Explicit Instructions for a Rainy-Day Kid Challenge

Rainy, dreary days ahead?  Try this with the kids for a few hours of entertainment. You'll need some space. About 6 - 8 feet between Point A & Point B, preferably out of any public walking paths. I chose a smooth, flat surface. Like this bench: Or this path between a footstool and barstools: Haul out boxes of building sets. No hesitation just grab the boxes of favorites and the boxes of stuff they never play with.

Set up the build site. The start: The finish: Write a few instructions. For some reason my kids prefer reading directions over hearing my voice. Let 'em at it. If I do this with my sons, I give them different paths to work on. (See Big Ben Build set-up photo above: start points at the ends & end point in the middle.) To me, a rainy day is not the setting for constructing a shared vision with your brother the ramp maker when you are an ivy grower. Here's the ramp maker's beginning build: And after he decided to add a moving part -- a ramp for a ball to roll through: Here's the ivy grower's build: Have a pocketful of added challenges. Do they think they have completed the challenge? Incorporate one can of play dough. Add movable parts. Put 5 popsicle sticks in. Build a bridge. Create a canopy. Again, best written down: Give them a camera. Let them take pictures so the tearing down -- in three days -- is more bearable. Take note on what they don't use. Any materials not used can leave your house. See the cool multi-colored 3-piece climbers in this shot? That's my contribution to the build, hoping to gain interest in these colorful builders that I love. They have absolutely no interest in them. Go. Start the build. Let them build. Then, come back here and share ideas in the comments!

Great to Be Alive

I’m still making my way in this “stay-at-home” mom role, not knowing what exactly that job description should entail, but striving nevertheless to be really good at it. That usually means constant movement through each day, normally to fortify the Malcolms and keep them afloat. I needn’t list the tasks, for we all have them. And perhaps like me -- no longer a farm girl who can count bales of hay put up or fields planted at the end of the day -- you have no idea where the day went or what you actually accomplished. Over the last few weeks, I’ve done things a little differently: put an “X” through two days a week to focus on writing; started a 21-day sugar detox; and exercised nearly every day. As a result I see more of what I haven’t done: 8 loads of dirty laundry scattered in the hallway and laundry room; more dishes and pans in the sink than normal; a loaded countertop of mail, packages, and breakfast dishes at 5 p.m.

After a bike ride Monday, I’m more OK with all of that today. With a goal of riding 112 miles over two weeks, I organized a bike ride for the four of us on Sunday. We rode 7 miles. Thinking I could get at least 25 miles done on my own, I drove out to the same bike trail Monday – really looking forward to knocking out a quarter of what was left. After 1 ½ hours, I dragged my pedaled-out legs and sore bum to the van, anxious for the total mileage. TWELVE miles? No. Surely more than that…

Red-faced and sore, I kicked the gravel stirring up some dust. I had parked near the bike trail in a quiet area of Groton, MA. Sunday the gravel lot was empty, but Monday several buses were parked next to a bus garage. They must have been on the road the day before. My quiet brooding over my lackluster accomplishment of 12 miles was snapped to halt when a bus suddenly revved up its diesel engine. I jumped and looked toward the roar. This is what I saw. Sometimes when I'm cussing under my breath while doing laundry, I lift my head up out of the sorting basket too quickly and catch it on the sharp, sharp corner of the cupboard. I take that as a sign: Less complaining. More grace. "GREAT TO BE ALIVE" was like that, only less painful.

I get it. Generally, most of us have been in tougher places than where we stand today. Considering three years ago this week I was focused on recovering from chemo and radiation, I would say 12 miles biked is pretty darn good.

Great to be alive. More bus ticker signs... fewer sharp cupboard corners. Please.

(Need a little inspiration? Try Baggage.)

An English Field of Flowers

At the end of last May, we were in England for Bill's mum's 80th birthday, which happened to coincide with the Queen's Jubilee. Along with the mouth-watering roasted potatoes, sausage rolls, and wheels of fabulous cheese...

 I drink my coffee with thick English cream when on the other side of the pond. Just the thought of it, wets my taste buds. The best cup of coffee I've ever had was at June's house some 15 years ago. Neighbors and friends were over one morning to visit. We sat on the patio outside in the sunshine and conversed over morning coffee: French pressed with English cream.

I was a little shocked last May to find no cream in the small English fridge when we arrived. Bill's family had been buying a lighter version of cream with lower fat. It just didn't work for me. It was missing that soft velvety thickness. I'm not in England often. I bought cream and allayed the guilt with an occasional walk.

Bill's family lives in a relatively new housing estate which backs up to a lane leading to farm fields. Set up for a walking nation -- or so it used to be -- public footpaths meander throughout the countryside, edging private property, including farmland. The first time I climbed over a stanchion and landed into a pasture where cattle were grazing, I fretted. "Is there a bull?" Apparently the English haven't met a Holstein or Herford bull. Or perhaps English bulls are of calmer ilk than Iowa bulls. On these paths, farmers are responsible for keeping paths clear; walkers are responsible for respecting property.

At the end of the lane and past a cluster of trees, a field opened up like a solar glare on this cloudy English day. Occasionally seeing this crop covering rolling fields, I only knew it had the unfortunate name of "rape." After this photographic outing last May, I tucked myself away in our bedroom overlooking June's garden and researched this crop a bit. The name is derived from the Latin word rapum, which means turnip. In the UK, farmers use it as a winter "break crop," it enhances the soil for the following rotation of wheat.

The leafy green stems shoot up spikes that blossom out buttercups. Like pumpkins, strawberries, and soy beans, the flower matures and the "fruit" begins to grow. In this case a pod of seeds forms and continues growing long after the flower has fallen off the end of it.

The leafy green stems shoot up spikes that blossom out buttercups. Like pumpkins, strawberries, and soy beans, the flower matures and the "fruit" begins to grow. In this case a pod of seeds forms and continues growing long after the flower has fallen off the end of it.

The raw oil from this crop, which is high in erucic acid, is used in industrial oils and lubricants. In the 70's, through cross-breeding, Canadian scientists created a version of rape with low erucic acid and low gluclosinates. A Canadian low acid oil suitable for human consumption and quite the hit due to being low in saturated fat. Now comes the puzzle: From that last sentence, can you piece together what this oil is called? Canola! (Canadian low acid oil)

Throughout the holiday, I continued my occasional walks after coffee. Each time the healthy cream and the real cream came to the table for coffee. Wanting to know what made this alternative cream healther, one day I read the ingredients. Full circle: rapeseed oil -- canola oil -- was one of the main ingredients. No wonder my taste buds rejected the lighter version.

I'm not overly interested in the on-going disputes between this healthy lower fat oil vs this non-healthy modified toxin. What I am certin of is that when in England, I want my English cream from those cows in the pasture, not from canola oil fields behind the house where I burn off some of those cream calories.

These are the sources I referred to in writing this story:

http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-canola-oil.htm http://www.ukagriculture.com/crops/oil_seed_rape.cfm http://www.snopes.com/medical/toxins/canola.asp http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/canola-oil/AN01281 http://www.gmo-compass.org/eng/grocery_shopping/crops/21.genetically_modified_rapeseed.html http://www.examiner.com/article/is-canola-oil-dangerous http://www.grainscanada.gc.ca/canola/cm-mc-eng.htm

(Back to the fields in Iowa... Spring's Gate Girl.)

English garden inspiration

With the house addition/renovation finished, it's time to fix up the flower beds outside. For inspiration, I've looked back through pictures I took  in England. Some of these were growing in lanes and some in various gardens. Some may be weeds rather than flowers, but if it's a pretty weed, it gets a good solid chance in my garden. Happy Hump Day...

(Here's a close-up of An English Field of Flowers.)

Mother's Day from a Non-Soccer-Mom

Since I became Mom, one of my most memorable Mother’s Days was when I explicitly laid out the day: Take the morning to go to church by myself. Go to a café with my scrapbooking bags and create Will’s life book, his story from birth. Have my three boys plant a Magnolia tree plant in the front yard. Eat one of Bill’s delicious dinners. That was the year I took the time to plan it. It was gorgeous – for all involved. One of my first Mother’s Days as a Mom I spent in Iowa at my sister’s with her kids and my mom. Three moms together. I don’t even know what we did. It didn’t really matter because we were together. And I love that picture of us – family – together on Mother’s Day.

No plan for this year. I’m avoiding the creation of a delicate balance: quiet time for something I enjoy on my own vs time together with the family. I haven’t made a plan. Planning is not my strong suit this spring. As much as I try, I miss the details and make mis-assumptions when making plans. Case in point: a recent non-soccer-mom day taking Liam to his 8 a.m. practice.

Arriving late for the 8 a.m. soccer practice, I scope the field for the team with the same dark navy blue t-shirt as Liam has on. (Bill took him to the first practice, so I don’t know who the coaches are or what they look like.) Scanning Field 1… Field 2… Field 3… Field 4, it’s soon apparent EACH of the FOUR teams is wearing the SAME color shirt! This age group wears the same color shirt. Little League is much more sophisticated: each team wears a different color.

I approach coaches on Field 1 & Field 2 to see if Liam is on their roster. No luck. I notice that each team has a different sponsor name on the back of their shirt. I peek inside Liam’s jacket and see “Harry’s Donuts.” Rather than stopping the practice of the other two teams, I look for the sponsor name. No where. I ask the coach on Field 3 if Liam is on his team, and I mention the fact that I can’t see “Harry’s Donuts” on anyone’s shirt.

At which point, Liam starts to sob, “This is last year’s shirt! That’s not what’s on this year’s shirt!!” We find the manager who happens to be English and happens to know Bill. “Hey, Liam! Come on over buddy! Here’s your team!” On Field 4.

I, non-soccer-Mom, cower at the far end near Field 1 – well away from Liam. With me out of sight, he will have a better practice.

Yes. Please. I want a break from the word “plan.” Yet by not making a plan that puts stress on the rest of the family to please me. How about I make a list of options and let the fam do the plan?

Here goes… Buy perennials Work in my new flower garden Bill’s pork paprika for dinner Homemade cards from the kids A walk on the beach Skype with Mom Read a book in the middle of the afternoon Watch “Julie and Julia” with Bill at 8 p.m. Skip brushing Will & Liam’s teeth before bed

A few of those will happily fill my Mother's Day.

Hugs to all moms, particularly one 1,600 miles away. I wish we were planting flowers together.

High Waters

On this beautiful spring day, I have just a couple minutes to gulp air before diving back into this race our family is running between rainy, snowy spring and hot, humid summer. For us, that race started right after spring break, and it’s a short powerful sprint to the last day of school in mid-June. Some race highlights:

The sun sets later making me yearn for summer nights. (“I’m NOT going to bed. It’s NOT my bedtime. The sun is still shining and you are trying to trick me!”)

I’ve moved away from cozy crockpot cooking and cleaned off the grill. We will start looking for Thursday afternoon ice cream treats rather than Dunkin’ Donuts. (“Here are your donuts, ma’am. Your food will be out in a minute.” Served up with distinct emphasis on “food” not “your.”)

More leisure time to do the things we love on the weekends. (“This isn’t fair! I don’t want to play baseball this early in the morning. I don’t have enough time for myself!” Tell me about it.)

I’m caught between the refreshing newness of spring and the cynicism brought on by this craziness engulfing spring. I must bail myself out. After all, I just told my son that sarcasm doesn’t look good on a kid. And I should model good behavior.

Alas, I say it all with a smile. For I must smile. We all smile when we realize we have been sending our children to school like this, right? ("Wow, look how much you have grown this winter!")

A problem that will be resolved with the first 75-degree day and a good pair of scissors to convert them from short pants to long shorts.

I can hear it already: “Cool, Mom!” (And that I will interpret as "Cool Mom!")

Happy Hump Day Short!

Spring's Gate Girl

In Iowa over spring break, I volunteered to be Dad's gate-girl one chilly morning. It's not a glamorous job. I just needed layers of clothes, jersey gloves, and good boots. Knowing the difference between an electric fence and a barbed wire fence was also helpful. Call it innate Iowa wisdom: You grab electric once as a child, and the knowledge stays with you for life.

This was my vehicle for the morning. I got to drive the Ranger, which I thought was pretty cool.

...Until I gave it some gas. Then it was darn cold. Although it was a sunny morning, the temp was 40 degrees and the wind was gusting at 20+ mph, throwing the relative temp to around freezing.

This was Dad's farm implement for the morning. The skid-loader.

Each vehicle was well-suited for each of our jobs. I had easy on-and-off access to open and close gates as we made our way to the field where the cattle were eager to eat. Dad's had a loader on the front to scoop silage from the pile and dump it into the feeders.

After 15 minutes watching Dad drive back and forth with load after load of silage, I realized Dad was driving the Cadillac. I was driving the Ford Pinto. Dad's was encased in windows with a heater and had slick tracks that let it glide over the mud and slop. Mine had wheels that slipped into and shuddered in the slop, reminiscent of the golf cart on the bog. (Remember "How about an 8 Iron?" ?) So, I made tracks a little like this.

Yet even with my under-insulated, spinning jalopy, I loved it. In my Ranger, I circled the cows and baby calves. Most are Angus, but there are a few few white-faced Herefords. Taking pictures is tricky as the Angus are solid black. If they are standing together, they photograph as one furry blob.

But up close...

...huggable little blobs of fur.

Thanks for letting me drive the Pinto, Dad.

(As luck would have it, my boys got to experience Walking Beans in the summer after my Gate Girl spring.)

Shadows in the Bathroom

Swinging through the hallway to go to the basement, I caught a glance of strange shadows in the bathroom. The light was off and the afternoon light coming through the window was mottled. I stopped and said, "Liam?" To which there was no answer. I looked closer. I was sure he was in there. I approached the shadows. Headless Halloween story characters popped into my head. The Headless Horseman. But what I was seeing... just legs standing by the toilet. With the light on, it was clear my son had NOT left his legs in the bathroom. Only his sweatpants and boots... and a trail of other garments.

Obviously, the whole bottom half of his wardrobe was not agreeing with him this day.

Please, forward this to another mom or dad who just might need it. :)

Happy Hump Day!

(P.S.: Have you met my Hillbilly Joe?)