famous last words

The Lord has blessed our region with abundant rainfall the past few days, bringing relief to parched land (and fried senses). Temperatures in the 90s are a welcome reprieve from day after day (after day after day, and into the nighttime hours) of daytime highs upwards of 110 degrees.

With all this rain, it's mud season revisited.

Standing at the window watching the rain (for which we are so grateful), the lads can barely contain themselves and their desire to get out there and play in the rain. I can understand that. I also know, though, that the deluged planter boxes with what was our vegetable garden before the heat spell scorched it now thick with mud will prove too tempting to lads who claim they only want to go outside to wash their dirty, dusty trucks. As I was not in a position to clean up a huge muddy mess this morning, their request was denied, with empathy.

They promised they wouldn't get in the mud, which I believe was sincere. Such a promise is no match for the kind of mud we're dealing with, though. It's the stuff of mythical monster truck rallies.

Acknowledging their disappointment but holding my ground, I tried to offer some equally enticing indoor activity ideas, such as putting their clean laundry away.

(I'm a kill-joy, remember, but the elder lad at least did oblige.)

In a last-ditch effort to obtain the elusive permission by promising (again) to stay away from the mud, the elder lad made one final appeal.

"You can trust me. I'm a six-year-old."

Epilogue: The bambini reveled in the soggy sandbox at my beloved's parents' house this afternoon while I went to get a haircut.  When we got home (and with my permission), they practically ran straight from the garage to the back door to their happy little mud hole.  Just as I expected -- and just as it should be, they were soon covered in enough goo to warrant the moniker "mud bugs" when they came in.  They knew to head straight for the laundry room, then the shower. 

And every day the elder lad is growing in trustworthiness, becoming more and more of a "big kid."

fabulous four

Our redheaded younger lad is four today.  We've had a "blast" celebrating our little astronaut, as he has chosen an outer space theme for the festivities.  In honor of his four years on this planet, here are a quartet of four-isms that I hope serve as a verbal snapshot of our younger young squire these days...

The lad is (among other things)

generous
thoughtful
considerate
gentle

fun-loving
adventure-seeking
height-defying
dirt-a-flying

easy-going
hardly-ever-slowing
curve-ball-throwing
"I love you" sign-showing

handy
dandy
amicable
lovable*

*which we do, with all of our hearts

May the peace of Christ always dwell within you, dear lad, and may the love of Christ always pour forth from your soulful eyes, your sunlit smile, and your tender heart.

an ode to dirt

What can separate two lads from their love of dirt?

Neither heat nor chill,
snow nor rain,
food nor drink,
sniffles nor splinters,
twilight nor darkness.

No.

For what are such concerns
when there are roads to grade,
worms to examine,
and wheelbarrows to fill?

Though they be bundled from head to toe,
and the knees of their pants split open,
their love of dirt will prevail.

It shall not pass away.

mud season

Temperatures in the deep freeze two weeks ago have given rise to those in the 70s and even 80s this past week. The blanket of snow has melted, ushering in mud season (a la Toot & Puddle).

boots necessary (preferably ones that aren't cracked after serving as brakes while riding plasma cars)

As if my laundry pile weren't already formidable, now it is reeling from a few afternoons of lads (and lass) gleefully cavorting in the goo.

lassies like boots, too (and leggings).

In mud's defense, I'll allow that, in addition to its unmatched sensory satisfaction, mud also makes for good brother bonding.

And while it means more challenging laundry, I'm grateful for sunshine, warmer temperatures, and the lovely rainbow my muddy lass drew on my muddy porch:

 But I won't be sorry to see the mud dry out... 

civics lesson

Are votes marked by a five year old giddy at the idea of using "a marker that stains" at his mother's direction still valid?   Let's hope so.

I fulfilled my civic duty this election day with four little helpers in tow (which attracted the usual marveling) -- the littlest one in a sling, the middle two in our double stroller (though one made his escape), and the eldest pushing the rig. 

The prospect of seeing the sea foam green vintage charter bus with the name "Patsy" displayed in its destination marquee parked on the lawn adjacent to the church that served as our polling place with a "for sale" sign in its window piqued the collective curiosity in the Bambini Ride (she wasn't there, though).  After an explanation of the term "polling place" and why it was a church (but not ours) and a probably inadequate reasoning for this whole voting business, we unloaded and went in...

They did pretty well with the short wait, as they have when I've taken them with me to vote before -- even though it was after school and snacks were in short supply and we'd been in the car for a while already.  I'd read the ballot online before we set out on this endeavor, which sped up the actual ballot-marking process.

Choices made, I asked if either of the lads wanted to put the ballot in the reader machine.  They both just looked at me and then at the machine, curious about the beeps and clicks it was making and not wanting to be responsible for them.  That was alright.  The polling place attendants were generous with the "I voted" stickers anyway.  Each child (except the slingling) got one.

I was halfway expecting an election to be organized to determine the dinner menu this evening, but alas it did not come to pass.  (The gravitational force field of the planter box full of dirt out back won out).  I wouldn't be surprised to see one soon, though.  Someone I know has an insatiable interest in permanent markers, the cutting up of paper into smaller pieces, and the stashing of said paper tidbits into discarded Amazon.com boxes that could very easily be transformed into ballot boxes (minus the beeps and clicks)...

it's a school night.

We've reached the end of an era.  Tomorrow the elder lad will start kindergarten at a parish school, which will usher in a new season for our family.  On his last day of summer vacation, he seemed to have a lot of fun digging in the dirt with his brother, playing a game of chess with his auntie, going to Target with my mom, and holding his baby sister.  I think he's both excited to start school and understandably nervous about the unknown.  I know I am for him!

I wonder if I have made the most of the time I've had him at home with me.  I've tried to, but still I wonder if I've done enough.  There have been many times when it's been obvious that he was up for more of a challenge than I was able to provide at that moment because of needing to tend to his younger siblings or some other obligation I had.  This is part of life, and developing the skills of self-motivation and initiative are very important.  I hope I've given him enough of a framework within which to cultivate those skills.

He's clearly ready for the experience kindergarten will provide.  While I haven't discerned the call to be his teacher in a home school setting, my beloved and I will always be his primary teachers.  We're not abdicating that role to someone else; we will support and collaborate with the teachers at his school in the educational process. 

As much as I may fret over whether I've been able to meet his intellectual needs to this point, I have to trust that we have done our best (and will continue in this endeavor) to form his eternal soul, teaching him how to live as a child of God, with his family and the larger community, and how to listen for the voice of God calling him to grow more and more into the person he was created to be.  We do this with all our love and care, and take as many opportunities as are afforded us to tangibly let him know of our love for him as the person God made him.

It'll be an early start for him in the morning, as he and my beloved (who will be taking him to school in the mornings) will need to hit the road earlier than they're both used to for the stop-light laden drive across town.  The three younger bambini and I will pick the lad up after school, snacks in hand, anxious to hear how it went but (here's hoping anyway) not overbearing in our quest to find out.

Clueless as I am to this whole big-kid school thing, I'm having some trouble settling down for the evening (if that isn't obvious), trying to take care of everything but certain that I've forgotten or overlooked something.  I need to give it a rest, though, and turn my worries over to God in prayer, because it's a school night...

if I had a hammer

Variations on a theme:
(can you guess what it is today? -- not that this would distinguish it from very many other days, but I digress)

• "If you want to hammer, do so on your tool bench."
• "That's not a hammer."
• "Hit *balls* with bats -- and not toward the house!"
• "Please save hammering (on your tool bench) for after siesta time."

Really the lads have spent most of the day digging in the dirt box out back (or using plastic carrot-shaped baseball bats as drumsticks for their "concert") or in the sand box at the park where we met some friends for a little while, but the rest of the time...

in their element

It's been a long time dream of my beloved's to have an organic vegetable garden in our backyard.  He's been working on the planters since last fall, but due to a variety of circumstances (among them life with young children and the wiles of the weather), the boxes are only just recently in the ground.  Today he went for a big load of dirt to dump into them.  One can imagine the excitement this might elicit from our lads.  They were rarin' to go with their boots on and shovels ready when he got home with the dirt.

The memory of the lads out there with their shovels and trucks will stay with me for a long time (but I took pictures too).  My nearly 17 year old sister has been spending the weekend with us helping get ready for our newly-minted three year old's family birthday party tomorrow afternoon, so while the menfolk were outside dealing in dirt, we were inside getting ready for the party.

I stuck my head out the back door at one point to ask how things were going.  The elder lad replied ebulliently "great!  We could use some help here.  Want to come out?"

'scuze me?  Dirt doesn't hold quite the same attraction for me. (though I do love seeing them so happy covered in it)

"Um... I'm working on getting ready for the birthday party tomorrow. Could I get you a water refill, though?"

"Sure!"  he replied. 

Now if we can get them to eat the veggies that issue forth from this lovingly-constructed and tilled garden, that would be really something...

keen observation

Our lads are dirt magnets.  They love the stuff.  They'll dig for extended periods of time whenever the opportunity presents itself.

In the absence of dirt, a mixture of flour, wheat germ, baking soda, salt, and crushed up almonds and rolled oats will do the trick.  This I learned today while baking chocolate chip cookies with the lads after the elder one got home from preschool.  (Sneaky, no?)  The younger lad was only too happy to crush up brown sugar clumps with the side of a measuring cup.  He was happily in his "wrecker crane" element.  His elder brother very contentedly and intently scooped and stirred and corralled the dry mixture, finally saying "Mom, look!  I made a road!  It's a construction zone!"

Which is very nearly just what he says when he has a pile of dirt and a shovel outside...