No seriously about the sugar part. You know me; I’ve been a CrossFit-doing, Paleo-preaching fiend over the past couple of years, but I took a nosedive several weeks ago and now am afraid I’m addicted to sugar.

I crave Snickers.

I crave Honey Nut Cheerios.

I crave chai.

I crave chocolate.

Hello, my name is Mary, and I’m a sugar addict.

One day at a time, sweet Jesus. Just one, please.

But on to the freckles part. I love them because, well, in my well-educated mind, freckles happen when angels sneak in and kiss your face. Or perhaps, wherever it is that you might have them, because your particular angel might be a naughty one.

Just sayin’.

Exhibit A.

Sweet Aunt Myrtle – that is a FINE example of a busy angel.

Good stinkin’ grief I love freckles.

Exhibit B.

That’ll make your Mother’s Day a happy one.

Someone got a huge case of the giggles.

And repeat there started dancing a crazy jig.

I swear, we were very loud Americans on Sunday. 

How can you keep your laughing on the down low when folks like these are at your table?

Mother’s Day this year was happily punctuated with an impromptu brunch/lunch with our neighbors, and we took the trip to the original Oskar Blues in Lyons. Ironically, I did not get one single photo of the mothers…

But it didn’t make it any less than perfect.

And guess who, after about a year, picked up his very own Reeb single speed that has been mightily pimped out? (Can I say “pimped out” in a  ”Mother’s Day” post? Is that allowed?)

I actually thought this bike was way cooler, but what do I do know?

I still think freckles come from angels.

And I’m totally right.

Life has been amazing lately. One friend posted on Facebook recently that her life has two speeds: crazy and insane. Completely agree.

So today, this beautiful, perfect May day, I put the little guy down for an overdue nap, poured a cup of coffee, and slipped outside to sit on our front porch. There was a pretty constant pull of, “But I should be doing this instead,” but do you know what happened? I took slow, deep breaths. I watched two robins play in our front yard while Todd Helton the Cat twitched and chattered next to me. I listened to the new leaves on our aspen trees rustle. And I took off my jacket, leaned back a little, and settled into that sweet spot of spring with my happy butt sitting on cool concrete and my skin warming up under the afternoon sun. 

I haven’t pressed myself into that place in a while. We’ve been going at insane speed. 

As i thought about it, I realized very clearly that our boys try to show me that place every day. As they’ve peppered us with questions such as, “Is the moon flying,” we’ve been firing back “Just a minute” and “Can we talk about it later?” 

Well. That just won’t do.

My scouting assistant and I checked out a new spot for photo shoots this week. What I thought would be a quick look-see turned into adventure.

He saw a sign with a drawing of a snake on it (to show snake habitats), and the search was on.

We searched high and low for them.

That was a suspicious spot, there.

I thought we’d found one for sure, but no. At this point, he had worked himself up into a bit of a frenzy and told me that we should hold hands and walk together. 

We found ourselves in a very different place within minutes, and there were ants and bugs and nooks and crannies. 

I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever convince him to leave.

Children have an amazing way of reminding us that there is something awesome around every corner. Whenever I feel doubt about that, or anxious or lost in wondering, he says things like, “It sure is a beautiful day!”

We ended up walking a little over two miles that day, not really meaning to, and only because we couldn’t resist the next corner.

The world is a curious place, indeed.

Isn’t it amazing that so much of what we’re looking for is right there, so close to us, if we’d just take long, slow breaths and invite it in?

I took some time out for life.

James L. Brooks

Have you, lately?

Our boys have The Curse. The Curse is this: when I can’t remember the name of something or someone, I assign the closest thing to it (or the person) that I can remember and it curses us all, because that actually morphs into its/the person’s name.

Confusing? (Aside from being awkwardly worded – sheesh.)

Yep.

Example: one of our neighbors was dubbed “Shawn-Shane” because I couldn’t remember if his name was “Sean” or “Shane”. Hank hated me for it, because then he couldn’t remember either. Lucky for us, his last name has a well-remembered meaning for us, so after an initial few months of that business, we reassigned his name to his true one. Yay team.

For our children? Holden renamed our friend, Ryan, “Danny-Ryan”, and Ewan renamed Danny-Ryan’s daughter, Emarie, “Henry”. So now we all have. Adam Levine is now “Adam Labean”, and this year’s Lego Fest?

You got it.

Lego Pest.

We were so excited to go to Lego Pest.

Spoiler alert: Hi, remember me? The girl who can’t seem to understand white balance intricacies inside a weirdly lit place? Welcome to wonky colors and weird shadows.

But also, welcome to one of the coolest places on the planet.

All of the figures are made entirely of Legos. Wowza.

Probably by guys like this one.

Why ‘ello, ‘arry. (Please use your best cockney, there, thank you.)

I might have a special fascination with the Star Wars guys.

Yet sadly, no Yoda there was.

And I have no idea how they made Legos sexy, but here you go. Batman? Hubba hubba.

Then there was this. Holy. Schmoly.

It was an entire field of Legos that you walked on (something I try to seriously avoid at home because it really, really hurts and always makes me say bad words), found a spot, sat down, and started building.

It was absolutely insane. I had the weirdest indentations on my butt and knees (yes, I know this because I went into the restroom for the sole purpose of checking myself out), and I am quite certain that the smaller Legos somehow found themselves into the weird place where my jeans cuff at the back of my feet because they drag the floor a little bit AND into my kids’  underwear, just like the sand at the park. We’ll be finding those tiny bricks for days.

At one point, the man sitting next to me shifted over a little, and suddenly I rode a tiny avalanche of Legos down nearly into his lap, at which point I exclaimed a little too loudly, “Dude! You gotta warn a person before you move suddenly in here!”

He laughed. And then got a little embarrassed. And then so did I and it was awkward and I had to float on my back like I was in quicksand just to get out.

I even lost a flip flop in there.

It taught me a couple of things about my boys, though. I sort of already knew this stuff, but I hadn’t seen it as clearly until today. Our smallest one looks at chaos, then finds a comfy spot within it and settles in for the fun he finds there.

Our bigger one jumps into chaos with both feet, then realizes he’s in and wants out, claiming boredom, aka seeking freedom.

Dude just needs a chance to catch his breath.

It was cool to watch.

Also cool to watch… the last Lego adventure of the day.

Ninjago battles.

I didn’t even know of such a thing.

But we left with one of those battle stadiums, because some Lego Master dropped by our battle arena to give the boys two Ninjago battling skeleton thingies of their very own.

And one last thing?

Brilliant.

Hope your Sunday was a Funday.

I am slowly dipping my toes back into the waters of Grace. It’s that inviting lake that is always there, yet here I stand on its beach, waging my wars in the storms of life. But I am starting to see the effects of Grace in my life, like the sweet beckon of an invitation, calling me back into the water that is just right and where I can float just so. 

It’s utterly breathtaking, but in a good way.

I’m really excited to notice the hand of God at work. I get these insane little nudges of, “I love you like crazy” and “I really am here.”

Never thought I’d say that again. Still trying it on. 

It’s brought me into a more aware place of listening. I’ve been just half-listening lately; probably more honest to say would be quarter-listening. I hear myself say, “Ok,” to something that the boys have said and then freak out because I’m not quite sure what I’ve just agreed to. What a swift kick in the can that is. 

What I have fully listened to, however, is one sweet request from our 3yo. He loves Adam Labean, aka Adam Levine, and begged for a rockstar haircut. 

I totally obliged.

We had just a small wait, just enough to test out all of the chairs and talk about a short Adam Labean haircut or the slightly longer-on-top version.

And also time to singlehandedly build up enough electricity on those jazzy track pants to collect all of the spare hair previously trapped on the carpet. 

Yes you can say, “Ew, Gross.”

I did.

After incessant questions of, “Is it my turn?!” in a too-loud whisper, it finally was.

He was scooped into a chair and draped with a couple of capes.

And then he was all business.

We finally coaxed some of the personality back out.

And then he just turned on the goofy. 

The big finale, other than a nice slather of pomade and a well-timed flirt from the girl cutting his hair, was a strawberry shortcake flavored sucker. Scored huge.

Adam Labean, eat your heart out.

xo. xo.

I discovered today that I really do like yellow. Each time my boys ask me what my favorite color is, I say, “Yellow, because it makes me happy.” And today was punctuated with a huge ol’ happy when I discovered this shower curtain on a mad dash excursion to spruce up our master bathroom. It is striped in citron, and I am over the moon in love with it.

Which brings me to some news. We are moving. Our five-year-plan whittled down to an 18-month one, which was pared further to “sometime soon” and then shot in ludicrous speed straight to “we’re listing our home in 10 days,” which was done six days ago. And where shall we go? Right here in this town that we adore, just in a different spot of it.

But more on that later.

This evening’s post holds something else that we adore, which is our boy.

He is in a new league this year, one that uses machine pitch and keeps score. Hallelujah.

Every now and again I see a jock swagger out of him. My belly does that funny lurching thing as I imagine him at 16 but then quickly revert back to six.

I like six.

Six means that you can still bob your head from shoulder to shoulder when you run, for the simple reason of it just feels funny.

Six is smacking the crap out of the ball and running like a maniac, just praying to get to first base without being hit by the ball.

But six does not yet mean that you can steal first.

There are still the occasional acrobatic leaps and such.

I will always love them.

Six is not very far away from four and five, during which seasons held lots of sand digging. There’s still a pretty hefty fascination with the stuff, but now in the form of kicking up dust clouds.

Fielding is more successful at six.

And the helmets fit better. Six means you look a little less like Darth Vader and a little more like a baseball player.

And everyone still says a happy, “Good game.”

Hank happily reminded me that around age 12 I’ll probably be writing about the wrestling matches that happen when they say, “You suck” instead.

Oy.

It’s always been so interesting to me, this instant and impenetrable bond between children and their grandparents. There are so many times when my boys can’t remember names of their new friends, but despite miles and miles between us, they remember every precious detail of time spent with their grandparents.

I think that it’s its own kind of magic.

Especially when there are cousins and, well, Kentucky Fried Chicken involved.

And marbles. Gram is actually Dr. Gram, keeper of extremely fun games and teacher of TAG kids. Her house is an insane treasure of quirky games and things to build.

And some fun companions.

She just watches and gives hints only when necessary. It’s pure awesomeness.

Know what else she gives?

Her whole heart. Every bit.

Grandma always made you feel she had been waiting to see just you all day and now the day was complete.

.Marcy DeMaree.

 

Sometimes you can just tell.

You look at your kids (or your pets, or your main squeeze) and you just know. You know that it’s time for some nothingness.

Our latest nothingness took on us a quiet walk to the end of the road.

Then we turned right.

It was perfect. Just enough breeze to hug you with warmth and just enough quiet to hear everything. The everything that you can only hear in the nothingness.

It’s here that the leaves rustle. The birds sing. The bugs create a cacophony of highs and lows in an incredible chorus that the greatest symphony could not rival.

And you breathe.

You laugh.

You start with a giggle that goes into a good belly laugh that feels nothing short of perfect.

And that sound is right at home here, in the nothingness. It’s a sound it’s been longing to hear, and it makes it complete.

There is discovery here.

And contemplation.

Then there’s the primordial rhythm of it all. The point where your heartbeat mimics and echoes back your footsteps into hidden paths nestled deep within brush and new trees and what ifs.

I love talking about nothing. It is the only thing I know anything about.

.Oscar Wilde.

We went through so many scenarios on how to spend Spring Break this year. Last year, we were on our Oregon Coast Adventure (which will go down in our family history of awesomeness), and this year? We thought Oregon again, but no. Then we thought Hilton Head, Charleston, or the mountains. Possibly even California.

And which of those won?

Oklahoma.

Family.

After flying in to stay with my sister, we made another little trip to see my parents, other sister, and one of my most favorite people in the whole entire world.

My man child.

Sweet Aunt Petunia I cannot believe I am a mother to a 21yo.

He’s dirty and grimy and gosh darn it if I don’t love him all the more for it.

But we should start at the beginning of our day.

There were bean bags. Real bean bags, filled with dried pinto beans. Did you know that these can really, really, really hurt when you get hit in the kidneys with them?

I so very much love our boys. Please don’t judge me by the look on my face. I didn’t throw that one that hard and he’s smiling…swear.

However.

I did yell at the 6yo. Now what were my words exactly? Oh yes.

RUN!!!!

1. We shall never speak of this picture again.

2. I’m channeling my love for Huston Street.

3. Seriously. Why do I even wear dresses?!

4. Also seriously? The 6yo quoted The Lorax when he saw that picture. Click play.

 

Such brothers. The 3yo is yelling, “THTOOOOOOP!”

Hmmmm. Wonder where he gets that wind up?

Oh look. He’s thtill yelling. And just look at all of that bean bag shrapnel.

After soaking up that perfect warm and sunny sunshine, the boys kicked it in the shade for a bit.

And I watched my beautiful Momma do her beautiful thing. Bake bread.

I tell you, that’ll warm more than just your belly.

I sat on the front porch for a while, just soaking up my big sis and some heart stuff about our babies.

And then I saw this.

Good grief.

There was also this one.

It was like the Beverly Hillbillies. Because after seeing those two coon dogs, he showed up,

Got a little bromance time,

And then?

Chickens.

Thankfully, no one was chased or pecked nor were any eggs broken.

Know what else I was thankful for that day?

Bath time.

YessireeBob.

Love ya.

Oklahoma. Land of waving wheat, tornado alley, buckle of the Bible belt, and where golf courses reign supreme. Also where chickens run free and coon dogs bay all night – but that’s a different post.

I packed collared shirts for the boys this trip. I am like a freakin’ Eagle Scout when it comes to their preparedness…but mine? Meh. My sister had to outfit me. And though she looked at me a little alarmed when I insisted on the full treatment, she fulfilled my wildest dreams for golf attire. I was decked out in a white golf skirt, pink sleeveless and collared golf shirt, 3/4-length sleeved brown cardigan, and…yes wait for it…a golf visor. I was totally Buffy the Golf Ball Slaya. Sorry. The only evidence is via Instagram. I’m “mpantier”, if you’d like to follow me there.

Sadly, though, my big ol’ feet had to keep it real in flip flops, so I stayed outside while she sneaked out keys for two golf carts.

She even brought me my own set of golf clubs, but I didn’t use them. I had to corral my children.

The 6yo had his own set with which to make divots, and he set to it straight away.

My sister nearly had a heart attack and started teaching him the ways of golf.

He did a pretty good job, seeing as this was his first time out. But oh boy howdy (that’s Oklahoman for “holy sh*t!”) did he EVER want to bust out some Happy Gilmore action on those golf balls.

Someone shorter took that cue as well.

Hang on a sec. Let’s take a closer look at some new freckles, courtesy of a glorious and sunshine-y week.

Gosh I love that face.

And this one.

He scampered away at one point and started this weird snowboarding side gallop down the rolling parts of the course.

And then he ran away, forgetting my sly trick of letting out the waistband of his shorts a little bit, because it makes him slow down to pull his britches (that’s Oklahoman for “pants”) up.

I tempted him back toward me with a golf bat. Stick. Club. Whatever.

You know, playing golf is not only about just playing golf.

Sometimes, the phone falls out of the cart…perhaps due to some serpentine driving while trying to fling your child from said cart.

Sometimes there’s some freestyle movement.

And other whatnot.

And then other times, you actually hit the Mother Lode. Like a whole tree full of helicopters. A whole tree!!!

You’re very welcome, Oak Tree Country Club. We single handedly re-populated your pretty golf course with helicopter trees. Thanks for leaving the seeds out for us. :)

Time well spent, it was.

Please repeat that last line in your best Yoda voice.

And P.S. I hope we get invited back…

I learned something pretty valuable on Wednesday. I wanted to be specific about remembering the day, because I learned that I had made up some pretty specific things about my history, thinking that what I was pulling from the stories here and there was the truth. I learned that I needed to burn a new spot in my mind and in my heart for the real truth, and a new memory.

The specifics that I remembered weren’t correct. So I asked about them. And boy was it a stroll down memory lane.

They were simple things, like what our family was like before I was born. Was I loved? Was I wanted? Were they happy that I was added into our family?

Their memories of where we lived.

Memories of when we traveled.

There’s so much history and richness and so much, well, very unboring stuff. And I was loved and wanted and there was happiness. Sometimes we wonder that. I never want my children to wonder that.

When I was 5 months old, my family moved to the Dominican Republic for a couple of years. While there are incredible, horrifying, beautiful, and life changing stories about living there, those memories melted into perfect nostalgia when my brother-in-law told my sister about a box he had found in the loft above my parents’ garage. When my oldest son pulled it down, my sister began picking through each item carefully and wondering what had been so special about some items to make it into the box, but remembering exactly why others were so special. Honestly, I could watch people pick through their own keepsakes like that for hours and hours, just to watch their faces and their eyes and their skin shift and change as they remember.

One item caught my attention.

Sweet Mother of Pearl. I wanted it.

I knew it had an awesome history.

I can’t even imagine the sights it saw; my Mom carried it throughout the Dominican Republic during just one of their volatile times.

She had mercy on me and said I could have it. :) Though there questions like, “For what?!”

I smiled.

Just to have it.

Hold it.

Smell it.

Breathe it in.

To imagine.

To have what they had. To hold what they held. To wonder how often that strap hung from their necks, what kind of dust it gathered, and what things it could tell me if it could.

Imagine.