FOUR!

I looked for one picture all day. Dr. Romance found it buried in 2007. It is a picture I never imagined I would publish here. I was afraid of everything the doctors told me for over a year about my four month old baby.

It is the picture of Son2 sedated, hooked up to many wires, monitored in a hospital after the first seizures that lasted 4 months. I met with a specialist doctor every few months, for over a year. She frightened me with all of her "possibilities."

In my hunt for the picture, I found others from the years we lived in Hawaii:

First time on the Big Island

At the top of Haleakala Crater in Maui

He stood up on this boogie board unprompted. I caught it on camera.

Our last night in Hawaii, trying to convince Son 2 to lose the pacifier at Roy's.

I saved that picture of Son2 and the wires. I would look at in now and then on my computer with a heavy heart. I remember the first years of caution, of prayers, and tears in Hawaii. Those were moments I shared with only Dr. Romance. I did not want to think of "possibilities."

When Son2 turned 2 we had just moved to California. His pediatrician told me there were no symptoms. I waited breathlessly for his third birthday. No signs.

And then he turned 4.

I realized that all the fears that once gripped me,
the uncertainties of what Is Not At All,
are No Where to be Found.

He is FOUR!
He speaks well beyond his years.
He befriended a professor who asked him if he was 20.
He runs and jumps and pretends he is Buzz Lightyear or Woody.
His new pediatrician noted he is the most active of my boys.

He is healthy and bright.
He is full of good POSSIBILITY.

We celebrated FOUR with a private showing of Toy Story 3 in a vintage movie theater including his friends.
We celebrated with Grandma flying in from Arizona. This is in the movie theater before the guests arrived.

We celebrated at preschool when I read his favorite book to the class, and when we made hamburger puppets.

 We celebrated Again and Again at a restaurant with cloth napkins and fancy desserts.

And it resonates with me that we celebrated his LIFE.
We celebrated Living.
We celebrated precious, precious breaths....measured breaths.
We counted them, four years long.
We numbered good Grace.
And we gave thanks for his LIFE.

Waking Up

***
The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:
We just write. For five minutes flat.

Today’s topic is “Waking Up”



GO.

Waking Up

I open my heavy eyes and see sweet daylight. I am stiff in this rented bed in the rented house. I am not well rested. I do not wake up in a luxurious bed anymore. But I would make this decision to live right here again and again, "to live in a hut in Africa" with my groom. One day soon, I will have a bed I call my own. Now it is not too hard to jump out of the bed.

I always look to my left, and inspect him lying there, wondering what he is dreaming. My feet hit the ground and I race to start the morning before my three little live wires.

Now we five are all awake. The house is alive again, each of us following the morning routine. This rousing of the day together each morning is precious. It is time well spent together.

Just over an hour later I am walking the eldest to school. I look at him sideways and I see chocolate streaks swiping each of his cheeks. I take my thumbs and rub those grinning cheeks.

He knows I know. He dove right into those Stadium Brownies on his way out the door. And joy fills my heart because I have rubbed those cheeks clean this morning.

STOP.

Wild Turkeys Couldn't Hold Me Down to Sleep

I am not made for long, cold, dark days. I live for Spring, Summer, and Indian summers. I kept telling Dr. Romance to just wait for March 13. I eyed the date like my own Christmas morning, like gifts under a golden sun. He just sighed every time I reminded him about March 13. But the March 13s of my life have been counted, even under different dates. With joy I went to bed, waiting for the morning. And still, I thought I might sleep in. But there was no sleeping in on March 13.

I thought I heard barking. Then I thought someone was sawing with machinery. I eyed the clock in the 6:00 hour and then Son1 lept on top of me. "Mommy, COME QUICK! There is an old fashioned kind of turkey on our front lawn!!!"

There was no barking of sawing. I heard GOBBLING. I heard GOBBLING in March.  This borders on a phenomenon for our family. We live 15 minutes outside of Boston, and GOBBLING is not an every day thing around these parts. I am a city girl from San Diego. I graduated college in congested Los Angeles. I worked for many years outside of Washington, D.C. I thought I lived in the jungle when we lived within minutes from Honolulu. So my ideas about wild life are a bit skewed.

I threw on a fleece and some boots over my pajamas and hustled for the camera. And on March 13, what I told my Dr. Romance would happen, HAPPENED.

God sent the Spring.
He did not forget me in Winter.
And as His showpiece,
As a trumpet of GOBBLES
He sent me a flock of turkeys on March 13,
Straight to MY front lawn.

 I looked up. I gave thanks, and I saw Him there in the blue wonder.

Right about this time of year the earth starts to tilt on its axis. Surprisingly the Northern Hemisphere moves farthest from the sun. But the tilt this time of year calls on Spring. I have marked the Spring by turning the hands of the clock forward one hour since I was in elementary school. Now, the clock is set in motion and the days of sun are longer, and my mood is finally lighter for months and months and months.

I am made for Spring and for Spring forward. I was born under the sun one day in late May.

I heard knocking behind me. I turned to see two boys rubbernecking me in the window. They spied their mama on a turkey hunt. They saw me hunting, but did they see me tickled by the smallest of miracles? These wild turkey were my blessing. I named them mine. I counted them mine. I am choosing to see the good, the very, very, very good, of being shaken out of my sleep at six in the morning. This, the only morning of 2011 I will lose an hour I will never, ever get back, and I want to see the joy. Will they see joy on mornings when they are shaken in much more major ways?

I was not sure the camera setting was correct. I flagged those boys to get my Dr. Romance. Down the steps of the 1928 Craftsman he came, joining me in this hunt. He captured most all of the wild turkey photos, even that big fat one above.

 He even found a few turkey hunters.

He Speaks Superhero

***
The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:
We just write. For five minutes flat.

Today’s topic is “I feel the most loved when…”



I hung up the phone rather curtly after I said I love you. I whipped my minivan around the corner, my heart racing, for the last spot in the entire parking lot. Pulling in between those two white lines my soul felt I had just crossed a finish line, outsmarting the luxury vehicle in front of me. I pulled the keys from the ignition, grabbed the stroller already set up, and pounced it on the pavement. It is hard to move three active boys in snow gear, each hauling a backpack, up a long side walk to the front doors.

I was questioned at the front desk about our final destination. Frustrating to be stopped in a hurry. Why couldn't she be efficient as me? Did she not see my son in a swimming cap? Fast and furious we sped past her, sprinting for an elevator that was stuck. So I threw the door open to the stairs, and sent the older two corraling down the flight. I urged the eldest to undress his brother at the pool deck, while I dragged the stroller backward down an entire flight of stairs.

In the lobby of the pool  deck, I finished flying the clothes off my son, down to his swim trunks. Swim lessons in Massachusetts at night with three kids in the dead of Winter? What was I thinking?

Finally. He was in the pool just as the lessons began. I relaxed. I wasn't running anymore. Now, just to manage the wriggling toddler and the chatty first grader, and hold a conversation with the interested mother next to me.

And then I saw him. My heart stopped, and then it sung. Straight from the airport, straight from his delayed flight, in just an oxford shirt, sans winter coat. I announced to the entire pool lobby, "I have just been rescued!!"

I feel most loved when he speaks his love language to me, not mine. Forgetting my sharp goodbye in the parking lot, he came straight to the poolside to lend me his hands. He said not a word, and lifted the wriggling baby from my lap and held him in his arms as he watched the swimming son through the window. Despite my frazzled, broken communication, he showed up.

STOP.

Rescue Mission: Half Birthday Cake

I don't want to disappoint any of you that are new around here. I know I have been blogging a lot lately about food. But I would hardly classify myself as a foodie. It has been freezing in Massachusetts for about a hundred years, and this winter has nearly lasted a millenium. So I have had my oven on a lot!

But there are times my baking becomes a rescue mission. Case in point, this cake.

You know you are foodie if you can tell what happened already. But first, you have to know how this all started. This cake is at least six years in the making. Well, maybe even longer if you count back to my childhood.

Without fail, my mom always made my birthday cakes. She always made my favorite chocolate cake made from meringues. Think deep chocolate, and then dream more chocolate, and trust me, you still haven't daydreamed enough chocolate. I always imagined myself baking my kids' birthday cakes one day, from the days I had an Easy Bake oven. It's the thing about being a girl....about planning out every detail of how to live your life. I imagined baking birthday cakes up until the months before our kids' birthdays. I had romantic ideas of taking cake making and cake decorating classes like my mom, and baking picture perfect cakes that people oohed and ahhhed over.

The truth is, I have been a mom for 6.5 years and I have never, ever made any of my three kids their birthday cakes.  

Confession: I have bought every single one of their cakes for under $20 at my favorite giant wharehouse where I hold a membership. And I have major Mommy guilt about that.

At least I tell the warehouse bakery to leave the cakes white, and blank, apart from Happy Birthday and the kid's name. Then I buy and top the white frosted cake with some impressive large brand new toys, in the kid's party theme, and people ooh and ahh. But they are not actually oohing for the cake. They probably just don't know anyone else that builds toys on top of cakes but me. And plastic toys on top of frosted white cakes does not erase my mommy guilt around homemade cakes.

Recently, my eldest came home from school asking about his Half Birthday, like it was an obvious and recurring event in our home. He asked, and he asked, and he asked some more. I dismissed his questions, hoping he would forget. I knew that if we celebrated his Half Birthday this year, that it would become an undying Farmer family tradition for the next 16+ years, you know, until my youngest turns 18. I may tend to be fatalistic and dramatic about such decisions.

I remembered that a friend makes half a cake for her children's half birthdays. If I was going down this road of Half Birthday family tradition it required me baking and creating the cake myself. In my mind, there was no alternative.

I baked a vanilla cake, Son1's favorite. I cut it in half, and anointed the cake with a rich cream cheese frosting recipe, courtesy of Paula Deen. Then I donned the cake with strawberries. It drives me nuts to eat cakes layered with fresh fruit, and have my dessert be reduced to a sliver of fruit I need glasses to find. So my cake was punchy with strawberries, for sure. I tried to crown the cake with the second vanilla half, over the punchy strawberries, but the crown slid off. I had a solution for that. I shellacked the strawberries with more cream cheese frosting, only to throw myself into a fit of laughter as they slid around. I then crowned the cake with the second vanilla layer and watched punchy strawberries squeeze out the sides of the cake. I shoved them back into the cake and held the crowning vanilla layer down with two wooden skewers. This cake was not about to escape my grip.

I will never again wonder why fresh fruit cakes are served with slivers of fruit rather than punchy layers. You may want to take a moment and scroll back up to the picture of the cake. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Now, Son1 is in a deep soldier phase. He is in love with all things soldier. Watching Toy Story 3 only enhanced this love. I knew without a doubt I was making a soldier cake. I pondered fondant and fanciness, but I am glad after the sliding strawberries I stuck to my dirt plan. I threw an army full of oreos into the Vitamix for the cake.

I should make one more confession. I have never, ever, eaten anything with crumbled Oreos. You know those things like dirt cakes, or cemetery cakes served around Halloween with crushed Oreos? I have always passed on those desserts. The thought of eating dirt, or gummy worms buried in crushed Oreos places an undue stress on me. GROSS. So this was an absolute stretch for me to coat this cake with Oreo crumbs.

The cake was a complete surprise for Son1. He had no idea that I remembered his half birthday with a half cake, let alone a soldier cake. So after a dinner of his favorite, tacos, the Farmer family ate a ridiculous lot of this entire cake. If I have ever doubted crumbled Oreos, this strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting has made me a believer.

But most importantly, here is what I will take away from this first Half Birthday celebration in our home. Son1 jumped up and down, hugged me, thanked me, and said this.

"Thank you, Mommy!! I LOVE it!! And this is my very first cake you have ever made me!!"

I have never, ever mentioned my mommy guilt over not making my kids birthday cakes, ever to them. But just when I thought baking a birthday cake was important to just me, I realized I was wrong. I asked him if ever minded that I bought his cake. No, it did not matter to him. But he really did love this cake. That was enough to make this homemade Half Birthday cake tradition stick around here!!

Winter Interrupted

I want my boys to believe me, to take me at my word, to hedge their bets that I am telling the truth. It is painful to hear my sons ache, to long for other days. I am surprised at how this New England cold with its sinking teeth has bothered them. As a boy mom I mistakenly thought they would brush off the bitter cold.

This Massachusetts winter has been brutal. It has been record long, record cold, and brimming with snow. This meteorologists say this winter has been unlike any other winter in years. When the snow falls my boys forgive the temperatures, throwing on snow boots, jumping into snow pants, finding lost snow gloves. But for the days when the mercury barely creeps past the numbers the weather has been wild.

This is all new for them. They are spoiled to only remember warm childhood days lived in Hawaii and California. My boys are used to sweatshirts when the temperatures dip below 70. But every day for three months they have packed snow pants, snow gloves, and snow boots shoved deep into a bulging bag slung next to their backpacks. My heart hurt the most for them one -25 degree school day.

A few weeks ago the eldest shed tears for San Diego winters. When will the cold stop? His otherwise olive skin is chalk white and dry. His hands show chapping from the days he chose not to wear the gloves. I pulled him close as we stared out the window from the second floor, protected from single digit temperatures. We stood staring down at the snow hedge at least 100 feet long. I want you to remember this, I told him, as I pulled back the curtain. We stared down at birds perched on a six foot towering wall of snow that ran like a sterile hospital corridor between our house and the next.I told him that God had not forgotten the little birds in winter. Even in this deep snow He sees them, and He provides their food. How He cares even more for us, and how He knows we need spring to come quickly.

Wow, I want him to remember the metaphor, and not just the literal example. I can't impress that upon his six year old mind. All I can bank on is that he will remember the day we stood at the window, when it seemed there was no hope for spring to show up in Massachusetts. I want him to remember that God sends the spring even when we feel in the dead of winter. He doesn't forget the seasons. He holds time.

Just the other day the snow fell and I could not find him anywhere. I peeked outside, and there he was, eager to live in this season. He forgot the temperature, he forgot his snow gloves, again. But he lived this season, pinching the sleeve of his jacket, scraping the snow.

And just a couple of days later, when there seemed no end to winter, the Author of the Seasons sent a day in the mid 40s for the first time in months. The snow melted. The jackets were left inside, and my boots were borrowed.

I caught the birds singing. Their melodies were loud and echoed around the neighborhood.

 

The squirrels appeared out of thin air, flying from branch to branch, chasing one another like a game of boys chase girls in the school yard.

So we celebrated the vanishing snow with melting snowmen. We spread the dissolving snow on the cookies, squished those sinking snowmen down, and laughed as we imagined their sadness.

And the big boys hands, the ones that scraped the snow with chapped fingers, happily danced in that pretend vanished snow.

Story Telling

A friend from another time and another place lives here. Her two boys and my older two boys have birthdays within weeks of each other. Once there were four boys between us.

I knew when I watched her at the back of the lanes.
She talked to my baby as he begged for a bowling ball.
It was time for story telling. She has told hers. I needed to tell mine.

I was absolutely uncomfortable. It would have been easiest not to share.

I needed to tell her that I know what it is to long for a third baby.
I needed to tell her that three years ago I wished I was pregnant as I watched her growing belly.
I needed to say that I know what it feels to ask God why life twists and turns to end up in knots.
I spoke her baby girl's name, the one in heaven.

I almost did not share. She would have been just fine had I remained quiet.
But I shared. I told a story different from hers, but still one of longing.
I told her about life in the desert, and finally about life in the green valley.
I told her about untamed joy with our third child, our beautiful son.
I spoke of a full heart, of no more longing.

Twenty four hours lived, and stories are written on every one of us.
Twenty four hours later will we remember how God worked in us, yesterday?
Will we share yesterday's story, and the next one, and the next one?
We are not the sum of just one story, but many stories.

What will it cost to be exposed?
Is the risk worth the return?
All of these stories different, yet each point to the hand of God.