The M&M Story

I love that my children are their own unique persons. I love the way they look at the world.  I love the way they make connections and observations about people and ideas. But sometimes...well, many times....I tend to open mouth, insert my fist or my foot or whatever large piece of furniture is in reach, and am humbled greatly by their tender words. For Brian's birthday every year, we typically go out to dinner or engage in a family activity that he would choose to do.  Bowling, pizza at Dewey's, steak and Rocky Road ice cream at home. This year we went to Fitz's for root beer floats. As we perused the menu, Max piped up, "Mom, I'll have a quadzilla, please." Ahh...too cute.  I laughed.  Out loud.  It sort of escaped the filter I try so desperately to employ. Max, confused by my response, immediately said,   " Mom! Why are you laughing?  All I said was, I would like a quadzilla, please." Trying sooo hard not to keep laughing, I replied, &qu

As I little girl, I loved....wait....repeat in all caps....LOVED watching the yearly Christmas specials on television.  Right after Thanksgiving, I poured over the weekly TV guide (remember the paper version?), highlighting all my favorites.  There was The Year Without a Santa Claus .  I was definitely Team Heat Mizer.  Cold Mizer had the chill and the height, but Heat, he had the sass.  Then there was Rudolph and Charlie Brown and Frosty and the Grinch. Loooved the Grinch in all his humor and grinchiness. I marked each and every one on my mother's calendar, happily anticipating several evenings of laughter, hot chocolate, and blissful escapes to chilly claymation wonderlands.  But in all my giggly girlhood, there was always one that rather rocked my world. That little drummer boy. I think every emotion pulsed through my eight...nine...ten year old self as I watched this 22 minutes year after year.  Fear. Laughter. Joy. Tears. Those evil bandits. The persevering drummer boy. Th

Most nights when we sit down together for dinner, we reflect on our day by naming our A and our Z.   A couple of years ago when we were visiting my college roommate and family, we were introduced to this idea.  I think their family called it Hi/Lo. My boys renamed it at some point to A and Z. Recently, my sweet Briggs explained his Z.     "My Z is that I almost cried in class today.  We were watching Ramona.  She ran away and when her family saw her again, I had to hold my cry inside. I didn't want to cry in front of my friends."  As he finished saying the word friends, he burst into tears.      Fighting back my own tears at his sweet story, I responded: "You don't need to hold the cry inside anymore. It's always okay to cry at home."  He nodded between sobs and crawled into my lap. I wanted to hug away all his pain.  "Feel better?"      As his cry tapered off, "Yes, much, much better."

I think I'm just beginning to breathe again. Another start of the school year.  August?  Gone with the wind. September? Washed out to sea. October?  Thank God you are here, but don't run away too fast!! I just pulled out my pumpkin candle yesterday.  I need a little time to enjoy it before we are singing Christmas carols and sipping hot chocolate. So much has happened in the last two months.  I'll reflect and write about it later.  But before I forget, there are a couple little conversations with the boys that deserve some screen time. M:  Mom, what color is an omelette? Me:  Well, it's typically white on the outside, or maybe a light yellow. M:  No, the kind of omelette you wear around your neck. Me:  Do you mean an amulet? M:  Oh, that's it. B: Mom, why is it bad to point your middle finger at someone? Me: Well, it's a gesture that says to someone that they are stupid or that you hate them. (The best analogy for a 7 year old.) B:  But what's a

I've never been one to stringently follow the rules or conform too much to the next best thing.  Sure, there have been moments when someone says go right and I head left and oops, maybe I should have gone right. And there was that time in 7th grade when all the girls had these wedge shoes called Yo-Yo's, and my mother wouldn't buy them for me. But for the most part, the freedom to create or invent or re-arrange has blessed my life immensely. Mosaic art has been around for centuries. It was the Ancient Greeks that took it to the next level and raised it to an art form. They used the pebble technique with precise geometric patterns to create detailed scenes of people and animals. The styles and skills evolved through the years, but the art of making mosaic has generally stayed the same. Small pieces of glass, tile, stone arranged together to create a picture or design or pattern. Each piece being important to the whole design. Several summers ago, I was in a small group t

Watermelon is sliced and served on the back patio. Max:  "Watermelon is my paradise."

'Tis the season.  Ceremonies, parties, dresses, gifts, diplomas, celebrations.  This spring I attended a high school graduation (professional) and a grad school graduation (personal--but not me.  My sweet hubby.)  I loved hearing the clickety-click of high heels as young girls, soon to be women, dashed down the hall to their place in line, hand grasping their cap.  I loved watching big boys, soon to be men, walk across the stage and nonchalantly glance around the room to find mom and dad. So much joy in the accomplishment. A milestone reached. The end of a season, so to speak. But now what?  Graduation may well be an end of season, but in many ways, it is just the beginning. Excitement.  Anticipation.  Expectation. And the beginning of anything isn't easy.  It takes perseverance, boldness, and strength.  It takes creativity, tenacity, and endless, consistent prayer. It takes patience and lots of breathing exercises to keep from hyperventilating and drinking at least o