Walk in the Park

I used to consider myself not an optimist. Not a pessimist, perhaps, but a realist with pessimistic tendencies. The glass was more than half empty. Entropy wins. This, too, generally does not pass. Then, kids happened and now, the glass is more than half full, especially when it spills all over the table. Maybe the world isn't destined for increasing levels of chaos after all. And this, too, shall pass.

A year ago, I was dropping Luke off at carpool in the mornings, knowing that he wouldn't interact with another soul for the next seven hours, except during his 20-minute recess. I was driving back to the carpool lane seven hours later, fully expecting that he wouldn't be there--either because he had wandered off the parking lot or just because he was wandering the hallways of the school. (The latter happened on a weekly basis, the former, luckily, lived only in the dark corners of my imagination during the forever-long minutes when I was sitting in my car, waiting for them to locate him.) I was wishing that someone would magic away the looming choices that were staring us in the face.

This morning, after spending a couple of hours at the park, we had to leave to get Weston from preschool and Luke was grumbling because he had to leave a newly-found friend.

L: But why do we have to leave already?
Me: Because your brother likes to be picked up on time.
L: Ugh. Can we come to more park days with my new friend?
Me: ...He comes to almost every park day we go to...
L: Really? How come I've never played with him before?
Me: Because you're usually busy playing with your other friends.
L, after considering that for a minute: ...You know, I think I have the most friends of anyone in the world.

Hey, look. It passed. We made it through, after all.

So slow

We're supposed to be at Target, buying stickers and pumpkins for a halloween party that starts in an hour. Instead, the children are eating at the pace of molasses-covered snails (is that a delicacy somewhere? Idaho, perhaps?) and are asking me questions that just don't need to be asked:

-Can I plant the yucky part of the banana in the garden so banana trees will grow?
-Can I have a giant salt crystal for dessert?
-How many people are alive who are 33 years old right now? How many people are 33 years old and exactly 6 feet tall?
-If we plant every banana at the store, would our backyard be a jungle? If our backyard turned to a jungle, would animals from the jungle live there? Would the Lorax come?
-If a cobra gets hot, does it take off its hood?

I have answered exactly one of these questions and that was only because I wanted a giant salt crystal for dessert, as well.

A few weeks ago, the boys were reading about evolution and natural selection and not-so-natural (ie, human driven) selection and we came upon a documentary about dog breeds. As a result, our vocabulary of dog breeds is both rich and peculiar right now. (Aside: homeschooling leads to  some strange rabbit holes as the kids decide they want to know more about some peripheral aspect of whatever they're learning about at the moment. It's been interesting to watch.) So randomly in the car, this happened:

Weston: Elsa is a suzuki. 

Me: Ahh...like a car? Or the violinist?

W: Not any of those things. She is a dog. 

Me: Yes...

W: The kind of dog that is called a suzuki.

Me: Saluki? Like from the show we watched?

W: That's what I said. Saluki. 

Me: Ok. What makes you say that?

W: Because she looks like one and Dada showed me a picture. 

Me: Rhodesian Ridgeback. She looks like a Rhodesian Ridgeback...also called an African Lion Dog. Remember?

W: That's what I said. African lion dog. 

For the record, Elsa is a North Carolina Mutt. She does look an awful lot like a Rhodesian Ridgeback though.

Ghosts in our midst

Weston has a tendency to blame all kinds of things on an invention he has named "It-The-Ghost." Anytime he says something rude or just plain strange, he scapegoats (scapeghosts?) his imaginary pal.

Weston: Do you have froth on your tongue?
Me: Do I have--no. I do not have froth on my tongue. What a question!
Weston, chortling: It-The-Ghost told me to ask that question.
Me: That It-The-Ghost is a wild character, isn't he?
W: Yes. And silly, too.
Me: Of course: silly, too.
W: You know who else is both wild and silly?
Me: You?
W, a bit offended: No, of course. Luke-The-Ghost, in fact.
Me: Ah, yes, that old Luke-the-Ghost.
W: And Mama-Ghost and Dada-Ghost and the new Ghost-baby.
Me: So there's a new Ghost-baby, is there?
W: Actually, two. No, three new ghost babies.
Me: Those ghosts certainly have their hands full, don't they?
W: Full of babies. And tape also.
Me: Why tape?
W: They live in our tape dispensers. That's why they need so many babies. We have a lot of tape dispensers, you know.


(We do have a lot of tape dispensers, all of which are out of tape, so what good is that?)

((I find the above conversation infinitely more satisfying when read out loud in a British accent, or as close to one as you can manage. Then again, I find most things more satisfying that way. I had kept this preference hidden from McMoose for nearly a decade because while there are many offenses that can be forgiven in a person--hogging the blankets, ordering veggie burgers with bacon on top, wanting to name one's children after cities in Wisconsin, that kind of thing--I'm not entirely sure reading aloud in a foreign accent is something from which a marriage ever fully recovers. Of course, he walked into the bedroom unexpectedly one recent evening and found me reading a book about punctuation out loud to myself and my last secret suffered an instant death. I am now an open book. An open audiobook, perhaps.))

(((I do love an interesting book about punctuation. No, that isn't an oxymoron at all--why do you ask?)))

Silent

Sometimes, my house is so quiet that I can hear the hum of the refrigerator from two rooms away. On those days, I drink my coffee while it's still hot. I have time to come here and think of things to say that don't involve the letters SOS.

One kid is at preschool, painting and planting and telling his stories to the teachers and listening to the stories the other kids tell, so he can regale them with us at lunchtime. The other kid is at his desk, writing a story. I asked him two days ago to write a paragraph using the third-person point of view. He asked me if it could be a chapter book instead. Of course it can. It has turned into a chapter book with footnotes and the part of me that loves to write is exclaiming with joy--he loves to write!

There isn't a cat walking around the house, yelling simply to make his presence known. There isn't a dog licking the couch or pacing the floor with her clicky toenails. The hermit crabs aren't trying to tunnel their way through the glass of their cage.

There's just me and a computer and a humming refrigerator and a cup of still-hot coffee. And too, there is the knowledge that this quiet moment is fleeting because without that, the silence might feel lonely and oppressive rather than peaceful and delicious. (And oh, how delicious it is!)

Here and There

This weekend, we went back to the mountain town where McMoose and I went to college and oh, how the mountains feed the soul. Every time we travel (anywhere, really,) McMoose has to endure a constant stream of, "Let's move here because of the way I picture our life unfolding if we were in this exact place." And it's not because of any real desire to leave where we are, but it's just so tempting to imagine all the different lives we could lead.

We could live in DC or New York City or Boston and spend our days on various commuter trains, experiencing life in a throng of humanity. We could live in the a Leave It To Beaver kind of suburb, where the lawns would always be mowed and the picket fences would never become discolored and children would play in groups on the street. (Actually, we might need to do some time traveling and reality-breaching for that one, mightn't we?) We could live on a farm on a mountain with our chickens and our goats (not cows, never cows) and wake up to the fog rolling off our front porch every morning. I can imagine a multitude of lives for us and I want to live them all.

And then, we come home to the cats and the cozy bed and the nooks filled with toys and books and the house that holds our real-lives and I remember that here, actually, is a rather nice place to be. (Though I could do without the snake and its supply of frozen mice and the caterpillars that may or may not still be alive in their little box of dirt. Whose idea was it, anyway, to bring in caterpillars that burrow instead of ones that spin cocoons?)

Some Things

• Ever since the start of this summer, we've been on the go. We've gone out of town several times, we've made last minute plans on a near-daily basis, we've seen friends constantly. And I've been thinking, "Oh, this is because it's summer," or "Oh, it's just this one week that's going to be crazy." And then, as I was staring at my calendar this week, I realized that no, it's not just the summer and it's not just one week. This is just how I structure things (when I'm not planning around a baby/toddler's nap schedule). And finally, I can do it this way again without too much fear of melting-down kids. Hey, it's good to be back.

• There's a pothole on my drive home from...well, almost anywhere, really. I pass it several times a day and it's big enough that I have to swerve around it or risk scraping the bottom of my car. It's been there for months, so the swerving has become second nature to me. Earlier this week, I saw some trucks out there fixing it and I was giddy with excitement. No more worries about swerving into traffic, no more crazy maneuvers! Since it's been fixed, I've driven past this pot hole four times. Each time, as I approach, I remind myself that, happy day, the pothole is gone! And each time, at the last minute, I end up swerving anyway. Ahh, muscle memory, how strong you are.

•  I was packing up for a weekend trip and after watching me skeptically for a few minutes, Luke said, "Um...I don't think that's the best way to pack. I think I'll pack my own bag. And Weston's too, because I think he'll want his bag to be like mine." I was on my way to being insulted until common sense caught up to me and reminded me that this meant I only had to pack for myself. Yes, please.

•  Yellow Cat has placed himself firmly upon my suitcase, determined that this time, this time, we will finally take him with us.