Number the Days

There was a time recently where I was feeling very overwhelmed by the task of parenting my children. It was after certain members of the family were asleep and instead of taking my victory lap, I wanted to fall to the ground and cry.  I was told by someone, "You know who Myles really reminds me of sometimes?"  I warily said, "Who?" He said, "Your brother." And despite my recent blog post, he did not mean this in a good way.  Ouch.  But instead of crumbling, I decided right then and there, I was not going to feel sorry for myself but I was going to dig deep.  Well, I did fall a part for a minute but then, I summoned reason and resolution. I went to my online library catalog, (common therapy for me) to request the newest fad parenting books.  And then I went to my bookshelf and picked up one of the most influential books of my childhood. I lerfed* this book with my whole heart.  Yes, that was the answer. We would read it, and discuss virtues like bravery, empathy, and sacrifice. We are currently about halfway through.  I labeled it as a "book club," and we intend to celebrate the conclusion at Myles' favorite restaurant, Windy City Hot Dogs. (He once was given a t-shirt there by the stunned owner after eating two hotdogs smothered in relish, pickles, and hot peppers in a poppy seed bun.)  Wait. Maybe this is the problem. Maybe we should celebrate at MY favorite restaurant. But that would be impossible, because we would have to travel back in time to the pre-rennovated location of Home.  Oh well.

And then of course Fiona and I started The Cricket in Times Square, which I had never read before. Our favorite part so far is when the hero Mario, travels to Chinatown to buy a cricket cage.

 And now for my "pleasure" read.  I was grateful to discover the above title after reading this post.  My home is being turned upside down, in a good way. 

PS. We never made it to Nantucket.  Another day I suppose. Even though at the moment of surrender, I was over-dramatic, and thought to myself, I will probably die before ever stepping foot on that island.  I guess we will have to see.  I am at the spot in my life, that I am morbidly realizing that I will never travel to all the places I hope to see before I leave this world.  It is simply impossible. I am trying to come to terms with this through the lens of gratitude.  I have been given so much.  Instead I will catch Rick Steve's travel videos on PBS, and that will be a certain balm to help me cope.

PPS. It was a goal in life to use that word in context, created by Woody Allen in Annie Hall. There, I did it.

The Farm of a Patriot

We have been busy. Busy with a heat wave. Busy with a little DIY kitchen project. Down with old cabinets, and up with shelves.  Busy with birthdays and the beach. I don't really like being busy. It makes me feel unfriendly. Like when a friend and I are trying to make plans to catch up, I start praying for a miracle.  But last week the kids and I did manage to seize an open window to visit the Adams National Historical Park a few towns over, and had a semi-wonderful time. The first problem was that we arrived at 10:30 and were told that the next available tour wasn't until 1:15.  My attempt to bully the Ranger lady was unsuccessful. I stood in front of her desk and silently pouted for a good solid minute. And then I begged her to let us on the trolley outside. She said I could speak to her supervisor. I reluctantly declined, deciding some things are worth the wait.  I love the ANHP because you get to knock out two prez birthplaces with one stone. John Adams and John Quincy were born in houses next door to one another.  It is awesome. Thankfully there was the Quincy public library within walking distance and we hung out there for a couple hours reading Otis Spofford and watching a girl play Club Penguin on a computer. She had her library card on a bracelet like a camp counselor and my kids were a bit in awe. 

 

The boxwood lining the path was planted three hundred years ago. And the Adams family library contains a Bible, inscribed with a note of gratitude, given to John Quincy by the Mendi people after their freedom was granted.  Think Amistad.  And think Abigail Adams.  She is as inspiring as they come. If it were not for her...  We saw the bed that held her as she died.  Of course John was devastated without her and moved a new bed into his office to sleep in the rest of his days.

Frances Martin

Last night I watched the final segment of the PBS series documenting the desperate years of the Dustbowl. 
If you are looking for heartbreak, the panhandle of Oklahoma during the 1930's will get you there right quick.  The voices and the faces of the children who endured will remain with me. Imogene, who had her dresses made out of pretty flour sacks.  Floyd, who lost baby sister Rena to dust pneumonia.

This morning my Gramma, Frances passed away.  I was in the middle of writing this post when family called with the news.  I knew that she was very sick and had booked a trip down to Georgia for Friday.  I was hoping to have one more visit.  But now I will only be in town for the funeral.  My mind is full of questions that I did not get to ask.  She grew up in Chickasha, Oklahoma. Tell me about the Great Depression, Gramma. Chickasha was not in the Dustbowl exactly, but it sure was close enough to be majorly affected.  Watching parts of this special on television made me feel present with her childhood in a way that I had not experienced before.  It was as if I was meeting her neighbors and walking her roads.  I am anxious to be down there to savor and study her legacy.

 I found the book I was looking for at the library.

And I will be listening to the lonesome, sweet voice of Woody Guthrie. 

Curtains, and Cous Cous, and Clara

My kids are creative with the most annoying things possible.  Specifically curtain rods.  I think this is a magical sign calling me to actually put curtains up.  But until that day, which may never come, I swear I will be tripping over them until I am old and gray.  Actually, that saying does not apply to me anymore. 

To combat this, I took Tollipop's  advice and stocked up paper.  

But my excitement comes after I gather all the metal rods off the floor.  Tonight, I am hosting my newly acquired knitting group for dinner.  My friend and I found this recipe at Whole Foods and tonight is the night. 

And hopefully I will graduate from scarf making to bag making. Baby steps.  I can see myself now, beside my non-existent mending table, whipping off a pair of socks. Or even better "darning" them.  What is darning anyway? 

Story time will be spent with Clara the rhinoceros, with a little Alvin Ho thrown in for good measure.

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On Monday, we watched the race.  But we, unlike so many others were able to attend our festive cook out. We felt somber dipping our chips, and like a jerk thinking about what a fun day it was.  And it was. It is one of the best days to be in Boston ever. But we cheered, and then left.  Mile 24 is our spot, and we have a system now. We go to one of the greatest bookstores in the world, and then poke out to wave the top finishers on.  And then for some strange reason, that I do not understand we got to crawl into our beds and others did not.  It's not fair. 


 PS. The font inconsistencies are not intentional.  Thank you for your understanding.

Say it with Beatrix Potter

I can think of little that pairs better with springtime than Beatrix Potter. So quaint and sweet. The perfect size to fit snugly in a toddlers hand.  Every time I read these, I discover something new and ingenious that I had never before noticed. When I asked my niece a question about Peter Rabbit last week, she told me with wide eyes filled with sympathy, "He fell down."  The pear tree of course, into Mr. McGregors garden.  The garden bed below was soft, but still.  A true horror to behold.  Some part of my dark side comes out when I read accounts of Mr. McGregor.  I love seeing children hide their eyes as he peers around the edge of a cucumber frame and start chasing after Peter. A child's first villain.  The most wholesome kind of fear, that makes one sigh with contented relief as Peter safely flops down upon the nice soft sand of his rabbit hole. It makes one so glad to have a home. Growing up we would receive one of these treasures in our Easter basket.  I think they make the perfect gift for any occasion really.

My list is bursting at the seams, that I can hardly bear it. But yesterday when I found these paper dolls, something told me things were going to turn out all right. Being overly sentimental can serve a person well, about one out of ten times.  The rest seem to set me up for disappointment. But this was one of those times.  And now off to find the perfect first course for Sunday.

My kind friend, Carter Higgins allowed me to guest post on her lovely blog, Design of the Picture Book. Check it out here!

Knit Your Bit

Let us give a round of applause for sisters who drive for hours in rush hour traffic to place the newest and best of children's literature in your hands.  That is what happened to me on Friday and Knit Your Bit kicked off our weekend in the best way.  Who knew Woodrow Wilson kept sheep on the White House lawn for soldier winter woollen wear?  It helped soften the blow that we missed our very Irish town's, very sacred St. Patrick's Day parade.  We did, however get caught in the traffic aftermath... Does that count?

I am off to read another Deborah Hopkinson gem, Abe Lincoln Crosses a Creek to Myles' class this morning. Fare thee well!

PS. I know I am a little late, but has anyone else fallen in love with Chummy on, Call the Midwife?  Best character ever.

Delivering Justice

All year I have been trying to remember the name of this book. And at last it is in my hands. We spent part of our February vacation week back in our old stomping grounds of Cambridge. It was wonderful to be back. We saw old friends and walked wherever we wanted. Myles got to have a sleepover with Auntie and after drop off, we trekked to the best Indian restaurant east of the Mississippi where they serve the food on stainless steel cafeteria trays. Then we walked to library, where I found Delivering Justice  sitting on display waiting for me.  I felt like I was on some sort of gold rush complete with gold fever. A little panicky, with some glee thrown in. I kept waiting to be arrested for using my old library card, but I will never be able give it up.  And really, the librarians there are so zen that they could not care less. They were happy to see us back and never made any accusatory resident policy statements.

And of course a new album for us as well. The cover was too irresistable to pass by. Track number five's King Kong Kitchie Kitchie Ki Me O is delightful.

 And yesterday I started planning an imaginary trip to the west coast inspired by this book.

We have that day after Christmas feeling going on around here. Grumpy, tired, happy, and thankful all at the same time. Have a great weekend. Love, Emily

Hazardous Tales

We have driven by the Nathan Hale homestead in CT countless times on various road trips.  However, every time we pass it, it is either closed or certain individuals are passed the point of no return. I vow to never pass by again. "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country."  That'll make a patriot out of anyone. This quote has more meaning to our family now thanks to One Dead Spy.  This nonfiction graphic novel about America's most famous spy is written by, funny enough a modern day Nathan Hale, and has not been put down in our house for over a week.  It took me a few minutes to figure out that the author's name is literally, Nathan Hale, but once I did we dove into this clever series brimming with action, drama, and truth!  Myles is indiscriminate in his love for these book, with Big Bad Ironclad also currently on our shelf. The third book in the Hazardous Tales series is due to come out this year.  If you have ever doubted graphic novels before, this could be your conversion moment. 

Annie and Helen

There simply cannot be enough books about Helen Keller.  I was captivated by this new one; held hostage by it in my local book store, turning its pages as if I had just met these two important characters of history for the very first time.  Deborah Hopkinson, whose non-fiction wonders never cease, teamed up with Raul Colon, to bring us a fresh look at this most extraordinary friendship.  She makes the tale of Helen and her teacher, Anne Sullivan Macy accessible to young readers and brings new wonder to those long familiar with the story.  What genius, to entwine vivid excerpts from real letters Anne wrote home to a friend, with a narrative explaining what life was like for young Helen.  The story closes with a script of Helen's first letter home to her mother while away on a trip with Teacher. She was seven years old.  Reading it is like bearing witness to a miracle.