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.

Is this thing on?

Once upon a time I was a writer. I've been thinking that maybe I could be again. The truth is that I'm not sure what to write about these days.

Get me started...any requests?

an apology and an announcement

Well, it seems that I have failed at Blog 365. So much for that! I am sorry but with work and a few new projects, I just don't have the time to blog every day the way I want to. I know you are missing your Sam updates (I can't even pretend this is all about me!) Rest assured that he is doing fine and behaving just like an almost-two-year-old should. Read: plenty of tantrums. Good times! He makes up for it with sweet kisses and sleeping pretty well at night (looking like an angel all the while) and we are suckers for that so it all balances out in the end.

In other news, I have not been idle during my time away from the blog. After months of being pestered by friends, I finally decided to set up an Etsy shop. For those of you not familiar with Etsy, it's an online marketplace for artisans to sell handmade goods. (Doesn't that make me sound fancy? I'm an ARTISAN!) In my case, the handmade goods are mostly baby items although I do plan to extend my shop's collection to include home goods as well. I've found that I enjoy sewing more and more as the years go by, enough that I became interested in starting my own little business. For a while last year I had my goods in a small shop downtown. The booties I make proved to be especially popular and I got lots of custom orders. I was asked to start an Etsy shop then but I didn't have the time because Sam was still struggling with the last bits of reflux and I was too tired to do anything more than check in at Smarty Pants once a month. Eventually Smarty Pants was sold and I haven't made an agreement with the new owner. I decided to start an online shop instead because that way people all over the country (world?) can see what I make. And once the website was up and running, I fell in love with it and with the idea of owning my own small business. 

So if you have the chance, please take the time to check out my new shop: The Left-Handed Thread. If there's anything you like but want in a different color, or even if there's anything you want made that isn't displayed, please send me an email at thelefthandedthread@yahoo.com. And if nothing there suits a need, just smile and nod at me in the comments section and pat my head as though I'm not crazy for piling this much on my schedule.