Strawberry Fields Forever (or U-Pick Strawberries with Kids)

“Mom, that was so much fun,” wasn’t the reaction I expected. I expected something more along the lines of “It was so hot,” or “That made my back hurt,” or “Why can’t we just buy our strawberries at the grocery store like everyone else?” But, “That was so much fun!” wasn’t on my list of expected responses.

My memories of picking strawberries as a child are fond memories, but only because it was something my mom and brother and I did together. I’d be absolutely lying if I said it was fun. Hot? Yes. It was sweat dripping through my hair, sunshine burning my shoulders, hot. (It was the South, remember?) Back-breaking? Yes. Picking those berries in the Carolina sun seemed to take hours. For the record, we picked 8 quarts in 40 minutes today, so how long could it have been, really?

Nonetheless, I recall that from many years ago day fondly. (Did we go more than once? I couldn’t say for sure.) I remember that my little brother ate more than he picked and that he was covered with dirt and strawberry juice. I remember my mom, patient with us that day, encouraging us to choose the ripe ones. I remember how much better they tasted, because we picked them ourselves—my first inkling of the rewards of hard labor.

And so it happened that I decided my boys should try it, too. No matter that it might not be fun, or that today was our hottest day of the summer, or that only two of my three boys really like the sweet taste of strawberries. We would go. Picking berries would be part of their family tapestry, too.

It was a pleasant surprise that they were industrious. That they got right down and started picking with enthusiasm. That not one complained of the heat. I expected a few quarts and too many complaints to continue. Instead, they each asked if they could fill another basket. At $1.50 a quart, who am I to say no? Fill ‘em up boys. We’ll be gorging for days.

And we’ll be back again next year.

The Wisdom of Age

I turned a year older this year.  It’s funny how that happens, isn’t it?  Age sneaks up on us, I think.  For example, I don’t know a single person who says, “You know, I really do feel 65.”  Do you?  Everyone is younger, inside, than they are on the outside.  The life clock keeps ticking and we run to keep up and suddenly we find that years have gone by and we’re older than we think we are.

Interestingly, the older we get, the smarter we get; it’s true that there’s no teacher quite like experience.  The pain of prior missteps and the anguish of poor choices guides us as much as the beauty and peace of better times.  Thoughtful people learn and grow through the years—you know who they are when you meet them.  And yet we don’t place enough value on this wisdom.  Instead, we hurry about our business, and we text and we talk and we keep moving.  Marriages fall apart and jobs are lost and children are born and parents die and we find ourselves facing midlife with all sorts of questions about how and when and why it all is as it is.  And yet we don’t stop to ask those who have gone before us.  We see them, but we don’t really see them.  Awash in the culture of youth and celebrity we forget that the answers might not be in the latest best-seller or at our new counselor’s office, but right there in the collective wisdom of our elders.

It’s there for the asking, I think.  Shouldn’t we take advantage of it?  We do it for jobs; when we want to excel but don’t know the next steps, we call a friend of a friend who’s been there.  We do it for love; when we’re first falling head over heels, we call our more experienced ex-roommate to find out how she knew if he was the one.  But we don’t do it with life.  Not often enough. 

I think I’ll start asking.

photo credit:  Jiaren Lau

The Birds and the Boys

This morning the peonies are blooming and the birds are chirping and those @#$ squirrels are eating my birdseed again.  Overgrown rats, that’s what they are.

Moving on from the squirrels…there are many other enjoyable aspects of being an early bird today.  No, it’s not my nature to be up and at ‘em like this—you know I like to milk the morning for all I can—but today I’m here, tea in hand, listening to the outside world.  As always happens on mornings like this, I’m surprised by the volume of sound  the birds and frogs and other creatures out there produce.  They’re small, but not silent.  Amidst the daily cacophony of football and capture the flag, these sounds are drowned out, and it’s lovely, just now, to sit and listen to them in their loud glory.

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Yesterday morning, the boys rode their bikes to the library while I got organized.  They returned, books secured, and, still on bikes, we headed to the Farmer’s Market.  The boys headed straight for the bakery stall – the cinnamon rolls were calling them.  Then we bought what turned out to be the best strawberries I’ve had in years.  It makes me want to move to a tropical climate, where fresh fruit can be in season, locally, all year long.  Think that will happen?  Yeah, me neither. 

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As the boys played at the beach the other day, I had such a sense of their similarities and differences.  I watched them brave the cold water (68°), one tiptoeing, one running full on, one torn between the two.  I watched them splash and dive and laugh.  And later, when they’d had their fill, they quietly went their own ways.  One settled down with a warm towel and a book; another stayed in the water, challenging himself, as always, to brave more; the third dug with the little metal shovel for hours, hours!, until he completed his lengthy river through the sand.  I love these moments:  boys together, boys alone, everyone content.  They come too infrequently for me, never often enough, and they remind me of the pure joy of raising these boys.

Homework in Kindergarten?

In her recent New York Times article, Kindergarten Cram, Peggy Orenstein says this:

“Jean Piaget famously referred to “the American question,” which arose when he lectured in this country: how, his audiences wanted to know, could a child’s development be sped up? The better question may be: Why are we so hellbent on doing so?”

I second the question.

Ms. Orenstein described searching for the right kindergarten for her daughter, and being disappointed that the vast majority of them assigned nightly homework to 5- and 6-year olds. Eventually found the right fit; she chose a school that doesn’t assign homework until the 4^th grade. Still early, she feels, but it’s better than kindergarten.

I have to agree. As a parent, I am a strong believer in a solid education. Our kids should understand our country’s history and it’s place in world history. They should have a solid grasp of mathematical concepts and know the difference between a noun and a verb. If they can also learn not to turn nouns INTO verbs, I’d love it, but that might be asking a bit much these days, when words like ‘journaling’ are acceptable parts of the vernacular. So, noun vs. verb, I’ll take it.

But I’m also a strong believer in letting kids be kids. I’m a proponent of downtime and family time and not keeping up with Joneses, who are probably up to their eyeballs in debt anyway. There’s an upside, I think, to kids being bored and unscheduled some of the time. Give creativity a chance—kids come up with all sorts of interesting things to do when “there’s nothing to do.”

It also seems to me that this desire to get ahead, to teach our 4-year olds to read and multiply, is directly related to another article I read in the in the NY Times. Two years ago, in For Girls, It’s Be Yourself, and Be Perfect, Too, Sara Rimer discussed the excruciatingly high expectations girls face today. It pained me to read it. If you haven’t read it already, you should. All parents should, because although this article specifically focuses on the pressures for girls, many of them apply to boys as well.

In myriad ways, we are pushing our kids to learn more, be more, do more sooner. Faster. Better.

And why?

It’s a complicated question with complicated answers. We’re all driven by different experiences and desires that influence our parenting. I think it’s a question we should stop to ask ourselves. And then we should be brave enough to let our kids be kids even when their peers are light years ahead, in more ways than one.

And I’m hanging onto the hope that when they’re older, much older, they’ll thank us.

What do you think?

A Few Things We Can Learn From Military Couples

My mother’s right hand rested on the large panes of the airport windows. I watched silently as she choked back her tears and dabbed her eyes. I saw her tuck her fear and worry away, in a place deep inside where we couldn’t see. She straightened up, turned to face us with a small smile, and drove us home.

As a military pilot, my dad spent his share of time on deployments--living away from home, most often on an aircraft carrier practicing maneuvers. These were usually 6-months stints, but occasionally lasted as long as a year. As a child, this meant that I missed my dad, sure, but I was blessed with the naïveté of childhood: I always knew he’d come home. He’d miss some basketball games, we wouldn’t go to the golf course for awhile, and his easy-to-open wallet would be MIA for a time, but eventually he’d return and life would get back to normal.

And for us, it did. He returned safely every single time, and our family weathered the small storms of re-adjusting to life as a family of 4 under the same roof. As I think about those adjustments, I realize how well the rest of us would be served to apply some of the same ideas. Click here to read my post at Wedded Bliss about 4 ways we can learn from military couples.

photo credit: larryzou

My Wal-Mart Protest, or Why I Shop at Target

Back in the dark ages, we lived in a small Midwest town (Go Packers!) where visiting a Target store was a distant fantasy. The nearest one was at least ½ hour away, and with two babies, I wasn’t making that trek on a regular basis. Instead, we shopped for life’s necessities at our local Wal-Mart, an easy 5-minute drive away. It was clean, and the people were friendly—heck, it was Wisconsin, they were all friendly, and the prices were low. Low was good; money was tight. Still, I envied my friends in bigger cities, with their fancy Target’s just down the street. Their grass was greener, and their stores were prettier, for sure.

It wasn’t long before we moved to a small city in another state, which, relatively speaking, was a very large city. And the proof was in the strip mall: our very own, very lovely, Tar-jay. Hooray! Closer to my house and way more fun than the local Wal-Mart, I found myself wasting money there on a regular basis. It was fantastic.

Sadly, though, there were a few occasions when Target didn’t have the item I desired. I know! It’s so hard to believe, isn’t it? On those days, I would drive the additional 3 long miles to Wal-Mart to find the aforementioned item.

And then.

One day, I needed to return an item to Wal-Mart. I waited in the hideously long line, with some friendly people, some seriously rude people, and a few who may or may not have bathed recently. After forever, I reached the counter, handed over my item and my receipt, and was promptly treated like a thief robbing the store of their oh-so-meager profits. The clerks were so completely inept and discourteous that I decided, right then and there:

I don’t care if Target doesn’t have my item, I’m not coming back to Wal-Mart.

Thus began my 3-year protest, where I would find whatever I needed elsewhere, or simply forgo a purchase rather than add my hard-earned money to the coffers at the Rudest Store on Earth.

So, yeah, I guess sometimes I hold a grudge. I’m working on that.

The Start of Summer, Boys, Me, and Football

Know what I love best about this time of year? No alarm clock! That’s right. I will eke every extra second I can out of a cool summer morning, breeze blowing, sun shining through the window, kids still quiet. It’s the most peace I get. Ever. And I love it.

Last week was our first week without school, but instead of relaxing at home we decided to make the usually 11 ½ hour-but-this-time-13-hour-trek to Virginia to see my parents. It was just the boys and me–my husband is smart that way. The boys had a great time playing basketball with my dad,

hiking through the woods with my mom,

and sightseeing with both of them.

They also enjoyed golfing and making disgusting creations in my mother’s kitchen, but I stayed far away from that. Instead, I had a great time not being in charge of dinner and running away to visit old friends.

Those two things come pretty close to leisurely mornings on the Great Things in Life chart, don’t you think?

This week, we returned for soccer tryouts.

Except it turns out that we didn’t need to, because my son has decided to forgo travel soccer this year in favor of football this fall. Does this make me nervous? Do you know me at all? Yes, yes, it makes me very nervous. But I understand well the desire of an almost teenager to play the sport many of his friends play. I understand the need to discover, for yourself, what you’re capable of. I understand that this is only partly about sports, and more about life lessons, which is the only reason I’m on board. So this fall, we’ll have not one, but two boys in football, and one little guy still scoring on the soccer field.

It will be a nice change, I think. After I got over my initial surprise, I began to look forward to a year without the year-round soccer commitment. More time for play. More time for other sports. More time for skiing! More time for lots of other interests.

Now that's something I can cheer for.

18 Years Later...

I always knew I did a good job of choosing friends! :)

Seriously, though, do you want to know what I think is absolutely heart-warming?

Absolutely heart-warming is seeing a friend after 18 years and not missing a beat. It's watching my friend parent her 3 little boys being boys, knowing that she's acting just as she would if I weren't there. It's listening to the story of her last 18 years and loving the authenticity, the this-is-perfectly-her-life depth of it. It's appreciating that even though we've grown and matured, and sure, we've aged, we can still be ourselves. No jewelry, no fancy cars, no bragging rights necessary. Just us.

That, my friends, is more than heart-warming. It's life-affirming, friendship-perpetuating, and downright awesome.

Happy Friday. Now get on out there and have some fun with your friends!

Whew, It's Hot!

What do a 13-hour drive, 99 degree weather, and thankfulness have to do with one another? See my post over at Midwest Parents today to find out.

Driving East

Today:

• Up at 5AM
• Kids up at 5:40
• 2 kids in car at 5:45
• Bathroom break for the other
• 6:00 on the road
• 6:04 - accidently went north; exit, turn around, go south
• 7:00 kids' bathroom break
• 8:20 seriously! another bathroom break, so McDonald's too
• 5 more bathroom breaks; 1 diet pepsi stop; 1 Starbucks stop
• 13 hours later: sit down to dinner with my mom

Tomorrow will be easier!

Anticipating Summer

Is it Friday yet?

Because, really, I'm all done with this week.  

I'm done with homework on warm, sunny nights.

I'm done with book fairs and PTO meetings and classroom parties.

I'm done with piano practice and soccer practice and lacrosse practice.

I'm done.

It's time to change things up, and I'm ready for the change.

I'm ready for sand and sun and drinks by the firepit.

I'm ready for no practice and no practice, and hey!, no practice.

I'm ready friends and laughs and relaxed mornings.

Is it Friday yet?  

I'm ready.  Are you?

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Carolina in My Mind

I left North Carolina when I was 18 and never got much of a chance to go back.  I visited, sure, but everybody knows it's not the same.  It's true that you can't really go back, and even more true when your parents don't live there anymore.  And if  your old friends' parents don't live there anymore either?  Well, just forget it.  Even if you do go back, there's nowhere to go.

This is the odd plight of military brats around the world.  Thrown together as kids in new schools in new towns every few years, we made tight bonds fast.  We understood the fears, we accepted the difficulties, we embraced others like us and were meaner than we should've been to those who weren't.  We soaked in the sun on the Carolina coast and turned up the music on our boom boxes; we laid by the pool, slathered with baby oil, and bared our souls in the hot sun; we stayed out as late as we possibly could and laughed our heads off at every opportunity.   It wasn't all funny.  We had all sorts of issues in our crowd:  binge-drinking, drugs, pregnancy, and eating disorders all reared their ugly heads.  But we stood strong.  We held hands.  We talked late into the night.  We cried the tears that only BFFs can cry for one another.  We made it through.

I moved away a week after graduation and over the next few years I fell in love with New England.  If I had time off, that's where I wanted to spend it.  Most of my southern friends' parents relocated, and I lost touch with many of them.  A few of us hung in there, some for years even, but after six moves I eventually lost track of most of them.

And then came Facebook.  I can't tell you how nostalgic it's made me to be reminded of those times at the beach.  It's an entire chapter of my life that feels lost, sometimes, because I didn't go back and it feels like it just ended, rather abruptly.  But it's not lost. Not at all.  And in case I thought it was, my friends have old pictures to prove it.

I just hope they don't post all of them!

photo credits:  Petra Broda and cletch

Field Day

This is my 8th year volunteering at Field Day and I still love it.  Next year, both of my older two boys will be done with Field Day, and I'll only have this sweet one left to volunteer for.  I love the look on his face as he races his buddies - especially the one where he's peeking to the side to see who's in front!  

As I look through the photos from the day, I experience some sort of brain malfunction, where I understand the concept of time but not the reality of it.  I know full well that there are 60 minute in every hour and 24 hours in every day.  I understand that 12 months make a year and the clock never stops ticking.  But somehow, I can't comprehend that my babies are so big so fast.  That my first is heading to middle school next year stops me cold.  Field Day disappeared for him two years ago.  That my second loses Field Day next year makes my brain foggy.  Wasn't he just 2?  And now this one, this last little guy finally has a Field Day to call his own.  No longer a helper on the sideline, shagging balls and handing the big boys water.  His turn has finally come, and baby, he's running his heart out.