Fairweather Friend

I wish I was more outdoorsy, that I made it a consistent priority to breathe fresh air and get a little dirty. I wish I knew the names of birds and insects and that I could start a fire more easily. I wish I went out there when it was cold and damp, that my family was good at setting up camp.

But the truth is, I prioritize dozens of things above moments outside, especially when it's not that warm.  Laundry needs to be put away. Dinner needs to be started. My sister has come over to drink coffee. So the outdoors wait, and I sneak a peek at my phone or a blog, and I see all the folks living in the great wide  open while I'm inside.

I want to be one of them-- those people who own all weather jackets and appropriate footwear. But I've never been that woman. My family never went camping growing up. My first night in a tent was when I was thirteen on a mission trip to Venezuela. Most of my camping experience since then has been right beside my car while on the side of a mountain for some music festival or another. In college a friend's boyfriend criticized us for our indoor ways-- he was off to play midnight soccer, while we were content with a board game, a box of wine, and a stereo blasting our favorite live shows.

All day yesterday I vowed to get out there, to put everything else aside. But then it rained and when it cleared, Alamae was fast asleep, and there was such a small window until dinner would need to be made. So plans to go to the beach turned to plans to sip tea on the porch and putter about the yard. It didn't feel outdoorsy in the way I had hoped. But we did hear the spring peepers as the evening settled in, and we spotted a cardinal hanging out on own of our azalea bushes. We discovered mole tunnels snaking through our yard, and Arlo delighted in meeting his shadow.

The weather will turn soon enough, and I will spend more time beyond these walls. For a little while longer though, I might just be a porch person, enjoying the first signs of spring from my newly hung swing.

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Whittling and Weaving

There are times when it feels like I am doing it all wrong. I wonder when the last time Gus ate a vegetable was. I hope that I reminded them to brush their teeth that morning. I am loathe to really imagine how many hours they have spent staring at one screen or another. And then I start I wonder if I ever read to them enough or if I am to blame for the fact that they complain about boredom. Maybe I didn't foster their creativity. Maybe I stunted their intellectual development. Sure, they are smart, but maybe they could have been smarter. There are times when they pick at each other and the words coming out of their precious little mouths are just a little too snappy for my taste, and they don't sound very nice, or patient, or caring.

But there are other times when they find their way to the porch in the sunlight of autumn, and they talk to each other with kindness as one whittles and one weaves. They plan Christmas presents for their aunts and uncles. They encourage each other and let out little giggles, all of which I can hear from the open kitchen window.

Those are the times I like.

For any mother of a boy who has a hard time finding hobbies, I highly recoomend whittling. Gus likes his crafts to have an air of danger. 

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