Unpacking

I'm back from five days with my family. I unpacked the car and a couple of bags; I did the first load of laundry. There are still bags strewn about the living room and dining room and kitchen. That first load of laundry is ready to be hung out in the morning. The second load of laundry is ready to pop in.

I make this trip every year to laugh with my sisters and cousins and aunt. I make this trip to see my kids play with their cousins. I make this trip to remember how it was to live at the beach in the summer. 

I make this trip every year to go to the beach. Each morning we pack beach chairs and umbrellas, snacks and drinks, towels, sunscreen, and beach toys. It looks like we are going away for a week. We cart all the stuff onto the beach and set up a compound my cousins slowly roll in with their kids, one day there were thirteen kids altogether, aged 6 weeks to 8 years. We usually go early on the Fourth to claim a spot before it gets to crowded, but a rainy morning got us there afternoon. Most days we stay until dinner. Those late afternoon hours, when the sun isn't so intense and the breeze off the water picks up and crowds start to shuffle off the beach, are my favorites. On the Fourth we leave early to get everyone fed before the parade.

I make this trip every year watch a parade full of firetrucks and Little League teams tossing candy and a band wearing crazy mixed up costumes led by a guy in a ratty red nightshirt and boots waving a plunger. There are fewer floats, fewer kids walking through in what likely was their Halloween costume, but otherwise it is much the parade I watched when I was a kid. Kathleen sat on the sidewalk in front of my sister, not liking the sirens. Elizabeth sat on my lap and only teared up at one sudden loud blast. She pointed out and named doggies and horsey and truck. She waved and clapped.


After the parade this year, crossing the street back toward home, I skirted by a stroller and noticed the mom. I knew her, but couldn't figure out how. "Look at all my candy!" her son exclaimed holding up his bag. "Good haul," I smiled. Two steps later it came to me. The candy carrying boy had a heart transplant while Henry was in the hospital. I remember his parents haunting the hallways, the drawn looks, the ecstatic night his heart came in. He looks good now.

"I'm five!" my cousin's daughter announced to me. This shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. Five is making all Henry's would-be peers more obvious to me, more than they were at four or three.

Just before I left for my trip, I read a book called The Shape of the Eye. The beginning of the book brought back so much of the early days to me, the days of getting used to the words Down syndrome and cardiologist and 02 stats and Early Intervention as part of my baby's life, part of my life. It brought me back to the day of Henry's surgery and how stressful it was even though we thought everything would be fine. I sat outside with my girls splashing in the water and took deep breaths and fought back tears.

"You're not going to have three are you?" my neighbor asked. How to answer that one. "I do"? "No"? I went with "we're done." I watched my sister and two of my cousins wrangling their three kids at the beach. I have three, but I will never do that.

I walked the beach and found heart-shaped rocks that I tucked into my bag. Tomorrow, I'll tuck them into Henry's garden.


I don't know what it is about my time away for the Fourth of July, but each year I seem to come back with these little scraps of stories. I don't have a lot of say about each, but I feel the need to unpack them, just as surely as I unpack the dirty laundry and the bathing suits and Elizabeth's blankie.

Summer

I blinked and suddenly it's the 4th of July next week, which always feels like the beginning and end of summer to me.

I want lazy days of gardening and splashing in the river and eating popsicles and ice cream and hanging out in the yard. But gardening isn't lazy and then there's all the fresh food to process. I love canning and jamming, but it's not fitting in so well with Elizabeth's nap time or with Brian's work schedule this year. I'm still navigating his second shift hours and sleep schedule that has me yearning to run or garden or DO something in the cool early hours and then sweating when 10, 10:30 rolls around and I finally have a hand with the girls.

I'm trying to find family time and us time and me time and work time. I want garden time and running time and reading time and canning time. And there just isn't that much time. So I'm trying to prioritize (ugh) and let go.


Yesterday, Kathleen asked me to fill up the pool, which is really a tiny sandbox. Then she wanted to practice swimming, so she asked me to take her to the waterfall. The waterfall is a great little swimming hole minutes from our house—with big, rough, awkward steps to get down to it, very difficult to navigate for 3 year old legs. It was hot and I just wanted to sit and drink iced coffee and read a book. But while I sipped, I mulled it over. It would cool us all off. Okay. Yes.

It did cool us all off, even though Elizabeth clung to me the entire time. Kathleen laughed and shrieked the way kids do in water. Seriously, I think there is a specific pitch they hit when splashing. Her eyes sparkled even as she shivered, or as she would say, shimmered.

By the time we got home she was melting down again, the problem being the wrong popsicle. Sigh. It's not perfect, but we splashed in the river and ate popsicles and ice cream and after the kids went to bed, I emptied the kiddie pool and watered my peppers, so I guess I got gardening in there too.

July and August stretch before me with raspberries and green beans and cucumbers and tomatoes, cookouts, vacation?, another trip home to the beach. There is so much I want to do and so much nothing I want to do. I'm working on some odd balance of both.

My 30s

Today is the last day of my 30s.
Turning 40 doesn't phase me much. The weirdest thing is that I remember quite clearly when my mom turned 40. I was in high school—my kids aren't in preschool yet.

It's the last day of my 30s, which made me think back on this past decade and just how much has happened: I met Brian, got married, had a baby, learned more about various kinds of pediatric ICUs that I ever wanted to know, said good-bye to and buried a baby, had two more babies, watched them grow. Maybe it's not how much happened, but how momentous those each of those things were. The last half of the decade was particularly jammed-packed.

Maybe my 40s will be easier? slower? Probably not, I don't think life really works that way. Gentler, maybe? That might be nice.

I turn 40 tomorrow. The 40 celebrations I've allotted myself have already started and will continue. I turn 40 tomorrow. Feel free to use that as an excuse to enjoy cake or ice cream or to raise a glass of the libation of your choice.

Peaches on the Literary Mama Blog

Around here, the strawberries are starting to turn red. In some places they are coming in thick already, and there were pint boxes of them in the farmer's markets yesterday. In my garden, we've picked a handful. Tuesday, my canning friend's strawberries were wet and yellow. The sun today should make a difference, though. I have a jam-packed weekend, but might have to pack some jamming in there. Although there are a few earlier season projects (violet syrup, pickled asparagus, maybe rhubarb jam), strawberries signal the true kickoff the canning season for me. 

If strawberries are first, peaches are the most anticipated fruit of the summer. They arrive in the sticky, hot days of August and stretch into September. I wrote about canning peaches and being Henry's mom as part of a contest held by the lovely Kate Hopper to launch her book Use Your Words. You can read my piece the Literary Mama blog.

Good, Bad, Patterns

Yesterday's tantrum was not an isolated incident. Late afternoon is often a time of meltdowns and tantrums and general fussiness. Last summer, I found myself ending each day exhausted and frustrated and thinking what an awful day it had been. Except, like yesterday, it usually wasn't. Usually it just ended badly.

For a few weeks, I made myself write down the good and the bad of the day.

Good: taking a break to sing with Kathleen, lunch in the garden (Kathleen's idea), great run 3 miles+
Bad: Dinner started too late. I was storming around the kitchen fuming at B for making pie late in the day. Up way too late

Good: Elizabeth's morning giggles, taking a break to let Kathleen sit on my lap, knowing what Elizabeth needed to settle tonight (being put down)
Bad: Grumbly this morning about my "plan" for the day and B. sleeping in

Good: Elizabeth crawling!, watching Kathleen interact during our last music class (what a difference from the first class), dinner quick and smooth (yay for my plan of take out on music days!)
Bad: Feeling stressed about getting work done tomorrow

I'm thinking its about time to start doing this again.

Writing these things down over several weeks helped me identify patterns. Those patterns helped me make changes to make my days at least a little smoother. I prepped dinner early in the day when everyone was content. Even when it felt like we had plenty of time until dinner, I cut off all activities after 5—no walks around the block or a quick dip  at the swimming hole. I made myself stop working by 5—even if I was "almost done." When I stuck to the rules it helped, wasn't perfect but it was better.

What I really loved about this practice, though, was that it gave me my days back, much like that massage did yesterday. It helps me remember when the milestones actually happened and those amazing, non-milestone moments that you think you'll remember but you don't, the morning giggles and singing breaks and meals in the garden.

Today's bad: Struggle at bed time, Kathleen kicking on the floor
Today's good: Elizabeth moving her hands and singing "gooly gooly" when I was changing her (she learned part of the song I sing often during her changes!), planting the plants neighbors gave us for Henry's birthday

It got rough toward the end, but it was a pretty good day.