When Charlie was born, I distinctly remember feeling frustrated and sad about the fact that my time and attention was now split between two children. I didn't like feeling that either child was getting less than all of me.
I was thinking about this tonight as I was putting Cubby and Charlie to bed, and assuming it would be even worse with three children among whom I must divide my attention.
But then I had a thought that stopped me in my mental tracks: My kids might get fractionally less of me, but they get a whole, entire other person.
I realized that while a mother (or father, or whoever the primary caregiver is) is paramount when the children are small, there is going to be a lot of their lives after they're . . . well, not small. And for the rest of their lives, they'll have not just me and their father, but their two brothers to support them. Adding a family member is never a diminishment.
Of course, explaining this concept to a child under the age of five is not really possible when every one of the three children is vying for space on Mommy's lap. At such moments of less than brotherly love, I'll just have to remember this profound breakthrough.
And then maybe hide in the bathroom. Because profundity can only help so much.
Friday, December 12, 2014
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Christmas Newsletter: The e-Version
I love getting those long, detailed family newsletters at Christmas with all the pictures and updates on every single family member plus pets. I'm not being sarcastic. We always got a lot when I was younger, because they're particularly useful in military circles for keeping up with all those people you know for three years before moving to the next assignment. I would read every one we got, even if I didn't really remember the people who sent them.
A. said we should send one out. I would, but in truth, I am far, far too lazy for all the printing and the addressing and the mailing and all. But the writing? That, I can do.
And so! Presenting: The Family Blackrock's Christmas Newsletter to the Internet.
Hello to all! It's been another eventful year at Blackrock, full of children and animals--wild and domestic--and general country hijinks.
Kristin is currently expecting the third Blackrock baby, which is--no one is surprised--a boy and due in nine days. She is remarkably unconcerned about adding yet another male to the household, figuring we might as well just throw another one into the feral pack we already have. Although she is considering building a bunkhouse out back in a few years for the boys.
A. decided this year to end the solo law practice he's been running for the past five years, instead taking a full-time, standard-hours job at a law firm in the Small City. We all miss having him home at odd times of day--especially when we run out of water and Kristin has to get the beach pump going by herself--but it seems to be working out so far.
The combination of new baby and new job resulted in the decision to sell the sheep flock. They all went to nice people, the last group of sheep--including the ram--actually going to a family in Pennsylvania with five boys, ages four months to 10 years. How appropriate. The boys decided to name the ram "Mr. T." You know Kristin approves of that.
Cubby will be five in February and continues to attend the local preschool, where he has displayed a natural aptitude for policing the other children. His favorite activities continue to be anything involving the forest, especially camping, but also accompanying A. on hunting and trapping expeditions. He can sit for an incredibly long time in the forest without talking. This is the only time he doesn't talk, as he is otherwise a frighteningly verbal child.
Charlie is now two-and-a-half and also working on his verbal skills, though he still has trouble with "r." And "c". And, uh, everything else. He has no trouble following his older brother around, however, and is generally good about taking direction from Cubby. Charlie is the forward scout in any adventure that might involve danger, real or otherwise; Cubby instructs Charlie to go ahead and scout the area and off Charlie goes. When he gives the all clear, Captain Cubby will join him. We all need a good sidekick.
Our dog Mia continues to be the perfect child-friendly dog, following Cubby and Charlie all around on their outdoor adventures and courteously standing still to act as a pull-up bar for any child that falls and needs a stationary object to haul himself up on.
We're all hale and hearty as always and very much hoping that you are the same. Happy Winter Solstice, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all things bright and beautiful to all of you.
Love,
The Family Blackrock
A. said we should send one out. I would, but in truth, I am far, far too lazy for all the printing and the addressing and the mailing and all. But the writing? That, I can do.
And so! Presenting: The Family Blackrock's Christmas Newsletter to the Internet.
Hello to all! It's been another eventful year at Blackrock, full of children and animals--wild and domestic--and general country hijinks.
Kristin is currently expecting the third Blackrock baby, which is--no one is surprised--a boy and due in nine days. She is remarkably unconcerned about adding yet another male to the household, figuring we might as well just throw another one into the feral pack we already have. Although she is considering building a bunkhouse out back in a few years for the boys.
A. decided this year to end the solo law practice he's been running for the past five years, instead taking a full-time, standard-hours job at a law firm in the Small City. We all miss having him home at odd times of day--especially when we run out of water and Kristin has to get the beach pump going by herself--but it seems to be working out so far.
The combination of new baby and new job resulted in the decision to sell the sheep flock. They all went to nice people, the last group of sheep--including the ram--actually going to a family in Pennsylvania with five boys, ages four months to 10 years. How appropriate. The boys decided to name the ram "Mr. T." You know Kristin approves of that.
Cubby will be five in February and continues to attend the local preschool, where he has displayed a natural aptitude for policing the other children. His favorite activities continue to be anything involving the forest, especially camping, but also accompanying A. on hunting and trapping expeditions. He can sit for an incredibly long time in the forest without talking. This is the only time he doesn't talk, as he is otherwise a frighteningly verbal child.
Charlie is now two-and-a-half and also working on his verbal skills, though he still has trouble with "r." And "c". And, uh, everything else. He has no trouble following his older brother around, however, and is generally good about taking direction from Cubby. Charlie is the forward scout in any adventure that might involve danger, real or otherwise; Cubby instructs Charlie to go ahead and scout the area and off Charlie goes. When he gives the all clear, Captain Cubby will join him. We all need a good sidekick.
Our dog Mia continues to be the perfect child-friendly dog, following Cubby and Charlie all around on their outdoor adventures and courteously standing still to act as a pull-up bar for any child that falls and needs a stationary object to haul himself up on.
We're all hale and hearty as always and very much hoping that you are the same. Happy Winter Solstice, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all things bright and beautiful to all of you.
Love,
The Family Blackrock
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Merry Christmas to Me
Our annual village Christmas festival was this past Saturday. I had to go so I could fulfill my obligation of sitting at the preschool fundraising table, selling various crafts. Right next to the table I was (wo)manning was the church bake sale. They had the usual assortment of banana breads, cookies, pies, and . . . what's that on the end? OH MY GOD, THOSE ARE FRESH TOMATOES.
Apparently, one of their church members grows patio tomatoes on her enclosed and heated porch into the winter. They were selling pint boxes for four dollars. I got the last one.
You can keep your cookies and pies. If I can get fresh, homegrown tomatoes in December, my Christmas is going to be merry.
Apparently, one of their church members grows patio tomatoes on her enclosed and heated porch into the winter. They were selling pint boxes for four dollars. I got the last one.
You can keep your cookies and pies. If I can get fresh, homegrown tomatoes in December, my Christmas is going to be merry.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Continuing Comedy
So who among you wasn't convinced that our friend the flying squirrel had politely gone out the door and vacated the house for good?
Yeah, me neither.
At 8:15 last night, I was sitting on the couch talking to A. and trying to summon the energy to go to bed when I caught a flashing glimpse of a scurrying animal in the adjoining library. And then there was our little buddy, staring up at me from under a chair only about five feet away.
"Dammit," I said. "There's that squirrel again. It's looking at me."
A. got up to herd it into the dining room and hopefully out the door--again--but instead it ran into the downstairs bedroom.
At this point, the MiL reminded A. that he had a live trap for squirrels up in the attic that might be useful. So A. baited the trap with peanut butter, put it in the bedroom, and shut the door. He also carefully placed a small bowl of water in the room, thinking the squirrel would surely be thirsty after its adventures.
A. apparently harbors a soft spot for flying squirrels. He informed me that some people keep them as pets, getting them as babies and wearing them in special little bonding pouches to establish a relationship. I just had to look that up, and was reassured to see that flying squirrels are indeed considered a most gentle rodent and very good pets if properly cared for early on.
Still, when I came down this morning and found this in the trap, I was not tempted to try to carry it around in a pouch next to my heart in hopes of establishing a relationship.
Yeah, me neither.
At 8:15 last night, I was sitting on the couch talking to A. and trying to summon the energy to go to bed when I caught a flashing glimpse of a scurrying animal in the adjoining library. And then there was our little buddy, staring up at me from under a chair only about five feet away.
"Dammit," I said. "There's that squirrel again. It's looking at me."
A. got up to herd it into the dining room and hopefully out the door--again--but instead it ran into the downstairs bedroom.
At this point, the MiL reminded A. that he had a live trap for squirrels up in the attic that might be useful. So A. baited the trap with peanut butter, put it in the bedroom, and shut the door. He also carefully placed a small bowl of water in the room, thinking the squirrel would surely be thirsty after its adventures.
A. apparently harbors a soft spot for flying squirrels. He informed me that some people keep them as pets, getting them as babies and wearing them in special little bonding pouches to establish a relationship. I just had to look that up, and was reassured to see that flying squirrels are indeed considered a most gentle rodent and very good pets if properly cared for early on.
Still, when I came down this morning and found this in the trap, I was not tempted to try to carry it around in a pouch next to my heart in hopes of establishing a relationship.
Sorry, little dude; I am not the rodent bonding sort.
But my new knowledge of the cuddliness of flying squirrels enabled me to carry the trap outside and open it to let the squirrel out without fear that it would fly out and attach itself to my face, which, you may remember, is a persistent fear I have about most wild animals.
Yes, I'm aware this is an unlikely scenario with any animal, but we all have our things.
Anyway, the squirrel has been definitely released back into the great outdoors and thus ends our time as a flying squirrel haven.
Except for the ones in the attic. Those I guess will be staying.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Morning Comedy
This morning at 6:40, the children and I were sitting on the couch reading Big Joe's Trailer Truck when Cubby all of the sudden pointed above the bay window and said, "Mommy, there's something funny up there."
Something funny, indeed. It was a flying squirrel, totally motionless on top of the curtain rod.
Super.
I briefly considered dealing with it myself so I wouldn't have to wake up A., who is pretty tired from his week in the courtroom and had been very much looking forward to sleeping in this morning. But in the end, I just couldn't face dealing with two excitable children and an excitable rodent in my living room.
So we all burst into the bedroom to wake up Daddy so he could deal with an excitable rodent in the living room. He was just about as thrilled to wake up to this news as you might imagine.
I went out to the shed and got the big fishing net. A. got dressed. The children got dressed, too. The squirrel stayed motionless on its perch. (Flying squirrels are nocturnal, so it was the lights in the living room that were keeping it so still.)
I stationed the kids on the other side of the glass french doors leading from the front hall to the living room, so they could see but be out of the way. We watched A. herd the squirrel along the curtain rod, attempting to get it to jump into the net. Instead it leaped and glided down onto the floor. A. opened the door to the dining room to let Mia in, in the hopes she would help flush it out.
However, fierce as Mia is with raccoons and rats, she seems to have only a benign interest in flying squirrels. So she was no help.
A. propped the outside door open and flushed the squirrel out from under the woodstove. It scampered in the direction of the door. He didn't actually see it run out, but he assumes it did.
He also casually mentioned that maybe it was hiding in one of the boots by the door. Great. That makes me feel better.
I gave the kids flashlights and told them to do a thorough search of the dining room for the squirrel. They didn't find it, so we'll all just hope it escaped. Or maybe it will fly out at me when I'm trying to get the kids dressed to go outside.
It's the uncertainty that makes life so exciting, right? Right.
Something funny, indeed. It was a flying squirrel, totally motionless on top of the curtain rod.
Super.
I briefly considered dealing with it myself so I wouldn't have to wake up A., who is pretty tired from his week in the courtroom and had been very much looking forward to sleeping in this morning. But in the end, I just couldn't face dealing with two excitable children and an excitable rodent in my living room.
So we all burst into the bedroom to wake up Daddy so he could deal with an excitable rodent in the living room. He was just about as thrilled to wake up to this news as you might imagine.
I went out to the shed and got the big fishing net. A. got dressed. The children got dressed, too. The squirrel stayed motionless on its perch. (Flying squirrels are nocturnal, so it was the lights in the living room that were keeping it so still.)
I stationed the kids on the other side of the glass french doors leading from the front hall to the living room, so they could see but be out of the way. We watched A. herd the squirrel along the curtain rod, attempting to get it to jump into the net. Instead it leaped and glided down onto the floor. A. opened the door to the dining room to let Mia in, in the hopes she would help flush it out.
However, fierce as Mia is with raccoons and rats, she seems to have only a benign interest in flying squirrels. So she was no help.
A. propped the outside door open and flushed the squirrel out from under the woodstove. It scampered in the direction of the door. He didn't actually see it run out, but he assumes it did.
He also casually mentioned that maybe it was hiding in one of the boots by the door. Great. That makes me feel better.
I gave the kids flashlights and told them to do a thorough search of the dining room for the squirrel. They didn't find it, so we'll all just hope it escaped. Or maybe it will fly out at me when I'm trying to get the kids dressed to go outside.
It's the uncertainty that makes life so exciting, right? Right.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Perry Mason by Day, Daniel Boone by Night
I suppose it's true that most people lead dual lives. Anyone who works outside the house has one persona at work and another in his or her personal life. This is probably not as pronounced in most people, however, as it is in A.
A. is a lawyer, of the criminal variety. (Meaning he defends criminals in court, not that he is a criminal.) He's one of the few lawyers who actually does appear in court on a (very) regular basis, and one of the even fewer who occasionally does jury trials.
He is currently in the middle of a somewhat contentious jury trial, which means he's spending his days choosing a jury, delivering opening statements, cross-examining state witnesses, conferring with the judge in chambers, and all that other stuff that you might see in the popular courtroom dramas of Hollywood.
Then he comes home and changes into his sweatpants to sit by his woodstove and drink his homemade hard cider.
Last night at 10:30 p.m., long after we were asleep, the MiL came upstairs in search of A. The dogs had cornered a raccoon right next to the dining room door, behind the very chair I sit in to monitor the adventurous children. The raccoon had probably been on the nearby table eating the cat food when the dogs found it.
The raccoon kept trying to get out from behind the chair to escape, but Mia wouldn't let it. She kept it there until A. arrived with his rifle and dispatched the raccoon.
This morning, he put it on top of the woodpile, where it will remain frozen until he gets a chance to skin it and scrape it in preparation for sending it away to be tanned. Then he can use it to make a new coonskin cap for Cubby, who has outgrown the one A. made for him two years ago.
And then A. put on his suit and headed into the courtroom. Clark Kent has nothing on him.
A. is a lawyer, of the criminal variety. (Meaning he defends criminals in court, not that he is a criminal.) He's one of the few lawyers who actually does appear in court on a (very) regular basis, and one of the even fewer who occasionally does jury trials.
He is currently in the middle of a somewhat contentious jury trial, which means he's spending his days choosing a jury, delivering opening statements, cross-examining state witnesses, conferring with the judge in chambers, and all that other stuff that you might see in the popular courtroom dramas of Hollywood.
Then he comes home and changes into his sweatpants to sit by his woodstove and drink his homemade hard cider.
Last night at 10:30 p.m., long after we were asleep, the MiL came upstairs in search of A. The dogs had cornered a raccoon right next to the dining room door, behind the very chair I sit in to monitor the adventurous children. The raccoon had probably been on the nearby table eating the cat food when the dogs found it.
The raccoon kept trying to get out from behind the chair to escape, but Mia wouldn't let it. She kept it there until A. arrived with his rifle and dispatched the raccoon.
This morning, he put it on top of the woodpile, where it will remain frozen until he gets a chance to skin it and scrape it in preparation for sending it away to be tanned. Then he can use it to make a new coonskin cap for Cubby, who has outgrown the one A. made for him two years ago.
And then A. put on his suit and headed into the courtroom. Clark Kent has nothing on him.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Sweet Freedom
Our house is on about seven acres of land. A. doesn't think this is enough, but that's only because he is both really into grazing animals that need a lot of pasture and not into having neighbors nearby. At all.
But of course, for a person living in an apartment or a quarter-acre city lot, it sounds like an unimaginable plot of land. It's also satisfactorily large if you happen to be four or two years old.
And I just happen to have a four- and two-year-old. How handy.
Those two love nothing better than to wave goodbye to me and set off on their own for adventure. I'm not supposed to come, you see. That's what makes it fun. Off they go, Cubby leading the way and Charlie manfully struggling along behind. Usually they go into the small gully on the other side of the garden fence. There's an old piece of farm machinery there they like to climb on.
Or they go into the hollow just beyond the forsythias to hunt or trap (pretend, obviously) or just whack trees with sticks or poke sticks in holes. Or whatever it is they do. I don't really know, because I don't go. I sit in the chair outside the dining room door, from which I can hear them if they yell and track their progress if I stand up to check on them occasionally.
But I'm not with them. They can't see me or hear me. They think they're on their own*. And this is the important part.
I often think how incredibly fortunate my children are to live where they do and have the freedom to explore that they do. They certainly wouldn't have this if we lived in a city or suburb. I can't help but think that it's going to have a positive effect on their characters.
Of course, it also means that I occasionally have to trek up there to rescue Charlie from his entanglement in the barbed wire fence on the perimeter. Or to look for a boot that he has mysteriously jettisoned somewhere in favor of tromping around in one boot and one muddy sock.
But in general, they do their own thing with no interference from me. Lucky boys. And lucky me.
* Except Cubby usually calls Mia to escort them, which she is happy to do. And I am happy to let her, because at least I don't have to worry about something coming out of one of those holes they like to poke sticks into. Mia can make short work of any irritated woodchuck they might encounter.
But of course, for a person living in an apartment or a quarter-acre city lot, it sounds like an unimaginable plot of land. It's also satisfactorily large if you happen to be four or two years old.
And I just happen to have a four- and two-year-old. How handy.
Those two love nothing better than to wave goodbye to me and set off on their own for adventure. I'm not supposed to come, you see. That's what makes it fun. Off they go, Cubby leading the way and Charlie manfully struggling along behind. Usually they go into the small gully on the other side of the garden fence. There's an old piece of farm machinery there they like to climb on.
Or they go into the hollow just beyond the forsythias to hunt or trap (pretend, obviously) or just whack trees with sticks or poke sticks in holes. Or whatever it is they do. I don't really know, because I don't go. I sit in the chair outside the dining room door, from which I can hear them if they yell and track their progress if I stand up to check on them occasionally.
But I'm not with them. They can't see me or hear me. They think they're on their own*. And this is the important part.
I often think how incredibly fortunate my children are to live where they do and have the freedom to explore that they do. They certainly wouldn't have this if we lived in a city or suburb. I can't help but think that it's going to have a positive effect on their characters.
Of course, it also means that I occasionally have to trek up there to rescue Charlie from his entanglement in the barbed wire fence on the perimeter. Or to look for a boot that he has mysteriously jettisoned somewhere in favor of tromping around in one boot and one muddy sock.
But in general, they do their own thing with no interference from me. Lucky boys. And lucky me.
* Except Cubby usually calls Mia to escort them, which she is happy to do. And I am happy to let her, because at least I don't have to worry about something coming out of one of those holes they like to poke sticks into. Mia can make short work of any irritated woodchuck they might encounter.
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