Elevating the Elementary

There seems like a never-ending surplus of baby books out there to record all of a youngster's firsts - first words, steps, teeth.  Yet as my children enter the middle years of elementary school, I find them to be far more fascinating; their thoughts and actions way more worthy of jotting down to remember and reflect upon.  There's rarely a day that goes by that I'm not marveling or chuckling at their insightful and comical comments.   This weekend was no exception.  On the way to take our pup out for a run, Asher asks if there is such a thing as "cat parks."   The next day on the way to church,  Abbie out of nowhere comes up with her completely random question:  "Are humans at the top of the food chain, or are lions and bears?"  

Too me, these are precious words.  They beat the pants off of "duck" or "birdie" or whatever those first one syllable sounds were that they uttered years ago.  I'm getting a glimpse of what their expanding minds are thinking about, what's churning in there.  I'm so thankful that they are still open to asking questions, still wanting to find out the what's, why's, how's.  

It's not only Asher and Abbie's comments and questions I treasure.  Sometimes it's just simple quirky elements in their daily routines.    Like how lately Asher gets dressed, cleans his room, and pours his cereal in the morning while singing "The Nifty 50 States" song as fast as he can.  Or how Abbie will bang out "Heart and Soul" on the piano over and over and over again, altering the notes to some odd dissonant chord combination because she thinks it sounds better.  I feel like these are the days I'm really watching them grow.

So, I've decided not to fret over the kids' baby books which are nearly full, though perhaps not as complete as Hallmark intended them to be.  I'm enjoying these middle years even more, savoring the little moments which bring a sparkle to each day.

A New Season

It's been two and a half years since my dad's brain injury, and this will be the first month in that time frame that I won't see him.   After moving him in and out of three different care facilities, (the last two of which he was kicked out),  my brother and  I are feeling like he's in a good place.  And unlike the other residences, this one happens to be out of the cities.  Nearly five hours out of the cities.

My dad doesn't see it as a good place.  He wants to know "whose idea was it to dump"  him way up north in Mahnomen.  He doesn't get that he can't live alone in his own place, that he's a vulnerable adult.  He doesn't get that brain injury plus alcoholism plus diabetes requires a lot of attention - more attention than my brother and I can handle as co-guardians, and quite frankly, more than any place for seniors here in the cities.  

At 65, (or as he often will tell us "I'm 56 years old, and I can make my own decisions!"), he didn't fit in at nursing homes, where the average age of the resident was around 80.  And other more independent homes for those with brain injuries couldn't keep up with his crafty ways of obtaining bottles of vodka.    At his new residence, he and the other 25 residents who also suffer from chronic alcoholism mixed with another disability are sixteen miles from town.  Sixteen miles from the nearest liquor store.   The new place they call home sits out in the country, overlooking rolling golden farmland dotted with the occasional shimmering pond.  My dad says he's already sick of looking at cornfields, but my brother and I are relieved that he is safe, well-fed, and among people who respect and care for him.

And so begins a new season, one of more limited visits to see my dad.    A season where he perhaps will find a way to turn his attention from simply yearning for a drink, to being able to focus on the some of the things that brought him joy in the past - walks, painting, nature.    A season for me of a bit more normalcy and calmness in my own home, and appreciating the simple pleasures of being a mom and wife.