1 May 2011

The habit of weekly journal posts to chronicle the life I'd surely forget without proof, even in the frame of a week, has made me realize two things.  First, the details or my life are blurry, even after just one week.  Like most, life is simply too busy.  Were it not the chicken scratched notes and to-do lists that I've scribbled onto the cheap calendar I carry around town, called My Life on Paper, I'm pretty sure I couldn't recount a single detail.  Short-term memory cells pretty much depleted upon childbirth, that's my excuse.

Second, I'm ready for Summer Break so that I can ditch schedules, calendar and afternoon homework.  Time to relax!

Each morning, I hit the ground running, crash, breath, then do it all over again the next day.  I'm not looking for sympathy, hard work is a blessing.  I believe that, I do.  But there is a tipping point, we all feel it.  Thankfully, I'm still in the stage of life that includes...wait for it, wait...Summer Vacation!  And trust me, everyone in our house is counting down the days until we can kiss the morning school bell goodbye, at kick it up easy for two months of summer fun.  Until then, we're plugging away.

Last week, like all the others before, was nuts.  The few pictures I managed to take, born now from a self-imposed blog deadline, are our weeks best.  It was only after I sorted through last week's pictures that I realized their thematic similarity.  Last week was Animal Appreciation Week!

 I love our backyard gate with it's wild red ginger plant weighing against it.

Last week we found a Jackson Chameleon in our backyard!
 
We caught it, we held it, we fed it, we built a habitat for it, and then, he escaped.  It was the pet that was never meant to be.  Even the new red beta fish (named, U'la u'la--Red, in Hawaiian--) was no consolation.   

Thankfully, like her sweet owner, Sophie the Golden, is always willing to comfort and listen to a secret. 

 

 Always on the grow,

On Raising a Boy

While standing in line at the Post Office today, Wooly occupied himself, pulling the pretty pre-printed boxes off the shelf.  He tried to put them back, but from the look he gave me, I could tell that he was struggling.  He asked for help without asking and thankfully, as I needed to hold our place in line, Hibiscus was with us to help him.  

The Aunty standing behind us in line was such a nice lady.  In thick pigeon she commented, "He wouldn't be a boy if he didn't get into everything."

A comment like that, put that lady on my BFF list!  In our short conversation, I discovered that she had two boys herself, both grown now.  I'd like to meet her sons, to size them up against the few stories I heard about them while waiting in line at the Post Office.  If they turned out half-decent, there might be hope for my own, Little Mister Mischief.   

Still, I wonder if she ever had to say the kind of things that I have to say to Wooly?  Just this morning, for kicks, I kept a tally of how many times I had to repeat a few of my favorite staple phrases.   

"No, Wooly, you cannot call your sister a Fart."

"Don't spit at your sister!"

"No, Wooly, you cannot pee on your sister."

...and my personal favorite, the one I have to try really hard to say without laughing...


"No, Wooly, you cannot throw avacados at the neighbor's cat."

And those were just the few that we came up with before breakfast.

But, I guess if I take it from the Aunty who knows, he wouldn't be a boy otherwise.

Always on the grow,

"Super Tall"

On a big hair day, I measure up to a mere 5'4".  While that's not particularly short, no one, including myself, has ever pegged me as tall.  Until today.  And at that moment of lengthened esteem, my soul felt like it had stretched out several inches in stature.  Not that I'll be throwing out any of my necessary 3 inch heels, any time soon, mind you.  After all, what's a girl to do without a secret arsenal of good pumps?

Wooly asked for a snack during the critical afternoon window that makes or breaks a healthy appetite for dinner.  Generally, Food Sheriff that I am, limits the options to, "any fruit, any vegetable, any time."  It's a familiar mantra, yet, mysteriously one that must be repeated daily.

Today, I caved to the pressure of those sympathetic, hungry eyes.  Content in his before-dinner-snack victory, Wooly totted his small bowl of cottage cheese (drizzled with honey and sprinkled with granola) to eat next to me in the garage.  Immediately after I'd scooped up his tasty little treat, I'd whisked away to swap a load of laundry.  "Always work to be done," yet another lame mantra of motherhood.

So, there we were.  My hands wrapped around flying wet clothes, Wooly's cradling the bowl of cottage cheese.  As I shovled wet clothes to the dryer, he shoveled the good stuff into his mouth.  Between bites, he stared off down the street, finally interupting our comfortable silence with this observation:

"Mommy," he looked up at me with worry, "I am not super tall.  Like you."

A smirk, smug and pleasant, framed my face.  Then, I must admit, I puffed out my chest like a proud rooster, stretching my petite chicken legs in all their lengthy glory.  I didn't think I'd ever hear a compliment like this one, at least not in this lifetime, and I intended to revel in it's glory for as long as I could.  It felt good, I'll tell you what.

"Well, of course not, Wooly-baby.  I'm the Mommy, you can't be super tall like me."  Oh yeah, you know it.

"Oh," he said with a disheartened sigh.

"But," I added with hopeful enthusiasm, wet socks dangling like exclamation points in the air, "someday you will be Super Tall!  Even taller than Mommy.  Someday, you might even be as Super Tall as Daddy."

He smiled up at me, sensing the promise of it all.

"But, no matter how Super Tall you are, Wooly, you will always be my Little Boy.  Alright?" I asked, waiting patiently for his nod to seal our deal.

"Okay, Mom," he said before squeezing me around my Super Tall leg.

Always on the grow,