kara

The Brook’s Song

This morning I walked past unmade beds …

and a laundry basket overflowing with dirty clothes …

and a playroom that, honestly, more often than not looks like this.

I walked down the stairs past the frame in our wall gallery that still has the model family in it, as I haven’t had time to choose, print and pick up a picture to take its place.

I stepped over the large, rolled-up rug in our entry, which has yet to sell on Craigslist—probably because I haven’t gotten around to actually posting it yet.

I walked past a pile of dried-up wipes James emptied from the wipes container …

and nearly stepped on a tube of suntan lotion, resting next to Sophie’s ballet outfit, which she wore two days ago.

I took a sideways glance at the pile up of cars, each of which fell to their demise after being pushed down the sloping arm of our leather and oak mission chair.

I walked underneath the Happy Birthday banner, still up after Andy’s birthday earlier this week.

I walked through the dining room and looked out our windows only to be reminded of the fact that our lawnmower is still at the shop, our grass is much too tall, there is a great possibility our fence will never be finished and weeds have overtaken our flower beds.

Once in the kitchen I checked on the quilt my mom made for Owen, which is soaking in a tub of cold water because of an overnight bloody nose diaster.

I looked at the counters, still covered with dirty dishes, some in the process of being washed, thanks to a broken dishwasher.

Up late last night with freelance work I yawned, wishing coffee could make itself. The boys were yelling “banana” repeatedly and Sophie was inside the refrigerator, taking stock of all the new things Andy had brought home from the grocery last night.

I broke a banana in half and pulled out a large container of strawberry yogurt, Sophie’s favorite. While I was spooning it into a bowl she said she wanted vanilla. With honey in it.

The vanilla yogurt, actually Greek yogurt, is my yogurt. It comes in small, individual, expensive containers and so I limit myself to about three a week. I add honey. I love them. They’re my treats.

“No, Sophie.” I said. “Those are mine. You love strawberry yogurt.”

Cue whining/complaining/tears/other it-is-way-too-early-for-this reactions.

I gave her the strawberry yogurt. More whining/complaining/tears/other it-is-way-too-early-for-this reactions.

Perhaps I was being selfish, not giving her the Greek yogurt. Perhaps I should have held my ground, and insisted she eat the strawberry yogurt. But the weight of the whining, the mess, the late nights, the broken lawnmower and the broken dishwasher, Owen’s physical therapy appointment which we were already late for, the painful blister on my foot from (stupidly) wearing flip flops while pushing all three kids in the stroller all the way to the farmer’s market yesterday all became too much.

I gave her the Greek yogurt. And a bottle of honey (which I, perhaps, placed too hard in front of her, as it fell over). I walked into the kitchen and gripped the counter.

“Go upstairs,” Andy said. “Take a break.”

“I can’t take a break,” I said. “You’ll be late for work if I take a break. I can never, ever, ever take a break.”

Of course that last sentence was not true. But many days, it feels like that.

Andy went upstairs to take a shower. I started coffee. And poured myself a bowl of generic rice cereal and began to eat.

“Mommy?” Sophie asked. “I don’t want the vanilla yogurt. Can I have strawberry instead?”

“The brook would lose its song if you removed the rocks.” —Fred Beck

“They Grow Up So Fast”

Turns out I’ve managed to screw up Sophie’s sense of time.

After celebrating Andy’s birthday with us, my parents took Sophie back to their house to spend the night. Sophie was watching Andy and my dad install her car seat in my parents’ car. Andy later told me that he and Sophie were talking about when she would be old enough to drive. He told her she had to be 16, and that 16 is 4, how old she is now, plus 4, which is 8, plus 4, which is 12, plus another 4, which is (finally) 16. She thought about this, and then said it would be even longer for the boys. Andy agreed, because the boys are only 2. “And because it’s going to take longer for them than it will for me,” Sophie said. “Why?” Andy asked. “Because Mommy said I’m growing up too fast.”

“An unhurried sense of time is in itself a form of wealth.” —Bonnie Friedman

Ah, Mother’s Day

We tried taking several pictures.

This was the best of the bunch.

In all seriousness, though, it was a lovely day. We celebrated a week early as I was out of town for my brother’s graduation on this year’s actual Mother’s Day. The children gave me cards, a lovely plate and an outdoor dome plate cover. Andy got me a beautiful watch. There was breakfast in bed, which Sophie insisted on taking part of, which meant syrupy sheets. We had a picnic at the park, which the kids loved. Until, of course, I insisted on a picture with them. But ice cream at Graeter’s made up for this unreasonable request of mine.

“Sometimes the laughter in mothering is the recognition in the ironies and absurdities. Sometimes, though, it’s just pure, unthinking delight.” —Barbara Schapiro

Our (Tiny) Playroom

In addition to the three bedrooms and one bath on our second floor there is a small, maybe 8×10 room that the previous owners used as a walk-in closet. We live in a foursquare, which means our first floor consists of an entry, living room, dining room and kitchen. There’s no big finished basement. The attic is large and tall and will make a beautiful finished space someday, although Andy keeps reminding me it will be a many-years-from-now someday. In short, we don’t have a lot of extra space for toys. So we decided to turn what was a walk-in closet into a playroom. The kids still have toys in their bedrooms. Baskets of toys reside in the entry. And living room. The play kitchen is in the dining room. And there’s always a block or car under foot in the kitchen. But this room, although small, holds many—if not most—of the toys (particularly, the craft supplies). It serves as a creative space, a space I don’t mind getting messy. And often it’s a quiet space for Sophie to retreat to, when she’s tired of the boys “decorating” her artwork.

The shelving unit is the ever-popular EXPEDIT from Ikea. For storage we purchased eight DRONA Boxes, also from Ikea. They’re fine, given the price, but I often wish the unit was filled with prettier baskets.

My mom and I made the garland, inspired by The Purl Bee, for Sophie’s nursery when she was baby. You can see a sort-of tutorial here.

The artwork is from Trafalgar’s Square by Kit Chase. I ordered them from Zulily but you can also purchase them from her Etsy site here.

We were going to paint an entire wall with black chalkboard paint … until Andy found some old slate roof tiles in our attic. I fell in love with them, and insisted we use them as chalkboards instead.

The eraser, from my mom’s teaching days, reminds me so much of elementary school, clapping those green-covered erasers together, washing down the black chalkboards with a bucket and sponge.

This artwork, courtesy of the kids, hangs on Ikea’s DEKA curtain wire.

This lovely little table was a gift to Sophie several years ago, from Grandma and Paw Paw.

I love Land of Nod’s Art Caddy. Every time I order something from Land of Nod I tend to throw one of these in my online shopping basket. We now own three, and each is used every day. Parents who want to nurture their kids’ creativity may look into kids pottery classes.

Some of the storage isn’t quite adequate, but works. Plastic shoe boxes from Target hold shells and snake skin, poofy balls, glittery ribbon and plastic beads. A wooden crate from a Melissa & Doug musical instrument kit holds all the Play-Doh. And dress-up clothes reside in a (very) large basket on the floor.

Two paper lanterns hang in the room. They were a gift from my friend Linda, who found them in a “free” pile at work.

This little handmade wooden toy, which I purchased at Tamarack, often resides on the window sill.

This guy is a handmade toy from Switzerland. My mother-in-law purchased it for me years ago while on a business trip. I miscarried, and the toy sat on our piano in an otherwise toy-empty house for a long time. And now I smile every time I look at it and its surroundings.

Perhaps my favorite decorative element of the playroom, though, is this. Sophie drew it and hung it up on the wall with a red glitter heart sticker. It’s a picture of Sophie and Andy, and when Andy asked her about it she said it was called “Between Friends.”

The playroom small. And still needs (a little) work. But it’s loved and played in every day. Which, I suppose, is the very definition, and purpose, of a playroom.

“It is a happy talent to know how to play.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

A Conversation With Harold, On My Front Porch

Not feeling well I decided to sneak a quick nap in Sophie’s bed while she played in her room and the boys napped. I heard someone knocking on our front door and then the doorbell rang, despite our “please knock only” sign taped over it. I sighed heavily, hoping the boys wouldn’t wake. I was halfway down the stairs when I saw Harold peeking in through the window. I opened the door and gave him a big hug. Harold and his wife, J, had been married for more than 50 years. They never had children together, so they were each other’s everything. J passed away last week.

Before I could invite Harold in or offer him something to drink he settled himself into a rocking chair on our porch and just started talking. He shared neighborhood gossip (he knows everything about everyone). He talked about J. He talked in great detail about all the hospitals she went to, they went to, these last few months, all the tests she had done, how much weight she had lost, the biscuits and gravy she’d order from the hospital cafeteria and then only eat a bite of, the Peppermint Patty she asked him to buy for her from the hospital’s gift shop, of which she only ate half.

He talked about how he and J met. He was a Boy Scout at the time, and saw her walking alone. He stopped her and said “As a Scout, I need to do good deeds. And my good deed today is to walk with you.” They dated for three years until she told him it was about time they got married. “We hardly fought,” he said. I asked him his secret. He said if they couldn’t agree on something, they’d go on a walk, and they’d walk and talk until they worked it out.

He talked about their 20-some trips to Florida. He talked about her 57 pairs of shoes. She had worked for a shoe manufacturing company and part of her job was to wear new shoes for two weeks and then comment on them. She kept them all. He counted them. He said he planned to give them away to people who needed them. He talked about the trunks of pictures he needed to go through in the attic. He talked about wanting more pictures of just her, wondering why there weren’t more pictures of just her. He talked about how she liked her eggs “woozy” and how she liked salt on her potatoes and how he never ate salt on his potatoes and how she would put an ice cube in her hot coffee to cool it down in the mornings. He talked about getting older, knowing the inevitable is going to happen, but still the surprise of the shock that comes when you lose someone you love. “But I’ll be alright,” he said. “When I get blue, I just find something to do.” Like ride his bike. Or buy taffy or raisin bread for the children on the street. Or play the same old song from an old Tammy Wynette record he’s long loved. “I must have played it a 100 times since she’s passed,” he said.

Love. Precious love.

Harold’s friends call him Baldy. He calls himself Baldy or The Mayor of Grant Street. That’s where he lives, Grant Street, our old street, which is less than a mile from our new house. He biked over, on his turquoise bike with a wire basket, a wooden clothespin pinned to it. He was wearing black tennis shoes, black dress pants, a loose and large T-shirt and a souvenir hat from Florida. The hat was light blue, with a palm tree on it and the word “Florida” in a peppy font. It made me think of the trip to Florida we’re making soon, I’m making soon, with my husband and children, in-laws, sister-in-law, aunt and uncle. It made me think of all the trips Harold took to Florida, with J. His sister-in-law, who lives in Florida, said he was welcome to come in the winter. Harold said he’s not looking forward to the winter. But he said Florida would be worse. The bugs are big in Florida, he said. And it wasn’t home.

Earlier I was cranky. I was tired and needing a nap. I have a lingering cough that won’t leave. The house is a mess. My pre-vacation-to-do list is ever growing. Two hours with Harold on my front porch on a warm-breeze, blue-sky day changed all that. I thought of Andy, working. I though of the boys, sleeping. I looked over at Sophie, singing a song to herself while swinging on the porch swing. And I looked back at Harold, who, on the verge of tears, was telling me how J’s ashes looked, in a container on his dining room table.

Life. Precious life.

Suddenly, he had to go. He said he was making fried cube steak and cottage cheese for dinner. Strawberry shortcake for dessert. He told me exactly how he cooked the meat—the grease, the flour, the bit of water, the key being not to put a lid on it. He told me how much the cube steak, which is actually pork, he said, had cost—$2.50 per pound, at the grocery. I promised him a meal. Many meals. I wish I knew how to make tapioca. J used to make it, and it was favorite. But he said no. I told him I planned to ignore his “no.” I said I’d bring the kids over, especially this winter. On any somewhat nice day it’s almost a guarantee you’ll find Harold working on his perfect yard or sitting in his loved lawn chair in his driveway, sometimes next to his good friend Pat, talking with everyone, watching everyone, waving to everyone. He’s a good mayor.

Harold got me out of my funk today with the simple reminder that life is short, even when it’s long. That 50-plus years of marriage can go by too fast.  That beautiful, warm-breeze, blue-sky days aren’t meant to be spent in my daughter’s bed, napping, while she plays quietly next to me. Rather, they’re meant to be lived, and lived well.

Thank you, for the conversation on my porch, Harold. Thank you for loving J so well, living your life so well and reminding me that even in our saddest moments we can ride our bikes on beautiful days and find someone to talk to, on their front porch, until it’s time to go home and fry up some cube steak for dinner.

“To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.” —Thomas Campbell

I Spy

A few days ago Sophie, Owen, James and Colleen received an e-mail from my mom—an I Spy game (can you spot the bumblebee?). I love that our children are able to play “I Spy” virtually, in my mom’s lavender garden. Now if only e-mail included scent.

“I spy with my little eye …”

The Porter House (aka A Little Dream of Mine)

This is the post in which I confess my obsession with a house that (according to Andy) we will never buy.

We don’t want or need to move. I love our house. I love our community. The schools are great, Andy’s commute to work is reasonable and we have many good friends here. But, from time to time, I tend to become obsessed with the unreasonable. This is my current unreasonable:

I took these pictures (on multiple occasions as the different seasons reveal) with my cell phone. Now, it’s not like I drove all the way up to Glendale (where the house is located) on multiple occasions just to peek through windows on private property trying to get a better look at a house I will never buy. But every once in awhile the boys would fall asleep in the van and if I stopped driving, they would wake up. So I would drive. First around Fort Thomas. Then up I-71. And somehow my van just always ended here. The Porter House.

According to my research (yes, I did research) the house was built sometime between 1855 and 1867 by John H. Porter and family owned until about 1905. It’s considered a “pivotal structure” (doesn’t that sound so important?) in Glendale. It has two acres and is on a gorgeous, tree-and-sidewalk-lined street with several other beautiful old houses. It has a detached four-car garage (that’s falling down but we’ve been without a garage for so long I don’t think that matters), a gorgeous original staircase, built-in bookcases with a rolling ladder in the library, a balcony, a terrace, new kitchen (which is not at all fitting to the house and doesn’t seem complete but, whatever), 12′ ceilings and five fireplaces.

I love it.

For a long time the price was unreasonably high, for the amount of work it clearly requires (the outside looks, I don’t know, moldy and I’m pretty sure the roof needs replaced and you sort of have to navigate through overgrown bushes and vines to get to the front door—don’t ask me how I know that—and one time I visited there was, what looked like, a big sinkhole in the yard with caution tape all around it). But this week the price went down to a price I never thought the bank would allow it to go down to, given how big the home is and the fact that it’s on two acres. The problem? I’m sure it requires at least the asking price, if not more, in funds to fix it.

But oh, what a beautiful home it could be! Andy (apart from the many, many, many, exhaustingly many reasons he comes up with on why we can’t buy this house) doesn’t understand why I even like it—the outside isn’t necessarily my style. But I still think with paint and landscaping and love it could be my style. And the inside … I could fill it with estate sale finds and then spend my days alphabetizing my books while the kids take turns climbing the ladder in the library.

I know you’re supposed to be content with what you have. I know this little dream of mine is completely unreasonable. I know, in reality, I probably need to just let.it.go. But sometimes, I think it’s fun to have a little dream, something completely and totally unrealistic to think about. Like those moments when all hell is breaking loose in your house and you imagine yourself on a beach blanket on sun-warmed sand listening only to waves crashing and seagulls calling. Or those moments when you open yet another rejection letter from a literary agent and you imagine yourself at a room-filled book signing, telling loving readers how many rejections you received before achieving your bestseller status. (OK, so these may be other little dreams of mine but still, you get the idea.)

Anyhow, I know (a little sadly) that I will never own The Porter House. But I just hope that the family who someday does doesn’t tear it down but it embraces it, fixes it, loves it—brings it back to what it once was and what it still can be. For then my dream will (sort of) be filled. Even if it is filled, vicariously.

“Dreams are extremely important. You can’t do it unless you imagine it.” —George Lucas 

A Kind Soul

I know, I know, I know Owen says “please” because we taught him to say “please” and that he says “bless you” after we cough or sneeze or clear our throats or make any noise that remotely sounds like it deserves a “bless you” because he thinks it’s funny.

But still.

When I refill Sophie’s glass of milk and his sippy cup of milk because both are empty, he says “James, milk, James, milk, James, milk!” until we prove to him that James’s sippy cup still has milk in it and that he doesn’t need a refill.

I know he’s only 2 but I think—I think—he really cares. I’ve told myself many times over that I will try so hard not to be a bragging mom. Maybe this is bragging, maybe this is not. But this kindness makes me so happy.

I had to take Sophie to the doctor last Friday. Andy’s parents stayed home with Owen and James, who were napping. Owen woke up first; James stayed asleep. When it was time for James to wake up, Andy’s mom said Owen walked upstairs, went to James’s crib and then said, “Isn’t he cute?”

And then. A couple days ago, while the kids were playing upstairs, I was staring at my closet realizing that half of what was in it no longer fits. And the boys are 2. The whole “9 months up, 9 months down” thing has long passed. So I began trying things on. Making piles. I began feeling really bad about myself. Owen came into the room, climbed up on my bed  and flung himself on my pillows a few times. Then he looked at me. I was trying on a tunic—well, a dress, really, but I only ever wore it as a tunic. I was staring at myself in the mirror, biting my lower lip, not happy with the reflection. Now, I know, I know, I know Owen was reacting to the tunic—dress—only. It had a vivid design, bold colors. It was pretty. Still, when he said, “beautiful, Mama, you’re beautiful,” I froze.

Sometimes, when something beautiful happens, I stop. I try to engrave the moment in my mind. I try to remember everything, where I am, the time, my surroundings, the lighting in the room, everything. Because it’s that important. This was that important. To me. I stuffed his words into my heart, my being, even though I know he was reacting to the dress, not to me. Even though I know he had no idea that I so needed to hear those words, at that moment. Even though he’s only 2.

Women often receive compliments from loved ones when trying on clothes. I will forever remember this one as one of—if not the—best.

Owen, I hope you read this someday, when you’re older. Still a kind soul. Thank you for your kind soul that day. And may your soul remain that way, always.

“Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for a kindness.” —Seneca

Catching Rain Drops & Other Happy Things

My best guess is that now that it’s near the end of spring and it’s supposed to be in the 90s this weekend, the universe realized we weren’t sick enough this past winter (and really, we luckily, were not) and so it’s making up for that now.

Owen got pinkeye, too. This, however, transformed Sophie. We told her she needed to show Owen how to do the eye drops and she totally stepped up to the plate and does them with just a small “ouch” each time a drop goes in. Seriously, it’s incredible. Owen, on the other hand, needs pinned down.

Andy has worked from home all week. He can’t talk, can’t eat and can’t sleep because of the coughing. He finally went to the doctor today, and was prescribed antibiotics. Hopefully they begin working soon.

I’m fine. Sore throat, annoying cough, achey, but no fever or pinkeye so, fine.

James has, miraculously, avoided all of this.

But talk of sickness is boring, I know. So instead I thought I’d share photos from a happier a day. It was rainy, but Nini (as grandmas often do) made up for it with stories and porch time—a reminder that even seemingly bad days can, in the long run, be good.

“The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.” —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Pinkeye

Somehow Sophie went from runny nose and cough to runny nose, cough, high fever and (a lot of) yellow gunk coming out of her eye. (This in addition to other runny noses, fevers and maybe-pinkeyes in the house right now.) Cue the Saturday evening call to the doctor and antibiotics prescribed over the phone. We made the call close to her bedtime, so by the time the prescription was actually called in, filled and picked up, it was close to 10pm. Sophie was miserable at this point, not feeling well and exhausted.

I tore off the stapled instructions from the paper prescription bag.

And read this:

(Note, Sophie hates water in her eyes, hates it. I’m talking, screams-in-the-shower-won’t-dunk-her-head-in-a-pool-can’t-stand-to-be-splashed hates it.)

TO USE THIS MEDICINE, first wash your hands. Tilt your head back and, with your index finger, pull the lower eyelid away from the eye to form a pouch. Drop the prescribed number of drops of medicine into the pouch and gently close your eyes. Do not blink and keep your eyes closed for 1 or 2 minutes. Do not rub the eye. Place one finger at the corner of the eye near the nose and apply gently pressure … This will prevent the medicine around your eye from draining away from the eye. Remove excess medicine around your eye with a clean tissue, being careful not to touch your eye. Wash your hands to remove any medicine that may be on them.

Except that we weren’t doing this to ourselves. Rather we were doing this to our 4-year-old—our exhausted, sick 4-year-old who hates anything in or close to her eyes.

I looked in the prescription bag to see if there was another medicine that would knock Sophie unconscious just long enough for us to do this to her.

The bag was empty.

We decided to be straight up with her, tell her exactly what we were going to do, what was going to happen and ask her if she had any questions.

She looked at us like we were the worst parents on this planet and buried her head (and self, really) into my pillow.

We got the drops in. It involved (not necessarily in this order) explanation, pleading, bribing, begging, pinning down, pinning open, screaming, crying, gummy worm eating.

Oh, and we get to do this three times a day.

For seven days.

“A Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
The medicine go down-wown
The medicine go down
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way.” —Mary Poppins