Looking out my winder...at Spring and the Possibilities.

I think it's here.  Sun. Blue sky.  Mud.  Yay (facetiously said)!  The mud is here!  No, really, I think this year I'm psyched Spring has arrived.  But there is still enough snow in the woods to have to snowshoe.  And there is still snow up to the kitchen winder.  So, it's still here.  For awhile, at least.

But sun shining in while I was doing the dishes this morning made the mundane task, well, not so mundane.  Pandora in the background.  Limitless possibilities in the foreground.  And then this song came on:



And I turned into a weepy mess.

Claire had a birthday party at the beginning of March.  Lots of friends, pizza, root beer, skating, sledding, a few boys.  SCREECH!  Wha?  A few boys?  Yeah.  A few boys.  What's the big deal? They came rolling in with clouds and clouds of cologne in their wake.  They brought a new dimension to the party.  Claire broke her boyfriend's heart that night.  What's the big deal, right?  Her best friend will probably be dating him next month.  Cacacarazy.

Well, the twins came home from their skating party at one point in the night.  They were headed back out to a sleepover but they came home to grab their sleeping bags and pillows and when they walked in they got a "Sup?" from one of the boys, and a "What's up Bro?" from another.  One of the them gave them a high five and my heart overflowed with some pride.  Claire's picked out some great guy friends.  For them to notice "the little bros" was cool.  My mind raced to next year.  The twins will be up at the middle school.  I was seeing them in the hallway getting high fives from these "older" boys, wanting desperately for Claire to accept them into her "cool" group of friends.  What if they could all hang out together through the years?  Her boyfriends, Claire, them- down in the basement sneaking beer from the kegerator? SCREECH.  Wha?  No, well, you know what I mean.

Four days ago she posted this on Instagram:

What the hell is happening?  I'll tell you what is happening: HER FRIENDS THINK HER BROTHERS ARE COOL!  That's right, she's using them to gain popularity! No, I'll tell you what I think is really happening:

THIS WOMAN has saved our family.  Our family meetings are sometimes well attended and sometimes not, but having appreciations to start them off has done something miraculous to our family dynamic.  At first it was hard for them to come up with things that they appreciate about each but last night Timmy said, "I appreciate that Claire is nice to me."  SCREECH!  Wha?  Seriously?  She laughed and said, "Yeah, I shared my popcorn with him."  SCREECH!  What?  Seriously?  I tell you....it's fucking working.  And why wouldn't it?  If I told Paul Bunyan how much I appreciate him on a daily basis life would be so much greater.  And if someone told me how much they appreciate me on a daily basis, I might work harder to please them.  It's incredible.  Seriously, why are we such assholes to each other?  It makes no sense.

So, if we keep this up, if we keep telling each other how much we appreciate what we do, or how we do something, the possibilities are endless.  Claire will want to hang with her brothers, listen to their opinions, help them pick out hairstyles and clothes.  They will share things, now and in their lives when they leave this home.  And as the Avett Brothers so artfully spelled out to me this morning, "There is nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name."

We are the Ganzies.  They are the Ganzies.

The Town in our Woods

Four days in a row of sleeping in. It tasted like hot cocoa with marshmallows. It was unfortunate that the spare moments of boredom tasted like ricotta cheese. I threw up once after eating my mother's lasagna. I'm convinced it was the ricotta.

Have you ever envisioned something in your life and knew that it would be awhile before you got there but you couldn't help envisioning it anyway? The day we drove up to this property and I pulled my big belly full of BOY testosterone out of the car first and then pulled my big ass out next and then I pulled my 2 year old daughter out last, I looked up to the ridge and imagined my kids walking off into the trees like the baseball players walked into the corn field in the movie Field of Dreams. I saw it, clear as day.

7 years later. We are here. And it ain't Iowa folks. They are walking away; well, sometimes they're running with boots on two sizes too big and hats that sit crooked on their heads. They disappear. And I know it's hunting season and it's possible that they won't reappear, but the dog (at least) has her hunter orange on.

They scrambled back down the hill on Friday to find me sitting contentedly by the fire, picking fiber. "Please Momma, come see our town!" they asked imploringly.

I hesitated for a moment to contemplate how cold I might get by leaving the house. I'm still not acclimated to this thing called Fall and because of the fact that it was spitting sea salt from the sky, I really tried to formulate a good excuse in my head. But what kind of Momma would I be??

Bundled, I joined in the parade up to the "town" in the yellow woods. The first thing I was introduced to was the port-o-potty. Nothing says "welcome" to a town when that's the first thing you see upon crossing its line. The port-a-potty happened to be a large rock that Timmy just peed off of. But there it was, none the less.

Next on our right was the playground. Logs to walk across, rocks to jump off of, cliffs to climb up. You want it, it's there. I watched from the path as the kids showed me all the options. "Momma, come on up!!" "Nah, I'm good here." And so commenced the tour.

Next on our left is Lookout rock. "Momma, come look!" Their backs were to me as they viewed, through the naked trees, our valley. "I can see from here!" I yelled back.

Next on our right was the movie theater. "Momma, come sit and watch." "No, I don't want to get my butt wet from that log you're sitting on!"

Next on our left, further up the trail, was the General Store. Auggie saved up three acorns to afford a homemade walking stick, hand carved by a local artisan.

And that's where they stopped asking me to join in.

What was happening to me? I used to do this as a child. I had a huge rock in my childhood woods that was my ship and I sailed to far off lands, imaginary swamps, and jungles in my head. I started to wonder when it went away. Did my imagination drift away gradually, or was it gone one morning?

This made me sad. As we passed Mr. Shackit's Sugar Shack and the Sap River and the Bus stop and the Castle and the Neverending Bridge and finally to the house they declared theirs at the end of a deserted road, I started to wonder if I could ever get it back. Could I retrieve this ability to 'pretend'? Some adults never lose it, never are for wanting the imagination to play house, play school, play doctor (he he). Not me, I thought, it's gone.

As we turned left over the bridge Paul Bunyan built over the Lazy River my mind meandered back through my tour. I took stock of the port-o-potty rock where Timmy peed from and I wanted to remember to show Paul Bunyan it to see if it would be a perfect rock for the hot tub we're building in the ground with rocks from our property. And I wanted to show him Lookout rock because that's exactly where I wanted to put one of my wall tents for my wall tent bed and breakfast that some day I'll get up and running. And I wanted to remember where the movie theater was because there was some great lichen to dye fiber with on the rock leading up to the theater. And I wanted to remember to tell Paul Bunyan that the Castle and Neverending Bridge were perfect trees to cut up for firewood. And at the General Store there is a perfect oak for replanting. And I wanted to recall that there was a rock the shape of a turtle at the Bus stop. Perfect for painting one day. And that the house at the end of a deserted road, which actually is an old trailer with a flat tire, should be fixed so we can take rides in it.

And there it was.

My imagination.

All rolled up and packaged in chores for the homestead. In ideas on how to make the homestead better, warmer, more inviting, more perfect. My imagination is wrapped up in this place. It's not used for pretend play now...I could maybe work on that. Practice makes perfect. Instead, however, it's being used on how to make life better. Here. Now.

I felt better knowing it wasn't gone. Just changed. Kinda like how I make my lasagna now with bechemel sauce instead of Ricotta. Makes for a better lasagna; well, for me at least.

The Botties

I have failed to introduce you to some very important members of our family. They are slowly dying and may one day be reduced to shreds. But they've survived being left behind in mall bathrooms and have endured being washed with purple chapstick. They've been peed on and puked on. They have persevered through burns on the wood stove and have stayed stinky through many washes. They've been to New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, Florida, Minnesota, California, Pennsylvania, Illinois, and Arizona. And lots of places in between.




Each of the spawn does something different with their botty (named because the boys couldn't say 'blankie'). A few of them have demonstrated for you.



Timmy pulls his between his index finger and his middle finger.



And rubs it.





And then he runs his fingers around the edges.




Until he finds his corner.




Where there is a hole. And then he proceeds to stick his finger into.




And sometimes he puts his hole in his ear and makes this sucking motion with his tongue and lips.



And sometimes he just smells the thing.



Auggie's botty is blue.





He wraps the engraved 'Auggie' around the index finger of his right hand.




And pulls it tight with his three other fingers.




And then proceeds to put his left thumb in his mouth.



He only sucks his thumb when he has his botty. (ding ding ding...take the botty away!!)






But it makes him happy.







Here is a picture of Claire refusing to show me what she does with her botties. She has two. But she has two tags, which she flicks on the tip of her nose. At the same time, she makes a high pitched squeeling noise with her nose. I'll try to record it some time- covertly. If she's not flicking the tags on the tip of her nose, she's rubbing them on the inside of her left index finger. She has a callous to prove this. Ask her to show you if you don't believe me. She generally just sniffs the suckers and subsequently hates it when I wash them.

It wasn't too long ago that I began to hate the Botties. I'll say it now. I hate the Botties. It might make me look insincere, and quite possibly the meanest mommy around. But I don't care. Here is how it goes sometimes.

2 a.m. I am sleeping. "Mommy, I can't find my Botty." "Timmy, it probably fell down onto Auggie's bed." "But Mommy, I looked. I can't find it." "Check your covers and come find me if you can't find it." A few minutes later. "Mommy, it's not anywhere." So, I go and find the sucker burried deep under the sheets. And everyone goes back to sleep.

7:30 a.m. We are backing out of the driveway. "Wait! I need my Botty!" "No. You don't. We're late and it's a 10 minute drive to school." "Yes! I do!" "Fine, quick. Go get it!"

3:00 p.m. Everyone has gotten home from school. "Mommy, where is my Botty?"
4:00 p.m. "Mommy, where is my Botty?"
5:00 p.m. I am making dinner and the Botties are getting twirled around my kitchen. "Get those things out of here!"

7:00 p.m. Bedtime. "Mommy, where is my Botty?" "I burned it."

Yes, I've resorted to saying "I burned it" every time they ask. It took awhile for them to realize that I was joking. Every time I said it they thought I was serious and a look of panic crossed their faces. And part of me was serious. I would have loved to have walked out to the big green monster and thrown those suckers into the boiling blaze. I would have shut that door and never had to look at another stinkin' Botty for the rest of my life. But that would be cruel. And my plan worked anyway. They have stopped asking. And I have stopped searching. If they can't find it, it's their loss.



But I respect the Botties place in our household. I'm just looking forward to the day that they are just remnants. I have a feeling it might be awhile.

So until then, my recommendation to you, if you're a new-to-be mom, give your babies pacifiers.

Climbing Mountains

I went into the woods with these hoodlums yesterday. 9:30 a.m. sharp.




To climb the second highest peak in Vermont. For something to do.




I had 2 peanut butter and honey sandwiches, 4 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a bag of Flavor Burst gold fish, a bag of pretzel sticks, a big bag of trail mix, a bag of dried apricots, 10 granola bars, 9 apples, and a bag of gummy bears.




There was green lichen. green moss. green ferns. green leaves. And red mushrooms.




And one man on top telling us not to step on anything that was green.



And after we ate our peanut butter and jelly (or honey) sandwiches, we got cold.




And after we got our ten minute view of the top of the world, we got cold.






And after we sipped a few of the clouds, we got cold.





But before we exited the rocky summit, I took in the sheer significance of these toos first hike up a mountain. Any mountain. When I think of their lives and the number of mountains they'll hike, both literally and figuratively, I was glad to be able to teach them a few of the important rules of hiking. The first one being: always let climbers coming up the mountain have the right of way. If it's a lesson they can apply to their lives, I hope they will always help anyone working their way up.


When we came out of the woods 6 hours after entering it, I had half a bag of pretzel sticks, 1/4 of a bag of gold fish, 3/4 of a bag of gorp, 4 granola bars, and 9 apples.


I had full on signs of fall.




I had full on memories of hiking with my father in the mountains of New Hampshire when I was a little girl. And of being mesmerized by this leaf...the hobblebush...and its shade of fall purple.



And its bright red berries that look like spots of blood on the green backdrop of the forest.





I had full on images of young boys peeing on each other.




And images of my young boys becoming young men just by the way they walked with their hands in their pockets.


I had one girl who almost lost her teeth when she slipped on a rock, one boy who professed his love for said girl, one girl who pretended like she was from New Zealand the whole way down, one boy who didn't complain the whole day, which was a slight miracle, and one dog who was able to feast on the shit of humans who poop in the woods. We could smell her breath around every corner.


It's amazing what can happen in 6 hours in the woods.

Twin A and Twin B

I've always tried to make sure that the boys have had their own identities. I wanted, from early on, to make sure they were known as separate people. Separate boys. With separate personalities, despite their identical looks. Which is why, from the very beginning, I dressed them differently.


I didn't have to dress them differently in order to tell them apart because Auggie has been 2 lbs. lighter...always...to this day.



They would sometimes wear similar clothes. But rarely, the same.



There were exceptions, however. For example, if someone gave us a gift I felt obligated to take pictures of them in their presents.



Or if Gramma was buying p.j.'s, it was just easier to buy two of the same.



Or if, let's say, Patagonia only makes a blue and pink jacket...you really only have 1 choice.

I don't know who is who in these photos. I can't tell you which one is which. I don't recognize my own children. At the time, I could have told you who was crying in their crib, just by the intonations of their wail. Or I could have told you who was crawling around the corner by the way they slapped their fat hands on the ground, just as I know who is coming up the stairs in the morning by the way they lay their feet on the ground.

I've always been grateful to anyone who takes the time to figure out who is who, which one is which. I've laughed at their guesses. I've empathized with them if they get it wrong and celebrate with them if they get it right. But I'm happy they are trying to know the boys as individuals, because that's all I ever want them to be.

I struggled with the decision to keep them together this year in Kindergarten. We went back and forth about maybe it's time we should split them up. When I got a call from their preschool last year that Timmy bit Auggie and then Auggie turned around and bit Timmy, I thought, "well, okay, I guess they're ready". But when it came down to it, I know they are best buds and the idea of splitting them up during this crazy transition to kindergarten, it broke my heart. So, we kept them together.

On the second day of kindergarten the boys brought these home:

This is Auggie's picture of Chester Raccoon. They were learning "about shapes and the proper way to use our glue sticks."



Here's Timmy's example of Chester Raccoon.

Any similarities? I was trying to picture the teacher telling them where to put the nose EXACTLY, and where to put the heart EXACTLY, and where to put the smile EXACTLY. My heart broke and I was struggling with the fact that I should have split these boys up. How are they going to be individuals when they pack their backpacks full of work to bring home to show me and Paul Bunyan and it's the SAME?

Yesterday, I kept Timmy home from school because he is fighting off some kind of virus. He probably didn't need to stay home with me, but I gave him the chance to stay in his p.j.'s until noon. When I came out of his bedroom in the morning to tell Auggie and Claire that I was going to let Timmy sleep Auggie started to wail. "But I won't have a buddy." I was able to make out this jargon in the midst of the wailing. My heart broke (again, as if it hasn't broken enough in this post). This is why I kept them together. Claire and I looked at each other and then looked at Auggie. I said, "But Auggie, you'll be able to play with Nate by yourself." And Claire said, "Yea, you'll have Willem all to yourself." And I said, "And Ollie," and she said, "And Xavier". And he abruptly stopped crying. "Oh, okay." And off we went.

Timmy enjoyed his day of relaxation home with me. And Auggie enjoyed his day of being Auggie with no one having to guess which one he was.

So I don't know if we've done the right thing. They love and support each other (like on the first day of school when Timmy was crying because Mom and Dad were leaving and Auggie came over and put his hand on Timmy's shoulder and said, "it's okay Timmy, I'll take care of you.) and miss each other when they're not together (like yesterday, after school, they practically sat on each other's laps to watch Scooby Doo). And at the same time, they are doing and working and playing at the SAME things, which I'm not sure will ever lead to their own creative persons.

I want them to want and need each other and at the same time to not want or need each other. Just like some day I want them to want and need me, and well, especially when it comes down to doing their laundry, I don't want them to want and need me.

Quandary

I was in a bit of a dark period in my life when the twins came along. I'm not sure if you've ever experienced a period of sleepless nights for approximately 6 months, but I ended up in the deep dark depths of hell somewhere between the months of January and February 2005. And here's how it all started. I watched the TODAY show on NBC. For sure, NBC is to blame. Katie was still bubbling her bubbler every morning and she was doing a week long 'segment' on autism. I watched, for some god-forsaken reason, every morning that cold week in January. I don't remember watching daytime t.v. when I was locked in confinement for those early winter months of 2005, but for some reason I watched Katie Couric spout her vomiting vomit about how your totally functioning baby could instantly turn into a head banging monster who never can tell you how much he loves you or how much he appreciates all that you do for him, which is all I ever wanted (at that point) from my babies. "Please", I would pray to them, "wake up some day, I don't care how old you are, and tell me 'thank you for feeding me every two hours in the dark of night for the first six months of my life and I realize that this was very important to both my health and happiness and I realize, too, that it was taxing on your body and brain, but look at me now- I'm a successful and responsible functioning adult who loves someone and has brought other responsible functioning people into this crazy world'. All because of you and the sacrifices you've made." And you get my drift.

And Katie would have the stories about the babies who had their MMR vaccines and the next day they got a fever and all the days after that they were in a fog and never come back. They never returned from Neverland. And my fear, it took on a life of its own. And I realize, after hours of therapy, that this fear bore itself from some greater monster than Katie Couric and the media. But at the time the darkness enveloped me. And I couldn't see the light. No one could show it to me. Not for a very long time.

And so now- tomorrow even- when my big 5 year old boys who are headed to their most amazing pediatrician to get their last MMR shot, and Polio shot, and DTa/DTP/Td/Tdap shot in order not to be "excluded from school" I carry with me in my oh-so-out-of-date fanny pack all my fear of this autism shit...still. 4 (FOUR) years later.

And so, too, comes home in the homework folder the 2009 H1N1 Influenza VACCINE sheet with this disclaimer:

"Some inactivated 2009 H1N1 vaccine contains a persevative called thimerosal to keep it free of germs. Some people have suggested that thimerosal might be related to autism. In 2004 a group of experts at the Institute of Medicine reviewed many studies looking into this theory, and found no association between thimerosal and autism. Additional studies since then reached the same conclusion."

And I can't help but think of the 'some people' in this statement. Because they brought their functioning, normal children in to their amazing pediatricians for a 'normal' vaccine and left with a feverish nightmare of a child who will never say, "I love you Mommy" for the rest of their functioning lives. I carry this with me.

I carry the fear of my boys, tomorrow, getting filled with DTa/DTP/Td/Tdap, and Polio, and Measles, Mumps, and Rubella, and then two weeks later they get filled with dead Swine Flu and the perservative thimerosal and probably some candy just to make it all go down a little easier.

Why do I fill them up with this shit?

I've seen Katie Couric. I've seen the news stories of this pig flu reeking havoc on the young kids who can't seem to fight off the infection. Doctors are baffled. They're confused. Why are the children dying? I want my children to live. For obvious reasons. They are me. If they die. I die. But it seems so contradictory to fill them with all these chemicals just to keep them alive. When all I really want to fill them with is love and laughter.

I guess that's why Paul Bunyan takes them for the shots. And I wait at home to see if they arrive back here normal. With chocolate candy still on their lips.

Where has the time gone??

Oh my...where has the time gone? It feels like just yesterday I was standing in this field of cow shit with Mud. She would go into labor later this day and give birth to a beautiful bouncing baby boy. And it feels like just yesterday that I walked Addy down the dark hallway of the hospital towards her new baby brother. As we followed the blue line toward the maternity ward, I remember Addy holding tight to her baby, which happened to be a BIG baby and appropriately named "Big Baby". I remember Addy meeting her new brother for the first time and how Mud held Tanner up to greet us as we rounded the corner into the small maternity room. And how Addy put Big Baby down in the chair that barely fit next to the bed and then climbed onto her mother's lap, and without anyone really having to say too much, Mud put Tanner in Addy's lap. And I cried.


It's hard to believe that just three weeks later my mother would walk Claire down that same dark hallway, following that same blue line, entering the same double doors onto the same maternity ward to meet her two (!!) new brothers. I was high on morphine when Claire got to meet her brothers...and there are important details of that meeting that I don't remember. And there are important details of the boys' first year of life that I dont' remember...mostly because that's just how it is. You forget the tough stuff. And that first year was tuff. But I wouldn't trade any of it....not for anything.



Happy 5th Birthday boys!

The Fourth

I remember my Grandfather's tall lanky body trying to fit into the small dark cobwebby crawl space underneath our camp. He would move slowly, mostly as a result of his emphysema, but also because of his deliberate way. He never did more than he had to. Although breathing laboriously, he moved ladders and extra boards around to find the tall metal tube that would be used for shooting the rockets higher into the sky.



And once that was retrieved, he would dig around some more to find the piece of plywood, already decorated with the swirly black paths left by the "flowers" lit from previous summers.



He would place the plywood on the dock and lean the metal tube, which was as tall as he was, against the tree that hung his fraying, but still functional, American Flag. He would find his work gloves, tattered and old, and throw them down on the ground next to the tube. He would meticulously move the boats, my favorite wooden rowboat and his favorite 1959 motor boat with the taillights of a 1957 Chevy, to a neighbor's dock.



And as evening approached, he would start a fire in the fire ring and sit in his favorite lawn chair, poking at the fire deliberately to make it work harder.



My grandmother, in her tiny stature and nature, would carry down a folding table and place upon it the fixings for s'mores. She would return with metal skewers.



And as darkness prevailed a flair would appear at the very end of the lake, signaling it time that others, too, should place their lit flairs at the end of their docks. I remember finding the white dust the next morning, remnants of the flair's life and light in the early dusk of the night before.



And then someone, when darkness was a definite presence, would light the first firework and after its color dissipated, shouts would echo off the water and cheers would reverberate off the trees.



And then someone down at Sandy Beach would light some dynamite like blasts...no color, just earth shaking booms. And more cheers. And more hurrahs.




And then my grandfather would stand at his position, holding his metal tube at just the right angle; his gloves protecting his already tough hands. A helper would light the rocket and then scurry to safety. And my grandfather would hold his place as a few anxious seconds passed before the whoosh of the rocket went through the metal pipe and up (higher than anyone else's on the lake) into the sky to explode in a rainbow of embers. More cheers. More hurrahs. And a giggle from my generally serious grandfather.




And the whiz and whorl of the flowers before they slipped off into the water on either side of the dock. And then the blub, blub, blub of them trying to stay alive in their wet bath.




And then there were the airplanes. These made my grandmother the most nervous, as she thought it was certain that one would land on someone's head, or in a tree, or on the roof and a fire of the biggest nature would ensue, and all would be wrecked (and now you know where my nature to worry comes from). So she would seek refuge on the porch, hiding under the glow of the yellow bulb used to ward off bugs.



And the night would continue with cheers and hurrahs.


(jen, this one's for you)

Until all would be calm again and then my grandmother would replace herself by the fire, which at this point would be emberlicious for s'mores. She would have graham crackers and chocolate prepared on her tray, and secretly treat herself to squares of Hershey's in the dark of the night.




And we would get sticky marshmallow love all over us.



And then we would play kick the can.



Or flashlight tag.



And some of us would be sent to bed.



But as I got older, I was allowed to stay up late.



And sit on the end of the dock with my mother.



After the fire was extinguished with a bucket of water, and all the flairs on the ends of everybody's docks were expired, and everyone's echoes were laid to rest,



we would get ourselves lost in the stars. And sometimes, because it felt like we were sleeping among them, we could feel our wishes falling on top of us.