Project 52 2K13~ Week 33 {Anticipation}

I have no idea how this happened.
I was in no way prepared for this to happen.
I only went in to Target for yoga pants and toilet cleaner.

Then she asked if we get her backpack while we were there.
I told her we could look at them. 
Then she says, "Do you think we could get my school supplies?"
And I. Said.  Yes.

Before I realized what was happening, we were in the school supply aisle grabbing two boxes of crayons, and six white glue sticks, and 3 pocket folders with pictures of Minnie Mouse on them, and a glitter watercolor set
(because, why not?)
and 24 Ticonderogas....in a neon rainbow assortment. 
They were so pretty.  They were all so pretty.
So new and sharp and unblemished by time in a plastic box crammed into the back of a desk behind 47 crumpled pieces of paper, a stale, half-eaten package of fruit snacks, and the 2" poetry binder the teacher insisted we needed but stopped using after 5 weeks.
 
I was charmed. 
I was beguiled.
I was hypnotized with the beauty of it all.  
A set of fine-tip white board markers that perfectly match all the varying shades on the color wheel?  It doesn't get much more beautimous than that.
That's right.  I said beautimous.

Let me tell you something. 
As I sank deeper and deeper into that school supply abyss, adding 3 boxes of pre-sharpened colored pencils and a tape dispenser shaped like a hot pink high-heeled shoe that I would never in real life wear to our cart, I was not alone.
First she saw it, and then she grabbed it.  The backpack she'd be waiting all summer for, and didn't even know she wanted.  When she put that backpack on, felt that gray and pink padded nylon settle onto her shoulders, pulled out the matching lunchbox from the lunchbox-pocket built into the front, she knew. 
She knew the way you know about a good melon.
And she.  Did not.  Take.  It.  Off.
She wore it through the whole store for the entire rest of the time we were shopping.  The checker had to lean over the counter with her scan gun and paw through all the paper stuffed inside to find the price tag so she could ring it up.
She brought it home, filled it up, and kept right on wearin' it. 
Watched TV wearing it.
Ate dinner wearing it.
Played Monkey In The Middle after football wearing it.
She would have slept in it if I hadn't been able to convince her that she'd break the crayons if she rolled over on it in the middle of the night.

Forgive me, Summer, for I have sinned.
We bought school supplies.
And she is sooooooooooooooooooooooo excited for second grade.
(That's right.  I used 23 'o's.)
(She's THAT excited.)

The Princess Tea Party

 
Three little girls 

Were invited for tea.

Their fairy grandmother 

Had planned it with glee.

  She made them all wait,

And close their eyes.

They came in holding hands,

And found such a surprise.

Crowns and glass slippers,

Wands and three dresses.

They spent the afternoon

Becoming princesses.

The make-up was out,

The curling irons hot,

The girls squealed with excitement

As they all found their spot.

 The girls helped themselves,

As their mothers stood by,

And only once,

Got glitter in their eye.

When the princesses were ready

They sat down to try

The tea Grandma made

With their pinkies held high.

They posed for some pictures

And tried on some shades

 

Cinderella and Merida,

And a red-head mermaid.

The 5th Annual Island Day Extravaganza

I've spent the past 34 hours recuperating from our 5th annual family visit to my parents' friends' house.
Or as we call it "The Island".

When we first started going there, my daughter was 3 years old and I had to follow her around the forest trails to make sure she didn't step on a rock or fall into the pond or climb something nature only intended for monkeys and tree frogs and stuff.

I've matured a lot in the last 5 years and I felt much more at liberty on this go around to simply park the car, unlock the doors and say
"Go.  Come back when you're hungry,"
as they flounced off into the forest.

After a while we headed down to the dock for a boat ride.  I had decided not to partake.
(once your watch your lens plummet like a rock into the deep, dark fathoms of a lake from whence it will never be recovered, boats lose all appeal)
(don't ask me how I know that)
And while my maturity level is certainly higher than it was five years ago, it's not so high that I didn't have to remind my son 143 times to buckle his life vest and stay seated and quiet while the boat was moving.

"Mom, I know.  Okay?  Just stop worrying."

"No, but, you're the oldest so you need to set a good example.  Sit down...and hang on to your sister, and stay quiet so Frank can concentrate on driving."

"O-kay."
(and then he glanced around extremely conspicuously to see if anyone was watching)
(or could hear us)
(evidently, it's embarrassing when your mother loves you so much that she doesn't want you to fall off a motor boat and die)

As they pulled away from the dock and let the motor rip, my son threw his hands up over his head and yelled something that sounded like,
"YYYYEEEEAAAAHHHOOOOOO.  I'M FREE!!!!!"
I may have misheard that, though.  I'm sure I did.
The motor was very loud.
 

Turns out, they weren't just tooling around the water.  They were actually going over to another smaller island to romp around on the sand cliffs for a while.  And while I secretly wanted to flop down on the dock and soak up the sun in silence, I kind of felt guilty that my brother was the only other adult over on Sand Cliff Island with all of the kids.
But, then I remembered that he's a middle school PE teacher and he could totally handle it.
Plus, he used to scream and yell and mess up tons of crap when he was little and it was totally annoying and payback's a bitch.

As I was searching around for a towel to ball up under my head as a pillow, the boat came back.
The presence of the other adults was being requested.
So, I zip-tied my camera around my neck and headed out for the Island of Caterwauling Children.

They were floating in the water

and running on the rocks and climbing up a really steep hill to fight over who got the next turn on the rope swing.  My brother dared me to try to climb up the hill.
I pointed out to him that I am 42 and 3/4 years old and I don't have to do dares anymore.
And I was wearing my new sparkle flip-flops with absolutely no traction whatsoever.

"Yeah, like that would help."
 (Punk)

But, I decided not to care and instead focused on the fact that my children were trying to run and jump into a sitting position on a stick that was tied to a rope that had been hanging there at least 67 years, which then swung them out 30 feet in the air over Sharp Shards Of Shell Beach.

I gently reminded my son about taking turns and not letting go of the rope and killing himself.
He glared at me and made a slashing motion across his throat while he mouthed the word Stop through clenched teeth.
He followed with a few other slicing hand movements across his body that I think meant
Just calm the hell down!

So, I released and gave up, which actually made for a very relaxing rest of the visit.
While they jumped around the cliffs, I sat on a log sipping Diet Coke.
When they hung their hands out of the boat, dragging them through the waves on the way back to the dock, I played Which One Of These Island Mansions Would I Want? in my head.
When they were splashing and screaming in the scummy pond water, I told them to pipe down because the adults were sitting right across from each other and were having to yell to hear over all of their racket.

Not long after, my son came walking down the gravel path with blood gushing from his nose.  I stopped in mid-S'more bite and casually asked if he was alright.  I mean, I didn't want to be overbearing or anything, lest I be subjected to more hand slashing and teeth clenching.

"My nose is bleeding!"

I kind of shrugged my shoulders and said, "Oh.  Do you maybe need help?"

"MOM!"

Proving my theory that they always come back in the end. 
Especially when they get bashed in the nose playing football with their cousin.
(I'm just saying.)

After 10 hours of fun and sand and dirt and salt water and pond slime and cake and dip
(cream cheese, cooked bacon pieces, and chopped green onions)
(try it)
(and don't say I never did anything for ya')
and soda and more cake and more dip and S'mores and rope swings and dip for the road,
we piled into our cars and left our gracious hosts waving wearily from the driveway.

Prince Charming was waiting with open arms when we got home.  He didn't get to go this year.  A little something called Running A Company kept him away.

He listened to us all twitter on about the fun we'd had and tucked us in after we collapsed in bed.
We slept for about 12 hours, then got up, stayed in our pajamas until noon, watched TV all day and wished next summer would hurry up and get here already
so we can go back to the island again.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 16 {Sweet}...Except it really wasn't

Okay.  (y'all)  Really.  Can I just....say. 

This.  About.  Killed me.

It started with us trying to define exactly what Sweet might entail.  Having spent a semi-memorable decade with Molly Ringwald, high bangs, and Miami Vice, I was leaning more toward the totally awesome in a tubular kind of way and she was more of the pink, sparkly, shiny princess sugar drops thing. 

"Why does it have to be something to eat?"  I asked her.

"Because.  That's what's sweet."

Oh.  Well alright then.

I showed her a really wonderful image that I got of her running through the beach grass with her kite.  It was vintage and simple and lovely.

She took one look at it and said, "No, that's not sweet.  I can't eat that."

She keeps me honest.  You have to love that.
(you do have to love that, right?)

"I want to try doing something with S'mores," I told her after school the other day.

I was envisioning something dripping and sticky and chocolate clouds of wonderful.  She came out in her turquoise, chartreuse and purple, one-shoulder, salsa summer dress

(thank you, grandma)

and announced that she was ready to pose for the picture.

"Uhhhh....what are you wearing?"

"My dress."

"No.  That's not going to work.  Just put on what you wore to school."

"I'm not changing.  I want.  To. Wear.  This."

Seriously? 

"Well, you can't wear that in my picture."

"MOM!"

"Fine.  I'll just ask your brother to pose for it.  He'll be fine."

Ugh!!!!  You're making me crazy!!!!  I want to wear my dress."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Go change."

"I'm.  Not.  Changing."
 
I was fairly certain I knew how to break this little spirit and move on already.

"If you don't change, there's no S'more for you,"

and then I crossed my arms and raised one eyebrow.  Take that, punk.

"Fine.  I'll just have cheese crackers, then," and she climbed up on the counter in her electric green salsa dress and grabbed the cracker jar out of the cabinet.  She opened the jar, pulled out a cracker, turned to me and popped it in her mouth.  Then she said, "Bite me."

No.  That's a lie.

What I know she meant to say was "Take your picture and shove it, Mamasita.  If you want me, these are my terms.  Salsa dress or nothing."

At which point I had to sit down and put my head between my knees, and for the briefest of moments was certain I could hear my mother cackling,  "That's what you get!" which I've never understood because I don't have any recollection of being that kind of odious and unpleasant.

I turned on my heel,  and walked

(stomped)
(stormed)

calmly

(seethingly)

into her room

(I am the parent.  I am the parent.  I am the parent.)

and pulled out one of my favorite dresses that she owns.  It's so cute and rustic and for the last three closet clean-outs I've categorically refused to even think about getting rid of it.  It's more of a tunic now than a dress, so I grabbed some pink legging shorts to put on under it.

By some twist of magic unicorn fluff, we were finally able to agree that this would be an acceptable outfit,

(Bridgit Mendler CD in the car for the next five rides)

and she finally started in on the S'more.  I had this idea in my head that the chocolate and marshmallow would combine into this wonderful, oozy, ooey mess that would drip from her face to her hands to the plate and be the embodiment of sweet and art.

I pointed the camera at her and waited. 

She bit into the graham crackers and stopped mid-chomp, looking at me. 

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'nn wuting hor you do dake da hicture."

"Well, I'm waiting for you to take the bite."

She put it down and licked her fingers.

"Take the picture and I'll take a bite."

My point, gentle friends, is that this picture was nearly the end of me.  The.  End.

The End.

 

   

Project 52 2K13 ~ Week 14 {Blessings}

This is my son.  He's 11.

Yesterday he was 10.  Last week he was 6 and the week before that he was just a little smoochie bundle whose entire body fit in my arms between my shoulder and my wrist.

He's grown up now.  Well, as grown up as a boy can be and still be reduced to a puddle of hysterical laughter at the words underwear, naked and wee wee.

When he was little he would tell me that he wanted to drive a garbage truck when he grew up.  I would hold his chubby cheeks and kiss his sweet nose and gaze into his charming hazel eyes and say,

"Aim higher."

Then he wanted to be a firefighter,

(mostly for the siren and the hose)

but I told him, "No.  That 's too dangerous.  You can do something safe.  Like walking."

"Walking!?  That's the most boring thing ever besides yoga!"

Now he wants to be a pilot.  He spends hours flying airplanes on his simulator game and every time we fly somewhere we have to stop at the cockpit on the way off so he can discuss the landing with the pilot.

(Did you know that the landing is where the pilot's skills are really shown off?  So if you want to thank the pilot for a nice flight, tell him it was a good landing)
(little bit of airplane trivia...you're welcome)
(that's what I'm here for)

He's growing up way to fast.  I've asked him over and over to stop, but he won't.  I even threatened to ground him.  To take away his screen time.  To never let him go anywhere or do anything and only eat dirt and twigs and bugs forever and ever amen.

And he said,

"Moooommm.  Even when I'm all grown up I'll still be here with you," and he put his hand on my heart.

"You will?"

"Yes.  I'll always be with you.  You know I love you more than I say I do."

And then I cried and sobbed and held him and kissed him and called him my little smoochie.

And he said,

"Mom, stop.  I can't see my game."

But it was okay because I know that if nothing else....I'll get a great rate on airline tickets.

Great Portraits Are Not As Important As Sand Scones And Jokes About Underwear

Our beach house is right on the Pacific Ocean.  And when I stand on the deck and look out I remind myself that the entire U.S. of A. is behind me.  I am right on the edge of the country.

It kind of blows my mind a little.

Then we go about a mile inland to the bay and I sit on the sand and remind myself that the entire country is now to the left of me.

Not quite as mind boggling, but still blows my doors off a bit.

I love the bay for a number of reasons:

1.  The water is not as far away from where I want to sit on the sand, so I can make sure my kids are safe without really having to look up from my book.  My peripheral vision is very good.

2.  The water pull is not as strong so I don't worry as much about my little children getting swept away out to sea by rouge waves.  That would be bad.

3.  There's a really loooooooooonnnnnnnng stretch of beach that Prince Charming can walk out in search of agates while he's thinking of me and wondering if I'm okay back on the sand by the water reading my book and yelling at the children not to get sand on my camera.

"I'm not really thinking of you."
What?
"I don't really think about you when I'm walking."
What are you thinking about then?
"Work."
Work....?  You think about work and not me?
"Nobody cares.  Move on with your story."

Fine.

Every now and then the kids run up from the water with sand on their faces and blue sky behind their heads and I'm compelled to take their picture.  I have 14,573 of these pictures.   It gets easier when you know what to look for....and you've trained them to pose on command.

Girlie comes up and I say,

"Stop right there.  No.  Don't move.  Eyes right here."

And she goes

Boom.  Done.

My son, however, feels that he's had his picture take more often since he's been alive longer and now he's pretty much done with the whole camera thing, so he doesn't look as he's running up.  He just blows right past me to the sand kitchen they've set up in dune behind me and gets working on the plate of sand scones and the sand latte I ordered up before they went down to the water.

So I have to prompt him a bit.

"Hey....Hey!...HEY!  Look over here."

Can you see the flames?  'Cause, I can see the flames.

"Try it again."

"Mom!  NO!"

"Come on.  Your sister did it in one shot.  Just come over and lay down on this log."

This is not working for me.  Forget it.  Go play.

"Thank you...."

But, I know there's a portrait in there somewhere, so I try again.  But this time I start to make jokes....

 ...and talk about underwear....

...and complain that there's a worm in my sand scone, and what kind of beach cafe is this anyway?  Serving sand scones with worms in them.  Sheesh!....

The laugh.  The teeth.  The smile.  The crinkly nose and yummy, hazel eyes just slay me every time, and I have to tackle him in the sand and smooch his whole face until he promises never to grow up ever ever ever.

I love the bay.

And P.S...

Girls rule all.

Loving you!

Let's Do 52 ~ Week 40 {Little}

They sit together,

Quietly.

Watching the water and the birds.

Searching for seals.

I see them there.  The two of them.

I know they won't be like this forever.

I know that all too soon they will be grown.

They will be gone into the big, wide expanse of the world.

To follow their own path.  Forge their own way.

Away from me and from each other and from these times.

But, I will remember this moment.

And I remember that once they were together

I will remember that once they were little.

The Art of Beach Week

One of the great things about having a beach house is that people always want to come visit you and stay with you and move in with you and never want to leave you.

This is why...

I have a picture in my bathroom of a wave that I took a couple of years ago.  My mother said that she really loved it, so I thought I'd surprise her with an updated version all for her.  When she saw it she said,

"It's New Wave!"

I know you have to be, like, older than 40 to get that, but trust me, it was funny.

Evidently, this is called "Cub Fighting" and it's what tough guys do with each other. 

I call it "Agh!  What are they doing!?  Stop that!"

Faces of a Beach Baby

And though she be but little, she is fierce.

~William Shakespere, A Midsummer Night's Dream~

Or, alternatively,

my niece...

I don't think I can add anything more to that.

Lovin' you...