On Stalking

I am a stalker. Yes, a stalker. Not one of those hide-in-the-bushes with binoculars kinds of stalkers. At least not yet.

No...I stalk my children. Mostly only one at the moment. My eldest. The one whom I have sent willy-nilly out into the cruel world of elementary school where they do heaven only knows what with things like...glue sticks and No. 2 pencils. (And why IS it a No. 2 pencil, incidentally? Why not a 1 or a 4 or an 8? Just think on that while you continue reading.)

Towards the end of EG's kindergarten year, I allowed him to walk to school a couple of times with one of his BFF's, Jackson. My friend Nikki, who has been parenting for a year longer than I, seemed to think it was okay. I went along with it, although in the back of my mind I had a list of not less than 983 things that could go really wrong along their way. Going along with it was my first mistake. You see,I thought perhaps the thrill of it would wear off and they wouldn't WANT to walk to school anymore. I was wrong.

Last year--EG now a first grader, and with not only Jackson (a wise second grader) and Granty (a spunky kindergartener himself) in tow, the walks continued. With three boys rather than two, the number of things that could possibly go wrong went up to 1,291. So I began my stalking of them. I'd linger at home, waiting for them to get around the bend, then waddle out to my car, and drive slowly around their route, watching for them at key spots. They got used to my game, and would generally just end up getting in the car so I could drive them the rest of the way. Occasionally they were actually glad to see me, as they had encountered things like puddles that dampened their shoes (and spirit, once the dampening of said shoes occurred) or untied laces.

Today was the second day of school for EG. Now a second grader, he fancies himself quite grown up. And dang it if Nikki didn't have another bombshell. The boys, she said, wanted to RIDE THEIR BIKES TO SCHOOL. Now if 1,291 things could go wrong on foot, I thought, how many exponential increases in danger would there be if wheels were involved?! Three boys + six wheels = sure doom. My son's dark brown puppy eyes, of course, left no room for disappointment. Thus, he got on his bike, big guy backpack and all, and pedaled off to school.

And I, of course, assumed my traditional stalking position--although I didn't let them know I was doing it. First at the corner, making sure they got off their bikes to walk them across the street. Two did, one didn't. Then, I snuck back through neighborhood with prowess any CIA operative would envy. I found a spot behind a Honda where I could see the boys as they came down one main road, turned around the corner, and then headed across Broadwater Avenue--surely one of the world's busiest thoroughfares. I actually patted myself on the back (okay, so not literally) as I felt very "covert". Until, that is, the freaking Honda driver, obviously unaware of my stalking, got in and drove away, leaving me exposed (again, not literally. I was in my car, for heaven's sake!) So I tried to kind of hide behind a bush (not easy, given the whole CAR thing.) The boys, luckily, didn't observe me as they started around the corner.

Then, in my rear view mirror, I saw something that made me smile. A red Dodge pickup, driven by none other than Nikki's husband. And guess what he was doing? Yep--stalking.

Next time, I'll invite him to pull up a covert bush next to me.

On Summer Breaks Then and Now

When I was Ethan's age, summers seemed to last forever. It was as if time stood still between the day that we walked out of school and walked back in. And in between were a series of long days, spent in small town bliss, riding bikes up dirt roads, hitting the Cowley swimming pool, wandering up to Ina and McKay's for popsicles, running through sprinklers and going to parades. We'd head out the door in the morning, come back in for lunch time, and our moms would rarely see us again until dinner-ish. I would get as brown as a berry (Sunscreen? What's that?), as dirty as a little girl could get and remarkably didn't get into too much trouble.

I suppose even at my young age, though, I guess I realized that there was some time line to it all. Mustang Days in nearby Lovell signaled the end of the first month. The Fourth of July was the pinnacle of summertime--we knew it couldn't get better than that. Cowley Pioneer Day, at the end of July, was a harbinger of the need to go school shopping. And when the corn came on and people started stopping in for bushels of corn, and when football started for my older brother, I knew that the days were coming to an end.

Ethan heads back to school this week, and I often wonder what his perspective on summer is. For him, it's been spent at daycare or at CARE Academy at his school, getting up early and being picked up late, constantly being reminded about grabbing his hat, slathering himself with sunscreen, putting his golf clubs in the car and getting his lunch packed. He can't just wander up the road or into town; a bike ride requires a helmet and heading to the pool requires extensive planning. With his recent medical problems, we have to pack a "Danimals" bag for him just to go to Grandma's house for a couple of days.

I do take comfort in the fact that he's been able to do a few fun things this summer. Being a cowboy in Miles City, going camping with Dad, going to the museum in Bozeman, and spending a couple of weekends with Grandma (complete with fun in the swimming pool) have been on the roster.

Perhaps there will be a time when my kids can live lives less planned, when Mom will be home more and we all worry less. When summers can last forever. For now, I just hope that both Ethan and Eme will still have fond memories of summer--even if they're different than the ones I had.

On My 9th Anniversary

Today is my ninth anniversary. Nine years ago, Dave and I were headed off on our honeymoon, completely disconnected from reality and very unaware of what the years ahead of us would bring.

Before I married, I supposed that anniversaries would be spent in blissful getaways full of flowers and romance. On our first anniversary, I was already pregnant with Ethan, but we did have at least a smidge in the form of an overnight stay in Providence, Utah. Since then, there have been some flowers, and a few dinners, but most of the time they're pretty low-key affairs.

Tonight I got home late from a long and completely discouraging day of work. Dave and the kids had already eaten, but cold spaghetti was waiting for me on the counter. There were flowers--a friend had brought me a bouquet yesterday as her way of saying thanks for helping her. I got in some chatting about our respective days with DB and then it was off to deal with bath time, talking a certain princess out of wearing her brother's underwear and trying to ascertain whether or not EG's suggestions of illness were indeed real or false. Now, I sit at the table with my laptop and my mug of icewater, wearing a flowery nightgown of the maternal house dress variety, watching my husband snooze while my kids watch the original Willie Wonka.

Initially, I thought that I'd feel a little down about the whole thing. But then I looked around my kitchen and dining room, torn apart so that DB could install new tile, the "Look What I Did" board on my wall full of finger paintings and glittery glue creations, and hear the singsong sounds of my baby girl chatting about heaven only knows what. And suddenly I realize just how blessed I am, having the husband I never thought I'd have, making plans with him to be married forever, raising children I'd been told could never come to me in a house that may be small and cluttered, but full of the noise of a family that drives me nuts and makes me happy all at the same time.

I'm not sure I could ask for a nicer anniversary than that.