Chalk, Band-Aids, Whirligigs & Weeds...

A Few Observations As I Sit In My Well-Worn Lawn Chair On A Windy Afternoon
1. Maple trees produce a massive amount of helicopter leaves, whirligigs, spinny things. I believe the proper terminology is Samara. The wind blows and the whirligigs spin off the tree and soar in circles to the ground below. The Pea has a broom and sweeps the helicopters into mountainous piles. The Bug, using every inch of both arms, lifts each whirligig pile up and into a cardboard box. (The box is clearly labeled in chalk with a picture of the samara on the side.) The Pea takes a moment to break open the whirligig and show me the seed encased in the papery-web-y wing. The entire driveway is hidden by whirligigs. And every moment new whirligigs come in for a landing. I can’t help but smile.
2. I might as well keep a jar of Band-aids in the garage. Someone is going to get scratched up. Probably a knee, or a finger or a toe or some bendy funky spot where it’s hard for one Band-aid to cover so you end up using a whole mound of Band-aids and then your roller skate won’t fit back on so you have to go barefoot into the backyard where you’ve dug in the garden and you step on a piece of mulch and get a splinter and then “Mooooooooom!” and we begin again.
3. Once you’ve worn the sidewalk chalk down to tiny bits, it’s fun to construct a type of liquid-y pigment. (Paint would be a term I’d use loosely to describe the creation.) Stomp the bits into tinier pieces, collect them in a Frisbee (turned upside down), add liquid (either from a hose or leftover from a juice box) and stir with muddy fingers. Traipse inside to get paint brushes out of the art supply cabinet, traipse back outside and begin your masterpiece on the canvas of your choice (preferably not your sister.)
4. Dandelions are beautiful, even if they are weeds. The Bug and the Pea don’t understand why I would want the dandelions to go away. I have to spray the weeds while the children are away, the kids would question whether I was making a “good choice.” In their eyes, our yard is a field of bright yellow life, sprinkled with fluffy white “wish flowers.” The Bug and the Pea gather bouquets. The Bug runs inside to grab a few plastic tumblers, she runs back outside and turns on the hose to fill the “vases” with a bit of water for the flowers. The flowers that now adorn our kitchen table. You could get lost in the billowy white of a dandelion. They’re quite ethereal. “Make a wish Mommy!” giggles the Pea as she blows a zillion new dandelion seeds into the air. I wish this afternoon would last forever.

In Which The Sweet Pea Turns Seven...

Dear Mommy,
I am 7 now, and 7 is a LOT older than 6. As birthdays go, today wasn’t bad. (It would have been MUCH more fun if you could have turned our backyard into an ice skating rink and I could have invited my whole class over and we could have skated and then you could have melted the ice and we could have splashed around in our swimsuits and I could have opened a zillion presents, but the family cook-out was OK too.) I could tell by the look on your face that you were so surprised when I jumped in bed with you at 6 in the morning. I knew you would want to be the very first ones to sing me Happy Birthday and give me hugs and kisses. And you PROMISED I could open one present before lunch and it was definitely before lunch time. It was fun to talk with folks on the phone, too. I thought it was really cool to see how long I could talk with Aunt Susan in England and I know she was glad that I handed the phone to my sister when I ran out of things to talk about. I got to open her gift and it was a brand new white lacy halter and white capris and some other beautiful clothes. Right then, I put on the white outfit.
You looked confused when I came into your bathroom a few minutes later, with sopping wet hair. But I wanted to do my OWN hair today, because I am 7 and 7 is a LOT more grown up than 6. When you went to the kitchen to start the coffee this morning, I pretended I was in a beauty shop and used every single thing in your second drawer. It took me a time or two to figure out how to get the deer bottle to work. Or moose? What is it you call that foamy white stuff that looks like Daddy’s shaving cream? I took a big scoopful of the waxy gunk and mixed it with a huge squirt of the special clear bottle with the label that says “For Curls.” I topped everything off with lots of hair spray. When you came back into the bathroom you gasped. I knew it was because I looked so fancy. “I look like a college kid!” I said, remember?
Daddy’s so good cooking on the grill. The hot dogs smelled yummy, I’m glad he made so many. Sorry I changed my mind and decided I didn’t want hot dogs after all. But I ate a few chips and helped my sister get the ketchup bottle opened and then poured a plate full of ketchup for her. (Mommy, you’re really good at washing clothes. It’s pretty much all you ever do. So I’m sure you can make my new white lace outfit look good again.)
Thank you for the new sundresses and shorts and shirts. They’ll be OK to wear when I play outside in the garden. You’re not good at picking out fancy clothes like Aunt Susan is, but I still love you. I have a great idea! Next year, stick with toys for presents. They are MUCH more fun to open and play with.
My favorite part of the day was blowing out the candles on my cupcake-cake. Remember when I picked up one of the cupcakes and smashed the icing all over my face until my eyebrows and eyelids and hair were covered? I learned that from a friend’s party last year. Pretty funny! I like to make people laugh. (Why didn’t you laugh?)
All in all, I had a pretty good day. But next year, I’ll be 8. And 8 is a LOT older than 7 and I have a few suggestions on how to make my 8th birthday even MORE fun. Let’s just say my plan involves a parachute and a plane and lots of friends. We’ll talk details later….
Love,
The Pea

Purple Pens, Ping-Pong & Prom Dresses a.k.a. Goodbye Sweet Sarah

On my way home from the burial, I drive through the neighborhood where I lived 20 years ago. There is a wonderful sidewalk trail leading between the houses, through wooded areas, a small creek, a tiny footbridge or two along the way. You can’t see much of the path from the street, but I know it’s there. Despite the fact that spring comes every year to Kentucky, I am annually surprised when the season arrives. I am perpetually stunned by the beauty of the forsythia trees, Bradford pears, dogwoods. Green grass, blue sky. I’d forgotten how utterly breathtaking my “old” street looks in April.
As I drive along, I remember the last time I walked those neighborhood trails with my friend Sarah. Skipping along the sidewalk under the shady trees at sunset. Hopping over the footbridge. Laughing until we were out of breath. She lived clear on the other side of town, but it was not uncommon for her to be over at my house. My parents treated her as one of their own on those occasions. She was always welcome to share a meal, spend the night, play a game of ping-pong in the basement. I think she took a special kind of joy teasing my younger brother – whom she referred to as Bunya – as if he were her own younger brother. (Sarah was the youngest of four by 15 years.)
Sarah lived life without sugar, without alcohol. Not by choice. Between classes, Sarah would excuse herself to the restroom to inject insulin. It was never something she complained about, it was a disease she accepted even as a child. She was fiercely independent and never wanted to be pitied. Sarah fought tooth and nail for what she believed in –even if that was which color fountain pen (usually purple!) to write World Civ notes with. She marched to the beat of her own drum and didn’t put much stock in what other people thought of her. She just kept on marching whether or not they agreed with her direction. Sarah had the brightest smile. I’m trying to remember if I ever saw her cry? Once.
I’m watching the man from the funeral home turn a massive metal crank. The coffin is lowered into the ground. The crowd watches in silence. The man turns the crank slowly and we hear squealing noises as gears revolve and the body descends into the muddy hole. I feel like I am watching a horror movie in slow motion. CUT! I want to scream. This isn’t right. I want to push the funeral home man aside and turn that wretched crank and bring the casket back up. Sarah can’t breathe. CUT! This is all wrong. Sarah’s daughter sits on a dark brown folding chair. Her little legs aren’t quite long enough to touch the ground. I can’t breathe.
My mind knows Sarah is healed from her cancer. My mind knows her soul is in heaven. We’ve had many spiritual conversations, I’m certain she believed in Jesus. My heart just hasn’t caught up with my mind yet. My heart is wondering…why. She died on Easter Sunday, the day we celebrate Christ’s resurrection from the grave to heaven. How ironic. Or pre-ordained. Or both.
I slow the car and I am sitting in front of my “old” house. Wondering about my old room. Remembering Sarah curling my hair and helping me apply mascara for prom. In my peach colored room, in this house, April, 21 years ago.
I’m sitting on the porch this last day of Spring Break. I’m glad we stayed in Kentucky. The Bug and the Pea have spent the entire week outdoors with friends. Muddy bare feet, bikes, pink bubblegum. Hide and go seek and the ultimate spot no one thinks to look between the hedge and the house. Racing to the end of the avenue and back. Pizza on the porch and Easter candy for dessert. Cool grass, dandelions, four leaf clovers. And we move ever forward in the great mystery called life…

Out With The Old, In With The New..

I’m a fairly neurotic human being. (Anal? Compulsive? Obsessive?) I need everything to be in its place. If everything is NOT in its place, I have a difficult time accomplishing anything. (And I’m not talking brain surgery, I have difficulty accomplishing the mundane tasks of the day…getting breakfast ready, helping the kiddos with homework, that type of thing.)
Generally, I jokingly describe our home as a pig sty if there’s a load of laundry left to sort. However, our clutter rating has reached an all time high. In fact, the house has morphed into an obstacle course. Those practicing for an Iron Man Competition could train strategically in our hallways. Hard to get a running start in our closet, wade through the clothes piles, hurdle the books, push on despite the fact you stick to our kitchen floor. Bound up the stairs hoping not to trip to your death on the roller skates and winter boots midway to the top. Good luck sprinting through the kids’ rooms – if you can even identify them as places of rest. (Which I doubt, because the beds are hidden beneath ginormous mounds of blocks, Barbies and stuffed animals. ) The hallways are trails of dirty clothes, strewn off one article at a time en route to the shower. (And we won’t even talk about the icky bathroom situation!) You get my point.
Unable to breath in the midst of the clutter, I declared –between my hyperventilating gasps- Spring Cleaning Week! On Monday, I began with the master closet—the goal being to reach the girls’ rooms by Friday. As I began to organize, I pledged to give away anything I hadn’t used in a year. OHMYSTARS! Let’s just say my give-away-pile included T-shirts from the ‘80’s. I found a maternity skirt from 9 years ago in the back of my closet. Along with a bikini circa 1994 (pre-births…I tossed the bikini, setting my expectations a tad lower than the apparently drug-induced Leigh who thought she might don the suit once again at some point. Oy.)
I did, however, discover a necklace I had secretly blamed the girls for losing years ago. Stuffed in the bottom of an old canvas work-out bag pocket. (Happy!)
I moved on to the bathroom cabinets and promptly tossed cold medicine that expired in the early 90’s. (We apparently moved…twice…packing up expired medication along with our furniture, etc. )
The kitchen was full of memories – the sheer number of plastic tumblers, Derby glasses, and mugs was mind-boggling. I found five baby aspirators in a shelf above the refrigerator. (The Bug and the Pea were mesmerized listening to the whole sucking-snot-out-of-a-baby’s-nostrils process. Of which they immediately had to try out on each other. Ewwww.)
I have to admit it was cathartic organizing the guest a.k.a. play room. I purchased plastic containers from Wal-Mart and separated Barbie doll items into like piles. Tiny pots, pans, spoons, ketchup and mustard holders. Tiny strappy sandals, handbags, brushes, powder and soap. (Thank you Aunt Shelly!) The dress-up basket got a good purging. (Shhh! Nothing we need to mention to the Bug and the Pea.)
Next on the list was switching out winter clothes for summer clothes. (Or, as I like to call it, “Christmas in April!”) I pulled out the giant plastic containers of hand-me-downs from the attic. Huge thanks to M and A and J for the stash. (I take a special, euphoric kind of joy in actually snipping the price tags off of “hand me down” brand name clothing. I love you J!)
I cleaned out the girls’ dresser drawers and closets. (For the love of all that’s good – why were size 2T princess panties still in the underwear drawer?) I love hanging up the “new” and “new to us” spring clothes in their closets.
I made four separate runs to charity this week with clothes and toys and books that will hopefully brighten someone’s (or several someones’) day.
My goal of uncluttering the entire house was a bit aggressive for one week. And I’m still plowing away (quite literally) before I head outside to tidy the garage.
Soon the time will come for the traditional Spring Cleaning – washing windows, dusting ceiling fans, etc. Not to mention the dishes and laundry that have piled up during my “closet organizing” week. Nevertheless, out with the old, in with the new…or at least, in with the clean!
Perhaps once the house is in order, I’ll be able to concentrate, without hyperventilating in the midst of clutter. This may be the year I write a spectacular children’s story that will eventually be published and even awarded the Newberry! (Hey, I figure, dream big!)
As I write this, I am breathing in the fragrance of Bradford pear tree blossoms. Daffodils are in full bloom around me and cotton candy clouds (well, actually they resemble Dr. Seuss characters) are drifting across an azure blue sky. The Bug and the Pea have set up their “secret clubhouse” on the porch, and I have been told in no uncertain terms NOT to listen to their private conversations. They are zooming up and down the driveway. First on scooters, then bikes, then roller skates. Their innocent little selves couldn’t care less about a clean house. What they have is much more important—a clean heart. My Bible Study group (a shout out to you lovely ladies!) came across Psalm 51 last week. A song written when King David messed up, royally. (No pun intended.)
Create in me a clean heart, O God, And renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me away from Your presence And do not take Your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of Your salvation. (Psalm 51: 10-12)This is my fervent prayer, especially on Easter morning when we remember the resurrection of our Savior. And our part – out with the old, sinfully cluttered self – in with the new – or at least the clean, forgiven, saved self.
Sincere wishes for a blessed Easter Sunday, full of clean hearts and the restored joy of our salvation.
Praise be to God.