Stop and Smell the Family

1 May 2011

2011-05-05T02:13:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-05T01:23:00.000-07:00

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"

2011-05-05T01:03:00.000-07:00

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,

The Bird

2011-04-28T09:17:00.000-07:00

My love for books runs deep. Sadly, however, this year's Spring Cleaning meant it was time to sort through the good, the bad, and the falling apart. Some of our books had lived the good life and were ready for book retirement. Others took up undeserved shelf space, not read often enough to be loved (or kept).

Our beloved Board Books fell into a category all its own. Most had been sucked on, chewed on, rolled over, and read thousands and thousands of times. If the book were a Velveteen Rabbit, it would have hopped off the shelf to join it's bunny friends at the Library many years ago.

Even though most of the Board Books were literally falling apart at the seams, I couldn't bring myself to throw away a few of our banged up favorites. Someday I hope grandchildren (lots of them) will provide me a reason to replace them for a newer version. Until then, I have kept a small collection of favorites, but placed them in the corner, no longer on the bottom shelf, offering first and easy access to chubby-fingered babies.

Somehow, over the span of my years in this Early Childhood Reading stage, I've collected a sizable lot of books. It's nice to stand back and admire the collection now that it's all organized and pretty. Amazing! My kids are finally past the stage where they'll pull every book off the shelf as part of their morning exercises! When did we cross that milestone?

In a moment of clean contentment, I came across a book and flipped it open. Nostalgia swept across my heart as I turned each page, remembering all the times I'd read it, pausing at that exact moment, waiting to hear my baby's giggle as they lifted the surprise flap.

And then....(gasp)...what did my eyes behold?! No! Oh, no.

Funny? Yes. Hilarious, actually.

Appropriate? No. Unless the Universal Sign of The Bird is used judiciously, not just to communicate the irritating sentiment of "Darn you for cutting me off!" A point of clarification I don't intend to teach my children any time soon. I'm just saying, the one fingered solute, well it might just have it's place, if the timing is right. I said might, children.

Will I ever find out which kid did it? Not likely.

Did I throw the book away? Heavens no, an added touch of character like this makes it's irreplaceable! It will be permanently shelved right next to "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see?" Birds, Bears, seems fitting to organize all B-Books together.

Always on the grow,

"Asian Invasion"

2011-04-28T08:46:00.000-07:00

Notice this darling picture of Wooly, enjoying the Story Circle at Preschool. His yellow hair pops over the endless array of black hair, much like his personality.

Last week at Wooly's preschool, a Dad wore a t-shirt that read, "Asian Invasion." I laughed and told him that his shirt was funny. He grimaced and walked away. Oh, sorry, you are serious. I just thought it was a funny t-shirt. My mistake.

We exchanged smiles, smirks, whatever, and in the meantime, for all I know, Wooly and Columbine, kept themselves entertained by licking fingerpaint or throwing playdough, dumb white kids.

We don't talk much about race at home. The conversation, when it happens, is more a matter of observation than anything else. Having lived in the islands before, when we moved back, I hadn't thought to prepare my children for the transition of stepping out of their Big White Bubble. I welcomed it, believed the experience would be good for their characters, for their souls. I still stand by that belief, however simplistic it may sound.

As such, I can't say I pay much attention to all the different races and cultures that my children are experiencing for the first time. Perhaps I should have tried to explain "things"? Good chance that even with a Cultural Awareness Chat, they still would have been caught off-guard by the Asian-ness of it all. And not just that, it's such a mixed plate in Hawaii, any explanation I could give would most likely be wrong. Can you tell the difference between a Tongan and Samoan? Yeah, me neither.

I'd like to think that my neutrality influences my children for the good. I don't think to ask them about the differences they see around them because I choose not to see them. It's just part of life. White, brown, whatever, we all live together on this one volcanic rock.

And perhaps hat is why I got a laugh out of the Pre-school dad's "Asian Invasion" t-shirt. I couldn't help it, it was just funny. Especially since the guy wearing the shirt wasn't Asian. He looked Tongan. Or maybe Samoan? Hard to tell.

I thought all this time that my kids were happily riding along my Color Blind Train, enjoying all the lovely cocoa-brown scenery. Wrong! At least when it comes to Wooly. They're riding it alright, but they aren't blind to it.

At Costco tonight, mecca for all island-dwelling families, we navigated our cart to the Highway Robbery Isle to get milk. Stupid milk. I stopped our cart next to a lovely Pacific Asian Islander (I think that's the right PC classification?) family.

Where's a sample to shove in that kids mouth already? Had I only known what was about to come out, I would have thrown a pair of socks into the cart before heading to grab the milk. Costco does sell socks, this I know. Hindsight, it's always 20/20.

Spotting our Asian compadres, Wooly belts out: "Are YOU from Chinese?!"

It didn't help matters that his sisters thought this wildly funny, only encouraging him to say it again. And again. And again. Louder, of course, each time.

And like the t-shirt faux pas, the Asian (clearly not from China) family, didn't think my son's question was funny.

Forget the milk, kids. We need to leave the store.

Always on the grow,

Giving birth to a new idea

2011-04-27T15:37:00.000-07:00

I crept quietly out of bed this morning, Wooly's bed, not mine. Another night of playing Musical Beds, left me with "the twins". (Once a week, at least, a random stranger will ask if Columbine and Wooly are twins. "Nope," I'll try to explain, "2 years and 2 pounds difference." Columbine is amused by this regular twin probing and recently began referred to she and Wooly as "the twins".)

Sometime between Midnight and 2am I had squished in next to Wooly, arm flapped across his head to give Columbine a finger to hold. It's no wonder I awoke tired. Hibiscus, in rare form, as she is the only one to consistently stay in her own bed, ended up in my spot, next to Mr. Forget-me-not.

Mysteriously I had awoken at 5:28am, exactly 2 minutes before the buzzing of my alarm clock. Careful not to wake my den of sleeping cubs, I slid out the door and into my running shoes. No ipod to distract or motivate my pace, it was a purist run, just for the sake of the sport and the therapy it provides.

As I trotted along, chasing the sunrise, I reminisced about the marathon trainings of yesterday. Running a second marathon is a lot like having your second child. You haven't a clue when you run your first, naivety absorbs most of the shock. To do it a second time, that's when you really tap into the mental willpower. Considering I'm still nursing along old injuries from my first, and finally have toenails again where stubs used to be, it's probably premature to consider running another. But still....Maui calls to me. I feel the idea taking root in my head, stirring in my wanderlust heart. I need another dream to chase.

The rush of the finish line, that feeling of being Queen of the Universe--and it lasts for days!--I want it. I want to do it again. Just once more. But can I?

Maui Marathon is in September. Which means I'd have to start training again in May. If I think too much about it, I'll talk myself out of it. Yet, another parallel to childbirth.

Always on the grow,

24 April 2011

2011-04-26T01:01:00.000-07:00

Kicking off our Easter Week, we held ducklings at Preschool. Columbine was in love! Egg-shaped painting paper and balancing eggs on spoons, egg-ceptionally festive.

The week also included swimming, against the breathtaking view of our beloved Ko'olaus.

Our Good Friday included a field trip to a Firestation. The real crowd pleaser was the death defying stunts with their 75 foot latter truck. Columbine took one look at that rocket launching latter and said, "Well, I never want to be a fireman now." And surprisingly, when the field trip details were later recounted to Daddy, the first field trip detail Wooly wanted to tell him was "...the kitchen! The firestation has a kitchen!"

Always on the grow,

The Easter Bonnet that was never meant to be

2011-04-26T00:35:00.000-07:00

Hot! Mr. Forget-me-not, you look hot. Literally. How much insulation does 10 pounds of fur on the top of your bald head provide? Don't know. Not sure I'll ever find out either.

What do you mean you didn't buy it? Passed up on a beauty like this? So disappointing. Unforgivable really. Obviously he did not realize the Bon Jovi body double potential?

Should have thought twice before before handing this little fuzzy number back over to the storekeeper in far-off lands.

PS...Mr. Forget-me-not, Happy 13th Anniversary. Who says 13 is an unlucky number? It's going to be a great year, I can feel it.

Oh, and thanks for the European chocolates. And the hidden love notes. Still hunting for the last 4 notes. Might one be hidden under the volcanic pile of laundry that awaits me tonight? That'd be a good reward. For doing laundry. Not doing marriage. Most days I think I do marriage better than laundry, but let's hope that could be argued. Considering Columbine's been out of underwear in her drawer for several days now, I'd wager on doing marriage better.

Always on the grow,

17 April 2011

2011-04-19T04:55:00.000-07:00

A week of moments.

Sweetest: Hibiscus sat down at the piano bench with Columbine to help her figure out the hand position for the song she's learning. Wooly dances around like a crazy man. Picture perfect.

Most Fun: Going to Sunday's Anti-Super Bowl Party, turned Boston Marathon Tea Party. Greatest party idea, ever. Kids played a turtle race game. Ate pupu's and drank tea (gatorade), revelled in all our marathon running glory.

Most Disturbing: Every little brother must endure the torture of playing dress up with his sisters.

Most Educational: Reef walk at night with Marine Biologists. Armed with nothing more than flash lights and buckets, we braved the black ocean water! It was all fun and games until Hibiscus lost her balance and fell down on the rocks. Scrapes plus salt-water = tears. We managed to tough it out long enough to see an array of ocean life. We called it a success, and went home early to doctor up the cuts.

Most Painful: Mosquito bites at 1am! Worst one was on his eyelid. Not the first time we've dealt with this, probably not the last. To try and comfort him, I laid in bed, soothing him back to sleep while holding a cold compress to his eyelid to reduce the swelling. Miserable for everyone. He sniffled, screamed, then grumbled, "...those darn mosquitoes!" You said it, Wooly.

Personal Favorite: Wooly was standing in front of the fridge, placing magnetic word tiles to create a sentence formation. The words, of course, had no organization other than being slapped together in a row. I was busy at the kitchen counter when I heard him pointing to each word tile, as if phonetically reading across the sentence. Here's what he said as he pointed down the row, "I. Cannot. Stick. My. Tongue. Out. At. My. Mom." And just when I thought I wasn't getting through to him.

Always on the grow,

On Writing

2011-04-19T04:31:00.000-07:00

I bumped into a friend this week who told me that she read my blog. I was surprised, embarrassed and only slightly flattered, all at the same time.

Surprised, since our friendship extends mostly to bumping into each other occassionally around town. Not that being BFF's is any prerequisite for annonymous blog readership. Still, my surprise was quickly pushed aside by embarrassment. This old thing, she used to be so much more.

Silly, I know, that my internal dialog was instantly apologetic, wishing I could give her better reading material than the weekly journal recap of our week. But she's a mom with young kids, too, and I'm pretty sure she understands the routine of lack luster posts. Just preserving the memory, folks, because early stages of dementia should kick in any day now.

Mostly though, it's the sleep factor that prohibits better writing. I can sleep. Or I can write. Can't. Do. Both. And with young kids who want nothing more than to tap dance across the keyboard, writing pre-bedtime isn't really an option either. Raise the white flag of surrender, you bloody mongers.

Since the turn of events that morphed brilliant writing into the duldrums of recording keeping--posting weekly journal recaps rather than creative discoveries of words taking life--quite frankly, I don't even read my blog. I'm pretty sure, although he denies this, that Mr. Forget-me-not only pretends to read it. And that's only after I've asked him something specific, followed by the shaking finger of scorn, "I posted it to my blog, Honey. What? You didn't read it?"

So, yes, blogging isn't what it used to be. Somehow I'm holding onto the hope that efficiency will have some redemptive power. Or perhaps I should hang my writing dreams upon the advice, Stephen King, penned in his How-To Biography of sorts "On Writing." He advised that good reading begets good writing.

As a mother, and aspiring author, I'd like to think that reading (and re-reading again and again and again) the armful of bedtime stories for my children each night, counts. More than counts. Reading picture books to my children, may not be what Mr. King had in mind, when he advised budding authors to read then write. (Hey! Wait a second. Maybe this was sneaky self-promotion?) Even so, for me, within the pages of each picture book, holds the promise that in the years to come, when bedtime stories for sleepy little people are no longer an essential part of our day, then, maybe then, there will be time to write.

Until that time, I'll read, countless bedtime stories to my little loves and write the memories of our days upon my heart. Because someday soon, much to my chagrin, Wooly, will realize that "Wooly and the Purple Crayon" isn't the book's real title. Until that sad day comes, I will continue to read it several times a week, making note to opt out Harold for Wooly's name. He's quick to correct me, should I forget. Harold would be flattered, I'm sure.

Always on the grow,

Sniffle...sniffle...sneeze

2011-04-19T03:33:00.000-07:00

How many times have you sneezed in sequence? Ever tried to keep a tally? It's hard to do in that moment when your brains nearly implode through your ears.

I shouldn't be sick, for crying out loud. The temperature doesn't even dip below 70 degrees. Okay, maybe 65, when the Kona winds bring a rare cold snap. Yet, here I am, sniffling away in the balmy, year-round summer of Hawaii! Blasted cold. Surprising even myself, setting a new personal best for number of sneezes in a row. Seven. Seven big ones. Had to scrape my eyeballs off the floor after that last one.

Last night I soothed my congested head with a sinus pill, the kind that comes with a warning not to drive or operate heavy machinery. Because take-two-and-call-me-in-the-morning remedy has never failed me before. Personally, I'd like to think heavy machinery includes all Kitchen-Aid mixers, toasters, pots, pans and rubber spatulas, while we're at it. But they don't make a pill strong enough to live that dream.

So, why? Why must I cook breakfast every day? Hit me with the sick leave already.

No, no, if I must brag, in addition to all my regular Mom-Job duties, I also prodded the daily piano practicing--giving masochism a new lease on life. I did cut the daily 20-minute requirement short, however, because if the seven sneeze marathon didn't guarantee a headache for the rest of the week, listening to all that bang, bang, learning-to-play-banging, definitely sealed the migraine deal. Someone shoot me if Hibiscus plays the "Dinosaur Stomp" song one more time.

A toast to Spring Cold Sufferers everywhere. Cheers! To you, to me, and to the NyQuil nightcap I'll be having soon.

Always on the grow,

10 April 2011

2011-04-11T01:27:00.000-07:00

My week was filled with parties, new after school activities, sick kids and more musical theatre indoctrination.

Baby Showers: I love them, I hate them. Now that the moment of faking Happy Hostess has passed, it's easier to dwell on all the things I love about about a Shower. For starters, I love that I'm finally in the stage of life when the party is thrown for someone else, and not for me. It's a smug sort of happiness, watching another lug a bowling ball around in her underwear, with nothing more than labor war stories and nursing horrors on her brain. It's swell for me, hanging up my jersey, I mean elastic wasted maternity pants, retiring from this game of baby making. That's a really, really nice feeling. Just knowing that I'm done with that phase of life brings me such peace, it makes my heart feel as fluffy as my homemade pink buttercream frosting. And it gets better, it's been awhile since I've played Baby Shower Party games. The whole melted candy bar in the diaper guessing game, it's still as funny as ever! Only this time I can laugh without worrying that a hearty chuckle will send me racing to the Loo.

Speaking of sweets, aw, aren't they purty?

Hosting a Baby Shower at my house this week provided a good reason to make a killer dessert buffet. Florist turns Baker, pulling together a spread of all things pink: cupcakes, chocolate dipped pretzels, and homemade lollipops! Columbine was giddy with delight to be my special helper in the kitchen. She wishes that every week could include a Baby Shower at our house. Sort of how she wishes she could have one more baby brother. Um, no. But here, take another pink M&M.

As for other weekly activities, I'm happy to write that tennis with Coach Rusty is back in the schedule. Love, love, love tennis with Coach Rusty! Hibiscus volleyed for an hour straight and by the end of the day, whimpered that her forearms felt like they were going to fall off.

A word about paddling: BEST after-school activity ever. Playing at the beach while she's doing her paddling thing is a zillion times more fun than waiting around a soccer field. I've done both enough times to know, and it's no contest--paddling at the beach is where it's at! I am happy, happy that our week now includes tennis and paddling practice. It is so much fun.

Columbine was down for the count with a fever earlier in the week. In her listless state, her only request was to drink watered-down apple juice and watch back-to-back musicals. Her recent favorite, "The Music Man" ranked up with her old stand-by, "My Fair Lady." Throughout the week, I could hear her interchaning the lyrics between "...just you wait, 'Enry 'Iggins" and "...right here in Rivercity."

Wooly kept us entertained, wearing a plastic blue rocket cap on his head all week. He's convinced that it turns him into, Flint, from the movie "Cloudy and a Chance of Meatballs." That boy is a funny one. He also discovered that his mastery of writing the letter A, can be converted into an impressive picture of a rocket. In one week, I think he's burned through a half a ream of paper, each one with another letter A turned rocket. Sign of brilliance? I think so.

And that's a wrap on the week.

Always on the grow,

3 April 2011

2011-04-04T17:53:00.000-07:00

If it's been an especially busy week, as was last week, then there are fewer pictures to show for it. When Mr. Forget-me-not is between pitstops of home and airports, I can expect it to be a little crazy. Tag his travel schedule alongside the week before a birthday (Hooray, Hibiscus!) and I feel accomplished having remembered to snap a few of the cake eating fun.

Of course, I forgot to take the camera when we went to the beach to celebrate, which was especially disappointing since it was the most beautiful cloudless, windless day. The ocean water near Lanikai was the color of turquoise sea glass. The bike ride down to the beach was a milestone moment for Hibiscus and Wooly. It was the first time Hibiscus has riden down the hill to the beach, and then up the hill back home, on her own bike! For Wooly, he had his first chance to balance on the back seat of the tandem, finally big enough to steady himself on the bar for his feet.

Hibiscus made birthday festivities easy, requesting a custard pie instead of a cake (thank you, Costco Bakery). Turns out, custard pie wasn't all she had hoped for, so next year we'll probably pan out another conventional cake. Considering she got cupcakes delivered to her classroom (plus the custard pie), I'd say she had her cake and got to eat it, too. (Notice, mischievous Wooly, thinks it's so funny to stick out his tongue in almost every picture lately. Not funny, son, not funny.)

When it came time to set the 9 candles ablaze, we discovered there was but one match left in the box! Mr. Forget-me-not, deep in concentration, managed to light up all the candles and only burn a couple fingers in the process. A necessary sacrifice to ensure one good wish and blow!

Since cakes and pies aren't enough sugar for one day, Dad included doughnuts for breakfast! Plus, there were no chores, no piano practicing, and no multiplication flashcards. Wow! What a day.

In celebration of her Big 9th Birthday, Hibiscus enjoyed making homemade lollipops...

...painting her toes glittery purple...

...riding her new bike (it is the cutest bike!)...

...and being universally loved! (Grandparents called, sent surprise cards in the mail--with $9 dollars!, and all the neighbor kids came over to sing to her!)

The last birthday request of the day was to snuggle in Mom and Dad's bed, proving that at 9 years old, she is still a little girl. Good thing, too, since she's growing up way too fast.

Always on the grow,

Intentional Mothering

2011-03-30T01:44:00.000-07:00

One of the best things I've stumbled across online in awhile. I even printed it out and slapped it up on the fridge as a step-by-step guide on how to do the Swing Shift right.

Read for yourself, this lady's got it going on.

Always on the grow,

27 March 2011

2011-03-28T01:07:00.000-07:00

Last week was capped off with some especially fun adventures, shared with old friends from Oregon, here vacationing in Hawaii. Mr. Forget-me-not was between business trips, and managed to take off a few days from work to join the fun. A rare treat!

We hit the Polynesian Cultural Center by storm. Hibiscus amazed me with her poi ball stunts. A while ago, Aunty Peta, made her a set of poi balls and showed her a few pointers. To my surprise, she must have listened! Because with the poi balls at PCC, she could do the butterfly swing, clapping and dropping the balls over her head and back again.

Hibiscus was out of school for Prince Kuhio Day. Who's he? And why is there a state holiday in his honor? Who cares. As long as it means a day off school, we'll keep calling him a prince, a real prince.

During our long weekend of fun and friends, Hibiscus was able to reconnect with her little playmate from back home. The two girls have been pen pals since we moved away from Oregon. They were so happy to play together again.

Just so happens that I had planned a field trip with my kids for a submarine ride, the same week that our friends were going to be on the island. Tickets were amazingly inexpensive (through a homeschool discount rate). The boat ride to the sub had the most picturesque backdrop of Diamond Head.

We were happy that our Oregon friends could share the thrill of being 100 feet below sea level! It was so cool!

After an action packed day of submarine rides, shave ice, Waikiki longboards and backyard BBQ dinners, we were ready to relax at home. For Mr. Forget-me-not, relaxing at home meant working in the yard.

And so, in the spirit of relaxation, he built a fence around the garden. A misnomer, if you ask me, since all I see is a patch of dirt, cleared momentarily of it's usual crop of knee high weeds. The weeds should be back before he is...something I think he's in complete denial about, but that I don't have the heart to tell him since he's so happy in his role as Farmer Brown.

He likes to enlist the help from the kiddies, which I'm all for. Old fashioned weed pulling builds character! However, we've learned the hard way (after the dubious mosquito attack that left Wooly's face swollen up like a rotten papaya) that if the kids are tromping down the hill, long pants and long sleeve shirts are a must! Add a spritz of bug repellent, and they're good to go.

Soon, he argues, that empty weed patch out back will be home to a forest of papaya trees. He'd almost all but given up on his papaya tree dreams, after the cows ate the first batch, the pigs squashed the second, and the landscaping team of overly zealous weed-wackers did the others in. Building a fence gives him hope that this attempt at transplanted papaya sprouts, that he's so lovingly grown pot by pot, by bigger pot--all in the safety of our garage, might actually make it.

Now that it appears as if he's finally conquered papaya, he's moving onto new challenges. Rumor has it that I'll be seeing pineapple and bananas join the papaya ranks. Clearly, he is out to prove that given the preference, he'd live out his days as a simple farmer.

I say, all he really needs to do is take a few more days of vacation to "relax" at home. It'd do him, and his papaya trees, some good.

Always on the grow,

20 March 2011

2011-03-21T12:58:00.000-07:00

Monday morning brings a sink filled with yesterday's dishes, babysitting swaps, yoga classes, piano lessons, and two suitcases full of dirty laundry to sort through. Mr. Forget-me-not returned home with his stinkies in one hand and three chocolate covered marshmellow bunnies in the other. He had told the kids about their return treat early last week and Wooly talked about it every, and I mean, every day. It was eaten in record time.

In honour of last week's Spring Break, I give you a haiku. Mostly because I've got 10 minutes to wrap up this bloggy, blog fun. And while quick and efficient, haiku's are just fun. Ask Hibiscus, it's what she's learning about this week in 3rd grade.

Spring Break was the best,
sleeping in, playdates and parks,
Back to school today.

Our dearest Bube gave Hibiscus the most beautiful bouquet of roses after her performance.

Wooly plays baseball with Dad--inside? Thankfully nothing was broken, this time.

As a top ticket seller, Hibiscus announced the final show.

Backyard water fights during our Date Night babysitting swap. Notice, Hibiscus, and her protective eye goggles. Ganged up against the boys, she was playing dirty--or clean, I guess--aiming right between their eyes.

Fishy make-up, fun the first application, torture after the tenth.

Am I the only one who sees the similarity of hair color? We love this dog, Sophie.

With all those leaves, you'd think it's autumn time in Hawaii. Nope. Tsunami storm aftermath is all. Leaving piles and piles and piles of avacado leaves all over the backyard, a nesting haven for pesky mosquitoes. I spent all morning raking, the kids spent all afternoon jumping.

Always on the grow,

Fishy, Fishy

2011-03-21T12:26:00.000-07:00

Hibiscus performed this weekend with the Children's Theatre of Oahu's production of, "The Little Mermaid." With last year's production she was a bird (firebird, to be exact), this year a fish. We try not to point out that she's moving down in the food chain. But if she's cast as a mosquitoe next year, we'll be a little suspect.

Her performance was a swimming success. She had such a fun time rehearsing the music and learning the dances. And we had such a great time watching the magic of Children's Theatre come to life! Way to go, Fishy girl.

Always on the grow,

St. Patty's 2011

2011-03-21T12:18:00.000-07:00

We toned down this year's all green bash, clover loving bash. There was noo all green dinner of split pea soup or over the top Leprechan Dress-up Look Alike Contest. Mr. Forget-me-not cried himself to sleep, I'm sure.

Still...I managed to get at least a little bit festive. Here's proof:

Mother Nature provided the best kind of decoration outside our backyard door. Not one, but two! A double rainbow framed the marsh over our backyard.

Always on the grow,

The Forcast

2011-03-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we made a beach day attempt. Which is more discouraging than anything because the first two days of our Spring Break Week were the most gorgeous beach days I've seen in weeks. No wind, hot sun, bright and clear blue sky. Except, we were stuck at home, tending other people's children, babysitting arrangments that I couldn't get out of even if it meant skipping out on perfect beach day conditions. Darn it.

Which is why, numero uno on our list of fun yesterday was a long awaited day on the sand. Que the wind. Cancel the beach.

Funny then, that this morning I got an email from friends who will be visiting Hawaii from Oregon next week. Living in a destination location means that I often answer vacation questions from distant friends travelling great distances to stick their feet in the sand that is 2 minutes from my front door. I try not to rub their nose in it (which would be quite painful if I did), which means I should stop acting so smug about my sand-loving privileges.

His question: "It looks like rain and mid to high 70' every day of our vacation. Is the weather keeping people out of the water or is it still warm enough that people just ignore the rain and go anyway?"

My answer: It depends on rain intensity. But it's the wind, more than the rain, that can really spoil a beach day (i.e. our beach attempt yesterday). Tourists can always be found in the water, regardless of weather forcast, crazy loones. I suspect the rain would keep us out of the water, but only because we've got the local advantage of holding out for Mr. Sunshine's return.

If by rain, you mean last weeks torrential downpour, then you are in trouble, My Friend. But if its just a few scattered showers, you're an Oregonian, what's a little rain to scare you away?

And there you have it, looks like I fancy myself a Weathergirl.

Always on the grow,

I want to win. I need to win.

2011-03-16T15:25:00.000-07:00

I have blog dreams, you know. And I need a big girl makeover. Check out this link to see how my dream will come to be.

Win, win, I must win the free makeover.

Always on the grow,

Babysitting Swaps...maybe next week?

2011-03-15T02:26:00.000-07:00

I have a wonderful friend who has run a handful of marathons. In her spare time, she's also a 3rd grade teacher, an amazing mother, makes the best Thai yellow curry, and is pretty much an inspiration to all. She's got an impressive resume, but you'd never know it because, as you'd imagine, she's also incredibly humble. So, it's obvious why I stalk her, I mean--love her, and demand free therapy sessions when we run together. Because I need therapy almost as much as I need girlfriends. Thankfully, the two are usually synonymous.

As for running, we'd hoped to get together this week, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It's Show Week for Hibiscus and the Children's Theatre production she's performing with (more to come on that). Between taxi service to rehearsals and Mr. Forget-me-not being gone, I can't bring myself to ask for one more babysitting favor from my "village" of willing and able bodied friends.

I feel like babysitting favors (especially when you have a Wooly) should be reserved for necessities only (unless, of course, there is a Marathon involved). As much as I'd love to run with my friend, I should probably do the responsible thing. And even though running with my wonderful friend feels more like a necessity than a luxury (it is cheap therapy, after all), I'd have a guilty, overly indulgent conscience. I'll blame Wooly for that one.

He's in this horrible stage where he'll lash out when frustrated and pick up the nearest object to huck it across the room. Time out is not getting through to the boy. He's instantly repentant, because he knows if I'm anything, I am consistent in dragging him down the hall to his room. But it still hasn't broken his new pitcher's arm habit. How do I leave the boy to anyone else, without full disclosure of the potential black eye they'll be sporting by the time I return?

So, I'm not running a lot this week. It's problematic for other reasons, but the sacrifice is needed. In the meantime, I've hidden all marbles and maracas from the playroom. Those could actually do some damage if his aim improves.

Always on the grow,

13 March 2011

2011-03-14T01:01:00.000-07:00

Turning, Mr. Forget-me-not's travel schedule into something of a celebration, is no easy challenge. Looking for the positive, helps me cope with the reality.

The awesomeness that comes from an absence, namely, 1) a momentary reprieve from extra laundry and, 2) I have an excuse to have zero dinner plan all week long (because Easy Mac and Nuggets barely make it into a food group, let alone designation for real dinner prep effort).

ut, my personal favorite reason to look forward to the Mister's absence: It's Paper Plate Week! I know, it's not the most earth friendly way to celebrate his absence, but it makes me happy to think about no dish duty for the entire week. So tonight, we ate scrambled eggs for dinner on, you guessed it, paper plates. Three cheers for us!

Before Daddy's departure, we made it to the Dinosaur Exhibit.

Preschool: It's a weekly staple. This month the kids are learning about planting. The end of the month brings a great field trip to visit a Loi, where the kids will get hands-on, stomp through the mud, taste the pound poi, Hawaiian experience.

Another notable field trip: This week's whale watching tour with Columbine's kindergarten class. One word: queasy. Yes, while sloshing around the boat we did see a few whales, even caught a glimpse of a fluke pop out of the water, and had a few good blow hole spouts. Miraculously, I managed to keep from hurling over the portside. Would I do it again? No, not even for a cute 5 year old.

One reason I love my neighbor from Thailand: Her babysitter brought over the best pad thai I've ever had.

After the eventful recap of our week, it's hard to believe that it began with a slumped, feverish, Hibiscus, camped out on the couch for two days with a 103 fever. The good to come of it: the girls watched the classic, My Fair Lady, for the first time! Actually, they watched it twice because they enjoyed it so much the first time. (Hooray!) Columbine piped the musical tunes throughout the rest of the week. Her favorite line to sing, "just you wait 'Enry Iggins, just you wait!" Thankfully, Hibiscus is feeling much better now.

Always on the grow,

The Hawaii Snowday

2011-03-14T00:21:00.000-07:00

The tsunami scare gave way to the Hawaii equivalent of an Oregon Snowday. It brought back memories of winter's past. Only a slight flurry to the ground, maybe an inch that would melt off by lunchtime, but in a panic, the whole city and all of its schools, shuts down for the day. Think Oregon Snowday, island style, and that was pretty much our Friday. Without the obligation of school or work, we hit the jungle for a family hike. The bamboo forest was impressive, as was Wooly's face plant through a mud patch. Pictures are pre-mud patch, hence the smiles.

Always on the grow,

Tsunami Sirens: What we do before we can't do anything but wait..

2011-03-11T01:50:00.000-08:00

After I'd put the kids to bed, my plan tonight was to finish folding laundry. If there was time, I'd hoped to make that reservation for our Anniversary.

Instead, I lined up behind a steady stream of cars to fill the gas tank. While I waited, I read the just-in-case-I-need-it book that I stash in my purse. Carry baby wipes and an extra book in your purse at all times, that my Motherhood Motto. Chances are, you'll need the wipes to scrape off the crust that the kids threw in your purse, but that landed on the book you someday hope to read. Thanks to a tsunami warning, and an impressively long line at the gas station, tonight was my lucky night to reach for the book, instead of the wipes. And who says nothing good comes from a state of emergency?

Pedestrians passed, toting backpacks and a sleeping bag under their arm. They walked in the direction of the park, headed for higher ground. Mr. Forget-me-not already hit the grocery store, to buy an extra flat of water, just in case.

When I returned home from the gas station, we checked flash lights. Then I filled up the bathtub, washed the last of the dirty laundry, gathered empty bleech bottles, coolers, and every empty water bottle in the house and filled those up, too. Even with that, it never feels like we'd ever have enough water in the event of an emergency.

To my surprise, the kids have slept through the unexpected commotion and the blare of the tsunami siren all around us. So apparently their selective hearing loss extends beyond when they can't (read: don't want to) hear me. Now that's comforting.

And now we wait. And watch. And pray for those who have already lost so much in Japan. And hope that the tsunami passes over our little island.

Always on the grow,

Deep in the Heart of Texas

2011-03-06T20:10:00.000-08:00

Dinner conversation tonight lent way to a recap of our adventures with our foreigners this weekend.

"So, kids, what'd you think about our foreign exchange students?" Mr. Forget-me-not asked.

A chorus of cheers all around.

"They were great, weren't they?" I added, "but wouldn't it be great if we could get students from lots of different countries, not just Japan."

"Yeah," Columbine agreed, "like from Texas."

I'm sure Texans would be proud, that our 5 year old believes they are their own country. Yee-haw.

Columbine-isms have kept us laughing recently. Take this week as an example. While driving behind what looked like our neighbors car, she screamed, "Look! Mom! It's the neighbor's car!"

"I'm not sure it is their car, Honey. But, yes, it does look the same." I said.

"No! Mom! It is the neighbors car," she insisted. "It even has the same car tattoos." (Definition car tattoo: the stickers on the back window of a sea turtle.)

Kids say such funny things.

Always on the grow,

6 March 2011

2011-03-06T00:37:00.000-08:00

Next time we host Japanese exchange students, I want to pretend that my husband can't speak their language. So many times in my life, I've wanted to be a fly on the wall, lingering around someone else's conversations without anyone knowing I'm there. Then come exchange students and a dream fulfilled.

The exchange program encourages us to speak to our students in English and for them to do the same. Except, there is such a huge language barrier that, Mr. Forget-me-not, often saves us from an excruciating round of charades. So we cheat, a lot. We speak in English. Mr. Forget-me-not translates it into Japanese. Then they respond in English. Trust me, conversations go much further this way.

Before we came clean, about our surprising translation services (thanks again, Dear), it was comical to listen to the things they'd say to each other in Japanese, not thinking that the Mister could understand them. He'd turn to me and give me the play by play.

We picked them up this morning and the kids were so excited that they all began jabbering at once. With a new audience (and female at that!), Wooly began to charm them by quoting lines from his favorite movies (Toy Story, most likely). The car fell silent and then, Miki, turned to, Yumi, and said in Japanese, "I have no idea what that kid just said." Hilarious. Don't feel bad, my little Asian friends, half the time I don't understand the kid either.

As expected, our students spent most of their day taking pictures of our blond children. The fascination is comical.

Hibiscus would gladly pose for their cameras and then do her best to engage them in conversation, which turned into more nodding than speaking. She tried to ask them if they play any instruments, dramatising the words as she spoke. "Do you play the piano (wiggling her fingers over an air keyboard)? Or the flute (puckering lips while holding an imaginary piccolo)? You know...an in-stru-ment? (she said slowly, dragging out each syllable.) Violin? (She bends her chin in place as if there is a violin resting on her shoulder.)"

And here comes the best line..."How about the maracas?" No kidding. Hibiscus asked them if they played the maracas. Who knows, maybe they play the Andean zamponia?

It gets better! Columbine joined in on the, Name that Instrument Game, and said in complete seriousness, "Yeah, like a kazoo. Do you play that?"

Chances are, they understood enough of that conversation to be offended. Unlikely, however, since Japanese are so gracious and polite. We love having them in our home. It makes the day so much fun. Ours included shopping, Mr. Forget-me-not's basketball game, a shave ice, family pizza night, and a beach walk! Wow...no wonder I'm tired.

While we strolled along at the beach, Columbine, asked, Miki, to write her name in the sand. When she finished, Columbine looked down at the shoreline and said, "Miki! Your name looks like Wooly's rocket." She's right--the similarity is striking.

The girls loved jumping waves on the shore. Wooly preferred to jump Captain Commando style. And Columbine was happy to get her kicks from flying a kite.

The day ended with the most beautiful sunset. The students tell us that in Japan, it's 1:00pm tomorrow. While I know that's true, when I look through the lens of my camera to get the best angle and lighting of the smoky sunset in Hawaii, thinking about tomorrow doesn't even seem possible.

Always on the grow,

Gimme Five

2011-03-04T00:23:00.000-08:00

Lately the kids have added an extra touch to the thrill of a "High Five." After their hands slap together in excitement, they'll twirl around and bump bums. "Low Two's" always get a laugh.

Here's my "High Five" and "Low Two" for the day.

5. I love being on first name basis with my local librarian. Tonight she waved more late fees than I deserved, but regardless of that, I'd still think she's the nicest librarian I've ever had. She even dipped into the loose change collection to fish out extra jiggle for a yoga DVD I had requested, because I didn't have enough money to take home. That lady, she's the best.

4. Frozen yogart with girlfriends, always nice.

3. Finally, finally, I managed to organize and clean the kids toys. It took me all afternoon. While the chore itself certainly wasn't a highlight, the end result was fantastic! The play area has been a flaming disaster for so long, I was tempted to dump the entire mess into a trash bag and haul it away, just to save myself the trouble. I managed to trudge through it, filling up several give-away bags in the process. My kids were thrilled with the result. Uncluttered living space makes me want to play, too. Love, love, love a clean room.

2. Good news: We're getting a new dryer because the old dryer died. Or, more accurately, nearly caught the house on fire. Bad news: It won't be delivered until Tuesday of next week. Murphy's Law always kicks in at moments like these. Wooly has been potty trained day and night for months, and this week--of all weeks--he's wet the bed 3 times. Until we get our laundry station up and running again, the soggy sheets and stinky undies keep piling higher and higher. By Tuesday, we'll have created our own Laundry Volcano. Stand back, she's gonna blow.

1. Happy about my new glasses, which I am wearing now. Not new entirely, just the frames, not the lenses. Balmy tropical air, while good for vacationers wanting to sip a pina colada poolside, wreaks havoc on all metal. I had expected our bike handle bars to rust out, practically overnight (which they did). But I had no idea that the metal hinges of my glasses would suffer the same sad end.

Last week, the rusted hinge snapped clean off. Thankfully, even though this is an island, we have Costco! They swapped out the lenses into the exact frames that I'd bought a year ago at a Mainland Costco, and walla, new frames, old face. You'd think they would have offered me a complimentary hot dog for my trouble. Service! It's just not what it used to be.

Low Two:

2. Not a fan of bed wetting, smelly mattress issues, and rotting laundry piles. Who is a fan of that? We have two Japanese foreign exchange students coming to sleep at our house this weekend. Neither of the girls have ever been to America (not that I think Hawaii is a true representation of the country), but I fear that they'll return home and tell their friends in Japan how all American families smell like urine. I'd offer an explanation, except that it would then lead to another embarrassing admission of guilt. And no one wants to hear that the bed they just slept in, was recently an accidental toilet. Gross.

Maybe I should open a can of tuna fish to mask the smell? Who knows, Japanese people might feel comforted by the smell of fish? It could be the American equivalent of baked bread of chocolate chip cookies. Oh, what to do, what to do?

1. Such a bummer: Missed my once-a-week PiYo class (a cross between pilates and yoga). Little Ms. Columbine had an off moment today, not acting like her usual self when it came time for me to leave. Finally, after my PiYo window of opportunity passed, it came out that Wooly had body slammed her head, sending her into the tizzy. That PiYo class is pure heaven. Darn you, Wooly, for practicing your WWF moves on your sister.

Always on the grow,

What I learned today...

2011-03-02T05:04:00.000-08:00

A familiar question at the dinner table and a definite staple for car rides home, after a long day at school. "Well, what did you learn today?" I'll ask eagerly, masking any hint of a tired sounding voice.

Funny, no one thinks to ask me the same in return. Maybe that's for the best, at least today anyway.

What did I learn today?

1. If you are going to have the Fight to End All Fights with your spouse...

Close the windows!

Or better yet, take it to the car. Do yourself a favor, roll up the windows before getting to it. I'm not sure, but the car might insulate the noise a little better than say, levers left wide open on every darn window of the house.

Open Letter to my Neighborhood:
Please do not make eye contact with me tomorrow, or for the rest of the week, for that matter. If you ask about "the scream," I reserve the right to lie and say I found a cockroach the size of a small child on the floor next to my bed. (Which is true, actually. Just so happens that we killed and captured said roach this morning. Last time we checked on the mostly dead life science project on the kitchen counter, he was still hanging on for dear life. Apparently it takes more than a stomp of a size 13 hiking boot to kill those kind. Don't worry, nasty bugger is at a safe looking distance in that handy glass jar with the tight, ever so tight, lid.) Technically speaking, there were two banshee war cry screams from our house today. Only the one tonight, not because of the roach. (But you'll never know that.)

2. Seems odd, that this lesson would come so quickly on the heels of Lesson Number One, but hey, I'm a quick learner.

You don't need to scream for God to hear you.

Which is funny, since my kids scream all the time and I, and everyone on God's good earth, can hear them loud and clear. In fact, my neighbor from Thailand had a friend at her house today, which she politely introduced us to. The kids were crouched around her driveway, borrowing her smooth cement for an afternoon of chalk art. She turned to her friend and introduced Wooly (as I did my best to hide a smirk). "This is Wooly. He's the screamer." True story, her words, not mine. Sweet, sweet validation of my agony.

But when it comes to an S.O.S. flare gun to the sky, a silent thought is all it takes to bend His ear. God listens, and answers, every prayer--even the inaudible kind. No, mostly the inaudible kind.

Interesting how hindsight makes it so much easier to see the hand of God, working in our lives. The whole 20/20 idea doesn't ever stack up against His, Omniscient, see the end from the beginning, but hey, it's a start.

Some may call it chance, but I believe it was inspiration when just this past Monday, the wonderful lady I visit, (for you Mormon Folk, Visiting Teaching) happened to mention to me that a Big Shot Marriage Therapist (Doug Brinley) would be coming to teach a Marriage and Family course in our area. Only God could have known the turn of events that would happen after a seemingly unrelated Visiting Teaching appointment and the Red Letter Day that would follow.

Tonight, several lingering issues came to a head in our marriage. In the aftermath of the, Fight to End All Fights, I prayed. Quietly I thought through the issues at hand, knowing I needed divine help and divine clarity. Humbling searching, not knowing how to ask for specific help, when the problems themselves seem so scattered. There are too many, all muddled up together in one confusing, resentful pile. And so it was that my prayer was more a general S.O.S. to the heavens than a single flare gun to the sky. Heaven knows I've prayed my fair share of those before, too.

In that stillness, as my heart desired change, even if my mind wasn't yet capable of articulating the specifics, the thought of this Marriage and Family course came to my mind. It was like a well-timed lifeboat thrown out to my sinking ship. Good thing, too, because tonight we dropped a few anchors that might be here for awhile without some professional intervention.

3. Okay, so I've learned this lesson many times, but tonight it seems more poignant.

Writing helps. But sometimes, albeit rarely, it doesn't.

For example, if writing down the memory supersedes making another memory, (i.e. plugged into the computer, instead of plugged into life) then the magic of the written word is lost. Following me?

What I'm trying to say is, while writing has always been a good therapist to me, it can't replace the actual moments of application. I need to refocus myself, my priorities, and be more discretionary with how I spend my energy. Fighting with the person I (most always) love the most, has a way of driving the really important priorities home. Home. The place that must be the focus of my very best creative effort. If home is where the heart is, then good heavens, I really need my heart to be more in it!

4. Last and final lesson of the day.

It is a good thing to kiss and make up.

(Even if there is still a boat load of sinking problems that need a few more heaven sent rescue rafts.)

Always on the grow,

Maid for Hire: Inquire Within

2011-02-28T02:31:00.000-08:00

Come Monday morning, Weekend Recovery Mode kicks into high gear. Irrational, yes, that I try to avoid it's arrival by cowering in the computer corner, late this Sunday night. The neurosis can't be helped. After a long weekend, the temptation to bask in a little midnight solitude, a house lulled into slumber by all the people I love, well it's just too much. In the dim light of a computer screen, I can almost pretend that the momentarily non-visible surfaces aren't actually covered (completely) in the messy evidences of my life with children. Tornado never seems a strong enough description.

Surely, Mr. Forget-me-not, will forgive me, just this once, for wishing--just a wee little wish--that a baby blue apron donning, Hanz, and his perfect pink feather duster, will be at my doorstep tomorrow. I'll check the front porch right after I return from the morning carpool. A more shrewd housewife would have thought to ask for him as a belated birthday present, because, clearly I can't be expected to wait until Christmas. My needs, they are so simple.

Sincere and thoughtful in his concern, Mr. Forget-me-not picked up on the Monday morning foreboding, even pitching in to finish the last sink full of Sunday dishes. The gloom began to settle as I surveyed the weekend damage around our house, making a mental tally of how many hours of housework it'll take to whip this ship back into shape. Darn it, where did the kids hide that whip?

I tried (not very hard) to mask the depressed emotion, knowing my disdain for the ritualistic Monday morning mania would derail the happy train faster than anything else. Every party comes with a price. Unfortunately, this past weekend o'fun had a price tag attached to a bottle of Clorox. (Seriously, Wooly, tell me now, do we have another decade of missed target practice during Potty Time? I just need to know.)

The experts have their own pet theories, on why women aren't happier than they were 40 years ago, despite having more opportunities, greater education, more access to the political process, and better work options. Pet theories aside, bottom line, women spend more minutes a day than men doing what they would rather not do. Stay-at-home-Dads, you are respectfully excluded from my gross generalization; you have my respect and condolences.

Quite frankly, as a woman who spends a significant amount of time doing things I'd rather not, I can rattle off my list of dislikes pretty darn fast. At the top: Monday morning chores. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday aren't much better. Unless, of course, I had a helper named, Hanz. Then there ~~might~~ would be fewer complaints.

Pardon me, may I borrow that pink duster?

Here's to Monday. May yours include fewer toilet bowls than mine.

Always on the grow,

27 February 2011

2011-02-28T00:48:00.000-08:00

Hello Mango Season! Oh, how we've missed you all these months. May your sweet juices run down our chins and leave us with sticky smiles! "Mangoes, Mom!" Hibiscus chants, "Mangoes are definitely my favorite fruit!" What she can't remember, however, is that Hawaiian mangoes are a completely different fruit than any mango on the Mainland. I'm not sure how we'll cope after we move away.

Almost as happy as sharing the first mango of the season, was this great Hibiscus moment.

The pictures that are my most favorite are always the ones that almost don't get taken. Hurried through life and deadlines, this happens more often than I'd like to admit. Thankfully, when this peaceful moment presented itself, memory flashed wisdom to my heart, causing me to stop and take it in. I found the camera and took a picture that is arguably the best of the week. It would have been such a shame to miss the moment! It was taken without a flash, so that I could get this cool backlit image.

On an early morning this week, I bent around a bedroom door to find, Hibiscus, already awake, hiding in a swirl of mosquito netting. Nestled around her book, lost in her own world of warm covers and hazy morning sunlight. She'd woken up early to squeeze in a few more minutes of reading before school. The light next to her bed filtered a peaceful, sleeping princess glow. And with that as the Fairytale backdrop, who wouldn't want to forget morning school bells, close out the world, and stay in bed all day? Sounds like a perfect day to me.

The mosquito nets work wonders around the kids' beds at night, preventing most bites. Mr. Forget-me-not suggested that we (meaning: I) try to find one for our bed. Last night he had another midnight sword fight (and lost) against the pesky skeeter that kept buzzing around his ears. Curse them! Curse them all! Only one problem, where in the world do you find a mosquito net big enough for a California King bed?

Wooly, would tell you that mosquitoes aren't his biggest annoyance of the week. That kid hates haircuts, probably more than I hate mosquitoes. If he could have his way, he'd grow a shaggy bush that would rival his sister's long locks. While the surfer boy haircut is definitely "in" and certainly cute, it also means that I've got one extra head of hair in the morning that requires me to brush through ratty knots. No, thanks. Little Surfer Dude Wooly needed to chop off the love.

Which is why after a weekend beach trip, we played Bathroom Barber Shop. He was already covered in sand, why not add clipped hair to the mix before the after-beach hose down? Believe me, I've tried every trick in the book to ease the pain. Despite the lollipops (thinking it might plug up the hole that produces so much noise during our torturous cuts), the miniature boxes of candy Nerds (his favorite Halloween leftover, which he'd rather throw at me than eat), markers to draw on the mirrors while I cut (bought me 4 seconds of distraction), and other ineffective "Big Boy Bribes"--he still howls like I've just lopped off an ear.

But, we made it through, proving that a haircut makes him look especially adorable (after he stopped screaming).

Happier moments of the week include:

Magnet Math at the fridge with Columbine (notice the pennies and nickels I've taped next to the equal sign, incentive for money motivated little learners). Columbine's really clicked with math concepts lately, proud to show off her new skills of counting by 10's and counting to 100.

Running through rainy gutters with Hibiscus.

And quality Father Son time that included power washing tutorials (there is something seriously wrong with this picture).

This week's report wouldn't be complete without also mentioning another HUGE developmental milestone, one of my personal favorites, actually. Because who cares when they sit up or crawl? The novelty of those big moments loose the thrill after the first kid, sorry, Columbine and Wooly.

No, no, it's the other time saving milestones that really mean something. Hold your breath, my life just got easier! This week,Wooly finally learned how to 1) buckle his own seatbelt over the booster seat...Hallelujah!...and 2) put on his underwear, all by himself. Do I care if it's inside out and worn backwards? Nope. It covers up the essentials (albeit in a rather uncomfortable way) and he can do it without my help. (Sigh.)

Always on the grow,

5 Special Things

2011-02-24T00:02:00.000-08:00

Dinnertime conversations are rarely memorable. But I'll tell you what is noteworthy--gathering all of our little people at one table and weathering the chorus of complaints. If I serve anything outside the realm of chicken nuggets or mac-n-cheese, believe me, I'll hear about it. Oh! The cries of injustice!

Tonight, however, the conversation--not the food--was memorable. True to form, only 2 of the 5 were content with the menu, even though it should have been a total crowd pleaser! The fickle little boogers ate the same thing last week and loved it. Tonight they'd rather gag their way to time out. Children's palates, such a mystery.

In an effort to redirect the typical complaints over both the food served and the company shared, Mr. Forget-me-not asked, Columbine, a question. Magically, she turned to him, as if they were sharing a candlelit dinner for two. With a quiet, trembling voice, she answered Daddy's question. I watched their interchange as she softly held out a humble little piece of her heart. Yet another moment to feel the unpretentious goodness of her soul.

Mr. Forget-me-not: "Columbine, what are 5 special things about you?"

Surprisingly and with very little hesitation, she rattled off her thoughts:

"1. I am special.2. I can ride my bike, by myself.
3. I can put on my shoes, by myself.
4. I can walk in the rain, by myself.
5. I like lots of persons."

I love that girl, even when she sticks her tongue at potato soup and green salad.

Always on the grow,

Umbrella in the rain

2011-02-23T23:28:00.000-08:00

Couple today's rainy afternoon with this week's quarantine, brought on by, Wooly's bout with a pink eye infection, and we're all doing our best to stave off cabin fever. Columbine asked today when the collective house arrest will be over. Until we can put this pinky mess behind us, we'll keep puttering around, waiting for Wooly to stop seeing the world through his bacterial rose colored lenses.

In a moment as unspectacular as the many moments before it, I stood quietly washing dishes this afternoon at my kitchen sink. Today's rainy day special included a movie for the kids. So while my children plugged themselves happily into the television, I somehow found the determination to use the downtime to wash the dishes instead of lounge around. This kind of mental willpower is rare form, I assure you.
The rain came pouring down, causing gutters to overflow and our house to echo with the pounding sound of water. Tropical rain knows no bounds, this I have learned from living here. And while I love the sounds and smell of these torrential storms, I curse the standing water they bring and the mosquitoes that follow. Other than that eternal angst, a rainstorm in Hawaii is a beautiful thing.

During this sudden downpour and from the vantage point of my kitchen window, I saw my neighbor pull into her drive. Without hesitation, another neighbor quickly charged from his front door, braving the storm with two umbrellas in hand. Like a positioned, but unpaid bellman, he held open the door, handed her an umbrella to secure herself and then ran around to the other side of her car to help with the others. With one free hand he unbuckled and transferred one of her two little children safely inside.

My heart was filled with joy as I watched this unrequested and unexpected kindness play out across the street. Thinking it might preserve the mental image longer, I wanted to dash away, grab my camera and snap the picture of my good-hearted neighbor and his unheralded helpfulness. Knowing that this couldn't be the case, I stood at the sink, focusing a mental picture to hold fast within my mind and heart. A moment caught through the lens of the heart lasts longer than one snapped with a camera anyhow.

Surely, my neighbour could have managed to get herself out of the car, even with the rain and the kids in tow. Of course, they would have been soaked from the effort, but still, not entirely impossible to manage. Yet, unexpectedly, someone came to help. I thought it was such a beautiful moment of goodness. Nothing spectacular, but noble in it's simplicity. Sort of like washing dishes. And caring for a sick child.

Then it hit me. My life, my everyday, is filled with these small, seemingly insignificant moments. A tapestry of kind deeds woven throughout the years, for my family, mostly for my children. Everyday I serve the God I love, by serving them, my children, His children. And like the unexpected umbrella in a rainstorm, the sacrifice is noticed. Always. Perhaps by no one other than God himself. And I imagine that the simple joy I felt, as I quietly witnessed my neighbor's act of goodness, is what brings Him the most happiness, too.

Always on the grow,

20 February 2011

2011-02-22T00:33:00.000-08:00

While it's true that Wooly's sisters reign in the art department, with their never ending additions to their portfolio of daily sketches, this week, the boy who is rarely interested in crayons and paper, decided he'd finally found a source of doodling inspiration.

When the girls were his age, they were loyal to their preferred subject matter: Our Family. Unless, of course, they were drawing princesses. Even now, they'll scribble off the family line up, matching hair and eye color to the closest Crayola equivalent. Columbine drew one the other day and didn't understand why I chuckled after looking over her shoulder to get a sneak peek at the next Family Portrait Masterpiece. It was the artistic rendition of her dad's bald head that made me laugh. She'd wiggled black stubs, sideways, above his ears. Then as added emphasis, with an apricot crayon, she'd smudged the top with an extra color of shine. Hilarious (to me, not him) and quite talented, that girl.

Wooly, on the other hand, has determined his own preferred subject matter: Rockets. Big ones. Small ones. Rockets with caterpillars crawling out, and spider crawling in. Sometimes his rockets will have wings, sometimes not. Others might have a window or door, but it's always a rocket. I love it! I want to frame the whole collection and make it a permanent exhibit.

Other happenings of the week, include--best of all--lots of beach trips (homework on the sand, not a bad life for Hibiscus). Sandy graves, dug by Daddy, who had a couple days off from work to play.

Last but not least, a week isn't a week if it doesn't include laundry, lots of laundry. Often I've wondered, if I kept a tally of how many loads I will wash, dry, fold and put away in one lifetime, will that be my lucky number to unlock the Pearly Gates? Chances are, however, the loads I've been folding lately wouldn't count toward the grand total. Because seriously, doing laundry on the backyard picnic table, with a view like this, it's hardly painful.

In my defence, I'd like to argue that it is my habitually regular Friday multi-tasked chore, emphasis on the "multi." While Hibiscus finishes piano lessons inside, I quarantine my kids, the piano teachers kids, and a weeks worth of laundry in the backyard. While they tickle the ivory inside, I fold in our--yes, I know--heavenly scenic backyard, filled with little people and mostly clean undies (who in the case of this picture, offered to help fold 'em up--love it!). Gorgeous view or not, it is still laundry. I think St. Peter will buy that logic, don't you?

Always on the grow,

Introducing the newest member of our family...

2011-02-22T00:05:00.000-08:00

She rides like a dream. We're not sure what to call her, yet. Suzy the Stand Up Paddle was my vote.

One things is certain, we love her. All 10 feet 6 inches of paddle boarding love.

Always on the grow,

Beautiful Butterfly

2011-02-21T23:52:00.000-08:00

We've watched caterpillars eat themselves into a blissfully quiet nap several times now. No matter how many times we've "grown butterflies" in our kitchen, feeding them leaf after countless Crown Flower Tree leaf, it hasn't lost it's wonder or charm; I don't think it ever could.

The moment the winged marvel emerges from the safety of the hanging crysallis, we wait mezmorized by her fragile beauty.

When her wings are dry, we'll gently lift her from our homemade habitat to transfer for the backyard release. Lucky for us, this little beauty didn't mind hanging around awhile to tickle our noses before flying to the safe resting spot of a mango tree leaf.

Always on the grow,

Ride like the wind

2011-02-21T23:37:00.000-08:00

They say it's a right of childhood passage, as well it should be, the day the training wheels come off a two-wheeled bike. In the face of certain death (by parked car, of course), Columbine, proved to herself that all things are possible--if you wait until you are good and ready to face the challenge. She'll turn six in June, never mind that some kids toss the trainers at three, because clearly the girl had nothing to prove to anyone (but herself). I like that girl, I do.

Funny thing about challenges, key element of success: wait until you are good and ready and it's hardly a challenge at all. No shame in that, according to Columbine.

So when she determined that this past Wednesday was the day of all days, well then, stand back innocent bystanders and Old Man who faithfully walks his schnauzer down our street. Warning: training wheels are off! All systems a go.

With only a few anxious tears, and nervous promises repeated that we wouldn't let go of the back of the seat until she gave us the que, she did it!

Columine (finally) shed the training wheels, woot, woot! Ride on, girl, ride on!

Always on the grow,

13 February 2011

2011-02-13T23:36:00.000-08:00

Hibiscus had an action packed week. Sandwiched between the regular stuff like play rehearsals, piano practice, and homework were the more exciting moments of the week: Science Fair project, after school playdate with Anna (that included a bruising and bloody bike crash), kid yoga class, and a mosquito bite to the eye that caused serious swelling.

We tried all sorts of home remedies, cold compress, cucumber eye wraps, before resorting to a bedtime cocktail of Benedryl. Although miserable, Hibiscus hopes the swelling will last through Monday. No sense having a painful weekend if it doesn't get you out of school.

What she doesn't realize is that staying home on Monday may get her out of classroom assignments, but it also gets her out of the class Valentines Day party. And seeing as how she managed, puffy eye and all, to make these beauties for her friends, I think she'll find a way to school on Monday.

With love, love, love all around, we spent Sunday afternoon crafting adorable V-Day fun. The girls worked hard to get the cards for their teachers finished, while I whipped up chocolate cupcakes divine in the kitchen. Columbine wrote the sweetest little love note to her Primary Teacher, Aunty Lily. Love is in the details, proved by the adorable cupcake domes that made our gifts a true one of a kind. No shame in being a copycat, I snagged the idea from one of my favorite gift and craft idea blogs. Cupid would be proud, I'd say.

Columbine and Wooly had a good week. I forgot to haul along the camera, as proof of our adventures to the Aquarium and preschool. Bouncing around town is exciting, but they are equally as happy to play at home. Especially if it includes dumping over laundry baskets. Because what's a couch fort without a few empty laundry baskets as the West Wing? Oh, pardon me, was that clean, folded laundry I just threw to the floor? Yeah, that's the part that goes unnoticed.

I managed to snap proof of the destruction, but more impressive, I managed to laugh at the heaps of folded laundry. Okay, so it was more grunt than laugh, but still. One of these days, Wooly...

My Little Man is also convinced that if he wears his sisters black patent leather boots, he is a body double for his favorite movie character. "I am eternally grateful," that the girlie boot fascination had a short lived. If you didn't catch that classic quotable from the Toy Story Movie, congratulate yourself on having a life.

Surely, if you shared my life (or Wooly's) you'd know every line, from every Toy Story movie. Plus, you'd know the names of all the characters--a trivia challenge made easier since Wooly faithfully carries the figurines around in his backpack. And I mean, faithfully. The only time it's not on his back is when he is sleeping. In that case, it's wedged at the top of his pillow.

And that's a wrap, I mean, week.

Always on the grow,

Tragic Comedy

2011-02-12T16:09:00.000-08:00

Bookend moments from yesterday's adventures sum up a day of unexpected twists, leaving me to wonder if the world would be a better place with a few less crazy boys in it?

On our way to take Columbine to school, Wooly bumped my on-the-go breakfast in a bowl. The one I'd planned to eat, looked forward to eating, while driving. The lovely mound of diced papaya and Greek yogurt, drizzled with honey, did an impressive double gainer, splashing completely into my purse. Proving, once again, the fortuitous necessity of carrying baby wipes at all times, long after they outgrow their original diaper-and-bum usage.

I should have taken note of this papaya dumping omen. Making a U-turn half way up the Pali Highway, to return back home for forgotten slippers, was another bad sign.

By the end of Columbine's school day, we'd reloaded again, this time to shuttle and pick up Hibiscus. Yesterday was presentation day for Science Projects. I'd had a prayer tucked quietly in my heart all day, hoping that it would go well. All it'd take was one jerk of her homemade pulley system to send a tin-can of bubble solution flying, ruining the whole dazzling effect of the "Perfect Pulley Bubble Blower" science experiment. Because duct tape around string on a can only holds up against so much resistance.

Thankfully, the presentation was a popping success, but I came prepared at pick-up, just in case. I parked the car, stepped out, balancing a consolation or congratulatory cup of chocolate milk (with ice and whip cream!) in one hand and unsnapping Wooly's buckle with the other hand. I should have anticipated his rocket launch off the springboard of the car mat, but this time, distracted by Hibiscuses chocolate milk, I didn't see it coming.

Out jumped Wooly, out jumped the chocolate milk. Making this his second show stopping moment as another delectable treat triple flipped to the sidewalk. At least this one missed the purse!

I made no mention of the chocolate milk explosion, until Hibiscus returned to the car and noticed the smear of whip cream on the door panel. Thank you, again, inventors of baby wipes. The afternoon's tragedy's culminated to a sad end as, Hibiscus, recounted slide disaster at recess.

For weeks, she has worn the sweetest little white bead bracelet around her wrist. It was a gift from G&G Gessel at her baptism. She's worn it every day since. Tears bubbled over, not the science project kind, as she pulled a ziploc baggie from her backpack. There cradled in the sad palm of her hand were the broken peices of the bracelet.

"Oh no! What happened?" I asked.

"It was the crazy boy! The one who needs reading help, who did it," she blubbered from the backseat. "Mom! This is not funny. Why are you laughing?"

I couldn't help it, the description was hilarious to me.

"I'm sorry, Honey. You're right, this is not funny. Except for your description. How did crazy, reading help, boy break your bracelet?" I asked most sincerely.

Apparently, crazy boy came flying down the slide, slammed into her wrist, and the rest (read: bracelet) was history. Which is almost as bad as papaya and honey flopping into your favorite purse. But, we've got the other crazy boy, who still needs reading help, to blame for that one.

Last tragedy: Mr. Forget-me-not is in the dog house (literally). He borrowed my slick pair of sunglasses, lightweight, sporty and least girlie looking. We'd ditched the kids at the sitters, for a beach run date together. When we got to the beach, he realized that he forgot his own sunglasses and I happened to have two pairs, of course, in the car.

Beach run, awesome. Making fun of the Mister for looking like a girl in my sunglasses, also awesome. Smoothie treat afterwards, super awesome. Calling the babysitter's house after we'd picked up the kids to find out that the sunglasses Mr. Forget-me-not accidentally left behind had been eaten by their puppy, not so awesome.

Sometimes, tragedies befall us. If we're lucky, the comedy part is supplied by the crazy boys.

The end.

Always on the grow,

Okay then...I'll write.

2011-02-09T02:24:00.000-08:00

I'll have you know, writing post-bedtime, by the haze of a glowing    desk lamp, poses a very real and slightly scary, termite hazard. I'm not entirely sure they are termites, but it's less creepy than several other island alternatives, so we'll stick with termites.

They zip around the 40 watt bulb, smacking against the monitor and desk like ping pong balls. Termites versus mosquitoes, scoreboard says it's a close match. Great, all this bug talk, and now my heads itching like I just got a case of the uku's.

I suppose the battle of the bugs isn't any less distracting than trying to write in the daytime, when my brain is fresh, but my mind displaced. Instead of termites, I'm up against little people, who like bugs, try to crawl over my lap and flap against the monitor, too.

And so I wait until this sleepy, but quiet, hour. The daily brain trickle sucks the thrill or will to say anything worth preservation. Hence the boring weekly snapshots (that might very well snap the fun out of writing altogether). I suppose if anything, I write knowing that most of what comes out of my head is deletable. I'm mostly okay with this; it's part of the craft. It just happens to be the part that I don't have much time for, but fantisize that someday I might.

This afternoon I managed to sneak away to the hardware store with, Hibiscus, alone (thanks to my awesome neighbor who let the other two hooligans stay to play). Wooly in a hardware store, only in my worst nightmares.

It's science project week and we're on the hunt for several key items: duct tape (what's a 3rd grade project without duct tape?), screws, fans, bubble solution. NASA would be impressed, I'll say that much.

Our hardware store adventures included a jaunt through the knob aisle, where two employees restocked little bits into little bins. Don't ask me the names of all those bits or bins, guaranteed I couldn't tell you. Mr. Forget-me-not could vouch for that personal deficiency.

Last night, while discussing the design of the frame that needs to be built to hold the Pulley Bubble Blower project of all projects, I suggested that he just, "screwdrive it." Think verb, not noun.

"Screwdrive it?" he mocked. And mocked. And five minutes later, mocked some more.

So, yeah, me and one of my female-handicapped daughters went to the hardware aisle. Step aside, people, step aside. We wriggled our way around a crowded knob aisle, where restocking employees apologized for the roadblock of boxes in our path. I barely noticed them or their boxes, while standing deep in concentration, trying to find our thing-a-ma-gig. No need to apologize, I assured them. I wasn't bothered by the inventory sneeze through the aisle because, and this is a perfectly believable explanation..."I have three kids. My life is crowed. Most the time, I don't notice that either." True story, exact quote.

But then maybe? Could that be the answer? I am crowded most of the time, and do actually notice. Here's the deal: I like, no love, to write. But lately, I'm just not feeling it. Creativity, inspiration, the magic spark, whatever it is that fuels my fingers to drum the keyboard, it's on a little hiatus. Or maybe a sabbatical, I don't know? Let's call it a sabbatical. There's comfort in the idea that maybe my lull, er...I mean, sabbatical, implies smarty-farty research, or at very least some mental R&R.

While true that I have been reading more, maybe I'm not reading the right things? Clearly good reading begets good writing. Yet, something in that magic formula is missing.

Crowded. I do feel crowded. I think it's time to clean house, mental and otherwise. And right now, it's time to turn off the light and tell the termites we'll need a rematch another night.

Always on the grow,

On Creativity

2011-02-07T14:06:00.000-08:00

I wish we all could hold onto the innate creativity that we had as children. I watch my own children create so effortlessly, swirling colors and patterns to paper, content in a moment of expression.

Always on the grow,

6 February 2011

2011-02-07T13:59:00.000-08:00

This new routine of weekly blog posts, I must admit, it's boring. Sure, sure, a snapshot of the family is a good thing because these ordinary details would surely be forgotten. Aside from that, however, it's made me realize that the mechanics of our lives are pretty unimpressive. It was just another nuts and bolts sort of week, minus any cool spinning, lights flashing, whirl-a-gig on top. But I guess, for most of us anyway, that's just life.

In fact, by Friday--knowing that my Sunday blog post was right around the corner--I grabbed the camera to capture the ordinariness of the moment.

Hibiscus practices almost willingly. I photoshopped the whip out of the picture. You're welcome.

Evidence that Valentine's Day is around the corner AND that our house is full of girls. It cracks me up to find Polly Pocket dolls placed in the most strategic locations.

Notice the inspirational view from our office window. I suppose it's rather surprising, considering our dad is a computer geek, that we have but one computer in our house. Same goes for a television. Both are shared by all. The computer is dominated mostly by online math games for the kids. Which is why most of my blog posts hit at midnight. By then, of course, the lovely, inspiration view is nothing but a black abyss.

It's next to impossible to write during the day. I imagine someday I'll have all the time in the world to write during the day, but without any kids around to supply as much material. Such a shame.

Calling all Tarzans: This weekend we hiked Maunawili Falls Hike with our neighbor friends. The jungle was thick with mosquitoes. Despite our coat of bug spray, we still got nibbled over. Aside from the itch factor, it was a beautiful hike. The root swings were the best part!

Always on the grow,

Stuff

2011-02-07T01:39:00.000-08:00

Hear me now, Oh Universe: Tomorrow I will clean the playroom.

Embarassing, yes, to write that down. Forgive the indulgence, but I need a little accountability to the task I've been avoiding. It'd be nice if I could say that it's only been a few days, or even just a few weeks. Nope. Try a couple months. Procrastination is a wicked thing.

However brilliant my household reorganization was two months ago, it fell short at the threashold of toy-o-rama. I haven't managed to muscle up enough motivation to tackle the long overdue project. And let's not underestimate the power of sentimental attachment, a kissing cousin to the classic doldrums of procrastination. The, "oh, I can't get rid of this yet, the kids used to play with this for hours," all very powerful distractions.

It wasn't until today when, Mr. Forget-me-not, threatened to take matters into his own hands (hands that'd be gripping a large trashbag) if the room didn't get an immediate purge.

With that kind of deadline, I'm thankful for the cattle prodding. I finally feel the urge to sort it out, throw it out, and hopefully, find a new home for old, but now ignored, favorites. To help channel the inner Purge Meister, I just spent the last 20 minutes watching the documentary, The Story of Stuff.

Holy Hannah, we Americans are a glutinous, overindulgent people! I'm not even talking about the keeping up with the Joneses mentality that influenced our obnoxious over consumption, either. It's flat out wrong how much unnecessary c.r.a.p. we buy. Even if it is on sale, or from a garage sale or thrift store. It's still just stuff.

Sionara to the stuff! No, I won't be buying more to replace it. I want breathing space, simplicity, quality not quantity.

Always on the grow,

A Day Off

2011-02-02T23:42:00.000-08:00

Working weekends has but one perk--a random day off mid-week. Tomorrow is that magic day. For me. Not him. Because when he reminded me that he had the day off work tomorrow, I smiled a devilish smirk and said in one long breath, "Great! Hibiscus needs to be dropped off to school, you need to leave the house no later than 7:33 to get her there on time. But the neighbor kids need a ride tomorrow, too. They'll be here a few minutes past 7. So, shuttle all the kids to school and then you'll still make it on time to stay with Columbine and Wooly at preschool."

It was a full throttle ramble and I didn't have the heart to flood the engines by including other equally important instructions into my tailspin. I'm sure he'll manage to think through the other 15 points of the morning check list: fill up water bottles, pack recess snacks for Hibiscus and post-preschool snacks for the youngins, make sure Hibiscus is wearing shoes since Thursday is PE. Don't forget breakfast (If it's anything that includes syrup, you must close the flip top lid before leaving. If you don't, the ants will do it for you.)! Scriptures, teeth brushed, beds made, piano torture drills, hair brushed, and most of all--escort Wooly to the potty to supervise the morning tinkle because I just cleaned the toilet seat today. I think that'd covers most of it.

Wisely enough, he has learned the best (read: only) response to offer after a one-breath-instruction-list. Good boy, now that's a good boy.

"What time is preschool over?" he asked.

So, yes, Mr. Forget-me-not, has the day off from work. Or at least he did, until he told me about it.

Welcome to my world, Honey. Enjoy circle time for me. Heads up: They'll probably sing that stupid song about the traffic lights and yes, it will be stuck in your head the rest of the day. Let's just hope they don't sing the Hawaiian version of the Hokey-Pokey song, too. That one gets stuck in the kids head all day and trust me, that's even worse.

Tomorrow I've got the morning off! I can't decide between a long beach walk or a longer beach walk.

It's going to be a great day.

Always on the grow,

Our Jamaican Ugli Tree

2011-01-30T01:12:00.000-08:00

We've wondered for a year now, gone so far as an unsuccessful google search in our quest to discover what kind of citrus tree we have growing in our yard. It's in full bloom now, making me wish I had more recipes that called for the juice of a Jamaican Ugli Tree. Our neighbors proved more helpful than even google. Imagine that! Search no more, we've got an ugli tree on our hands.

Odd though, that the more-lemon-like fruit than anything else we could compare it to, is not ugly (or ugli) at all. We tend to believe that it's a lemon crossed wit the traditional tangerine-grapefruit combo of an Ugli Tree. Whatever it is, the fruit is beautiful in color and fragrance. If you can look past the lumpy appearance, it's really quiet lovely, in an abstract, lopsided sort of way. But the color, wow! Hello sunshine yellow. I think I love ugly fruit.

Always on the grow,

2011 January 30

2011-01-29T12:19:00.000-08:00

Mid-week I came home after the swirl of morning activities to find just what I'd expected to find. Syrup puddles left on breakfast plates, half-finished glasses of milk, scriptures still flopped open, a table frozen in time as proof of our hurried morning. And so here we are at the end of the week, stopping for a moment to document some of our regular and out of the ordinary adventures. Those we'd surely forget if we didn't sneeze them to paper. Achoo!

We'd dashed out this morning to make it to the preschool field trip in time. Columbine and Wooly took a tour of the Bus Transit Center, including--you guessed it--a ride on The City Bus. A few weeks ago, I found Wooly's baseball backpack at a thrift store. The only time it's not worn, is when he's in bed. In that case, it's placed next to his pillow so that he'll know just where to find it when his wakes in the morning.

The contents he tucks into the backpack are just as predictable: one silky, one stuffed puppy in outside pocket, every miniature Toy Story figure that he got for Christmas. Where Wooly goes, the backpack goes too.

This week, like many others during the wet rainy months, we cursed all and killed a few, mosquitoes. Nothing like a shmear of mosquito blood on your palm to remind you that you're alive (and that insects, both big and small, consider you quite tasty). As I write this very moment, Wooly is scratching at the 15 bites (one on his eyelid--ouch!) that he just received after hiking down the backyard hill to the papaya trees. Mr. Forget-me-not fancies himself Papaya Tree Farmer. Unfortunately, the best planting location is also a mosquitoes habitat.

Other backyard moments include a monarch butterfly release. I love the look on Hibiscuses face.

Another backyard moment worth remembering: Sunday's sunset. Exquisite.

We did some biking this week. Friday school pick up included a bike trailer, tandem bike, and 145 collective kid and bike pounds that I pumped back home. It was a regrouping math problem that Hibiscus calculated on our ride.

Inspired by my feats of strength, Hibiscus invented a wagon haul ride that miraculously resulted in only one injury. Mr. Forget-me-not reminisced over the time that he'd rigged his little brother and a skateboard to the back of a car. Let's not give them any more ideas, Dear.

A moment this week definitely worth remembering: Here is proof that for all the times I harp about kindness, my kids do actually love each other. Folded in 100 point origami fashion, Hibiscus surprised Columbine with this love note.

Nothing says love for Wooly, than a good water wrestle. Hibiscus, mostly willingly, plays along. Sunday beach walk turned Sunday swim.

Those two really do love each other.

Always on the grow,

2011 January 23

2011-01-23T17:53:00.000-08:00

The end of the year writer's block made one thing clear to me. Stop to Smell the Family—A Blog, needed to reflect more family, less Florist. Not that it should be devoid of all creative writing (read: therapy). This year's blog goal is to write Sunday Snapshots, a journal post to record the week. Boring, probably, but it's back to the basics. There's wisdom in that, I'm sure.

And so...our week included:

A shared holiday from work and school, for us it meant a family trip to the North Shore. I'm not sure if that's what the Good Reverend King intended when they made a holiday in his honor, but it was a good time by all. Three cheers for the North Shore, oh--and Martin Luther King.

Driving the circle island tour also proved that our children's understanding of a road trip is completely warped. You wouldn't think it possible to hear a complaint over the blaze of the DVD player, but 45 minutes and 45 times of “Are we there yet” almost ruined the adventure. It was as if we'd set off for a roadtrip to Vegas. Seriously. Good thing the day ended with shave ice in Haleiwa, making whatever amount of time in the car worthwhile.

Plus, the girls and Mr. Forget-me-not, paddled kayaks around Goat Island. Hibiscus tipped over and was sure that she barely survived either death by drowning or death by shark attack. Fostering her overly dramatic perceptions, we sent her back to school and to a week that included rehearsals for the upcoming musical she's performing. She auditioned last Fall, made the cut, and is thrilled to perform this year's musical of “The Little Mermaid.” She'll make an adorable dancing Sea Creature. Hopefully, not a child eating shark.

Columbine and Wooly began a Hawaiian immersion pre-school class together this January. It's federally funded, which goes to show that there is such a thing as a free lunch. Or at least a free preschool snack, if you're patient enough to hold out for a year on the waiting list. Turns out, I'm not the only one with white kids who likes the idea of a free Hawaiian preschool.

Thankfully, Columbine isn't insulted by the obvious: Preschool is so, so last year. On the other hand, for Wooly it's right on the money. He is loving the chance to go to school, just like the big kids.

Still, Columbine seems to enjoy it, especially learning to count and sing in Hawaiian. She asked me what's my favorite part about pre-school and acted surprised when I told her that I like all the different activity tables. “I thought your favorite part was that it's free?” she reminded. Oh, right, that too! So yes, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, paying taxes doesn't seem half bad.

Wooly has officially redeemed himself as the Worst Sleeper in our house, finally making it through (most of) the night in his own bed. Who cares if I had to bribe him with gummy bears for breakfast to get that result? I think he knew that I was on the verge of a(nother) mental breakdown if he kept popping out of his bed a dozen times a night. By the third child, you'd think I'd have all these sleep issues figured. Just goes to show, nine years later and I still don't know jack about parenting. I do know a lot about gummy bears though. I could write a book on the importance of a well-timed bribe. It's a mystery why they didn't send me home from the hospital with a bag of bears instead of those lame Pampers.

For the time being, Mr. Forget-me-not isn't traveling, but you wouldn't know it by the amount of hours he's putting in at the office. Amazingly enough, even with his insane 70 hour weeks, he still squeezes out time to play on both church basketball and a league team. Good to know he's got his priorities straight.

Always on the grow,

Goals Shmoles

2011-01-22T11:38:00.000-08:00

Naturally, January rolls around and it seems a fitting time to get all introspective. This is only problematic if December included scratching off bucket list items, like running the Honolulu Marathon...and living to tell about it. And by “live to tell about it,” what I actually mean is live to shout it from the rooftops and then in shameless, conceited glory, pre-order a headstone. Engraven with my finishing time, of course. Beloved Mother, Friend to All, 5:05:21 In your face. Classy, I know.

That's another thing I've learned about goal setting. If you're going to make things happen, why not resort to shameless bragging rights forever more when you actually do have decent follow through? It's a sure fire way to make friends. Because humility is such a crock.

So, you'll have to pardon me, if all this New Year's Resolution talk feels a trifle anti-climatic compared to last year's ground breaking feat. No one tells you about this dirty little running secret, by the way. Sure you'll read plenty about a runners high, something I can now attest to. For a solid five days post finish line, I felt like Queen of the Universe! Bring it, people, I can conquer the world. Day Six, that was a different story altogether. The unexpected slump that chases on the heels of finish line exhilaration hit me blindside, lingering around like an uninvited house guest, overstaying his welcome several weeks. It's was a funk with a Capital F. It's odd to me that Fun and Funk can even start with the same letters, such an insult to my friend, Fun. Even so, despite the royal funk post-marathon, the damage was done. I've caught the Marathon Bug and already plan to run one more, if only to feel that rush again across the finish line. Maui 2012, Go Big or Go Home. After that, my marathon glory will be over.

So therein lies the problem, 2010's Big Goal: run marathon, check. If 2011's lofty goal isn't something along the lines of Establish World Peace, well then, what's the point? Am I being ridiculous? Don't answer that, Mr. Forget-me-not.

Listen, when it comes to goals, I mean business. I'd dip into my Bucket List again, to pull out one for 2011, but the list isn't that long. Irrationally—because clearly I've mastered that personality quirk—if I go systematically checking them off, year after year, I'll be dead before 40. So much for a Bucket List.

In all my hunting around for a decent sounding goal, despite the obstacles, I managed to find a few worth my time. Except, like anything goal that fits into the category of impressive, those darn kids make it impossible! I don't see why they keep insisting on wearing clean underwear or eating dinner every night. I have dreams, you know!

So, my real problem isn't finding a new goal, it's finding a goal that fits realistically into the context of my life as a mother with young children. Mr. Forget-me-not, and all his manly sensitivity, mistakenly said I use this line like a tired excuse. I can't remember why I didn't kick him to the couch after that one. Probably because I felt sorry enough to want to pat him on the head, like a sad lost puppy. Ah, the clueless life of a Superhero. He can't be expected to see the big picture every time. Poor thing.

It'd be a different story if every morning after breakfast, I kissed our three excuses on the head before dashing out the door to save the world. Only then could he more fully appreciate the difficulty of setting a goal to find my dream job, when I can't exactly quit my day job? Did I really train for a marathon, over several grueling months? Considering the “excuses” I could have made, it's even more miraculous an accomplishment. Not that I'm one to brag, or anything.

I adhere to a religious doctrine that esteems motherhood with godliness. No pressure there, right? While I agree with the underlying premise, in the end, the idea may be off course a bit. But who am I to say? for the time being, a church with a Mother God fixation does give added weight every time I have to haul Wooly off to his room for another time-out. Because.I. Am. The. Boss...means so much more when God is in my maternal corner. So yes, with or without any added strings of religious doctrine, running the daily marathon of motherhood, raising children who feel loved and know joy, it is an accomplishment that stands supreme. Three cheers for Mothers Everywhere! I get all of that. I promise, I do.

Selfish as it may sound, because all this ME-talk does feel uncomfortably selfish, I want more. Motherhood: in so many ways, it's just not doing it for me. And Wooly, although not entirely to blame for this, does so very often make me believe in Day Care like I've never believed in it before.

I want something beyond my all encompassing role of wife and mother, a life to call my own. Dare I say it, I want a job that doesn't include stain treatments, crock-pot recipes, or car-pool coordination. This may not be realistic, given present circumstances, but my soul bubbles over with excitement by the mere possibility. All of these dusty dreams were shelved indefinitely, another life I willingly exchanged for a 5 pound souvenir from the hospital maternity ward. You mean I get to keep this thing? And you expect me to keep it alive in a year? What! No return policy. Crap.

Thanks to last year's Marathon Moment, I now believe that with enough tenacity and determination, I could actually find it, become it, live the dreams in my head. Sounds like crazy talk, I know, as did running a marathon at a time when couldn't run more than 6 miles without passing out. But I did it, so what else is out there?

The best thing to come from my 2010 Marathon Moment, it's simple. Aside from a tighter butt and toner hamstrings—every mid-30's mother's dream--I'd say it's harnessed the power of my mind to make another dream come true.

I'm a believer. And like Motherhood and Marathons, I think God is in my corner.

Always on the grow,

Christmas 2010

2011-01-22T11:27:00.000-08:00

He’s makin’ a list…Checkin’ it twice…Gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.

While resorting to my (now infamous) Naughty and Nice Form Letter may lack creativity, I assure you that it is only out of respect for tradition that I follow the same trusted format (lie). Yet again, I bring you the shamefully candid, holiday greetings from our quirky family. Brace yourself for this year’s Aloha-ha!

Mr. Forget-me-not

Naughty: Impressive as it may sound, Captain America, spent his year gallivanting around the globe, racking up serious United Air Miles (way to go, Honey), visiting some of the most exotic and romantic places on earth (ahem, Paree), but without…moi! For whatever reason, as he stood atop the Eifel Tower, he thought it a good idea to call me. Our “shared” moment was unforgettable, just how I’d always imagined! Mr. Forget-me-not overlooking the City of Lights, me behind the wheel of our mini-van, driving the afternoon carpool. Ahh…such romance! In the end, although blemished by his momentary lapse of better judgment, he did redeem himself (as usual) by traipsing back with another box of exquisite European chocolates. You. Are. Forgiven. European chocolate can right almost any wrong. How do they say it in France? C’est la vie. Yes, that’s it. Now hand over the good stuff, Buddy, before anyone gets hurt.

Nice: Did I mention that Mr. Forget-me-not is my supplier of fine chocolates? Oh, yes, I did say that. Although, the box of tea he came home with after a pit stop through London was another nice consolation prize. Those Brits, they flat out know how to do tea. The kids, however, would tell you that Dad’s nicest surprise had nothing to do with trinkets from exotic lands. In an effort to prove himself Captain America, but more importantly, Captain Fun, he turned a junk tire into a tree swing. It hangs in our backyard off the branch of a mango tree. (How do I even compete with that much material? Fine, whatever, so the kids like you better. I always knew it was true.)

The Florist (29 and not a wrinkle to be found)

Naughty: Despite our Hawaii address, this ONE (and only) naughty has almost nothing to do with a grass skirt. Assuming you missed the flare gun to the sky on December 12^th…I ran the Honolulu Marathon, with what seemed like, half of Tokyo. Ko-knee-chee-wah, my fellow marathoners! I did it: Wearing a running skirt, not a hula skirt. Let’s face it, our Christmas newsflash is my forum to brag (aside from the blog, of course). Artistic liberty, if you will. And how many times can I brag about running a marathon? (Answer: once.) Okay…brag about jogging a marathon. The difference, I assure you, is profound. Still, 26.2 people. Word to yo’ Mutha. Respect the miles. Tempted as I was to grunt Japanese profanities at the wall-hitting, 23-mile mark, straight up Diamond Head (freaking volcanic island we call home), I didn’t. Read: Did. Not. Swear. (At least not in Japanese.)

Nice: Gave my husband a small, tiny really, hardly noticeable at all, stroll down Guilty Lane. It’s true, he missed my first, last, and only, Monumental Marathon Moment. Sure, sure, I know he’s off saving the world or something like that, but is it too much to ask that his globe trotting ways (hitting everywhere except, Harlem) be interrupted long enough to see me cross the finish line? No matter, a blunder like this will surely get me two boxes of chocolates! (Aren’t you impressed by how I weaved my shameless marathon bragging rights into both my naughty and nice? Smooth, I know.)

Hibiscus (8 ½)

Naughty: Loosely translated, her Hawaiian name means--Calm Ocean Water. I’ve considered submitting alternative translations. Surely there must be something more fitting for our girl. Let’s see…Intense ocean water? Sibling-teaser in the ocean water? No, no, we’ll stick with calm. Always good to have a goal.

Nice: She’s our ukulele rock star, thanks to a year of (free!) lessons with, Uncle Mel and the Keiki Palaka Band! Her diligence has paid off, as she can now jam on the ukulele. She fills our home with spirited fun and joyful music! As the leader of the pack, we hope her younger siblings follow suit and develop a Hawaiian talent all their own. Hula? Juggling coconuts? Give us a couple more years and we’re sure to surprise you with our performing island trio (or three-ring circus, depending how you see it).

Columbine ( 5 ½)

Naughty: Personally, I don’t have a problem with this naughty, since I appreciate anyone willing to do my job for me. (Takers? Anyone, anyone?) Her siblings, however, especially the baby brother who is determined to prove his total UN-baby-ness, is especially irked by it. She, fancies herself, The Baby Whisperer, quick to mother anyone (willing or not) in need of even the slightest maternal affection and direction. Again, I welcome her help. Her siblings, um, not so much.

Nice: Straight from heaven, I tell you, this one is an angel. Mother Columbine (yes, a distant cousin to Teresa) finds joy in the simple gifts and is quick to share them with others. It is a blessing to know her; it is a greater blessing to be loved by her.

The Dwarf Wooly Meadowfoam (3 ½)

Naughty: Funny (not really) that, Wooly and naughty, read almost synonymously in my mind. You want his recap of naughtiest moments for the year? So many stories, so little toner left in the printer cartridge. Here’s a colorful snapshot, each with a story to tell—2010, the year Wooly: escapes, hits, spits, screams, headbutts, and my personal favorite, sprints. Consider it a Christmas miracle that I haven’t lost him in public (permanently, that is--or given him away to anyone willing to chase him down) for all the times he’s ditched me, sprinting full speed ahead. No joke, the year provided countless abduction opportunities. Never fear! Captain America is here! (Not really…thus making Wooly's runaway attempts a consistent part of my marathon training.) Note to self: review genealogical record for Kenyan ancestry. It could explain a lot. Seriously.

Nice: On a good note (hold on, give me a minute, it’ll come) and in his defense (so that you don’t think my passionately reckless child is bound to live out his existence, strapped to the monkey backpack with the adorably confining leash. Because everyday feels like Disneyland at our house, right kids?) I’ll offer a list of his redemptive moments. Wooly is the best hugger, winker, knock-knock joker, hide-and-seeker, letter ‘A’ writer, and my personal favorite, POTTY TRAINED underwear-er. Oh yeah, baby! Goodbye diapers, hello big boy underoo’s! Now, if only we can teach him to stop broadcasting his newfound talent, “Look, Mom! I pooped a rocket!” Yep, that’s my boy.

…Santa Claus is coming to town!

Well, there you have it. (I ran a marathon this year!) There’s really nothing more to say. (I ran a marathon this year!) Ho-hum, just another day in paradise. (I ran a marathon this year!) I’m sure you all have much more interesting lives, full of goals and real aspirations (nothing like running a marathon…something I did this year!) If we’re lucky, Santa will overlook our naughty moments (like bragging to anyone and everyone about my you-know-what…MARATHON!!!) and fill our stockings will all sorts of goodies. Even if he doesn’t, (Did I mention that I ran a marathon this year?) at this time of the year and always, our family feels so very blessed! We are grateful for all of the goodness sent from Above, but most especially for our loved ones near and far. May this holiday season fill your heart with happiness.

Aloha nui loa,

The Florist & family

Aloha Friday

2011-01-21T13:48:00.000-08:00

To think that it's taken me several weeks, months even, to write that. So, Aloha. It's Friday. I'd like to blame the holidays for my dissapearance from the blogosphere, but that wouldn't be entirely true. It was the funk, which wasn't all bad since it included lots of books. If it's true, that reading begets writing, then I should have a lot more to say than hello.

Truth be told, I haven't exactly pulled myself together, yet. Lately, just pulling myself out of bed seems enough of an accomplishment. But today's Friday and what's not to like about that? Especially if it's a Friday that includes a run, with a double jogger, and a few heart pumping hills to climb. When it comes to mental health, or at least my mental health, a day with a run--even if it includes a stroller to push--is sign of a good turn around.

The best thing to get the conversation going again was easier than I thought.

Hello. How are you? Me? Fine. Just fine.

Nice to be here again.

Always on the grow,

Dad, Dad, He's so Rad!

2010-11-21T00:42:00.000-08:00

If the jury was ever out on this one, it certainly wasn't for long. Now, it's official. Mr. Forget-me-not has forever secured the deserving title of, World's Coolest Dad.

Anyone who can turn an old tire swing into hours of mango tree swinging fun is a clear winner in my book. I've already told him, no matter where we move from here on out, that the tire swing is getting packed along with us. No kidding, it's that fun! Someday our grandchildren will enjoy this island treasure.

Not that I'm jealous or anything, but children, if you can read this, I'd really appreciate your consideration as the other Cool Parent in your lives. You may not believe me, because I know it is a long shot, but my life is all about fun: F.U.N., fun, fun, fun.

Come on now, you can't tell me that it isn't fun to open up your dresser drawer and discover folded, clean undies? Or how about the culinary fun of preparing a dinner that you'll eat without complaining if the menu doesn't include the word "stick." That's about be as good as a trip to Disneyland. Homework helper, hey, there's another really cool chink in my chain. Nothing says fun like times tables and double digit subtraction. It has Cool written all over it.

Alright, alright, so Dad beats me out as, Captain Fun. I'll admit defeat, if I must. But don't say I didn't try. (Homemade playdough made from KoolAid for the first three years of all your little people lives should win me a few points, right?)

Mr. Forget-me-not, when it comes to being a Dad, you rock. For real. We all scored. Big time.

Always on the grow,

October in pictures

2010-11-20T23:53:00.000-08:00

Here's the snapshot of our month:

Columbine fancies herself an equestrian Justice of the Peace, performing pony nuptials in the bedroom. In sickness and in health, till horse racing doth we part. White stallion, you may now kiss the purple unicorn bride.

Just when we thought it wasn't possible for our backyard to get any better, Daddy, built a tire swing and, Bube, gave us the hanging pole that used to hang from her mango tree. It now swing, with our own tropical monkeys, from our mango tree.

Enterprenuial spirit at it's best, Hibiscus, turns an avacado selling profit.

What is it about a little boy's innate ability to know just what button to push to get the loudest squeal out of his sisters? Beach walks, boring. Throwing sand at the girls while on a beach walk, soo totally awesome. Wooly, you are a boy through and through.

Columbine's darling ballet recital was so precious. Fancy that, the recital costume doubled as a Halloween costume. Love it!

Sugar-fest 2010 is over and done. Dutiful documentation, if I must, and only to prove that the stupid holiday was celebrated by my candy loving children. Odd, I know, but Halloween ranks pretty low on my list of favorite holidays. Although, yes, I'll admit, the kids are adorable in their costumes.

Always on the grow,

Caught

2010-11-20T23:01:00.000-08:00

~~Red~~ Flour Handed. And not a moment too soon. Wooly was all smiles for this Before-Shot. It's the After-Shot that would have better told this story of a thousand words. I foolishly grabbed the camera to take this picture, when I still thought it was kind of cute, kind of funny, that he'd managed to unsnap the safety lids on the flour buckets. Childproof, my flour covered fanny.

'Oh, cute,' I thought as I took a picture and then turned by back for ten mistaken seconds, the time it took me to walk down the hallway and put away the camera. In that blink of time, Wooly Boy managed to recruit, Columbine, his trusty accomplice, to assist him in another wicked plan. Who better than the angelically sweet older sister who knows how to kick it up a notch and look completely innocent while committing the crime? Or perhaps it was that she turned the corner, saw how much fun, Wooly, was having--wriggling his fingers through the forbidden white fluff--and didn't wait for his invitation? I'll never know, since I was in the hallway for those critical 10 seconds, while Mission Kitchen Snowstorm plans were executed. When I returned, hello, call in the Snow Plow.

I never did determine the real Master Mind behind what started as an innocent tousle of the flour bucket and ended in a full blown white out. Neither, Wooly or Columbine, would confess--a true indication of their perfect alliance. Parental wisdom said I shouldn't encourage this type of behavior, but I was tempted to snap one more picture of the two of them, ankle deep in an overturned flour bucket. The deliciously guilty smirk on their obligingly repentant faces would have made for a better Kodak moment.

Tell me, is November too early to start using the "Santa only brings toys to good little boys and girls" line? Because I am planning on getting a lot of mileage out of that one this year. Thanks to, Wooly and Columbine, we've had our first (and only) winter snowstorm for the year. Right in our very own kitchen! The weather in the tropics, it's crazy, I tell you, just crazy! And nothing says Santa quite like snow.

Ho, Ho, Ho, then little kiddies, the Jolly Fat Man is comin' to town. And...He's. Watching. You.

Always on the grow,

#2 Stardard

2010-11-19T02:20:00.000-08:00

The stages of early literacy are magical to me. Most of us have long forgotten this season of our childhood, when our pencils have plenty of led left in their long, tall, o-rangy ominous sticks--but nothing other than nubby, stubby where the pink eraser on the other end used to be. Plenty of led with erasers rubbed down to wrinkled nothingness.

Watching my children scribble and doodle throughout each day, I understand how this happens. They write effortlessly, unimpeded by margins and edges, yet with such exerted concentration.

Life feels like that, although most of us in our grown-up maturity (perceived or actual) don't recognize it as such. The truth is: Erasers are essential. For most of us--like my children's #2 pencil collection with gnawed dental records chewed into the sides--have plenty of led left for this lifetime. Stories yet to live and plenty of lead left to write them. Unless, of course, your life resembles mine. Then, at times, it's painful to realized the sheer inadequacy and necessity of the eraser. The balance is all wrong! It should be 5 inches of eraser to one tiny nub of led.

Today while we finished the afternoon homework party (lie), I offered, Columbine, the choice between two pencils, hoping the selection would offer an incitement to finish strong. In one hand, I held up an old, gnawed up, eraser-less favorite. In the other, an equally gnawed up pencil, only this one had a bright, new, pink eraser top plugged over the old stump. To my great surprise, despite the shiny allure of a pencil with a new eraser head, she picked the old one. Proving, once again, the wisdom of youth.

Live life. Eraser or not. Mistakes are to be expected. Anyone knows that! Having an eraser, makes no difference. Grab another sheet of paper if you really need a fresh start from old scribbles. Life is too short to worry about erasing the past. Just go for it. Grab another page, crumple the old one and toss it aside. Live. Love. Keep on writing.

Sounds a bit too bold, even for me, because I really want (need) an eraser. But what are children good for, than to show us how to live genuinely, fearlessly, with bold, passionate creativity? Heaven knows, I need their example. The pencils for my lifetime still have plenty of led, more than I'll ever need probably. Certainly more than anyone wants to listen to me use. But the erasers, those babies are long gone. And there in, lyes the problem. Or, according to, Columbine, is no problem at all.

Always on the grow,

Gratitude the Attitude

2010-11-17T23:11:00.000-08:00

My girls are split this year between two separate schools. One is on our side of the island, requiring a slightly painful, 20 minute, door-to-curbside-return-home, Drop Off Deadline, and the other, is a haul across the island. It's a miracle whenever I make it there on time. Next year we will simplify, plugging them both into the same school, sharing one drop-off schedule. Hallelujah. (Insert refrain here: What was I thinking?)

Until then, I run a mostly-friendly shuttle service around town, trying my best to remember that education is worth the sacrifice. My cheery disposition was aided today by a bumper sticker that I read on the backside of a rusted out AstroVan. Surf rack loaded, windows down, with some dude swinging to a sweet local beat. Where else can you get daily ukulele hits on the radio? Hawaii rocks. Aloha to you to, Buddy.

The bumper sticker read:

Relax, Man,
This ain't the Mainland.

Right next to this beauty:

Lower the Latitude,
Better the Attitude.

What with Thanksgiving right around the corner, I've tried to steer family dinner conversations around the topic of gratitude. If only I were more crafty, I would have copied the Thankful Tree idea that I saw on this blog (notice the impressive matchy-match color coordinated leaves). Too cute, too much, can't do it.

Or better yet, I could have copied this truly amazing idea, snapping pictures all month long about my daily moments of gratitude. (Seriously, check out the 365 project. It's amazing!) Actually, this idea I might try, someday, modifying it for the less-ambitious, less-grateful type, say, once a week. I could call it the Almost-as-Grateful-365 Project. Maybe just a 'Thankful Thursday' picture? Even that sounds too scheduled, too committed. But, the gratitude ideas are swirling, beware.

My approach to celebrating this Season of Thanksgiving was more a desperate afterthought than anything with impressive planning or detail. Our idea seemed just fine until I stacked it against amazing photography or crafty thankful trees. Nevertheless, it is serving the purpose of cultivating an attitude of gratitude in my home.

Every night over dinner, I bust out a generically white 3x5 card, punch a hole in it, and then tie a knot with a leftover roll of birthday blue curly string. In turn, we recount something that we're grateful for that day. I'll scribble them onto the card, then hang it from the string around the dining room table light. Not classy or crafty, but hey, it's there. I'd take a picture of our growing collection of dangling cards (it'd certainly add to the effect, if I did, considering two of the five chandelier light-bulbs are burned out, only to humor my cheap, white trash, white index card effect,) but I'm too lazy (not grateful enough for a camera?) to get up and do it. No matter, the real point is that the kids enjoy and look forward to the gratitude moment at dinner. They've all said such adorable, heartfelt things.

But, I'll be honest, the need for an attitude activity, was more for me than my children. And not a moment too soon, since my attitude, my crusty, cranky heart needed softening. Big Time.

What better than a month of thanks to help with that little (read: big) problem? October: It wasn't my best month. No details, no stories, yet. (Although, The Soccer Field Freak-Out of 2010, will certainly be a good one to tell, someday. Only after enough time has lapsed to blur my neurotic embarrassment and help morph it into something funny. Hasn't happened yet, not sure it will. Ever. I almost, accidentally, bumped into the soccer coach at the grocery store last week. Took cover in the tampon isle until the coast was clear. Who cares if the jug of milk in my cart warmed to room temperature while I waited him out? Seriously, it was that embarrassing.)

So, here's to being thankful that I live on such a beautiful island! Think sea-level, people. With a latitude like that, barring PMS and anger management issues on soccer fields, I should have a great attitude. Or at least that's what I'm striving for this month.

What are you doing to cultivate an attitude of gratitude? I want to know.

"We can lift ourselves, and others as well, when we refuse to remain in the realm of negative thought and cultivate within our hearts an attitude of gratitude. If ingratitude be numbered among the serious sins, then gratitude takes its place among the noblest of virtues." Thomas S. Monson

Always on the grow,

Blessed are the pure in heart

2010-11-17T00:45:00.000-08:00

My eight year old, Hibiscus, is in a transition year. We are enjoying the season between her young childhood and preadolescent mysteries. Still so sweet and innocent, she offers such a pure example.

Like other changes I have begun to notice, she for the first time, is now reading to learning, instead of learning to read. This mental transition welcomes an awareness of literary depth that was out of reach in the concentration and newness of early childhood phonics and vocabulary acquisition. Take clichés, for example, she's throwing them out (some fitting, others, not so much) just to try them on for size. (Get it, try them on for size. Okay, not so funny, sorry.) It's hilarious. As is her love of good joke books and all things, Shel Silverstein. His brilliant poems are being read anew, this time with the chuckles of understanding after each perfectly timed punchline.

So it was, that as we re-read a familiar fable the other night, I asked her what she thought about this old standard: Don't judge a book by it's cover.

"Do you ever find that you look at someone's appearance on the outside, and think that because they look a certain way, that they must be a certain way on the inside? You judge them by their outward appearance without looking beyond that to who they are on the inside?" She appeared stumped and silent from both questions.

After some thoughtful consideration, she responded, in true fashion to the lingering innocence in her growing, but still childlike, soul.

"No. Not at all, Mom," she said.

I hope that is always the case, Hibiscus, I really do.

Always on the grow,

Fairy Wishes

2010-11-16T00:37:00.000-08:00

A few Decembers ago, before our winters became the balmy island weather that we enjoy now, Mr. Forget-me-not's business travels included me and a week of childless splendor to the Big Apple. I'm not sure how much of my instant infatuation with, New York City, was a result of being without my children and their diaper bag accouterments, or if it was the dazzle of all those city lights. Either way, I fell head over heels with my man in Manhattan. No kids and the buzz of a city that never sleeps, it can make a girl dizzy with love, I tell you, just dizzy. Yes, it was total urban awesomeness. Sure, sure, I missed my kids back home on the west coast, at least by the very end of the week.

While, Mr. Forget-me-not, punched the clock at some work related conference-shmonference, I toured the city alone. Bliss! One of my quests was to find this adorably quaint children's bookstore. From what I had read in my Don't-mug-me-and-yes-I'm-a-tourist Guide Books, the bookstore was the source of inspiration for the Meg Ryan, Tom Hanks, movie, You've Got Mail. Loved that movie. Loved the bookstore even more.

Attached to the end of the store was yet another stroke of genius: a designer cupcake counter. Because it's NYC and the most adorable children's bookstore ever, isn't quite over the top until you add gourmet cupcakes as the after-book party spot. In another lifetime, I'm going to open up such a shop and live out my days with cheery children's picture books, licking my fingertips from the endless array of butter-cream frosting. It would be a happy life.

In one corner of the bookstore, from the ceiling shared with bulby urbanesque lighting, hung delightfully whimsical fairies. The image came to mind again today when, Columbine, said, "I wish I had a Book Report Fairy." This was her contribution to the conversation that, Hibiscus, began a few moment before, wishing that she had a Homework Fairy.

"Yeah," I offered my condolenses, "and I wish I had a Laundry Fairy."

Until then, I thought I'd write to share the memory of a great bookstore, fanciful "business trip" vacations, and a little snippet about what we are reading currently.

Hibiscus:
Made it midway through a few books in, The Little House on the Prairie, series, before turning her attention more devotedly to, The Harry Potter, series. Sorry, Laura Ingalls Wilder, it's a real shame, but you just can't compete with, Harry. That kid is straight up, money making, book selling, movie rights, magic. How do I come up with a story like that? Hibiscus, should have Book 4 read before the end of the weekend.

Columbine:
What she is reading is entirely different than the books she is being read to. (Thank you, Jim Trelease.) Columbine is reading, The Bob Books. I'd estimate with one more month, that girl will have cracked the code, opening herself up to a whole new world of readers. So exciting!

What she is being read to is, Roald Dahls, James and the Giant Peach. Like Hibiscus, her reading comes with the incentive that once she's finished the text, we can host another Family Movie Night to watch the film. The first Harry Potter movie was last weekend's reward.

Columbine's wishful thinking about book report fairies stems from her anxiety about an upcoming mini-book report for her Jr.Kindergarten class. More to come on that. We're only on page 68.

Wooly: Toot! Toot! Chugga-chugga. Every time we walk through the library entrance, that kid makes a B-line, straight to the Thomas the Train books. Try as I may to steer him towards something else, anything else, he is content to read and re-read every single one. Help me.

Moi: Not much reading, or writing, I'm afraid to say. Marathon training is sucking up all my time. I should have peeled the stack of books off my headboard weeks ago, but left them there to linger, which only makes me feel more desperate for the day that I'll have enough energy to actually crack them open. A few more weeks, post-marathon insanity, and I've got big plans with several juicy, fat reads. Can't wait! If, Mr. Forget-me-not were the calculating type, he'd plant a few dusty cookbooks into the mix. Like reading and writing, meal planning and preparation have also taken a backseat to the recent marathon running obsessions. Stupid race. Soon, soon it will be over. And then I will read, read, read, and maybe (hopefully) write, and, okay-if-I-have-to, cook. Maybe.

Until then, here's to wishing for Fairies: the homework, laundry and book report kind.

Always on the grow,

I'm in! Who's with me?

2010-11-15T02:01:00.000-08:00

This week, Mr. Forget-me-not, is gallivanting the globe (again). After I wrestle the kids down for the day, without him around, my evenings are free to do nothing more than toss the half-eaten bowls of cereal in the trash (What? Who said Wheaties couldn't be the Dinner for Champions, too?) and then reacquaint myself with all sorts of personal projects, not to mention this ever-neglected blog hobby. There are certain perks of having a husband who travels a lot, namely: less laundry (that is until the dirty luggage arrives back home), paper plates, quiet evenings, personal projects, and reading in bed by the glow of my obnoxiously bright book light. The super-shiny one that, Mr. Forget-me-not, detests. Ahh...the joys of the simple life.

Sure, sure, the traveling salesman schedule isn't all First Class perks and privileges. From what I've been told, it's very difficult to be away from your kids (excuse me?), eating out all the time (pullease), living in hotels (Hello, free cable and Room Service?), in and out of airports (There's a Starbucks and a People Magazine in every airport in the World...how hard could it be?). Although his hardship is made much easier recently, thanks to the boatload of miles he's racked up this year, bumping him into the social elite world of First Class Traveler.

Which is probably why he knows better than to pull the sympathy card. He doesn't, by the way, Poor Guy, because he's smart like that. Given the chance, I'd love to see just how well I could manage to sleep, thank you very much, on any Red Eye flight, kickin' it on an Easy Boy leather recliner in the sky.

Anyhow, today we faced another Sunday without Daddy around to help run blocker on the pew. Wooly's Houdini moves only escaped me twice, once under the pew, once down the isle. It's such a Sabbath highlight, just making it through the 3 hour church block.

No wonder then that when I woke up this morning to prep for my three-kid-circus, I just didn't have it in me. Although tempted to fake a cough and play hookie, I'm proud to say, in the end, I managed to rope everyone along for the wild Sunday Ride. Sometimes I wonder, even with the Daddy reinforcements, how I manage to keep on coming back for more? 3 hours. Every. Sunday. Week after week after week. If that's not a testimony (or proof of really disturbing masochistic tendencies), then I don't know what is.

Then it came to me! The mental image of the picture I snapped awhile back through my windshield, as we drove through the stoplight in famous, Haleiwa Town. There's the answer!

How about we join the Once A Month Church? Catchy name, don't you think? What's not to like about a church that meets on one of the most beautiful beaches on O'ahu, you guessed it, only once a month.

Who's with me? I'm in.

Always on the grow,

BOGO

2010-11-15T01:05:00.000-08:00

Tribute must be paid to my children. Bless them! Over the years, they've been forced to endure their Mother's determined Clearance Rack Sweeps, crazed Thrift Store Hunts, and generally irritating Sale Finding frolic. They may not like the frequent shopping cart torture, but they don't exactly have a choice in the matter. Someday they will thank me for teaching them the fine, fine art of bargain hunting. Like all important skills that must be passed down from Mother to Child, cultivating an eye for a bargain ranks up there with good manners, bed making, and double-digit subtraction.

And so, when, Columbine, made a clever announcement tonight, I felt both amused and quite proud. It brought a smug smile to my face to hear her say, "Mommy, wouldn't it be great if there were Buy One Get One-Six."

"Like buy one thing and get six for free?" I clarified. Exactly. That's exactly what she meant.

We fantasized together for a moment, rattling off the list of things we'd like to buy just one, in order to qualify for the six freebies. No surprise, shave-ice made it on the short list. As did pet kittens and black Labradors. Please, no. Hibiscus got in on our game, suggesting a few more practical items of purchase: houses, snorkel masks, and watercolor pencils.

While it may be said that less is more, after playing our impromptu Buy One-Get Six Game, more is definitely more. It's probably not something that would help our already overindulged world, but if we were talking shave ice (minus the six free kittens and Labrador puppies) I'd be game.

Always on the grow,

The Comforter

2010-10-17T02:47:00.000-07:00

I had such a sweet experience last night when I said my prayers before bed.

It wasn't a noble or exceptionally righteous moment, really. I prayed more out of habit than desire. It was the end of the day--a long one. I was about to go to sleep, but added the task to pray, as usual, to my day and all of it's pressing demands. Perhaps it was the humbling weight of feeling alone that opened my soul to feel heaven's rescuing hands. Some weeks when Mr. Forget-me-not travels, I manage surprisingly well. Other weeks, like this past one, require more strength, more patience, more courage than any one mother could muster. And so I collapsed, with a heavy heart and weary shoulders.

Only another mother could possibly understand this kind of exhaustion. There's a whole army of us, the wide world over, all somehow united by the sad fact that our prayers are more flop-position than reverent kneel. It makes no difference to God, I think. He's just glad to be there to listen, to reach, to help.

So it was one of those heartbreaking, "Dear Lord, I've got nothing left," kind of prayers and instantly, as a tender mercy from heaven, I felt a warm blanket draped across my back. Not figuratively speaking, literally. I actually felt the weight of a soft blanket rest upon my back as I wept softly into a pillow.

I hadn't asked for comfort to come in such a tangible, real way, but it came. I hadn't asked for anything at all, now that I think about it. I just collapsed in an honest, pleading heap, there to state the painfully obvious fact that I was done, spent, that I had nothing left to give. I couldn't possibly carry another burden, face another day with children and needs, needs, always a need. I am weak. Alone.

Yet, in one moment of heavenly peace, mixed with a few sniffled tears, I was reminded of the truth.

I. Am. Not. Alone.

Ever.

My breathing became rhythmic and soft again. My heart warm. I drifted to sleep feeling peace flow through my soul. It was beautiful.

Always on the grow,

Frozen peas for my knees

2010-10-15T02:33:00.000-07:00

Today I pounded out a 14 mile run and learned some important things about life and marathon training in general.

It sucks.

I'd quit now, if I weren't so hell bent on proving something to myself. I'm not sure what that is, exactly, but I'm sure this torturous training experience will offer the enlightened epiphany any day now. If my running Zen Moment could happen before a toenail falls off, gee, that'd be really swell. Yoga. Seriously, why didn't I take up yoga?

Today's insights, here they are, brace yourself.

1. 26.2 miles is a lot of miles. Running the 365 miles to train before the actual race (I've tallied it up folks, that's the mileage I'm clocking, not just an exaggerated, guesstimated number) is even more. After 365 miles, my legs had better look better than, Tina Turners, in her pantyhose commercials. Hey, you can have your dreams, I'll have mine.

2. Running is made slightly less painful if done in Hawaii. Because if you have to run 26.2 freaking miles, it might as well be in paradise. Training miles are definitely made easier by sunshine and scenic coastal views. And Hawaii has got the corner on the market when it comes to sunshine and sand. Not to mention the occasional sweep past a blooming bush or tree that fills the air with sweet, fragrant, tropical flowers. The loveliness is almost strong enough to mask the flaming stench coming from my running shorts. Nu-nu-nu-nu-nasty.

3. Plumeria tree, I love you. Slightly OCD, yes, but I have a favorite plumeria tree. It marks my path and gives me a reason to keep going. I pick one flower, sniff if for a half mile, and then run along watching it twirl like a pinwheel while I hold it gently between my thumb and pointer finger. If it's angled just right, the wind will spin it effortlessly around and around my fingers. For a few blissfully simple minutes, I can forget about the sweat dripping in my eyes. Then, after I've climbed the last hill, I'll use the petals to wipe a few salty, crystallized, sweat streaks from my face before tossing it into the ocean. It's ritualistic and slightly neurotic, but I do love it and fear that I won't be able to run anywhere else without missing my plumeria running tree.

The tree itself actually sits on a house that with a 'For Sale' sign on the corner. Out of curiosity, and as another running pain diversion, I looked at the price one day. If, Mr. Forget-me-not, could somehow get his hands on 2 million cold ones, then we could live out a happy life in our bungalow by the sea. With a price like that, the tree alone is worth a few thousand smackers. It's probably the most expensive plumeria pinwheel, turned sweat rag, on the entire island.

You'd think 14 miles would have provided more than 3 quirky insights, but that's all I've got left today. It's time to pop the IB profrin, chug another 8oz. of mandated hydration and call it a day. Right after I put the bag of peas back in the freezer.

Quit? As much as I'd like to, I can't. Crazy, I know, but I've got something to prove. And even if I loose a few toenails along the way, darn it, I'm going to do it! And limp like a Granny from my aching knees. And swear off running forever. And kill myself trying. And beg someone to drag my sorry sack across the finish line. And...and...and...

Carpe diem! Honolulu Marathon, here I come!

Let's hope that there's a plumeria tree along the race route.

Always on the grow,

"Mama called the Doctor and the Doctor said...

2010-10-13T02:41:00.000-07:00

No more monkey's jumping on the bed!"

Abandoning responsibility, I decided to join the ruckus of bedtime fun. Usually, it's Mr. Forget-me-not's right of passage, coming through the door after a long day, to referee the wrestling match on our California King. It's the first thing that, Wooly, asks for as soon as, Captain Fun, comes home from work.

"Daddy! You want Cowabunga on the bed wiff me?"

And who can resist an invitation like that?

Unfortunately Daddy and his Cowabunga Coolness is out of town again this week. No problem, I can step in and throw down a sissypants version of a wrestling match. Mistake. Big mistake.

I gained speed down the hallway, bolted through the door frame and then flew at them for a surprise attack. That's when it happened.

In their excitement, the pounced in unruly projectile leaps away from me. Without warning, the back of Wooly's head whipped back to crack down against my sniffer. The room went black, leaving whatever lovely cartilage that was in place prior to my surprise attack, permanently munched. No kidding, I actually heard cracking sounds upon impact. Wooly's cranium knocked me a good one.

Once the stars stopped swirling, I managed to make it to the bathroom sink for the aftermath of gushing fluids. Bloody nose, watering eyes, and three kids freaked out of their wrestle loving minds. All stuttering, stammering in unison, "sorry, Mom, so sorry, Mom, sorry, Mom, sorry, Mom."

It's been two days and the headaches have almost subsided. The only thing to show for my glorious moment of wrestling fame: a crooked lump on the right side of an otherwise lovely symmetrical ski slope. Good thing Halloween is just around the corner. Paint this baby green and I'll make an awesome witch.

I'll get you my pretties...

Always on the grow,

Problems? Just walk away.

2010-10-04T13:27:00.000-07:00

There was no shriek of horror, gasp of surprise, or even a slightly furrowed brow to show my discontent. Ho-hum. Just another crawling thing. It's an invasion. Sure enough.

Open drawer.

Greet crawling lizard.

Grab spatula.

Close drawer.

Lizard? What lizard?

The pretending part is key. It speaks volumes to the number of cockroach, gecko, spider and poisonous toad sightings we've had over the past many months. The shock factor has definitely worn off, not that it's any less disgusting mind you, but what can be done? I've made peace with it, even the frogs, and that fear borders paranoia. For real.

The reality is that when it comes to insects, and other real-life pests that are encountered in the proverbial kitchen drawers of our life, I think it best to just accept that they are there and then walk away. (Oh, and maybe set up a few dozen roach bates all over your house before you do.)

This complexity of life that is penned far more eloquently in The Serenity Prayer.

God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.

Always on the grow,

Remembering Love

2010-09-29T02:50:00.000-07:00

This week the girls are preparing individual parts for a presentation that the little people of my church give every Fall. In Mormon vernacular, it is called, "The Primary Program." My opinion? Best Sunday Service all year long.   Hands down.

Not that my children would agree with me on this, or at least not until they experience the rewards of getting all teary-eyed, listening to their own children sing sweetly from the chapel podium. Then they'll know what I mean by, The Best.

Different from other years and other programs, speaking parts were given as open-ended questions. A fill in the blank rather than a canned line to memorize and deliver on Que. I appreciated this change because it's made the preparation at home so much more rewarding. It's amazing, listening to the thoughts that have come as a result of their assigned questions. Chances are, their answers wouldn't have been so inspiring had they been given the staged lines that we've had before.

Not that the preparation has been all fame and spotlight glory, mind you. When it comes to this year's Primary Program, Hibiscus, is convinced that being older is a clear disadvantage. She'd prefer to answer, Columbine's question, because it's easier. A complaint that is followed by an additional gripe: "Why do I have to say anything at all!" she'll moan. It's a valid argument; Columbine's question is pretty basic, so I guess it is good to be five. And unless your an aspiring performer, standing in front of a bug-eyed audience is unnerving for most of us. Poor, Hibiscus. If only she knew that half the congregation is already dozing on the pews. It is church after all. So really, no need for stage fright.

Columbine, on the other hand, answered her open-ended question without hesitation. Perfectly confident to memorize her Q&A contribution, and recite it for any family member willing to listen. Only, I'd bet money that her confidence is short lived. Stick a microphone in her face and she's sure to clam up tighter than a pearly shell. No matter, I'll be forever grateful to have heard the original, unrehearsed, poised and confident version at home.

Q: How do you know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love you?

When I asked the question the first time, pencil in hand, ready to scribble out the first things to come from her mouth, I expected her to say something about birds, trees, beautiful flowers or a family. Tangible things that she sees now, loving objects that connect the dots between the abstract concept of God's love and visual evidence of His love upon the earth. Instead, in the translucent honesty that marks all children, she said something far more profound.

"Because He told me."

"What do you mean, Columbine?" I asked, still mentally fixed upon an answer being along the lines of generalized trees and flowers.

"When I lived in heaven, Jesus telled (she said "telled," not told) me. He said, "I love you, R.," That's how I knowed it."

In that moment of honesty, while my child laid the truth before my eyes, I saw a heavenly light within her soul. I have seen it often. She spoke the truth. She remembered. And through her memory, I did, too.

Always on the grow,

For Hire: Grown Up. Experienced Toothbrusher, a must. Pay: 7 dollars.

2010-09-28T01:11:00.000-07:00

Columbine often reminds me that she intends to have many, many children. The number fluctuates anywhere between 7 and 12. As much as I try to give her a positive, yet neutral, reaction--I'm pretty sure my jovial amusement comes through. My guess is that she interprets my chuckle and smile as agreement. A dozen little Rugrats, hey, sounds like fun. Really though, who am I to rain on her baby loving parade? If she wants a dozen, go for it. Live the dream, Baby. Just promise that you'll live next door because no way, no how can anyone handle 12 kids without a little help from, Big Mama. Mercy me, I'm good with three.

If we shared the same dreamy dozen aspiration, perhaps I wouldn't have felt a little twinge of guilt, when my internal dialog at bedtime tonight went something like this: "One down, two to go." It's the mantra I use a lot, especially on nights like tonight, when I'm holding down the fort solo while, Mr. Forget-me-not, is gone, earning the money that I spend on toothpaste and the like.

After finishing up with, Wooly's teeth, and before hunkering over the gaping mouth of, Columbine, I glanced quickly at my clock. How much longer until they are all in bed? See. I'm not cut out for 12. Might as well flush your clock (and your sanity) down the toilet with that many kids.

Hibiscus, blissfully independent, was reading and waiting for her turn in the bathroom. Columbine and Wooly, both still wet, wrapped in their pink and blue hooded towels, respectively, fresh out of the bath and inching closer to the finish line of tucked in, lights out. My goodness, bedtime is my daily marathon.

Not that I'm one to brag, buuutttt...years of brushing baby teeth and I'm pretty much fluent in the (un)romantic language of, Paste-lish. It's one of my lesser known talents, but a talent nonetheless.

Even at the risk of gagging, my children still manage to mumble through the smoke screen of fluoridated foam, head cocked back at a 45 degree angle, if only to gargle out the must-be-said-now conversations we have while I'm scrubbing their teeth. Hibiscus doesn't attempt to talk while brushing anymore, so I am comforted to know that this whole bedtime process does actually get faster and less-communicative with age. Columbine, however, still sees brushing time as a golden conversational opportunity. I can't blame her really. How many times in the day does she get my undivided, eyeball to eyeball, not capable of multi-tasking, attention? Brushing time is prime time, especially if you are the middle child. Many a conversation are shared with Colgate. Tonight, was no exception.

"Eyen gowning hab eyeght wabies," she managed to mutter through the paste.

"Oh really, eight babies?" I translated.

"Uh, huh. eyeghbt." Columbine confirmed, open-mouthed, o-shaped grin, smiling mostly with her eyes, almost forgetting that we were less than half way through the nightly 2 minutes of tooth brushing torture.

"Keep in mind, Columbine, that if you have 8 babies, that's 8 mouths you'll have to brush. Every. Night." I said it pleasantly enough, yet pausing for the intended dramatic effect. I was too tired from the day to calculate the mental math of how many teeth that would actually be. (20 teeth in a child's mouth times 8 mouths, equals 160.)

She was quiet for a moment, mouth hinged open while she thought this through. I finished up the brush job, and without a moment to loose, she provided the solution.

Spit. Swish. Resume conversation.

"No problem. I'm going to hire 7 grown ups. I'll pay them all 7 dollars. Then I can brush one and they can brush the others. Then I can have more and more and more," was her chipper answer, given as if bursting forth in song. No doubt a lullaby crooned in her head as she skipped off to find some clean underwear and a pair of pajamas.

God bless that little girl and the goodness of her maternal heart. And God bless the man who will make Columbine's tooth-factory baby dreams come true. Stand back, that girl has got a plan.

I just want to know one thing. How come I didn't think of this whole 'hire the grown-up' idea? It's brilliant, really, it is. Interested? Anyone. A dollar a mouth at bedtime and you'll have steady employment for say, another 8 years. Say the word and I'll call the Payroll Department. It'd be the best dollar a day I've ever spent.

Always on the grow,

Will they even notice that we're gone?

2010-09-24T01:02:00.000-07:00

Not likely, considering our children will spend this weekend climbing around the fort in the mango tree, jumping on the trampoline, playing fetch with the World's Friendliest Golden Retreivers, and doing all things fun at grandma's, better known as, Bube's house. Chances are, they'll beg us to leave again next weekend. Um, okay. If you insist.

Tomorrow morning I will kiss each adorable face and give them one big, fat shakka sign before waving goodbye. Before that can happen, I need to get off the computer, spiffy up the house and pack a quick getaway bag. A small one, mind you, to carry one bikini and an extra pair of contacts. Because nothing would ruin a vacation faster than four-eyes poolside. My wee-little bag will be weighted down only by the armful of books I intend to read between intervals of sunblock reapplication and quick dips in the pool. Or at least that's my plan to make this one night away, my true escape from reality. Granted, we won't be gone long enough to actually want to come home, but hey, any vacation is still a vacation.

So...Let's hear it for, Mr. Forget-me-not, and his freebie flight voucher with sweet resort hook-ups. And three cheers for, Bube, and her angelic willingness to take on our three little people for the night. She is the best!

Yaaaaaahhhhhhhhhooooooooo!

Always on the grow,

Columbine Sugar

2010-09-20T00:27:00.000-07:00

My two daughters do not have middle names. Shocking, I know. Even more so here in Hawaii, where Polynesian children are given 10 names, each with at least a 5 syllable count.

The fact that they do not have middle names is not my fault, exactly. Because I would have gladly given either of them my prized name of, Julia. As it turned out, that name, along with many others, might as well have been written upon toilet paper. When it came time to exchange our short list of desired baby names, Mr. Forget-me-not, stubborn as a donkey, wouldn't have anything to do with the name, Julia. Apparently there was a girl in highschool named, Julie, and blah, blah, blah--you know how the rest of the story goes. Julia, so far as his daughters were concerned, was only one letter off and as such, banned forever. Such a shame. It is a lovely name. I'll be sure to suggest it when it's time to name grandchildren, not that my kids will want or ask for any of my name throw backs. (Here's a tip kids: Whoever uses it, gets a bigger inheritance. How's that for wheeling and dealing?)

Awhile back, when having a 4th child was something we discussed without laughing (or crying--depending upon the day), Julia was my last ditch effort at pregnancy retribution. I think the threat I made was something along the lines of, "If we have one more, and it' s a girl, I don't care what you say, I'm naming her, Julia." Personally, I think 9 months of prenatal torture entitles me to a lot more than pulling veto power over names, and frankly, I'm not sure why I didn't come to that conclusion 3 kids ago.

Amazingly enough, we managed to comprise on two lovely names that suit our daughters perfectly. But after weathering World War I (Hibiscus) and then World War II (Columbine), we opted to settle for middle ground instead of middle names. As a result of our laziness, we figure if they want one, they can pick it themselves. Sounds like a 1960's hippy cool sort of thing to do and to my surprise, Mr. Conventional, actually went along with this no-middle name idea.

Note: for whatever bizzare reason, Wooly Boy, left the hospital with a completed birth certificate. Go, Junior, go! Blame gender discrimination because, Wooly Boy, wasn't given the same privilege as his sisters. We picked his name, all three of them, which he is now stuck with it, even if he'd rather be named, Wooly Buzz Lightyear Thomas the Tank Engine Lightening McQueen, the Second.

Before our unconventional name game blows your mind, we did make the responsible parental stipulation that the girls couldn't choose their middle names until they are old enough. I'm not sure if a definite age was set, but that's probably for the best. Heaven help me if at 18, they still want a name that sounds like it's straight off the packaging of their Christmas Barbie Doll box.

So, out of the blue, this weekend, Columbine pranced into the garage where Daddy was working on a project. She had an announcement! Listen up, everybody. I have determined my middle name.

"Oh, yeah," Mr. Forget-me-not said, "and what will that be?"

"Sugar," she replied.

"Sugar?" said Daddy.

"Yes, sugar, because I am so sweet."

And you can't argue with that. Her name is a good one. Almost as good as, Julia.

Always on the grow,

Music to My Ears

2010-09-17T00:19:00.000-07:00

After school we drove the Thursday circut: pick up Hibiscus from school, offer her snacks to eat in the car as we drive to the Keiki Ukalele Band rehearsals, return books to the Library and then finally, home to finish homework and piano practice. As it turns out, Thursdays are the busiest day of the week. Understandable then, if by the time my wee-little-3rd grader gets home, she's ready to take it easy.

But today, Hibiscus was out to win the 'Best 3rd Grader Ever' award! And boy did she! She whipped through her homework like a champ and practiced her piano with a cheerful, diligent heart. It's a miracle. As reward for such stellar behavior, I consented to an unscheduled play date with the neighbor friend.

Before whistling her way out the door, I gushed with praise and appreciation for her cheerful attitude. Her efforts to really work hard are so inspiring! It's a a family value that we are constantly trying to instill in all our children. Some, as could be expected, take to it with less resistance.

"Hibiscus," I cooed before she skipped down the street to play, "thank you so much for working hard and with such an amazing attitude today. You really try so hard!"

Beaming from my loving adoration, her reply was something that made my heart gush with pride.

"Sure, Mom," she said, "what do you expect, I'm a Collins after all."

And I am so glad you are, Baby Girl.

Always on the grow,

Love Letters

2010-09-16T00:51:00.000-07:00

The cute tootsies sporting the saucy green heels (that I found at a garage sale last weekend, and arguably the cutest thing in my closet right now) belong to, Columbine. She spent the morning playing dress up and amazingly enough, navigated her way from the bucket of princess costumes to the green little numbers hiding in my closet. Shoe Radar, it's magical. Forget the kid dress up, she wants the real thing. And can you blame her? Glad to see that my girl has got a sense of fashion, because I've got big plans for those garage sale beauties!

Her playtime was interrupted so that we could fetch, Hibiscus. Dress up costumes were sneezed across the bedroom floor and in my haste to whisk everyone out the door, we didn't make an effort to scoop the piles back into the bucket before leaving. As I had expected, Hibiscus noticed the tornado and grumbled mildly that her younger siblings messed up her room while she was at school. I promised to help them pick it up later, so that she wouldn't have to. Then it was back to the other events of the afternoon, namely homework and piano practice (Could it be possible that I hate homework more than Hibiscus? Yes, I think so.).

While Hibiscus and I sat at the table together, hammering out her math problems, Columbine, joined us, giving a furtive glance my direction.

"How do you write 'school'?" she whispered.

I offered to write the word upon a paper, so that she could copy it without needing letter-by-letter dictation. She brought me a paper and crayon, then asked, "How do you write, 'I love you'?"

I scribbled down her narration.

"How about 'even if you are at'?" she whispered her requests again, this time shielding the paper from Hibiscus' view across the table.

I wrote down all of her requested jig-saw puzzled phrases and then returned my attention to, Hibiscus, and our dreaded math review. A few minutes later, Columbine, returned to the table again, this time to slide a completed love note across the table. If that little token of loyalty weren't enough, she said, "Hibiscus, I cleaned up all the dress up clothes in your room."

That little sister is the most loyal friend anyone could ever want. Her love and friendship are a blessing to us all.

Always on the grow,

The "Yes, Mom" Week

2010-09-14T01:24:00.000-07:00

Think of it as a sophisticated, drawn out version of the game, 'Mother-May-I-?'. Desperate times call for ~~desperate~~ creative measures. After the last few weeks of playing endless rounds of the kids' other favorite game, "No, Mom," something needs to change. Or Mama was gonna have a meltdown.

Call me a stickler for rules, but I've got a thing for obedient children. And if child #1 turns into Little Miss Sassypants, then the younger two follow her lead, gambling on the chance that they can tell mom "No," too. And we all know that, Wooly, needs no extra encouragement, no additional examples, on how to assert his independence.

It all came to head this past Sunday, when an otherwise enjoyable family beach walk turned sour. Hibiscus, flat out disobeyed and then disregarded the instruction to get out of the water. We were going for a family walk, not a family swim. Normally, this wouldn't cause a riot. But her otherwise pardonable infraction necessitated the parental discussion on how much obedience can be expected (Mr. Forget-me-not would interject, "demanded") from our children. Like most hot topics of the hour, no surprise in our politically divided household, we don't (can't?) agree on the same answer.

I think the difference in our perspective result from the obvious.

I'm here. ("Help. Help. Get me out of here.")

He's not. ("Well, I'm off to work. Kisses for, Daddy. Have a great day everyone.")

Like most traditional households, the supposedly equal task of raising our children, falls mostly upon the squishy, soft (but oh, how I wish that it wasn't so soft) lap of, She Who Is Shackled, to the steering wheel of our carpool schedule. Like most things domestic, and I know we've come a long way since June Cleaver and 1950, but come on now--who are we kidding, household responsibilities are not balanced. Yo, Yo--Word to the Muthah.

According to, Mr. Never Home Long Enough to Be Taken Seriously, I need to relax. (Me? Uptight? Nah, couldn't be.) And show more love. (I swear I hugged them all once today.) And remember that they are just kids, after all. (Funny, could have sworn one was a dog, which should explain why he keeps wanting to poop in the yard.)

He's got all the right answers, I'll admit. Which is why, after I write this blog post, I will finish my letter of Parental Resignation. I really think it's time I pass the baton to, Mr. Relax, Love and Their Just Kids. I'm sure there are plenty of volunteer opportunities that would accept my slave labor. I don't even need potty breaks. Plus, I'll clean all the toilets for free.

Taking all of his great suggestions to heart, and since we all know that even if I'd like a career change, I'm hitched to this gig for say, another 20, I've decided to make good use of Dad's absence this week. That's right, because Rambo is gone again, posing as Chuck Norris' body double in camo-green. There is a lot of saving to do in this world, or so I'm told. And since one parent is absentee (a lot), that should simplify the whole obedience thing, right?

I call it the, "Yes, Mom!" Week. It's all in how you market the pitch--a parenting tip that works magic.

My kids are all on board. Rules of the Game: If they say yes to me all week long, every time I ask them to do something (chime in: "Yes, Mom.") then on Saturday, I will say, "Yes" to them. There is only one catch, their requests on Saturday have to be reasonable, as will mine be this week. Because within reason to me means practicing piano without complaint, making your bed with a cheery smile, and starting homework the first time I ask. If things go according to plan, it might be the best week of my life. Mine, not theirs. With the potential that Saturday could pay-off and be the best day of their life. I'd say that's a good trade off.

My hope is that a string of practical application through the week will provide enough obedient opportunities to reinforce the desired behavior. (Thank you, Dr. Latham and your rocking awesome parenting books. If only I could ship my kids to the good doctor's house for say, the next 15 years, I'd be the most relaxed and loving parent imaginable.)

Ahh...the thought of more obedient, cooperative children makes me feel more relaxed and loving already.

Always on the grow,

My son thinks he's a...

2010-09-08T00:16:00.000-07:00

Dog. A puppy, occassionally, but most the time, a dog.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the Land of Make Believe that all of my children have lived in during most of their third year of life. It's a magical place, filled with delightful surprises. And it's all fun and games until Never Neverland interferes with potty training.

Wonder boy did his morning magic, earning big time praise for going both potty AND poopie in the toilet. I thought that we were safe for at least a few minutes and left him unsupervised while I was in the back of the house. Apparently, his moment in the bathroom was only the first train blowing through the station. The second caboose was running close behind.

"Mommy!" his voice trailed off, from a distance, "come see my poopie."

"Wooly? Where are you?" I called.

"Mommy! Come see my poopie in the front yard."

Great. Just the clarification I needed this morning. I raced out to the front, and sure enough, just as I had feared, he was standing in the middle of the yard in the buff. He'd taken off his britches and carefully laid them out flat on the grass. I was surprised by the apparent care he'd taken to lay them so neatly. So un-canine. But never mind that, just like a good dog, he'd done his business on the grass for the whole neighborhood to see.

"Wooly? Poopie goes in the toilet, not on the grass. Remember?" I tried to correct him gently. We've made such great strides with the potty training, I didn't want regression just because I'd overreacted about the chocolate soft-serve in the yard.

"No, Mommy," he said with an almost patronizing tone. "I am a puppy."

"No, honey, you are not a puppy. You need to go potty in the toilet."

"Yes, Mom. Yes! I am a puppy!"

Well okay then, Puppy Boy. In a rare moment of maternal wisdom, I thought it best not to argue the point any further. Fine, be a puppy. Just be a really, really well trained puppy who amazes his owner by plopping your poo in the loo.

Always on the grow,

Beets at Bedtime

2010-09-07T03:51:00.000-07:00

I stood at the stove-top tonight, having just tucked the smallest of the small ones into bed, entranced by the hypnotic swirl of my whisk. The recipe said to simmer the glaze, whisking frequently, before tossing in the sliced beets. Harvard Beets are an odd bedtime indulgence, I'll admit, unless you feel as affectionate about them as I do. If that is the case, you'll agree that beets and all their magenta loveliness, make for a tasty treat at any hour, even bedtime. I suspect, however, that, Mr. Forget-me-not, might ban their consumption once he smells the beet-breath aftermath in bed tonight.

It must have been fuchsia beet juice that punched color onto the blank-slate of my post-bedtime brain, making the truth even more obvious. No grand epiphany, just a realization of the obvious. I was staring into that sauce pan through rose colored beety glasses, only minus the root fungus breath yet to come, when it dawned on me.

I have a good life. A really good life.

Is this the part in my story when lightening strikes and I mentally count the number of steps I need to take to find an umbrella? Because if I've learned anything in life it's this: quiet lulls never last long. It must be the inner thrill seeker that says I wouldn't want them to anyways. Or maybe it's the stronger subconscious voice that reasons that it wouldn't be fair if they did.

Admitting to the ease and simplicity of my life, while knowing of heavy, unrelenting burdens and heartaches that others carry, just doesn't seem right. Perhaps my good life, and the realization of it's ease, contributes to my lull in writing lately.

Now that we've finally dropped another anchor and settled into our new nest, I just don't have much to say. I have no heartaches to process, no irritation to transfer to the neutral territory of my keyboard, no logs of expeditions and adventure, nothing melodramatic or colorfully descriptive. Just life. Routine, predictable, cozy and comfortable life. I'm sorry but the trivial details of my day just don't seem noteworthy enough to write about.

Which is a shame really, because I have several blogging friends who write faithfully, every Sunday, as a recap to preserve the moments of the week. I think it's a delightful way to hold onto the small, seemingly imperceptible changes in their family. I never tire of peeking into the open window they provide into their virtual family room. It's refreshing, mostly. Boring, yes, occasionally, but mostly sweet.

So perhaps that's the direction I should take with this blog? Stop waiting for a the next storm and start writing about the sunny moments of today. It might not make for the most entertaining, descriptive writing, but it's life. My life, and for what I hope will be a long, long while, a simple, happy life.

Last time I checked, there was not a beet flavored shave-ice.

Always on the grow,

August Memories

2010-09-06T00:08:00.000-07:00

September is upon us and I find myself playing catch up for August. A treasured August memory was the baptism for sweet, Hibiscus. It was a special day for our beautiful girl.

Always on the grow,

Mango Brains

2010-08-30T02:33:00.000-07:00

If we had to pin down our most favorite things about Hawaii, I'm pretty certain that mangoes would rank in the top three for everyone at our house. No kidding, the mangoes in Hawaii are unbelievable. It's like a completely different fruit than anything called by the same name on the Mainland. Juices so sweet, it'll run down your arm while cutting. The color is the deepest glow of sunset orange, with just a hint of leafy green. It's a beautiful, delicious fruit. We're fans. Big fans.

This particular mango came from our Bube, off a tree that grows them as big as our brains. Each bite was a taste of something divine. Seriously, it was that good. If I had my way, I'd eat 15 a day.

Always on the grow,

The Wink

2010-08-30T02:25:00.000-07:00

The kid's a charmer, that's for sure. And although biased, I do think his new found mastery of a well-timed wink is about the most adorable thing on the planet. Consider it a small bi-product of this months theme. I like to call it, Body Awareness Month. Otherwise known as the precursor to the Potty Training Torture Month (or months, as the case may be).

Columbine's rotation through Body Awareness Month became her Body Awareness Year. Not because she didn't master the potty-training element involved. Quite the contrary, actually, because that girl had it down, night and day, in a matter of a week. And all before Mr. Wooly even arrived on the scene. That girl was a brilliant little two year old toilet trained master. She just so happened to discover somewhere along the way that she also enjoyed the freedom of running in the buff, for the next solid year.

Clothing just delays the whole potty training mastery, if you ask me. And I think you might want to ask me, if you are looking for advise from a seasoned Potty Trainer. That's my first tip: let them be one with nature, free as a bird. Who cares if the property values in your neighborhood plumet? It's better than the accidents created by slow moving buttons and zippers. Even elastic around the middle, sometimes, just isn't fast enough.

Second tip, one word: Bribes. M&M's are our motivator of choice. One for you, two for me. Works like a charm to keep the excitement up, and everyone smiling while Wooly does his little potty jig. We prefer the utility sized bag because when it comes to M&M's, we don't mess around. Every time Wooly makes the magic tinkle, we give him a happy dance and all enjoy a fist full of chocolate.

The unexpected surprise from this, my third go-round at potty training, is the total awesomeness called, little boy under wonders. Seriously, enough pink lace and purple butterflies already. Girly underwear is so last year.

I think it's safe to say that we are all pretty darn excited about the novelty of super heroes and masked avengers on Wooly's seat. Maybe more excited than Wooly is, at this point. (Note: But not nearly as excited as I am about the end of my diaper duty days!)

Wouldn't you feel like a super cool, super hero if this was across your little bum?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Always on the grow,

Birfdays

2010-08-06T02:08:00.000-07:00

Happy. Happy. To me.

To start the day out right, I shook sprinkles on top of whip cream in each kid's cocoa mug this morning. It tipped them off that something about this day was different. After a little guessing game, they soon discovered the reason for celebratory sprinkles with breakfast.

"Happy Birfday, Mommy," Wooly said in delight.

Columbine rushed to find the picture she had drawn and saved for this day. She offered it up, with a hug, as her cherished homemade gift. I've not only convinced her that homemade is the very best gift of all, but I've also convinced (read: lied to) her that I am 29. Again. Fancy that.

If the poor girl doesn't learn how to count past 29, I suppose it's my fault. But, it's a risk I'm willing to take.

In turn, Hibiscus, whispered her gift into my ear, "Today for your birthday, I am going to give you a day of no fighting." That child knows the way to her Mama's heart.

For an extra piece of cake, I convinced her that such a gloriously wonderful birthday present should last for the entire birth month, but I'll take what I can get. I only had to use the birthday mantra as a friendly reminder for her little birthday present. Feels good to be Queen.

Milking it for all it's worth, I'd sweetly remind them in my best sing-songy Motherese tone: "Children, you need to do as I've asked because...everybody, join in...today is Mommy's birthday." Ah, yes, birthday manipulation at it's best.

To my great surprise, even though, Mr. Forget-me-not, is on the other side of the planet (having traveled during Mother's Day and my Birthday, two years in a row), I was still showered with flowers galore!

Sweet and Sincere Bouquet from Bube:

Friendship Yellows from Aunty Benita:

Beautiful Reds from Kathie:

The neighbor boy even contributed to the Day of the Florist, giving me the very best flowers of all. He was riding a scooter on his driveway and yelled out a hello to Columbine. She rushed out to the front yard to scream back across the street, "My mom's birthday is here!"

The darling neighbor boy, wiggled with excitement and said, "Oh! Great! I need to get her a present."

I heard their exchange from the kitchen sink and smiled. Then to my surprise, a minute later, we realized that he wasn't kidding about feeling the need to give me a birthday present. There he stood, at the side door, with a glowing grin, holding in his hands, my gift of all birthday gifts. He was so proud!

Isn't that awesome!

Who knew an empty beer bottle could make such a lovely vase?

I'm going to keep it on my dining room table all month because, well, I can. I'm the birfday girl, right Wooly? And as, Columbine, can attest, twenty-nine never felt so good. There's no need to fight about that one, wouldn't you say, Hisbiscus?

Always on the grow,

Playmate Substitutions Gone Wrong

2010-08-03T02:07:00.000-07:00

Due to Big Sister's return to the glory of public school (Hark! Choirs of Angles!), Columbine is forced to find playmate replacements. She's coming up short, although occasionally able to convince, Wooly, to play house. I'm not sure of the exact tactics (read: bribes) employed, but every now and then, he'll follow her back to her room, watching her carry an armful of baby dolls. Hibiscus was so, so much better at this sort of thing. School really cramps her play house style because it's evident that, Wooly, does not understand the rules of the game.

Or maybe he does?

I'm sure if he could weigh in on this, he'd tell you that it's way more fun to play negligent dead beat Dad than the Ken Barbie role that, Columbine, desperately tries to force upon him. We're not basing anything off actual role models, Dear. It's just that the kid can't help the fact that a baby doll's head bears perfect resemblance to a baseball. Where's the fun in gently swaddling it around the house, when you could slam the plastic brains on the floor?

As an added bonus, every time they play house, with Columbine as the Loving Wife and, Wooly, as the abusive live-in boyfriend, he actually gets better reactions than he'd ever hoped for! All it takes is one slam of the baby against the floor and sister squeals like the house is on fire. It's a 3-year-old brother's dream come true.

In the mean time, while they occupy themselves in the almost-happy world of Homemaking Wonderland (not all it's cracked up to be, eh?), I morph into negligent Internet-addicted mother, relishing a few minutes of personal romance with the keyboard. How did it come to this? But...my silent blog audience must share in my twisted amusement! Because really, material this good, shouldn't wait until Post-Bedtime.

Come on? How is this not funny? Columbine needing her brother to act the part of a more traditional father figure, protecting and providing for her mismatched assortment of children: one brown, two named Lucy, both with really bad haircuts, all naked, and most with marker scribbles across their faces. But it's the cyclops, the baby with the crazy half-opened eye, that's my personal favorite. That's the kid that really needs a father figure. You can see the longing in it's eye. Just one.

Finally, though, Columbine's had enough. She'll stomp around and hastily gather up an armful of ratty babies, marching off to a neutral corner of the room.

"That's it, Wooly. I am not proud of you. I am not! You cannot drop my babies on their heads. You are so mean. You cannot be mean to the babies. You can't be the Dad anymore."

Who knew Columbine had seen old re-runs of 'Days of Our Lives'? And here I thought she was out there watching Dora?

While she packs her bags for the Battered Womens Shelter, Wooly, relieved of his duties, sauntered off to find a Thomas Train. He's easily distracted by a new objective to find two train track pieces to shove onto my lap. It's time to create a make-believe world more suited to his own interests.

"Here, Mommy," he commands, handing me the curved wooden train track pieces. "Fire at me," he said, with all the accompanying noises of machine guns and grenades. Do they come out of the womb knowing how to make these sounds? The mysteries of boyhood never cease to amaze. Apparently, curvy train track piece can double as a handgun. Of course.

Meanwhile, Columbine, perfecting the art of a swaddle, soothes each neglected, fatherless child into her own personal burrito baby. And the world is right again.

There we go, my story. The beautiful balance between the two worlds the now rule our school year.

Always on the grow,

What do you mean you don't want a kiss goodbye?

2010-08-03T01:00:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's because you hadn't yet noticed the love note I made, with homemade, colorful, scribbled hearts around the edge, that I packed on the top of your lunch box? Carefully placed so that it wouldn't slide to the bottom because I wanted to make sure you noticed it before the two mini-Reece's peanut butter cups. An extra little surprise at lunchtime. (Not that you mentioned either of these things when I picked you up this afternoon, by the way.)

Maybe it was the first day jitters? Maybe it was that I faked happy tears the other day when we met your teacher for the first time, when really, the lump in my throat and the water in my eyes were because I felt nervous, too. And happy. And excited. And worried. Going to school is such an emotional roller coaster, isn't it?

Maybe I should have left my bedroom door open, when I knelt beside my closet to say another prayer for you? Maybe had you seen me, you could have sensed the countless, silly thoughts that Mommy's worry about--that you'll be safe, happy, and brave starting school again today.

Maybe, most of all, maybe I should have risked embarrassing you in front of your new friends and kissed you a hundred times all over your face? And then, for added measure, given you a raspberry blow under your chin, just to hear you squeal?

But instead, I gave you a subdued side-ways hug, brushed up against your swinging braided hair, and then took your picture with your brother and sister before walking away, leaving you in the line with your new class, new teacher. At least I remembered to snap off one picture to capture the moment. Not that I thought to check for random parents and teachers' heads crowding above your own. Who cares? My carelessness behind the camera lens probably better captured the candid shot on the schoolyard than something I'd spent another two seconds to pose you all for. There's life. A little messy, a little shaky, everyone feeling the tension of the moment.

You didn't know that I lingered behind with other unkissed parents, to watch you from afar. I was there to hear the pledge, to the "virtual flag," because someone forgot to hang a real flag on the pole before the school bell.

I was also still there for the super cool Hawaiian chant, too. I even saw you slip off your sandals at your classroom door, before hanging your backpack up next to your lunch box. Nothing says Hawaiian like slippers off at the door! Your Mainland schoolmates would be so, so jealous.

I followed behind the sixth graders to your classroom and had to hold back my tears. Please tell me you will not be that old in just another couple years? Promise me that you'll keep asking that I braid your hair over breakfast. Tell me that you'll smile, even if you don't mention it afterwards, when you find my secret lunch box love notes.

I waved like a lunatic outside your classroom window, anxious to give you a secret chuckle, as I did the funky chicken dance. But you didn't see me, of course. Your teacher did, which made for a really classy first impression.

I didn't care. You needed a laugh. You looked petrified, sitting so still at your new desk, in your new classroom. Breath, baby. Take a few deep breaths. You're going to be alright. Just look at Mommy. Quick! I'm doing the Moonwalk.

Yeah, so that was a little embarrassing, too. Wooly and Columbine laughed. So did the little girl that sits three seats down from you. Thanks guys.

Then I knew for sure, tomorrow, you are getting a juicy, goodbye Mommy kiss. I don't care if you are a big third grader. You are still my baby. And I miss you. Not enough to keep you home for another year of homeschool torture, mind you, but enough to feel that familiar first-day-back lump in my throat.

Pucker up, Schoolgirl, we've got a brand new year ahead of us! I think it's going to be a good one.

Always on the grow,

Lost Daddy. Reward Offered for Return.

2010-08-02T02:40:00.000-07:00

The beauty of a no-nap day is that, Wooly, willingly drops like a dead fly in his carseat, should occassion call for a little drive around town, post 4pm in the afternoon. If I really strategize well, holding out until say 5:30 for the carseat lullaby, then we'll swap out play clothes for jammies and wait for him to not only fall asleep, but also transfer nicely from carseat to bed--without a single peep of resitance. It's a beautiful thing, believe me.

Unless, as I've recently discovered, the no-nap day revolves around the drive for Daddy drop-off's at airport. Wooly made his feeling known, stating quite clearly, about 10 minutes before we hit the departures curb, that he did not want to go to the airport, that Daddy was not going on an airplane, and that he was not tired. I think he covered all three points in one, long, slurred sentence. And two seconds later, silence. And sleep.

Never to fear, his sisters took care of providing tears on Que. Though it makes me sound heartless, the girls blubber goodbyes through buckets of tears and I have yet to shed a single one. I brace myself for departures like a trained soldier, ready to march my way through another week in the Single Parent War Zone.

Oddly enough, I bawl like a baby, after Mr. Forget-me-not's return. Which only goes to show that the ladies at our house have worked this Traveling Father Gig out nicely. Between their emotional goodbyes and my teary hello's, I think we've got both ends covered. However, Wooly's well-timed nap for this last airport drop off, wasn't as seemless as I'd expected.

Having fallen asleep for the night in his car seat at 5:30pm, he woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed at 3:30am, ready to start the day. I felt him before I heard him, as he climbed on top of my shoulder to position himself somewhere near my ear lobe. Ever heard a three year old's attempt to whisper in the night? It'd be funny, if you weren't half asleep.

"Mommy," he said in his best attempt at a whisper, "I've lost my Daddy. Have you seen him? He's lost." I could feel his wheels turning: Last time I checked, he was sitting in the passenger side of the car. Next thing I knew, I'm in my bed. Somehow in between that time, Daddy Man vanished. It's all so confusing.

Even after my middle-of-the-night explanations, over breakfast, he bounded down from the table to proclaim: "DADDY's home!" As if enough enthusiastic imagination could will it to be so. Even throwing his beloved blue silky blanket aside to celebrate the victorious moment of successful Hide-and-Seek. Blanket? What blanket? You can keep it, if he walks in the door at this very moment.

Sorry, little guy. Next time I promise, from now on, I'll keep you awake until after the goodbyes at the airport. And then, twice in the same morning, we replayed the conversation whispered under the covers at 3am. This time, I think it actually registered. Daddy's on the airplane. And he'll come home soon.

I'd really like to stop having this conversation with my son.

Always on the grow,

On Service

2010-08-02T02:00:00.000-07:00

For the last few weeks, I have had the uncanny timing of standing at the kitchen sink at the exact same time my chubby neighbor takes his evening power walk. No kidding, you could set a watch by it. Mr. Forget-me-not came home last week, just long enough to repack his bags, and commented one night about our neighbor's inspiring new exercise regime.

"Actually," I said, "it's not new. He's been walking for the last few weeks, every night. I wave to him from the kitchen sink because I'm always there doing the dishes when he walks past. It's unreal. Like every night."

Tonight was no exception. It was a regular Sunday evening, me doing the dishes, Mr. Forget-me-not already gone for the week. I've been told that his insane travel schedule will level out sometime soon, maybe after this week's trip to the Big Apple (that I hope results in a slice of cheesecake, packed on ice, and smuggled back in a carry-on bag). If you are reading this, Dear, think cheesecake, think happy, happy thoughts about cheesecake.

So tonight, as I was staring off into the sink'o suds, my chipper neighbor walked by for the nightly wave. Only this time, I bellowed out a hello through the window.

"Hey! How it is possible that I am always right here when you walk by?" I asked.

"For moral support!" he answered as he marched by, giving a victorious fist-punch to the sky.

His answer, cheerful as it was, brought a spring to my own step, and helped me scrub the dishes with a little more zest than usual. Because we all know that when it comes to dish duty, moral support goes a long way. Nothing feels so daunting as an overflowing heap of dirty dishes. But, wait! Then I realized, perhaps he wasn't meaning that I was on the receiving end of the moral support.

Maybe he meant that standing at my kitchen sink every night, poised and ready to give him our evening wave, offered him the moral support? Chances are, he couldn't imagine that dish duty actually benefits from a little moral support. How could he know this, he owns a dishwasher! I know this for fact; I gave them my half-used tub of detergent last year when we moved into our rental house--the one without a dishwasher. (Sigh.)

As I thought about it more, I realized the great lesson of service. Reciprocity can be felt so quickly, instantaneous really. Because service blesses the lives of both Giver and Receiver, each unable to completely determine who played which role.

Perhaps a wave hello was the moral encouragment he needed to walk another lap. We all know that the battle of the bulge is a hard battle to fight. But then again, nightly dish duty is a battle all it's own. Nothing makes me want to throw in the proverbial dishtowel, hit the couch and dirty up one more bowl with a few scoops of ice-cream.

So, it's hard to say, who is more blessed? Personally, I think I'm on the receiving end (again). Thanks to my friendly neighbor, dish duty lately, has felt like a treat. Keep on walking, Neighbor! Same wave, same place, tomorrow.

Always on the grow,

Squeezing the Fun out of Summer

2010-07-30T17:30:00.000-07:00

School bells should not ring until after Labor Day because that's the way it has always been and that's the way it should be. So, we can't help feeling jipped, loosing the best days of August, since Hibiscus returns to school next week. The injustice of it all!

We meet her teacher today, as a matter of fact. Last time I checked, Hibiscus, was brushing her hair 100 times in the mirror to prepare for a sparkling introduction. This came after the leisurely soak in the tub, filled with lavender scented bubbles from the near empty bottle found hiding under the sink, scents to remind us of the baby baths of yesterday. Never has a girl been more excited to go back to school, even in August.

This week we've squeezed the fun out of our last few lazy days of summer. (Think Water Parks, Beach Trips, Zoo, Hikes, and Swimming Pools.) I'm too tired to find the motivation to clean up the aftermath of our action packed week. Not that I'm bothered by this. Come this time next week, energy levels will soar to new heights! Thank you, Mrs. Whoever You Are, for teaching my kid this year. You've got a friend in me.

And so we're off...to meet the mystery teacher for 3rd grade. I might hug her around the knees and bathe her feet in my grateful tears. If Hibiscus stands close enough, her teacher might even think that I'm the one who smells like lavender soap. First impressions, after all.

Always on the grow,

Misfired Limes

2010-07-24T00:49:00.000-07:00

Friendly, polite neighbor lady that I claim to be, during the first couple weeks of unpacking and setting up house, I made diligent efforts to meet my surrounding neighbors. Most of whom are real gems. But every neighborhood has to have one sour lemon, or lime--as was the case tonight.

Missy, Buffy, Tessi, whatever her name is, came barging over while my kids were playing happily in the backyard. It was date-night swap Friday, which meant that we also had a few extra friends in the backyard, too. Mostly boys, the (mostly) sweet and good kind.

So Bimbo Neighbor Girl tramps over with her skimpy tube top nearly falling off, to point her finger through the kitchen window in disgust. I happened to be washing the dishes, so I had three seconds of preparation when out of the corner of my eye I saw her coming.

"Do you live here?!" she demanded.

"Yes, hello, Jessica. Yes, we do live here." Duh. Lived her for nearly a year and never once complained about the obnoxious music you play at all hours of the night. I've even walked through your Dad's house when we brought over a plate of cookies, and have already introduced myself to you twice. Glad to know it left such a clear impression. Yes, I live here.

"Well your kids are throwing limes and a few of them are hitting my car!"

Oh, yes, of course, your fancy-shmancy sports car. The one your boyfriend borrows to drive recklessly through our neighborhood with young children. The car that booms Beyonce and Moriah Carey with extra base at 10 o'clock at night. That car?

I thanked her for letting me know, assured her that I would talk to my children, which thankfully was enough to satisfy her demands for lime-throwing justice.
With that, I slowly walked to the backyard and reminded the lime throwers to work on their aim. "Try to avoid the neighbors' parked car, okay?" and that was the only gentle reprimand I felt was needed.

Sometimes it's really hard to love all my neighbors.

Always on the grow,

It's all in the angle.

2010-07-22T03:04:00.000-07:00

After Sunday night's soul purge, I feel a need to keep it light. Like for the next year.

Ever had that dream where you're standing in front of a microphone, talking mindlessly, but honesty--not trying to hide any real emotion because you think you are jabbering away, alone with your own thoughts. Then all of the sudden, the spotlight dims and to your horror, you realize what you probably knew all along. It is a packed house! And, just when you thought it couldn't get any more embarrassing, suddenly you're standing in your underwear? Eek! What did I just say? You didn't hear that, did you? Please tell me you just walked in the room, right?

In my case, this blog (a.k.a. forum for personal memoirs and psychotic breakdowns) plays to a registered audience of 12. You'd think I'd be flattered by any number at all. But I'm not, honest. Most days I wish they'd all drop off the radar. Besides, I'm certain that everyone of those 12 people could find better things to do than read my blog-crazy thoughts. Not feigning modesty or fishing for compliments here, just keeping it real.

Here's another shocker, I don't really know how the whole, following a blog stuff works. Do they get an e-alert with every post I make? Please, say it isn't so. Mild egocentric that I am, I should confess that I don't follow anyone else's blog. Too busy, not interested, maybe a little of both. That's the same reason I snub Facebook. And we're not even tapping into the completely foreign concepts of Twitter. Don't know about it, don't care. (That's not to say that I don't have my true, few, blog favorites: Kelli & Liz, you are total awesomeness. Wise and funny. And can flat out write well.)

You forget, I just survived a week without a cell phone and in the end, thought Wooly had done me a favor by hiding it in the first place. I am calm and confident as a self-proclaimed Techno-tard. Blogging is a big, big step for me. Mr. Forget-me-not was actually shocked to see that I'd figured out how to do it. True story. I carry around a paper calendar with a pencil (that's right, good old Number 2) and rarely (if ever) entertain the idea that there is faster technology for these sort of stone aged relics.

I regress, back to writing.

While it may be true that in my vanity, I did set out on this blog writing venture to sharpen the rusty pencil in my head, and thereby prepare myself for an Oprah discovery. Only along the way to be reminded of my reality: I am, Mommy. A busy mom. A crazy mom. And on most days, just a great mom. But, a resigned mom, who has all but given up the quest for fame and written glory, as well as the pursuit of most worthy goals beyond the one all encompassing, exhausting goal of raising happy, well-adjusted children. It's the trade, the sacrifice at the top of The List (the one I'm counting on redeeming for a free ticket to ride the big train to the Sky), that I give in exchange for a quiet, contended life of laundry and library fines. It's all good.

Sometimes in the mix of all that, I write to escape. To make sense of the swirling schedules that crowd my thoughts. Let myself spill too freely onto the keyboard. In those moments of raw emotion, I'll forget that people might actually be sitting in the dark corners of my audience. Reading. Me? Oh dear, what have I done? Given strangers a birds eye view into my head and heart. Or allowed them an embarrassing angle up my nostrils and into my brain.

As was the case today with the kids at the Shoe Store, the cool one on the corner downtown. Came away with a pair of super-speedy, super-slick, new runners. Training for the marathon, gonna feel fast as lightening in my new shoes.

Hibiscus was wandering as we left with my box of beloved Asics in hand. She was standing by the door, carefully positioned under the nose of the manikin, posed in a stiff sprint, dressed in running shorts and a sports bra. "Mom," she called, just loud enough for me to hear, but not loud enough to attract the attention of the clerk. "Do you think that hole in her nose goes all the way up to her brain?"

Okay, so maybe you had to be there, but it was really funny. Maybe it was that she was actually asking a very serious question, not trying at all to be funny. Purely scientific, a need to know, tell me now, kind of tone. I laughed harder than I'd laughed all week. Thankful to feel that rush of normal come flooding back into my busy, crowded head.

Then it hit me. I like funny. Like, A LOT. Funny just feels better. All of the sudden, my blog alter-ego didn't feel like enough of a smoke screen to hide my real identity, because Sunday's post was just a little too personal. And definitely, definitely not funny.

"You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what's burning inside you. And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke."

~Arthur Polotnik

Or how about this one:

Pen names are masks that allow us to unmask ourselves.
~C. Astrid Weber

Seriously, people, could you just pretend that you don't know me. It'll be easier for both of us that way. I'll go back to writing the real stuff, if you all promise to get your kicks on another Route 66.

Stay tuned for more funny, less serious. There's you cue, kids. Live it up. Mama needs some fresh material.

Oh, and Hibiscus, since I didn't actually answer your question through my chortles, Yes. Most definitely. Right on up. So don't try any funny business with two pencils and a younger brother.

Always on the grow,

Highlights

2010-07-21T02:06:00.000-07:00

Pancakes,

with blueberries.

Finished Mosiah over breakfast,

seemed to take forever.

Vacumed floors and

changed sheets.

Clean house,

happy me.

Cooperative practicing,

piano and ukalele.

Miraculous Morning Chores.

Motivated little girls,

I guess.

Watercolor rewards,

the "real kind" with "real paper!"

(Hibiscus, you lucky girl.)

A cell phone's return,

no more Morris Code

flare guns to the sky.

Peanut butter and jellies,

with only a little bit of sand.

Delicious.

Sunkissed noses and sandy bums,

and a few underwater ocean-handstands.

Salt water up the nose.

Burn, baby, burn.

We found another,

heart-shaped beach stone.

White,

of course.

Sharing frozen yougurt desserts,

before dinner.

Happy.

Still Hungry.

Well fed, and then off to bed.

...and the little one said,

nothing.

he was already asleep.

Blue Silky in fist.

Yippee, three extra

chapters.

The Secret Garden,

it's no secret,

we love that book.

Always on the grow,