Pumpkins

As another piece of our fall tradition, we went pumpkin hunting. We found a little place in New Prague that was open this weekend, and after two and a half hours we found the best 4 pumpkins they had, I'm sure of it. The people were very nice, the prices were reasonable, and the place was beautiful. We might have to make it our annual pumpkin patch destination.

We made Colin pull the wagon.

He couldn't smile while pulling the wagon because it was intense work.

Eventually you have to rest, but the convenient thing about a wagon is that you can rest inside of it.

Jared, showcasing Colin's perfect pumpkin.

Colin after he dropped his perfect pumpkin.

Oliver in a stick house.

The closest thing to Oliver and Colin enjoying the same thing at the same time.

Pumpkin Teepee.

Oliver and Aunt Christa.

 There were ears of corn and a bucket to shell corn into, which was surprisingly entertaining for everybody.

Colin shelling corn.

Oliver shelling corn.

Colin running away with the corn before we could shell it.

Colin making the two person ride into a one person ride.

They had stilts for people to try out. After being taught a secret trick, we were pretty good. I let Jared win our stilt race, though.

Stilt master Jared.

Stilt student Colin.

We have our apples. We found our pumpkins. Now all that's left to complete our fall tradition trifecta is the corn maze.

Aren't we wild and crazy?

Happy Birthday, Oliver.

Oliver,

Today you turn four. You're old enough now to actually know what age you're turning. You understand birthdays. You know that today marks the day that you have been on the planet earth for 4 whole years. You understand that being four means you are getting older, inching closer to all of those things that you're just dying to do. 

"When I'm four, I'll get new shoes because I will be too big for these."

"When I'm four, I will be strong enough to walk the dog."

"When I'm four, maybe I will be able to write."
"When I'm four, I will be able to reach high stuff."

And maybe you will. 

Most importantly to you, you have mastered the art of putting together a birthday list of everything you've seen and coveted since last Christmas. Before I went through and edited your birthday list, you had two pages of things that you wanted. Video games. Board games. Lego. Lots and lots of Lego. It was a year of Lego for you.

Weeks ago you knew you wanted a Tyrannosaurus cake. You knew I'd make one for you, because that's what I do. There will probably come a time when you want a store-bought cake with its perfect icing, but for now you're thrilled with the idea of homemade. Sometimes we would be riding along in the car and you would pipe up from the backseat out of nowhere, "I changed my mind, I want a truck/superhero/polar bear/universe cake!"  No matter what you came up with, I said, "Of course I can do that!" 

Because you thought I could. How could I not try?

This weekend I slapped that T-Rex  cake together and it looked a little goofy. It tasted mediocre. It melted a little by the time we got to the party in the hot car.

But you were still happy. So I was happy.

Three was such an interesting year for us. You knew what you wanted, and at preschool you learned that you can pout and whine to try and get your way. You got jealous of your little brother and sharing with your brother became torture for you. You spent a lot of your time this year in time-out. Sometimes you shouted at me, "I DON'T LIKE YOU MOM AND I WILL NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN!"

But I know that really isn't you. You get angry when things don't go your way, but that sweet boy I know is always lying just beneath your anger. When time-out is done, you walk over to me and you wrap your arms around me. You let me hold you and you lean against me and you say, "I'm sorry, Mom. I love you so much."

It makes me melt a little bit. 

At three, I was still your everything. I hope the same holds true for four, but just in case it doesn't, I tried extra hard to savor my time with you - my time turning up the music for our dance parties in the living room. My time reading you the longest bedtime stories you could find. My time holding your hand through the parking lot as you told me about your day at school.

Some of my favorite memories from this year are from the times I spent talking with you. Your topics of conversation were surprisingly heavy for a 3 year old. You loved talking about how big the universe is, about what happens when people die, about how magnets work and how monsters aren't real and and and.  You never stopped talking. But the real thing that I admired about you is that, this year, you listened. You analyzed. You were so eager to learn about things that sometimes your whole body would still while the wheels in your brain zoomed, wrapping themselves around new ideas.

This past summer you kept asking me about caves. Are they real or imaginary? Are there treasures inside? Do monsters live in them? What is a stalactite? You asked all of these questions and they were finally about a topic I could easily show you, a topic with cut and dried black and white answers. So one Saturday afternoon we just decided to go explore a cave. We packed you and your brother into the car and drove across the state to show you firsthand the answers to your questions. When we finally pulled into Crystal Cave's parking lot you said, "I've always wanted to go here!" even though you only just-then learned that it existed.

We thought you might be bored by the cave tour, but you were probably the most excited person there. While some fumbling teenager went through her poorly memorized cave script, you were taking in every word. When she asked if anyone had any questions, you always did. When the tour was over, you spouted out cave facts to everyone you crossed paths with for weeks.

"Did you know that if you touch the cave that the oil in our hands will turn the cave black?!"
"Did you know that bats live in some caves!?"
"Did you know that the cave was made from water!?"

And that experience was so much quintessentially you at three years old. You questioned. You listened. You learned. And then you shared your knowledge. With everybody.

Now that you're four, I can't wait to teach you more. I can't wait to see you figure out how everything works. I can't wait for more of those weekends when we rally the troops and go out to explore whatever it is that you're interested in learning about. There is nothing better than being your teacher, than spelunking with you and reading with you and playing with you to find all of life's answers.

You've given me 4 years of adventures, and I hope for 100 more.

Happy birthday, Oliver. We love you so much, little scientist.

P.S. You love this song so much; no other song would do for your slideshow.

"I could lift you up.
I could show you what you want to see,
And take you where you want to be.
You could be my luck.
Even if the sky is falling down,
I know that we'll be safe and sound."

Apple Orchard, Take 5

In accordance with our yearly tradition, we went apple picking at Minnesota Harvest last weekend. And of course, in accordance with our yearly tradition, we took our cheesy plywood cut-out family photo.

We got rained on a little bit this year, but we managed to pick our bag of marginally blemished apples that were only 40% bruised by the kids' rough handling.

Colin scooped up the most shriveled, rotten, teeny apples he could find on the ground and carried them around like prizes. Oliver discovered a big stick and walked around with it, endangering his and others' lives. Jared ate his one and probably only apple of the year, and then walked around regretting it while scratching his itchy mouth.

In other words, this year was pretty much like every other year. The faces in the pictures are older and the plywood photo prop has faded, but we're still the same exact people picking apples from the same exact trees.

Next year we'll go back to the same orchard and find those same trees still there, laden with perfect (imperfect) apples with our names on them. Oliver and Colin will have grown, but I won't realize it until I look back at this year's photos. And the year's before that. And the year's before the year before that.

Next year we'll pick our apples and I will come home and unload the camera's memory card and think to myself, how did we survive another year already? But somehow we did. Somehow we survived and we have these smiling photos of our family traditions as proof. Don't ask me how, but our crazy system must be working.

Cheers, Minnesota Harvest. See you again next year.

Goodbye stuff. Hello fun.

A couple of years ago Jared took over paying the bills. Jared was frustrated because he didn't know where all of our money was going. I was frustrated  because Jared thought  that I was irresponsible with my spending. The solution for us was for me to shove everything at him and say, here, you try it. You pay the bills and you'll see it isn't me.

So Jared took the reigns. He paid (and continues to pay) the bills. He understands now. He no longer complains or wonders where the money is going. I no longer feel judged in my spending. 

It turns out that kids are just expensive. It was nobody's fault. That's just how it is. We assembled a budget that cut out what we didn't need and gave us more room for what we wanted: family time. Although sometimes it's easy to look at store displays and feel limited by our budget, it has actually been quite freeing to live this way. I know now that I don't need the brand name cereal or the new shoes or Egyptian cotton sheets to be happy.

Last night when I looked at our budgeting software, I felt proud of our shift in spending habits. I smiled as I read the individual line items, because it was money spent on things that actually did buy happiness. That money bought us time together. It bought us adventures. It bought Jared and I some alone time.  

If you could see our summer bank account statements, they would look just like this:

A ketchup-y smile at Oliver's first baseball game, aka an $8 hot dog.

Oliver's fascination with gemstone panning, aka a $10 bag of dirt.

Colin's freedom to explore, aka a $2 bottle of water at a local festival.

Oliver's dinosaur smile, aka a $3 admission fee.

Colin's butterfly garden excitement, aka a $3 admission fee.

Oliver's summer sports camp, aka a $60 fee.

Oliver's carnival games, aka $5 in tickets.

We did so much this year. We flew to Florida. We went to local festivals and fairs. We visited the Renaissance. We ate stuff on a stick. We rode roller coasters. We tubed down a river. We swam at the pool. We hiked. We grilled out. We watched baseball. We fed giraffes. We explored a cave.

Live music show.

Visiting a cave, a wish of Oliver's.

Playing in a sluice box.

Visiting the horses at the Minnesota State Fair.

Playing with an exhibit in the horse barn.

Climbing the giant play gym.

Wrestling in an indoor park.

Posing at the Minnesota Zoo.

Playing in the zoo's park.

Sliding all by himself at the zoo park.

Riding a giant bass.

Shushing the loud geese.

Feeding the rude goats.

Hanging out with family in the nosebleed section.

Wearing a nacho bucket as a hat while waiting for the train.

With all of these great memories, the brand-name cereal, the new shoes, and the Egyptian cotton sheets don't stand a chance.

Goodbye stuff. Hello fun.

We come from a long line of losers.

"I did not have any fun, Mom."

That's the first thing Oliver said to me when he came out from his afternoon sports "camp" last week.  I was surprised, because on all of the other days, he had a great time. He was always one of the less-coordinated players, but before that day he didn't seem to mind.

On baseball day, he ran the bases backwards and told the teachers he bats left handed. On frisbee day, he hit himself in the face with his own frisbee. During a relay race, he relayed the baton to a different team. On all of those days, he had a blast despite his mistakes. On that particular day, he scored a goal for the wrong team, but he didn't look very upset about it when it happened.

I asked him why he had no fun this time around.

"The other kids kicked my ball out of the goal."

It was true. I'd seen it happen. The goalie blocked his shot, and while that is an understood part of the game to most of us, to Oliver it was a malicious act singling him out to deny him the goal he was working so hard towards.

At that moment I felt torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. On one hand, there was this pitiful little boy, completely crushed by his perceived poor performance in an unscored preschool soccer game, crying about how he will probably never ever go to school because he isn't good enough at sports. On the other hand, I saw him out there trying his hardest and failing in spite of his best efforts, and I know how hard that hurts. It was heartbreaking to see how gravely he was taking his failure. To him, clearly, this was a very big deal.

I tried to comfort him the entire car ride home. I told him over and over again that I was proud of him for trying something new and giving it his best shot. I told him that he can practice and he will get better and better. I gave him the cliched parenthood speech proclaiming over and over again that I'm proud of him no matter what, but he's starting to be too old to be comforted by that. He wanted to win. He wanted to be as good as the other kids. He wanted to compete.

I tried to tell him that part of playing sports is that while it's fun to try and win, somebody always has to be the loser. That not everybody gets to win all of the time. I thought he knew that, because he graciously loses over and over again in board games. We never cheat or rig the rules to give Oliver advantages at home. We thought he understood that sometimes you win some, sometimes you lose some, and that's no big deal.

I thought my speech would make him feel like it was okay to be the loser sometimes, but instead it only served to make him realize that this time he was the loser.

"I'm a loser!? I don't want to be a loser!" he yelled from the backseat before returning to his sobbing and moaning with renewed gusto.

I never did manage to say anything that made him feel better. In the end he forgot his troubles over a glass of juice and an episode of My Little Pony. And when he was completely over the whole thing, it was I who sat and dwelled on it.

I don't want him to end up the way I was: too afraid to try something I wasn't naturally good at. I spent so much time worrying that I would never be as good as others would be, so I never even tried. I quit before I started, because that seemed so much easier and safer than giving it my all.

It's easy to see now that I made a mistake. The world wouldn't have ended if I had played basketball and sucked at it. I wouldn't have been ruined forever if I had painted something and somebody told me it was ugly. I would have gotten past a few snide remarks and jokes at my expense and I might've actually had fun.

Today when we saw some kids playing soccer in the neighborhood, Oliver asked if he could go outside and practice  playing with them.  Just yesterday he told me he was no good at soccer and he would never play again, but today is a different day.

"We could practice and then next time at sports class I can score a goal and win."

I guess he was listening to my speech after all.

I always thought that the parents who said they were proud of their kids for "just doing their best" were full of it. I used to think that parents only said that because it's what parents are supposed to say. I always thought that they would be prouder if their kids actually did well. But the more I think about it, the more I believe the opposite to be true: I would be prouder to see Oliver try his hardest and come in last place than to watch him effortlessly win the gold.

It takes so much more strength and so much more character to put out everything you've got in the face of adversity. As I watch him in the backyard struggling to keep up with the more skillful older boys, I really do feel proud. I know it's just two neighbor kids and a soccer ball, and that Oliver is only a frivolous preschooler. I know that the hopes and dreams and determination of a 3 year old wax and wane, but to Oliver right now at this very minute, that backyard game is the World Cup and he's giving it his all.

And I'm immensely proud. (Even though his feet haven't touched the ball once.)

How photogenic.

When Saturn perfectly aligns with Mercury under a waning something-or-other, I can sometimes catch Oliver and Colin sitting within 5 feet of each other enjoying the same thing. This never lasts until I can get the camera, but it doesn't stop me from taking 40 pictures in the hopes that I will catch them both smiling and sort of looking in the same direction.

As any good photographer would tell you, it isn't a photo shoot unless somebody cries.