Date Night

*Written in June
 
We have been at each other's throats!  It is like I'm living in a perpetual political debate!  There have been raised voices, defiant looks, harsh words and unmet demands.  It seems like the stresses of everyday life have made us growl at each other instead of taking a deep breath and speaking kindly.  I've been dispensing punishments like candy to anyone who dares to look at me wrong.

The only solution was for me to go on a double date with them.  It always helps me remember why I like them.  (I would've taken Kai but I didn't want to continue the streak of raised voices.) 

So out we went to the boys' favorite "fancy" eatery, Chili's, where we dined on pizza, chips and salsa and colored on our menus.  And every date is not a date without the mandatory lecture:

  "How a Gentleman Treats a Lady (and other appropriate manners)."  

(If they've heard it once they've heard it a thousand times.)

1. Always escort your lady and don't walk her through a puddle.
2. No burping, tooting or laughing when something sounds like a toot.
3. Listen to the lady, even when she is talking about something other than a vehicle or explosion.
4. Open the door for the lady and let her enter first.  NO EXCEPTIONS!

After digesting the lecture, yet again, we were off to put our skills into action on a balmy summer night.  The conversation stayed mild and within the allowable topics.  Barely.  I was escorted by my gentlemen rather nicely until Owen decided to bolt ahead on the sidewalk.  That prompted another manners lecture:
  
    5. Never leave your lady in the dust.  She might be wearing heels.


As we approached the door, my gentlemen were poised and ready to do their job when a lone lady appeared and opened the door for herself.  With a puzzled look on his face, Owen watched the stranger open her own door and shrugged his shoulders and said to her and me:  

"I guess she's her own gentleman."

She sneered.  

I giggled.  

And I thanked my lucky stars that with 4 gentlemen to call my own, I'll never have to be "my own gentleman."

Freedom Ride

On September 11, 2001 I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard of the attacks on our country.  I vividly remember a wave of fear washing over me as news kept pouring in about the horrific details of that day.  Those feelings lingered for quite some time as I wondered what our future would look like, as a nation and as a citizen.  How would the events of that terrible day erode the feeling of security and peace that I felt prior to the planes hitting the buildings?  It was an insecure time.

The years have gone by and the rawness of that day has dulled with time.  The lives lost and innocence of a nation something to be mourned and remembered.   However, the landscape of my life has only subtly changed.  

I make it a point to wear slip on shoes when I go through airport security because all shoes must be removed to take a cozy ride on a conveyor belt instead of being walked across the threshold of the security door.  

A very small price to pay.

I have to buy water in the terminal instead of carrying it through security.  The exorbitant price of H2O is not so pleasing (except for the vendor).  But still....

A very small price to pay.

Others sacrifice more while I can only send emails and offer prayers.  As my brothers have each served in Iraq and Afghanistan (Merrill is currently there), they miss birthdays, anniversaries, goodnight kisses and even births of their babies. 

A very large price to pay.  But one they do with honor, pride and dignity.

What can I do to celebrate the freedom I still enjoy that once seemed so fragile?  How can I show the bad guys that they didn't get what they came for?  

Well, I can do what I'm still blessed to be able to do......

ANYTHING I WANT!!!  (Well, within reason.  You know what I mean.)

This year on 9/11, we taught our boys to ride their bikes without training wheels.  A lifelong skill that will bring a sense of freedom, happiness, independence and plenty of Band-Aids and possible trips to the ER.  

Jay perched their trimmed down bikes on the top of a gently sloping grassy hill, whispered instructions and encouraging words in their ear and then pushed them off for their maiden voyage.

As predicted, Owen rode down the hill with his "game face" on and not a crash or a bobble to slow his descent.  Back up the hill he came for more, with only the slightest crack in his game face.....a smile.  

Also as predicted, Drew was nervous and required more detailed explanations than his younger brother.  I think Jay stopped just shy of explaining the physics of Newton's First Law, and an object's momentum and its relation to mass and velocity before he pushed Drew off to what I thought would be certain disaster.  I was pleasantly surprised when he didn't return to Jay missing all his shiny new front teeth with his bike in a twisted heap of blue metal.  As his confidence grew, so did his bike riding skills.

 

Predictable, yet again, was Kai's desire to be older than his little 2 year old self and ride a big boy bike like his brothers.  He felt so left out and embarrassed by his less than desirable transportation.

And a little bit unpredictable was the reaction of a very patient, proud and loving father who said that he felt like "a real father" for teaching a skill to his boys that will remain with them for their lifetime.  

Who was it that insisted, while I rolled my eyes, that we bring long pants for the boys to change into so that they wouldn't get scraped up knees?


A real father.


Who was it that proudly went to the store to buy new back tires to replace the worn out ones?


A real father.


Who was it that willingly gave up the ONLY day he has to tinker, relax and catch up on things so that he could instruct, encourage and cheer on his very sweaty but beaming boys?


A real father.

That is how we celebrated our freedom.  

Freedom=Sacrifice=Families=Happiness

Truck Men Part 1

I have known this moment would come for a few years now.  I've actually been waiting in silence for it.  Ever since we got rid of our truck to buy the mini-van I've been expecting to have the conversation we just recently had.  The "I-just-can't-live-another-day-without-a-truck" conversation that set in motion a whirlwind of phone calls to Colorado and three of my men-folk on a truck gathering journey.  (More on that later.)

There have been times in the past two years, sans truck, that I've looked over at Jay in a quiet moment and I see his face soften ever so subtly and a look of fond nostalgia washes over him.  He reaches for my hand and begins to speak....  

Expecting to hear him recollect the time we spent at the beach or the early days of our courtship or tell me one of the infinite reasons he loves me (or something of the like), I'm jolted to reality when I hear him say,  

"Remember that green and white truck we had?  Nothing has ever been as comfortable to travel in as that truck.  And remember that black truck that I had to start with the screw driver?  Man, those were great trucks.  I miss those trucks.  Maybe we should never have gotten rid of those trucks.  I had this truck once...."  

And then his eyes glaze over and he's detailing every truck that he has had and the ailments that each one possessed. Jay is lost in a dreamland of glow plugs and transmissions.

It is both endearing and baffling.  Me?  I like to own a really nice vehicle and get good use out of it and then send it on its way, never looking back.  Jay?  He loves 'em and leaves 'em, but not without first fixing and tinkering and caring deeply for them and then bringing them up years later with great affection mixed with a bit of longing, perhaps feeling a little guilty for ever letting them go in the first place.

Apparently this love of trucks has a genetic component.  While my father-in-law has passed down many enviable traits like honesty, compassion, work ethic and humor, he has also passed down this inclination for all things truck.  Big trucks, bigger trucks, fancy trucks and plain trucks.

As long as I've been a part of this great family, I have seen trucks grace the front of their eastern CO desert home as plentiful as the sandy earth upon which they sit.  And just as easily as a desert wind can blow, so can a new truck find its way to the Spencer abode.  

They have a good life there.  Hauling trailers with horses to a rodeo here or a ropin' there.  You just never know what kind of truck (or how many) will greet you as you drive up to the house.  And while the elder Spencer seems to have no particular brand favorite (Dodge, Chevy or Ford), it seems as though Jay has broken from the mold and become a "Ford Man."  

And so it is that I now find a giant red and gray 1996 Ford F350 PowerStroke parked in front of our not so large .5 car garage.  And it is a dually, no less.  That means it has 6 wheels.  Six. The more the merrier, I suppose?  We don't really need the additional 2 wheels but there they sit on my driveway, barely squeezing themselves between the bushes on one side and the grass on the other. 

Also, it has two fuel tanks.  Two.  (Please note that I said "fuel" and not "gas."  I've been thoroughly schooled throughout my 11 years of marriage in the ways of trucks.  Diesel is "fuel" not "gas."  I think I learned that on our second date, or something.)

As genes have a pesky way of sticking with the bloodline, I noticed a disturbing (yet sadly predictable) incident when Kai laid his eyes on our truck for the first time.  He walked up to the giant metal behemoth with awe, gingerly climbed onto the running boards and pressed his nose to the window.  Reverently he said, "Daddy, I yike your twuck."

After that declaration of solidarity and admiration, he gently stroked the side of the truck as if to say, "You're home now, buddy.  We'll take care of ya.  I've got your back."  

And with a parting pat, he walked into the house secure in his knowledge that he, too, is a truck man.  Third generation.  It runs deep. 

First Day of First Grade

It was thoroughly uneventful.  Boring, even.  It's a yearly gateway into gaining maturity and educational excellence and my oldest offspring was completely nonplussed.  I had no choice but to take my cue from him.

Drew got up at the same time he got up practically every day during the summer (7:30), ate his favorite breakfast of eggs on toast (but the toast is on the side) with ice water (don't ask, I'm just the cook), dressed in some new clothes and shiny new sneakers (that he can tie by himself!), and moseyed down the street to his bus stop with his school supplies in his backpack and Mama and brothers in tow.  

He jumped onto his bus and never even looked back.  I sort of just stood there wondering what an attentive and caring mother should do after her oldest just left the nest for the wide world of elementary school.  Meanwhile at the bus stop, another mother of a first grader "had a moment" with tears and shoulders heaving up and down and 50 pictures on her camera to remind her of each step her daughter took onto the bus.  

All I had was Owen crying because Kai poked him in the eye with a sword (someone's lawn flag) that he wrestled, like King Arthur, from the grass.  And Kai was helping himself to someone's leftover beverage, that he found hiding in the community's mailbox, while I was trying to listen to the bus driver's instructions to the waiting parents.  

But that is how it generally goes....Drew slips quietly through the events of life while I try to manage the chaos around me.  As much as I tried to make this day exciting and special, Drew approached it like he does most everything....like a seasoned veteran.  He's not bursting with confidence, shaking with fear or so excited he can't sit still.  He is just Drew.  Despite the fact that this is a new school for him, he just goes quietly about his business and deals with life as it comes.

And then he was home, with his best friend running after him to "ask him what he learned about."  He liked math the best, wants to buy lunch tomorrow, plans to introduce himself to a boy that looked like he could be a friend, and there were 3 kids in class who "weren't quality students."  He wasn't one of them.  


And that is that.

  

Peach Pickin'

In order to squeeze the last remaining drops of fun out of summer (and in an effort to assuage my guilt over being too tired to do much these past few months), I took the boys to Hartland Orchard to pick some peaches.  It was a hot and steamy affair, even at 9:30 in the morning.  And the bugs were so plentiful that we were picking more of those from our hair and eyes than we were picking peaches from the trees.  

Some boys had a knack for picking peaches with enough bruises and blemishes to rival Kai's forehead.

And another boy chose the peachful surroundings to do a little communing with nature.  

Hauling around their bags of fruit quickly lost its luster and I could tell we were in for a sprint and not a marathon at the orchard. 

But we got what we came for:  A little fresh air, beautiful scenery, a change of pace and 2 pecks of peaches and one peck of apples. 

Unfortunately for me, the peach skins are not the kind that like to go without a fight and the de-skinning process that was supposed to be a family affair looks like it will be me fighting the fuzzy orbs with a vegetable peeler.  It is a fitting farewell to my arduous summer.  I am looking anxiously ahead to our eventful fall!

Movin' Right Along

I haven't documented my pregnancies or births with any of my children and I feel a little sad about that.  But, I also feel a little sheepish about recording it here on my very public journal.  I recognize that people aren't necessarily interested in sentences that begin with..."Well, my uterus...."  or "The doctor said...."  

But I feel that I have a story to tell.  Every woman does.  I have my own pioneering journey to motherhood that is uniquely mine.  One that maybe my daughter might gain strength from one day. (I'm not silly enough to think that my boys will have any desire to go back and read the "pregnancy posts" when they are grown.  They'd probably rather eat broccoli.)  I won't record it all.  I don't want to be responsible for anyone reading this passing out with boredom.  But I'll record some. 

I'm at the 27 week mark now and feeling (and looking) every bit like I am 37 weeks pregnant.  If you were to visit my home you would see the tell tale signs that a large and cumbersome pregnant lady lives here.  There are various pillows in all sizes littering the floor next to my side of the bed.  I start out with 2 and end up with 3 and sometime in the middle of the night I fling them all off the bed in uncomfortable disgust.  I've not been able to come up with the right ratio of pillows to belly; therefore, comfort eludes me.  

I've also reached the stage where rolling over is like unto a 4 point turn.  Grab headboard, hook leg on side of bed, maneuver belly and finally twist body to final resting position.  It won't be long until I reach the stage of having to wake up the man who got me into this state and requiring that he push me onto my other side.  I think it is the least he can do.  (Well, that and paint my toenails which are out of my reach.  He's getting decent at it but shouldn't quit his day job.)

I might not bend down to pick up the clutter on the floor, but if I drop a cookie I'll certainly put forth the effort to retrieve it.  Since bending at my non-existent waist is not possible, I gracefully do a plie in second position so that my fingertips can grasp the tasty morsel.  I've gotten pretty swift at this maneuver so the 30 second rule still applies and I can eat my cookie with confidence.

There is a wisdom and resolution I've gained through my four pregnancies that have taught me to be grateful for the goodwill that is shown to pregnant ladies instead of having to show everyone that "I can do it".  I allow people to give up their chairs so I can take a load off and I'm thankful for the rest.  I leave the heavier objects (except Kai) for others to carry and can do so without feeling like I'm lazy.  

I'm finding it easier to ask for what I need and learning to say no without feeling guilty.  My desire to make the birth of our last child one that is joyous and happy and as peaceful for our family as possible (despite the tumultuous birth and recovery that is to come), has led me to organize and plan so that we won't have any clutter (physical or mental) standing in our way.

I am finally able to embrace the ever changing emotions that come as a result of this roller-coaster ride of hormones.  I can throw my hands up in the air and say, "Bring it on!" instead of feeling like I'm not a strong woman if I shed a tear or two.  Oh, and there have been tears!


So here's to the last 9 weeks.  May they be uneventful, happy and (dare I wish for it?)...swift.

Boys, Interrupted

*This was written back in June after we had the first of many (and many more to come) ultrasounds.  

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program of blue and red, polo's and plaid, and cargo's and khakis.....to bring you ruffles and ribbons, pink and purple, and tights and tutus.  Girl things.

It is a girl.  We're having a "little miss."  

So ingrained in my vocabulary these past 6 and half years is "buddy" or "mister."  As in...
"You did a good job, buddy!"
"You better stop throwing your bowls off the balcony, mister!"
Or my favorite: "Young man!  When I catch up to you, you aren't going to like it!"

Now it might be....
"Hold still, little miss, while I attach this utterly frivolous and extremely feminine explosion of pink ribbon to your newborn hairless head with something sticky:  honey or K-Y or Karo syrup or Elmer's glue should do the trick."
"Young lady!  Stop calling your older brother Katherine and chasing him around with my perfume and lip gloss! And NO!  You will not get a sister, little miss!"

When the ultrasound tech put the magic wand on my gelled up belly, the first thing she said was, "Well, you're having a girl."  All nonchalant like.  And then she swiftly moved on to measuring the baby's stomach and bladder.

"Wait a minute!" I said.  "You have to go back to the parts that clearly denote that this squirmy little thing in my tummy is indeed of the feminine persuasion.  GO BACK!"  I demand.

Sure enough, the technologist found the pertinent parts and pointed them out to my satisfaction.  And then I had her re-point them out.  You would think that I was staring at an alien from the dethroned planet of Pluto. I was just so shocked and not ready to start thinking pink.  But there it was in black and white. 
 
I sense a shift in paradigms.  For me and our boys.  I'm bracing myself now for a whole different world of "issues."  Perhaps I'm more ready for it than I think?  After all, I do have some experience with girls.....seeing as how I am one!


But, if truth be known, I had a pang of worry this morning about my world being turned on its navy blue ear.  I awoke to a very cheery and bright eyed Owen two inches from my drowsy, sleep smashed face.  He gently said, "Good morning my prettiest princess!"  Then he gave me a kiss and went on his merry way to play demolition derby (or something of the sort).

I had this very selfish thought......"Am I about to be de-throned?"  Is there room for two prettiest princesses in this testosterone filled palace?  

I'm currently in the process of making room.  (Her's will be in our closet.  But that is another tale for another time.)

Destination.....Destiny

**This was written last March when I was in the throes of First Trimester blahs.  The photo was actually taken the day I found out I was pregnant and finally had an excuse for the grumpiness and lack of patience!

"By prevailing over all obstacles and distractions, one may unfailingly arrive at his chosen goal or destination."  --Christopher Columbus

For Captain Owen and Grandma, the final destination was Salt Lake City to visit Auntie and Uncle Neil.  It was a long day of traveling.  There were long layovers and delays. Captain Owen was hauling a backpack loaded with necessities such as fruit snacks, crayons and Matchbox cars.  Refraining from kicking the seat in front of him (with all his superhero muscles) took great restraint.  Not to mention the exhaustion that comes from keeping track of Grandma!

The wiggles and whining (dreaded enemies of Captain Owen) were getting the better of Owen so Grandma said, "Owen, just a little bit longer.  You are being so patient!"


But the hour was late, the day had been long, and there was a lengthy drive ahead of the weary travelers.  Captain Owen dug deep and took a personal assessment of what strength he had left.  The conclusion was grim.

After some soul searching to make a thorough determination, he had no choice but to respond with an honest and humble (for a superhero) answer:

"It is not my destiny to be patient!!!"

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I guess.  But, oh how I love this answer!  Perhaps I shall frame it and put it on my wall, for it does my weary soul some good....Even superheroes have a vice!

No Fair

There is a famous saying in the Lewis family that originated with my sister.  When someone would dare cross her, correct her, punish her or otherwise look at her with an unpleasant expression, she would spit out her now infamous phrase....

"NO FAIR!  YOU'RE MEAN!"

As an adult, more often than I'd like to admit, I've uttered that very phrase when all other words were inadequate.  The child in me sometimes just wants to burst into tears and fits and spew those words out in succession like an angry erupting volcano.  

And because the phrase is so universally cathartic to say, you can scream it, state it, mumble it, or even whisper it and the outcome is the same.  Try it.  It makes you feel like you have the upper hand, even when you are sitting on a deck chair of the Titanic.  It fits in any and all situations and works equally well when said to an inanimate object.

When our insurance company wouldn't pay for Kai's birth expenses because "we didn't inform them that I had a child" (even though they paid for my C-Section and prenatal care), I may or may not, after exhausting all other adult persuasive arguments, uttered...."No Fair!  You're mean!"

Recently, at my OB appointment, I stepped off the scale and the nurse told me the staggering number that is now my impressive weight, I uttered under my breath, "No fair!  You're mean!"

But when Owen was forced to take a time out while we were at the beach and I heard him mumbling to himself, while sitting on his sand bucket, "No fair.  You're mean.  Nobody likes me." I couldn't help but say to him...."You're right.  This isn't fair.  It isn't fair to ME!"

Could someone please put me in time out, on the beach, where no one is allowed to talk to me and I'm not allowed to do anything?  This is a cruel bit of parental irony, wherein I'm sucked into an alternate universe and I hear my child complaining about an absolute paradise situation.  Par.a.dise.

Wishing you could trade places with a 4 year old?  Not fair.

Not being able to? 

Very mean. 

Unsavory Sayings

 Florida 2010

Drew is a literal sort of fellow.  He likes rules and schedules and routine and thinking (and over-thinking) before he provides an answer. i.e. "Drew, would you like a peanut butter and jam sandwich?"  "Well, let me think, hmmm.....um.....ahhh.....Yes! That would taste nice."  
(Keep in mind that Drew has a PB&J every single day for lunch.  Yet I continue to ask him in hopes that he might like to deviate from his routine.  And he never does.  But I routinely ask anyway.  Life is exciting around these parts.)

So when Drew blurted out this uncharacteristically speak-before-you-think statement I had to record it.  He said, with surprise and disgust in his voice,

"My bottom sucked up my pants!"

Being terribly frightened as to what this event might look like but also needing to satisfy my curiosity like a rubber-necker on the highway, I turned around to see what in the world he could be talking about.  What did I see?  

I saw Drew picking a wedgie.  A simple wedgie.  That was it. 

A common occurrence for an uncommon boy...

Uncommon and routinely wonderful.  That's my Drew.