A Burger and a Bet.

So, something really funny happened yesterday evening.

Well, something good and something funny.

The good part first.  My ever-creative chef of a husband whipped up the best burger ever.  No really, the best.  We quit eating red meat (for the most part) a few years ago and we have turkey burgers now.  Once you get used to them, you suprisingly discover that you actually prefer them over beef.  Well, we do anyway. 

So, I come home from work and he's cooking:

FETA AND MUSHROOM-STUFFED TURKEY BURGERS WITH BACON AND GARLIC MAYONNAISE.

I felt that the A-list ingredients needed their own banner of capitalized letters.  Because the burger was amazing.  It was soooooo good.  I mean really.  He even made the garlic mayonnaise himself.  I'm not biased or anything, but he's a culinary genius.

Anyway, we're sitting at the table enjoying our burgers alone, in rare peace, because the three small men are out back doing their normal boy stuff, and they had already scarfed down their slightly-less-than-gourmet meal of grilled hot dogs and mandarin oranges.

Our kitchen table is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, which give us a clear view onto the back porch and the backyard.  I usually open one when they are out there so I can hear when someone starts their shriek of terror from a) self-inflicted injury, or b) the more common sibling-inflicted injury.  We also hear all kinds of conversations that they believe to be confined to the perimeter of their outdoor sanctuary.  Last night was no exception.

I'm halfway through my gourmet burger and I hear, "Hey Bman, I will give you ALL of my money if you stick your whole head in this ice chest of water."

Gman was referring to the 3/4 filled cooler of icy cold water (six bags of melted ice specifically) from his birthday party the previous day. 

There it sat, a beacon of sloshy, slushy perfection just waiting for the ideal victim.

I see Bman open the chest and take a longgggg look and then he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Well, okay."  Followed by a nervous laugh.

My husband and I sit there watching this spectacle unfold, curious to see how this would play out, although I had a pretty good idea.

Bman, with Gman and Wee-man anxiously looking on, grabs both sides of the cooler and KERPLUNK - confidently dips his face and head right in the ice bath.

He comes up quickly with a look of sheer panic and pain, then the tears start.  Big crocodile tears on a strawberry-red face dripping with ice water.   I ran to get a towel and new shirt and of course wrapped my baby up and told him it was all going to be okay.  It was a weird combination of hilarity, sympathy and pride all rolled into one moment.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry with him.

While I'm tending to Bman and his brain freeze, we notice that Gman has casually strolled in and plopped himself right in front of the TV, (seemingly) oblivious to his poor brother's predicament.

My husband authoritatively announces, "Gman, go get your piggy bank.  You have to pay Bman ALL of your money."

"WHHHAAATT??"  (Gman's response, with eyebrows raised)

My husband looks him in the eye and says, "That's right.  We heard your bet. You told Bman you would give him ALL of your money if he dunked his head in the ice.  Well, he did it.  So you are going to make good on your bet."

Gman's mouth fell open so wide I thought he might tip over.  This was followed by shuffling and skulking down the hall, and one minute later he walks back into the room and begrudgingly hands over the plastic container to his father.  And also points out this is the "stupidest" thing ever.  He proceeds to get a glassy-eyed stare while watching my husband count out $26 and some-odd cents that then gets deposited into Bman's piggy bank.

My husband turns to Gman and says, "Let this be a lesson.  Never make bets with people unless you want to pay up.  Next time, bet someone one dollar, two dollars, five dollars.... but NEVER bet all you have.  Also, I hope you know that your brother is not scared of anything, for future reference."

Then he turns to Bman and says, "You don't have to do everything your brother says.  Also, next time you make a bet that is going to hurt, ask for more money."

So, one kid's richer and they're both (hopefully) wiser.

I got a great laugh, a funny story and a kick-a burger in the same evening.  Monday nights are rarely this good.

Taos.

Well the dust is slowly settling from spring break madness and our trek across Texas to the white-capped mountains of northern New Mexico.  We took the small men skiing in Taos last week, and that was an adventure of epic proportions. 

First off, we’ve never spent that much time traveling with our kids, and we definitely had never experienced the pure bliss and delight of being trapped in a vehicle with them for twelve hours straight.  It's going to take a high-powered vacuum and some Goo-be-Gone to transform my ride back to its previous state.  If you happen to see an SUV around with about 50 dinosaur stickers stuck to the inside back window, it's mine.

Secondly, we’ve never taken a vacation that required so much crap gear.  We’re typically beach bums – a few flip flops, some sunscreen, a couple arm swimmies – all set.  Well guess what.  Skiing (or any snow-related sport for that matter) is not so minimalistic. 

Finally, only one of the five of us actually possesses any winter sports ability worth claiming, and it sure as heck ain't me.  I grew up knee-boarding and skiing on bouyant salt water, which is a far cry from the unforgiving nature of frigid, hard-packed snow.  I had only skiied twice before, and that was in high school. 

Anyway, all-said, we had a grand time.  The two older boys spent three days in ski school and loved it - Gman was skiing blues by the third day.  I spent one day skiing, remembered that I totally sucked at manuevering those narrow and gangly sticks attached to my boots, and opted for snowboarding lessons on day two and three.  I loved it.  Granted, I wasn't very adept at the intracacies of looking like Shaun White, but I did okay.  Good enough to stay upright for a few turns before eating snow.  I worked muscles I never knew existed (and definitely felt the next day), but there was immense satisfaction in knowing I opened myself up to something new and embraced it.  And I was incredibly proud of the boys for tackling a fresh, unfamiliar challenge with valor, optimism and enthusiasm.  They inspired me.  And, Gman thought it incredibly cool that his mom was snowboarding.  So, apparently my newly acquired skill has upped me a few notches on the motherly coolness scale.  Score.

I'm in the middle, pretending to know what I'm doing.

As for Taos, a kitschy, quirky, laid-back atmosphere prevails.  Many of the locals and ski instructors work on what my husband and I call "island time", which is ironic considering it's in the mountains, but truly they are in no hurry around there.  There's less hustle and bustle and more attention given to small talk, and many people there really try to live green.  The women wear minimal make-up, the men sport beards and dreads and I swear that every local has at least three tattoos.  I noticed that the really popular spot for one was right on the breast plate/neck.  Honestly.  I went into a local pizza parlor one night (which was incredibly unique, cozy and the perfect spot for a Jack Kerouac poetry gathering) and every single one of the employees sported huge, intricate tattoos right on their chests - even the women.  And by the way, the pizza rocked.  Truly one of the best I've ever had.  Ever. 

When I showed up for my snowboarding lesson, the instructors all routinely used words like gnarly, rad and bitchin' - and they knew instantly (and pointed out I might add) that I was a snowboarding rookie.  Apparently I stuck out like a palm tree on the mountain top.  But you know what?  I sort of just went with the flow and soul of the place and kind of fell into a relaxed rhythm.  Don't get me wrong, there were many stressful moments with six kids in one house (we shared with our cool neighbors and their kids), a hundred pounds worth of snow gear to haul back and forth, minor injuries, altitude sickness and respiratory infections - we had to tote coolers just to keep antibiotics preserved. 

But even through all of that, Taos infused itself into our conscience (and maybe our subconcious too) and shared a secret or two about how to let go.  Unravel.  Decompress. Enjoy.  Live. 

It was gnarly, dude.

Seven Going on Seventeen

G-man is two days away from turning seven, but sometimes I feel like he's seven going on seventeen. 

The other night we were having one of our nightly chats, and he said, "Mom, the girls in my class really stress me out."  He said this while grabbing his hair in his fist to illustrate the frustration.

I tried really hard not to laugh and instead said, "Oh really, why is that?"

He said, "Well, they say I look like Justin Bieber, and they think he's cute or somethin', I don't know."

I sat there for a moment perplexed, because Justin Bieber has a round face, big brown puppy eyes and dark shaggy hair, and my son has a long face, bright blue eyes and stick-straight strawberry blonde hair.  I mean, they're both undeniably cute, but they look nothing alike.

I chuckled and said, "Well, maybe they just say that because they think he's cute, and they think you're cute, too."

His eyes got very big and he sat up and blurted out his new favorite phrase:  "ARE YOU SERIOUS?"

Tonight, he was lamenting that they get out early on Thursday for afternoon teacher conferences, but have to complete a full curriculum day on Friday, which I will agree doesn't make any sense, seeing how Friday starts off their week of spring break.

G-man: "You know Mom, you CAN check me out early if you want, you know.  On Friday."

Me: "Yes, I'm sure I can, but the school makes the rules about what days you need to be there."

G-man: "That is so STUPID!  Who do they think they are?  The school is not the boss of the world, you know." 

Me:  "Oh yeah?"

G-man: "Yeah.  They haven't read the rules, because you know who IS the boss of the world?"

I had no idea what was coming here, but said, "Who?"

G-man:  "God and Jesus, Mom, that's who.  God and Jesus."

What can I say?  The boy has a point.  The boy who is wise way beyond his years.

Seven going on seventeen...or maybe twenty-seven....

I Love Sundays

I love Sundays. 

I love Saturdays too – they possess their own charming appeal with birthday parties and youth sports and shopping - but Sunday always brings a leisurely, relaxed rhythm that is not rivaled by any other day of the week.  Sunday often means a late morning cruise for a drive-thru latte, popsicles in the yard, bicycle rides around the block and some kind of project strewn out across our dining room table, living room floor or grassy lawn.  There is a palpable sense of laid-back ease in knowing that the day is yours and a yearning for it to stretch out as long as possible before the hustle and bustle of Monday morning makes itself known.

When my sisters and I were younger, Sundays meant early morning worship with my Papa and Nana, where we stuffed ourselves silly with donut holes in the church kitchen and endured numerous pats on the head by the elders as they commented on how much we'd grown.  After that, we'd play outside for hours - a game of hide n' seek, Simon Says, bike rides to the park or some secret adventure where we would concoct our own rules and objectives.  I remember once we constructed an "office" (made out of cardboard boxes and old sheets) in our neighbor's driveway, and we set about collecting various insects in jars and bringing them to the "office" lab to investigate and catalogue.  Whoever was able to capture a black widow spider would be the ultimate bug-catching connoisseur - even though none of us had ever actually seen one in real life other than at the city zoo.  I will also publicly admit that we tried a few bug recipes - crushing up roly polies with sugar and eating them (gross, I know).  Other times we would play school or charades, or I would spend the afternoon totally immersed in a library book - The Dollhouse Murders, Nancy Drew or Adventures in Babysitting. 

I loved Sundays, and I still love them.

Mine have changed in many ways, yet remained identical in others.  I still play outside much of the day – but with boys instead of sisters.  I still work on projects – but they involve Lego construction and train sets as opposed to paint-by-numbers and beaded bracelets.  I can often be found sifting through grains in the sandbox while I instruct B-man how to use just enough water to create the perfect sandcastle, pulling Wee-man up and down the street in his red Ryder wagon or explaining to G-man for the umpteenth time that the 2x4s in the garage cannot, unfortunately, be assembled into an operational roller coaster.  And, thanks to my husband, I am also rediscovering my affinity for bike rides, as he just bought us an adult pair so that we can pedal around the block with the boys.  Our next mission is to find some really great bike paths to explore. 

I am so thankful every day that my kids find such delight in being outdoors.  I think they would live in a tent in the backyard if I let them.  This love of nature can be learned and respected over time, but it cannot be inherently instilled – I think you are either born an outdoorsy sort or you aren’t.  You love camping or you don’t.  You crave a salty ocean or you don’t.  You would hike all day for a killer view or you won’t. 

I think many kids are born with this natural love and instinct in them, and it often gets smothered by parents who protest or fear The Great Outdoors.  Not all parents dig dirt, and I mean dig in the “it’s cool” kind of way.  I will admit, when my kids troop inside looking like they just dug a tunnel to China and back, I sometimes gasp at the filth and run to hide my good throw pillows from the clutches of their dusty palms and soil-encrusted fingernails.  But then I remember: the pillow covers can be laundered, and their bodies rinse clean in a warm, sudsy tub. 

What nature covers your soul with, however, sticks to you forever.

It’s Monday, and I miss Sunday.  But it’ll come around again, and we’ll be waiting.


~Ralph Waldo Emerson