bug and the sweet banana

The Good Life

Natalie, taking a bite of a Nutella sandwich: "Mama, this is the life."

Of snowflakes and popcorn

Natalie sat quietly, eating popcorn and watching snow fall. "Mommy, just like snowflakes, every piece of popcorn is unique."

Huh. She's right. I'd never thought of popcorn that way.

(A while ago, I read a news story about popcorn. Kernels pop into one of two shapes: "butterfly" or "snowflake" popcorn looks like cumulus clouds. "Mushroom" popcorn is  more compact and round. Now you know.)
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

        Risky Business
        Snow Texas Morning

The Truth About Tortillas

"Well, french fries are made from tortillas, so . . . " my little girl who was born in Texas professed over dinner.

"Tortillas? French fries are made from potatoes, love, not tortillas."

"What?!" Mind: Blown. "All these years, I thought they were from tortillas."

All these years. All seven of 'em.

© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

            A Refined Palate
            Risky Business
            Old Soul

Sound the Alarm

Natalie burst into my bedroom, interrupting the sleep that had played hide and seek with me all through the night. "Mommy! Mommy! Your eggs are getting old! They're drying out!"

If I hadn't already had all the children that I would like to have, I might have been offended. Hmph.

Those eggs? Scramble chicken eggs that Jim and Natalie made for breakfast an hour or so earlier. My share waited for me (not so patiently) in the oven, whose heat could very well dry them out. 


<sup>© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

        Burn One. Take It Through the Garden. Pin a Rose On It.
      Half Breakfast, Half Lunch</sup>

victims of sweet teeth

When I was a kid, I hid in the pantry and ate a spoonful of Crisco, mistaking it for vanilla cake icing.

I'm setting up Connor for similar loss of innocence tomorrow: We are out of bread, except for a mysterious loaf of rye and pumpernickel swirl. Why we have it, who eats it, who bought it: It's all beyond me.

If Connor is anything like me—and he is—he will open up his lunch tomorrow, mistake the pumpernickel swirl for chocolate cake swirl, and grimace in horror after that first bite. Been there, done that. My apologies in advance, Bug.

        The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

a refined palate

Natalie backtracked on her way through the kitchen, stopped at the coffeemaker and inhaled, eyes closed, grinning contentedly. "I love coffee smell!" she cooed. "It's so organic!"

Mark your calendars, y'all—and hire a band, rent a hall! Tomorrow is National Grammar Day. Check back here to see my Grammar Day post. (Need enticement? I talk bubbles, ice cream, seafarers, and Calvin and Hobbes. Can a blog post get much better than that? I submit it cannot.)

As giddy with anticipation as a child on Christmas Eve? See my 2013 National Grammar Day post, "The Talk" here.

 

        life in the fast lane
        the mocha in my mocha

risky business

"Mommy, I don't feed Liza my popcorn anymore. I got out of that business."

fruity drinks grow on trees, don't you know

While walking the dogs this spring, Natalie asked about a neighbor's shrub that boasted clusters of brilliant lavender-colored flowers.

"That's a rhododendron," I told her. "We had two humongous rhododendrons in our yard when I was growing up." We went on to talk about the fabulous tiger lilies in the next neighbor's yard and the hot pink crepe myrtle in another's.

Last week, during another walk, Natalie pointed to the rhododendron, which by now had losts its blooms and said, "Look! The sangria shrub!"

Better to Be a Wino Than a Whiner, That's What I Always Say

Natalie washes her hair as if she is scouring a burned-on-grease pan. The result: matted hair and lots and lots of yowling and complaining. We put an end to that nonsense, buying spray-on detangler.

The detangler promises no tears and no knots, and it smells like pear. I spritzed Natalie's hair that first night, and, "Mmm. Smells good," she sniffed. And then, "At least someone smells like wine in this house."

        The Apple Doesn't Fall Far
        I'm This Many
        The Wine, On Time

shining parenting moment #3,742

"Oo. Can I have some?" Natalie asked, making eyes at my peach daiquiri.

"Nope, sorry, little lady. It's a grownup drink. It has alcohol in it." And it's mine, all mine.

"When can I have grownup drinks with alcohol?"

"Oh, when you're 21 . . . 24. Maybe 30." The older, the better, is my thinking.

Natalie walked off. "I just can't wait to have wine and alcohol," she sing-songed.

the wine—on time

I'm this many
big nose, light body

 

crack the case

Question: Nancy Drew, the Hardy boys, and Jessica "Murder, She Wrote" Fletcher come to dinner. What do you serve?

I know just the thing. I handed Connor and Natalie each a fortune cookie after we finished eating Chinese takeout Saturday night.

"Whoo-hoo!" Natalie hooted, striking a pose in the kitchen. "It's mystery cookie time!"

 

a cuppa delight

We joined friends for brunch, where the grownups ordered mimosas and bloody Marys and the little ones, apple juice and milk and orange juice. When the waiter looked at Connor for his drink order, Connor—who had dressed in jeans, a white button down, a black blazer, and Converse hightops—said, "Green tea, please."

I think we all made the same "Uh. Hmm." face and nodded in approval. Connor came in from the snow last week, red of cheeks and so very cold, and sat down with a cup of green tea. "Ah," he said after the first sip. "That is the taste of delight."

old soul

We've been lolling about in spring- and summertime temps here in north Texas, but Mother Nature relegated us back to winter today. We're talking grey skies, blustery winds, and rain.

Connor—that old soul of mine—arrived home from school and fixed himself a cup of hot tea. He settled into a chair and sighed, "Tea. It's a glorious thing."

It is that.

        old beyond his years
        

the apple doesn't fall far

Back when I was two-and-a-half years old, so, like—Quick mathematical computation, here. Doot-doot-doot. Eight, seven. Carry the one. Ah: 25 years ago. Yeah. Sure. That sounds about right, says the wordsmith confidently—I attended my Aunt Patty's wedding.
It was there at the wedding reception that I sipped apple juice from a goblet. Manna.
Cut to last weekend and my littlest love, who attended her aunt's wedding.
It was there where Natalie sipped sparkling cider from a champagne glass. Bliss.
Hmm. Clear. Nice pale yellow. Fruity aroma. Are those California apples?
Delightful.

Delectable . . .

. . . as were the first two glasses.
Two girls, two loves of all things fancy: sparkly drinks, elegant glassware, twirly dresses. Apple, meet Tree. Tree, Apple.


            doppelgänger
            he says, she says

making eyes

Connor turns a whole seven years old today, and all that I can say is, thank goodness my boy is finally home from school. These have been staring at me all afternoon.



        5 + 1 = 6 
        our little seedling

chip off the chuck

Jim sat on the stairs, eating a Granny Smith apple and telling me how, as a child, he used to sit on his dad's lap and how his dad, Chuck, would slice pieces of an apple, bit by bit, for Jim to eat.

In walked Natalie, who claimed, "I! Love! Green apples!"


She sat with Jim, who then sliced pieces of the apple, bit by bit, for Natalie to eat. Miss Urbane showed Jim how eating the apple with Goldfish crackers was most delectable.

Sweet moments.


        first we button, then we zipper
        an angel underneath, innocent and sweet
        deep roots
        

everyday magic

I brought a cup of ice water with me on Monday when I picked up Natalie from school. Little Miss Go GO GO! is always thristy during the ride home.
She drank half of the water, and we left the rest in the vehicle during our several-times-daily stumble-drop-tumble-trip routine from the vehicle into the house.

Natalie caught sight of the cup of water this morning while we drove to meet Connor for lunch at his school. "My water!" she gasped with the exuburance of someone who has found a long-lost heirloom. "Hmm. But the ice is gone. Did the ice turn into water?"

"It sure did."

"That's because, when water freezes, it turns into ice. Magic."

"It is that," I agreed, half wishing that I thought still that such everyday occurrences were magic. "Do you know what water turns into when it gets very, very hot?"

"Coffee!"

Steamy coffee. Ding ding ding.



        the mocha in my mocha
        priorities
        when enough is enough     
        heartstrings now being tugged in terminal a

easy as π

Me: "Psst. Jim. Should we put the 3.14 in the oven to warm?"

Connor: "You all are having pie?!"

Curses. Foiled.


        foiled
        

one dip or two?

The urchins experienced a first in California: Ice cream from the ice cream truck.
An ice cream truck trolls our neighborhood here at home, but I'm Old Curmudgeon Mom who doesn't want her children to eat ice-cream-truck ice cream. I haul out the übermom within me and insist that the ice cream served at the small dairy-grocery down the road is of way better quality: The processing plant has its own dairy. The dairy cows aren't given growth hormones or antibiotics. They eat a vegetarian diet of food grown on the manufacturer's own farm. Wholesome cows equals wholesome milk equals wholesome ice cream, I tell them. Once upon a time, like, way back in the late-1970s, I was on a first-name basis with the driver of our neighborhood ice cream truck, Pam.
 
My first-ever ice cream cone came from Pam's ice cream truck. I remember standing under the dogwood tree in our front yard, confused as my mom and older sister ate their cones, which looked an awful lot like cardboard to me. "Can I eat the paper, too?" I asked.

My first job at 14 years old was serving up ice cream at a Carvel ice cream shop.
I was fired. Something about putting too much ice cream on the cones. There's something Freudian there, I just know it. But back to California. The ice cream truck jingled its happy—albeit tinny—tune, and the freshly showered (read: de-sanded) little ones made tracks for treats.
Good news: They survived.



        stop. drop. and twirl.
        attica! attica!
        garden fresh
        

a few shrimp shy of a cocktail

Little Girl gave shrimp cocktail a whirl during lunch in Manhattan Beach last week.
She's had coconut shrimp, popcorn shrimp, and shrimp tetrazzini before, but never cold shrimp.
She's a better eater than "shrimp should be warm—and so should salsa" old me.
Mikey liked it.
Connor, meanwhile, would have penned love poems to his seared ahi, had we suggested it.  
And while making sure that I could call Connor's meal just "seared ahi," not "seared ahi tuna," I found two of the most dizzying sentences ever, courtesy of Wikipedia: "Yellowfin is often marketed as ahi, from its Hawaiian name 'ahi,' although the name 'ahi' in Hawaiian also refers to the closely related bigeye tuna. The species name, albacares ('white meat'), can lead to confusion. The tuna known as albacore in English is a different species of tuna: Thunnus alalunga. However, yellowfin tuna is officially designated albacore in French and is referred to as albacora by Portuguese fishermen."

And now I know: Seared ahi = seared ahi tuna.

And . . . I'm dizzy.
©Jennifer Linney.
YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
noteworthy firsts 
denim days 
first cast 
little ponies 

and we're walking, we're walking

The little urchins trailed behind me at CVS, little ribbons tied to the tail of a kite.
I'm a "walk in, bag it, and get out" kind of shopper. None of that wandering-around nonsense for this girl. My time ain't my own anymore. I haven't much to kill.

And so, I traipsed from the front of the store straight to the back, where I picked up a prescription, and then I marched back to the front of the store, where I picked up a photo—and Natalie sang the virtues of M&Ms the entire way.

Little Girl has a sweet tooth. A very big sweet tooth. It must be one of her molars.

Natalie's near obsession with yummy-yums, as she calls them still—and her interrogating Connor about why he doesn't love them so—left him plain exasperated. Finally, having heard quite enough, he said, "Natalie, I just don't like to fill my day with sweets."

Oof. The smackdown.

No matter: Little Girl bounced right back. "Well, I like yummy-yums, Connor. I like the blue ones because they match my eyes, and the green ones because they match Daddy's eyes. Orange is Mommy's favorite color, so I like them most, too."

And on and on, she went, all the way through the checkout line, out to the parking lot, and into the car.
While making our way from brunch a year or so ago, we walked past a seemingly weary dad, his two sons, and his toddler daughter. The little girl burbled on and on, and the oldest boy, who couldn't have been older than six, looked one part alarmed, one part overwhelmed. "She talks a lot," he finally declared.

I know the feeling, buddy. I know the feeling.
©Jennifer Linney
YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
three wheels, two pedals, one happy little girl
yummy-yums
dessert is in the eye of the beholder
well, i'll be . . .

san pellegrino con limetta

Natalie and Connor had it in their minds that they were going to fish in the pond out back.

Jim was at the hardware store buying replacement parts for our automatic sprinkler system's control panel (which met its untimely demise in the lightning strike last week), and I haven't gone fishing in a good long while and have become quite a bit more squeamish since the last time that I did hook a fish. So, there was no way that I was going to stand on the shoreline, baiting hooks and removing any potential captives from said hooks. Nuh-huh. Wasn't going to happen. Can't do it.

Never mind that standing around waiting, like one does while fishing, makes me have to use the bathroom, desperately, every time. Playing hide-and-seek with neighborhood friends as a child just plain sucked, because, there I'd be hunkered down in the wood bin, keeping an eye out for daddy-longlegs spiders, certain that I had found the. best. hiding. spot. ever, when I would feel the need to go. The neighborhood kids always knew to look for me in the bathroom. I was "It" a lot.

But back to fishing.

Connor has been around long enough to know that I don't like flippity-floppity fish or snakes or bugs. (He laughed uncontrollably—and unsympathetically, I might add—this weekend as I lost my mind, and danced a deranged sort of jitterbug, when an insect of some sort tumbled down the back of my shirt.) So Connor knew that, if he and his sister were going to fish, it would have to be with Jim.

"Let's wait for Daddy to come home," he told Natalie.

"Why?"

"Because we need a grownup with us," he explained.

"Mommy's a grownup," Natalie countered.

Before Connor could explain to her why I am a perfect companion for exploring the botanic garden or for strolling sidewalks in quaint little towns, but not for fishing, I jumped in and joked, "Me? I'm not a grownup!"

"Yes, you are!" Natalie said.

"I am?" <Insert mock shock.>

I expected Natalie to say that, yes, I am a grownup because I am tall(er than her) or because I'm allowed to drive or because I am a mommy. Instead, she said, "Yes! You have curly hair" —pronouncing it "cwirly" hair, like "twirly"— "and you drink bubbly water!"

Little Girl paid attention when I mentioned a while ago that I had perfectly straight hair, just like her, until I had grown up, when it curled, all on its own. And she has remembered all of those times when I've told her, "Nah, you don't want a sip of my water. Remember? It's bubbly water with lime juice?"

This grownup loves her San Pellegrino with a splash of lime. Natalie and Connor? They think it is the most horrific drink ever. More for me.©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.
San Pellegrino isn't all that grownups drink. Take a look-see: I'm this many
YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
cast away
first cast
note to self
twisty, turny
her boys
afternoon stroll
first we button, then we zipper

waiting for rain

Connor asked for a glass of water at the beginning of dinner, and Jim and I stalled, if only because we have learned that both Connor and Natalie could polish off their drinks in one fell swoop, leaving no room in their bellies for food.

When we hadn't given Connor that coveted glass of water several minutes later, he prodded us along subtly, saying, "There's a drought in my stomach."
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

For more "interesting phrasing," we'll call it, YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . . 
burn one, take it through the garden, and pin a rose on it 
bonked. crunched. and leaking.

 

and down it goes

Natalie sobbed overreacted, completely, when the water that she had been sipping from one of the reusable bottles that I take with me to the gym spilled down the front of her dress.

"It's wet! It's wet!" she bawled, utterly beside herself.

I ambled over calmly, hoping that my laid-back attitude about the spill might talk her down from the ledge. "It's fine, it's fine. It's just water. It will dry," I said.

"Nooooo! It's wet! It spilled!" she sobbed, reminding me  so much of Ruby Gillis's hysterics during The Lily Maid scene in Anne of Green Gables: "It's too late! She's drowned! And we're murderers!"

 "Why did it spill?" I asked Natalie as I blotted her dry with a dishtowel.

"Because the bottle tipped over," Natalie wailed, struggling to catch her breath.

"Well, yes, but how did it tip over?" I tried again.

"On its side," she sniffled. "It tipped over on its side," she said, totally missing the point of my question.

"But what made the water spill?" I asked, thinking that, yeah, this time, I have finally simplified my question sufficiently.

Instead, Natalie yowled, "Gwabity!" mispronouncing "gravity."

Ah, the benefits of having a science-crazed brother. Touché, little girl. Touché.Connor had a similar run-in with gravity back in the day. Read "darn it, newton."
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

peanut butter and jelly. that's what they like in their bellies.

My little urchins come from a long short line of peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich eaters. My grandfather ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich* every day at high noon: The clock struck 12. The siren at the nearby firehouse wailed as if confirming the clock's time-telling. Grandpa wandered in from the garden or the workshop or the fruit trees or the recliner to sit at the kitchen table with his sandwich.

My mom ate PB+J pretty much every day as a schoolgirl. And my dad? He is just over the top with his allegiance to the humble peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Constant companions.

Me? I opened my metal Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox plenty of times in that elementary school cafeteria to find a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, made with grainy, dry Arnold's bread—gack. hairball. sorry, mom—and wrapped meticulously in waxed paper.

Connor and Natalie have, of course, taken a shine to the trusty old PB+J sandwich. With a lineage like that (and no peanut allergies) how could they not?

One day last week, Natalie shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing her belly and grimacing. "My belly is groaning. Is it dinnertime?" Little Miss confuses mealtime names and shrugs off our corrections. Dinner is "breakfast." Breakfast, "lunch." And lunch, "dinner."

"Well, sure," I say. "It's only 10:30, but we can eat lunch now. What can I make for you? Grilled cheese? Bread crust and cheese, grapes and yogurt? Peanut butter and jelly?"

"Hmm." Natalie's face brightens. "How about jelly and jelly?"

I suppose her thinking is, if you're going to make a sandwich with jelly, that jelly needs a partner, peanut butter or not.
* Only after I published this did I learn that my memory threw me under the bus. (That happens with age. Or so I hear.) It turns out that my grandfather never ate PB+J sandwiches.  He ate fried pepper and onion sandwiches, fried bologna sandwiches, fried mushroom sandwiches, fried egg sandwiches, fried soft shell crab, BLTs. And somehow, despite all of those fried, cold-cut-chemical sandwiches, he lived until his early 90s. Must've been flounder and homegrown fruits and veggies that cancelled it all out.

Reckon I need a fact checker.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

tidings of comfort and joy

The stockings have been hung by the chimney, and I like to think that I did it with care.Connor and Natalie have baked chocolate chip cookies.

And they have set out some cookies for that busy, busy guy, along with a glass of milk—"Cow milk," Natalie insisted. "Not soy milk. Santa drinks cow milk."—and carrots for each of the reindeer.(Sugar plums were already dancing in Holly and Liza's heads.)Connor and Natalie are nestled, all snug in their beds. Trouser is asleep alongside Natalie's bed. The puppies will bunk with Connor tonight so that they don't disturb St. Nick when he comes down the chimney with a bound. (Connor was so concerned.)

And now, we wait.

Merry, merry from our house to yours.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

crunchy granola suite

Dinnertime at my childhood home: Little House on the Prairie has just ended. My sisters and I finished our homework an hour or so ago. The five amber lights of the wagon wheel chandelier—yes, you read that right—reflect in the country kitchen's bay window.

Egg noodles, beef stew, green beans, and dinner rolls steam on five dark brown plates. Dad puts a stack of Neil Diamond records on the turntable. (You read that right, too. I'm a child of the 70s.) Each night, Solitary Man, Forever in Blue Jeans, and Kentucky Woman bellow through our house.

Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show began every night just as my father began to pour milk into a trio of glasses. And every night, he would put down the Sunnydale Farms half-gallon carton, clap and dance around the table, singing, "Pack up the babies, grab the old ladies, and everyone goes."

My father claps loud. Windows rattle. Plates jump. Our German shepherd, Herné, scampers to the living room, her nails clacking and her feet slip-sliding on the gold linoleum. The floor seems to bounce with Dad's dancing. My sister Bobbie sticks out her tongue, giggles, and claps along with Dad.

That happened every night for years.

How very perfect was it that when Neil Diamond sang during this year's Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, Natalie got down with her bad self and clapped like she had something to prove?

Girl's got rhythm. And taste.

--------------------------------------------

Our wagon wheel chandelier, all decked out for my second birthday party:And the gold linoleum. ↑

My older sister and I dancing to Neil Diamond, no doubt, in our very patriotic—and well-stocked-with-booze, it seems—living room:
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

shake your groove thing. shake your groove thing. yeah, yeah. show 'em how to do it, now.

Soon after I bought my first home—a one-bedroom condo with vaulted ceilings, an open floor plan, and tons of natural light—I set out one Saturday to find some color, I said, to liven up the place, which had oatmeal-colored walls and floors.

I returned home with 12 cobalt bottles and lined them up on a ledge in the kitchen. They caught the light cast down from the skylight and looked like a city skyline to me, with varying shapes and heights.

I liked it.

You know how, when you are in the market for something in particular—say, a breadbox or—oh, I know!—cobalt bottles—you suddenly notice that particular item everywhere, all the time?Yeah.

I found cobalt bottles everywhere, and I brought some many home with me. My collection of nine multiplied, let's say, exponentially.

Last weekend, Natalie eyed my latest acquisition sitting on the kitchen counter: A 16-inch tall, curvy wine bottle that once upon a time contained pinot grigio.Jim gave me the bottle (and its wine) for Christmas last year, and we just now uncorked and drank it.

"Look, Daddy," Natalie said, pointing and shimmying in her chair. "That bottle is moving to the groove."
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

the shakedown

We joined the costumed masses yesterday evening and trolled the streets, shaking down neighbors for sweets.

Halloween is such an awkward holiday for people like me who don't feel comfortable wearing costumes and who, when trick or treating with little ones, must remind themselves to mind their manners and stop peering into people's homes to catch a glimpse of their decor.

I mean, really. (And, oh, come on, you know you do that, too.)

All that said, I dressed as an exhausted, easily distracted mother of two who can never seem to finish a sentence. Jim dressed as a plainclothes detective. Easiest costumes ever, let me tell you. 

Our Miss Natalie decided long ago that she would to dress as a—wait for it, wait for it—a bumblebee. (I know! I totally thought that she would dress as a prima ballerina, too. But a bumblebee? I never saw that coming, especially since she dressed as a bumblebee for her second Halloween and was none too happy about it.)

But a story about Angelina Ballerina dancing to the Flight of the Bumblebee sparked the idea, and it was a good one. Little Girl rocked the bumblebee costume and buzzed like no one's business. She even sat on a few mums in an attempt to collect pollen.When Connor was just weeks from embarking on his very first Halloween outing in 2006, Aunt Bobbie began the tradition of gifting costumes to my little ones. This year, I scampered to tell her, "Wait! Hold everything! Do not—I repeat—do not buy the ballerina costume that I scouted out. There's been a mixup. Natalie would like to be a bumblebee instead."

And like all good aunts do, Aunt Bobbie came through. A box arrived at our doorstep, and it held striped tights, antennae, and a striped bodice and yellow tutu.

Once she was dressed and ready to go, Natalie bided her time by knocking on various doors throughout our house and practicing her "trick or treat!" and "thank you!"
At one point during Halloween evening, Natalie—who generally walked along quietly—piped up, "My costume has skirt on it, so I can twirl and twirl and twirl."

Costume be damned, Natalie was a ballerina in spite of herself. Just don't tell her that I said so.Connor, our Mother Nature's child, dressed as a wildlife rescuer. Such a perfect choice for him, and we didn't even have to find a costume for that getup: Khaki pants. Check. Brown shirt. Check. Khaki vest with lots and lots of pockets. Checkity check check check.  Khaki safari hat. Check.  Binoculars. Check. And net. Check.

(What Trouser is looking at is anybody's guess, but she sure is giving someone the old spooky eye. Freaky.)

The best treat of all: Aunt Bobbie and her boyfriend, Tim, visited from Washington, D.C., to see the costumes in action and to celebrate a birthday or two. Good stuff.

At the end of the evening, Natalie sighed, "I've had enough. Can we go home now?"

And so, we did.

As we walked the eerily dark path around the pond, she said, "That was a good night of trickering and treating." I couldn't have said it better myself.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

attica! attica!

And this is what it looks like when I say, "No, no. No ice cream from the ice cream truck."
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

oui, oui, paris.

Seven years ago this month, Jim and I visited Paris.
Others snapped photos of

 

Notre Dame

and the Louvre. 
But it was Paris's window boxes that called to me.
Those ubiquitous
colorful
charming
window boxes.

I loved them.

Clearly.
 
So, the upshot is, because Jim took charge of the map and I took charge of the camera, we returned home with a few shots of the tourist hot spots:Several photos of boulangeries,  fruitiers,  crêperies (Oh! The crêperies.), and fleuristes:

 
One seredipitous photo of a yellow Lab whose sit-stay outside a boucherie, of all places, was just beyond remarkable:
And several dozen photos of window boxes.
We also returned stateside with this refrigerator magnet: 
Natalie loves it so, because, she says, "She looks like you, Mommy! And he looks like Daddy! Even his watch looks like Daddy!"

Which is kind of why we bought it.

Natalie keeps the magnet on the side of the fridge, mixed in with her alphabet magnets.
Nowadays, when she gives a hug or a smooch, she kicks one leg back and up, just like the girl on the magnet.
So deliciously girly.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

spring chicken

We celebrated Connor's graduation from pre-k with lunch at one of his favorite restaurants: Babe's Chicken Dinner House, where the only items served are fried chicken and chicken fried steak, with sides of mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and homemade biscuits.
Don't let the name "Babe's" fool you. It's a family restaurant in a quaint little town.The waitresses dress modestly and serve RC Cola and sweet tea. They dance, but only to The Hokey Pokey. And they call patrons "hon" and "darling" and "sugar." It's wholesome. And tasty. (But a fire marshall's nightmare.)

Gramma came in from out of town for Connor's graduation, and that morning, Connor pulled her aside and said, "Now, Gramma. I'd like to go to Babe's for lunch, but you're old and you might feel uncomfortable there. We can go someplace else if you like."

Gramma assured Connor that she would be just fine at Babe's. And she was. She wasn't even the oldest person there.My dear darling offspring has been ragging on Gramma about her age for years. Take a peek at a spade a spade and chivalrous 'til the end. Shameless.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

betwixt them both

You know that old nursery rhyme, Jack Sprat?  Illustration by Gyo Fujikawa. Mother Goose (New York: Grosset & Dunlap1968), 33.

Connor and Natalie are my own little Jack and Mrs. Sprat: Connor won't eat bread crust. Natalie is all about the crust. And so, we've got this whole symbiotic thing going on here. I cut the crust off the bread as I fix Connor's sandwich, and I set it aside for Natalie to nosh on the next day. 
Particular tastes, no waste. I like it.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

point made, point taken

Natalie is all about matching. If I wear a shirt with ruffles on it, she roots through her drawer for a shirt with ruffles. If she wears red, she asks that I wear red. And come meal time, she prefers a placemat that is blue, "to match my eyes," she says.

Oh, who am I fooling? She doesn't "say" that. She cheers it:

 "Blue!" (Reach for the stars with one arm. Extend opposite-side leg back.)

"To match!" (Swivel hips.)

"My!" (Bend arm in and then reach for the stars again.)

"Eyes!" (Arms up like the letter "V.")As we were leaving a doctor's office one day, the provider offered Connor and Natalie lollipops. Connor selected a red lolly. Natalie stood staring at the stash and then said, "Hmm. I think . . . blue to match my eyes," and then she helped herself to two blue lollipops.

"Oh, just one lollipop, Natalie," I told her gently.

"But I need two to match my eyes," she countered.

"Ah, you have only one mouth," I pointed out, feeling pretty confident that I'd won the debate.

But then came the sucker punch, so to speak: "Yes, but I have two eyes," Natalie said, holding the two blue lollies up in front of her eyes. "See?"

Touché, little girl. Touché.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

walk this way

Connor, Natalie, and I overslept on Monday. Jim was on a work trip in the Sonoma Valley, so he was not here to nudge me out of bed as I ignored my alarm over and over and over again.

Rather than scamper around, trying to get Connor to his last Monday of pre-K, I declared a "Lazy at the Bookstore" day. Natalie scurried out of bed, where she was snuggling me, and got herself dressed for the day. Connor whooped and cheered.

And so, we spent our morning at Barnes & Noble, picking out farewell books for Connor's teachers—we decided on Skippyjon Jones and the Big Bones for one, Skippyjon Jones Lost in Spice, for the other—as well as a handful of new books for ourselves.

We left the bookstore and plodded through the 104° heat to our favorite pizza joint. Natalie tends to flit about like a butterfly, so as we crossed busy intersections, I held fast to her soft little hand and asked Connor to hold the strap of the bookstore bag that was cutting into the crook of my elbow.

We neared the final intersection, where I told Connor that since it was a less busy one, he could let go of the bag, but walk within sight of me, just so I would know that he was crossing safely.

We all made it to the other sidewalk and, as we did, Connor held his thumb to his mouth as if it were a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "Connor Ryan Linney has just crossed a road without a hand."

See? I told you monumental things were happening here at Casa de Linney.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

to the sea

I grew up two miles from the beach, where I watched the sun set and listened to my feet thump on the wooden boardwalk countless times. I swam in the ocean, dug in the sand, and walked the shoreline.It's been years since I have visited that beach, but I can still hear the way my car's tires sounded as they drove over the metal grate of the drawbridge leading to the barrier island. It seemed as if the tires could never quite get a good grasp on the grate and that my car sashayed ever so slightly across the highest point of the bridge.Christine Carroll Perez

The first beach that Connor ever visited was on Gasparilla Island, along Florida's Gulf Coast. He was four months old, sweltering, and seemingly unimpressed the landscape.We returned to that beach when Connor was three years old, and, that time, Connor swam in the Gulf of Mexico, chased seagulls, and laughed and laughed.When we arrived in Galveston last weekend, Connor might as well have jerked his chin ever so slightly at the Gulf of Mexico and muttered Joey Tribbiani-style a familiar, "Hey, how you doing? Good to finally see you from this side of the gulf."He who is fearful at the neighborhood pool just marched right into the ocean without a care in the world.His little sister followed suit.
Connor laughed maniacally at the waves and chased gulls. 

 
 
 
One day it'll be girls, not gulls.Miss Natalie, meanwhile, rode the waves with Jim and swam a bit. She plain lost her mind when a plant wrapped itself around her ankle.
She spent the rest of the morning tossing shells back into the ocean.
 
The whole while, Natalie reminded me all too well of a younger version of myself: I walked onto the beach early one morning while vacationing at the Outer Banks of North Carolina and discovered that the waves had washed ashore scores of starfish. They all lay there in the sand, waving their arms, drying out under the morning sun.

I knew that the starfish were doomed, but I spent the morning tossing them back into the Atlantic, one by one, anyway. The heavy surf just washed the starfish back on shore, but every time I sat back down in my beach chair and picked up my book, I'd catch a glimpse of another beached starfish waving one arm at me. I all but convinced myself that the starfish were whispering hoarsely, "Save me, save me." So, off I would go again, plucking the starfish from the sand and returning it to the sea.This beach visit, the only creatures that kept me mesmerized were the pterodactyls. Or were they pelicans? Kind of hard to distinguish between the two, if you ask me.

The promise of ice cream in the historic district softened the blow of having to leave the beach.
 
 
 
 
 
What's that they say about a kid in a candy shop?
A few dark-chocolate-covered cherries and bellies full of ice cream later, we were good to go.Good stuff.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

and we're off

Jim and I scurried about the house in the predawn hours, loading the truck (him) and gussying ourselves up (me). We scooped our wee little sleepers from their beds and bid Trouser a sad farewell.

"You'll be just fine and happier here," we told her. Our neighbor had graciously offered to look after Trouser while we were gone.

By 5:45, we had ditched the dry heat of north Texas and started our trek south for the humid heat of Houston.

Because that's how we roll.

We buy high, sell low. We trade more tolerable dry heat for heavy humid heat. Call us contrarians, why don't you.

En route, we saw Italy, but not Europe.And Palestine, but not the cradle of civilization.By hour four on the road, Connor and Natalie began peppering us with "Are we there yet?" Natalie sang and looked for horses. Connor kept his eyes peeled for turkey vultures and Volksbuggies.

(He's got a thing for scavengers and predators lately and joined us at the dinner table one night with a sigh and the declaration, "Boy, I sure am in the mood to eat a rotting carcass."

Come for dinner one night, won't you? The conversation is rich with imagery.) 
We arrived in Houston by noon and ate lunch. Natalie napped, while Connor—dear restless Connor—paced the perimeter of the hotel room like an old man with insomnia.

(No offense to any old men with insomnia who might be reading, mind you. But do tell me: How did you find the blog? And please tell me that it is not curing you of your sleeplessness, even if you have to lie.)

Later that evening, we went to Jim's brother David's house. The magnolias were preparing to burst.

The porch was in full bloom.

We ate our fill of wine, cheese, fruit, and Italian food and made our way back to the hotel with two tuckered little urchins.
Tomorrow, we head for the sand, surf, and sun.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

safety in fruity drinks

Natalie played with her little toy horses this morning while I showered, standing them all in a circle, nose to tail, on the bathroom floor.
And all the while, she sang, "Put the lime in the coconut, the lime in the coconut. Put the lime in the coconut to keep me safe."
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

prime opportunity

OK, so, we have a liquor cabinet.One of the doors has a built-in lock, and the other does not, so we added a childproof lock to keep the urchins out of the booze.

Jim took a bottle from the cabinet and brought it to the kitchen, where he mixed a drink.

Natalie, meanwhile, strode past the liquor cabinet with her confident little swagger and stopped in her tracks, noticing that the childproof lock wasn't in place.
She swung both doors wide open, surveyed the cabinet's contents, and cried, "Ah-ha!" in a "So that's what they keep in here" tone, and went on her way.
Mystery: Solved. (Note to self: Fix that blue glass that is threatening to go all topsy-turvy.)
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

ladies who lunch. and shop.

Natalie and I lunched at our favorite pizza spot and then we strolled an outdoor shopping area, wandering leisurely in and out of stores.

In one children's clothing store, Natalie took a dress from a rack, studied it and said, "Hmm. Not. Quite. Right." And then she placed it back where she had found it.

Another little getup caught her eye. Natalie took it from the rack, studied it, tilted her head, and said, "Not. Quite. Right."

As she thumbed through clothing lining the wall, she sing-songed under her breath, "Looking for my size . . . Looking for my size . . . Hmm, where is my size?"

She thought that a little blue dress might suit her fancy. She studied it and put her finger to her cheek and tilted her head, as if she were envisioning herself wearing it at a garden party: Sipping lemonade from Mason jars. Playing croquet. Flirting with a passel of boys in a white gazebo festooned with pink and yellow and white flowers.

"Not. Quite. Right," she decided, and back on the rack it went.

I like a discerning shopper.

garden fresh

We stocked up on fresh veggies at the farmer's market last weekend. Let me tell you, like the smell of marigolds and the sight of raspberries, the taste of garden-fresh cucumbers takes me right back to the front steps of my grandparent's house in Patchogue, New York. There ain't nothing like it.

Once we tumbled out of the vehicle, Connor felt compelled to run in the grass.He challenged us all to a race, but our sandals would have been no competition for his running shoes, so Connor sprinted solo.Miss Natalie, meanwhile, had brought along her doll stroller and traipsed off to see all that there was to see.And, let me tell you, there was a whole lot to see.

Once we bagged our take, we stopped in for ice cream at Carvel, where I got to tell the tale (yet again) of my first-ever job making ice cream cones, cakes, and sundaes at a Carvel ice cream store on Long Island.

My career in the frozen-treats sector ended when the owner decided that I piled too much ice cream on the cones. And there I was, 14 years old and out of a job.

We've eaten cucumber and tomato salads all week.

Good stuff.

jumping beans

Natalie sat silently at the table, fully focused on squeezing edamame from their pods.She broke her silence, screeching, "Jumping Jehoshaphat!" as one renegade edamame took flight,  landing on the floor near the table.

the man in the spoon

Connor sat quietly at the table, eating his breakfast. He paused between bites to study his spoon. He first looked at the concave side and then turned it over to look at the convex side.

Liking what he saw, Connor said to his reflection in a sonorous voice, "Why, hello, handsome."

the mocha in my mocha

How do I know that I rely a bit heavily on coffee to get me through the day? Because when Connor and Natalie play with their little kitchen . . .
. . . they don't play House.

Nope.

They play Drive-Thru Coffeeshop, and the customer always orders my drink: a mocha white mocha, a lovely little drink consisting of two equal pumps of dark mocha and white mocha. Very . . . very . . . cozy, warm, and good.

Let me just interrupt myself here to say that (1) I don't try to be difficult and (2) sometimes it just happens. That difficultness.

It figures that I would fall in love with a drink that is called something different at different coffee shops:

Starbucks baristas in Virginia and Washington, D.C., knew my mocha white mocha as a black-and-white.

Here in Texas, the Starbucks west of my house, calls it a zebra mocha. The baristas at the Starbucks east of my house, meanwhile, have no idea what a zebra mocha is, so to avoid an awkward silence when I order—and in one case, the snooty declaration that "We don't sell zebras here"—I need to remember to order a mocha white mocha. 

In Amarillo, Texas, my drink is a marble mocha. In Santa Fe, it's a Michael Jackson.

Other baristas have corrected me, saying, "Oh, that's a penguin," "You must mean a tuxedo?" "A piano?" and "We call that a white mocha mocha."As we were. 

So, yes. Connor and Natalie play Drive-Thru Coffeeshop. And they order mocha white mochas.

It could be worse. They could play Brew-Thru.

you say, "lemon," I say "yummy"

Natalie had her first-ever sip of lemonade today. That first-ever sip quickly turned into her second-ever sip of lemonade and then her first-ever chug of lemonade.

Delighted with what she might have considered nectar of the gods, Natalie declared, "That's good yummyade."

Yummyade. A perfect companion to yummy-yums.

the heartthrob of the paste and crayons mob

"So, how was your school day?" I asked Connor.

"Oh, fine," my reticent man replied.

"Yeah? What was the best part of your day?"

"Running on the playground. I pretended I was a cheetah chasing down prey. Do you know that cheetahs are the fastest land animal? They can run up to 70 miles per hour."

"I did know that. You've told me a time or 40. Very impressive. How was the lunch that I made for you?"

"It was really very good, even though you forgot to cut the crust off my sandwich."

"Did I forget? Sorry, buddy. It'll make your hair curly. That's what my grandma always told me. And look: It worked," I added. "Was anyone especially nice to you today?"

"Well, Sophia told Audrey that I'm a genius, and Audrey told me that I'm handsome."

And with that, Connor walked away, not smiling, not blushing, but not rolling his eyes, either. Simply accepting Sophia and Audrey's assessments of him.

 

" . . . and you can't make me."

Trouser shuffled from the master bedroom to the kitchen and circled the table where we were eating. Figuring out, I supposed, that we weren't quite finished with our meal and so she would have to wait a bit longer for her meal, she clickity-clacked her way back toward the bedroom.

"Trouser," I called after her. "Come back and keep us company!"

She kept slip-sliding her way across the hardwood floors.

"Trouser, come on. Be social," I tried again. She didn't even pause.

"Trouser? Troosie Lucy Trouser Goosie? Trouser Trouser Rabble Rouser?" Trouser neared closer and closer to the the bedroom with nary a glance over her shoulder.

"Trouser!" I tried again with a stage whisper. By now, Connor and Natalie were laughing so hard they cried. "Trouser!" Another desperate stage whisper.

Then, Connor gave it a whirl: "Hey, ya furry beast! Get back here!" His gravelly voice and Boston accent came out of goodness knows where.

Trouser rounded the corner into the master bedroom.

Connor looked at me with bright eyes. His cheeks were flush from laughing his "tee hee hee" laugh that takes over when something is just way too funny for him to stand.

"Well," he said, "maybe 'furry beast' didn't work." 

there she blows

It's the windy season here in Texas.And, like me, Natalie does not like wind.When she is outside, she's whimpering and groaning and holding her head as the wind tussles her hair, making it whip at her eyes.No hairclip can hold Natalie's hair in place. The wind just pulls it out.
One afternoon, Natalie, Connor, and Jim greeted me in the windy front yard as I returned home from an appointment. Natalie, in particular, was looking a bit old and, well, masculine, sporting what appeared to be a chocolate goatee.

"What's on your face?" I asked, laughing.

"Oh, just the wind," she sang, wiping hair out of her eyes.

"The wind?" I asked. "It looks like chocolate to me."

"Oh, yes!" Natalie cried, as if she had forgotten. "Daddy gave me yummy-yums! I ate them! All by myself! With my mouth!"

No amount of wind can dampen the spirit of a girl who has yummy-yums.

new leaf

In December, I received a comment on a post that included part of this quote:

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in my pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want—more than all the world—your return.—Mary Jean Iron

Oh, how that spoke to me.

Ahh, scratch that. It didn't speak to me. It grabbed me by the shoulders, dug in its nails, and shook me until I paid attention. Really, really paid attention.

Because, you know what? I complain a lot about my little life: My husband travels so much for work. My son has discovered the fine art of back talk. My daughter doesn't eat well. I don't cook well—and I don't want to learn to cook well. I can't seem to organize my day so I have time to exercise enough, if at all, or get a decent amount of sleep. We have no family nearby. My house is a mess. Blahbitty blah blah and blah.

And a good portion of my Facebook statuses, they whine:

The mess goes on forever, and the laundry never ends.

One naps, the other doesn't. The other does, and one doesn't. It's orchestrated, I just know it.

It's been a week, and the laundry hasn't folded itself. Curses.

Dressing a two-year-old should not be an aerobic activity. And yet, it is.

Naptime battles suck donkey balls. And I, I have a potty mouth.

See what I mean?

The upshot is, I'm dwelling on the negative. The naptime battles. The interrupted sleep. The laundry. The donkeys.

And I don't give anything 100 percent anymore. I just do what needs to be done—even if it is not exactly as I want it done or exactly as I would have done it if I had the time or the ability to focus. I check the box, and I move on.

And that's all well and good. It's not like I'm running a country here or performing surgery or flying planes. I'm just a mom, and, as I always remind Connor and Natalie when they wrinkle their noses at me, my job is to keep them safe and healthy.

And do you know what? I'm doing that. I'm keeping them safe and healthy.

Pretty much.

Sure, we get colds and bronchitis and, well, scarlet fever. And one of us has a chipped tooth and is still recovering from a bum haircut. But, we're safe, we're healthy.

But sometimes, sometimes, I make myself a victim of my circumstances. And it's then when I'm going to give myself a virtual slap on the cheek and remind myself that, despite it all—despite the sassy comments from the five-year-old and the vacuuming that gets bonked further and further down the to-do list and the two-year-old who has taken a fancy to yanking my hair when she gets angry—despite all that and more, I have a good life, healthy children, an adoring husband, a home that fits our lifestyle, a sweetheart of a dog—and I get to stay home with Connor and Natalie.

I'll tell myself that missed naps are not that much of a big deal in the whole grand scheme of things.

And I will remind myself that my normal days—the days where meals are left uneaten, naps are fought, and grunchies are in fullswing—that's easy, surmountable stuff.

We're not dealing with heartbreak, after all. No terminal illnesses or disabilities or lives turned topsy-turvy by plate tectonics. We're not changing feeding tubes or spending hours each week with occupational and speech therapists or shuttling back and forth between home and an assisted-living facility or looking for loved ones and remnants of our life in piles of rubble.

We're good.

And we're healthy.

We have a roof over our heads, as well as over our baskets of unfolded laundry and toys strewn about and dog fur that is waiting to be vacuumed.

If one of us were sick—I mean, really, really sick—we'd long for the days when we battled just naps and meals instead of tumors and mounting medical bills. If one of us were no longer here, well, we'd just be beside ourselves.

My point is, normal days are extraordinary. And I need to remember that. Thank you, Aunt Mary Ellen for the comment and the quote.

honker

This is Honker.
He's a big old lonely goose who has made the pond out back his hangout.

He used to be part of a flock of 10 other Canada geese, but he did something to get kicked out, and he's been rejected by all the other flocks that we have seen stop in at the pond. 
But we rather like him. 
And Honker seems to like us.

Or, at least, the bread we feed him.

Honker benefits from the fact that a certain five-year-old in our house doesn't like crust on his sandwiches.
Lucky goose.