On remembrance

My aunt's funeral was today. It wasn't a traumatic event for me or the kids; she'd been quite sick for a while so it wasn't a surprise; I hadn't seen her in years besides. She and my uncle, my dad's brother, lived 4-5 hours away--it wasn't any family issues, just modern life and distance.
Distance, and not just geographical, creates a different dynamic for the events at hand. As my daily life is going to be rather unchanged, my mind goes other places. Metaphorical distance allows for more introspection, more generalities. I think of other funerals, other cemeteries, other memorials.

I think of my father and siblings who some years, like this one, don't have grave blankets. Yes, I had a new baby, and we didn't have a car that would transport the whole family until he was over a month old, but we still could have traveled in two--it's not that far. It's 19 years that my dad's been gone, 44 for Mark, and 36 for Heidi. It's so very difficult for me to go to the cemetery. It's a mess of guilt that I have these six healthy children and others don't, it's the memory of guilt of not going more frequently. Denial is pretty strong--"It won't happen to me!"

It's also the very clear memory of the pain of loss. Among the shiny mylar balloons still lofting with the helium, the headstones with toys unfaded by the sun, are other headstones without. I'm sure there are some where nobody has trimmed with clippers or knelt to say a prayer in decades. The child was laid to rest and shortly afterward, a job transfer took the family out of state. Who knows if that child had siblings, or if their parents are still alive? Is there anyone to remember these little ones?
Then there are those who don't have headstones at all. I recall Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy and JFK Jr. were cremated and their ashes scattered at sea. Where does his sister go to mourn? Equally everywhere translates to my mind as nowhere, and that thought fills me with more horror than I can articulate. I can understand the practical sentiments toward dead celebrities, I suppose; how long to keep the flowers? What to do with all of them that fans bring? That is temporary, though. You can cite the visitors to Elvis' or Marilyn Monroe's gravesites, but I don't think Oscar Wilde's is as overrun as it may once have been.
So tomorrow I'll wake up and take the troops for the little guy's four-month well-child checkup. I'll give the spelling tests that should have happened today, they'll catch up on their math. Laundry and dishes and vacuuming and diapers. I think I'll dedicate tomorrow's work to those who have nobody who remembers them. Maybe one of them will become a saint. At least one person whose real name isn't recorded is; that's a whole 'nother post.

Is this thing still on?

I get posts wandering around in my head--really profound, thoughtful ones that I could expound on at my beloved husband/captive audience for an extended car ride, like my dad used to do to me--and then I hear screaming, splashing, or suspicious silence. None of those are good.
Then they evaporate and I can't even come up with a status update.
They're meaty ones, too. Like the trail of irresponsibility going back to the Lambeth Conference in 1930 to the Occupy movement of last fall, as exemplified in the mediocritization of our public schools, the decline in general morals and self-control, the creeping acceptance of abortion as the nadir of abdication of responsibility, the pinnacle of societal goals being to take it easy instead of betterment of self or society, the tragedy of the American divorce rate due to selfishness on the part of parents who then transfer that belief onto their children who end up eating vegan salads in tents and pooping on police cars...
Yeah. See?

So is it worth it?

Sometimes I'm really, really bad.

Not "eat a whole cake" bad. Bad-wife-and-mother bad.

I will throw my beloved husband's clean clothes--that *I* washed, dried, and carried up in the hamper--right on the floor. Why? To beat him to it. If I leave them on the bed, hoping he'll take the time and initiative to put them away, he will simply shift them from the bed to the floor. Why did I put them on the bed in the first place? Because I have at least three other people's laundry to put away--Elizabeth's, Tommy's, and my own. I still have to sort and fold Lou's, then hand him each pile with specific instructions: "Put this in your pants drawer." I assume my loving, otherwise-attentive, intelligent husband will respect my time and energy and put his own clothes away.

I will not clean up after my older kids. I will let their rooms get almost dangerously impassable in their floor clutter of laundry, books, toys, and various other items before I harangue them to clean it up. I will not remind them to bring down their laundry for weeks, until they run out of weather-appropriate clothes. Then I will leave them to stew in their frostbite or sunstroke, waiting for the realization of "Maybe if I put my clothes where Mom will wash them, I wouldn't suffer like this." It doesn't happen.

It's a good thing they obey the rule of "No food in the bedrooms" or we'd have more ants than an African tree up there.

Right now there is a shirt with pasta sauce on it on the floor of the girls' room, along with the past 3 days' worth of socks, underwear, and other apparel. The shirt went there at the end of lunch today. I'm debating letting it stay until one of the following: a) it starts to stink, b) she notices, c) it comes down on its own. It probably won't get that far but that's where I am today.

I leave their clothes on the floor of the bathroom until it has more than their closet. They will stay there even when the perpetrator has to dig through them to get the shoes on the bottom of the pile. Nowhere will it cross the child's mind to get rid of the pile, nor will the child who tidies the bathroom address it.

Why? This is the really hard part. They don't see it. Well, yes, their eyes take them in, but those things don't register. They really don't.

I remember the commercial where there was a laundry basket floating down a flight of stairs, a broom whisking across a floor by itself, that kind of thing. The idea was the person (mother) doing those tasks was invisible. Sometimes I feel silent too, for as often as my words are ignored. It doesn't matter if I'm answering a question, either. I may as well be just moving my lips.

I just had to get that rant out of my system. Thomas needs to be fed.

At least *he* appreciates what I do.

This sounds like my grandma.

I mean that.

Remember this?

I know EXACTLY what that daughter is going through.

Here's all of us.

The kids are finally asleep. Madeleine got everything she wanted--even the Kit Kittredge movie she forgot to ask Santa for. Dale's first words on his LEGO Swamp Raid set were, "What I always wanted! What I always wanted!" He did insist on getting out the LEGO Harbor set as well as watching Wall-E later. Rachel was agog with the Disney Princess Shimmer Set--seven dolls, including another Sleeping Beauty. Louie loved the squishy trucks, but he's going to need some time for the Bristle Blocks.

We arrived late to Mass because of yesterday's weather--melt, refreeze into tractionless ice. Our very generous neighbor "boy" (he's now 23) pushed us out with his truck. I was reminded of what a gift every Mass is.

I was the last one into the house upon return and I wondered what I smelled when I got into the yard. "Oh, that's our turkey!" If I do say so myself, I outdid myself on it this year and everything was delicious.

It was a merry Christmas.

Two neighborhood stalwarts you don't think of.

When we first moved to this house, I was emphatically distrustful of the neighborhood. You see, it's in my home town and it's in the "wrong" end. I knew it was a "bad neighborhood." Then I heard of someone who was afraid to have Netflix for fear they'd take them out of the mailbox, and I realized we're not that bad off.
To be honest, it's not perfect. There are more rental houses than I'd like, and they are not always occupied. I've learned, though, that there are perfectly good reasons to rent homes and not all renters do thousands of dollars of damage before the eviction is final.
Then I started meeting some people. I heard the boy across the street admonish his friends for swearing loud enough for me to hear it. Another family was quite friendly; their sons sure had enough friends in the yard on a regular basis.
We have boys who come around and offer to cut our grass or rake our leaves. In the winter, they come to shovel our snow. I don't remember much of that in my "old" neighborhood; I posit the kids were all well-compensated by their parents and didn't have to resort to their own initiative for some cash.

Then there's Bob. Bob is our mailman. He knows my kids. Maybe not their names, but then again, as often as Neema sends them letters, he probably does. Get this--he holds them until he has all three and then delivers them. It's easier for him to hold them in his truck, frankly; it spares me of hearing, "When is mine going to get here?"
Another neighbor has derided him as a gossip; she doesn't like her mail arriving as late in the afternoon as it does because he's jawing with someone on the route. I don't care. He knows who belongs where and could bring my children home if they were out wandering without permission. When you think about all the things your mailman knows about you from the return addresses, you want to get along with him. Add to that the fact that he knows that same stuff about your neighbors, and how often he's walking around your neighborhood... he's a fixture you don't notice. He told me he's called the cops on guys he knew didn't belong.
I want a mailman who's a gossip.

Another person you don't think of as "neighborhood" is, strangely enough, the ice cream man. Ours is Mr. Z. You don't think about it, but he has his set route and again, he knows who goes with whom and where they belong. I've seen this guy sell $1 worth of ice cream for $.75, because that way the two kids could each have their own. He carries dog biscuits in his truck and he's a regular in the late afternoon, almost evening. You know, just before dinner? My kids are trained to put theirs right in the freezer and they don't have long to wait. It's wonderful. He waves to my kids on days we don't buy, besides.
Earlier this week, we were out for a walk when he was coming around. Another neighbor and I were chatting, her from her van and me from the sidewalk. A man we'd never met before was in front of a house with his (I later learned) niece. This unfamiliar man offered to buy ice cream for all of the kids, a total of five.
Since he was buying from the trusted Mr. Z, I was okay with this, but I did later go over and introduce myself. I filed it away as Something to Tell Daddy.
Today, when Mr. Z came around, the kids had money from Neema so we saw him again.
"Do you know that guy from Tuesday?" he asked.
"Never saw him before in my life. That was a little...." I made a squinty look. "Wasn't it?"
"Yeah, it was funny. He's only been there about a week and a half."
I know Mr. Z doesn't have kids of his own and he works at the local schools--a substitute teacher and coach. It was reassuring for me to know I wasn't the one that was off by a stranger buying my kids ice cream.

This has turned into a longer post than I thought it would. I just am grateful to be back to normal, with everyone home and breathing... and eating ice cream.

How does our garden grow?

I've had a "temporary" attitude about this house we've been living in for seven years. I haven't measured the kids against the wall, recording their heights at each birthday. I've been reluctant to plant anything in the fall with the idea that we won't be around in the spring to see it bloom.

Well, with the housing market in shambles, one good thing to come out of it is a sea change in my mentality. Looks like we're going to be here a while; may as well make it how we want it.

I'm thinking garden in the back yard. We don't have much space but the kids are mostly outgrowing the toys out there; the need for something neat to investigate is starting to be felt. A neighbor growing up had wild grapes along the fence line; that was Dagobah for our Star Wars figures. The nearby raspberries were pretty good, too.

Now, the stipulations. We don't need to grow for food, but I have no problem with it. I don't want anything that requires daily maintenance--every other day would be better. My experience is bulbs--dig holes, put them in pointy-end up, cover, and wait. I can handle something a little more complex than that, but not much. We have plenty of sun out there as well.

I don't want anything that's going to take an enormous amount of space, like pumpkin vines. Climbing roses without a trellis become almost as vicious as the plant in Little Shop of Horrors, so I'd just as soon skip that. I'm not looking for a corn field, either; more something the kids can watch and weed. Rewards to the stomach a bonus.

So, Gentle Readers, what should we put in our back yard?

Whew! That week was a doozy.

Do you want to hear about it? Nothing traumatic happened, it just was really busy.

It started somewhere around July 17, actually. The dog was having digestive troubles. I thought it was the treats but it didn't resolve itself. Friday night, the 18, she didn't finish all of her food--very unlike her.
Saturday, July 19--Daddy and Dale take the dog to the vet's while I take Madeleine, Rachel, and Louie out to the dance studio. Madeleine's routine had been selected to perform in a local festival and the rehearsal was the day before.
That afternoon, we went to Mass because we had plans for Sunday.

Sunday, July 20--We all went to see Kitt Kittredge for the matinee, where we all got in for $4. Had lunch and home and then took off to the aforementioned festival for Madeleine's dance.

Monday, July 21--I got to load up the troops and take Lucy the Wonderdumb for a recheck at the vet's. Whatever oddity she had eaten had been blown out by the high-fiber dog food, as we saw in the second set of X-rays.
I was going to take them all grocery shopping (yes, I've done it before) but before I had completely summoned the energy, my mother landed on the doorstep by surprise. She watched the troops while I made a strafing run to the grocery store alone.
At bedtime, Madeleine complained of an earache. Ibuprofen and a mental note to call the doc's in the morning.

Tuesday, July 22--Playdate for (mostly) Madeleine. First time at the other house, so we all stuck around. The other mom and I are friends, too, so hanging out chatting with her wasn't a bad thing at all.
That afternoon, it's to the doc for an amoxycillin prescription.

Wednesday, July 23--Our first orthodontist appointment! Seems Madeleine has some crowding that our regular dentist recommended a specialist check out. We're taking a wait-and-see approach until more of her adult teeth come in. He doesn't charge anything until treatment actually starts, which is nice to the checkbook.
Then, crazy woman that I am, we went to Park Day.

Thursday July 24--Finally, nothing during the day. The chair of our parish moms' group called that evening, though, to see if I was going to make the meeting. Since Daddy heard the message, he did what all loving husbands do when their wife has been running like a rat in a trap all week: he threw me out, tossed the car keys through a window, and told me, "Don't come back before ten."
Okay, it wasn't quite that obvious, but it's close.

Friday, July 25--We attended Daddy's work picnic at a metro park. There was a lake and waterpark so bathing suits were involved. At least there was plenty of food there so I got out of fixing dinner.
Oh, and we cleaned out our "corral." It's part of our yard completely surrounded by privacy fence. Without a garage, that's where our bikes, snowblower, and other stuff are kept. We're going to ask the guys who are repairing the sidewalks around here to pour in there as well.

Saturday, July 26--This was exciting. A local Catholic media station was having open auditions for a new show, called The Other View. Yes, it's what it sounds like--an answer to Barbara et al. I was one of 22 trying out for five spots; we'll find out on Tuesday about callbacks. Heather was trying out too, so keep us in your prayers.
Former neighbor Joe came over while I was gone and he and Dale put in the forms to finish the job for the concrete. All of the kids were home--I'd managed to put enough milk in the freezer that Daddy even kept Lou while I was at the audition.

Today, July 27, Daddy let me sleep in. We met a friend of his over in Ontario (with the kids) for a debate and lunch, then went to Mass after dinner.

Are you exhausted? I'm tired just typing it. I have nothing planned this week. Zip, zilch, nada. Finally.

Well, tomorrow I'll go grocery shopping with four children under seven. But now, it's old hat.

Do you know deadly nightshade?

A friend found out the hard way. Not as hard as could have been, thanks to merciful God. Check out the pictures here.

Spring has sprung.

Ever have one of those days where you actually get most, if not all, of your chores done? And the kids avoid fighting all day and none have a tantrum? And the baby does not have a blowout in his diaper? And your husband gets home on time and later goes out to get you an ice cream sandwich and brings home two gallons of milk? And the weather complies to get everyone outside? And later the baby is willing to sleep in his crib for hours while you finish those last-minute things like blogging?

Yeah, they really happen. We had one today.

I hung my first (and second) load of clothes on the line today. The kids played outside while I did, mostly; Lou supervised me quite merrily.

We had our first Park Day for the season and there were lots of kids there! Sunny and upper 60's and breezy. Nobody got really sunburned, either. It was gorgeous and the kids all got along. I need to start getting portable snacks again, as well as the juice boxes.

When departure time came, they all cooperatively moseyed back to the minivan toting their respective parcels--Madeleine had my chair and Dale, the water bottles. I had Lou and the diaper bag, after all.
A change in the weekly menu necessitated a trip to Meijer on the way home where all three of them stayed within five feet of me or the cart. I had promised them candy, after all; they knew I meant it.

Nobody argued about watching The Princess Bride when we got home, but Rachel fell asleep during it. Afterward, though, she was quite amenable to taking a walk with Grandma. They were so good that, when Daddy got home and the ice cream truck was coming, I ran outside with $5. I took his coffee mugs and sent him off with the kids.

Lou has started going longer between feedings, freeing me up to get back into my own rhythm. I got the meat loaf made and in the oven while he entertained (was entertained by?) Grandma.

Like I said, those days happen. I wanted documentation so I can remember it.

Wonderful Grandma

I'll admit I have ambivalent feelings about my mother. She's a much more affectionate, fun, loving grandmother than I remember her being as a mother. I suppose that's okay, the burden is off of her. I try to remind myself it's like the moonlight--her love for me, while not directed at me, is reflected in her absolute adoration of her grandkids. And my husband reminds me that I'd rather she show them than me; it's that mother/sacrificial thing. It helps.

But there are times when her love and understanding of my situation come shining right through. One example is Sunday, chaufferring the big two to Mass. She's also come over weekly for dinner and stayed with Rachel while I took the others to swim class. More than once she's shown up right after lunch, instead of 4:00, by surprise. These have just coincidentally been bad days. What does she do? Take charge of lunch and shoo me off to a shower or nap. Nice days, she'll take them for a walk and let me stay home and catch up on chores or just enjoy the quiet. Mom had three kids, the oldest was 26 months old. She has an idea of how isolating, how mind-numbing it can be some days.

So today, when she dropped by just after 4, I wasn't terribly shocked to see her. We'd visited SuperShelly for lunch and stayed to chat and let the kids play, but I was still missing the sunshine. Her words before she took off her scarf were, "Have you taken them for a walk yet today?"
"No, but I will now!" I knew she meant to stay with Louie and let the rest of us out. And what a walk it was, cold and clear and refreshing. I thanked her before we left.
"You've said that three times already," she chuckled.
I thought for a second. "Mom, if someone you knew and trusted had just dropped by on a day like this, when your son was five or six months old, and said, 'Why don't you go for a walk with the girls and I'll stay with him?' what would you have done?"
"I'd probably still be thanking them."
Exactly.

Because I can watch and nurse

Just some quickies about television.
I've started watching Miss America: Reality Check. I remember watching the pageant back in the day with my mother and sister. We'd each choose a favorite or two to "root" for, besides our own Miss Michigan, of course. We'd admire the hair, dresses, and talents. I haven't watched in years, though.
Well, watching the TLC propaganda has me thinking. Holy cow, I would so not fit in with those women. Leave aside the fact I'm at least twelve years older than they; I don't think I've spent that much time on my hair and makeup in my whole life than any one of them have in a single episode.

I happened to catch an advertisement My Big Fat Redneck Wedding, too. I'll admit to attending one where the groomsmen all wore John Deere hats at the reception (Dale's side). I've been to a wedding reception at a park where the meal was Tubby's six-foot party subs, the bar was a new trash can full of ice and beer cans, and the band was a boom box (my side--and I'm not kidding).
This one on TV, though, had all of the groomsmen in camouflage. I'm not sure if this is worse or better.

My mother and her grandkids

In cleaning off the washer today (which is where everything that comes off the table gets put at mealtime), I found a stack of cardboard shapes. Circles, oval, square, rectangle, triangles... Where did these come from, I wondered.
My son told me. "Look at the shapes we made with Grandma yesterday," he said. I had taken Madeleine to swim class and she looked after the younger two.

A couple weeks ago, she babysat while I went to my OB appointment. When I came home, they were sitting around the kitchen table playing Candyland.
"It was Madeleine's idea," my mother told me. "I told her that she'd have to teach me how to play, but it was pretty easy."

Why do simple cardboard shapes and games of Candyland make me want to cry?

My apologies...

I got tagged for this some time back and just now am getting to doing it. Last weekend we were relatively offline, visiting the in-laws and attending the last of three reunions (Dale's high school--I think he already posted how many years it's been).

So I didn't see it until Tuesday, and... Whatever. Get to the dirt, right? Here goes.

Where did you meet your husband? We were introduced by one of his fraternity brothers whom I happened to be dating at the time outside of one of the computer labs. The introducer was back after Christmas break to pack up his stuff after flunking out. We broke up by Valentine's Day. One of my wiser dating decisions, that breakup...

What was the first thing you said to your husband? Probably something like "Hello." Remember, my then-boyfriend was right there.

Where was the first kiss? first date? First date actually came first, and that's kind of subjective. We'd been spending time together for about a year while the long-distance relationship I was in finished its death throes. His already had. The first time I wore makeup and actually gave some thought to what I was wearing, we went to a Tigers game. First kiss came probably two months later, on a Sunday afternoon walk at the end of our college's homecoming weekend. We'd climbed a small hill to better see the sunset. And yes, to complete your nausea, it did make me a little wobbly-kneed.

Did you have a long or short courtship/engagement? Well, we courted for two and a half years before he proposed. That seems long (like forever), but I've heard of longer. His grandmother asked to see my hands when she found out. "You've had your fingers crossed for that for so long, I was sure they'd be mangled." The engagement was pretty normal, I think--a year and a half.

Where did you get engaged? Define "engaged." He proposed while we were sitting on the couch of his apartment during the first intermission of a Red Wings playoff game. He missed Don Cherry to pop the question, which is really meaningful to those who don't know hockey. He gave me the ring a number of months later (the jeweler did layaway but not credit) on the beach in Port Austin the day of my sister's first baby shower.

Where did you get married? At the church I grew up attending, where we still go, where all of our kids have been baptized, where my mom chairs the bingo... It's like Cheers sometimes. I have my moments where I'm a traditional kind of girl.

How did the reception go? The food was great, even the videographer seemed to have a good time despite working, and the DJ was forgettable--how he's supposed to be. We knew our families and plied them with hors d'oevres before the main meal--had to have something to absorb the open bar. My uncle thought they were the dinner they were so good. I have to take his word for it. We were off for more pictures.

They're on the video, though.

How was the honeymoon? We were the only guests at the rental cabins on Lake Huron in Port Austin in October. It was wonderful. It got paid for with the cash we'd received in cards at the reception. We left on a Sunday; how were we supposed to put it in the bank?

That was fun. I tag Mama, SFO Mom, and Diane (even though I think I know most of her answers). And apologies if you've already done this one.

We're back now.

It was a rainy, cool weekend in the Northlands for Dale's family reunion.
No fights, no arguments (that I saw).
Just conversations, card-playing, and kids playing in the lake. Do they have internal thermometers that tell them 75 degrees is really too cold? Yeesh. And three of the kids were mine.

Anyway. Regular posting will resume, and I'll try to be more normal than weird. Oh, the stories some could tell. Some are more interesting than my moral lapses.

Motherhood tricks I've learned

Maybe "tricks" isn't the right word. More "practices to make it easier."

1. Decorate the front of little girl's underwear when they start dressing themselves. Fabric paint only costs a dollar, you can make whatever designs you want (flowers, hearts, ABC's, numbers, her name, etc.), and it will make your life easier. Or at least hers more comfortable.

2. Quartering oranges means everyone gets to eat them. My kids have loved fruit forever; I remember Madeleine crawling over, pulling herself up on my knee, and looking at me expectantly whenever I sat down to peel an orange. Citrus and bananas were the only fruit I peeled (and I know people who peel everything--apples, peaches, even pears and sandwiches) but it was time-consuming. If more than one orange had to be peeled, I was going without lunch. Then Shelly told me off-hand, "I don't even do that. I just cut them in quarters."
Much better.

3. Zipper lingerie bags for socks are lifesavers. Who wants to think about tiny missing socks in the washer? Or remove safety pins from pairs, which doesn't stop you from losing them either?

4. Start them young on sunscreen. They fight it much less if it's something that's always been done. Mine are completely blissfully ignorant of sunburn and I like it that way. If they make it to double-digits intact that way, I'll have done something right.

5. Freezer pops are wonderful things. They work to soothe a bonked mouth, a lost tooth, another imagined injury... And they're really nice distractions on hot days half an hour before supper. They won't fill them up.

Oh, and we had the ultrasound today. All is well, though the doc said the little one is measuring about a week ahead. But my bloodwork and pictures came through just fine.
Dale III is over the moon with all of the results.

Reunions, reunions everywhere...

And only one is mine.

This month, we're heading back to the Northlands for Dale's family reunion. His parents are hosting it and his family is pretty un-stuffy and un-competitive. It's convenient (we can stay right down the road again), it's with good people, it's another opportunity to relax up there.
When I say "uncompetitive," that's a good thing.
Example: My grandmother and her sister both had grandchildren born the same day--I was one, the other was a boy. When I was not yet two, so my mom tells me, they all happened to be together. Grandma took me on her lap and put me through my paces: Heather, what's your address? Your phone number? Can you tell me your ABC's? What's your whole name?
I innocently answered all her questions. Aunt Margaret's grandson, sitting in his grandma's lap next to me, knew none of those. That's what I come from.

I'll get to deal with my own family Labor Day weekend, but mostly the competitive ones have died off. The stress, I suppose. At least the drive is short so we can escape easily; not really necessary with the in-laws.

Then next month we have Dale's high school class reunion in his home town. We'll be headed up again for that, though the kids will stay with Neema and Papa. I have no idea what to wear or if anything I currently own will both fit and be weather-appropriate.
I'll say, though, that I'll probably see more people I want to talk to than I will at my own two years from now. That's a good thing, right?

The Farm

Dale said he thinks I like the farm better than the kids, and he may be right. Since it's my blog, I'll share the whole story.

A couple years back, we had stopped for gas on the way home and I saw the ad on a bench for Aunt Tude's Farm. It looked like something the kids would like and I made a mental note to try again the next time we were up.

We did. We stumbled on to what is going to be an annual tradition if I have my way. For my city kids, this is something completely different. All of them have a wonderful time; even Rachel got the idea of opening her hand to feed the animals.

This farm provides an opportunity to:
1. Bottle-feed baby animals (goat, lamb, or last year a piglet)
2. Hold a chick or duckling
3. Milk a cow. Really.
4. Throw a cob of corn to a pig
5. Horse-drawn hay ride around the farm
6. Hand-feed goats, sheep, and llamas
7. Tube-feed a donkey (drop food down a pipe. Donkeys bite.)
8. Throw corn to chickens, ducks, geese, and peacocks
9. See an ostrich; compare her egg to a chicken's
10. Collect said chicken's egg for a prize
11. Have a pony ride
12. Hold a kitten, or last year really little puppies
13. Ride kid-sized pedal tractors
14. Swing from a rope inside the barn (like Fern and Avery)
15. Crawl through a hay-bale maze

All for $5 a child, $4 adults as much as you can stand. They have a picnic area and encourage you to move the tables into or out of the sun as you wish. The only things they sell are cans of pop, so you'll want to bring your own meal. But there are no souvenirs to deny begging children and that's on purpose.
For the fastidious (or maybe just sane), they have the Purell hand sanitizer dispensers about every 30-40 feet and they provide wipes in your bucket. And you may wish to bring quarters for the additional food dispensers by the sheep, llamas, and goats.

Where is this Eden? On Chappel Dam Road, north of M-61 west of Gladwin. If you're within an hour's drive or so, or really interested, it's well worth the trip. Watch your timing, though, as it's open Fri/Sat/Sun and not 7 days. Aunt Tude's listed under "zoos" in the local phone book, but don't let it fool you. It's a real farm--right down to the smell.

On Memorial Day

My dad loved movies. He'd go weekly as a kid, even if he'd seen it before. As an adult, he wouldn't pick up a newspaper to see what was showing; he would go to the theater and choose from there. Good, bad, indifferent, unremarkable, Oscar winners and Razzie winners--he saw them.
He grew up in a different time. My mother, two years younger, remembers going on her own to the butcher shop with her ration coupons for pork chops. She tells of taking her younger brother without a parent to the Tigers game, riding in the streetcar. It doesn't surprise me that my dad went to the movies a lot. How exactly he got in, whether sneaking or paying, is the question.
He and my brother had a game. In the weekly TV book, where the movies being shown were listed, Lou would read Dad the title. Dad could give him the year it came out, the main stars, and usually a plot summary for just about anything between 1930 and 1965, and for most films after that.
Born July 12, 1935, and going to the movies as soon as he could find his way there, he saw the newsreels as well. He saw the brave paratroopers saving our allies in France, our patriotic soldiers taking the beaches in Normandy. He knew he wanted to grow up and be in the Airborne, "jumping out of perfectly good airplanes" to save those on the ground.

He graduated from high school (the first in his family) in 1953. No jobs were to be found and his academic record wasn't college acceptable. He joined the Army in December 1954, I think; he told me once he'd wanted to be away from home on Christmas but had been granted leave. That might have been his second hitch, however.
But he made sergeant in record time and did make it to the Airborne. The first time in his life it mattered that he was Catholic was there; his commanding officer would round up all of the Catholics the night before each jump for confession and mass. He got out of the Airborne when he started having to pack his own 'chute--he felt that was something he'd rather leave to the experts. He even taught us kids the gesture for "company assemble"--paratroopers couldn't use verbal communication; sneaking around behind enemy lines meant silence. He'd put his right hand straight up, close his fist, and drop it to his shoulder. I still want to use that instinctively with my own kids.
His unit--if that's the proper term--no longer exists; it got folded into another after he got out. I suppose if there's any military historian out there who might know which unit he may have been in, I'd appreciate that.

Though he didn't die in action, he was in the service for two distinct hitches. Happy Memorial Day, Dad.

Grandparents License

On the last plain Friday of Lent, my mother came over around quarter after five with a couple of fish sandwiches from a local fast food place. Seems she had brought one over some time prior, and had discovered she and her grandson shared a fondness for them. She had promised to bring him another before Easter.
"At what time?" you ask again. Yes, about 45 minutes before supper was to be on the table.
"But I promised him," she said plaintively.
I threw up my hands. "They can have it, but cut in quarters. Nobody gets more than two pieces!"
He wouldn't have known the difference, I thought in a growl. But Grandma would have.

She comes over for dinner weekly; in nice weather, she takes the kids for a walk so I get a moment to myself. I really appreciated this until... I went with them.
She let them run up and down the ramp of one house. The gentleman in a wheelchair has passed away and the new residents have taken it down, but when it was there, she let them. Another house has a bench swing in front; she'd let them go on that, too. "If they didn't want it to happen, they'd have it in the back yard," she reasoned to me. They've since moved it and it bumps into the house, so we've agreed to stop the kids from swinging.
Now, the lady with the bird bath has told me she specifically cleans it out for my kids, which means she really doesn't mind them playing in it. The folks with the foot-shaped-stone path have kids themselves, so they aren't bothered by mine jumping from one to the next despite it being right under their kitchen window.

I know my mother wouldn't have let us, her own children, do these things. I am as certain as I am the sun will rise in the east tomorrow morning. What is the difference?

They're grandkids, not her own children. It's the sentiment behind, "If I'd known they were more fun, I'd have had grandchildren first." It's all of the fun, none of the pressure. She gets to give them back.

I'm certain my kids watched more TV and and ate more junk food this past weekend than they would have if I hadn't been hospitalized. Did they burst into flame, get sick, turn into criminals? No. They enjoyed a weekend being spoiled while my in-laws did their darndest to keep them distracted and happy.

This isn't like letting a diabetic child eat an entire Hershey bar, mind you. It's the normal indulgence of relaxing the rules, not having to be the role model and responsible party all of the time. I've come to the conclusion it's what grandparents are supposed to do. And boy, am I looking forward to my turn!