Frankly, I can’t wait.  There are gardens to be weeded and tents that need to go camping and produce that wants to be canned.  It will be lovely to set aside the teacher’s manuals and let that part of my life have a tiny break to better focus on the rest.

That doesn’t mean that we’re going to have a mindless summer around here.  No sirree bob.  The kids will continue with piano lessons and swimming.  In addition, all three of them will play tennis for six weeks.  I’ll continue to oppress their liberty and make them read every single day and we’ll sign up for the summer reading program at the library.  There will even be a few quasi-educational trips to take.

But, mostly, there will be time for my children to get bored.  Time for them to lie on the grass, closing their eyes to the sun, and daydream.  Time for them to come up with their own art projects and time for them to (hopefully) clean everything up.  Time for board games and time for friends and time for play.

We are deliberately planning on doing a whole lot of nothing.  We are actively not over-scheduling our days to create space for time in our daily lives.  Time to do whatever we want.

In these days of educational reform, an overabundance of electronic gadgets, and the hectic scheduling of activities, free time is an endangered commodity in our children’s lives.  Despite the fact that there are still twenty-four hours in the day, time no longer easily falls into our laps.  Instead, we must consciously plan for it and purposely protect it.  It is a mindful lifestyle that one must adopt to have free time.

I am firmly convinced that some of the best learning of the year will happen this summer as my children have time to be bored and play.  They will gain something that cannot be taught from any lesson plan or included on any syllabus.

But only if I let it happen.  Only if I allow it.

Eden sits on my lap.  Despite having a towel and a cover-up on, her wet swimsuit is slowly dampening the mom-jeans I’m wearing.  I don’t mind, it’s been an overly warm day.

My daughter looks at me and starts to beg, “Can we read it now?  Pleeeaaase.  I have been waiting all day.”

“Are you sure you want to read this book?” I tease her, “It’s so old.  I read it when I was little.”

“Mom, I love this book.  Please, let’s read it right now!”  Eden wiggles all over my lap in her sincerity and the damp spot on my jeans widens.

“Alright, alright,” I say as I pull out the first of the Little House books from my purse.  ”Where were we?”

Eden quickly turns to the chapter we’re at and lays her head against my shoulder.  I breathe in her chlorine scented hair and then we read about Laura and long Sundays and naughty boys who break the Sabbath.

When the chapter is over, Eden begs for me to read one more and I quickly agree.

The sun hangs low in the sky while the birds sing their evening songs.  In the background we can hear the sounds of children swimming and people playing tennis.  Underneath all of this there is the low drone of some industrious homeowner mowing his lawn.

It is a perfect moment, sitting here with her.  And just as Laura says at the end of The Little House in the Big Woods, I think to myself “This is happening now.  It can never be long ago.”

(Just Write.)

At the end of my life, when I review all my parenting moments, that will go down as one of the scariest.

We rushed her to the E.R. and while my husband parked the car, I carried all forty-five pounds of her inside, running, despite being eight months pregnant.  That whole ‘adrenaline giving you super-strength’ thing?  Totally legit.

It was quickly determined Trinity was suffering from a bad croup attack and I received a crash course from the professionals in breathing treatments and clearing blocked air passages.

Over the next year or two, I became quite the expert at dealing with croup.  I knew all the tricks (steamy showers, breathing colder night-time air, compresses, etc.)  Occasionally an attack would become severe and then I pulled out the heavy guns: inhalers and steroids.

One night when nothing else was working, I gave Trinity some medicine and we sat on the couch, waiting for it to kick in.  I kept rubbing her back and reassuring her that the prescriptions would kick in soon.  But as we sat there, she grew more and more anxious.

I knew that if I could just distract her for twenty minutes the meds would have time to do their thing.  But coming up with something (at two in the morning) to distract a panicky five year old who can’t breathe is rather a challenge.

I then made what might be either the best or worst parenting decision of my career.  I put Jurassic Park in the VCR.

Within five minutes, Trinity was staring at the television screen, wide eyed and mouth opened as an enormous dinosaur roared mightily, her breathing problems completely forgotten.  Her inhaler and steroids had time to work their magic and the crisis was averted.

By the time Trinity had outgrown croup attacks a year later she had probably seen Jurassic Park three times.  Out of all the tools and weapons in my arsenal, that loud, scary movie proved the most effective.

There are two direct results from my early morning parenting decision that fateful day.

The first is that I am much more tolerant of other people’s parenting, because how on earth could I possibly judge anyone, when I let a five year old watch the scariest dinosaur movie of the modern age?

The second is that my daughter is abnormally fond of dinosaurs.  The louder and spookier they are, the more she finds them comforting.

The moral of this story?  Try not to make too many important decisions at two a.m.

1- I love, love, love the beautiful laminate flooring my husband is installing downstairs.  It’s simply gorgeous and it makes me want to roll around on it, reveling in the sexiness of it all.  I don’t know how a kitchen floor can be sexy, but this one is.

2- I’m loving how the cats skid all over the sexy new downstairs floor as they chase each other.  It’s like having our own living room show of America’s Funniest Home Videos.  I particularly love it when one feline skids out of control and knocks down the other cat, resulting in a double furry spin-out.  Simple pleasures are the best.

3- I’m totally loving the French Onion Soup Pot-stickers I made the other day.  (Vidalia Onion season rules!)  If I use my homemade beef broth in the recipe, then this dish is pretty low in sodium and I can eat a dozen of these beautiful puppies.  I’m not saying that I did eat a dozen of these, I’m just saying I could…..Fine… I did eat a dozen of these but don’t judge.  They’re the first Chinese food I’ve had in weeks and they were delicious.

4- I love how the baby bok choy I planted went all gang busters while I was gone.

Seriously, I came home and it’s like bok choy gone wild over here.  So tonight I’m going to make some bok choy pesto wontons, that I’m tweaking from a Rachael Ray recipe.  (Please Rachael Ray, please stop saying the phrase “Yummo!”  It hurts me so.)

5-  I love that the entire city of Indianapolis smells like lilacs at this time of year.  And I love that my own two lilac bushes add to that floral perfume.  You can practically smell them through your computer screen.

6-  I love the weird, random thoughts I have while going to sleep each night.  Like the idea last night I had of making Swiffer socks so that I can clean my new downstairs floor and exercise at the same time.  I’m going to make millions off this notion, I can feel it.

7- I love that the peonies didn’t bloom while I was away.  I gave them strict instructions to wait until I came home, and they listened like the obedient flora that they are.  If only my children were more like peonies.

8-  I absolutely adore my husband.  Not only is he installing the sexiest laminate flooring east of the Mississippi, but he’s also repainting the baseboards so it all looks clean and fresh.  Geez Louise, I love this man.

9-  I love the sound of rain at night while I lay in my bed.  The sound of rain falling is probably the most relaxing sound in the entire world, making me simultaneously peaceful and grateful and happy.  (And occasionally it makes me have to pee, but that’s another story for another day.)

10-  And last, but certainly not least, I love you gentle reader.  I missed you while I was gone and it’s so good to be able to talk with you again.

So let me know, what are you madly, truly, and deeply in love with at the moment?

Sometimes, though, all moms need a little vacation.  A break from wiping noses, making beds, cooking dinner, and all of the million other tasks that come with having children.

Last week I got that holiday.  A lovely friend was invited to a conference at Disney World and she decided to bring me along.

I would just like to state for the record that there is no more magical, wonderful, or incredible place on the entire planet than Disney World, especially when one is in dire need of a break from the everyday humdrum.    Don’t even think of arguing with me gentle reader.

Where else can you ride roller coasters big or small?

Where else does the sight of princesses make your heart thump madly or your eyes tear up even though you’re a grown woman of forty?

Where else can you travel the world by just walking a few steps?

And see the most amazing plants and flowers?

And is there anything more magical than seeing the lights of Tomorrow land?

Or Cinderella’s castle at night?

Or watching fireworks through the floating lanterns next to Rapunzel’s tower?

There isn’t, there truly isn’t.

And while several times a day I wished with my whole heart that my family was beside me, there was something very healing and rejuvenating about having a small break from my mommy and wife roles.

Sometimes a magical vacation away from home is just what you need to be a better mother and a kinder spouse.

How grateful I am for a family that understands that.

This is one of my most favorite photographs in the whole wide world.  The mother in the wheelchair is my grandmother and the newborn she’s holding is my mother.

Three things strike me about this picture.

First:  They made women ride in wheelchairs after they were discharged from the hospital over sixty years ago?  Geez louise.

Second:  My grandmother looks more beautiful than any woman should be allowed so quickly after giving birth.

Third, and most importantly:  There is such joy on my grandmother’s face at becoming a mother again.  My mom was her third child, so my grandmother knew what lay ahead:  The sleepless nights, the washing out of diapers by hand, the crying, the worry, and all the rest of it.  By the third kid you know what you’re in for.

But you don’t see a whisper of those things in the picture.  My grandmother is smiling, holding her daughter protectively.  She’s happy, thrilled, to be a mother.

This is a picture of my mother and I, right after she came home from the hospital with my sister.  Looking at this picture, you see another woman filled with such happiness at becoming a mother again.  (You also see a woman who has a firm grip on her oldest daughter’s arm to ensure that she doesn’t overly love the new baby, but that’s besides the point.)  The joy, the joy that is right there on my mother’s face is what’s important.

This is a picture of me after giving birth to my third child.  I look a little more tired than my mother and grandmother (at the last minute, Eden chose an untraditional form of exiting) and I’m much less coiffed.  But the joy of being a mother is there for all to see.

One day I hope to add to this legacy of motherhood with pictures of my daughters and their babies.  I don’t know if they’ll be as well groomed as my mother and grandmother, I don’t know how many babies they’ll have, I suspect there will be hospitals and wheelchairs and much subduing of older siblings.  But one thing I can absolutely guarantee is that there will be joy.  And lots of it.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Forty.   Years.   Old.  The big 4-0.

It’s unbelievable.  In my head, I’m still just a young thing who could blend in easily at a college class somewhere.  In reality, I’m a middle-aged person who would immediately be labelled as a “non-traditional” student if I stepped foot on campus.

Whatever.  I maintain I’m not over the hill yet, because at forty I’m at the pinnacle of the hill, at its peak.  I’ll be over the hill in 364 days when I turn forty-one.

Basically, like Doc Holiday, I’m in my prime.

So in the grand spirit of turning forty I’d like to share this gem with you:  It’s not really about the number of years you’ve lived, it’s about the number of people you’ve loved while you lived.

So go out there and love someone.  (This is where you imagine me giving you a friendly punch on the shoulder to encourage you.)

And because forty is a big birthday, I have a second, slightly less philosophical, gem for you:  a lip sync competition between Jimmy Fallon and John Krasinski.  It’s the best present I received yesterday for my birthday.  (Of course Jimmy Fallon did this on his show especially for my birthday, because he looooves me.  He just doesn’t know he loves me.  All in due time.  All in due time.)

I don’t mean to brag about my lip syncing skills, but I think I could take them both.

The girls’ bedroom make-over project has taken far longer than we had anticipated.  So, instead of rooming with us for just a few days, they have slept in our room for the past couple of weeks.

I don’t mind too much, actually.  There is something rather reassuring when you see the things most precious to you as soon as your eyes open.

This particular day, as I glance across the room, I notice that Eden has slept with her butterfly net.  It was an early birthday present from her grandmother, and hasn’t left her side for three days now.  Another reminder that my baby is having a birthday this week.

It’s a rather big birthday at that.  She’s turning six, which sounds incredibly older and more mature than merely being five.  My husband says that five is the last of the little years and I believe him.  There are oceans between five and six.  Galaxies.

The signs of her aging are easy to see today.  Eden takes up more of the mattress now as she sleeps in her bed, her legs stretched out straight and long.  Her hands have lost the dimpled chubbiness that toddlers have.  Instead, her fingers are thin and nimble so she can practice her piano lessons or try to tie her shoes.

The baby part of her has silently melted away these past few years, slowly but surely, and now it’s shocking to realize in that tiny one’s place is a gangly kid who has bruises on her knees from trying to ride a bicycle.  A kid who has her own favorite songs on the radio and is allowed to use the microwave.

And now, this particular morning as I notice how much she has grown, I am left a little blinded and teary-eyed.  As if I have stared at the sun too long.

She is dazzling.  Dazzling.

(Just Write.)

It was a well needed break since one small person had an earache and upset belly all night, Daddy had a headache, and  Mom was exhausted.  So, as a family, we skipped church, stayed in our pajamas, and rested.

Here is what I discovered:  The family that slacks off together, rejuvenates together.  With nothing to do and no place to go, I was able to de-stress and stop talking in a high pitched voice, the children ceased in their perpetual arguing, and my husband’s pinched forehead once more became smooth and unwrinkled.

We missed church, it is true.  That doesn’t happen very often around here.  But I believe that some days, laying in bed well into the morning while your children are laughing downstairs is spiritual.  Eating popcorn and lemonade slushies for lunch can be a religious experience.  And watching the rain fall on strawberry plants feels sacred.

Quite simply, there are days when what you need most is the religion of family.

In my head, I know that with rules and supervision, the trampoline is a relatively safe contraption.  My heart, however, refuses to concede to any such foolish belief system.

To distract my heart, I find taking pictures of my children while they are jumping to be oddly soothing.  It is also quite enjoyable afterwards when I assign fake captions to the pictures.

The title of this photo is:  ”I believe I can fly.”  (And now I’m singing the song.  And so are you.  You’re welcome.)

The photo shows Eden re-enacting scenes from The Matrix.  Given that she’s never even seen the movie, I find this natural ability to imitate such a quality film, amazing.

This photo’s caption is: “Everyone stop!  I’ve lost my contact!”  (No, Eden doesn’t wear contacts, but this is what I imagine she’d look like if she lost one.)

When I look at this picture, I imagine Will saying in an evil genius voice, “My plans of bouncing my sister to Bermuda are finally coming to fruition.”  I can’t decide if Eden is a minion saying “Whoa,” in tones of admiration; or, if she’s an innocent bystander calling for help.  Her expression is very ambiguous.

Finally we have an avant-garde piece in which Trinity and Eden wave to the boy sitting on an invisible barstool.

See how fun this is?  Now I almost feel calm.  No, wait.  The kids are headed for the backyard again.

Dang it.  Pass the valium please.