September Saturday

Brown sunflowers. My favorite.
A toasted version of the golden child flower.

My son. A haystack guardian.

Flapjacks with Daddy

The Golden Arches. And pancakes? While many children may associate McDonald's with cheesy burgers and nuggets of chicken crispiness, my boys think about breakfast. My husband has started a new tradition. On hectic mornings or rainy mornings or random mornings, he will splurge on our sons with a flapjack treat. Sometimes he brings the dynamic duo together to tackle a short stack or two. Other times, it's one on one and each child alone basks in the glory of Daddy's limelight and the sweet buttermilk goodness. Whatever the combination, it gives our men-in-the-making a chance to connect with their father in the calm of morning, over the smell of bacon, before busy days burst forth and where a dialogue begins that will hopefully never end.

"Listen, my sons, to a father's instruction; pay attention and gain understanding." - Proverbs 4:1

Exclamation Points

My eldest son began first grade. New book bag, glue sticks, yellow highlighter. The shopping list continued and my eyebrows raised to vaulted ceiling heights. What do they do in first grade?

I received the first email from his new teacher and much like his kindergarten teacher's correspondence, it was peppered with exclamation points. Peppered and salted. They were everywhere. Lounging on our eggplant couch that evening I remembered to tell my husband about this odd little phenomenon going on in the elementary world. We giggled, imagining ourselves sending business emails with that kind of perky punctuation, but then my husband said seriously, "Do you live life with exclamation points?"  I paused, my answer hung in suspension as my brain still processed. What a concept!

So, I recount this story and attach it to some recent photos from The Lost Cajun Kitchen where we dined on alligator! My children thought it tasted like chicken! Did you see those teeth?! What a dining adventure!

I hope this will be one of many exclamation point moments.

Cream Puff

Scrabble Story

NOTE: Look carefully at the words in the picture above and then read below. 

"Hidden in the hat of the valet was a laser. The cat in the nettle ramped up the box of roots as the cop came about the tax. They had new yen. He que(ue)d at the door, finer than before. They found pokey worms in the wool from the drains in the canal at the zoo. He jogged with the gun hidden in the crib. The fit beggar wields it yet saves us. Fie!"

Thus ends our scrabble story (yes, there are some questionable spelling interpretations), but how does the story begin? While our children gather round their play things in mock battle and outer space maneuvers,  my husband and I steal a few moments to tuck in at the kitchen table and cozy up to our vintage Scrabble board. The burgundy box is cracked and the directions are the cream-color of aged paper. It even smells old, but the click clack of tiles as we mix them up and the giddiness of pulling letters makes magic for us. Despite the din of little voices, we sit in our semi-silence to ponder the mysteries of the alphabet. Just 26 letters. Amazing a language spawns from that.

We keep score, occasionally check a word on our Smartphones and rejoice for the triple word slot. In short, we delight in each other's company and remember what being a couple is all about.

Mom in the Heels meets Cat in the Hat

I was reading this book recently and was struck by how much I must resemble the Cat at this point in the story, juggling any number of things. My own dialogue reads something more like this:

The volvo needs fixed,
The special cupcakes need mixed.
The diapers are out,
There should be more blogging about.
The dishwasher is broke,
Just let the dirty ones soak.
Pack lunch for a field trip?
Try not to flip.
A fun trip to the store,
Stumble home through the door.
Kick off the high heels,
Put away more meals.
Find jammies, pour milk,
Blueberry splatters, stained silk.
Emails from the boss,
Sometimes I'm at a loss.
A presentation at dawn,
10PM fold socks with a yawn.
Exercise, burn flab,
There's no time to gab.
Does my bible have dust?
I have not made it a must.

Do you remember what happens next in the story?

My balancing act is more akin to a train wreck.  Still, I keep trying. Spread projects out, slow drama down.  And some things just don't get done because of the occasional impromptu family dance party in the living room. Complete with a rousing rendition of "Rock Me Amadeus" and some robot moves. Cat in the Hat, look out.

Country Charm

Country living charm. After almost a decade in Washington, D.C., we moved to a substantially smaller area in Pennsylvania. Green hills dotted with farms. Black starry skies. 

Five years later, I am still delighted by small-town living. While I can't find French-Thai or Ethiopian cuisine or swanky, posh lounges that overlook marble monuments, I can find a Penny Fair. An honest-to-goodness, we'll take your copper Lincoln-head coin for payment Penny Fair. Are you serious? I wanted to hand him a twenty. SO excited. 

We stumbled upon this Penny Fair one Saturday in a churchyard. Everything was a penny. Everything. Including the entrance fee into the petting zoo. Fluffy baby chicks scrambled round like a pillow fight. Ducks sloshed through a water basin, now slippery for small, eager hands. Little girls in cotton-candy colors clutched kittens tight to their middles. Pigs snuggled in the mud. A llama eyed us from afar and my youngest kept calling him "camel." A chocolate calf lay nervous beside her owner. Lashes long. 

My girlfriend once told me before my big city departure, "Oh, honey, I just can't picture you in mud boots and garden gloves. Unless they're Prada." I laugh at that image. As I now laugh at the fuzzy chicks that tease my boys in this charming country life of mine. 

Thinking

My sister gave me a gift certificate to Bas Bleu this past Christmas. This is a catalog/web-based book company, which in French means "blue stocking" or literary woman. They offer a fascinating selection of titles, both modern and vintage.

One of the books I settled on was a A Year with Aslan: Daily Reflections from The Chronicles of Narnia. Its new, permanent home is the scratched surface of our dark kitchen table. While my family has not read The Chronicles of Narnia (someday!), I appreciate the opportunity to discuss life lessons, based in fact or fiction, with my sweet brood.

How could I resist such excerpts with titles like: "Never Forget to Wipe Your Sword" and "Eustace the Dragon Tells His Story." Swords? Dragons? My six-year old is all ears. My soon-to-be three-year old is all belly. He interjects with shouts for more dessert.

Last evening we read a brief scene in which Aslan the lion meets the Witch. His golden form. Her marble whiteness. The main questions: "Why can't the Witch look Aslan in the eye? When have you not been able to meet someone's eyes? What was the reason?" The reasons flowed. Shyness was my oldest son's first thought. Shame quickly followed. Fear. Deceit. So many feelings the heart holds.

Rarely do I ration my time to think. My day is about doing. My night is about doing more. Thinking is reserved for the shower. Time to pass while the suds bubble. Rinse. Repeat. I'm thankful for my Aslan book and its provoking questions. Even more, I'm thankful for the moment it offers to chew on an idea and discuss its deepness. The gift of thinking.

Riding the Waves

Virginia beach and boardwalk. 

Turtle sculpture surprises. 

Turtle Cay Resort: A home away from home. 

King Neptune rises out of the sand in a giant way.

Our very own beach bum. 

Planet Pizza in alien style. 

Flowers exotic at dinner. 

Flying high at the Military Aviation Museum.

The family vacation. This is the one time of year that we spend the entire week together. Every moment of every minute is filled with family. Crying, cajoling, giggling, grumbling, snoring, smiling, feasting, fighting, dog-paddling, teasing, strolling and the list continues. 

We arrived at the resort under looming gray clouds. The hotel room was not ready nor would it be ready for the next two hours despite what my confirmation check-in email promised me. After seven hours in a car with two small children, I proceeded to turn the lovely lobby into my personal hotel room as we carted luggage in from the car in search of swimsuits and floatation devices under the raised eyebrows of other guests. Thankfully, we took a quick dip in the pool before a downpour drenched everything in sight. I returned to the lobby with a wet, cold (and by this time) screaming toddler in my arms much to the shock/dismay/surprise of other guests. It really is amazing how quickly a room becomes available with a baby wailing at the top of his lungs. A rocky start. 

The next day was sun-kissed with light breezes on shimmering waters. My husband and eldest son took to the ocean with boogie board in hand and joy in their hearts. They body surfed, boogie boarded, jumped wave after wave running back to the beach on occasion to cheerfully glug down Gatorade. I was watching our two-year old play with construction trucks in the sand. A picture of contentment. That was until my oldest ran up to me and informed me that daddy lost his glasses in the ocean. He would have come to tell me himself, but he couldn't really see me. Oh dear. 

After a visit to the local mall, we tried to put that issue behind us. Then there were abdominal pains my six-year old experienced and we considered a trip to urgent care. My husband gashed his head on the pool edge and was forced to wear a Scooby Doo band-aid prominently on his forehead. My toddler's runny nose was manifesting into extra fussiness. 

BUT, it wasn't all so challenging. We swam together in the moonlight one night under dark clear skies and crazy lunar beauty.  I snuggled in air-conditioned glory on cool crisp white sheets and took a nap beside my baby, soaking in his sweetness with each glance before we drifted off. My eldest son's sheer delight at the museum aircraft hangar as he uttered, "I can't believe I'm standing here at this very moment." My husband reclaimed the sea and his boyhood happiness with surf and sand. 

There were so many moments. High and low. Both crest and trough of the wave. But, what I found was that most often it was within the difficult moments that my family truly rallied together the most. Surrounding the loved one in need. Trying to comfort and help hang on until the wave subsided and the tide was calm once more. And ride the waves we did. 

Garden Glory

First flowers of the garden. 

I live in a house of men. Well, one man and two men waiting to happen. I am constantly surprised when they express delight at fresh flowers in the house. I drag my fresh-cut blooms from every season through the back door. Pedals cover countertops, discarded greens litter the kitchen floor and I arrange and re-arrange blossoms into an organized mess of hopeful loveliness. 

My husband smiles and thanks me often for the small touches that complete our nest. My little boys dance around me with "wows" and pleasure sighs escape rosebud lips as they marvel at the color creations of God's great glory. Garden glory. 

The Puddle Dance

A brief break for silliness. 

A thunderstorm rolled in during supper time.  Water gushed down side streets. Wind whipped the pansies, a thrash of purple. It was a humdinger.

The storm quickly ended and I surprised my six-year old with the idea of jumping in puddles. Thrilled, we decked him out in my black galoshes and went off in search of a good splash.

We spied some whoppers at the doctor's parking lot up the street. What a JOY it was to watch this energetic child dance and I mean dance in pools of gray water. Charcoal-colored slosh.

I was reminded of our sermon discussion on Sunday about times of transition, that period of waiting in between trial and tribulation. Confusion. Sadness. Not knowing what comes next, but realizing there is purpose.

The storms will batter through. We will stand in puddles, waiting for more black clouds and pelts of rain or the dawn of the sun piercing the darkness.  I watch my son and only hope I can remember to dance while waiting.

Sweet Sundays

Sometimes, we just need to get a little messy.

The Angry Planet

The Angry Cracked Planet is displayed on a vintage
1957 National Geographic Society map of The Heavens.

I picked the boys up from school and finally brought in the paper mache planet that had been orbiting the back seat. My six-year old, Ewan, had been very proud of his handy work. He elaborated on each layer -- paper, then glue, then paint, then paper, then glue...

We arrived home and casually laid the red sphere on the coffee table caught up in the dog's greeting and shouts to find daddy. In the meantime, my two-year old (Asher) zeroed in on what looked like a basketball. Red? Orange? What's the difference when you're still learning your colors? He proceeds to dribble the "ball." There's not a lot of bounce to paper mache. Crack. Crackkkkk.

Ewan rounds the corner from the bathroom, bellows out an "Ashhhherr" and turns beet red with shaking fists at his sides. Asher launches into a fit of tears at the sight of this angry outburst and Ewan launches into a fit of tears at the sight of his damaged planet. I squat in the middle of the wailing. The roar of the waterfall. Overwhelmed, I would like to cry to, but refrain.

After many hugs, discussion on anger management, forgiveness and somehow icecream worked its way into the conversation, we circle back to the wounded red mass I'm still cradling. How did that go again?

Paper, then glue, then paint, then...

Sweet & Salty

I found the land of lollipops. Sugar swirled tight. Rainbows rolled round. We drove past this lovely shop one Saturday morning and I all but tucked and rolled out of the car.

Willy Wonka, look out. Candy of every shape and size wrapped in iridescent ribbon of hummingbird beauty. We painstakingly made our selections (my husband even found chocolate-covered bacon!) and loaded back into the car. Despite just having breakfast, I unwrapped our treats in my lap. No time like the present. I settled on caramels dressed in dark chocolate, trimmed in gray sea salt sprinkles. It wasn't chocolate. It was an experience. The gritty salt hit my tongue in contrast with the creamy sweet. Without the salt, there was no taste bud symphony.

It was not long after our sweet excursion that this very spice popped up at the sermon pulpit. Pastor John remarked at the uses of salt. People were paid in salt. The word "salary" was even derived from the word and world of salt. A precious commodity, it was also used to preserve food. Yet, there was one more quality he referenced. Salt was used to mix into the earth to produce better fruit. Yield a better crop. Grow big FAT avocados (at least in my mind). He challenged the congregation to mix into the world and influence others to bring out the fullest flavor. The fullest. After all, a sprinkle of salt makes all the difference.

"You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled by men." - Matthew 5:13

Moments on Mother's Day

My "baby" with a hyacinth bouquet gift. 

Bourbon Bbq Cherry Chicken from
my amateur gourmet chef-artist husband. 

Smores with my eldest. Complete with dark chocolate.

Fern frond beauty. My gift of
fresh plants for the shade of the garden. 

One of many Mother's Day cards.
My hair is perfect. 

A Waffle-like World

Why can't everything be as wonderful as waffles? And, to really top those beauties off -- they're multigrain. Organic even. Mmhhhhmmm. I'm filled to sweet fullness and it's half healthy.

We trekked our pack to a favorite cafe nestled beside a chic neighborhood on Saturday morning. The hip locals made way for us as we edged in the crowded doorway. We didn't quite understand all of the fashion or footwear, but we went for the waffles.

The plate took a bit of a beating as my little guys lunged and plunged forks into the goodness of berries soaking in syrup. A blueberry swamp. I was not as enthusiastic and eyed them from the sidelines.

My attitude/ego/confidence had taken a bit of a beating of its own the night before as I wrecked our sporty little volvo into a fortress of an SUV.  As you can see, mine looked more like the moat. Sigh.

Fortunately, no one was hurt. The fortress was basically blemish-free and I had a lot of explaining to do for my dear husband. Why can't everything be as wonderful as waffles?

But I suppose, there is always a burnt batch once in awhile. Tough edges singed black. Lessons to be learned.

The evening it happened, my toddler asked me for a hug from his crib as I moved toward his door. Arms open. Big blue eyes. I held him close and he snuggled me near. I soaked him in and thanked God I had not taken this from someone or lost it myself. Lessons to be learned. My sad heart took its time to say "thank you" for this difficult lesson, but a blessing in disguise (or outright) I believe it will be.

Family Dinner: A Ploughman's Lunch and the Mango Duel

I am a working mommy. At moments, I am more painfully aware of this than others and this week was a bit of an ouch. I labored hard to balance domestics and day job as I traveled back and forth from a conference in a neighboring city. I successfully made four out of five nights to the family dinner table to firmly clutch my toddler's chubby hand in a circle of thanksgiving. Bowed heads. Bobbing cowlicks of curls. Amen. 

It is sometimes hard to coordinate unpredictable schedules, last minute meetings. One delightful strategy that we lean on from time to time is called a "Ploughman's lunch." Of a British origin, the meal is a quick throw together of cold meat, cheese and pickles that a ploughman could have carried to the fields. The traditional version usually also includes crusty bread and chutney brimming with delicious chunks of apricots or cherries. Our version includes finger foods of every variety save the kitchen sink. Pears, peppers, pickles, pretzel sticks... My children are captivated by a forkless dinner and I joke with my sister about our continuous cocktail party menu. 

We nibble at our light fare and discuss the day's adventures. A few years ago, I stumbled across an article that framed the family meal discussion through "sunny" and "cloudy" moments. I love this idea. Where is joy? Where is shadow? I hope to continue this dialogue of success and disappointment with my boys as the sprouts become beanstalks in the sky, climbing higher and higher. To try to recognize the mountaintop and valley moments in our day to day and know that this is all part of the race. 

Dinner would not be complete in our house without a sweet ending. Frequently that takes the form of chocolate. Dark and bittersweet. Sea salt sprinkled. Sometimes it arrives in the burst of blueberries. One recent night, however, dessert was served up with a room full of giggles. Fork against fork, a duel ensued over chunks of a delicious, meaty mango. A flash of marigold here and there, the fruit disappeared quickly between swallows and silliness. 

Yet one more sunny moment.

Easter Joy

We filled their bellies with cinnamon buns and jelly beans before heading off to Easter worship. Brass trumpet blare reached the rafters with "Jesus Christ is Risen Today." A small army assembled for the children's sermon and the front aisle flooded a sea of Easter dresses with skirts like meringue topping. Pastor John smiled as only one can smile on Easter morning. A stark white bolt of cloth draped the hanging cross suspended above. Innocence uplifted. Lifted up. He is risen indeed.