Branson: The Remix

We doubled down this year with season passes to Silver Dollar City. So, with passes in hand and a $44 motel (MOtel, not HOtel) awaiting our midnight arrival, we left behind our worries, cares, quite a bit of yard work, and even more laundry. The Ozarks were waiting!

I hope this photo becomes a family tradition. I love this hokey, pokey little amusement park. 

As a family, we have the unique ability to make a 5-hour roadtrip last at least 7 hours. As a toddler, Gigi has the unique ability to assess whether a road potty has an auto-flusher before the swagger wagon has made the exit. A prepared mommy (as I am) travels with a portable outhouse, or as it's known in our household, the frog potty. Portable. Green. Adorable and functional. Seven hours later, we arrived at our humble yet clean accommodation: the Branson Garden Inn. Conveniently located just 47 minutes away from the Branson Landing in summer traffic on Highway 76, the Inn boasts soap, towels, and a room air conditioner that could freeze the ice pops in the cooler if the room refrigerator didn't. Luxurious, the room was not; functional indeed.

We spent two full days at Silver Dollar City. 

And we noticed a disturbing trend with Gigi--it seems every time she's being particularly adorable, there's a pole. It makes a mother nervous. That combined with her religious views makes me downright anxious. "I don't want Jesus to hold me. Only mommy can hold me. But I played with Jesus. He put a Bandaid on me." 

RJ's faith is a little stronger these days: "Only Jesus can cut steel. Or big cutters. Really big strong cutters." His faith in his Daddy was strong enough to brave his first roller coaster, and my little daredevil loved it. 

Gigi discovered the foam blaster along with her brother. Really, who would think that a giant vacuum system with foam balls would be so entertaining. We spent an hour in there!

My little scientist experimented with putting her pigtail in the fountain at the spray park. 

The conclusion? Fun!

I promise, she was really excited to ride the pink pony (and yes, she is clinging to yet another pole-anxious, I tell you). Many tears were shed as we waved farewell and promised to come again. Of course, Silver Dollar City is also home to a real pony or two, and some goats. One of the things I love the most about this hokey little amusement park is the attitude that most of the retiree park hosts have toward kids and their job. The goat herder (for lack of better description) provided us with one of our biggest vacation smiles when he plucked Marshmallow the goat from her perch, set her on the ground, and softened his reprimand, "Oh Marshmallow, you know I still love you." Many parents (myself included) could learn a lot from the goat herder's gentle reprimand. 

Why yes, he did get a killer haircut before the trip. 

Ah, the red, white, and blue. I love the Fourth of July. 

Gigi loved the little playhouse at the park. I promise she did have on a matchy-matchy cute girlie outfit--just before she piddled on her pants. We were 2 blocks or 45 minutes from our motel on Highway 76, so her striped bloomers saved the day in a pinch. We're OSU girls anyway--orange pants are awesome. 

We rode the rapids!

Toddler troubles: when you're too short to see over the rails. 

Only Silver Dollar City would set up board games and blocks for an afternoon of fun. We could do the same on our patio--but with the patio comes the house--and with the house come the laundry, the dishes, and the vacuum cleaner (and it doesn't have fun foam balls to blast around, though perhaps I should look into something like that.)

He'll tell you he's too big for mommy snuggles. He'd be fibbing. 

He'd also tell you he's too big for the merry-go-round. 

He gave the dunk tank his best shot. 

In addition to Silver Dollar City, we managed to find a grand fireworks show.

We hung out. Sang some songs. Listened to some country music and played some basketball. As always, the swagger wagon was practical and accommodating, particular for a little princess who was casting her spell and sending up pink and purple fireworks just for us. She knew the trip was special: "Are we going on coronation?!" (We live in a Disney World when American little girls know more about coronations than vacations.)

Best seat in the parking lot. He's learning the rules of parking lots these days. Upon seeing a car with a sticker parking in the handicap space, he shouted, "Look!" I braced myself. "They have the password for that parking spot!"

We played some mini-golf. 

Drove some go-karts. 

And ate a lot of Cheetos. My children are like starving badgers when it comes to Cheetos. I had to beat them off the floor scraps and remind myself that the Lord gave them good immune systems as I discovered Gigi munching Cheetos that could have come only from the trash can (a motel trashcan--gah!)

I just love the Fourth of July, family vacations, and fireworks. 

Mommy, Are You Nice?

There seems to be a new(er) movement among mommy bloggers to embrace flaws--to make light of the days when you've locked yourself in the bathroom more than once just to escape little voices and sticky fingers. We joke about how our cars resemble a crime scene with all of the spilled red Koolaid. We fist bump other moms at parties when they admit to noticing their children's allergies require Benadryl more often than not after three sleepless nights preceding. I don't disagree with this strategy for dealing with mommyhood. It's tough job and one for which my qualifications are still questionable.

I do my fair share of lightening the mood when those little mommy moments hit, and I have a lot of them. I feed my kids Lunchables. Heck, today, I sent Gigi with goldfish crackers, Gogurt, and a white flour tortilla so that just once I would get her daily report back saying that she ate "well" instead of that she ate "a little." We haven't seen RJ's real sneakers in a week; he has been wearing water shoes to school with basketball socks.

I'm not perfect. Tee-hee.

Anyone who has raised, taught, or waited in a grocery store line behind a strong-willed child can appreciate this:

The screams. The shouts. The slapping and the biting. To say she is strong willed is to say Mount Everest is a big hill. 

I could call her a little diva and try to cultivate the Attitude. But, I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie, and 15 minutes of Nellie Olsen will convince any mother to at least try to discipline away an attitude like this one. 

At least 10 times a day, I tell Gigi, "Be nice." I tell her, "Pretty is as pretty does, Nellie Olsen." I put her in timeout. I take away toys. 

Nothing helps. She is two years old, and her feelings have outgrown her tiny little frame. Unfortunately, she has a mother whose frame hasn't caught up to her own feelings. By 5 o'clock every evening, tensions are running high. Gigi is hungry, tired, and darn it, she wants to change into her lounge wear--which to a mother should be pajamas, but to a little girl, should resemble Cinderella's ball gown, spaghetti sauce be damned. We argue. We both throw fits. It's ugly, and I don't much feel like fist-bumping another mom when I talk about it. 

Most nights, I re-commit, "I will not yell at RJ and Gigi. I will be nicer and kinder. I will be the type of person I want them to be." Then, a new day has passed, and the children's hour is upon us again. 

Tonight, we went to the pool, and as is par for our course, Gigi pooped. I'll spare details, but she kinda made it, and she kinda didn't. It wasn't a big deal, but as she balanced her tiny bottom on the big potty, she looked at me and asked, "Mommy, are you nice?" 

"Are you nice?" 

My two-year old daughter asked me this to calibrate the discussion that she thought we were about to have. The worst part? I wasn't nice tonight. I was nice about the pooping incident--it really was no big deal. But then she launched into a toddler rage about something I can't even remember. And I snapped. I shouted. I carried on. I lectured. And all the while, my sweet-tempered little man listened intently, because he's too little to understand that a toddler could make Billy Graham a smidge crazy. 

I apologized to Gigi. I apologized to RJ. I want them to know that fits aren't okay, and that if you pitch one, you should apologize. Apologies are remedial, not proactive. I want to be a proactively nicer mom--one who can raise a Nellie Olsen, who in the end, turned out to be a lovely young woman. I'm not willing to embrace this little mommyhood mistake. It's not cute, and it's not something that I'll look back on with fond memories. 

Gigi is a spitfire. A hellcat. She's also my little Nellie Olsen with curls in her hair and ruffles on her bloomers and her socks: 

And so tonight, I'll re-commit, "I will be nice." "I will not shout." "I will be a kind person just as I want my children to be." Tomorrow, when Gigi asks, "Mommy, are you nice?" I will once again pause, and answer just as I did today, "I hope so." 

Our Life Aquatic

We live a life aquatic in the summer. Every day is a pool day, and if the pool is closed, there's a sprinkler running in the backyard. This summer is no exception. We spend a lot of time swimming, me more so than anyone else. About a week ago,  I left the dank indoor pool where we have swim lessons and noticed the sky. Later that night, I tried to describe it to my husband: "I don't know," I told him. "It's like the sky was bluer and bigger than I remember from summers past. I could breathe easier somehow."

It didn't really hit me until later that night. The sky wasn't bluer. It wasn't bigger. The air hadn't suddenly grown lighter. The change was simple and yet unbelievably complex: I'm happy. Really happy. Happy to the core. Every morning is a beautiful morning, and everything's going my way.

It took me a while to dig out. I needed a little help from my friends and from this guy:

He's a heck of a dad (and pretty cute too). 

You want to know what kind of father and husband this dude is? 

He's the kind of guy who spent his Father's Day morning feeding two kids so that his wife could continue in her life aquatic: 

Today, I splashed and dashed. It wasn't a long swim, but it was in open water (scary and kinda gross). It definitely wasn't a long run, but believe me, it felt that way. The first thing I saw when I surfaced? A bed-headed six-year old and a chubby-thighed toddler cheering me on from her daddy's arms on Father's Day. He wasn't home in bed. I wasn't home cooking eggs and bacon. 

Happy. Grateful. (Particularly grateful for the chocolate ice cream he just brought me as I write.).

Today was a good day. 

So was yesterday: 

We picked blackberries!

So very many blackberries. And we made jam and cobbler!

We garage sale-d and hit the biggest treasure trove of super soakers ever found. His life aquatic just got a lot more exciting. 

The sky is bluer. The air is lighter. Happy. Her smile says it. My heart feels it. 

Teach Your Children; Well, I Tried.

About a month ago, RJ turned six. Eventually, I'll recover from the endless weeks of school parties, graduations, musicals, and weddings and catch up with the family blog. For purposes of today, you should know that he's a six-year old boy. He still loves cars--the vehicles and the movie. More recently, however, his obsession has turned airborne: Planes--the vehicles and the movie. 

For his birthday, RJ had a simple request: "Oh, you know, I think I'd like some planes." No remote control cars. No video games. Little die-cast planes whose propellers turn only by the energy of a little boy's imagination. 

We complied: 

He was pretty excited. 

I believe that's Bulldog on the left--a key player in today's tale. 

Ignore the counter clutter. I just hadn't had time to do the weekly (er, monthly) sweep. 

For the next month, RJ forged a relationship with Dusty, Bulldog, and El Chupacabra. 

I started to bend some rules. It was the end of the year. The whining was at an all time high (pitch). I started to allow toys in the car despite having a strict "no toys in the car" policy--the result of Mom's frazzled nerves zinging one too many times as the swagger wagon turned a corner sounding like a rolling rummage sale as toys clattered from one side to the other. The swagger wagon, a fine vehicle in every respect, has one flaw: there are tracks in the floor that run from front to back, ostensibly so that the cushy captain's chairs can adjust to accommodate short legs and longer legs too. In reality, those tracks serve as crumb collectors, juice sieves, and racetracks--for little race cars to zip up and down keeping time with every stoplight and every acceleration. So, we've had a rule for a while: no toys in the car.  

As the whining increased, my resolve decreased. Every morning, both RJ and Gigi would ask, "Can I take these two cars?" or "Can I take my baby?" I'd respond, "Yes, but you can't take them inside." The days wore on. I fed them pasta for breakfast and sent them with turkey jerky and crackers for lunch. Toys in the car gave way to, "Can I take them inside with me and you take them back?" "Fine, whatever. Just get your backpack and get out of the car!" 

I found Dusty on Miss Debbie's desk when I went to confirm my lunch order for the week (hot lunch for the win!). Turns out Dusty had fallen from the swagger wagon in the parking lot and some kind soul had turned him in. I returned him and admonished RJ to be more careful and for goodness sake, take some responsibility for his toys!

This morning, the swagger wagon was due for maintenance. So, I emptied the trash bins, collected the used wipes (noses, not bottoms) and ran a ratty t-shirt over the dash in an effort to impress the mechanic who would be blessed with driving the great beast back to the shop. For totally impractical reasons, we take our cars to Norman--about 35 minutes down the road--for service. For equally impractical reasons, we took both cars and both kids this morning. 

"Mom, Can I bring Bulldog?" "Yes, just get in the car!" I sighed. And apparently, I gave a similar affirmation when he asked if he could bring Bulldog into the car dealership. I have no recollection of this, but I assume he's not lying ('cause if he is, he's in deep doo-doo). 

Cars were serviced. Daddy needed to work and headed to the office while the kids and I headed home. 

As we eased into the exit lane for home, RJ asked, "Mom, do you have my plane in your purse?" "Nope. I'm not your toy manager." 

"Oh." 

That face. That face. 

And then the tears. Heartbroken big tears and the gulping, gasping little boy question, "Can we go back and get him?" 

"Nope," I told him. "I bet next time you'll take responsibility for your own toys," I continued while furtively texting Dad at each stoplight. 

"But he was my favorite! That's why I wanted him with me today!" RJ is inconsolable. 

I let the ruse continue for another 20 minutes. I want to teach him lessons. I want him to learn that he has to take some responsibility for his own possessions. He has to learn sometime. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young tell me, "Teach your children well." 

Well, I tried. I broke after only 20 minutes. Little boy tears are my kryptonite. He's only six, and he had only one simple request for his birthday. I hope RJ learned something. I think he did.  I told him the truth, "Daddy called the dealership, and they have your plane. Daddy is going to go get him. Daddy is your hero today." 

That smile. That smile. 

Here's the thing: I learned something too. I've never been the type to proclaim my affection loudly. I'm not a hand holder or same-side-sitter.  I have personal space restrictions (but so does the husband). I do try to set some kind of example for my kids in the hopes that they'll have an idea of what a loving relationship is.  RJ was disappointed that his dad had to work today. Those two get crazy on the weekends. I could have easily turned the car around and gone to pick-up the plane, but it was lunchtime (and I hate driving in south OKC). And, I wanted RJ to have a daddy hero today. It made me happy to see the shine on RJ when he learned that his daddy was coming to the rescue. He needed that today. I'm certainly in no position to give parenting or marriage advice. I have my fair share of failures and weak moments. But, being a parent has taught me that sometimes, the best way to show my children what a loving relationship looks like is to give dad the chances he can take to be the hero. In the end? RJ and Bulldog were reunited; the boys played soccer in the yard; and the whole family took a chilly dip in the neighborhood pool. It was a good day. 

I think we taught RJ well. If we didn't, well, we tried. 

Caps 'n' Tutus: Kindergarten Graduation

I blinked, and RJ graduated from kindergarten. How does that happen? How did he go from this

to this?

"Mom, we get to wear tutus for graduation!" 

I guess a tutu is a better choice than jail-house stripes: 

Walking into graduation, he laughingly told me, "I look like I'm going to jail!" 

By the end of the ceremony, he was showing how much of a little boy he still is--kindergarten was exhausting, and so is posing for pictures. 

He wants to be an artist when he grows up...so he says. "RJ, what does an artist do?" we asked at dinner. "Well," he paused for importance, "It's those guys who use microscopes and stuff." Ahhhhh, yes, I suspect he wasn't confused. He was simply describing the crossed paths of medical arts and medical science. I'm sure of it. 

Gigi held down the pew for one more of her bubba's events before she starts dialing up her own special events in preschool next year. 

No photographs please!

She and her brother have been having some pretty deep theological discussions lately. RJ tells us, "Jesus lives inside of you." Gigi responds, "I don't see him in my tummy. I don't even see him on the road." It's a truth we all struggle with, Gigi. She does, however, have a firm understanding of baptism: "Pastor Henke washed my hair in church too!" 

I survived my boy's first graduation. I blinked, and he was in a cap and gown (he'll be in one next year too--kindergarten is tough, particularly with a late birthday). But somehow, this was the one that mattered (remind me of that next year when I post nearly the exact same thing). 

And, for those of you who are curious about just what exactly a kindergarten graduation looks like, here are the highlights: 

Bittersweet

I put away RJ's train set last week. I wiped the crumbs from Thomas, James, and Percy, carefully placing them in a plastic bin. "It's just for now," I told myself. "We can always pull them out when RJ asks to play with them again." I carefully stacked the bridges and curves inside the bin so that they won't warp, because deep inside, I know that they're going to be stored for years. Gordon, Henry, Emily, and Victor have chugged their last chug powered by my little man's fingers (for now, right? He's not really finished with them?).

I used to think I understood "bittersweet." It's that feeling of dark chocolate--so sweet you nearly can't stand it until that little bite of bitterness pierces through you, though not the kind of bitter that chews away at your soul but rather, the bitterness that remains after some type of loss. The sweetness ultimately overcomes the bitter, leaving nothing but a mild melancholy, a hint of pride, and tension between longing for the past and looking forward to the future.

Motherhood has given me this feeling of bittersweet. Without it, I would never have shed a tear over a wooden track and a few (okay, many) tiny railroad engines. But, I'm a mom above all else. I'm not ashamed. I cried like a toddler who dropped her ice cream cone when I put those little trains away. I convinced myself that I'm happy that RJ prefers Legos and racing cars to little steam engines who wile away their days trying to be nothing more than really useful. I am happy that he's growing up, and that Gigi is too.

But it's only now that I'm truly understanding that "bittersweet" is more than a key ingredient on my Christmas baking list. "Bittersweet" is the recurring theme of motherhood. It's a feeling I know will come next week at kindergarten graduation. I'll be visited by that melancholy and pride again when Gigi starts pre-school. Someday (not too soon!), I'll watch my babies go on first dates, mend broken hearts (and break a few too).

Yesterday, I was reminded of the bittersweetness of Mother's Day for a dear friend, and after a day spent with my mom, I appreciated the sweetness of my day that came without any bitterness. Happy Mother's Day to all of my mommy friends, and to all of our moms who cried their own tears at those little bittersweet moments. I'm lucky that my mom is still with me, and I can tell her, "I love you." And to my friends who missed their moms yesterday, I remember them. Our moms all raised good women, and I know they're proud, whether here or in heaven.

And because I'm feeling a little bit of melancholy and a little bit proud,

This was my first Mother's Day, when I swore I'd never have a train table in my living room, and I'd never heard of Thomas the Tank Engine. I didn't know that there's one evil diesel engine on the happy Island of Sodor, and I certainly didn't know that someday, I'd shed a tear when that little diesel engine pulled into Tidmouth Shed one last time. RJ was so little on my first Mother's Day that I only knew the sweet, without a hint of the bitter. 

This year, he's gotten a little bigger, and he gained a best friend and sister along the way. 

This is my happy place. 

This makes me pretty happy too--a Mother's Day tea at our little Lutheran school. 

Yoga and the Child Within

After the half marathon, I was feeling a little let down. I had trained for months, and in one morning, I  checked a culminating box on my to-do list. The presents had been opened, the cake had been eaten, and the candles had been blown out (I need to blog RJ's birthday and then some).

I felt a little out of sorts.

I wasn't sure if I needed a nap, the potty, or a cracker. 

My world had been flipped upside down after being right side up for nearly a year. 

I felt off balance. 

Just generally out of whack, helper-skelter, and kind of wacky. 

I swam a few laps, lifted a few weights, researched full marathons (am I crazy?!), and ultimately decided to try something completely new. 

Yoga. That thing stretchy, balanced people do. And with legs carrying knots like grapefruits and a general feeling of weightiness on my left side and weightlessness on my right side, I decided I should be a stretchy, balanced person. 

I don't do well in fitness classes. When I was two, I peed in my tap shoes. I'd like to say I got better after that, but really, the only thing that improved was my potty training. If the teacher says "left," I go right. 

But this is yoga; it's slow and easy, right?

My first class, I uncurled my fresh-out-of the-wrapper mat beside a friendly looking woman who didn't cringe when I told her it was my first time. The instructor was about 50, and much to my delight, she wore a leather headband and tie-dye. She turned on music that chimed, and I found myself upside down in Downward Dog at 6:30 on a Tuesday evening. My arms shook, and I felt slightly dizzy and more than slightly out of place. But I persevered. I stood on one foot. Then the other. My abs screamed. I inhaled on the exhale, exhaled on the inhale, and found myself holding my breath, desperate for oxygen while the rest of the class rested in something called the "prayer" pose. My only prayer was for strength to finish the class without passing out. 

Then, something kind of magical happened: I started to understand. I followed instructions and figured out a pose or two. 

I can do this. I can be stretchy and balanced! 

Then, my friendly tie-dyed yogi (who, it turns out, is not a picnic loving bear) asked me to feel the energy of the room. I felt it. It pulsed in my aching ankles. She asked me to be aware of the energy. I was aware. She asked me to notice it pulsing "about three-inches in front of the mirrors."

I lost what energy flow I had in the stream of giggles that escaped on the exhale. I wasn't balanced anymore. It all seemed a little silly. And, as a silly girl should, I found my way back to the child's pose (because I behaved like one--just a little bit): 

But I felt relaxed. I felt stretchy. I felt kind of balanced. 

So, I went back for another class. I stretched into a headstand. I was sore in all the right places. I started to notice the energy in the room. Even better? I started to become aware of the energy outside of the yoga studio (so, it's a YMCA gym--why quibble over small details?). 

I've always said that if I could find a way to bottle my kids' energy, I'd be a happy, rich woman. 

I want to discover this kind of energy within. The pure delight that only comes from the first summer spray of the water hose. 

I want to place my hands carefully at shoulder level and feel the giggles bubbling from deep within my soul. 

I can see the energy rushing from his laugh out into the cosmos for all within earshot to enjoy. 

I'm quite certain that this is the look of the energy that has been balled up just behind my knees until its spectacular release that left me balanced and stretchy. 

Somewhere, in the midst of something new,  I'm finding myself floating, nearly flying.  I'm aware of the air on my skin, the breath in my lungs, and the energy inside and outside my body. 

And slowly, I'm stretching my mind. I'm balancing my right foot and my left brain. Tonight, we worked on our back muscles, and for the first time in years, the stabbing pain in my right hip and thigh has completely vanished. Even if the relief is temporary, it's relief nonetheless. I'm learning to control my thoughts with my breath and my breath with my thoughts. I'm becoming aware of the child that does still reside in my soul--the little girl who delights in spinning her sundress skirt; the excitement of a freshly-baked cookie; the little twinge of happiness that fizzles down the fuse toward the quickly approaching explosion of summertime. The energy flowed about three inches in front of me tonight, and tonight, this silly girl is happy and rich (for now--I've given myself until July to commit to a new goal because you can put a Type A in tie-dye, but you can't bask in the golden energy forever.).