Déjà vu

When I was little, one of my favorite things to do with some of my childhood friends was to play school. When I was at their house, I always got to be the teacher because I was company. When they came to my house, these two sisters had to take turns. I actually wrote my name on the wall next to their staircase while playing school once. Some of the letters were backwards and everything. I don't even remember getting in trouble. Their mom laughed about it for years.

I guess that is what good friends do...they overlook your mistakes and enjoy the good times. There were a lot of good times, especially because there was never a time when I did not know Tatum. She was five weeks old when I was born. We grew up together. She was with me through thirteen years of school, and countless hours spent playing softball and basketball. Team movie nights. School dances and field trips. Birthday parties, back yard campouts, and wet bananas. Bus rides and hotel stays. When our dads were hunting. When our families took our boats to the lake most summer weekends. When our families worked up corn, cut wood, or completed other projects needing extra hands.

I know her childhood almost as well as my own, and I know she went on to become an actual teacher, instead of a pretend one. This year, my daughter is in her class. I have been looking forward to this, but I have to tell you it feels a little strange to hear Madison telling me things "her teacher" says in the classroom and know she is talking about Tatum. I knew I hoped my child wouldn't act up in class and stress out my friend, and I hoped they would like one another. I hoped it would not feel weird for her if she had to approach me with any concerns. I knew it would be a struggle to remember to call her Mrs. Reed. What I did not expect was to feel such a vivid sense of déjà vu. It feels like we have been through this age before. You know, this Little House on the Prairie reading, Parent Trap watching, leg shaving, basketball playing age. It feels like we are going through fourth grade together. Again. I am even planning to help chaperon a field trip to the state capitol this year, so there is at least one more shared bus ride in our future!

This is one of my favorite things about growing up in a small town. Placing my child into the hands of a lifelong, dear friend, and the security that comes from knowing she will be well taken care of. Every week so far, Madison's behavior report has been great, and recently, when asked how she liked her teacher this year, she said, "I love her so much, I wish there were two of her!" I guess all that practice playing school really paid off for Tatum. I mean, Mrs. Reed.

Simple Pleasures

We have spent the last two weekends doing the local festival/small town reunion sort of thing. Simple pleasures like wrist bands, carnival rides, and bouncy houses. Live music. Hot dogs, cotton candy, and no naps. These are the weekends that require an extra cup of coffee for Mom on Monday morning. The weekends where playing hard is the only thing we get accomplished. The only thing that would improve them would be spending a little time with my camera, or getting together with family for fish and cake. Oh, wait...we did that too! Festivals, family, fun, and (almost) Fall. These are a few of my favorite things.

Don't Judge Me.

I am not going to lie about it. I was ready for school to start this year. I am not saying my children are being rowdy and getting on my nerves. I am not wishing for them to grow up even more quickly than the years are flying by already. I enjoy ballgames and swimming, and not having to adhere to bedtimes just like the next mom, but for me, summer is by far the most chaotic season of the year. I try to spend quality time with the family. I try to get enough hours in at work to make it worth paying triple my normal babysitting fee. Don't forget about the garden, the sports, the canning...the three kids in the back of my Impala everywhere I go occasionally chiming in with the, "He's touching me!" woes. Summer is filled with many late nights followed by early mornings, and over time they simply wear us out!! The part of me that wants you to believe I am an awesome mom wants to say I have been dreading this day and I hate to see them begin a new, more grown up year. But I haven't and I don't. I'm just saying I was ready for school to start. I have had the kids' bags waiting by the door, packed with bright, shiny, labeled items, for almost three weeks. I am excited about the teachers the kids will have(there will be more blogging about that), and I am glad to relax back into a predictable routine. My bulletin board, white board, and homework station are all ready to go. I am ready to deliver my sleepy toddler to and from her sitter in peace, and hear all about the wonderful things the big kids are learning when I get home. Happy, happy first day of school! :)

Don't judge me.

A Shared Purpose

Many people are equal parts shocked and dismayed when I talk about having a big garden. I have heard, "I had to weed my parents' garden throughout my entire childhood, and I will never put my kids through that!" Someone else said, "It's so much easier to go out and buy a can of green beans. I don't understand why anyone would go to all that trouble!" Many people mention they are too busy for a garden...or especially for canning vegetables. I walk away wondering if they think I am not busy, but that is another blog post for another day.

The way I see it, women have always tried to provide for their loved ones. To nurture them. When I think about the way we raise our gardens and preserve our vegetables, I think about centuries of women who have shared this purpose. I think about how they had to save seeds from one year to the next to survive, or carry them from civilization to their homesteads in covered wagons, and create a garden from nothing. Create a home from nothing. I consider trying to garden before tractors, plows, tillers, and seed catalogs. I try to imagine canning over a wood burning stove. Those things sound like a lot of work to me.

I mean, some days, whether I pick beans morning, noon, or evening, it is hot. My back often screams for mercy before I am quite finished with a row. But when the picking is done, I come into the air conditioned house, or I sit under a shade tree next to our swimming pool to watch my little people splash and play, to snap the beans. This is the part that takes the longest. It is time that can be spent quietly in front of the TV, or in a group surrounded by chatter. All my kids know how to snap beans. I take the heads and tails off and give them to Megan, and she snaps them, exactly the width of her hand. Perfect green bean size. She says, "I break it, Mommy!" And she is proud of what she can do. Just like I am proud of what I can do. Every time I hear the click that is a jar lid sealing, I smile. I feel like I am doing the best I can for the people I love. I look at these jars on my shelves, and I consider where they came from. I know where they grew, and whether they have been chemically altered(which they haven't). I know whose hands have touched them, and I rest assured that I will never have to recall a certain batch due to some dangerous bacterial outbreak in the factory. Those are some of the reasons I go to all the trouble. I have canned 96 quarts of green beans so far this year, all because the women before me taught me how. Because the women before them taught them how.

Gardening, and preserving what we have grown, is a family affair. The kids can't wait for the beautiful spring day when we begin to plant. They love marveling as the garden grows. They love being the first one to spot a tomato turning red, or the first pepper to sprout from its leafy plant. Every time I load the pressure cooker, I picture my grandma in her farmhouse kitchen, wearing a homemade dress of purple plaid material. Instead of snapping green beans, I can see my grandpa on the couch in his overalls, cutting his with a knife. I think about the people who canned vegetables for me the summers I had new babies. I remember all the time spent as a child helping and learning, and the time I spend now gardening with my family. Sharing the purpose of preservation with the next generation. All things considered, I don't think it is any trouble at all.

Like Today is Your Birthday

It's my birthday. I think it is an unwritten code among us girls that I follow on this day each year. I am compelled to try to wear one of my more trendy outfits, or a newer set of scrubs if I am working, and I take the time to do something with my hair and makeup. No, I don't do that every day. Some days I do a pony tail and take my makeup with me with the intention of putting it on later. After caffeine. Every year on my birthday, I tend to try to think things over and regroup. Kind of like New Year's Day. I exercise and have a healthy breakfast. I try to have more patience for toddlers who want to take the time to buckle their own seat belts, boys who need help turning the water hydrant off as they water the dogs(although every other day he does this fine on his own), and girls who drag their feet getting ready for the day. I squeeze my husband just a little bit longer as he heads out the door to go to work. I get to connect with all of my favorite people...either in person or through texting, phone calls, or Facebook. I do a better job remembering my manners and being the person I want to be. A person family and friends would be proud to know. I work a little bit harder at work and I play a little bit harder at home. Bottom line, I put more effort into making sure I have a great day.

On the way to work Nickelback came on the radio with "If Today Was Your Last Day." It's kind of a rock version of Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying." Both of them are saying live like there is no tomorrow...do everything you ever wanted to do, donate every dime you ever made, forgive your enemies, love your families. I love the parts about loving deeper, speaking sweeter, giving forgiveness, and being a friend a friend would like to have. I love both songs, and the message they are trying to get across, but People, I am not going to sky dive. I am not going to ride a bull named Fu Manchu.

I think, instead of living like I am dying, I want to live like it is my birthday. I want to wear only my nice clothes, and work on being more presentable each day. I want to commit to being more healthy, more reflective, more patient, and more loving. I want to reach out more and stress out less. I want to put more effort into making sure I have a great day every day. And every 365 days, when it really is my birthday, it will be just another day.

Heavy

My heart is heavy this week as I consider some optimistic misconceptions I have had over the years. I use to think that eventually the world would make perfect sense to me, and I would know the answers to every question, just like my mom always did. I guess I always thought that if there was a couple who wanted children, and they would be awesome parents, that they would be able to have a whole houseful. Or at least one sweet baby to cherish. I think in the back of my mind somewhere I always assumed that if there was a mom who did not want a child, or found she was unable to care for that child, that she would give it up for adoption, so the child could grow and prosper regardless of her mother's capabilities. I never thought a mother could be involved in the death and disposal of her own daughter...because we all know whether she did it or not (and I think she did), she knows who did it and did nothing. I can only imagine what kind of horrors could bring a woman to that place, where she could be that girl.

I think I always assumed that if there was a good mom, whose child was the light of her life, that she would have the opportunity to raise that child. That she would guide him through each milestone, and laugh along with his triumphs and cry along with his struggles, and help him become the person he was meant to be. The truth is, the world makes little sense to me much of the time. There are answers I don't have. Wonderful couples never realize their dream of parenthood. Mothers murder their own precious babies. And moms are taken from their small children in the blink of an eye. I am helpless to change any of it. And my heart is heavy.

Let's Hear it For the Boys

My favorite boy is seven. This year finds him all about sports. For his birthday, we got him an outdoor basketball goal, and he shoots for hours. Traveling and double dribbling go on a lot, but I think he will remedy that on his own soon enough. He loves kick ball and soccer and riding his bike, and he loves playing pee-wee baseball. He hits the ball almost every time he is up to bat, and then he runs like he means it. He plays like he doesn't know he is one of the smallest ones on the team. It's one of my favorite things.

We had a sports themed birthday party. The kids split up to do a hoop shoot, a bean bag toss, to bat with the ZipNHit, and then they played a soccer game together. "Big kid" cousins Lance and Lane were referees. Everyone got an MVP award, and goody bags sporting stickers, medals, whistles, ring pops, and wrist bands. My 5-year-old nephew is still wearing his medal everywhere he goes. I think it was a boy equivalent of a spa day.

Jaron continues to melt my heart with his sweet personality most of the time. While he picked out a birthday gift for Madison weeks before her birthday, and he often tries to entertain Megan, these days I also see him getting enjoyment from teasing his sisters. I guess it's kind of what boys do. He does many things that big boys do now. He likes to collect bugs and go hunting and fishing, and gross things don't really gross him out anymore. Over the past year he has really made great strides in coming out of his shell. Sometimes I think as he grows I am becoming less important on his radar. Like he only thinks of me when he is hungry or needs to find his belt for his baseball uniform. Like he needs me less. Dad seems to be the cool one. Dad is the one watching Mizzou or playing outside the most. Jaron does not run up to hug me with his arms open wide nearly as often as he use to...but sometimes he still does. And sometimes I catch him looking for me after he gets a big hit or crosses home plate, to make sure I saw it, and I love it that I did. So I hope he will need me a little longer. I mean, when I can't help giving him a big hug or kiss out in public, he still lets me. And he is still really good about saying, "G'night, Mom. Love ya." I don't know about him, but I think I will always need that. Happy Birthday, Jaron! I hope being seven will be a big adventure for you!