Sunday Stroll

June in Bloom

Moms Gone Wild (-ish)

Hey y'all - 

I have some mom friends, and it's always a challenge to figure out how we can spend time together and make it work with our mom obligations. If we waited 'til all 5+ of us had a spouse or babysitter lined up for childcare, we'd only be able to have a beer together once a year when the moon was in the 7th house and Jupiter aligned with Mars. We don't dare meet at a restaurant with children in tow. Naps are usually 12-2ish, and everyone needs to be home for bedtime by 8p. It's like a standardized test word problem: "If Julia's children are only awake for two hours every morning, but Jessica's children have to be in bed at 7, and Vanika's children have to have a three hour nap, when could these women have a conversation?"

So, with Thor out of town with the Navy, I sent an e-mail to some mom friends and invited them over for Mom Brunch. 10:00am. Come in your pajama pants! Don't brush your hair. Bring your young'uns to my fenced-in yard, full of toys and diversions! Bloody marys, mimosas and hashbrown casserole provided! Don't forget your swimsuit.

The day before the get-together, I bought a slip n' slide for $7 at the grocery store and let Laney try it out:

One mom showed up to my house with three boiled eggs in her pocket: "I wanted to contribute something, so here." Definitely the most unique hostess gift I've ever received. I think everyone had a great time. I know I did - it was the first time I'd barreled down a Slip n' Slide since...oh...1986? Yes, there are pictures. No, you can't see them.

Moms: We party more by 10:30am than most people do all day (assuming we can work it in between breakfast and afternoon nap and our husbands don't mind picking us up after).

I love summer.

Love,
Mom

Ring Ring

Dear Hagen -

You love to pretend to talk on the phone. Anything can be a phone: a upside-down walkie talkie, a spatula hanging off the grill, or just your own little balled-up fist.

We have some variation of this conversation about 48 times a day:

You know what you don't like? Talking on the actual phone.

I think you get this from your dad. When we first started dating and I lived in Los Angeles and he was living down in San Diego, by necessity we relied on the telephone to keep in touch throughout the week. It was a real uphill battle for me. Your dad likes to limit his side of any phone conversation to "yeah" (sometimes "yeah?"), "no" and monosyllabic answers to direct, specific questions.  If the NSA ever listens in on your dad's conversations, they will learn nothing.

If I'd have known then that one day I would give birth to your dad's mini-me, who would love to talk -but only on the imaginary phone, I would have gone down to San Diego and taped a spatula to your dad's cell phone and told him we were just pretending.

Love,
Mom

Father's Day

Hey y'all - 

For Father's Day, we picked out a bunch of small gift items for your dad, and then Laney hid them around the house and yard so Dad could search for them Easter egg hunt-style. To "help" him with his search, she drew him a map to all of the gift locations. What really helped him is Grandma Sue giving him subtle clues, like, "Go look in Laney's desk." Laney even hid one gift - a T-ball set - in her treehouse. 

I think between the three of us girls, we remembered where everything was hidden, but if anyone comes to visit us in the next year and finds boxer shorts in the shampoo bucket, or a coffee mug in the dog food, you'll know why. 

I was a fool for thinking that a T-ball set was a gift that you two could share with your dad, because you did not want to give him a turn. 

I had thought that Hagen would like this gift best, because he's normally such a fan of banging the snot out of things, but it turns out he wasn't the real (or only) heavy hitter in the family. 

Then we all went to Morell Falls for a hike. I had prepared for summer conditions - I put sunscreen and swimsuits in my backpack. I forgot to remind myself that I live in Montana; the trail was overcast and in the low 50s and holy moly at the mosquitos. My kingdom for a can of Off. 

The only thing that kept the swarms from eating us alive was to keep moving. Can't stop! Can't snack! Can't potty! This is an excellent exercise plan, by the way, if you like your workouts inspired by The Hunger Games. 

I gave Laney "I Never Need A Jacket" Burbach my windbreaker to wear so the skeeters couldn't get at her. It's like when I ask Hagen a million times if he wants something to eat, and he insists, "No! 'on't want to! On't want sammich! NO!" So I make myself a to-die-for ham and melted cheese on a pretzel roll. And then he looks up at me with those big eyes and asks, "I have it?" And I give him the damn sandwich. This is what parenting is, people: walking around tired and hungry with bug-bitten arms.  

Ella went with us and had a hell of a time.

I took fewer pictures than I normally would; in fact, this is almost all of them from the day, because in the 2.5 seconds it took me to meter my camera for the light, the vampiric bugs would descend. 

Still - a beautiful day with a beautiful man who proves time and time again that he's the greatest dad going. 

Love,

Mom

Our Puppy Problem

Dear Hagen, 

Lately, you have been spending about 30% of each day pretending to be a puppy. You crawl around on the ground, making "Ruff ruff," sounds and assuring us (in case we didn't pick up on the clues), "I puppy!"

I have no idea how this got started. I'm tempted to think it was Laney's idea, because she's developed a knack for talking you into things... at the age of two, you've already had your fair share of makeovers. 

She claps he hands on her knees, and sings, "C'mere puppy!" and pats you on the head when you arrive.

This was all semi-cute, semi-weird, and mostly ignorable until we went to a get-together at your school a few weeks ago. That's when you walked to the middle of a circle of moms, put your paper plate full of crackers down on the floor, got down on your knees and started to eat a half dozen Ritz without using your hands.

"He's a puppy," I explained. And sighed. 

If only I could assure myself that's the weirdest thing you're ever going to do at a party. 

Love,

Mom

Hatfield. McCoy. Treehouse.

Dear Laney, 

For your birthday last year, your dad built you the treehouse in our backyard. I love your dad and his ingenuity - I love that he can have the idea for a treehouse, and a day later, the thing exists. But as it was being built, I remember expressing my concern that the dang thing is too tall, that it's too hard for a grown woman to crawl into, and mostly, that it overlooks our neighbor's yard. The tree is on our shared property line, and the treehouse is higher than the fence line. I thought, "Maybe our neighbor liked having that fence because he's a nudist or a voodoo practitioner or just wants to avoid the prying eyes of a preschooler." But up the treehouse went. 

I've never met this neighbor - we've just never been outside at the same time. A few weeks ago, Laney begged me to have a picnic dinner on our back porch. Per Laney, if I'm not going to take her to a REAL restaurant, the least I can do is take her to a PRETEND restaurant. As we set out our blanket on the ground, our neighbor emerged from his house in a tank top and started driving a remote-controlled car up and down our street, making a really awful BREEEEEEEE sound. He stopped for just a second, which was long enough for Laney to yell, "I DON'T KNOW WHY PEOPLE HAVE TO BE SO LOUD WHEN I'M TRYING TO HAVE MY DINNER!"

I wasn't sure if he'd heard, but I still immediately told Laney that it wasn't nice to yell at the neighbors - especially for being loud, since, let's face it, Laney likes to go out on the back deck at 6:30am some mornings to sing the power ballad from "Frozen" at the top of her lungs. "Sometimes, we're loud and sometimes, they're loud. We take turns being patient with each other." Love thy neighbor, blah blah blah. 

Turns out he heard, because as he walked back into his yard, he yelled over the fence, "I sure do hate mouthy neighbors!" 

So while this neighbor and I have never met, you could say that he and Laney have exchanged words.

So now - to me - because I'm southern and get all freaked out when people can't hush and be nice to each other, the treehouse has become this elevated Gaza Strip. It's a tiny piece of real estate where Laney keeps an eye on the border for her beer-drinking, "Carpenters"-blaring, stray cat-collecting nemesis, while wearing a princess dress and searching for pirate treasure with her lookout, Max:

The only thing that brings me comfort is - should a full-scale neighbor vs. neighbor fight break out - we will have already secured the high ground. 

To my relations in south Georgia: why don't y'all send us Jimmy Carter for a week or so, so we might could get this thing cleared up?

Love,
Mom