Here white, there white, everywhere you look white

OK, boys, listen. Dad and I need you to know something about the world. It's life changing, and it's going to alter your outlook forever. Are you ready for it?

Here it is:

You know that thing we call the ground? Well get this: It isn't always going to be white.

No really, we're not lying.

I know, I know. It's been so long that you don't remember. And that's OK. I think it will look familiar to you when you finally do see it again. But just in case you don't, we need to teach you about what it was like so that you too can pass that information on to your own children. You know, in case the ground never shows itself again.

First thing of importance: You know those chains in the backyard? The ones that just disappear beneath the surface and seem to provide no real purpose? There's something at the end of them, down below the layer of white. They're called swings. No, not slings. Swings. Yes, that's right. Now, a swing used to be a really fun thing that you could sit on and then rock back and forth using your legs. Yes, your legs! No, you're right, but it's because you wouldn't have to wear snow pants, so you could actually bend them in order to pump the swing. I promise, I am not lying. You would actually be able to bend your legs outside.

Look closely, kids. If you squint, you can catch a glimpse of the fabled swings.
We took this just before they were fully covered and all hope was forever lost.

There's also this thing called grass. It's like little pieces of green plants that cover the ground. It's soft and you could play on it, and you used to be able to run and run and run on it as fast as you can! Because guess what? The grass does not come up to your knees and hold your legs stuck in place. And you don't even need boots to walk on it! I know it sounds like I'm making this up, but I assure you. There is a grass-covered promised land somewhere out there for you. I need you to swear that if it can never again be found here in Massachusetts, you will one day go out in search of it. It will be well worth the trip. And when you find it, promise you'll take off your shoes and wiggle your toes on it and think of me.

And finally, the best piece of news: the beach. That's right, kids, the beach. You know how you had to wear boots the other day because it was too cold and too slippery? Well, you might still have to wear shoes, it's true. But it's because the sand is...wait for it...TOO HOT! Can you even imagine? A heat source other than a fire? I swear to you, it's a thing to marvel at. What's that? Sand? Well, I guess I should save that for another conversation on another day. I don't want to overload your little brains with too much at once.

Maybe we can talk about that in July, after we get our fleece-lined bathing suits. But yes, sand is amazing.

I hope you can one day have this conversation with your children or your grandchildren about how yes, in fact, the ground was once covered in white.

And I hope they can't even believe it.

That's right, boys. Just keep walking until you find warmth.

Adieu old friend. You were comfy while it lasted.

~

Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well.

-Lord Byron

~

Dear Big Red,

You were a good ol' couch, and man did I love you. For fourteen years, you stood proud. A beacon of Pottery Barn-esque loveliness, marred only slightly by your second-class Bernie and Phyl's bloodline. You were always bright-eyed. You always welcomed us with open arms. You cuddled us and comforted us and kept us cozy. You welcomed friends and family near and far. From time to time, each of us in turn slumbered on you when the bed seemed just too far away.

And in the later years, you welcomed us at 2 a.m. while we comforted little ear infections and stuffy noses. This, I'm sad to say, was the beginning of the end for you. These little people, you welcomed them as you had welcomed us. They took your invitation to heart, and they, quite literally, loved you to death. Because there you sit, fourteen years later, looking like the scene of a crime while you decorate our curb like yesterday's trash. (Full disclaimer: you were, in fact, sitting there with yesterday's trash. Sorry, man.)

Stay strong, Red. May you be free to comfort others in the afterlife. I wish you happiness. I wish you love. And I wish for you to come back in the next life covered in a nice, washable fabric.

Carry on, old boy. Until we meet again.

Big Red
2001-2014

Have yourself an elfie little Christmas

'Tis the season, friends. All is merry. All is bright. All is calm. Unless you forgot to move the damn elf.

I've looked into it, and here's the thing of it. I'm pretty sure when Santa Claus decided to send forth his minion army of Elves on Shelves, it wasn't done with an innate desire to torture all parents.

"Oooooh boy," he thought, as he rested his laptop on his ample middle, typing up the final details of the plot-to-end-all-Christmas-joy-for-parents. "This'll get 'em!" Not so much, though, right? I'm pretty sure it was just created to bring along a smile or two to the children. And a bajillion dollars to its actual creator, but that's a whole other story.

I actually have a secret about the whole elf thing; it may or may not make you want to punch me.

I love our elf. 

Let me be clear on this. I have most certainly directed a middle finger (or two) at Sprinkles at roughly 11:47 pm upon the realization that he still needed to fly for the night. I have thrown my pajama-clad children out of the way at 6:03 am to race down the stairs, only to move the elf seconds before they start looking. There's no greater panic at this stage in our parenting lives. (And for this I am thankful.) But to keep the magic alive? You bet your bowl full of jelly that I haul my Christmas ass out of bed and move that thing.

And this is the reason:

Here the boys shall sit. All day, all night. Lost in the magic.

At this stage of the game, this is what actual true love looks like.

Sprinkles even inspired a serious kindergarten portrait.
They perch together, life imitating art.

Because Sprinkles is a member of our family. True story.

The boys love him with every fiber of their being. They talk about him all year long, predicting exactly when he might return from the North Pole. They tell him secrets. ("Sprinkles, we really want a dog!") (To which I whisper at a later hour, "No elfing way, Sprinks.") They screech with delight when they find him upon his initial return, and then again each and every morning until his departure on Christmas Eve. And they cry - real, actual tears of sadness - each year when he has gone back to be with his elf family. They miss him so fiercely, which some may see as freakishly unhealthy, but I figure this: their emotion is real. Their love is real. And for them to feel so much love for one more thing in life, even if he is small and red and creepy-as-hell? Why not? With each day, their hearts beat stronger and with more love and more joy and more emotion. I'm happy to raise boys who can love something - anything - with so much passion. Hopefully one day their love will be transferred to a few daughters-in-law worthy of their passion, their own house full of chubby, angelic faces, and one stealthy, red elf perched above it all.

One more night, friends. We can do this.

And then, I allow you to shove that little punk back from whence he came.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May the joy of the season be yours.

In the end, I did not sell the children

Saturday, September 20, 2014 {Day 1}

Hurrah! Am capable mother of three! Husband is gone, but can do this. Will do this! Will celebrate life and beautiful September day while cheering on various soccer games and entertaining mini spectator who is not quite two. Will embrace beauty in world and be thankful for variety of blessings.

Will maintain control. Stand by decision of McDonald's departure based on sibling bickering. Will drive quietly and calmly. Will not yell.

Am unsure of husband's trip duration. Twelve days? More? Would probably be helpful to have husband's flight info. Or hotels. Or at very least, return date. Although will be positive and uplifted in spirits as we approach possible return date. Will check when husband is off plane roughly 96 hours from now.

Children are fed and clean. Am in control of everything.

Boys are sleeping. I am eating cookies. All is right with world.

Sunday, September 21, 2014 {Day 2}

Is beautiful and sunny day! Must send boys outside! Am capable mother who promotes physical fitness and imagination!

Alone in quiet house, but cannot hear self think over spin cycle of overworked washing machine in process of dying. Will investigate selling next child who pees in bed.

Mason upset, missing Daddy. Look at wall map. Locate Vietnam. Is much farther south than previously imagined. Manage to play it cool and relay invaluable knowledge of South China Sea. Now clear that "South" in title of sea was clue as to southern location.

Children are fed. One child is clean. Evening still success in spite of dirty feet. Will cover with socks tomorrow.

Dinner consists of one 32 lb burrito. Is being consumed far too close to bedtime. Cutting into cookie eating time. Also, must buy more cookies.

Monday, September 22, 2014 {Day 3}

Have spent all available energy enforcing homework and broccoli eating. Baby's bath was equivalent of wrestling wet seal, as he did not want to leave tub and used slippery skin as ally. Considering allowing baby to sleep in tub. Wondering if this would be acceptable. Will begin search for tub-sized pillow.

Will serve Lucky Charms for dinner tomorrow. Do not have energy for round 2 of broccoli fight. Will assume some level of nutritional value while enjoying stress-reducing benefits of combat-free home environment. Am genius!

Have to work tomorrow night. New sitter coming. Sent long, detailed text to sitter. Next time will send text to correct sitter. May consider earlier bedtime so as to resume functional thought.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014 {Day 4}

Vacuumed for sitter so children will not become lost in piles of crumbs. Oliver not comfortable in clean surroundings. Addressed discomfort with spontaneous projectile crackers.

Practicing Oprah's breathing technique. Would like for Oprah to send breathing coach. Would also like Oprah to send cleaning woman.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014 {Day 5}

Tired. Oh so tired. Me. Not children. (Why not children??)

Please send help. And wine. Please send help and wine.

Thursday, September 25, 2014 {Day 6}

Searched for library book for more time than was spent actually reading library book. Will consider organizational improvements. Or will ban further intellectual pursuits for children, as proving too stressful for maternal figure. Ban easier to enforce than organizational conformity.

Freezer is void of ice cream. Have entered crisis stage of existence.

Friday, September 26, 2014 {Day 7}

Day 2 of ice cream crisis. Considered entering grocery store with three children. Decided to churn own ice cream instead. Should be easier.

Baby turns two today (!!) - has been blowing out fake candles for majority of day. Party not for one more week. Should be professional whistler by time husband returns.

Baby spent portion of afternoon rolling in rock driveway during tantrum fit. Seemed comfortable.

Saturday, September 27, 2014 {Day 8}

Consumed mayonnaise expired in 2012. Should now verify boys' comprehension of 911. Hoping they will take break from Sponge Bob to notice body. Also hoping boys will survive on dry cereal until husband returns to find Lord Of The Flies conditions and wife expired due to mayo incident. Will try to scribble last wishes on memo board.

Baby found wandering in living room singing "oooooooh shit, oooooooh shit, oooooooh shit."

Possible that parenting not my calling. Must investigate other avenues.

Have given up. Am eating frosting out of can.

Sunday, September 28, 2014 {Day 9}

Is beautiful morning! Have renewed parenting inspiration and can see light at end of tunnel!

Have completed early morning virtual grocery trip for afternoon delivery. Vegetables are coming! Have thrown vile frosting in trash can. Shall remain healthy and happy mother of three.

Grocery delivery brought new level of happiness.

Apples! Tomatoes! Bananas!

And ice cream. Sweet, sweet ice cream.

Baby noticed Daddy missing. Demanding Daddy come in from car in driveway. Is unable to comprehend empty car. Has thrown sippy cup in protest. Four times.

Special Lego project with Mason. Day full of Lego stress negates happy grocery aura.

Monday, September 29, 2014 {Day 10}

Will wear anything to work not needing iron. Bar is set to basic survival. House clean in sporadic moments.

Is late, am watching television. House is quiet. Must enjoy quiet, not waste quiet on sleep.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014 {Day 11}

Why? Why did I watch TV? So very tired! Must see bright side. Bright side has coffee. Much coffee.

Sent each boy to school with wrong lunchbox. Now suffering ridiculous lunchbox guilt while boys fight over seats on couch. Is too dramatic to throw couch out window? Was on fence about baby #4. Am currently off fence. Will possibly never see fence again.

Somebody please find source of mystery mooing in living room.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014 {Day 12}

Husband comes home today! Hurrah!

He will find: Clean(ish) children who have eaten food, nutritious or otherwise, playing in clean(ish), couchless living room echoing with mystery mooing sound.

He will not find: wife, as she will be getting pedicure. In France.

Au revoir, mon amour. Don't forget to check the mayo before you eat it.

One last one

To my sweet little buddy on this, your last night of being one.

Just one. One year old. How did that happen so fast?  First, you were one hour, and we marveled at the tiniest little creature in our arms, so new to this world. We rested our eyes for just a minute, and you were one day. And we knew you just a bit more. We brought you home to this chaos of brothers, and life took over. You were suddenly one week. One month. One year. We marked every milestone. Every occasion. Every miraculous time you turned one once more.

But tomorrow you are two. And that is the end of the one era that happens once in your life.

It is just one day of difference. But as time marches on, one day at a time, there's one thing we know so well, and that is this: there is no going back. Not even for one minute.

Because you are one, you won't remember today.

But if you could, I would want you to remember standing in your crib on the eve of your birthday, lifting up your perfect little chin, asking me for one more kiss - just one. Like you. Just for one instant more.

The place where time stands still

As August rolls to a lazy end and the carefree days are starting to blend ever-so-slightly with reality, I find myself thinking about summer and its traditions wrought with their magical ability to freeze time. Traditions that you look forward to, where you arrive almost as if you have never left, and without taking notice of the previous 364 days, you feel like you have been put right back into place, every last bit of it unchanged.

For us, it is a lake tucked away in Maine. To give you a general idea of the crowd - my husband's entire family - you need to know that a) he is one of four children, and b) each of them has three or four kids. The whole congregation of 24 crazies packs up what is necessary (97 pails, 46 bathing suits, 36 cases of soda, 172 cases of beer and 2 boats...just the actual bare minimum of what is needed...) and heads up to the lake that awaits us year after year. This is the thing that our boys wait for; this is their "summer thing."

"Mom, which boat will we go on to get ice cream?" (Whichever one you want.) "Who will still be wearing pajamas in the morning when we play?" (No idea, but my money's on you fools.) "Will we all play our games together?" (Without question.) "Will we make s'mores?" (By the dozens.)

We field these questions year-round (Andrew was just planning next year's pajamas this past week. These sorts of plans will continue sporadically throughout the next eleven months.) The closer we get, the more rapidly the questions are fired at us. Will we get fudge? Pops? Can we jump off the dock? Can we swim right away? Who will get there first? Will we be last? Will Grammies make breakfast in her "cavin?" How many chocolate chip pancakes can we have? Are we there yet? How about now? Now?"

When we finally (finally!) pull onto the drive and hear the crunch of the gravel under our tires, the questions stop and the amazement sets in. We step out of the car, look around, and all I can think is Man, this place does not change. The field, the beach, the dock, the cabins. It's all sitting there, frozen in time, just waiting to be brought to life by dirty little feet running wild. And in the second it takes me to process this thought, they've taken off at full speed, off on a new adventure.

It's one week a year, and the week flies by. We sit, we drink, we eat, we drink, we laugh, we drink. And just like that, it's over. And each year as we leave for home, I think A whole year will go by before I see this place again, but just as quickly, we are packing again and coming back to this place. It is so full of memories of cousins running and laughing (and fighting, sometimes, but not even as much as you'd expect.) Scary stories at the fire (why seven and eight year olds talk so much about decapitation is scary indeed) and s'mores. Little ones jumping off the dock into calf-deep water and being as excited as if it were an actual Olympic dive.

And at some point, you can't help but notice that among these tallest pine trees in the middle of the woods that have not changed even a branch in fifty years, and we grown-ups who may have aged slightly (but certainly not to the naked eye, thank you very much), the kids? Who are these tall strangers running around before us? My five year old who once allowed his older cousins to paint his nails pink? Not a trace of him in his now almost-eight-year-old self. And I dare you to try to paint his nails now. My two year old who was terrified of his uncle's boat to the point of hysteria? Now five, running full force, desperate to get his life jacket on fast enough to make it aboard before they leave. And the baby? The one who was a "mere" gigantic basketball in my stomach two years ago? The one who ventured on his very first inch of crawling last year among those cabins? He now runs faster than I do on most occasions, and never (ever!) in a safe direction. He spent this year's week plotting, along with his one-year-old cousin, how to best enter the lake unobserved by us fun-ruining, good-for-nothing adults. I have no doubt that next year, they will actually steal one of the boats.

So as we adults relax around the fire pit under the stars, day after day over the course of the week, year after year with our families, amused to tell our same stories for the sixtieth time and laugh and laugh and laugh, as if it were the first time any of us have heard them, we are surrounded by the next generation who are running and laughing (and fighting, sometimes, but not even as much as you'd expect...) and just for a moment, I can actually see their stories materializing in the crisp Maine air, something you can almost grab on to and send ahead to another campfire twenty years from now.

And who knows? Maybe among those trees and that lake and those cabins, we will sit with them as they tell their same stories and laugh and laugh and laugh, all the while marveling at how much they have grown and how much has changed in this place where nothing changes at all, in this place where time stands still.

Sign THIS, lady.

In other non-news, we're waiting for words over here from the 20 month old. We've got a few. "Done," as he hands over an empty cup. "Hiiiiii baba," to say hi to either brother. "Habitat, habitat," which were lyrics that our seven year old practiced over and over (and over) for his first grade show. Other than a few extra random tidbits, there's not much communicating going on with actual words. Throwing? Yes. Yelling? Certainly. Words? Not so much.

So I think to myself, hmmmm. What could improve this situation? Think, think, think. Sign language! That's it!  I never used baby sign language with the older two. With my oldest, it didn't occur to me. And, bonus, he really could have used it. (Sorry, kid.) The middle one just didn't need it and has been demanding that his needs be met since 2010 without so much as a five minute break. We have friends who have done it with great success, their babies telling them "eat" and "all done" as everyone cheers the little star on. So why not? Let's get on this horse, eh?

I chose one word, the sign for "more," so as to avoid the pointing/grunting/fussing trifecta, when in his head he's saying, "For the love of God, woman, I just need more crackers! MORE CRACKERS! Why can't you get on that?"

This is what he's supposed to be doing:

{picture happy, chubby baby calmly expressing his wants and needs with a simple hand movement}

And this is what he took away from the lesson:

(Oliver gets in touch with his inner Ross Geller)

So, have I taught him a life skill? Yes. Most assuredly to come in handy once he enters the real world. Or once his brothers hit the teen years. But for now, I have to content myself with a baby smiling at his loving mama, proudly bumping his fists together, telling me in not so many words to "f" off and get him some more damn crackers.

It would seem that the only thing left to do is teach him the sign for please.