Camp, general awesomeness, AROMO

Since we returned from the beach, I've tried to see one friend each day; I'm not at 100%, but overall my hit rate is terrific, and it's been such a treat. This is yet another way that I'm working to better balance life, making time for leisure in addition to work, prioritizing myself in addition to my family and responsibilities.

This week has been really good for me and for the boys. Their longer hours away are just enough that I can get things done and take a load off and feel rejuvenated when they return. It's reminding me that balance, for all of us, is good and wise. Speaking from my experience as a stay-at-home mom (others have their own challenges!), it's so easy to get into a groove that shouldn't be and/or put others before self, to struggle with maintaining an identity and passions separate from those within Mom. I hear this refrain from many others, friends and readers, too. That I have another three weeks of this schedule feels very luxurious, and I am realizing anew the value in trusting my maternal instincts.

As I alluded to on Monday, I initially registered them for this day camp without hesitation. It receives rave reviews, and I loved the idea of them being immersed in nature, outside all day. I wanted them to get dirty, meet a whole bunch of new friends, play with farm animals and be far, far away from electronics. Most basically, I wanted to push them just enough in ways I knew they could be pushed, to expand their comfort zones and senses of what they can do. The confidence and independence and new experiences they're amassing right now are invaluable, and I can see, every day, how good it all is for them.

When I spy them rounding the bus aisle and heading down its stairs, they look tired in the great, healthy way one does after spending hours playing and sweating and learning outside. They are filthy too, their bodies, clothes, lunchboxes and water bottles coated in all manner of earthy detritus. They sing silly ditties and prideful anthems-  164! The bus you can't ignore!- and I find myself recalling the summer camp tunes I once sang with equal enthusiasm. They talk about new pals, new games, new knowledge, shared laughs. They are really, really happy.

Several people seemed flabbergasted that I'd signed 5-year-old Ol up for this camp because of its long hours, bus ride and so forth. But I think I felt him ready and this to be the sort of experience he'd cotton to immediately. Though I didn't take them as judgments or anything, these reactions did give me pause -had I misjudged? erred? was he too young?- and I believe that hesitation constituted half of my nervousness Monday morning.

Balancing your own and others' senses of what kids can/can't/should be able to do or handle can be a really challenging part of parenthood. When should they start eating solids? What type? When should they be potty-trained/talking/reading/writing? Questions about diet, bedtime, manners, habits can seem very fraught and you realize just how personal, in some respects, they are.

At the end of the day, most of us just try to make the best decisions we can based on who we know our children to be and how best we believe our family will function. And that's why it's so important for us to trust ourselves. To seek advice when we don't know and to act confidently when we think we do. I am so incredibly thrilled for the boys right now; both say they want to go back all summer next year. And frankly, I'm really thrilled for me too.

During the hours I've spent making jam this week (made my apricot-peach almond yesterday; it is TO DIE FOR; now's the time, folks!), I've thought about the concept of having "a room of one's own." Virginia Woolf was talking specifically about the space a woman needs if she wishes to be a writer, but the brilliance behind her idea was how encompassing it is for most everything women need in order to feel fulfilled, as women and all else they are.

I recalled that a friend once joked about the playhouse in our yard that the boys never use, "You should turn that into your own spot." This "playhouse" is a seriously top-shelf playhouse. I know because I paid for it myself -it's flipping cedar and came from Canada- and built it with Tom. It took a week, a hot sweaty, middle-of-August-in-DC-which-was-built-on-a-swamp-and-boy-can-you-tell week. We were beyond excited to show the kids, and two years in, I think they've gone in there about 8 times.

www.em-i-lis.com

So, without informing the munchkins, I have, over the past several days reclaimed the little house as A Room of My Own. I've moved everything out, swept it clean, put in a portable air conditioner and an old chair. A small, cheap desk is on order, and I might spring for a little rug too. Sure, it feels vaguely doll-house meets Alice in Wonderland, but it will be my spot when I need one, a literal delineation of the figurative one I often crave: to write, to think, to remember that my needs are as important as theirs and T's and the pets and so forth. Cool, huh!?

A newly flush wellspring?

I became aware, just two days ago, that the wonderful camp at which the boys will spend the next month ran longer each day than I'd thought. 8:10am drop-off, 4:45pm pick-up. Unless I'm out of town or they're with their grandparents, we've never, and certainly not regularly, spent that much time apart. And because this camp is 25 miles away from home, out in MD, they are a real bus ride away. When Jack was five -Ol's age now- you couldn't have paid me to send him off for so long. I'd have looked at you like you were certifiably insane if you'd even suggested the idea to me. I mean, the first time Tom and I left Jack with grandparents for the weekend, we recorded a DVD for him and instructed the gramps to play it. More than once. It's possible they laughed at us. The way I am laughing at myself, now. In any case, you see what I'm saying. Sending him to camp, on a school bus, for a LOT of hours would not have happened.

So here I am sending them both off for some old-fashioned day camp fun. It sounded like such a good idea when I registered, and they were beside themselves at the open house we attended. Farm animals! A war canoe! Creeks! Dirt! Canoeing! Tending plants! New water bottles! And I was envious of the fun I knew they'd have. Downright covetous because I wanted to hold chickens and commune with goats all day too. I felt like such a courageous mom, enabling my boys to have this adventure together.

And then this morning came, and we rounded the corner of a city street and saw the big white school bus (why don't school buses have seat belts?!) and counselors I didn't know from Adam, and my heart started to pound just a bit, and my stomach talked to me quietly. I put a brave smile on my face and walked the boys to the bus, and I swear to you, quicker than you could blink they were on that bus finding seats together. I planted myself near their window, all blowing kisses and carrying on about missing them. And they tolerated me in an extremely loving fashion. As I took my first steps back to the car, I could tell they didn't even notice. They were just so excited and open and willing to brave an unknown. And I burst with pride and called my own mother to tell her that my little boys were on a school bus all by themselves and she burst with pride too.

Then I realized that I had EIGHT and change hours to myself. And that I'll have that again tomorrow and the next day and the next.

And that maybe I'll be able to breathe a bit, to slow my pace, to tell Hurry to shove off. Perhaps I'll be able to finish up on all the to-dos I've let languish and then invest myself in the activities I've been pining to do but haven't felt able to prioritize. Maybe the wellspring that's sourced my writing font will run rapid again, the bottleneckers, Stress and Busy, no longer rude obstructionists of which I'm quite tired.

Maybe I'll have time to miss my boys, maybe even time to feel a bit lonely in my blissfully quiet home. Perhaps I'll reclaim the stasis that enables me to be the kind of mother I really want to be, with real energy rather than pretend, with some of the lightness that's been softly tamped over the past few months.

As the hours passed today, I felt the benefit of this time for myself and the promise of more tomorrow. I talked to several friends on the phone, sent flowers to a birthday girl, walked Percy -twice!- got some work done for the boys' school, dealt with one pile of "important" crap. I felt Calm seep in and wash my brow with its cool hands. I day-dreamed while pitting cherries. I made a jam plan for tomorrow. And when the late hour drew near, I hurriedly put on a bit of make-up and some sandals so I could take my loves out for a celebratory dinner and dessert. They tumbled off the bus, filthy and happy and pooped. We got caught in a torrential downpour and laughed for two hours straight. It felt really good.

Good, good food

After getting the kiddos to bed last night, I instructed tired T to hit the couch while I whipped up some dinner. Earlier, I'd had the presence of mind to buy some burrata, anticipating a magnificent salad in which it'd co-star. Do you know burrata? It is such a magnificently unnecessary cheese. In a good way, it's like whipped cream atop a full-fat, full-sugar frappuccino. The latter is overwrought enough, so to then add whipped cream and probably a drizzle of something like caramel or chocolate is beyond the pale. Burrata does that but marvelously. It is, basically, a shell of mozzarella stuffed with a combination of mozzarella and cream. Good mozzarella is insane treat enough, but burrata? Sweet baby jesus in the skies, that's like a seven year old getting to eat all his Halloween candy in one sitting.

Burrata is so delicate and rich and oozy in the best way that it's sometimes hard to transfer from container to plate. As I carefully spooned two blobs onto my platter last night, they immediately spread like pancake batter on a hot griddle. What can you do with such decadence but just follow its lead??!! So, I let the cheese spread and plated around it: grilled plumcots (of the gods), mint, olive oil, Maldon salt and just a bit of very aged balsamic. I dare say Tom closed his eyes as the first bite hit his tongue and later licked the plate shiny clean.

I'd asked Tom to blacken the calliope eggplants on the grill so they'd be nice and smoky; I then made them into some baba ghanoush. A huge bowl of Sungolds went into a batch of my Lusty Sungold Love which I served with fresh ricotta and toasted bread. All in all, a heck of a meal.

We then watched Argo, shocking ourselves with our ability to stay up for the entire thing. SUCH a good film! And Ben Affleck with that hair and beard? HOT!