Just one I like

Sometimes you just capture an image that strikes you. For whatever reason. I like her stance, her expression. She was telling me a story as I took this picture.

A boy and his balloon

Happy Memorial Day weekend! Luca celebrated by getting his first pair of shoes. I wanted to continue raising him as my petite hippy with no shoes but he's begun walking along furniture and standing up on his own. I thought it was high time the boy get some proper footwear. He was thrilled with the balloon he was given.

Night at the Park

Cousins at the park. Is there anything cuter? M and L and I stopped by spontaneously at Emily and Peter's. We all ended up picking up picnic supplies for dinner and heading to the park. It's official; summer is here.

Waiting....

Aren't we all in a perpetual state of waiting?

For the hair to grow longer. Or for the appointment to cut it short.

For the task to get easier. Or for the brainstorm of what to do next.

For the grief to go away. Or for the acceptance of it.

For the babies to get bigger. Or for the day when time freezes and you can enjoy them at this stage indefinitely.

For life to get easier. Or for the magical skill of making it look easy to drop from the sky.

And, in tonight's case, for the pasta and meatballs to fall from the baby's highchair. Or for me to yell, "Bijou back off and let Luca eat."

Luca

He won't let me wipe his hands or face so he has avocado smeared on his nose. A sign of a meal well received.

Bright Colors

Dandelion Necklace Making

How we love our backyard

A New Perspective

I got a new fancy camera and have been in hog heaven. I'm not kidding myself thinking I will ever be anything more than an amateur; I have Rachel to be my BFF/professional photographer. But, I always wanted a camera that captured what I see everyday. The vibrant colors. The beautiful eyes. The soft folds of cheek on my babies faces.

Now, I have it. Mia was my model extraordinaire this afternoon while Luca napped. He'll be the next victim.

Ms. Rumphius

Summer is here.

I taught my last day of the school year today. I read my kids one of my faves, Miss Rumphius, and kind of teared up (as I always do) at the end. The young character sets out into the great big world with three tasks: to visit far away lands, to return to her home by the sea, and to make the world a more beautiful place. She accomplishes all three tasks, and at the end, as her long white hair waves behind her, she notes that the last was certainly the most difficult.

I closed the book and looked out at my sea of faces - full of missing teeth and scratches. Their cheeks, some still round like babies, and some more angular like older kids, were all puffy from smiles and excitement with the thought of summer. Their dark hair melding together as they sat closely at my feet, forming what looked like black shiny waves in the ocean when you walk the beach at night.

I told them that I read the book because I,too, have three requests of them. They understood two of the requests immediately. They know I want them to travel; I tell them that everyday. I want them to ride on camels and shop in village markets. I want them to skitter barefoot through Buddhist temples and bow with reverence in Hindu ones. I want them to sip a tea in Paris and write a journal entry in Rome. I tell them to study hard and work hard so that they can see the worlds we read about in our books. They also know I want them to make the world more beautiful. And I love that one of my students piped up, "And you don't have to be an artist to make it more beautiful do you Mrs. Pellegrino." No. You certainly don't. Just be decent. Be honest. Be loyal. Be thoughtful. Be true to your belief system. Like the character in the book, my students will discover with age that this is indeed the hardest task to accomplish.

But they then sat confused. The character's third task, returning to the sea, stumped them. "Why do you want us to move to the sea? Why is that something you want for us?"

It took a few more probing questions but they finally nailed it. They seemed to hit on the notion that the sea just means returning home, to share what you know. To share what you've seen. To teach.

I looked out, at my small sea, and wished them all adieu. My heart quietly whispered for them to one day come home. Make the world here better. More beautiful.

Happy Summer.

Where were we before we were us?

Mia and I drove by my childhood home the other day. We were out doing some errands and I haven't been by in years, so I thought a detour was in order. As I was explaining to her the years I lived in the house (from age 10 to 19), I was telling her who lived there with me. "Papa, Nana, Aunt Emmy, Uncle Andrew and Uncle Neil."

Where was I? she asked. Of course. Logical question coming from someone her age. I began to say something about the conception of human life - something about a cluster of cells and it dawned on me that this explanation wouldn't be enough for a three year old. Mia knows all about birth (even asking me how pregnant woman go to the bathroom, "you know, because if the baby comes out of the birth canal, which is really the vagina, how does a woman not have the baby in the toilet?" she thoughtfully asked while coloring one day.) She doesn't however understand nonexistence. Pretty complicated stuff even for adults.

You were a hope I said. And where do hopes live, she asked. Well, hopes and dreams live in your heart. Your soul. They live with your ideas and your aches. They live with your questions and your loss. I went on to explain that I'm no expert in hope real estate. I don't really know where they reside, I just know that sometimes I feel them. Like Papa. Sometimes I feel him.

So with this conversation, Mia deduced that hopes might just live in heaven, along with those that have died. She explained to me that maybe they are all up there mingling around with each other and they stop in to see us every now and again.

Probably, I said. I thought it was a lovely idea - our pasts and our dreams for the future rolled up into a blanket of blue sky and stars.

I asked if she hoped for anything. And she told me she hoped for an escalator in the house. I pictured my dad riding that escalator - a loss and a hope riding along together into the expanse of the oh so confusing universe.

What would I do without a three year old to bring up such provoking questions? And provide such compelling answers?

Village People

They say it takes a village.

I, though, have struggled with identifying my village. I have an amazing family. And I have incredible friends who have walked through thick and thin with me. I have a husband. A dog, who really only consistently eats my underwear, but she does so with such loyalty that I do consider her a tribe member, a villager if you will. And my sweet babies.

But my loved ones (except for husband, the kids, and the underwear eater) are scattered across the city. My village feels more like a college class upon graduation....everyone off to different ventures but still very connected emotionally.

I longed for that physical feeling of community.

The whole notion of needing a village after I had the kids became more and more apparent. That's really what prompted the move to the suburbs. We wanted to be closer to my family. We were seeking community. (Hear me out....yes, you can absolutely have a phenomenal sense of community in an urban area. We just happened to find our village in a suburb.)

All week, Mia has been asking, "Is today Saturday???" To which I would have to reply, "No" and then count out the days until Saturday. The couple next door has their four grand kids over every Saturday night so their parents can go out. Mia is thrilled with this arrangement. Add the little three year old who lives on the other side of us and we have ourselves a regular Our Gang happening over here on Saturdays.

Today, I watched all six of them hop from fence to fence, screaming after one another. I watched them get soaked in one yard's hose, and then disappear into another neighbor's house only to come out with candied pecans. I watched them draw with sidewalk chalk and play soccer. I watched them collapse into a heap like a pile of scroungy puppies, asking for drinks. The group disbanned and I thought the night was over. I dragged Mia, sweaty and dirty, into the house and tried to coax her to the table.

A few minutes later, a knock on our back door and all of them traipsed into the house, leaving their small shoes by the door. My heart was full as I wandered around, pretending not to listen to them but devouring their high voices and funny comments.

This is my village, I thought.

I cooked in the kitchen as I looked on to the family room. I saw feet poking out from the couch, and the girls cuddled onto one side looking through books. The boys laughed as Luca tried to be cool and hang with the big kids. It was eventually their dinner time and they sweetly said thank you and hopped the fence to head back to their Nana's. The oldest boy yelled over his shoulder, "Next Saturday?"

"Yes," I said. "Next Saturday."

And so it is. We've set up shop in this great little neighborhood and I can finally put to test the theory that it does, indeed, take a village.

What does Sunday morning look like at your house?

Playtime = Happy Kids

I've officially put aside the need to get everything in its place in the new house in order to tend to my littlest household members. We put the house on the market in mid February and it's been nonstop since then. We are trying to find our roots again....our path. This weekend was like coming home. We all just fell back into our old routines and it felt like putting on an old pair of jeans. Comfortable.

I've been telling people that the move has happened to coincide with some kind of change in Luca. He was suddenly demanding and honorary. He seemed frustrated. It FINALLY hit me that the move didn't happen at the same time as this seismic shift, it caused it. So, this weekend I made an effort to focus on him rather than window coverings and rugs. He noticed and it's like his tough exterior kind of melted away. He has been giggly and smiley. Like the good old days.

Sorry little man. In my zest to create the perfect nest, I kind of forgot that baby birds needed me. I promise to put my energy in what matters from here on out.