Jammin'

Freestone is a special kid, and we have proof: Grandma gave him two containers of his OWN strawberry jam. So he must be pretty special. He ate waffles after school with lots of Grandma's delicious jam on them, and he felt pretty awesome. Grandma always notices how special her kids are and makes sure they know it, too.

I've noticed how special Freestone is, too. He worked hard on his guitar song, Nowhere Man. He colored all the measures and wrote in all the fingerings himself. I love that he did that because practicing guitar with Freestone is one of my favorite things, and I'm glad he works so hard at it and sometimes has as much fun as I do. It gets hard and practicing makes him get tired and fall off his stool a LOT, but when he can play a Beatles song using the fingerings he wrote in, it's all worth it. At least for me. It might not seem worthwhile to Freestone until he's a cool 14-year-old who can play guitar to impress the girls. Hmm...I maybe haven't thought this through. Do I want my special baby boy to impress the ladies? Maybe I should concentrate more on developing his science or math skills. Something you can't use in a garage band.

More Drama

What, you don't know what that picture is? It's a dog dressed up as an Oompa Loompa, of course. Normally I'm not a big fan of dogs in adorable costumes, but this picture is so funny rivals the time we dressed Star in Chinese pajamas. Plus, it relates to my point: Congrats to Ruby and Golda who got parts in a community production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory! Ruby is an Oompa Loompa and Golda is Veruca Salt. They started rehearsals Friday and loved it. I'm having fun seeing their enthusiasm and listening to the Oopma Loompa song in the car. It's a good break from the Suzuki CD's and Golda's minus track for her voice recital. Now you know why I'm not familiar with any current music. And why I have that glassy look in my eyes.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Let the magic begin!

Scott Aces Another Test

I think I was a junior in high school when I wrote in my journal, "I am going to marry Scott when I'm 23 and he's 24." My prediction came true a year behind schedule, but I have to laugh when I think of the detours we went through to get to the altar and the extent to which my dreams have come true ever since. My vision was so incredibly simplistic. I think I planned for us to divide our time between college and dates at the Market Street Broiler until the day we got married. After that, it was going to be five kids and a house in the suburbs. Nobody can say that it didn't end up exactly as I planned, major detours notwithstanding. (Living in dfferent states and states of mind?) The thing that still astounds me is that I asked for a string and I got a tapestry.

When I pictured Scott as a dad, I thought of the single image of him holding a newborn. If Scott had been able to see ahead of time that ten years after holding his firstborn above his head at a restaurant for everyone to admire, he would be buying little blue outfits for his 6th, he would have run the other way. I'm glad he didn't run then, because now it's too late. At least until his foot heals. He wouldn't get to the corner in his walking boot! Once again, I have to give Scott credit for being amazing. It's been six weeks of agony, depression and constant pain and setbacks since Scott tore his achilles. And that's just me! (Just kidding, Scott) Two weeks into the ordeal, Scott slipped in the bathroom and broke his toe. He was cramped into a small space with his crutches, unable to get up. I laughed so hard, I couldn't move. He was like a bug on its back.

Everyone else laughed, too, at Scott's injury. When they announced it in Relief Society, there were chuckles all around the room. The guys who were at the bastketball game to witness the injury have turned it into a legend they all retell at any neighborhood gathering. It gets funnier and funnier, how Scott fell to the ground and started yelling, "Who kicked me?! Who did that? I don't just fall down all by myself!" He then stared crawling, or swimming, as my dad tells it, to the sidelines, repeatedly falling as he went. Hilarious, huh? You wouldn't think so, but for some reason, everybody feels compelled to laugh. At one point, I complained to a friend about all the ribbing, even though I was the biggest offender. I said it didn't seem very funny that Scott was drugged up on the couch with a torn achilles and a broken toe on top of it. My friend suggested that it was Scott's personality that enabled everyone to laugh at him. He's a teaser and a joker and he's funny and easy-going. He makes everyone feel like a friend. He shares laughs with everyone around him, and he also cares about them. I'm so thankful Scott takes the teasing along with the concern. His good nature has gotten us through his ordeal with more than a little humor. Now I can even laugh at the fact that he secretly hobbled to Dillard's for their big sale a week after his injury and bought two pairs of shoes. This was during the time I was carrying things around for him because of the crutches. (Can you bring me my book? Can you pick up that paper? Can you hand me a pillow?) I said to him, "I didn't realize that I could put whatever you need in a Dillard's bag and you'd be able to carry it."

I knew Scott was perfect husband material. Then he proved to be incredible dad material. He's passed the test for best friend, provider, son, son-in-law, uncle and neighbor. I often hear about his integrity as an attorney, and I know that integrity carries through to all aspects of his life. Now he has passed another test. I had no idea when I planned my life with Scott back in the '80's that he would have such forbearance in the face of adversity. He brushed it off when Freestone jumped off the couch onto his injured foot yesterday. Wow! A guy who laughs at himself as he slowly makes his way limping to the street with the garbage cans? Priceless. Scott, sorry I didn't put the garbage in Dillard's bags for you. I'll try to be more compassionate...just like you. :)

Pants on Fire

Somebody scratched "I love you!" into our suede headboard. Somebody scratched it into a leather chair. Then somebody wrote it with laundry soap in the carpet in Coco and Bill's laundry room. Since the laundry soap version was accompanied by a big letter A, we all thought Ari might know something about it. When confronted, Ari vehemently denied having anything to do with the vandalism. She cried and screamed, "I didn't do that! I just went up there to fix the A!! You're hurting my feelings!!!" It was like she was afraid of drowning in a sea of false accusation. Her denial was blatantly ludicrous. She just wanted to fix the A? That somebody else wrote? Uh-huh.

So, what do you do when your ever-loving little girl tells a lie? I let it go, Bill gave her a hug and reassurance that of course we all still love her, and Coco took a picture and told her how creative she is. A few days later, I had this conversation with Ari:

Me: Coco and I are trying to figure out who wrote that cute note in laundry soap so we can give the person a prize.
Ari: I didn't do that! What's the prize?
Me: It's a...chocolate Easter bunny.
Ari: Well, I don't know who did it. How big is the chocolate Easter bunny?
Me: It's like the ones the Easter Bunny brings.
Ari: Hmmmmmm...I think I remember something. I think...I remember I did the first letter and then Freestone came and I taught him how to do it and he did the other letters and then I did the letter A.
Me: Well, I'm proud of you for telling the truth.
Ari: I wasn't lying! I just forgot.
Me: The laundry soap isn't a big deal, but lying is a big deal. You have to remember never to lie because it's never the right thing to do.

So...my kid writes "I love you" in inappropriate places and lies about it. I'm not sure what to do. Coco says to give her the chocolate Easter bunny and tell her it's for telling the truth. When I was Ari's age, I went to The Pond, even though my dad warned me NEVER to go there. I was so wracked with guilt, I told him. The lesson I took away, probably with a hug like the one he gave Ari, was that it is very important to tell the truth. I never went to The Pond again, for fear of disappointing my dad. I'm hoping with a little encouragement, Ari grows out of her "denial" phase, preferably before she hits the teen years. A lying teen isn't quite as benign as a lying 7-year-old graffiti artist.

Acting Class

Golda has taken on a little protege. She has decided to mold Xanthe into an A-list actress by kindergarten. These pictures are the result of Golda's coaching. I think Xanthe is coming along nicely in her acting classes...for a spicy little three-year-old with a mind of her own! The only expression she won't do for the camera is her cute, happy smiley face with the crinkly eyes that she does so often in real life. The camera can only capture a fake replica of Xanthe's joyful Chinese smile. Golda can keep working on that! If Golda has her way, she and Xanthe will be starring in plays together, so look for their names in lights! It will be just like Britney and Jamie Lynn. (Yikes!)

Happy
Jealous
Confused
Scared
Surprised

Spain

I spent a summer in Spain when I was in my 20's. What I found out during my time there is that I'm definitely a product of my environment. My psyche is American and my way of life is American, despite my love of Spain. That summer, I worked for a violin maker in Madrid. Every day at 10 o'clock, I rang the bell at his apartment and waited. Ten minutes later, Laurent would come to the door with his eyes half-closed and walk with me across the street for a cappuccino. We got to work around ten-thirty and worked until two in the afternoon, at which time I would dine in a restaurant with Laurent and his wife and some friends. Lunch lasted the two hours of afternoon siesta. It wouldn't have made sense to work while the whole world around you sleepily sipped lemonade behind closed shutters. So we went back to work at four in the afternoon and worked until things cooled off at eight. Dinner was at ten. Or eleven. Or whenever that market day's fresh ingredients took shape as a meal.

I love the idea of a work day that leaves time for two hour lunches with friends and starts with a half-hour in a neighborhood cafe. To my surprise, the reality of that lifestyle drove me nuts. The vacation part of my summer in Spain made me even more crazy than the work part. Hanging out with a group of single young Spanish students consisted of talking about going to the beach, driving around to various houses to round up friends, spending an hour at each house chatting, getting ready, drinking a Coke...By the time we would get to the beach, the sun was going down. And nobody seemed to mind in the least. I was the only one who felt like I had just wasted a beautiful, sunny day. Everyone else was relaxed and happy. Meanwhile, I was wondering what, exactly, I had accomplished. One weekend, a car full of my friends and I drove around lost in Portugal for six hours. We finally slept on the hood of the car in a dark neighborhood and found our way the next day. Nobody was the least bit concerned that we were hopelessly lost and hours behind schedule. "Que sera sera" is deeply embedded in the Spanish way of life.

Americans, we thrive on driving ourselves hard and rewarding ourselves with intense recreation. We think we relax, but we don't know how. The truth is, I wish I had the propensity to act more Spanish, but I don't. Leisurely mornings depress me. I need a jolt of caffeine, a packed schedule and a long to-do list to wake me up. It's not just me; It's the culture I live in. The irony is that we as a society have been working eighty-hour weeks with less vacation time than any other industrialized nation. The result? We've completely tanked our own economy. We're entirely dependent on Oprah's next guest author to tell us where to look for contentment. Maybe we're greedy not just for money, but time, accomplishment and enlightenment. Maybe what we are chasing is as vapid and fleeting as the fame we covet in our superstars. Or maybe we already have plenty of the bounty we crave, we just can't see it.

Not to idealize Spain, but I remember watermelons I ate there, how good they tasted at midnight. I remember the cafes and parks and beaches and living rooms. I still keep in touch with friends I met during a week alone at the beach. I have good memories from those slow, beautiful days. Sadly, though, my American psyche prevented me from fully realizing that life was happening to me even as I waited for it to begin, during the creeping hours of siesta and the long meals of evening. "The good life" may be a lot simpler than we Americans think. I can't change who I am, but I think I might like to try sitting down and looking around at the treasures I have, and enjoying them. Scott, my kids, friends, family, the incredible views just outside our door should be enough for a happy life. I could go to the park without a book. I could look at the sunset without doing dishes at the same time. I could read with the kids even when it doesn't "count" for school. I could spend a whole day being spontaneous. I might try it. I'll have to put it on my calendar.

Dancing Leprechauns

When Ruby was five, she went to ballet on St. Patricks's Day. After class, she came to the car sobbing like her tender little heart was breaking. She told me that everyone in the class found a leprechaun except her. She was crying so hard I could barely understand her. She said she just couldn't see any leprechauns and everyone else got one and she didn't. I didn't know what she meant by leprechaun. Was it candy? No. A picture? No! Ruby was so distraught, I finally I went inside to ask the teacher for clues. I explained that Ruby was upset that she didn't find any leprechauns. Her wonderful teacher jumped up, her smile lighting her face, brighter and more beautiful than any rainbow. She said in a low, conspiratorial voice, so the other dancers wouldn't overhear, "You know what? They were imaginary!"  In class, the little girls had been instructed to go on a hunt for them, then danced jigs with the creatures on their shoulders.

The teacher held out her carefully cupped hands to me and said, "Here, take this one and tell Ruby I'm sorry." The genius of it! To offer a mere adult a real-live-imaginary leprechaun, trusting in me to join in the game, and trusting this playfulness to make everything right.

I held out my own cupped hands and took the "leprechaun" from the teacher. I walked to the car, cradling the leprechaun, even opening the car door with my thumb so I wouldn't drop him. Never once did I feel silly, just grateful that I could give Ruby a gift, even an imaginary one, that would make everything all better. It worked! Ruby's bright smile returned as she carefully took "Leppy" from my hands. I explained that he was invisible and imaginary and she got it. Her imagination took over, pushing aside her need to know all the facts and to do everything just right.   She took Leppy to school, shared her snacks with him, made him a bed, carried him in her hands or on her shoulder. She even thought she had left him in her cubby at kindergarten. She started to get upset, until I spotted him hanging on one of her backpack straps. Phew!

This is the magic of St. Patrick's Day and childhood in general. I hope Ruby's creative mind always has room for the invisible and the imaginary, the secret world of possibilities that a good teacher can show you, but that you must enter into yourself.  That's where the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is found.

Run for It

Saturday mornings, I teach. A little ballet, a little violin. Driving to my classes, I always see an inordinate number of runners, walkers and bikers making their way around my hilly town. Oddly, it gives me almost a sense of accomplishment to see them exercising, as if I were benefitting from it. Maybe I feel smug for living in such a health-conscious place. It makes no sense, I know, but admiring the runners on Saturday mornings is as close as I usually come to organized exercise myself. Granted, I have begun to break a sweat getting up off the floor at ballet after stretching. The younger students make observations like, "Your baby is getting really big!" I don't tell them the baby is still the size of a hackey sack.

My dad, I'm sure, is secretly disappointed at my lack of ability to exercise. He raised us on marathons and track meets, but somehow I didn't take to it. My bedroom walls were lined with light-pink ribbons that said "Congratulations, Participant." (My mom swims a mile a day. I still came in dead last in every race when I was on the swim team. Do you see a pattern?) I remember one track meet where I slipped in gravel at the sound of the starting shot. I spent the whole race on my face at the starting line. I was afraid to get up, knowing my dad would probably encourage me to keep going, even though all the other kids were already throwing back cups of water and accepting congratulatory slaps on the back at the finish line. My Dad has proudly saved footage of many races. I would sputter along panting, looking for shapes in the clouds or stopping to pick a dandelion, and my dad would jog alongside me, effortlessly shouldering a video camera the size of our first microwave, documenting my mediocrity for posterity. I admire him for that; I'm sure it was difficult to run that slowly.

Notwithstanding my ineptitude at racing, I did develop a few strategies. During a kids' Fun Run, (Oxymoron? Definitely.) I saw another little girl crying on the curb, her knees bleeding. Seeing my chance to be noble and get out of running at the same time, I stopped to comfort her. As I helped her hobble over the finish line, my strategy was born. After that, I always looked for an injured kid to help. Sometimes I had to resort to helping an overturned potato bug. My dad maybe would have taken that more seriously if we were Hindu, I guess.

Come to think of it, maybe it was my dad that unknowingly forewarned me of the pitfalls of running when he ran a marathon with a sprained ankle. He fell changing a light bulb the night before the race. He bandaged that ankle and proceeded to run 26 miles on it the next day. Even I can still feel the pain. We have pictures of another race where all the kids are wearing garbage bags because of the pouring rain. One race he ran every year was called the Baer Gutsman and it went straight up a mountain and straight back down the other side. See, what is it about this lifestyle that sounds fun? The name Baer Gutsman still gives me a sideache, and I was a spectator.

My sister-in-law Jennie ran nine miles yesterday while I expended my energy walking out to the driveway to buy Kool-Aid from my kids. I think I made that walk eighty or ninety times, but still. Not exactly aerobic. I was glad Jennie did the nine-miler, though. (YOU ROCK!) It made me feel a sense of accomplishment, like maybe I'd better soak my feet and eat a big plate of carbs. To all you runners out there, keep up the good work. Thanks for making me feel so athletic. I think we make a great team. Let's just not do the Baer Gutsman, OK?

Food for Thought

My mom had a horse when she was a child. I think the family had it for about a week. My grandfather, who was always up for a new adventure, bought a horse one fine day. He thought the family would keep it in a field on their property and the kids could ride it. He put the horse in the field with a bale of hay and thought, "There. That ought to be enough food for the summer."

The next day, the hay was all gone. The horse was sold two days later. Buying enough hay to keep him going would have cost a fortune. I think about that horse often when I'm feeding my kids. I'd be happy to throw as much hay at them as it took if only that would solve my feeding problems. You would think three square meals a day would suffice, but it doesn't. First, there's breakfast. Like the morning buffet at the Fairfield Inn, it goes from about 6:30 AM until ten. Xanthe has to eat as soon as she gets up or she falls into an irrepairable tantrum. She needs two kinds of cereal, not just one. Breakfast for everybody else starts 30 minutes later, at which time Xanthe eats again because she feels left out. Then there's my breakfast, which is either everybody's leftovers or something in a napkin on the way out the door.

Two hours later, it's time to feed the kindergartners lest they starve while they're learning their letters. As soon as they're gone, Xanthe is home from preschool, "weady for wunch." She gets the rest of whatever was for lunch, and then I have two hours before After-School Snack Time, during which I sneak chocolate chips and almonds at five-minute intervals from the pantry. And I'm not even counting all the fast-food pitstops and Coke runs. I would never admit to all of those! The after-school snack is a big meal at our house, because by dinner time, I'm pretty much out of ideas and/or food, unless there's something in the crock pot.

Dinner "hour" seems to be divided up into seven ten-minute intervals. Each person has their own time slot, depending on where they are going or coming from. Sitting down together at that time of day seems like an exercize in futility, but sometimes we try. Sometimes the ten-minute intervals overlap, and that's good enough for me. We'll see if our kids turn out to be delinquent losers. If they do, I know I can blame the lack of stimulating conversation around the dinner table.

By the time the little kids have consumed crackers and milk at bedtime and the big kids have fixed late-night chocolate shakes an hour later, I'm about ready to put a padlock on the fridge. If I did that, though, I might forget the combination and not be able to access the ice cream for my midnight snack or the juice for my 3 AM drink.

Umbrella

This lucky little girl finally got the umbrella of her dreams today. Since January, she has been begging me for an umbrella so she won't get wet at recess. I kept holding out because winter was "almost over" and recess is what, 15 minutes long? How wet can you get? Plus, how can you build character when you're completely dry? Today I went all out and sprung for an umbrella on clearance at the dollar store. It was 50 cents. Yeah, it's a little broken, but it gives me peace of mind to know that Araceli and her doll will be safe and dry tonight, even if there's a monsoon. In our house. She certainly has a flair for the dramatic. I have specific instructions to make sure Ari and "the baby" are both under the umbrella before I go to bed.

Little Angel

I had to show you what has been keeping our household together for the past few weeks. This girl. She has completely taken Scott's injury in stride and silently taken up an extra share of responsibility. She has become the official Little Big Planet guide for the boys, couch buddy for Scott and helper for mom. With Golda's play taking up her time and mine, there have been many nights when I left Ruby home to "help" Scott with the kids. That's a lot of work when the guy you're helping is unable to go up or down stairs or carry anything. No wonder she's so tired!

Tonight, I had a dozen tasks for Ruby to do, one after another. In between, she was running around for Scott, doing her homework and patiently letting Xanthe boss her around. She never complained. I had some chocolate chip cookies hidden in the pantry and decided Ruby was worthy to share my stash. I called her over to the pantry and said, handing her a cookie, "Ruby, I want you to put this cookie away somewhere." I thought I was so clever, pretending to give her another job, while I was actually giving her a cookie. She looked at it quizzically, then ran to the TV room and handed it to Scott. She told him I had asked her to bring it to him.

It made my heart swell to see Ruby's extremely generous spirit at work. I also felt a little sad that Ruby didn't think the cookie was for her. She deserves the best of everything, which is exactly what she offers to everyone she knows. She gives the best of herself in every situation, and I hope I can remember to give back in kind. Or in chocolate chip cookies. Thanks, Rubes!

America's Next Top Model

Freestone is officially not a baby boy anymore. I know he's five and a half, but his cute little bowl cut gave me the illusion that he was still my baby. Now he has a faux-hawk and a new attitude to match. Scott captured Free's new look with pictures that brought tears to our eyes to notice how big he looks! It's exciting and terrifying at the same time.

The kids were watching Sandlot 2 Saturday. At the end, the narrator tells what happened to each of the boys in the picture when they grew up. One by one, the boys faded off the baseball diamond and disappeared. Ari asked me why the kids were disappearing, and I said, "Because they grew up." It made me so sad to think that these little people who make us laugh and cry will literally no longer exist as the children we love as they grow into the adults we will come to know.

The Sandlot made me so sentimental, I took three of the kids to Park City overnight. Golda stayed home for the play and Xanthe stayed home with Scott to bang on his cast and tease him to death. The rest of us shopped at the outlets, went to dinner at Ruby Tuesday and played Candyland at the condo all night. With that, I have another memory to store against the day when my little faux-hawk boy and his sisters fade into adulthood and no longer grace my life with their tender smiles and chubby, angelic faces.

Another reminder that childhood has yet to fly the coop around here is the new dog bed on Freestone's bed. Free made it out of a box and one of our best towels, and Star, with her hair newly cut, too, loves it. There is no sweeter reminder of boyhood than a loyal dog shadowing his every move. Haircuts I can handle as long as Star is there to watch over this little boy in his sleep and keep track of him all day as he slowly leaves the more ephemeral aspects of babyhood behind and almost imperceptably grows into a young man.

Xanthe's Diagnosis

Xanthe most likely does not have cancer of the retina in her left eye. The opthamologist we saw this morning all but ruled out that possiblity. What a huge sigh of relief! What we found out is that Xanthe can't see very well out of that eye. We thought she could based on Monday's tests, but when the doctor held a paddle over her good eye, she tried to move it away to see the pictures he was showing her. She couldn't tell what the pictures were. That was a sad moment for Scott and me.

When the doctor dilated her eyes and looked into her retina, he spent a lot of time trying different lenses, looking with various lights and pieces of equipment. He couldn't get a clear reading on her vision because of what he called "pigmentary retinopathy." The pigment behind her retina, instead of being uniform, is broken up into little chunks, impairing her sight. His best guess is that it is similar to scarring she probably developed at birth or in utero, maybe due to exposure to syphylis. She isn't a carrier for the disease; but it could have damaged that eye. We have an appointment at Primary's in a few weeks with a doctor that will probably be part of our lives for the next ten years, monitoring that eye and Xanthe's vision. Unfortunately, the vision may not be able to be corrected with glasses or surgery, but it most likely hasn't gotten worse over her lifetime, and probably won't get worse in the future. But she will be almost blind in that eye. I'm sad that Xanthe has never been able to see clearly and sad we didn't know, but incredibly relieved that it's not retinoblastoma (cancer) and doesn't appear to be getting worse. All of this information is still subject to what the specialist at Primary's finds from more extensive testing. For now, we are counting our blessings. Xanthe is counting hers, too. She asked for a Barbie doll today and Golda, Ruby and I took her to the store and helped her choose one. If she figures out how thankful we are about her eye, she'll really take advantage!

About Xanthe's Eye

We have always been suspicious of Xanthe's left eye. It looks like it wanders sometimes, but doctors have always said that it doesn't. It's just the shape of the skin fold on her eyelid that makes it look different than the other eye sometimes. The opthamologist I took her to on Monday emphatically reassured me she does not have a lazy eye or a wandering eye. It was when he dilated her eyes and shone a light in them that he became concerned. Her left retina doesn't refract the light properly. From what we can gather, there are not many reasons it could be and we are steeled for the worst. We have an appointment with a pediatric specialist on Friday who may be able to either diagnose something or get us into Primary's sooner than six weeks. If our worst fears are confirmed, she would get into PCMC right away.

Xanthe must have picked up on all the talk about her eyes, because she announced to me today, "I have beautiful eyes." She does, and I am so grateful she is here with us where we can make sure her eyes are healthy. Thank you, friends, for the bread, calls, prayers, hugs and love boxes I received today. :) It helps us get through to Friday to know that we have so much love behind us.

On a happier note, Scott got a new cast and a new foot angle today. He is much more comfortable. And I saw the baby in an ultrasound moving his little hands. It looks like he's going to be a pianist, the way his fingers are always moving! He's a very busy guy...we can't wait to meet him!

Yesterday Was Plain Awful

Yesterday the sky was white and the wind was cold. Xanthe went to the opthamologist who said two phrases you never want to hear in a doctor's office: "I don't know what's wrong" and "Primary Children's...specialist." I was distraught over the diagnosis of "a mysterious left eye," and my whole day was contaminated with fear and dread. I thought about all the tiny challenges facing each of our kids. I thought about Scott being in constant and abiding pain, unable even to carry his cereal bowl to the kitchen table, facing a long recovery. I thought about the days we didn't practice, the books we've neglected, the times we've been late for lessons. the homework not done, the lectures I've given kids in a the wrong spirit. Yesterday was gloomy, no doubt about it.

Today I spent the morning at the park listening to the happy sounds of kids set free from winter. I walked around the greenhouse, took in the smell of the soil and bought a whole flat of brightly colored primroses. I feel better about Xanthe's eye. She can see, and we'll take it from here. It's amazing how quickly the sun can evaporate stress, worry and mental fatigue. Everything seems easier when the sun is shining as if it might come back for good someday soon.

Butterfly

We had tickets to Madame Butterfly with Ballet West last night. There were three tickets, and naturally, all the kids fought over them. Each one of them had a burning desire to go to the ballet and be edified and uplifted by a story they know is one tht always makes me cry at the end. Freestone quickly dressed in his tux; the one with tails. One by one, they approached me with their well-thought-out reasons they should be chosen. I finally selected Freestone and Ari based on their clever essays, "Why I should go to the Ballet."

Oh, wait. That's not what happened. Let me start over. We had three tickets to the ballet. Scott can't walk, Golda had Music Man, and Ruby tearfully begged to stay home and watch sports with Daddy. That left the second string concertgoers, Ari and Freestone. When I told them they were the lucky ones chosen to see Madame Butterfly, Freestone started bawling and Ari ran and got dressed in a hideous combination of dresses, leggings, headbands and sweaters. We didn't leave nearly enough time to have dinner, fetch everything Scott needed, get dressed, get Golda's ringlets done and put Xanthe to bed. I definitely didn't plan time for losing the tickets on the way out the door or having to carry Freestone outside with no clothes on and throw him in the car. So halfway up the street, running late, I looked at myself in the mirror and was horrified to see wet hair and mascara-stained cheeks. Oops.

Freestone was in the backseat howling like a lost bear cub. Every few minutes, he stifled a howl long enough to ask in a pleading voice, "Is it long?" I told him it was short and there were treats at intermission. It wasn't a lie; time is relative. Once we were in our seats, I gave the run-down: No talking, no whispering, no squirming. Do not move a muscle. Much to my relief, both kids had a good view of the stage and acted very nice throughout. There were treats at intermission and tears at the end (mine). In other words, a complete success. I was gratified to see Freestone on the edge of his seat during the final scene, even if it was because I told him Cio-Cio San was going to stab herself with a huge sword.

I was reminded of what a sacrifice it must have been for my parents to take the whole family to so many operas, ballets and concerts. I can't imagine them having had an intense desire to take three little kids to all those performances, but they're still at it, inviting my kids to the opera and calling to tell us when a concert comes up we might want to see. In the end, after dressing my howling bear cub in the car and leaving the rest of the kids behind in chaos with a parent on crutches, it was worth it to hear the music and see the dance and relive the characters' angst. On the way home, I asked Freestone what his favorite part was. Of course his reply was, "None of it." My reply would have been, "All of it."