Month: July 2013

Curds and Grasshoppers

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A white and purple tub of cottage cheese, once emptied and clean makes a wonderful home. There is space for an abundance of grass, a couple sticks, and one small medicine cup to serve as refreshment. 

“He’s drank like, 6 cm., Mom so I need to get him some more water,” says Kyle.

I wonder how my son knows this amidst all the teaspoon and milliliter lines. No matter. I am not the expert.

Over the last day and a half I’ve watched as three, light-brown heads have spent endless fascinated minutes over that plastic bowl. I’ve heard giggles only an animal can bring out of my girls. And I’ve reminded Kyle to please not open the container on my bed. Please.

 I’ve only seen Mr. Grasshopper through the cracks of sun-kissed hands but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s miserable. He is the butt of their jokes, their rag-doll, their entertainment. And I’m not going to stop it on his behalf. I’d rather hear the giggles.

Shortly after capture Kyle asked me, “Mom, can I keep him until he dies?”

“Sure.”

To which Daddy replies, “So we just kill bugs.”

Basically.

I knew. I didn’t know.

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I knew what I was in for.

Dirt. Lots and lots of dirt. Enough to crest the murky waters of my kid’s baths and stick like a mossy stain on the side of a dock.

Weather. Moody weather. Capricious conditions that drove me to plunge my fingers between the ice in our red cooler just to ease the sweat off my upper lip; then grab my beanie because I start to see my breath, all while I duck from the strikes stabbing the sky and do a quick scan of the woods to make sure my children are not holding their homemade bow and arrow sets into the air like a battle scene from Narnia.    

Walking. Everywhere walking. To eat, to play, to pee; even to drive.

Improvising. Because I always forget something I need to cook or cook with, bathe with, sleep with, or give.

Port-a-potties. Like, more than you’ve ever seen together in one place. Always with a pile on the top unless you were lucky enough to hit them right after cleaning. If you were there, you know what I mean.

Ah, church camp. It’s the same every year. I hit day 5 weary, craving caffeine and fantasizing about the way my kitchen faucet at home can run water for as long as I want it to. I daydream about my family more than 2 inches away while I sprawl on a real mattress, and showering in hot, pummeling streams (as opposed to an ungodly arctic drip) without flip flops. 

I didn’t know.

I didn’t know that when I got home I would miss the smell of bark and sap.

Or the gravelly tone of the band leader while he played white and black keys of hymns that made me think of my husband’s late grandfather, who probably often had a sweaty upper lip too. Not from heat, but from tireless work that grew out of a deep passion for young people he hoped, prayed would come face to face with the One person who could change everything.  

I didn’t know that Facebook would seem, inadequate. 

That as physically spent as I was I would feel an ache for hometown friends, laughs and toddler burns around an old-time lantern, the way my throat burned watching a slideshow reeling before a valley green like watermelon skin, and hot chocolate every morning for 10 impatient kids who want bacon. Yes, 10 kids to 5 adults. Yes.

I didn’t know I needed it. But now I remember why I go back.      

 

 

Dull Orange

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My neck hurts. So does my lower back and therefore, I’m not sleeping right now. It’s 4:49 am Mountain time and I’m already worrying about what these digits will translate to in five more hours. Likely eyes that sting, patience that is missing in action, and a magnetic pull to my pillow.

But I just walked out to grab a bowl of cereal and saw that dull orange which tinges the sky only at wee minutes of morning. The shade changes with each one. And I love it. I’m not sure why. Maybe because it reminds me of Dunkin Stix fingers and camo with dad, the time he carved out for just the two of us. Or maybe because it’s quiet, uninterrupted time where I can read, journal or do the funky chicken if I so desire, without anyone knowing. But I tend to think it’s because mornings feel like secrets. Whispers saying, “Not everyone gets to see this color, right now, in this moment.” 

I did. And it’s special like Dunkin Stix and deer stands.

Lean In

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He was really excited. I was a bit nervous. We finally each had a bike of our own and to Kyle this meant one thing: distance. Distance that he hadn’t otherwise obtained because normally I was on foot. And distance equals freedom for a 6-year old boy. But all I was thinking about was how many years it had been since I’d attempted to balance atop two wheels. “Can you ride without training wheels, Mom?” Perceptive that one.

I was as stiff as a celebrity in Madame Toussads while I imagined my neighbors munching popcorn at their windows, entertained with all that is me. The training wheels weren’t sounding like a half bad idea.

I took up the caboose of our little train, mostly by default. Nonetheless we were off. And I wasn’t falling, but I wasn’t having that much fun. Until I remembered to lean in. Each textured corner of the sidewalk I got a little more comfortable. My grip eased, my back relaxed, and I started to see in front of me. A little boy on an adventure. And I got to do it with him.