NEW BLOG PAGE

Hello dear readers!

I am excited to announce that I have started a new blog over at bethrobinsonwrites.squarespace.com 

No more confusion as to whether or not I am pregnant (I'm not!). Please update your feeds accordingly and bear with me as I attempt to navigate another web space.

Thank you for following along!

Beth

Tree Buds

We’re on our daily afternoon outing around the neighborhood. The older girls are on their scooters, and my son is on his red bike (no training wheels, and he is proud!). I could have chosen to ride my bike, but instead I walk/jog in a half-hearted attempt to keep up. The kids are trained to stop at each corner and wait for me, so I’m not worried about losing them. They’ve ridden this path so many times they think they own it. 

The children scoot/pedal quickly ahead, and I stop to look up at tree branches towering above me. The tree has been trimmed to give passage to the pedestrians on the sidewalk below, so those who walk or ride by on bikes and scooters won't be snagged by twigs. The air is chilly and the sky is gray with ominous clouds as I observe the spreading branches.  

At first glance, the tree appears dead. There are no big, green leaves, only an intricate pattern of dry sticks and twigs. But upon closer inspection, there are tiny green buds at the ends of the branches. Tiny sprouts of green illuminated by the dismal backdrop that I would have missed had I not stopped there to look up.

Ahead on their scooters, my children round the corner to our house, and I break into a jog to catch up. Once home, we shed shoes and jackets and the kids plop down at the kitchen table while I hand out lunches. I glance out the window at our own tree and notice its scraggly branches hanging down, dormant and bare and seemingly devoid of life.  

We've been sheltering in place for over a week now. Two Fridays ago my oldest daughter's school sent her home and closed their doors. My middle daughter, who I homeschool for first grade, was also given notice that the workshops and extracurriculars she usually attends are closed. My youngest has his preschool classes cancelled and his swim lessons suspended until further notice. Church is closed. My gym is closed. My weekly Bible study group is cancelled. My book club suspended. The parks and playgrounds are closed. This is happening all over the world. Closed. Cancelled. Closed.  

We have nothing to do and nowhere to go. 

Let me rephrase that. We have nothing we need to do. Nowhere we are supposed to be. No classes telling us to arrive at a certain place at a certain time. Everything on hold, frozen in place. We are living in isolation, hoping to weather out the current storm while praying for those who are affected by the virus and the shutdown of innumerable jobs. 

Honestly, we’ve settled into a pleasant rhythm at home. I turned off all alarm clocks (except my husband’s- he works in healthcare, so he still goes into his workplace every day), and wrote out checklists of chores and schoolwork and activities for the kids to accomplish every day. 

“Are we going anywhere today?” the kids have been asking. 

“Nope, everything is closed,” is my reply. 

“Okay,” they nod, accepting my answer.

We do schoolwork, listen to audiobooks. They pass crayons and markers back and forth across the table. I’m thankful for the peace, the absence of the hustle and bustle and the scramble to get out the door. I appreciate the lack of pressure from school and peers. 

The children giggle together, build hamster houses out of Legos, create forts, throw paper airplanes, have tea parties with their dolls, read books, bake and eat, play outside, and the list goes on. I’m discovering I make a great introvert. I have no need to speak to anyone, to attempt awkward small talk with other parents at various events, to worry about how to dress or what to bring to social gatherings. Instead, my energy is focused on my family, my house, my garden. I read and write and pray and rest and bake and cook and breathe.    

The tree in our backyard is straight and tall. The kids love to hug and climb its thick trunk. Each fall the leaves disappear, leaving behind bare branches and twigs. Sticks break off and fall to the ground, and the children greedily snatch them up, turning them into swords or flags. Every winter I stare at that tree and wonder if it’s finally given up, if anything will start to grow again. There are no leaves. No signs of buds. The bark looks extra dry and I wonder if this is the year I need to call an arborist to take it out.

But every year I’m taken by surprise when I finally begin to notice a leaf here, another leaf there, a tiny bud at the end of a branch I could have sworn was going to fall. Maybe, despite giving the appearance of dying, our tree was just relishing in the quiet, growing and nourishing itself internally before it could blossom again. Like the kids and I in our private, peaceful space. We’re weathering out this season in our own way, growing and nurturing each other quietly, until the season changes and we're able to burst forth.

Image Created by Phoenix Feathers Calligraphy, for Coffee + Crumbs,
2020

This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series "All Things New".

The Story of the Minivan

The registration is due for the first time on our minivan. We purchased it last year, our first minivan. It was a spur of the moment decision. Sure, we (and I'd like to clarify that by "we," I mean my husband) had been throwing around the idea for years, but really, a minivan? That just conjures up images of soccer balls and dirty sneakers and children jumping in and out all day long. I picture frumpy oversized shirts with yoga pants and coffee in one hand and messy ponytails and bleary eyes and basically, mom life, because who else drives a minivan besides a mom? I was not about to give in to the stereotype. Who says I need a minivan to be a mom? Not me.

Previously, I had my share of SUVs. There was the seven seater SUV (now I can't even remember what it was) with the gigantic trunk. I fit the double jogging stroller in there no problem, and tossed Costco groceries in with it. I had my coffee and my yoga pants, but there was no frump about it. Then that died and I found the next SUV. Again, seven seats, lots of trunk space, even captain's seats in the middle. This had the interior of the minivan, but really, it was an SUV. The doors still swung out, and the driver's seat sat tall.

Then one day my beloved SUV wouldn't start. Granted, I did strap the children in to their carseats and was standing by the car with the doors open chatting away to friends, but goodness, I don't talk that much. But when I turned the key to start the car, nothing happened.

Thankfully, the nice manager at Chik-fil-a brought out some jumper cables and we were fine (also thanks to YouTube because I had a funky SUV whose battery was located back and under the passenger seat. I know! It's supposed to go under the hood. But it didn't. YouTube was a huge help during this trying time).

Then it died again. I had to make sure I didn't leave the doors open for any amount of time, or the battery would drain.

So we bought a new battery and all was fine.

Then the thing randomly chose whether or not it wanted to turn on, depending on the day. Or the check engine light would flash menacingly at me. Not a big deal. I'm an introvert and all for staying home. So I'd wait a few minutes and try again. And again. And again.

But when my son went to the Emergency Room and the car wouldn't start (thankfully it was when we were leaving to go home after he was released, so we were stuck in the hospital parking lot), enough was enough. What if it hadn't started when we needed to get there? I've heard ambulances are expensive.

I thought about getting another SUV. I looked at the new ones (we were buying new so it could last as long as the kids live at home), but for some reason the newer SUVs are smaller. At least the ones I liked were. Which defeats the point, honestly. Don't you drive an SUV to take up space? To tower over the tiny compacts on the freeway? To show off your power and look down upon those who dare merge into your lane? Just me?

That weekend we traded in for a minivan.

I have to give it to Jacob, the salesperson who sold it to us. He was good. I have a deep hatred for car shopping. Something about being talked to about features and options and having someone in your face who won't go away and just leave you alone to think about things (remember, introvert?), just makes me edgy. Jacob was nice, though. And he didn't talk too much and answered all our questions and drove us all over the lots looking for the features we wanted. Yes, we still spent hours and hours waiting on paperwork and signing stuff (thank goodness the dealership had games to occupy the kids), but it didn't seem to take as long as I had thought it would. And now I have a bright, shiny, new minivan to last me for the next ten years (that's the plan, anyway).

I mean, sliding doors. Not just sliding doors, but sliding doors with automatic buttons, both inside, on the remote, and by the driver's seat. It was the sliding doors that did me in. Now we pull into a parking spot like we own the place. "Am I in the lines?" I ask the kids when we park. "Look at how we can fit and not hit the car next to us when we open the doors!" It's magic, I tell you. Pure magic. No more standing behind doors if it's windy, praying they don't dent the car next to us. No more telling the kids to wait to open the door until I got to their side of the car. No, sir. Now we have buttons. Push and wait. Then push to close again. We have conquered wind and tight parking spaces. Thank you, sliding doors on my bright, shiny, new minivan.

Although the first week we had it home, it was rear-ended in the McDonald's drive-through. By rear-ended, I mean bumped enough to damage the rear cameras. But the kids have quite the story to tell about being in an accident and how exciting it was! We had to give it back for a week to get fixed.

Then, we had a bright, shiny, new minivan with an even newer bumper.

Although not too long ago we were hit in a parking lot and had to take it back in to get fixed. Again, pretty minor, but enough so that the paint was scraped down to the metal and would have rusted would I have ignored it like I tried to convince my husband we should do. He wasn't having it. So now we have a bright, shiny, new minivan with an even newer new bumper.

Anyway, I'm a mom with a minivan now. Do I feel large and frumpy and inelegant on the road? You bet. Do I tower over the other cars and give them haughty looks when they try to merge into my lane? Nope. Will I happily trade it in for something completely different when the kids are grown? Absolutely. But do I love those sliding doors and not having to be blamed for the paint scratches on the cars next to us? Indeed I do.



Insert picture of Toyota Sienna in pretty ice blue color (there was a technical term for the color, but I don't remember. Feel free to Google).

Making Blogging Cool Again

I want to set a timer to see how often I am interrupted in any given moment. Alexa, restart stopwatch please.

If I am in the kitchen doing the dishes, voices call for me to help them with something. "I have wet hands," I say. "I'm trying to do the dishes." But they hold up the toy for me to fix or the hair for me to do or the paper to look at and their big blue eyes gaze at me like why are you not helping right now?

If I sit down on the couch to read while they are happily playing, I barely get through a page or two before they pile on me, jostling and shoving for my lap, my space. "Want to get your own book and read next to Mommy?" I ask. "No, I want to cuddle you!" my four-year-old flips and wiggles and puts his feet in my face.

Bedtime is a farce. Of course they are in bed by eight, teeth brushed, books read. But really, really, I mean really, we all know they don't stay there. Children who stay are mythical fairy creatures whose parents have cast magical spells on them. Mine are in the stairwell, calling down to me to report their every move. "Mommy, I forgot to floss!" "I just need to run downstairs and get a book." "I forgot to fill up my water bottle and I'm going to die of dehydration!"

We can't even talk about trying to take a shower or do anything remotely close to the restroom. Locked doors are a challenge to talk louder so that Mommy will answer. Or to see how many times they can wiggle the doorknob before I get frustrated and give in.

I once read somewhere that the brain needs twenty-eight minutes to refocus on a task once its been interrupted. Twenty-eight minutes! (I have no idea how true this is. I probably just made up this number. What I do remember is that it was a big number and I thought it meant I would never focus on anything again.)

What I'm trying to say is that I thought about blogging over the past few years. I even wrote a few snippets of things here and there, hoping to turn them into something more. But alas, social media broke out and people all of a sudden became professional photographers with cool filters and I've already accepted the fact that photography is not a talent of mine. At all. And probably never will be. Sorry, I don't have the pretty pictures to go with the words. Even if pictures are worth a thousand words. I'm keeping it simple, here.

A friend of mine recently suggested we make blogging cool again. The word "blogging" brought back memories of happily sitting at my laptop and typing for the sake of typing. Remember when I started this thing back when I was pregnant with child number one? She's ten now, just so you know. But back then it was a matter of putting the memories in print. Of not forgetting the experiences and being brutally, sometimes graphically honest about it. This is my blog and I can write what I want to write, editors be darned (although I am very thankful for editors. Without which I would not have had any of my words published on actual sites. Thank you, dear editors!).

So I'm going to reset my timer, be more intentional about sitting down and pounding out a few random words on these trusty old keys, and hope to grow my writing muscle. Who knows, maybe this will actually turn into something. In the meantime I'm joining the bandwagon to make blogging cool again.