Summer Vacation, blar-de-blar-blar.

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Okay folks, I’m going to make this quick because quite honestly I’m already over it just from rounding up everyone’s photos. And when it comes to the “What I did for Summer Vacation” posts, we’ve all kind of been there and done that. At last count, I’ve written about 10 of them, and they have all started sounding pretty much the same. Unless we end up stumbling across a bigfoot or one of the kids grows a third arm, I think there’s not much new to say.

Yes! Steve and I went to Paris, and yes, it was awesome – IT WAS PARIS FOR GOD’S SAKE! AND, we were staying with friends. Yeah, it’s like that. We ate all the great food and drank all the great wine wine and saw all the great history stuff and spoke all our horrifically horrible French.

Yes! The kids were treated like royalty by their doting relatives and given everything short of matching blue ponies.

Yes! We saw the mountains, the beach and the finer points of the Central Valley.

Yes! We are tanned, and tired, and all 5 pounds heavier.

The pictures will sum it up much better. You can click through at your own pace over on Flickr, or you can watch the exquisitely crafted slideshow (not really) over here – but be warned, it will take you a while (about 14-ish minutes at last count) – and it has audio. Oh, and you probably don’t want to watch it unless you really like looking at our kids. Just sayin’.

(Photo credits go to Grandma Judy, Grandma Dani, Aunt Celene and myself – taken with various cameras and phones – accordingly, quality will vary. Amended photo credit: Shannon S. Yodowitz, because she threatened to sue me if I didn’t give her credit for the four photos she took. Effing lawyers.)

Putting the Memori in Memorial Day

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An hour after Stella and Steve left for the rollerskating party I get a phone call:

“Um, so we just left the party. Stella fell pretty hard on her wrist. She’s being a trooper, but I’m thinking we should probably have it checked out.”

So, 4 hours in the dearth of human existence – otherwise known as the ER – and she emerges with this lovely ensemble:

Fashion Accessory

We still don’t know if it is a sprain or a fracture because, well, Humboldt County healthcare just doesn’t roll that way. Rural is good when you are talking about bucolic hamlets nestled amongst the redwoods. Rural is NOT good when you are trying to locate someone who knows how to read an X-ray on a holiday weekend.

I have had to stop just short of bungee cording her to her bed to keep her from performing any of the long list of prohibited activities from her discharge orders. No playing, running, skipping, skating, jumping, walking, breathing, or looking at her. She has been a quick study on the 1-handed maneuvering of life-without-use-of-one’s-dominant-hand, and has successfully managed a shower (extra fun with the hefty bag!)

Now, to just decide if we will need to sequin and glitterize it for next weekend’s dance recital….

Passing the Torch

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Last Thursday was Stella’s open house at school. Here is her self-portrait from the portrait wall; she obviously has her father’s ears.

Self Portrait

Then there was this little gem.

If I were...

I gave her some grief about the little brother crack, especially considering what happened next.

We figured that, as long as we were there, it would be a good idea to also visit the kindergarten classrooms for a certain other young Walston who will be entering the ranks of public education this fall. As would be expected, this young male Walston was resistant when presented with the idea. So, we kicked in to quirkiness-management-mode and manipulated the situation. Next thing you know we were strolling into the kindergarten rooms and saying, “Hey! Look at this, I think this is Stella’s old Kindergarten classroom – what a coincidence!” Damn, we’re good.

Then, the most heart melting sibling moment occurred: As Steve and I feigned disinterest and chatted with the teacher, I off-handedly suggested that Stella show Porter around. She caught the hint, and started pointing out the various projects on the walls, and he scooted up shyly behind her and reached for her hand.

Orientation

Ugh. Could you just die?

Looking in the rearview mirror.

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It’s Mother’s Day.

Normally, this is the part where I’d be going on a tirade about how my children have no concept of what it means to be civil to each other for more than a 1-hour interval – Mother’s Day be damned. And, as much as I love being able to utilize the internet to air my maternal grievances, I’m feeling a little reflective this year. Considered yourself warned; it may get all sentimental and reflective up in here.

For as together as I have always fancied myself, this whole Mom thing continues to chip, chip away at my heretofore crystallized sense of self. This year, in particular, has started to create the kind of fissures that actually create large falling chunks of debris.

I have made numerous speeches, both on these pages, and to my eternally patient friends and family about how tough this parenting gig is. I’ve proclaimed my stance. I’ve issued the “I never” statements. I’ve put my foot down firmly and confidently about sticking to what I thought was right. Because that’s what I do best – I KNOW what I’m doing. The trouble with this approach, is that once you realize you DON’T know what you are doing, you are kind of screwed.

I have been a parent for almost 7 1/2 years. And each year, while I am busy recording my snarky parenting observations, I am also being challenged in ways that I never knew was even possible. In the great deck of kid-themed cards, I was dealt a whip-smart, hard-headed, overachiever of a daughter. And an adorable, yet quirky son with the intensity of a nuclear reactor. Each of whom, I would not, could not trade in a million, gazillion years. I adore them. I profusely adore them. Let me tell you why.

Firstly, they are the fruit of my loins. I have little room to complain considering they are part of my genes, blood, goo and all that stuff. Secondly, there is that tiny fact that they are amazing. I adore them. Have I mentioned that already? They are beautific. Gorgeous. Amazing. Absolutely Wonderful.

Then there is that part about me. The part where I spend all my time worrying that I’m doing it all wrong. Parents, you hear me, right? It’s that part where I realize I am using that impatient and cranky voice way too much, or lecturing when I should be listening. Or that I am letting them watch too much TV, but also not wanting them to be the “we don’t have a tv, because my parents think that corporate America is subverting my intellect” kid either.

Somewhere, I’m not exactly sure when, I came to a crossroads where I started having to make some concessions with myself. That moment where I had to say, “Natalie, you don’t know this. Stop pretending you do.” I wasn’t born with the soft, squishy, natural parenting sensibility. I initially credit this realization to Porter, but have very quickly come to realize that it is also Stella who is making me learn to choose my words ever so carefully. Porter’s brand of crazy is usually pretty straighforward: intricately managing the flow of what would be considered the normally inconsequential sequence and nuance of every detail of our lives. Stella’s needs are far more subtle. Firstly, she’s the older kid. The girl. As I see it, she’s pretty much, THE ME. I (as well has her father) have our work cut out, in enabling her to be the most self-confident, empathetic, kind and beautiful girl she is destined to be. I will consider it my own personal failure if this shit goes all screwy.

So then, back to me. The part where I have to admit that there are many ways that I have most definitely been doing it wrong. Paraphrased from one of my favorite moms on Twitter: How is it that kids are these giant mirrors? Showing us everything that is wrong within ourselves and simultaneously challenging us to be better?

How strange is that? Somehow, in making them better, we have to simultaneously make ourselves better too. Their Kid Kung-Fu is strong.

So now, in full-on reflective Mother’s Day mode, I am gazing sappily at this parental transformation. It’s not perfect yet, and may never be. I try not to focus on what I haven’t done, but more what I hope to accomplish: That our son’s quirkiness will become nothing more than a charming self-awareness of kookiness (he’s got the intellect part in the bag), and that our daughter will be able to channel that wit, intellect and warmth towards a life of greatness. And that both of them will be happy. Blissfully happy.

See? I told you – sappy.

So, cheers.
To my moms (both actual and in-law).
I’m proud to be part of your club.

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