Logan's Trip

"Hi Mom.  I have some news.  I am leaving..."  Logan stares up at me dressed in his red reindeer footy pamajas.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, I am taking a trip.  I am going to Tommy's for two days.  We will be going to the Disneyland Castle and his grandma is going to take care of us.  Would you prefer I leave tonight or tomorrow?"

"Well, tomorrow seems to make more sense, don't you think?  It's dark now."

"Well, I think I will leave tonight.  Peace Out"  He flashes me a cute peace sign and a huge smile.

I keep folding laundry as Logan opens the door to the garage and puts on his bike helmet. 

"I have to get some boxes to pack my things.  I have my helmet on because I'm going to ride my bike to Tommy's."

I continue to play along.  "Sweetie?  You don't know where Tommy lives.  And he is probably sleeping."

"I have a small map," he says and indicates a small piece of something with his hand.  "Tommy and I made this plan today.  It's all set."

This is really getting funny...I figure I will finish my laundry, take a break to post Logan's latest antics on Facebook and then I will get him in bed.  I turn around and he is standing in front of me, bike helmet on his head, full backpack on his back.  He lets me take his picture.

Just when I'm thinking this scene couldn't get any better, I hear my garage door open and realize that Logan is no longer standing in my kitchen! He has left the door from the house ajar, so I hide behind it to peek at his next steps.  I see him in the driveway, backpack on his back, helmet in place.  He is straddling his bicycle and trying to figure out how to start his journey.  (Logan is a newly trained bike rider and his bike is a smidge too big - he can't start himself off yet.)  I watch.  Trying so hard not to laugh out loud and give away my hiding place.

After a few failed attempts, Logan finally falls to the side and walks back to the house, head handing low.  He sees me inside and says "Can you help me start my bike ride?"

When I say no he decides to take off on foot....seriously.  It is now 10:30 at night and I notice my neighbors pull into their driveway, probably wondering what on earth we are doing out at this hour.

Logan has not lost his determination nor his smile.  "Bye, Mom!  I'll see you on Monday!"  Off he goes.

I watch as my footy-pajama-wearing five year old walks down the driveway and down the sidewalk to the left of my house.  He pauses in front of my neighbors house, turns, smiles and wave again back at me.  I'm beginning to wonder how far he is going to take this...it is dark out.  He crosses the street, walking in the shallow gutter than runs across the entrance to our cul-de-sac and hops over a small stream of water at the other side..."LOGAN!"

He runs back to me "What?"

I plead my case - it's time to come inside, but he has an answer for every concern.
"But mommy, the strangers are sleeping." 
"I have three pairs of shoes in my backpack:  my soccer shoes, my basketball shoes, my new crocs."

After a serious debate about his journey, I win him over.

"Okay, but I'm going to Tommy's tomorrow!" 

Mix By Hand

I enjoy baking.  I always have.  I'm not necessarily good at it, but I enjoy baking simple things like banana bread muffins, brownies, cookies, cake.  I remember baking with my grandmother.  She taught me how to make zucchini bread and lemon meringue pie.  I have her old, faded recipe book - it is a treasure.

My mom did not teach me how to bake - she was not that kind of mom.  But I have one very clear memory of baking that I have always associated with my mom and it came to mind today.

My mom and step-dad, Lee, loved to play the game of Risk.  I have memories of living in our townhouse on the Eagle Vail golf course - my mom's friends would come over on the weekends and they would play that board game for hours.  I was nine or ten, my brother must have been five or six.  The adults would gather in the dining room and play and talk. 

I recall one specific evening in which I asked if I could make a pan of brownies - "I can do it myself," I proudly exclaimed, "The directions are right here on the box."  I got straight to work. 

Step 1:  Heat the oven to 350 degrees...wait...do I use the high altitude directions?  We are definitely over 6000 feet.
Step 2:  Grease the pan.  I dipped a paper towel in the margarine tub and rubbed it into the rectangle pan.
Step 3:  Add the ingredients.  Eggs, Oil, water.  I very carefully measured the liquid ingredients and extra carefully cracked the eggs.
Step 4:  Mix by hand for 2 minutes.  By hand?  Really?  That seems odd, but okay - here goes.  I dipped both hands into the mixture and used my hands to combine the wet, slimy ingredients.  I watched the clock and timed myself for exactly 2 minutes. 

Now what?  I'm messy and have no idea how to get the mixture into the pan with my hands all slimy.  I called to my mom - she was sitting around the corner, only 3 feet away.

My mom tells this story often because it is one of her favorites.  A moment in time when her struggling-to-be-independent child took directions a little too literally.  It is amusing to her and she laughs and laughs.

Now that I am older, I can definitely see the humor in this moment.  As a pre-teen little girl, I was embarrassed and humiliated by my error - especially in front of adult guests in the house whom all enjoyed my little mistake. 

Moments like this are amusing.  I recall a similar situation where my young roommate poured Downy liquid into our new Downy Ball and put it in the dryer.  She couldn't understand why her clothes had Downy stains all over them.  I laughed.  When we reunite, we tell this story.

Tonight I made brownies and paid particular attention to the directions.  Step 4 said,  "Mix, stir by hand until well blended - about 50 strokes."  My mind wandered back to that moment in my mom's kitchen some 30 years ago and I smiled as I thought about the stories from our lives, the stories we tell, the stories that make us who we are.    

It's That Time of Year Again

Spring.  It's here.  I feel it.  Sunglasses and flip flops.  Short sleeves and tank tops reveal skin that has been hidden from the sun for months.

I stand with my face lifted to the sun.  I stand atop a playground in an overly busy Denver park filled with a "Can you believe how nice it is today?" buzzing energy.  The grass areas are filled with volleyball nets and picnics - the playground is filled with giggles, squeals, chasing and climbing. It's a great day.

My five year old son is climbing, crawling and sliding.  He is on the level below me, making a new friend.  I witness the scene from above, trying hard not to seem like I'm hovering too much - but I am hovering, just the same.  I listen in as the new friends exchange names and ages and wonder, "When do we actually stop exclaiming with glee 'I'm five too!'?"  (It might seem odd to excitedly cry out to a colleague "I'm 38 too!  How cool is that?!")

The conversation continues and there it is..."What's wrong with your arm?"  Logan's new friend backs away and asks him the question that I've been anticipating all morning.  My mom brain swirls around thoughts ranging from "Oh, sweetie, you are only 5 and you have asked a natural question when confronted with something out of the ordinary" to "Nothing is wrong with his arm, you big jerk."  Thankfully my son has remembered the response we have practiced and replies with a shrug, "Nothing, it's only my birthmark."

Great.  Nice job, Logan.  Done. Wrong.    

The boys begin climbing the chain ladder that is leading them both to me.  Logan's friend reaches the top first and offers his hand down to help Logan, "Here, let me help you...but not with that arm...that one," pointing instead to Logan's birthmark-free left arm.  My son climbs to the top unassisted and proudly stands at the top.    My heart is breaking but I keep my poker face, "Awesome job Logan, that ladder is tough!" 

Just when I think the moment has passed, my son's new friend says, "Are you a werewolf?"  I feel like I have been kicked in the stomach.  Without the slightest bit of reaction, Logan replies, "No" and the two boys run off together leaving me to my thoughts.

I remain on the upper level of the playground, my mind repeating the common question "What's wrong with your arm?"  Nothing is wrong with Logan's arm, but something is certainly different about it.  He was born with a large birthmark on his right elbow, extending onto most of his upper and lower arm segments.  The birthmark would not be so unusual if it was simply a discoloration of his skin but what makes it so unique is that it grows a considerable amount of hair, as well. During the winter months, it is not an issue - no one sees it.  Spring brings out the short sleeve shirts and the questions begin.

Logan learned from the time he could talk to reply with the standard phrase "It's my birthmark."  Some kids respond with "Cool," and move on...others ask more questions.  I'm usually nearby to swoop in and stop the questions.  Some days Logan is more sensitive than others, tucking inside his shirt to hide his arm and running away.  Other days, like today, Logan shrugs off the questions and gets down to the business of playing.  That's my boy.

And like Logan, some days I can shrug off the questions because I understand the curiosity of children when they encounter something different.  When adults ask, or point, or say things about his birthmark, I'm more sensitive - you could say I have less tolerance. 

Today, I'm a bit sad.  I'm watching my son run and chase and climb and slide...and laugh.  I'm remembering the day he was born.  I'm remembering comments from various family members - polite suggestions to "remove it" or to "hide it."  I'm thinking that most moments, I don't even see it - I see my sweet, perfect, healthy little boy, not his birthmark. 

The werewolf comment hurt me more than it hurt Logan.  He shrugged it off and I'm still thinking about it.  Even though I do not see his birthmark, I need to remember that the rest of the world does see it.  So, we will embark on our annual Spring/Summer routine and we will shave the hair off of his birthmark.  That is one thing I can do to make it a little less noticeable.  I know that I cannot protect my son all of the time....I can only do my very best to make his hardships as minimal as possible.

It is with these thoughts that I retrieve my son and we walk hand-in-hand across the park to meet our family - basking in the Spring sunshine together. 

Just for Me

Today I write... But the writing is just for me.

Vinyl Records; Vintage Memories

I own a small collection of old jazz records.  They belonged to my grandma. I also own her old stereo.

I love the stereo.  It is big and heavy and old.  It's roughly 6 feet long and maybe 2 1/2 feet tall - dark wood with a sliding top that reveals the turn-table on one side and record storage on the other.  Most days it is a lovely table of sorts that holds knick-knacks and photographs.  Every now and then, I plug it in.

Today, I plugged it in, selected a favorite album and was instantly transformed back in time 20 years or more. 

I loved to visit my grandma - she and I were buddies.  I spent many weekends at her house as a child and I continued to visit after I had a driver's license and a car of my own.  I loved to drop by unannounced because it made her so happy to have a surprise guest but also because it gave me a chance to see what she was "up to."  Sometimes I'd catch her gardening in her yard, other times I would see her hanging laundry on the line.  Sometimes she was watching television while working on a cross-stitch but every now and then I'd catch her dancing.

These are my favorite memories - like the one that came to mind today.  I drove up to see my grandma in Golden.  I parked my little car next to hers in the driveway and snuck up the porch - I could hear the music as soon as I turned off my engine.  Jazz.  As I crept up the porch steps, I could see her in the window - dancing to her favorite Jazz musicians.  My grandma loved jazz.  Her sister married a jazz musician (who played with Louis Armstrong back in the day!) and the two sisters loved to listen to music together.   And she loved to sing and dance.  I stood on the porch for a few minutes before knocking - watching the pure joy, the free style crazy dancing of my grandma to much-too-loud music.  Awesome.

Tonight, I introduced my children to records.  We chose one together, opened the stereo and turned it on.  They were in awe of the turn-table and kept returning to it to watch it spin. Of course, they couldn't resist touching it. The first scratch sound startled them and they thought they broke something.   Then we danced.  Joy filled the room as they boogied to old jazz tunes and ran around laughing.  I sat down and watched and listened.  Nothing beats the sound of a vinyl record playing - not even the high fidelity sound of CDs and Ipods.  The sweet sounds were comforting - in the same way my chiming clock is comforting - grandma is here.

I felt a bit melancholy watching my children dance to the same jazz music, played on the same stereo.  My grandma never met my children, she passed 3 months before I conceived Madison.  More than once I have thought that my grandma hand-picked my little Madison, just for me, because she would have loved her crazy spirit.  And Madison kinda dances like my grandma :)

Laughter
Boisterous; cheerful; light-hearted
Filled the car

Sharing memories from
A crazy night
Sister fun

Laughing so our sides hurt
Hours of laughing
Laughter fills the heart with joy

An Indulgent Morning

It was a bleak, cold morning as I drove to work teaching 3rd grade at my new school.  I'd been teaching there for 3 months and was beginning to adjust to my new surroundings.  My first 5 years of teaching were done at a Title I school in Denver - I rarely saw parents.  My new school was swarming with parents.  It was easier to get used to than I had originally thoughts.

Each Wednesday morning, I arrived to work to a hot mocha latte on my desk....seriously.  I had regular parent volunteers - the Wednesday volunteer brought the coffee and stayed all morning, the "I'll grade your weekly spelling tests" dad came on Fridays, the engineer that loved to pull math groups came on Tuesdays, the list went on and on...

I arrived to work that Wednesday morning to find my coffee on my desk as usual.  As students trickled into the classroom, I realized that I only had 11 students...out of a possible 25.  The rest had the flu.  The epidemic has begun the day before but this was a little extreme.  My Wednesday parent helper was the mother of a sweet child that looked a lot like D.W. from the Arthur books.  The mom and I had a quiet chat about how I might change the plans for the day.

My parent helper took out her purse, handed me a $20 bill and suggested, "Why don't you take them all down to Starbucks for some hot chocolate?"

So that is exactly what we did...we bundled up, walked the block and a half to the Starbucks on the corner, sipped hot cocoa together.  The students were squished two to a comfy chair, all smiles.  We then proceeded 3 blocks east to the branch library.  We spent an hour and a half, in the children's section, curled into quiet spaces, reading books...talking about books. It was truly an indulgent morning.