The Great Salt Lake
My kids whine a lot. Hooper more so than Van, due to his age. I don’t think that they are any different than any other kid; all kids whine. I know “I’m bored” is in my not-so-distant-future, but at this point in time it’s a plethora of moans and groans that make my hairs all stand on end and makes me wonder why I drag my kids out of the house ever.
When we first parked at the Salt Lake, it was tantrumville immediately. Being 100 degrees out didn’t help. Nor did the smell of pungent sulfur. Or the abundance – or shall I say downright invasion – of flies or whatever those bugs are that hang out at water’s edge in droves. They whined about going in the water, then they whined when they got in the water but the salt burned, and then – as if a miracle from above – they got over it. All of it. And they, well, enjoyed themselves immensely.
Kids have split personalities. I’m sure of it.
And as the sun went down and we hosed the salt off their skin and clothes, they whined about leaving. And so it goes.
Motherhood: the never ending test of patience.
Thoughts on having a third…
I’ve always had some degree of envy for the couples who don’t plan their pregnancies, but instead let nature take her course (religion aside). Both of my pregnancies have been planned. Van came along a little sooner than we had intended, meaning he came the first chance we gave him.
And two seems to be the magical number for a lot of people. I’m one of two, as is Willy. And good things come in pairs, or so they say. Much of life today is geared around the four person family; I mean who likes to sit in that little awkward seat in the middle when riding in the car? Or be without a partner on a ride at an amusement park?
I’ve always wanted three. People told me I would change me mind after I had my second. And I did, for a short time; mostly because with all the pain and stress my body had to endure with my back surgery I couldn’t imagine actually carrying, or birthing, a baby. But slowly, as my body continues to heal, I want a third again. Not right now (as I still don’t think my body is ready), but at some point in the future.
It’s a weird debate to have, deciding whether to have another child or not. You can either take the practical or the emotional side and you can really swing it in either direction depending on what you really and truly want. There doesn’t seem to be a “right” decision.
When the debate occurs, for us, it is centered around finances with the question of “could we afford another child” being the end of the debate because who really knows how much that thrid child is going to cost or who really knows how much anything is going to cost. And if we’re making decisions based on finances, was it smart to have any children at all? I mean if two is more affordable than three then wouldn’t the notion that none is more affordable than two also be true?
You see, it comes down to what you want because the pendulum can swing either way. Now is not the time anyway, so I suppose we will put off the debate for another day.
Do you leave things up to chance or go the planning route? What does the debate come down to in your family? Would love to hear from those mamas mothering three (or more) munchkins and how the third (and each subsequent child) changed things.
The OC Fair
…and because oldies are goodies…
There’s was a period of time, between being a very young adult to now- a mother of two boys- that I didn’t go to the fairs; because who likes long lines, overpriced everything, and hoards and hoards of people? Rhetorical question. But we’ve gone every year since Hooper was old enough to enjoy it; to the LA Fair, the Ventura County Fair, and now, the OC Fair. We go because it’s fun for them.
As we waited in line to park, I glanced over at Willy and said, “Isn’t it crazy that years from now these fairs will be documented in history books?”. I learned all about the world fairs in many of my Humanities courses and each time I see the ferris wheel lit up in the distance, that rush of nostalgia floods my veins and I’m reminded that we are taking part in something that has been around for years and years and years.
And so, we pay the fee to park, wait in the ticket line, purchase overpriced tickets, eat the shitty food that is overpriced too, and spend the day diverting our children’s eyes from things they may be into but we can’t – or don’t want to – afford.
This go around, we didn’t ride any of the rides. It was a bummer because I had built up the excitement for the rides all day. When Hooper woke up from his nap, he said, “We gonna go ride the coasters, mama?”. But the lines were ridiculous and now that Van is big enough to ride to, multiplying the $5-7 fee per ride by two just seemed extreme. Especially when considering that they both cry every time the ride stops and throw a tantrum until they make their way to the front of the line to ride a second time. Ching ching (insert cash register sound). Can I get a collective “not worth it” chant going?
We did fork out the few bucks it cost to see the world’s largest horse (which was male, so insert big cartoon eyes here), as well as the world’s smallest horse and biggest alligator. Can’t say I support parading these poor animals around for people’s amusement, but hey, they all appeared healthy, happy, and cared for. The petting zoo was the highlight. It was free and we spent a long time petting the pigs, donkeys, ducks, chickens, kangaroos, sheep, and other animals I should probably know but I don’t because I’m no longer in the first grade. Oh yes, how could I forget the deer that nearly ate my dress? I had to clean the already-been-chewed deer food off my dress later. Yum.
But far and wide, the highlight was the demolition derby. I had read reviews that weren’t very good but figured the price was fair and thought the boys would enjoy it regardless. It ended up being one of the best shows, ever. We contemplated returning the next evening for the motor home demolition derby. The boys loved it and haven’t stopped talking about it since.
And yet, the best part of the day – for me – was walking to the car with that black and white photo strip in hand. Even if cost six bucks.
The Chorus: Family
He landed flat on his back, his head within an inch from the metal
pole that held up the lifeguard tower. That feeling of being 6 years
old, running full force down a hill that ended with the wind being
knocked out of me came into view; that feeling of your lungs
collapsing completely and anxiety quickly settling in as you fight to
find air despite all the oxygen around you. I saw first the fear in
his eyes. And then the tears.
I held him in my arms and looked up at his brother who was still
standing on top of the life guard tower, his hands being the last to
touch his brother’s strong and sturdy but still one-year-old frame. He
didn’t appear guilty or concerned.
“You must always protect him”, I told him on the way home, “he’s your
only brother”.
Shared on Amy Grace’s Chorus. Please check out the other entries by clicking here. They sure are beautiful.
The Ma Books
…When I became a mother, I felt much of the same connection to a bigger whole. All mothers know the same agonies and achievements, the same triumphs and tears. No matter where we are from, we are bonded by our role in raising children…
You can read my full post over on The Ma Books, along with some awesome images from photographer Ken Heyman.
Tales from the 'hood
Willy and I have never prided ourselves on our old neighborhood. We knew when we moved that it was what we could afford and not where we’d always be. Over the years, we invested time (and money) to turn our old house into a home and, as a result, it wasn’t easy to leave.
But there are a few things that happened along the way that I thought would be fun to share.
It started a few months before we decided to put our house on the market when a home a couple houses down from us went up for sale. Next thing you knew there was a pickup truck parked in the driveway filled to the brim with shit. We figured someone had moved in and we were, uh, right. As in, a squatter moved in. It was some homeless lady and her dog. Someone called the cops and she left and the house sold.
Then the house across the street went up for sale and that homeless lady, her dog, and her truck filled to the brim with shit returned. The cops were called again and, once again, she was asked to leave.
Then there was the time I was playing with Hooper in the front yard when a cop car went zooming down the street. And I mean zooming. I walked to the street to see if I could see what direction he went and noticed that there was another cop car parked at our neighbors house getting some sort of report from the people that live two doors down. It didn’t look like anything serious, so I went on playing with Hooper. That’s when a helicopter appeared overhead and started circling right above our house. Then cop cars flooded the streets. I mean flooded. I’m talkin’ there were motorcycle cops driving down the sidewalk. Come to find out the guy two doors down had been beating his pregnant wife and fled the scene when the cops came to get the report. We heard from other neighbors that they found him in the alleyway and he was yelling at the cops to just go ahead and shoot him.
The guys at the end of the block drove a donk. If you don’t know what a donk is, you’ve never lived in the ‘hood.
Back to the house that was for sale. It eventually got taken over by other, more sophisticated, squatters. These squatters drove fancy cars and were arrested the other day when it was discovered they had turned the house into a drug house.
Another neighbor admitted he owns an AK47 and offered to sell us one. We considered. I joke (about considering, not the fact that he has a felony-possession firearm. In fact, I’m glad he has it. He was on our team and would have protected us if shit ever went down).
The same neighbor (the one with the AK47) witnessed a gun deal going down in the wee hours of the night. He states he came across two cars, each filled with 4 guys, making a deal. Instead of calling the police, he states he went inside, grabbed his strobe light, and sat outside with his rifle. I suppose it was good to know he wouldn’t bring out his AK47 for just any occasion.
And yet, none of this really weighed on our decision to move. We enjoyed our home and the characters in our neighborhood. But here now, in our new digs, we couldn’t be happier. We’re really enjoying the change of scenery.
What’s your neighborhood like?
We LIVE here.
When we decided to gut our house, we put a lot of thought into the materials we would use to re-build it in terms of both textiles, flooring, and furniture. Because, you know, we have two boys and sofas get peed on and stairwells get grimy from tiny little hands that have been sweeping through the dirt like a broom sweeping the floor.
And, in the end (though it’s hardly the end, it’s actually the beginning) it didn’t matter anyway. Shit’s already damaged.
We opted for a leather sofa and we spent a pretty penny to get the one we had our eye on. We justified it because it’s leather and therefore indestructible. Only, that’s not true. Soon after it’s placement in the family room, it was covered with dump trucks, monster trucks, tractors, race cars and those little wheels on those little plastic toys started leaving tracks. Our sofa started to look like a heroin addicts arm. I cleaned it off, made a no-toys-on-the-sofa rule that has miraculously been followed, and called it a day. Until the day, that is, Van found a pen and put his good ol’ John Hancock on one of the cushions. I swear fire came out of my ears from overheating internally.
We found the perfect coffee table at the Rose Bowl flea market and purchased it from the guy who made it. We had a glass top coffee table before and swore we’d never get glass again because, um, hello dirty kid hands all over it. Somewhere between transferring the new wooden coffee table from the market to the house, a divot was made on the wood. And then we had something resting on it and I noticed several other small scratches on the wood. Then I took my finger nail and realized that my own nail could scratch the wood. Thanks a lot Mister-I-make-my-own-furniture man.
Our toilet is clogged. As I type this the plunger is sticking halfway out of the bowl, a memento of our tireless efforts to unclog it to no avail. Starting to wonder if the kids threw something down there.
There’s a roly poly in a cup by our sink that Hooper insists on keeping there. I have intentions to free it while he’s napping but I’ve forgotten for two days in a row. I’m not sure how it’s managed to survive.
Sand has taken over my life. There is sand stuck to the bottom of the bath tub. There is sand that falls out of my beach basket like a shaker of salt every time I pick it up. There is sand stuck on Van’s scalp despite washing and scrubbing. There is sand in their shoes and therefore every time it’s time to put shoes on there is a tantrum because they don’t like sand in there shoes. I won’t even bring up the sand in the car. What I will say is that if I die tomorrow, I might as well come back as a crab.
Putting the boys in the same room is a decision we’re happy with. Insert asterisk here because there’s an exception: nap time. Naps with two boys in the same room does not happen. So we set up the pack-n-play in the only available space: the bathroom. It’s a tight squeeze when you have to pee and given the fact the other toilet is clogged…
We met another furniture maker at the Long Beach Antique Market and had him make us a kitchen table. It arrived an awkward 4 inches higher than a standard table so – given the fact we have yet to buy dining room chairs – Hooper sits on an antique chair meant for decoration on top of his little toy suitcase (also known as his “tool box” from time-to-time), I sit in a rocking chair, Van is awkwardly low in his highchair, and Willy awkwardly high on a bar stool. He’s remaking us a suitable table.
And though I suppose it’s all a nuisance in some sense of the word, I also suppose that that is how a house becomes a home.
Conquering Routine
Mid-week evening outings are my new jam. It feels so good to break up the week and to get outside and take in some fresh air. We’ve been going to Casper’s Wilderness Park to BBQ and it’s quickly become one of our favorite activities.
When the idea popped in my head, I thought I was in over my head; I hate having to bring boat-loads of stuff and try my damnest to cut down on how hard I have to think and plan beforehand. But, really, we didn’t bring or need that much. Some meat, some corn, silverware essentials, drinks, tablecloth and our Bose speaker (which we love and take with us everywhere). It was so easy and carefree.
How do you like to break up your week?
A birthday recap
I spent my birthday more or less in a funk. Willy and I were awoken several times throughout the night by Van, who threw up multiple times and required several diaper changes. Willy took care of all of it and come morning, I felt like no having to care for and clean up after Van was my birthday present. That and the half finished list of things I wanted done around the house. Yes, you read that correctly. For my birthday I gave Willy a list of things to do around the house; things like “clean out the garage”, “add shelf to closet”, and “put toilet paper holder in downstairs bathroom”. And when I woke up in the morning to a sick baby and a garage we still can’t fit a car into, I was a little… I dunno… funkdafied. Oh snap, did I just quote Da Brat? I did. Whatever, it is / was my birthday.
With no real plans, we spent the morning into the afternoon waiting to see what Van had in store for us. I got some terrific massages from Willy (my back, and body for that matter, has been sorer than usual since I started physical therapy a few weeks ago, which makes me grouchy and on edge and is really a whole other blog post in itself), my sister brought me a grilled cheese and fries from Denny’s (cuz’ I eat like a child), and since Van appeared to be back to normal we headed to Crystal Cove beach for dinner. We waited an hour and a half for a table at the Beachcomber, but waiting for a table with the great big Pacific Ocean in front of you really isn’t waiting at all. In fact, it was perfect. I got to shoot a couple of my favorite little people in the most perfect lighting and when I met Willy at the table barefoot and complaining of my last sandals, he miraculously went out and found them sitting by there lonesome in the sand. It was as if the day had said, “don’t judge me so soon”. And then we saw dolphins. I know, I know, it was cray. Shoot me now for saying “cray”.
The garage can wait until Christmas, I suppose.
Conquering Routine
Sometimes it’s as simple as grabbing their favorite tractor and crossing the street to an open field where it feels like you’re worlds away but in reality, you could throw a rock to your driveway. Watching the sun go down, chasing bunnies, jumping off of old abandoned tires. The world is their oyster.
Conquering Routine
Even though I have yet to be cleared to return to my “day job” as a RN, my life as a stay-at-home-mom still runs on a very routine Monday thru Friday schedule; mostly because it’s all on me as Willy works most of the day. I thought that being home so much would be freeing; that a schedule would not be needed and that the possibilities would be endless. I was right, to some extent. We’ve gotten to go on lots of little day adventures, which is something I didn’t always have the energy for having worked a grueling 12
hour shift the day before. Also, the boys are older now; I mean, Van can walk. But come evening, when Willy is done with work, it’s back to the monotonous turn-on-a-cartoon-and-get-
We have a sliver of a view out our window of the ocean and watching the sunset while Cat-in-the-Hat plays in the background has been torturous. So, I proposed that we make dinner a little bit earlier than usual (sometimes we don’t sit down to eat until almost 8pm) and get the heck out of the house.
And, we have.
And, it’s been great.
I’m trying to sell myself on the idea that you have not squeezed everything out of the day until you get into bed dirty, with sand in your hair and dirt on your toes.
Van @ 23 Months
Growth & Appearance: Your hair remains oddly thick and coarse. We stopped shaving it in the midst of moving and have agreed to let it grow out mostly by default. As it’s grown out, it’s gotten blonder and blonder. It’s almost white now. A friend of ours said you look like Rod Stewart and your Papa and I agree. I mean, look. We’re considering a Rod Stewart costume for Halloween. Sorry.
You have scratches on your face and neck constantly from your brother, who likes to choke you. You have one running down your entire forehead and a matching one on your temple. You take many beatings from Hooper.
You feel like you weigh a thousand pounds. You’re dense. You’re in size 5 diapers and wearing 2 or 3T sized clothes. You appear enormously tall next to other kids your age.
We refer to your feet as potato feet; they’re round and chubby. The bottom of your feet are black, always. You downright refuse to keep your shoes on. As soon as we get you in the car seat, you fling your shoes off. I don’t even put them on now until we get where we are going. I don’t even know what size you wear. I think it’s a size 7.
You have a diaper tan.
Both of your two year molars on the top left and bottom left are in. The bottom right should be popping through soon. It’s more apparent when you’re teething now than it was when you were a baby; you’re grumpier, more volatile, and you don’t eat much. 
Eating: There is no manipulating you at the table; you will either eat it or you won’t. When you say you’re done, you mean it. Sometimes this means you’ll eat all of one thing and nothing of anything else on your plate and I’ve simply learned to let it go. You eat a lot so it’s easy to let your phases of finicky eating go. And for the most part, you’re only finicky when you’re teething. All in all, you’re still a championship eater.
You can fit a ridiculous amount of food in your mouth and it’ll be gone within a couple seconds.
You love water bottles but haven’t figured out how to conquer that whole back-washing bit. When you’re done with the water bottle, it looks like a dirty fish tank. You can drink out of a cup but we still use sippy cups because we’re lazy and hate cleaning up more than we have to.
Your favorite foods as of late are bananas, peaches, zucchini, pasta, but you’ll eat most anything and everything. You tend to favor watered down juice over milk, but you still drink a lot of milk. You love snacks.
You ask for utensils but more often than not end up using your hands. 
Sleeping: You and Hooper are sharing a room. You are sleeping in a twin bed with a toddler rail. You wake up around 7:30am and nap around 1:30 for about 3 hours. You go to bed around 8 or 9pm.
You sleep with your blanket but don’t seem overly attached to it. We also allow you to pick a toy to sleep with each night; it’s usually a different toy each time and more times than not it’s a book.
You do well with sharing the room with Hooper but you two are not able to nap together. Instead, we put you in the pack n’ play either in the spare bedroom or in the bathroom. I hear you guys each morning “pwaying py-rits” (playing pirates) over the monitor.
The other night I awoke to hear you yelling and found you covered, head to toe, trapped in your sheet like a ghost. 
Talking: When you want some of whatever we are eating you say, “sch-um” (aka, some) varying degrees of urgency depending on whether we give it to you right away, or not.
You’ve also started putting words together. It started with an abnormally long pause between the words; like if it’s cold outside, you say “coh’d”—–“side”. Then you started saying the words without the pause and now you’re stringing together three or more words.
Your first complete sentence was clear as day, “I want down”. And down you went.
You say “yes” very distinctly. We ask you a lot of questions that we know you will say “yes” to because we love hearing it.
You are your brother’s parrot; whatever Hooper says, you too try to say.
You have tons of words in your vocabulary and while it’s more or less easy for us to decipher what you’re saying, you still speak a foreign language to others.
Your laugh is deep and hardy and comes straight from your belly. 
Development: You love to spray things with a water bottle but you cry when someone turns the water bottle on you.
You’re interested in potty training. I’ve put you on the toilet several times and you’ve peed successfully. You’re also starting to hide when you poop, which I think means you’re getting closer to being ready for official training. We haven’t dove in head first, but we’re splashing around. We’re rewarding you with a tic-tac. You request “tac”—“two”. As of late, you wake up with a dry diaper and go to the potty first thing in the morning. You don’t ask to go during the day.
Anytime we ask you a question that’s answer is a numerical value, you say “two”. So how old are you, how many fish are there, how many grapes do you want… the answer is always two. No matter what.
Same goes for colors. The answer is always red, regardless of whether there is red or not. We try to set you up for success and only ask you what color things are when we see something red… like fire trucks.
You can jump off of a higher surface. In fact, without fail, each time we get to the last step of whatever staircase or stairwell, you insist on jumping off. You throw the biggest tantrum ever on the beach in Maui because you did not want to leave a rock you were jumping off over and over.
You ask to hold our hand when you’re going downstairs but are able to do it by yourself without a problem when we’re not around.
You can catch and kick and hit a ball. Papa’s pretty impressed with your drop kick.
You’ll sit and watch a cartoon, which is new. Bob the Builder is your favorite.
You’re scared of monsters. When we need you to listen, we tell you a monster is coming so you better “X”. It works 90% of the time.
You are destructive; you like chewing things up and knocking things over and taking things off and throwing things all over the place.
It’s obvious you’re a younger sibling; you’re obsessed with things being yours. If you get down off the sofa to go play with a toy and your Papa and I take over sitting where you were once sitting, you will come up and insist we move, declaring the seat yours. You get things taken from you left and right, so I get it.
You’re not much a cuddler. When you get hurt, you run to me but within a second of being in my arms you’re off and running as if nothing happened. I don’t think you’d even come to me for comfort if it wasn’t something that you’ve seen Hooper do; I think you’ve learned it from him but don’t need it whatsoever. 
Favorites: Balls. Oh my, you have a ball in your hand almost constantly; tennis balls, soccer balls, basketballs, golf balls, bouncy rubber balls, beach balls… it matters not. You love holding the tennis racket over your shoulder and using it as a baseball bat. You also have a mean drop kick and some pretty good ball-catching skills. No matter where we go, you seem to find a ball. Within seconds of arriving at a park, you will have a ball – that does not belong to you – in your hands. We went to an open field the other day and you found a golf ball in the dirt. I’m convinced the balls find you just as well as you find them.
You love picture books and request to read the same books over and over and over again.
You also love riding on your Papa’s skateboard. Somehow it made it’s way from the garage to the family room. You like to sit on it or lay on your stomach and push around on your feet. Sometimes you’ll come up to me and ask to hold your hands so you can stand and try to balance.
On Routines…
Before becoming a mother, I never really kept to a routine. I did what I want, when I wanted, and prided myself on the freedom that came with not owning a home. Life changes people, or so they say, and I’ve had to adapt to prevent from falling on my face in this whole motherhood business.
We, as a family, have had to adapt a lot over the last few months. First with my back surgery, which rendered me completely useless up until just recently (I would now characterize myself as “not as useful as I appear”). And second, with the move. Whatever we knew in terms of a routine beforehand has changed several times.
I read once that children thrive in a routine environment; that they rely on schedule and knowing what to expect. I can see how that may be true for some, but I think it’s more or less a blanket statement and, as with most things in parenting, cannot be applied to all children. Reminds me of this beautiful post by Sash.
I digress.
I got to thinking the other day while I was in the shower. As I reached for the bottle of shampoo, I realized that I have a shower routine; an order to which I shampoo, wash, condition, and shave. I started to question whether I’m as anti-routine as I thought. And then I got to thinking about all the little routines I have, like getting the kids in the car; I do it the same way every time.
Most of our days follow some sort of a schedule. What each slot gets filled with may change from the day to day, but there are slots to fill (the after breakfast slot, the nap time slot, etc). Of course there are days, even weeks, where all caution is thrown to the wind and you better believe these are some of the best days; I love breaks in routine.
I snapped these photos the other day on one of our typical morning outings.
How routine are your days? Do you enjoy throwing caution to the wind or does it make you anxious? How do your kids handle a change or routine or, better yet, a lack of routine all together?
And can we talk about that last picture… brother helping brother, at it’s finest.
Three
If you’ve ever spent time with a three year old, you know that they can flip faster than Evel Knievel. Hugs turn to slugs, “I love you” ‘s to “You make me mad“, kisses to bites… you get the idea.
When Hooper was 2, I feared 3. I have heard from many moms that two is overrated in being described as “terrible”; that three, instead, is where the real fun begins. And I agree, to some extent.
Some of my favorites ::cough cough:: ::nudge nudge::
Occasionally he’ll get upset if I stick a spoon full of food in front of his mouth because he’s “not a baby” and can “do it myselph”; though what he really means is I can do it by myself but by the time I finish it may be time for the next meal, or perhaps, I may have already died from old age.
“I’m da boss man” or, better yet, “I’m da po-eece (police) man”. He uses these phrases when he decides reprimanding Van would be better coming from him than me. At times I truly believe he thinks he’s the one in charge of both his brother and me.
The fact he will not let me help him out of his car seat so I have to wait what feels like a thousand years for him to get out of the car (seriously, it involves him looking in his cup holder to assess what “treasures” he’s leaving behind, then holding on to his “fireman” handle, then asking repetitive questions about something totally unrelated to the matter-at-hand, followed by bossing me around and telling me to take the hand off the door as if my hand on the door is assisting him in some way and preventing him from doing it all by himself). My back thanks him for his independence, my patience wants to push him out the door and blame it on his brother.
And then there’s the other stuff that prevents me from pulling my hair out from the aforementioned…
Like when I tuck him into bed and hold his head in my hands, caressing his face. He stops my hand when I get to his cheek, caresses my hand and strokes his fingers along my forearm and tells me he loves me. And when I say “I love you too”, he tells me he loves me more.
Or when I sneeze and every time, without fail, he tells me, “bwess (bless) you, Mama”.
Or when I yell at him for something he shouldn’t have done and for the next hour he follows behind me repetitively asking, “you mad, Mama?” with such genuine and sincere concern that he has upset me in some way.
Or when I get mad at Van for doing something wrong and he comes and apologies, on his brother’s behalf.
Or the way he compliments me when he likes my dress or necklace, or the fact alone that he even takes notice.
Oh three… you have your ups and your downs.
Butcher Jones
I knew as we crossed the road and Hooper happily obliged to holding Van’s hand with a jolly, “Come on Boots, old my and” (we gave Van the nickname “Boots”) that it would be a good day. And it was.
There are certain days in motherhood where things just seem to click; days where you think you’re out of milk after you’ve poured your bowl of cereal only to remember that you had bought another gallon – cuz’ you’re on it like that – and stored it in the fridge in the garage.
It was one of those days.
It was a day that, despite having the boys on my own (which is a feat all it’s own since my back surgery), I too had a good and – dare I say – relaxing time. I rested on the blanket and if I closed my eyes, I could be fooled into believing the dirt between my toes was indeed sand.
Buther Jones is located in the Tonto National Forest. The lake is set in the Sonoran Desert, a mix of beach and desert that’s sure to please beach bums and desert wanderers alike.
I watched as the boys played. My two little humans coming into their own, exploring together; getting along.
On the way home I cranked up the tunes and watched through the rear view mirror as both boys bobbed their heads back and forth with me, Van trying to keep the beat with his not-so-coordinated claps and Hoop eventually drifting off to sleep.
It was a day for the books. And I won’t even talk about banana mouth, cuz’ that’s just too much for the mama of that monkey.
*Hooper’s swim trunks are c/o Ladida kids. You can find them here.
The Apache Trail
Sometimes we don’t know our own strength. Days fall on top of one another and are stitched together in quilt-like fashion so that by journeys end we’re covered in the warmest blanket just when the sun sets.
I think about all that my boys and our family have been through over the past six months; from my back surgery (which grows bigger in my mind in magnitude the further I get away from it), to selling most of what filled our home, to being hospitalized with a mean stomach virus, to then selling our home, losing Sarah, buying a new home and subsequently being displaced for over a month.
In the past month, the boys and I have spent somewhere in the ballpark of 28 hours in the car with the longest stretch being 6 hours without stopping. We’ve flip flopped between my parent’s home and Willy’s parent’s home, stayed in hotels, and spent one glorious night in our new home, together as a family, prior to packing up and filling the gas tank once again when the construction workers showed up the next morning. The boys and I had been without Willy for much of the month, which left me to field the “I want to see Sarah” requests and the “Where’s Papa” inquiries and the “I wanna go to our new home” proclamations.
Each morning, for the time we were in Arizona, Hooper had been getting up earlier than usual and crawling into bed to sleep some more or to simply allow me to hold him in my arms. This is a new thing; we don’t encourage the boys to find comfort in our bed. But there in Arizona, I think we both needed it; a routine and some added comfort to remind us that home is wherever we are together.
I spend a lot of time observing my boys; watching the way they interact with the world, with the dirt, with one another. I notice them take notice of the sun setting. I watch them squat gnats away. I watch them fight and I watch them entertain one another. And if there’s anything I’ve learned over these past few weeks it’s that they’re strong and adaptable and happy.
And on this particular evening on the Apache Trail, I couldn’t help but take notice of the way the mountains are layered, one in front of the other. A reminder that life does not read from left to right, but instead is comprised of peaks and valleys that are beautiful because they exist together – side by side – and are more breathtaking than any one peak or valley could ever be on it’s own.
The Salt River
As I watch my boys grow before me, I’ve adopted – in my mind, anyway – a more hands-off approach to parenting. Not to be mistaken for lack of care or concern, but instead intentional space made available for my boys to interact with the world on their own terms.
More and more, we’ve been spending our afternoons at a creek, river, beach, open field, or desert. It’s important, for me, that my boys build a relationship with nature, use their imagination, and play – more or less – independently.
Time carved out of our busy everyday lives, intentionally, to let them be kids; to encourage dirty clothes and soggy shoes. Because sometimes saying “no, don’t throw that rock” or “no, don’t get your clothes wet” gets tiresome and feels wrong as it rolls off my tongue. There’s a time and a place and I want them to know that.
And when they fall in the water or scrape their knees on the rocks, I don’t come running. I watch. And if I need to, I encourage them to work through it. More than that, I trust that they will get back up and when they do, I remind myself that a little coin just got added to their confidence jar.
We spent a few days at the Salt River during our stay in Arizona. The boys embraced the water, played with another couple’s dogs, threw rocks, looked at dead fish on the shore, fished with a stick and some string found on the bank, watched a wild horse graze in the field, and splashed around until the water practically turned to glass and the sun set over the cactus sprinkled mountains.
Where are some of your favorite places to take your kids exploring?
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Mothers & Daughters
“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” -Roald Dahl
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A Guest Post: A letter to my future possible child
I love you, already, but I’m afraid of you. As in, terrified.
It’s not that I worry about being a good parent to you. I know I’ll be a good mother. What worries me is the immensity of what I’ll feel for you. It will consume me, overwhelm me, swallow me whole. It’s threatening, the power you’ll have over me. The meaning you’ll have to me. How will I stand it?
The existence of you means that something–the loss of you–could destroy me. Obliterate me. There has never been something in my life with that capacity. I have always prided myself on strength, but you could bring me to my knees. And I’m not sure I’d ever be able to stand up again.
I will want to protect you with a fierceness that will shock me. Every possible catastrophe will go through my head in the moments you’re away from me–from the time you take your first steps and wander into the other room, to the day you go off to college with only your own thoughts and plans to keep you warm at night. It’s crippling, really, the worry. The love. It must be a thousand times what I feel for my dog, for my cats, and I come to tears leaving them alone for a long weekend.
How will I function with what I’ll feel for you? How will I be anything when you are everything? I don’t worry about losing sleep due to those predictable fits in the first months of life. I worry about all the other nights, when you are resting soundly but I am up wondering what will become of you, if the world will be kind to you, if your heart will withstand inevitable heartbreaks.
If I give you life, know that it’s the most courageous choice I will ever make. If I don’t give you life, know that part of me will always wonder who you could have been and, also, who I would have been.
With love,
Your tentative mother
Kim Hooper | Copywriter & Novelist | Also, my sister