On the road again... this time, the Flint Hills...

Last week, because being in my house was so miserable, I got in my car and drove.  This was on the heels of my 16 hour driving home adventure from Colorado 3 days earlier, so the pump was primed.  I've got to back up a bit here and explain the details of my normally very happy, peaceful and comfortable home....

I had new hardwood floors installed in my family room, which meant that all the furniture in that room had to be moved to other rooms.  I have an old house with lots of small rooms, narrow hallways and tight corners, making it a disaster when it comes to moving furniture from one room to another.  The result was having my furniture stacked and stuffed everywhere, which was an adventure on the first day, but midway into the 2nd day, after climbing over a couch then having to walk across a kitchen table just to get to the kitchen, it was no longer fun.  I also had to go outside and walk around the house to enter the garage because the interior door was blocked.  This did not fare well for someone who is constantly running back into the house because I've forgotten something.  Passageways were so narrow that I had to bring groceries inside by the handfuls as there wasn't enough room to get both the grocery bag and me through the narrow slots between the furniture .  Add to that, no internet, no TV and really no place to sit, short of the dining room table or my bed.  I tried hard not to complain, too much, but that, for 6 very long days,  was the edge of my limits.  Of course the silver lining to the whole mess was my desperate need to escape my house, hence my wander through the Flint Hills.

I love the Flint Hills, yet have only stopped and enjoyed them a handful of times.   Every time I get a glimpse of them from I-70 during my many Colorado trips, I make a mental note to make them a destination, not a pass through, and so this time,  that was exactly what I did. And just like my wander through Eastern Colorado and Kansas several days ago,  I went old school and dug out the atlas for guidance.

Of course I chose the hottest day of the year, with readouts hovering between 104 and 106 on my car, making getting out and wandering around not all that much fun, but I suffered through, took some photos and when I had enough,  made my way to Cottonwood Falls.  It is one of the first settlements in Kansas and it doesn't look like it has gotten much bigger since its beginnings, tipping in with a population of just over 1,000 folks.  It has one of the most stunning courthouses I've ever seen, which claims the honors of being THE oldest courthouse in continual use west of the Mississippi.  I'm not a history buff, but I am a cool building buff and seeing  this beautiful building for the 3rd time,  still got  to me.

It was just after 5:00 when I got into town and the streets were pretty empty of both cars and people.  I do love wandering around these small towns, especially when they are so eerily quiet.  I lived in a couple of very small towns as a little girl and have to think that I'm tapping into a vague memory of something that feels very familiar,  but that I have no distinct memory of.  From Cottonwood Falls, I drove to Florence, KS, simply because it sounded like a pretty place and I didn't feel quite "done" with my exploring.  Florence, Kansas, population under 500, was even quieter than Cottonwood Falls, but it wasn't the the town of Florence that became the gift that night, but rather what I found enroute.... a small school house, sitting by itself in an open field.  I took a quick look then drove on into Florence, saving a more thorough look around for when the sun was just a little bit lower in the sky.

Downtown Florence, Kansas.

Don't be thinking this is some place.  It's not.  It's "Someplace Else."

This time, I was the ONLY one on Main Street and my car was the ONLY car I saw except for 2 cars that were parked in front of the library.  I was tempted to pop into the library, just to smell the nostalgic old book, old library, musty smell, but thought I would have been too conspicuous in a town of less than 500 so I restrained myself. After a couple of up and down strolls on a very quiet Main Street,  that felt more like a ghost town, I returned to the old school house and decided I was close enough to sunset to wait it out.  I learned, once I got home,  that in 1877,  Fred Harvey, who established the first restaurant chain in the United States, bought a hotel in Florence and opened the 2nd Harvey House Restaurant there, which offered sleeping rooms in addition to the restaurant.  Oh and Miss Kansas, 1964 was from Florence but was tragically killed in a car wreck during her reign.   Maybe I really do like history after all...

I've always had a thing for metal that's been rusted by nature...

The simple beauty of the schoolhouse in this beautiful setting speaks for itself in the photo.  It was on a quiet road so I was able to park the car, turn up the music and simply sit and enjoy what was in front of me under the changing light.  It's so easy to get caught up in the frenzy of life, whether justified or not, and to be able to simply sit and enjoy the quiet scenery felt very healing.  On a side note, I read about the school when I got home and learned that the Bichet School had opened its doors on Jan. 1, 1896 and served the French speaking children in nearby Florence.  It closed in 1946 when it was down to two students, siblings, who then purchased it at auction for $600.  It has continuously remained in the family ever since.  At the very end of the information regarding the school was this:

Visit Instructions:  You must post a photo with your detailed description of your visit.

I hope my descriptions were detailed enough...



The party was over once the sun went down and with a full tank of gas, I drove home.  I learned my lesson on that a few nights earlier, when on a very remote road, I found my gas gauge moving to the left a little faster than I had anticipated.

For someone who has never really enjoyed driving, there has been a shift here, which is a bit of a surprise to me. I would have never guessed a few years ago that I'd find comfort and inspiration,  along with a creative outlet,  simply by getting in my car and driving to a rather vague, make it up as I go along,  destination.  Throughout this process, I've discovered not only the beauty of a "destination-less roadtrip," but am learning quite a bit about myself also as I wander through and STOP at locations that I once considered "drive through only" areas.   The beauty is there, but sometimes it means having to look beyond initial expectations to see it.

One of my friends told me that she thought it might be a good idea to put a chip in me in case I'm ever lost.  I laughed, but now am thinking that maybe that's not such a bad idea.

From the mountains to the plains... discovering new territory.

Last week, on my drive back to KC from CO, I decided that I needed to mix things up.  I needed an adventure.  Google maps doesn’t understand “adventure route,” so I had to go old school on this one.  I got out the atlas.  After driving back and forth from KC to CO on I-70 for the past 3 years,  I’ve got that route down pat and have settled into a pretty set routine of stops, simply because it works and I know where the Starbucks are.  But this time I wanted to drive on roads I had never been on and discover towns I had never been through.  It was the best decision I could have made!

Discovery #1.  You can easily and more importantly, SAFELY pull over to the side of a quiet two lane highway and get out and take photos without worrying about cars zipping by you at 80 MPH, as they do on I-70.  Yes, I’ve done that on I-70, but always with trepidation, and knowing full well that what I am doing is NOT a good idea.  But today, on Highway 36, with such light traffic that I could literally count the cars I saw in an hour on one hand, it was easy, and safe.

Uh oh...hay bale dominoes.

Smashed silos.

The Colorado Rockies are majestic, there’s no denying that.  They are bold and beautiful and literally have brought tears to my eyes on more than one occasion.  Kansas doesn’t have mountains.  Hills, yes.  Mountains, no.  But what Kansas does have is a much quieter beauty that shows itself in views that seem endless of prairie grass or wheat or corn or any other crop, pushed up against an endless big blue sky.  It’s subtle - a whisper that taunts you to pull over and have a closer look, or better yet, a more thoughtful look.  After a few weeks of hiking through mountains, the plains of Eastern Colorado and Western Kansas felt like a very welcome respite for me…. a long, deep sigh. 

Discovery #2.  More than once, when wandering through some of the very, very small towns on my route that day, I felt oddly conspicuous.  I had a sense, even without seeing my license plate, that they knew I wasn’t from around there.  Maybe it was the camera, or my quiet sense of awe, but they knew and I had to respect that.  I’m sure I’d be the same way.  I went into a gas station in Atwood, Kansas that had a Subway sandwich shop attached and saw a group of women, probably in their 70’s and 80’s, all in their Sunday church clothes, all sharing Subway sandwiches at a big table in the front of the restaurant.  I’m sure it is a weekly meeting for them.  I found myself hovering by the chip aisle just to get a better look.  It was a charming scene and I couldn’t help but stare.  It felt like a scene right out of the 60’s, especially given their clothing.  Oh what I would have given to have gotten an invite to join them, but then again, I was hardly dressed appropriately and then there was the detail of them not knowing or caring who I was, so I just meandered near the chips and spied for several minutes instead.

Well that bar is set pretty low...

"Needs work charmer??"

Discovery #3.  I realized that I really do love the process of discovery, and if there is a little bit of an adventure involved, better yet.  This still kind of surprises me because I was such a scaredy cat kid.  My sister, Robin and my best friend, Kim, and I, when we were in the 1st and 2nd grade,  decided to start a company called the “Whirlybird Dog Catchers.”  As I recall,  there was a show about some sort of rescuers on TV with whirlybird in the name, hence the name of our “company.”  (I"m sure we would not have had any idea what a "whirlybird" even was had it not been for the show).  We had to improvise on the helicopters so would pretend to be jumping out of them once they had landed, then would run to the site where there was a stray dog.  It was the jump then run part that seemed more important than the obvious, which was catching the wandering dogs, and we'd practice that element over and over again.  The "catching" of the wandering dogs, not so much, because there was one problem with our little company... I was afraid of dogs, except for my own.  Our "company" didn't last long, the whole fear of dogs hampering the goal a bit, but we sure did have fun as adventure always followed a run from a helicopter, didn't it?, whether the helicopter was a real one or a pretend one.  We were terribly naive but cleverly creative and I’m so glad now, some 55 years later, that no one (i.e. no parents), told us our ideas for a company were silly.  We also went into the diamond making business that involved burying a charcoal briquette, but that's another story, and no, it didn't work.  Oddly enough, those were the memories that came to mind as I was stopping my way across eastern Colorado and western Kansas with my camera in hand, looking for the right shot and making a new discovery in the process.  Maybe I was getting a nudge from that 6 year old girl who was always looking to discover... something... anything...

A few days earlier, I had seen a write up on a place somewhere in KS that a sculptor from California had gone to for the summer and had carved several limestone fence posts into beautiful works of art, mostly of faces.  So, I decided to try and find the fence posts, which took me a good 2 hours off track. I did find ONE of the fence posts, parked my car and started to make my way over to it.  There was a deep ditch between me and the post and as I started stepping down into the thigh high grasses, I realized that it was a very bad idea.  I was in a no cell phone reception area, was wearing sandals, had no idea if that ditch was filled with water and saw more than one sign that said (in a very emphatic tone) PRIVATE PROPERTY.  And so feeling like my wandering for the past 2 plus hours was for naught, I retreated to my car, checked the atlas and decided on my route home from there.  I’ve got to admit, I rather loved the idea of not knowing exactly where I was headed or what I’d see, but knew I was headed in the general direction of East so I was making progress….

When it got dark, and my sunset photo ops were over, or any other photo ops for that matter, I was done, and ready to be home, but unfortunately I was still a few house from home.  My normally 9 or 9 1/2 hour journey, door to door, was now inching its way towards 13 hours, which again was fine given my objective that day, which was not efficiency or speed, until I ran out of daylight, and almost out of gas, which was another problem. 

Discovery #4  Gas up, whenever and wherever you can on a road trip where you’re making it up as you go along.  I always gas up when my tank hits 1/2 when I’m on I-70, simply because the coffee to bathroom break ratio and timing makes it a necessity, but all of those rules seemed to fly out the window when I was traveling seat of the pants, making it up as I went along, as I inched my way across Colorado and Kansas.  Everything seemed fine until it became dark out and then scary began to take over.  I’ve got a reading on my car that tells me how many miles the car can go before running out of gas.  Great!  I had 130 miles left and home was 95 miles away.  I could relax. Yet I continued to check that read out and realized that the miles remaining seemed to be ticking off at twice the rate of my odometer.  Toyota, could you explain this to me???  It’s dark, I’m on a two lane highway, no cell phone coverage, and my gas gauge is hovering between 1/4 tank and you’re in trouble.  I turned off the air conditioner.  I turned off the radio.  I coasted as much as I could, while maintaining my speed,  thinking that I could improve my gas mileage, even the tiniest bit. The road signs became so infrequent that they really were nonexistent because there were no towns where I was.  I re-grouped, wrapped my head around sleeping in my car on the side of the highway, and how bad could that be, right?  Down to the fumes later, and I came upon the town of Burlingame and a Casey’s General Store became my oasis, my bright light, my I can relax now.  Crisis averted and I was so happy I bought an armload of snacks, turned the radio and air conditioner on and cruised home a happy girl. 

Discovery #5.  If you’re looking for quick, efficient, straightforward, predictable journey then taking the backroads and making up a 670 mile journey as you go along, would not be a good idea.  But, if you want to discover something new around every turn and delay yourself in the process from a 9 1/2 hour journey to a 16 hour journey then I’d say go for it, but only on the condition that you allow yourself to slow down and observe, discover and absorb.  I can’t believe it has taken me this long to begin to discover the other part of the state that I have spent most of my life in.  There’s a lot out there and discovering a tiny bit of it was a lot of fun for me.  I've done this all over the state of Colorado, so it was especially nice to make a  discovery a little closer to home. 

I don’t think this will be the last time I do this, but now with some experience under my belt, I know that timing for daylight and fueling up wherever there IS gas are priorities.  Oh, and not only one, but two back up batteries for my camera, and a bevy of snacks and food as my thoughts of charming roadside diners never came to fruition.  Here’s to road trips… better yet, here’s to road trips in your own big back yard.  I’ll do it again.  In fact not even a week later I DID do it again!  Only this time it was simply a wander through the Flint Hills with a drive home that same night… but that’s another story and another blog post.

Lost and found on Torreys and Grays peaks. Me.

Views from the top.

My first hike of the season, which was several weeks ago for me this year, always conjures up memories of my first solo summer spent in Colorado 3 years ago, otherwise known as my 66 day experiment.  Because of unforeseen circumstances, I ended up with condo rental for 2 1/2 months in a town where I knew no one.  One of my first blog posts explains this in further detail, along with how I came to buy a place in that very town a short 2 months after my arrival;  something I had no intention of doing before I made the trip.  It truly was my summer of discovery and growth and one I remember fondly every time my boots hit the dirt, but it didn't start out well.

After going through a difficult break up, I felt like my heart had been ripped from my chest, stomped on and mushed back into the cavity where it originally sat.  The easier feeling for me at that time was to go to anger, rather than sadness.  Anger has a fueling effect, sadness, not so much, and it was that anger that became my teacher that summer and hiking became the catalyst for me to learn, not about hiking and how to do it better, safer and stronger, but rather,  about who it was that those hiking boots were carrying.  I discovered myself.  It certainly wasn't the easiest way for me to arrive at that discovery, but it was what it was and I look back now with tremendous gratitude for things did not go as I had planned or expected. 

One of the biggest ah ha moments of that summer for me was when I climbed Torreys and Grays - 2 fourteeners (mountains whose summits are over 14,000 feet and who Colorado claims 52).   I had been advised to get to the trailhead  EARLY as it's a very popular climb with limited parking.  When you tell a Virgo, who is a tad bit anxious about doing the whole thing solo in the first place, to get to the trail head early,  plans of a pre-dawn arrival are not out of the question.  One can never be too early or too safe, or too prepared, especially when facing a 14er alone, with no more information about it than an overheard conversation and photos and text from a guide book.  So,  at barely 5:00 a.m., I began my 30 minute car journey to the trailhead, the easiest part, or so I thought. All was going as planned and I was feeling excited with anticipation and a bit smug with what I had decided to tackle,  until the road got narrower and narrower with deeper and deeper pot-holes, looking more like a trail than a road and certainly not accessible without 4 wheel drive.  Oh and to add to the scene unfolding,  it was still dark, there were no other cars on the road and I had no cell phone service.  No longer did I have AAA for my back up plan.  I could hear my pulse.

In all the wandering through the state of Colorado that I did that summer, it was that moment, on that dark path of a road, alone, that comes to mind when I think about what really scared me and got my heart to race.  It is also that moment, when I decided not to turn around, that has influenced several decisions since when I've opted not to turn around, whether it be a hike or a life decision.

Once  I made it to the dark and very empty parking lot, my car being the ONLY car,  I sat for a few minutes and wondered how smart it was of me to continue.  Do I sit and wait for other people?  Do I scrap my plan and go back the way I came, Buick-sized potholes and all?  With a combination of pride and perhaps a wee bit of stupidity,  I decided that I had enough invested in the whole operation to stay with the plan.  I grabbed my pack and strapped on my headlamp because it still dark out and started down a trail that I had never been on before and knew very little about.  Right this moment, some three years later,  while I type this, I'm thinking..."Seriously?  You did THAT?'   It is the "THAT" that comes to mind at some point during every single hike I've done since and I've got to confess, I'm in search of the "THAT" as much as I seek out the views, crazy as that sounds.

I walked alone following the small beam of light from my head lamp until the sun came up.  I'm guessing 10 or 15 minutes, but really have no idea, but it seemed long and lonely and given that I had never hiked in the dark, scary.  I couldn't help but continue to ask myself if this whole idea was really very smart, yet my legs kept walking forward.  Had I stopped, I'm guessing I would have turned around.  Eventually,  I reached a fork on the trail and couldn't remember what I had been told... go up Grays first, or Torreys?

Early morning.

While I stood at that crossroads, and surveyed the incredible early morning scenery, I saw a small group of people in the far distance, making their way towards me.  This was my cue to sit down, rearrange the things in my pack, have a snack, take a photo, waste some time and then when they'd make their way to me,  I'd stand up, watch which fork they'd take and casually follow them like it was no big deal..

"I was just catching my breath, organizing my stuff, grabbing a photo and wow, what a coincidence that all of you just happened by!"

 That's what I had planned, but I was so excited to see life on that trail that I greeted them overly enthusiastically and asked which route they were taking, as I hadn't yet decided.  They told me Torreys and did I want to hike up with them?  Well... sure.... !!  Honestly, they had no idea.  Their generosity had saved me.  We summitted the first peak about an hour later, ate our lunch (again, they had no idea what a gift they had become to me) then made our way across the saddle and up to the summit of the 2nd peak.  While seated and catching our breath, I got a text.  Now mind you, I've been hiking for a few hours, had climbed around 3,000 feet,  and now sat at an elevation of over 14, 000 feet (14,267 and 14,270 respectively), literally in a different world and with a very different mind set and I get a text???  It was my daughter, Emery, reminding me to buy coconut water before her visit the next day as it helped her to adjust to the altitude.  My new best friends asked if all was OK and when I told them, with a mixed tone of exasperation and are you kidding me?,  they all looked puzzled and said, "Well, if it helps her, you really should get it for her."  By the way, they were her age, so this all seemed very normal to them, and so I began making a mental note of my to do list while enjoying my lunch at the top of a 14,000 foot mountain.  I had to laugh,  but was quick to reassure them that by all means, I'd follow through with her request.  I think they were worried about her.

Crossing the saddle

One down, one to go...

Seven hours from my dark, lonely start, I was back in my car, making my way through the 4WD potholes, which no longer seemed the size of Buicks, but VW's at best.  Daylight and accomplishments made it all look a lot better and far less scary and who cares that I didn't have cell phone service?  I felt a whole lot stronger than the person who had driven in a short 7 hours ago.  I think I just might have been a little bit taller also.

Once home, I put my head in  a bag of ruffle potato chips, with a 1/2 a tub of french onion dip and a 3 beer chaser because when you hike a 14er you get to eat anything that sound good and so I did.  I had set that precedent after my first 14er climb a few weeks ago, so was simply following protocol.  While immersed in my delightful dinner,  I couldn't help but wonder just who that girl was who had pushed through so much that scared her yet kept on going when quitting would have been a whole lot easier.  She wasn't someone I had seen in a very long time and I was hopeful I'd see her again.

That summer, without planning on it or anticipating it, became my summer to push my personal boundaries and enter into my fear zone so many times that it began to feel comfortable.    By the end of the summer,  I had logged over 135 miles in my boots and climbed 31,500 vertical feet, in search of my boundaries, which thankfully kept moving just out of my reach, which kept me moving.  It was as if my trusty old hiking boots had become my ruby red slippers and the heels had been clicked together, only this time, they took me out of Kansas and far away from my comfort zone and made me realize that just like the ruby red slippers, I had had the power with me all along.  I just didn't know it.

Go figure.  I had to walk, climb and sweat my way up peak after peak after peak to finally become familiar with the person who was guiding those boots and time after time after exhausted time, I'd stop that summer during a hike,  not to grab a photo or a drink or a snack or even some oxygen, but rather, I'd stop and try to absorb the moment of where I was and how far I'd come and the odd circumstances that had brought me to that point.  Stopping to absorb on a hike or life for that matter, is never a bad idea.

So today and yesterday and the day before yesterday and every day I've hiked since that summer of MY coming of age, when I hesitate because I'm not sure I can do it or am I setting the bar too high? or for Pete's sake why can't I be content with walking around the neighborhood with a mountain backdrop?,  I try my best to bring back that girl who drove down a dark road to a dark parking lot to a trail head where she had to strap on a headlamp to see the trail that she knew nothing about and say, Really?  Seriously?  Snap out of it.  You've got this.  And that... that right there, is what has made every bit of this journey a priceless experience for me.

Several times this past month, I've thought about a return trip to the Torreys and Grays peaks but have slowly come to realize that for me to venture up those two beautiful peaks for a 2nd time, would be less about experiencing their majesty and more about trying to reconnect with the girl who climbed them 3 summers ago and recreate an experience, which I know is impossible.  I can't recreate a first time experience the second time around, no matter how hard I try.  Not surprising, those notions of a "re-climb" seem to come when I'm feeling insecure and am struggling to find my strength.  For a split second, it feels like I just might be able to find it on the Torreys and Grays trail on an early morning, using my headlamp to guide me,  because it was there once,  as if I carelessly left it behind in a heap on the trail after stopping for a breath or a view and all I have to do is go retrieve it, stuff it securely into my pack and return home.  Logically, I know it's with me, somewhere in there, whether those beat up boots that are trying to be ruby red slippers are on my feet or on a trail or not.  I just have to remember how to find it.  Again.

Thanks, guys.

My daughter, the farmer.

She loved goats then...

And she still loves them now...

My daughter is learning how to be a farmer.  That's the same daughter who showed terrible disdain for my choice in Mother's Day gifts many years ago, when I asked for a roto tiller for my garden.  She asked me why I couldn't want stuff like the "other" moms wanted for Mother's Day, you know, like perfume and make up.  I'm not sure if I actually had girlfriends who asked for make up for Mother's Day, but I understood where she was coming from.  Clad in overalls, work boots and likely a bit of a muddy mess, I gave my body a once over scan with the available arm that wasn't holding a pot or a shovel or anything that related to my garden and said, "Do I look like the kind of person who would ask for make up for a gift?"  At the same time, I totally understood her.  It was the part about "be like the other moms" that she was trying emphasize, because that is what feels far more comfortable when you're a child, or maybe even forever.  It wasn't the first time I had heard that, or the 2nd, and most times it was warranted as it usually followed a less than flattering situation that I had put myself in.  Wearing slippers to the grocery store comes to mind.  I could always justify it with a, "but it was a very quick, run in and run out trip, and I didn't anticipate seeing anyone I knew, but I guess I should have realized that Emery saw me and when your mom wears slippers instead of shoes, well, it's kind of embarrassing.  And then there's that whole situation of if she wears slippers when I'm with her, what does she wear when I'm not with her?  Valid point and I'll let it go at that.

Out of all 3 of my kids, it was Emery who spent the most time in my gardens with me growing up,  simply because of the fact that she was home all day with me and there was always something that needed to be tended to in the garden. After working tirelessly either with laying flagstone pathways or planting or trimming or weeding, usually with a start at sunrise to avoid the summer heat, it was Emery who always acted interested when I'd ask who wanted to come see what I had been working on all day?  Maybe she just felt sorry for me, all that work and all, without fully understanding that it never felt like work to me, but rather was more like a physical meditation with incredible results after a long day.  I truly believe that if push came to shove and she had to state her truth on gardening, she'd admit that she kind of liked it or at least she had developed an appreciation for the outcome after much hard work.  Before she was even in kindergarten, she knew the Latin names of most of my shrubs and several of the perennials.  I was so used to it, that I forgot that it really wasn't normal when talking about the spirea bushes to have your 4 year-old ask which ones you were talking about.  The Vanhouttes or the Little Princesses (or Japonicas, to be exact)?  I taught her gardening in the same manner that I taught her how to find her way to the baggage claim in pursuit of her knowledge of travel:  I talked out loud and she followed me and before I knew it, she was the leader in finding the baggage claim and was calling plants by their Latin names (a good habit I had to learn when working at a garden center that I've never given up).

When she was in kindergarten, my flower garden became far more important to her because unbeknownst to me, my clever little 5 year-old was hatching a plan.  Her teacher, who she loved dearly, tutored kids in the summer a couple of times a week in subjects that they were having problems with.  When I look back on that now and think of how absurd it sounds to hire a tutor for your just out of kindergarten child,  I have to remember that I was trying to do all I could to insure my kid's success in school, so if post kindergarten tutoring over the summer was in order, then that is what we'd do.  Besides, Emery had convinced me that she desperately needed her teacher's help over the summer as she was really having a hard time with her school work.  Was it reading?  Do kids learn to read in kindergarten?  Math?  How hard is math in Kindergarten?  How quickly I've forgotten something that seemed so dire at the time.  And so my little schemer got her way and her sweet teacher came to our house twice a week for tutoring.  Emery insisted that the lessons take place in the garden and on the swing,  because according to her, it was the nicest view the there was.  She was right.

Pathway into the "garden of love"

Front part of the "garden of love" and the porch swing.

By the end of the summer, Emery made her announcement.  My garden, now referred to as the "garden of love" would be the site of her teacher's wedding, either in the fall or the spring, whichever time would be the prettiest.  Her teacher wasn't dating anyone at the time, or at least that I was aware of, and when I mentioned that to Emery, she didn't seem overly concerned, but rather, asked where the best spot would be for her to stand when the newspaper came to take pictures of the wedding.  Under the arch, definitely under the rose covered arch.  Or maybe one of those pensive walking away shots on the flagstone path.  Good grief, she had sucked me right into the planning of the nuptials of a wedding where there was not yet a groom!  She knew who was going to be in the wedding, what she would wear (I think that was first on her agenda), what music would be played and very important details on the cake, which would be the only food for the wedding.  Still, no talk about a groom.  The only single guy that Emery knew was her Uncle Bill, who lived in Seattle,  and at one point she casually mentioned that he could probably be the groom.  Minor details.

The wedding plans faded as she moved into first grade and she once again became obsessed with her teacher,  who looked like Snow White, but who's prince had already come.  So there would be no wedding in the garden,  although calling it the "garden of love" stuck, and if I still lived there today, I'm sure I'd still be calling it that.  Her take on that beautiful corner of the yard had me seeing it differently every time I spent time in it.  It really was a garden of love,  whether there was a wedding taking place there or not, the love was always there.

Even though it happened by default, and with a bit of reluctance, those seeds for a love of working the earth had been planted and were germinating for Emery just as they had for me when I was about the same age.  I spent a lot of time with my grandparents in the summer and would marvel at the size of my Papa's garden and the fact that the bounty that he'd bring in every day and set on the kitchen counter, was only there because he had planted the seeds with his own bare hands and tended to them until they became plants that eventually made their way onto our dinner plates.  That, to me, was nothing short of a miracle.  A few years later, while still in grade school, I planted my own garden - a small weedy patch in a back corner of the yard where I planted a handful of watermelon seeds.  And what do you know,  it worked!   Just as it had worked in my Papa's garden. Those oval,  black,  shiny seeds grew into watermelons that looked just like the ones on the front of the seed packet.  I still remember the hot afternoon that I had gone out to "tend" to my little patch of a garden when hidden behind vines and weeds I saw a fully grown and ripe watermelon, ready for the picking.  I sat down, right then and there, and broke it open, enjoying the fruits of my labor.   It wasn't cold or sliced, but it was the best watermelon I had ever eaten and because it was mine and I had grown it myself,  I ate the whole thing, its juice running down my chin to my chest while I buried my face in the warm pink fruit, pausing only long enough to spit the seeds out.  To this day, watermelon is still one of my favorite foods and always comes up when playing that game of what would your last meal consist of, which oddly comes up more than you'd think. So I get it.  I get the gardening, the manipulating the earth, the being outside and getting dirty thing.  I think it was in my genes and I'm proud to claim my role in it becoming a part of my daughters genetic make up.

Like mother...(my look for much of the '80's)

Like daughter...

This past winter, Emery and her husband, Miles, purchased acreage outside of Ft. Collins, CO and are learning how to be farmers, which is entailing a lot more than just planting.  They will also soon be goat owners, chicken owners and started keeping bees a few months ago.  My daughter has a bee keeping suit for Pete's sake!  I marvel at that one.  They are currently in Taos, NM getting their certification for permaculture farming,  as well as a bit of hands on training with raising goats, which doesn't surprise me one bit, the goat part, that is.  When Emery was young, she absolutely adored the goats at the petting farm and would pass by all other animals without even slowing down, with a beeline to the goats.  Living just down the street from the petting farm made going to visit the goats a  regular pastime for us.  She was so sweet with them and would talk to them like she was their mother - scolding,  praising, and trying to teach the aggressive ones some manners.  Fast forward 20 plus years and she's found her goats again.  The same little girl who was deathly afraid of silver fish, those tiny little fellas who squirm around your house in search of where your most beloved wool sweaters were kept,  had no problem taking on a pen full of rambunctious goats, while her mom tended to keep a safe distance on the other side of the gate.  It pleases me to no end to think that now she's going to have her hand at them again.

A few nights ago Emery texted me from Taos and told me that she got her spirit from me.  I read those words, paused,  then I read them again.  I didn't want to stop reading them.  It's impossible to fully understand the impact of seeing yourself in your kids until you have that "oh, wow... that's me.."  moment, especially when it is something in your life that you covet and are proud of.  I couldn't help but think that now, finally, she might understand who that woman was who asked for a roto tiller for Mother's Day.  That woman just may have been onto something that she would only begin to understand once she started digging around in the dirt herself.  At that time though, Emery simply wasn't ready for that mom who showed up at the store in her slippers, or in overalls when I should have been wearing something "nicer" or with a face full of poison ivy on back to school night; that mom who didn't look or necessarily act, like the other moms.  I've got to think that as she digs deeper into this endeavor of farming, much of that will not only make sense to her, but she just might do the exact same thing, overalls and all. 

To that daughter who wished makeup, not roto tillers for me, along with twirly dresses,  and manicured hands, yet at the same time, insisted on spending time in my "garden of love," because it was the BEST view and there was something very special about it, now it's my turn.  Now I get to be the one following you as we walk your land and you point out all of the many things you and Miles have planted and the many more things that Mother Nature planted before you.  Keep digging in that ground my beautiful daughter, and you'll find treasures that you never imagined...the biggest one being yourself.

They hold my heart...Mother's Day, 2016

 

I've written a Mother's Day blog post for the past two years and wondered if I would have enough in me to come up with a third post.  Who am I kidding?  Of COURSE I have more to say about the wonders of motherhood.  I've been a mom for almost half of my life.  I've got material.

This is my first Mother's Day that has all three of my kids stretched across the country -  Portland, Ft. Collins and most recently, Chicago.   Honestly, this mom is feeling a bit lonely for her kids...so lonely that I bought a ticket to Portland for a few days so I can spend Mother's Day with my oldest son and his wife.  With all three kids no longer living in the area, the day has changed quite a bit for me from when they were young.  There were many years that they would ask me what I wanted to do on my very special, all about me day and my usual response was "just be with you kids, that's all."  That wasn't exactly true.  I wanted to go to the movies.  By myself.  I wanted to sit through two hours of ANYTHING without interruption and eat pop corn and Milk Duds.  OK, I said it.  But how does one tell three young children who have just delivered to my bedside a tray with a stack of Pop Tarts and half-filled glass of orange juice, that they have so carefully prepared in my honor,  that I was thinking about going to the movies.  Alone.   Well you don't.  The post Pop Tart glow would be faded by lunch time when life would get back to normal with laundry to do, meals to sort out and and fights to break up, because it was Mother's Day and everyone wanted to sit by mom.  Sweet, but they were still fights.  That's when 2 hours in a movie theater sounded like the perfect celebration for mom.  I feel guilty even typing that but know there may be a reader or two out there nodding yes.  Honestly, days were challenging with 3 under the age of 4 and if it truly was a day to honor mom, than did spending an afternoon at the movies all alone sound like an over the top request?  I'll cut to the chase right now and confess, it was only an idea.  I never went to the movies on Mother's Day. 

My thoughts have changed.  I long for just a little bit of the chaos of 3 young kids because I miss them.  I truly miss them and I miss that active role of mothering.   I've mentioned the philosophy of raising kids with both wings and roots in posts before because it is something that I truly believe in and tried my best to adhere to when raising my own kids.  The wings part seems to have taken very well with all 3 of them.  It's bittersweet for me, but it's ultimately what I wished for them - to not be afraid of moving out of their comfort zone and exploring life's options, stumbles and all.  It was me who had Emery, at the tender age of barely knowing how to read, direct us to the baggage claim on every trip we took together, because I was trying to instill a sense of confidence in her regarding travel, something I didn't get until much later in life. And Grant... when he wanted to apply to the Art Institute of Chicago, I wanted to suggest the KC Art Institute instead,  but I didn't.  He needed to test out those anxious wings of his and I knew that.  And finally, when after a brief return to KC to live and feeling homesick for the city they had fallen in love with,  once again it was me who told Thomas and Brooke to return to Portland because I knew how happy living there had made them. Yes, I had a hand in this situation. 

When Thomas was a baby, I went out and purchased every book I could find on how to be the best parent ever raising happy, healthy, confident, kind kids who loved their moms like crazy (I paraphrased that).  I pored through those books like I had just enrolled in Parenting 101, desperate to get an A.  There seemed to be too much at stake and I didn't want to get anything wrong, if indeed I did have that kind of control as a parent.  It was as if I was sculpting a child and was so afraid my chisel would chip away something that would leave my sculpted kid lopsided and maybe missing a piece and there I'd be, chisel in hand, surveying the damage.  Fortunately, that phase was very short lived and thankfully, kids are far more resilient than stone. 18 months later and one baby went to two and then there were three and I hardly had time to read a recipe let alone a book.  I got real.  I listened to my intuition, flew by the seat of my pants, had on the job sink or swim training and parented from the soul.  My soul.  I can't say that I'd recommend all of my methods, but at the time, they worked.  Case in point, when someone's name showed up in permanent marker on the back seat of the almost new mini van.   No one would confess to the crime, including the child who was given the name that was carefully spelled out on the seat.  He (or she) was also the only child who knew how to write all of his (or her) letters right side up and facing the right direction, a strong piece of evidence that pointed me right to the culprit, but still, no confessions. 

"OK, kids, since no one will admit to writing on the back seat, it looks like I'll have to dust for prints to get my answer."

Seriously, too many Perry Mason shows as a kid and that just rolled off my tongue like I actually knew what I was talking about.  But what do you know?  I had a confession before I could leave the room to go get my fingerprint kit (which of course did not exist).  I used that rather poorly construed method countless times until one day, one kid said.... "Hey... wait a minute...."  And I was busted.  That's what's called parenting from the seat of your soul-filled pants and it works until it doesn't. You do what you do and make it up as you go along.  Some things stick and others fall away and the whole process, perfectly imperfect, is called parenting.

One of my more memorable Mother's Days was spent shopping for a couch for our newly remodeled basement.  It was not how I wanted to spend my afternoon, nor was it my idea or anything that would have even come to mind, but I did write what turned out to be one of my favorite essays about the whole event.  My kids,  husband included, were enthralled with the huge couch "systems" that had trays that came out of seat cushions, remote holders, food holders and mechanisms to make the whole thing move for your bottom and back comfort.  You had to plug it in.  Your couch.  Plugged in.  My attempts at directing the wide-eyed crew to the normal furniture failed miserably and it was Emery who noticed my discontent in the mega furniture mart.

"This isn't what you wanted to do for Mother's Day, is it, Mom?"

Somehow, her little bit of understanding was all I needed.  She's the girl.  She may be in a similar situation as a mother down the road some day.  I gave her a smile and a women to girl nod of camaraderie.

"No.  Not really.  But we're all together and that's all that matters."

Not the exact truth, but close.

Later that night I'd be listening to Bonnie Rait's latest CD (my Mother's Day gift) mingling with the sound of rain hitting the roof while I cooked dinner because who knew you needed to make restaurant reservations so far in advance for Mother's Day and well... I was the one who knew how to cook.  And it was glorious in a very homey, this is what it's all about kind of way and I wouldn't have traded it for anything, including 2 hours alone in a movie theater eating Milk Duds and popcorn.  Not on your life.

Being a mom is a role that I covet more than anything else in my life.  It has opened a part of my heart to a love that I never could have imagined before and although my kids are all grown and living their lives away from me, the lessons of love continue.   Those 3 souls who have my heart, reminded me without knowing it of the beauty of simply stopping and seeing the wonder in things.  They woke up the little girl in me who colored outside of the lines, was messy, let her imagination guide her and broke a rule or two in the process (of course just the unimportant ones).  I did things as a parent that before kids would have had me shaking my head and mumbling under my breath,  "I'll never do that when I have kids..."  Never, ever say never. 

When Thomas was 2 1/2 and Grant was 1,  they ate an entire bottle of children's Tylenol.  Obviously, this was certainly nothing I ever anticipated because I had every safety mechanism in place to prevent such a thing, but my never say never came when I left a partially packed suitcases out, while getting ready for a family trip.  The Tylenol, normally out of reach and site, was front and center for my little ones to discover.  I was on the phone with a friend when Thomas came up to me, handed me the empty bottle and asked if he and Grant could have more.  I immediately hung up and called Poison Control, whose number I had placed near the phone before I even crossed the threshold with my firstborn, never expecting that I'd actually have to call it some day.  To see my two young boys, one still a baby and the other not yet tall enough to reach my waist, throwing up because the syrup of ipecac was working, absolutely broke this mom's heart. They were both crying and through the throwing up and tears,  Thomas, looked up at me and asked me why they both were so sick.  If I could have taken the ipecac for them to rid their bodies of the Tylenol, I would have done that in a heartbeat. A couple of hours later and they were good as new, as if nothing had happened.  Their blood tests showed that they were fine and the doctor made a special point to tell me that both boys had the exact same amounts of Tylenol in their systems.  Well what do you know?  Thomas had finally learned to share with his little brother.  Unfortunately, it wasn't anything he should have been sharing in the first place, but that was another story.

Moms learn to multi task out of necessity, which unfortunately I'm learning is a difficult skill to "unlearn."  I wasn't any more skilled than any other mother when I say that it wasn't the least bit unusual to be cooking dinner while calming a toddler in the midst of a tirade and hear the phone ring and a "Can you get that?" Of course I can.   Oh and did I mention that I was also nursing a baby?  Moms are jugglers and while we almost always get it right, every once and a while one of the balls drops (hopefully not the nursing baby) and we have to stop, reassess what is important and sometimes that most important thing is to simply sit on the floor of a messy house, with laundry piling up and dirty dishes in the sink and play... roll up those sleeves, put a magic cape on, don a fancy hat and play.  Mothering is messy.  Kids are messy, but they are also very good teachers and will help you prioritize without even knowing it.  They are also scam artists, but very cute ones.

So, to all the mother's out there, whether your kids live across the country, down the street or down in your basement, we truly are all in this together.  The most flexible muscle in a mom's body is her heart, and mine, having grown with the birth of each one of my children,  now stretches itself in three different directions across the country. Those three stretchers of my heart have made me who I am today and gave me the role in my life that I covet beyond all others.  Mom.

Happy Mother's day to you all!

Thomas

Grant

Emery

When you ask your kids to text a photo of them together, but don't specify which way you want them to face... Goofballs.

Right here.  My heart.

One posture at a time...

My tendency in life with things I become passionate about, is to dive in head first then sort myself out on the details later,  often with  hopes of both wings AND a prayer to sort me out if need be.  It's not the best way to do things, but seems to be the way I naturally lean.  Yoga was an exception to that and  I have no idea why, but I dipped myself into the experience very slowly, and with caution when I began some 20 years ago.   I loved how it made me feel post practice (at the time I was doing Bikram's 26 poses in a heated room, which I gave up several years ago) but still only had a toe in as I wasn't quite ready to fully commit.  It was like getting a full body massage but with my coat still on.   As time passed, I'd teeter between serious and shoot, I forgot to do yoga this week, which would roll into forgetting to do it this month and then I really wasn't doing yoga at all and where was that darn mat anyway?  I was skeptical.  I was not hooked.  I was sampling the goods but not willing to go deep enough to remove my metaphorical coat.  I'm not sure exactly when I made the shift, but shift it did and I began to crave more and more of the goodness I was getting out of the practice.  I took my coat off.  I went deep.  I felt it not only in my body, but in my soul as well, which was another thing - body and soul had now become a team and were working well together.


When I first started yoga, l was focused on its physicality and how it was going to benefit my body in a jeans fitting better kind of way.  As I became more dedicated to the practice,  the inseams no longer rubbing when I walked paled when compared to what was really happening in my body.  I had crossed a line.  I had gone deeper.  Yoga seemed to be giving me exactly what I needed and with impeccable timing.  My kids commented on my peaceful nature and was I never going to lose my temper again??   It was as if I had been handed the road map to myself.  Or better yet, I had been handed the ability to read the road map that has been in my possession all along.  My strong flexibility and weak balance in the poses mimicked my own life during those early yoga years,  giving me insight into the areas that needed more focus and healing.  My mat had became the mirror to my life. THIS... this unrolling of my mat several times a week and moving with my breath, was what kept me upright during a time when I was constantly fighting falling into an emotional heap because it felt far more natural.  I'm no longer that person but do remember her and hold her in my heart and am continually grateful for those early lessons on my mat, namely the ones that after holding a difficult posture seemed to whisper to me that I was going to be OK because I was strong and getting stronger.

Fast forward 15 years and I decided to go deeper into my yoga practice,  and signed up for Max Strom's yoga teacher training, held in 3 modules, 9 days each.  I just finished the 2nd module and although exhausted, I'm trying to hold onto the post-glow as long as I can, while trying to absorb and make sense of everything I just learned. Besides a lot of posture perfecting, and anatomy that extended far beyond my rudimentary knowledge of... well "the knee bone connecting to the thigh bone" song comes to mind,  I came away with a much deeper understanding of exactly who this person is that I carry around with me every day, both on and off the mat, hyper-extended joints and all.

Yoga has become my nudge to slow down, go deeper, stop and simply be, not because someone is telling me to do that, but because it simply feels better to live life that way.   I still day dream in class and more than once have come out of a thought only to find myself a few postures behind the class and oh well.  Perfection is not the goal - a thought that was reinforced when an almond fell out of my top during a down dog recently.   Reality.  I recently started following a Facebook page called "Yoga for Humans" that demystifies the practice with humor and real life stuff and reminds us of who we are...human... humans doing yoga to become better humans.  I'm a proud human doing yoga who has food drop out of her shirt, daydreams during poses, and will no doubt continue to make a fool of herself while trying to unravel out of a posture that she never should have tried in the first place.  A human doing yoga, mistakes and mishaps included  (thanks, Amy Rader, it's brilliant).


I'd like to say that I unroll my mat every morning and do sun salutations to greet the dawn of a new day, but I don't.  I cobble together some postures that feel right and if one or two postures hit the mark and feels like enough, then so be it.  My at home yoga always looks better in its pre-practice presentation in my mind than what actually transpires in real life.  I watched a video several months  ago that showed an accomplished yogi's morning practice, beginning with her putting the kettle on for morning tea then proceeding to go through a lovely, while at the same time very strong practice until the kettle whistled.  She then leaves her mat and paces to the kitchen to pour the tea with such grace and elegance that it seems like a posture in its own right. That's where my mind goes when I think about a morning practice, but instead I will spot a missing sock under the couch during a forward bend, which has to immediately be retrieved and as I make my way back to the mat, I notice a painting that is crooked.   I once rearranged my entire living room during my "yoga practice,"  which probably says more about my focus than anything else and my need to go to a class where I find my community and my focus.  The other thing that yoga has taught me is to listen to what I need at the moment, like right now for instance.  I'm in my yoga clothes, have a filled water bottle and my rolled up mat next to my feet and had every intention of going to class until an hour ago when sitting down and writing about yoga seemed more important than actually doing it.  Creativity is fleeting and often will out run me so I have to seize the opportunity when it arises.  I'm discovering the art of awareness and listening without judgment and those two combined will take me far, even if right now my far is not inching from my couch with a laptop perched on my strong, but getting stronger quads, while typing about yoga.

I've got 4 months until I head back to the final training module and will regroup with 24 other students under the guidance of the extraordinary teacher, Max Strom.   The people I've met have become one of the greatest gifts to me during this process and it has been an honor to surround myself with such gracious, open and truly lovely people, all sharing the common thread of a passion for yoga. I feel like I'm standing just a tiny bit taller and with a whole lot more joy because of them.   Until then, I will stumble my way in and out of postures, will daydream my way right off of my mat and onto mountaintops and Italian villages and will sit and type instead of going to class because I'm   learning to listen and act accordingly....one posture at a time.

Two 30's, two generations. This one is for you, Thomas.

Me,  recently 30....

Thomas,  almost 30...

My first born, Thomas, started giving me advice at the tender age of not even two.  His advice and my need for it hasn't changed, although his delivery has become  more fine tuned over the years. When he was not yet two and after a difficult day with his baby brother of just a few months, I asked him,  rhetorically of course,  how in the world I was supposed to deal with a baby who cried all day.  (It's possible that I was simply thinking out loud, but I got an answer anyway...)

 "Just love him, Mama... just love him."

Just love him.  And that's how a Mom who was working so hard at attempting to do everything right   was brought to her core on getting things prioritized.  Just love him, Mama.  And of course I did, but  with two under age two, there were days that were challenging.  I'll often hear that sweet nugget of advice when I'm going through a frustrating time with someone I care deeply about.  Just love him.  Just that.  As he matured, to the ripe ole age of 4 or 5, he began to answer questions with a much more methodical approach. With a tilt of his head, an uplifted chin and as much knitting as a four year-old brow can muster, he'd respond, 

"Let's think about that until Saturday night, Mom."

This was his answer to not having an answer and by the way, that promised answer never arrived on Saturday night.  But he was right.  Sometimes with a problem or a question, rather than jumping on it it's best to just wait and ruminate a bit... until Saturday night or so...

That kid, that never short on words kid, who had a huge imagination and an even bigger heart has grown up and is going to be 30 soon.  30 years old.  That same 30 years old that I was when I gave birth to him.  That's the part that I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around.  Age and the passage of time I've learned are concepts that only become more confusing as we age and thinking about only seems to make it even more confusing.

I shared my son's upcoming significant birthday with someone in my yoga class a few day ago while in a conversation about our kids and her comment was,

"Is he a lot different than you were at 30?"

"Oh yes.  Very."

"Yeah, I get it.  My kids also were.  They were all very immature at 30."

I paused.  I thought about what she said.  I paused again, not sure if I even wanted to be having this conversation that I initiated with someone I barely knew, but felt the need to clarify.   The truth of the matter was that my son at almost age 30 is FAR more mature than I was when I entered my 3rd decade.  My entrance to age 30 found me with an long list of jobs and states lived in to work those jobs,  along with a mismatched string of college credits from 4 schools,  all held together under a a belt of dreams.

When in my late 20's, I thought 30 would signal the end of the wandering, the adventures, the flying by the seat of my pants and living out of suitcases because it seemed too old to me to be doing those sorts of things - old in a sense of the responsibilities of marriage and mortgages and kids on the horizon taking priority over all else, whether I was ready or not.  So I pushed that 20's envelope and filled it up with a lot of sampling and experimenting and hopping around, while hoping I'd discover who I was and what I was supposed to be doing in the process.  As I started pushing 30, I found much of what I had been searching for and cliche as it may sound, it was with me all along.  Dorothy's red shoes just needed to be clicked.  I returned to Kansas from Alaska, cobbled together and added to my collection of college credits to arrive at a BA in Anthropology, got married and gave birth to my first child.  It was a big year for me and one that felt like I had raced into head on, totally out of breath and slightly disheveled, as I crossed over the finish line to 30, right in step with the tick tock of my biological clock and ready for the responsibilities ahead. Had someone told me that I could slow down and take my time as 29 or 30 or 32 were all just numbers, I'm not sure I would have believed them because society seemed to be telling me otherwise, or at least that's how I heard it.  Not only was I supposed to be somewhat settled by 30, but it was a good age to start minding the  biological clock and doing the math, that is if I hadn't already started that process.   Ironically, I've handled sequential entrances into new decades in a similar manner with the pendulum of time swinging rather radically on birthdays that end in a "0" and settling down by the 1's and 2's.

No, my son is not like I was at almost 30.   His approach, while still enjoying the adventure of trying new things and the courage to leave his comfort zone to do that,  has been far more methodical and thoughtful than mine.  No doubt he'll enter into his next decade with more maturity and calm than I  had and not the least bit disheveled or out of breath.  I'm not surprised, and could not be prouder of him. 

So, my 60-year-old self, looking back on my 30-year-old self, giving birth to my first born on the 30th of this month (which also happens to be the day of my birth, just a different year and month) has me feeling very full-hearted, grateful and nostalgic to a point that I know if I stay too long in this place I'll be a hunched over mess of a mom tearfully turning pages of a photo album and wishing I had toddlers again, because there will never be anything like that again for me and those really were the days.  But these are also the days!

When a mom looks at her baby, her toddler, her young school-aged child, she doesn't really think about who they will be as an adult, or at least I didn't.  I couldn't get past college age in my imagination.  I can remember when my kids were very small, trying to scan crowds to find someone who I thought they'd look like given their characteristics that were already prominent.  Old habits die hard as this started for me as a child looking through the Sears catalog trying to decide what my kids would look like.  Of course I had no husband or even a boyfriend at that time to represent  the other genetic half, which meant I had to do some wandering through the men's section to shop for features that would compliment my own and would be passed onto our incredibly perfect children.  Other attributes such as artistic ability, athleticism, intelligence,  a strong moral code and so on, were never considered, at least not then.  That would come later.

I guess it is later now and I've got an almost 3 decader who has surpassed any of the hopes I had for him and continues to do so.  When I look at that advice giving toddler who has become a man and think that I had a part in that,  I'm a without words kind of overwhelmed.  Seeing my own mannerisms in his or hearing him use and pass on my made up words and phrases in conversation with his peers paired up with a sense of humor that feels very familiar to me, my heart melts.

The one thing a new mom and even a not so new mom is guaranteed to hear over and over again to the point of annoyance, especially with its sad-eyed delivery, is how fast time goes by and how quickly your children will grow up.  I understand that now, simply because I've lived it, but hearing it when your toddler is pitching a fit on the grocery store floor because you won't buy him (or her...) candy at the check out counter more than once had me wanting to respond...."And that would be a BAD thing???"

Yes, those years flew by and although I love to go back and remember,  I can't immerse myself for too long into the old photo albums because I know myself too well, and it's a slippery slope of a place for me.  Old photos aside, what I can do now is cherish who all 3 of my once toddler,  now adult children, have become and the strength of the relationships I have with them.  I can go on vacation with them and not have to pack for them, schlep car seats and strollers and counteless bags of Cheerios because heaven help me if I run out of food,  and cross my fingers that no toy guns were inserted into backpacks when my back was turned, which I know from experience can slow down a security line to a halt and rev up a lot of passenger's tempers.  Instead, the travel has shifted to equally shared experiences with no one doing the heavy lifting and everyone enjoying a beer at night upon arrival.  Adult children are fun and so worth the wait. Sure, time flies, even faster if you're not paying attention,  but isn't the whole point that you still have that time in your in your clutches?  Another person in yoga a few days back told me she wished she could freeze her kids at the ages they are now, 7 and 9.  My response  to her was just to wait as every year gets better, except for a few of those middle school years, but I kept that to myself.  One day they will be men who you will adore  spending time with.  I think she was a bit put off by thinking of her not yet teen boys as men, and I understand that, but still, I couldn't let her comment go by without my seasoned and experienced response.

Time flies and its passage is much easier when you can make peace with that and embrace the changes that go hand in hand.  My firstborn will always be my firstborn whether he's almost two or almost 30.  He's just a more developed version now of that curly headed tot who was never without words and was more than happy to dispense advice, whether solicited or not.  I loved him far more than I ever thought I could love anyone, but not near as much as I love him today.  And that, on the heels of his 30th birthday, I'm going to think about until Saturday night.