Tim

I laugh (or groan) about Tim and the ginormous collection of books, comics, puzzles, etc. that he stows in his bed. As I settled into my bed the other night, I noticed the pile of books I had selected for the whopping ten minutes I planned to read before falling asleep. My pile is a tad neater than Tim's, but, yes, it's still a pile.

To My Sweet Ainsey-Girl...

Two things you will never fully comprehend:

1. How totally unexpected you were.
2. How much I wanted you.

Love,

Mama

51% Sweetheart ...

... 49% rascal. Don't push it.

Peanut, Peanut Butter!

The house is quiet, and I revel in a few minutes of “me” time.

The prudent side of me urges: Check on John! Quiet is bad, very bad!

The self-indulgent side of me counters: Chill!

Inevitably self-indulgent wins the battle, but prudent wins the war. I eventually look for my sweet toddler and find that five minutes of alone time doesn’t come free.

Of late, peanut butter has been John’s partner in crime. Their favorite victim? The couch. Not the old, battered couch that could brave an encounter with Peter Pan and emerge with little to show for its troubles. Oh, no, no, no. John goes for the nice couch.

Hope triumphs over experience when it comes to finger food as well. Sliced cheese and grapes are usually safe bets, but why- oh- why do I continue to give John dry cereal in a bowl? Oh, the sound of Crispix underfoot!

This morning John and I sat down at the table to paint with water colors. We had great fun coloring Spiderman and Doc Oc. I stepped away for just a minute and, sure enough, heard a gushing sound as the water we were rinsing brushes with sloshed all over the dining room.

I have often reflected on how my children lead me to be detached from created things. There’s the son who has a tendency to lose items, the toddler who leaves his mark on everything and anything, and the infant who outgrows clothes in the blink of an eye.

“Store up for yourself treasures in heaven,” Jesus tells me in the Gospel of Mathew, “where moth and rust (and two-year-olds) will not destroy.”

Thanks to Tim, Kolbe, John, and Ainsey-girl for reinforcing the message.

A Good Question

Tim: Mom, what's an anvil used for?. In movies they're always falling on people.

I love dictionary.com. Turns out the primary use of an anvil is not to smash hapless people. An anvil is a heavy, smooth piece of iron used as a surface to hammer and shape other pieces of metal.

Right Back in the Lion's Den

I love the music of Marie Bellet. She is a wife, a mother of six, and a gifted song writer.

Her lyrics are right on for this stage in my life.

I was driving around the other day, ruminating about troubles a-brewing and the line "right back in the Lion's den" struck a chord with me. She's talking about her husband. It reminds me to be grateful for the great provider that my dear husband is. He wakes long before dawn to drive 45 minutes into what often is indeed "the lion's den." On a light day, he puts in ten hours; on a tough day it might be 18. He hops back into the truck and drives another 45 minutes home. He usually calls to see if he can stop at the grocery store on the way home.

Because he does this, I can tend the home front full-time. On my bad days I resent the hours and the burden this demanding job places on me. Today I am aware that he has returned to the den day after day for nearly 20 years. And I am grateful for Dave's heroic sacrifice.

High Brow Humor

During the twelve years and nine months that I was the sole female resident of the house, I learned quite a bit about the nature of men and boys. One observation was reinforced this weekend: male humor is unlike female humor.


A major moment of enlightenment came many years ago while hiking the trails of Yosemite National Park. Tim was walking next to me and 18-month-old Kolbe was in a backpack. Horses had just been through the area, and I pointed out their mess to Tim.

"Don't step in the horse poop," I warned.

Kolbe burst out laughing like I had never heard him before. Deep down belly laughs. Guffaws.

"It's hard wired," I thought. Boys hear the word "poop" and they can't contain themselves.

This weekend was the Boshears fly-In here in Augusta. It's an ever-shrinking but still fun air show. The Boy Scouts camp out at the airport. Saturday evening is something called "The Cracker Barrel." The various scout troops assemble and entertain each other with skits. Apparently there are a few tried and true routines that get reheated each year. There's a "Hans and Fritz" number that's an oldie but a goodie. Last year being an election year, it morphed into "Hans and Joe the Plumber."

Kolbe came home and recounted some of the skits for me. One of them was LOL funny. Now LOL has to be one of the most tired expressions of the day, but in this case it fits-I really did laugh out loud and offended Kolbe in the process.

"You didn't laugh like that about our skit," he complained. "And ours had underwear. Real underwear."

Yep, underwear. It's right up there with poop for knee-slapping funny.

I can't say much for the rest of the show except that at one point Kolbe came up to Dave and asked, "What's a bra?"

And Dave probably guffawed.