A Very Nearly Tea

Over the weekend, I took the children out to the property to snap a couple pictures for the insurance company and then to just let the kids run. I gave Bear, my six year old son, the camera. He seemed to be impressed by one thing, given the number of times that one thing came up in his photos.

Photo after photo after photo of Hunter. When we got home, Bear snuggled up to me and said,

"Mom, that was so much fun. Can we bring Hunter with us every time we go out to the property?"

A boy and his dog and five acres. What more could a boy ask for?

We had read that chickens can be rather noisy, especially when they lay their eggs at four in the morning. We read this and I fretted over where to put the coop so that they wouldn't disturb the neighbors. We read this and my son's eyes lit up. The Egg Song. Now that sounded like a song he could get in to.

Imagine his delight when we noticed Diego go into the nest box. I think you can probably see it here as he sits vigil over his hen, waiting not for the egg but for her song.

And little Diego sat. And turned. Hollowed a little nest for herself and threw grass on her back. Then, as the big moment was almost there, she stood up to let her little brown egg drop.

Without a peep.

Then she returned to her sisters to forage as if nothing had happened. Now Bear is lamenting the silence of his little hen. This is what he was expecting to experience:



He's holding out hope for one of the others. Certainly one of the four will sing?

After counting four flies in the room, I decided it was time to go on the hunt. Jar in hand, I set out to capture them to feed the frog. As I was stalking a particularly juicy looking blue bottle fly, Bear interrupted:

Mom, that part where the wing connects to the fly is pretty yucky, but the rest of it is actually pretty good.

"Uh." I started. "Hmmm," I went on. "Ahh," I finally concluded.

Because just how do you respond to a statement like that? Obviously, the boy has eaten a fly. Not only eaten a fly, but savored it bit by bit and appreciated the fine subtleties of its various parts.

But the boy won't touch mashed potatoes. Maybe I should season them with flies next time.

As you can see, my son has a bit to learn yet about baseball. Like how to throw a ball.


At first glance, it is just a boy who needs to learn to throw a baseball. But there is so much more to this picture about family. About community. About "the way things oughtta be, but so often aren't, even in our own lives.

It was a pleasant evening, cool and breezy and the sun lingered in the sky to make time for the children to get a few games of catch in with their dad. The neighbor, who you can sort of make out near his shed, stopped his gardening just to watch. He and his wife (who are about the age of my grandparents) were greeted by enthusiastic shouts and hugs the moment they stepped onto the field.

At the edge of the field is a pole with a box on it. It is a bluebird house our neighbor made. They are all around the field and thanks to him, we can watch the bluebirds flit through the field catching insects on the wing. Thanks to him, my children know the difference between a sparrow's egg and a bluebird's egg. Thanks to him, they know a little about monitoring bluebird trails and protecting the nests of a native bird whose populations have suffered due to competition with nonnative species.

They also know that he used to plow his father's field...with a horse. Because the potatoes were his responsibility right down to throwing out the rotten ones midwinter.

And then there's the mitt he is using. Here is a slightly better picture.

He loves that mitt. It is a special mitt--a mitt with a story--a mitt with history. See, my dad bought it for five dollars when he was a little boy. Now my son is playing catch with his dad with the same mitt over fifty years later.

A bit of history, the present and the future all in a game of catch.

Hardly was the word spoken and Bear darted off to return with the five quart barrel of ice cream. "Not yet," my husband told him. Cause we weren't finished with dinner, yet.

See, we were having one of our classic, multi-course hodge podge of mismatched foods thrown together by my husband to appease the children's stomachs. A round of texas toast followed by a round of fries followed by a round of whatever vegetable we have around. Until the children no longer seem interested in food.

Seating for these meals is fancy, too. My husband sits in a chair holding a bowl and all the children stand about him, helping themselves from the communal dish.

Less dishes.

My master of fine dining says of his elaborate serving methods. I tell ya, the man thinks of everything.

And somewhere in there Bear heard ice cream.

Put it on the counter so it can soften a little.

My husband said. As you can see, delivering the next course to "the chair" is a perfectly reasonable thing to do in this house. At least when daddy's the cook. And think how he must have felt at the thought of just digging into the ice cream pail while daddy held it! At any rate, maybe the reason for leaving it on the counter shouldn't have been revealed, but next thing we know, there's a clicking sound coming from the kitchen. The click click click of the stove's electric ignition.

Bear had set the plastic tub of ice cream on the stove and was intent on speeding up the warming up.

Fried ice cream, anyone?

For the first time since the warm spell way back in February, I had the chance to just sit outside and enjoy. The wafting of lilac on a gentle breeze, the antics of the chickens, the contented sounds of my children playing in the sandbox. I even played a game of fetch with Hunter until he flopped on the grass next to the children to chew on the stick I had been throwing.

Other noises joined the chorus of spring. Car doors, clanking metal and excited children. Adults began perching on the bleachers by the ball field as children ran to the playground and the coaches set up the field for practice.

What says spring in America more than baseball?

Then my daughter is sprinting out t o the ball field, talking excitedly with Bear and he runs in the house in a frenzied search for shoes. Just like that, little Bear is playing T-ball. And I am both excited and apprehensive. I want him to participate in organized activities. I want him to succeed in organized activities. I want him to know what it feels like to be a part of a team...a valued part of a team.

Not the kid everyone just puts up with. Not the kid no one wants to be paired with. Not the kid who gets away with too much because the leaders have stopped expecting anything different from him.

This is when I wish parenting were easier. I don't even know whether it is better to keep putting him in these activities even as he is failing at them, or if I should be holding him back, allowing him to mature before thrusting him on others.

But I tied his shoes and hobbled along behind him to sit in the bleachers with the other parents and watch my son at his first T-ball practice. I finally met the woman who owns the horses behind our house and the mother of the girl on Mouse's team I've heard so much about. We exchanged phone numbers and got to know each other a little more since our daughters obviously are becoming friends.

All the while, I had one eye on Bear. He practiced throwing, catching, batting and fielding. He learned some of the rules of the game. When the coaches were working with him or he had something to do, he paid attention.

When not, he sat down and played in the dirt. He constructed quite a nice mound behind second base. He dug a canal around the pitcher's mound. I think he graded third base for a new road. In short, he was doing everything every other T-baller was doing in between plays.

When it was over, he ran to me. Out of breath he declared,

I can't wait for Saturday. Why does Saturday have to be so far away?

From which I deduced his next practice is Saturday.

There's nothing quite like a baby to melt away the stresses of the day . . .


Even if that baby is one of the stresses of the day. Everyone asks me if he's a "good baby" and I really want clarification. What is a good baby? I mean, he does everything a baby should. He eats; he sleeps; he poops; he cries. In fact, he cries a lot . . . almost any time he is not being held.

It makes it hard to get much of anything done. But then, I'd prefer holding a baby over dishes, anyway. After all, it isn't just doting grandmotherly types who have a fixation on counting baby toes.

My little Mouse too has noticed the calming effects of sleeping babies. I don't remember what she was upset about.

But then, neither does she. A testament to the calming effects of a small baby sleeping contentedly in your arms. As is the flicker of a smile.


So I ask, is he a good baby? Even with five loads of laundry to be folded because he doesn't want to be laid down?

A bad day. A very bad day. It started off bad, but it only got worse from there. We'll just note that it ended (the day ended at about 2PM...that's when I cut my losses and let the day be over. Everything after that occurred in some sort of time warp which was not claimed by any day) with me fishing my son out of a supply closet in the Y where he had climbed to the very back and perched on some huge piece of gymnastics equipment.

What prompted all this drama? The girls won. Can you believe it? The girls won! And I'm supposed to be completely sympathetic to the ensuing tantrum, pushing and running off to hide in a supply closet. Because that's how we all act when the girls win, right?

So my son has issues. I already knew that. It's why we approach this whole social interaction thing a little cautiously. But in the car as I'm finding out that he was told he couldn't participate next session, he informs that is OK.

I took it as a bit of defiance. A bit of "I don't care, I don't want to participate anyway" type of thing, but no....not my son.

"They'll forget about it by then so I'll be able to participate anyway."

He was rather dismayed when I informed him that I would make sure that wouldn't happen. I had just marked myself as the enemy and his six year old fury came out in a huff and a grunt and crossed arms because he couldn't really think of anything to say. And there is no place to go when you are buckled in your seat belt.

For some reason, I find what boundaries a child will not cross rather amusing. Like the kid in the cartoon walking around the block with his suitcase. Running away, but not allowed to cross the street.

Anyway, I had to run into the grocery store after this, and was seriously weighing the annoyance of late fines against the impending doom that bringing this tempest into the store seemed to guarantee.

"What are we doing here?" He asked in a most unpleasant and accusatory voice.

"What are you thinking about getting?" My Mouse asked.

"I'm thinking about putting Bear in the blood pressure cuff and leaving him stuck there while we go shopping."

Now where on Earth did that come from? It barely popped into my mind before it popped out of my mouth and then I started thinking about how to take it back.

Except that when I looked into the rear view mirror, Bear was rolling in his seat with laughter. Apparently the image of him floundering in the chair caught by his arm in the blood pressure cuff was more than he could take.

I just lay my head against the steering wheel and in the midst of my frustration was thankful for one rare free pass to a bad parent moment.