"What is better than food?"; reboot; OMFG; a farty IOU

So says my Oliver who is a hell of an eater. Today in his camp lunch I packed some salami and a wedge of triple cream brie in addition to yellow bell pepper slices, a Granny Smith apple, and the requisite Pirate's Booty. He was thrilled. God love that child. Jack has a much more truncated palate but he's as enthused about all he does like as Ol is about his wider berth. At least both of them adore Louisiana food. Jack will eat your body weight in gumbo and red beans and rice, and the two of them can take down a loaf of stanky garlic bread like nobody's business.

This is really quite a critical quality, in my opinion. I'm careful not to say too much out loud or to over-exalt in front of them, lest reverse psychology wreak havoc on my desired outcome, but food and drink, and the pleasure that can be taken in trying, enjoying, sharing, and crafting them, add such a zest to life, such a depth of experience, such an opportunity for celebration and memory. And so I like what I so far see in terms of their culinary preferences.

***

So, I started this post last night when the house was finally quiet and I was feeling marginally zen. And then the stupid low-light or no blue light or whatever the hell program blocks whatever it is in screens that supposedly ruins your sleep flipped on and I couldn't see my pictures and Tom had conveniently forgotten how to adjust the timing of the stupid program's onset and I lost my bizness and called it a day.

The children had been talking loudly and nonstop since I'd picked them up at camp and then driven home through a gale-force thunderstorm -legitimately branches were blowing across the roads- as both asked me to "look at this, Mom" as if I have not been saying for a decade, "I cannot look at you while I'm driving." 

Apparently, they have heard and ingested that as well as they've heard and ingested:

1. "Please do not talk to me through the bathroom door. I would really appreciate going to the bathroom in peace and privacy."
and
2. "Please do not attempt to tell me something while I'm vacuuming. I cannot hear you and then you get annoyed because I cannot hear you but I have already told you that I cannot hear while the vacuum is on and if I stop and start as often as you attempt to talk to me, I will literally never get the vacuuming done."

I'm fully serious when I tell you that both happened yesterday after we managed to make it home through that storm which was as verbal as it was nature-made.

I would like to insert a brief mention here that while the children are attending the same camp, they are doing different programs there. Not only is said camp an hour and change round-trip two times a day (I did not know this when we registered) but also Jack's program finishes at 3 and Oliver's at 3:30 (another thing we were not told before or during registration). "Well," you are surely saying, "just pick them both up at 3:30." 

Ah yes, that is logical BUT Jack only has a fifteen-minute grace period and so in order to avoid a $30/day "late" fee, I must pick him up by 3:15 and then leave the pick-up location and return 15 minutes later to fetch Oliver. This is lunacy, people.

I would also like to assert that most of Virginia needs to briefly move to Boston so as to learn how to drive. Yes, I know that Boston drivers have a "Masshole" reputation, but I would rather drive on the roads with them and their excellent skills ANY DAY if it meant I could avoid (and therefore live) the incapable Virginia drivers who appear to not know or not care that minimum speed limits, lane markers, turn signals, and no-turn signs are NOT suggestions. Jesus h christ, people. 

Suffice it to say that when I returned to this blog post today, it was without the iota of zen I'd harnessed by last night. I agree with all I'd written yesterday but that foodly blush has been supplanted by the finding of the IOU Oliver was forced to write to Jack last night after farting on him, purposefully, again.

I'd threatened last time Ol did this and Jack came to me in raging tears (because really, Ol has a toxic arse) that next time he decided that laying one on his brother was a fine idea he'd owe him $10.

I don't know about you, but $10 is a hefty fine. I'll be damned if I do something stupid that results in me just throwing $10 away. There are many things I can and want to do with $10 and paying to fart on someone isn't one of them. 

Oliver seemed chastened. It has been a month since any issue, and I thought my intervention had worked.

Last night, after a hellish half hour of enforcing saxophone practicing and summer math review (don't even ask) after driving home though the cyclone, I threw in the towel and put on a movie for the kids so I could cook their dinner in peace and maybe read an article in the paper.

Soon enough, I hear Jack scream, "That's it. You owe me $10, Oliver. Mom, Oliver farted on me. He owes me!" And I said, "You are right, Jack. Oliver, pay up." I swear to G, y'all, Oliver moseyed upstairs and came back with a $20. I don't even have a $20 right now. 

"Jack, all I have is one of my birthday twenties. Do you have change?"

"No!"

"Fine, I'll write you an IOU. 'Jack, I owe you $10 for farting on you again. -Oliver"

There is a fair amount wrong with this situation but the amount of my fine, which Tom said seemed harsh, is clearly not part of the problem. 

I would love to continue venting but it's time to get in the car to approach the multiheaded beast known as Avoiding a $30-for-15-minute Fine Pick-Up. 

Thank the lord Tom and I are blowing this joint at 5:30 tonight and heading to FedEx Field for the U2 concert. Thrill of a lifetime. Seeing U2 in concert has been on my bucket list for years. Woot!

***

I'm going to attempt to regain some zen by sharing with you this picture of my first blackberry harvest from the bushes Mom brought me from Nanny and Papa's yard. The original plants are about 65 years old now. I'm so lucky to have two of them (or their offshoots).

On figs and cats and torches and summer coming to a close

Tonight Jack convinced me to drill a small hole through a stick he'd found so that he could insert a match and light it, thus making an Olympic torch. As you may not be surprised to hear, a match burns pretty quickly, so "torch" was an ephemeral status.

"No, Mom, I've got it! We need gasoline!"

"No, Jack, we're not pouring gasoline into a handheld twig. Thank you. Goodnight."

"Moooooooooooom."

"No."

30 minutes later, T and I are presented with this.

Another 60 minutes later, I check on the children to find that both have drawn red marker and black ink pen beards on their faces and are wearing Italia hoodies. Oliver is drooling onto his pillow-whilst gnawing on corn last night, another top tooth dislodged and so he is now minus his front four which is really pretty significant- and Jack is still awake which does not bode well for tomorrow, the final day of camp.

The good thing about camp ending is that I do not have to pack another lunch until next summer.

The bad thing about camp ending is that camp is ending and we have three weeks left until school resumes. LAWD! SO MANY HOURS IN A DAY!

I will seek refuge in the Nut who continues to be adorably imperious and delightfully plump, and I will continue to encourage anyone listening to vote not only Donald Trump off our island but also Ryan Lochte. At least he hasn't resurrected his grill.

Today I admired and photographed figs and also cooked the boys a lovely dinner that required no more than three teeth to eat and then made a rainbow carrot and raisin salad. The evening light glows so becomingly this time of year; if you can avoid the mosquitan bandits out for all your blood, you will be rewarded with beautifully lit, no flash photos. 

As an added bonus tonight, I leave you with this truly HYSTERICAL Ode to Synchronized Swimming. 

Twisters

My head is spinning, my jaw is stiff, my chest and stomach a churning storm. A new thousand-piece puzzle is half done. I find comfort in its whirling colors, in the ways that abstract pieces slot together to create order.

It's Sunday. Which feels like eight years since Friday even though a mere 48 hours separates us. In that expanse, a high school classmate died suddenly and I feel unsettled; I finished the best book I've read in years and mourn the loss of the characters I'd become so fond of; my boys light me up and douse that fire too many times an hour to count. It is all enervating.

I'm just past the two-margarita ante. Percy is snuggled next to me on his throne, a large, cushy pillow I've given up on and bequeathed to him.

Inspired by the way we familiarized ourselves with London, we decided today to acquaint ourselves with a part of our own city that too often feels foreign. On a blindingly-bright afternoon, we paddle-boated around the Tidal Basin, two to a skiff, ogling the tributes to Jefferson and Dr. King, the quarried obelisk that stands proudly as a monument to Washington. Even though we were told not to, we dipped our hot toes in the cool water and relished it.

view of the washington monument from the tidal basin

We walked past the World War II memorial, an ugly, overwrought thing in my opinion, and towards the graceful reflecting pool and Lincoln's magnificent stead. We had Italian ices and ice cream. It was so hot. People mulled all around. It's Labor Day eve. Whatever that means.

I wish I could say it was all idyllic. I wish I could say it has been since.

But it wasn't and hasn't been, and maybe that's OK. Maybe that's life. But it sure feels hard.

Later, I attempted to stand up for something I believe in, which is the urgent need for more stringent gun laws and reasonable behavior. I tried to engage in conversation, share facts, challenge myths.

I realized, once again, that I would make a terrible politician because while I fervently support standing for something, standing on the just and right side of things, speaking for the underdog, fighting for the things I might be lucky enough to have but others don't, doing so terrifies and tires me. I wouldn't last ten minutes in Congress; I'd run out crying.

If I don't stand for injustices though, what do I model for my children? And so I try. I consider what Dr. King and Lincoln worked and fought for, and I remind myself of what they gave for those right ideals, and I think, "Well, I owe it to them and my kids to speak up against bigotry and ignorance." I do believe that.

But it's hard because people are entrenched and they're angry. And you know what? So am I. I don't want to hear any more from uninformed gun-lovers who want the freedom to carry guns in bars, on school campuses, in churches "just cuz." Who don't want background checks and regulations on clip size, who think more guns is always better. I think they're crazy idiots hiding behind an ignorant misunderstanding of the 2nd Amendment, and that's the truth. So, that admission made, am I any better? I simply hope I'm on the right side of history, which I believe I am, and that I inspire my children to stand for their beliefs.

At the two margarita draw, I tucked Ol into bed. He was snuffling and vexed, and I held him close and said, "Baby, please tell me what you're thinking." His lip trembled in that way that makes me double-sure that I'd do ANYTHING for him, and he shared some good, deep stuff, some of which I felt I knew just what to do about, just how to help. But for the rest?

"Mama, do you have a diffwent strategy I could twy?"

"I don't, sweet pea, I don't. I don't know all the answers, and I'm so sorry. But I can ask some people and try to find out if you'd like."

And he hugged me so tightly and said, "Yes, please. I love you, mama." And my heart broke just a bit because I don't always know, and I won't always know, and still he loves me so purely, as I do him.

I never wanted to leave his side but part of me wanted to leave ten minutes ago, because J also wanted to talk, and my husband, and the Sunday paper, and also that from last Wednesday which had an article I really wanted to read because the immigrant crisis, and those edits I needed to make two weeks ago, and yet another submission deadline I missed. And still tomorrow there is no school.

There is a new puzzle, a new game, walks to be had, time to be spent. I like to think these challenging times, in which everyone is tired and wishing for routine and in need of time apart, are, nonetheless, bonding us tightly. That one day, tomorrow or Friday or decades from now, we'll all be grateful we forged determinedly on. That we stood for beliefs and values and each other. That we admitted when we didn't know and tried to find answers when we needed them. That we loved enough, openly and in action, such that none of us ever doubted that.