After a hard day of working in the garden, and basically rubbing the entire backyard ON HIS FACE (at least half of which he kindly wiped off on his sleeve by this time), the 2yo totally deserved (and needed) a bubble bath… approximately half of which he somehow managed to pour on the bathroom floor in the TWO seconds I was gone in search of his missing shampoo.
Never underestimate how much a toddler can accomplish in just a few hours.
Or how good a glass of wine tastes after those hours…
The then-9yo, aka Paisley the Viking, having fun (fun, I tell you!) at the National Museum of Iceland in Reykjavík. I wonder: do you think the Louvre in Paris will let her play dress-up with their exhibits??
Lesson One: Context is Critical Everything
One of the more important lessons Bill learned about traveling with kids (or at least traveling with our kids, or maybe just traveling with our ONE kid, but it seems like a good lesson for any young person with an attention span that can barely last through an episode of Phineas and Ferb without taking a break to beg for more goldfish crackers, visit the bathroom, or whack a sibling upside the head just to see the reaction): give them as much knowledge, background information and context about what they’re going to see or do BEFORE they actually see or do it – and not DURING and not AFTER.
How did Bill learn such a valuable lesson, you ask? Well, a little backstory first:
As a family, we we have decided that these global escapades of ours, though meant to be fun, are also very much meant to be educational – as compared to, say, our past trips to Hawaii, which were solely dedicated to frivolity and absorbing as much Vitamin D as possible, a vitamin, it turns out, that is quite important for pasty-fleshed Seattleites (okay, I’m only speaking for myself, but seriously, the pasty-tones get BAD come early spring) who can only go so long without sun before turning translucent (like those icky looking fish who dwell in cave lakes – honestly, it’s not a good look for me or anyone), and I therefore whole-heartedly appreciate every trip to a sunny paradise I’ve ever taken (truly!). However, these international trips with the kids are not about devouring as many beach reads as we can stuff in the suitcase and sipping fruity drinks with paper umbrellas in them poolside (though maybe I can work this in during a future trip to say, oh I don’t know, Bali? There has to be some GREAT educational stuff going on in Bali!!). Of course, just being immersed in a new culture is mind-opening and enlightening, but in attempts to ensure the whippersnappers learn something a tad more concrete about the country they are visiting than “Hey! Like, wow! They speak a foreign language in this foreign country!” we decided to ask the kiddos (in this case, just Paisley, since she was the only young‘un going this round) to write a report about something – the culture, the history, the social expectations, etc. – they’d be seeing and encountering while visiting the destination country.
So about two weeks before Bill and Paisley left for Iceland, I asked Bill when he was going to have Paisley do her report on Iceland; wasn’t he running out of time? And he was all, “Huh! I thought we were doing these reports after they got back from the trip…” And I was all, “Huh! I guess that makes sense… Write up what they just learned…” Turns out, I was thinking the report would serve as a way of providing information (you know… that whole context thing?) about what they’d see while they were there, and Bill was thinking the report would serve as a way of synthesizing and summarizing what they learned while they were there, after the fact. (Which really does make sense, but you see where this is going, right?)
Okay, so I agreed that Bill’s plan to wait until after the trip to have Paisley write her report on Iceland had merit, and two weeks later they abandoned me and the boys, and headed off into the great unknown…
Being very conscious of traveling with a young child, and considerate of her feelings and that whole relatively short attention span thing (recall the whole Phineas and Ferb episode above: I wasn’t making that up…), before they left he worked hard (like the good Papa he is) to create an agenda that would be educational, but enjoyable, too. For instance, he planned that they’d spend the first two days in Reykjavík touring the must-see sites like Hallgrímskirkja (a tower-like Lutheran church that is probably the most distinct landmark in the city),
Jet lag? Or just in awe of the grandeur that is Hallgrímskirkja (or Hallgríms Church) in Reykjavík, Iceland?
Solfar (the Sun Voyager sculpture that sits majestically in the center of Reykjavík, on the waterfront),
Please notice that I’m posting the picture of Solfar with awesome views of Videy Island, Old Harbour, and Snæfellsnes Peninsula (upon which is found Snæfellsjökull, the setting of Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth), rather than the photo of my daughter climbing on it, and – in typical American fashion – generally acting like the world is her playground…
and Tjörnin (called “The Pond,” this lake in the center of the city fronts Reykjavík City Hall),
Visiting the swans and ducks at Tjörnin, enjoying the sunshine, and trying to stay warm (it’s August, by the way!), by drinking some hot cocoa…
but he also planned on them spending several (very happy) hours a day (both morning and evening!) in the more kid-friendly pursuit of swimming and splashing about in several local geothermal pools (Laugardalslaug, the city’s largest hot pot and host to an 86 meter long water slide – 86 meters long!! – was their favorite).
Though Bill and Paisley visited several local hot pots, or geothermally heated swimming pools, they’re still talking about Laugardalslaug. Sadly, we have no pictures of the epic slide inside because, as it turns out, you can’t really take your iPhone swimming… Apple really needs to get on that…
And instead of spending all day driving the 190 mile loop that comprises the three different sites of the famous and touristy Golden Circle (Bill didn’t think our 9yo would much appreciate spending that much time in the car), he planned for their third day to visit only one of the sites, Þingvellir (where the continents of North America and Europe actually meet, the first national park in Iceland, and the original location for the founding of the country’s parliament way way way back in 930 AD),
Bill and Paisley – with Paisley’s new “friend” and souvenir from her trip, a stuffed puffin (turns out, Iceland is home to one of the largest colonies of puffins in the world, and this makes my daughter very happy, as our kids are rather bird crazy) – enjoying the beautiful views at Þingvellir.
where they could spend a few quality hours (rather than just the quick, cursory visit most tourists make when trying to see all three sites in one day) exploring the church and the remains of the Assembly (talk about an educational experience!),
This picturesque cluster of buildings located in Þingvellir – or Thingvellir – National Park is the Þingvallakirkja on the far left, a church built in 1859 on the site of the original church built there to commemorate the adoption of Christianity in 1000 AD, and the five-gable Thingvallabær farmhouse on the right, now the summer home of the country’s sitting prime minister (currently Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir, who is, by the way, the first female prime minister of Iceland AND the first openly lesbian head of state in the world – GO ICELAND!!)
hiking around,
As seen from the national cemetery (the final resting place for such country notables as poets Jónas Hallgrímsson and Einar Benediktsson), the Icelandic flag flies over the löberg, or the “law rock” – the long, low-lying rock wall under the cliff face and above the Öxará River – where Iceland’s parliament, called the Althing, met for six weeks every June and July since it’s creation in 930 until it moved in 1874 to it’s new home in Reykjavík.
and just playing outside at a more leisurely pace – after, of course, spending the morning at a hot pot!
All was going well, everything was going according to plan, and Bill was looking forward to what Paisley would choose to write about in her report, when… on DAY TWO:
Bill, being a history buff as well as a diligent visitor who genuinely wished to know more about the foreign country he was in, naturally took our daughter to the National Museum of Iceland. The museum has an impressive exhibit, with about 2,000 objects and 1,000 photographs dedicated to telling the story of Iceland from the Settlement in the 9th Century to modern day. Bill planned on a lovely morning spent taking it all in… Maybe a couple of hours, say, followed by some lunch and a cup of hot coffee for himself (did I mention that he said the coffee in Iceland was out-of-this-world good?) and some hot cocoa for the kiddo…
Yeah… it took our daughter exactly ten minutes to go through the ENTIRE exhibit, covering approximately 1,100 years of history.
TEN MINUTES.
She even wore the little headphones and followed the special audio guide for children. To give her CONTEXT about what she was learning about… To give her a general awareness of what she was seeing and why it was important…
TEN.
MINUTES.
At which point, Bill started worrying about my upcoming trip to Paris…
He knew for me, who loves art, who studied art history in college, who can’t WAIT to meander, browse, slowly absorb and just BREATHE IN the art and history and culture of all of Paris… Well, yeah, ten minutes wasn’t exactly going to cut it.
He emailed me that night, and reiterated his point when he got back home, saying that, um, yeah, he thought maybe the kids should go ahead and do those reports BEFORE we left for foreign lands… I believe his exact words were: “Make sure she has LOTS of context when you go to Paris; otherwise you will go NUTS!! I really think she was bored today.” And then he recommended I have Paisley read everything she could about everything that was Paris before we left.
Great. So, I had a little less than a year to introduce her to all of art history?!
Yes, yes, I know I’m rather melodramatic (you’re not really surprised, are you?!), but, as you might be aware, the Louvre is just a WEE bit larger than Iceland’s National Museum, and it’ll take more than ten minutes just to GET to the Mona Lisa, let alone spend any time with her small bad self… At least seeing Leonardo’s masterpiece – if you recall – is one of the primary reasons Paisley chose Paris for her second international trip (left to my own devices, I probably would’ve picked somewhere they serve those fruity drinks with paper umbrellas with a healthy dose of Vitamin D on the side, waiting to visit Paris when Paisley had several years of world history under her teen-aged and undoubtedly hipster-styled belt), so I can at least feel confident that she’ll want to GO to the Louvre… But will she want to STAY there long enough to see and learn about (this isn’t supposed to be torture – I want it to be fun! – but it is supposed to be educational…) some of the most significant and iconic art pieces in the world?? (Like, did you know that the Louvre houses not only some of the most impressive works of the Renaissance, but is also home to the Law Code of Hammurabi, an ancient Babylonian stele dating from 1772 BC, one of the earliest known law codes in human history, and the origin of that whole “an eye for eye, a tooth for a tooth” concept?? Yeah, kind of a big dealio…)
And then, of course, there’s still the Musée d’Orsay, the Musée Rodin, the Centre Georges Pompidou, the Musée de l’Orangerie… For crying out loud, do you have ANY idea how many of the world’s GREATEST museums there are in PARIS?!?! Well, let’s just say… there are a few…
And she might get BORED?! Well! I don’t think so…
So as soon as Paisley returned from Iceland I took Bill’s advice and I brought home approximately 20,000 books from the library (okay, okay, more like 20 books) for her to start reading… and I must confess, my indoctrination plans (pardonnez moi, my plans to gently and supportively create CONTEXT!) for my 10yo are, so far, going quite well… In all seriousness (don’t snort; that’s rude… I can be serious if I really really try!), we have found many delightful books which I think, or at least hope, will help her (or, to tell the truth, help both of us, as I’m learning stuff I never knew about the City of Lights as well…) more thoroughly enjoy our upcoming trip (and avoid that dreadful boredom that comes with being forced to look at art or, are you kidding me?!, another church, that just looks old-fashioned and has no relevance to her modern-day life): books about kids going to Paris (for instance, we both chortled and snickered while reading Eloise in Paris, in which Paisley learned several invaluable French phrases, her absolute favorite being “tout de suite” – meaning “immediately” or “right away” – which she uses quite often here at home, now, with much Eloise-style flair, as in: “Mama, please do have Papa come upstairs and say good-night to me… and make sure you tell him tout de suite!”); books about kids living in Paris (outstanding reads in this category include the impressive and captivating The Invention of Hugo Cabret, a novel worth owning whether you plan on visiting Paris or not… the very enjoyable Madame Pamplemousse and Her Incredible Edibles, though I seriously doubt even this cute book will be enough to encourage Paisley to try either foie gras or paté… and the adorable Adèle & Simon, about a sister who walks her brother – who loses a mitten, a scarf, a crayon and other precious childhood items while visiting the dinosaurs at the Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle, watching a puppet show at the Jardin du Luxembourg, eating sweets at a patisserie and visiting several other essential Paris destinations we’ll be visiting ourselves – home from school… Paisley and I liked the story so much we plotted out Adèle and Simon’s address on the Cour de Rohan on our map of Paris and plan on walking by!); books kids in Paris themselves read and love (the standout in this category is, hands down, the English translations of the wildly popular Astérix comic books, about a village of wily Gauls who fight off Roman occupation, which have also been made into several films starring none other than Gérard Depardieu – though Paisley hasn’t seen the movies yet, she did get an Astérix t-shirt for Christmas, which she plans on proudly sporting on the streets of Paris… unless, because it’s quite a favorite of hers, she wears it out from overuse before we ever leave!); and books about kids meeting artists whose paintings and sculptures are on display in the various museums (MUSEUMS!!) of Paris (there are literally hundreds of kids’ books about famous artists like Degas, Rousseau, Matisse, Monet, Van Gogh, Cézanne and Picasso – some of the better ones are the handful of books by Laurence Anholt, and the Getting to Know the World’s Greatest Artists series by Mike Venezia, the Da Vinci one being a beloved gift to Paisley from her grandmother who visited Paris a few years back and is most likely the reason Paisley knew enough about the Mona Lisa to declare she’d be going to Paris to see said painting for her second big trip abroad). And when we were done with those first 20,000 books, I went and got 20,000 more books… and 20,000 more after that… I will confess: for the most part, I’ve deliberately chosen picture books for her to read – books well below her reading level, I suppose, but books that are fun to read and full of stories about kids just like her and, I think most importantly, books full of colorful pages exhibiting the very paintings and sculptures and cathedrals she’ll get to see (and dare I hope… want to see?) in Paris – art work and buildings that she’ll be able to recognize when we visit all those (hopefully now interesting and not boring) museums and tourist attractions in Paris.
The latest pile o’ books from the library…
Of course, this “lesson” is currently more of a “theory” at this point… and I have no idea if all this reading will pay off; after all, the museums we visit are still MUSEUMS, and she’s still only ten years old with the attention span of any 10yo: roughly somewhere between ten minutes and the length of that ridiculous episode of Phineas and Ferb (and that’s approximately 22 minutes, for those of you whose children don’t demand a little cartoon action in their day)… Nor am I sure that having her write a report for me before we go will help, either (though I’m thinking of having her write something about Versailles, as it’s going to be infinitely BORING for her there if she doesn’t understand who the Sun King was and why he was so important, or who Marie Antoinette was and why she got her head cut off for simply offering to feed everybody cake – because, let’s admit it, without a modicum of historical context, any modern-day 10yo in her right mind would throw a parade for someone, anyone!, who offered them CAKE; I mean, it’s CAKE!). But, for me, I think it’s worth trying to follow Bill’s advice to provide as much knowledge, background information and context as I can, in attempts to hold off the boredom as long as possible for that 10-22 minute stretch of time, so that our visit to the Louvre or any given museum in Paris will be educational, but will also be just that much more interesting…
And don’t worry! Even with having learned all this “context” BEFORE we go, I know I’m not going to get more than an hour at any given tourist attraction. So what to do with the rest of the 23 hours of the day (well, minus at least eight hours of beauty sleep – we ARE in Paris, after all, and must look our best!)? Well, we might not be able to go splash around in any geothermally heated hot pots (sadly, I don’t think the Seine is very warm, or even very clean, and I’m pretty sure we’d be arrested if we tried taking a swim… and being arrested in a foreign country isn’t exactly the kind of educational experience I was hoping for), but there’s gotta be some serious giggles to be had in counting how many couples we see kissing as we walk along the Seine on our way to the nearest metro station, and some great times to be had while trying desperately not to accidentally order frog legs or snails at the fantastic sidewalk café we just stumbled upon, and, if all else fails, some deliciously smile-inducing moments to be had while devouring all the macaroons and pain au chocolat we can lay our greedy little hands on, right?? Because we WILL have fun… after all, c’mon! As Eloise just might say, c’est impossible – and that means rawther impossible – to NOT have fun when one is on vacation in PARIS.
And if things go really well, and we’re not in a total sugar-induced coma from all those macaroons? I’ll have Paisley send you a postcard telling you all about everything she learned at the museum that day…
***
This blog post is the second in a series. If you missed it, feel free to read the Introduction: Planning For Paris, Lessons From Paris (Part 1)
And still to come (if I could ever stop pinning Paris pictures on Pinterest long enough to write):
Lesson Two: Wherever You Go, There They Are
Lesson Three: Scale Back, Stay Longer
Lesson Four: Make Time for Playtime
My daughter, at the airport, on her way to Iceland. She didn’t sleep a wink on the 7 1/2 hour red-eye flight… Because sleep is totally overrated for pint-sized international travelers… Right?!
Holy WOW. I did it. Last week I booked two round-trip tickets for Paris! In slightly less than three months my 10yo daughter and I are leaving for Paris. Yes, PARIS. Paris, FRANCE.
!!!!!
(Ooh, sorry… that high-pitched sound you just heard through your computer screen? That was me squealing. With glee. GLEE I tell you!! Wheeeee!!!!!)
Seriously, I am almost vibrating with excitement. I honestly can’t get my brain to concentrate on anything else (I mean, c’mon! Do you really expect me to remember to pick up my kids from school, on time, or, and it gives me a headache just thinking about, do my taxes when there are photos of Paris to pin on Pinterest or style blogs to read about what is – and perhaps more importantly, what is not – acceptable to wear in Paris??). So far I have checked off the three biggest items on my planning to-do list: I found an AMAZING apartment for us to rent for our visit, and have even paid the down deposit; I woke up in the middle of the night the week before last to go online and nab (just barely, too!) our fancy-schmancy tickets to the Paris Opera Ballet, which, as a huge ballet fan, I actually built our entire trip around attending; and now I have two non-stop tickets (non-stop!! I’m sooooo in love with non-stop flights…), with confirmed seats and everything. The only thing left to do, now, is plot out the smaller, day-to-day details, like exactly what Paisley and I will be doing while we’re there… Maybe we’ll spend a delightful afternoon at, gasp!, the Louis Vuitton flagship store on the Champs-Elysees! And maybe we’ll take three whole days to explore the Louvre!! And maybe we’ll dine at Le Jules Verne, the legendary restaurant at the Eiffel Tower!!!
I’m sorry, but did you just SNORT with laughter?! You did!! Well. That’s not very nice of you… Honestly, can’t you just let me have my dreams for FIVE MINUTES?! I mean… I know. I do! I KNOW: I’m traveling to Paris, one of the most important and significant cities in the world, a veritable treasure trove of history and culture, the capital of Romance with a capital R, THE City of Lights… with my TEN YEAR OLD.
Not exactly a second honeymoon (or even a first honeymoon, for that matter, since Bill and I decided to move across the country from Seattle to North Carolina instead of booking a romantic getaway to Paris, or anywhere else for that matter; ahhh… someday)… I know, I know…
Which leads me back to my husband’s trip with Paisley, to Iceland this last summer: the inaugural expedition in our family’s plan to travel with our three children around the world, once each of them becomes old enough to a) travel long distances comfortably (and without making me or Bill – or everyone else on the plane – want to commit ritual suicide; honestly, I don’t care how many times I hear or read about people who travel around the world with their youngest munchkins and have the absolute greatest time – bully for them, I say – I personally think traveling 12+ hours on a plane with a 2yo toddler sounds like a circle of Hell straight out of Dante’s Inferno) and b) to actually remember all, or most of all, the horizon-expanding adventures we wish them to experience (and just spent a whole lotta cash on procuring). Being the first international trip for both of them (Canada doesn’t count – sorry, Canada), we knew there would be quite the learning curve with this trip; and indeed, Bill was a wonderful guinea pig (or should I say canary in a coal mine?!), bringing back a wealth of fabulous lessons learned from his one week stay in Iceland – and which I have taken to heart while planning my upcoming trip to Paris.
As I don’t want to make you feel like I’m forcing you through one of those slide-shows old Aunt Edna and Uncle Chester made you endure when you were in middle school and would rather be doing ollies on your skateboard or cruising the mall for the perfect pair of neon-colored hoop earrings to match your very trendy neon-colored jelly shoes rather than hearing about what kind of birds nest on the top of Teddy Roosevelt’s moustache on Mount Rushmore, I’ve broken this blog post up into several parts, or “lessons” if you will, which you can read at your leisure… say, in between Instagramming – is that even a word?! I’m making it one if it isn’t already; feel free to alert the OED – pictures of your adorable kids doing ollies (because, let’s admit it, when you do ollies anymore your knees kill and you can’t walk up the stairs for a week… unless you’re Tony Hawk, in which case your ollies, and knees, are just as fine and Instagrammable – another new word! – as your adorable kids’ ollies and knees…), or internet shopping for the perfect neon-colored clutch to match your very trendy neon-colored strappy platform sandals (so very retro, and absolutely necessary for the spring cocktail party to which you’ve just been invited!). Granted, these are lessons for my family, and we’re a bit crazier than most, so some – or possibly all! In which case I humbly apologize for taking up your time which could have been better spent reading about Taylor Swift’s latest conquest and/or breakup – of these “lessons” might not apply to you and your precious little angels… But, in the belief that a few of you have angels who sometimes occasionally act like MONSTERS normal old kids, over the next few days, or possibly weeks – I do actually have to pick up the kids, on time, from school (they’re so demanding!), and my taxes, as much as I’ve beseeched the folders of paperwork sitting on my desk to do themselves, are stubbornly not complying with my wishes (how very rude!) – feel free to peruse, adopt, and/or adapt for your own family vacation planning, Bill’s top four lessons about traveling with kids…
Spoiler alert: yeah, it’s looking pretty doubtful that three whole days blissfully meandering through the rooms of the Louvre is in my near future… And Louis Vuitton and Le Jules Verne?? C’est impossible, aussie.
Le sigh…
In the meantime, here’s a sneak peak at the next few blog posts:
Lesson One: Context is Critical Everything
Lesson Two: Wherever You Go, There They Are
Lesson Three: Scale Back, Stay Longer
Lesson Four: Make Time for Playtime
And here’s a mini-slide show that would do old Aunt Edna and Uncle Chester proud:
What do you do when you get off the plane at 6 a.m., and your rental apartment won’t be available for several hours, and neither you nor your kiddo have slept at all on the plane so you’re both so punchy from lack of sleep you can barely see straight? Why, you make sure your first stop is at the local “hot pot,” of course! Iceland is a geothermal wonderland, with an abundance of natural hot springs in which to soak away the afternoons; when in Rome, do as the Romans do, when in Iceland, splash for hours in your favorite hot pot (Bill and Paisley recommend Laugardalslaug)!
Hallgrímskirkja is a Lutheran church and is one of the most impressive landmarks in Reykjavík; it can be seen from most places in the city. In front of the church is a statue of Iceland-born Leif Eriksson, who is considered to be the first European to discover America (sorry, Chris Columbus!) around 1000 AD. The steeple at the top offers an impressive view (there’s even an elevator, so you don’t have to worry about your kid whining on the way up)!
For the most part, our family prefers vacation rentals, like this adorable second floor apartment where they stayed in Reykjavík, to hotels… For WAY less than a boring old hotel room, Bill got this flat where he and Paisley had their own bedrooms (meaning, Bill didn’t have to turn the lights out when Paisley did; he could stay up and read and enjoy all the benefits of jet lag on his own), plus a kitchen where he could stock up on cereal (and other kid-friendly necessities) and his beloved coffee beans (and other parent-friendly necessities), and a dining table – with a chandelier! – at which to enjoy it all.
Þingvellir National Park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and is one of three major tourist attractions right outside Reykjavík called the Golden Circle. The tectonic plates that form North America and Europe actually meet here (and if you’re not like Bill – visiting as a single parent with a non-PADI certified child who you don’t feel comfortable dropping off with a complete stranger – you can actually scuba dive BETWEEN the two continents, if you’re so inclined!), and Iceland’s parliament was founded in Þingvellir back in 930 AD.
After a few days in Reykjavík, Bill and Paisley drove to the village of Kirkjubæjarklaustur where they rented a cabin for a couple of nights to explore Vatnajökull National Park (Europe’s second largest national park, covering approximately 13% of Iceland). Paisley loved her sleeping loft: if you look closely, you’ll see her HUGE grin!
Jökulsárlón, the glacial river lagoon found on the edge of Vatnajökull National Park, is truly one of the most majestic sights in the world. This photo doesn’t do justice to the scale of this glacier-fed lake: a tourist boat (which you can take if you visit), literally looks like a bath toy when compared to the size of the icebergs. Jökulsárlón is a 3-7 hour trip from Reykjavík, depending on how often you and/or your kiddo(s) need to stop for potty breaks – or just to see all the pretty waterfalls along the way!
With all the waterfalls, you might think Iceland is a tropical paradise… Paradise? Yes. Tropical? Not so much! Bill and Paisley visited at the end of August; while the boys and I were happily splashing in the kiddie pool on the deck in the sun, Bill was wishing he’d brought their winter jackets instead of their lightweight rain coats, and I don’t think Paisley took her fleece hat off the entire time they were in Iceland. If you go, dress warm! (Here, Paisley and her hat are at Skógafoss, a beautiful waterfall carved out of a cliff which was once located on the coastline, but is now about 3 miles from the sea!)
The Blue Lagoon (and no, I’m not talking about the 1980 Brooke Shields/Christopher Atkins movie!) has to be one of the most amazing “hot tubs” in the world – an industrial accident that has become the country’s most popular tourist destination. In 1976, while searching for a new, reliable, geothermal energy source, a local heating co-op drilled deep wells in a lava field for a new power plant, and let the factory excess run off back into the ground. But, surprise!, the runoff had a high silica content, which sealed up the rocks with a slippery white coating and created a natural reservoir of 104˚F water, just perfect for soaking in… even with your kiddos!
It was hard to leave Iceland, but a long soak in the Blue Lagoon before boarding the plane for the 7 1/2 hour flight home was a pretty great way to say good-bye. Both Bill and Paisley are planning on going back as soon as they can… I just hope they’ll bring me and the boys with them!!
On the evening of Saturday, January 12, 2013 (the date will live in infamy, at least in the blackest part of my soul), while I was clearing the dinner table and Bill was reviewing the pictures he’d taken that day while hiking with the three kids (so I could work – seriously, how do I nominate him for a Hubby-of-the-Year-Award??), the youngest child (read: the smallest gremlin in the house) got mad (read: really really really really mad) at his older sister for not sharing her toys with him. So (naturally), he picked up her unfinished glass of milk and… threw the milk at her.
Yes. Really. He did. He THREW the milk at her…
(Go ahead and visualize the rich, creamy, white stream of delicious, wholesome, organic 2% milk arcing ever so gracefully through the air and…)
SPLASHING her right in the face. Totally drenching her… And the table… And the floor… And Bill… And, oh yeah, drenching the CAMERA, too.
Oh, my, YES, you read that correctly: drenching the CAMERA (on which Bill was reviewing the pictures he’d taken while hiking that day). The BRAND NEW CAMERA.
Yes, the brand new camera, all of 19 days old, that was my birthday present (I’m a December baby) from Bill… and my Christmas present from Bill… and Bill’s Christmas present from me… all rolled into one tidy, and expensive (at least for us) package (which I quite happily wrapped, and then unwrapped three hours later, on Christmas Eve).
RIP, Nikon D5100, we hardly knew you… (12/24/12-01/12/13)
Turns out, in case you were wondering, cameras don’t really care for milk.
My brand new camera hadn’t even survived ONE MONTH in our household.
And that’s when I cried. Really. I did. I CRIED over spilled milk (though not when the kids were looking; that’d set a bad example – I quite responsibly waited until I was alone in my bathroom later that night… to cry big big big tears).
I actually started this post the day after the milk incident. And yes, it’s taken me more than six weeks to write, mostly because every time I even think about my not-working-brand-new camera my stomach gets all tight and I just want to (and I’m sorry to say it, but there’s no delicate way to put this) throw up.
To be perfectly fair, there is a slim (and I mean miniscule) possibility that the milk wasn’t the culprit – the camera battery didn’t seem to love the cold weather up on the mountain during Bill’s hike, and drained within a few short hours. And I’d had a bit of trouble getting the LCD monitor to work when the camera was in manual mode (though this could be because I’m a complete amateur, and just don’t know which button or menu item to turn on or off).
But the likelihood that the spilled milk did the damage – and that, therefore, the toddler killed my camera and we, as his adult representatives, would be responsible for paying (through the nose) for said damages (or even having to buy a new camera altogether) – is pretty dang high. (And the 2yo is just LUCKY he’s TWO, and that he’s CUTE… and that he ran away as fast as his little legs could take him, once he threw that milk… AND that he’s pretty fast…)
Don’t let his look of innocence fool you; this kid is a cold-blooded camera killer who laughs diabolically whenever I bring up anger management classes.
The thought of the repair bill, or worse being told the camera was beyond repair… ugh! It took me more than a month to finally send the camera to the Nikon repair shop (really! I just couldn’t bear to even look at the poor thing let alone break it down and pack it up!), in hopes that my brand-new (did I already mention that??) camera could be, you know, FIXED.
Two weeks ago I checked my email as usual and – ooh boy, I actually got flustered and jittery – there were two (not one but TWO) emails from Nikon. With the estimates. For repair. One for the camera body and one for the camera lens. Oh, Holy Crappola. This wasn’t going to be good…
I didn’t open those emails then… No, I didn’t. Instead, I took a lunch break. And a dark chocolate break. And then I folded some laundry. After that I briefly contemplated dusting, but then rolled my eyes – like I was going to dust!! I think I actually snorted at myself in derision – so I reluctantly returned to my computer and opened the email…
To learn that the bill would be a whopping $0.
I know, right??!!
I’m not kidding, it took me 15 minutes to start breathing again, and then another 15 minutes of looking through the fine print for any reference of an unidentifiable sticky white substance shorting the wiring, or a note explaining that anyone with children under the age of 10 automatically voided any and all warranties, to finally believe that I wasn’t going to have to pillage my children’s college savings in order to cover the repairs or buy a new camera (an especially problematic solution given that the children’s college savings is currently nonexistent).
Of course, I still didn’t have my camera… I did, however, anxiously track the progress online daily – my stomach in knots every time, in fear that the $0 charge line would abruptly change to $699.99 or that the (fairly serious sounding) note stating the repair was a Category B2 “Moderate Repair: Major Parts Replaced” job would suddenly read “Category Impossible: Toss This Baby Out” – and tried to remind myself that repairs take time.
And then last night, at about 8:30 in the p.m., the doorbell RANG, prompting the dogs to start yipping and barking and running around and sliding on the floors like a swarm of killer bees was chasing them, and making me want to punch in the throat whoever was trying to sign me up for more magazine subscriptions at this time of night, while at the same time sending up a silent prayer to my toddler – the lightest sleeper in the entire universe – to NOT WAKE UP because I desperately wanted at least one glass of wine before having to put him back to bed for the eighty-ninth time. I felt bad for such violent and mean-spirited thoughts, however, when one of our neighbors (being, you know, neighborly) handed my husband a package that had been delivered to his house by mistake.
I opened the box… and found MY CAMERA!! (Oops… I mean, OUR CAMERA!! Sorry, honey!) And then I giggled. I did! I LAUGHED!! And it felt good, too. I did a little happy dance and put all the pieces back together. I had my camera back, I had my camera back!! I turned it on and… and…and nothing. What the heck?! Bill walked by and nonchalantly asked if I’d recharged the battery. Ugh! Does he HAVE to be so irritatingly smart sometimes?! I’m so taking back that Husband-of-the-Year nomination… So I plugged in the battery…
And now that I see it’s fully recharged, I think I will finally power up my big bad camera… and CELEBRATE!
And I do believe the occasion calls for something just a wee bit stronger than milk…
Now, where’s that Nestlé Quik??
Back in December, the week before winter break, the 10yo decided to start cooking the family dinners. I know! My eyes totally bugged out of my head, too!!
Intriguingly, she came up with the idea all on her own, completely out of the blue, and (rather shockingly, as it had been on my mind for a while) not as a creative consequence I’d (brilliantly) concocted to illustrate for her how insanely maddening (and infuriating, provoking, exasperating, harpy-shriek-inducing… well, you get the idea…) it is to spend a considerable amount of thought in planning, and time cooking, wholesome (and delicious, dang it!) meals for the family, only for the kids to whine about and bemoan whatever (okay, vegetable-laden – five servings a day, people!) dish was put on the table (you’d think I was serving poisoned frog livers and botulism-infused cat tongues if you ever witnessed the melodramatics my kids perform in my dining room at least several nights a week; we’re talking Academy Award winning theatrics here…) and refuse to eat – or even try – a single bite of that evening’s dinner (which, I swear, has never involved frog livers or cat tongues; not even on Halloween).
No, one Friday morning she woke up cheerful as can be (such lovely mornings, when the kids wake up happy… and so rare…) and informed me over her bowl of cereal that she would be cooking dinner that night. I sipped my coffee and waited for her to blurt out, “Just kidding!! Hahahaha! Was that a good joke or what?!” but, no, she was serious. As I already had three more nights of meals planned (and the corresponding groceries purchased, which I didn’t want to go bad), I convinced her to wait until the following Monday, when I would return to the grocery store and could buy the ingredients she would need. Also, I convinced her to cook for only three nights the following week, rather than all seven as she was adamantly planning, as we were leaving for my mom’s house for the Christmas holidays on Thursday and I thought she might not want to delay our trip to Grandma’s just so she could cook four extra meals; she graciously agreed, but explained that she would be taking over the cooking duties upon our return home post-holidays. Hmm… I doubted she’d even remember her resolution over the weekend…
But, sure enough, on Monday morning, as I was writing out the grocery list before taking the kiddos to school, she ticked off on her fingers the three meals she was planning and the ingredients she would need. I listened to her… Nodded… Pursed my lips together tightly so as not to say anything… Nodded some more… and quickly texted Bill to make sure he ate a big lunch. With meat. And vegetables. Because he SO wouldn’t be getting those at home. No, according to my daughter, veggies are an obvious threat to humankind and a thoroughly non-essential food group; her plan: carbs, carbs and nothing but carbs, baby!
Day 1: Bean and Cheese Quesadillas. Does taco sauce count as a veggie?!
Day 2: Blueberry Pancakes (from scratch!). For the record, these were AMAZING. We need to triple the recipe next time…
Day 3: Her homemade (and self-titled) “World Famous” Mac And Cheese. I sneaked in Beecher’s Flagship Cheese (yum!), but she said no when I suggested adding peas. Ah, well… It was worth a try!
Here’s the thing: each meal she made was delicious. And fun. And she was clearly so proud of herself that, once we did get home from Grandma’s house, I let her keep cooking. No, I didn’t let her take over all the cooking duties, as she’d earlier insisted (though it was really tempting!! But really… how many nights in a row can a family survive on blueberry pancakes for dinner?), and I did insist that her meals needed to start incorporating vegetables (she rolled her eyes, and begrudgingly agreed), but she thought that cooking once a week would be okay. For now. Her 6yo brother, Liam, had very thoughtfully given her a kid-friendly cookbook for a Christmas present (and wow! – even from one of my favorite cookbook authors! what a smart kid!! – okay, okay… so I was more than a little involved in picking out the present, but I really didn’t think she’d appreciate the Lego set he picked out for her nearly as much as he would appreciate it…), and she pours over that every week when I ask what’s on the menu. For the last two months, she’s been wowing us with her culinary talents, and cooking up a storm for us.
Mini-Pizza Night! They took TWO HOURS to make, but hey, they were good and her brothers were VERY happy.
And every once in a while she makes a meal with vegetables in it – though not always on purpose! The look of surprise on her face when I started pulling out onions and celery and carrots and zucchini for her Macaroni Minestrone recipe (she reads recipes a bit more closely these days!) was truly priceless. But the best part of that night (and perhaps it’s unkind of me, but there you have it): when Paisley served Liam his soup he stuck out his tongue in protest… and she almost slugged him! I couldn’t help myself. I snickered. I did! I snickered (but behind my hand), and gently pointed out how, um, yeah, it’s kind of frustrating, isn’t it, when someone insults your cooking without even trying it? She didn’t reply; she just stared at me (rather coldly – I think she could tell I was gloating, even if I was trying to hide that fact) while she (rather defiantly) chewed a mouthful of vegetables (rather unhappily). But she did it! She ate some veggies. And she didn’t DIE a slow and tragic and painful death.
She still prefers carb-happy meals (and really, who doesn’t?) with no veggies in sight; her “world famous” mac and cheese has made a second and third appearance (I’ve started sautéing spinach with garlic as a quick green side for mac n’ cheese night – not that any of the kids eat spinach), her brothers were quite ecstatic about mini-pizza night with homemade crusts (the only green in sight: the bell pepper slices I put on my pizza; and technically, bell pepper is a fruit), and a couple of weeks ago she made a very tasty cheese lasagna with one of her school friends (again, sans veggies; unlike Congress, I don’t count tomato sauce as a vegetable). But she’s made the veggie-heavy Macaroni Minestrone twice now (it really is good…), and I think everyone enjoyed the night she made vegetarian fried rice with carrots, broccoli, peas, and even water chestnuts (!!), and just last week she asked to make one of her favorite recipes from my own repertoire, Strawberry Asparagus Pasta, which was so good that there were no leftovers (well, except for all the asparagus left on her plate that she refused to eat… them being veggies and all). And, okay, she doesn’t always eat the veggies on her plate, but at least she cooked with veggies… so we’re making some kind of progress, right?!
So, yeah, I might have to spend twice as long cooking a meal with my daughter as it would take on my own – while I show her how to knead pizza dough without dropping it on the floor or wait for her to (slowly, slowly, oh my good gracious, painstakingly slowly) peel a carrot or two – but she’s getting the hang of food preparation, and in a couple of years, honestly, she should have enough experience to whip up her favorite Greek Pasta Salad without me around (and without cutting off a finger – perhaps the only real goal I have in these early cooking lessons at the moment). And I’m looking forward to teaching her brothers how to cook, too, when they hit age 10. Can you imagine? Three nights a week where, once I teach the kids the basics, I don’t have to cook?? Maybe I can actually get to all those projects that are piling up around the house (oh you know, like finally completing any of the children’s baby books or framing that poster in the dining room that’s been sitting on the buffet table for the last six years and counting), or – better yet! – just sit around reading a book (how decadent!), while they serve up some delicious, healthy meal for everyone?! Whoa… I am loving this plan… Heck, why do I even care if my daughter cooks with veggies?? Just so long as she cooks… am I right, or am I RIGHT?! Now that I think about it, I could totally survive off blueberry pancakes every night!
Now, if only I can convince her to stick around for the cleaning up part…
The 2 1/2 yo and his trusty backpack, ready for the first day of preschool.
My head has been in a total fog all day… I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my youngest child just started school. Okay, granted, it’s just preschool, and it’s only two mornings a week, but, still… I have three kids who are all old enough to be IN SCHOOL. Which means, I finally have (hold on, let me get my fingers out… that’s one, two, three hours each day… times two days a week, that’s…) SIX WHOLE HOURS A WEEK WITHOUT KIDS. My head is spinning…
Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t sign my 2½yo up for preschool just so I could finally get rid of all my kids at the same time (not that I either judge or begrudge any parent who does so just to get some alone time!). Indeed, I worried a bit that he’s still too young; with the other two kids, I waited until they were a bit older before enrolling them in school, and I really do prefer (most days anyway) having them home with me while they’re little. No, I decided that Broder, who absolutely adores his 10yo sister and 6yo brother and does absolutely everything they do – regardless of whether or not he’s old enough to, say, walk out the front door without a parent (oh yeah, he pulled that one over the weekend… while I was oh so conveniently downstairs folding laundry; luckily, Liam saw him head out and chased him down the sidewalk (he’s fast!!), dragged him back in the house kicking and screaming, and then quickly tattled on him – that’s what I call a goooooood big brother) – could benefit from some time with kids his own age, and engaging in a bit more of, shall we say, constructive play than oh, I don’t know, beating on his (very influential older) siblings with a Jedi sword or two (and I haven’t even let him watch Star Wars yet!).
So last week we went to visit the small Montessori preschool where three of his friends already go. It’s nothing big or intimidating, just the daylight-basement of his teacher’s home; very inviting and comfortable, full of fun toys and pet fish and various projects and happy kiddos going about their work. He seemed enthralled, and explored the place like he’d been there every day of his life, happily eating some goldfish crackers right out of one of his friend’s bowl (naturally!). So far, so good…
But having gone through two “first days of school” already, I had enough experience to know that it wasn’t going to school that’d be the issue. It would be me leaving the school that could potentially bring on the drama-slash-waterworks. So, all weekend I reminded him that I’d be saying “bye-bye.” Was he going to be okay with that? And every time I asked, he’d happily nod his consent. Hmm. I’d believe it when I saw it.
I woke up this morning, his first day of school, both excited and a bit conflicted; I knew preschool would be good for him, but I am really (really really really really) sad that my baby (my baby!!) is “leaving home” already! Broder, on the other hand, was only excited when I brought out his backpack. NO nerves there! He put it on right away, and ran downstairs to – very proudly – show it off to his big brother and sister, turning for them like a model on the runway (I’m not kidding, he even sashayed!). They, of course, being very smart siblings, applauded and cheered for him, and he quietly beamed with pleasure. Bill left with the 10yo to take her to school (recall, Paisley has an 8:30am drop off time), a few minutes before our own scheduled departure, and Broder stood at the door, with his cute backpack on, staring outside, ready to go. I gulped down – I mean, delicately sipped – the last of my coffee and hoped his positive attitude would last…
Broder leading the way to his new school. He’s running, if you can’t tell. RUNNING. (What a tease!)
We arrived at the school and were the first ones there. He walked in like a boss, ready to own the place. It was awesome. I literally had to hold him down to get his coat off, and then had to chase him down again to get his shoes off (which, by the way, his papa had put on the wrong feet – I only mention this in retaliation for some text messages said Papa sent my way this afternoon; I’ll get to those in a minute…). His enthusiasm didn’t wane as some of the other kids came in. I chatted with his teacher for a few minutes, and all looked very promising for an easy drop off (Wait – did you just snort with laughter?! Not nice! Not nice at all…). As he darted by me on his way to the next shiny item that caught his eye I said “bye-bye” – and watched him stop as abruptly as if he’d hit a brick wall. Oh, dear… He spun around on his little sock-clad heel and walked to the door, ready to go with me. His hand was on the door knob when I reminded him of all our conversations over the weekend and how Mama had to say “bye-bye” and take Liam to school (recall, Liam has a 9:30am drop off time – Broder’s drop off is 8:45am; and yes, I want to stab myself in the temple with a fork whenever I think of trying to juggle three different drop off times – and three different pick up times – at three different schools for the next several months). Apparently he didn’t remember us having these little talks. “Me go,” he claimed. “Me go, too! Go go go!!” And his “Go go go!” just kept getting louder as I pried his sweet fingers off the door handle, gave him a kiss and passed him off to his (thankfully very calm and been-there-done-that) teacher and walked out the door…
And listened to his “Go go go!” all the way down the sidewalk…
Feeling like the WORST MOTHER EVER.
Of course, I’d felt this same truly terrible feeling twice before, on my other kids’ first days of school, but when it comes to saying good-bye to your child (whether they’re crying or not) for an extended period of time, well, let’s just say practice doesn’t make perfect. The first day of school (or daycare or nanny-care or any length of time that will persist for several days a week for what feels like eternity) is ALWAYS HARD, for everyone involved. I felt so bad for Broder, and for myself!, and I don’t even know how I got Liam to school; I can’t remember which route we took or how long it took. I do know we got there on time, and that I actually deposited my child in the right place (thank goodness!), because as the final bell was ringing I had a total mini PANIC ATTACK (yes, yes I did) as I looked around for Broder, my suddenly missing constant companion, before I remembered that he was at his own school. Heart still racing, I was in a total daze by the time I walked through the front door after dropping off both boys.
At which point, realizing I didn’t have a child to feed, entertain, or put down for a nap, it finally dawned on me that I had THREE WHOLE HOURS (okay, really two and a half, given the driving time to and from, but still!) without any kiddo interruptions. W. O. W. What to do, what to do??!!
What I should have done is gone upstairs and jumped on the bed in excitement (though as I’d already made my bed this morning, this might have been quite the psychological struggle, and I confess, I don’t think I could have done it had I thought of it); or have called a friend to meet up for coffee (there must be someone I know who doesn’t have to work or take care of their kids… though, I can’t think of anyone right now); or gone grocery shopping all on my own (truly, as anyone who’s taken three kids – or heck, even just one kid – grocery shopping can attest, shopping all on your own is a little slice of Heaven on Earth); or gone shopping-shopping (wow, what a novel concept: actually browsing in a grown-up department store, where I can find clothes in my size, and without getting bashed in the face, over and over again, by the free balloon from the kids’ shoe department – which for some reason I’m always carrying, what’s up with that?! – the balloon which I freely admit I use to bribe my child/ren with whenever I attempt to shop with any of them in tow; it’s a stupid idea shopping with your kids, I know, but sometimes it must be done); or just curled up in my big comfy chair with a big delicious cup of coffee and a big thought-provoking novel (I’m thinking it’s about time I actually managed to finish a book for Book Club again; just a thought …); or, if I wanted to go the responsible adult route (I know, I know; who wants to be a responsible adult?! Boo hiss!), started on some of the large-scale work projects that are lurking on the horizon (like a complete web site redesign; can we say “hours??”); or even tackled some of the pesky “spring-cleaning” (okay, fine, “year-round”) tasks around the house (all of which feel rather Sisyphean in nature, but at some point I actually *do* need to sort through all the kids’ clothes and shoes – as I’m pretty sure my 10yo hasn’t worn the size 4T dresses still hanging in her closest in, oh, you know, a couple of years – nor is my kitchen pantry going to rearrange itself into a more useful organizational system no matter how many times I beg it to); or (perhaps the very best idea), just TAKEN A NAP (sigh… doesn’t that sound ridiculously decadent??)
And I would have happily done any and all of these should-have-dones (well, I wouldn’t have happily started organizing my kitchen pantry – that just sounds horrible – but I would’ve at least enjoyed the satisfaction of having an organized kitchen pantry…), IF my brain wasn’t still with my baby boy… Three measly miles away. So, instead, I cleaned the breakfast things from the table while fretting about whether or not my little guy was still crying; and constantly checked my phone to see if the ringer was on; and checked again that the ringer was turned up loud enough so I could hear it in case Broder’s teacher needed to call me and tell me to come pick up the UNHAPPIEST CHILD ON THE PLANET right away; and texted my husband when the phone didn’t ring (which totally didn’t help comfort my jittery nerves, as he simply said that Broder would be fine, if maybe a bit mad at me, and reminded me to not forget that Broder likes to throw things – like his very hard plastic tippy-cups – at those unfortunate souls who do make him mad, and maybe I shouldn’t turn my back on him this afternoon; thanks for that, honey – really, thanks! – kisses!!); and basically watched the clock slowly slowly slowly tick-tick-tock its way toward the time I could get back in the car and drive to the new school and pick up my little sweet pea and hug him and hug him and hug him.
And then come home and put him down for his nap.
So I could finally get some work done! Assuming that my brain would no longer be in a worried fog…
I was ten minutes early picking him up. I tried to stay in the car, but I had a hard time concentrating on people’s Facebook posts on my iPhone… so I gave up and went inside…
To be told by my love bug, my youngest child who had cried and cried and cried and WAILED and broke my HEART into itty bitty little pieces when I left that morning, that he didn’t want to go home.
Are you KIDDING me??
What a stinker!!
And that’s when my brain finally started kicking in (well, what’s left of my brain, anyway; after 10 years of parenthood, we’re not talking Mensa-quality here, but, hey, it’s all I’ve got). Well, fine! Two can play at that game…You had fun? Fun?! Now it’s Mama’s turn…
That’s right, baby. Time to take a nap (sigh…). Time to read some (what I call) Bad Mama Books (yeah, you know the ones; the books, sanctioned by Book Club or not, that you can’t put down even if your kids are clubbing each other with a baseball bat you mistakenly forgot to put back in the too-high-to-reach-even-if-they’re-standing-on-a-chair-hiding-spot while in the same room in which you’re sitting and reading). Time to email the graphic artist and web programmer (done!) about that new web site design and skip off to Nirvana, aka Nordstrom’s shoe department (I’ll even take a balloon for myself, thank you!). Time to forget about getting this house in shape (because, like, that’s going to happen!) and even forget about going to the grocery store and head off, instead, to find the perfect Americano.
So, who wants to meet me for coffee? I’ll see you on Wednesday morning…
Right after I get done jumping on the bed.
“Look, Ma! There’s a hole in my mouth!”
So, the 6yo lost his third tooth six nights ago…
And the very next day, he managed to lose it all over again.
(I swear, is it only in MY family who can actually lose the same tooth TWICE?!)
Okay, so it all started last Wednesday night, when Liam was brushing his teeth and POP! out came the wiggliest of the three wiggly teeth he’s been working on losing for the last few weeks.
Initially there were great hoots and hollers of delight and excitement, but then he got little worried, because he decided he really needed, and I mean “needed” (on a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is I-need-to-clean-the-play-room-or-Mama-is-going-to-go-postal-but-I-don’t-really-care and 10 is I-need-to-find-a-bathroom-right-now-or-I’m-absolutely-going-to-die he was probably at a 5, which isn’t bad, but it was going to slow down bedtime), to show his tooth to his BFF, who was coming over the next morning for an all-day play date and sleepover. So, after a lot of fretting and a wee bit of thought, he decided to write a note to the Tooth Fairy:
“Dear Tooth Fary. Please do not pick up my tooth today. Thank you. From Liam.”
Clearly, the Tooth Fairy thought it was as cute and persuasive a note as I did, and very graciously decided to wait until the next night to pick up Liam’s precious (and so tiny!) tooth. (The fact that the Tooth Fairy was plum out of the gold $1 Sacajawea coins that she’s always left for all the teeth she’s collected in this house has absolutely no bearing on her willingness to wait. No bearing at all…)
The next morning Liam’s friend came over, and before the kid even had his shoes off, Liam had run upstairs to his room and come back with his tooth in hand to proudly show and tell.
Right. Did you catch that, Sherlock? “With his tooth in hand.” Not tooth in envelope. Tooth in hand.
I, however, did not actually SEE the tooth in hand. Or I would’ve made sure the tooth went from hand back to envelope.
Instead, I was busy talking with M-’s mom about the arrangements for the day and night (it would be both 6yo boys’ first sleepover, so there were contingency plans to be made), as well as trying to keep the 2yo from stealing my phone (he’s OBSESSED I tell you!) and texting things like “High” to various individuals in my contact list (all of whom now think I am overly fond of hippie lettuce; or am I just being paranoid?!), all the while also trying to convince my 10yo daughter and her friend (who was also over for an all-day play date and sleepover; they’d eventually be joined by another friend for a grand total of six – SIX!! – children playing, eating and sleeping at my house that day and night – because I’m CRAZY) that Liam would have a fit if they were playing with every single one of his Hexbugs, and as there are now so many Hexbugs thanks to Christmas, couldn’t, oh I don’t know, SHARING be possible?? All that to say, there was MAYHEM happening when the tooth in hand was quickly discarded to the table…
Where breakfast bowls and plates still remained to be cleared…
And cleared they eventually were. You know… in order to make room for elevensies. And lunch. And afternoon snack. And dinner. All of which were also cleared. From the table. Where the tooth no longer was to be found… Having, clearly, been cleared…
But I didn’t know that until bedtime, when Liam, perhaps just a tad tired after caroming around like a pinball all day long and staying up at least two hours after his normal bedtime, and perhaps just a smidgen nervous about his first-ever sleepover, came traipsing downstairs to ask me – who was perhaps just more-than-a-little brain dead from entertaining and feeding six (adorable, but still… six) kiddos all day AND somehow managing to vacuum and wash all the floors in the house before the kids’ movie ended – for his tooth.
Yeah, turns out… my fairly cavalier response of “Uh… What do you mean? I haven’t seen it” wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. Ohhh nooo….
Let’s see… How best to describe the EMOTIONAL MAELSTROM that hit that night (without using profanity)? Well, let’s just say bedtime didn’t go so smoothly that night…
Luckily, the Tooth Fairy comes anyway, even when children who lose their teeth refuse to sleep in their own bedroom during their own sleepover (yes, really). And even when the lost teeth are, well, really truly lost.
And luckily, all was well the next morning when Liam found his gold $1 George Washington coin (the Tooth Fairy couldn’t find any Sacajawea dollars; what’s up with that?!), and excitedly showed it to his friend (who had somehow weathered the storm over the missing tooth with remarkable aplomb) while they ate their oatmeal and played with Hexbugs. And just like that, Liam was over his disappointment. The tooth has now been missing for almost a week, and I don’t think he’s given it another thought.
I, however, have been going crazy wondering where that dang tooth has gone! Partly, because it makes me sad that there won’t be a tiny little tooth to put in the envelope with the letter to the Tooth Fairy and to place in Liam’s memory box with all his other lost teeth (past and future). But mostly, because it’s a freaking UNSOLVED MYSTERY. I’m no Hercule Poirot, but I NEED TO KNOW.
And I *have* looked. It wasn’t on the table, which really was clear when Liam asked me for it. It wasn’t on the buffet. It wasn’t hiding underneath the dining room curtains. Nor had it somehow miraculously appeared back in the envelope with the letter to the Tooth Fairy, which sat next to Liam’s bed in his bedroom (yes, I really did look).
It’s possible it was mistaken as a toast crumb and swept up and dropped in the compost bin – and I’m not going there. Ick! Or perhaps one of the dogs ate it in one of their many (read: many many many) forays under the dining room table (and all around the house; truly, they’re incorrigible and insatiable) to find any morsel of food they can sniff out – and I’m definitely not going there. Ick times infinity!
Last night the mystery of the missing tooth finally drove me to get out a whisk broom and gently sweep under the buffet. Though I’d of course looked there that first night, I thought that maybe the tooth had been pushed against the walls so I couldn’t see it. No luck. All I got for my efforts was a square yellow Lego piece and an old dusty raisin… and some very odd looks from my husband and kids when they returned home from Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu practice to find me on my knees, on the floor, in a very unflattering pose.
This morning found me back at cleaning day. I (rather grumpily) brought out the vacuum cleaner and went to replace the dust bag, which was full… and inspiration hit. I grabbed the bag and returned to the scene of the crime (spreading out a piece of newspaper on the dining room table to catch the dirt, because, I don’t mean to brag, but I’m smart like that). I had a good feeling about this! I found the scissors and gently cut one side of the bag open. I looked inside… And… Holy Grossness, Batman!!!! As my eyes bugged out in revolt at that compacted pile of dust bunnies and dog and cat hair and Christmas tree needles and toast and cereal crumbs that made up the contents of my vacuum bag, I second- and triple-guessed my (ridiculous?) “need” (on a scale of 1 to 10 where 1 is I-need-to-dust-but-what’s-the-point-everything-will-look-grey-again-in-two-hours and 10 is I-need-a-glass-of-wine-or-the-kids-might-not-make-it-to-morning I was probably at a 4, which isn’t bad, but it was waking me up in the middle of the night) to find this one tiny (have I mentioned TINY?!) tooth. Well, I’d come this far… Slowly I dumped out a little, just a little, of that nastiness and… THERE WAS THE TOOTH!! THE TOOTH!! I. Kid. You. Not… I found the tooth. The tiny little tooth that was lost not once but twice. It was CRAZY. And very exciting!
Can you see it? That TINY little white speck is the dang tooth that kept me up at night! Plus, I found a penny. How great is that?!
I did a little happy dance. Took photos to text my husband (who wrote back “What IS that?!” – okay, so it’s not a great photo, but in my defense, it *is* a tiny tooth…). And, finally, tucked the tooth safely in the little envelope, with Liam’s cute and persuasive note to the Tooth Fairy written on the front, and hid it all away, up high in a rarely used cabinet so he’ll never find it, in Liam’s memory box.
Where, since it’s in a “hidden” location, I’m sure it will be lost. Again. Because, really, that’s just how this family rolls.
But today? Today I feel like I did Agatha Christie proud. And I can finally say:
Case closed.
(Wow, that’s satisfying… I should totally solve mysteries more often… Like, I’d love to know where Liam lost his North Face fleece; that mystery really irks me… Also, I’d love to know where I lost my mind. That’s been lost since at least 2002… And some days, I really miss it…)
I am not kidding: put me in a straightjacket. This house is now, officially, a loony bin.
Not that you didn’t know already that our family was crazy, but after the decision Bill and I made the other day, it’s clear that I am unequivocally and certifiably CRAZY. Like, straightjacket crazy. I need to be committed.
Okay, so… School started about two weeks ago. This year, Bill and I decided (for various reasons which are rather complicated and not very amusing, so I won’t bore you with the details) that the 9yo and the 6yo should attend public school rather than returning to their beloved Montessori school, where we’ve been attending for the past seven years. Obviously, this was a huge decision, and very emotional, as we adore the community of parents and children and teachers at our old school; but, it’s a decision that we feel needed to be made, and we are at peace with the decision, and everyone, quite shockingly, seems to be quite content with the whole thing…
First day of school, first day of school! (Please notice: my kids do crazy WAY better than I do…)
Except for maybe me…
It’s not that I don’t love the new schools – I do; everyone is so nice, and the teachers are fantastic, and I love that the schools are so close to our house that we can and do walk back and forth (well, until the rains start again – I might like living in wet Seattle, but I’m not that hardcore). And it’s not that the kids are having any difficulty adjusting to their new environment or classmates or homework schedules (okay, well, nobody likes homework, but the grumbling is to be expected and hasn’t reached nuclear meltdown stages… yet… so I’ll take what I can get); heck, both kids still run – RUN!! – into school every morning, and not because they’re late (who knew this much excitement about school was even possible?!).
No, it’s the fact that there are schools involved – schools with an s, plural schools, as in more than one. And schools, plural, is, well, crazy-making, at least for me. And here’s why: because the 4th grader goes to school (a 15-minute walk south) from 8:30am-2:35pm, and the 1st grader goes to school (a 10-minute walk west) from 9:30am-3:35pm. Okay, I know that’s a lot of numbers, but did you catch that? That’s two different drop-off times, and two different pick-up times; each drop-off and pick-up time AN HOUR APART. Let that sink in… Now, you might think, if you have to do two different schools (and I don’t, but more on that in a moment), then having the exact same drop-off and pick-up times would be infinitely harder, as being in the same place at the same time is, to say the least, rather challenging (okay, fine, have it your way: impossible); which is true. So I’m glad we don’t have the exact same drop-off and pick-up times. But… an hour difference?! On each side?! I did the math (and double checked it with a calculator, so you could feel confident in my reporting, here, because I’ve been more than honest in past posts about how rocky my math skills are…), and I effectively lose TWO HOURS of my day with this new schedule (being the parent primarily responsible for getting the kids to and from school, as I’m the parent who works from home). And in case you were wondering, I don’t HAVE TWO HOURS to lose (you know, because of that aforementioned job thing, which, it turns out, takes TIME; go figure…).
“But, Jill,” you’re thinking to yourself (because talking out loud to your computer screen might make the folks around you suspect you’re the one in need of the straightjacket), “Why not just have your kids go to the same school?” Well, I would say, you are VERY SMART. And that’s why I like you… But… that’s why I am need-to-be-committed crazy…
Mm-kay… Are you ready for this?
Earlier this week my cellphone buzzed (it was on vibrate – it’s always on vibrate: I have a toddler who naps; I miss a lot of calls this way, but naps are sacred in my world – and it’s surprising I even answered the phone). It was Seattle Public Schools telling me that my son had been bumped up the waitlist for the school where my daughter attended, and that there was now an opening for him in one of the 1st grade classrooms (some quick background: though both are public schools, Liam is currently at the K-5 school we are assigned to because it’s the closest school to our home, Paisley is at the just-slightly farther away “alternative” K-8 option school that families can apply to and where we ultimately want both kids to go, mostly because it’s K-8 rather than K-5; Paisley was on the waitlist until the first day of summer vacation, when she finally got in, but Liam was so low on the waitlist that we never thought we had a chance this year). The woman on the phone asked: did I want to accept?
And you, oh wise reader, know that I of course would say, or even perhaps shout with glee, “YES! YES! A THOUSAND TIMES YES!!” because it would be crazy, unequivocally and certifiably CRAZY, to say NO to getting my kids in the same school, to say NO to getting my kids in the same school that we wanted them to be at, to say NO to getting my kids in the same school that we wanted them to be at and on the exact same schedule with only one pick-up time and one drop-off time a day…
It would be like, STRAIGHTJACKET CRAZY to say NO to making my life SO MUCH EASIER.
Which, of course, means that we said no (I know!! I know…). We decided to keep Liam in the 1st grade class that he started in two weeks ago. We are not moving him to the school where we ultimately want him. We are not making my life easier. Because, as it turns out, I AM straightjacket crazy.
Your stomach just turned, didn’t it? You feel a little sick about this decision, on my behalf? That’s very kind of you; I, too, felt sick to my stomach all that day, as the deadline I was given loomed for me to decide yay or nay. Or, perhaps you just called the good folks at the closest insane asylum to come catch this lunatic mama (who so obviously needs her head examined) with their butterfly nets? Don’t worry, I’m sure the few parents who I ran into after receiving the phone call, who saw me pulling my hair out and hyperventilating over this decision – all of whom looked at me with great pity, patted me gently on the head, and said in their kindest talking-to-someone-with-half-a-brain voice: but sweetie, that’s such an easy choice; of course you’ll change schools!! – already called the keepers of the local funny farm. They should be here any moment…
And I KNOW it’s crazy. I really do. And I worry about myself; this choice does not feel sane. But here’s the thing… my gut, my Mama Instinct, just feels so so so strongly that Liam is where he’s supposed to be this year. I can’t explain why, really… Okay, so his teacher is ah-may-zing, and is always smiling and laughing, and we’ve been told she’s the best 1st grade teacher at his school if not THE best teacher, and she just won a huge teaching award and because of it was honored at the Seattle Seahawks game this last weekend (Go Hawks!); but maybe the teachers at the other school are really great, too. And okay, he has three friends in his new class that he actually knew before school even started, and this is a big deal because two days before school started he had a 45 minute crying jag while sitting on my lap, his arms wrapped tightly around my neck like he’d never let go, sobbing uncontrollably about how he didn’t want to go to a new school and how he just wanted to be in a class with his two best friends who were still at his old Montessori school (never mind that his two best friends aren’t in the same class this year, either); but, he’s a nice kid, and I know he could and would easily make new friends at the other school. I know he’d be fine. He would be FINE. But the class he’s in now is just a really good fit. And he’s happy – and I really wasn’t sure that was possible so early in the year after changing schools, or that he’d handle the change as well as he has; I just really don’t want to jeopardize that happiness. And he’s learning so much; it’s already so obvious, and that’s exciting. And I know it could be like this at the other school, too… but what if it wasn’t?
The 6yo, actually SMILING at the orientation for his new school, held the last week of summer break. I took this photo because I was sure he would NOT be smiling on his first day of school. And yeah, it’s kinda nice that he’s STILL smiling, three weeks later…
So I know, in my (wildly irrational) heart if not in my (rarely rational) brain, that we made the right decision. An unequivocally and certifiably CRAZY decision, but the right decision. However… I will confess: I still can’t believe I voluntarily chose to make my life more challenging…
I must really love that kid.
Well, I guess there’s nothing to do now but to say adieu to sanity (who needs it anyway?!), learn to work more efficiently with the time I have (I could work nights after tucking the kids into bed, but that time is usually reserved for my Pinterest addiction), remember to put all those upcoming PTA meetings on the calendar (wow, that’s a lot of meetings…), hug my kids tight when I drop them off at their two different schools at two different times (at least when I can catch them before they run – RUN!! – into their classrooms), hope and hope and hope some more to win the waiting list lottery again next year (preferably before the start of school)…
… and, honestly, figure out how to do crazy as well as my kids (please reference Image 1, above). Well, minus the fingers in my mouth or eyes rolled back in my head; I confess, that’s not a good look for me…
Hmm… You know, I’m thinking this straightjacket just needs a few accessories… A scarf? Some ballet flats? A butterfly net? It might be a crazy year (or two… or three…), but I’m going to do right by my kids…
… and make crazy look goooood.
And they took my heart with them.
Actually, they took two pieces of my heart with them… Two important pieces. And they actually smiled while doing so…
Bill and Paisley at the airport. Today. On their way to ICELAND. 3,610 miles away from ME. Could their smiles be any bigger?!
That’s right. My amazing hubby and my adorable 9yo daughter are off on their Big Adventure: they are Iceland Bound. Right. This. Minute.
Yes, today is THE day. THE day that Paisley has been counting down toward for the last, I believe, 68 days, when she made her own little calendar and drew a large X through each day every night before bedtime – well, until she lost the calendar, which I honestly think the dogs ate. THE day they – well, really we, because it was exciting for all of us (and why yes, I am feeling rather bah humbug; my heart is in tatters here!) – have been talking about almost incessantly for the last four months when Bill came up with the brilliant (and now bittersweet) idea that, okay, it might be rather (or really insanely) cost-prohibitive to travel with all five of us to the distant corners of the planet (heck, it’s expensive to even travel to the next state over), and okay, taking a 2yo toddler on an airplane for much longer than an hour is our idea of war-criminal-worthy torture (and even an hour can feel like twelve when trying to keep the cross between a wiggle-worm and a butterball that I call my youngest offspring from slipping out of my headlock – I mean warm embrace – to run pell-mell and shrieking with glee up and down the aisles; or, once back in my vice-like grip – I mean loving arms – to toss with amazing accuracy his half-eaten Goldfish crackers into the hair of the elderly woman sitting in front of us who clearly doesn’t have grandchildren of her own – or if she does, she really doesn’t like them; or, when done with that delightful activity, to springboard himself from my lap in shockingly successful attempts to body-slam his finally-content older siblings who are simply trying to quietly watch another Pixar film he’s not yet old enough to appreciate; and don’t even get me started on trying to change diapers in those tiny nooks they call a lavatory…), but travelling one-parent-one-child might, just might, make our dreams of international globetrotting a more affordable and realistic possibility.
So, one week later (and in hindsight, what possessed us to move so quickly?? Were we really in such a hurry to rip my heart apart?!), two tickets were purchased for Iceland. And now those tickets have just been redeemed.
Yes, four months later, and I dropped off two necessary-for-my-life pieces of my heart at the airport (two REALLY excited and near-giggly pieces of my heart, by the way), to fly from our home in Seattle to Reykjavik, the farthest-northern capital city of the world. I dropped them off, hugged them tightly, forced them to take some pictures (okay some more pictures), hugged them tightly again, and watched them walk into the airport. Without me.
My two devastatingly cute, and now missing, pieces of my heart. Taken right before driving to the airport. Where they continued smiling, together, all the way into the terminal…
I got back in the car and cried.
Of course, I cry at Kleenex commercials, but still… this temporary departure of two of my most favorite people, two souls who are so profoundly important to my life, is shockingly hard on me. What was I thinking??!! This isn’t a good idea!! This is a BAD idea!! This is two precious pieces of my heart flying further and further away from me every single minute for the next seven hours and fifteen minutes! And then STAYING away from me for SEVEN whole days! And six nights!
How do I live that long without the one piece of my heart that keeps me grounded and sane when I start spinning with all the craziness in my life (like RIGHT NOW?!), the piece of my heart that knows laughter is the secret to enjoying life, the louder and more heartfelt the better (and who will tell me the inappropriate jokes that I shouldn’t find funny?!)? How do I live that long without the other piece of my heart that motivates me always to fully revel and delight in the moment, this very moment, (rather than mope in the sadness of goodbyes), the piece of my heart that knows no bounds to the joy her body can hold or her voice can express (and who will spontaneously hug me so tightly my ribs hurt when I clearly just need a hug to get out of the doldrums?!)?
For the record, I’m thinking all this one-parent-one-child adventure mumbo-jumbo can take a flying leap. Who needs airplanes? Who needs foreign travel? All that soul-enriching, horizon-expanding, relationship-strengthening, character-building NONSENSE can just take a backseat to my need to be complete. My need to be WHOLE.
Because I won’t be WHOLE again until all the pieces of my heart are back together. Back talking and giggling and exchanging pleasantries and news about the day TOGETHER.
All that to say, if I don’t get a Skype call from the devilishly handsome piece of my heart with the wicked sense of humor, and the adorably precocious piece of my heart with the grin that can turn a frown upside down in 0.23 seconds flat, within exactly two minutes and twenty-eight seconds of him being able to check into their rental apartment (hey, I’m being more than generous here – how long can it really take for them to log in to the wifi?!), I will either bite my lip off, melt into a puddle of worry and tears, or simply take matters into my own hands and contact the Icelandic Coast Guard (all four ships, one survey boat, three helicopters, one plane, and all 165 officers and crew of it).
Wait. Reykjavik is seven hours ahead of Seattle… And Bill and Paisley can check in to their flat at 1pm their time… which means, plus the two minutes and twenty-eight seconds I’m allotting for wifi-login-time… that’d be 6:02:28 in the morning my time.
Huh.
I think my heart can stay incomplete until at least 7am.
But rest-assured. The countdown? It’s ON.
And after our little Skype chat? I’m going to draw up a paper calendar and mark an X through each day until my heart is TRULY whole again (because a phone call, even a free video phone call from overseas*) just isn’t enough.
Six nights and counting… (and the dang dogs better not eat MY calendar!)
*Okay, I do have to take a quick minute out of my self-absorbed whining to fully admire how far technology has come. I mean really, it was only 18 years ago that I was on the CUTTING EDGE when I could email – ooh! email! – my then almost-new boyfriend from my university in England, and the one hour-long phone call we made to each other cost more than $100 (!!). Now? Now we can just Skype – for FREE – between our cell phones (or computers, but really, I love my phone), and I can actually SEE as well as HEAR all about what’s happening, clear on the other side of the PLANET. Okay, whining over. Life is cool.
I couldn’t resist adding this photo, it’s so sweet – I took it right after the first heading-to-the-airport photo shoot. I expect – I BETTER – see lots of these types of photos from their travels in Iceland on Facebook in the next few days. Luckily, Bill is MASTER of the self-portrait.
I realize I’ve been rather remiss in updating the blog posts about the Best Gift Ever (from the Best Mom Ever – that’d be mine): a Year of Dates for my husband and me to enjoy, once a month for twelve (really fantastic) months. With my wedding anniversary coming up, I thought I’d spend a few writing sessions re-living some of the fun Bill and I have had so far…
January was a late (and surprisingly delicious) breakfast, followed by some serious bowling action (as fun as this was, I’m not sure I want to go back to the scene of MY victory, as Bill is still grumbling about a rematch, and I’m pretty sure I’d never win again!).
February was a return to one of favorite dates when we had way more time on our hands (pre-children, obviously): lunch (a date isn’t a date without food…) and a visit to a bookstore for some serious browsing. (Can you hear my sigh of contentment? I can seriously spend hours looking at books…)
March was… oh yeah, March was a date at the HOSPITAL with the toddler to learn that he had Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease. Hot date, right?! Actually, the third of our year of dates was supposed to be the day after Broder’s diagnosis, but since my mom would be babysitting (this is a major part of her gift to us, which is really a double gift: no babysitting expenses AND my kids get to spend quality-time with one of their favorite people on the planet, their grandma; have I mentioned that this is the Best Gift EVER??), and since Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease is highly contagious, and since Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease can still afflict adults (though it usually hits kids under the age of five), and since Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease can be quite painful… the gift-giver was more than happy to give us a rain check on date number three.
Which brings us to our April date… playing tourist in our home town.
A major advantage when playing tourist in your own town? No need for a car rental! Wahoo! (And don’t worry; we were stopped at a light!! I’m all about safety, remember??)
I’m always surprised how little I know the town, state, and even the country in which I live…
For example, when my best friend from high school and I moved to England for four months during our junior year of college (we were supposed to be there for the year, but the University I attended, turns out, decided to up and DROP the program I crossed a continent and ocean to study at, and turns out, didn’t bother telling me until I showed up on the first day of school… Nice, eh? At least I managed to cobble together a semester’s worth of courses so I could justify my stay…), we took the train and/or bus to a different city EVERY WEEKEND. By the end of our 16-week stay, I knew England better than I knew my home state of MONTANA, let alone the good ol’ U. S. of A.
So, Bill and I have been back in Seattle now for 11 YEARS… plenty of time to get to know our “home” city, right?! Yeah… No.
In all fairness, I’m quite familiar with our little neighborhood of Ballard (for those who don’t know Seattle, our city is a bit like New York City – though on a MUCH smaller scale – in that it’s comprised of multiple burrough-like nieghborhoods that were once their own municipalities (with their own mayors and everything!) before being annexed into the city; this means that each neighborhood has a very distinct history and sense of identity that makes visiting each neighborhood a bit like visiting a different town altogether: Ballard was originally settled by Scandinavian immigrants, and is still an active fishing port; Fremont, down the way from us, is the eclectic, artistic neighborhood, and the self-billed “Center of the Universe”; Capitol Hill still embraces the edgy vibe that gave birth to grunge music; Downtown is home to Nordstrom (yes, fine, it’s also home to the iconic Pike Place Market… but, really, it’s all about Nordstrom’s shoe department); the University District is, well, duh, where the college kids hang out; and so on and so forth…). But, though I’ve necessarily visited and driven through various neighborhoods, and can find stores (read: Nordstrom) and street fairs (yep, I’ve seen the naked bike riders at Fremont’s Solstice Parade) and coffee shops (one requires much caffeine to survive the drizzly and dreary Seattle weather) just a bit further out than the 10 mile radius I tend to limit myself to, there are pockets of Seattle that I just haven’t explored and would love to know better.
Like, the International District… We’ve taken the kids to the (have-to-go-at-least-once-but-should-be-more-like-annually) Lunar New Year parade, and I, of course, have been told a thousand times that I HAVE to go to Uwajimaya, the huge Asian specialty supermarket (and someday I’ll get there, but honestly, just going 15 minutes to the local Fred Meyer seems a colossal effort most weeks; I just can’t summon the energy to battle the traffic and drive 30-45 minutes each way, no matter how awesome the selection of bok choy or hoisin sauce), but for the most part, Bill and I haven’t spent much time in this part of Seattle – located just a touch south of Downtown and a bit east of Pioneer Square (where you’ll find a lovely selection of art galleries, and the comical-but-historic Underground Tour – I’ve been to that neighborhood, yay!).
So on a sunny (who knew?!) day in April (which is usually one of the rainiest months in Seattle, and this last spring was particularly and brutally rainy, so the sun was SO appreciated), we headed off to play tourist. Bill had suggested two vegetarian-friendly restaurants (I’m the vegetarian, which sometimes makes finding places to eat just a wee bit challenging – I know, I’m such a pain!), a Thai place and a Vietnamese place. Both sounded great, but as we neared our destination, I just couldn’t bear the thought of going indoors when the sun was shining so brightly! We needed a patio… So, I pulled up the Yelp app on the iPhone (how did we survive before smartphones and apps??) and searched for outdoor dining in the International District, and surprise surprise!, the Vietnamese restaurant Bill had found – the Tamarind Tree – had a patio! In the sun! I could pig out on yummy, Jill-friendly food AND soak up some much-needed Vitamin D. Seattle was turning out to be such an awesome town to visit!
Enjoying lunch on that patio… Proof that there IS sun in Seattle! (If you look closely, you can even see me!! Wearing sunglasses!! Because it’s sunny!!)
After we could no longer justify taking up space on the toasty warm deck (there were other sun-deprived individuals waiting patiently and not-so-patiently in the shadows), Bill and I slowly strolled down the hill a few blocks to visit what would be the highlight of our day’s tourist agenda: the Wing Luke Museum of the Asian Pacific American Experience (tourist tip: general admission is free on the first Thursday and third Saturday of every month; how awesome is that?!). Though a bit hesitant to go indoors (it was sunny!!), the museum is light-filled and, really, a very beautiful and inviting space. The museum is dedicated to telling the (important and emotionally-touching) stories and sharing the cultural artifacts of the Asian/Pacific immigrants and citizens who have, since the very beginning, helped build Seattle into the vibrant community it is today. The museum is a wonderful resource and community center; after the couple of hours we spent wandering through the different exhibits (and I must confess, my favorite part was the pop-culture exhibit with the vintage Pac-Man arcade game visitors could play for free (!!); I just kept circling around the exhibit waiting for “the other tourists” to get out of my way – um, I mean, move on – so I could play another round!), Bill and I agreed we couldn’t wait to bring the kids for a visit.
My dear hubby, kicking my dot-and-ghost-eating butt while playing doubles on the vintage Pac-Man arcade game. I’m just a bit out of practice, that’s all!
With the kids on our mind, we took a quick tour of the gift shop, but (rather quickly, too) decided that this was one “vacation” (or “staycation” if you’d rather) that didn’t require us to bring home souvenirs for the children.
After all, we’d definitely be back. Maybe even on another date… Though perhaps after touring some other parts of our “home town” that we don’t know as well as our own backyard… Like the Museum of History and Industry at Lake Union Park (haven’t been there), or the Experience Music Project at Seattle Center (haven’t been there, either, other than for a cocktail about a decade ago), or catching an outdoor summer concert at Marymoor Park (haven’t done that – crazy, right?!), or taking a ride on the SLUT (again, haven’t done that; and for you dirty-minded readers, get your head out of the gutter – I’m referring to the very tastefully named South Lake Union Trolley, a fairly new streetcar connecting various neighborhoods of Seattle!), or even… well, you get the point. There is so much to see and do… just in our own town!
And the best part (well, other than not having to buy a plane ticket or hassle with TSA)? After playing tourist all day, it’s really nice to go home… and be home…
Together.
