Oops...

  Fiction could not be funnier than the truth during a recent car ride across town to visit my sister.

5 year- old daughter in a hoarse whisper: "JAAAMIE"

9 year old son distractedly turns his attention from the passing view out the window to his sister as he responds in a similar hoarse whisper: "What?"

5 year-old "You should have brushed your teeth before we left for Aunt Liz's..."

To which my 14 year old daughter chimes in from the front seat, "Guys, we're passing the poop factory," while gesturing to the Wastewater Treatment Plant on our left.

My five year-old daughter simply squeaked out "Oh," before sliding her eyes to her brother sitting a mere foot and a half away in the backseat and added, "sorry."

My nine year-old manages to catch my eye in the rear view mirror to express his exasperation with an understated eye roll before returning his gaze to the city whizzing by just outside his window.

Aaand...on we drive.

Pushing Through

 

  Overcoming obstacles is largely a mindset.

  The other night brought howling winds.  I hadn't gotten my walk in that day and I was determined to keep the schedule I had going.  Add to that, the text from my accountability partner telling me to get out in that stinkin weather.  She had run seven miles facing 50 mph winds.  How could I not walk my two measly miles?

  Dusk was due pretty soon after the motivating text came in so I needed to move it.  I sought the child most susceptible to pitying their mother walking alone in inclement weather.  Thank you dear sixth grade son:)  By the time we got to the Peninsula the winds were whipping the waves into a choppy soup threatening to splash if we got too near.  It was necessary to divert my son's growing apprehension in facing the creaking, thrashing limbs of trees lining the path. I tried to talk him into looking horizontally instead of vertically at the overhanging frenzied branches.

 Not even half way to our turn around mark, my son was reaching high-anxiety levels, complete with screaming over the wind, pleading, glistening eyes squeezed in fright, and hands locked over his ears.  "C'mon, we're almost there!," came my return plea.  "I want to go home!  Don't you hear how dangerous this is?," he shouted right before a branch landed behind us with a loud CRACK!  For the first time since I began walking this summer I began to add interval sprints.  "Hey", I panted during the recovery phase, "courage doesn't mean you're not afraid.  It means you feel the fear but do it anyway."  I don't know what reserve of strength kept my son moving forward in the darkening night as the wind screamed, branches yelled menacing threats, and dried leaves accompanied the desolation with their scratchy skittering for cover across the paved paths.  Our backdrop of the rolling water leapt into 3-D focus with intermittent sprays adding to the surreal evening that seemed to intensify in danger the further we went.  We continued on at a quickened pace while I yelled to myself as much as to my frightened boy, "Don't miss the beauty!"  Though justified in our wary state, it would have been a shame to miss the crescent moon taking center stage in the stormy sky.

  We did it!  We made it to the half way mark...now to get back.

  We were face to face with an onslaught of the wind's full force pushing back against our efforts.  My son's arms were aching from his effort to hold them against his ears the entire way.  He resisted my earmuffs and gave me a scathing look at the offer of my fluorescent pink scarf.  My legs were feeling the burn from unfamiliar exertion.  Our clothes billowed out as we held onto one another during the frequent burst of upscaled gales.  Anxious to be out of harms way, my son said, "C'mon Mom, let's run through this next part!"  I knew he wanted to quickly get through the tunnel of trees lining both sides of the next hundred yards.  We had already been stepping over downed limbs.  I felt the leaden weight in my legs and knew I had reached exhaustion..."I can't.  I just don't think I can do it."  Clearly, I had made an error of judgement in pressing on- but we had no choice but to get ourselves back to the car.  We had three quarter mile to trod and we would have to fight for every step.

  That was the moment I realized how brazenly I had encouraged my son about courage as I kept on in the face of his keen terror.  He had kept going...I figured he'd be proud of himself for overcoming his fear.  I hadn't  the extreme mental mountains he was climbing to get over that hurdle.  I truly believed we'd be fine- I had walked this trail in a downpour before though my son had not.  My son is a lean and lanky, natural runner...though I am not.  I looked at the path ahead and made the decision to push my legs and lungs hard!  If I could ask my son to keep going, in what appeared to be a death-defying situation from his perspective, then I better darn well give his request the same respect and push through my perspective which insisted I simply could not.

  I gained insight as we rounded the bend to the safe comfort of our car.  It's easy to ask others to keep going in the face of their struggle when we know the outcome.  It's easier yet if they are our children and we have authority that can demand it.  It would be very good for our appreciation of what we are asking of them if we but walk, or run, in their shoes every now and then.

Linked In...Somehow

  With Thanksgiving a couple days away most people's thoughts drift to family, feasting, giving thanks, pumpkin pies and the like.  There is, however, a group that IS looking forward to all the aforementioned delights of the season...and yet, their focus has already shifted past the actual holiday.  Their heartbeat has already begun to quicken at the thought of the following Monday.  There's a subtle buzz of excited energy that seems to surround the die hards in this group, almost as if they're hearing a call in the close distance but must bide their time until they may answer.

  You very well could be related to this group.  Doesn't matter if you are a daughter, son, spouse, parent, cousin, grandchild or friend to one in this group.  If camouflage, antler rattling, binoculars, walkie-talkies, deer urine, or no-scent laundry soap have entered your home or conversations...you most likely are linked to this breed known as HUNTERS.  Perhaps YOU are the link in your family?

  I have vague memories of my Dad taking my brothers out in the vineyards and woods around this time of year for small game.  Those instances were so rare that I remember a feeling of surprise they knew how to hunt or that my father even owned a gun.  And yet, it wasn't until a few years ago, when I was given a DVD of my Dad's childhood that I learned of his passion for hunting with his family.  His joy was apparent in the black and white footage that captured several excursions with my uncles and people I don't know gathering before, during, and after triumphant hunts.  I grew up in a family of twelve children.  My Mom was in need of as much support and assistance as she could muster.  I've since come to understand that hunting from dusk to dawn was the first of many sacrifices my Dad would make over the years. 

Ironically,  I married a man who, I thought, was hardcore into nature.  Sure, he talked a great deal about animals and loved to take me for walks at his buddy's camp to "show me the beauty of the trails."  I simply had no comprehension of scouting.  I suppose I could have been a little more tuned in to the fact he had owned his own archery shop.  And while he seemed to have a real penchant for brown, green, and olive clothing it was the unusual liking for fluorescent orange which perhaps should have raised some serious questions in me.  There were the couple times I was caught off guard as he startled the heck out of me during one of our nature walks with a spot on crow call.  I remember giving him an awkward compliment on nailing the likeness as I let the question of what type of person learns the calls of the wild fly right out of my mind.   If my Sweetheart told me he was a HUNTER while we were dating it must have gone right over my head and out of my radar with regards to how it could possibly affect my life.  While dating, I realized this sincere, kind-eyed cutie was a man of few words.  Hindsight being 20/20, I NOW see how I greatly underestimated his phrase, "I like to hunt." My experience with hunters were the infrequent, random times my Dad and brothers went out with a gun to see what they could see.


  My accumulated information over the years now reflects my maturing knowledge on the topic.  Whereas, I was used to fall for the line, "Honey, we have to go most nights this week.  The season ends Saturday!"  I now know there is almost always something in season.  The main changes are merely the target and tools used to hit the target.  The urgency I once naively catered to has grown into a respectful, "Hey, babe do you mind if we go out tonight?  The ducks are flying."  The subtle change showing in the question mark. 

I have come to truly appreciate the meat in the freezer with seven of our own children.  I love that my husband has passed on this incredible survival skill to those of ours who want to learn.  Yes, there are a couple daughters in line to take the hunters safety class as well.  The balance of heavy work-load is shifting in these later years.  The babies in bibs I tended to during the hunts are growing into camouflage bibs, worn to scout and call in the deer they only heard about in their youth.

  I've noticed a trend that most hunters skipped a generation.  My husband learned from his grandfather since his mother was determined to never marry a hunter.  She had grown up in a house where hunting schedules inflicted a strain on her parents.  Hunting can be an undeniable passion.  Some might call it an addiction for those who answer the call.  I kind of got swept in before I knew what was happening.  My sacrifices of being the "hunting widow" throughout different seasons have mellowed into a joyful expectation of spending time with those who stay back.  That's been the tricky part.  One of my younger sons recently confessed the reason he stopped hunting with Dad was that I always took the other kids to the movies, out to eat, shopping, and visiting with cousins while they were gone.... 

 So, yeah,  I'm not gonna lie...I learned to be a woman of few words as I would tell my husband, "No, Hon, I don't mind if you take the older ones to go hunting for a long weekend."  Hey, they learn to call, scout, and track.  We learn to "adapt." ;)


 

 

Ticked Off

  You may have read in an earlier post, titled DUCK! And Cover, that we are in the midst of the hunting season making ducks fair game.  What you didn't read about is the young man in his mid-teens who eats, sleeps, and breathes hunting...and lives under my roof.  Yes, the clamor of duck calls regularly sounds off in my dining room, accompanied by a variety of camouflage paraphernalia everywhere the eye can rest.  Duck decoys arrive in the mail and are proudly displayed throughout...well, everywhere the eye can rest.  Thankfully those decoys took the loud hint and migrated to the hunter's bedroom.

It's time to go hunting!

  This past Saturday was a decent day for hunting.  I heard floorboards creaking rather early and knew my son was biding his time til he dared disturb his father's slumber.  This period of waiting has become a stressful ritual in our home.  Upon my husband's emergence from the bedroom, he is faced with non-stop references to the current hour and minute followed by intervals of hovering during breakfast.  The subliminal message permeating our mealtime is, "Who has time to eat?!?  There's hunting to be done!"  Thank heavens maturity and consistent working with our son has led to the message being subliminal...time has softened the full-on verbal barrage.

  The time had come and my husband put us all out of our misery by asking our son to load the vehicle, which of course had been done an hour ago.  A kiss from my husband, a forehead presented by my son for me to kiss, and out the door they went.  This was the perfect opportunity for me to grab my eleven year-old boy and head to our favorite trails at the Peninsula.  Yes, the same Peninsula the duck blinds are located on.


  We'd been walking about ten minutes when my younger son pointed to the road which leads back home and announced, "Hey, there goes our van!"  Perhaps the warning bells should have been going off in my head...yet, I've learned I'm never far enough, in cases of emergency, I can't be reached.  So, on we walked...even as the dreaded awaited call came ringing in.  "Yeees?  I said, trying to be as cheery as possible."  I don't wish to bore nor scandalize you with the tirade that exploded into my ear describing how they never even made it into the duck blind.  I won't fill you in on the unflattering and rather disrespectful picture, painted of my husband, with such hostile words.  My teen, who had been chomping at the bit for this highly anticipated moment, was more than frustrated with the hope that had gone dead in the water without firing a single shot.

I admit I did feel bad for the fowl-tempered fella and quickened my pace to get home...though not so much that I would catch the initial fall-out fireworks I imagined were going off.  I even texted a couple nephews looking for a stand-in hunting partner.  I automatically assumed my husband's back was causing him such pain that he bailed and needed to rest.  Therefore, I resigned myself to the rescuer's role and began to mentally prepare to wrap in a blankey and sit in the blind if imploring texts to my nephews didn't pan out.

  With the walk finally over, we headed to the car only to be let down by a deflated rear tire.  Great...what the heck kind of day is this??  I called my husband to ask if I should drive like that.  He said he'd fill the compressor and be right down.  As I write this I'm realizing everything happens for a reason...it's a very good thing he was home or my 11 year-old and I would have had a long, uphill, chilly walk home...after our long, chilly walk we just took.  I was briefly filled-in over the phone how our teen ignored requests to find a trail leading to the blind.  Instead, he stomped right into the tall grasses determined to find a quick route there.  There was something about ticks, which alerted me to my husband's rightful concern... Presque Isle, lovely as it is, is known to have a large deer tick population.  My husband had once been bit by a deer tick, confirmed to have Lyme's disease.  He was never at ease with spending much time at Presque Isle, let alone going off trail and into dense vegetation where they'd most likely be.


Deer ticks can cause Lyme disease

  After his arrival and quick fix of the tire, I offered to drive the van home while he'd take the car to the closest gas station and check the tire's air pressure.  That offer was quickly rescinded upon hearing that three large deer ticks had already been found crawling in the van.  Sure enough, our son had walked right into a hot spot for the buggers before his frustrated Dad demand they were going home due to lack of obedience.

Eeeew!

Once home, I was surprised by the calm I walked into.  I was certain there would  be arguing and pleading for me to fulfill my impatient hunter's plans for the day.  I was impressed to see his quiet resignation as he worked side by side with my husband to rid the van of these tiny, disease carrying, blood suckers.  I was relieved yet horrified that a total of eight ticks were discovered in our family's vehicle.  I listened to my 11 year-old ask, "Dad, what is the purpose of ticks in the world?" and wondered the same thing.  We didn't come up with much of an answer...likening them to mosquitoes and other insects that seem to do more harm than good.

  Perhaps, in that instance the tick's purpose was to provide a teachable moment.  Difficult as it was, there is more patience added to my young hunter's arsenal.  He has learned to pace the floors on Saturday mornings instead of bounding onto our bed...maybe he will listen to the voice that warns him to stay on the path and understand wisdom is born of experience.



Pumpkin "Bliss"

 "Mmmm, what is that smell?  Do you have yogurt in here?" 

  This is the "hello" I received as my two youngest hopped into the car to escape being dampened during the four foot walk from the school bus.  Normally, I just walk across the street to escort them home.  Normally, as in- not experiencing gales that broke my wet-weather confidence, flipped my hardy umbrella inside out, spanked us both and sent me scrambling back for car keys.  The odd and somewhat humiliating piece of this generous act of kindness on my part was the rapid deceleration of winds and the slowing of pelting rain to a gentle drizzle by the bus's arrival.  After deflating their excited expectation of going to a store or fast-food restaurant, the focus shifted back to the car's unfamiliar scent.

  "Why it's Pumpkin Bliss, of course!" I declared proudly.  Their unimpressed "oh" wasn't my desired response.  During my purchase of the orange packaged car freshener, displaying pumpkins, cinnamon, and colors of candy corn, I envisioned tv commercial actors deeply inhaling wafts of heart-warming, homemade Pumpkin Pies.  Yes, my reward for spending $3.99 +tax would be watching my children breathe in the likeness of those cinnamon fall treats followed by twinkles of delight, shining in their grateful eyes.  I must admit I did not notice any trace of pumpkin pie or harvest spices in the bought essence.  If I covered one nostril and sort of breathed out while half-breathing in I might have been able to justify the colors of candy corn...kind of.  But, for the purpose of pride, I declared once more with gusto, "It's Pumpkin Bliss!" and drove back around the bend to our house.

  An hour later I agreed to drive my oldest daughter to her friend's house.  "WHAT is that smell?!?" she asked, while lifting a genteel palm to her nose.  "It's Pumpkin Bliss!," came my triumphant, yet wavering response.  After all, it was her calling attention to the car's mild odor the day before which prompted my aquiring such Fall freshness.  Show me some love, I think as she blurts out, "It smells like yogurt."  I covered my waning hope with a smile, "That's funny!  That's what the kids said!," I weakly offered.  Her eyes slid sideways towards me as she added, "Rotten yogurt."  I began to think back to my attempts of choosing between the store's two offered scents.  Vanilla and Cream's scratch and sniff declared it NOT the winner.  And...wait a minute...that's funny...three Pumpkin Bliss in a row don't have a scratchy piece of plastic to test?  How odd, I think as I dig through the entire stock...not a one.  Hmmmm....perhaps I should be suspicious?  Well, it IS raining out and I really don't want to go to another store soooooo...we'll go with- you guessed it, Pumpkin Bliss.  Til I get in the car and realize it's more like Butterscotch Feet.  I guess I shouldn't be shocked by my children's underwhelmed reaction. 

  Another 15 minutes go by before my second eldest daughter chimes in during her ride home from school.  The dramatic question passes through lips curled in disgust, "What smells like SWEAT in here??"  Siiiiigh... by this point I can't even muster a jolly declaration so it comes out more like a question, "Pumpkin Bliss?"  "Eeeeew, it doesn't smell anything like pumpkins!," is her gauntlet tossed on my defeated purchasing prowess.  "Look here!, I begin my defense, "I saw pumpkins and candy corn and thought it would be festive with Thanksgiving coming up AND I paid for it so we are USING it!"  "Eeeew," seems to be her best come-back.  Then I just could not help myself and had to know, "So you really don't think it smells like butterscotch feet?"  Just as swiftly as the wind had died down, my white flag rose and the stink became casual conversation.  "Ummmm no, I think it smells more like sweat, but kinda like a vanilla-y sweat. But I get why the other kids smell yogurt."  I can't believe I'm nodding my head in agreement to this...siiiigh.

 It's been a solid week of  scent that never fails to "surprise" us each time the car doors are whipped open and the aroma wafts out.  It never gets old and doesn't seem to be ebbing in strength.  I've circled Thanksgiving's date on my calendar to count the number days I must be strong until a "certain purchase" goes missing on garbage day.  I already have it's replacement stashed deep in the cupboard to conceal my defeat.  It's  Frosted Pine.  Hey! Save your judgement...it had pictures of snow covered pine trees and a lovely holiday gold...right above a white convertible with it's...OH NO...how did I not see it's... top down???  In winter??? 

 Oh well, I already bought it...

   

Space Invaders

   Just a few nights ago I covered up my five-year old with a soft pink and white fuzzy blanket before piling on her queen-sized floral comforter.  I took one look at the smiling blue eyes peeking out from the mountain of ensured warmth and forgot the book waiting for me downstairs.  Prompted to spontaneity, I  threw back the covers, hopped in, and tossed the layers of comfort over both of us.  We lay nose to nose and stared in each others eyes before the inevitable giggling started... you know, the kind that is born of an awkward closeness while invading someone's space.  We were within breath-fogging proximity yet neither of us were shy in the nearness.  Truth be told I've most likely desensitized her to the need for personal space over the years with my constant nuzzling. 

  She caved first and slowly inched backwards...probably so she could see my whole head without going cross-eyed.  My youngest shares this large bed with her 14 year-old sister, a fact I hear about  frequently due to the youngest's tendency to thrash about and lob her teeny feet and legs into her sisters face nightly.  I was thinking about that discrepancy and asked my little one if she and her older sister sleep nose to nose.  "No," she responded then went on to act out her words of, "I like to try to SNUGGLE UP," she said, letting the words build in tempo.  She inched herself away from me while stretching her words, "Then I baaack away kinda slowly." Once again she wiggled close, quickening her words as she said,  "Then I try to SNUGGLE UP," before carefully scooching backwards while lowering her voice to say, "then I hafta baaaack away kinda slowly....  then I fall asleep."   She was letting me know her tactics to incrementally sneak into her sisters personal space to get warm and cozy without being noticed until she was tired enough to conk out in her own little zone.

  I then asked if she liked sharing a bed with her older sister and she nodded emphatically adding, "until I get my own bed."  Knowing her fondness of cozying up, I was surprised and asked, "Oh, do you want your own bed?  She looked at me earnestly and replied, "Yeah, maybe when I'm 11...or 18...or 39."

  The  mind of a five-year old holds delight and somewhat random thoughts...and ages.  That evening was a fine example of diving into a darling moment that would have been missed had I heeded the call for my own personal space.  I'm no longer 11...or 18...or even 39 for that matter.  It's a sweet delight to enter the mind of youth and perhaps even gain inspiration.  I wonder if my husband will notice my cold feet inching towards him this evening?

Stormy Changes

  Time to hunker down.

  Last night I was tucking my two youngest into bed, and by that I mean falling asleep smack dab in the middle, when all three of us were startled by a CRASH*Bang*thumpthumpthump.  My littlest woke from a sound sleep, eyes popping open to mutter, "what was that?"  Her older brother clutched me from behind and whimpered his complete undoing during the windstorm.  He's had a phobia of strong weather ever since he was caught on the lacrosse field during a brewing storm.  Lightening had appeared on the horizon and seemed to stretch it's finger to the ground amidst a deafening clap of thunder.  That particular squall had blown in on a tremendously strong wind.  My husband and six of the seven children were present during that traumatizing event.  Most of the kids were coaching or practicing while I was less than a mile down the street...in the gym.  I saw no issue in getting a good workout in while the kids were doing the same.  The youngest wanted to go to the gym's childcare and we had every intention of  catching the last few minutes of practice. 

  Well, I never did have to run over to the field to see them...they came to me...and had my name announced over the loud speaker.  One look at my husband's face while a hysterically crying, little boy clung to his leg silenced my, "Wow...the wind has really picked u..." unnecessary comment.  Some of the older kids were shooting rain-soaked daggers at my flushed face while others were trying to disappear into the carpet to escape questioning glances and outright stares of passing patrons.  My family's sopping exhibition was a sight to behold.  I wanted to join the crew seeking escape as my husband's "exasperated" tone rose while reminding me I had the van...they had to walk in the howling wind and listen to shrieks of terror from my son, whose eyes were still glazed with unadulterated fear.  The gym's receptionist had the grace to appear oblivious to the nine of us gathered a foot from her counter.  The cluster of cubicles that lined the opposite wall hustled into a flurry of fingers dialing suddenly urgent calls and shuffling papers that were in dire need of...shuffling.   Perhaps that day the staff gained insight into my jubilant smile and joyful "hello" each visit; in a family this size there is ALWAYS some issue needing to be worked out with a sweaty gusto.

  So there we lie, in the wake of the "crashbangthumping" all six eyes wide open...bed vibrating from my son's tremulous quaking.  "Hey Hon, I think your saw just fell down the porch steps" I call out to the living room.  Nothing. No reaction til one of the kids asked what he thought it was.  "Uuuumph," he utters from the effort of closing the recliner then, "ooooach," escapes his lips while pulling his poor, injured, and degenerating discs to an upright position.  I hear low mutters about probabilities of the drying rods holding their hunting clothes falling.  The little ones and I hear the curtains being slid, door opening and the silence that follows.  Finally there's "How is that even possible?!?" followed by shuffling, grunts and the solid thump, thump, thumping of what I can only guess is the saw being hoisted back up on the front deck and into our foyer...next to the sizable treadmill we recently had our muscled teenager carry up from the basement with intent to sell.  Yes, my family and our home ARE a sight to behold.  Most likely not your average sight.  However, it's what is not written most days is what defines us.  The tender smiles, giggles, and tickles before eyes begin to close at bedtime; these are the nectar of goodness.  The quiet prayers (and sometimes not so quiet) offered in thanksgiving for all our day held and asking for the grace to draw us closer to Him through it all: these are the channels to the staying power that holds us together no matter what typhoon comes our way.  The days Dad calls all to the garden to witness the miracle of growth from a seed to produce: these are the life lessons that will hopefully instill wonder and knowledge as our children grow into adults.  And of course the thousands of inconsequential moments that ARE life...it's in the living, that we learn.  The lessons seldom come from the moments we get it right the first time...but how we learn from those and do it better when offered a do-over. The best do-overs are the ones where patience, mercy, and attempted understanding take place.

  I've not left my family stranded on a field while I drive off to better myself again and the bulky saw got wheeled down to a safer storage space.  It now occupies the treadmill's former home.  The treadmill does still sit there in the foyer... awaiting offers (hint hint)-- great working condition I just have my reasons ;) *please see post titled Trail Vs. Treadmill. 

  That night's howling winds were a warning that the weather is changing...kinda like this family.  Bigger storms are coming, no doubt.  Definitely time to hunker down and prepare for those storms and changes...and stormy changes. 

  Time to embrace the sleepy time snugglers while they still love lullabies and bedtime stories.  Seek out moments with the pre-teen who has been letting more nights slip by without asking me to tuck him in but still whispers, "I love you Mom," as he heads upstairs for the night.  And while I do appreciate alone time it's so important to remember that there are teens hungering for some alone time with me- even if they don't realize it.  A simple, "Hey, I'm going to the store do you want to ride with me?" opens the door to chatting, laughs, and perhaps questions asked that wouldn't be broached at the dinner table.  And of course there's that college boy...already out on his own, though never too far for me to text "Good night, we love you, God bless you. <3." 

   A good reminder from a bedtime story shared throughout the years:  the big, bad wolf did try to huff and puff and blow the house down...it was the solid foundation that remained intact.

Life Is...Surprising

  It's raining outside.  I used to think I'd be listening to jazz, sitting on the window ledge of an upper studio apartment, looking down over the streets of New York City on a gray day like this.  I even pictured playing along on my own saxophone.

   Yeah...uhhhm no.  Let's just say my life holds no semblance to the existence I envisioned while in my teens. 

  I do have Michael Buble's station playing on Pandora...so I shouldn't say NO semblance right?  It is kinda jazzy.  But as for New York City- well,  I'm in the neighboring state of Pennsylvania sitting in my upper story (yet another semblance), wooden office, looking out over fallen leaves that have covered my husband's ladders.  Those tools sit next to the well-loved lacrosse portion of the yard which is the backdrop to our summer's shining star- the pool.   Of course there's the swingset with attatched platform/slide that has seen better days...and by that I mean it used to be the summer's shining star.  The kids are getting older and we have more pick-up football games than we do calls for Mommy to "come push me!"  We can't forget Millie's (our choc lab) kennel.  It's kitty-corner to the fire pit that Millie sneaks wood from to chew when she thinks we're not looking.  It's the same wood she sneaks within plain view, then takes off to the lax area to hide behind the net...it's a net Millie, we can see you!

  It's raining outside...perhaps the same condensation passed over NYC hours ago.  Crazy to think of a life so foreign to my current days.  I've never even held a saxophone to my lips.  I'll hint at my age and admit that fantasy's inspiration was influenced by Kenny G.  Who didn't love Silhouette?  flashback to Silhouette (you're welcome).  And yet, I am happy.  I am content.  I look at the leaves that cover the yard where my children's youth has played out.  I see the trees that were full of vibrant green buds just this past spring.  They have released their blooms that whispered in summer's breeze and stand disrobed, yet sturdy, guarding our lawn carpeted in the golden offerings from these sentinels.  I'm reminded of another childhood favorite that holds more meaning now then ever... Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree.  No kidding, this book sits on the edge of my desk...next to the window I look out.  Perhaps it's been waiting for this rainy day to remind me how good I've got it.  And how life is not about the destination but the journey. 

  We parents once held the bud of youth in our dreams of how life would be.  We now have the opportunity to lay down our golden glory for our children to pile up and play in.  They can cover themselves and feel secure in our commitment to share this journey with them.  Perhaps they will provide us with their own little buds to bring rejuvenation in our golden years.  It comes full circle.  I wouldn't trade a single, crazy, hectic moment nor a neck hugging, sloppy kiss on the cheek embrace for a smooth jazz note lilting what could have been.  We make our own music here with broom stick air guitars and ladles for microphones. These are the days creating the memories of tomorrow. I imagine when I am an old woman I will look out at the trees and smile, remembering my children hanging from the branches and lobbing footballs under their leaves.
 
   Then again, I've been surprised before...perhaps I will be harnessed to my eldest, sharing a tandem skydive.  I wouldn't put it passed my second to have me deep sea fishing or my third to share her hotel amenities while she attends a medical conference on the Big Island.  My fourth just may get me to New York for a Broadway play the night after my fifth reserved a front row seat so I could watch the mad drumming skills he led the band with.  I will need some quiet time so I suppose I would prefer the box seat offered to watch my sixth in the Superbowl.  I will be tired so I will gladly return to my husband who kept the home fires burning at our sweet seventh's home-- where we will live.  ;)

 

Trail vs. Treadmill

  The prize of walking is in the pushing on...

   I've walked a treadmill many times throughout my life.  Not saying I always disembarked when I was tired, but the possibility was there...within reach.  Temptation disguised as a big red button taunting me to "STOP," loitering within fingertips reach.  I'd think if a manufacturer is going to include a plastic, corded key to be yanked in case of EMERGENCY- they might want to issue some guidelines to the less motivated runner as to what a true emergency is.  After all, increased pulse and shortness of breath are natural results of an elevated heart rate.  Beyond actual medical concerns...I'm more thinking of mornings that inspired a brisk walk, so time was taken to don appropriate wicking gear only to have inspiration pass before Manual Mode was chosen.  Staring at the wall only goes so far when the mind begins to roll faster than the belt being tread on.  A hundred other "tasks" needing to be done speed into consciousness while the sweat that is barely beading becomes an annoyance.  Halfway through the intended 30 minute walk, the war that's been waged between determination and interest has been won and STOP comes to the rescue.  "I'll do better tomorrow" pacifies the ambitious psyche which advocated to exercise in the first place.

  Walking a trail or path offers no such safety net.  You've completed half your distance goal and motivation begins to wane...there is no STOP button.  Sure, you could sit your rear end off to the side of the path and hope some kind fitness buff, looking for a little extra resistance training, agrees to hoist your hundred and mumblemumble additional pounds over their shoulder and deposit you back from whence you came.  I'd venture a bet, which is less humbling than speaking from experience, that telling your own little "pansy" legs to carry you back to the starting point, because you didn't bring taxi fare, will get you there faster.  The prize  of walking a path or trail is in the pushing on- you got yourself there now get yourself back.  Bam!  Your walk time just doubled.

  Interesting transitions take place once you've committed to pressing forward.  The mind, which initially celebrated increased endorphins, digresses to calling you bad names while asking what you were thinking, before inevitably releasing it's death-grip focus on discomfort and finally eases into it's surroundings.   Finally submitting to the path you're on, it notices the view is decidedly more stimulating than drywall or cinder block. Mind over matter has just introduced you to a host of new sensory input.  No more same ol' same ol'.  Expanding horizons is a good thing. Take this morning's walk for example...  I never would have thought to mingle the scent of factory pollution, Fall leaves and cigar.  Nor would I have wanted to, yet that is the brilliance in allowing yourself new experiences.  I can still see the army green mittens of the fellow, out for a jaunt, surprising me as they lifted a cigar to his weathered lips before I passed that pedestrian and PUSHED ON.  A little further I looked back only to realize I could no longer see the gentleman's peaceful puffs.  However, there was a newcomer in a crisp, red jacket making gains.  My competitive streak kicked in as I thought, "the red-coats are coming, the red-coats are coming," and quickened my pace.

  Admittedly, I would have been disappointed in today's walk due to the uncharacteristic polluted scent yet I rounded the corner and the wind and vista shifted.  I was witnessing cool waters lit up with diamond like sparkles in a marsh I had forgotten was there.  Yet another prize from pushing on.  By the walks end my ambitious psyche had prevailed over my pansy legs to reward me with a sense of accomplishment, a trip away from my daily grind, and a darn good work-out--no taxi needed ;) 

Dear Teacher...

This is a letter I recently sent.  It is edited to protect the identity of all involved except myself as the author.  My purpose in sharing this letter is to: 1) Let you know these discussions are taking place in school- if not your school, then in neighboring schools and your children are witnessing and hearing things you'd never realize if they don't tell you.  So, make sure you are talking (but listening more) to your child, then when the big stuff comes they already know you care.   Knowing you care makes it easier to share.
     2) Encourage you to get involved.  Our children are learning EVERY day.  It is your right, and dare I say duty, to help them process this changing world they live in.  You hold the biggest role of influence in their lives.  Regardless of your belief system and value structure- please don't hand that role over to others who are not as invested in your child as you are.  Doing nothing is still making a choice...it is simply choosing to allow someone else to make the choice for you.
                                                         3) Oh, and you don't have to be mean to get your point across. 

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

 
Dear Teacher,

 

  I am writing to you in regards to the discussions that were held on the topic of transgenders in the classroom.  My child came home from school yesterday and needed to talk to me.  My child shared that it had been explained in the classroom a fellow student will be legally changing their name and identifying themselves as the opposite sex from today on.  A discussion had been held the day before, (date given), during which the general topic of transgenders was brought up.  My guess is this topic was broached to prepare students for the announcement which was made the following day, (date given).  I can appreciate you trying to assist this student in making the transition less awkward for all, yet I felt little concern was given to the parents, families, and caretakers of the fellow students hearing about this change.

 

  I understand we live in a changing society and I am not addressing this student's choices, but rather the lack of involving us, as parents, in this discussion.  This is not necessarily a school topic but rather a conversation involving values, morals and ethics which we would have appreciated being made aware of from you, as the primary educator within this classroom.  We would have welcomed the opportunity to have open dialogue with our child before it was announced in the school setting.  I don't know how much notice you were given, but feel at the very least a letter could have been sent home letting us know these discussions had taken place.  

 

  I have heard many times from our child and others that this class is a "family."  I can respect the bond you are forging with this unifying mindset but ask that you would please respect our primary role as parents.  Given that this is our child before they are your student we'd ask that you honor these boundaries and in moving forward, communicate with us before addressing the students as issues involving values, morals, and ethics are raised.  I would greatly appreciate your response back ensuring you received this email and providing an action plan to establish greater parental involvement.

 

Sincerely,
Susan "Mama Bear" Yurkewicz

Tattoo Trials

What does one say to a teary-eyed kindergartner regretting her tattoo?  "It's ok honey, metallic silver goes with everything."  Maybe I could have told her it brings her eyes out.  I didn't chime in with either of those responses.  I looked at her shiny, patterned neckband and listened to her woes about how the kids in class all want to stare at it.  I watched her body language as her little hands pulled the neck of her shirt up to her watering eyeballs.  I listened to her muffled cries about how she never should have let her older sister do this to her.  I heard about the Halloween candy bribing to allow the tattoo placement on the day I was at Parent-Teacher Conferences (I should have known! Yet ANOTHER reason I should have trembled before this event *See post titled Parent-Teacher Conferences).  I didn't say much because there were moments that she was completely oblivious to it's existence and others where she was gleefully showing it off to Daddy.

  All of today's mournful moaning was happening five minutes before we were to leave for the bus stop.  I had witnessed my young daughter's distress yesterday afternoon as well.  She wasn't off the bus more than three minutes before the day's drama over this prominent emblem came spilling out.  This is why I encouraged a good tub soaking last night...well, besides the dirty feet and knees from chasing her brothers and their friends while playing football.  There may have been a few hundred tiny bits of crushed leaves in her hair from her leaf pile escapades as well...this is one energetic, hardy girl.  Either way, I was surprised to see the tinny-looking, lace design encircling her neck was still very much intact this morning despite a good washing.  I admit I wasn't that concerned about the placement on Monday because I thought it would be rubbed off by Tuesday afternoon at the latest.  I had no idea these metallic tattoos that line every Super-Center store's shelves weren't as lame as the Valentine tats that are peeled half off before it's pressed flat on a forearm. 

 I sympathized with my little one this morning as she wept and told me about how the kids all gathered around yesterday to look.  I got out the baby soap and washcloth as she cried and began to rub.  When that didn't bring any change I went for the big guns: baking soda.  I hid my horror at the redness that was only making the silvery swirls appear to glow.  Great...one minute left.  "Don't worry Hon, we'll for sure get it off tonight. Time to go.  I'll grab your book bag, you get a sweatshirt."  My son and I headed out onto the porch and down the steps as she came running out.  Air sucked in through my teeth didn't really hide my surprise at her choice of her purple with pink fur trimmed, heavy winter coat zipped up to her chin. It's uncharacteristically warm out...like 72  degrees, but I knew what she was trying to camouflage.  Bus was coming and I knew I'd have a melt-down on my hands so I sent her off with a kiss and encouraging smile.

It's hours later and I've pondered one question all morning.  "Why didn't I ask her if SHE LIKED the tattoo?!?"  

  So what if the kids were looking?  They probably went home and asked to run to the store to get one and a gold version too.  It's not against the school policy to sport a fake tattoo and I could have encouraged her to rock this look (until we use the baby oil my neighbor, and veteran mother of three girls assured me would take this off...I kid you not, it's like tinfoil applied with superglue).  My young daughter IS an energetic, hardy, strong and spirited spit-fire!  If she can play football with boys six years her senior she can pull off a shiny tattoo- without fear of what others think. 

  Life is full of lessons.  Learning to listen to your own instinct about what you personally like and dislike is a hard lesson to learn.  I'm on my own journey with this very topic.  Why not give my daughter a head start now?  Clearly, I'm not a perfect Mom- but I can admit when I'm wrong.  We can learn together.  I can't wait to go greet her and hear about her day- and hopefully I'll see that winter coat shoved way down in the bottom of her bag. 

 

Don't Miss It!

6 A.M. came early this morning.  My sweet husband woke me with a whispered, "Hey Sus, time to get up.  You gonna shower?"  My groggy mind picked around this question debating whether to beat my teenage daughter to the bathroom or dismiss the cleansing waters until I get my exercise walk in.

  I waffled interiorly even as I uttered, "Nah," to the shower, knowing I should walk.  I rolled out of bed onto my knees and gave my day to God.  I promptly got up, grabbed the towel hubby had left for me on the bed, and locked the door to signify I'm first in the bathroom line-up.  I'm not sure when I changed my mind to forgo the walk and prep for the day but it happened.

  Fast-forward one hour to walking the last two children to the bus stop.  Somewhere in the midst of a hundred yards the whispering winds and warm sunshine changed my mind for me again.  I MUST walk today.  This is an indication of just HOW BEAUTIFUL it is outside today- since I had actually curled my hair.

  I tricked myself with the thought this wouldn't be an exercise jaunt.  No, I would go to the Peninsula with the sole purpose being to soak in nature's glory.  Normally that trick succeeds in wooing me to the workout destination.  Once there I'm ready to break a sweat.  Today, I truly was mesmerized by Autumn's Last Hurrah.  Maybe I had been wooed for a soul purpose...

  I walked my familiar paths while warmed rays grazed my face.  I was surprised by the wind's insistence.  I had visualized serenity but discovered an urgency in the choppy waters that in no way lessened today's splendor.  In fact,  I became caught up in recognizing today's walk was not meant to merely delight my eyes.  This discovery came with the realization I had forgotten my sunglasses and needed to squint my eyelids shut.  Oddly enough, the wind had risen several octaves as I walked, gusting the leaves into a frenzy.   Undaunted, I walked on, blind and deafened by the gales that now rose and fell like a symphony reaching it's crescendo.  This is when I FELT why I was to be here this morning...

  My world slowed as the wind ran it's breathy fingers through my hair, caressing my face, holding my attention long enough to deliver the sun's quiet message of goodbye.

  Perhaps it was in handing over my day that I was afforded this GIFT that I had tried to pass up due to the desire to get more done.  I am so grateful I didn't miss it!  Not only was I walking in the wonder of warm weather and beautiful skies in November here in Erie, PA,  I was mindful of the seasonal passing on of the baton.  That moment woke me from my "meh" attitude of entitlement and spurred me to implore each of you to not let this day go by without lifting your face to receive the golden glow's kiss of parting.  It's not a final embrace, as we hardy Lake Erie-ites have learned.  Yet, in our town's remarkable setting, it's a thing of such concentrated beauty we are willing to hunker down through the extreme weather until it emerges once again in all it's glory.  Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is no laughing matter in these parts- let us drink in this elixir while we can!

Carpe Diem!
        

 

Parent Teacher Conferences

 Today and tomorrow bring about the two-day festive holiday known as "Parent Teacher Conferences," in our house.  Now, to some parents, this holiday might strike fear in the deep recesses of their hearts.  I have had enough experience over the years to know that the best way to prepare for this party is to take a deep breath, crack my knuckles, partake in a few neck rolls, and shake out the tension.  It is important to stand before a mirror and practice which grin looks the least forced under a sheen of sweat that dots the upper lip.  Perhaps the most important tip I can offer in preparation of this particular feast is the chant used to lull myself to sleep on Conference eve.  It is fairly simple, yet acutely imperative and bears repeating a thousand times.  It goes like this, "Bring It On, Bring It On, Hit me with your best shot and Bring It On."  I believe the counting sheep show compassion as they as they blend beautiful harmonies and perhaps empathy earned from a few lackadaisical lambs.

  I am jesting, sort of...not really, but mostly.

  Within our beautiful crew of seven children we have plenty of personality, an assortment of learning aptitudes, a diverse approach to diligence, and everything in between.  This is in regards to the book work.  Let us direct our attention to the portion that covers...behaviors.  Or perhaps...NOT.  I'd rather let your imagination cover this ground.  Conduct varies by disposition and of course, age certainly plays a factor.  Yet, it is never a given as to which age brings about the most interesting teacher encounters.

  I will let your imagination join our school soiree as I offer a morsel for you to digest.  Let's just say we thought we had seen it all by the time our youngest entered her scholastic career.  Such was not the case.  I didn't even know a pre-school Parent-Teacher Conference could last an hour... and contain such a conundrum of concern and comic relief.  I truly appreciate the teachers who are down to earth and are willing to tell tales of what my children have done while honing the art of presenting with a flourish of humor and positive word choices.  Apparently my youngest is spirited, not sassy.  She has strong leadership skills and has escaped being bossy.  She is exceptionally bright...I may have added the exceptionally- because she is, of course.  She is hilarious, even when she doesn't intend to be so.  However, this could be construed as honesty without filter.  Again, gratitude comes to mind when offered humor in uncomfortable situations.  My daughter once informed me it is possible to have a "Food Baby."  What do you mean, Honey?  "Well, Ms. So-and-so told me it wasn't a real baby in her belly it was a food baby."  My hands flew to my mouth and covered the intake of GASP when I realized what my sweet angel must have asked that morning.  Clearly we didn't cross that line of discussion when we met...yet that shindig still held 60 full minutes of...conferencing.  Siiiiigh.

  This year's Season witnessed my mature head nods and understanding "Mmm-hmmm's," while my spirit screamed, "You can't break me!"  I used to attempt explanations for what I felt judged upon.  I've learned that served no purpose in helping my child's progress.  With age comes wisdom of the sort that can't be learned in the text-books.  The school of hard-knocks, while difficult to live through and even more torturous to witness our children in does serve a purpose.  Every year I fill in the blanks of what I want the teacher to learn about my child with prose subtly suggesting their spirit not be crushed.   I must also respect the fact my child needs to learn to work within a group.  This skill can enhance their individuality so that others will want to follow them when the time is right.  Our greatest strengths may originally emerge as our greatest weakness.  It takes a wise mentor to recognize character and raw talent and know that a student must understand the end goal and be willing to work together for goal attainment.  These are not easy tasks...I know because I am a mother  invested in helping achieve this very goal.  I treasure these opportunities to work together with teachers I see as partners in this mission.

  I can tease about the tough times and roll with the reality of imperfections.  Yet, I will agree to check the on-line student accounts to ensure proper quiz preps, visit our library to borrow FUN reading material, ground my son...I mean move his clothespin to stop, if he doesn't read to his sister, banish friends until geography skills are improved, implement a structured, yet whimsical learning environment where all will thrive as they broaden their brain activity.  I will also broaden my shopping list with the addition of an aluminum cookie sheet, plastic lower-case magnetic letters, shaving cream for spelling activities, cleaner to remove shaving cream from my bathtub walls and perhaps a bit of wine to celebrate another year's Conferencing conquest.

 

Happy Halloween!

  18 years of Trick or Treating have taught me...never take anything for granted.  Like, it's not a given all your children will be healthy enough to go...and may even throw-up in the truck on the way to frivolous fun.  That year was a bummer as it was the first child's first Halloween.

  I've learned it's possible to push past personal trauma and illness to ensure your kiddos can participate in the festivities.  Hey, being released from the hospital with just enough time to spare AND still having a bit of meds circulating in the system mean "YES we can!," as long as hubby is there to lend an arm and hold the flashlight as we weave down the street.

  It is SO MUCH FUN to take the kids to the neighborhoods with doors you once knocked on.  Granted, it's probably more fun in your own mind since you're re-living the good ol' days.  Perhaps the children can't feel the joy of walking a "country mile" with stretches of fields between houses.  Now it's all about filling the bag...ok, it was then too.  We just didn't know there was an alternative.
My husband and I took one year each out of the near two decades to walk these old paths.  The smiles on the faces in my husband's old stomping grounds as they greeted one of the Yurkewicz boys and his offspring--PRICELESS!

  I've learned to influence costumes while there is still time!  Yes, in the ideal years my children went dressed as an angel or Saint.  Now there are "tasteful" vampires and Elsa.  While dressing my second youngest child in his Army-man costume for a party last night it came time to add a tough-guy tattoo.  I hesitated over his bicep for a second before suggesting, "How bout a heart with Mom?"  He replied, "How bout a drop of blood."  To which I responded, "How bout MOM in a heart?"  "Ummm, how bout a flame?" he hopefully asked.  I was not giving up knowing my third-grader wouldn't be offering me his little flexed muscles much longer...next year he'd be grabbing the paints himself...and in years to come perhaps darkening the door of a real ink shop.  "How bout Mom." I stated.  "Ok, how bout Mom, he agreed with a smile."  Whew!  You can bet I called attention to that tattoo at the party- Look how my son loves me!

  There was the year we finally accepted the offer to trick-or-treat in my oldest sister's neighborhood.  My sister Mary had been diagnosed with stage 4 colo-rectal cancer and I just wanted to be near her.  A couple things learned that night a) Never try and out-do my sister...there would be no winning.  I felt so festive in my orange and black until I was greeted at the door by a beautiful, glamorous witch complete with striped stockings, a feathery, pointed hat, full make-up, and wig. b) It can be more fun staying behind to man the "giving" station.  Mary and I giggled over home-made yarn braids, scary masks, and neighbors who had come and see her in all her finery.  We also sat in quiet as certain moments called for.  I had the opportunity to ooh-and ahh over every decorative spider web, lit up jack-o-lantern, and fiery cauldron she had found the energy to set out--of course she gloried in the compliments.  c) I should have come to my sister's years ago when her health was well.  Mary's been gone for almost two years now and the tears run down my cheeks as I remember that evening and am grateful that we drove across town-even past the country roads we grew up on to spend that fun evening together.  I'm grateful for her example and hold her spirit of joy deep in my heart as we head out this year. 

    I acknowledge the largest lesson of this season: time moves swiftly.  Therefore I commit to seizing the moment while holding kids and family close.  I am insisting we head to the other side of town as a family- though some teenagers would rather hang with friends.  Regardless of the chill in the air, I will rejoice with each thud of candy in their hard plastic pumpkin.  Not for material gain...but because we walk together as a family- through the darkness of the night and find reasons to laugh and support one another.  It is what you make it.  Perhaps I'll throw on a bit of "ink" tonight.  I'll be the arm with seven little hearts holding onto my husband as we weave through the streets.  He's relented this year...back to my old town.  But not the same old country streets.  The cousins we'll trick or treat with have learned there are streets that exist with houses that are separated by mere driveways.  Even I can appreciate change.

 

My Life is Perfect...on Facebook

I love Facebook...yet it is a book of faces and what those faces are doing.  Admittedly, I get sucked in and during my weaker moments, it's for hours at a time. 

  Why?  I suppose the reason varies.  It's good to see what others are up to.  It's a curious itch that seeks to be scratched.  Scrolling uses mindless muscles that aren't linked to any type of time-awareness faculties.  Sometimes I just want a good laugh for the day.  Occasionally I want to mindlessly escape the realities of life that of course would never show up on my timeline. 

  I've witnessed beautiful displays of tantalizingly arranged dinners...would you want to see my overflowing sink of crusty dishes?  Now that's just silly, and gross.  Why would I, wife and mother of seven, have cups and plates jam-packed in a 13"x10" space, competing for room with a chili encrusted, two gallon soup pot to see which can jettison more tap water onto the kitchen floor?  Puhleez!  I can't run fast enough to wash dishes since my little angels race to do this task and fight for the privilege.  Yes, MY children should be role models for the U.N. in the  manner they get along so amiably.  If you saw my FB you'd see them gathered round the table for a wholesome game of Bingo.  On a more raucous evening it might be Monopoly.  You'd detect no sibling rivalry like the children "I heard about" who tore each other's homework to shreds in a fit of revenge--how beastly.  If I could master technology I'd probably post videos of my children volunteering at our Church's fundraising Oktoberfest.  There'd be no hint of neighbors closing windows against offensive bickering...nor air conditioners being turned on to further diffuse our...I mean, some families...clamor.   If you were to look through the history of my photos you'd notice that it took me a bit of time to get the gist of what is meant by "camera friendly."  Of course now, my hair-do is ALWAYS on point (see how trendy my language is ;) ) and professionally enhanced.  Isn't everyone's?  Why wouldn't it be?  We have hordes of money.  Simply boatloads, tons, kajillions of dollars!  Why would I sneak away to Sally's Beauty Supply, under cover of darkness, with my 14 year-old daughter and grill the once upon a time beautician now turned clerk about coloring?  Don't be ridiculous!  Why would I accept her offer to write instructions on scrap paper about how to put hair into sections and have my daughter google the steps to balance out dark roots?  Honey, Please!  Remember..."On Point"- that's me!  If I ever sobbed into my bathroom mirror at 1 A.M. after my daughter begged-off and went to bed because it was the first day of school and I was left to rinse my orange tinged hair on my own and attempt a few snips to get rid of frizz...you would NEVER know about it!  Of course...never happened.  There are no pictures.  You can't prove a thing. 

For whatever reason I sign on to Facebook, I typically read through the top of my News Feed to see what's what.  I keep going to see what's been missed- til I realize the current time and grasp that what's been missed is a chunk of my day! 

  This isn't a rant about social media...for heaven's sake I'm typing on a blog in real time here.  It's just a notion that perhaps it's a good thing to set boundaries for how much of my own life I'm willing to spend on the pictures and captions of family, old classmates, mentors, strangers, and friends of friends.  The currency used is seconds, minutes, hours.  The hitch is there is no refund.  You can't get time back...ever.

 Besides,  what your currency is spent on perhaps is an illusion.  Except on MY timeline- where all is authentic as it's intended to seem ;) 



 

DUCK! and cover...

 

 It's a good thing I knew today opened Waterfowl Season in the Lake Erie Zone... 

  Walking glorious paths of breath-taking, fall beauty while losing myself in interior dialogue is a common occurrence these days.  "I don't know if there's a name for the color of those leaves.  It's a sort of bright orange tinged with yellow and red."  Sniiiiif...yes, inhale deeply to further ingest nature's best.  "Ahh, it's so amazingly beautiful out here.  The sky is so clear and the water is so calm.  I can't get over how peacefxx..." BAM! BAM! BAM!

 "Good one!," I think as I lower my right knee, unclasp my heart, slowly unscrunch my eyes, and relax my lips to cover bared teeth.  I don't think I would fool any human or duck into believing I meant to strike that pose.  Might as well continue walking and remind myself to just look straight ahead as cheeks flame and heart tries to find it's way back to a normal rhythm.

  My husband and sons are hunters.  I knew it was bound to happen.  But that staccato of reports sounding off to my right caught me off guard and scared me as readily as a good glaucoma test.    Sounds weird I know, but to endure the optical exam's blast of forced air, though some call it a tiny puff,  prompts self imposed strong arm tactics.  I have to force my forehead against the headrest while every inch of my face is crumpled and eyes are narrowed to the tiniest of slits.  The expectation of what's coming is clearly worse than the actual outcome.  I know this is a personal quirk that delights some family members and irritates others to no end.  C'mon, doesn't everyone get freaked out by the suspense that builds while waiting on the *pop* caused by placing a spoon to the crease of a can of crescent rolls?  I've finally given up on bullying myself to do it with arms outstretched, hands wrapped in oven mitts, and face turned away as far as possible.  Now, I just pretend I need help with dinner and call my kids in to do the task.  I'm astounded at their bravery!

 For future walks, I suppose I should practice not flinching.  I'll be sharing the Peninsula with 73 lucky duck hunters who won first chance to stake their blinds for the next couple months.  I concede I could eliminate post traumatic stress by January if I chose to walk in a less unnerving location...but I'd just as soon face a plethora of eye-puffs before I'd give up Presque Isle in all it's seasonal glory! 

Rinng Riiiing Riiiiing....Pillsbury called...they suggested I try Wintergreen Gorge.

 

Bonk On The Head

"Mrs. Yurkewicz?" 
"Yes..."
"This is the school nurse...ummm...I'm calling to tell you of a minor incident involving your daughter..."
Silence... thoughts whirring...what did she do now.

The school nurse rushed on to reassure me that my kindergartner had taken a purposeful, solid, two-fisted bonk on the head during their scheduled Learning Lab with a pretty good nature.  I was told she did not have a headache and had rested with an ice-bag on her head before being evaluated once again and sent back to class.

Truthfully, other than asking if the nurse was sure my youngest child didn't have a headache since she had been complaining of one last night and this morning I was a bit at a loss for words.  I did manage to ask about the "bonk-er" but the nurse didn't have that information, she was there to tell me my daughter was physically fine.  Even now I am still processing this conversation and wondering what type of reaction I'll receive once my daughter is home.

This is the fine line we walk as parents- when to get involved and make a big deal of something and when to  walk the sidelines, smiling and waving our support while letting them know we are near if they need us to step in.  These moments, though perhaps soon forgotten in the minds of our children tempt me to want to place a bubble around those I cherish and ensure their safety in the face of whatever comes.  I can't do that...I know because I've tried.  This little one is number seven and there is no way to intercept the boo-boos, tears, hurt-feelings, and ouchies that come.  Yes, these are the character builders.  They are building character in me simultaneously.  The hurt is a different kind- the pain of letting go.  The comfort comes in realizing that there is One who loves my children more than I and He has their back.

Perhaps it's time to be grateful for the incessant bickering that has taken place here at the homestead for...well, forever.  We've made it a rule that the Instigator must say, "I'm sorry" and the Injured Party say, "I forgive you." Yes, I agree with the children who at times have reared back with, "I'm just saying it cuz you're forcing me."  Doesn't matter, do it anyway.  It's the right thing to do. It's now become a habit within our family.  One they can not get around.  Time stops for them until these words are spoken.

Time for my youngest to take these words into her life where I am not in control.  Took me awhile to realize control was an illusion anyway.  I must practice them when the bonk-er is held accountable...after all my baby was hurt...on purpose.  Yet, a few lines keep coming to mind from the movie Finding Nemo and I'm reminded all these little calls from the nurse and bandaged knee caps from life are all part of their journey and are orchestrated to work for their own good.

Marlin: There, there, there. It's okay, Daddy's here, Daddy's got you. I promise I will never let anything happen to you... Nemo.

Dory: That's a funny thing to promise. Well, you can't never let anything happen to him, then nothing would ever happen to him.