Cape Lookout Part I - the beach

We went to Cape Lookout on the Coast of Oregon. The company was great, the scenery was beautiful and the weather was ideal. I could not have planned these things with greater precision then they fell into place. (And yes, I am well aware that there will come a day when our camping trip will be plagued by rain, bugs and bad neighbors with foul mouths, firecrackers and offensive music blaring from their boom boxes. But this trip, blissfully, was not that trip.)

When we arrived at the coast we quickly set up camp, grabbed pails and shovels and headed to the beach. L sat right down at the water's edge with Uncle Roger and buried her toes in the sand, and then with great joy and much giggling would fling them out of the sand to Roger's, "Ta-da".

N couldn't decide what to do first. Dig in the big hole? Climb the driftwood on the hill? Climb the rocks? Spin around in circles gleefully? I am quite sure he managed to do all these things and more in that first evening on the beach.

This first evening was the only time either one of the kids ventured to put their toes in the water. As much as I tried to get them in on later visits, they were having none of it. (L didn't even like it when I went into the water. She fretted and worried) Perhaps the vast size and the roar of the waves (things that call to me lika Siren) were too much for them this time around. I cannot say whether they will both fall in love with the water like I have, but I do know they have a lifetime to discover what the ocean is to them.

Sand. Did I mention that while my children may not love the water like I do, they love, LOVE, love the sand.

L was content to lie prone in it and rub her her cheeks into its warm embrace. She would pick handfuls up and and then drop it gleefully into my awaiting cupped hands. Slowly I would open my hands, the sand would fall away she'd grin gleefully, and we'd do it all over again. She would fill the octopus molds and sand buckets full of sand, demand that I dump them over to create shapes and castles only to to knock them over with great delight sending sand scattering across the blanket and my lap. It was a game could have gone on without end.

I would say if L had any complaints about the sand it would be vocalized like this, "Mommy, the baby hurt my eye." While she and a little one from a neighboring beach blanket were engaged in a playful game of, 'who's the cutest toddler on the beach', they slowly began to drop sand onto each other's toes. Oh, so cute... and then L got into her favorite position on the beach, her belly, and the 'baby' continued to drop and fling sand (in that oblivious I-am-the-only-creature-on-the-earth way that children have). Oops, this is no longer fun, now it's in L's eye! L quicky tried to remedy the situation by rubbing her eye with her sand covered hands. Whee! Let the crying commence.

Inner Monologue: "Dear God she's going to be blind for life! She'll need an eye transplant! Can we pick our own color?! Whoa that baby has man hands!"

I rinsed L's eye out with water. Got her to put a cover up on and she just sat on my lap for a quiet few minutes. Well, quiet in the sense that she repeatedly said, "the baby hurt my eye" with a random "we missed the elephants at the zoo , mommy" thrown in for good measure. (we went to the zoo over 2 weeks ago kid, give it a rest!) Eventually, the lure of the sand won out and except for the sandy hand on the tongue incident (did she not remember the eye incident!?!) her remaining hours in the sun and sand were blissful.

N also has a love affair with the sand. He happily immersed himself into a group of kids nearby who were digging (and jumping, dancing and rolling) in one of the biggest holes I've ever seen in the beach. Blissful hours were spent in that hole.

But, if the sand on the beach made him happy it was the dunes at Pacific City, that really sent him over the moon. It was all he could do to contain himself when he saw those dunes. Ah hell, there was no containing him. There was a dune to climb! And climb it he did! He tore off up the side like a goat climbing in the Alps, or like a sand-flea leaping from grain to grain. There was no stopping this determined little boy from his destiny. While he did not make it the entire way, he certainly scrambled higher then I imagined he would. And then he did it again. The grins on these faces truly do say it all.

NEXT UP - family, campfires, dead bugs, bicycle mafia and other fine moments from Camp Look Out 2009

Superheros Part I

Do you like your cape SuperMan? Weeellll, I do have a duck on my head....

RIP Farrah

Rest in peace Farrah.

Man I loved Charlie’s Angels. I’m a little surprised I was allowed to watch a show that inspired the phrase “jiggle television”, but I was, and I did . I’m sure there are others who remember much more about the show then I do. I mostly remember the teaser of never seeing Charlie’s face, Bosley’s deep laugh and the great outfits. (And of course the episode where they broke out of prison... but really, who doesn’t remember that one?)

Many a summer afternoon you could find Erin, Cathy and I playing ‘Charlie’s Angels” (as, I am sure, were thousands of other girls across the country) First there was the ritual argument of who got to be which angel. Everyone wanted to be Jill, (and subsequently her sister Chris). I rarely got to be Jill, I usually ended up being Sabrina. I honestly can’t remember if I was Sabrina by default or if I just opted to be her to get onto the playing of the game. After divvying up the roles there would be major discussion on what outfits we were wearing (we’d use our bubble gum Charlie’s Angels trading cards as guidelines). Sometimes Cathy would show up with written instructions from Charlie that she would have painstakingly created the night before. Other times we’d just wing it. We’d hop on our bikes and go off into the neighborhood to solve our case. The capers never lasted long however, eventually Erin and I would get sick of Cathy always insisting, since she wrote the instructions, she got to be Jill. Because even as we were young enough to still be playing make-believe, we were beginning to understand the power of sexuality and beauty. And man, did Farrah have both.

I don’t know where I first saw “THE” poster. My guess it was in one of two taboo stores of my childhood Spencer’s (they had that all mysterious and giggle inducing ‘adults’ only section in the back) or Co-Op Records (the local head shop). I do remember thinking, “Wow, she’s beautiful” and feeling some sort of longing within. I certainly had no idea what the longing was and couldn’t tell you why she produced the same longings that Donny Osmund and Scott Baio did. I just knew she had a power that was too big to be ignored. I understood that her power resided in that red suit and those long flowing locks. And for years afterwards I longed for both the figure and the hair.

While I know Farrah went on to do some much more serious and powerful acting (I loved her in the Apostle) it is the gift of ‘awakening’ that I will remember her for most of all. And though it was a gift, like Pandora’s box, that was full of unknowns and frights, it would eventually prove to be a gift worth keeping, no matter how many years it took me to begin to understand it.

RIP Farrah.

2 year anniversary

Lucy has now passed the two year anniversary of her open-heart surgery. And while she has yet to have her yearly check up I have no doubt she will pass with flying colors. If for no other reason then she will simply announce, "I'm okay" as she does after each tumble. And any child who believes she can will the rain to stop simply by looking out the windown and saying "NO RAIN" must indeed have a special kind of healthy heart.

I have never really written about the time surrounding Lucy's surgery and the months leading up to it. I thought perhaps I would try and do so this year, but the truth is the feelings and emotions are still too raw. Or, to be more accurate, because they are still to raw I have buried them deep inside and have not yet released them.

I spent much of the time in a self imposed self protecting fog. It's a place I know well. It's the place I went during all my own surgeries I had as a kid. I was the happy kid in the hospital. I have seen chart notations that talk about 'the patient is in good spirits, singing Christmas Carols to other children on the ward' (Christmas Carols in June!) but clearly all was not so good in the subconscious of my mind because other notations say, 'patient calls out for mother in sleep, but when comforted insists she is fine. Patient also asks someone to make sure her mother has eaten something'

I don't remember much of those years. I see photos of a smiling upbeat blonde girl in various body casts and I know she is me, but I am just as amazed at everyone else at her resilence and bravery. But, I do not recognize her as me...

Lucy will not have any memories from her surgery either, but that is because she was 4 1/2 months old. But we will tell her the story of her scar, show her the photos of her and her feeding tubes. She will know that the scar is a part of her and therefore something that adds to her story. It is a beautiful scar because it means 'life'.

Just like mommy

Ms. L is very busy studying her role models these days. And it appears that I am her favorite subject. She began her studies in a very offhanded manner. It was so subtle at first I hardly understood what she was doing.

The first time I noticed it was when she was walking around the house tippy-toe on one foot and flat-footed with the other. After my overactive imagination went thru a million 'this child has something wrong with her' scenarios, I realized she was limping, like me. She was deliberately trying to copy my walk. My heart did a little tiny gasp and, in a rare moment of clarity, I smiled and moved on . I didn't correct her or tell her to stand up straight, I just let it be.

After the limping incident I began to notice she was doing all sort of things that I do. I was talking to her the other day and noticed my shirt was bunched and wrinkled, without even thinking about it I smoothed my shirt down and continued our conversation only to notice that she also began to smooth the 'wrinkles' on her shirt.

Almost daily she follows me into the bathroom during my morning routine. We brush our teeth together, she brushes her hair and asks (okay, sometimes she demands) to put "make-a-up" on. So, I hand her a blush brush and she goes to town whisking imaginary colors on her face. Some days she smiles so sweetly I give in and she gets a little lip balm too.

Then there was the sweetest moment of all; I was cuddling with her one evening, trying to help her settle in after a particularly long day, and I found myself curled up and tucking my hands under my cheek and chin. I looked over in time to see her peering intently at me, with those baby blue eyes, and slowly she tucks her hands under her face as well. And the sweetest look of satisfaction came over her as she sighed deeply and drifted off to sleep... a job well done.

"N-F Wohlmut you got out of bed right now!!" oh, yeah did I forget to mention that in addition to the sweet and lovely moments of imitation there are those other moments that you wish you could just sweep under the rug? Sigh... it's true, she's also mastering the hands on hip stance and that special tone of voice (some might say bossy) when trying to cajole her brother to do what she wants. At least this morning before she jumped to bossy I did hear her try a little tenderness, "rise and shine N. time to gweet the day.... N-F Wohlmut, you get out of bed right now!"

And they same imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

"If the second one had been the first one there would never have been a second one."

"L, what are you doing?"

"Color da wall."

"Please don’t color the wall, crayons belong on the paper"

"Color da floor"

"No L, if you can’t keep the crayons on the paper I’ll take the crayons away"

"Color da chair"

"Okay, L time to put the crayons away"

"NOOOOO" and with arms like moving windmills she sends crayons flying around the kitchen. N and I must duck and take cover. A granny smith apple green narrowly misses my head while tickle me pink bounces off the chair and into a bowl of cheerios. I belly crawl across the kitchen floor with as the colorful missiles continue to fly around my head. I reach the launching pad and manage to stop the assault. When I finally look at Miss L, I see nothing but those big blue eyes and an impish grin. While biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing out loud, I tell her to pick up the crayons, not expecting but, hoping for full compliance. Instead she dashes to the end of the hallway and announces, "gonna get a timeout" and sits herself right down. Then right on cue begins to cry quietly, and indignantly so I can see it's for real.

Just as I am about to fetch her from her self imposed exile N (sensing a golden opportunity to erase what few memories are left from his ‘terrible-twos") executes a brilliant play and says, "Don’t worry Mama, it’s okay. I’ll pick up the crayons". And for good measure he pats me on the back.

And in this moment I see the next 15 years played out over and over again in my mind.

90 minutes in the life

We went to the library on Monday. We tend to go to the library most Monday’s, but it had been awhile so the kids were excited to go. We bundle up against the elements put L in the stroller and away we go. N immediately wants to push L in the stroller. My first instinct is to say, "no", but I don’t. I let him push the stroller. Surprise, no one dies! L giggles in delight as N weaves all over the sidewalk, and I bite my tongue to keep from telling him to, "push the stroller straight. Don’t weave, don’t run." It’s not easy being a worry-wart mom who doesn’t want to be a worry-wart. You have to bite your tongue, a lot.

We arrive at the library with all our limbs intact. With Lucy in the stroller and not walking we made good time (two year olds have their own agenda when going to the library and it usually does not include walking fast enough for older brothers). Once at the library we follow a strict protocol set up by N. First we go to the book drop where we deposit the books we had out, one at time, never two, always one. With a running commentary on each book it takes longer then average. We often end up taking the books of those who come in after us and drop theirs as well, it’s just the neighborly thing to do. L meanwhile spends the timely loudly telling everyone it is time to ‘get out. get out now’ of her stroller, and works diligently at the clasp, determined to set herself free.

Finally, all the books are deposited and off we go to the children’s room. N goes straight for the shelves pulls a book and sits at the little table to read. L goes straight for the nearest exit. Delighted to be free she looks back at me with a quick grin and runs into the other room. With quick feet and even longer arms I grab the hood of her jacket and corral her back to the children’s room. We search in vain for a "Maisy" book, alas we are out of luck. L stumbles across a pile of paper and the itty bitty library pencils, she is pacified for a few minutes. In these few minutes I scan the shelves for books to take home, while keeping the eyes at the back of my head firmly planted on the kids. Lucy makes another break for it, this time getting as far as the front doors. Luckily for me a kindly biker dude plants himself in front of the doors, she is going nowhere. She will however take the time to flash him her best, "I’m so cute and I know it" smile and say, "whaza your name." If she had done that first she probably would have gotten past him, as you could see him bedazzled by her smile and eyes, as many before have been.

Time to pry Noah away from his pile of books. Miraculously I get him to agree to just 10 books to take home. To the checkout desk, N reading all the way, like Mr. Magoo he narrowly misses obstacles in his way, never breaking his stride. He will continue in this vein the whole way home. Books checked out and off we go. With moment of potential insanity I decide to let both kids walk home. We pile books into the stroller. Whoops wait, we must stop at the outdoor water fountain for drinks. Can N reach it himself this time? No, but before Spring turns to Summer I bet he will (how did that happen?)

The journey home begins in earnest now. I’m just hungry (having left half my breakfast on the counter to referee an train dispute, and never returned) and hope that my offer of PB&J and chocolate milk (okay it’s a bribe) is enough to motive the kids to move quickly. No such luck. Noah wants to read and walk, L wants to push the stroller. No wait, now N wants to ride and L wants to continue to push anyway. The journey is long, while N may have given L a wild ride full of circles, weaving and bobs; L gives him a S-L-O-W leisurely ride. She can barely push him and refuses all offers of help. N, being ever so helpful says, "its okay, Mommy, I like to go slow" SIGH... the trek continues. But wait there’s an inclined wall to stop and climb, and then L decides to lie face down on the sidewalk and lick it. Or was she trying to lick up the ants... I just didn’t want to know. Finally, I promise we can stop at the church and play on the steps if only they will "hustle", "what’s hustle, Mommy?" "Move your bootie!"

We get to the church, with great glee N runs down the ramp around the front grassy area and back to the ramp again. L heads straight for the rose garden with the tiny pebble beds. Before you can say, "Holy Mary, Mother of God" the receptionist is out the door, apparently having nothing better to do but to keep an eagle eye out for trespassers in the rose bed, warning me that the children are to keep all the pebbles in the beds. In not one of my finer moments, I reply (snap?) that yes, we are aware of this as someone tells us this every time we are on the grounds. And further more in all the times we are on the grounds we have always made sure the rocks, excuse me, pebbles are cleared from the sidewalk.... I turn to walk away, wondering for the umpteenth time why a church cares more about the rose garden then the enjoyment of watching two children playing in the sunshine?

One more block and we’ll be home. L continues to push N, this time letting me ‘steer, but not push’. Cross the last street, I can see the house, no wait L has to stop and try and climb the tree and N has decided now is the time to walk quickly. Quickly down the sidewalk to chase a squirrel and ask it some question (I never got close enough to hear the conversation..drat!) Who to chase first?!? N is lured in by the earlier promise of PB& J L must be physically carried into the house, singing all the way, "jingle bells, jingle way hey!"

All this took only 90 minutes... there is still an afternoon of naps, crafts and dinner (where L will eat the veggies and not the meat and N the opposite). Yippee!