Somewhere, already in the universe of things I cannot keep track of, keep up with, and understand lives a blog with this name. I created it about one year ago, which I know because I was also thinking about milkweed, and my memories of exploration and love as a kid..and today I pulled a u-turn sending I. into shock (who always seems a bit dubious about my driving, or at least my navigation) to pull into the bird sanctuary in order to get the ripe milkweed that I saw out of the corner of my eye.
My hard-left and iffy (if I’m being honest) driving made me realize how visceral the connection. At the sight of silky strands popping from a pod I gave the steering wheel a hard pull to the left. I’m hoping I. doesn’t remember the erratic driving, but the love. We did stop, and tramped along the road (him, again skeptical) to the pods. The good news is that he was enthralled as I am/was. We picked all that we could find that was ready to take-off, and left with bits of fluff matted in our clothes. There is something euphoric about your children loving (LOVING) the things that made you crazy happy as a kid. It’s that continuity, love, connection that is sublime.
So, that was a prelude to bringing I. to the Apple Festival. The original plan was for him to march in the parade with his Tae Kwon Do studio, but the weather was iffy and he was coughing and in the end he said he didn’t want to be in the parade, but he wanted to watch it with me. Just the two of us. It was hard for me to go without B. and A. And it ended-up being just what I think all of us needed. There was the great parade, with plenty of underwhelming marching bands and local acts worthy of a decorated flatbed; an accidental rendezvous with my mom and dad and the kids (who looked awkwardly not awkward sitting together on the bench); I. hogging the homemade (or parade made) mac and cheese, and doing the rides together — potato sac slide, kiddie roller coaster, spin-the-wheel bears, incredible hulk strength test, and the few he did alone — his disgust at my potato and cheese perogies (all for me!); the joy of the taking the school bus shuttle back and forth; and him wanting to stop to listen to the local talent singing “pumped-up kicks” solo under a microtent next to the porto-potties. A kind of perfection.
We came home to B. and A. in the driveway with the famous neighbors M. and baby O. Anders somewhat unwillingly passing on his little 4-wheeler to O., now that at 2 he has crazy-amazing driving skills and rides the big-red 4-wheeler. Crookers stopped-by and and then a visit from W., home on a few days leave (who was quickly ensnared by I. to play his new Skylander game). Constant kisses for A.s’ booboos on his fingers from running like a madman and being unbelievably cute.
So I try again; not to lose a moment.