Keep Bringing Me Toads

Summer has sprung, and a couple weeks ago it was showing its glory through wildlife. Mae, my youngest, came through the kitchen with a salamander in hand asking, "Is this the kind that lives in the water?"...I explained that that was a wood salamander - that they need to be moist, but do not swim. There was a thoughtful pause and then "Oh...well, I just cooled him off."

The chilled and half-drown salamander was followed a few days later by both daughters coming in the back door with a big green tote, with a ginormous toad at the bottom. They were excited and wanted to show me. I told them they should take him back outside where they found him. Later Keegan asked me if I was mad that they brought the toad in. Such a tender little heart my Keegan has. I just explained that he was probably quite out of sorts after being manhandled and put in a box, that he was a beautiful specimen indeed, but we need to respect him and other life and think of how we'd like to be treated in a similar situation.

A few days after the toad, my husband found a nest in a bush while weed whacking up on the hill. It contained three very young dead baby birds. It was an interesting yet morbid find. What had happened to the mother? Surely she must've been killed and not just abandoned her tiny, featherless, hungry brood. The girls wanted to take the nest and babies for show-and-tell at school, but I convinced them maybe just the nest would be more appropriate, and we buried the baby birds in the garden.

My girls are funny and sweet, but sometimes I wonder, when they are giggling over potty talk, or leaving their wrappers on the living room floor after telling them hundreds (thousands?) of times to pick up after themselves, or "innocently" lying to stay out of trouble....is anything sinking in? Where and when did I go wrong? When did I lose my grasp? Have they completely gone bad, and is there any hope? And then I'm reminded that it's just childhood. I too was lazy in my action, sometimes callous in my words and behavior. I find random mini sticky notes on my daily planner..."Dear Mom I love you"..."Hi Mom Love Keegan"..."Thank you for everything." Yeah, maybe I'm still doing OK, and I cherish all their I Love You's because I know (tearily) all too soon they won't be so eager to give them out.

Life is hurried. But it seems like lately, maybe because of summer vacation starting or simply because of their age (Keegan is 9), that I've had more opportunities to try to explain tidbits of life to them, had instances where I needed to encourage them to do the right thing, and witness them showing fortitude even when they doubted my advice would turn out the way I said it would. This is bliss to a mother's soul. The other day alone in the car with Keegan after strawberry picking, our chat ranged from dogs and kids getting overheated in cars, to far-off starving/war-torn nations where women had no rights, to the question of "are girls born with seeds?", to a promise of a deeper conversation "about that" in a year or two, to how blood sugar spikes in comparison with natural vs white sugar. Can I dare to hope these exchanges go on forever? I can be stern and hot headed, but I hope my girls feel comfortable coming to me with concerns without fear of a hostile or lecturing reaction. That's the mom I want to be. "Mom, I feel like I get more lessons about life in the car than I do at school." As it should be, my dear.

When Keegan was 4-1/2 months old she needed surgery for a congenital defect in one of her ureters that was impairing her kidney's function. When you are new parents, surgery on your infant daughter is the last thing you want her or yourselves to go through. Nightmarish, right? I'm sure I worried a lot, prayed a lot. It was huge. But after spending an entire day in the presurgery room with countless babies, toddlers, and children getting prepped for, worst of all, brain tumor surgery, we were handed some serious perspective to say the least. We spent two or three days in CHaD, the smallest of cancer patients just doors down from us. I cried for them and was so very thankful for our little Keegan's very very minor condition.

Nine years later my girls and I now make dinner for David's House guests about once a month. We didn't need David's House during Keegan's hospital stay, as we lived close enough to travel, but it was offered to us and has held a special place in our hearts since. David Cyr also went to school where my girls do now. Volunteering in such a way is a good life lesson in many ways, I think. The girls also wanted to join me walking the Prouty this July, so even though it's "only 5K and hardly worth the ride up there," we'll go and have a good day together for a great cause (thank you all who are sponsoring us!)

Last week after 2 days of pestering, I finally indulged Keegan with some one-on-one time at the sewing machine. We made her a little handbag together on the table facing her bedroom windows. It struck me suddenly that, 15 or 20 years from now I could be sitting in the same spot, sewing in what would now be my hobby room or study rather than her pastel-infused bedroom. I so need to slow down...cherish these babes...tent in the backyard with them...swim in the pool with them...continue sharing with them the wonderful things in this world, and also the things that could harm them. Forgive me this somber heartfelt blog, missing the usual sass and spunk. I just wanted to write about my girls and perhaps my last summer home with them.

Adventures without Spawn

No, it's not the title of the latest horror flick...it's just my new term for "Date Night." Friday afternoon we dropped the girls off at the in-laws and a full 24 hours of freedom ensued. And I realized I couldn't remember the last time we were alone.

The romance began with our first stop at a small engine shop for some weed-whacker supplies. I sat in the car.

We then drove to Newport, NH, to Salt Hill Pub. I'd been there a time or two, but it was hubby's first experience. He had onion rings (I stole one), some tender still-moo-ing cow, corn on the cob, and fries. I had the portabella burger on marble rye, and fries (with malt vinegar, salt and ketchup - yum!) I spent our dinner pondering our waitress, as she looked like somebody I worked with almost 20 years ago...but later found out from a fellow past coworker that she wasn't who I thought she was, unless she changed her name (hmm...left eyebrow raised...veeeery suspicious...) Upon finishing our meal, hubby dumped his bowl of au jus in the crotch of his black Carhartts. The good wife bit her lip and repressed the giggles until the situation was fully assessed. Then the "junk au jus" lines and threats and promises of late-night au jus removal started flying. All in all, a great meal and when we walked out, hubby asked when we were coming back.

From there we stopped at Lowe's, as apparently a date that did not include a stroll through The Home Depot or the like would simply be faux pas. I know for fact we're not alone in this ritual. So, I dutifully followed the man through the counter tops, the lumber, the ratchets, the sanders, the toolboxes ("but this one has a fridge and stereo in it, baby!!!") until I felt the urge to use the ladies room (whether the urge was from testosterone overload-inspired boredom or from the iced tea I had at Salt Hill is up for debate). Our Lowe's is brand new, the restroom fairly pristine. Out of habit, I chose the first stall. The first stall, according to reports, is the cleanest of stalls since it's supposedly the least used. In this instance, I think the studies were accurate if only for the fact that the lock did not lock. The mechanisms were at least half an inch out of line of where they were supposed to be. I've witnessed this phenomenon before, and I think the word "phenomenon" is apropos considering that a stall door really only has two simple functions: To be low enough to hide the goods (am I the only one who has pottying-in-public nightmares?), and to stay closed. It's really too bad that Lowe's couldn't find a yard stick or measuring tape to make sure the two lock pieces lined up. Perhaps they should've walked over to The Home Depot.

In many ways, my husband has achieved sainthood over the last 18 years of sharing my company. I'd like to think it's due to my influence, but really he's just a good guy. For example: What other man would follow his label-scrutinizing, price-comparing woman around, without complaint for over two hours, through the freak show atmosphere that really only Market Basket and Walmart can provide? Yeah, that's my man. We also ran into Hannaford, where said woman was completely ecstatic to find a few items she hadn't been able to find anywhere else. He didn't necessarily share in her delight, but he didn't complain or even roll his eyes. Points were handed out (remember the au jus?)

Saturday morning I had to work for a few hours and then ran some errands, while hubby ran his own. Then we reconvened on his motorcycle in the early afternoon - our first ride of the season together. We've had the bike 6 years now, and I spent at least the first 4 fearing for our safety, or I should say, fearing for our children who would, I was certain, be orphaned before I could get my hair-flattening helmet back off. However, something in my nature clicked last summer...I lost (most) of my fear and am now able to ride with enjoyment. I still don't like how my husband drives close to the yellow line. He says it's to avoid deer and oil slicks. But frankly, I'd rather die by way of a confused deer coming out from the bushes than by some 17-yr-old twit texting her BFF. But that's just me. Other than that, I'm pretty carefree now, and I get to take in all the scenery. Yesterday, my eyes beheld shin-high corn fields, "strawberry supper" signs in front of churches (and really, it left me wondering what they actually serve for the entree - hopefully there is no malt vinegar or ketchup involved), and scanning the hillsides and trees for hot air balloons lifting out of Quechee. My mind also wanders. It's quite therapeutic, really - much like going for a walk or a run, only without all the sweat.

We stopped in at hubby's cousin's house and had a good catch-up with him and his sweet and sassy son, before heading back home...to the inevitability that was picking up the spawn and bringing them home. Truth be told, I missed them a little. Date nights are awesome, I'll get no argument there; but there must be a reason I can't remember the last one we had. It could be because the grandparents don't offer to watch them as often as when they were cute little toddlers...or maybe we're just too busy to plan ahead...or maybe we just like to keep our would-be orphans with us because we just plain enjoy their company (when they aren't raising our blood pressure with their bickering) and want to share our worlds with them...unsafe stalls, freak shows, and all.