Tomatoes

While we were raspberry picking at Berry Patch Farm, I decided to commit myself to canning and bought 23 pounds of tomatoes. I had to take the plunge, or suffer 1,000 fruit flies and a huge guilt complex.

So I did it without regrets. (A not so patient John may argue otherwise.) I had only one casualty when the bottom of a jar burst off. Oops. Oh yeah, the water and the jars should heat up at the same time. As Clara would say,"Duh!"

So we can now look forward to yummy winter chili and soups, and hopefully NOT botulism.

Raspberries

We went raspberry picking at Berry Patch Farm outside of Denver and came home wishing we'd picked more. Clara would have stayed all day, but John had other ideas. One of which was consumption on the spot.

At home, we delicately separated them one by one and froze them on baking sheets, hoping they'd last for smoothies in the wintertime, but they barely made it a day. Maybe we'll go back.

Our Town

Today, and always, I am thankful for the beautiful place where we live. I love its wild animals and wild places.

In what is becoming a Thursday morning ritual, John and I hiked a mountain trail...

...then biked along the river...

...then picked up June and biked home.

Spoons

I think it's appropriate to follow-up my epic hike entry with a gritty tale. As all parents know, it's not all magical forests. Sometimes you fall into thickets, or storm clouds pour rain. Sometimes you get lost.

The morning after our trip down the mountain, I was feeling out of sorts. I'd packed, unpacked, and repacked a few too many times. June began screaming and just wouldn't stop. She must have been feeling out of sorts, too. But her irrational, endless way of expressing it became too much for me. So I threw spoons. Dramatically. Across the room.

It was not a proud moment. Thankfully, June was my only witness. I immediately apologized, and she stopped her initial scream, but then quickly started another one. Her first cry was over imperfect clothes or an inadequate breakfast. I don't really remember. The second cry was for having a Mom who threw spoons.

The day went on. I found order, in my house and in my head. We strolled around a lot, which always helps. But, it was humbling. After a day with such great highs (see previous blog entry), to fall immediately to the lows.

I don't choose to dwell on these moments really, though I might have in the past. Despite the lost credibility, my lost confidence, and the lovely example I set, here is my silver lining: It reminds me how hard it is to act and react in all the ideal ways, all the time. And if this is true for adults, it is especially true for kids, with their jumble of new emotions and their brief experience in the world. So ultimately, my emotional outburst circles back and gives me more patience for theirs.

A Hike

This past weekend, I went on a hike with my kids on Vail Mountain. I don't think I'll ever forget it. It was a first with all four, as I mentioned in my previous post. And it was magically beautiful.

It began with a gondola ride up the mountain...

...and then a turn onto the Berry-Picker Trail.

Then for three timeless hours, we descended the through aspen forests, evergreens and meadows that will soon transform to ski paths. John stayed awake the whole time on my back. The older kids wore extra layers around their waist, but there arms swung empty-handed. June held my hand most of the way and confessed that she felt a little scared. She's always thinking about bears. But Clara and Will ran fast and fearlessly ahead. We'd find them hiding behind trees, around rocks, lying on the path.

Jeff walked up to meet us for the final stretch. I think he was concerned we might be hiking in the dark. But the timing was ideal. The sun was low and the shadows long. To me, the hike was epic. To the kids, who knows. Maybe an extention of their already magical imaginations. Then we came home the next day, and I threw spoons. But that's another story...

Cowboy

Our family now has a cowboy in our midst. John is walking. Like a cowboy. He swaggers, turning one entire side of his body and then the other. Plus, he's always in jeans due to his scoot (all our babies scoot, rather than crawl), so he looks even more the part.

He decided to do it just yesterday. Some of our kids have been the "one step at a time" type, while others are more inclined to "just do it." John is the latter, as was Clara. So once he decided to walk, he didn't just take one step. He kept going. But he definitely does it only when he wants to, as opposed to when his siblings want him to.

I confess that I felt a tinge of sadness when it happened. To me, this marks a whole new time. And it means that our last baby is moving forward. He's got plans. But, it's all good. The sad instinct quickly (and with a little effort) gets swept up with happiness. He's so giddy and curious and ready for what's next. It's want you want for your kids. Really.

In fact, it's inspiring. Why not celebrate firsts our adult lives? I really don't want the cheering crowd, but I do like the spirit of internally celebrating firsts, our whole short lives long. So, here are my own quiet celebrations as of late:

• Completing a 3 hour hike with 4 kids.
• Harvesting a record number of tomatoes.
• Eating fresh figs.
• Buying shoes for John.

Um, I'm having a hard time coming up with firsts.... And this list seems pitiful, certainly when compared to walking for the first time. Honestly, most of the firsts that I'd like to celebrate are on my to-do/wish list. Come to think of it, with John walking now, I'm probably a little closer to doing, and then celebrating, my own firsts. OK - so no more sadness. I've come full circle.

Almost.

Prairie Days

I have to credit my sister Sally with this association, but John is officially in the "Little House on the Prairie" stage. (Sally's daughter Celia recently went through the same thing.)

John screams "Maaaaaaa!" with such depth and soul and frequency, he could easily be a lost son of the Wilders. As we shopped today in Costco, he amused his burly self by filling every inch of space up to the ceiling with his "Maaaaaa!" even though I was right there, obediently pushing him in the cart, of course!

But, I did feel like a celebrity. Like I really was Ma Wilder. Just as I do every day. He heralds my coming, to all those celebrity-ish places I visit: the grocery store, his siblings' schools, the rec. center, our sidewalk...

If we lived on the Prairie, we'd probably call John "Son," with a drawn-out kind of accent. But in truth, he's a mama's boy, sleeping right beside me on the couch as I type. And karma works itself out. To his attentive siblings, he's fondly known as "Little Johnny John."