A quarter of a mile up the road from our house, the woods begin.  On a hot summer day, we grab our water bottles and sweaters, and head out.  Within five minutes we’ve left the city behind, with its noise, its traffic, its suffocating heat.  We follow the dirt path that meanders through the firs, the jasmine, and the wild blackberry bushes, the only sound that of the gurgling stream, and birds calling to each other.

The deeper in we go, the cooler it gets.  We don our sweaters and button them up.  The kids race up ahead, my son gathering salmonberries, naming ferns and mushrooms, my daughter picking wildflowers she presents to me, or down to the stream looking for salamanders.  They jump from one rock to another, wanting to be the first to get to the opposite shore.  I watch, my heart in my throat, and caution them.  My husband laughs and tells me to relax.  He goes to join them, a protective hand hovering above the little one.

Finally we arrive at remains of the old Stone House.  This is our turning point.  Husband and I sit on a log, quench our thirst, and the little ones prepare to put on a show.  The old stone structure is their castle, the forest their kingdom, their dad and I, their subjects.

On our way back down, I offer up a little prayer of gratitude.  For my beautiful family, for the magic of childhood, for the trees, and the flowers, and the sun, and the air we breath.  I am amazed and moved to tears.  It is in the midst of nature that I feel closest to God.

It seems like my boy was just born, we had just been discharged from the hospital and were on our way home, the car packed with all types of necessities, our heads crammed with all kinds of practical advice we were already forgetting. Yet, here he is! Already ten, and almost a half. He’s just come home from a weeklong camp, away from us for the first time ever. And I missed him and worried, constantly. in some ways, despite all our reading and all our prayers through the years, and all the advice that we even now receive, we’re still just as clueless as we were then. I look at my parents who had raised five children and at my in-laws who had raised seven, and wonder.  They deserve to be congratulated and respected for this accomplishment, for it wasn’t easy.
My mother’s idealism and desire to fill our lives with goodness and love shaped us into the adults we are.  I reflect upon those carefree childhood days when the only worries we had were which playground we were going to visit, and which friends we were going to play with. She was conscientiously indulgent with her time, with her patience, and with her possessions; nothing was too good for us.
Her gentle rebukes and reminders rarely humiliated our fragile selves. She was fair and consistent in her expectations and her discipline. I try to remember that whenever I lose it and scream my head off for some tiny, inconsequential offense I believe is aimed at me; aimed at showing me what a failure I am as a parent. And I am afraid that the parental will within me, added on to all my ignorant fears, renders my son helpless and angry during the years of his life when he should be untroubled.
Because I don’t want my son disappointed in me as a parent (and to be honest, sometimes I’m too tired, too busy, etc.), I often resort to a dirty little trick: I turn to my husband for his opinion, thus making him the definitive factor in whatever issue is at hand. I resorted to this last night.  For one, I was too exhausted to really go into detail about why a certain behavior is not allowed, and two, it didn’t really seem like such a big deal anyway, so I couldn’t come up with a good enough argument to convince my boy (and my boy is not easily redirected).
My husband did a wonderful job explaining, as he usually does. I cuddled my son next to me on the couch and smiled across the ottoman at my husband, congratulating him for his words of logic.  Yet all the while relieved that I wasn’t the one put on the spot, my words were not the ones objected to.  Not long after, it dawned on me that unless I grow a backbone and stand firm on my own opinions and decisions, my son would still be disappointed.  My role as a mother is not an invisible role, nor a diminished one.  I need to own its existence.  I need to embrace it.  I need to grow in wisdom.  I need to nurture and comfort and love and admonish.  And I need to figure out how. And quick!
P.S. This is a repost with very few changes. You’d imagine I’d gotten smarter in the last year and a half, but it isn’t so. I’m just as clueless.

Walking barefoot through the dew drenched grass is one of my favorite ways to start a summer day.  Years ago when I still lived at home with my parents, and then after, when we had a lawn of our own, I used to love waking up early on summer mornings, sometimes as early as five, to curl my toes in the grass, inhaling the early morning scent of the roses climbing the side of the house, before settling on the doorstep with my steaming mug of hot milk or coffee, and a side of half a loaf of crusty French bread.

Any child can tell you that very few things taste better than bread smeared with butter and honey and dipped in milk, first thing on an empty stomach.  Add a handful of sun ripened raspberries and the melody of chirping bluebirds, and it is blissful heaven.

When I was a kid we had egg laying chickens, and it was my job on summer mornings to go and fetch the still warm eggs.  The chickens terrified me and I used to take a stick with me to swat at them should they come flying my way.  I don’t remember them attacking me, but I do remember having to shove them off the eggs.

If there were enough for all of us, my dad would peel a few potatoes, wash them well and cut them into strips for frying.  He’d fry the eggs too, just enough to be considered cooked, but still soft yellow and runny, and make a fresh cucumber and tomato salad on the side.  We’d eat them hungrily, wiping our plates clean with leftover bread, that last taste of all the flavors soaked into its crust, the most delicious of all.

But my favorite start to a summer day, is when I awaken sandwiched between the bodies of my little loves, their gentle snores singing in my ear.  Perhaps it is the early morning light that wakes them and brings them to our bed.  I hold them close and breath in their sweet scent, wanting the moment to last forever.  Their daddy and I watch them sleep and whisper our love for them, the joy they bring to us, wanting so much to be perfect parents to these two blessings entrusted to us for loving and raising.  Only after we are all awake do we make our way to the kitchen with its many windows and refrigerated bounty for a hearty breakfast only daddies know how to prepare.

Our little family of four has a ritual on Saturday mornings.  Waking up early, the kids crawl in our bed and proceed to wake us with kisses and tickles.  We linger in bed, all of us beneath the sheets, laughing and hugging and talking about what dreams we dreamt.  Without fail, our daughter’s dreams are about Hello Kitty.  Our son’s about some sort of invention, for he wants to grow up and be an inventor.  Hubby’s about things he can’t remember but little snippets of, and mine about all sorts of crazy and unrealistic things (such as gorging on croissants and losing weight instead of gaining).

After much analyzing of what they could mean, and a few more kisses and hugs, we get up and get ourselves ready to head out to a hearty breakfast.  We need fortification for the morning calls for walking and more walking.  We are lucky to be able to live within walking distance to some of the best restaurants and shops in the city.  And so we walk, whenever the weather and little legs permit.  In the Pacific Northwest, sunny summer mornings are the most splendid of all.

Invariably, I end up having either an omelette with sauteed wild mushrooms in butter, or a fantastic oversized waffle with fresh berries and cream.  Sometimes I order both and split the waffle with hubby, who never refuses.  The kids, of course, order the chocolate chip pancakes with vanilla ice cream and cream on the side.  Because it is Saturday, ice cream is allowed with breakfast.

Claiming they are too stuffed to walk, we give in to the kids pleas and take the car to the open-air market in the university blocks.  What a sight greets us!  Baskets of peonies and vibrant dahlias in every color.  Fragrant lavender tied with ribbons.  Strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries… berries, berries and more berries.  Cucumbers, radishes, green onions.  And earthy, aromatic wild mushrooms that smell of pines and oaks and damp forest grounds.  All of them tucked between stalls of breads, cakes, cookies, and pastries, and those of cheeses, sausages, and wines.

Despite still digesting our breakfast, we don’t refuse samples of any of them.  The pervasive smell of fresh herbs and root vegetables stir at our appetites, and sooner rather than later we find ourselves starving.  After an hour or two of ambling between stalls, sampling the goods, buying the ingredients for the day’s dinner, petting dogs, and chatting with neighbors we run into, we find a seat, get a coffee and some mouthwatering food from one of the few vendors, and listen in to one of the bands playing, thankful for our little family and our lovely life.  For it is these little things, these little rituals that make us the most grateful and bring us the most happiness.

I have been silent all week long, not of my own choosing, but because life and work got in the way of blogging. Crazy days, sleepless nights… You all understand how it can happen and so often does.  Nonetheless, the week has been a wonderfully blessed one, even though I had to remind myself of those blessings when my little one clogged the toilet a few too many times.

Last week (I’m always late, aren’t I? So sorry!) I received a spectacular award from a beautiful and glamorous blogger, and I’d like to share it with you all. Here it is:

Isn’t it the coolest? So is the giver! Her blog is filled with art, fashion, biographies, and glamour. Pop on by and say hello to beautiful Dash.

I guess I must tell you a bit about myself though. When I was young I used to be quite mean.  I like to blame it on the wacky church we attended, but I know I can’t blame everything on it.  But I did things, one of which was making my friends kiss my feet if they wanted something I had, and then after all that still not giving it to them.  I have since apologized and been forgiven, yet it hasn’t been forgotten, as someone just reminded me of this recently.

Somehow I grew up feeling entitled.  My parents, my Tante Marie and Grandmother certainly fed this to me.  When we came to the U.S. I was the adult, I felt, translating for every appointment, consulting with the doctors and teachers on the behalf of everyone else.  And I was praised quite a lot.  By everyone.  It was easy to see myself as privileged in every situation from home to school.

Perhaps that is why I am currently so against the “princess syndrome.” Fairy tales are fun to read, but in real life the beast remains a beast, while you may find that Prince Charming had been wearing a mask all along.  As a mother to a little girl I see how diva behavior and an attitude of entitlement may damage her as she becomes an adult.  It will make her believe that no one and nothing is good enough for her.  I do not want to raise the worst sort of a snob: a girl enslaved to an unrealistic image of herself and of womanhood; not in the least aware that she may be slightly delusional. She’ll be unsatisfied as a young woman, as a wife, and as a mother. Always expecting something more, and baffled and depressed when what she expects does not materialize.

Anyway, there you have it.  Now, all of you my beautiful readers grab the award, and have a gorgeous weekend!

You know those families that only get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas?  Well, our family isn’t one of those.  Our family welcomes any opportunity to gather up and sit down for a loud, opinionated meal, and we make all sorts of excuses to come up with a next meeting.  Unless, someone is out of town, our family Sundays start soon after noon when church let’s out, and they last for a good four to five hours.  We meet in our parents home, the house we grew up in, ushered in from the outside cold by the aroma of soup on the stove and a roast in the oven.

The lady of the house (my mom, or sometimes myself, as I go earlier to help) is responsible for the soup and the main course.  The rest bring the bread, the beverages, the salad makings, the dessert, and the flowers.  We set the table, without skimping on the details, and sit ourselves down with much deliberation as to who sits where.  Somehow we always end up in the same seats we had occupied the Sunday before.

After generous compliments to the chef and a word of grace from the oldest grandchild, we start our meal.  And what do we talk about?  All sorts of things, really, but we especially love politics.  Some of us are liberal, others more moderate, and yet others conservative.  However, we agree to disagree because we love each other, and regardless the heat generated by our discussions, we respect the other enough to listen and concede when the other is right.  The one thing we all cannot stand though, is the moronic repetition of the closed minded.  Every subject brought up needs to permit logical scrutiny.  There’s enough unexamined thinking everywhere without adding on more to that pile, isn’t there?

A couple hours into the meal, we retire to the living-room where we deposit our stuffed selves on the velvety couches and chairs, or prop pillows under our heads and roll ourselves out across the floor, cushioned by the thick persian carpets.  The discussion by this time is much lighter.  We recount stories of our childhood and jokes, and grandpa (my dad) hands out a weekly allowance to the grandkids that has been in effect since the first grandchild was old enough to know what money’s for.  The little kids are quite enthralled with grandpa’s method of throwing money up in the air.  They scramble this way and that to get their little hands around the floating dollar bills.

It often appears that time has quite stopped while our laughter and merry voices ring out the opened windows. And when it’s time to leave we do so with a bit of sadness.  These intergenerational repasts sustain us all in the week to come, and as we leave and pack ourselves in our respective autos, toting plates of leftovers, and buckling children into their car-seats, we call out to each other, “What are you doing this week? Let’s get together for coffee!”

I would like to announce that this Mother’s Day Sunday, my house has officially become the Sunday dinner house for us all. I am so very lucky that my husband does the majority of the cooking. He is really one of the most naturally talented cooks. Ever. Thank you, baby!

I love my mom now probably more than I loved her as a child. She was going through a lot when we were young, and besides she had been raised by her strict Austrian father that children should only be kissed when they are asleep. It was a good thing that she married my dad who thought all of that was a bunch of nonsense and who made a point of kissing and hugging us for no reason at all.

Also, she had medical problems, a few pregnancy losses, and her uterus taken out of her without her permission after her last pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage, so I’m not surprised she held herself in reserve. She did not feel in control of her life. In fact, she wasn’t in control of her life. Important decisions were made by well meaning family members and medical personnel who believed they knew better.

Gradually she lowered her defenses against loving us too much, and as the years passed our relationship improved, although she is still very much a lady and formal to a degree, always courteous, hospitable, smiling.

But I love her gentleness, her unwavering faith, her forgiving nature, her constant love and support. Happy Mother’s Day mom. And Happy Mother’s Day to all of you women, whether you have given birth or not, you are all mothers and nurturers of dreams, of beauty and of love.

Weather-wise today was odd. Wind, rain, cold, interspersed with a bright sunny sky and a gentle breeze. Inside it was cozy and warm, all the lamps lit, everyone going about their business in the nicest way possible. I had a ton of paperwork, but two books arrived in the mail and deciding which to read first was of major importance.

The weekend wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. Saturday morning was spent at our favorite bakery, chatting with neighborhood friends, drinking mugs of coffee and eating a few croissants each, after which we went to the book store where my sweet husband took the kids to the kid section and babysat them while I went in search for books. Somehow, I got lost in the maze of book shelves and emerged an hour later with my arms full. Then it was pizza for lunch and home,
where we all piled up in our king sized bed, each with our newly bought book treasures. But somehow we fell asleep. Each single one of us. Maybe the starches we consumed all day long were to blame, because we slept until the sky darkened. I was the first to wake up, disoriented and felling guilty for sleeping when I had so much work I needed to get done.

After a delicious omelet that hubby prepared, we went out for ice cream and dessert, then home for family game night. And so the day ended sometime around 1 am when I couldn’t keep my eyes open a moment longer, and my daughter fell asleep on the living room floor.

Then Sunday came with its breakfast out, visit to friends, grocery shopping, and another long nap. And now it’s Monday night. Although I did work today, it wasn’t rushed. I feel rested and ready
for this week. I believe it will be a good one. A blessed one. Wishing you a blessed one as well.

Congratulations to Beth for winning this last giveaway. Stop on by and say hello.

Also, I have been tagged to post my 10th photo by two lovely friends, and I’m sorry to say that I can’t since I’m having issues with my laptop and am working from my iPhone and iPad until this coming weekend.
Please visit Sharon and Ange, and wish them a beautiful week.

Day at the beach.

My dad had given us an enchanted childhood.  Because he had a sweet tooth and was at heart one of us, he believed in making our birthdays and holidays magical; he was, and still is, a wonderful cook and fantastic storyteller.  Imaginative, playful, a prankster.  Dad was a weaver of words, and those he spun around us at bedtime, until we fell asleep and dreamt of floating castles and impish fairies.  I have very vivid memories of family trips to the sea, the mountains and the countryside, where he took us on walks through fields of blood red poppies or ancient forests, and bought us the sweets we craved without much prodding.

I suppose that’s what attracted me to my hubby right from the beginning.  He had that great sense of adventure, that love of life, that playfulness, and that attentiveness that I’ve associated with great dads.  And he turned out to be just as I thought he would.  He’s patient, kind, gentle, loving.  But most of all, he makes each day magical with his stories, his observations, his ideas, and his creations.  I love that he’s a stickler for rituals and traditions, for family time and family meals, for walks in the woods and on the beach, for building sandcastles and flying kites, for kicking the ball and patiently teaching to kick the ball, for watching birds and watching people, and for believing in the potential in all of us.  Daddies are precious!

(This is a re-post. I am working on a new short story post for Tuesday.)

I was in 6th grade the first time I found out that there were evil men out there who could and would hurt children, and rob them not just of their innocence but of their life.  We were all at home one evening when the phone rang, and being the closest to it, I answered.  There was a man on the other side who asked for me.  Apparently he knew my name and he wanted to buy me clothes.  A beautiful gift for a beautiful girl, he said.  Could I just tell him what I wanted?  There was something familiar about his voice, but I couldn’t place it.  My parents were in the other room and I didn’t see the harm in answering his questions.  He said to keep it between us, and that he would call again the following day.  And so I hung up and didn’t say a thing to anyone that night.

The next morning I was so excited about getting new clothes from this person who was so obviously good and caring, that I blurted it to my mom.  She demanded to know it all.  Who was he, but most importantly, why would a stranger buy me clothes?  I remember I got angry at her, thinking she was going to ruin my life with her old fashioned ideas of not accepting gifts from strangers. I remember I stayed angry that entire day at school, and thought up of ways I could get the clothes and keep them.

That evening at dusk he called as he had said he would.  My mom was in the kitchen, busy with the dinner preparations and my little brothers.  My dad and a friend co-worker of his (a huge man who boxed daily and was always telling jokes) had come home earlier from work.  The friend would join us for dinner before driving down to San Bernandino where he lived.  My dad answered the phone and handed it to me without bothering to ask who it was.  The two of them left the room.

I did not notice that someone picked up the other phone.  I explained to the nice man that I couldn’t accept a gift from a stranger.  My mom would not allow me to keep it.  The nice man laughed a normal laugh, and said something I cannot remember.  He would be there in 10 minutes though, parked three houses down.  Why didn’t I just go and see if I liked it?  Maybe I could hide it from my mom and just wear it when she wasn’t around.  It didn’t make sense, my mom was always around, I had thought of sneaking my gift past her all day, yet I found myself agreeing with him.

And so I hung up and waited for the 10 minutes to pass, wondering what excuse to give as to why I was going outside.

I never made it out of that room.  My parents came in, closed the door behind them and sat down to talk.  They explained about strangers and how dangerous they were, and how some were so evil that they saw nothing wrong with hurting and killing a child. But I didn’t really get it until my dad’s friend came in a few minutes later, his knuckles bloody, his big face red, and for the first time, without a smile on his ever smiling face.

The music teacher quit the next day.

Please visit my blog pal Crystal’s post: #mce_temp_url# for resource information on teaching children about what they could do to help prevent child sexual abuse, as well as in-depth ways for us, parents, to recognize it and stop it in it’s tracks.