Season's End

So, Blade Beak and Star Baby are still not laying.  Of course, I am starting to wonder if this is merely their means of protesting the nomenclatures my children so lovingly bestowed upon them . . .  Regardless, I am still buying eggs at four dollars a dozen at City Market or, on the more hectic badly-planned weeks, the grocery store.  And lately, life often seems to be taking on a more frenzied quality.  My summer semester at A-B Tech is drawing to a close, my students submitting paper after paper while I grade at a furious pace, trying not to let the virtual stacks overwhelm my virtual deskspace.  And as hard as I try, I can't seem to forget how little time I have left to spend with my chicken-naming munchkins before I am expected to start acting and dressing like a grown up and return to work full-time for the first time in their existence.  Sometimes I feel overwhelmed.  But every afternoon, just as the wind starts to blow the tease of a storm,  I remember about dinner, and I walk outside to see what gifts my garden bears.

Today it wasn't much--lettuce, a few tomatoes, a handful of beans, two cucumbers (one of which Chloe snatched up for an impromptu snack)--but along with the chicken breasts I had defrosted and some golden-red beets from my mom's friend's garden, it was enough to inspire a lush salad, complete with mozzarella and toasted walnuts. For all this I love my garden.  It forces me to create from that which I have.  It reminds me to head outside for a moment and truly breathe.  It teaches me patience and expectancy and excitement.  But most of all, it speaks of change.  The tomatoes that were hard and pale yesterday are a plump, rich red, falling warm into my palm today. The cucumbers we watched emerge as tiny wrinkled fruits beneath their yellow petals now crunch crisp and wet in my little girl's mouth.

It's the magic of birth: the fact that a new life, an entire, perfect entity, can make itself known in a few short moments.  And then, of course, that entity begins to change and grow at an unfathomable speed, laughing at anyone over thirty who even tries to keep up.  Very few days go by that an older mama or papa doesn't stop to remind me to treasure this time when my children are young because it will pass so quickly.  And so, in spite of  the work and worry that piles up around me, I am trying to treasure it all.  Not just the intentional summer outings that I've meticulously orchestrated, but the spontaneous and true adventures as well.   The moment of madness when McLean turns the volume on his new favorite song way up and we forget ourselves and become pop stars.  The way Chloe's perfect, wiggling little body infects my own as I ditch my heavy mama-bag and dance barefoot downtown.

I feel a new season coming. I know that in just a few short weeks, McLean will start kindergarten, Chloe preschool, and I work.  Our lives will change drastically, and I have no idea how that change will feel.  All I can do is embrace what I have now.  The magical moments with my children as well as my periodic lapses in sanity.  Even my two impeccably named chickens who are still not laying.

Sunscreen: An Urban Ode to Summer

Confession: I really dislike sunscreen.  I dislike it the way I dislike closed-toe shoes that confine my feet, turtlenecks in winter, and sex with condoms. Of course, I dutifully apply it (sunscreen, not condoms) to my kids every time we go to the lake or the beach or the park in the summer, and I even rub some on my face and shoulders if I know I'm going to be out in the sun for an extended period of time.  But I still hate it.  Hate the way it feels on my body.  Hate that it keeps me from feeling, really feeling, the warmth of the sun on my skin.  I do realize that I am in the minority in this regard and that my views have become somewhat socially unacceptable.  But I've always loved the sun.  I've always loved the heat.  I've even always loved climbing into a car that's been sitting in the sun all day.  (Yes, I do realize that quite a few of you are questioning my sanity right now.)  Lately, though, I've developed a new appreciation for summer rays.  I find myself at Splashville with the kids, wondering not if the part of my back I couldn't reach is getting sunburned (it was, in case you're wondering), but whether the sun had worked it's magic enough to ripen my tomatoes that had so far remained a stubborn green.  Gathering blackberries on my sister's property for a pie, I find myself overwhelmed by a sudden summer breeze and begin scanning the sky for signs of a storm that might quench my thirsty greens.

These unexpected thrills are always the best.  I began cooking and baking because my brother and sisters and I were hungry and my mom otherwise engaged, but if I step out and reenter my house, the warmth of sauteed garlic, yeasty bread, or roasted root vegetables always amazes me.  I adopted Blade Beak and Star Baby because I wanted fresh eggs, but their antics will often catch my attention as I weed or water out back, and I'll have to stop to watch their earnest pecking and squawking.  I started planting vegetables and herbs because I wanted to make the most of my land and feed my family the best I could, but I have been surprised at how this simple, utilitarian act has heightened my awareness of the seasons in a very physical way.  Summer now permeates my being.  Not only when I play with my kids in the creek as the temperatures near a hundred or sip sangria on the porch with a mama friend as the fireflies begin to glow, but also when I catch the giggles with my thirteen-year-old niece while messing around on facebook or delight in the awed faces of my children, so much more worldly than I was at their ages, as they watch the city fireworks display for the first time.

And all this is a result of gardening?  Maybe not.  Maybe it has much more to do with maturing, becoming a mother, nearing forty . . .  But maybe not.  I know quite a few forty-year-olds who really seem to relish sunscreen.