Fall Love

Today is chilly and damp.  A woman I just met at the library called it "daydream weather."  I would have called it something more like "dreary," so I am trying on her perspective, daydream weather...

I've spent much of many days sitting on the bathroom floor reading books to Maeve, who's learning to use the potty.  Try as I might to get out the door to Trader Joe's, the potty trumps, and we, again, settle into the bathroom while I force myself to read Maisy goes on Vacation five more times.  When we finally enter Trader Joe's, she asks for the bathroom  -- in the very back of the store --  so we go, navigating the disgustingness of the public bathroom, and she goes a tiny drop.  Then we schlep back up front to the dairy aisle where I begin to stack yogurts in the cart when she urgently announces she has to go again, so back we go, to the far corner of the store, and wait in the blue bathroom, 15 minutes down, the list still pretty much untouched, while she sits and sits and never goes.  This is potty training --  lots of wet undies, much inefficiency.

But I like it.  I like it because underlying all the laundry and toilet seats are days of rare undividedness: I stare at her; I stay with her; I talk to her as she plucks the illustrated cats and bunnies from the pages of books we're reading and lays them down to sleep on the footstool.  I'm taken with her smallness, her little legs and feet that hang off the seat, her dainty shoulders and arms, the way she looks at me out of the corner of her eyes and blooms into smile when she hears her own success.

Today she's napping early, knocked out by her own efforts.  So I am here, bundled in a sweater, drinking tea, and watching the oak leaves fidget in the breeze.  We are all cartwheeling into a new season together.  The dogwood's reddened leaves sway.

Right at the edge of October, the sting of our morning separations quieted, too.  Eden's found that it's easier to leave than be left, so she kisses me in the living room and runs up to the bus stop just with Silas.  There are still a few mornings when I see one of them through the dark bus window pressed up against the glass, forehead and palms, looking like some Disney animal being dragged off to the pound, but thankfully these are fewer and farther between.

I was listening to a friend yesterday talk about how she can just look at her kids and ache through to the bone, cry even, because love is that devastating, that deep.

Sometimes I try to protect myself from being conscious of that kind of love, from feeling it, because it punctures clean through.  It hurts.  It's easier to talk about pee on the rug than how she stands at the marker board coloring dots and wiggling her hips to the music.  It's easier to tell the story of running through the house with an almost-peeing child hanging on to my body than to tell how I found "I love you love Eden" scrawled in 1st grade handwriting on a blank page of my journal.

But in fall, there's no hiding.  The leaves changing before the eyes to fire shades, the wind blowing clean but tinged with earth and decay, the "daydream weather" and golden sun edging each leaf, pouring over us all; the searing beauty makes us raw-aware: it makes us love.

The notion's kind of romantic, I know, and smacked into a day littered with a pushy morning trying to get out the door, collisions with wills and too-short shoe laces, tears and sharp two-year-old shrieks.  I even locked myself in a closet earlier to escape from the yelling.  But nonetheless, it's here, fall, exposing how deeply we love that which quickly changes.

Maeve: 2

When Silas turned four we had his birthday party at "train park" -- a sprawling park where some old-men engineers ran a jumbo model train on weekends -- not commercial but just for the serious trainmanship of it.  I remember standing in the grass, jumbo gum drops on bright cupcakes (candy land party), a handful of friends scattered around, the tangled strings of dollar kites kids were feeding into the sky, feet racing; it was a best day.  

Today Maeve turned two.  I've never known a two year old so aware of her birthday.  This morning, she came into the kitchen and held up both hands, concentrating until all of the fingers on both hands were about half bent, and then said "uh-huh, boo," which meant, I'm holding up two fingers and am two.  She blew out a pink candle in her yogurt this morning over and over, the two of us at the kitchen table, and danced a birthday dance for the lady giving samples at Trader Joe's, for shoppers nearby, for Annemarie, and everyone else who asked.  Whenever anyone mentioned a present, she started humming a tuneless song, which was happy birthday to herself, and told people "mine dot," which was her way of telling them she'd had a polka dot birthday party in the park.  

At age two, Maeve still speaks mostly in single syllables and more sounds than words.  We rejoice at new consonants, like a T sound at the end of "hat," and congratulate ourselves on how much more she's talking, though Eden told lengthy stories at this age and Silas asked all sorts of questions while he sat on the potty.  She moves at her own pace.  She tries to frown a lot, even scowl, but often ends up smiling under her breath, and then laughing a little dimpled laugh just to herself.  She knows when she is funny.    

Tonight we celebrated her birthday at our house with grandparents, an aunt and uncle and two little nephews who live far off, and again I found my child's birthday to be a best day.  Maeve born on the line between summer and fall, a both/and baby, a shock and delight, a nay screamer and charmer, she fits this line.  Sunday sagged with summer heat and this morning woke to fall.  The air still smells of sweet grass, but in the evenings there is smoke on the breeze and a nip of cold.  We sat around the table tonight eating barbecue and cake with drippy chocolate frosting.  The kids played blocks and trains and led us outside.  The sun pitched gold.  At one moment I stood at Ben's shoulder looking: Eden flinging herself through cartwheels in the grass, Silas gliding wild arcs through the air on the swing, Maeve on the ground busily stuffing rubber food into a toy blender, a baby nephew plopped in the grass watching and the other scooting down the slide, my parents there, Ben's dad, a brother sister, a breeze.  No one was entertaining anyone else; everyone just was.  Remember every part of this, Ben said next to me.  And he was right, that was exactly what I was trying to do.  These birthdays, these best days, these ways we mark time.  

Eat Drink and Be Merry

Now that it's September, two quick recipes I loved this summer:

Tonight my Family (big family, capital F) all piled on the porch and ate together in celebration of the end of summer -- corn on the cob (still sweet) and this Watermelon Rosemary Lemonade from Food52:  http://food52.com/recipes/13319-boozy-watermelon-rosemary-lemonade  It tastes like summer.  Drink it with lost of ice.

Boozy Watermelon Rosemary Lemonade: 

• 3/4cups sugar
• 2cups water
• 4sprigs rosemary
• 1cup fresh lemon juice 
• 7cups watermelon diced
• 8ounces gin
• 1lemon - thinly sliced

1. Add sugar and 1 cup of water to a small saucepan with rosemary sprigs. Cook over medium heat and stir until the sugar dissolves. Once dissolved remove from heat, and cover the saucepan.  Let sit for at least an hour to infuse.
2. In a blender combine the lemon juice and watermelon. (Add the watermelon in batches, blending after each).
3. Add in the rosemary simple syrup 1/4 cup at a time until the mixture is at your desired sweetness (about a cup).
4. Pour the mixture into a large pitcher, add 1 cup of cold water, and the gin.  Stir and serve over ice.  Garnish with lemon and rosemary sprig if you like.  
5. 
   

A nearly symptomless fever cut Eden's first week of school short by two days, so she stayed home coaxing Maeve from room to room with games and books and empty ice cream cones (that I later found crushed in the couch pillows AND in my bed...).  We ate a lot of yogurt and granola together at the table.  My favorite granola is Michele's Granola, made locally in Maryland -- perfect light crunch, flavor.  Everything.  I've tried to recreated it, and have never come close until this recipe.  As usual, Orangette delivers!  When I made this, I used slivered almonds and pecans.  The second time I used sunflower seeds, pepitas, and walnuts.  Michele uses sliced almonds and sunflower seeds.  I'm waiting to have the right ingredients in my pantry to try her combination.  One note: I used 1 1/2 t kosher salt when I made this, and it was pretty salty.  Amazing on ice cream and vanilla yogurt.  For cereal, I'd cut the salt down even more.  Find the orangette recipe here, or here:

Molly Wizenberg's Granola No. 5

This is a recipe by weight (though I used cups the first time and a postage scale the second).  Use any nuts or seeds as long as it's roughly 400 grams in all.  You can add dried fruit at the end, if you like, or just eat it as is.  The essential ingredient here is the unsweetened coconut chips (I tried it with unsweetened shredded coconut and it was still good, but not the same texture).  

Molly's note about kosher salt: I use Diamond Crystal brand, which is less salty than Morton. If you use the latter, you’ll probably only want to use about 1 ½ teaspoons.

600 grams (6 cups) old-fashioned rolled oats  (I used gluten free oats and it was great)
100 to 150 grams (about 2 to 3 loose cups) unsweetened coconut chips
400 grams nuts (maybe 3 to 4 cups? see headnote), chopped if you like
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 cup (240 ml) maple syrup, preferably Grade B
2/3 cup (160 ml) olive oil

Preheat oven to 300.
Position racks in the upper and lower thirds of the oven.
Line two rimmed baking sheets with parchment (I ended up using more like 2 1/2 sheets).

Measure the dry ingredients into a large bowl, and stir well. 
Add the maple syrup and olive oil, and stir to coat. 
Divide the mixture between the two prepared sheet pans, spread it out, and bake, 
stirring the granola and flipping the pans once or twice, until golden brown, about 40 minutes.
Look for the whole mixture to toast and brown evenly.
  
Allow to cool completely, then transfer the granola to airtight containers. 


September 2nd brings week two.  Off we go again*

sneak attack

The second day of school, and it is the confident daughter with the did-it-myself-side-ponytail who crumbles as the bus pulls up.  The son I've ached for over the summer climbed aboard with a skip in his step -- funny, the role reversals.

She wanted to be close all morning, standing near me in the kitchen, sitting beside me over cereal, brushing her hair with a smile, holding my hand up to the bus stop.  But when the rumbling bus slowed to a stop, I heard a sharp "no" under her breath, and she threw herself against me, tears.  This girl likes to be strong, and I could tell by her frantic face-wiping and face-burying how much she wanted to hide from the full bus of kids.

I walked almost up the steps with her, whispering to both of us that she could do it, but her face was flushed and she kept wiping her eyes and shaking her head.  Then the doors closed, and I could just make out her slouched form through the darkened windows as the bus drove away.  I walked home with wet cheeks whispering prayers after her.  We'll see what day three brings...

That One

We just got home from California last night and tomorrow will sweep our kids off to school.  I've gone through all iterations: have driven down the 55 blasting the radio to drown out the chorus of complaints, skin crawling, ready for nothing more than structure; and have sat on the yellow couch, long after the house was asleep, and written down doubts, fears about placing them in the wrong hands, about how I will miss them, and how my heart crushes when they grip my arm and don't want to say goodbye. 

Perhaps as mothers we always have "that one" that tugs our hearts right out of our chests.  I would guess that "that one" changes with seasons and stages, friendships, teachers, struggles.  This fall, my one is the tender-hearted son.  

All summer I've been hoping he will have a different year this year, one of ease and encouragement, sweet friendships, a teacher who engages him.  But as we've moved into this week, I've had to admit fears and pray the truer stuff -- that the struggles he has sitting at the table with pencil in hand will eventually build his confidence, that the unkindnesses slung his way won't bowl him over or even touch his true sense of worth and worthiness, that he'll be buoyant, that he'll have courage and know when to speak, that the words spoken and unspoken to him this year will serve to build his character, that I'll be patient and unhurried, that somehow God will give me grace to hold the big picture as I navigate the minutes. 

Backpacks are by the door, packed with lunches, shoes laid next to them (we can at least start strong), First Day of School zucchini bread is in the oven for the parents who will gather after drop-off in a mix of elation and devastation and each rung in between.  

And like every year, we will be the enthusiasts for the morning, for breakfast and the bus, for the mismatched under armor outfit Silas has laid out on his floor.  And like every year, we will act like kissing them on the blacktop and walking away is breezy, because what we want to tell them they can do it.  

As I sit here with a cup of chamomile tea, hoping jet lag wont' sink everyone first thing, I'm reminding myself that yes, these little resilient beautiful creatures, can do it.  They are made to do it, to navigate this world that some days is cruel (and many days is breathlessly fun).  I am reminding myself that this year will be part of their story that none of us knows yet, a part of what makes them, a part we haven't gotten to read yet.  Tomorrow's simply the current that will pull of from summer's eddy, push us the only way we go in this life -- on ahead.  

So my sweet Silas, as you lie in your bed, what I pray is that when you open your eyes, your heart will be assured that you, my boy, can do it; you are made to go ahead.

from California

I am sitting in the bathtub fully clothed holding a computer.  Silas and Eden are whisper-fighting about being on each other's side of the sleep sofa bed, and Maeve is asleep at the foot of our bed.  There is no where else to be in this hotel room but here.

We are in Costa Mesa for our last week of summer.  School starts in 6 days, and I can't believe how ready I am.  I bought Silas green pencils, fat pink erasers, and a pencil bag with a mouth in hopes they would rocket him into excitement. I wouldn't say my efforts have worked, exactly, but hopefully they've helped.  Eden tries out Silas's phrases of protest, but really is ready to go.

Tonight I sat on our teeny hotel balcony and almost missed  the sunset on the bay because of conversation, while the kids swam in the pool below us and Maeve slept in the room behind.  I'm trying to front load our days, pitch them toward the jet lag with full mornings and second breakfasts.  This is week two (last week was family beach week) of doughnuts regularly before dawn.

My brain is shutting down, now that it is 8:15 in the west, and I am going to stumble through the dark to bed.  The kids have quieted, and early morning pancakes call.

A poem for today

A poem by Audre Lorde


As I Grow Up Again

A little boy wears my mistakes
like a favorite pair of shorts
outgrown   at six
my favorite excuse was morning
and I remember that I hated
spring's change.

At play within my childhood
my son works hard   learning
which doors do not open easily
and which clocks will not work
he toys with anger like a young cat
testing its edges
slashing through the discarded box
where I laid my childish dreams to rest
and brought him brown and wriggling
to his own house.

He learns there through my error
winning with secrets
I do not need to know.