Photo A Day, Day 13: More Please!

This entry is a day late because I spent the weekend in New York City with my husband celebrating our sixth wedding anniversary. It was a whirlwind of amazing food, amazing theatre, and amazing sights. We had dinner at two spectacular restaurants (Aureole and Le Bernardin), caught a production of "Madama Butterfly" at the Met and of "Rodgers + Hammerstein's Cinderella" on Broadway, stumbled across a beautiful Iranian ethnic festival and parade, explored the Sea, Air and Space Museum aboard the Intrepid, had brunch with friends and drinks at a revolving rooftop bar, and enjoyed just generally taking in the atmosphere of the city.

We fit an amazing amount of fun into two and a half short days. Which is pretty appropriate, since we've also fit an amazing amount of fun into six short years. And in both cases, I'd like to say, "More please!"

Photo A Day, Day 12: On My Left

I don’t have a laptop computer, so close to 100% of my writing is done at my desk, in my office. And since the afternoon is when my son is allowed to have computer time, and the evening is when I usually get chores done around the house, the majority of my writing time at my desk happens in the morning. And as anyone who knows me or who follows my Facebook is well aware, it’s not really morning until I’ve had my coffee. So it’s not surprising that almost any time I am writing at my computer and I look to my left, I will see a sight similar to this one.

I was never a much of a coffee drinker until I was well into my 30s, and even then, I was more of a “social” coffee drinker: I would drink it when I was out for a meal with friends (more likely lunch or dinner than breakfast), or I’d grab a cup at work when I was heading for an afternoon meeting. But once I had children, coffee in the morning became a necessity.

Despite being a necessity, though, it feels like a little luxury, a little treat, a little indulgence. Instead of feeling like I can drag myself out of bed because I know there’s a cup of coffee waiting to get me going, I feel more like I want to get out of bed because there’s something wonderful waiting for me in the kitchen. And there’s always something wonderful waiting for me in my kitchen! Sometimes it’s my husband, sometimes it’s my kids, but always it’s my java.

It’s waiting there for me, right there on my left. 

Photo A Day, Day 11: 3 of a Kind

Before my husband and I got married, naturally we discussed having children. Not surprisingly, he (who grew up in a family of three children) wanted three children, and I (who grew up in a family of two children) was more comfortable with the idea of two children. Since he already had one, it worked out perfectly that we simply added two more to the one he had, and voila! Three of a kind.

Although it’s not apparent from this photo, taken when our youngest was still in the “blob” stage, all three kids are happy, easygoing, and laid back. They all have terrific senses of humor and they love to make each other laugh. All three are social and affectionate, happily doling out hugs and high fives to friends and strangers alike. They are all content to spend time with others and also to have quieter times with only themselves for company.

And yet, they are each unique individuals. My son is all boy, rough and tumble and physical, fascinated by bugs and farts and trucks, preferring to play by building things or destroying them. My littlest daughter prefers to dress up in a tutu and a crown and make up stories with her stuffed animals, speaking in a different voice for each one and saving them from various dire situations. And my stepdaughter is a thinker and a storyteller and an athlete, equally comfortable tending bar and herding cattle and fixing HumVees. I’ve even got a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.

That’s what I call a perfect 3 of a kind. 

Photo A Day, Day 10: My Fave Part of the Day

There are so many options for my favorite part of the day. I love waking up in the morning and hearing my kids playing and chatting together down the hall. I love wordlessly snuggling with my husband before we get up and start the insanity of the day. I love lying down next to my daughter and reading a story together before her naptime. I love doing the same with my son while he waits for his turn in the tub before bedtime. And I love once again wordlessly snuggling with my husband as we drift off to the sleep at the end of a long day.

So what do all these favorite times have in common? Yep, you guessed it.

I’m all about the bed. I’m all about the soft sheets, the perfectly firm mattress, the soothing colors in the room, the fresh-scented pillows, and the beloved bedmate. My bed is my haven from the world, my place to relax and decompress, my escape from noise and demands and stress. Any time I get to be in my bed is my fave part of the day.

Photo A Day, Day 9: Dark

Dark. Dark is easily definable, but very difficult to take a picture of, at least of its most literal meaning. I could try to take a picture of my kids sleeping in the dark, but either it wouldn’t come out or I’d use a flash and it wouldn’t be dark any more. I could attempt a photo of some dark, shadowy corner of my house, but I know I’d never be able to capture those fascinating, elusive shadows on film. I could go with literal but the adjective instead of the noun, and take a photo of someone with dark hair or eyes, or a room with dark-colored walls, although those seem a bit like cop-outs. I suppose I could try for some more figurative meaning of the word: the cover of some horror novel (I don’t really have any of those on hand), some creepy illustration from a book (I still have my parasitology textbook from college), or some similar dark-themed image. But that doesn’t really fit with the general theme of my blog.

So how to show “dark”? I was suddenly reminded of a drawing exercise I did in art class in 8^th grade or so. The teacher put together a jumble of chairs and instructed us to draw the “negative space.” We were not trying to draw chairs, we were trying to draw the spaces between the chairs. But looking at the contrast, we were able to see the objects. So why not show “dark” by showing “light”? And what better example of “light” than a candle?

Without light, there is no darkness. The light, in a manner of speaking, is the creator of the darkness. So whenever there is darkness in my life, I know there is some bit of light somewhere, allowing it to be. Look for the light, and you will always find it, even in the dark. Especially in the dark.

Photo A Day, Day 8: Hobby

I’ve had quite a few hobbies over the course of my life. My first real hobby was probably decorating my Barbie Town House in elementary school. I designed furniture by stapling fabric remnants from my mom’s sewing projects onto scraps of wood left over from my dad’s projects; I drew pictures and taped them to the walls as artwork; I fringed the edges of scraps of wrapping paper to make area rugs. When I hit junior high, my design hobby gave way to my musical hobbies: I sang in the choir, I doodled around on the piano, I took up the flute and later the French horn. In high school and college, I took up various types of needlework, from sewing to quilting to embroidery to counted cross-stitch. I even tried my hand (somewhat unsuccessfully) at knitting, crochet, and trapunto. But although all those hobbies have waxed and waned through the years, one hobby has persisted throughout my life since childhood: theatre.

For someone who considers myself an introvert, I have never had a fear of performing. One of my earliest memories is from the age of about 3, performing as one of the littlest angels in the church Christmas pageant (the specific memory is of getting yelled at by my big sister for dropping the back of my robe in the toilet, but that’s beside the point). My first “big” role was playing Mabel in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance in sixth grade. Since then, I’ve played every character from an amnesiac nun to a Nazi-sympathizing prostitute to a grumpy stepsister to a tomboyish princess to an Irish mum to a feisty union rep. I’ve made entrances posed on a bed in my underwear, through a gym locker, and dripping wet. I’ve been hit on by puppets and sailors, I’ve had knives thrown at me, I’ve been tossed in the air by a bunch of teenage boys. Over the course of time, I’ve expanded into backstage and production work as well, designing costumes, running crew, assisting with set design, dressing actors, selling tickets. And I’ve loved it all. 

Doing theatre, for me, is a source of satisfaction and relaxation. And isn’t that the whole reason to have a hobby?

Photo A Day, Day 7: Where I'd Rather Be

For all that I'm a hardy New Englander, I do love warm weather and sunshine. So most of the time, if you were to ask me in the early spring where I would rather be at the moment, I would answer something like "Aruba," or "on a Caribbean cruise," or "on a tropical beach." But since we've had a week of warm, sunshine-filled weather, I'm not craving the tropics as I usually am this time of year. There is somewhere I'm craving to be, though - or, more accurately, there is somewhere I'm looking forward to being: New York City.

For our 6th wedding anniversary in a few weeks, my husband and I are planning on spending a weekend in the Big Apple, seeing a few shows, having dinner at some interesting restaurants, and just generally taking in the excitement and hustle and bustle of New York City. And also, reliving our very first trip together, nearly six and a half years ago.

I love New York just because I love New York, but ever since that trip, I also love it because of the wonderful memories of falling more in love with my sweetheart there. We weren't married then, we weren't even officially engaged, but we had discussed marriage and we both knew privately that this was The One. (As a matter of fact, we shopped for engagement rings at Tiffany's on that trip!) In some ways, this was our pre-honeymoon: It was a chance to spend a few days together, 24/7, to get to know each other better, and to suss out whether or not we had any weird, quirky, as-yet-undiscovered habits that would drive each other crazy. It turns out, we did both have some weird and quirky habits, but nothing that drove the other crazy. This trip served to confirm, in both our minds, that we were well-matched.

So this picture shows one place I'd rather be right now: New York City. But it also shows me in my sweetheart's arms, and that's always where I'd rather be.

Photo A Day, Day 6: A Taste of Spring

When I think of things you eat that signify spring, I think of fresh herbs and vegetables. But those don’t usually arrive until later in the spring. Edibles that DO arrive at the very start of spring, however, are all the delicious candies and treats associated with Easter: Cadbury crème eggs, jellybeans, chocolate bunnies, marshmallow Peeps, and – in our house, at least – jello eggs.

We have a set of Tupperware molds in the shape of eggs, and it is an annual tradition for either Dad and the kids or Mom and the kids to mix up a bunch of colors of jello, pour them into the molds (occasionally layering the colors for artistic effect), then wait impatiently for them to set so that we can pop the eggs out and nibble the wiggly, fruity deliciousness. 

To me, the bright cheery colors of the eggs remind me of stained glass windows. They glisten in the sun almost like crystals, the colors glowing from within. They remind me of all the bright spring blossoms that will soon be – or already are – bursting forth in my garden and in my neighbors’ gardens. The fresh, fruity, sweet smell combines the best of sugary Easter basket treats soon to come and the green growing things that are finally peeking out of the ground in spring. And the sweet yet tart flavors make my mouth pucker and water, anticipating all the wonderfully fresh and fruity flavors of spring foods.

Jello eggs are my favorite first taste of spring!

Photo A Day, Day 5: Not Mine

With the beautiful, warm weather we’ve had most of this past week, my kids and I spent as much time outside as we could. We had a picnic on the porch, they rode their bike and trike, we went to the playground, and we did one of my favorite spring traditions: we took a walk through the neighborhood looking for signs of spring.

Our yard is not particularly sunny, and I am not much of a gardener, so there aren’t many signs of spring in our own yard. I don’t have any bulbs that bloom this early, no snowdrops or crocuses, and my dwarf irises have barely peeped their little green noses through last year’s mulch. The best we can do is listen for lovesick chickadees and cardinals high up in the trees, and catch an occasional glimpse of the robin who likes to attack his reflection in the side mirror of my husband’s car. But I have neighbors whose yards have started to remind me that spring is truly on its way.

One of the first peeps of green we saw on our walk was this clump of white and purple crocuses shooting up through a few of last fall’s leaves. You can practically see them reaching towards the sunshine and straining to burst open and show their fuzzy gold hearts. Thanks to my neighbors, I can be reassured that spring is coming, courtesy of their beautiful flowers, even though they’re not mine. 

Photo A Day, Day 4: Good Together

My children are 21 months apart in age. For the first 6 months, I thought that age difference would kill me. But ever since then, I’ve been certain that it is the perfect sibling age span. They’re close enough in age that they share common interests, yet they’re far enough apart to avoid overlap in school, sports teams, and most hobbies. My daughter wants to do what my son does, but she’s old enough to be a flattering groupie rather than an annoying tag-along. Of course, he doesn’t appreciate when she tries to steal his toys, but he likes to show her how they work. He likes to play the big brother role, to teach her to do things he’s barely learned himself, to remind her of how "long ago" he learned to do what she’s just learning now. It’s a beautiful friendship, my delicate little girl looking up to her big, solid brother, much adoration flowing in both directions.

Just last summer, my son graduated from a tricycle to a bicycle with training wheels, and my daughter inherited the tricycle she’d been gazing at longingly all season. So this spring, she is beyond delighted to jump right on the tricycle while her big brother zooms around her on his big boy bike. He shouts encouragement to her, and she looks enviously but adoringly at his mad cycling skillz. While I just sit back, admiring these amazing two human beings that I worked so hard to teach to love each other. And they do. They are, indeed, good together.  

Photo A Day, Day 3: Shapes

The word “shapes” to me implies regular geometric shapes: circles, squares, trapezoids, ovals, rhombi, rectangles, parallelograms. Other, less mathematical shapes fall into the category of “organic shapes”: crescents, quatrefoils, crosses, stars, teardrops, hearts. There is an infinite number of shapes that don’t even have names, because every one is unique: the shape of a particular pear, or amoeba, or fingernail, or stick. Every bit of matter in the known universe has a shape. If you look closely enough at just about anything, you will find identifiable, distinct shapes. For example, I caught a glimpse of this fascinating view as I was helping my daughter put on her bike helmet this afternoon.

The bricks are regular rectangles in a repeating, even pattern, but superimposed over them is the shadow of irregular, forked tree branches, and adjacent to them is the even oval of the bike helmet filled with teardrop- and leaf-shaped cutouts. I love the jumble of shapes and patterns; the juxtaposition of regular and irregular, of predictable and unexpected.

It’s a lot like life: there is a certain comfort in predictability and regularity, but at the same time, it can get a little boring. And if everything were unpredictable, life would be scary and uncertain. So the most beautiful combination is a little bit of regularity and a little bit of unpredictability. Rectangles and irregular polygons. Bricks and branches. The many shapes of life. 

Photo A Day, Day 2: In My Hand

I am a very tactile person. I like the feel of things. I like to touch things. I like comparing textures and weights. I think that’s one of the reasons I love to sew: I love the contrast of soft, slippery satin and rough, nubby corduroy. I love the feeling of a piece of fabric sliding between my fingers. A lot of the things that I enjoy I can connect to my love of touching. I love to go canoeing because I like the feeling of dragging my fingertips in the cool water. I like going to the beach because I like the feeling of the damp sand squishing between my toes. I like cooking because I like the feel of touching the elastic bread dough and the mushy ground beef and the slippery raw eggs and the cold vegetables. And because of my love of touching, I especially love to touch my children.

I am constantly hugging and kissing my children, running my fingers through their hair, scritching their backs, and holding their hands. They’re both young enough that they like it (or at least tolerate it), but I have no doubt that the day is coming when the most physical contact I’ll get will be a brief hair ruffle. So I’m taking advantage of their snuggliness while I can.

One of my favorite snuggly moments is my daughter’s naptime. She is working her way out of needing a nap, so she fights it tooth and nail. But I’ve discovered that one way to get her to relax and let herself fall asleep is to snuggle with her. I lay down on the couch or on her bed and pull her close to me. She knows what I’m up to, so she often pulls away. But as she starts to fall asleep, she almost inevitably reaches out and wraps her hand around mine. She may act like she doesn’t need to touch me, but in her half-asleep state, she still reaches to Mama for comfort.

I love that. I will always love having her hand in my hand. Because I know that means I have her heart in my hand, too.

Photo A Day, Day 1: Something Purple

For some people, “something purple” might be a difficult subject to capture easily on film. It’s not a color that everyone has in their wardrobe; it’s not a common color for interior or exterior paint; there isn’t likely to be a car in that particular shade parked nearby. But for anyone with a daughter under the age of, say, 18, purple is common. And for anyone with a daughter under the age of, say, 8, purple is ubiquitous.

I have a 2-1/2 year old daughter, therefore my life is filled with purple. My daughter has purple pajamas, she has purple dresses, the blanket on her bed is purple, she dresses up in a purple tutu, she has a pair of purple sneakers, she has a purple purse, her favorite toys are a purple My Little Pony and a Matchbox Holley Shiftwell (a car from the movie Cars 2 who just happens to be – you guessed it – purple), a full one-third of her hair bow collection is purple. Her favorite snack is even purple grapes! But the one item that pretty much sums up her love of purpleness is her Purple Princess Cup.

Although I chose to feature Princess Rapunzel in this view (she does, after all, wear a purple gown), you can see glimpses of Princess Belle to the right and Princess Jasmine to the left. Also featured are Princess Aurora (Sleeping Beauty), Princess Snow White (no, no one ever seems to call her princess, but I don’t know why and it doesn’t seem fair, so I’m granting her the honorary title), and Princess Cinderella. The plethora of princesses certainly makes it special to her, but her true love for this cup is rooted in the fact that it is purple. The background is purple, the cap is purple, this sucker is PURPLE. This is, unquestionably, the Purple Cup.

I know that the color is what makes it special because she does not refer to it as her “princess cup,” but rather as her “purple cup.” That might not seem notable, except for the fact that all the other cups are consistently referred to as the “Minnie Mouse cup,” the “Buzz and Woody cup,” and the “car cup,” never the “red cup,” the “orange cup,” or the “blue cup.” What makes this cup special to her is that it is so very, very purple.

I don’t know why I’m surprised that she’s so attracted to purple. It is the color of royalty, after all, purple.

Photo A Day, Day 25: Quirky

Most of my quirkiness is difficult to capture in a photograph. My quirks tend to be things like a hatred of talking on the phone, or a complete lack of a sense of direction, or the ability to come up with a line or lyric from a musical that fits any occasion, or a remarkable memory for remembering random actors' names. You can’t really take a picture of any of those things. But I do have one quirk that can easily be visually depicted: I love animal prints. Particularly leopard print. And it is a quirk which my husband loves to indulge (I’m not sure whether it’s because he thinks it’s sexy or because he thinks it’s hilarious, but either way I get leopard print stuff so it’s all good), so I do have quite the collection. I have a pair of leopard print ballet flats, a great leopard print shirt, various assorted leopard print undergarments, and even a pair of leopard print flannel leggings.

I’m not exactly a flashy dresser. In fact, there’s very little flashy about me. I’d much rather blend into the background than stick out and be noticed. And yet, every now and then I let my deeply-buried wild side peek out. And I love to do it with just one little flashy item of clothing. It might be my leopard print shoes, or my flashy retro leather jacket, or my bright red patent pumps. It might be my giant chandelier earrings, or my even more giant silver hoop earrings. One day it might be a pair of wacky socks, another it might be a T-shirt with a pithy saying on it, yet another it might be my screamingly purple capri pants.

It might not be the most interesting bit of quirkiness, but it’s my quirkiness. And I love being quirky. 

Photo A Day, Day 24: Word

“Word” is a hard thing to put into a photograph. I thought about taking a picture of the word “Home” in a wall-hanging I have that says, “Home Is Where Your Story Begins,” but I used that for a photo earlier this month. I checked out some words that were printed on a bunch of storage boxes that I was rooting through this afternoon, but nothing sparked my imagination.

Until I went to throw a load of laundry into the dryer and discovered that something that should have been in the colored load had made its way into the white load, and had turned it PINK.

One bath towel, three or four of my husband’s undershirts, several pairs of socks, a couple of hand towels, and a bunch of washcloths that were all formerly pure white are now a delicate shade of PINK. Even after a second washing with a generous dose of bleach, they are still undeniably, incontrovertibly, unchangeably PINK. 

The word “PINK” is, as of this load of laundry, a very hated word in my vocabulary. PINK is a pretty color, but it should not be associated with men’s undershirts, good towels and washcloths, or gym socks. Those things should all be as white as the driven snow. As white as a newborn baby lamb. As white as a standard poodle straight from the groomer’s salon. White white white. Not PINK.

And the thing that is MOST frustrating about the situation is that just last week I gave my husband a hard time for throwing something red into the laundry bin which ran all over a load of light-colored clothes, turning a number of them (including several brand-new pairs of my son’s underpants) PINK. In all my years of doing laundry (more than 30!), I had never turned anything PINK before, so I felt somewhat justified in yelling at him. But here I am, less than a week later, staring at a pile of PINK clothes which were never meant to be PINK. And  to add insult to injury, I still can’t even figure out what the culprit was. There was nothing red that snuck into the load; no wayward sock or balled-up t-shirt, no bit of crayon buried deep in a pocket, no escaped tube of lipstick. Only two many-times-washed pink shirts and a pair of relatively new white socks with bright pink stripes which don’t appear to have run. Even in hindsight, I can’t figure out what my mistake was.

So this photograph is an illustration of all the frustration, all the anger, all the hatred, all the powerlessness, and all the crow-eating that can be stored up in a single word which normally does not have any emotional associations: the word “PINK”.

Photo A Day, Day 23: Simplicity

Remember during “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown,” when all the kids went trick-or-treating and listed all the great treats they got, then Charlie Brown said, “I got a rock”? We’re supposed to feel bad for poor old Charlie Brown, but when I think about most of the kids I know, they would think a rock was pretty cool. Kids love simple things.

Don’t get me wrong, my kids love toys that talk and move and make noise and light up and require batteries. They would both spend every day playing on my computer or my Kindle Fire if I would let them. But they can both spend an entire day playing with nothing but rocks and sticks and random bits of trash that they’ve found lying around somewhere, too. For example, my daughter has spent at least two hours over the course of the day today playing with this box. 

She puts things into it; she takes things out of it. She opens it; she closes it. She peeks inside to be sure that what she put in is still there. She trots it around to anyone else in the area and shows it to them. Occasionally she even hands it to them ceremoniously, announcing very solemnly, “Present for you.” Sometimes she informs her stuffed monkey, “Look, EE, box!” EE is a frequent resident of the box, too. She will often pack EE inside and then bring me the box and, with a twinkle in her eye, shout in a voice of mock horror, “Mama!!! EE gone. GONE!!!” And when I react with similar horror, she explodes into giggles, opens the box and says, “Mama, EE here! EE okay!”

The generic simplicity of a box gives it so many more possibilities than a toy that is specifically something. A cool toy pirate ship with a Jolly Roger flag that goes up and down and cannons that shoot Nerf balls and a loudspeaker that shouts, “Ahoy, mateys!” is fun and exciting, but it will never be any more or any less than a pirate ship. A big box, however, can be a pirate ship OR a rocket to Mars OR a speeding racecar OR a tent in the middle of a desert OR anything else a child’s imagination can come up with. Simplicity equals potential.

I think that’s why adult human beings are fascinated with children: because they have so much potential. The older a child gets, the more determined his path in life becomes. Every experience he has points him more specifically in a certain direction. Whenever he learns something new about himself, he becomes just a tiny bit limited by that knowledge. But a very young child, in his simplicity of thought and experience and education, is a beautifully blank slate on which can be written anything. If only we adults could have such simplicity!

Photo A Day, Day 22: Behind

According to the dictionary, “behind” has a whole list of meanings. It can be used as a preposition with five different meanings: at or toward the rear of; not keeping up with, later than; in the state of making less progress than; on the farther side of, beyond; and originating, supporting, or promoting. It can be used as an adverb with five more meanings: at or toward the rear, rearward; in a place, state, or stage already passed; in arrears; slow, as a watch or clock; and as a cause or often latent feature of. In addition, it can be an adjective meaning “following”, or a noun meaning “the buttocks” (tee hee).

There are a lot of “behinds” in my world in all the various senses of the word. I wipe behinds, I run behind, I find things behind other things, I am behind various causes, I frequently fall behind schedule. So when I considered subjects for today’s photo, there were a lot of different ways I could have gone. There are always a few interesting items that my kids have dropped behind the TV or the couch (Legos, socks, remotes, Matchbox cars, dust rhinos). They love to run around pants-free so a cute but tasteful shot of a naked behind racing past was an option. Their favorite hidey-hole happens to be behind a chair. They race around the house one behind the other. Come to think of it, most of the “behind” in my life has its source with my children, one way or the other.

But honestly, the first thing I think of when I hear the word “behind” is laundry. Somehow, no matter how many loads I run, I’m always behind on laundry. For a family that has a lot of clothes, rarely a day goes by when someone isn’t looking for some article of clothing that turns out to be in the laundry, be it in the laundry basket, in the washing machine, in the dryer, or folded in a pile on the stairs waiting to be put away. 

A pile of dirty laundry will always be foremost in my mind as a symbol of motherhood.

But despite the constant state of “behindness” of my laundry pile, there’s something special about doing my kids’ laundry. Matching up those tiny socks. Checking the pockets for rocks and bugs and acorns and other fascinating detritus of the day. Hanging up that fluffy party dress or that button-up dress shirt with matching necktie on a miniature hanger. Realizing suddenly that the baby clothes are looking more and more like big kid clothes. Replacing bibs with underpants. Noticing that the spitup stains have given way to grass stains. Recognizing that the clothes that I picked out are rarely seen and the ones they picked out for themselves are making more frequent appearances.

Laundry is a microcosm of kids growing up. Before I know it, they’ll be doing their own laundry for fear that I’ll ruin their favorite pair of jeans or that cool concert tee shirt. And I’ll be left with only my husband’s and my own laundry to do. I just hope that by the time that happens, I’ll be ready to leave their childhoods…behind.

Photo A Day, Day 21: I Wish I Had This

The irony of today’s topic does not escape me: take a photograph of something that I wish I had. Well now, if I had it, I wouldn’t have it to take a photo of, would I? I suppose I could “cheat” by posting a photo that I didn’t take, perhaps something from my Pinterest board entitled “Stuff I’ll Buy When I Finally Write That Best-Seller.” A fur coat, a pair of Louboutins, a Valentino gown, a jet ski, some really nice jewelry, a snazzy little convertible. But even that stuff isn’t really stuff I wish I had, at least not in the sense that I think about wanting it on a regular basis.

There really aren’t many tangible, visible, physical things that I want on a regular basis. I mean, I have passing wants. I want a glass of wine. I want a second cup of coffee. I want a pair of comfortable jeans. I want two potty-trained children. But those are all things that are well within my ability to obtain, if I want them badly enough and I’m willing to bide my time (okay, I’m starting to have my doubts about that last one, but I’m keeping faith that it will happen eventually). But I can’t think of any bit of “stuff” that I really, genuinely want that I can’t have.

I suppose there are intangible things that I want in passing, as well. I want to be able to play the piano well. I want my children to get along with each other. I want to publish a best-seller. And although I certainly have the ability to work toward making those things happen, none of them are completely in my control. I can improve my piano playing, but with a degenerative disease in my hands and limited practice time, I’m never going to be much more than a passable pianist. I can teach my children good manners and model interpersonal skills for them, but I can’t force them to be nice to each other every second of the day. I can write umpteen drafts of a book and send it to dozens of publishers, but if no-one want to publish it (or if they do, but no-one wants to buy it), I am simply not capable of making it a best-seller on my own. But it isn't really the end of the world to me if none of those things happen.

So what is it that I really, genuinely, continuously, deep-down, wish I had? I think, as so many moms of small children would answer, I wish I had more time. 

I wish I had more time to just sit back and play with my children. I wish I had more time to sit them in my lap and read to them. I wish I had more time to read classic literature and cheesy novels and young adult dystopian fiction. I wish I had more time to visit my in-laws and my cousins and my old college chums. I wish I had more time to work on writing that book and practicing piano and being in musicals and learning to cook gourmet meals. I wish I had more time to watch the sunrise and the sunset. I wish I had more time to stay up late catching fireflies and counting shooting stars. I wish I had more time to chat with strangers in line at the grocery store. I wish I had more time to get to know the other parents at my son’s preschool. I wish I had more time to snuggle with my husband in front of a fire with a glass of good wine in my hand and a symphony playing in the background. I wish I had more time to go see all my talented friends and family in their many performances. I wish I had more time to travel around the country and the world. I wish I had more time to take my kids to art museums and science museums and historical museums.

More time: I wish I had it.

Photo A Day, Day 20: Communication

It never ceases to amaze me how communication has changed over the last century. One hundred years ago, the majority of communication was either face-to-face or by written letters. The telephone was just becoming common, and long-distance communication was more likely to be via telegraph. Within my own lifetime, we’ve gone from party lines and five-digit phone numbers (I still remember learning my phone number as “47398”), to seven digits, to multiple area codes, to e-mail and cell phones and texting and Skype and Facetime. My children have never even seen an actual rotary phone or any kind of phone with a cord attached. It makes me wonder what communication will be like when they’re adults.

But communication itself will never go by the wayside. Even though mail is not terribly popular, my kids delight in occasionally writing a “letter” to Daddy and leaving it in the mailbox for him to pick up when he gets home. They love sitting on Daddy’s lap when he Skypes with a friend far away. But most of all, they love chatting on the phone when anyone they know and love is on the other end. And by far, their favorite person to have on the other end of the line is Daddy.

Several times a day, at least, my daughter will pick up a phone (either one of our cordless phones or my cell phone) and chirp, “Hi, Dad!” She’ll even give it a hug or a kiss before solemnly and a bit sadly announcing, “Bye, Dad.” It’s reassuring to her to know that even when Daddy isn’t right here with her, he’s only as far away as the closest telephone.

And heaven knows, as a stay at home mom, I also find it reassuring that even though I may be at home with only my children for company, the company of a friend is only as far away as my phone or my computer or my Kindle Fire. I can give someone a call, shoot them a text, send them a message on Facebook, drop them an email, or chat on an online message board. Because of the wonders of modern communication, I am never far away from a friend. It’s a beautiful thing, communication.

Photo A Day, Day 19: Where You Ate Breakfast

Yesterday’s Photo-A-Day was photo-centric rather than writing-centric, because I happened to take an especially artistic photograph. Today, however, will be the opposite, since today’s topic is rather self-limiting and since I ate breakfast in a less-than-aesthetically-pleasing place. 

This might just be the dullest photograph ever taken on the planet Earth. Or at least the dullest photograph ever taken by ME on the planet Earth. But this is where ate breakfast, so this is my photo of the day.

Well, to be honest, saying that I “ate” breakfast here is not entirely accurate. In fact, I drank my breakfast here. I often begin my day with coffee and e-mail, usually while my children are starting their breakfast in the next room. They finish their breakfast around the same time I finish my coffee, so by the time I get to the “eating” part of my breakfast, there is no single place I could take a photo to represent where I ate breakfast.

I suppose I could put together a video or a slideshow of all the various places where my breakfast eating takes place. Today it would have started with the kitchen counter, since my breakfast began by stealing a bite of the first half of my buttered English muffin while I was buttering the second half. This was mainly a self-preservation strategy, since as soon as I went downstairs to the playroom, my daughter (who has English Muffin Radar) attached herself to my leg chanting alliteratively, “Mama, muffin – me!” and because I am a sucker, I gave it to her. Sometimes she loses interest after a bite or two and I can reclaim part of it later from wherever she’s discarded it (this could be anywhere from on one of the couch cushions, to on the table, to the shelf in front of the TV, to the bathroom sink), but today she apparently polished off the whole thing. (Or possibly found a new hiding place. Eek.)

Since today is Tuesday, a day that my son goes to pre-school, I grabbed a bite of the remaining muffin half in between making sure he was dressed for school. I had to double-check that he had everything he needed in his backpack, so I also snatched a few bites in the front hall and in my son’s bedroom while I was digging out an extra pair of socks for him. We had a little time to play before Daddy took him to school, so a few more bites happened while building Lego towers and reassembling a Transformer.

Since I didn’t manage to retrieve a significant portion of my English muffin from my daughter, I grabbed a piece of toast after the boys left for school. My daughter (who also has Toast Radar) promptly came upstairs to the kitchen and begged to share my toast, but I turned her down because I am a Mean Mom. (Also, I was hungry!) But I did accept her pleas to sit and doodle around at the piano, so I broke my own rule about no food near the piano and played Chopsticks with her while I nibbled.

And I hadn’t quite finished nibbling when I realized how late it was getting, so I polished off the last few bites in my own bedroom while I got myself dressed to go out.

So, let’s see…that makes “where I ate breakfast” at my computer, in front of the toaster, going down the stairs, in the playroom, in the front hall, in my kids’ bedroom, at the piano, and in my own bedroom. Now aren’t you glad I only made you look at one boring photo instead of a boring tour of my whole entire house? Because pretty much my whole entire house is where I ate breakfast.