A Greener Biener

Once Upon a Time in an Enchanted Suburb

daphne — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 20:15:50 +0000

Once upon a time in an enchanted suburb there lived a family.

There was a king. A queen. A couple of princesses. It was quite an ordinary family. They were content; not much happened in their little kingdom.

Then one day funny things did start to happen.

Funny, unexpected things that were not really the ha-ha kind of funny but more of the surreal funny of old-fashioned fairy tales.

The king, a rugged, tough guy sort of king, ignored a nagging pain in his side. And wound up spending his magical summer in the hospital.

The brave queen soldiered on.

And then the princesses began acting funny. They slept-walked into dangerous unknowns, narrowly escaping swirling attic fans and plunges. They threw up. They fainted. Their fair coach failed to complete the trip home.

And yet despite grave doubts, the magical summer did end. Happily-ever-after returned to enchanted suburbia. And the brave queen soldiered on.

And then one day in the palace kitchen . . .

Princess number 2 skipped happily along, successfully navigating the stairs and turning the corner into the kitchen, for she wanted to know what was being prepared for dinner. The Queen was there, chopping veggies; she was unaware of the terror lurking just feet from her precious princess.

The princess threw her hands up and started to scream. And when I say she started to scream I mean SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM as in the horror industry was on the phone immediately trying to sign up such splendid vocal chords.

Her pointed finger shaking, she screamed on. And when the queen followed the wiggling digit she saw, not 2 feet from the warm kitchen with the chopped vegetables and the screaming princess, a bear.

A BIG BEAR.

A BIG BLACK BEAR staring my shrieking princess in the eye.

A big black bear standing on the welcome mat inches outside our patio doors as if he had just taken the burgers from the grill and was merely waiting for the princess to lend him a hand in opening the door.

And then he loped away, pausing once for a slow backward glance. He sauntered into our garden where he found our berries covered in snow, and with a cat-like grace leapt 6 feet to the top of the fence, strolled a bit up top, and disappeared into the afternoon sun.

And the brave queen? She’s kind of at a loss here.

Moral of the Story: Heed Check Appendix Light

daphne — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 20:12:07 +0000

If we had paid any attention to the check engine light before we left, the car probably wouldn’t have stalled out.

Likewise, if Dave had heeded his check appendix light, he wouldn’t still be sitting in that lousy hospital bed and I might not consider vacation to be a four letter word.

Every day on the way to the hospital I pass the place where we were married. Out front there’s this green guy with waving tentacles and fangs that hollers at me as I go by. He’s all IN SICKNESS AND HEALTH this and FOR BETTER OR WORSE that. And to think that 13 calm years of marriage had me thinking I was in for some wine sipping and sunset-ward sailing.

Other guys may say a quick goodbye to their appendix and head for the door.

Dave is not like other guys. Today is his 11th day in the hospital, which by my calculations makes this the Worst Vacation Ever.

Turns out, if we had heeded that check appendix light when it burst in Colorado, the road to recovery would have been a whole lot smoother. And this vacation would be more about rinsing sand from our nether regions and less about white blood cell counts and red jello.

Not that it’s all hospital gowns and stalled out engines (did I mention the car died? I think that was the same day Kira started throwing up. Or maybe it was just after my mother was diagnosed with Lyme disease, but before my father learned he was in the cast for another week. Funny how things blur together in these hazy summer days.)

Still, if you squint just so it’s almost like there is some good old fashioned vacationing going on out there –

There’s been broccoli picking in Grandma’s garden.

And a full moon over the bay.

My lucky sailor gals have a Grandma willing to take them on a boat-bound sleepover tied to the dock when loftier plans get foiled by hospital stays.

And then there’s mugs like this one.

I suppose it technically belongs to my sister, but it’s currently working overtime melting my aching heart, which despite nagging setbacks still harbors dreams of sailing off into the sunset with that guy I made those vows to.

Yeah, yeah, I’m still in. For better or worse. In sickness and health.

Ahhh, Vacation

daphne — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 14:52:24 +0000

There’s nothing like it.

The crisp scent of ammonia in the morning.

The precious squeak of white shoes on linoleum.

The fluorescent lights and the beeping machines. Nothing says vacation like the emergency room.

And this year, instead of wasting time with pedestrian trappings like sand castles or sailboats we simply unloaded the suitcases and the children and were on our way.

If you remember Jack Nickolson in Something’s Gotta Give,

then you’ve got a pretty good idea of how our first few nights at the beach went down.

We loaded up for the big road trip as planned, last Tuesday. The only addition to the car load of snacks, bathing suits and t-shirts was a bottle of ibuprofen for Dave’s unusual fever and stomach pain. Funny thing; his appendix, which burst somewhere between Iowa and Wisconsin, didn’t slow him down a bit. He sill managed a week’s worth of driving, basketball, jump rope and kickball games on the road out east.

The CT Scan tech asked me if he had a high tolerance for pain. I think he just hates the idea of missing a game.

Understandably, Dave didn’t sleep well the night of the surgery, but it was not the beeping machines or the nurses in and out of his room demanding vitals that he blamed. No, it was the screams of “STOP HIM HE’S GOING TO JUMP!” and “SOMEONE CALL THE ER, HE’S JUMPING!” that kept him up.

Turns out that one of the druggies from detox decided he’d had enough of the cafeteria food and thought he’d sail off into the sunset instead. Hard to blame him considering the tantalizing view from the hospital windows.

Don’t get any ideas, dear husband. My only wish is that you mend well and come back to me and then, I promise, we will sail off into the sunset together.

Silver Bells, Cockle Shells, they’re all just fine without me

daphne — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 21:23:41 +0000

While I’ve been busy with a bunch of this

and a whole lot of that

I haven’t had much time to pay attention to what’s going on in my own backyard. Yes, you’re seeing right. It’s time for the Aerial Squirrel Olympics.

And the garden, while not defying gravity, is worthy of some medals of its own. Fat snap peas hang from stalks that sail skyward

We’ve had fresh salad every night

The strawberries are ruby red gems of tasty goodness

Even those I have neglected are putting out. Ignore an onion long enough and she’ll do something to attract your attention –

Likewise the weeds. I knew it would pay off to put off pulling this guy.

And just like that the summer is sailing past, and it is time to hang up the jump ropes and the swim goggles, wish the veggies good luck with their battle against the weeds, and load up the car for the jumbo July road trip.

We’ll catch you from the road. ‘Til then…Wagons East!

What I don’t know about chickens

daphne — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 21:19:05 +0000

Chicken:

Not a chicken:

Hang tight. We have just about reached the end of my knowledge about chickens.

They have beady little eyes.

The color of the eggs they lay is directly linked to the color of their earlobes. Impressive sounding, right? At least until you get to the obvious follow-up question.

So no, I do not know how one locates a chicken earlobe.

I also do not know how the eggs decide who will go on to become a big chick and who joins us for breakfast.

Nor do I understand what drove the children to spend copious amounts of time passing weeds into the coop.

Perhaps it had to do with the pathetic state of farm strawberries this year. Hail damaged and dusty, we picked barely enough to squeak out 4 jars of jam Hardly enough to get us through the summer, let alone the school year, but I am not concerned in the slightest.

Who needs cowboy-hick-farmland berries anyway?

Not us.

We are partial to their beautifully bountiful backyard suburban cousins.

Arrrr, Keep Ye Quarters (& bring me them toys)

daphne — Mon, 06 Jun 2011 17:47:09 +0000

We’ve spoken before about my aversion to teeth. I especially deplore this habit they have of being cohesive team players in the mouth one day and walking the plank the next.

Warning: this post features a picture of one terribly frightening mug

Isn’t it horrible? The mish-mash of unevenness and drool and bloody gums. This maw only an orthodontist could love.

But be yea warned. The pirate behind these pearls is one tough negotiator. She who takes her fairies seriously and who frankly has had it with quarters.

If she really considered herself a friend to the fairies she might have thought twice about throwing a wrench into the tooth fairy’s already tight schedule. The poor fairy, who not only had to deal with the existential parenting conundrum of keeping faith alive, but now had to scramble and rummage through the dark house in hopes of discovering an unfamiliar yet worthy toy.

Impressively, I happened upon this. One perfect glass frog. More than equal in value to one bloody little baby tooth.

The next morning breakfast was full of musings. Yes, my pirate was thrilled with her bounty, but how had the fairy found such a gem?

And if she had such awesome toys in her arsenal, what’s the deal with the lousy quarters?

What exactly are the logistics of maneuvering it beneath the pillow?

And what on earth could she be planning with all those teeth?

Blame it on the Rain that keeps fallin’ fallin’

daphne — Wed, 25 May 2011 14:47:32 +0000

Ahhhh. Hello my beautiful sunny iris.

If you squint just right it don’t you think it almost looks like that smoking hot orb that used to hang in the sky above this fair land?

Forgive me the sarcasm.

It’s not as if I’m one of those cheery sunshiny types. I don’t need the sun to make me smile. I like dreary rainy days that dispense permission to lounge in sweatpants with each thirst-quenching drop.

But enough is enough. I’m getting kind of cranky.

Maybe that has something to do with swim team practices in the cold rain and my inability to differentiate between a character-building, commitment-keeping lesson and being a mean parent.

But never mind a couple of wet, whiny kids, we’ve got strawberries bursting out of their patch–

My favorite flower flax is flexing its, um, floral-ness

And speaking of things that are taking delight in this everlasting deluge, there’s this, er, thing

This unidentified random weed that I neglected and it grew and grew and just when it started towering over me and hungrily licking its chops it burst into lovely light pink blossoms and now it’s not that scary anymore. In fact, I’m renaming it ‘flowering bush’ and inviting it to stay.

This is the garden.

Unfortunately, that big bare spot to the south represents the broccoli, pepper and eggplant sprouts that, like my shivering swimmers, proved not to be fans of icy rain. But it’s okay, because I’m sure these guys will fit in just fine–

They look so hearty and tough.

And I’ll just bet they don’t complain to their mother even though she’s hardly the one who voluntarily begged to be signed up to swim.

Outside.

In Colorado.

In stupid old unpredictable May.

Surprisingly Entertaining Pets

daphne — Tue, 17 May 2011 19:33:24 +0000

My kids have been asking for a pet since they could speak. Something warm and fuzzy they could cuddle and love.

Hello Fluffy

Who cares that this adorable critter arrived alongside 30 pounds of his friends to take a spicy steam bath? If my babies want a pet, then a pet they shall have.

At least for an hour or so.

And nothing says cuddly and sweet like a crayfish. True, online experts claim them to be “incredibly aggressive, territorial and even cannibalistic,” yet they also find them to be “surprisingly entertaining pets to keep.”

And if by entertaining they mean catching the little mud-bugger as he leaps from his tupperware and sprints across the lawn, then I guess they are spot on.

***note to the greener reader***

Yes, I do realize that nothing in this post could possibly be construed as green. Some might even call it tactless and carnivorous. And for that I am sorry. But hey — you know what goes really well with crawfish? Nudity. It’s true, just ask anyone who’s spent time in New Orleans. So if it helps at all, I did also talk today about getting naked; just click over to Mama Bird Diaries and check it out.

Mouse Skulls and Mother’s Day

daphne — Tue, 10 May 2011 14:22:04 +0000

Do you want to know the best thing about this plastic baggie full of mouse skeletons?

It’s not my maternal pride over the obvious CSI skills my daughters’ exhibit.

It’s not knowing that our neighborhood owls are eating well, controlling the mouse population, and selecting our pine tree for the repository of their pellets/gifts. Though all those things are clearly good things.

No, the best part about this cluster of doom is that it was not my Mother’s Day gift.

Because while I appreciate the heck out of every thoughtful token my daughters have bestowed over the years, it would have taken considerably more energy then I’ve got to muster up the necessary ooohs and ahhhs over this bag o’ bones.

In between dissections, the little naturalists did make themselves available to do mom’s bidding. They scowled and declined happily lent a hand. All it took was a subtle reminder that IT IS MOTHER’S DAY THAT’S WHY.

And in honor of Mother’s Day the hammock was to be hung. I held the image all day as I seeded and weeded, knowing that soon I would be rocking gently beneath the trees. Relaxing.

Sure enough, there was plenty of relaxing on Mother’s Day.

I know what you’re thinking, but you’re crazy. It’s enough for me to simply watch my offspring relax with a good book.

Besides, between the children reading in the hammock and these love doves being all lovey dovey

And strawberries putting out their flowery best

And rhubarb so ripe it practically crisped itself,

And our future salads poking through to say hello

The day was perfect.

Especially since the mouse skulls weren’t destined for my room. They were for the 2nd grade teacher. Because nobody musters up excitement over mouse-parts-in-a-bag like a teacher.

Free-Ranging It

daphne — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 14:17:16 +0000

Is what’s good for the goose chicken . . . good for the gander children?

These children that I have coddled and cuddled for over ten years? The ones who, yes, have a tendency to fall on their heads but otherwise have demonstrated good judgment and responsibility in spades.

Free range these children? These peace-loving, tree-hugging, flower children o’mine?

Yes. I know the answer is yes. It is time to let them out into that big bad world out there.

And in defense of that world, it’s been putting on a good show. You’d never guess that she’s hell-bent on scaring me to pieces. What with the blushing blossoms on her fruit trees

And her sweet young sprouts,

the world is practically bursting apart with displays of innocence. It’s as if Mother Earth has draped herself in springtime in an evil attempt to forcefully loosen my hold and get my precious babes out into her play-land.

Which I know to be full of danger.

But it’s working. I’m breaking down. I am being fooled by Mama Nature.

Fooled into letting them ride their bikes without tethering them to bubble-wrap. Fooled into giving them opportunities to flourish and the freedom to fail. Fooled into free-ranging my chickadees.

No, not because it would make their flesh succulent and tender.

It’s because the little box that I yearn to keep them in is busting at the seams and at some point they may want to do things, like go to college. Or get married.

And I hear that’s kind of hard to do when you’re being raised like veal.

The Answer is Blowing in the Wind

daphne — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 14:38:11 +0000

The question, of course, was the one I posed in a round-about way last week: How do you protect your sprout-lings from the cold winds that blow?

You can plant the seeds.

You can nurture the little guys as they poke their heads into the world for the first time.

You can shower them with smothering love and affection as you watch them grow with pride but soon enough they will be begging to be set free, demanding to stand on their own out in the wild blue yonder

Oops. Wrong sprouts.

Pardon the mistake but that’s bound to happen when you take parenting advice from a gardening site. Which I have. I read that in order to prepare your sprouts for the real world, you must blow on them. This simulated mini-hurricane hardens your sprouts, making them stronger, thereby preparing them for the strong Colorado winds.

Or big bad life lessons, whichever nemesis applies.

The answer is blowing in the wind. Or blowing on your plants. Or letting your kids out into the world despite the fact that it can be a dark and scary place.

And so it was that our veggie sprouts began their training regiment of standing up to the fan.

And I, with a kiss and a forced smile, relinquished my sprouts to a panel of 12 judges. The girls bent calmly into the wind. They put themselves out there, faced their music, and wham bam 13-hours-in-a-gym later, they came away intact.

Not just intact, but ecstatic. And bedecked with ribbons.

Here are the videos–

Kira’s Freestyle took first place for her age division.

Acadia’s Freestyle took first place for her division.

Kira’s Pairs Freestyle also took first.

But Honey — Mommy Thinks You’re Terrific

daphne — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 15:47:19 +0000

I’ve been thinking.

Thinking about all the blather I spew to parents of newbies about the dreaminess of life on this side of infancy. About how parenting older kids is a walk in the park where that park doesn’t insist you follow slippery tots in and out of sand piles and up and down ladders and slides.

It is true. Most days are just easier now that they’re grown. But then I’ll go and do something dumb, like remembering when they looked like this

Back when I could bind them up in a cotton burrito and hold them close

So sweet. So unaware that just a few years down the road lurk life lessons hungry to bite them in their unsuspecting little tushies.

Not that I’m against life lessons. They are, no doubt, vital stepping stones on the path towards becoming well-adjusted human beings.

Scratch that.

I hate life lessons. They are big and mean and hurtful and I want them to go away.

I do not want them sneaking up, threatening to snatch away my girls’ dreams in the name of building character.

I hate character.

Why can’t childhood just be a succession of blissful little images of quiet innocence?

You know, the way it is in my selective memory.

All I took was a few tentative steps down baby lane and now I’m a total wreck. I am awash in images of days that sped by

Days in which achieving perfection in mama’s eyes alone was enough

But they are content no more. They have turned their noses up at pacifiers and swaddling blankets and this decidedly lop-sided opinion I’ve got of them. They have moved on to challenges that will no doubt prepare them for life and destroy my sanity.

How will I protect them when they insist on heading out into the cruel world to be judged by strangers on merits alone when they could stay home with me and bask in my tales of their brilliance and talent?

What if they go out there and do not succeed?

What if they are crushed with disappointment despite working determinedly towards a singular goal?

There is no certified program for soothing big kids.

No book of miracles beyond the swaddle and gentle bouncing.

There is no 5-point harness to shield them from the shocks delivered by mean girls or tough breaks or tournaments with undesirable outcomes.

They want to compete. And my baby-no-more wants to be judged, not by jaded parents or gushing grandparents, but by an objective panel. And she wants to come out on top.

I am proud of her. Of her lofty goals and her determination and hard work. On paper, I will spout that win or lose there are valuable life lessons to be learned.

Blech. Life lessons.

I hate life lessons.

March Madness and Garden Insanity

daphne — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 16:59:07 +0000

You’ve seen the videos I’ve forced upon you. My girls can jump.

Though to the dismay of their basketball-loving father that has not necessarily translated into an interest in basketball. Given the circumstances, Dave did what any sport-loving guy would do; he called for back-up. It’s good to have nephews.

Five year old Felix watched. He commented and talked stats and aside from a notable absence of beer and nachos it was game-watching perfection. The fellas even took a break at half time to play a little hoops of their own.

And then the ladies stepped in to show them how it’s done. My girl’s got some serious ups.

But enough with the silly game playing. It’s March, and madness or not it is time to do some planting. When it comes to work in the garden I am an equal-opportunity slave-driver. I pressed all my indentured servants into compost spreading and plot prepping.

I put the girls to work.

I put the boys to work.

Heck, I would have put the mailman to work if he weren’t so darn speedy in that little weather-defying truck of his.

Thanks to all of these helping hands, the south garden has been seeded for snap peas, lettuce, onions and spinach. Now we wait, and hope that March decides to keep its snow to itself this year.

Our new garden window is practically bursting with trash creatively re-purposed plastic containers.

Hope springs eternal in the form of this nascent plantings, but alas . . . you can’t count your veggies before they sprout.

Oh Yeah, the Ides of March

daphne — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 16:41:21 +0000

The ides of March are upon us. Unlike Caesar, I know there are certain things one can expect as the middle of March descends.

There’s the nice things. The lovely flowers reclaiming their rightful place, reaching up from leftover piles of winter slush.

Yes, hopeful spring with its naive little blooms.

And we mustn’t forget the little birdies; they are singing.

Well, not so much singing perhaps as maliciously casing our joint –

I see you there Pal. And I remember you. I remember you from 2009. And I remember you from 2010. Oh, Mr. Woodpecker, you darling March memento.

You of the “early morning jack-hammering on the metallic parts of our chimney” woodpeckers.

You, of the “drive my husband to the brink of insanity and the edge of our roof” woodpeckers.

Ahh, springtime with it’s chipper birds and beautiful flowers.

But wait, there’s more. There are a couple of special things that ring out as harbingers of spring around our house.

Golly gee, there’s the storm-trooper Boot o’ Spring–

It’s my own subtle reminder that with another March comes the passing of another year, and with it yet another opportunity to immobilize the paper mache bones of my left foot.

And hey, you know what really says springtime? Innumerable hours spent inside sweaty high school gyms.

There’s the innocent scent of teen spirit.

The hum of hundreds of spinning ropes.

The blush of florescence on the faces of happy children.

And speaking of happy children, guess who’s had enough hanging around and watching big sister jump? Guess who has decided that sure, what the heck, she’s in, sign her up. . .

Look! It’s 7 year old Punky Jumpster, here in her practice debut –

Hey Caesar. Happy spring.

Well Good Morning to You Too

daphne — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 21:24:46 +0000

Oh. Hello.

I didn’t see you there.

No, it’s fine. Of course I didn’t think that just because I took a little time-out that the world should stop turning. I mean, there are lunches to be made and dictators to topple and yes, teeth will continue to fall out and hey even the sprouts are defying logic and breaking through the chilly dirt.

And ho, what’s that I feel? Are these tendrils unfurling from my own stiff limbs as if spurned on by the heady scent of sun-kissed dirt?

Hibernating? No, not me. For there is work to be done.

And I’ve been busy.

Doing, you know, stuff.

Important, stuff.

Like, making sure my youngest is dressed to fight dragons.

And prepping Grandma for some good, old-fashioned village – pillaging.

Well gosh, now you’re making me feel like all I’ve been doing is trying to be a viking. But you know they have cool ships with handsome, half-clad men rowing in time to jaunty sea shanties?

And ocean breezes that would gently blow through my luxurious locks.

The glint of the sun winking off a newly sharpened hatchet.

The squawk of an albatross in search of an Ancient Mariner…

Hey, shame on you. Do not encourage my digressions.

For there is work to be done once dragons lay slain. A newly acquired village will need tidying. And so it was that the local population was enslaved and put to work waking up the sleepy garden.

They raked and they hoed and eventually the garlic showed through, it’s sweet tendrils reaching towards the light of the weak spring sun.

They whispered sweet nothings of encouragement, coaxing irises from beneath frozen blankets.

The raspberries too would prosper under new management. The field, an unwieldy brier patch of mayhem,

was hacked into submission. A viking must insist upon order from her berries.

No more would raspberries be left to wither on the vine.

And the viking goddess (that’d be me) saw that it was good. And so it was that she posted sentries in the treetops . . .

And high-tailed it back inside.

For her hands were getting cold.