"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!
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 22, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The Revenge of the Bouncy Ball
In my enduring fight against child boredom, Africa-hot heat, a general decline in creativity, and my son's continuous quest for trying to find new ways to make squeaking noises using only the palm of his hand and his ear canal, I ended up impulse-buying one of those paddle string, bouncy ball toys in the Target checkout lane. You know, the toy with a teeny tiny mildly-bouncy ball attached to the end of a six foot long string. The string is attached to a paddle that actually just resembles an over sized wooden spoon - got it pictured? If I could only count the number of hours of enjoyment my children have squeezed out of that toy.... okay, not hours... maybe a few minutes... anyway, it has taken up a few more minutes than I had anticipated - which was the objective.
At first, it was just an instrument of torture and pure frustration. Just getting the ball to pretend that it was going to cooperate was the first order of business. Then facilitating some sort of control was next. The only thing the bouncy ball was hitting was some unassuming bystander's forehead, the dusty wreath on the wall, or the knuckles of the toy's operator. But slowly, as the frustration eased a bit, I started to hear hits that led me to believe someone was actually making that stupid ball make contact with that stupid paddle. Then came the sound of hits in succession - a sure sign that some mastery was taking place. So I cranked my neck around to the corner to casually view this boredom-busting activity. This is where the part about the unassuming bystander comes into play. Yes, I was accosted by the bouncy ball part of the paddle toy. The good news is that the string has a wee amount of elastic in it that made the amount of time the ball made contact with my forehead just a flash. The bad news is that the *@#!* ball in not, indeed, made out of "bouncy." I am certain that it is made out of cement.
Okay, so now the bear had been poked. It wasn't enough that I had been desperately trying to instill some self-startedness with my children and putting out fires left and right all morning with them over issues like, who would take responsibility for the plastic boomerang now resting comfortably on the roof of our neighbor's garage, or who ate the last ice cream sandwich, or - my favorite - why they are not allowed to watch sixteen, consecutive hours of Scooby-Doo. And now, as a reward for my Mom-of-the-Year efforts, I was to be beaned smack in the forehead with the very toy of destruction that I willingly brought into our home as a means of simple, innocent entertainment. Nice.
So the swelling has subsided, and forgiveness has taken place. But here's my little piece of revenge - which really doesn't even make that much sense: I was in a book store this afternoon for just a few minutes when it happened. A very determined nine-ish-year-old had just become the proud owner of one brand new (you guessed it) Paddle Ball Toy of Torture. And as he was leaving the store, wildly practicing and desperately trying to make that ball bounce on that paddle, his "unassuming bystander" mom out in front of him, took a hard curve ball to the back of her noggin. And...wow... did she unleash the fury! Every single inappropriate word, phrase, and threat I had wanted to unload on my children just hours before was now being vented quite loudly out into the open parking lot for everyone to witness. And for some odd, unfair, reason, I felt better.
That's not so much a "silver lining" as it is little story about how this mom survives and (if not a little spitefully) enjoys parenthood.
At first, it was just an instrument of torture and pure frustration. Just getting the ball to pretend that it was going to cooperate was the first order of business. Then facilitating some sort of control was next. The only thing the bouncy ball was hitting was some unassuming bystander's forehead, the dusty wreath on the wall, or the knuckles of the toy's operator. But slowly, as the frustration eased a bit, I started to hear hits that led me to believe someone was actually making that stupid ball make contact with that stupid paddle. Then came the sound of hits in succession - a sure sign that some mastery was taking place. So I cranked my neck around to the corner to casually view this boredom-busting activity. This is where the part about the unassuming bystander comes into play. Yes, I was accosted by the bouncy ball part of the paddle toy. The good news is that the string has a wee amount of elastic in it that made the amount of time the ball made contact with my forehead just a flash. The bad news is that the *@#!* ball in not, indeed, made out of "bouncy." I am certain that it is made out of cement.
Okay, so now the bear had been poked. It wasn't enough that I had been desperately trying to instill some self-startedness with my children and putting out fires left and right all morning with them over issues like, who would take responsibility for the plastic boomerang now resting comfortably on the roof of our neighbor's garage, or who ate the last ice cream sandwich, or - my favorite - why they are not allowed to watch sixteen, consecutive hours of Scooby-Doo. And now, as a reward for my Mom-of-the-Year efforts, I was to be beaned smack in the forehead with the very toy of destruction that I willingly brought into our home as a means of simple, innocent entertainment. Nice.
So the swelling has subsided, and forgiveness has taken place. But here's my little piece of revenge - which really doesn't even make that much sense: I was in a book store this afternoon for just a few minutes when it happened. A very determined nine-ish-year-old had just become the proud owner of one brand new (you guessed it) Paddle Ball Toy of Torture. And as he was leaving the store, wildly practicing and desperately trying to make that ball bounce on that paddle, his "unassuming bystander" mom out in front of him, took a hard curve ball to the back of her noggin. And...wow... did she unleash the fury! Every single inappropriate word, phrase, and threat I had wanted to unload on my children just hours before was now being vented quite loudly out into the open parking lot for everyone to witness. And for some odd, unfair, reason, I felt better.
That's not so much a "silver lining" as it is little story about how this mom survives and (if not a little spitefully) enjoys parenthood.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
My Hero
So this is my question: have you ever been trying on an article of clothing in a store dressing room when you realize at some point of no return, that not only can you not get completely into the clothing item, but that as you try to succeed, you realize you most likely never get out of it unless the jaws of life are involved?
Well, I met my "waterloo" with an article of torture called the" strappified-size-small-but looks-like-a-size -medium-so-why-not-try-it-on-anyway" running top. Yes, it did feel a bit snug as I was shimmying into that adorable pink and white little number, but it was supposed to be close-fitting, right? Supporting the core while exercising is of the utmost importance, right? Well, all I can tell you is that while my left arm was flailing to reach the sky through the labyrinth of spandex, my right arm was sealed so tightly next to my torso that I could feel my heartbeat in my shoulder. That was was when the red flag went up... a little late, I know. I was just so determined that it was gonna be cute, that I ignored all the warning signs.. and it didn't hurt that it was a cool sixty percent off.
Just when I was saying farewell to life as I know it, I heard a knock at the door.
"Julie? Are you in this one?" said the roaming around the store sister.
"Oh, for the love of Pete, YES I AM! Come in, come in!" said I - the mummified one.
"Oh... dear... you might need to take off your glasses... and... here, take my hand (giggle, giggle)... and I will pull... this, but you need to tuck your chin... okay, here we go (giggle)... can you put your other arm behind your (giggle... snort)... uh... this isn't good..." and so on and so forth.
The wrap (no pun intended):
1) After a somewhat lengthy struggle, I was eventually released from shirt of pain.
2) I did not buy the teeny tiny running top.
3) A great sale does not always mean a great fit.
4) My sister was the hero of the day.
5) Lesson learned... again.
Well, I met my "waterloo" with an article of torture called the" strappified-size-small-but looks-like-a-size -medium-so-why-not-try-it-on-anyway" running top. Yes, it did feel a bit snug as I was shimmying into that adorable pink and white little number, but it was supposed to be close-fitting, right? Supporting the core while exercising is of the utmost importance, right? Well, all I can tell you is that while my left arm was flailing to reach the sky through the labyrinth of spandex, my right arm was sealed so tightly next to my torso that I could feel my heartbeat in my shoulder. That was was when the red flag went up... a little late, I know. I was just so determined that it was gonna be cute, that I ignored all the warning signs.. and it didn't hurt that it was a cool sixty percent off.
Just when I was saying farewell to life as I know it, I heard a knock at the door.
"Julie? Are you in this one?" said the roaming around the store sister.
"Oh, for the love of Pete, YES I AM! Come in, come in!" said I - the mummified one.
"Oh... dear... you might need to take off your glasses... and... here, take my hand (giggle, giggle)... and I will pull... this, but you need to tuck your chin... okay, here we go (giggle)... can you put your other arm behind your (giggle... snort)... uh... this isn't good..." and so on and so forth.
The wrap (no pun intended):
1) After a somewhat lengthy struggle, I was eventually released from shirt of pain.
2) I did not buy the teeny tiny running top.
3) A great sale does not always mean a great fit.
4) My sister was the hero of the day.
5) Lesson learned... again.
Monday, June 20, 2011
For the Love of Ice Cream
"Aw... come on now... it can't be that bad, Jule. Let's go get a Birdsall's (a local ice cream shoppe - that has the best banana fudge ice cream - hands down)!
These are the words that were spoken to me every time I needed to be cheered up, encouraged, consoled, motivated, or celebrated with. I am now 41 years old and my Dad is still taking me to Birdsall's for ice cream. Who knew ice cream had healing properties? It's true. Something about the process of looking up at the menu board and choosing an ice cream treat, licking in a swirl fashion, and thinking about nothing else, but how good it tastes - has the power to make the world just a little sunnier for the moment. And, as it turns out - most of us only need a moment.
So how lucky am I that my Dad has shared this ice cream wisdom with me my entire life?
My bike was backed over and crunched up when I was four - let's go get an ice cream.
My friends planned a sleep over and didn't invite me - time for ice cream.
I earned a "Superior" on my piano solo I was crazy nervous about - ice cream, here we come.
The school play didn't need my talent - ice cream fixed this too.
A break-up with a boyfriend - only ice cream would do.
Thank goodness, as I've gotten older, Birdsall's has been the answer to more celebrations than defeats.
College graduation, getting my first job, my first apartment, my first car - all causes for an ice cream cone. But my favorite ice cream celebration at Birdsall's happened when I wasn't even there. Seven or eight years ago on a hot day in July, I had been helping my parents clean out their basement - and my Dad was on grandson duty. He had been entertaining - or containing my toddler when my Mom and I realized it was very quiet upstairs. They were either napping together in the recliner - or they were gone. Soon enough we heard the back door slam and the kitchen faucet was in full force along with a lot of giggling. Evidently, it was time to carry on the tradition with my son. Neither my son nor my father have earned medals for neatness - so, as you can imagine, both of them had been treated to an ice cream cone - one was an expert ice cream eater - the other - quite the novice. At the end of this adventure, both were covered in sticky, melty missed slurps of some delicious concoction of Birdsall's ice cream - and just like that, the healing powers of ice cream were passed on to the next generation.
Happy Father's Day - to the best ice cream lovin' Dad and Grandpa in the world!
These are the words that were spoken to me every time I needed to be cheered up, encouraged, consoled, motivated, or celebrated with. I am now 41 years old and my Dad is still taking me to Birdsall's for ice cream. Who knew ice cream had healing properties? It's true. Something about the process of looking up at the menu board and choosing an ice cream treat, licking in a swirl fashion, and thinking about nothing else, but how good it tastes - has the power to make the world just a little sunnier for the moment. And, as it turns out - most of us only need a moment.
So how lucky am I that my Dad has shared this ice cream wisdom with me my entire life?
My bike was backed over and crunched up when I was four - let's go get an ice cream.
My friends planned a sleep over and didn't invite me - time for ice cream.
I earned a "Superior" on my piano solo I was crazy nervous about - ice cream, here we come.
The school play didn't need my talent - ice cream fixed this too.
A break-up with a boyfriend - only ice cream would do.
Thank goodness, as I've gotten older, Birdsall's has been the answer to more celebrations than defeats.
College graduation, getting my first job, my first apartment, my first car - all causes for an ice cream cone. But my favorite ice cream celebration at Birdsall's happened when I wasn't even there. Seven or eight years ago on a hot day in July, I had been helping my parents clean out their basement - and my Dad was on grandson duty. He had been entertaining - or containing my toddler when my Mom and I realized it was very quiet upstairs. They were either napping together in the recliner - or they were gone. Soon enough we heard the back door slam and the kitchen faucet was in full force along with a lot of giggling. Evidently, it was time to carry on the tradition with my son. Neither my son nor my father have earned medals for neatness - so, as you can imagine, both of them had been treated to an ice cream cone - one was an expert ice cream eater - the other - quite the novice. At the end of this adventure, both were covered in sticky, melty missed slurps of some delicious concoction of Birdsall's ice cream - and just like that, the healing powers of ice cream were passed on to the next generation.
Happy Father's Day - to the best ice cream lovin' Dad and Grandpa in the world!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Spaceman Spiff Saves the Day
Spaceman Spiff - do you remember him? He's the alter ego of one little mischievous boy named Calvin. Calvin and Hobbes, that is. One of my favorite comic strips - no longer in the Sunday Paper, but now retired to paperback volumes you can find in the Geek Section at your local Barnes and Noble. Well, Spiff was reincarnated on the sofa in our sun room yesterday. This is how it happened. I had been requested to read to my youngest, and as it goes - way too often, I had put her off so I could finish a little project.
"Just ten minutes and I will be right there. Go pick out the books you would like to read, and I promise I will be ready. Thanks, Honey."
"Okaaaaaay," replied the dejected seven year old. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Down the stairs she pointed her little body, and went to choose her books. Then in just a few moments, I heard the return tromps back to the top of the stairs. Then, a surprise:
"I'll read to you - come over here, and we can read together," said the voice of one ten year old brother.
How could this be? Seriously? Just one second ago we were knee-deep in the de-tox, re-entry week of transitioning school life into summer life... with mom. It's been one of our rockier transitions - not one we would like to repeat. Well... unbeknownst to me, the control and attention issues that seemed to be consuming our early days of summer are now at bay, and peace has come to settle in the valley... in the form of Spaceman Spiff.
As I finished the "urgent" project, I heard somewhere behind me,
"... and then a humongous meteorite explodes into the galactic ship - forcing a crash through the ozone! The small aliens are zipped out into space and it looks as though they will perish.. until Spaceman Spiff comes to the rescue! He points super heat lasers at the ship's side and melts off a piece so the aliens can rejoin their crew! Yes!"
Well, thank goodness. I was overwhelmed with a heartfelt mommy moment. I smiled and felt happy that my two children were snuggled around the Calvin and Hobbes Treasury - content and peaceful... actually happy to be in each other's company.
Then it dawned on me. For the last week, I have played the role of the well-meaning alien - trying to guide (or maybe force) the ship safely to a landing strip in the land of summer.... and a meteorite in the form of a seven year old, has been bent on crashing our ship... until Spiff (played by a rather unassuming, peace-loving ten year old) guides our ship back to safety.
At the end of the day, the alien found her place, the galactic ship burnt out - but not before its pilot ejected at the last moment and joined the aliens happily, and Spaceman Spiff made sandwiches for the exhausted crew. And they all lived happily ever after... until school starts again.
"Just ten minutes and I will be right there. Go pick out the books you would like to read, and I promise I will be ready. Thanks, Honey."
"Okaaaaaay," replied the dejected seven year old. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Down the stairs she pointed her little body, and went to choose her books. Then in just a few moments, I heard the return tromps back to the top of the stairs. Then, a surprise:
"I'll read to you - come over here, and we can read together," said the voice of one ten year old brother.
How could this be? Seriously? Just one second ago we were knee-deep in the de-tox, re-entry week of transitioning school life into summer life... with mom. It's been one of our rockier transitions - not one we would like to repeat. Well... unbeknownst to me, the control and attention issues that seemed to be consuming our early days of summer are now at bay, and peace has come to settle in the valley... in the form of Spaceman Spiff.
As I finished the "urgent" project, I heard somewhere behind me,
"... and then a humongous meteorite explodes into the galactic ship - forcing a crash through the ozone! The small aliens are zipped out into space and it looks as though they will perish.. until Spaceman Spiff comes to the rescue! He points super heat lasers at the ship's side and melts off a piece so the aliens can rejoin their crew! Yes!"
Well, thank goodness. I was overwhelmed with a heartfelt mommy moment. I smiled and felt happy that my two children were snuggled around the Calvin and Hobbes Treasury - content and peaceful... actually happy to be in each other's company.
Then it dawned on me. For the last week, I have played the role of the well-meaning alien - trying to guide (or maybe force) the ship safely to a landing strip in the land of summer.... and a meteorite in the form of a seven year old, has been bent on crashing our ship... until Spiff (played by a rather unassuming, peace-loving ten year old) guides our ship back to safety.
At the end of the day, the alien found her place, the galactic ship burnt out - but not before its pilot ejected at the last moment and joined the aliens happily, and Spaceman Spiff made sandwiches for the exhausted crew. And they all lived happily ever after... until school starts again.
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