Boreal Witch

Today was Kite Day at Arthur's school. I volunteered in his classroom, something I often do while Balin is in Friday Playdate. Since the school year is drawing to a close ("Seven days left, Mommy," Arthur reminded me today), this would probably be the last time I helped out in his first grade classroom.

The kites flapped and strained against the breeze of the upcoming storm, the rain holding off for first grade recess. Perfect kite weather, actually, and I admired them up there, unfettered and free.

Several of Arthur's friends greeted me and then ran off. A few stayed nearby to talk. One of his classmates pulled out a Lego minifigure wearing a Clone trooper body and a mad scientist head and held it out to me saying, "This is my favorite Lego guy." Then we sat down on the black plastic border between the grass and the playground mulch and watched the kites.

I could only stay for a short while; I needed to pick up Balin from the Y. I said my goodbyes and started off toward the building to sign out when it hit me: someday soon Arthur would be flying those third grade kites. Then Balin.

Someday all those kids won't be interested in me, Arthur's mom. I'll get no hugs when I enter their classroom or hear their excited stories about how they saw me or Arthur around town. They'll be far too busy hanging with their friends or skipping school or participating in extra-curricular activities or acting older than they actually are.

I found myself overwhelmingly sad at the thought and I nearly entered the building in tears.

A part of me believes that my kids will always need me - like a kite needs a breeze to fly - but someday they'll be on their own. Without me. To them, I'll be just another memory, and as I sit here with tears streaming down my face, I accept that.

Blessed be.

It started last summer, actually, in July. It was our anniversary and I bought season tickets to all of the upcoming shows in Milwaukee. Robinson was excited - having been a "drama freak" in high school, he has a love of theater - but mostly excited for the Book of Mormon musical.

Since then, we had listened to the music continuously. December came and my Christmas present were a set of missionary name tags reading "Sister Sampson" and "Elder Duffy" - sprung from a humorous joke about dressing up like missionaries for the performance. The name tags were not perfect - actual missionary tags have two fonts, but it had been a challenge for Robinson to find a company who could just make two tags for a reasonable price.

Finally, the big day arrived. Gloria drove down from the farm to watch the boys. Robinson left work early. We left for Milwaukee far earlier than we usually did - 4:30 instead of our usual 6:30 - and ate dinner at Rodizio Grill. I attempted to remain in character by ordering a Shirley Temple. Both the waitress and my husband thought it far more amusing for me to order something else: a caipirinha - a drink similar to a mojito, but with far more alcohol.

After dinner, we headed straight to the theater. It came as no big surprise to find the missionaries attempting to hand out Books of Mormon outside. Most people avoided them like the plague, keeping their eyes down and hastening their step. We actually stopped to chat - joking afterward that this would have been the time to own a smartphone - and received a good-natured compliment about our costumes.

Inside, we stood at the windows watching the missionaries interact with the people entering the theater. Most people smiled politely and said something when offered the book from the outstretched hand of a missionary. A couple people talked to them. In fact, one couple - the husband specifically; the wife looked like she'd rather not be there - stopped and engaged the missionaries in conversation for several minutes. The wife eventually dragged the husband away.

The performance itself was hilarious, probably the funniest show I've ever seen. Since Robinson and I knew the music by heart, I got more of a laugh not from the lyrics, but from the people in the audience who hadn't heard the music from the show yet - I laughed because everyone else laughed.

If you have a chance to go see The Book of Mormon, you should. Oh, it's crass and certain naughty words are repeated over and over again, but it's an excellent show.

Blessed be.

At one time or another, everyone reaches a point where they no longer love what they are doing. It might be a job, it could be a hobby, perhaps it's a marriage or other relationship - but no matter the situation, you feel an overwhelming desire to just be done with it all.

I reached that point today.

This is not to say that I don't love my children. I do. I really do. As Robinson explained it, I have given up seven years of my life to care for them at home but recently it is becoming increasingly more and more difficult to enjoy staying at home with them.

It's mostly the little things. For instance, I like biking, but Balin hates the bike trailer and throws a fit whenever I propose a ride somewhere. If it were just me, I would be able to get up and go without having to worry about someone else or their stuff: their shoes, their jacket, their snack.

I'd like to be able to talk to people without being constantly interrupted or physically pulled or pushed in another direction. I daydream about the day I can carry on a conversation with someone without one (or both) of my children complaining or embarrassing me. (I hope you, dear reader, never have the unpleasant opportunity of being harassed by your child when you are conversing with other adults because it is rip-out-your-hair frustrating. I am surprised that I am not yet bald.)

There's also having that extra time to pursue my own hobbies - quilting, drawing, and writing - which are often difficult to do with children around. I could - and do - often draw or quilt when my boys are home, but I find it nearly impossible to write. It's like they sense the exact moment when I sit in front of the computer hoping to push out a page or two to begin fighting or constantly interrupt me.

Some of you are probably thinking, "But you'll miss them once they are in school!" I won't lie. I probably will. I'll miss reading to them. I'll miss the hugs and the kisses. I'll miss building Legos with them. But these are all activities that I can do with them on the weekends and I will probably appreciate my time with them far more than if they remained home with me.

So, for now, I am trying hard to just make it through the rest of the school year and the summer.

Blessed be.

The athletic shoes I had since my move to Beloit had begun to fall apart. It was time for a new pair (shoe shopping - yay!).

My readers know my criteria for a shoe purchase - namely that they must be made in the USA - so instead of going to Payless or Famous Footwear, I went to a little shoe store located in downtown Beloit (shop local, people!).

I had always assumed that I wore a 7.5 shoe. I mean, my feet did swell when I was pregnant, so there might have been a time I almost wore an 8, but my shoe size has been fairly consistent since high school. Though, to be honest, I might have worn a 7 back then. I don't remember.

In any case, Balin and I went to this shoe store so that I could order a new pair of gym shoes. When the salesman asked me what size I wore, I said "Seven-and-a-half," without hesitation. As I tried on the shoes, I realized that a 7.5 would not fit. They were far too big.

Maybe this brand runs large, I thought, and asked the salesman that very question.

"No, they generally run true to size," he said.

Well, crap.

So I ordered a size 7 athletic shoe.

Of course there was second-guessing. I mean, when you believe your shoe size to be this specific, exact measurement, it is surprising when you discover that it is not.

Then I realized for the very first time that my Oka-b flats did not fit quite as well as they did when I first bought them. So I measured my feet. Size 7.

Did my feet really shrink? I wondered. Why would my feet shrink?  

Google claims that feet shrink for many reasons, among them osteoporosis and weight loss.

While I have not lost an incredible amount of weight recently, I am fairly active with incredibly toned legs...and feet? Could my decreased shoe size be attributed to that?

Regardless of what had happened to my feet, the athletic shoes fit perfectly, I have ordered two new flats in the proper size, and am currently trying to find new homes for my size 8 flats. They are still in excellent condition (with a warranty), I just can't wear them.

On the bright side, I will have to go shoe shopping.

(Yes, honey. Have to.)

Blessed be.

Perhaps it was because at one time I didn't have much disposable income or maybe it's because my sense of style has evolved over the years, but I have become addicted to shoes.

Yes, you heard me.

At one time I laughed at my younger sister for owning more than three pairs of shoes. All of her shoes are lovingly kept in small, stackable plastic shoe boxes - probably well organized within her closet. (Though I am not actually sure where she keeps them; I don't often get the opportunity to dig through her closet. But I have before. It was fun.) I now own about ten pairs of shoes and two pairs of boots - and have ordered three more pairs last night. Robinson watched me push the "Order Now" button as he teased me, the whole event being quite amusing to a person who owns only three pairs of shoes.

I'm not sure exactly when this fixation began. When my mother said, "Let's go shopping," she almost always meant "shopping for clothes." She was much more likely to treat me to a new top or a pair of pants, which meant we almost never went to the shoe section at Penny's or Sears.

In the last few years, I have tried to become more aware of what I buy and where I buy it from. I have stopped purchasing my clothing from department stores, opting instead to shop exclusively at thrift stores for tops, pants, and skirts. It's a crap shoot: I don't always find what I want, but I can usually get items for much cheaper than if I buy them at a department store. (Plus, I feel better about supporting local shops than I do big box stores. Yes, my snobbery has become quite obvious.)

Needless to say, buying shoes from the stores I usually frequented was now out. Wouldn't it be somewhat hypocritical of me to stop purchasing clothing from department stores, but continue to buy my shoes there?

And thus I began my American-made shoe journey and shoe obsession.

My shoes are often twice - sometimes three times - what I would normally pay at a department store, but I notice that the quality is better and as a result, I don't have to buy shoes as often. I can still find cute shoes in an array of colors and styles, but they all have good arch support and wear well. Some of my shoes can also be recycled if you return them to the company, which I also love.  

I've mentioned my purchasing practice to one of my co-workers who told me that, while noble, I wouldn't be making a difference in the grand scheme of things. And he's right. Just because I am mindful of my purchases doesn't mean that the rest of the country is. But it makes me feel good, and I'm okay with that.

Want to see my newest purchase? It was love at first sight. Literally.

Blessed be.

It's hard getting up in front of people and performing.