America’s Treasure

There are homecomings. And then there are homecomings. I’ve watched my friend Neighbor Laura go through the gamut  of emotions when it comes her son Tim. When he graduated from college she was so proud. On the day he was commissioned an officer in the Army, she beamed. On the day he left for Germany, she waved him off and smiled. On the day he went to Afghanistan she cried.

But he’s home, if only for a little rest and relaxation. And we all were excited and and we all cried.

As we welcomed him home, one thing kept going through my mind.

This is truly America’s treasure. Truly.

These bright handsome young men can be said to fight for an administration, a policy or a even a country.

But they what they truly fight for is their fellow man.

Against the forces of evil.

It’s the bigness of it that got me.

And my heart hurt for him mama. Because I too have a son. And I would want him home and away from danger.

Welcome home Tim.

I’m A Fig Thief

I have been in fig heaven for the last few weeks. Figs tarts have dominated our diet. I’ve eaten them for breakfast, brunch, lunch, snack, dinner and midnight snack. However, figs are not free. In the sense that I don’t have to pay for them, they are free. But for some reason, I continue to do things that are embarrassing so I pay with a bruised ego.

Then I turn around and the tell the world about it.

Anyway…

My friend Neighbor Corinne has a couple of fig trees (bushes?) in her yard. Last year I went to her home to pick some and I fell in love with the fresh fruit. This year was another banner year. They were beautiful.

So one early morning, the dog and I dropped the girls off for their field hockey practice and I drove to the beach. On the way home, I stopped and picked a few figs from the tree in her front yard.

I told her after the fact and she was very sweet about it. In fact she said I should go to her back yard because they were bigger. So without ado, the next early morning, the dog and I took another trip to her house and I helped myself to the tree in her backyard.

Fig tarts, here I come.

I told her afterward and she seemed okay with the fact that I was skulking around her house at 6:30 in the morning.

So now I’m thinking it’s not her fig tree. It’s mine. It’s there to satisfy my fig fetish.

Last weekend, I did it again. I dropped the girls off for their field hockey practice (those poor girls) and the dog and I made our way to Neighbor Corinne’s home to skulk. The dog started to protest about being left in the car.

“Shhhh…,” I said, “You’ll wake them up.”

Needless to say, I should have listened to the dog. I think she was saying “Don’t do it, don’t do it.” A part of me still feels like a thief even though in my mind, my tree was at their house. It’s that little voice in your head that you should always listen to.

Later that day, I logged into facebook to tell her I was at her house. Only to find that another friend of hers had schedule to go the next day to pick figs. I read the message over and over again…eeekkk, the figs were gone.

I debated in my head what to do. The easiest thing was to not say anything. But that would have guaranteed a lifetime of guilt and sleepless nights being visited by the Ghost of the Fig Bushes. Scrooge has nothing on me when it comes to a guilty conscience.

So I wrote – “ummm…ladies…I’m so sorry but I picked a few this morning. I just came on to tell Corinne and I saw this. Yikes, I wish I checked earlier. I promise to let you know BEFORE I come next time Corinne. I feel badly. There are still quite a few left by the way. Oh man…”

Something’s just not right me with.

I saw Neighbor Corinne the next day and she gave me a hug which made me feel so much better. I reciprocated by giving her a couple pieces of fig tart.

I will post the fig tart recipe after I’ve healed my bruised ego.

By the way, months ago Neighbor Corinne gave us a planting from her fig tree. It was a short little guy but now has grown to about three feet tall. We planted it in our a yard a couple of weeks ago and it’s doing fantastic. I hope it will bear fruit next year, and Neighbor Corinne will never again have to worry about the fig thief.

This is my very public apology.

The Classic Sport Of Field Hockey

I have been perusing Susannah Conway’s photos of her August Break series and they are lovely. It makes me think that life is peaceful somewhere.

August has been anything but a break. School starts next week but school prep is in full swing.

The boy has a ton of summer work to finish and the girl has summer reading. Do you remember having this much school work – in the summer? Teachers, please explain.

On top of summer school work, there’s fall sports – which starts in the summer. The girl said she didn’t want to go through high school without playing a sport and I commend her for that. She told me at the beginning of summer that she wanted to try field hockey.

Well, alrighty.

Since we were in Indiana last weekend, we missed the first couple of days of tryouts. As a result, we were well behind the curve. We showed up in the middle of the week, not knowing a single bloody thing about what to do.

We walked into practice and into the inquiring stares of fifty other girls. It could be a little bit disconcerting for a grown woman like myself but for a fourteen year old girl – well she just wants to dig a hole and die.

The girl turned to me and hissed, “I told you I didn’t want to do this.”

Okay now, my head knows exactly where she is coming from. It’s uncomfortable – ok – it’s scary to face an unknown situation like this.  But it’s 6:30 in the morning, it’s raining, and I’m in my pajamas in the middle of a high school field with my flip flops on. I should have let it go.

But I didn’t.

I said to her, “It was your idea.”

Which it was. Just like all this horse stuff is her idea as well. If I were to make micro-manage her like she thinks I do, her life  would look very different. It wouldn’t be filled with horse poop and hockey sticks. Instead, she would be a ballerina, play the piano and paint watercolors.

She has no idea…

She gave me a terrible, Mom-I-hate-you-look and she said, “Well I’ve changed my mind.”

I sighed and said, “Well, we’re here now.”

I stood there for two hours and watched the girls as they went through their conditioning. They ran around the fields and up and down hills through the rain. I then knew why I never played high school sports. It’s crazy hard. I didn’t think she would be go back.

But she did. She is sore and tired. She walks around the house like Geppetto’s puppet without strings, ready to drop like a pile on the floor. I have massaged her legs, her back, and her wrists. She has consumed more calories in the past week than she has all summer.

And she has made it through the first round of cuts. I don’t know if she’ll make the team, the second round is coming up soon. But I do know I’m proud of her no matter what happens.

I don’t know if I’ll survive high school. Of course I said that about Middle School, puberty, and the Terrible Twos.

My Boy, Oh What A Boy

The boy is 16 today.

Apparently he’s surprised? Or happy? Or something. What?

That’s not his wine by the way.

I went through my archives to find some photos that are mature, thoughtful, and reflective.

And I couldn’t find any.

So instead, I am posting some photos from the last two weeks.

These are so representative of our lives with him. He’s totally irrepressible. And he’s funny. I’ll aim my camera and no one else will notice except for the boy and for some reason he wants to be constantly captured with his mouth open.

It seems that my camera knows it…I aimed it at the girl and it auto-focused on the boy instead.

Yesterday, the boy and I had a chat on Facebook. He had called and asked me to bring home some food. The word “junk” is always implied before the word “food” in these requests. I told him to make a cheese sandwich.

So here is a very typical conversation between us.

the boy: “hey”

Me: “hey, make yourself a sandwich pls.”

the boy: “haha ok”

Me: “Tell Kyle that I will be glad to bring him to the coach’s training this Sat. It’s at Sunderland first then I have to bring you guys to the church. He can come over and hang out later if he wants to swim and stuff.

the boy: “he already went to the first training”

Me: “oh. Don’t forget to start on your AP Spanish stuff too. I’ll help you finish your government stuff tonight so that will be out of the way.”

the boy: “ok i will”

Me: “smooch”

the boy: “gross”

Me: “kisses”

Happy birthday my big boy. We love you!

A Pilot’s Wife’s Life

Tell me…what in the world is this?

It looked like a fingernail at first but that wouldn’t make sense.

Why would fingernails be hanging on the ceiling of an airport?

The husband said he thought they were fuselages…just like a pilot would.

This is the new terminal at Indianapolis Airport. I had not been to Indiana in three years and two years ago, the folks at Indianapolis opened a new airport. It’s beautiful. But I just couldn’t figure out what these were.

Anyone know?

Here’s the kicker…we stopped at this beautiful store so the boy could buy some model cars. Indianapolis is known for corn and for the most famous race track in the world.

The Brickyard.

Never heard of it? Well neither had I until I met the husband.

I went in with the boy and the lady who checked us out said, “Weren’t you here a couple of nights ago?”

I said, “Yes, Friday night. We came in to look around.”

She replied, “You’re husband’s a pilot? I see him here all the time.”

I said, “Yes, really?”

“Is that him?” And turned to wave to the husband who was outside the store with the kids.

The husband looked up and waved back.

I came out and said, “That lady knows you. She said you come to Indianapolis all the time.”

“Oh really? I’ve never been to the new terminal before. Weird.”

Did you ever read The Pilot’s Wife? It’s about a pilot’s double life.

The husband leaves his schedule posted on our bulletin board. He calls me every night when he’s gone. And through the wonders of the internet, I can track his flights on flightaware.com.

But for some reason, a lady at the check out stand in somewhere Indianapolis can make me wonder.

Is the husband an IRA operative?

August 12, Against Any Form Of Tyranny

“I have sworn upon the altar of God, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.” Thomas Jefferson

It is an election year in the US. Our elections used to be a shining example of democracy at its best. It is where the individual exercises what our Constitution says is our God given right to be free and determine our own course of government.

When watching the news though, you would think that election years are nothing short of a high school gossip fest.

Buckle up y’all it’s going to be a rough ride.

Storyboard by the fantastic Jodi at MCP Actions.

How Much Is That Horsey In The Window?

Me, “I’ll hold her for you.”

I know I’m in the car y’all.

The girl, “I just need to get something.”

Me, “Ok.”

The girl, “It’s hot out here.”

Me, “Take your time, really.”

The girl, “Thanks for the money. I’m hungry.”

Me, “It’s okay, I’ve got all day.”

And then they got a sandwich. It’s just what moms do.

Turning A Profit

The boy has always been a picky eater. It is the one thing in life that I just cannot get over (ok, one of the things). I have cajoled, begged, pleaded, yelled, cried and medicated myself many times over the last 15 years over this very issue.

Dinner has always been an adventure and many times it’s been stressful. I always worried about what he would eat. Both the husband and I are vertically challenged so I worried that the boy would grow up to be an Upa Lumpa because he wouldn’t eat his carrots.

It’s been very, very hard.

The boy does have an irrepressible charm and a really great disposition. I think it’s a gift. And he knows how to turn a negative into a positive.

So he start asking for money for eating a raw clam.

And he actually gathers $30 from various family members, including his dad and his Poppop.

Lets just say the entire family knows of our plight so it wasn’t very hard to raise the money.

So here we go…

“Hold your nose!” says his Aunt Annaliese (isn’t that a nice German name?)

Down that hatch!

Yum…

The slimy clam oozes out his mouth and clings to his chin…sorry.

Is he okay?

The crowd waits breathlessly…

Yes! He comes up for air!

He’s alive! And he’s $30 richer the stinker. He certainly knows how to work a room.

The girl asked me if she could have $30 for eating a clam. I said no.

She’s my good eater. It’s not fair but at least she’ll go through life with a healthy appreciation for food. Which is more than I can say for the boy. People have told me that he will get over it when he gets older. I’ve waited almost 16 years, I guess I wait a little longer.

And one last kiss from his auntie.

The Real Recap

We were at a mini-family reunion last weekend. This is my wonderful, always youthful Uncle Walt.

And this is me after pretending to be a waitress and realizing that I’m not coordinated enough to carry more than one thing at a time.

It was a fun party all the same.

This is what the car looked like when we got run off the road the next day at 6:30 in the morning. The other car was on the wrong side of the road and to avoid him, the husband had to veer off the road and we hit a tree. It was scary.

This is the guy who did it. He didn’t stop. He came back after about ten minutes and slowed down to take a look at us stranded on the side of the road and quickly took off again. I wasn’t fast enough with my camera to get a good shot of him.

I told the kids that they just witnessed the worst of human nature. Everyone is alright, thank God.

This is why we had to get up so early. One accident, 300 miles and seven hours later, the girl rode in the last meet of the year. The things we do for our kids.

And then this morning…

This is what a side mirror looks like after I back into it with the same van that was run off the road the day before. The irony is that the husband was on the phone with the insurance company when I did it. I came back inside to tell him and he said, “Wait a minute, my wife just backed into some worker’s truck that was parked in our driveway. I think we need to make another claim.”

So how was your weekend?

Welcome Home!

I just love Mr. Greg. His cheerful disposition and enthusiasm for our youth is infectious and just plain cool.

Here we were at the airport at 1 am this morning. We were so happy to see our kids come home from Honduras.

There’s our girl Miss Alicia, who went as a small group leader.

I hope that whoever the boy chooses as a bride will be just like her. Not Miss Alicia – she’s too old for him. But someone just like her.

Sometimes I can’t believe the things I say on this blog.

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