Worry Not

Happiness is so much more attainable than we think it is.  Contentment is also sitting right next door.   If only we continued to have the wisdom and faith of children.  Last night, my son was working quite fervently on an origami project.  He is usually uber-quite when making those detailed folds, so it is my job not to bother him.  He's never asked this of me.  It's just an understanding that we have.  So I was surprised when he blurted, "Mom, do I have to go sit with the children for the story of Baby Jesus and all that at Christmas mass this year?"  Since we are in the last days of September, I had to ask him to repeat his question.  "Mom, I mean do I to have to sit on the floor with all the little kids when the priest says, 'Hey, kids, get up here!'?"  First of all, I don't remember the priest ever saying that.  Second, why in the heck was he thinking about that now??  I calmly responded with, "I guess not.  But what made you think of that?"  And here's the wisdom.  "Well, mom, I was thinking about origami for ... like presents and stuff.  Then I was thinking about going to church.  Then I was thinking about sitting on the floor with little kids. Then I was thinking I'm too old for that.  Then I started worrying about it.  Then I thought it would be much better to just ask you now, so I don't have to worry about if for months and months."
You might ask yourself what kind of kid worries about something so trivial.  But that's the beauty of it - the things he worries about are usually fixable.  And he has learned that.  So get it out.  Be done.  Get happy again.  That's his mantra.
Later in the evening, he asked me about Santa.  He asked me if God knows Santa.  I replied with, "I think so... do you?"  Then he confided that he thinks we (his parents) just get the presents and then hide.  But as soon as that came out of his mouth, he recanted with, "Yeah, but I would know if it was you, right, mom?" (all the time staring me down, looking for any ticks or winks that would maybe clue him in)  He hesitated for a moment and then said,  "Oh, I don't know mom, I'm just going with that the guy comes down the chimney and God knows him and it's all happy."  And off to slumberville he went.
And there you have it.  Don't worry.  Be happy.

The King and I

Something has changed.   Although it's been coming on, it was not until a moment that happened about twelve minutes ago,  I realized the transfer of power is now complete.  Oh, many changes have come about in the last week since King Henry - King of the Shi-Poos - has taken the throne.  For example, I should have sensed the change was now permanent when I realized that I have been up before break of day (waaaay before dawn) for the last seven days.  I should have clued in when I realized the first aroma that meets me in the mudroom is that of a healthy blend of vegetables, protein, and crunchy goodness that ensures a shiny coat.  I definitely knew something was brewing when as I sat at the breakfast table this morning, over my bowl of Life cereal - the same breakfast I have methodically eaten for the last twenty years - I slowly became aware of a whirl of high speed chase spinning around me and the entire first floor.  King Henry was evidently ready for his daily exercise.  This included a full throttle, four legged, ears flying sprint that began in the kitchen, skidded through the dining room, flipped up the floor rug in the office, and ended with a curtain-billowing race behind the sofa - about seventeen times.  These all should have been the tell-tale signs that a puppy has been crowned and is now wielding his authority at the Burns house.
However, the "Ah-ha Moment" that confirmed that I have become a peasant in my own home was when I returned to my home this morning after a few hours of classroom volunteering.  The excitement that my puppy feels when he sees me... somehow... makes him lose control of his bodily functions.  It's very flattering.  Not really.  So after much consulting, reading and discussion of these matters, I have been lead to believe that if I want to stop this behavior, I need to approach the King at his level.  This means that I have to go all "Mission Impossible" through the living room until he comes into view.  At that point, I then get down on all fours and oh so carefully, approach his crate with my eyes meeting his - so he knows  I am not interested in dominating him... and ultimately he is supposed to keep his fluids in the appropriate storage areas of his body.  I am not talk to him or pet him until we are outside and the deed has been done.
But here's my question... what if I do want to be the boss... and I want him to know that?  For the love of Pete, I want some living being in this house to know that I am in charge!  It's not enough that I have become a professional schlepper of kids, their belongings, their companions, and their companion's belongings - now here I am - army crawling through my living room in the dark of night, using code words and signals - just to schlep my dog out the door to use the outdoor facilities!  What have I become?
And there it is.  He may look all cute and furry... but at the end of the day, he's just a soft, happy, friendly bundle of pent up fluids.

Bifocals and Junk Food

I have some new information that will no doubt be very important to the world of marketing!  Now I know why all the sugar-infested, fatty, delicious, super-gooey food is arranged on the middle shelves of the super markets!  It's not what you think - no, it's not for those short people in our lives that are made into zombies for a few seconds each time they see a package of Sponge Bob or Fred Flintstone snarfing down something crunchy, chocolaty, or sticky - no, I've got the answer!  Those middle shelves are reserved for ... people with bifocals!!!  That's the only damn shelf we can see!  Except, the experts are totally misreading their audience - they need to place items like "Super Smart Vitamins for Middle Aged People" and "Chocolate Cookie Sandwiches that Make You Look Younger" in those hot spots!  Heck, they could put anything there that looked edible or age-defying - and whatever it was would be flying off those shelves like hot-cakes!
Yes.  I am wearing and adjusting to my new "progressive-lensed" eye wear.  When choosing my new specs, I really tried to find something funky that would somehow "young-up" the trauma of ordering bifocals.  The new pair are quite fine.  I just didn't anticipate the inadvertent nodding and swaying of my head.  I may have needed to consider purchasing a head strap or something. When I first put them on in the eyeglass clinic, I was ecstatic - I could see!!  Later, I went for a walk with my bifocal sunglasses, and I had a very odd sensation.
When I was a kid, we used to hang out on Friday nights in the basement (rec. room) of whosever parents were hosting the Bridge party.  We kept ourselves busy with activities like pretending we knew how to play pool, making shrinky dinks, or shocking the heck out of the "Operation" guy.  One of these friends had a Hams Beer sign in their rec room that lit up.  What was different and "cool" about it though was the fact that it had some scenery of a mountain and river that actually changed from season to season - all within a five minute period.  It did this over and over again.  One time, due to some 1970s lighted sign malfunction, the sign broke and would only change from winter to spring, winter to spring, repeatedly - kind of quickly.  If you let your eyes settle on it too long, it would eventually make you want to vomit.
And this my friends, is how it feels to one day be skipping along in a harmless, half-blind fashion wearing single vision glasses - to walking along a path being strapped up with your first pair of bifocals - shamelessly asking fellow walkers where the nearest rest room is.
So once that pleasant sensation subsided, I found myself in Target... again. As I was looking for something that was half healthy, didn't contain peanuts or tree nuts, non-dairy and gluten free for school snacks for my children, I was shocked and amazed at the visual clarity of that middle to low shelf.  The Kashi Wonder Twigs were not nearly as visible as the Avatar Air-Bender Fruit Snacks!  And the colorful Danimals Crush Cups were far more eye-catching than the plain ol' Market Pantry tubes of lemon yogurt.
So, either the marketers are feeling sorry for the middle-aged, visually impaired and want them to feel more youthful by allowing them to only be able to read the labels of the Toy Story Easy Mac - or - they are just banking on the fact that we will only buy what we can read.  I just know the response from my seven and ten year old after helping me bring in the groceries was much more enthusiastic than usual.  I actually heard one of them say, "Dad must have done the shopping - this stuff is way too good!"

By The Pool...

This week has left me with so much to write about - but nothing that anyone would want to read.  So, I pulled out my handy dandy Book of Write - and searched for an idea.  This was the prompt.  "By the pool..." And only one story came to mind.  Sorry sister... it had to be told.
Back in the old days, before computers, cell phone, wiis, and the like, there was something called "figure out how to have fun on your own."  There was also something called, "In the summer, you must have swimming lessons!"  So the summers essentially, belonged to the two of us: me and my sister - except for swimming lessons.  Without fail, for three weeks of each summer, our day began at 7:30 am so that we could be sitting on the edge of the outdoor pool in new one piece swimming suits to begin the bobs of torture and laps featuring the newly learned whip kick at exactly 8:00 am.
Now I want you to picture something for a moment: two girls whose hair had not yet been combed, toast crumbs still in the corners of their mouths, shivering in their awkward bodies (because June in Iowa is often still in its infancy - and rarely hands out temperatures higher than the 60s at 8:00 am).  So, it was often a bit nippy these mornings.  You may ask, why not have lessons in July - when it's too hot for Tarzan?  The answer to that lies somewhere deep in our mother's 1977 rationale for how to start a summer.  We don't know.
Okay, so now you have an idea of how chilly and brisk it could be.. and probably you also have an idea of how enthusiastic we were to be there.  So, one fine June morning, by the pool, we were instructed to jump in and start doing 500 bobs - or something.  It was frigid.  So cold, that before the lessons began, we had been crouched up in our towels by the side of the pool while our teeth chattered.  When the Rico Suave instructor finally appeared with his bleach blond hair and muscles popping out of everywhere, we all became a little nervous.  When you are a fourth grader, with morning hair, jelly remnants hanging out on your face from your morning toast, and you are sporting a jungle green suit adorned with appliqued white palm trees and criss-cross straps in the back... it seems that the whole world is better looking than you are.  So busting out of your towel and cannon-balling into the -40 degree pool isn't what comes to mind first.  Just ask my sister.
Out of nervousness, or feeling like she needed a parka... she did the unthinkable.  She jumped into the waves of ice... with her towel still wrapped around her.  Now, once you're like over forty and could give a rip about what the rest of the swimming lesson world thinks of you - it's no big deal - just an inconvenience.  But not when you're ten.  When you are ten and you jump in and fully submerge you and your towel in the freezing water in front of your peers and the super hot, Rico Suave swim instructor... it's a little more traumatizing.  And memorable.  So memorable that your little sister (me) can tell the story with such clarity - it's eerie.  What happened next wasn't as pleasant for the little sister.
My sister, quickly aware of her faux pas, spring-boarded out of the pool, threw her sopping wet towel at her laughing sister, and hopped back into the pool to finish out the lesson on the back stroke.  When the lessons were finished, the still-laughing little sister didn't fair so well.  The embarrassed older sister quickly nabbed the only dry towel left (mine), and stormed off to the changing room.  By the time, I caught up to her, my towel was no longer dry.  It was just a pile of wet left on the slimy cement floor.  I guess that was the fine for laughing.  It's okay... it was worth it.   For a chubby eight-year-old with a lazy eye and a bad haircut, it was completely worth it to seem just a little cooler than my older, better-looking, smarter sister... even if it was for just one cold second.

Huckleberry and Friends

"Can I come in your house?"
"Can I have a Popsicle?"
"Do you have any snacks?"
"Can I have a glass of water?"
"I know Karate."
"I can play any kind of music you want on my harmonica."
"I just saw your dad driving in the car." (My Dad lives in Iowa)
"Do you comb your dog every day?" (We don't have a dog)
For those of you that have been around this blog for awhile, you may know exactly where the above listed line of questioning came from.  For the rest of you, I will clue you in: The Boys Are Back in Town!  We have some great neighbors who happen to be the proud grandparents to three rather inquisitive, enthusiastic, friendly, story-telling, visiting about eight times a year, and somewhat-overbearing grandsons.  The boys range in age from five to nine and a half.  These grandsons live "in a forest far, far away in a tree that's like six buildings tall."  Translation: somewhere in Wisconsin.
This past Labor Day weekend, we had the pleasure of their company once again.  I happened to be tree trimming when they arrived.  They like to be involved with all things Burns.  So - you guessed it - I had six little hands joining me by my dead lilac bush, grabbing for the biggest branches possible and then six little feet hauling them off to parts unknown - all within approximately four seconds of arrival on site and then subsequent presence in our back yard.
Our children have always loved when the boys visit because our neighborhood does not include other children their ages, and so they are often found kicking stray sticks and rocks around in our cul-de-sac looking for friends and adventures.  When the boys visit, there is never a spare moment to wonder what to do next.  In fact, at one point during the weekend, my son announced that he and his sister would be "playing in shifts" with the boys - as it can be an athletic and/or Olympic event at times.
Throughout these visits, my husband and I are often barraged with strings of questions and hours of stories.  We know far more about the goings-on in their family life than should be permitted.  But most of the stories are just down right entertaining.  For example, I was enlightened this weekend on the intricacies of housebuilding with the use of just one hand.  I also now know how easy it is to learn how to play a variety of instruments - the middle boy can play the harmonica, the violin, the drums, and a "tootaphone."  He can play any song.  I asked him to play his favorite on the shiny harmonica as he brandished it around in our garage.  He said he needed a little practice first.  I said I'd be happy to wait.  He left.
These boys are kind and generous.  They always bring candy and trinkets for my kids.  They also leave a variety of toys and clothing items around our yard.  There have been several desperate hunts for shoes and sweatshirts in our yard as their parents were backing out of the driveway "politely" announcing their departure time.  So when the sun had set on Sunday evening and it looked like it was time to pack it in for the night, my husband kindly bid the boys a good night and reminded the youngest to take his shoes with him.  To that he replied, "I don't wear shoes anymore, I just lose 'em."  And that's when I heard my husband laugh and call to him, "No problem, have a good night, Huckleberry Finn!"
Good-by summer.  Good-bye boys.  We'll see you when the snow flies - might want to pack some boots, Huckleberry!

Team Rabbit: 200 Team Mama: 0

    The rabbits are winning.  Chewed up bits of leaves, petals and stems are all that's left of about $200 worth of flowers.  It started sometime in June.  We made our annual trek to the "Mecca of All that Grows" and carefully selected our flowers - basing our selections on color, size, and how much pride we would feel each time we pulled into our driveway and take in the floral beauty lining our front walk.
    Children were summoned, and the dig was on.  Watering cans, Miracle Grow, and trowels were all in full swing.  A few drops of sweat later, we all stood back and gazed proudly upon our flower beds teeming with abundant color.  A little watering each day and we would be golden for the rest of the summer.  A job well done.
    Four days later, I noticed a few nibbles on the leaves of our hard work.  Hmmm... that's odd.  A day after that, each and every bloom had been chomped and either digested or spat out next to the measly twig now barely standing where a flower once lived.  Oh, and look, some varmint was also lunching on the potted plants flanking our front entrance.  Nice.
    Well, I finally cleaned out the rabbit-stricken, flower bed after it dried up and looked truly ready for a Home and Garden photo shoot.  I felt a bit defeated, but thought a chat with a plant professional would surely clear up this rabbit mishap.  So, a few weeks ago, we made another pilgrimage to the flower galleria, and learned of a special "sprinkle" that would definitely ward off those hopping "pests."  More flowers were purchased along with a bag (and promise) of "Rabbit-B-Gone."  Optimism reigned... sort of.
     Again, the digging and planting began, and when the blooms survived two full weeks in one flower bed, we felt confident enough to go to a lesser plant store and shell out a few more dollars on "Hearty" mums for the rest of the flower beds.  I sprinkled the magic dust on and all around my replanted flowers and the front step flower -filled pots.  Life was good.  All was well... until today.
    Only remnants and shreds of flower pride remain ...  I have now morphed into a taller, more feminine version of Yosemite Sam.  I'm not feeling rational or sympathetic.  No, I feel like I just might go all rootin' tootin' crazy on the behinds of those flea bitten, no good, flower killin', in-saysheeah-bull, long-eared varmints!!
   Summer planting is now over.  The rabbits have officially won and surely have had their fill ... if not, Yosemite Samantha is going to become a reality real soon... trust me on this one.  Team Mama's not goin' down without a fight.

The August Factor

     August is sailing right into September without even asking me.  Am I ready for the kids to go back to school?  Maybe.  Am I ready for crispness in the air and a few leaves lilting about?  Maybe.  Am I ready for a bit of schedule put back into our daily routine?  Yes.  Am I ready for my son to start his last year of elementary school?  No.
     Here I am again wondering how the time between when he was placed in our arms on a hot and steamy July night at the airport ten years ago ... to now... went by so quickly.  How did this happen?  Sure, I remember many long nights consoling him as he tried to buck the sleep system, while I looked out the window across our neighborhood and imagined that all people in the world were slumbering soundly... all except the two of us.  I remember questioning just how long it would take for me to be able to understand his babbling sentences and if he would ever say "sandwich" instead of "bunjich."  I remember hoping that his first grade teacher wouldn't notice the permanent callous on his thumb - caused by six years of a very special bond between his mouth and his thumb.  And not so long ago, we wondered if 7 x 8 = 56 would ever take up residence in his brain.
     Ten years used to seem like an eternity.  Now it seems like three hours ... or maybe one "church hour" if you ask my son.  Which brings me to reality.  Is he growing up too quickly?  Yes.  Is he experimenting with some eye-rolling and insubordination?  Yes.  Is he wondering when can he have a cell phone of his own and why I won't  let him go further than the park on his bike?  Yes.  But here's the real question: Is he making shadow puppets with his hands of a prehistoric bird chomping up an alien on the pew in front of him during a long sermon?  Yes.  Is he still a kid?  Yes.  Am I looking forward to the next ten years of adventures?  Absolutely.