Camping

The rain was supposed to go north of us, so Greg and Sam loaded up the car to do a quick camping trip. I love how laid back Greg is-- but sometimes it reveals just how uptight I really am. The girls and I headed out to Pagliai's for dinner. As I sat in the booth, I glanced out the window and saw lightening zipping through the dark clouds. Oh dear.

Sam is a "glass-half-empty" kind of kid and I braced myself for the stream of bummer talk I would hear when he returned from this trip.

We continued our girls night for another hour, painting nails and watching a Lalaloopsie movie with no plot or point. Towards the end, Sam walked into the house with a huge grin, followed by Greg.
"We're camping in my room tonight!" he shouted. Wow. Could this be? Could my pessimist have flexibility and be okay with the change of plans?

He was more than okay with it, he was excited for the evening in his room. I fell in love just a little bit more with my husband as I watched him cram the tent into Sam's tiny room, using every spare inch of floor space available. Then flashlights and marshmallows broke out as they prepared to watch Star Wars.

I learned long ago that as a parent you have to sell change. Pump up the kids, make it sound like a honey of a deal and then cross your fingers and hope for the best. I can't help but think of all of the times that I haven't been able to adjust to change, and therefore missed out on truly being in the moment and finding enjoyment in it. Change is hard for me and Sam comes by his bent naturally, but I was so glad he was able to flex a bit and enjoy camping in.

Labor Day and Fish

We are spending the weekend with my family, doing the same thing that they kids and I do every Labor Day weekend. This means we will eat fried fish on Sunday evening and will watch Grandpa Tom march with the Legion members in the parade on Monday morning. Immediately following the parade will mean lunch with mom's side of the family, but it feels odd to drive back into the country to mom and dad's and not walk the street behind the bank to Grandma's house.

I associate Labor Day with traditions. If Bradford ever ceased to have the car show, parade, frog jumping contest and fried fish at the Legion house, I think my world would list a few degrees in another direction. Some people despise small towns, but I love mine. Perhaps it is the cliche "absence makes the heart grow fonder" that is at play with this, but there is a steadfast continuity to the whole weekend that gives me security.

Greg is in Colorado, finishing up his mancation, and his absence changes my visit. Sleeping alone in your childhood room can take you back, way back. Watching Dad crush the pop cans with the heel of his shoe after dinner, or scraping the remnants of dinner onto a dish to be tossed into the cornfield instead of running a disposal, helping Emily drag out the lite brite, still in the box with a few unused sheets of black construction paper shows me how little some things have changed.

If I stayed here past Monday, I would notice the changes. I would see how Lisa Chasteen's old house has been razed to the ground and a garage built in its place. The crazy sign outside of the dilapidated Baptist Church would catch my eye, advertising "Refuge Community Church: where all are welcome". I would see the newly worked ground in the cemetery for a young person who should not be there.

And for those reasons and others, I will leave on Monday afternoon and remind myself of all of the ways that it is still the same and how good it is to be back at home.

Just take care of it

Our garbage disposal unnerves me. It is one of those appliances that really freaks me out. Typically, I don't have to give it much thought-- it's handy for kitchen cleanup and is one of those conveniences that doesn't come to mind until it isn't working properly.

But about two weeks ago, it made a strange clinking and banging noise when I ran it. "Hmm... note to self, don't hit the switch on that again until Greg looks at it." But life marches on, work and life with three kids gets busy and garbage disposals tend to be forgotten. It's probably ridiculous to automatically throw this little gem of an issue onto Greg-- he works long hours at times and I am at home. Yet, the thought of placing my hand inside of the disposal is too much for me. I just can't do it.

There's nothing like a little bathroom renovation and lack of a shower to make a gal wash her hair at the kitchen sink. It wasn't until I leaned down and wet my hair that the odor truly hit its mark. For two weeks, I had been using the disposal intermittently, listening to the clanking and then reminding myself to scrape dishes over the trash. The bits of food hadn't truly gone down the drain, but were waiting to visit me at 6am on a Monday. The reality I was facing, quite literally, couldn't be ignored.

"This is ridiculous" I thought to myself. "Grab a flashlight, put on your big girl panties and just see what the problem is". The problem was a plastic toothbrush cover in the disposal, easily fished out with grilling tongs.(Don't even ask how it got there. It probably landed there the same way our digital camera landed in the birdbath a few years ago.)  The remedy to the issue didn't even require me to face my dreaded phobia of the hand in the disposal. So why had I waited for so long to take care of this?

I can struggle to put my fears in perspective and can let them dictate small and large portions of my life, causing disruptions that are avoidable. Whether it is a friend that I need to apologize to, but am avoiding for fear of rejection or if it's simply a messy disposal, when I let the fear win, I miss out. The irony? The reality of the outcome is rarely as bad as I have imagined it will be.

I feel braver today. And my kitchen smells a whole lot nicer, too. :o)

Remembering

For two years, I have been a part of an office team that I loved. And now, I am home again. Can I just say it? It feels odd. The house is quiet and there is a sudden luxury of time. I have time to shop and plan meals. I have time to get a haircut. But the house is silent, and the difficulty with that is that it makes me think and question my parenting tactics from the day before.

My time is so brief with my three.... and while Brenna may always be with us, there is the chance that maybe she will choose to live apart from us someday. What will they remember about their time at home? The stories we read snuggled up on the couch in the evening, or mom yelling "Just go to bed! You already had a drink!". Maybe it will be a mix of both. I am hoping their childhood memories will be like that of a beach house vacation, over time you forget the fleas in the carpet and just remember how vast and beautiful the ocean was. You laugh that the bedroom window fell out during the storm and recall how the live starfish felt in your palm.

Here's to hoping they remember the good and praying God helps me to relax and lighten up.