Hoopla

Mother's Day 2014: Brent made pancakes and the kids greeted me with their special gifts. Jack had written a poem in French for me. Sawyer's teachers had helped him write in a card:

My mom's name is Cassadie. She is 78 years old. Her favorite color is pink. She loves to go grocery shopping. I love my mom because she takes me to birthday parties.

He also gave me a plant.

(I should point out that not only am I light years away from 78, grocery shopping is my MOST DREADED task, followed quickly by chauffeuring my children around to birthday parties.)

(But it is the thought that counts.)

(I think I might have forgotten to water that plant. It's probably dead by now.)

 Ahem. So, after breakfast we loaded up the party chauffeuring bus and took the dog out for a walk at Golden Gardens. I really had my heart set on some pictures of me with the kids, even though Sawyer was sporting some day-old face paint.

Sawyer must have been surprised that instead of going grocery shopping, I wanted to go out to Sarver Winery with Brent's mom that afternoon. Half of Eugene must have had the same idea, but the view was stunning and the wine was delicious and it beat the hell out of standing in line at Fred Meyer or cutting cake in the party room at Skateworld, so success!

And then there was this ridiculous cake that my mother-in-law made. Happy Mother's Day to us!

In other alcohol related news (yes, drinking in the presence of our children seems to be a recurring theme on this blog, thanks for noticing), my brother breezed through town on his way back to Portland.

I had been boycotting Agrarian for a reason which now seems sort of petty, but I got over it when we realized that there's really nowhere else to take the kids on a Saturday night where they can run and scream and get all riled up by Uncle Nick without driving everyone crazy.

So, Agrarian, I am not impressed by your customer service or your menu (or even your beer, for that matter), but your landscape is pretty sweet and kid friendly. And the hula hoops are a nice touch.

Though I am admittedly athletically challenged, I can hula a hoop. So much so that I received an impromptu round of applause from the party next to us. I was pretty proud of my accomplishment until Nick and Brent mocked my octopus arms and wet noodle body and pointed out that my fan club was all drunk.

Whatever. Haters. I'll show them. Next year for Mother's Day, I'm asking for a hula hoop.

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Sweet Spot

A few months ago Brent and I started looking for a new house. 1000 square feet and 1.5 baths has felt crowded for awhile now and spring seemed like a good time to get this ball rolling. We looked at bigger houses, houses with four bedrooms, houses with open floor plans, houses with three bathrooms, even. Big houses with funky kitchens and big houses with funky yards. Big houses with old carpet. Big houses with wood paneling. Big houses in unknown neighborhoods.

As we took virtual tours and actual tours, a feeling started nagging at me. Sure, we (Brent) could do a lot of the updating ourselves (himself). We have replaced flooring and remodeled bathrooms. Brent knows how to turn a yard with three strips of English ivy (no joke) into an awesome outdoor living space with garden beds, playhouse, sandbox, and chicken coop. He can build a deck and install sun tubes. I can paint and hang molding. We know how to replace doorknobs and light fixtures. 

We know all of this because we've done this to our house. The one we live in now. The one with the sweet yard and updated light fixtures.

Then I realized that 2000 square feet would be a lot of house to clean.

And that I really like paying a mortgage we really can afford.

It's in our nature to want more. Right now I want to want less.

Birthday merry making. Brent got a scavenger hunt with all of his favorite things.

Easter. Science fair. Soccer. Sunshine. It's been a busy spring.

The doors are open and the air is sweet. The yard is exploding with raspberries and rhubarb and Brent is replacing our back fence. I borrow a steam cleaner from our neighbors, who borrow the trailer from us. The playhouse is filled with neighborhood kids. The evening sunlight pours in through the sliding glass door as we sit down to dinner.

I think we'll stay.

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Gone Yurting

Spring break is usually a week of pancake breakfasts, lounging in pajamas until lunchtime, board game battles, playdates with our busiest friends, popcorn and movie nights, and Brent complaining about the rain while the children slowly succumb to cabin fever.

But not this year. Oh, no. This year would be different! This would be there year that we set out on a quest to satisfy our thirst for spring break adventure. This was the year of the yurt!

Sometimes I think this blog is simply a collection of beach photos. Today's entry will be no exception.

Yes, it's true that we spend a lot of time at the Oregon coast. And for good reason. Many times when the valley is shrouded in grey drizzle, one needs only to drive west to find that the beach has been hogging the sunshine all along.

And yet, as we loaded the kids and the dog and the snacks and the games and the sleeping bags and the camp stove and the rainboots- just in case- the sky pelted us with angry raindrops and I knew we were not going to be driving out of this spring break deluge anytime soon.

Kids bickered in the car as we parted curtain after curtain of downpour with our windshield. Brent complained about the rain while I tried to distract everyone with snacks.

"Well, let's just make the best of it," I chirped about five thousand times as we arrived at the campground and found that yurts are actually pretty small. The sky brightened and we briefly explored the campground and ventured down to the beach before the rain started up again, sending us scurrying back to our tiny shelter.

Jack was bored, he informed us. About five thousand times. "This is the worst spring break ever!" he wailed theatrically. Sawyer coped by annoying everyone with his loud voice and disregard for personal space. Brent complained about the rain. I opened two beers.

Clementine was the happiest camper in our troop. She kept busy by unpacking our camping supplies and stomping in mud puddles, oblivious to the fact that this was "the worst spring break ever."

As night fell the rain intensified. The sleeping arrangement was less than ideal and it took awhile to get everyone settled in. There was a lot of complaining happening at this point and somehow the yurt seemed to be getting even smaller. "This is impossible," Brent informed me as we attempted to get Clementine to sleep.

No one was interested in my make-the-best-of-it gospel, so I just kept quiet and finally, AT LAST, after many trials and tribulations, we managed to get everyone to bed. And then we tossed and turned all night long as the rain and wind assaulted our yurt. Sometime in the night Brent turned to me and we whispered a plan to leave the next morning if the weather didn't improve.

But, miraculously, it did.
 

We drove south through Reedsport and Coos Bay. Sunset Bay sounded appealing and the clouds broke, giving us nearly an hour of sunny beach exploration.

We had beers and root beers at Seven Devils Brewery in Coos Bay. We picked up bubble gum and propane before returning to the yurt.

Brent strung up a tarp and the kids roasted marshmallows. Sawyer joined Clementine's puddle stomping party. Brent poured me a beer. The sun set and we cozied up in our yurt and watched Wallace and Gromit on the laptop. No one complained and there was no talk of going home early. There was a lesson here about making the best of things and toughing it out, about seeking the silver lining even when it's raining too hard to see the clouds. It's a lesson that we seem to have to learn over and over again in our family. But instead of seizing this teachable moment, we slept as the light rain drummed soothingly onto the roof above us.

The next morning we woke to a torrential downpour. Fuck this. We loaded up the car in record time and got the hell out of there.

Spring break was drawing to a close, but would not be complete without a rock star themed birthday party for one of Sawyer's friends.

Guess who won the costume contest?

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Cold, Flu, and Birthday Season

My poor big kids have the lamest birthdays. Not only are February and March the most grey and wettest months of the year (disclaimer: I might be making this up, I have no professional meteorology training. Let's call this hyperbole and move on), these birthdays fall right smack dab in the middle of cold and flu season. So even if the birthday boys are lucky enough not to be sick themselves, chances are the guest list will be thinned by the latest phlegm producing epidemic.

Jack's birthday always falls close enough to a three day weekend that we manage to escape town for a mini vacation. This year we spent a snowy long weekend in Black Butte and Jack got to go snowboarding with Brent and Uncle Nick while Sawyer and I broke a sled and crashed into a tree within a matter of minutes.

So Jack's actual birthday was a quiet and peaceful affair with chocolate brownie cake and take out pizza. But as soon as we got home he was all about planning a real party.

Another lame thing about my kids' birthdays is that they have a mom who really can't be bothered to plan a decent birthday party, unless she wins a ridiculously under priced birthday package at the indoor soccer field, and they say lightning never strikes the same place twice. Ahem. Last year's party totally ruled.

This year, not so much. Jack wanted another soccer party and so we eyed the weather forecast for a few weeks until a sunny Sunday was promised. I quickly rounded up everyone on his guest list who was not suffering from the bubonic plague and we set a date at the park.

As we were loading the last of our party gear into the car, right on cue, it started to rain. "No one's going to come!" Jack wailed through tears as we drove through the downpour. Thank god his friends are true Oregonians who braved the deluge and slid through the mud to play a soggy game of birthday soccer.



A week or so after his party, Jack came down with some sort of feverish headachy super sleepy flu. He languished on the couch for a few days, whining for Recharge (hippie Gatorade) and watching way too much TV. Gradually he began to look perkier, until Brent threatened to send him back to school and then he suddenly relapsed.

Meanwhile Sawyer's birthday was approaching. Sawyer would be easy to please since he only has two friends. "Let's go bowling!" he said. Perfect. Except that by the morning of his party, Brent had succumbed to Jack's feverish headachy super sleepy flu.



So he missed Sawyer's birthday, spending the day curled up in the fetal position, sipping Recharge, thanking his lucky stars that the house was quiet as we partied down at the bowling alley with french fries and birthday cake.

And the next day Sawyer woke up sick with the feverish headachy super sleepy flu.

I was a rock. I was the glue that held us all together. My immune system and I could singlehandedly pull off a birthday party, care for the sick and downtrodden, restock the Recharge supply, fold laundry, wrap birthday presents, chase toddlers, and fight off this feverish headachy super sleepy flu bug.

Was it the daily yoga? Was it the probiotics in the yogurt I eat every morning? Superior genes? Excellent hand washing? Steely determination? I was the lone soldier left standing while those around me fell to the ground. I was the picture of health in the gallery of the infirm. I was...

Well, I was starting to feel a little chilled. And then I was hot. And then my head started hurting. And my eyes wouldn't stay open.

Another one bites the dust.

Two days later I was fine. But then the next weekend my superior immune system and I went down with a stomach bug which announced its presence with spontaneous vomiting in the car while Brent was driving us home from Portland. So that was also awesome.

Aaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnddddddddddd, Jack was in a play!

My mumbling, awkward, painfully shy now seven-year-old memorized his lines and stood on a stage in front of a crowd and was a talking horse. Who spoke French. And in that moment all of the shuttling and carpooling and carbon footprinting involved in getting this kid across town to the elitist immersion school was all so very worth it.

So happy birthday to my toothless horse and to my fearless bowler. I might not throw a great party, but I can sew you a horse costume in 24 hours while battling fatigue and nausea. That's almost as cool as a pinata, right?

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