Cabin Fever Cures // The National Aquarium

A week in and we were getting bored. Sick of the four walls. It has been cold and gray, and I haven't had much enthusiasm for bundling up and heading outside.  But when I woke up yesterday morning, I knew we had to go. The where part was uncertain and almost irrelevant. But it had to happen.

My vote was an art museum. I've been craving visual stimulation and inspiration. I was in the mood for wacky and whimsical, but I knew that despite the polite response from Gus, it wouldn't be hitting any home runs.

When I called to invite my mom, she completely poo-pood the idea, but wasn't able to produce any viable alternatives. So I suggested that if she would foot the bill, I would be willing to take the kids to the National Aquarium in Baltimore. The truth is, I don't actually like aquariums that much. In fact, I'm not terribly interested in anything "sciencey" except when it involves nature in a natural setting. Then I can get on board. Gus, however, loves aquariums. When I told him about the change in plans, he very literally jumped for joy.

In the hour between telling the kids we were going and actually leaving, I started to have all sorts of second doubts. Actually, it was just one doubt: is visiting an aquarium ethical? I warned my children that when we got home I was going to do the research so this could very well be their last visit. My "ethics" are a pretty insufferable thing to bear. I have concerns about so many things but then don't take very strong stands, which makes me a kill-joy who is still participating in the questionable activity.

I haven't gone on to figure out if all aquariums, and probably zoos for that matter too, should be avoided. After watching the joy and curiosity that overcame my children, I'm not sure if I want to. I'm desperately hoping that when done right, both institutions provide valuable research and support conservation measures in such a way to justify their existence.

Arlo had to be pulled from each and every exhibit. He spent five minutes with his eyes locked with a puffin, his new best friend named Stinky. Later he cried when we left his even newer best friend, Sharky. Gus bounced from one exhibit to the next, identifying fish I have never heard of.  Alamae stared wide-eyed and amazed in the dramatic light, entranced by the recorded whale songs.

I'm so grateful that my mom vetoed the art museum (though I'm forcing them to go visit one with me sooner rather than later) and that she treated us to the day on the Inner Harbor. Aquariums and lunches at Shack Shack are far from free.  So thanks, mom.

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Tenth Month With You

You climb the stairs, quickly, merrily, confidently. I wait behind you. Ready to catch your fall. Remember this always. I am behind you. I will catch your fall.

Were it not for your Oma, you would be mistaken for a boy even more often. The black sweater and brown moccasins I usually put you in throw off the masses.  Although it doesn't bother me in the least, it's amazing how embarrassed strangers get when they assume you are a he. Yesterday, on the first day of your tenth month, you were donned in all of the spoils of your grandmother: flowers, pinks, and corals.

You are independent. Quietly so. You don't buck to be put down. You are usually happy to sit straddled on a left hip, always the left. But when you are set down, you happily find your own adventures. You make your way around the house. Play with toys you find along the way. Go in search of siblings. Enthusiastically destroy whatever they are working on.

You have taken approximately two dozen steps, stretched across the past month.  Although you are now able, you seem disinterested in walking and prefer to crawl. The crawling stage is all too short in my opinion, so I am happy that you have not yet abandoned it. I will miss seeing you meaty tush angled high as you make your way across our home.

As I write, you are sitting at my feet, babbling away, softly swatting at my calf. I will pick you up and place you on my lap, but in a moment's time, you will want back down to see what the cat is doing. This is how our mornings go, at least the good ones. The slow mornings. The ones that just the two of us share. You let me drink coffee and type. I hide the cat food from your greedy little fingers. This is our routine for a time. It will pass soon enough. Replaced by a new routine. And new way of doing things. But I hope we always find quiet moments with just the two of us, amidst all these people we both love so much. I hope that you, my youngest child, and I find time for each other always. Time to simply be.

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Back At It

As Sunday wore on, I felt the looming dread of school the following morning. I suggested to my dad that I might need to give full on un-schooling a try, just to avoid returning to structure. Break was busy and not long enough to accomplish all the things that I felt I should have done. Though you and I both know so many of those should-haves will never be done. I will always have a giant basket (or two...maybe three) full of orphaned socks tucked into my bedroom's corners. There is no break long enough to compel me to actually organize them once and for all. Nevertheless, somewhere in my illogical heart, I blame the lack of time.

But yesterday I woke up a little earlier than usual, drank a cup of coffee, and organized the house enough so that we could start our day, all before the kids came down the stairs, blurry eyed and bedheaded.

As I made the kids oatmeal for breakfast, Gus wrote a journal entry about Christmas.  Meanwhile Sena began compiling her writing portfolio, and Arlo found a few abandoned Christmas ornaments, and requested to make them "more awesome" with the aid of plenty of paint, his favorite color being "fire."

When Gus was finished, he took a break to play with the Magna-tiles. Later my mom came over and worked with him on reading comprehension. Sena went to the basement to do a yoga video on her own. Throughout the day, they both practiced piano. At some point, the two oldest snuck upstairs so that Sena could read to Gus from one of her new Percy Jackson books.

In the afternoon when I was able to get Alamae to take a nap, I worked with Sena on her math, and when we were finished,  Gus joined us and we pulled out the globes, one of our most used books, and the new map study sheets I order sometime before the new year.  We sat at the dining room table reviewing continents, locating countries we have studied, pulling up images and information on my phone as needed. We talked about why Native Americans were mistakingly called Indians. About how map size is distorted. About the Aboriginal people of Australia. In an effort to take advantage of the tail end of Alamae's nap, I rented Walkabout on Prime for the kids so they could see what the Outback looked like, get a sense of the Land Down Under. As they watched with Arlo,  I snuck down to the basement for my own short yoga practice.

As it turns out, the grind isn't so bad.

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A Resolution

To find myself again. In bits a pieces. In fits and starts. Because even posting a picture of myself feels weird. Embarrassing. I'm allowed to share my children, but sharing myself seems ...vain?

Once I find me, underneath the mom that who has completely taken over, I want to take care of me.

It started with yoga. That's what I thought my resolution was going to be. To establish my practice. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that it's about so much more than yoga. It's about wearing nice underwear and bras that don't have underwires poking my utters. It's about not just thinking of my breasts as utters.  It's about taking long epsom salt baths in candle lit spaces. It's about making myself a cup of tea and sitting on the porch drinking it even if the house is a wreck. Even if I know that I should start dinner.

It's about putting on a bra before noon. And brushing my hair more often. And wearing perfume. And reading books. It's about being a dynamic human who takes care of herself, and remembers herself, even though she has a sizeable number of children. 

I have been pregnant or nursing since the beginning of 2012. While I will likely still be nursing for pretty much all of 2016, I need to be more than a milk maid. More than a cook. More than teacher and a house keeper. I am happy to be all of those things. But I need to be more. Because I miss me. I miss spending time in my own head.

Like I said, it started with yoga. This resolution formed with the desire to be healthier and more mindful. And from there, happiness follows. And when I am happier, I am a better mother. More patient. More kind. More present.

I am hoping this micro resolution has macro reverberations. Hoping that a better me leads in some small part to a better world.

It all connects. Healthy food. Healthy planet. Happy heart. Happy children. If I am a better me, I am a better milk maid, cook, teacher and house keeper. And certainly a better sister, friend, mother, daughter, and wife. And all of those relationships ripple out.

Small acts can feel revolutionary when done with intention.

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Beginning in the Same Place We Ended

We started our year in the same place we ended our year. And truthfully, if 2016 is anything like 2015, I will be more than pleased.

Days on on wintry beach. Clear skies. Cold sand. Forts and sand encrusted sweaters. An evening full of good intentions and nursing babies. Tacos and a yoga class, thankfully not in that order.

I feel asleep an hour before the ball dropped. Woke up to the the mess that comes with an evening full of friends and their children.  We worked together to recycle bottles, roll up sleeping bags, put away toys. Made a breakfast with the previous meal's leftovers, improved with the addition of fried eggs and Trader Joe's hash browns.

I love new beginnings. I love the chance to begin again. To improve and dream and plan.

And tomorrow, with a good nights sleep hopefully wiping away some of the darkness lurking under my eyes, I will pour out my list of what I hope to make of this year. But if I don't, and if nothing changes, if all stays still for this next loop around the sun, I will welcome the next year with joy and gratitude. Because this is good. And I am thankful.

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