6 Weeks

A glance at the calendar jolted me awake this afternoon. Yes, the calendar. Who needs a shot of espresso when you've got a year-long journey halfway around the world with your husband and three children looming? We've got a mere six(!) weekends left, and one of those will be spent with my extended family in Kerrville, TX over the Thanksgiving holiday.

You may be wondering how The Preparations are coming along (my mom is, at the very least). We fixed our front door lock that suddenly appeared to have crapped out after only 105 years of keeping families safe. When Sam opened it up for some exploratory surgery, it turned out that it only needed a little oiling and it's good as new; man, things were built to last in 1906. We also did some major fall yard cleanup and art teacher hoarding scrap lumber removal.  Winters in Colorado don't allow for showy blooms; I wish that the yard would look prettier when the Aussies arrive, but at least they'll be pleasantly surprised when spring hits.

I'm going to do a dry run of packing up just my stuff this weekend to get an idea of how many bags we're looking at--I was hoping to have one bag per person, with one extra 'stuff' bag (5 sleeping bags will account for most of that one, even with those handy suction bags to reduce their size).  Our Australian counterparts, with one less child than our family, are bringing 8 bags, so I could be terribly underestimating our needs.  We shall see.

Thanks to our awesome Aussie family facilitating the communication/mechanic's inspection/negotiation, we are thisclose to being the proud owners of a used Australian minivan.

You see, we have nearly a month down there before school begins, and I would much rather spend that time camping amongst kangaroos and goannas than dealing with Terribly Boring Logistics (especially because let's face it, Terribly Boring Logistics always fall on my lap, not my husband's).  This car purchase is one huge check off the Terribly Boring Logistics list.  Cars, like everything down there it seems, are more expensive than here, but the 1995 Toyota Tarago (known as a Previa in the United States) should work just fine.

the interior of the minivan, with the nifty (ha!) upholstered dashboard and THEWHEELONTHERIGHTHANDSIDEOHMYGOSH HOWCANITRUSTSAMTODRIVETHISTHINGBYHIMSELFTOSCHOOLWITHOUTGETTINGKILLED??

I've been keeping an eye on the Wollongong local newspaper to get an idea of life down there, and this article from yesterday's news (Driver Dies As Car Bursts Into Flames After Hitting Kangaroo) didn't do much to assuage my driving-on-the-left-hand-side-of-the-road fears.  So, not only do we have to make sure we're keeping on the left side, but we also have to dodge kangaroos?  It makes me wish Sam has spent more of his time playing video games; that surely would have prepared him a bit more for this experience.

I have not named a car since my first, the beloved 1974 blue Volkswagen Super Beetle that my parents, in some momentary lapse of judgment, purchased for me the summer before I turned 16 so I could learn how to drive a stick shift.  I sat in the driveway the day I got it, listening to the turn-dial radio, listening to Pearl Jam, Nirvana and Beastie Boys cassette tapes, and thinking that I was the luckiest girl in the world.  He didn't have a name until Tyler Evans (who looked like a game show host even back then, in a good way) in my college Spanish class gave him one, but 'Dexter' fit him perfectly.

I think it's time to name another car, considering the bond we'll have with this one as it will carries us on our travels.  I'm thinking we should call him Ferdinand, after the famous explorer Ferdinand Magellan.  I'll let you know once I see him in person if the name fits. 

Thanks, Tom

Take 1
Jackson, my son with an absolute replica of my logical/spelling bee/orderly brain, has surprised me recently by writing song lyrics.  He sings them, and I've heard the younger two walking around singing them as well.  They're catchy.  I'd venture to say they're good, maybe even great if you take into account the fact that he's only eight years old.  He's hesitant to attach himself to being a musician, but I told him that the only difference between a song and a poem is that one is set to music (although I'm neither a musician nor a poet, so what do I know?).

I saw him write a couple of lines today; he said he came up with them as he took out the trash.  I can't divulge the lines here because they may or may not be written in a letter to his Nana and Papa that will be mailed tomorrow--but they reminded me of the lovely, heartbreaking Tom Waits song, San Diego Serenade.



I never saw the morning til I stayed up all night
I never saw the sunshine until you turned out the light
I never saw my hometown until I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody until I needed the song


I never saw the white line til I was leaving you behind
I never knew I needed you until I was caught up in a bind
And I never spoke I love you til I cursed you in vain
I never felt my heartstrings until I nearly went insane


I never saw the east coast until I moved to the west
I never saw the moonlight til it shone off your breast
I never saw your heart until someone tried to steal, tried to steal it away
I never saw your tears til they rolled down your face

Just before bedtime, my two oldest boys and I sat in silence, listening, as I played the song for them.  I love that they're at an age where I can share things, and they can appreciate things, that are meaningful to me.

Take 2
I'm quick to move on after holidays--the day after Christmas, I'm itchin' to get the ornaments nestled into their nicely divided Tupperware bins, the lights neatly wound (although they have an uncanny ability to tie themselves in complicated sailor knots by the time the next year rolls around), and the tree out by the dumpster where the city picks it up to turn into mulch for spring gardens.  I'll find rogue pine needles hiding out under the couch and in doorway crevices until long after the tulips have bloomed, but still, it feels good to move on.

Likewise, and especially in anticipation of the snowstorm headed our way tonight, I packed away the life-size skeleton, tombstone, and other Halloween goodies that helped make our house 'definitely waaaaay spookier than any other house on the street', as Alex declared every time we pulled into the driveway over the last couple of weeks.

I also removed the plants that brought so much beauty and life to our front porch since warmth was the norm, and the vines of morning glories that had fiercely wound their way up our railing.  They had done their work, bursting open their violet blooms for us to enjoy as each summer day began, and now it was time to rest.

As I carted the load out by wheelbarrow to the alley dumpster on this evening before a snowstorm, before my friend Meghan's service tomorrow, a lump rose in my throat.  Seasons change, loved ones leave us, and we must move on.

I think Tom Waits will be the soundtrack for my evening.

Robbed

When I first met Meghan (who I've written about earlier here), she was the gorgeous girl sitting in my orientation for teaching summer school.  I was not a teacher, nor did I have plans to become one, but it was a pretty good summer gig to teach a half day during the summer while I figured out my law school plans.  And with Meghan teaching as well, it was a blast.  She was fun, carefree, and we spent many an afternoon sunning ourselves at the pool.

Some years later, Meghan fell in love with Barton, the cute PE teacher at her school.  How perfect is that?  English teacher marries the gym teacher.

Just three weeks after they were married, Meghan noticed a lump and her neck and was diagnosed with cancer--a rare form, called synovial cell sarcoma.  Barton has been a rock throughout this journey of supporting Meghan, and the grace with which Meghan has handled this diagnosis has been astounding.

Meghan wanted nothing more than to be a mother, and last October she welcomed three beautiful babies into the world.  Having triplets would be a daunting road in itself for anyone, but Meghan and Barton were remarkably calm and joyful with their babies, most notably just a couple of weeks ago as I shared in the celebration of their triplets' first birthday.

Meghan bravely battled the relentless cancer for five years but last night had an unexpected, fatal brain hemorrhage.  Doctors say she didn't experience any pain, that she basically just went to sleep, which at the moment offers me only a little bit of solace.

Right now I'm feeling so sorry for her one-year old triplets who will only hear stories about how wonderful and kind their mother was.  And for her husband, who has been robbed of the opportunity to share his life, and the joy of raising their children, with the woman he loves.

I know there are no guarantees in life, but this one really gets me.

The world just lost a really kindhearted, beautiful, fun person.  Fuck you very much, cancer.

Edited to add: An education fund has been set up for Meghan's triplets.  Anyone wishing to make a donation can mail to:
Barton Joule Triplets Fund
Horizons North Credit Union
11455 Pearl St.
Northglenn, CO 80233


Also, anyone wishing to follow the adorable triplets (Kesleigh, Preston, and Gavin) as they grow can keep an eye on http://www.jouletriplets.blogspot.com.

A Different Season in 21 Hours

October 25, 2011   4:27pm

October 26, 2011    7:27am

8+3=Love

By 7:30pm last night, Kenyon was completely and utterly exhausted.  The kids are always more weary on Mondays, and the Boys vs. Dad front-yard wrestling match that was gearing up just as I skipped out the door to my spinning class likely depleted Kenyon's little three-year old energy reserves. Keeping up with two older brothers is a tough job, and Kenyon has mightily risen to the occasion since way back when crawling was his preferred method of mobility.

Last night, he communicated his weariness with tears--tears that he didn't want to take his clothes off for a bath, tears that his brothers were bathing before him, tears that I told him if he spent too much time crying then we wouldn't be able to read a story.  Parental impatience morphed into motherly compassion, and I skipped the nightly bath routine, scooped up his delicious little wiped-out body and tucked him right into bed with a kiss.  Blanket?  Beary?  Done and done.  Lights out.

He shares a room with both of his older brothers, who were looking forward to some reading time before bedtime.  Alex headed to our bedroom and was immediately immersed into Harry and his TriWizard Tournament drama.  I told Jackson he could read up in his bed with his headlamp.

Twenty minutes later, I headed upstairs to give them the lights out call but was surprised to hear a voice reading softly out loud.  I opened the door to the kids' room and saw this:

Jackson, instead of delving deeper into his Norse tale, The Sea of Trolls, was reading to his little brother from our pop-up 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

As I walked back downstairs, my footsteps felt lighter; strange, considering the fact that my heart felt so impossibly full.  

(Nearly) Wordless Wednesday

The secondary title of this post should be "Why I Am Not An Art Teacher".  Considering my husband is an art teacher, you'd think a teensy bit of his talent would have rubbed off on me over these past 10 years.  Isn't that supposed to be a perk of being married??

On one recent afternoon, Kenyon and I sat out on the front porch doing an activity where I would draw an animal.  He'd guess what it was (miraculously, considering the skill level, or lack thereof), and then we'd sound out the letters as I wrote the name.

My first grader eyed the drawings warily and diplomatically said, "You could have drawn a mane on the zebra."  No wonder it looked so weird...

The Universe Smiled

Sometimes, there are moments or events in one’s life where everything comes together so harmoniously it's like you can actually see and feel the universe smiling upon you.  It doesn't happen very often, but maybe I'm just not in a place within myself to notice that smiling universe, either.  Regardless, the way Tuesday began gave me no clue as to what it had in store for me when I went to work that morning.

My boys’ Fall Break that happened to not coincide with the rest of the public school system (darn you and your flexible scheduling, public charter school!) kind of threw a wrench in, well, the fact that I have a JOB.  Granted, we should have planned ahead, but I figure my public school teacher husband would have the same days off as my public school children, right?  Ah, wrong, it turns out.

I was a little grumbly about heading home early to relieve the half-day babysitter I managed to scrape together at the last minute.  Alas, my grumbliness was not put to rest as I walked through the front door.  Somehow, in the 3 hours I was gone diligently earning a living, the boys managed to turn the house inside out.  It was as if a pack of rabid coyotes had been spent a week wrestling.  Indoors.  In every room in the house.  The Cat in the Hat story without the last-minute cleaning effort.  You get the picture, and any mom knows that draining feeling when fun mom needs to deal with a bunch of bullshit.

After barking quite a few cleaning orders and reprimands, we all tumbled outside into……… this.
 
My mood immediately lifted (honestly, how could someone possibly maintain a sour mood under that color of sky?  I think I actually see the universe smiling in that picture), the boys’ wily coyote selves were tempered, and we all basked in the glorious Colorado sunshine.  We brought out the regular wooden block set, the small wooden block set, the architectural wooden block set and the Magna-Tiles, and proceeded to spend the next 4 hours, no exaggeration, out in our front yard building and enjoying each other’s company.
Brothers collaborating…

Solo efforts…



This architectural set from Tuesday Morning Santa is awesome.  I had so much fun working with Alex, my little out-of-the-box thinker, to make some unique, avant garde buildings.

The nice, orderly, symmetrical, ho-hum front of this building (below) is my design.  The picture doesn’t do it justice, but Alex’s work in the back made the piece something I’d love to walk into.  You’d look at this building and know it couldn’t house lame cubicles and tired government workers; it’d have to have frolicking unicorns grazing on levitating dewy grassy meadows, or adorable dwarf baby hippos serving dark chocolate bars while swaying their rotund hips to Latin beats. 

Sky’s the limit for you, Al Pal.  Sky’s the limit.

Honestly, if someone had been conducting a scientific observation of our 4 hours of engaged, relaxing, truly enjoyable time together (WHEN DOES THAT EVER HAPPEN??  THREE BOYS GOING 4 HOURS WITH NO PURPOSEFUL FARTS, STICK-WIELDING, WRESTLING, OR BLOOD?) they would surely have come to the only rational conclusion--that we were an alien family, sent from a much more highly evolved, civilized planet.  We did have some nose-picking, but come on, it was damn near a miraculous event here, people.









It was such a long stretch of peaceful, unstructured yet purposeful, and enjoyable activity, and even though we were all outside together, I had quality, individual time with each of my three favorite people in the world. 





Who knew that a fall afternoon filled with blocks and boys would end up being one of the highlights of my life?  The universe surely smiled down upon me today, and I've done quite a bit of smiling up at it ever since.