Remember playing Monopoly with the kid who just wouldn't play fair? Stole your money when you went to the bathroom, whined every time he had to pay rent, tried to con his way out of jail...yeah, that kid. I'm now living with that kid, only this one is orange and furry, and when he loses he just FALLS ASLEEP RIGHT ON THE BOARD. Super sore loser. Bad sport. And very, very sleepy.
“I did not know how to reach him, how to catch up with him…the land of tears is so mysterious.” -Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
It’s not like I thought I’d be cool forever. I did, however, imagine I’d be cool in the girls’ eyes for a long, long, long time. LONG. Longer than say…today.
And it’s not as if they haven’t been sniffing me out for at least a year. Smart cookies these two; they know when I’m making it up as I go.
It began in earnest over the summer, the immediate veto of anything suggested by Mommy. I was initially irritated. I had my ugly moments when I verged on mad. See how I made that up? I didn’t “verge” on anything. I rammed straight past miffed and t-boned right into mad.
The girls are too polite to mock me, but time after time, I definitely chose the wrong board game, the wrong clothes, the wrong movie, and forget my suggestion to speak in pig Latin all summer. Kidding. I always choose the right ovie-may.
The time has come…the day all Mothers-of-Daughters fear: I’ve gone from Momma to Mommy to Muuuu-OOOMMMM. I still get countless hugs, and sleep isn’t even considered without my final goodnight kiss, but, and this is a GIGANTIC BUT: my opinion is no longer desired for the hundreds of tiny decisions they make as humans each and every day.
I’m finding my learning curve to be steep. I know how to dislike something so that my children will choose it, but as of late, I’ve been off my game. Or perhaps, more accurately stated, this game has changed. Reverse Psychology isn’t the go-to move at this age.
This evening at the library, to use my favorite of baseball phrases, I hit a real can of corn. Kelly was choosing a book to for her “fantasy genre” assignment:
Mommy: Oh good! Look! They have The Little Prince!
Kelly: What’s THAT?
Mommy: [Insert me reading the jacket with great intrigue and excitement.]
Kelly: UM….NO. No thank you.
Mommy: Kelly. It’s Le Petit Prince. It’s arguably one of the most famous fantasy books ever written. It’s a classic. I’ve read it both in English and in French. I mean…it’s…Saint-Exupéry. It’s unmatched.
Kelly: Have you seen the Rainbow Fairy Series around here? I’ll just read one of those.
Mommy: The Daisy Meadow books, of which we own at least 20? Fairies vs. a little boy who lives alone on his own planet, and travels across the space-time continuum, and comes to an understanding about humanity as a whole. A book full of timeless quotes and wonder. Not to mention, there is a FOX. Kelly…a fox. And you want to read a book about a purple fairy who is chased by the same goblins through like…120 books?
Sara: They are right over here Kelly.
I slid the book silently back onto the bookshelf, making a mental note to read it with the girls over winter break. Because EVEN IF we’re entering the “Momma’s suggestions not welcome” phase, just remember this my little prince(sses): Momma knows. Momma always knows.
Ana Paula is my friend, which is one of the most true statements to ever pass from my lips. Ana Paula has always known exactly when I need her. She has a 6th sense for my need.
This summer taught me a valuable lesson: if you can’t care for the suffering, care for their caregivers. Fill them up. Back them up. Do the day-to-day stuff they can no longer do. That’s actually REALLY easy. Text them when you’re at the store and ask what they need. Pick up the dry cleaning. Offer to get their things for the class party so they only have to show up and enjoy time with their child. Don’t wait for them to ask…just notice when you’re in their path, and carry a load. There were times I did nothing more than keep the caretakers company during the long hours, and there were times when my friends kept me company during the long hours. It was more than enough (thank you Carrie…I love you).
If you’ve ever said no to Brazilian food, you should check yourself. Wait, sorry, you can’t. You are dead. You had the chance to live via this amazing cuisine, but you said no, and now, to quote a Hoosier Heartland saying, “You gone done and died”. Ana Paula even called her oh-my-goodness gorgeous Momma, Margarete, into the game. I had not one, but TWO Brazilian Mommas bringing me comfort food. I’m GOING TO LIVE FOREVER!
I let this fabulous dinner (and the flowers and margaritas which accompanied the food!) fill me up, and feed my soul. I felt loved and renewed. After spending the morning at Rehab with my friend (who now has pneumonia…BOO!), having a night off from cooking was the hug I needed. I went into the weekend ready to be present for those around me.
Ana Paula and her Momma brought dinner. I learned caretakers need care, creating a circle of love which fuels us all. Why else are we here, if not to reach out and love one another? Suffering isn’t the point, you guys. LOVE is the point. (And also, when Jesus returns, we should serve him Ana Paula’s cooking. It would be the smart thing to do.)
I know, I know, you read “super easy” and jumped in, hoping I’d tell you a horror story about that time I decided to wallpaper my pantry. Surely there were locusts, unearthed ghosts, and a coup staged by the spices…but what if I told you…none of that happened? Would you believe me?
I think the girls went back to school today. Either that, or I just got sick of them, drove them to school, and wished them luck. Be damned start day! Take them back or I’ll lock them in the basement with a bag of Cheetos and put in ear plugs until the school bell rings!
Kidding. I NEVER do drop-off on the first day. There is crying, grabbing onto legs, Kleenex are thrown about like confetti with so-much-of-the-wailing; and that’s just me. You should see what the girls do. They are embarrassing. After my 3-reasons-for-living pulled out of the garage, I looked about and saw the destruction left from a fantastic summer. It was GRODY to the MAX. Remember that scummy kid on your bus who hounded you the entirety of 1982 with grosser than gross stories? OK, it wasn’t that gross. But it wasn’t good!
I decided to start with the pantry, which was overgrown with slumber party snacks and Greg’s perpetual trips to Costco (if he doesn’t eat at least one Chicken Bake per week, he dies). SOOOOO, if you’re GONNA unload the pantry…you may as well WALLPAPER IT. Everyone knows this.
I bought these two rolls of peel and stick laminate last year on the clearance table at Lowe’s, before I even had shelving in the pantry. I’ve always wanted a wallpapered pantry. 2 people asked me today why anyone would wallpaper a pantry? WHAT?! Do you HATE Pinterest, Houzz, Better Homes & Gardens, HGTV Magazine, Southern Living, and AIR?! Why WOULDN’T you wallpaper a pantry? Do you not flip through magazines and imagine what KIND of women have wallpapered pantries? These women HAVE IT ALL TOGETHER. They are effortless entertainers. They blink, and hors d’oeuvres appear. They never get drunk at their own parties and spill champagne on the guest of honor. Wait. Hold it. I got a little too specific there.
Fine. I did it because Greg took one look at those rolls and told me it wouldn’t work. Um? ‘Scuse me? Daughter of a wallpaper hanger times like 30 years? Wait. Hold it. Do you think he said that just so I’d finish the job? Well-played Cap’n Greg. Well-played.
This was so easy. Measure. Be exact. Using an Exacto-Knife (Box Cutter…whatever these knifey-things are called that Greg keeps hiding from me, certain I’ll cut off a limb), I trimmed each piece to fit. Quilting tools and a self-healing mat made this job really fast, and really accurate.
I unpeeled a bit from one side, and slowly worked my way across the wall, smoothing as I went. This is where “can be unpeeled” is CRITICAL. I was able to peel it off and rework any areas which didn’t immediately lie flat. You gotta love adhesive inventors. They have taken us into the new century in high style. Bravo Glue-Dudes.
Cutting in and around wood-based brackets is easier than metal. If I had to cut around metal brackets, I probably would have called Oh-Daddio. Using my knife, I made sure I was flush against the wood and cut.
Go slow and easy Cowboys. The slants at the bottom required a little cutting in, but with wallpaper, if you make nice, tiny cuts, it well come back together and lie perfectly flush. You’ll never see where the paper was sliced.
In a couple of places along the edges, I had to trim off excess. Get a piece started, grab it, and then lead it with the knife.
I suppose all those Saturdays helping my Dad on jobs, he imagined I wasn’t paying close attention. But carry enough pasted wallpaper around, and you pick up a few things. Plus, this project was just easy-peasy. The whole thing took about 2.5 hours.
I estimate my pantry doors are opened by me and my family approximately 1 mabajillion times per day. I shall go one step further and calculate the doors are shut after said openings a total of “never times” per day. So if they are perpetually going to be in the open position (aka “kids live here”), at least I can look at this beautiful design. Ah. I love it. The whole project cost me $12, and at that price, Greg can keep his addiction to Chicken Bakes and 20 lb bags of granola.
Do tell me: what are your new goals around the house this fall? I’d love to hear from you!
Before her final walk home, Kara Tippetts challenged me to spend my health well (and more importantly to show up) in her book The Hardest Peace. I took the call seriously, and Jesus put me right in the firing line this summer. To further live out Kara’s message, I was going to show my little corner of the world BIG LOVE. Despite watching my friends and family face Stage IV Cancer, End Stage Cardiac and Kidney Disease, and Life-Saving Surgery…I was going to insist our story is a good one.
I made enough cobbler to feed an army.
And I was certain I’d feel full of big love forever.
HOWEVER…I was mistaken. I had apparently added a dose of bravado to my ham and beans. My best friend’s Momma took her final walk home this week, and I was not filled with warm light. I did not sense a high-five from Jesus for my chowder-making skills.
I got a new label-maker, and I want to honestly label some things.
Instead, I felt deep, deep sorrow. The ugly kind. The kind where you wake up and forget for that first second that the world has changed, and then it hits you. BAM! Mrs. H. is gone. Her cancer is gone…but she is gone too. To heaven! And yet still…gone. My heart broke right in two for my friend. She was orphaned this week, and there is no buffering against a grief of that magnitude.
Before I could crawl back into bed and have a good cry, I received a call from my friend who survived the risky surgery. He was being discharged earlier than anticipated, and we planned for him to spend a few days in my nursing care before going home. Sure! I can nurse Matt back to health and attend a funeral while planning Sara’s birthday party.
As a matter of fact, my “perfect little plan” showed I had plenty of time to care for Matt, take him home while dropping off food to my Grandfather (who is now so weak his tongue is freezing up in the evenings? Don’t ask me…), and I can swing back to town in time to get the girls’ classroom assignments and make it to calling hours. My Pastor challenged our congregation to radically love thy neighbor this summer. I’ll show you RADICAL! I will ACE radical love.
Radical Love = Radical Amounts of Ham & Beans?
THIS was officially too many Ham & Beans.
But I failed to check the balance in my emotional bank account, nor did I take the time to notice that while caring for my Godson the prior week, he gifted me a head cold. “A grinding halt” was in the works, and while Greg saw it coming, I was too busy cooking every recipe on earth to look up at the train headed right for me. Big Love was about to turn to Big Suck. The Big Suck Train. All Aboard! Suckville ahead! Your ticket to Big Suck Mountain has been punched.
Tonight, with a glass of wine at my side, I can clearly see my tally of the last 9 days:
(1) My recent trip to care from my Godson meant I came face-to-face with his Autism Diagnosis. It was easier to pretend his challenges were smaller while he lived far away. My Mark has Autism. The real kind. I allowed myself to grieve my original “teach Jesus” plans, which caused my heart to see the gorgeous gifts God gave him. Still, I would trade my life’s fortune if it would make his path easier. I allowed my eyeballs to sweat just a little on the flight home.
My Mark flirted with me and ate my cooking. Oh, that precious boy. He’s got my number.
(2) After 72 hours of caring for my friend, I realized he was in no shape to return home. I am a nurse, and I am trained to act. I therefore returned him to the care of professionals for physical rehab, feeling as if I’d robbed the independence of an American Soldier who has endured quite enough for one lifetime. I cried all the way home.
(3) After a glorious summer with my beautiful niece, the time came to say goodbye. Her parents have this “THING” about her getting an “EDUCATION”, and going to her “FIRST DAY OF 5th GRADE”. Losers. I cried all the way home.
(4) I gave both of my daughters my cold, meaning Sara started her 10th birthday in a steam shower having a croup attack. Sick kids on their birthdays. Need I say more? We both cried in our home.
This cat is loyal in a crisis. Mischievous. Rabble-rouser. But so very loyal.
(5) I attended the funeral of a woman whose smile could light up a coliseum. I hugged her daughters whom I love to the ends of the earth, knowing I am utterly helpless to ease their suffering. I cried all the way home.
I came home from the funeral and picked up The Hardest Peace, and then kicked myself at how quickly I forgot its main message: we are to embrace our seasons of brokenness. There is a time for all things, including broken hearts and grieving. There is a time for the grinding halt, and the big suck.
Kara Tippetts was certain God’s story for us is good, and we know really good stories have plot twists, celebrations, friendships, family, love, laughter, tears, and loss. This story is so amazing, it has chapters I can only feel my way through! But if I want epic, I think I’m going to have to dare to live out a story that will change me. Some of that change might look a lot like suck.
I am daring to believe this grief has a purpose. I am going on faith here, because everything inside of me hurts, but I am going to timidly postulate there is beauty inside this suffering. Not now. Now I feel like someone hit the brakes, and I’m standing still in a blinding storm. But maybe later, we’ll see why this chapter unfolded as it did. Should I catch a glimpse of this possible beauty, I’ll take a picture of it and share it with you.
In the meantime, while I not-so-quietly wrestle with my sadness, I send you wishes for Godspeed. For all of us, Godspeed my friends.
Do you like Treasure Hunts? The girls sure do! Tagging onto the girls recent addiction to the movie “National Treasure”, Greg cooked up a Birthday Treasure Hunt, leading them to a present they’d had on their wish list for months.
I went into Treasure Hunt Day with very little info, other than its timing. On a random Friday, we woke to this note on the TV. Followed by this video:
Kelly heard the words, “Favorite rings you can never wear”, and immediately knew…the pull-up rings in the work out room:
Which proved to be more problematic than they anticipated:
Eventually, they were able to pull the green tape down, and discovered at every stop, there would be a few puzzle pieces, and a clue! The weight room clue was a word search with the instructions, “Use the unused letters”.
The unused letters spelled out a website (and while I was impressed at Kelly’s Asian-inspired attempt to use the letters in the columns as opposed to the rows, it worked better using the boring American method). On the website was a single, very up close picture of something in the house: a canister in the guest bathroom. WHERE THEY FOUND? A clue written in braille. Who doesn’t like a clue written in a secret language of dots? At first glance, I thought, “Huh. Dots.” And that’s why children would be needed on this adventure, because the girls immediately knew those dots were braille.
By now, we were starting to accumulate some STUFF. The girls began to warm up to the process of problem-solving, and didn’t need my help searching for a braille decoder on their computers. After a few frustrating moments, I gently suggested they were attempting to decode the message UPSIDE DOWN. A quick flip of the paper, and the words “Local Duck” appeared. Well, “appeared” is rather politically incorrect, as it was in braille. Sorry ’bout that.
Local Duck was a gimme. I have one stuffed animal from my childhood that everyone in my life knows I’d grab in a fire. Why is he named Local Duck? Because he’s always nearby. Kidding…it was my cousin’s code name during our 5 year game of “Cousin War” on our family’s farm. I thought it was the coolest thing any 8 year old had ever written on a slip of paper and hidden inside her tennis shoes. Kind of gross, now that I think about it.
I digress. Local Duck was hiding A KEY. Intriguing.
“You’re gaining momentum, but many locks are ahead. Hold this one key tightly, but head to the place nearby that has more keys than any other in the house.”
Uh-Oh. This one took A WHILE. They assumed Daddy meant “key code” or “passes held on a key ring”. I had to keep repeating “KEY! KEY!” I can’t remember who actually figured out it was “piano keys”, but one of them finally pieced together “most keys in the house”. This is when things got WILD:
Greg had been heading out in the evenings, hiding things all over town. Risky? You bet. What fun is a treasure hunt if you don’t have to play in traffic? Nicolas Cage went to the North Pole! By the way, thank you Greg, for not sending us to the North Pole.
At this point, I was in a 90 degree park, by a river which recently flooded, trying to balance a phone, a camera, 3 water bottles, and Sara’s bag of “treasure hunting supplies” (a flashlight, a compass, bandaids, the found key, a journal, a pen…it’s Sara so let’s add on some geodes, a few random rocks, and possibly a cat). Kelly packed snacks. Kelly is like a walking vending machine, and as she weighs about as much as a cat, I never discourage her crumb-spewing behavior.
The Clue: “Head to the starting spot of your camel-back excursions, and maybe check the pit-stop before you head out.”
Sara got it. The girls hike with water-holding back packs along a trail which has a Port-O-Potty at the start of the trail.
Greg hid a clue inside a PUBLIC BATHROOM? OH DUDE. YUCK. Better yet, on a trail I’ve never hiked, in a park I’ve never been to. Greg has a huge sense of humor. I knew this when I married him, so no more complaining from me.
Let it not be said I shy away from adventure, because taped to the outside (small acts of kindness of Greg’s part) of a portable bathroom, we found the above clue.
Again, I was clueless (figuratively, because my pockets were stuffed with clues), but the girls quickly ran off into the woods. Little did I know a mile-hike into nowhere lie ahead.
For those of you who imagine Indiana to be nothing but fields, it should be noted that Indiana was originally a very dense forest. Our woods border on impassable. It’s the rich, forested soil that made it so great for farming, and it’s lovely to enter the dark woods which remain.
I sent Greg a few update videos throughout the day, and I made this one on the long hike to “the caterpillar”:
We made it to a bridge, which Greg calls the caterpillar. Looking down at this long structure twisting and turning into nowhere, I decided we may very well die on this treasure hunt. I tried to stay upbeat, but secretly, I wish I was armed with more than a camera and a sweat-covered bra.
At the end of this bridge, was literally…nowhere. We had reached the end of the sidewalk, so to speak. We were staring into an abyss of flood-damaged undergrowth and fallen trees. Wait…and one, moldy picnic table.
But leave it to children to see the treasures we boring adults miss:
Bike-locked to a footer of the bridge was a trash bag. Kelly wasn’t keen on diving into the brush to grab it, but Sara had no fear. I unfortunately stopped filming just as Sara screamed, “KEY!”
The lock box contained the next clue (along with those crazy puzzle pieces): “You’ve Done a good job and earned a Quick treat. If Daddy was here, where would he want to go? (Just FYI, you’d have to be Daddy’s knee to see the next clue.)
Notice the “D” and “Q” are capitalized? As if we needed help to guess Dairy Queen. Daddy practically has his own booth there. BOOTH! Knee! And we get ice cream! Just as we jumped for joy, we realized if you hike into a sweaty woods at high noon, you must then hike back out.
When we made it back to the car, this is how we felt.
But once we got ice cream, we were less skeptical about Daddy’s plans.
As if the day weren’t “Treasure Hunt-y” enough, we arrived at DQ shortly after a large group of campers had taken their seats. Every booth was filled with 7 year old boys, yelling, squirming, and most certainly crawling under the booths.
The girls looked at me in a state of panic and I yelled “HIT THE DECK!!” I quickly explained to the camp counselors we’d need to crawl under every booth because we were looking for a clue. I should have taken a picture of their faces. What? You’ve never been approached by a frizzy-haired, sweat-covered Mother, wearing a large camera and cargo shorts filled with papers, who requests her daughters crawl under your lunch tables? I’ll show you how to rock SUMMER FUN!
“The final piece of the puzzle can only be found on top of the highest height you can climb. The guard will have the final details. And don’t forget to clip in.”
Highest height. Rock climbing. Of course Daddy would include rock climbing. A storm was threatening overhead, so we rushed as quickly as we could to our favorite weekend hang out. And by “our favorite”, I mean Daddy and the girls. Most of the 5 year Cousin War took place in the rickety hayloft of a very old barn, and we’ve all lost count as to how many times we fell out of the damned thing. I don’t particularly enjoy heights. However, I am a highly qualified cheerleader:
It took a couple of attempts and a lot of hand chalk, but Sara reached the last clue. The staff at Hoosier Heights were so very kind to help Greg with his plans, and just wonderful to us as the girls scaled the wall to the final clue.
“Your map is complete, and the end is getting close. X marks the spot.”
The completed puzzle was a map of our house and lawn, which was finished just as a thunderstorm began. Again, death was upon us. We felt like the National Treasure cast, drowning underneath Mount Rushmore! We grabbed boots and umbrellas and headed out into the storm, armed with shovels.
Why shovels? I’ve been the recipient of a Greg Treasure Hunt in the past, and his hunts always end with things buried underground. On our first anniversary, I found myself at the end of an 8-hour journey, in my pajamas, digging up a lock box in a Florida forest. I’m certain anyone who saw me assumed I was hiding a body. Luckily for me, in Florida, no one asks questions.
Buried in the backyard was a tackle box, containing a UV flashlight. The girls love playing with disappearing ink (I pray the owners of our old house never invest in a UV flashlight and walk around the house…ugh…), so they knew a hidden message was somewhere. But where? You can’t fool bonafide treasure hunters like Sara & Kelly! They guessed it was on the puzzle as soon as we tossed the mud-covered box onto the porch.
“Check the armoire in the playroom”. I was exhausted and in desperate need of a cold beer, but the girls has plenty of energy left. Who wouldn’t have energy knowing the treasure lie just ahead of you?
So there you have it. The discontinued Calico Critter Deluxe Village House, long sought after by these ardent collectors, sold to Daddy by a sweet Mother whose daughter has outgrown her set. She included the furniture and the animals, none of which the girls have in their collection. They were ecstatic. We didn’t hear from them for the rest of the weekend, as they disappeared into “Cloverleaf Corners”, the name of their Calico Critter play area.
Sweet, sweet Daddy, who LOVES a good puzzle. A good work out. And a good challenge.
But is still soft enough to sing kittens to sleep on his lunchtime.
And who thinks kids should have their own camelbacks for the journey which lies ahead.
We love you. No 3 ladies have ever had more fun stealing The Declaration of Independence and beating the bad guys. And a huge thank you for not including actual bad guys. There was a point in the day in which Kelly assumed we would be chased by Sean Bean and Ed Harris. Her meltdown was beyond all-time. Speaking of famous Nicolas Cage lines, Kelly does indeed follow his credo from “The Croods”: NEVER NOT BE AFRAID!
Happy 8th and 10th Birthday girls! If you could just stay at these ages, that would be super. It’s a financial thing, you see; we own WAY, WAY too many Calico Critters for you to age out of them, please and thank you. Daddy and I love you!
I’ve made a decision: this summer is too good to end. Too full of funny. Too full of yummy. Too full of love and pool water. I ended last summer wishing I could stop time and hold the kids right where they were, but that was short-sighted. NOW I’m stopping the clock. Right here. BEFORE puberty, but AFTER the ridiculousness of childhood has us in its grips.
We’ve had to make some adjustments to meet in the middle. Avery is “over” what she calls “human games”. It took me a couple of days to realize she meant make-pretend. Kelly is deep into “human games”, and Sara? Kind of in the middle. This caused great consternation in our village until Sara dedicated her entire evenings to playing hours upon hours of Calico Critters, Stuffed Animal Land Weddings, and Office with Kelly. If Kelly is able to spend a few hours a day lost in her imaginary world, she is far more congenial about playing Monopoly for the 1000x time. She kicked the board over a few times before we found the balance, but we got there eventually.
I’ve learned to meet everyone in the middle too. No more elaborately prepared lunches. We’re still eating primarily whole foods, and I still don’t cook things which come frozen in boxes, but BLTs with Avocados, Grilled Cheese we can dip in Tomato Soup, and (everyone’s favorite) Baked Potato Bars are the Usual Suspects. We still eat on a tablecloth in the dining room, and every fall, that first lunch I eat alone without my Three Musketeers, I won’t lie: I weep. Our lunchtime conversations are the highlight of my day.
The conversations have changed significantly over the years. We began these lunches with Kelly just out of a highchair, when anything short of a PB&J was thrown to the floor. Now, they know their roles in “Troisine” like well-coded robots. I yell out “Isabine! Avine! Opaline! SERVICE!” in my French accent, and they line up, scurry about, and lunch is served in high style in mere moments.
We spend our lunches giggling over Avery’s parents’ insistence that she read “My Changing Body”, followed by my empty threats to talk about puberty (which I’d NEVER do over soup…that’s just unappetizing). We listen to Avery’s retelling of the latest Sci-Fi flick she’s watched. I can now summarize in great detail “Octoshark”, “Lavalantula” (Tarantulas which can spit LAVA….DUDE….the DRAMA), and “Robo-Croc”. They started the summer unable to pick a single morning cartoon upon which they could agree, and now, I don’t hear a peep as they trade turns at “A.N.T. Farm” and “Mighty Med”. In June, I wondered if we’d ever find a happy medium, but with patience and some good cherry cobbler, it came.
The Board where the daily magic is mapped out! And where I send the girls to read bible verses when the argue.
I think our experience of caring for Papa Bump has matured them a bit, and given them some much-needed perspective. As we deliver food to friends in Hospice, and make our weekly treks to my Grandfather’s house, they’ve come to realize: not everyone is experiencing the sweetness of summer as we are. Not everyone can spend lazy afternoons at the pool, avoiding a passing glance at the school calendar. In all seriousness, I don’t even know WHAT day we go back. I know the week, but I refuse to mark the actual day. STOP. Don’t tell me. I’m not ready for that level of detail.
And our tasks have had their price: There have been days the girls are just plum worn out. They don’t want to spend another afternoon begging Kelly to jump off the diving board (we’re batting a massive ZERO thus far). They don’t want to read “Pay It Forward” (we WILL finish before summer ends…WE WILL). They don’t want to work on their pajama pants, fold beach towels, or make yet another trip to the grocery. Some days, I don’t want to either. We’ve spent some days just surviving together, and there have been some hilarious spats. One day I found all 3 of them sitting in a row on the couch and crying. The story was told that as they wallowed in exhaustion, trying to find something to do, Sara decided to build yet another memorial to Max. Max died years ago, and I have had to limit the number of memorials at any given time allowed in or around the house. We have 4 cats. We don’t need this house to be a shrine to Max (although the limit is 3, because I loved that cat to pieces). 2 young ladies were quite through with helping Sara build dead cat memorials, and before anyone could say “Pringle bit my Mom’s knee”, ugly comments about each others’ deceased pets were being lobbed about like volleyballs. Hence, 3 girls gnashing teeth on my couch, and me falling into fits of laughter, knowing that by next summer, we’ll be calling this “PMS”.
I want to savor their last moments of absolute childhood. Even Avery has thrown in the towel and started playing human games again. She invented a game they are calling “Emperor Baby”, which as far as I can tell, involves Avery being both an Emperor and a Baby, demanding things from her subjects. She who answers the call with the best effort gets to become the Emperor Baby. How this game is even remotely fun, I don’t know, but then again, I’ve never played. If I did, I’m sure I’d be the BEST Emperor Baby EVER. My favorite of their inventive play is a game they call “Jackie Topaz”. They are lost children, searching all over the world for their Mother, who is named? That’s right…Jackie Topaz. I’m so thrilled at this name, I’ve started referring to myself as Jackie Topaz around the house. It has a nice ring to it. However silly this game may sound, it was created to stop Kelly’s nightmares that she can’t find me. It has worked like a charm. Life is funny.
I write this every.single.year, but Indiana summers are so sweet because they are so short. Last week we took a night tour of the Ecolab at Marian University, and listening to bull frogs in the dark with bats flying overhead, I felt my soul whisper, “Stay summer. Just this once…stay.” Let the girls stay 10, 9, & 8 for just a little while longer. The Summer in the Middle is where we belong.
But I doubt summer could hear me over the crickets and the rustling of the cattails, as yet another thunderstorm rolled in. Do tell me, how is your summer? I pray it has been full of lazy wonderment and pie? Godspeed my friends. As our summers roll to the finish line…Godspeed.
Comments Off on Summer in the MiddleTags:The Girls
If you’re going to serve canned corn, serve it in style. [Hoosier Wisdom #2046]
I’ve been rather silent this summer, in that most of my story is not mine to tell. I am in a season of service. It has brought me a bit of personal peace, as I like hearing from God in the morning, reminding me my purpose on this earth is clear, and at hand. My 2 closest girlfriends are in a time of deep suffering, while my Grandfather enters the last days of his journey, and there have been other friends whom have needed rides to Specialists and ears to bend about risky, albeit life-saving, surgeries. I’ve watched a marriage I admired come to an end, as I helplessly delivered pie. I have quietly wept more than once for my friends and their gravely ill family members, for my friends enduring chemo, and for a brave and lovely friend who took on cancer and divorce and so, so many surgeries, all in the same breath.
And in this, I’ve had witnesses ask, “Aren’t you afraid of surrounding yourself with so much cancer and grief? Aren’t you afraid it will…rub off?”
The short answer is no. Not at all. Maybe it’s the nurse in me who has seen so much. Maybe it’s my belief in heaven. Jesus has partnered with me, and maybe I’ve again, been selfish, in that during my days of service, I get to feel Jesus in my passenger seat (and I do…I really, really do). I wish I had the courage to say any of this out loud, because usually I reply, “Have you ever considered I’m the Nexus of Suffering? That I’m the one who knows so many people in crisis, and maybe they caught this mess from me? Huh? Put that in your little red wagon…”
I think my friends need someone on the periphery, quietly standing by, holding onto the belief that this pain shall pass. Holding a lantern engraved with the words “normal will return”. Or a new normal anyway. I think. Right now “knowing anything for certain” isn’t on the agenda.
I got this idea that everyone needed some form of blueberries for their last 4th of July, so we ended up picking almost 20 lbs of blueberries. Funny thing about just picked blueberries, you can’t tire of them.
All of this is not to say I haven’t fretted, shed many tears, or worried myself sick over my dearest friends and their oh-so-sick Mommas. Have I ever. But my grief for them is not the grief they are experiencing. Their grief is large in a way I cannot comprehend. You can’t see all the way around the kind of grief that comes from losing a parent, or someone equally close. While I visit with them daily in their space, and I do everything within my power to shoo away the clouds, I know I cannot make it better. I can only be a witness, and make the promise that through these times, my friendship will not falter.
I’m not even sure WHAT I was cooking this day!
Falter. Good Lord, what a treacherous word. I have moments of sheer panic that I’m not doing it right. I’m taking too much food. I’m taking too little. The food is bad. The food is too spicy. I’m offering to help too much. I’m being too pushy. I’m not being pushy enough. I made them laugh when they wanted to cry. I let them cry when they wanted to laugh. Is today a text day, a call day, a show up with cobbler day, or just a prayer day?
My new cherry pitter arrived yesterday! Clafoutis for everyone!
Greg gently reminded me last week that friendship doesn’t end with a spreadsheet where I’m rated on bringing just the right number of perfectly baked banana breads to the crisis. That would make it easier! I could improve. That way the next time my best friends walk their parents through Stage IV cancer…oh crap. [Insert reminder about life having no dress rehearsals…stitch it on a pillow…beat yourself in the head with beautifully embroidered pillow…]
So that’s where I’ve been when I’m not here, or creating a magically lazy and sweet summer with the girls. I’m cooking, or delivering, or listening, or calling…or drinking. They’ve stopped drinking which puts a lot of pressure on me to get our quota in…[See? Still have my sense of humor!] I’m here, but again…this summer is not my story to tell. I am a witness, not a storyteller. So in this space, if you don’t see me, I want you to know you are on my heart. And as always, I wish you Godspeed
Hi. My name is Lori. I am a crafting addict, with a specific unhealthy love of furniture. Well, chairs, to be more exact. I have a serious problem with chairs.
I inherited it, but I know it’s not an excuse. My much-adored (albeit unbelievably quirky) Aunt Mildred was an Antiquer. I don’t want to throw her under the bus, because I’m taking responsibility for my illness tonight, but she did have an entire house just to hold her collections. She didn’t live there. There wasn’t enough room. In her defense, it was only a 3 bedroom, 2-story. Antiques are space hogs. Everyone knows this.
Taking a quick picture before Greg realizes there are more than TWO chairs in my hatch.
The formal sitting room was dedicated entirely to her chair collection. Even though no one could live in the house, we were regularly invited for visits (the house she lived in also had beautiful antiques, but the nicest ones were strangely kept in the no-person house). The chairs were stored in large rows, formed into a circle, and we would squeeze our little bodies into the collection, and make room to sit in any antique chair which suited our fancy. Mildred took notes (although silently), and left each and every chair to her beloved nieces and nephews, via stories in her will.
“To Martin, I leave the oddly-shaped teak corner table that took your interest the year you were 9.” (She died when Martin was 21, so it took us a little investigative work to find it.)
“To William, I leave the chandelier into which you were always knocking your head. I got so tickled every time to did it.”
“To Jenny I leave the red velvet Victorian couch. Precious Jennifer Ann, you really understood that couch.”
In case you are struggling with a crafting addiction, you need to see the ugly that comes with this problem. It’s NOT GLAMOROUS guys. It’s dark. Very, very dark. Like these hideous chairs.
Aunt Mildred left me beautiful chairs, velvet rockers, bureaus, a large assortment of dolls, knick-knacks…anything I had touched in the 19 years of visiting her museum-house. I guess you could call chairs my gateway antique.
ALL the way stripped? 2 attempts is close enough for desk chairs.
While I know repainting old furniture with bright colors is all the rage, I haven’t taken to it. I equally haven’t fallen for milk paint. I like my antiques to look like…antiques. So you can imagine my surprise when the girls and I rounded the corner into the annual Woodruff Place Flea Market, and these chairs were screaming to me that they’d like to be bright colors. (Yes, furniture speaks to me when I’m high on the smell of dust, mold, and history. Don’t judge me. Or do…I’m still going to love chairs.)
Home Depot can kiss my crafting ass with their Marquee Paint. Guaranteed 1-coat. Not with green!
I had promised my family, “NO MORE!!!” I would NOT take on another home-crafting-project until my list was complete. I actually wrote the list on a piece of paper, and asked my family to hold me to my promise (fearless moral crafting inventory, if you will). I have a problem, and I’m ready for help.
But the girls saw my eyes, and they didn’t even try to stop me. In fact, they offered to carry them to the car. God help me. The lessons I’m teaching them.
1-coat with orange? Try 4. 4 thick, drippy, unmanageable coats.
The second I whispered, “Rainbow Chairs for the Rainbow Attic”, they all but threw those chairs at me. It’s like they WANTED me to fall off the crafting wagon. Sorry. That wasn’t fair. This is MY problem. I’m here to own it.
How about yellow on white? Surely that will be 1-coat. Or three. Stupid paint people promises. They’ll say ANYTHING to sell you paint. It’s the crafter’s racquet and worst nightmare, all wrapped into one.
These chairs weren’t part of the regular flea market. They were being sold by a sweet, but quite toothless junker, who had set up his wares on the small lawn of a tenement building. It was…not good. He knew those claw foot chairs were well-built, and worth more than pennies, so we settled on $20 per chair. I’ve bought worse, in case you recall the day I bought my sewing chair straight out of the bathroom at the Antique Mall.
Greg would say this was me, hitting bottom. Again. Painting perfectly good chairs grasshopper green is somehow lower than pulling a chair out of a public pooper and asking its price? It’s hard to say.
Still, even though it was a good buy, and I had good reason to capitalize on this great deal for office chairs while the iron was hot, I knew I’d have to make amends (i.e. finish this project as quickly as possible).
The girls enabled supported me throughout this process, because they loved the idea of bright chairs at their white desks. I let them choose the color of the rainbow, and the fabric. Sara’s choice was bold, and clearly that of a future interior design major. She doesn’t need to bow to convention at every turn. Sara knows her mind.
Kelly needed surprisingly little guidance, although this was the 5th fabric she chose. I used remnants from my friend Lou’s stash, who oh-so-graciously willed her fabric to me during her family’s large relocation to the West. Kelly has a knack for choosing fabric of which I do not have enough for the project at hand. Remember the small blanket that turned into a small country?
Or how about this quilt à la Kelly? Oh no! It’s Kelly! She’s the next Mildred! I think when she asked for her stuffed animals to be displayed in a museum-quality case, we should have seen that coming.
My orange desk chair and the yellow sewing chair were the last to see the finish line. All in, I was drunk on paint happily crafting for only 2 weeks. A new record, compared to my usual time off the crafting wagon. These chairs were tough to strip, and even harder to paint, but they inspired me to finish some large projects I’d been procrastinating (see last 2 posts). I know. That’s justifying. Apologies and seeking amends.
I’d like to thank my family for accepting my crafting shortcomings (like being covered in paint and cursing on the back porch while holding toxic chemicals in my hands). I’d like to thank all of you for witnessing my endlessly ridiculous plans, messes, and occasionally finished projects. I’d like to thank Home Depot for NOTHING! This paint was PRICEY and SUCKY McSUCKERSON! I’m done complaining and placing blame elsewhere. But seriously H.D., you should reflect on your shortcomings.
OK, back to my crafting inventory. A really, really boring shower curtain is next, followed by really, really uninteresting neutral curtains. Godspeed fellow crafters!
I wrote about decorating the girls’ rooms in phases over here. We have finally reached Phase II, aka “Stuff on the Walls”. Sara has long been planning a peacock room in “non-peacock colors”. Don’t worry…Sara is GOOD at decorating.
Her mural finally came in, after finding it on Houzz, contacting the decorator, finding a supplier, calling about a print run for 6 months, and hounding them into shipping me a single run straight from the printer. $75 well spent. When your Dad is professional wallcoverings contractor, you might know the rules of this game. There is no painful story about crafting. Dad came with his tools. He hung it, and in 2 hours, Sara’s room was transformed into her dream-of-a-meditative space. I love this mural. I think large pictures in small rooms are awesome. Next to her Asian waterfall chandelier, her pairing is the start to a uniquely interesting kid’s room.
Onto Kelly’s more difficult theme: “Stuffed Animals Displayed In A Museum-Like Manner”. And you thought peacocks without jewel tones would be difficult. While some children have imaginary playmates, Kelly has an imaginary WORLD. It’s called “Stuffed Animal Land”, and if you have a few hours, she can describe to you the royalty lineage, the political issues, the major illnesses which affect the residents, the geography, the weather, the upheavals and wars, and the long-long-long names of each inhabitant. Warning: some residents are EVIL. Not a day goes by that I don’t get a full report on the latest happenings and hot news stories from Stuffed Animal Land. So you can understand that ordinary, everyday shelving would not do. Kelly was quite clear: Museum-quality shelving.
She envisioned a room lined with glass cases that lock. Because should we get robbed, I’m CERTAIN her priceless collection of STUFFED ANIMALS would be the first to go. Wow. We settled on floating round shelves we found on Etsy for $40 a shelf. Ha! Like I would spend $40 on a shelf! I’m made of stuffed animals, not money! We spent WAY too much time trying to figure out how to make these things, and so we went to Captain Daddy, who suggested I use concrete forms as a base. Brilliant!
Hey, if I’m not challenging the guys at the Home Improvement stores with my wacky requests, I’m just not satisfied with my week. “How many different diameters of concrete forms do you carry?” Sometimes I ask questions, just to see their faces. “If you were going to turn a cardboard tube into a floating shelf, would you use a bracket, or…?”
I ended up with 2 diameters (lousy hardware stores…I wanted 4), and Greg cut them into matching depths. I have had a long-standing love affair with high-quality wool felt, which can be bought on a bolt at quilting stores. Well. ONE quilting store. This one, if you want to save yourself the time of running all over the Midwest. You’re welcome.
Measuring the diameter and depth (but forgetting to add the the lip, which made the job tricky and really awful), I cut the wool, and sewed it into a tube.
Slip it inside, the tube, with the seam facing out, and :
Pull it down over the outside of the shelf.
I should mention Greg riveted the brackets onto the shelves before did the covers. I tried it another way with the first 8….and…um…let’s just say his way worked better. Or more honestly, his way worked.
And here’s where this project gets tedious and painful: the measurements must be exact, and the wool must be hot-glued down perfectly to the back edges. I got burned. I got frustrated. I was using wool from 2 different makers so they stretched differently, and because it is pre-felted, did it STRETCH. In all directions.
I’d like to tell you after making these shelves 16x, I learned some tricks, but in reality, I think I learned this project was worth it, but maybe doing it once was enough. The backs of some look much better than others, and I think it lays better if the depth is longer and trimmed once it’s on the shelf, and if the diameter is a little short, so it can be stretched to lie taut.
I had dreams of displaying animals and arranging everything just so for you guys. I’d get the lighting right and the room picked up and the bed made. All at the same time. In a house with 3 kids and 4 cats. [Insert your maniacal laughter.] But if the summer is anything, it’s a huge reality check over the things we cannot control. It’s a reminder that messes can wait while the sun is shining.
So I managed to grab this shot quickly on my phone, while stomping and fuming about in a PMS-haze, declaring this entire display must come down and be redone. It’s too symmetrical! It’s too linear! It’s too…influenced by my hormones!
But then this happened [insert a whole lot of screaming and giggling and happiness and general feelings of museum-quality joy.]
And this happened.
Oh ma’ goodness, the entire unicorn family has finally found a home. They’ve had a rough go of it. The last War-Of-Stuffed-Animal-Land involved an evil unicorn, and these guys were displaced. I’m not joking. Kelly kept me up one night, telling me ALL about it. That large bunny on top? He’s an enforcer, and they are surrounded by their security detail.
Lastly, this happened, after 3 girls spent many hours carefully arranging (i.e. arguing) this AMAZING museum-like exhibit. It’s known as “The Great Wall of Stuffed Animals”.
So will I add more or rearrange the “museum shelves” I made with cardboard and felt? Here are my thoughts:
(1) My floors are no longer littered with piles upon piles of stuffed animals. It’s my own little version of museum-like heaven. These shelves, no matter how they are arranged, are a huge improvement.
(2) Who am I to make decisions in Stuffed Animal Land? I’m not the Queen. According to Kelly, I don’t even qualify for a hearing with the Congress. I’m an Adviser at best. I think I’ll let The President guide me from here.
(3) I did NOT pay $40 per shelf. These cost about $7 per shelf. So yes, I may add more, considering I have the supplies. But for now, there is peace in the kingdom, and all is well in the land.
Godspeed, my friends, until Phase III: bed linens and pillows. And curtains. And Sara wants me to make lavender bamboo bookcase…????
This is a story about crafting gone wrong. And right. And then wrong again. And then very right. Do this back and forth for many months, add in some glitter and spray paint (a little whiskey, and many, many curse words), and you’ll eventually land in a corner of my dining room.
When we finally moved into the house, we were lucky enough to purchase a lovely antique dining room set from Greg’s parent’s neighbor. Random enough for you? Her parents received it as a wedding gift in 1938, and it’s in stellar condition. Eventually I will refinish this set and recover the chairs, but for now, I’m just happy to have a place to eat. As a cook, I take dining rooms rather seriously. Greg prefers homes without dining rooms, and when he suggested we leave it out of the new home, I turned on my laser eyes and burned a hole right through his forehead. No dining room? Was he having a moment of mental instability? Um, HELLO cherished memories of breaking bread over candlelight for decades to come while surrounded by quaint trim work; I think I’ve made my point.
The sideboard functioned as a traditional sideboard “sans le decor”, until I ripped a picture out of Better Home and Gardens, and decided STOP EVERYTHING! THIS WHOLE SIDEBOARD MUST BE DIFFERENT! It must have lamps and mirrors and tall, wayward flowers! It must have candles and interesting shapes! It must be covered in things I DON’T CURRENTLY OWN! We might be touching on the reason Greg didn’t want a dining room.
Before we even signed on the house, Greg’s Mom gave 2 brass Stiffel lamps. If you don’t want to use Stiffels for lighting, you can use them as hand weights, because Stiffels weigh more than my children. When she offered them to me (Lori, would you have any use for these Stiffel lamps? I found a picture in Southern Living, and I must CHANGE EVERYTHING!), I slipped into a gigantic flashback from 1982: I could see my Mom rifling through her purse at the bank drive-through window. Every week, she’d cash her check, and she would carefully take out a few bills and slip them into a separate envelope in her purse, designated for her treasure dujour. One does not easily forget the Stiffel lamp envelope. She saved and saved and saved. She would visit them at the furniture store and whisper sweet nothings into their brassy-goodness, “Lori! Lift these! Just try! These are QUALITY lamps. They will last forever. And THEY WILL BE MINE.” And eventually, paid entirely in cash because that’s how my family rolls, they were. I dusted those things FOREVER, so I can attest to their lifespan. When Carolann offered hers to me, I laughed oh-so-loudly, and told her I’d be terribly grateful to inherit the forever-weighty-quality-ness-est of her Stiffels.
New paint and lampshades, and these would work perfectly in my “imitate the random picture I found in a magazine” plan. Problem #1: It was COLD in my garage this winter, and I wanted to spray paint the lamps. I rigged up an elaborate plastic tent and heater system. For every coat of paint, I warmed up my tent to 50 degrees, and slowly…ever so slowly…turned brass into “burnt amber”.
Problem #2: Until the final coat, when I warmed up the tent, but forgot to warm up the paint. THE WHOLE MESS CRACKLED.
Not in a good-crackle-way. In a very, very bad crackle-way.
I gave up and waited for the weather to turn, as I was disheartened.
I spent my free time looking for the “perfect sideboard mirror”. It had to be interesting, antique-y, and the glass had to be almost perfect. I repeat: I don’t do “crackle”. Also, it had to be damn-near free, because the new house was turning out to be less-free. What’s the opposite of free? Oh…yes…my mortgage. In January, I found it. It was on clearance at my favorite antique mall for a whopping $35. And much like those lamps, it weighed more than my children combined. But Sara, Kelly and I knew we’d found “the one”, and the 3 of us managed to get it home. I’m often heard calling back to antique mall attendees, “Trust me! When I finish with this thing, it will be AMAZING! If I don’t drop it first!” I think they slap clearance stickers on heavy stuff as I walk through, just to watch me squeal and risk life and limb. That’s right Cheryl! I’m onto you!
The wood frame needed some repair. Well…many repairs. It sat on the floor of my dining room for so long, my friends assumed I was trying to start a new trend in floor decor. Truth be told, I have taken on all NEW fix-it tasks since building this house, and my plans intimidate me.
One day I finally got the cahonas to mix up the epoxy, and voila! Using a plastic spoon as the tool-of-choice (all professional furniture refinishers swear by “la spoon de plastique”…kidding…I made that up), I filled all the cracks and molded the repairs to look like the original frame. My sister and I thought painting it the color of the kitchen (SW’s Chinchilla) would be a nice contrast against the brown lamps and brown furniture.
Problem #3: That plan fell flat. We ended up at “purple mirror”. Not good.
No problem: my roomie from college is an architect with a deep background in interior design, and she recommended adding depth with a deep gold glaze. YES! I didn’t “unlike” the original gold…it was just…too gold. Something in between flat purple and Louis XIV was my plan.
Problem #4: Oops. I accidentally turned it back to gold.
No problem: I still have the chinchilla paint. PURPLE. GOLD. PURPLE. GOLD. I painted. I blotted. I swept it over with every type of brush known to man. I bought different gold. I bought gold spray. Gold varnish. Gold glitter. Antiquing gold. I bought lambswool. Sponge applicators. What tools did I end up using on the final product? An old rag and a 75 cent sponge.
I finally gave up and just sat this behemoth on the sideboard. I thought maybe if I stared at it a while, the answer would come to me.
Back to the lamps, which had to be stripped, repainted, and new shades applied.
10th time was a charm.
Problem #5: Paint stripper will kill the new grass your husband planted. He will claim it was worth it if it means you’ll shut up about the lamps, and stop killing yourself with spray paint fumes.
My sister suggested a dark brown antiquing glaze, barely applied, was the depth we needed. Looking through the now ridiculous stash of stains and paints and I owned, I found one. Using the edge of lambswool and an old paintbrush to rub it in, I found the mirror I had been seeking. The final step took me about 10 minutes. I applied a tiny bit of polyurethane, and rubbed it as well, to downplay too much shine.
After spending 6 months under newspaper, my friend Lydia forgot there was a mirror under this mess, and asked what kind of picture I would be putting in the frame. OH! That’s a MIRROR! She assumed it was a wicked mess of tape, paint, and glitter that I would eventually throw in the trash, and then force her to ease my pain over margaritas. RIGHT. Like Lydia and I need an excuse to go out for margaritas.
This simple sideboard decor cost me 6 months of grief, but less than $100. I learned a lot, mostly about persistence, and about not asking the guys at Home Depot for advice. In fact, I’m working on a project now that I fully blame on the Home Depot paint guys, and I may picket. Now that this sideboard is done, I have that kind of time.
My point here is this, my friends: if you find a random picture in a decorating magazine, THROW IT AWAY. When we put it altogether last night at 10 pm, I screamed out loud with happiness, but for the rest of my life, I’ll never know if I love it because it’s pretty, or if I love it because of the blood, sweat, and tears that went into it. I guess either way, it doesn’t really matter, does it? I love it. When can you join me for dinner?