It was a particularly rough morning with my 16 year old son.
As I drove my 10 year old to school, I muttered despairingly…
“I just don’t understand WHY he’s so crabby!”
From the backseat I heard my daughter say, “It’s hormones and Monday, Mom. Hormones and Monday.”
It’s not every day that you get to try out something you’ve only ever seen performed at a circus! When I assembled the kids on the couch to announce that my sister had arranged for them to have a trapeze lesson over their spring break, this was their reaction:
“Why is Auntie Sissy so awesome?!” my son exclaimed in wonder.
“I don’t know if I’m more scared or excited,” my daughter said.
As we drove to the venue, I confirmed to my sister that I had gone online to fill out the requisite forms.
“Do you mean liability forms?” my son asked from the backseat.
“Mmmhmmm” I replied as nonchalantly as I could.
The Trapeze School New York in Washington DC is in a hangar-like building, right across from Nationals Park and the Navy Yard Metro.
The kids got strapped into their super tight – forget about breathing – organ-crushing belts.
After some brief instructions, they chalked their hands and got ready to climb an extremely tall ladder:
In the video of my 13 year old’s first try on the trapeze, you can hear the teacher instructing him to jump on “hep.” He can’t quite bring himself to actually jump off the platform the first time, so the teacher gently repeats the command.
The boy never did get his knees over the bar, but days later I discovered that he had done something far more remarkable.
We were reminiscing about his amazing trapeze adventure when I asked my son,”Was there ever a time during the lesson when you thought – Nah, this is way too scary. I’m not going to jump.”
“Yeah!” he replied.
“But just the first time, right?” I asked.
“No. Every single time I got up to the platform, I seriously thought about not jumping and just climbing back down the ladder.”
I’ve always told my kids that you can’t be brave without being scared. If the level of fear they felt is commensurate with their level of bravery – I think they should all be draped and festooned with medals right now! I had no idea that he was so scared…I was so proud of him for climbing that ladder and taking that enormous leap of faith over and over again.
Speaking of scared, you might be wondering where my 10 year old daughter was while all of this was happening. She was lying on the ground – with the saddest look on her face. Kind of like the fish we had seen in the aquarium the day before:
For the first hour, you could see that she was at war with herself. She couldn’t bring herself to give it a try and was getting more and more upset as her brothers took their turns. Finally, one of the instructors came over and said that doing the trapeze is all about gaining a sense of accomplishment by pushing through fear. He suggested that her goal for the day could simply be to climb the ladder.
She pondered this, but was intimidated by the thought of taking even that step. One kind lady, a trapeze veteran, walked over and offered to climb up right behind her to spot her from behind. She kept resolving to try it, but would change her mind the next second. We kept reassuring her that she didn’t have to do it if she didn’t want to, but finally, she decided to go for it! We whooped and cheered for her when she made it to the top of the ladder! We could hardly wait for her to climb back down to give her a congratulatory hug… We were surprised to see that the instructor at the top was rehooking her harnesses.
And then this happened:
When she got back down, I asked her why she had decided to go for the swing.
“I think the instructor at the top didn’t realize I was just going to climb the ladder. She just assumed I was going to jump. So I did.”
Flush with the thrill of her accomplishment, we all asked her, “Do you want to go again?!”
“No.”
And I could totally respect that!
May your life be filled with music, and may your light always shine bright and true.
After months of tiresome nagging, I strike a deal with this girl:
(Sadly, the goat’s hair is more kempt than hers).
If you promise to leave a barrette in your hair all day long, I won’t bug you about getting your hair cut for a whole month.
Her eyes light up. It’s a deal!
To my amazement…she succeeds! It’s the first time in her entire life that she manages to keep a barrette in her hair all day long. Turns out, it will probably also be the last day she ever manages the feat.
We took a field trip with a caravan of friends to visit the wonderful A Better Way Farm and Goat Dairy in Waynesboro, Virginia. Ever since we moved to a house with a paddock and barn in the backyard, my daughter has been pleading for a baby goat. As my friend said, a visit to a goat farm truly was “a better way” to indulge her.
The goat farm is a one woman operation. Just a few years ago, Kathy was working at home as a computer programmer. She said she never dreamed she would end up being a goat farmer when she bought her house and land ten years ago. It all started when her youngest daughter asked for some chicks. (At this my friend and I eyed each other. The story sounded ominously familiar). “Chicks,” she said, “are a ‘gateway drug’ for other farm animals.” Soon all she wanted to do was be outside playing with the animals. She quit her job and started building her goat herd. Now all her children have grown and left home, and she runs the farm all by herself. Even though she has 70+ goats she milks by hand, chickens, a newly planted orchard, and bees, she says she’s having so much fun it doesn’t feel like a job at all! On the weekends she gives tours of her farm and from time to time gives workshops on things like goatkeeping, beekeeping, and soap making.
It was a delight to see someone so in her element. She knows each of her goats by name. “Hi, Magpie!” she says as she gives a black and white goat an affectionate head scratch. “My babies!” she cries to triplets, furiously wagging their little tails and clamoring for her attention:
We inquired about one goat who looked rather largish around the middle.
“Is she about to give birth?” my friend asked.
“Oh, that’s my very first goat. She’s not pregnant; she just never regained her figure after having her babies. She forgives you.”
I could definitely relate.
The tour concluded with a taste of creamy, sweet goat’s milk, which one of the visitors described as tasting like “melted ice cream.” We bought some chèvre, feta, and soap – all made from goats’ milk.
And though it was incredibly difficult to resist, we did not buy a baby goat.
Now the girl wants ducklings.
I stomped downstairs this morning to confront my husband.
“YOU PUNCHED ME IN THE BACK LAST NIGHT. REALLY HARD.”
“Oh,” he said looking sheepish, “I know.”
I raised an eyebrow so high I almost got a muscle cramp.
“Let me explain.”
“There’s no explanation for domestic abuse.”
“I was having a dream that I was playing frisbee with the kids,” he hastened to say, “And I was doing that move I like to do,
and I guess I actually made the movement with my arm. It woke me up immediately, (Ummm…ME TOO!!!!!) and I realized what had happened.”
“Well, it still hurts! Really bad. And the psychic wound hurts maybe even more!”
At that moment my son came down the stairs.
“Did you know your dad punched me in the back last night?”
“WHAT?” he gasped with gratifying horror.
“Yes, that’s right, your father punched the woman who gave birth to you and your siblings. In the back. While she was fast asleep.”
The perpetrator of the nefarious crime leapt to his own defense.
“ACTUALLY!” he said, pointing to his son, “It was YOUR fault!
“How is this MY fault?” the poor boy asked, with perfectly understandable indignation.
“YOU’RE the one who wanted me to play frisbee with you.”
reliving the shame
Sad. Very sad.
I love my book group. We read a book every month and then meet to have rarefied, high-brow discussions about what we’ve read. We NEVER for a second let the conversation drift to things like our children or what’s going on at work.
In keeping with the lofty nature of our gatherings, we make an effort to dress up for the occasion. In fact, we have a rather strict dress code:
The day started out so well.
We were all lazing about, soaking up the sun streaming through the windows…
Taking kids to their indoor soccer games…
Taking photos of this, that, and nothing at all:
Suddenly I realized it was time to take my daughter to her soccer game. As soon as we got back, it would be time to go serve dinner to the group of homeless men who are being hosted by our church for the next couple of weeks. I was supposed to have prepared a Chicken Enchilada dish in advance so that it could just be reheated in the ovens in the church kitchen, but I had lost track of the time. My husband was taking my oldest son to his soccer game, and then almost immediately to his piano recital. They would be meeting us at the church as soon as the recital was over.
I only had time to chop up the chicken breasts and open a can of enchilada sauce. It was up to my thirteen year old son to save the day. I handed him the recipe as I ran out the door, begging him to follow the instructions and to finish making the dish while I took my daughter to her game.
I was sweating bullets as I drove back to pick up my son and hopefully the Chicken Enchilada dish. Proving once again that he is the adult in our household, he was in the kitchen when I ran through the door, waiting to take the finished dish out of the oven.
My hero!
Brunch at Bodo’s Bagels
We made a pit stop at MarieBette Café and Bakery to pick up a few things like a baguette:
And a crazy looking thing called a brioche almandine studded with mysterious pink chunks my daughter described as looking like wads of chewed up bubble gum:
And then, because we clearly did not have enough dessert, we whipped up a batch of our new favorite cookies from the Princess Pinky Girl website. The recipe’s main ingredient is strawberry cake mix. We substitute coconut oil for vegetable oil. 
To be honest, the only reason I made the cookies the first time was because they looked so pretty in the photo. Mine always end up being aesthetically disappointing, but they never fail to be delicious!
Silliness while waiting for the cookies to bake:
It’s snowing now as I finish up this post. We’ve already gotten the call from the county to announce that there will be no school tomorrow. My husband recorded and emailed to his students a video of the lecture he was going to give tomorrow. Here’s hoping I get to stay home with them too!
One of the things we did during our cozy, snowbound weekend was to watch Milos Forman’s film Amadeus. It cracked me up to see my children wince every time Tom Hulce broke out his maniacal giggle. I remember doing the exact same thing the first time I watched it.
After three blissfully lazy days at home, I was sad to have to report to work on Monday. My children had known since the day before that they wouldn’t have to go to school. They didn’t have to go today either, and we’ve already gotten the call announcing that there’s no school tomorrow. It’s quite possible that they may never have to go back ever again.
Yesterday morning, as I put on my winter gear to battle the elements, I began delivering my marching orders to the children, “So, since you’re going to be home all day long with nothing else to do…”
“NO, Mom!,” my impertinent little daughter interrupted me, “We’re not going to be able to find a cure for cancer, or broker a peace treaty, or solve the problem of world hunger by the time you get home!”
“Ummm, no. That’s actually not what I was going to say at all!”
“Oh!” my daughter said sheepishly and with understandable surprise, since that is the speech I usually give on these occasions.
“As you now know, Mozart composed his first symphony at the age of four and…what was it? His first full length opera by the age of 12? How old are you now? Ten? Waaaay older than Mozart when he wrote that first symphony. So surely, it’s perfectly reasonable to expect that with a whole day free to work on it, you and your brothers together could come up with some sort of composition. It doesn’t even have to be as taxing as a symphony. How about you come up with, say… a concerto for a string quartet, by the time I get back from work?”
I called later that afternoon to have my husband tell the children how much I was looking forward to hearing their composition that evening.
They rushed to meet me at the door when I arrived home.
“We wrote the concerto, but not for strings! We’d love to play it for you, but unfortunately, we wrote it for an instrument we don’t have…It’s for the didgeridoo.”
Saturday
If you look down at your feet and it looks like this:
…you know it’s time for the Frostbite Soccer Tournament!
My daughter’s soccer team wasn’t participating in the two-day Tournament, but she and her friend were guest players for another team.
Later that evening it was time for my son’s piano recital:
I sang with him on his second piece – Georgia on My Mind.
Sunday
We discovered that our pups were in our local weekly paper!
My industrious dogs never take a break from their labors…Here they are demonstrating their foot warming skills:
Back to business! Round 2 of the Frostbite Tournament…
A second place finish for the gold team…
Aaaaaand that’s a wrap!
As I was driving my daughter to school this morning, she was explaining to me the tradition of “Shout-Outs” instituted at the school a few years ago. My children have all gone to the same sweet elementary school in the rural outskirts of Charlottesville. With a student body of fewer than 250, the school is able to make community building a regular part of the curriculum, and they take this mission seriously. One Friday a month, a school-wide morning meeting is held during which students and faculty gather together in the gym to do a special greeting and a team-building activity. The fifth graders read out some announcements, and then the assembly concludes with “shout-outs,” which is when a few teachers take over the microphone to call out compliments that they’ve prepared in advance for a select group of kids.
“So give me an example of a shout-out,” I asked my daughter.
“Well, it’s usually something like, ‘Thank you for being kind,’ or ‘Thank you for helping the teacher.’ But, every single person is supposed to get at least one shout-out every year. One year, there was this kid, who I guess wasn’t, well…(there was a pause as she searched for a way to phrase it nicely)…the greatest and his shout-out was, ‘Thank you for putting the caps back on the pens!’ And another time it was, ‘Thank you for remembering to cover your mouth when you sneezed.'”
I started cackling like a demented witch.
“How about, ‘Thank you for remembering to wipe after you went to the bathroom?,'” I asked. “Or…’Thank you for not murdering a single person all last week?!'”
I began chortling and heaving in paroxyms of unseemly mirth. Tears began streaming from my eyes.
My daughter, who goes to a kind, nurturing school where they have a shout-out for every single kid, even the ones who aren’t the greatest, solicitously asked me, “Mommy, are you ok?”
I was, but my behavior clearly revealed the fact that I went to a school that hadn’t capitalized on the civilizing influence of shout-outs.
o wonderful, wonderful 