Vitto Cappin'

We had ourselves a merry little Christmas.

We'd love to tell you all about it sometime, but today is not the day.  Today, we are simultaneously unpacking from a week at Grandma and Grandpa's, while packing for a weekend at William O'Brien State Park, where our {heated} camper cabin awaits.

Maggie woke me up this morning, shouting excitedly VITTO CAPPIN'!  VITTO CAPPIN'!  It's winter camping, friends, and she cannot wait.

Greta

Five and a half years ago.  Heavy sigh.

Love the One You're With

Let us remember these times in March.

These days when the snow is new and clean and fun.

Before it becomes dreary and soggy and dirty.

You can be hard to love sometimes, Winter.

But for some reason we just can't quit you.

Somewhere In the Black Mining Hills of South Dakota

Noah has his Orange Kitty.  Greta has her Beatrice.  It took Maggie over two years to find her stuffed and stitched companion, but now they are inseparable.

Meet Rocky.

Frozen Falls

Me:  blogging in small, manageable portions.

The story of this day, in November. The kids were restless on a Saturday morning.  No one wanted to take their restless souls out into the cold.  Until I filled water bottles with hot cocoa {coffee with cream and brown sugar, for some}.  We drove to the Willow River and hiked down the familiar trail to the falls.

Most faces were cocoa covered by the time we got to the bridge.  Frozen falls.  Numb fingers.  Wet blue jeans.  Rosy cheeks.  Loose tooth.

Souls quiet{er}.

The end.

Seriously

This. 

Flash Back Friday

This image came floating across my slideshow computer background just now.

It's three degrees out there, friends.  And the baby of the family is two years old.

Ring of Fire

Sometimes my mind wanders.  Sometimes during these daydreams I have small thoughts that I perseverate on for weeks, like the time last month when it occurred to me in a fraction of a moment that I needed to find some very specific magnets.  Very specific, read: they exist only between my ears.  Not at Michaels.  Not at JoAnn Fabrics.  Not even in the depths of the Amazon.com.  I would describe them to you, but you'll never find them.

Sometimes the Holy Grail of daydreams is real, though.

I keep telling myself that I've taken the last beach play photos of the year.  But God bless Indian summer, the beach play lives on, even through the very last of September.

The third to last time we went to the beach, I posted a picture of my smallest beach bum on Facebook,

and begged my local friends to tell me where we could find a beach with fire pits.  While the littles threw a thousand rocks into the river and searched for intact clam shells, I dreamed up a scheme to never let the beach days end.  The solution, of course, is the beach with a campfire to keep you warm.

No one answered.  Clearly my friends thought this was a rhetorical question, since I was sending my plea from the very beach where the fire pits exist.  They tried to tell me they were just around the next sand dune, but I wasn't tuned in that day.

Fast forward a few weeks, when a wrong turn down the purple trail at the state park led us to the river's edge, though a bog, our head clouded with gnats, until the trees parted, our shoes filled with sand, and the golden hour sun shone on a stretch of shore lined with metal rings begging to host our next dinner.

Who says no to such a generous offer?  No one.  Er, not us, at least.  Even if it means a wet tutu.

Being the inexperienced beach fire goers that we were, we made a few mistakes.  I only bring these up so that you all can learn.  Because you know, the next time you come to town, we are SO taking you to our new favorite place.

1. Beach meals are sandy.  If you cannot find a way to elevate your food off of the sand, expect your hot dog to have a little crunch.

2. Beach sunset campfire photography is tricky.  Spend a little time Googling camera settings before you take five hundred shots with your aperture too wide and your exposure compensation under-compensated.

3. The bliss of watching a beautiful sunset can quickly give way to sheer panic at the realization that it is now dark and you will have to hike back up the heavily wooded trail, past all sorts of nighttime nature, without sunlight.  First of all, DUH.  And second, you brought your phone, right?  You're fine.  As long as no one starts whispering lionsandtigersandbearsohmy softly behind you.  Kevin.

4. Take care of your shoes.  Number four is really just an addendum to number three.  If you were so jazzed at the sight of the sand and the water {you are my child, after all} when you reached the end of the hiking trail that you kicked off your sandals and peeled off your socks {why do you wear socks and sandals?  that's all you, babe} with wild abandon, you may be hiking back, in the aforementioned total darkness, in bare feet.  No one is interested in wasting precious phone battery searching for your footwear.

{Found after sunrise the next day, by me, on staycation.  God bless staycation}

How much luckier can a girl get?

The Boy

Chicks Hike

Before the summer really, truly, completely leaves us

Just like last year, Greta and I camped a couple of weekends ago.  Just like last year, our plans to spend the whole weekend were thwarted.  Just like last year, one day was enough.

We hiked, which Greta swore she hated to do, and which, one hour later, she begged to do for the rest of the day.

We found the hippest play house ever.

Greta ate six meals in one day.  No, seriously.  My daughter.  Greta.  The one who has been on a hunger strike since she was three.  She ate.  A lot.  Not just hot dogs and Cheetos.  But some of that.

We built this fire, skillfully.

And when it got rained out {a monsoon, no joke}, we cried a little.  But not for so long.

Because rained out campfire dinner means Plan B: fancy steak restaurant with velvet-upholstered chairs, an endless supply of children's menus to color, and an ice cream sundae for dessert, which for the pickier eater, is really just a dish of swirled vanilla.

Plan B also means coffee house breakfast rather than wet picnic table cereal.  This day, Greta discovered that she loves coffee cake.

Our gear looks so festive hanging to dry from the deck at home, we might just leave it up for the rest of the month.

I think we bonded.  Even if we didn't, at least we got some s'mores and sundaes out of the weekend.

Stronger, Smarter, More Courageous

A friend told me to remember this photo and caption from my Instagram feed yesterday.  Solid advice.

She didn't want to go down the hill because she worried she wouldn't make it back up. She did. Daughter, you are stronger than you think you are.

Every so often, I am granted windows of time when my brain chatter quiets itself long enough for me to slow down and meditate on exactly what it is that's going on around me, and why it's important.  If I could freeze these hours / days / weeks and keep myself perpetually in the present, I would seriously earn that World's Best Mom coffee mug.

As it turns out, however, I am human.  Brain chatter included.

So I'll take these short moments of clarity, and try to jam as much nurturing into them as I can.

Daughters.  They're tricky, aren't they?

Too much Disney Princess exposure and you risk warping her impression of beauty and femininity.

Too many youlooksolovely's and she might believe her appearance to be the only thing that matters.  We do our best to use lovely interchangeably with strong and courageous and smart.  But I would lie if I told anyone that I don't love fixing my girls' hair / painting their nails / buying their clothes.

Tricky.

Parenting Noah seems somehow simpler.  For me.  Maybe because I can already feel him leaning into Kevin to learn about life.  The pressure for me is just to keep him in attendance at piano lessons once a week.

The game of LIFE, in which Noah typically chooses to be an athlete, and Greta a salesperson.  Friend, Owen, was also roped into the game this day.  None of us has ever made it to retirement.

I am fortunate that my daughters have surrounded themselves with brilliant lady role models.  Grandmothers, a GREAT grandmother, aunts, teachers and friends - somehow others seems to know how to fill in the gaps keeping me from being the World's Best Mom.

Daughters, even if I have cuddled you longer than I should have or told you your dress was beautiful when I should have applauded your brilliance at applying your own shoes or treated you differently from your brother when really you deserved to be treated the same - forgive me.  I am still trying to grow into the best girl I can be too.

Third First

The story of our third First Day of School:  it was no big deal.

For all the anxiety and emotion of First Days of School past, today was surprisingly, shoulder-shruggingly, rather comfortably, normal.  It felt like picking up an old and familiar routine.  One that - after a long and satisfying summer of structure-less biking and swimming and hanging with friends - we were all ready for.

Greta crawled into bed with us some time in the middle of the night, and this morning whispered to me that she wishes she were still in 4K so she could come home with me for lunch.  I know you, Greta.  Your first school lunch will be seated right next to Sebastian with your kitty lunch box and your heart-shaped (you're welcome) peanut butter sandwich.  There will be giggles and hugs.  You won't think of your momma for even a second.

And Noah, you didn't give any of us even a hint of back-to-school nerves.  Last night you calmly yanked out your latest loose tooth before bed, deposited it under your pillow along with a note for the tooth fairy, and woke up this morning to report your disappointment that you received only a boring dollar bill for your efforts.  No bad dreams.  No moodiness.  Not even an argument about what shirt to wear or whether it was okay to play video games before the bus came.  You ate your breakfast, brushed your teeth, got your clothes and shoes on, reminded me to put a napkin in your lunch box, and you were out the door.  Jeez, Noah, we didn't even do battle over your glasses this morning.  You really were ready to get back.

Noah made up this song a couple of years ago, along with his neighborhood friends, who all go to different elementary schools in town.

Greenwood's the Good Wood,
Westside's the Best Side,
and
MONTESSORI'S THE AWESOME STORY!

It might not win a Grammy, but it is a catchy tune.

Maggie knows how to say, backpack, and I was geared up for tantrum control when the bus arrived to take away every neighborhood pal but her.  There was nothing.  She just waited in the driveway while the line of kindergartners, first- and second-graders filed on, then waved good-bye when they pulled away.  We spent the rest of the morning drawing on the driveway without having to negotiate who gets the pink chalk, swinging at the park without having to rush home because someone forgot their water bottle / granola bar / underwear, and lounging around the house with no particular plan for the day.

Happy September, friends.