Farmer's Market Dream

I dream of Farmer's Market mornings:  waking early, hopping on my bike, cruising along, free, and gathering up beautiful, local greens that spill out of my well-worn canvas bag.  Picking up a dozen fresh eggs, maybe grabbing myself a pastry and coffee, beating the crowd.  Then winding my way back home, peaceful and ready to meet the energy that awaits.

That's the dream.  The reality is that I can't easily slip out.  (John wakes the second I get up, which means the others do, too.)  Nor do I have the heart.  My short-sighted self thinks, "How can I deprive my kids from all the beauty and the education of the Farmer's Market?"  So we all go.  Clara, John and I bike, while Jeff takes the others in the car so he can add on some errands.

Here is a retelling of our family "Farmer's Market" trip:

We play pop-up tag in a nearby field.

We stare at the balloon man.

We invent a game that involves a wad of finger-knit.

We navigate some nervy time by the creek.

We enjoy a long trip to the bathroom.

We play hide-and-go-seek in the courtyard across the street.
(She's behind the pot.)

We throw pennies in a fountain.

And finally, I glimpse longingly at some radishes.

I did make it home with a dozen eggs and some pricey asparagus, but also with my dreamy idea of the Farmer's Market still intact.

Shoes

John loves shoes.  Actually, he may not love them, but he owns them.  (We adults know the difference.) He's in charge.  When you are the smallest of 6, you have to be in charge of something.  So, John decides:

• when to put them on
• when to take them off
• when to shake them out
• how to put them on
• where they go
• where they don't go
• when the velcro strap needs fixing (always)
• when the rubber band that his mom desperately put over the velcro strap needs fixing (always).

I've come to understand John a little bit better through his shoes.  He chose not to wear any until well after he began walking.  Not long after the first snow, he found that his boots were not so bad.  And he was monogamous.  It was the boots, and only the boots.

Then finally, after some really goofy entertainment for the rest of the family (as in summertime boots, and only the boots), he finally decided around June, that he could branch out.  He can still love the boots, but love some summer shoes, too.

So, after more than a week of checking them out, he took the plunge.  He tried his new shoes.  And it was true love.  (Until his mom forgot them on a two week road trip.  Disaster.)

Now, with three pairs of shoes (the boots, the summer shoes, and the substitute), John has a lot to manage.  And he's a manager, all right.  With lots of employees.

Through his shoes, John shows signs of having a big heart and a big sense of responsibility.  And the objects of his affection can only go up from here.

Up on the Roof

At the end of the school year, we always try to add at least one new attraction in our back yard.  Some magnet to compete with all the other magnets that lure the kids away.   This year, we set the bar pretty high.  We bravely installed a rope net that leads to the roof.  (It's not actually the roof of our house, but a flat space sort of between roofs.)

The oldest three have mastered the climb, and after lots of sadness, the youngest has mastered knowing his place, i.e. on the ground.  But on the roof, the possibilities are endless.  There have been sweeping sessions, karate classes, flower making, snacks, reading, art projects, dancing, tea parties, bird watching, baby-sitting, drawing, or just plain getting some space.  (Not a bad idea...)

The installment comes with a big element of trust, but then so does everything else.

I think it was the right addition at the right time.  Next year, hopefully they'll come back down to earth.  I may have to lure them with animals.  Things that prefer the ground.

Summertime Lemonade

We have a young chef (a/k/a culinary dominatrix) in our midst this summer.  No challenge is too great.  She throws on her apron, dives into her cookbook and is instantly an expert.  One to be revered, if not feared.

Take pink lemonade, a perfect sugary concoction that requires lots of taste-testing and will likely draw a crowd.  She worked hard - cut the lemon rinds, boiled water, chilled water, mixed in lots of sugar, measured juices.  And then, right when all of us hovered with glasses ready to fill... she felt crowded, smothered, pressured, overwhelmed.  She quickly swept up her coveted glass pitcher and wandered the yard, the sweet stuff splashing all over her without much notice.  After all, she was already covered from all the necessary tasting.

Finally, something clicked.  She relented, even embraced the pleasure of giving.  Her minions were all the more thrilled, given the uncertainty of our receipt.  And it was delicious.  I hope she'll bless us with the sticky floors, the uncooperative lemons, the cooperative ones, too, and the prolonged anticipation again and again.  (But, even if she doesn't, it will feel like she has due to her fabled retelling of this her first batch.)