First Grade Photo Finish

Every school we have attended, in every state, has hosted some version of field day. An excuse to ditch the classroom on a sunny spring day and maybe earn a blue ribbon or two. Every school handles it a little bit differently. We flew by the seat of our pants last year, our first year in this new school district, in this new state. This year it all made a little more sense.

Even though I worked last night and got home at 7:30 a.m., I set the alarm and was awake by noon, to be at Baby Boy's school on time. Today was the big day.

And it held much more meaning than it did last year, for several reasons.

Last year Baby Boy ran a casual race in September, with his little kindergarten class. He came in first, by a long shot. (taking into account that half the runners stopped mid way through the race to check out a cool butterfly that flitted across the track...)

So he cruised through the school year thinking he was the fastest kindergardener in school. And he jogged into field day very confident he would be clutching a blue ribbon on the bus ride home.

What he hadn't taken into account was that there were three other kindergarten classes. Once up against all the other kids in his grade, he discovered he was not the fastest after all. He was fifth fastest. Not a blue ribbon. In fact, no ribbon at all. And it haunted him.

So this year he had a new strategy. His oldest brother runs track on the high school team and is very serious about his sport. Baby Boy watched him carefully. He soaked up terms like PR (personal record) and walked around at all times knowing his current PR for the field day race. They had practice sessions throughout the year in P.E. class and Baby Boy dug deep to improve that PR so he could come home and give big brother the updates.

We counted down weeks, then days, until the big day. Today. Sleep was not a priority for this groggy mom...being there for field day was imperative.

The weather was perfect, the field was level and dry. And the first grade boys took their places on the starting line.

At the word "GO!" my little guy bolted. He strategically cut to the inside position, just like big brother did at track meets. He pushed with all he had. For three quarters of the race he was miles ahead of the pack. The flash in a light blue shirt.

Then some little wiry kid started to kick it up a notch. Around the last corner this kid found new energy and the gap between first and second grew smaller. I could hardly breathe as the two ran, neck and neck, to the finish line, snapping my digital camera right as they crossed the line. Photo finish. Tie for first.

But it was first. First place. And he shaved six seconds off his PR to boot. My boy was wiped out but thrilled.

It didn't hurt that later he was the only boy signed up for the vertical jump, so snagged the blue ribbon in that event too. (although a vertical jump of over 12 inches for a seven year old ain't bad, thinks his unbiased mother...)

Two blue ribbons in one day. My boy is still floating, three hours later.

And the whole thing mystifies me. I lost the ability to run about the time I started having memories. My left foot started to grow crooked and running became an embarrassing mix of hop and hobble. I hated the presidential physical fitness test. So much of it involved feet. And I suffered through it, trying not to draw attention to my inabilities.

It makes me stand even more in awe as I watch my boy accept his ribbons in the awards ceremony. His life is all about running and jumping and all the things I dreaded when I was the elementary school student.

My mommy heart swells with pride that Baby Boy was so dedicated to reach his goal. And it makes me want to weep with joy that he is strong and healthy enough to do it.

Stuck in the Middle with You

It is a familiar place for me. I grew up in a huge foster family but in the ranks of my natural siblings I was dead center. Two older sisters, two younger brothers.

It wasn't such a bad place to be. Not paving the road but not stuck in baby position for life. By laying low and staying out of trouble I had much more freedom than the older sisters.I watched them navigate the jungles of junior high then adjusted my expectations accordingly. I let them figure out the whole college application thing then used their experience to breeze my way through the process my senior year.

Laying low in the middle worked for me.

Fast forward two decades. I go to work to find myself in a familiar place - right in the middle.

The residents I work with are in their late eighties, even high nineties. The decades they have navigated make me feel young indeed. Forty doesn't seem so old when I realize these people were fifty when I was born. It makes me feel like I have a heck of a lot of time left.

But I am also surrounded by twenty year olds - my coworkers. It is a common demographic in a residence for the elderly. Many of them are working on nursing degrees. Some are just bringing home paychecks until they figure out what they want to do for the next sixty years or so. But they are all young. Very young.

Young like having no memory of days without cell phones and Internet. Young like not being alive when Reagan was president. (while I stood in line in college to get a glimpse of the visiting president)

Things come up, stories are told, and sometimes they don't believe me. I have had a lot of life experiences since I was their age. And they can't comprehend it. They don't have any idea how much can happen in life in a short twenty years.

And it makes me feel ancient. In these moments I find myself seeking out conversations with the octogenarians around me. It puts things in perspective.

I'm still the middle child in my sibling group, but once we all passed our twenties it didn't really seem important anymore.

And I am definitely feeling the middle squeeze at work these days.

But it's not so bad.

Some day, some day that will come way too soon, I will be the frail old lady on the couch. And I will miss that special place, being stuck in the middle.

Practice Sheep

For years I have reminded the kids that some day, when they are grown and have found gainful employment capable of supporting their own residence, they can come home to visit me and my sheep.

I have wanted kids (babies) since I was old enough to say the word. My favorite animal as a child was a monkey. A chimp, to be specific, because they looked like babies who never grew up. My dream came true in 1992, then again in '93, repeat in '96 and a last hurrah in the year 2000. I have been a nurturer all my life and a mom for over a decade and a half.

So when these kids fly my coop some day I am going to be hurting.

I decided the answer was a sheep.

A few years ago we lived in a sprawling valley between two mountain ranges in Utah. I passed several sheep farms every time I went to the grocery store. When I was a child we had a smattering of farm animals. The usual cow, horse, a pen full of pigs, chickens, even an occasional duck. We even had goats.

But we never had sheep. And they fascinate me.

They seem like a good sized farm animal - sturdy enough to not die off as often as our hamsters do and cute enough to be forgiven for any frustration they may bring.

It has been the family joke for years that mom would have her sheep some day. Some day when the kids were grown.

Then Kylie fell into our life.

We were determined to get a dog once we got settled in New York. Or at least the kids were determined to get a dog. They won me to their side first and after much begging and pleading, finally hubby agreed.

Then we did research for weeks, scouring petfinder.com for the perfect animal for our family. And we ended up with Cody. AKA the dog from hell.

The only thing he had going for him was he was cute. And after peeing on the brand new carpet for the thirteenth time the cuteness factor wore off.

Then he started jumping our front fence and terrorizing the neighbors. He ran spastic circles through our living room when we were trying to watch a family movie. We had to buy a huge crate, which took up half the living room, because he couldn't be trusted alone at night.

So we bit the bullet and said enough is enough. This dog was not working for us. We broke the boy's hearts and took him back to the pound. (Daughter had grown weary of him from day one)

Hubby said he was done. No more dogs for now. Maybe later, when we'd recovered from the tornado named Cody and determined whether we'd ever have clean carpet in the living room again.

With heads hanging we escorted our failed attempt at pet ownership back in the creaky door that led to the kennels. We apologized to him for not being the right fit, hugged his soft neck, and turned to leave the shelter.

"You might want to see a dog we got in yesterday. She is the most polite dog we've ever seen."

We were not in the market for another dog. We said that, right? But polite? A polite dog? My curiosity got the best of me.

She was hiding under the desk in the tiny room they used for an office. They said she had been so scared back in the kennels, with all the noise and barking, that she shivered like she was going to freeze to death. Before dropping her off, her old owners had shaved all her hair. She resembled a huge scared rat with very sad eyes. But she was polite....the lady said she was polite. It was the main character trait I was looking for in an animal that might be coming to join our family.

I excused myself to the bathroom, knowing Hubby was the one who had to be won over. And my plan worked. By the time I got back he was crouched on the floor next to her, winning her over as quickly as she was returning the favor.

It was a hard sell for the boys. She was a POODLE for goodness sake. What self respecting boy owns a poodle?

She had been bred for seven years, then dropped off at the pound when her services were no longer necessary. She needed us and, by golly, we discovered we needed her.

She came home with us on Mother's Day weekend last year and is now a full fledged furry member of our family. I love sharing the house with another 'old woman with a bit too much junk in her trunk.' She's had lots of babies. I've had lots of babies. We understand each other.

And once her hair grew back in I realized it was not an accident that Kylie found our family. She is big. Her hair is matted with unruly curls. And she lets me nurture her when the kids are away. She's not just our family dog.

She is my practice sheep.

The Good Ole Days

I love nostalgia. I am not really sure why. Years ago when I worked at a fabric store part-time they began making fabrics that replicated the feed sack prints from the 1930s. I fell in love so deeply that before the year ended I had collected dozens of scraps of 30s prints and made myself a quilt.

I love chenille and old fashioned looking kitchen appliances and fifty year old overly loved baby dolls and anything that looks like it is at least twenty years older than me. Finances and space requirements have kept me from having out of control collections littering my house. I admire from afar.

Maybe it's because it reminds me of simplicity. Things I remember seeing in my own childhood take me back to a place where I didn't know the meaning of the word mortgage and the price of fuel was not on my radar. Mom and Dad seemed to have things under control and my biggest decision of the day was choosing between the grilled cheese and the Sloppy Joe in the school cafeteria.

Being married to a man with a double degree in History and Antiquities (who knew there was such a degree?) makes me very aware of the realities of tales from the 'good ole days'. Times were simpler. There was no MTV. No cell phones. Little decent TV programming to suck you into the couch.

Heck, back in the really good ole days there were very few cars to take us shopping for things we didn't need and the farm life led families to pray together and stay together. It sounds so pure and good and desirable.

But history-wise hubby reminds me that the things that make me sane in my day to day life were also non existent. Let's make the short list - microwave, dishwasher, vacuum, washing machine, internet banking, tivo.....

Okay, that's the long list.

But it's a list I wouldn't want to live without.

Last night as I was drifting off to sleep I was thinking about the good ole days. My hair smelled of smoke and my body was weary from a full day of activity.

Early in the day yesterday we watched a van with Missouri license plates pull into our driveway. The doors opened and four people we love very much piled out.

Two of our very best friends from college, who made it very easy on us by marrying each other, stopped by for a visit on their way back from a trip to Massachusetts. This is one of those rare couples where both of us love both of them. No awkward 'putting up with the spouse' so you can see the person you do like. We adore both of these friends, and the two great kids they have produced.

So we spent the afternoon tromping through our woods, swinging from our tree swings, playing dodge ball in our front yard, and then playing charades around a huge glorious fire pit. (fueled by the scrap 2x4s from the basement gut....so there, evil Basement force.)

We stayed up way past bedtimes and as Baby boy fell asleep in my lap we tried to ignore the inevitable conclusion to a perfect day.

The van with familiar plates left our driveway just before midnight and we all collapsed into bed - smoky and content.

And it occurred to me that the numbers on the calendar pronouncing a new millennium in no way dictate that the good ole days are over. Its about friends, family, health, great sunny days, kids who mingle easily, good food, a day without work obligations.

Its about laying my head on the pillow at night smelling of campfire smoke and having a heart full of new memories to file away.

No chenille or tin toys or thirties prints quilts necessary.

These are the good ole days, my friend. These are the good ole days.

House Duels

The dust has almost settled and the basement is gutted. The long and short of it is - we fought the basement and the basement won. Kind of.

Sure we tore all his sheetrock off his studs. Sure we cleaned out all the junk and filled a decent sized dumpster with building materials and broken things. Sure we now have a nice open space down there, with potential oozing out the corners. (mixed in with the moisture at times...)

But within 24 hours of disturbing the beast we call Basement, he bit back.

The boys immediately recognized a great new scootering spot and spent all afternoon on Sunday going 'round and 'round, faster and faster, in their new wide open space.

Then Baby Boy got his finger caught on something unfriendly to digits and nearly tore it off. The good news is, he will get to keep it and still retain his right to flip off people who offend him in the future.

The bad news is he lost quite a bit of skin and a little bit of 'meat' and actually passed out, then threw up, as I changed his bandage this morning. He's doing fine now, all fixed up with a Q-tip split and about a pound of medical tape.

And since we didn't seem to get the message from Basement, the other two boys continued to mock his new nakedness and enjoy his flat scooter course.

Then Oldest Son's head became way too familiar with a post of some kind. The first hint I had of the injury was his friend coming into the kitchen inquiring about 'ice in a bag'....

I just had to ask, "for what?"

So now my oldest son and my youngest son have been duly warned by Basement and we are finally paying attention.

We have decided to let him rest in peace for a few days, then go down and see if he's forgiven yet.

I hate to break it to him, but we're in charge here. And some day he's going to make a lovely, lovely kid's play room. Whether he likes it or not.

Before and After

The dumspter arrived on Thursday. Big George sent the money and other people used it to take vacations or buy fun electronics for the house. (tempting, I must say). But we are the non traditionalists. We rented a dumpster.

When we moved into this house almost two years ago we inherited a large partially finished basement.

That leaked every time it rained.

A fact we only discovered AFTER we painted all the walls, installed carpet and fixed up a mighty lovely room for the Daughter down there. One evening everything is fine....school books were strewn across her newly carpeted floor, clean and dirty clothes kept the school books company. Practically everything she owned occupied some of the plush new square footage of her glamorous bedroom with a fireplace.

Then the snow melted and the rains began. All in one night.

And she woke up in a pond. With all her worldly possessions floating around her. Not good.

The next weekend we quickly put up new walls upstairs and created a new bedroom. All our kids now reside upstairs. The basement has been purely used for storage.

But we worried about it. Since every rain fall seems to send rain seeping in through the floors or the cracks around the fireplace, we worry. About mold.

And we sigh as we walk through the large spaces down there. All this square footage. More space to spread out. It was time to reclaim that space. (it can't hurt to add square footage in this real estate climate)

The walls that previous owners had erected didn't really work for us anyway so we decided to gut. We can make sure there is no mold hiding behind sheetrock, then do the necessary work to prevent that sneaky water from coming in again.

Which all leads to this day, demolition day.

My kids are familiar with demolition. We gutted and rebuilt half of the main floor in this house, creating a new kitchen, living room, dining room area. We spent eight months living in sheetrock dust and chaos. It was not fun.

But this time all the chaos is downstairs. Last night, after we'd worked for a few hours to get a kick start on the project, we all clunked back upstairs, to our CLEAN and (mostly) dust free living area.

Two small walls were taken down last night and I am thrilled with how much it opened up the space. I can't wait to see what todays efforts bring.

One daughter, three boys and one big daddy - all armed with hammers, crowbars and power saws. Let's see what kind of damage we can do.

Thanks for the money George. We're using it for garbage and couldn't be more thrilled.

Backseat conversations

A few years ago Kenny Chesney had a big hit with a song called "I Go Back". If you don't frequent the country stations, it was a song about how certain songs can trigger memories, and take you back to another place and time.

I have plenty of those. Some good, some bad. Some make me feel really really young. Some make me feel impossibly old. Some bring smiles and some bring tears. A few bring forced back sobs.

When Kenny's song was a regular on the airwaves my Middle boy was about six. He had started first grade and was feeling pretty big about himself. As we were driving in the van one day, that song came on the radio.

My Middle boy stopped his chatter and got very quiet. He gazed out the window with that look on his face that said, 'thoughts in process.'

Finally, after the song ended, he came up for air and announced to me, "Mama....if I 'go back' I don't got far to go. I guess I'd have to 'go back' to pre-school!"

I wondered what songs took him 'back' to preschool days.

But in the same way there are words that take me back. Like when I am picking out salad dressings at the grocery store, and look past the Catalina version. I almost always chuckle to myself as my brother's face comes to mind. He and I always used to call it "Cantina" dressing and no one ever knew what we were talking about.

Then yesterday I heard the word 'lady' in a conversation behind me at the track meet. I don't even remember what lady they were talking about.

But suddenly I was back to a day, more than a decade ago, as we drove through town running errands. Daughter was maybe 5, her little brother would have been 4. And little brother had trouble saying his 'l's'.

So they were discussing, in their preschooler ways, the ins and outs of some show they had seen on PBS that morning. Brother was trying to talk about this one woman he had seen and his sister was just not getting it.

Finally he says, very exasperated, "You KNOW!...that yady wit da yong yong yegs!"

Even I had to do a mental double take to figure out what he was saying. Sister had no clue that he had even spoken English.

After repeating it several times, each time a bit more miffed, I helped him out.

"Sweetie, he is talking about the lady with the long long legs."

After giving him a look like he had suddenly grown a new nose, she calmly said, "Oh yeah...her."

There is rarely a day that hearing the word 'lady' doesn't bring those precious preschool words to my ears and a wistful smile to my face.

The joys of having little people riding in the backseat.