline since I had kids. And never will I again.

A few hours later while we were miles above ground, I was still rattled. What if we had traveled the day earlier? What if Boy had the day off then to pick us up from the airport and not today? What if I had behaved out of control in order to gratify my frustration? What if my mom wasn't at my side so I could cry like a little girl into her shoulder? What if I had an all powerful blog that could persuade my millions of readers to boycott this airline to their everlasting doom? What if the airlines discovered that their billions of lost profits came directly from my almighty blogging power and begged me for their forgiveness and a full refund so I could graciously nod my royal head to end their annihilation? I remember looking at that surprisingly behaved little boy next to me and thinking, "Happy Birthday, Finn."

A year later, the Ides of March turned out much happier. And the kid can speak in sentences now. Lots of 'em. And he's technically not quite three yet.

To the best dimple-faced, blue-eyed, mop-headed, energetic, Curious George-loving, seeker of all things fun and novice bookworm that I know: Happy Birthday.

I have yet to travel on an airplane again. And I have yet to make a cake worthy of being proud of.

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!

Pond Skating

"Summer fading, winter comes, frosty mornings, tingly thumbs...water now has turned to stone..."
--Robert Louis Stevenson, taken from "Picture Books of Winter"

Occom Pond is no Rockefeller Center ice skating rink, but I'll take it. Our quiet New England pond is iconic-looking enough for me. To qualify as a true Vermonter/New Hampshirite, it's high time we acquire our own ice skates. [Note to self: scour through every thrift store in April.]

Has Mother Nature muzzled March's lion? We're seeing lamb-like weather already--and if February continues to play tricks on us, our ice skating weather may soon be over. As for the snow that is in the forecast this weekend, there better be a blanket of it in our backyard for a particularly eager little boy.

And for an eager mom.

Goldfish

Today's word of the day...

solecism / SOL-uh-siz-uhm/, noun:
1. A breach of good manners or etiquette.
2. A nonstandard or ungrammatical usage.
3. Any error, impropriety, or inconsistency.

Used in a sentence:
If eating on the couch is committing a major solecism in the home, then I am the very one who encouraged it.

Look Like Kate

Leaf earrings worn by the Duchess. Made by Vinnie Day.  $156.91

Leaf earrings worn by moi. Made by Maren. $15 well spent for a good cause.

I've been following a blog that documents every article of clothing that is worn by the Mrs. Prince William. Kate can't go wrong. Her regal style is impeccable. Hair, eyebrows, legs, figure, and a polished British accent....she's more 'perfect in every way' than Mary Poppins. Although I'd love to own her clothing, it'd be ruined after I feed my kids breakfast. 

I'll settle for those look alike earrings. 

Change of Heart?

To the most Ridiculous Holiday of the year,

I made heart-shaped pancakes for my kids this morning. They would have been just as thrilled with circle-shaped pancakes, but because I made them into hearts and didn't serve them Cheerios again, I'M A PRETTY GOOD MOM.

For the first time in my adult life, I felt okay with the lovey dovey-ness of your day.
     One of St. Valentine's cupids left some gifts on our doorstep today.
     I have a red paper heart garland draped over my window, but that's it.
     My wee ones and I are going to roll out little heart-shaped sugar cookies as soon as they are up from naps.

The little Grinch heart inside of my chest has grown two sizes since February 14th, last year.

Still, I am not convinced of your marriage of red and pink, nor am I going to adopt any stuffed monkeys hugging a satin red heart that nauseously says, "I'm bananas over you". Don't creep me out more than you already do.

Love,

A Change of Heart

p.s. On second thought, for those nights when Boy is on call and I'm lonely without him, I wouldn't mind being wrapped up in the arms of a giant Vermont Teddy Bear.