The Best Sort of Day

Not all days are great, but some are. Those are the ones I focus on, sometimes, likely, to my detriment. The good days, the ones that come on me without warning, buoy my heart. They keep me lazy. Rob me of ambition. Because what else do I need when I can finish school early with my kids, load up second hand strollers with the people I love, walk along the water to buy flowers and chocolate milk and iced coffees? What more can I ask for when we can stop along the way to play on wooden pirate ships?  When there is an old galvanized bucket waiting in my mother's yard, ready to be filled with one too many grandchildren? 

And when those days find their way to me, I do everything I can to grab ahold of them and to keep them tight. Stretch them out while babies fall asleep on comfy outdoor sofas or in the arms of their fathers. I tuck them away in my memory. Give them amble space to grow. 

There are at least a dozen reasons that I get embarrassed about keeping a blog, at least this type of blog: a lifestyle/ mommy blog. I recognize the narcissism. I hear the cliches even as I type them. I know this offers little in the way of adding to any greater good. 

Chief among my concerns is that it is not authentic. I worry that people who know me look at it and see all that remains unsaid.  

There are so many things that I don't include here. Like how I worry about money. And when I fight with my family. I try to gloss over the fact that I am self-righteous and judgmental, and I can be a complete flake. I yell at my kids, and I cuss way too much. There are times when I feel suffocated with the weight of loving too many people, many of whom make the most god awful decisions known to man. 

That stuff is a part of me. It's a part of my children and my family and my story.

But the good days, like this past Friday which rolled into Saturday and Sunday too. They're a part of me and us and it, too. 

And like I said, that's what I do my best to focus on. 

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Reminded

Yesterday reminded me that almost everything is better after fresh air. It reminded me that walking is as good for the soul as it is for the body. It reminded me how I want to spend my days: kids in my bed to start the morning, leisurely cups of coffee, math and language arts at the dining room table, an afternoon spent exploring outside with curious eyes.  And soon enough, I hope to replace my normal Monday through Friday routine. I'm anxious to stop waking up in the darkest hour and grabbing coffee from a gas station on my to work. And even though 9 days out of 10, I love my job, I love being home with my little people even more.

And hopefully with the birth of a fourth Weaver baby, I'll make those things happen, once and for all. And I'll do my best not to forget that if those moments looks bleak, maybe I just need to take a walk.

Yesterday we walked along the old railroad tracks, and we poked at mushrooms, their spores turning the air to smoke, and I was so grateful for Science Friday teaching me only a few days ago. We collected acorns and spotted bugs. Arlo ran until he was too tired to run anymore, while Sena and Gus peered over the edge to watch minnows and nettle fish. We came home to get answers from google: persimmon and wren, we were told.

In a few weeks we will go back to see the trees ablaze. And maybe we will spot something new. Or maybe just see our old friends.

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Third Generation

When I was a kid, my mom would tell me about this beach, about Uncle Billie's at the end of the pier, and about the Golden Key Club where the most beautiful women she had ever seen worked (turns out they were drag queens). At the time North Beach was a summer city, full of cottages left vacant during the winter, full of vacationers looking to drink too much and gamble. The beach of her childhood was raucous and a little crass, a giant carnival. There were bars on every corner, hotels sprinkled through the neighborhoods, a bingo hall, places to rent inner tubes, segregated beaches.

By the time I was here as a kid, this beach had quieted down. The little stretch of sand was usually rather empty. The Oasis served bad french fries and scoops of bubble gum flavored ice cream to the few kids braving the jelly fish infested waters, though my mom and aunts didn't call them jelly fish: to them, they will always be sea nettles. There was no longer a net guarding the shores.There was a waterfront IGA that I found any excuse to walk to during the day: a roll of toilet paper, an ingredient needed for dinner, a pack of Bubble Yum.

The beach of my childrens' childhood is an altogether different place still: packed on weekends with day trippers from Northern Virginia and Prince George's County, paying 12 dollars to find a few square feet to lay their beach towels. There is no longer a grocery store, but we walk past the post office where my grandmother was the post master for 22 years on our way to the bakery that made my wedding cakes. And the generations whisper to each other about what was here and what is still to come.

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Waiting on Breakfast

Yesterday I waited and waited and waited for my sisters to be ready to go to breakfast. I waited so long it turned to lunch and I made myself food. My sisters did not inherit my timeliness gene.

But eventually they did show up, ready to eat. And although I wasn't hungry, I was dressed and my kids were dressed and we had nothing else planned, us Weavers.  It was, after all, the fifth day of an impromptu winter break. So off we went for a noon thirty breakfast at a place no longer serving breakfast. But I drank lots of coffee anyway. And we sat and sat and sat. And as I looked around at my kids and my husband, my mom and my sisters, I realized it was worth the wait.

Sometimes I'm restless, but I know that I'm not going anywhere. Because if I went somewhere else, I wouldn't have so many people to wait on.

If you would like to join a rather elite group, one which basically only consists of people sitting at the table pictured above, you should go over to Apartment Therapy's Homie Awards and vote for this little space and all the other little spaces you love to visit. 

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This Weekend We- Friday Night Farmer's Market

I didn't mean to stay in Calvert County. I didn't intend to live in my hometown forever. I didn't realize that my adventures would have fingers and toes and would crawl into my bed at night, and that my passport would collect dust rather than stamps.
For years I dreamed of leaving, of packing my family and going. Somewhere exotic or somewhere urban.
But I've grown content.
I have settled, and I like it.
This Friday, like most Fridays, we walked down to the farmer's market. We bought produce and jalapeno smoked cheddar, kettle corn and flowers. The kids played on the pirate ship and danced to old time music. I ran into high school friends and neighbors and people from church, all along the edges of my favorite brackish water.

No, I didn't mean to stay here, but I was meant to. 

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Summer Retrospective #2

I prefer sand to concrete and would rather swim in salt water than chlorine any day, but summers on the bay mean sea nettles and luke warm water that offers no relief. On those days, I pack up my little people for the town water park, just a lazy river, two big slides, and a hand full of kiddie attractions. When the bay or ocean aren't options, I would rather be at a pool myself, but this is closer and the kids love it. We bought season passes but we haven't gotten our monies worth, though I guess we have a few more weekends to take advantage of it til it shuts its doors for the season. 

It's worth braving the crowds and suffering without a lounge chair to watch Sena and Gus play with their whole hearts. It's worth it to watch their heads pop out from the middle of inner tubes or disappear behind waterfalls.Their little brother will be joining them in splashing and sliding soon enough, too soon in fact. 

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Mid-Week Mexican

Going out on a Wednesday night is pretty wild for us, 

like so wild that the mere prospect of it sent Sena into a dither all day. 

She coated her face in make-up at around nine this morning and reapplied hourly. 

She  could not bear to listen to anything her mama had to say and was threatened more times than I care to admit. 

The dinner almost got called off at about six different turns, but in the end, salsa, tortillas, and refried beans won out. And the margarita, it was well deserved.

Cheers to our new town's new Mexican restaurant and it's sort of bizarre, but also strangely lovable,  "American football" mural. 

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