The Air and Space Museum

The Smithsonian has two Air and Space Museums in the DC area. We took the boys to the one downtown off the National Mall. They enjoyed the Metro bus ride from the airport which dropped us off almost at the museum steps. And both boys (aged 4 and almost 2) had a blast at the museum proper.

There were tons of things to do. The airplane model that they could fly sparked toddler tantrums. Spencer, 23 months, was like Fred and Barney from the Flintstones. His little feet would start working before we put him down. Delighted, he would dart from here to there. The space shuttle replica and the rovers were his favorites. He thoroughly enjoyed the interactive room that had lots of experiences (as Edmund calls them) to try.

Edmund was thrilled to find that he could read some of the placards on the exhibits. He and bunny nearly danced a jig over the Wright brothers room. There was a life sized replica of the glider complete with navigation sticks that children of all ages could try. He had studied lift and thrust at school. So, to find them at the museum was fascinating. The astronomy section sparked a little kid commentary about the difference between asteroids and comets. We made a module to go on a virtual international space station. Robert took him to see the flight simulators. He enjoyed the ones at WonderWorks, but they had nothing on the ones at the Smithsonian!

Neither child was old enough to enjoy the National Mall. But the hustle and bustle of the capital seemed to interest them. Both children wanted to ride the train. Both children enjoyed watching the airplanes at the airport. And both boys loved the Air and Space Museum.

Sailing

The Free Spirit is sinking.
Her lines are all frayed.
Her waterline is under.
There is water in her galley.
She hasn’t been used forever.
She is grounded at the dock.
For her, winter last forever.
The free spirit is not.

The Wood House

Edmund informed me that he wanted to go back to the wood house. I agreed that the wood house was fun. He solemnly nodded from his perch on the back of the sofa. Spencer looked up hopefully..."Dog?", he asked.

Both of the boys loved their visit to Vermont.

We drove up for the memorial service for my husband's Uncle Grove. Uncle Grove had come to our wedding. I liked him. He was a character. A product of the three martini lunch and an avid smoker, he died has he lived...full of life, wit and prepared. He had fully orchestrated his exit making his wishes known in tons of details for the days ahead. It made the service a true celebration of the man. You could feel his presence in the quaint New England church that was straight out of some postcard.

Robert's cousin, Nancy, had put us up in a small house down the road courtesy of some friends from New Jersey. It was open and airy. There was plenty of room for the boys to unwind during down time. There were a couple of frozen ponds on the property, plenty of crisp snow for sledding, local hunters coming through on four wheelers, and a small backhoe in the back. We were told not to lock the doors. It was little boy paradise. The cottage reminded the boys of one of the houses featured on Nick Jr.'s Noggin (high praise from the preschool set). Edmund dubbed it 'the wood house'.

Our stay in Vermont seemed to fly by...Nancy hosted fabulous extended family meals complete with a 90 year old grand-uncle, family friends, and hopeful dogs sniffing under Spencer's highchair. Fresh flowers, candles, and snow globes adorned the table. We would sit a dozen strong in a cozy dining room in front of a fireplace and a picture window giving thanks for the food and each other. It reminded me of my grandmother's former Sunday dinners. My heart was gladdened that the bays were able to experience this multi-generational expression of love.

Cousin Dan showed Edmund how to construct a Lego building. Edmund spent the better part of his days at Nancy's trying to complete his 'police station'. Spencer occupied his time chasing Nancy and Graham's lab-hound mix, Jack. Poor 'Jack-Jack' as he was called was just the right size for Spencer to mount as a pony. At any give time, one could locate Spencer by listening to his call of "Dog, dog, dog,dog..." And both boys loved playing with the wooden marble run made by Uncle Gill.

The boys loved their time at their cousins' house. Even the excitement of the week before Christmas couldn't overshadow the small trinket that will be saved 'for 'Ancy and Gramp' or the excited babble about some detail revisited.

"We might go back in the summer. Would you like that?,"I ask.

"Nama, I want to go back to the wood house., " Edmund states. Spencer places his middle two fingers in his mouth and nods.

Modeling

The boys had been little monsters. I have always suspected that boys were little mutants who had come to make life hard and miserable for the rest of the population. The day was proving my suspicions correct.

So, when my husband asked me how the day went, I told him that I had taken the little monsters out. Edmund immediately asked me to apologize.

"You apologize!" he said looking indignant. "Mommy, calling people names is not nice. When you call me a monster, that hurt my feelings. You should say, 'sorry'."

I sighed as I looked at him. This made the second time he had called me on something this week. The first concerned my vain battle to get his brother to take his teething medicine. Spencer's harassed cries earned me a "Mommy, be kind to Spencer." It is the beginning of the Bible verse I quote the boys whenever I catch them fighting before I leave them to work it out. (Ephesians 4:32) Edmund stood by the bathroom door, a stern look on his three year old face, "be kind" he repeated before he left the room. I snuffed at him. Spencer really did need to take his medicine or he would keep all of us up all night. But this was different. I supposed it wasn't the kindest thing to call the boys monsters. I probably should have kept the comment to myself...

"Mommy's sorry, baby," I said as he squinted his eyes at me for calling him a baby. He let that one slide. "If mommy couldn't say anything nice, she shouldn't have said anything at all." I did, after all, still think that he and his brother were monsters.

Edmund placed bunny in his other hand and said, "that's all right, mommy. I forgive you." Then, he offered me a hug and went off to fight with his brother over his golf cubs.

Ah, modelling in parenthood...Be careful what you say. Someone will call you on it.

First Day Jitters

Bare feet padded into my room
Curling upon my lap
Like a newborn
Cradling bunny

Baby breath upon my cheek
Relishing the moment
Neither speaking
Still

Mommy, will you walk me in
Here is my show and tell
My backpack
My lunch

Running into the schoolroom
Without a wave
Or saying
Good-bye

Bunny

It had been a hectic day full of my rowdy boys and even rowdier nieces. No one had really noticed that bunny wasn't with us until late evening. Of course, the girls had not seen the small tattered animal that rarely left my son's side. They were spending the week with us while their mom was on a mission trip. My sister had called. Now, Constance was intent on crying herself to sleep.

Edmund became frantic. "Can you find him?", he pleaded. Robert and I searched and searched. No Bunny. I cleaned the common rooms trying not to wake the children. Robert manned a flashlight which was replaced by the Coleman lantern. No bunny in the back yard. No bunny in the car. Now, Edmund began to cry. Two crying children in one night can work a mommy's nerves. At first, I was unsympathetic. 'You should have kept up with him.' Wrong response. Any attempts at bravery went out the window. Edmund began to wail, "Bunny! Oh, Buuunnny! (hiccup)I (sob, hiccup) want (sniff) my (big breath) Buuunnnyyy!"

In the face of such heart-brokenness, Robert and I revamped our efforts to no avail. The small cotton character was no where to be found. Edmund cried himself to sleep and awake several times with the most pitiful wounded sobs throughout the night. In desperation, I commandeered one of Spencer's teddy bears and gingerly placed it under his head. (Edmund usually uses Bunny as a pillow.) His little hand stroked the fur and a whiny gasp escaped his lips. Exhausted, the preschooler fell unto a fitful sleep accented by the staccato of hiccuped baby sobs.

When morning arose sans Bunny, Edmund was visibly crushed. Daddy, the Master Bunny Finder, had failed to save the day. I had bible study. So, I bundled all four of the children up with the promise that we would look for bunny some more after class. Perhaps, Edmund had left him in one of the stores we had visited the day before? I offered up a silent prayer that the little animal would be found. I didn't think that we could take another night like the one before.

Then, I asked the ladies in my class to pray. I know that it seemed silly when everyone else wanted prayer about heart surgery and cancer. But, I felt awful about how little confidence Edmund displayed without his side kick. He had had Bunny since birth, but didn't become attached to him until my stay in the hospital. A breastfeed baby, Edmund had been just over one and had never been away from mommy for anything more than Sunday school. Bunny became a little boy's lifeline during those uncertain times. Later, he became a lonely toddler's best pal, sharing secrets, tea parties, and secret spy missions to Mars in a bi-plane. Now, Bunny was missing.

We had spent the early afternoon retracing our steps. Edmund seemed sad about the possibility that bunny might be gone. We had to take my nieces to Smart Toys and Books to pick up an item. He didn't even try to buy anything. However, when we got home around 4, his father was there. My husband, Robert, said that it hurt is heart to have Edmund heartbroken. He left work earlier than usual to search for the missing lovey.

Edmund saw his father when I opened the kitchen door and ran into his arms. After a big hug, my big lug reached into his back pocket and produced the battered stuffed animal. Edmund squealed and showered Robert's face with preschool kisses between declarations that daddy was his hero. He kept repeating how much he loved his father. Robert told him that he loved him too that each of his boys were worth any trouble that he had to go through or money he might have given up. I thought of him scouring the backyard at 12:30 at night, and up at 5 the next morning, then leaving work early to give a moment of happiness and security to his son. Waiting with open arms to embrace his child before he revealed the day's blessing...

Older women are always telling me that as parents we are the ambassadors of Christ in their little lives. I rarely feel that or see it. But, yesterday afternoon, I did. How like the Heavenly Father Robert was at that moment... Working on our behalf, orchestrating our world to work His will for His Greater Good, ordering the whole of the universe yet joyfully sitting that aside when we approach His throne in prayer, and longingly awaiting our return with open arms full of His Blessings if only we turn to Him! Praise be to God for the life lesson he gave to me and the lesson of faith He has bestowed upon our small son! The working of His hands are everywhere. May we have the mind to see His Works.

Luke 11 9So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. 10For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened. 11Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead? 12Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? 13If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!

The American

A tiny hand knocked on the hull of the demasted sloop. A Dutch father and his son stood on the walkway of the canal, holding hands, looking hopeful...

"My son would have you tell him about America," the father said pointing to the American flag on the stern. The son, suddenly shy, partially hid behind his father's knee with a grubby thumb in his mouth. "Tell him about your flag, her story."

The request took me aback. Their questions told me that they knew the basics, probably more than a number of the folks back home. I scanned the Provence countryside as I tried to think of an interesting story to tell. I wish that I could say that I told them something profound or obscure. I wish I had told them Bob Heft's story. I didn't. Actually, looking back, I can't remember what I said. I just remember thinking that to them, I was "the American".

I never felt more American than when I was abroad. In Mexico, a train porter would smile and say 'Elvis' while pointing to a Jack Daniels bottle when I mentioned that I was from Tennessee. A day's hike yielded the area's lone ex-patriot with an invitation to my July 4Th dinner in the marina near the salt marshes of France. (He brought wine.) An impromptu visit to a WWF outpost near Sardinia brought out the director to thank me for allowing our country to support the cause of whales. (Where else would a $20 donation get you such service?)

Everywhere I went, people saw me in light of our standard. They asked me about US policy, our traditions, our music...Foreigners didn't see our imperfections or divisions. Foreigners saw America. In return, I began to want to see America through their eyes, a mythological place of promise, generosity and opportunity.

It has been more than half a decade since I stood in the cockpit on the canal du midi and read the Declaration of Independence to a rapt international crowd docked in a small marina. But, each Independence Day, I recall that moment with a smile. I know that somewhere in the world, a little boy will remember the day that his father took him to see the American. And, he endeavored in his heart to come to America.

Listen to the Declaration of Independence here.

Fireflies

They sat
together
at the threshold;
Matching ash gray t-shirts
and Royal Highnies.

A battered telescope
and an abused stuffed bunny
between them,
In the cool summer breeze
of twilight.

Silence encompassed
to relish the crickets-
father and son,
Waiting...
for fireflies.

Vacation Bible School

Edmund had his first taste of vacation bible school this week. Needless to say, he got through it, but he was not happy about it. He is three and our home church won't take him until next year. Nevertheless, I probably won't send him then either.



We went to the kick off preview at our church. All of the theatrics, special effects, lights and noise were too much. Edmund has sensory problems. He prefers small quiet and calm groups. That is something that Concord Quest will never be described as...



So, we toke him to the neighborhood Church of Christ. I grew up largely Church of Christ and can tell you that the services I remember from my childhood could be no more sedate. Imagine our surprise when we walked our son in on the first day to see the entire church transformed into a jungle complete with vines and sounds! There were children everywhere and tons of teens and preteens helping out. The place was organized chaos.



Edmund immediately decided he wanted nothing to do with any of it. I, on the other hand, was looking forward to a mini-break. School was from 8:30-noon each day and I would only have to deal with 'destructo-boy' Spencer. So, when we went into the auditorium to find Edmund's class amid blaring music (since when does the Church of Christ have music?), running cave people, and LOTS of white noise, Edmund clung to my skirt for dear life and started to cry. Feeling no pity, I told him that he would be fine, physically pried him from my skirt and handed him to his teacher. He sobbed pitifully, clinging to his stuffed bunny for dear life. I left swiftly without looking back in case someone stopped me and told me I had to take him home.



We repeated this scene everyday. Last night was the closing ceremony. Each group was to sing three songs. Edmund had to wear his VBS t-shirt, a thought that baffled him as I generally don't allow the boys to wear uncollared shirts outside the house. On the way to drop off, he told me three times not to take any pictures. (Edmund speak for please get at least one shot but not a gazillion.) He didn't want to go into his class's anteroom any more than he wanted to be dropped off in the mornings.



I rushed back home to get Robert and Spence. Edmund's group would go first and I didn't want to miss it. It was his first ensemble effort. When the three and four year old classes marched in we sat on the end of an aisle breathlessly scanning the throng for our son. No, Edmund. "Did you drop him in the right class?" my husband asked. Of course. "Where is he?" "How should I know?" I countered. Finally, a handler brought him in and sat with him in the front row placing a very frightened child clinging to a very raggedy bunny on her lap. The teen scanned the crowd.



I had already taken several shots which, according to my view finder, were guaranteed not to come out. I told Robert that I was going to skirt the outside aisle to see if I could get a better picture. The fresh faced teen pointed me out to Edmund as I tried to get in position. Edmund is terribly shy. He was clearly terrified but trying to be brave. From his prospective, there must have been a myriad of digital cameras, I-Phones and camcorders. I signed that his father and I were watching him and that I loved him very much. He started to cry. So much for my picture.



Edmund didn't particpate at all. I suppose I was lucky he stayed on stage. A relieved worker handed a nearly traumatized child to Robert. I kissed him three times on the cheek to let him know how proud I was of him. Edmund blushed at such a public display of affection. Robert said that that was 'quite enough'.



Neither Edmund or my husband wanted to stay thorough the entire program. There was going to be dinner and games. No dice. They both took a turn on a moonwalk while everyone else was inside. Spencer wandered onto the playground. Edmund said that he wanted to stay for a hot dog. Robert snuck him one which he took a bite out of and was finished. Spencer ate most of it. Spencer eats everything. Robert became insistent that it was time to take the boys home. He said that Edmund didn't look well. I sighed knowing that neither one of them was relishing the thought of mingling with the other parents and children at event's end. Then, feeling the need to placate them both, I felt Edmund's forehead. He was warm and clammy. The boy had literally worried himself sick.

Future Union Man

My two boys were out front digging in my mulch bed. Mulch routinely falls in the vent wells. And, my eldest is crazy about Caterpillar machines. I thought that I would be sly and kill two birds with one stone.

"Edmund, what are you today?"
"I'm an excavator."
"Oh yeah, well, how about scooping out those vent wells for mommy?"
"Where?"
"Over there." I point feeling hopeful that I wouldn't have to do the chore.
"Sorry, Mommy." Edmund shakes his head sadly, "can't. It's Saturday. Cat's don't work on Saturdays. Try again on Monday."

Drat, foiled by the preschoolers union.

Christmas before July

The boys and I hit another neighborhood yard sale today. I only have a few more Christmas gifts to get. And I am always on the look out for Santa gifts, secret Santa gifts, family gifts and the odd holiday and birthday purchase. I hit yard sales, children's consignment sales (although not as much since the boys are getting older), church sales, and an occasional regular shop.

Edmund wanted to go to Smart Toys and Books. I reminded him that it wasn't his birthday or Christmas. So, he wasn't due any new playthings. Nor, did he have a class scheduled. Therefore, the afternoon would be better spent either visiting Horse Haven or looking for boy stuff at the neighborhood sale. He choose the sale.

We find some really cool stuff in the oddest places. A Murano vase for my mother... A vintage Santa to add to my sister's collection... Electronic nonsense for my nephew...The trick is to set a firm budget, have a rough list of what you are looking for, and an ideal price range. Today's big scores were a new booster seat for Edmund, $2, and NIB compression socks 40-50 mmHg, $5/pk.
That is cheaper than the prices I found on EBay or craigslist! Hurray!

I've been using store incentive coupons to buy birthday gifts for picky family members. We paid a grand total of $1.20 for mother's day by using JCPenney $10 off coupons and picking sale items at 75%off as close to $10 as possible. My niece is into Aéropostale. With a little patience, I found her what I thought was a cute outfit on a 50%off weekend at the Goodwill. Her response, "I didn't know that Aéropostale made old people clothes." Sigh, preteens.

Anyway, I am just a few gifts away from having all of my gift shopping done for the rest of the year. It definitely makes the Christmas season more enjoyable, because we are free to let the children pick a child to shop for from the Angel Tree and make little presents to give to caregivers. We can go to plays and concerts. We take in some ice skating downtown on the square. We enjoy the religious season without a lot of the commercial pressure. And that is just the way my husband and I like it.

Investing in the Boys

Robert came home from work yesterday and told me to call our financial advisor about buying some shares of GM. He said that it was rising fast. Apparently, some of his buddies have made some quick short sale money. The advisor told me not to bother.

We try to buy the boys a share each year. Generally, we choose a company that represents their interests at that point in time. Unfortunately, the boys seem to pick better than we. Because, the stocks that represent them right now apparently haven't heard that the nation is in a downturn. Nevertheless, this is a good time to pump up their 529 plans and possibly look at an index fund.

It seems as if we are always trying to find ways to invest in the boys' future. Violin lessons, Sunday School, Mother Goose, story time, foreign language, etiquette camp, ice skating (my oldest was under the delusion that he should play hockey), homeschooling,...The list seems to daily grow. Golf and horseback riding next year? Oh and mom, can I play baseball? Sure, two practices a week and games on Saturdays. I have nothing else to do but cart a preschooler and a toddler around all day until daddy gets home and expects his dinner. I don't even like sports.

Really, most days, I don't mind. After all, the cost of living is only going up. The children will have to compete globally for employment and I have no desire for them to live with me for the rest of their lives. So, we will continue to play the taxi driver. Fret about whether the reading skills have improved or why someone else's child can count backwards from 100. And yes, pad the 529 plans in the event one or both of the boys fail to get a decent scholarship. In the end, we probably will even bite the bullet and buy stock in one of the companies the boys love even if it never hit bottom ,and place the certificate under the Christmas tree. The payoff is supposed to come down the road. My children are worth it. Or so, I keep telling myself...

My Sister's Keeper

Life has a way of hitting you in the gut when you least expect it. I opened our town's weekly newspaper on Thursday looking for the grocery ads. Instead, I was confronted with the deaths of a seemingly normal couple from our church. They had three small children. He owned a small business. They lived in a nice quiet upper-middle class subdivision. The couple's youngest child is the same age as my preschooler. It would not surprise me if we didn't pass each other on a regular basis as we dropped our children off at the same Sunday school class, watched our kids play at the same community park, attended the same moms group...

However, this family was not normal. The police reported that there was a long history of alcoholism and abuse behind that perfectly manicured lawn. The wife had once filed for a restraining order, but dropped it. She should have kept it. Her husband killed her in front of her children, visited his parents; then, went to his place of business and committed suicide.

Domestic violence is always painted with such an ugly face. Like the "strangers" we tell our children to beware of, people who are abused are portrayed as uneducated, social outsiders, members of the lower classes somehow...That is why,in this town, where nothing rarely happens and an episode of Leave It to Beaver could easily be taped, a murder-suicide is so, well, shocking...Did anyone notice the signs? Her friends, their families? Did she pass me in the halls at church with bruises? If I noticed, could I have done anything to help her, her children?

One thing is for certain, I will try to be a bit more diligent and a little less superficial in the future. Perhaps, there is nothing that I personally could have done for this fellow mom. But, I will be a bit more vigilant in case someone else in a neighboring cul-de-sac needs aid. The weekly post is an awful reminder that I am my sister's keeper.