have I told you lately?

Dear Liam,

There's nothing special marked by the calendar today but after playing audience to your pseudo-impromptu, "western" harmonica recital and hearing from grandma your response to her question about whether your mom was planning to take you to get your hair cut soon (which was "I don't know. She never tells me anything."), I can't let another day pass without telling you how much you rock my world.

First, the recital. We were cleaning up your room when you uncovered the harmonica. Most kids would pick it up, play a few notes and move on, but to you the harmonica sighting signals something more, an event perhaps, one that requires pomp and circumstance. So you ransack the closet and come out dressed in wool slacks, a belt fastened (God knows how) in the back, a button-up shirt, your ring-bearer vest, a clip-on dinosaur tie and an old dented cowboy hat. It reminds me of how you changed your clothes recently before leaving for our friend's farm on a hot and humid Saturday - to a white long-sleeved button-up shirt and jeans. It was as if you we're playing the role of the local Amish boy. And although a small part of me worries what people think and hates to imagine what the closet looks like, the larger part loves how you put your crazy outfits together and couldn't care a hoot whether you're on par with the sad-looking kids in the Gap ads.


Then there's the comment. Where do you come up with these things? Maybe from dad? I can imagine he has said that to at least one person at least one time (that is, "She never tells me anything."). But the comments about my age need to stop. I have heard you on more than one occasion refer to me as old. I mean, come on? How many other (old) moms race their kids down the waterslides at the pool? Or give their four year old and his scooter a piggy back ride across town because he's too thirsty to go on? Or shake some serious booty to some seriously ridiculous music? Okay, so maybe I am a fan of the "old fashioned" toys, like that box of Legos we found at a garage sale this summer that you absolutely did not want because you preferred the jumprope with the Mickey Mouse hand handles that is now knotted into oblivion around a tree but you pull out the box of old Legos every day and when your new preschool teacher asked you today what you like to do, you said "Legos." I'd say you may need to rethink your ageism.


Sometimes, I admit, I prefer to sit and watch, like an old person, I guess. At the pool, for instance. Seeing you fearless, diving and swimming and taking that long, dark tube slide into the deep end, over and over again, I want to stand up and shout and point and cry, "That's my boy! He's just four and he used to stand in the water on his tip toes, with his arms waving in the air and a panicked expression that said, 'I'm going to die in this pool of acid.' And now he barely remembers to surface and breathe." You are so brave, Liam. And your dad and I are so proud.

In fact, like your brother to whom you really are the greatest, we can hardly bear having you out of our sight. The last couple weeks we let you stay up most nights to watch the Olympics with us. We made a little nest for you on the family room floor and let you fall asleep there. The Olympics are over but tonight we let you linger downstairs until you passed out on your blanket on the floor. Well, your dad did. I sighed and said, "We have to stop doing this." You really need to go to sleep in your bed. But, the truth is, whenever we let you stay up late, it's just so we can gaze at you when you're finally sleeping. Thanks for indulging us. Cause nothing's sweeter.

Love, Mama

p.s. If you're looking for a glimpse of the harmonica recital, I caught a few seconds on camera. You'll have to rotate your head sideways because I couldn't figure out how to rotate the video. I could have used your help with that, but you were sleeping.

no comparison

Like anyone, I am guilty of comparing. In the last couple months as Elliott has been outperformed by babies six months his junior in the mobility category, comparing has led to worry and uncertainty.

Before he turned one, his lagging behind in gross motor skills was easy to chalk up to him "taking his time" and having a "why bother" personality. As he inched his way toward 15 months, with only an army crawl under his belt and no chance of standing even supported on his own, we decided to ask for an assessment from the state-funded early childhood intervention program. Last week they came to observe Elliott for an hour to see if he qualified for services. It only took a few minutes for them to determine that he did indeed qualify. Granted, Elliott wasn't willing to show all his skills to the therapists, but hearing them say that he was performing (gross motor skills wise) at the level of a six month old was a blow. It made me ache for him. Will he always be behind? Will kids make fun of him someday? Will every new development be a big, painful effort?

One of the toughest things about having kids is knowing that there is no possible way to shield them from all the hurt and difficulties of life. I want my amazing, beautiful children to grow up without troubles or worries or pain. But I know there is just no way, and it makes my heart ache, especially to see the challenges beginning so early. I look at Elliott's 100-watt smile and I get a lump in my throat. How can he possibly be so darn gorgeous, so insanely happy, and so far behind? But I look again and know that I wouldn't want him any other way.

The physical therapist who came here wrote up a formal assessment of Elliott and on it she listed the "positives" about Elliott and his situation. They were, "1. He is a happy child, 2. He has supportive and loving family, 3. He has a strong big brother role model." Elliott may never be on track with his skills or he may be the next Michael Phelps. It is futile to compare skills, to try to measure up. We never know how the day, week, month, year will unfold. But we do know this moment and that precious child who holds us in it. We know he is exceedingly happy and we all love him dearly. In that, there is just no comparison.

handmade gifts for our friends

The combination of the rush we get from making cute things by hand, the inspiration found on numerous blogs of creative people and the fact that we hardly have two dimes to rub together these days, Liam and I have been hard at work whipping up fun homemade gifts for friends (real and imaginary) for a variety of occasions. Here are a few things we've done lately.


This shirt - featuring Liam's stenciled hand waving goodbye and the French equivalent of "see ya!" in his own handwriting (that I traced using fabric paint) - went to our high school neighbor and babysitter Esther who just left this morning for a year abroad in France. Brave girl, we're going to miss you and, occasionally, wish we were you!



Handmade iron-ons are my favorites these days. These two cute tote bags went to twins neighbors for their fourth birthday. The designs were cut from a salvaged tie-dye t-shirt and embellished with fabric paint and vintage buttons. Liam wrote his friends' names and I copied them onto the bags, which we filled with art supplies.


If Liam had his way, all of our gifts would be bizarre concoctions made from random ingredients in the kitchen. I'd really like to say that I fully support his enthusiasm for "cooking," but I usually put a stop to things pretty quickly. Today, he pleaded that it was Banjo's birthday and all Banjo wanted for his birthday was a cake. "Oh, please, mom, please." So, I let him go. Until I found him pouring my real expensive real vanilla into a measuring cup. He was okay with it, though. He had made his first pink cake. And that Banjo, he just loves pink.

a day at the pier

Yesterday, Andrew's band played a gig in the beer garden on Navy Pier, so Liam and I went downtown to share in the fun. Ice cream bars, Air & Water show, absolutely amazing guitar shredder and a very, very sweaty little dancer (doing some serious people watching). It doesn't get much better than this.

p.s. Thanks for hanging out with us uncle Mark and aunt Jamie.

dislocation

Everyone has those days, when from the moment your feet hit the floor you are following yourself around, trying to get back into your skin. One of those days when you desparately need to shut yourself into a room and sleep, pray, start over, but there's laundry to wash and birthday parties to attend. It makes no sense why it happens, why your every frustration and bad feeling comes to a head on one single day and your husband follows your frown around the house asking, "What's the matter? Why are you acting like this?" And you just want to shout, "Help! I can't find myself today." But you prefer to slam the dishes in the washer, smile politely and mutter, "I'm fine."

It's nothing short of God's grace that the next morning you find yourself nicely zipped back up in the skin that's familiar, a genuine smile blossoming from your heart as if yesterday was just a strange, foggy dream. When you wake and find yourself, you sigh with gratitude, you get on your knees and pray for forgiveness, and you hope that no one caught you on film.

Dislocation
by Marge Piercy

It happens in an instant.
My grandma used to say
someone is walking on your grave.

It's that moment when your life
is suddenly strange to you
as someone else's coat

you have slipped on at a party
by accident, and it is far
too big or too tight for you.

Your life feels awkward, ill
fitting. You remember why you
came into this kitchen, but you

feel you don't belong here.
It scares you in a remote
numb way. You fear that you—

whatever you means, this mind,
this entity stuck into a name
like mercury dropped into water—

have lost the ability to enter your
self, a key that no longer works.
Perhaps you will be locked

out here forever peering in
at your body, if that self is really
what you are. If you are at all.

what I used to take for granted

:: going to the bathroom alone
:: eating without someone sitting on my lap or sharing my plate
:: silence in the car
:: the impulse to check myself in the mirror
:: time to think
:: a full night's sleep

I also used to take for granted that I knew just how much I could be surprised, wowed or bowled over by joy. I'll trade sleep and time and privacy for this kind of lump-in-the-throat delight any day. Although, if I could just get one minute in the bathroom alone. . .

if we lived in south park

Andrew is hooked on a German website that lets you create your own South Park characters. Elliott especially made me laugh.

one bed at a time

Our yard has become the eyesore of the neighborhood. It happened so slowly I hardly even noticed. And, yet, I knew. I knew the beds were getting weedy. I knew the forsythia bushes were beginning to overtake the sidewalk. I knew the creeping Charlie was, well, creeping. But it's just too much work. There's a house to tidy, kids to play with, money-earning work to complete. I couldn't even imagine how to begin improving the yard. So I ignored it and hoped Andrew would cave first and at least mow the lawn.

This noon as I drove up to the house transitioning out of work mode and ready to take the reigns, I felt embarrassed by our little neglected corner. So as soon as I put Elliott down for a nap, I rallied Liam and dug out the mower. I was just going to cut the weedy grass but I couldn't stop. My little helper and I pulled enough weeds to fill a lawn bag and hacked away at the bushes until they actually sort of looked nice.

There are still weeds galore in our yard and other bushes that need to be trimmed and, of course, the lawn will need to be mowed again. But we made progress. Even a neighbor noticed and marveled at how nice our front yard looked tonight. (Yes, it was that bad.) It wouldn't have happened if we hadn't just started.

The three hours spent in the yard had me thinking a lot about our financial situation. For years we've been winging it and ignoring the weeds. Digging in, budgeting, developing a plan, it all seems so overwhelming. So we try not to look too closely. But, like knowing your lot has become the ugliest one on the block, not having a grasp on your finances is stressful and embarrassing.

So tonight we just started and opened three savings accounts through ING Direct: one for emergencies, one for taxes and one for travel. These are three areas where we always seem to get ourselves into a bind and have to pull out the credit card. The accounts are small but like the yard that can only be weeded one small bed at a time, it's a start. And the landscape looks better already.

summer bliss

Everyone has a different view of what constitutes the perfect summer day. Mine would probably involve a hammock (exactly like the awesome hammock my sister-in-law brought to the lake house this weekend) with a view of the lake, cool breeze, warm sun, the sound of boats and birds and leaves rustling, the scent of pine in the air, a great book in my hand. This was my bliss yesterday (although instead of a book I was reading the sweet expressions of the little boy on my lap who was utterly transfixed by boats). The day was just perfect in every way. I think the cousins all thought so too.

papa rocks

The last five days we spent in Wisconsin at Papa and Gigi's lake house. Part of our visit was to celebrate my dad's birthday. Liam's gift was a t-shirt he designed. I transferred his "rock and roll" drawing and handwritten words onto a t-shirt using iron-on adhesive, another cut-up t-shirt, fabric paint and a button. Liam even added some of the painted embellishments himself (while I held my breath and bit my tongue). Before we left Wisconsin today I asked Liam what was his favorite thing about the weekend. Without missing a beat he replied, "The cake . . . and the presents."

p.s. He had a little help with the guitar.

painting from nature

Every visit to the lake precipitates some kind of nature walk or treasure hunt, as the jewels of the natural world litter every inch of the woods as far as we can see. Usually we just amass a collection on the porch and over time toss them back where they came from. Today we got a little more creative and experimented with our finds as "paintbrushes" on a big sheet of newsprint. Liam was especially fond of the green circles he could make with the acorn top; I loved the little bursts from the needles of the baby pine bough and the wings made by the maple seed pods. Most of all, I loved how intimately we interacted with each item we found: identifying it, delicately turning it over in our hands to see its every groove and texture, finding just the right spot to dip in the paint and ever so gently pressing the paint-dipped treasure onto the paper. It isn't often we do anything as deliberately as we did this painting today. I think I even breathed a little, and smiled.

lucky enough

If you're lucky enough to be on the lake, you're lucky enough.

I don't know who coined this phrase, but it couldn't be more true than it was today. Playing with my beautiful boys amidst the trees, water, reeds, rocks, birds and occasional deer (if we're really lucky). It doesn't get much sweeter than this.

zucchini roundup

Our neighbor gave us this mammoth-sized zucchini today. I think she wanted to see Liam's eyes bug out. And that they did. I actually think it's the biggest zucchini I have ever seen. I'm not even sure I have enough ideas of what to do with it all, and that's coming from someone who really loves zucchini. However, I'm thinking the best thing to do with it is to wrap it up as a gift and give it to my brother - who absolutely hates all forms of squash. But that would be wasteful (yet funny, very funny), so here is a zucchini recipe we really dig and some we can't wait to try.

Our new favorite is zucchini pancakes. Well, my new favorite. Thanks to Ina Garten for another winning recipe from Barefoot Contessa at Home.

Zucchini Pancakes
makes 10 (3-inch) pancakes

2 medium (or 1 large – about 3/4 pound) zucchini
2 tablespoons grated or finely chopped onion
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
4 to 6 T all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon Kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper
unsalted butter
olive or canola oil

Grate the zucchini (lazy me, I used a food processor). Stir in the onion and eggs. Stir in 4T of flour, baking powder, salt and pepper. (If the batter gets too thin from the liquid in the zucchini, add additional flour, 1 tablespoon at a time.)

Heat a large skillet over medium heat and melt 1/2 tablespoon butter and 1/2 tablespoon oil together in the pan. When the butter is hot, but not smoking, reduce heat to medium-low and drop heaping soup spoons of batter into the pan. Lightly smooth out the top and spread into 1/4-inch thick pancakes.

Cook the pancakes about 3 to 4 minutes on the first side until browned. Flip and cook second side 2 to 3 minutes until browned and center is cooked through. Wipe out the pan with a dry paper towel, add more butter and oil to the pan and continue to fry the pancakes until all the batter is used. The pancakes can stay warm in a 300 degree oven for up to 30 minutes.


Other ideas for our zucchini include these:
:: Sweet and Savory Zucchini Bread from 101 Cookbooks
:: Chocolate Zucchini Bread from my friend Ann (p.s. I think my "holy toledo" beats yours!)
:: Zucchini Chocolate Chip Cookies from Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
:: Zucchini Strand Spaghetti from Smitten Kitchen (But I definitely won't be making my own basil-infused olive oil. I have to draw the line somewhere.)

Or, maybe we'll use it as a baseball bat or a doorstop or a dumbell. Today, it was fun just to look at it and carry it around.

buttoned up

This weekend I unearthed three big jars of old buttons I purchased for pennies at the flea market years ago and subsequently misplaced. I am weird, but it was a thrill to find them. I poured them all into a big bowl and Liam and I sifted through to find our favorites. We came up with lots of fun ideas for ways to use them, including as embellishments on several secret birthday gifts we are making. Creating gifts out of mostly recycled materials is one of the new imperatives on our "get out of debt before we die" plan. Seriously, since we have put the kabash on spending, our creativity and fun times making stuff together have really taken off. I would post our gifts now but some of the recipients may be lurking. Let's just say they are all cute as a button.

old mother

Tonight at dinner I was telling Liam about our upcoming drive to Wisconsin and how we'd be taking my grandma (whom we fondly call "Gaye") up to my dad's house with us. I asked Liam if he knew that Gaye was Papa's (my dad's) mom. He looked at me stunned and then broke into a huge grin.

"Mom," he said. "You're silly. That's the craziest thing I've ever heard!"

"No, honey," I assured him. "Gaye is really Papa's mom."

"But I thought Gigi was Papa's mom," he countered.

"Nope. Gigi is Papa's wife."

"You're goofing me," Liam laughed. "What if Gigi was my mom and Papa was my dad?"

"I think they're kind of old to be your mom and dad, don't you?"

"Well, you're old," he said matter of factly. "You have ankles (wrinkles) and dots on your hand."

Oh, dear. Just wait til you're twenty, honey. I'll be the one wearing purple.