Summer of free play

This summer I conducted a little social experiment. Other than vacations, I scheduled myself and the ball of fire to do nothing! That's right, not one camp, class, sport or volunteer activity. Zero scheduling. 

Things did not go quite as planned.

First some back ground. Since my son was four we have partook in some form of extra activity. Soccer, swimming, lego classes, art classes, volunteering for Harvesters, vision therapy, tutoring and Sylvan. All had their time and purpose to enrich, engage or advance skills. But it also resulted in very little time at home in the evenings, soccer tournaments all weekend on Mother's Day weekend and many late night crying sessions because there was still cleaning, laundry and chores to be done. (Yes, that was me.) 

Everyone of those activities had value. I'm glad we did them. Eventually we will do them all again in some form. But not this summer. 

I was reading a great article recently on overbooked Americans. The author boldly suggested that being "busy" was being a "lazy" person. How is that possible? Busy seems the antonym of lazy. He suggested that it was lazy in the fact that you spent no time developing yourself, meditating, spending time in silence, reading, relaxing. Basically you were on autopilot so often that your brain was becoming lazy. 

This spoke to me. It was exactly the feeling that predicated the summer of free play. We had days and days of summer to do nothing but run in the sprinker (me) or wade in the creek (ball of fire.) 

Now, where we went awry is that we are one of the FEW families on the planet who don't schedule. Many attempts at pool days with friends or sleep overs were thwarted by baseball, swim team, birthday parties or soccer camp. More often than not, it was me and the BOF rambling around the yard or watching movies. Often he would play outside alone, imagining some quest that ended in an epic battle with dragons. 

But I stuck to my guns. No scheduling. He vacationed with me, his dad and spent his customary week on the farm with my parents. He had a schedule, it was just very loose and generous. 

This week I asked him if he had a good summer, as school is looming just a mere three weeks away. He looked at me, smiled and said "Mom, it was one of the best summers yet!"

Maybe this social experiement can be called a success after all. 

Love’s Labor is Not Lost

It’s been two years since my granny passed away. It’s funny how time moves so fast while we seem to trudge through it. Two years gone. How many years before that lost to Alzheimers? Too many.

I had a particularly close relationship with my grandparents. I practically lived with them as a child, then I did live with them my first year in college. After my granddad passed away, I again lived with granny until I was married.

After she was gone, I started thinking about the things I wish I had of hers. When she was alive, I felt it was grotesque to take her things. Like she would somehow snap out of dementia and need them all again. Now I wish I had just a few.

 

One in particular was an old metal glider that sat on the back patio. She and grandpa would drink coffee, smoke cigarettes and glide every morning. After he passed away, she could be found there often – sitting on his side – smoking, drinking coffee and gliding.

She sat there while grandbabies played in the small pool at her feet. She sat there in the evenings a few times when she had wine. I joined her there for her afternoon smoke in the summer when I came home from class before I zipped off to work.

 

And always, we would glide.

For my 40^th birthday, I asked my mom for one present, this rusty old glider. It was not granny’s, but it is reminiscent enough to fill my needs.

It was a weekend’s labor to sand, strip, paint and finish it. (That whole "lead-based paint thing".. yeah.)

My goal was not only to have a reminder, but a place holder for the next generation. I want my family to sit next to me and glide while I drink my coffee every morning, talk about my tomatoes or read my book in the sunshine.

I need my son to find his spot on the glider. And maybe when I'm gone, he will take this piece of me to his house for his children and grandchildren to remember. 

It was a labor of love, but it was worth it to replace a small piece of her that was lost. 

The Soundtrack of My Life

This morning the ball of fire sang chapter and verse of Adele’s “Someone Like You.” He remembered every word, found every note. I played that album somewhat obsessively for a few months, but have since moved onto Norah Jones’ new love fest. But those few months obviously left an impression.

It made me think a lot about music when I was a kid. The soundtrack of my life was set for me in those early years too… Fleetwood Mac, Allman Brothers, Charlie Daniels Band, Santana, Black Sabbath and Led Zepplin just to name a few.

I remember the first time I heard Pink Floyd’s "Momentary Lapse of Reason". I was at a high school party with my first REAL boyfriend. We were chatting with a friend in a bedroom that was absolutely trashed. As we sat on the unmade bed, feet in a pile of discarded clothing, I was momentarily jarred from my disgust (who LIVES like that??)  by the sound of "Learning to Fly."

My best friend Jen Bahl let me listen to Metallica’s "Unforgiven" during yearbook class. I didn’t hear much after that-- rewind again and again.

"Say Hello 2 Heaven" by Temple of the Dog eliminated Pearl Jam forever, and began a life-long love affair with my musical muse, the infamous Chris Cornell. ("Like Suicide by Soundgarden"… do I need to say more??)

Foo Fighters’ album "One by One" held reign over one of the worst and best years of my life.

Norah Jones’ "Come Away with Me" played almost continuously in the car while I drove around and around and around to lull to sleep a very grumpy, sick baby ball of fire.

Audioslave’s "Cochise" broke me from a post-work commute trance and required me to immediately call the station and ask “was that Chris Cornell I just heard?“

White Stripes, Raconteurs, Muse, the Black Keys ... the list goes on for miles. Music is so important to me, I tattooed it on my skin. Note by note in painful black ink.

Every day music plays in my house. Every day I'm setting the tracks for the soundtrack of his childhood. I hope he remembers it as fondly. It's filled with likes of Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin Norah Jones, Adele, Chris Cornell, Dave Grohl, Queen, Stevie Wonder, Red Hot Chilli Peppers and more classical music than he will ever remember.

Not a bad set list if you ask me.

The Princess and the Pee

Once upon a time, a mother who shall remain namless, told her son that if he wanted to some day own a dog, he should start with a fish. So begins our tale.

This has not been the year of pets.

The fish made it three months, as did the bearded lizard. Last fall, we welcomed Owl, aka Princess Fuzzy Butt, into our home. I felt confident in this adoption. I had owned a cat before so I knew the care and feeding that was involved. And for a while, things were great.

Until she climbed a screen in the window which promptly fell out, two stories to the ground. It is true, by the way, cats always land on their feet. But was that the omen I should have seen?

Yesterday I dropped PFB at the vet for routine kitten maintenance without a care. Two hours later, Dr. Warren informed me that PFB -- despite her kittenish enthusaism, vim and vigor -- was actually in renal failure for reasons unknown. He had run some routine blood work and the numbers were grim. Her kidneys were not up to the task. He was running some more tests and would let me know the results.

So began my downward spiral of mommy guilt. Obviously, losing three pets in one year is no way to raise a kid. Obviously I should have gotten him another fish and called it good. Obviously he would become a serial killer because every pet he ever had died. Obviously. Worst. Mother. Ever.

I shed tears. I vacuumed. I wondered if we could take her home to live her remaining days/weeks at home instead of the cold vet's office. Mostly I stewed.

Four hours later. Dr. Warren called again.

DW: "So I had the lab run her blood work and she's fine."

Me: "Uh, what? What? She's fine? But renal failure.... that's bad ... and you said... and she was not well... and..."

DW: "Well, it seems my machine is not working properly."

Me: "You realize I spent the whole afternoon grappling with how to tell my son we had to put his cat down. You REALIZE that don't you?"

DW: "Yeah. I did think about that. But it's all good. I feel bad for the people who sold me that machine. They are about to have a very uncomfortable conversation."

Me: "All afternoon, stewing, Dr. Warren. Stewing."

DW: "Hey, she's fine. Stop stewing now. We'll see you tomorrow when you pick her up."

Me: "I know how to find you, Dr. Warren. I'm just saying."

DW: silence "Yeah, so see you tomorrow then!"

The Year of the Aha Switch

When does it happen? When do you flip that switch? You know the one I mean -- the one where you stop worrying about how skinny you are and instead find ways to keep your body healthy and strong. That little clicker that moves from caring about what model of car you drive, to what types of snacks are in your glove box for the rider in the little seat in the back. It’s the shiny moment when you realize that sitting on the back porch watching the sun set in the summer shimmer while the boys in your life play in the backyard is one of the best moments you will ever have. It’s when you realize that growing a little garden, watching the tender shoots bloom and offer their very best fruits because you loved them just right is a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

When does that happen? 32? 40? 55?

Some people never get there. For me, it was 36 -- the past year. After everything in my life changed, completely and irrevocably. Divorce, my concept of family, my safe haven of home, financial stability -- all rewritten. And what is left is the peace of knowing that all those things come and go in different forms.

To be loved is to love first.

Good is sitting on the porch in the sun watching my son play in the yard … of a rental house, or the park, or finally, backyard of our house.

It’s being there, switch on.

One list, two list, me and you list

I believe art comes in many forms -- writing, painting, music and photography to name of few.

For me, art is the perfect playlist.

I have arranged and rearranged my playlists from the first day I had my steely blue iPod. (Still the best gift ever.)

Before the iPod, it was the ever-appreciated mixed CD. I mixed and mashed my CDs and gave them away like candy. For me, that’s the other indisputable quality of art: It gives. Peace, joy, sadness, love, whatever suits you, it gives again and again.

Because the ball of fire and I like to bebop around the house sans TV, I always have music playing. When we are home, I have to use my BOF-appropriate playlists. For the longest time it was Aretha Franklin, then the Love album remix of the Beatles, lately Nora Jones.

This week I started one called the Lullaby League. Slow, sweet, mostly blues, heavy on the guitar and long on love. Blue Jean Blues by the Jeff Healey Band, Daydream by Robin Trower, some Sarah McLachlan, Nora (always), Starlight by Slash. And then a little John Mayer.

Because in our little world, lullabies are never just about babies in tree tops.

Give a little bit

We pause from our usual diatribe of sarcasm, mocking self-loathing, jest and sexual innuendo to bring this message. I apologize if it's a bit off the mushy radar.

I had one of "those" moments in church today: self-awareness. I try to avoid them whenever possible. No one should be too self-aware, as you will suddenly realize how ridiculous you are. However, while singing, a particular line stuck in my head: live a life more abundant.

To me, abundance always means love. You can never have too much. In fact, most of us are in a deficit. But it also means forgiveness, kindness, affection, gentleness, encouragement, color, music, art, dance, sunshine... Abundance.

The ball of fire was sitting on the floor, playing in the seat next to me during this moment, so of course I had to apply my abundant revelation to my parenting. Do I give enough? Do I tell him I love him enough? Hug enough? Encourage enough?

One of my most important jobs as a parent is to raise a man who is kind, gentle, loving, affectionate and generally a good person. No one is without selfishness, anxiety, some level of hate or even meanness. But if all those negatives are tempered by the good things in adundance, then maybe humanity will survive a little longer.

Viola! My message of hope for mother's day.

I should note that while I was having this life-changing moment, my zipper on my jeans was gaping and I had drank so much cappuccino beforehand that I was vibrating in my chair.

Abundance does not equate to perfection.

Distracted living

There is a big push in Missouri -- and at work -- this month to curb distracted driving.

Distracted driving is the leading cause of traffic crashes in Missouri and nationwide, attributing for 27.6% of all Missouri traffic crashes in 2008. One such distraction: texting while driving.

On Aug. 28, 2009, Missouri passed a law that prohibited drivers under 22 from sending, reading or writing an electronic message. Multiple bills have been filed for the 2010 Missouri Legislative season that would make texting illegal for all drivers, regardless of age.

It's an initiative I support. However, I think if you are a responsible person at all, you should know that trying to type on a tiny keyboard while cruising at 80 is a stupid idea. But alas, it's the the stupid ones that seem to survive again and again. Kinda like the roaches and the nuclear holocaust theory.

I try to be level-headed about my cell phone in the car. I have been known to text while driving but generally I hold off.

There is one distraction I cannot give up. No matter how hard I try. No matter what I do. It's always there, lurking in the back seat, taunting me, baiting me to look. And he happens to be 6 so he is also bad about flailing.

Truthfully if you want me to be safer on the road, they need to install child restraints AND a sound proof barrier between the seats. Take, for example, today, shortly after school pick up.

He: "Mom, I'm hungry."

Me: "Ok, we are headed to the grocery store but I have a snack..."

He: "NO! I hate your snacks! I want a hamburger!"

Me: "Uh..."

He: "Hamburger AND fries AND soda. I'm starving!"

Me: "Buu..."

He:"YouneverhaveanythinggoodtoeatandI'mstarvingandIcan'tgotothestorewithagrowlytummyandIwantmyDS!"

Me: "I have gold fish in my pur..."

He: "I want them!! I need them now!!"

Me: "Wait until we get..."

(sound of seatbelt unbuckling..)

He: "I'll get it!!"

Me: "No, sit down... WAH!! Why are you climbing into the seat!"

(swerve sharply to the left and grab shifter as he kicks it into neutral)

Me: "Buckle up this instant!"

He: "I can't get this open, openitopenitopenitopenit!!!"

(At this point, contemplate driving into a building just to have some peace and quiet)

Me: "We are almost at the sto..." (Bag of goldfish shoved in front of eyes)

Me: "FINE, FINE!! GIVE THEM TO ME AND STOP TALKING!!!!!!!!"

(rip open bag with teeth, flinging gold fish all over car, careen into grocery parking and jam on brakes before hitting parked car.)

He: "Oh, are we here already? Can I just get a snack here?"

Motherfu---

Caution: May tear easily

It's the small slights that make the lasting impressions. That symphony of tiny hurts the reverberate through your mind, casting doubt and worry.

For me, it's the worry that my ass is too big.

I cannot claim to be waif-like. I have a booty. You cannot bounce a quarter off of it. A quater can sit on it, if you like, but eventually I'll have to grab it and use it to buy a Dr. Pepper. (Dr. Pepper = Love, just FYI.)

I know my ass-titude is robust, but I don't need the reminder.

Take, for example, this morning. The day started well. Everyone was up on time, somewhat cheerful, well fed and ready to walk out the door. The ball of fire, as per usual, hadn't stopped talking since he woke up and continued his banal chatter down the stairs into the car. As I slid the ass in question up into my seat, I heard a telltale shredd that gave me pause.

I looked at the kid and said, "I just ripped my pants."

He said, "Let me see!!"

I am not going to lie, I wear panties that are not appropriate for a 6-year old. I grabbed my jean shards and pulled them together to show him the split, while trying to hide the slip of pink that was showing through.

He said (I'm getting a little weepy here) "Momma! Your bottom is too big for your pants!"

Splendor and bendy

The call of the artist knows no bounds. An unused medium is no hinderance for the creative mind.

Behold! Mommy as seen through Bendaroos!

Fire-breathing ball of fire

Unwillingly entombed. That is how we are feeling this week. Venturing briefly to work and home again. We spend hours finding ways to entertain ourselves. Games are played, movies watched, DS played until fingers are twitchy.

This morning, the ball of fire was watching "The New Adventures of Scooby-Doo" when he saw someone on the show blow a fire ball.

"No one can really do that," he stated. "Nope, that is impossible."

This past summer, at one of my trips to First Friday's in our art district, a local drum/dance troupe not only breathed fire, they tossed it, flipped and generally made nice with flaming sticks.

He did not believe me.

To youtube! Found an awesome video for him to watch.

His response, "Holy crap, that was wicked!"

Holy crap? Wicked? Where the heck does he hear that crap? I just have NO idea....

Ho, Ho and a Bottle of Rum

Read the most ridiculous story this week about a submission to the British Medical Journal -- which they should be ashamed for accepting -- about the negative influence of Santa, specifically how he promotes obesity and drunkeness.

Dr Grills declared: "Other dangerous activities that Santa could be accused of promoting include speeding, disregard for road rules, and extreme sports such as roof surfing and chimney jumping."

Now I am never going to claim that I have a great love of Christmas. I get myself in a tizzy about decorating, buying gifts, spending money, wrapping, you name it. I hate when the season starts and I count the days until it is over.

But, I do encouorage my son to believe in Santa.

Childhood is so fleeting and the magic inherently lies in those simple flights of fancy and the power of fairy dust. Hope, fantasy, imagination: children possess those in abundance, and they all slowly errode with experience and time.

There is no such thing as prince charming or love at first sight. But with perseverance, hard work, good decisions, love and lots of laughs, you can make a good life.

Until that time, he can have Santa.

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues

The ball of fire and I watched "Arthur and the Invisibles" for the millionth time this week.

If you haven't seen this one, I highly recommend. It's funny and the "cast" -- which I use loosely since it is mostly a cartoon -- is top notch.

One of my favorite characters is Maltazard, which is a bad guy, but wonderfully voiced by David Bowie. In a particular scene, the heros start a fight with some of Malhazard's bad guys and Snoop Dogg (as a cartoon, he is even uglier) plays the intro to "Let's Dance." It's part of the dance fighting scene too. So yummy.

Ok, just those few beats makes me want to download that song. Then, I think, "Hey, it's Christmas and what's better at Christmas time then a really great mix of Christmas music!?"

David Bowie mix, coming right up. That's what we are listening to for Christmas morning. Bing Crosby can suck the left one, becuase "China Girl" will reign.

I could use some suggestions though. "China Girl, Let's Dance, Under Pressure..." What else?

Weigh in. I'll publish the final delicious ground-control-to-Major-Tom list when I'm finished.

Do I need to say anything else?

Influence

Stepped out of my Missouri safety and made the trek to Chicago this weekend.

I spent three days, neck craned, soaking in the vibrancy only a big city can offer. As with any destination, I ask myself one question: Could I live here?

I’m a small-town girl, but I so love the big city. I could make a live among the high rises, navigating the sidewalks in my Micheal Kors pumps.

But I wouldn’t. Once upon a time I would have traded my life in the sleepy pace of Kansas City for the rush of Chicago, New York or L.A.

Today I look to my right and see the tow-headed influence that has required me to vastly rearrange my priorities. Could I live there? Yes. Could I raise my son there? Not just yet.

When your life requires you to cross town on a bus to play in the yard, that’s not the life for me. I’d much rather sit on the back porch and watch him swing. Or play a lively game of bocce instead of surrounding myself with steel and glass.

Even if that means no Micheal Kors pumps to keep me warm in the winter.

Fancy Pants

Ball of Fire (in reference to his new bed spread): "Oooh, that's very fashionable!"

Me: "Fashionable, huh. Nice word!"

BOF: "Yeah, it's a fancy word."

Me: "Oh yeah? What's another fancy word?"

BOF: "Industrial park."

The sponge that ate my brain

Tonight during pre-bedtime TV viewing, the ball of fire was enjoying yet another episoide of Spongebob Squarepants. It happened to be one of my favorite, where Spongebob and Patrick play on hooks. Before I know what's happening, I said, "Hey, this is one of my favoirte episoides! Although 'Sailor Mouth' is my all-time favorite."

Without missing a beat, hubby says..

"Oh yeah! That's a good one, but my favorite is 'Spongebob Meets the Strangler. ' "

I laughed a little to myself, "That's a great one."

As I started up the stairs, I was brought to a dead halt by the realization that we just conducted an ENTIRE conversation about which cartoon is our favorite. Cartoon!! The couple that once quoted lines from "The Godfather" have become fans of a cartoon sponge with an annoying laugh.

There's no turning back now. We're officially parental units.

Phantom Menace

The ball of fire is entranced by "Phantom of the Opera." Last week, in a harmless moment, I made a cup of tea with gallons of honey and decided to watch the movie version of Andrew Lloyd Webber's masterpiece. It's PG. We had a pint-sized guest. I was confident that if they ran through the room, they wouldn't see anything that would scar their impressionable minds. Little did I know.

They did run through. And stayed. And watched the whole thing. And loved it.

Great, right? It's better than Barney! Oh. Good. God. If I have to hear "Music of the Night" one more time, I may gouge out my own ears.

There is an upside. When the CD is finally silenced, he will sing the songs using his own words, which usually involves the activity of the moment. Have you ever heard the tune of "Point of No Return" sung about legos?

Strike terror in the heart

Last night, the ball of fire's preschool teacher said the most horrible thing any one has EVER said about my child. She said ... he's really good at math, not so great at reading.

As a writer, can you guess the subjects at which I excelled in school? Let's just say the only pi involved was the edible kind.

I am in mourning.

Family

Courtesy of Aunt Gina (who insists on calling herself Granny G. eventhough she's only 35. For crying out loud, woman!)