Chicken Coax

Go out and play in the snow . . . don't be a chicken!

Happy Campers

It is a white, frosty Saturday morning here, and my whole brood is snug inside and all is right in the Lemony Renee' world . . .

The puppy is dragging around his toy rubber chicken; a Christmas gift. He is systematically chewing the toes off and having so much fun doing it.  A little ghoulish, but he's happy. 

Lester is sitting here on my monitor, all puffed up and content.   I love this little bird; she brings me peaceful companionship and all she asks in return is that I let her sit on my head every now and then.

And my husband and my son are where I left them last night . . . on the floor of the family room, sleeping bags spread out in front of the fire . . . this is their version of winter camping.  They cook convenience foods over the open fire of the fireplace and do decidedly "guy things" all evening, night, and the next morning.  Last night, I believe there was a late-night sledding adventure, a nature walk, and home to another log on the fire and a first lesson in poker.  Ten hours later, the poker continues (I suspect they slept at some point, but I can't be sure)  and my son just came streaking through here proclaiming that he just got a straight . . . hair still all askew and wearing his "happy camper" t-shirt, he was quite a sight.

These are the best of days. 

I think I'll pour another cup of coffee and have a bit of that banana bread for breakfast.

I wish you a contented Saturday . . .

Summer Over Already?

If you are not currently in the parenting business . . . parenting school-aged children, that is . . . you may not realize that it is camp-enrollment season.

I know.

Despite the current frigid temperatures and constant threat of snow and ice, we have spent the past week reading activity descriptions, comparing swimming lessons, confirming dates for things like the county fair and the scouts' camp-out, and trying to pin-point what my boy's interests will be come this summer.

And today I spent this morning enrolling him in several fabulous-sounding experiences.  Sports, explorers, horses, music.  Sounds great!

But I always get a bit of a heavy heart as I color in the various weeks that have been scheduled for my boy.  It seems like, with a stroke of a pen, I have spent his entire summer for him.  Already.  And, somehow, I miss him.  Already.

***

 
Before I allow myself to become completely depressed, I must remind myself that my boy has plenty of unscheduled time mixed in this summer.  We will laugh and we will hang out together.  We will go blueberry picking and fishing.  We will clean out closets, too, and pick through the mountain of papers that have come home from school. 

I always strategically leave the cleaning of closets and the organizing of dresser drawers for the last day before a busy camp week . . . somehow, it eases the blow of time apart, if you know what I mean.

My Boy's a Blogger

My little guy has decided to start his own blog!

He plans to write the blog from the puppy's point of view and, somehow, that seems right . . . boys and dogs, especially puppies, seem to have quite a lot in common.

If you can spare a moment now that then, he would be thrilled if you'd stop by and say hi:  A Puppy's Life.

Thanks! 

A Little Sunshine

After being pretty down about the harshness of life yesterday, I thought I owed a little cheer today.


Look what a child can do for even the most cynical and tired . . . 







Lovely.

When They Hurt

I remember when my son was learning to walk. I was relating to my mother how difficult it is to watch him fall, flinching every time. I hated to see him hurt, even if it was only a momentary jostle. My mother empathized and then added, "If you think you it's hard to take when he deals with that kind of hurt . . . just wait until someone hurts his feelings. That is excruciating."

I know what she meant now.

My son is, of course, extraordinary. He is perfect in every way. To set your eyes upon him is to feed your soul with joy and contentment. At least that's how I see him.

But I also know that my son is a bit different around his peers. He is quite reserved. And, being mostly a nature-nick, he is a bit out of the loop with many of his compulsive-gaming classmates.

That is not to say that he has no friends. He does. He has a small circle of friends. He's more into the scout crowd than the sports crowd which is a considerably bigger and more raucous group.

Imagine our joy when a new boy joined the class last year. A very polite boy, very science minded, very studious. He and my son became fast friends. An answer to my prayers.

Imagine our anguish when this same boy simply decided one day that he no longer wanted to be my son's friend. No reason given. He just dropped him. We even inquired with the boy's parents about there perhaps being more to the story. No. They were no more helpful than the boy. And now, the worst of all -- if you're 10, anyway -- he did not invite him, despite inviting nearly everyone else, to his birthday party.

My son, who is usually quite reserved and stoic when it comes to displays of emotion, is notably sad and hurt.

Being a proper mama-tiger, I, of course, am incensed. How could someone treat my boy this way? I thought it was teenage girls who did this sort of thing? Isn't this supposed to be one of the advantages of being a boy, simple friendships? And after all our coaching and cajoling to our son about being more outgoing, trusting his friends enough to really be himself. This was his first "best friend." I am crushed for him.

Thanks for listening.

Let's Go to the Pumpkin Farm!

Can't talk today -- we're all off to the pumpkin farm.  It's an annual family outing -- perhaps my favorite of the year.  Last year, I took y'all along . . . so here's what we did and what we will be doing again!  (We're creatures of habit.)

(From 10/15/09)  Okay, go get yourself a cuppa . . . we're going on a field trip!

Every fall, our family piles in the van and sets off in search of our own great pumpkin.  We go miles.  It takes us all day.  It is an event. It just wouldn't suit our family to head to the nearest grocery store -- or even the nearest pumpkin farm -- to get our Halloween pumpkins and fall decorations.  No.  We must travel far and wide.

We always make it into an adventure -- bringing food and snacks and drinks.  The kids usually bring along a companion of the toy variety, usually a stuffed animal or doll of some sort.  And we try and go on weekday when the other schools are in session, but ours is not.  It makes it much more fun to think of the fun we're having while others are in school, you know.

So we set out early Monday morning for our fall adventure.  We stopped at a local market on our way out of town.  They have an old-fashioned candy section second to none.  There are the old bushel barrels full of individually wrapped candies -- everything from rootbeer barrels to the old-fashioned cough drops in the striped wrappers.  There are also the modern candies and the campy kid candy, etc.  The seasonal candy is the most fun.  Have you seen those seasonal boxes of Dots?  "Blood Orange" flavored Bats.  There are also Candy Corn striped Dots.  And light green Ghost Dots.  Who knew?    We just had to get the gummy chicken feet!  We each also picked our favorites and moved on . . .

(My son chose those little wax bottles with the sweet syrup inside.  Remember those?  I didn't realize, though, until later, that he thought one ate the whole thing.  He was a bit disappointed when we tutored him on biting the "top" off and drinking the liquid and discarding the rest.  Such a waste to him.  Remember that lesson?)

Anyway, we continued on and finally reached our first pumpkin farm and pie stand.  I took several pictures of the place, but somehow missed the camera wrist strap hanging right in front of the lens!

Well, you get the idea.  See the size of those pumpkins?

This is an Amish farm and pie stand.  This year, they had the most incredible pumpkins.  Huge!  And wonderful varieties.  Not one of these would be found in the typical grocery store.  Unfortunately, unlike the pumpkins, the pies have declined.  I suspect they are under new ownership -- more focus on farming, less on baking.  Oh well, that'll be better for my waistline.

We bought two huge pumpkins and one smaller white pumpkin here.  We had to use a wheelbarrow to get them to the van, one at a time.  I couldn't lift one for even a moment.  Hugest pumpkins we've ever bought -- and for the price we usually pay for the typical pumpkins.  Wow!

I had to laugh at this scene in the parking lot:

 Man's Work!  It was all fun and games picking out the behemoth pumpkins; the work came in getting them in the vans!

And we "grin and buy it."  Corn shocks, I mean.

We know, full well, that the farmers must laugh at the city kids that actually pay for these, but I can't help it, I don't have a corn field out my back door and they look pretty by the front door this time of year.

Then off we went to the next destination.  This is a wonderful place that really defies description.  Picture an elderly couple with the energy of kids.  They have a salvage, woodworking, petting farm kind of place.  It is charming, yet a tad curmudgeonly, all at the same time.  We were treated to this sign as we parked:

Charming!

But then you turn around, and you see this beautiful, wonderful, amazing barn, all painted by the same hands that made that sign:

I wish I could post a larger image of it. (Hey, I just realized you can click on it to see it larger!  If you do, notice the bike in front covered in dried grapevines and lights . . . 'tis one of the things we bought!  And wouldn't that rusty bed make a great garden feature . . . "flowerbed?!")  This barn is at least 30' high and all handpainted.  It is a mural of himself and his wife and their dog.  That is them at the top, childhood sweethearts, sitting under a tree next to a wagon.  There they are at the lower right in modern day, they must be in their 80s.  The window on the top left is real; the window on the top right is painted.  Something, eh?

You could wander around in this and another barn for hours, but then there are the grounds which hold any and everything.  He has salvaged vintage windows stacked up side by side, like books on a shelf, by the hundreds.  Clawfoot bathtubs leaning in a row, probably 15 or so.  I didn't think to get a picture of these things as they really become part of the landscape after you become accustomed to this place.

If you wander around long enough, you'll come upon this fella:

He's friendly enough as long as you don't come inside his gate.  He turns all around so you can see how fancy he is.  He really is beautiful.  He has a missus, but she's quite shy.  He says not a word until you turn your back to walk away.  

So we wandered and wandered and ended up buying a couple of things for which we already had no room in the van.  We'll have to make another trip back either this weekend or next.  I'm sure you can imagine, I'm not too sad about that!

Up the road a couple of miles, we finally come to our pumpkin farm.  It is a little family farm that has been in the current owner's family for generations.  She and her husband and children grow so many varieties of pumpkins and gourds, it boggles the mind. 

That's her on the right, in the apron:  the maiden of the gourd.

There were pumpkins, literally, everywhere!

We spent a lot of time choosing the pumpkins we bought.  Everyone got one plain-ish pumpkin to make a jack-o-lantern and then we branched out into the decorative and useful ones as well.

I sought the maiden's advice on which variety would be best for pumpkin butter.  I plan to try my hand at that this fall.  The kids love it in their oatmeal and it is oh-so nutritious.  Stay tuned for that wild ride.

As they day came to an end, we packed everything in and headed home.

 

Now, to get them arranged and, later, carved -- it's been raining since just about the moment we arrived back home!



P.S.  Anyone who has read this far deserves a treat.  Go here  to carve your own virtual pumpkin -- and you can make and print the stencil so you can bring it to life.  (Those of you in lands devoid of Halloween festivities . . . you know you've always wanted to make a jack-o-lantern.  G'won!)

Nature-Nick Does The Fair

 (not my son, not our fair)

The county fair begins this weekend.

Before my son came along, if my husband and I went to the fair, it was mainly to shop the novelty stands, play a few carnival games, and have a beer or two.  If we didn't find a good band or an interesting act to watch, it was an early night. 

Then along came my boy and, as kids are apt to do, he turned the lights on in our lives and even the fair is a new place brimming with things we had never noticed before. 

I had no idea what we were missing.

My boy is a nature-nick.  He gardens and raises his own worms and newts; he has his own pond, and he even cooks.  He loathes rides, loud music, and mainstream mayhem.

When he was 5 years old, I got him started on making cookies and entering them in the fair.  I thought it would be a one-year lark.  He won first-place in the oatmeal category and that was it.  Ever since, he takes his cookies very seriously.  He has become a full-blown oatmeal cookie snob.  And when he goes to enter his cookies, he takes on an aire of an Iron Chef entering Kitchen Stadium.  Serious business.

 (Sophistication magazine)

Then we enter his pinewood derby car in the arts building.  He is feeling pretty confident this year since the body of his car actually holds water (a la snowglobe).  Pretty cool, I must say.

When we return to the fair once it is actually open, we must first check out the cookie placings.  He is used to getting either first or second place.  If not, we may be drowning our sorrows in a snow cone before heading over to check out the pinewood derby car category.  Since very few people seem to realize they can enter their derby cars, the competition is not usually very stiff.   

Then we head straight over to the native garden plot put on by the local extension office.  He shakes them down for all kinds of information.  They don't take him seriously at first, but once he refers to some plants by name and asks a question they don't know the answer to, he earns their respect.  By the time we are leaving them, they are reminding him of the minimum age for volunteers in their office. 

From there, we shop the booths looking for cheap lucky bamboo.  It's amazing the price breaks people will give an earnest kid.   

Then we hit the chicken barn and my son does his patented rooster call -- guaranteed to bend the ear of every rooster in the place and get an impassioned response from every single one of them.  We leave the place a'rocking and a'cackling.

We stroll through the goat barn while we discuss the ins and outs of having goats, legally, in the city.  Then we discuss the practicality in hiding goats in the city. 

 
We will offer him an ice cream cone from the dairy barn, but when he confirms that the ice cream is not made on-site from the dairy cows we just petted, he will imply that it is a misleading scam and opt for a funnel cake instead.  

After that we make a bee-line for the midway. 

But it's not what you think. 

My boy went on one ride too many last year at Hershey Park.  He's now traumatized.  No rides in his near future.  But we head to the midway just far enough to find the fishbowl game.  He has been saving his money for weeks.  We will play until we win at least one -- even if he needs parental subsidies to finally score one.  That fish wins the lottery because it will live in my son's pond along with prior years' winners, swimming freely and feasting lavishly on plant roots and larvae.  

On our way out, we will meander through the agricultural barn and marvel at the beautiful flowers and huge vegetables.  My son will outrageously claim that his sunflowers are every bit as big as the grand prize winner.  My husband and I begin to question his visual accuracy. 

All the way back to the car, we listen to him hatching a plan to grow the hugest pumpkin and the biggest sunflower and the reddest tomato for next year.

 
On the way home, he will implore us again to agree with him that his sunflower is way bigger.  We will just sigh and roll our eyes. 

Once we get home, no matter how late, he will want to float the fish bag in the pond and release his new tenant as soon as possible. 

(his pond was still under construction in this pic)

I must admit, it is a specially satisfying feeling to watch a little fish who, just hours ago had a gloomy future, find his way out of the bag and finally realize he is free.  The long, fast sprints of swimming are joyous to watch.  Eventually, the fish finds the pond's depths and disappears from our view for the night. 

We all come back inside and get ready for bed.

That's what the fair looks like when you're traveling with my boy; a nature-nick's take on the fair.

And I thought we'd been to the fair before him . . .

An Important Sandwich

A bridge was crossed yesterday.  A milestone reached.  And I'm not sure how I feel about it.

I was up to my eyeballs in paperwork, telephone calls, and official emails.  Lunchtime descended.  My son broached the subject of what to eat.  Food and serving food was the last thing on my mind.  What was on my mind was what was on the paper in my hands.

That's when it happened. 

Without even looking up from the document I was reviewing, I asked my son to make his own lunch . . . his own sandwich, namely.

And he did it. 

Somehow, while I continued to read on, he located the bread, the peanut butter, the jelly, the apple, and even selected a yogurt.

And he ate.

And then cleaned up. 

I finally tore myself away from my desk long enough to take him to his chess meet. 

And then I went back to my reading and my calling and my waiting to be called. 

And then we ran errands for three hours. 

And pretty soon I was kissing my boy goodnight.

And it was only after I sat down with my husband and reviewed the day's happenings that I realized that my son had made his own lunch for the very first time.  And my heart squeezed a little.

He's ten years old.  More than capable of making his own sandwich, I know.  And I know it is something he should be relied upon to do from time to time, with growing frequency as he gets older. 

But, from the time he was born, I promised myself I would not miss a thing.  I would not take anything for granted.  I promised myself, and my boy, that I would not wake up one day with a grown man for a son and not remember it happening.  That I would take notice of the little things, the measures of progress, and the milestones, for I fervently believe my great-grandmother's adage, "Every step they take is a step away from you." 

My boy took a big step away from me yesterday.  He made his own sandwich.  And from now on, it will be nice if I make him a sandwich, but not necessary.  Not necessary.

And it did, it snuck by me in an instant when I wasn't paying attention.

One more step away from me.

Time goes so quickly when you're watching a child grow.

My boy is on his way.

But as I look around the house, I am comforted. . . 

With all the socks he has still not learned to put in the hamper, he won't get too far.

 

My Boy Is 10

My boy turned 10 years old yesterday . . .

And flowers bloomed . . .

(his very first lotus flower in his very own pond)

And the beasts danced . . .

(feeding the animals at local zoo)

And all was right in the world.


Ten years.


Ten more years, and he will be 20.


It's going too quickly.

My Own Family Circus

Our garbage pick-up is on Friday.

Yesterday, I noticed that our garbage can was unusually full for only 3 days since pick-up.  I couldn't imagine what had been thrown away to fill that garbage can so quickly.

So I asked the kids.

"What's with the garbage can already being all filled up?"

"I don't know.  I didn't put anything in there," my son said.

"It must have been Daddy," I concluded aloud.

My daughter added, "Or maybe he just put a lot of stuff in there."


~ Well, yeah . . . what did she think I meant?

Scout's Day Off

So my son had cub scout day camp last week.

For those of you who do not live around me, note that not one day was less than 94 degrees Fahrenheit.

There were no - and I mean, no -- indoor facilities.

They fished with cane poles and worms, in the hot sun.  The resolve!

They practiced archery and target shooting.  The focus!

They learned water rescue techniques.  The strength!

They concentrated on the fine details involved in tying 5 different kinds of knots.  The concentration!

They survived "water fun" day which meant every single peer was armed with a loaded super-soaker all day long.  The perseverance!

They even submitted to performing skits, singing camp songs, and doing their "den wild call."  My son's, rather unfortunately, required him to make monkey calls and monkey arm gestures.  The mirth!

All this, he could do.

But this week, there is no cub scout camp.

He is home.

With me.

In our air conditioned home.  (The heat wave continues, ugh.)

So this morning, after his long, leisurely breakfast in front of his favorite cartoons, I asked him to clean the patio doors.

I equipped him with plenty of paper towels and cleaner and even demonstrated the technique.

Where is my scout?  Where is the strength, the focus, the resolve???


It seems my son, practically an expert marksman, is unable to aim the Windex nozzle with any accuracy.

And the arms that deftly climbed a rope ladder and even pulled a comrade from danger in a most excellent water-rescue feat last week have gone limp, barely able to muster enough strength to scrub off the slightest dog-nose smudge.

It took almost 40 full minutes, gritted teeth, and warnings . . . and, really, the door is still not how it should be. 

Camp?  Self-reliance?  Confidence?  Perseverance?

I call for a "Mommy-Scout Day Camp."

Everyone:  Get your boots on!