Moss Grows Fat on Our Countertop

One recent, gently overcast fall afternoon (after kindergarten let out and before dinner needed to be on the stove) we decided to take a stroll through the Little River Nature Trail, a short but richly diverse trail that runs between Hale Street and Storey Avenue in Newburyport—a project maintained by the good people of the Parker River Clean Water Association.

With a bag of Goldfish crackers in hand and boots on our feet, Henry, Sadie and I padded down a thin, sloping and softly muddied trail that led to an expanse of worn blacktop, which used to be part of the old I-95. Sadie took a few stuntman-like tumble-rolls over tree roots hidden by fallen leaves before we reached the blacktop, but when we did, both children went running down the “trail.” They were very excited. We had come to Little River trail in the hopes of seeing the “Happy Beaver Family” that is said to inhabit the marshes, in a dam about a quarter mile down the path.

When we reached the vantage point with the green sign pointing to the beavers’ dam, we sat and ate crackers and waited. And waited. And waited some more. We talked about the work it must have taken to build the sturdy dam, and told stories about how we thought the beavers spent their time (Henry suggested they played board games). When our stories were spent, we tried to tempt the beaver family out of hiding with Goldfish crackers, but the tiny colored fish just made rings on the still water, spinning and drifting in solitude. Finally, we decided to head back. It was nearing 5 o’clock, the clouds were thickening and the air was turning cold. 

Our heads hung low because the adventure we’d planned did not happen as we had hoped. Henry dragged his chosen walking stick through the mud and leaves and along the bountiful strips of moss that grew so heavily on patches of dirt all along the old highway, up the trees and over the rocks. He noticed that the tiny green plants gave way easily under the point of his branch, and he stopped to write his name in a bed of cushion moss. Sadie mimicked him. I tucked my icy fingers into my coat pockets and sat down beside them as they played in the moss.

Moss is magical after all (not just because it had the awesome power to siren in my two young children) ... it's actually a tough little plant that predates the dinosaurs. Its allure has given it major garden cred, too, especially in Japanese gardens. Personally, moss has always been a central character in the archetypal forest of my childhood imagination, growing where fairies and nymphs hide behind ferns and painting every surface of the shadowy woods in bright green Rorschach shapes. I also read that during World War I moss was used to dress wounds due to its absorbency—and long before then, pre-industrial people used it for building, clothing and more (even diapers). Today, moss, a component of peat, is mined for fuel. Some varieties of moss take on even loftier roles, like smoking the malt for Scotch Whiskey. Who knew? (Wikipedia. That’s who.) But the moss at Little River has a simple, humble purpose—to lie around and just be beautiful.

To our untrained eyes, we could discern two different types of moss growing along the trail: cushion moss (named for the way it grows in a circular pattern and has a puffed pillow appearance) and hair cap moss (which grows in sandy soil and has tiny starburst leaves that reach up and out like upside down tree roots).

I particularly “liched” the hair cap moss because it was so intricate and yet so soft to the touch. It looks hard and spiky, but feels like feathers. I wouldn’t even let Henry disturb it. The cushion moss did not fare as well. We turned over its underlying dirt and broke it apart, built tiny dirt roads for passing ants and we poked gaping holes in its landscape. When at last the trail began to get dark, Henry pocketed two clumps of cushion moss—one in each side of his jeans.

At home, we gave the two green clumps a small bowl to share and some fresh water. They looked like two scoops of chocolate ice cream with lots of green sprinkles. We still care for them lovingly every day—and, for now any way, our pet moss works better for us than a new puppy.

The Once and Future Playground

If you’ve been reading The Mud Pie Mission since its inception, you know I am a believer in fate. The concept of the Nature Movement, especially in regard to helping alleviate symptoms and provide alternative coping methods for children with ADHD, was introduced to me at a time when I was very much seeking answers for my five-year-old son, who was diagnosed in spring 2011. Now that we’re a few months into our mission, I can tell you with certainty that the purposeful reintroduction of nature into my son’s daily life, and more importantly the commitment to unstructured time in nature has impacted Henry in so many positive ways. On our outdoor adventures, I’ve watched with a full heart as all the beautiful parts of him shine forth easily and comfortably. He is not overwhelmed; he is calm and focused. The anxiety and pressure I sometimes see him struggle with in structured situations is a faint memory. In the quiet of the outdoors, he is confident and bold—he is in his element. Like love, Nature empowers us to be and embrace our true selves. And there is nothing quite like Henry being Henry.

I think fate was at work again in August when, coincidentally, during our visit to my childhood home (West Chester, Ohio), the Cincinnati Nature Center was unveiling its new Nature PlayScape—one of the nation’s largest pioneer efforts to provide a safe area of natural playing ground for children. How fortunate that we would have the opportunity to experience what will surely become a model for families, communities, schools and churches across the country that subscribe to the Nature Movement and all it has to offer our children at this particular time in history—when technology’s impossible pace and hyper-yet-sometimes-vapid connectedness is, in some ways, stealing away our essential selves and our innate abilities to connect, heal, renew and, well, be human ... Because now, I get to share it with you.

The Marge and Charles Schott Nature PlayScape, located inside the Cincinnati Nature Center’s preserve of land in Milford, Ohio, offers 1.6 acres of “native plants, fallen logs, boulders, rocks, water and soil … and very few man-made structures,” as described by Kristi Masterson of the CNC. What’s even more special is that the land devoted to the playscape is fenced in for safety—something parents cite as a major obstacle when it comes to letting their children fully embrace nature in the way they did when they were young (and the world was a better place, etc.). The CNC partnered with the University of Cincinnati Arlitt Center to make the playscape a reality, and even consulted with Richard Louv, author of “Last Child in the Woods,” to help guide them in this important project.

Now to tell you the experience of this magical place.

At first, as we moved our eyes over the gently sloping hills and trails, the rocky creek with its grand waterfall, and all the mysterious tree-shaded alcoves, it felt like we had simply happened upon a really great “neck of the woods”—everything that makes a forest fun all in one place, yet still wide open. Just leaves, trees, pebbles, and fallen branches. Even the benches and gathering areas were rustic and unassuming.

That said, I carefully watched the eyes of the children who entered—knowing some of them had never been to a playground such as this. Even Henry who had come to love the woods, questioned why I had even called it a playground. Where was the slide? No sandbox? No rope climb or zip line? What about the big, giant pirate ship to look out for the bad guys? This was a different kind of playground, I told him. This was a place where you get to choose your own adventures.

As we turned the corner into one of the many discovery zones along the trail (some even specially designed for the preschool set like Sadie, my littlest), we found children playing in a wide and (what seemed to them accidental) pool of pebbles. They were scooping them up and letting them run through their fingers, making pictures with sticks they’d found lying nearby, filling up hollowed out tree stumps that doubled as tiny seats. This was a sandbox! We had similar experiences throughout the playscape. Children hunted and gathered for the items they needed to create their own toys and tools—and instead of everyone fighting over a shovel or truck, they each had exactly what they wanted and needed born of their own imaginations.

Down at the edge of the creek, children didn’t even stop to ask before pulling off their shoes, peeling away their socks and tip-toeing through the shallow water. Some took leaves and made boats, others dropped in rocks to watch the rings they’d create on the surface of the water. Henry and I sat at the top of the waterfall where we could listen to its sounds and feel the heat coming up off the rock. After that, we came upon a sculpture of tree branches that had been shaped into a sky-high tee-pee; and we added to it! By then, Henry was having real fun. We raced each other up and down the trails. We lifted our noses in the air and tried to identify scents of flowers that came on rogue breezes. We discovered completely untamed sections of the playscape that we claimed as our own. And we followed the map to the great gray boulder, where Henry stood and looked out over the playscape. Who needs a pirate ship?

It was an awesome experience. And it makes me hope along with the CNC that this special place will inspire others to create similar playscapes throughout the country. Masterson said the Nature PlayScape has already welcomed visitors from far and wide, coming to Ohio specifically to experience this new way of play.

I wrote this piece today to do my part to spread the word, to plant the seed of possibility—to be part of the movement.

You can view the slideshow of our day at the Cincinnati Nature Center’s Nature PlayScape by visiting the Mud Pie Mission on Facebook. I encourage you to learn more about this project and read the rest of the story at CNC and University of Cincinnati online. Note that the Nature PlayScape is open year-round, providing children an all-seasons experience with nature in a safe, accessible environment. Check out the special events they'll be hosting throughout the fall and winter featuring stories by the bonfire, hot chocolate—and even maple-sugaring.

Beyond Boundaries

When I was a little girl, I was the type of child who’d carefully study my mom, dad and older siblings (anybody, really) in order to ascertain the exact right way of doing everything, from riding a bike to behaving in church to blowing bubblegum. I could focus my attention so pointedly during my observations that I could discern and then replicate, for example, the ideal length of chewing time, proper positioning of the mouth, exact isolation of the tongue, and optimal release of air—to achieve the perfectly rounded, perfectly nose-touching (watermelon-flavored) Bubblicious bubble. It took me about two hours one summer afternoon when I was six years old (I’m still pretty good at it).

What I’m trying to say is that I’ve always applied the watch-and-learn, never-surrender-until-it's-right model, and I’ve always found success with it. Okay, almost always.

There is but one awesome entity that has tested this heretofore tried-and-true method, one challenge so massive that it can be conquered by no single method at all, one insurmountable force so powerful that it might very well be beyond mastery. That force is Parenting. It’s unpredictable, it’s messy, it has no set rules, and if/when, after grueling research and a series of failures, you finally manage to establish rules … the game changes.  It’s a perfectionist’s [recurring] nightmare.

Only after the birth of my second child did I start to learn how to let go of the idea of perfection, or the exact right way of doing things. Quite simply, it became too defeating to live like that, and it was taking away from the joy of parenting. Releasing myself from certain standards has been a process, though. I’m still learning to let go, to go with the flow, to live in the moment—all that stuff. But I feel like I’ve come a long way. I remain a proud perfectionist in much of what I do, but as for parenting, I am now a happy (somewhat calmer) realist, and that feels great.

I was reminded of this personal journey earlier in the week when I brought the kids to one of our favorite local playgrounds—Woodman Park. This park is off the beaten path, it’s small, it’s surrounded by woods and it’s almost always empty. That’s kind of why I like it. It’s a place I can go with the kids and have real one-on-one time with them. While one or two playmates are ideal for Henry and serve to bring out the best in him, a crowd of children can sometimes be over-stimulating for him and (being his mother’s child), he gets overwhelmed trying to pay attention to everyone and everything in the very intense manner he wants to; as a result, he might shut down, melt down or go totally wild (which can be totally fun, but totally exhausting).

At Woodman, we can spend an hour sitting quietly together in the toddler play structure make-believing it’s a Delta airplane headed for Ohio. Henry pilots the plane and even stewards from time to time. We’ve gone as far as Hawaii! We’ve also learned how to shoot baskets at Woodman, how to be brave and climb the taller play structure, and how to race down the dueling side-by-side slides. But what’s even more special about this park is that it sits in the middle of a wooded area, allowing us to sometimes wander off up the nearby trail or across the field to play in the open grass. Since embarking on our mission to spend more unstructured time outdoors, I’ve noticed we’re wandering off more often than not—and having even better adventures.

On Thursday, a little girl—probably two-and-a-half years old—and her grandma came to play at Woodman while we were there. She had her dolly with her and she laughed and smiled as she pushed her dolly in the swing. She was somewhat timid about things like climbing too high, and going too fast down the slide; but she loved watching Henry and Sadie fearlessly scrambling up and through the structure. I could see the admiration in her eyes and the light of motivation going off in her head. Her grandma encouraged her, but followed close behind ready to assist and ward off accidents. Still, the little girl wasn’t quite ready yet. Neither was grandma. In that moment, I recalled being in the grandma’s shoes with Henry at this exact playground when he was almost two, and holding him back from climbing for fear he would lose his balance—all the while the rest of the playgroup kids were jumping, hanging and climbing like monkeys.

Things were different now. This particular day was proof because the kids were playing so freely and competently, and I felt secure in their abilities (and in my instinct to trust). But soon enough, Sadie tired of the slides and swings. I called her over to look at a black-and-orange flying bug—the very same type of bug we’d watched ride the waves at the beach recently. We decided to follow him. He led us beyond the boundaries of the playground and over to a tasty and shaded leaf at the bottom of a small nearby hill. We sat watching it and talking. Henry came over, too.

The little girl and her grandma were intrigued by our stillness, wondering what had instantly captivated two rambunctious children to the point of stillness and silent wonder. They, too, wandered off the playground to get a closer look. I got the sense that it was the first time they had done that.

Our bug-watching turned into races up and down the grassy hill. Henry and Sadie laughed and laughed as they tried to steady their pace and bodies on the downhill runs. Henry was happy to win most of the races. Every once in a while, they’d scoot down the hill on their bottoms, even with slides a stone’s throw away—it was just more fun this way.

The little girl still stood and watched. Her grandma encouraged her again to join the fun and run with us. Surprisingly, she started running. She felt safer in the grass, and after just one or two runs she was visibly more confident in her own abilities. She wore a proud smile as she conquered the hill. I could tell from the waving of her arms and the spinning of her skirt that she felt free and happy.

By then, Henry had run past the field all the way out to the tree line to collect sticks (and possibly use the bathroom, sorry to say). Sadie had taken to curtseying to each of the white button-top mushrooms dotting the field right before lopping them off by the neck and tossing them in the air. I got up off the grass and followed after her. When I looked back across the field, I saw the grandma and the girl still playing on the hill. I felt happy that we had helped them have a new, spontaneous adventure that day. And I was grateful to recognize that I had finally arrived at a point where I not only welcomed spontaneous adventures, but enjoyed the heck out of them. The perfectionist in me felt satisfied, too, because in the imperfect world of parenting, I had managed to shift my definition of perfection and be happy with who I am as a parent (for now).

Seagulls Don’t Like Lettuce

In an alternative reality, this blog post would have been about the awesome experience I had with my children watching the sun set over the beach … how we’d all lounged together peacefully atop the quilt Granny Solomon had stitched for Henry when he was born … eaten freshly-picked strawberries and Trader Joe’s snacks … watched the sky turn from blue to orange to night … all while humming Kumbaya. But the real story of what unfolded the day we sought the sunset is slightly different, and more bird-brained.

For one thing, we’d picked up “freshly made” Subway sandwiches and Doritos for our picnic dinner. And for another, the tune we’d been rocking out to on our drive was “Sunglasses at Night” (we’re in a collective Corey Hart phase right now).

In fact, the song was still running through my head as we laid down Granny’s blanket (that part is true), because I remember being surprised at how blindingly bright and high the sun still was at 6:15 p.m. It was scheduled to set at 8:11 p.m. A lot of earthly rotation needed to happen in two hours, I thought to myself.

We sat down and unwrapped our sandwiches. Henry and Sadie split a foot-long tuna sub, as always, and, it was a complete and immediate mess, as always: mayonnaised tuna fish smeared on cheeks and fingers, strands of shredded lettuce falling to the blanket like confetti, flimsy pickles stuck in the sand. The good news is that while moms do not love messes, seagulls live for them.

Within seconds, a gang of five silver-backed gulls inched toward us, led by a particularly hungry-looking elder with red eyes and ruffled feathers. We were easy targets because the crowd of beach-goers had dissipated substantially by that time. When Sadie, the bird lady, saw the gulls, she dropped her sandwich, stood up and started dancing and clapping. Her convulsions did nothing to faze the scavengers. The pack separated, but only in order to surround the blanket on all sides. They stood at a safe but still intimidating two feet from us, tamping their gray toes in the sand and periodically squawking their demands for food. Sadie and Henry squawked back, and I could see in their eyes how much they wanted to share their dinner with the birds.

“Don’t feed them,” I said. “If you feed them, more will come.”

As soon as I spoke those words, I regretted it. What I should have said was, “If you feed them, they will go away and never come back, and won’t that be sad?” But it was too late.

Henry started throwing food to the gulls … but the boy loves a Subway tuna sub, so what he threw to the gulls was … lettuce. He just scooped up all he could off the bread and tossed it at them. The birds nearly collided heads darting for the shreds of lettuce, each one greedily grabbing a mouthful.

To my surprise, just as quickly as they’d gobbled them up, they’d spit them back out. Seagulls don’t like lettuce! Mother Nature’s trash collectors don’t like lettuce. They’re not big fans of pickle either. The birds waddled backward in the sand, disappointed.

Suddenly, I felt bad we’d let them down.

I looked at Sadie who had taken three bites out of her sandwich. I knew she wouldn’t finish it. I also knew the kids wanted to see the birds happy (or maybe I did). So, I broke my own rule. I opened up her sandwich and scooped out some seriously generous portions of tuna and flung them toward the gulls, divvying up the food as fairly as I could: first to the elder, then to each of the younger birds.

“What seagulls really like is tuna,” I said.

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Seagulls love tuna!”

We all joined in, feeding the seagulls probably more than what any of us actually ate. (Seagulls like Doritos, too.) Luckily, we did not draw a huge flock of other seagulls. As you know, seagulls can be aggressive and downright dangerous sometimes. A Jersey Shore gull once stole a whole funnel cake right out of my sister-in-law’s hands in Atlantic City. They aren't the cleanest birds around either. But, these twilight gulls of ours were pretty friendly, all things considered. Sadie, of course, was over-the-moon with the experience.

Speaking of the moon, we never made it long enough to see the moon rest over the beach that night. After dinner, the kids played in the surf a little, but eventually Sadie became too tired to tolerate the beach. She hung on my leg crying. She laid herself in the low tide and moaned. She dipped her pacifier in the sand and stuck it back in her mouth, then cried more. I had no choice but to abort the sunset mission.

Still, we enjoyed our dinner with the gulls. When we got home, I was able to sneak in one book with sleepy Sadie: “Salty Seagull: A Tale of an Old Salt,” by Suzanne Tate. Sadie closed her eyes before the last page, but she still had a smile on her face.

Make Outdoor Time Outstanding

I love Todd Christopher’s book, “The Green Hour.” It’s a helpful go-to guide for getting the most out of being outdoors with your kids, and it’s broken down into useful chapters based on location, too: backyard, trails, meadows, shore, etc. What I want to share with you today are a few quick tips he gives for making those experiences enjoyable, rewarding and memorable every time … mixed in with a few points of my own to support Christopher’s wisdom.

Simple and Flexible

“Wonder unfolds at a child’s scale and pace, which are necessarily smaller and slower than an adult’s.” – T.C.

Generally speaking, I try not to do too much or expect too much during our outings. I don’t count on the kids to last very long, and I don’t set my standards high. As Christopher says, there will be frequent stops and even more frequent questions. With one of my children firmly planted in the why stage at 5 1/2, and the other teetering between timid and needing to be tamed at 21 months; I never know what our adventures will bring. Sometimes I am running back and forth between them, shouting answers to one, and just plain shouting at the other (DON’T EAT THAT!). There are days we might walk a mile, and there are days we might walk only a yard or two. That’s why I very rarely “plan” the adventures. Things run more smoothly when I slow down and go at their pace. The kids are my compass. I read their interests and supplement our experiences based on what is happening in the moment. That becomes part of the adventure. Because we go into it blind, we can't help but come out with something surprising and special—whether it’s a new discovery, a renewed sense of spirit, or the memory of being wildly silly together.

Positive and Powerful

“… knowledge isn’t a prerequisite for exploration. There’s nothing at all wrong with saying, ‘I don’t know.’” – T.C.

Reading this, I’m pretty sure I exhaled. I mean, I’m no walking encyclopedia. I know some obscure things and some general scientific explanations, but overall, ask me something about nature and I’m more inclined to tell you a good story about it without actually answering your question in a useful way. So when I'm out and about exploring with the King of Why, I like to turn his questions back on him. When he asks me why bugs bite, for example, I ask him what he thinks first. Okay, for one thing that buys me time. But, I always love his guesses. I like to watch the wheels turning behind his brown eyes. My mind takes a snapshot of his imagination at its finest. Then, I might take a stab at an answer, or I might admit I don’t know. Christopher says this connecting moment of "I don't know" is a powerful and positive one, because it puts child and parent on even ground when we can say, “But, let’s find out, together.”

On this note, he suggests never showing fear. Children so easily mimic and internalize the reactions we put forth, and worse, they might take them on for themselves, which is the last thing we want. We all have stories about where our deepest nature fears stem from: "this one time, at ____ camp ..." Why not do what we can to put on a brave face? Fake it a little. I admit I have some work to do in the bat-and-bug department on this one (their ninja-like qualities freak me out), but it is kind of fun pretending to be the super heroes they think we are. For Sadie, I know this has had a positive impact. Just the other day we had the chance to experience a park interpreter's "pond aquarium" at a nature seminar. Sadie just stuck her hand right into the murky, smelly water and helped look for the elusive turtle we were after. Impressive stuff.

Pure

“Remember that while childhood takes time, it is precious and fleeting.” – T.C.

You’ve worked hard to provide your children the opportunity to build a personal relationship with nature, and to connect as a family unit. Don’t squander it. The best thing you can do is be in the moment—with them. Remember what it was like to be a child. Remember the wonder that comes from watching ants working. The dreams that are born in the color of a flower.  The mystery of a rustle in the brush. Experience it all again, with your children. You will not only give them the beautiful parental excitement and animation that children thrive on, but you will send joy your own way. You'll make these fleeting moments last forever in your mind and, most importantly, in the pages of your children’s childhoods.

Caverns in the Sand

Sand is like cinnamon. Come in contact with it, and you’re instantly whisked away to a content, yummy place in time. Somehow, though, our response to the feel of sand on our bare feet exists outside of time. There are many people who report experiencing this serene response even upon their first encounter with the sometimes soft, sometimes grainy but always satisfying stuff. Sand is something we connect with in an intrinsic way.

There’s a passage in Richard Louv’s “The Last Child in the Woods” where he provides an interesting nature-as-therapy “theory” that he was introduced to by perpetual nature lover Elaine Brooks. During her years on the planet, Brooks worked as a biologist, oceanographer, and eventually teacher of nature. And what she alleged is that the relaxation response to nature is in our DNA.

Primitive humans in the heat of pursuit climbed trees to escape their would-be captors, she explained. Finding refuge in the branches provided them a “rapid comedown from the adrenalin rush of being potential prey.” Brooks said “biologically, we are still the same,” and we’re still programmed for flight or fight. So amid the stressors of today—balancing work and family, information overload, the constant blue buzz of technology, and good old-fashioned noise —we find respite from the race in the quiet of nature.

Sand, for whatever specific primordial reason, triggers the relaxation response as readily as the branches of a tree. That’s why every time my little family and I arrive at Salisbury Beach Reservation, I crave the moment when the boardwalk planks give way to sand and all the thousands of miniature peaks and valleys created by all who’ve walked there. 

But, in addition to this wonderful gift of peacefulness, sand (and nature) can also serve up life lessons ... if we're paying attention.

Tuesday morning, Henry, Sadie and I made our own footprints when we arrived (early enough to enjoy an almost-empty beach). Henry and Sadie are beach kids. They can play for hours, happily. Switching easily from building sand mountains, to sifting sand for seaweed and remnants of shells, to running in the surf. Just when I think they are tired, the cycle replays. I usually have to use bribery to get their rosy cheeks and sweaty, sand-sugared/sun-kissed blonde heads back to the car.

On this particular morning there was an older boy building knee-high sand caverns at the edge of the water, each cavern complete with its own moat. At first, he did not want the kids to come near his masterful sand village, but like seagulls to Goldfish crackers, they hovered around the boy until he finally let them help.

Sadie sat in each moat, one-by-one, scooping up wet sand and letting it run through her fingers. Henry worked with the boy to build the next cavern. He listened well and studied the boy as he worked, then matched the boy's techniques and details almost exactly.

Every once in a while Sadie would stomp through a cavern accidentally, or take a shovel to the side of one, devastating the internal structure. Henry and the boy would jump up and try and save their work.

As it turned out, though, the biggest threat to the village was not Sadie Leigh and her barbaric baby ways—it was the tide. It started coming in, slow at first. But eventually it came fast and relentlessly, and with every wave a cavern was being lost.

It reminded me of gardening, and how we work so hard to maintain our yards, but in the end—a hundred years from now—whatever work we put in will be overgrown, gone, and probably forgotten. I felt sad as I watched the frustration build on the boys’ faces. Eventually they had to withdraw their efforts and walk away.

Henry was a little down and out afterward. I asked him how it felt to help his friend build the village. “Really fun,” he said. I asked him what else he liked about it. “I liked helping,” he said. “I liked making the sand super high.” Just recalling it brought the smile back to his face.

“Well, next time we come to the beach, let’s do it all over again,” I said. “But, I insist on drip castles.”

“Okay!” he said.

While I don’t know the factual reason that we connect with sand the way we do, or why it brings us so much peace; I was reminded of what we can learn from sand:

1) There are so many things in life we give our energy to, hoping they will last forever, or become something great; but sometimes the tide comes in and things get washed away. Just like that.

2) When things get washed away, for better or worse, a blank slate remains—and, fortunately, you still have all you need to rebuild, as long as you have the drive to do so.

3) Appreciate the process, find reward in the work itself. (And maybe take a picture to remember it by.)

I hope Henry connected on some level with those lessons as well.

The Bird and the Bug

Today it was hot. Just.Plain.Hot. There’s a reason the word hot has only three letters—one syllable is really all you’ve got the energy to utter under these conditions. This day felt like the kind of hot where, if it were acceptable, you’d stay in your underwear all day long and exaggerate your suffering like a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara while fanning yourself in front of an open refrigerator.

Needless to say, this family does not handle heat all that well. Our cheeks get red, we get cranky, our eyes glaze over and we get a tad bit dazed and confused—I’m pretty sure Henry and I had a long and involved discussion about the value of the Creamsicle. But neither of us is to blame. No one’s brain works properly above 90 degrees.

As I stood watering the window boxes (and periodically spraying one or the both of us with the cold water from the hose) I came to the conclusion we had to get somewhere cool—fast. We finished our work, raced upstairs and woke Sadie from her nap. The left side of her head was a mess of wet curls where she had sweated through her sleep, her sweet face pressed against her pink crib sheet like a grilled cheese sandwich. She was so hot that when I held her up to the air blowing from her window unit, she shuddered with the sudden blast of cool.

Three glasses of iced water later, we were in the car, though. We opted for the trails at Maudslay where we'd hoped the trees would shade us; and maybe trap some rogue breezes in their leafy arms just for us. But with the still intense heat, Sadie moved slowly and we made it only as far as the yellow fields just beyond the stone fence. Henry was happy to collect sticks; Sadie her rocks. And when we finally sat to rest our sorry selves in the grass, we were fortunate enough to catch sight of something kind of amazing. Over the field, there were dozens of birds darting and dipping through the air like sea gulls on the ocean. Catching bugs.

Judging by the population of friendly insects sharing time with us yards away under the trees, I assume the buzzing and bopping of the summer bugs in the tall grass was beyond plentiful. Henry and Sadie moved to the edge of the field, mesmerized by the birds and their dinner dance, their black bodies moving powerfully and with determination against the periwinkle summer sky. Although it reminded me of my first experience with bats on a twilight evening in Athens, Ohio … I eventually joined the kids, each of us hovering ourselves on the frame of this painting before us. I leaned down and sat with Sadie, who loves birds so much that every time one came near, her chest would visibly rise with excitement.

Most of the time, the birds were too far away to see in detail so Henry and I made our own sound effects. A swoosh with the capture of the bugs, and a buzz to effect the sound of the escapees. Our sounds became actions. Sadie and I were the bugs, running from Henry and his giant wings. And when he’d catch me, I’d get to be the bird and he would buzz and jump away. It was your basic game of tag, but with an extra dose of creativity. We made the game so elaborate that whether bird or bug, it was pure fun to take on the characteristics of something other than ourselves.

It was still hot out, of course. There were not nearly enough rogue breezes to provide genuine relief. But we did have a good time. And for an hour we forgot how hot we really were.

Still … next time we head out in the heat it’ll be early, and it’ll be the beach. Because today the heat was the bird, and we were the bugs. For sure.