Boreal Witch

We made arrangements for them to arrive on Wednesday and stay until Saturday morning. They had friends who lived in Chicago and planned to visit them before they went back to Ohio. Hugo promised to bring their fortune cookie maker and some empanada wraps so that we could make some after-Thanksgiving treats. 

They arrived on Wednesday and we spent all of Thursday cooking. Arthur complained about the rotten weather; the snow had entirely melted from the constant rain. Hugo and Arthur wrote up many fortunes for fortune cookies and then spent the next hour baking, stuffing, and folding the cookies - which, incidentally, had been made with too much milk, making them more like crepes than cookies. They were still quite tasty. 

Hugo and John-Charles also took the boys to the Rockford Children's Museum where they spent the entire day playing and building their own wooden creations. Arthur brought home an airplane that Hugo had helped him create. Balin didn't bring home anything and seemed reluctant to explain why.

John-Charles related an amusing story about the drive home: Balin and Arthur discussed what they had built at the museum. Balin leaned over and whispered to Arthur that John-Charles had no idea how to build anything. We all, even John-Charles, had a good laugh about that. 

While the boys spent time with their uncles, I watched Patches for the day. My job, it seems, was far easier than theirs; Patches only needed a couple of walks, while my boys needed constant supervision and lunch. 

The only black spot to the entire weekend was when Patches discovered the gerbils. Patches is an incredibly sweet dog, but she has "killer instincts"; often attacking and killing squirrels and rabbits and other small creatures. She wandered into the boys' room and saw the gerbils, instantly leaping to the glass aquarium and snarling. Arthur ran from the room in tears, crying, "Patches is trying to kill the gerbils!" For the rest of the weekend, the door was kept firmly shut.

Other than that, it was a pleasant Thanksgiving.

Blessed be.

Lucky for him, it snowed on Friday. By Saturday morning, we had received about 8 inches of thick, white powder. He spent the whole day playing outside, scooping snow with his shovel into a large mound in order to build a snow den. Even Balin, my indoor kid, spent some time helping him with his green excavator. 

Their outdoor adventures remind me of the fun my sisters and I had when we were kids. I told Arthur and Balin of the time when there happened to be a large hole in the side of the snow pile across the street. We used it as a hideout or cave, sometimes pretending we were polar bears. These are the times of my childhood that I remember best: being outside in imaginative, creative play. These are the times I hope my boys remember, too. 

What are the times you remember? Did you play outside? What did you do?

Blessed be.

Balin brought home a note, a note about upcoming Grandparent's Day. Dad was still going to be in the state, so I took a chance and called him to see if he'd like to make the 2 hour drive south and if Gloria would like a night off.

He wasn't sure at first - which is not unlike Dad. He typically weighs all of his options at least four or five times before finally deciding what's best. If he's in Wisconsin, this usually involves consideration of how he stands with his sister, as the two can have epic head-to-head battles.

So I casually mentioned the possibility of coming down and visiting Balin's class. He said he'd think about it, which I assumed would probably mean no. A few days later he responded with a yes. He'd arrive Sunday afternoon and leave after the event on Monday.

Balin was pretty excited; how often does Papa come to his class? 

The two spent the morning eating cookies and reading a book together, writing and drawing, and making a pumpkin puppet. Then the kids sat in a circle and talked about what they liked best about their grandparents. 

After that, we went to Arthur's class. He promptly told us that his Grandparent's Day was a few days later: the day after Dad's departure. He cried when he discovered that Papa would be back in Anchorage by then. Later that evening, Robinson and I talked to him again. He understood, but he didn't like it. 

Sometimes I'm surprised by this relationship my boys have with their Papa. As a child, I was terrified of him - he stomped around our tiny apartment, yelling and screaming when he became upset over a mess we made or how loud we were. We learned to tread very carefully becuase we didn't want to be the object of the screaming. 

He's mellowed out as a Papa. He's different now, more relaxed, more fun. Perhaps it's the retirement or having an older grandson to practice getting it right - or maybe some of it's because I'm an adult and am out of his care, but he doesn't take life as seriously anymore. (Don't get me wrong. There's still yelling, but it's not usually directed at me anymore; usually Gloria, and on rare occasions, the boys when they are making mischief of one kind or another.)

I wonder, though, if Dad hasn't changed that much; maybe raising kids was too frustrating. I see it now, with my boys. I often joke that my blood pressure goes up with them around, but there's a kernel of truth to that. It's hard being a parent, hard trying to conscientiously avoid your own parent's mistakes, hard trying to actively alter your behavior so that you don't fall into that trap. 

My dad and I have similar personalities. It would be so easy to mimic him, to rule my home as a tyrant, ranting and raving - and though I do on occasion embarrassingly behave this way - I try to get my point across in less confrontational methods, too. I'm not perfect, but I don't want my children to be frightened of me.

I guess what I'm trying to relay is that we all make these decisions in raising our kids. None of us are perfect, but we control our own actions and no one else. 

Blessed be.