The Table Turned

Lately, I've been busy. Most recently, our basement flooded, and so we've been ripping out carpet, taking down wallpaper, etc. Plus, we've had tons of end-of-the-school-year stuff, dance recitals, actual paid work, etc.

To recharge from the stress of the day, I've been reading poetry at night, and I've discovered that I love Wordsworth. This has come as pleasant surprise. The last time I read any of his stuff must have been a score (a literal score) of years ago. At the time, I just couldn't get into him. In fact, with the exception of Byron, I couldn't bear any poetry from the late 1600's to the 1800's.

Tastes change, though, and I'm really digging Wordsworth now. The following poem, in particular, is one that speaks to me. Apparently, it was a great favorite with Quakers, too, though that tidbit has no bearing on anything.

The Table Turned
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
 Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
 Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

 Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

 And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
 He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

William Wordsworth


I thought about offering commentary, but it seemed too close to "meddling intellect misshap[ing] the beauteous forms of things." Instead, I'll just let you enjoy it on your own and glean from it what you will.

Frenemies

My kids bicker. To me, it seems they bicker a lot. However, when push comes to shove, I know that deep down, they really do care about each other. As my middle child says, "We're frenemies, mom." However, here is that same child with his sister, and I don't think anything could be further from the truth. They were messing around, and I caught them in the act being nice to each other. I'm hanging onto these pictures. The next time one of them complains, "He/she bugs me soooooo much!" I'm going to show them proof that he/she doesn't.

De-Cluttering

My middle child has been complaining for weeks that his iPod won't download anything. I'd tell him to get rid of apps he doesn't use. He'd delete ONE app and then continue complaining. Finally, I sat down with him, and we must have deleted at least a dozen apps. Then we started in on photos. He had forty two pictures of... wait for it... toast! 

Anyway, after half an hour of clearing things out, everything is hunky dory. His device is operating smoothly again, and he's playing Plants vs. Zombies to his heart's content.

I hope he remembers this lesson about getting rid of garbage, unused junk, and dead weight when he's older because it applies to just about everything.

Mom! Mom! Mom!

I woke up at 3:00 am this morning to look at the eclipse. Wouldn't you know it, it was nowhere to be seen from my yard -- too many trees and clouds. But I was already awake, and it seemed a shame to miss out on a full eclipse. So I did what any irrational person would do; I grabbed my car keys and drove around town in a bathrobe hoping to find a good open view. Darn it all, after trying a few parking lots,  I still couldn't see the moon. Peeved, I finally headed home around 3:30 am and fell into the guest room bed (didn't want to wake up my DH). Restless, I tossed and turned for several hours until falling asleep.

I'm not sure how long I dozed, but I awoke to my oldest son nudging me. "Mom! Mom! Mom!" Exhausted, I barely opened my eyes. He wanted to ask about downloading some game.

I croaked, "Ask Daddy."

"I can't," he responded. "Dad's sleeping."

I laughed, "Oh, ok, so that's why you woke me up!"

*******

It has occurred to me on a number of occasions that I am generally the go-to parent. If the kids want a snack, or a toy, or a game, or anything really, it's always, "Mom, I'm  hungry, I'm thirsty, can I have that?" If they want to go to a movie or to a friend's house, it's, "Mom, will you take me..." If the kids are bickering, it's, "Mom, he did... he said..." If they're bored, it's "Mom, will you play... can we go..." If doesn't even matter if Dad is two steps away from them, they will hunt me down wherever I may be for whatever they want. D. H. Lawrence wrote about a house that constantly whispered, "There must be more money!" If my house could talk, I think it would screech, "Mom! Mom! Mom!"

Often, it's inconvenient being the go-to parent. Sometimes, it's nerve wracking. Some days, all I want is an hour or two to be entirely alone. A lot of moms can sympathize, I think. A friend of mine once told me that her daughters kept crying, "Mom! Mom! Mom!" all day, and out of exasperation she finally said, "Enough! You are not allowed to call me mom anymore today!" One daughter gave her a confused look and haltingly replied, "Ok... uh... Georgine?"

I was thinking about this today as my younger son asked me to keep him company in the basement while he played a video game. He didn't actually want me to play (it's a one-person game). He just wanted me to sit there with him. So I did; I worked on a quilt while he played. That's when I decided that being the go-to parent has certain advantages. Yes, I get to deal with arguments, tantrums, and unending requests. However, when the kids want company, they always ask for mom first. When something great happens at school, they run home and yell, "Mom! Guess what!" If they're happy, mom gets hugged first. During movie night, they snuggle up on the couch next to mom. I came to the realization that being there for the tiring stuff is what brings my kids back for the good stuff. I don't get the "better" until I take the "worse."

I had more thoughts, but I think I'll cut them short because even as I type, my kids are pestering me to get in the kitchen and make cookies. Even though I really, really, really don't like making cookies, that's ok. Tonight, they'll ask me for a bedtime story or want to tell me something funny. It'll be worth it then.

*******

Just to be clear, I don't want this to sound like my husband ignores the kids. I also don't mean to imply that the kids don't love their dad. They do, and they have their own relationship with him that's different from their bond with me. I figure they come to me first because they're just used to mom being the one who takes care of their immediate needs. After all, I'm home while their dad is at work. However, I wouldn't be at home if it weren't for him.

The Magic Stairs

I don't collect shoes or purses or jewelry. However, I do have a thing for books, and it was a torture in my old home to not have them out because of a lack of shelving. For seven years, we talked about built-ins, but my husband was always so busy with work that he never was able to get around to it.

Sad books confined to boxes and yearning to be free

When we bought our new house, one of the features we fell in love with was an office with a loft -- perfect for a library. However, rather than wait for time/energy to install built-ins, we took the easy way out and got inexpensive bookcases from Ikea.

The tricky part was getting them (as well as a few pieces of furniture and a stereo) up a very narrow spiral staircase. I'm still not sure how we did it, but we managed.

Everyone needs a chair for reading.
Even if DH didn't get to make the shelves, he did make the other furniture.

Some music if you like.

It was heavy, dusty work, but it was a labor of love. Although we're already out of shelf space, I can't help feeling satisfied. Every time I even glance at my books, I feel like Maureen O'Hara's character in The Quiet Man the morning she gets her dowry. For the past two months, I've been up and down, excitedly poring over novels that I haven't seen in ages. It's like meeting up with my best and oldest friends. Pure giddiness. Finally, I have my things about me.

A quilt I made will hang above the stereo.
I have another quilt planned for the opposite wall.

Last week, my son had some friends over, and they were playing up in the library. (Kids seem to gravitate to that space.) Anyway, one of them came bounding excitedly into the kitchen. Breathlessly he asked me, "Do you know that you have magic stairs?!"

It was such a wonderful way to describe, I thought, those twisty stairs climbing up to my happy space. All I could say in reply was, "Yes, yes, I do."

Our magic stairs.

Full Disclosure (Almost Full, Anyway)

A few weeks ago, a line from an article in The Atlantic caught my attention:

The Internet offers both a vast potential audience, and the possibility for anonymity, and if not anonymity, then a carefully curated veneer of self that you can attach your name to.

As someone who maintains two blogs, I've been considering this idea for awhile. Through the power of the Internet -- Facebook, my blog, online forums, etc. -- I've cultivated relationships with people who know me only through these venues. While I appreciate these connections, I sometimes feel that they are based on false pretenses.

Naturally, when I create a post, I'm not going to write about my miseries. I usually pick positive topics, subjects that make me smile or feel good. However, as a result, I think an idealized version of my life emerges. In that way, I'm kind of like a bag of potato chips -- highly processed (and maybe even half-baked). Likewise, the eternally sunny, heavily edited version of me that people encounter online has transformed her annoyances, dismay, shock, horror, irritation, anger into something laughable or profitable -- or even into something that can be ignored altogether. Blog Julie is as unlike the person typing this post as a chip is unlike a humble spud. They might both come from the same place, but one has a hard time believing it.

Blog Julie is sweet, unflappable, maybe even funny or smart at times, and usually has it all together. Real Julie wakes up with messy hair and bad breath.

Blog Julie gets to dance, sing, and play all day. Blog Julie's children are immaculate and perfect in every way. Blog Julie has moments of quiet reflection and peaceful activity. Real Julie scrubs toilets and folds laundry. Lots of toilets. Lots of laundry. Actually, Real Julie dances and plays, too, but all the spinning makes her motion-sick. Real Julie's untidy, unkempt "crumb bums" love each other, but they also can't seem to go one afternoon without bickering over something. As for quiet reflection and peaceful activity, HA! Real Julie wakes at an obscenely early hour just to get a few moments alone each day. Of course, her DH (who may be reading this post), is perfect.

Blog Julie is a saintly devoted mother. Real Julie would never even be a consideration for Mom of the Minute. To illustrate that point, here is a true story. Real Julie has one gregarious boy whose amp goes up to 11. Her days are full of reminders to him to "use an inside voice" or just tuning out. However, remember that Real Julie rises between 4:30-5:30 am, and as the day wears on, her patience sometimes wears out. Toward the end of one busy day full of nonstop shuttling, Real Julie was stressing over being late to skating lessons (oh yeah, she's obsessive/compulsive regarding time). Meanwhile, Boy 2 was barraging her with questions at the top of his voice. Why is ice cold? Who invented ice? What if the world didn't have any ice? What if I fall? What if I'm the worst skater? What if I'm the best skater? Why is it winter? Why do these laces have to be so tight? etc. etc. Ever blithe Blog Julie is too patient, too indulgent to be phased by this kind of thing, which in the grand scheme of things, is nothing. Real Julie cracked under her self-created mental strain. To her eternal shame, she exasperatedly burst out, "Please, just stop talking until your skates are on. I've had a noisy day, and I need a couple minutes of quiet right now." The other people in the room were probably thinking, "Whoa! Should we call Child Services?" Yeah, Real Julie is not a shining example of motherhood, but this post is about full disclosure.

What else can we say about Real Julie?

• She possesses a phenomenal talent for saying precisely the wrong the thing at the wrong time. 
• She's rubbish at keeping house. 
• There is one day every month when she doesn't want to see, hear or speak to anyone. If you happen to spot her on this day, run away.
• She frequently doesn't shower until noon. 
• She measures time in half-hour blocks. 1:01 is almost 1:30. 1:31 is 2:00. (I told you she was neurotic about time.)
• She has an annoying habit of saying "I told you..."
• She procrastinates.
• She doesn't like sweating, but she'd rather be slightly sweaty than cold. Unfortunately, 75% of the time, she's freezing.
• She refuses to run. At all. Ever. For any reason.

I could go on. The point is, dressed-down, unedited Julie is an entirely different creature than her online counterpart. And I suppose this is where I circle back to my original musings. Is the everyday woman whose day is spent on mundane activities and details the real person? Or is the woman who writes about her inner life the real one? Which version is the real one? 

I've figured out which superpower I want...

A couple of weeks ago my 3-year old and I were getting ready for a playdate, and she kept insisting that, "We have to go now!"

"No, your friend won't be home until 1. It's only 11 now."

"Hold me," she exclaimed. When I picked her up, she gestured to the oven. I carried her over, and she began jabbing at the 1 on the oven clock.

Frustrated, she cried, "It won't change to one!!!"

I tried explaining that even if one changes the clock, one can't change time -- it doesn't go faster, slow down, or even rewind. It was a hard sell, though, and I'm still not sure she entirely believes me. Apparently, though, I have the maturity of a 3-year old because I think that would be an awesome super power.

The last few weeks have been crazy busy for me. This year, I decided to pick up some freelance work, and it's started pouring in lately (which is brilliant timing, btw, with Christmas coming up, so no complaints here). I've also been dealing with the aftermath of a tree falling on our house a few days before Thanksgiving. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to get work done between Thanksgiving and Christmas? Everyone is on vacation!) Of course, this is all on top of all the other business of being a mom to three kids, and I would love the ability to manipulate time. I'd add about four more hours to the day, I think.

How cool would that be? Instead of a day planned around and dictated by alarms, appointments, and deadlines, I could plan activities around when I actually felt ready for them! How great would that be in the morning! No more hitting the snooze button.

So this got me thinking. If I could gain an extra few hours, what would I fill the moments with? I wish I could say I would do something wonderful. Maybe read a novel, sew a quilt, go for a hike. Knowing me, though, I'd probably pull a Hermione Granger with her Time-turner, turning back time only to fill it with more work. In my case, more projects around the house, more laundry, more scrubbing. What a waste of time! Alas, I'm probably better off without any super powers.

How about you. If you had a superpower, what would you want?

The Life of a Leaf

In high school, one of my teachers observed that most people she knew were either leaves floating idly along the river of life or motorboats with speed, direction, and purpose. I used to think that was a motorboat, but I was wrong. I'm a leaf.

Tonight, my kids and I were going through some photo albums, and a realization hit me. Most of my life, so many of my favorite memories are just products of chance. Jobs that I've taken, places I've visited, people I've met... They've all been strange, random twists of fate.

I recall that I had a plan once long ago, but it was derailed, and I never bothered to make a new one. Since Baby #3 was born, I don't think I've ever been able to stick to a plan that extended later than dinnertime.

My husband -- I met him through a bizarre chance of fate. He didn't even live in the same city, but his mother and I worked at the same school. He was there to visit her, and I bumped into them in the teacher's lounge because I was changing to go running. That may sound pretty normal, but I never run. Never. Ever. Not for fires, not for shoe sales, not for anything... I was on a train in Paris once when we got a bomb threat. Sirens were blaring; the gendarme were whizzing through the cars to evacuate us. I didn't even break into a trot. What in the world possessed me to go running that day, that one day of the year that I would meet him? Any other day, I would've hopped into my car parked near my classroom and missed him altogether. As I recall, I didn't even like him at the moment, but here we are, nearly two decades later.

Those oft-quoted lines from Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" come to mind:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Most people infer that the road less traveled is the superior one, but I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I think that's just an elegant way to say "I've made a hu-u-u-u-u-ge mistake."

My father has wisely stated, "A lot of things could've been, but I don't bother thinking about them because there's no point." Sadly, I lack his placid temperament, and I often wonder what life might have been if I'd stuck to a definite plan. Easier? More focused? More profitable? For sure, I'd be doing something more productive than posting blog entries between bouts of ring-around-the-rosies.

On the other hand, if I'd been more goal-oriented, I'd have missed out on some of the best memories I have, like karaoke-singing on the Champs Elysees and "The Lebanese Detective" (that's another post maybe). Heck, two of my children were complete surprises, and I can't imagine life without them.  These memories, these people that have come in and out of my life -- a motorboat would've missed them, but they really are the details that make all the difference.

Love and Puke

It's official. My daughter is the world's heaviest sleeper.

Last night, I awoke to a horrible retching sound and found Babygirl lying on her back, in bed, puking up bucketfuls. I was terrified that she might choke, but she never even woke up. She just continued sleeping. Even when I roused her, she barely opened her eyes, and she was still half asleep when I put her in the bath.

Of course, while she was soundly in bed within seconds of her bath, I couldn't sleep the rest of the night. Between cleaning sheets, floors, tubs, toilets, sinks and a general insomnia, I've had hardly forty winks since yesterday.

I suppose I got two lessons out of this. The most obvious one is that mom is always the one who deals with dirty stuff in the middle of the night. The other lesson took me a bit more time to figure out.

There was vomit in Babygirl's hair, on her face, all over her body. She was swimming in it, completely oblivious, and unable to help herself. Although I tried to be as gentle as possible and to keep her comfortable, she looked so pathétique shivering in in the bathtub, vomit swirling around her feet and encrusting her small body. My heart was moved with pity for her as I bathed her tiny shoulders and washed the puke out of her hair.

It seems obvious that one would feel compassionate toward a sick child. The truth, though, is that she stank so much I thought I would be sick, too. Every muscle in my body wanted to run away and leave her in the tub! (How is that for a maternal instinct?) It's only love that made me stay.

So I've kind of taken the long way around to my point, but here it is. Lately, I've seen a lot of young girls (and boys, for that matter) in church, on the streets, in the media, etc. who are metaphorically covered in puke. They've made some really bad choices and have been met by one of two responses. Either, society (in the name of love) castigates them until they can adhere to a certain standard of acceptability. Or it views them (in the name of love) with a lack of involvement that kindly casts no judgment at all, but this kindness leaves them to follow a path of self-destruction.

Real love, I think, is somewhere in the middle. Indulge me for a moment if I compare love to a stray dog. Would Love see a stray and leave him outside the door until it could clean itself up? No, that would be harsh. Would Love drown a stray to get rid of its ticks? Of course not, that would be unreasonable. But neither would Love adopt a stray and leave it with all its fleas and bad habits. That would be foolish and ultimately untenable. So it saddens me to see young people who are being destroyed by these two extreme responses. There are the well-intentioned who nitpick at and punish young people until they drown in criticism, and there are the well-intentioned who don't want young people to "feel bad" so they approve of everything. But nobody is doing these kids any favors. The critic loves his own opinion. The "tolerant" person loves creating a persona of benevolence. Nobody is truly loving these kids.

Anyway, Babygirl just woke up, and I see I missed some icky spots in the dim lighting last night. So we're off for another bath, but I leave you with these words from C.S. Lewis who always says everything a hundred times better than I could ever hope to.

Love, in its own nature, demands the perfecting of the beloved; that the mere 'kindness' which tolerates anything except suffering in its object is, in that respect, at the opposite pole from Love. When we fall in love with a woman, do we cease to care whether she is clean or dirty, fair or foul? Do we not rather then first begin to care? Does any woman regard it as a sign of love in a man that he neither knows nor cares how she is looking? Love may, indeed, love the beloved when her beauty is lost: but not because it is lost. Love may forgive all infirmities and love still in spite of them: but Love cannot cease to will their removal... Of all powers, he forgives most, but he condones least: he is pleased with little, but demands all. 

from the Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis

The Smell of Happiness

Another entry I forgot to post. Oops.

The Arbor Day Foundation sent me some free forsythia with my order of dwarf cherries. So despite having a broken leg, I dared to disobey doctor's orders and take up a shovel. In the middle of planting, I noticed a tree that I couldn't name.

Recently, identifying neighborhood flora has become something of an obsession with me. I'm trying to figure out what kind of forage is available for the bees month-by-month. So naturally, I clipped a twig and went to The Arbor Day's online field guide.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find it in the guide. Maybe it was because the leaves were still too small, but I had trouble answering the guide questions.¹ I was about to give up when I happened to peel the bark and a whiff of root beer and menthol surprised my nose. It wasn't sassafras, because I'd know those mitten-like/dinosaur-print shaped leaves anywhere.

Sassafras illustration from Wikipedia
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sassafras

No, it was sweet birch, and its fragrance hinted at some sunny activity in the fringes of my memory. I don't know what it is -- maybe a  picnic, a walk in the woods, I don't know. I can't remember exactly what happened, but I know this secret scent of a nearly forgotten delight. It's there "filling me up with rainbows" to borrow an expression from my son. It reminds me of the description of Wendy's mother from Peter Pan.

“She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.”

For a few weeks, the memory (or lack of it) nagged and nagged at me. I couldn't place it. Couldn't file it away neatly where it should go. It was just there, just out of reach -- fresh and green, wayward and flighty. But now I've come to prefer it that way.

At the risk of sounding like sour grapes, maybe the memory isn't so great after all, or it might be more indelibly printed into my brain. However, whatever it is, I've begun to think that recall might come too close to possession or cataloguing. Trying to hold on to it or bring it up at beck and call might make the magic fly away like Peter Pan. As it is, I'm happy to let myself be beautifully, enchantedly happy that something this wonderful exists.
____________________

¹ If you were wondering why the leaves were so small when we're already into summer, it's because I started this post back in May. Of course, the leaves are full-size now.

The Road Home

Last week, the kids and I took a roadtrip down to Virginia with my parents. It was a lovely trip, and we really enjoyed it. But when we started our return trip on Monday, the kids and I were glad to be going home.

For the most part, our journey took us north on I-81 and then we took I-84 up into Connecticut. As we approached the junction of those two interstates, a huge road sign read I-84, New England.

I can't explain it, but I got a thrill seeing it. Although we were still hours away from home and it seemed like the trip would never end, there was this notice that we were on the right track. Home might be out of sight, but it was not out of reach, and we would reach it eventually.

I guess that sometimes the road home starts a long way off. But if you stay on it, you'll get there.

The Bees are Here!

Sunday morning, I arrived bright and early in Brewster, NY to pick up the two top bar nucs I'd ordered way back in January. I had left the house at 5:30 am and had enjoyed a lovely sunrise and relaxing roadtrip. By the time I got to the farm, I was revelling in an absolutely glorious morning.

When Beekeeper Mike met me there, he delivered some bad news. Over the spring, in addition to the super rainy weather, he'd had five bear attacks. The most recent one had come just a few days prior to my arrival and had ravaged one of my nucs. So today, I'd be taking just one them home.

Here is what his top bar nucs look like. They're pretty rough. Not nearly up to my woodworking husband's standards. Just a few pieces of cheap wood and wire mesh stapled together.

The entrance to the nuc was duct-taped, but as you can see in the photo below, it was leaking bees through all kinds of cracks.

Fortunately, I had read a review of that particular apiary somewhere online and was prepared for this possibility. After the nuc was in the car, I wrapped it up in bedsheets to keep the bees inside.

After signing the disclaimers and getting my receipt, I waved a cheery goodbye and headed back home with my precious cargo. I had reached the end of the farm's driveway when I heard a buzzing noise. "Oh, that's nice," I thought, "They're keeping me company." Then a quarter-mile down the road, I noticed that the buzzing was getting louder and sounded more frustrated.

I glanced at the rearview mirror. Several bees had escaped the confines of my sheets and were unhappily trying to find a way out of the rear window.

A little more than halfway home, I had to stop for gas, and quite a few -- at least twenty or so -- bees had begun congregating in the back of the car. At this point I was kind of regretting that I'd taken my Flex, which is a basically a station wagon, which means an open trunk that is part of the interior cabin -- and not my husband's sedan.

The trip from the farm to my house is about 90 minutes, and I'm not normally a speeder, but I'll wager it took me considerably less time than that. And I think I made it home just in time because toward the end there, the number of escapees had doubled, and the buzzing was getting a little too close to the back of my head for perfect comfort.

In any case, I raced into my driveway, unharmed and unpunctured. (A fact which seems to provide a bit of amusement to some of the more experienced beeks on one of the forums I follow.) The bees didn't seem any worse for wear either. I choose to believe they enjoyed sightseeing for a change.

I love how he insisted on protective clothing from
head to leg but then decided to wear flip-flops.

Later that afternoon, my young assistant and I transferred the bars from the nuc to the hive. We couldn't find Queen Hippolyte (Hippolyte was an Amazon, who were all women, so the name seems rather appropriate, don't you think?) which was a bit disappointing. However, everything looked great. Lots of drawn comb and brood.

It's been so much fun watching all the girls. I think this is going to be a really great summer.

The Top Bar Hives are Finished (Almost)

The top bar hives that my DH has been working on all spring are done, just in time for the bees' arrival yesterday, but more on that later.

Today, I thought I'd show you some photos of the project that has been occupying so much of our time and energy for the last few months.

As you can see, the beehives were a family affair with everyone getting to do something. Even the littlest squirt got to glue in biscuit joiners and do lots and lots of painting.

Of course, the results were not always up to my husband's more exacting standard of work. The paint job in particular looks like it was done by a two-year old -- because it kind of was.

The boys sometimes really surprised us with some excellent skills. This was their first time chiselling, and our firstborn in particular did a super nice job. Even better than his (ahem) old man. (Sorry, honey, but you did an awesome job overall.)

Of course, DH insisted that we inscribe some messages to "encourage" the bees to do their very best. His messages tended to have a socialist bent like "Gather nectar for a better tomorrow" and "Honey & Life!" Some of them bordered on cult-like (Praise to the Great and Glorious Keeper!)

By contrast, my inscriptions were much more commercialistic and jingly -- Got Nectar?, Don't Bee Evil, Happy Hour at the Top Bar!, etc. I suggested that we should keep notes and see whether the communist or free market hive performed better, but alas, as it turned out we only got one of the hives we ordered. But again, more on that in the next post.

So anyway... Drum roll please.... It's time for the big reveal.

Ta-da! Aren't they bee-utiful? DH did a fantastic job, I think. The hives even have doors on the sides that open up to observation windows so that I can watch the bees inside the hives. Plus the bottoms are screened with a trap door that opens so that debris can fall out, or to allow extra ventilation on super hot days.

One of the boys christened the hives Earth and Water. So I guess DH will have to work on Air and Fire next spring.

Oh right. I almost forgot. The title of this post indicates that they're not quite finished. I suppose I should explain that. We're waiting for some small Pennsylvania Dutch hex signs to arrive, and those will be the finishing touch above the entrances. Every barn should have an ornament, right? Even a honey barn.

Barefoot in the Park

Today was a welcome respite from the seemingly non-stop rain we've been having. To celebrate, the kids and I took a walk through Elizabeth Park, which boasts "the oldest municipally operated rose garden in the country."

We couldn't have picked a better day for it. The blooms were glorious. And even though the trellised roses haven't opened yet, they have lots of buds on them, so we'll have to go back again soon.

However, this is the thing I wanted to share. This weathered old bench seemed so lonely to me. In a park that is otherwise immaculately groomed, this bench stands out for its neglect. It looks like it will be swallowed up soon.

The bench bears a plaque dedicating it to the memory of Frances Perelman. Who was she?



In my mind, I picture a silvery-haired lady, but beyond that, I can't imagine. Was she shy, sassy, wry? Was she short, tall, slim, pudgy? Did she wear glasses? I don't think she came to the garden alone -- at least not usually. I think she came with someone special because somebody loved her enough to want her name to be remembered. I try to picture Frances, but the only thing I really understand about her is why she liked this quiet corner tucked away in its shady place.

Weeds poke up through the slats that form the bench, but I make the kids sit for a spell. I take a seat, too. I can't really explain why this is important to me except that she was important to someone and brightened the world for a time. That seems reason enough.

My Inner Control Freak is Freaking

Last week, I wrote about a sprained ankle. It turns out that I was completely wrong. On Monday, I suspected something was amiss because my foot was still swollen, numb, and painfully cold. A quick trip to our local walk-in clinic confirmed I was right. I had fractured my fibula. (Sigh...) Sometimes, I hate being right.

Wednesday, my orthopedist assured me that it was "a good break to have. At least it was good for [me], but bad for [him]." (Hmmm... I'm glad he went into medicine and not comedy.) In any case, I won't require surgery, and I should even be able to drive again in a couple of weeks. He gave me a boot because every girl wants new shoes and some Vicodin for the pain before letting me hobble on my merry way. (Note: I've been taking only half a tablet before bedtime because I'm not sure being stoned with a toddler at home is a great idea. Plus, they're not nearly as much fun as Dr. House makes them seem.)

Altogether, the prognosis is really good, but my inner control freak is still freaking out a little bit. Tomorrow, we're having a party at our house, and lots of things I would normally have done -- like cleaning windows and light fixtures, shampooing rugs and couches, wiping shutters, cleaning moss off the patio, etc. --  just aren't happening. I simply can't do them with my bum leg.

(BTW -- lest one jump to the wrong conclusion and think that I'm a neat freak -- I'm not. By nature, I'm a slob. But I'm also detail-oriented. How one person can be both is a conundrum, I know.)

I'm also frustrated by having to rely on my kids and husband for all kinds of chores like taking laundry up and downstairs, shopping, emptying the dishwasher, and so on. I'm grateful for their help, but sometimes it's frustrating having to wait for them. Also, my inner control gets a little cuckoo when things aren't done my usual way, aka "the right way." For instance, I have this thing about my knives. I like them to be washed by hand, towel dried, and then placed into their own special slots in the knife block. Serrated knives on the left. Non-serrated on the right. In order of widest blades on top to narrowest blades at the bottom. See what I mean? It's a sickness. I have to consciously just let it go and be grateful they're put away at all when I see knives sticking out of any wacky slot.

Maybe that's the lesson I have to learn from this experience. I need to just relax and let go of stuff. In fact, that's kind of been the question of the week -- Is this really important? Will there be gossip if I don't shine every crystal on every light? Will the couch stop working if it doesn't get shampooed? Will anyone spend the entire party inspecting shutters? Will people be licking food off the patio floor?

And the first question has led to a second one. Why are so many of these things important to me in the first place? It's obvious that Mr. Clean doesn't live here, but nobody is going to pick up some weird bacteria either. So I have to conclude that the health, safety, and comfort of my company aren't the issue.

I love to blame what I've dubbed "the Martha Stewart phenomenon." There are all these media sites that tell you how to have the perfect gathering. They have some great ideas, but sometimes they create impossible standards for hosts and unrealistic expectations for guests. However, in this case, I'm not sure that media is entirely at fault. I've come to realize that I'm a control freak because 1) I get to wield a kind of power over my environment and 2) it's a way to control other people's perceptions of me. I suppose the first reason is ok. I mean, having the knives in place really does save time by making it easier to grab the right one. But I'm not so sure I like the second reason. I'm not even close to having my stuff together. I have bad days. If I'm worried about what people think, I can't enjoy them nearly as much as I should. ;-)

So it's not easy, but I'm learning to control my inner control freak. This past week, I've been gimping around in pajamas all day long,  shoving stuff into closets without bothering about where they should really go, taking naps when I should be scrubbing toilets... I've been a perfect hedonist!

As for tomorrow, my plan is to make sure that the main rooms on the main floor of our house are relatively tidy and just close the door on everything else. Then I will breathe deeply while counting to ten and welcome my guests with a smile. Cool. Collected. Controlled. Sort of.

My Early Bit of Heaven

Sometimes I write because I'm inspired. Sometimes I write because I'm bored. Today is a "bored" day because my doctor-husband says I'm not supposed to move from the couch.

Two days ago, I was carrying a chair to the backyard when I tripped and badly sprained my ankle. If I could've reached my cell phone, I'd have taken a photo of it because it was at least the size of a small grapefruit. However, this post shall remain photo-less because I didn't want to trouble my family about doing yet another thing for me. You'll just have to take my word for it that it was impressive.

Normally, I'd be delighted to get out of housework, but not so much today. Because of the crutches, I've discovered muscles that haven't worked in a decade, and they're staging a revolt against the sudden abuse they've received. My DH asked me what I wanted for breakfast today, and truly, my dearest wish was for two ibuprofen and a glass of wine.

The really touching thing about being laid up, though, is how wonderful my family has been. My husband has taken over most of the things I normally do. To cheer me up, he even brought me the world's best falafel and spicy gigantes from my favorite Lebanese place. My kids are picking up messes, covering me with blankets, and chastising me every time I stand up. My oldest did a load of wash this morning. Even the littlest one did me a huge service. She saved me from being stranded out in the backyard when I had my original spill. She ran to the house for help, and when none was forthcoming (because they couldn't hear her knocking), she lugged a shovel back for me to lean on.

I have a crazy number of things going on this week (kids' activities, work, big birthday bash, company, etc.), so I can't think of a worse time to be crippled by a swollen foot. However, it's a great time to have a heart swollen with thankfulness for my fantastic family that has been taking such good care of me. One of my favorite writers, George Bernard Shaw said "A happy family is an earlier heaven." So is a loving one. I love them dearly. Even more than painkillers.

Life Explodes in My Kitchen

It's 7.51 am. I have exactly 4 minutes to finish blending my banana-pineapple-spinach smoothie (which is tastier than it sounds) and hustle the kids into the car so that I can drop the girl off at my friend's house and be at their school for an 8:15 meeting.

Moving from the house to the car always seems to be the critical moment for us, so of course, this has to be when things decide go from slightly messed up to completely pear-shaped. I've chucked too large a piece of pineapple into the blender, and it just won't liquefy. (Who knew 1/8th of a pineapple would be too big?) I fish it out of the blender and chop it into smaller pieces. Just as I turn around to add it back into the mix, I see my daughter. She's climbed a step stool  and her curious fingers are reaching for the on/off switch. And the cover is still on the counter.

"Nooooooooooooo..." Just like in the movies, I hear myself frantically warning her to stop as I lunge in slow motion toward the mixer. Too late. Green liquid churns and surges at turbo-blend speed then erupts into the air. It covers the ceiling, the walls, the counter, the floor, and my surprised two-year old.

That's when my daughter turns her face toward me, and I read the various emotions in her enormous saucer-eyes. There is unhappiness at being assaulted by a health drink, but also fear she might be in trouble for the mess. She appears so small, so vulnerable and sweet that it takes me by surprise. In that instant, both love for her and laughter at the situation bubble up inside me.

I quickly assure her it was just an accident, and my good husband kindly whisks her off for a change of clothing while I mop up the counter.

All day, though, I've been thinking about this, though. I never had these kinds of messes before children entered by life, but now I do. Frequently.

I guess my lesson learned for today is that life is messy, so I'd better go with it. Also, there is the obvious corollary -- never let a toddler near an uncovered blender.

I See You

A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend of mine that I hadn't had a chance to talk with for a while. We go way back -- to the carefree days before being married with kids. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much in one sitting. At one point during our conversation, though, she stopped and said, "You're such a hoot! Do you remember when you..." Then she proceeded to recount various wacky things I'd said in the past. I'd completely forgotten, but she remembered.

Most of the time in my house, I feel my husband is the one with a sense of humor. I'm just the nudge who makes you eat vegetables, take baths, and who grunts like Marge Simpson in disapproval. It's nice, though, to have someone remember who you are inside. Who remembers that you can also be droll and unconventional and even downright silly.

And the great thing is that I remember all kinds of wonderful things about her, too. Sometimes I think that's the essence of a really great friendship. Knowing and being known -- and being able to laugh like a couple of lunatics.

Can't Hardly Wait!

Maybe it's because I'm an early bird that I'm always so relieved once January is over and the days start getting longer again. But this year, it seems that warm weather just can't come fast enough. And I know the reason why. This spring, I'm getting beehives!!!

Meanwhile, today, I had a wonderful time taking the New Beekeepers class with the CT Beekeeper's Association. Doesn't it look like a perfect day to indulge daydreams of summer?

I can't explain why I want a hive, but I've always liked bees. Of course, honey is a very special thing all on its own. My first honey memory is from about kindergarten or the first grade. (I can't remember the year, but I remember crying about being forced to wear an "ugly" black velvet dress with a white satin collar instead of the crazy color combo I wanted.)

Anyway, midway through December, my Uncle Neal sent us a package wrapped in brown paper for Christmas, and we were all trying to guess what it contained. Then on the big day, it was one of the very last gifts we opened. My sister and I watched my parents carefully pull the paper away from the box, which only seemed to contain even more paper, lots and lots of paper. But nestled inside all this wadding was a jar of honey that he'd harvested from his own bees. I remember feeling a kind of wonderment and awe at this amber liquid. At the time, I don't think I could have explained what made it so special, how it represented the best of summer in a bottle. But between the scrummyumptious butter and honey sandwiches, a light bulb went on in my tiny brain. I realized that someone could actually keep bees.

My desire for a hive goes deeper than just honey, though. I just like bees. When I was about 8 or 9, I used to sit on the walkway to our front door during the summer and wait for honeybees to collect nectar from my dad's garden. Then I'd very gently, very softly stroke their fuzzy backs. I knew they weren't tame or pets -- but I still considered them like good friends come to visit.

Several years ago, my dear friend Jodi at Curious Acorn started keeping hives, and I've been completely jealous vicariously enjoying them ever since. However, with all the bear traffic through our yard (and periodically garage) in Jersey, I never dared keep bees there. In the new house, though, the biggest animals I've seen have been foxes, and I don't think they like honey. So this is it. I'm starting an apiary.

In the meantime, nothing is getting done at home because I spend day and night researching all about bees. My family rolls their eyes every time I say, "Do you want to hear something cool?" because they know some factoid about Apis mellifera is coming up next. If only that could be a Jeopardy category...

My DH has been co-opted graciously offered to build my hives. (Instead of Langstroth hives, I want Kenyan  top bar hives, but that will be a post for another day, I think.) To keep him focused, I've been sorting through the garage, which hasn't really been touched since the movers dumped a bazillion boxes in it last August. I also keep "reminding" him of his deadline like a little kid that really wants a toy. Truly, this is becoming worse than waiting for Christmas ever was.

How many weeks is it until May? Fingers crossed that I don't burst before then.

On the Shadow Side of Morning

“For a while they stood there, like men on the edge of a sleep where nightmare lurks, holding it off, though they know that they can only come to morning through the shadows.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

When my husband walked into the kitchen and told me there was a shooting in a Connecticut school, my knees literally buckled. I remember being horrified and grief-stricken by the slaying of the Amish children, by Columbine, by the tragic movie theater incident this past year. However, this one is somehow different to me, maybe because it's closer.

As you may know, we recently moved to Connecticut, and Newtown was one of the towns we had considered. In the end, we decided it was too far for my husband to commute, and rush-hour traffic was moving the wrong way. Still... I can't help but wonder, if we'd made a different choice would I be burying a baby this week?

By Sunday evening, I had just started pulling myself together, but then we got word that one of my husband's colleagues lost a daughter in the shooting. The news has left me completely undone.

Ever since, I've been thinking about something one of my friends posted on Facebook. "On days like this, I wish I believed in God so that I could believe in hell." I can empathize with his outrage and the desire for justice and retribution, but I can't find a response. I do believe in God and hell, and it doesn't help me. I'm still filled with this dark, howling sense of grief.

I see and hear people -- kind people with good intentions -- trying to lessen the pain that our whole country feels right now. They say things like, "Now these little angels are in a better place" or "They're in the arms of Jesus."  I can believe it, but speaking as a mom, it feels like hollow comfort. The thing is, before I ever fell in love with my children's spirit or personalities, I loved their bodies -- every miniature part from their tiny fingers and toes to their soft bellies and mewling little cries.

Maybe that's why even parents of less-than-lovable children show such devotion. A true parent doesn't love a child because of what they do but because they exist. It's simply their existence that gives birth to love. I can say that my kids sometimes (ok, everyday) do things that really irk me and I wish they'd stop, but I never tire of their physical beings. I love the warmth of their breath, the pressure of their arms around my neck, their hands as they grab mine, the giggles when I tickle a belly button, silly grinning faces, the sound of their steps coming home from school... I could name a thousand things about them that fill me with joy. To have all these things snuffed out in a moment, I don't know... I guess I'm a heretic, but I can't think of anything that would fill that vacuum, not even hope.

I don't blame or accuse God, but I'm struggling to find some kind of peace in this. I just can't shake or process the senselessness, the total pointlessness of this nightmare. I don't know how to write a card, how to comfort a bereft parent without sounding lame or false or meaningless. And there are other feelings rolling under the surface that I don't even know how to put into words.

Anyway, I will wrap this up because my own little ones need to sleep, and though it's trite to say, I will hold them closer and longer.