Life is a Highway

One boring Thursday morning, Sam and I were looking for something to do. Since he wakes up uber early, mornings are long, even when we have a scheduled playdate at 9 AM. We've got  nearly four hours to fill between the time he awakens and the time we leave. (Why yes he does wake up at 5 AM every day. And no, we haven't been able to change that schedule since the day he was born.)

Sam loves playing cars more than just about anything else. Playing cars can include the cars talking to each other, fixing each other, smashing each other, and racing along the floor/wall/couch/whatever surface is handy. Playing cars usually involves crawling all over the house, something that I don't particularly like to do after about ten minutes. So in an attempt to keep Sam entertained while also sparing my knees a bit, I dug out two rolls of masking tape and did this to our floor: 

That's right! We made our own city! Pictured here is the Municipal Garage (far background); the lake, with boat; the Fire House (far right); the City Park, which is undergoing some renovations; and a small cul-de-sac for the cars' houses. In the video below you'll also see the Barn, aka Addie's Country House/Amish Market and then by the steps you will see a recently demolished version of Addie's City House. (More about Sam's passionate love for Addie in another post; suffice it to say that he will do anything for her. I don't know whether to think it's cute or to be scared.)

That road stayed on our floor for a good two weeks until it slowly started peeling off. Sam had a tremendous amount of fun with it and so did Jeff and I. My only regret is that one of my rolls of masking tape was VERY old and left it's sticky stuff on the floor. So now part of the road remains as a dark stain on the carpet. Good thing we're planning to replace it eventually!

I'd love to take credit for this idea and say it was all mine but in truth, I found a version of it on Pinterest. Ours was bigger and more elaborate but the original idea was someone else's. And if you haven't gotten on Pinterest, DO IT. Well, only do it if you have gobs of free time...otherwise you'll be losing some sleep looking at all the pretty pictures and good ideas.

(Please pardon the fact that my son is dressed only in a tee shirt and underwear. Potty training proceeds hence.)

Down on Leah's farm there are two yellow chickens...*

Well. I have not been a good blogger lately. This is what happens when you get an iPad. You (I) get lazy and spend your (my) time on the couch, simultaneously watching TV and catching up on Facebook, doing neither thing well or completely yet unable to turn off one device or the other. Every day I say "I'll blog tonight. I really have to get those pictures up." And every night I plop my butt on the couch and watch Psych or New Girl or some other TV show that eats up my time. It's a good thing I'm a more diligent runner than I am a blogger.

So, since I basically skipped over the whole month of October, I'm going to try to update you over the course of several posts. Let's hope my iPad runs out of charge so I can get it all done!

The first Wednesday of every month is Field Trip Day at Sam's preschool. Parents are required to go on these trips if they want their kids to attend and we are responsible for getting our children to the field trip location. In October, we visited a local farm. I was initially worried about this trip because every other farm we have visited has been fun for Sam only if we are picking pumpkins or if he is allowed to run around and explore on his own. We've had our family photos shot at a local farm for the past two years and every year Sam freaks out about going on the hayride. He will not go NEAR the tractor, no matter how cool he thinks it is. Knowing that this field trip was going to be based mainly around a hayride made me a little nervous. Lucky for us, though, Coleman's Farm uses smaller tractors to pull a series of three big wagons. That means that the noise is really reduced and we also got to sit further from it since we landed in the second wagon. Sam was initially hesitant but when he realized that the ride wasn't going to be loud, he relaxed immediately.

                                                   Sam and his sweet friend, Martyna.

It also helped that Sam was sitting next to one of his favorite classmates, Martyna. Martyna's family is from Poland and although her parents speak English very well, Martyna herself doesn't speak a word. That's fine by Sam; I don't think he really cares that they don't have much in common. Together they manage to communicate in their own way and it is precious to watch him try to take care of her.

Our first stop on the hayride was the aviary. Coleman's keeps all sorts of birds, from wild turkeys to peahens to a fancy sort of pheasant with an extremely long tail that looks almost exactly like an exotic parrot. We stayed up on the hay wagon and the farmer gave us ears of dried feed corn which the kids picked the kernels off of and fed to the birds.

We were near their pond, so a bunch of geese and ducks waddled over to get in on the feeding action.

They weren't too happy when we left; they followed the wagon, waddling as fast as they could, quacking for more corn. It was hilarious to watch their short little feet running as fast as they could while their fat duck bodies wobbled from side to side. Ducks are definitely more graceful in flight!

This is an old fire truck, gently submitting to the elements. Sam was fascinated by it. (I'm not sure why this picture is blurry.)

From the aviary, we rode around to the pumpkin/corn fields, where all the kids got to pick their own big pumpkin, 2 little gourds and six ears of corn. Sam really just wanted to run for a while since it had been probably fifteen minutes since he'd run anywhere. He did get a small pumpkin and I got him two gourds but he was done with picking by the time we got to the corn. Which was just as well since it was windy and chilly out there and I was holding my friend's baby while she chased her two daughters. Poor Lily did not like the wind!

At the end of the trip we circled back to the main entrance, where the kids had cookies and cider that came in these cute little plastic pumpkins. After that, the kids ran wild on all the play structures. Sam was in heaven; they must have had at least 10 big swing sets and forts, all shaped like houses or pirate boats. He was so sad when the trip was over and we had to go home.

Now, every time we go past any farm (happens quite a bit around here,) he asks "That the big farm? My picked pumpkins there! With Miss Tina! (His garbled version of Martyna's name.) We go there again?" I'm glad he had fun at the farm and we can't wait to visit again. Maybe next year we'll do our photos at Coleman's!


*The title is a reference to one of my favorite Signing Time songs, "Leah's Farm." I still remember most of the animal signs, especially horse and cow. If you get a chance, try to rent some Signing Time videos from your local library. They are amazing and I guarantee you they'll stick with you for a long time!

Minion Pumpkin

Saturday was our annual* visit to Filasky's Farm for the Szczubelek Family Photo Shoot. Our friend Stephanie Senner is a starving artist photographer** who we contacted to take our photographs last year. We were fed up with Wal-Mart's prices and quality and thought Stephanie could probably do a better job. And boy, did she ever. As far as we are concerned, she will be our photographer for life. But I digress. Stephanie acompanied us to the farm, much to Sam's delight. Sam loves new people, especially youthful people, and Stephanie was so good at getting him to look at her camera. We got a ton of good shots and I can't wait to have the final edits to show you all.
While at the farm, we picked out a pumpkin, another family tradition. (This year I did not get stung by a wasp in the pumpkin patch, hooray!) Sam was excited about every pumpkin he saw and ran from one end of the pumkin patch to the other, patting almost every pumpkin he saw along the way. "Oh Mommy, look at dis one!" he would squeal. "Dis one BIG!" "Dis one have bumps! Dat funny!" laughing all the while. It was so sweet to watch him. In the middle of this, Jeff stumbled upon a tall, cylindrical pumpkin and shouted out an idea to me. I thought it was an awesome idea, so that was the pumpkin that came home with us. And here is the result:

We made a minion!

Sam was THRILLED. He ran around excited and cheering while I drew the minion onto the pumpkin. He checks on it all the time to make sure it's okay out there on the front steps. We call him our minion guard.

I had just enough brain power left to remember to shellac it after Sam went to bed, so that the rain and dew don't cause the marker to melt away. Yay minion! What do you think we should name him?






*By annual, I mean that we did it last year and did it again this year. Two years counts as an annual tradition, right?

**If you live in the MOT area, don't let Stephanie starve! Hire her as your photographer today! I know I'm shamelessly selling Steph's talent right now but she really is that good. And that affordable. If you need pictures taken for an event, she's your girl.

Where I'm From

I Am From (an exercise in identity)

I am from the gas stove, from Tetley tea and early mornings.

From the dead-end street, the smell of bread baking, the sound of pages turning.

I am from small neighborhoods, meatballs, cousins who are brothers.

I am from the sassafrass tree, and games of Orange Orangutan, and watching clouds in the middle of the field.

I am from picnics, from pie crust that tastes like a cookie, from long conversations.

I am from the roses, the smell of new-cut grass, the carrots that taste like the sun.

From the because I am your mother, that’s why

and the don’t read in the dark,

and the shut that light off if you’re not going to be in there

and the nothing could ever make me stop loving you.

I am from (mostly) solemn Sunday mornings, from hymns and funny faces made from the pulpit.

I am from the icy depth of the baptistry, the summer breeze through the willow at ten to noon, from the wild and holy peal of bells.

I'm from the East, from varenyky and latkes and the bread of three risings. 

I am from the plains of the Midwest and further, from the deep of the mountains. 

I am from the silver thimble, the bamboo stars, the yellow bowl.

I am from the wedding band made thin with years.

(Want to make your own poem? Grab the template here. Mine is edited from an older version and leaves out some of the detail the original template asks for.)

These Small Hours

Over the summer we had a long drive to make to join my parents for a stay down the shore, so Jeff and I decided to load the iPads* with a few new movies in order to help pass the time in the car. Spoiled for choice and wondering what he might find most entertaining, we finally decided on A Bug's Life and Meet the Robinsons, the latter having been recommended by a friend. Sam never did get into A Bug's Life but he loves Meet the Robinsons. Had I known what an emotional bomb that movie was going to be for me, I might have made him wait until we were home to watch it.

The premise of the movie is this: Lewis is a 12 year old inventor who lives in an orphanage, having been left on the front steps of that establishment by his mother when he was just an infant. He's had many, many interviews with prospective adoptive families over the years but none found him to be "the right fit" for their family and Lewis has given up all hope of being adopted. While at his school's science fair, he meets the mysterious Wilbur Robinson who whisks him away in his time machine on a mission to stop the evil Bowler Hat Guy. During the course of their adventure, Lewis makes Wilbur promise that if their mission is successful, he will bring him back in time so that Lewis can finally catch a glimpse of his mother's face. He dreams of reuiniting with her and becoming a family again.

Sam watched the movie while I drove and again several times after while I was busy doing other things at the beach house, so it wasn't until lunchtime the day we were going to leave that I finally got a chance to sit down and start watching it for real. He snuggled into my lap, tired from a morning of sand and sun. The movie was almost over by the time I sat down, so we were at the point when the opening scene replays itself. Lewis sees himself being placed on the orphanage steps and Mildred, the orphanage matron, comes out and picks him up, cradling him in her arms. As I watched the scene, it suddenly occurred to me how intently Sam was paying attention to it all. I wondered what he was thinking and feeling about his own adoption. I felt a stab of panic, wondering if I should break in right then and remind him that this is not how it happened for him, that the circumstances surrounding his adoption couldn't have been more different. Instead, Sam chose that moment to squirm around in my arms and hug my neck. Pointing to Mildred, he said "Dat Lewis' real mommy." and smiled at me.

I hugged him back, hard, and kissed him. As soon as the movie wrapped up I excused myself to the bathroom so I could sob my heart out in private. I never want Sam to forget where he came from but it wrung my heart with emotion that he loves me so strongly; enough to clearly associate the woman who invested her life in Lewis as his mother, when the movie never once references her as such. My motherhood has been confirmed by everyone around me, Sam's biological family included. But nothing will ever, ever beat having it confirmed by my own child.

Later, at home, we would watch the movie again and he would ask me to go get my ratty pink chenille sweater, my "Mildred sweater," so that he could sit on my lap with it buttoned around both of us. When the time was right, Jeff and I did eventually remind him that he was never in an orphanage and never abandoned; that he was always loved and wanted, right from the start. We know he gets it, though he doesn't say much. But little tidbits come out, now and then, and when they do, they fill my heart to bursting.




*I know what you're thinking, "iPads? Pretentious much?" But if you saw our ghetto, non-dvd player-equipped minivan (ceiling fabric falling down so it brushes your head) you might change your mind. We prioritize here; some people go for fancy rides, we go for technology.

Samster Hamster, My Little Manster

I know it's been a while since I've talked about this kid of mine:

I just want to say that in addition to being absolutely humongous (almost ready to move to 4T; my heart cannot take it) he is still stubbornly in love with his blankey, his mommy (hooray!) and Curious George. And....ketchup. Truthfully, when we first started giving him ketchup, I didn't really think he'd like it. It's not that Sam is an especially picky eater so much as he doesn't like his foods touching or combined and I didn't really think he'd feel the dipping love. But oh, how he did. First for chicken nuggets, then hot dogs and as recently as last night, for pizza. Yes, pizza. I foolishly made the mistake of cutting his pizza into bite-sized pieces, thinking that he'd eat them with his hands or fork (whatever, we hang loose with utensils around here) and leave the ketchup for his onion rings (which he loves as well, strange child.) But after a five minute meltdown caused by losing no fewer than FIVE bites of pizza in the little container of ketcheup, I gave up trying to persuade him that it was gross and cut his pizza into strips for better handling. He proceeded to happily wolf down the rest of the piece and half of another while solemnly nodding his head yes and saying "Mmmm, Mommy! Mmmm!" at me as he ate.



He is SO his father's child.

Under the category heading: Anything

I was never a natural athlete. Ask anyone who knew me growing up and they will tell you I write the truth; I was more of a natural librarian than a jock in my younger days. I have vivid memories of my grandmother power walking (or bicycling, depending on the time of day) around the parking lot that stretched between the manse and the church, yelling to me as I sat reading on the front porch: "That wasn't what I meant by 'Get some fresh air!'" She would relentlessly pester me until I put my book down and joined her. Meanwhile, my brother was running everywhere, whether he was at track practice or not. We came from the same parents but for some reason his body always wanted move and my body always wanted a nap.

I was relentlessly mocked by the boys (and some of the girls) in gym class. I was awkward personified as a teenager, ducking whenever a ball came my way to jeers of "Linda! Hit the ball! It won't HURT you!" (A small aside; I beg to differ, class jocks. Many years later, as the wife of a seasoned Little League Umpire, I'd like to testify that the ball does indeed hurt you. The proof is on my husband's body every season as pitches go wild and hit him in the chest, the foot, the thigh and other rogue spots not covered by padding. Black and blue speaks a language all its own.) I'd much rather have skipped gym to read my book.

Fast forward a few (cough) years and you will find me now at 32 years old....a runner. (sound of needle jumping the record.)

Running was something I always *wanted* to excel at but never seemed to be able to get started with. I began attempting to become a runner in college, trying once again to figure out how two children who came from the same parents could be so completely disparate in their abilties. My brother runs like a gazelle; fast and graceful, long legs churning up the miles like a really tan Eric Estrada. I run like Frankenstein, gasping and gallumphing, feet slapping the pavement so loud you can hear me a block away. I look like I'm about to die every single time I run. College Me would try to run as long as she could, which was not very long. College Me was also extremely thin (though I didn't think so at the time) so I gave up and continued just walking everywhere in high heels as my only form of exercise. Then I got married and got heavier. Younger, Wifely Me tried the same running program as College Me, desparate to get my college figure back. I wound up feeling like my chest was going to explode as black spots danced before my eyes, so I gave up. Again. Some people are just not runners, I told myself.

But I was frustrated. I wanted to be good at running and it seemed like the most basic sport you could try. How can you fail at running? What would I do if a predator randomly got loose in my development? I would be the fodder that kept that predator busy while other, fitter people sprinted to safety. I hoped they'd have a nice memorial for me. Closed-casket, of course.

This is about the time I started reading Doctor Mama's maggot posts. I wanted to be a maggot really badly but time and time again, I'd tried running, purchased nice shoes and clothing only to fail and feel even worse for the money I'd wasted. I did not want to fail again. Another friend, Pru, who was a plebe just like me started using a program called Couch to 5k, designed to help people who want to be runners but don't know how to train. So I decided to spring for the 99 cent app and use the worn shoes I already had, hybridizing Doctor Mama's advice with the program that had given Pru such success. And I also decided not to tell too many people about it since I was pretty sure another failure was around the corner.

I started last summer in the middle of the heatwave, jogging after work at night, when it was merely 95 degrees and 88% humidity instead of 105 at 95%. I quickly discovered I loved jogging in the heat. I loved wearing minimal clothing, I loved the way the sweat poured off my body in rivers and I loved how loose and free my muscles felt with the heat of the atmosphere reaching the nearly the same heat as my body. But what I loved even more was the program I was using. For the first time I was training smart, interspersing walking intervals with running, slowly building up the time I could spend continuously running. For the first time in my life, I felt like a real, bonafide athlete.

I started reading Runner's World and devoured the book Born to Run by Christopher MacDougall. (The librarian in me was still alive and well, with the need to research everything.) I wondered about barefoot running and Vibram FiveFingers (backordered until Ragnarok, in case you're thinking of getting a pair.) I started eating differently, not wanting to waste my runs on Big Macs and cheese binges. I felt incredible, invincible.

Then I had to press pause because an ultrasound revealed that my uterus was once again full of dangerous polyps and that I'd need some abdominal surgery as well. Recovery was complicated, as it usually is with me, and by the time I was ready to hit the road again it was colder, schedules were more complicated and we expected that I'd become pregnant soon. And indeed I did, only to miscarry soon after, the baby not strong enough to hold on to my newly refurbished insides.

And that's how it happened that I started running again, as though Id' never left it, as though there has been an athlete inside me all along. Sure, my body has backtracked. I'm heavier than I was in the summer and my cardiovascular system lets me know every time I run that I should have returned soon after surgery instead of pressing pause for pregnancy. My lungs feel shredded at the end of runs I used to rock. But I still go, cold wind whipping down my ear canals, because I know now what other runners have known all along: how to leave my sorrow and anger on the pavement, how pushing through to the end of an interval is nowhere near as painful as some of the other things I've been through recently. How at the end of the run, when the cooldown is over and I'm red and blotchy at my kitchen table gulping water, I feel cleansed. Better.

So if you're driving down my street one day and you see Frankenstein lurching alongside of you, gasping, sweating and mumbling to herself, don't be alarmed. It's only me, your local neighborhood athlete.