The Cheerful Giver

There are moments as a mom when I watch my children and am moved to tears by their spontaneous acts of mercy, sympathy, and love.  (There are others when I am moved to tears for much different reasons, but this post is not about those!)  Today I experienced such a moment with my son. 

The kids and I are fortunate enough to have a couple of Sunday School school teachers who help me out with childcare pretty frequently.  My kids love them.  As the husband said today, they have 40 years of kids toys in their house.  It is toy heaven! 

More frequently than I care to admit, one or more of the toys leave their sanctuary and take up residence in my home.  It always makes me uncomfortable when my kids get "treats" just for showing up somewhere.  My family of origin did gifts on Christmas and birthdays.  Weddings.  Baby showers.  Period.  Seeing my kids lavished with stuff stirs up visions of spoiled, ungrateful brats, something I am determined not to have living under my roof!

So today, when Ranita asked if we could "buy" a handmade, wooden triplane from his sitter, I cringed.  The cringe turned into a wince when the sitter informed me they were "getting rid of it," and Ranita was welcome to it. 

I was trying to be a gracious recipient while also trying to gauge where my son was falling on the Spoil-O-Meter when his little voice penetrated my thoughts. 

"Mommy, I want to give this to J for his birthday.  He loves planes a lot more than I do.  We can play with it when I go to his house."  J is his cousin.  J's birthday is a month away, the fact of which my son was completely unaware and about which he honestly couldn't have cared less. 

What he did care about was giving his cousin a present, a present that reflected an awareness of and concern for the interests of someone else. 

Spoil-O-Meter vanished with a poof! 

I would be less than honest if I did not admit that my son is currently playing with that triplane as if his life depended on it.  It has flown over the backyard and the front yard, carried a Little Person and an array of cargo, and I suspect is hiding under his covers in his bed at this moment. 

But I know my son.  When the time comes, it will again be his idea to give the plane away, and he will do so with great joy and satisfaction.  Chances are, he won't be able to wait for J's birthday, either! 

Lego Lessons

We were about to leave for church this morning, and for the first time in forever we were on time.  I was smiling.  My son was not.  In fact, he was running around the house simultaneously screaming and crying, waving his most recent Lego creation in the air. 

"Honey, what is wrong?" I asked. 

Through hysterical sobs I deciphered, "It broke, and I can't put it back together!  It's supposed to have two holes here, and it was smaller on the bottom, but I can't put it back!  It'll never be the way it was before!"

At those words, a bombshell went off in my ears.  "It'll never be the way it was before."  Those were the same words he had uttered over six months ago when I explained to him what it meant that Mommy and Daddy were getting divorced. 

This was not about Legos. 

I sat on the floor and held him as he cried and yelled and kicked his feet, but not at me or his sister or the dogs.  Just at the floor in anguish.  I praised him for not hurting others while he was hurting.  I crooned the meaningless things mothers do when their little ones are in pain and there is no way to take it away, when the only thing to do is to participate in it. 

As he flailed, I said, "Sweetie, I know how hard it is to want something to be a certain way and not to have it that way.  But you can come back and work at it later.  It might not look like it did, but I'll bet you can make something even better." 

Deaf ears. 

After a while he calmed down, we left the Legos on the dresser, and we went to Sunday School, albeit ten minutes late.  (Some things are more important than the clock.)  By the time we got home, I had put the morning's events out of my mind.  There was, after all, lunch to get on the table. 

I was suddenly reminded when my son came running into the kitchen wearing an ear-to-ear grin and waving a totally different Lego creation. 

"Look, Mom!" he cried.  "It's even better than before!  And I made it with all the same pieces!" 

I almost wept, at his exuberance, his resilience, his wisdom.  My words had not fallen on deaf ears; they had fallen on fertile ground that needed the rain of grief to allow them to take root.  And in the process he had gleaned a little nugget of his own: with all the same pieces. 

Our family is different now.  It will never be what it was before.  But I honestly believe it will be better than it was before, because God is in the business of transforming rubble into masterpieces . . . using all the same pieces. 

Bring on the Barbies

Do you remember what it was like to play like a preschooler?  Unless you have a couple (or more!) living in your house, chances are you have forgotten.  In fact, I fear one can forget even with little ones in the house. 

How is that possible? 

Parents have lots of "important" things to occupy their attention: bills, emails, jobs, legal gobbledy-gook, self-improvement, service in the church . . . name your poison.  Because of that, when those little voices switch into "pretend" gear, it's easy to tune them out and divert your energy to other things.  An experienced mom can subconsciously distinguish between play fighting and real wars, ignoring the former and interrupting the latter.  "Happy" requires no intervention. 

Another reason we can miss the actual play even when it swirls around us is that we perceive it as an interruption rather than the raison d'être.  Take this very moment, for instance.  

It is nap time in the Castrataro residence.  We have had a delightfully laid-back day with a minimum of squabbling and an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility.  Truly a golden day.  After reading two Curious George stories to the little ones, I tuck them in for the obligatory rest.  I have a plan to toss a load of laundry in the washer and write an article. 

Enter the voices. 

Through my monitor, I hear a narrator and about six characters enacting some kind of drama.  The yammering is such that an article will not be easy to write.  Task-oriented Mom would put the kibosh to the folderol in the interest of generating an income.  Today's Mom sits and listens (and exchanges an article for a blog . . . plenty of time to work tonight!).  

I hear them discussing various characters and their backstories.  I am transported.  I see my sister and my brother and me sitting on a floor with two Ken dolls, eight Barbies (one of whom had a chewed foot and another with an after-factory crew cut), ten plastic horses, and a village built out of Lincoln Logs.  We staged Westerns with kidnappings and daring rescues.  We enacted romances that would put Harlequin to shame.  We created domestic dramas modeled after our daily lives.  

I can't begin to fathom how many hours we spent like that, creating our own worlds and loving every minute of it.  

I do remember that I played with my Barbies and horses long after most of my peers had abandoned them.  Was it because I had a younger sister?  Was it because we moved my freshman year of high school and somehow the role playing brought me comfort?  Was it my indefatigable love of "story"?  I can't say.  

I can say that I take great joy in the role playing of my little ones.  I love hearing them create new stories from the ones they've read in books, seen in movies, or lived themselves.  The latter can be a little hard when I hear things like "Mommy and Daddy," but there is also a sense of gratitude that they are able to process their joys and disappointments in their own way and in their own time.  

In their play they are growing.  They are learning.  They are healing. 

Perhaps we could all use a few hours with Barbie and her friends. 

Ordinary People, Extraordinary God

I'm not much as far as impressive people go.  I write, but I'm no Faulkner.  I sing, but I'm no Sarah Brightman.  I play trumpet, but I'm no Louis Armstrong.  I love Jesus, but I'm no Mother Theresa. 

So there are times, like tonight, when I look back at how God has moved in my life, and I stand amazed.  I see a farm-girl from Rhode Island moving to Po-Dunk New York, attending a secular music camp and meeting a life-long friend who led her to her alma mater in Illinois where she (eventually) finished a Master's in Teaching only to quit teaching, move back to RI and take a job as an Agricultural Extension Agent (a job for which she had no formal training whatsoever) at the University of RI where she met her husband, bore two gorgeous children, survived a divorce and more, and through it all finally found something meaningful to write about. 

Not much of a story when you look at it like that.  But then you add in the details, the little brush-strokes God includes just because He can, and that life is something extraordinary.  Because this little not-much of a girl has seen God move. 

I have seen God provide Christmas gifts to a family of poor dairy farmers in the form of a check from a closed-out account thought to be empty.  I have seen God provide the money for those same three children to attend private Christian colleges.  I have seen God bolster this woman with friends who really are extraordinary, people who share the Gospel in places where they risk their lives every day.

I have been part of a life-changing, campus-wide revival.  I have seen God meet my physical needs when their was no reasonable expectation of it.  I have been the humble recipient of God's hand of healing. 

And I have "deserved" none of it. 

But is that not the beauty of our God?  It is NEVER about us.  It is ALWAYS about Him.  It is about His love.  His mercy.  His grace.  His long-suffering.  And also His justice.  His wrath.  His dominion. 

I am just an ordinary person.  But in the hands of an extraordinary God, there is no limit to what this ordinary person may do. 

The same is true of you. 

Carving Memories

Monday I took my kids to my parents' farm for "fall fun."  We took a wagon ride driven by Grandpa J.  We ran around in the corn maze (where we found 2 of the 4 "stations").  We picked pumpkins out of the pumpkin patch.  (We would have picked apples but for the April freeze that decimated most of the New England tree fruit crops this year.) 

For her pumpkin my daughter chose a little green one, not quite soft but a little "flexible."  My son chose a large, perfectly orange, endearingly crooked one.  They wanted to carve them.  I was strongly encouraging painting. 

This afternoon I yielded, and we carved Ranita's pumpkin.  (Chinchita was angy; I promised we could do hers tomorrow!) 

As I made the first incision around the stem, I was suddenly flooded with memories of one October two decades ago at Wheaton College in Illinois.  It was my sophomore year of college, and some friends invited me to their dorm to carve pumpkins.  I'd never carved pumpkins before, but we made this an adventure!

The others made very cool Jack-o'-lanterns.  Mine was different: a nose, an eye, a mouth all on different sides.  (I knew I wasn't an artist; at least I could be unique!)  We dried the seeds and then ran around in the dark throwing pumpkin innards at each other.  (Could that have been my idea?  We used to throw rotten tomatoes at each other at the end of tomato season on the farm . . . very well could have been!) 

How we laughed! 

We divvied up the seeds in plastic bags.  When we went to snack on them the next day, they were not crisp.  They were soggy.  We called each other to figure out what to do.  Over to my room they came, and my hairdryer went into action.  Very effective!

The pumpkin, however, did not last long.  It created a bit of a spiritual dilemma for one of my roommates, so in solidarity we tossed it.  (Really, can you blame her?  A nose, a mouth, and an eye . . . not even in appropriate places?!  Even I found it a bit weird!) 

That was the first, and last, time I carved a pumpkin.  Until today.  My son helped separate out the pumpkin seeds (which I dried to perfection) from the guts.  We had planned on our own pumpkin fight, but the cold was prohibitive. 

When it came time for designing, I was relieved to hand the marker to him and let him draw to his heart's content.  Then I carved.  It is perfect!  I told him about my last foray and assured him that he was a much better designer than his mother, though he insisted I was "the best pumpkin carver in the world, Mom!"  Gotta love my babies! 

Then, because I fell victim to the moment, I found a small candle and lit it inside.  A few moments later, my daughter reached for the open mouth of the pumpkin.  I knew she couldn't reach the flame, but I yelled, "Stop!" all the same.  And then another memory. 

My mother has a picture of my brother, my sister, and me when I was about my son's age.  I am sitting on the floor with my sister on my lap, half-suffocated by my embrace.  My brother is sticking a finger into a lit Jack-o'-lantern.  By the expression on my face, it is clear that I am yelling "Stop!" 

I find it funny that a woman who has a total of 3 Jack-o'-lantern memories suddenly saw her entire life summed up by a pumpkin, some seeds, and a small flame. 

And she found it to be very good. 

Rest, Soldier!

I'd like to share a dialogue I had today.

Me (in a slightly whining tone): "I am just so tired.  Between my various jobs and the housework and the kids and the counselors and the legal stuff . . . I'm beat."

Drill Instructor (loudly and unsympathetically): "Stop your whining, Soldier!  Who do you think you are?  Do you think you're the only single mother in the country?  Suck it up!  You've got it easy!  Your ex pays the child support, doesn't he?  On time?  Do you know how many women would be thankful for that?  Man up, already!  And give me twenty!"

Okay, so I don't really have a drill instructor.  (Me in boot camp?  Not in this lifetime!)  But the conversation was real all the same.  I had just discovered a crack on the inside of my living room window (which is a whole other story for another time) that needed to be replaced ASAP.  As there is no such thing as replacing any window ASAP, I did the next best thing: I patched.

First, on my sister's suggestion, I lined the inside with cardboard and held it in place with duct tape.  Then, because I am neurotic about my kids' safety, I grabbed some of the shrink insulation my ex is so fond of and began my first foray into winter-proofing my windows.

I don't know if you've ever undertaken such a task with two young children underfoot.  If you haven't, DON'T.  It is guaranteed to devolve into chaos.  I began with the cautionary warnings: Please don't touch the plastic or the tape.  

I might have saved my breath.  As I was trying to cut the cardboard to size, I heard rustling.  I turned to see Chinchita skating across the floor on a giant piece of plastic.  Probably should have been a funny moment.  Was not funny in the moment.  I already had dollar signs flying around my head as I contemplated the window.  I only saw more as I imagined the tears being made in the plastic.  I reprimanded her and confiscated the plastic.

I finished with the cardboard and began applying the double-sided tape to the frame.  I heard cutting sounds.  I turned to see Ranita attempting to cut the cardboard with my scissors.  (Have I mentioned I'm a little safety conscious?)  I took away the scissors, warned him about the dangers of sharp objects, and returned to the window.

I got the plastic up more or less smoothly and turn on my hairdryer.  I have a slightly perfectionistic tendency, so I carefully heated, starting in one corner and delighting in the ever-tauter plastic until I could not observe the faintest ripple.  (I would like to say the pleasure in a job well-done superseded my irritation at having to do the job in the first place, but that would be a blatant falsehood.  I was pretty miffed.)

Job done, I turned to the kids on the couch and gasped.  Chinchita had unrolled the remaining length of double-sided tape and expertly created a knotted ball of epic proportions.  Torn pieces of cardboard littered the floor.  I banished both children to their room.

It was at this point I engaged in the internal dialogue above.

People close to me have described my drill instructor's words as "harsh."  I have never really viewed them that way.  Honest?  Motivational?  Spot on?  Painful?  Yes.  Harsh?  No.  Haven't you heard that sometimes the truth hurts?

Truth is a funny thing, though.  It is not always one-sided.  On the one hand, my drill instructor is completely correct.  Compared to many in the world, my situation is NOTHING.  I'm not imprisoned or beaten for my faith.  I'm not homeless.  I'm not out of work.  I'm not without family or church or friends.  I've got it good.

There is another voice in my head, however.  His is harder to hear.  He doesn't yell.  He whispers.  He doesn't blame or condemn.  He comforts.  He woos.  He says, "Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Rest in the Lord.  Wait patiently for Him.  Be still, and know that I am God."

Not only are His words truth; He is truth.

So I wrestle with the dichotomy of work and rest.  (Maybe another version of faith and works?!)  I have to do.  There are children to love, bills to pay, property to maintain.  It is a heavy burden, yes; but it is mine.  And a part of me admits to relishing the challenge . . . on the right day!

But there is also the need for rest.  Emotional rest.  Physical rest.  Spiritual rest.

How do you get rest without forsaking responsibility?

Today I thought about some ways to incorporate rest into our daily life.  I say "our" because I suspect my children are in as much need of soul-rest as I am.  And let's face it . . . we spend a great deal of time together!  Here are some of my ideas . . . I'd love for you to comment below with things that have worked for you:

• Reading together
• Watching a movie together
• Playing in the leaves in the backyard
• Coloring together
• Playing trumpet while the kids "accompany" on "percussion"
• Mini yoga sessions 
• Blowing bubbles
• Playing Pollyanna's "glad game" (Don't think this clip reflects my views of Sundays . . . the kids and I love our church!) 
• Singing silly songs . . . or praise songs . . . or just plain singing!

We're going to start tomorrow.  I'll let you know how we make out! 

Blogging with Ranita

I was working on an article today when my son got up from his "nap" and came over to take a look.  With his arm snuggled around mine, he put his head on my shoulder and began to "read" what I had written.  It went something like this:

"I really like writing about farms.  And I really like articles.  But I don't like when they smell like manure.  My mother likes to look at farms because they look so pretty.  And she likes doing articles on the farms."

While it was not exactly what I had written, much of it had the ring of truth to it!  He wanted to help me write my article.  I didn't think that was the best idea.  So instead I asked him if he wanted to help me write my blog.

Of course, he said yes!

So what follows is a blog straight from the lips of my four-year-old, Ranita:

"I had some fun with my Sunday School teacher.  I went fishing.  I did some crafts.  I learned about Jonah.  And I love going to Sunday School. 

I forgot my Sharptooth stories that are pretend.  Chopper was going too fast and somebody grabbed the swing backward and it pushed him forwards and he shot into the air.  He fell onto a rocket, and the rocket blew up the garage.  And I have ten more Chopper Stories.  

Chopper was a smart little dinosaur.  He always liked playing with his friends Littlefoot, Cera, Ducky, and Petrie.  Well, Cera is a three-horn and she likes banging into hard things.  Littlefoot is a longneck and likes whacking things with his tail.  And Petrie likes to fly around, throw little things at big rocks, and explode them.  Ducky likes to swim really fast.  Ducky is a Parasaurolophus, and she likes swimming very fast.  That's it.  The End."

For those of you who do not live with us, I think a few explanations are in order!  His Sunday School teacher had them "fishing" while learning about Jonah today.  (Although he has gone fishing before . . . and is very good, I might add!)

His Sharptooth stories are taken from the movie The Land Before Time and its sequels.  The rocket blowing up the garage probably comes from watching Hatari! and Toy Story.  (He says, "I really get a kick out of Hatari!") 

Ranita's assumption that Ducky in The Land Before Time is a Parasaurolophus fits with the company's advertising materials, but the drawing more closely resembles a Saurolophus.  There's actually a debate about it, if you can believe such a thing! (http://landbeforetime.wikia.com/wiki/Dispute_over_Ducky%27s_species)

Also, my son typed "The End" himself.  I just assisted with the shift key.  He was very proud of that!

I won't have him guest-blogging often, but I thought supporting his burgeoning interest in writing was a good thing.  Hope you enjoyed! 

"God Loves Small"

A friend at church recently gave me a book by Lori Stanley Roeleveld entitled Jesus and the Beanstalk.  I am only in the beginning of the book, but I've been struck by a phrase she repeats frequently: "God Loves Small." 

She talks about the biblical pattern of "small" defeating "big."  You can probably come up with a list pretty quickly: David fighting Goliath, Gideon's "army," a little boy's lunch, a dozen apostles, the baby Jesus.  Each of these seemed destined for nothing until God made them something. 

I guess I'm resonating with that because I feel so small in so many ways.  The challenges of motherhood are pretty huge in and of themselves, but they are much bigger when you're doing it "on your own."

Starting a new career as a self-employed person is daunting, but even more so when there is no real safety net in place. 

Managing a property with "acreage" and a rental and multiple outbuildings is nearly a full-time job for an experienced handy-man type.  How much more so for someone who just learned that the needle-like thing in the basement with the slow leak is designed for an ice maker.  (Why, then, is it located under the bathroom?  Couldn't tell you.  Must have made sense to someone sometime!) 

Then there are my little ones.  They are navigating some major upheavals in their lives, and I often feel it is "unfair" of them to have to grapple with grown-up griefs at their tender years. 

And yet . . . GOD LOVES SMALL. 

God loves to use the "foolish things of the world to confound the wise" and "the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty."  (I Corinthians 1:27)  As believers in Christ, it is not our power or wisdom or skills that brings the victory, but God's. 

I see this each time I am able to meet one of my children's needs in just the right way at just the right time.  And when my work opportunities provide the income I need in just the right measure.  And when my home makeover attempts succeed despite a severe lack of expertise.  And when my precious little ones suddenly show a tenderness of spirit and a maturity I would not have expected from kids their age. 

I used to hate being weak, under-prepared, ill-equipped, insufficient.  (Who am I kidding?  I still do!)  But I love watching how God takes that weakness and does something incredible through it. 

My little family sometimes feels like it's treading water, just focused on the next breath.  But we aren't drowning.  And we're not done.  (No matter how "done in" we sometimes feel!) 

I suspect some of you are in a similar place.  Your struggles may be different, but I'll wager you have giants just as big as ours.  Many of you have ones much, much bigger.  They can feel overwhelming.  Debilitating.  Unconquerable. 

Hear God saying to you, "I LOVE small.  The smaller you feel, the bigger the work I can do in and through you.  Don't give in, little one.  Rather, give it all up . . . to ME.  Cast those fears and worries on me.  I will handle them.  Give me the praise, and watch me live up to it." 

My friends, God has big plans for us yet, you and me.  I don't know what they are.  I don't know even if I'll get to see them, or if, like King David, I will have to be content to have my children build the glorious temple.  But I know they're coming. 

I can't wait!

The Party That Wasn't

Last night we had Chinchita's third birthday party at our home.  Or, to be more accurate, we tried to have her birthday party.  We had all the things you should have: a homemade princess cake, a homemade princess piñata, princess paper goods, and 28 friends and family (11 of whom were under the age of 13). 

October birthdays are a bit unfortunate in my family to begin with.  My parents, aunt and uncle, and sister all work in plant-related industries that generate a great deal of the year's income in the fall.  Most notably Columbus Day weekend, where Chinchita's birthday falls. 

To accommodate family as much as possible, we pushed the party back a week.  And made it on a Friday night.  Not perfect, but the best we could arrange.  Starting a party at 6pm for a girl who goes to bed at 7pm is a bit sketchy to start, but I figured my girl could handle it. 

Yesterday also happened to be her three-year exam . . . complete with flu shot.  No problem!  We did the doctor thing in the morning, both kids were wiped out and took long naps while I decorated the cake, and I let them watch Hatari! while I finished cleaning the house.  (The movie is almost as long as my cleaning endeavors, so it was a good choice!  It's also one of my all-time favorites!)

I was just finishing up washing floors when my ex's parents arrived.  Chinchita, excited to show off her princess paper goods, slipped on the wet floor and fell on her back.  A little crying, and she was off to explore the bike that came in with Grammy and Pop.  I put the dogs in my bedroom--my sister-in-law and niece are highly allergic--and the barking commenced. 

By the time my neighbors arrived, the dogs were getting on my nerves with their incessant barking, so I banished them to the barn.  It was well past start-the-party time and over half the guests were missing, mostly due to an expected freeze that necessitated extra covering of plants and produce at the farm.  We corralled the four kids who were present for supper--sort of--and then set them loose again. 

The house quickly turned into mayhem.  I pulled out Twister.  (Have you ever played Twister with four kids under the age of five?!  Pretty funny . . . especially since they are not physically large enough to simultaneously manage "right hand: red; left foot green."  They were quiet while trying, though!) 

Finally the rest of the kids arrived, and we pulled out the piñata.  I had located one of the kids' plastic baseball bats, which is perfect for piñata-pummelling.  Unfortunately, between the time my ex's parents arrived and the kids arrived, I had lost it.  Couldn't find it anywhere.  That's okay.  I found a stick Ranita had left on the patio, and we used that. 

Kids had a blast. 

It was getting late, so I decided to move things along.  I called, "Where's Chinchita?  Let's do presents." 

Just then I saw her standing next to the couch wearing a distressed expression.  I dropped on my knees and asked, "Honey, are you okay?  What's the matter?"

She put a hand on her stomach, and in the smallest possible voice said, "My stomach hurts."  Then she explosively vomited all over me.  I am so not exaggerating!  From my shoulder to my feet: covered in grossness. 

Naturally, I swept her into my arms and brought her into the bathroom.  I set her in the tub and started stripping her for a shower, as she also was rather gross.  She says, "I so sorry, Mommy, for throwing up on you!" 

What a sweetie!  I assured her that it was okay . . . you can't really call yourself a Mom until you've been puked on by your kids.  After cleaning her, my sister whisked her out so I could clean myself.  I stood in the shower yelling, "Sis, can you grab me some clothes from my room?" 

I forgot until getting into bed later that night just what a tall order that was.  In addition to my bedroom set, my little bedroom was also housing a box of "I Support RI Agriculture" license plate covers, our punching bag, a basket of clean laundry, and my Dyson.  And no light switch . . . just two lamps you must first navigate said mine field to utilize.  And she still got me clothes that fit.  What a gal!

By the time I emerged clean and nice-smelling, my mom and my neighbor had cleaned up the vomit, the kids were outside playing with adult supervision, and my daughter looked ready to puke again.  I called the doctor and took my little one to her bedroom.  While I lay comforting her, somebody played hostess and distributed cake.  (No one was in the mood to handle ice cream, so I have LOTS of ice cream in my freezer!) 

My daughter fell asleep in time for me to crawl out of her bunk and wave good-bye to my guests.  Except my parents, who stayed to help clean up a little longer.  The doctor finally got back to me and confirmed it sounded like a reaction to the flu shot.  At least we weren't headed to the ER for CT scans! 

As my brother-in-law was leaving, I gave him a hug and said, "Well, at least you can say a Castrataro party is never forgettable!" 

He replied, "Oh yeah.  I sure won't be forgetting this one!"

Yeah.  Me neither!

Get Planting

During my marriage, our side yard was converted into a nursery for young plants too small to survive in the "landscape."  (Read: Doomed to certain death by lawnmowers, deer, rabbits, mice, and woodchucks.)  Over the past seven years, the nursery has become, by any estimation you care to use, crowded.

Some of these plants are now nearly 6 feet tall.  Many are 3-4 feet wide.  We're talking somewhere between 20-30 plants in a VERY small space.  Lots of digging, my friends.

The sheer magnitude of the project is compounded by my relative ignorance of woody ornamentals.  I don't know what half of these things are, how big they are expected to grow, when they prefer to move, whether or not they have tap roots, or how to wrap a root ball.  For a while, my fear of doing the wrong thing paralyzed me and I did . . . absolutely nothing.

Finally I realized the plants were so constrained that if I didn't move them now they would all be garbage come spring anyway.  I might as well try moving them to more suitable locations and save some rather than lose them all.

I started with the area housing my little beech tree, three smallish bushes, a magnolia that should have been moved last year, a very established rhododendron, and my garage.  Out came the bushes.  Out came the beech, which promptly turned brown and made me think I'd killed it.  As it's been a couple weeks, the buds are still firmly attached, and the trunk is still green, I think it might actually survive.  Yay!

I have plugged away, moving 1-2 plants a day nearly every day.  In the past few weeks I have moved five small trees, around ten small shrubs/dwarf varieties, two giant clumps of grasses (one with the help of my burly--and very generous!--neighbor), and ten ground-cover types (sweet William and phlox mostly).

I also planted a butterfly bush my dad reluctantly gave me.  "Do you honestly think you need any more plants?" he asked.

"Of course I don't need any more plants!" I responded brightly.  "But I've always wanted a butterfly bush!"

It's going to look fabulous in the front yard near the Heptacodium: lots of gorgeous fall color!

To be brutally honest, no real plantsman would think I should be attempting this project.  It's not my thing.  I don't have the training or even the physical skills to do it successfully.  Sometimes I doubt the wisdom of  the undertaking.

What I lack in skill, however, I make up for with sheer grit and determination.  And darn it, the plants so far seem to be doing pretty well!  Aside from the beech, none of them are showing any signs of transplant stress.  Pretty impressive considering the vast majority of them were bare-rooted.  (I mentioned my inability to wrap a root ball, right?!)  I'm staking the trees with three well-placed stakes, and they all look straight . . . or as straight as they can look when they've been crunched so tightly that most of them have at least one flat side!

And if my design works as planned, each plant will have just enough room to reach maturity without feeling trapped while simultaneously enabling me to reduce my mowing significantly.  (Anybody have some wood chips they want to unload?!)

So here's the point.  (There really is one!)  Sometimes we can become paralyzed by fear: of failure, of embarrassment, of ridicule, of insufficiency.  Our perceived inability to "do it right" keeps us from doing anything at all.

My friends, I pray better things for us!

Let us not sit idly by, watching our precious gifts being overrun by weeds and brush, becoming so crowded that they become misshapen and useless.  NO!

Let us, rather, stop worrying about doing it "perfectly" and get to the business of doing.  Get the shovel, put on your gloves, take a deep breath, and dig.  Put your gifts out there for all to see.  If you find there isn't quite enough sunshine--or too much!--move them.  If they look like they're too small--or too large!--to thrive where they are, move them again.

And if, after a year or two, you find that the plant you thought would be so gorgeous has turned into a gangly scarecrow of a thing, RIP IT OUT!  Start over.  Put something else in its place.

There is no such thing as a failed garden: they are all works in progress.  The only failure is in not planting the garden in the first place. 

The Pink Princess Piñata

I am big on "tradition."  At Christmas we string popcorn and cranberries just like my mom taught us when we were little.  We eat lamb at Easter.  Thanksgiving is all about turkey, root vegetables, and pies, pies, pies. 

While I love my old traditions, I am also making some new ones with my family.  As Chinchita's third birthday quickly approaches, we are in the midst of one of my "new" traditions: the birthday piñata. 

The Castrataro piñatas started as a whim.  I was looking for something fun and kid-centered to make our family birthday parties extra-special for the little ones.  Who doesn't love a piñata?  I found some easy directions at WikiHow and thought, "I'll bet I can do this."  (Remember: this is the girl who found art class more threatening than a term paper!) 

My first attempt was a year ago, for Chinchita's second birthday.  I asked her what she wanted for her piñata: a butterfly.  No problem!  With a great deal of trepidation, the butterfly took wing. 

I was feeling pretty good about my piñata skills until a few months later when Ranita announced that he wanted a T-Rex for his piñata.  WHAT?!?  How in the world was I going to pull that off?  After scrounging around in the basement burn box, I found a couple fiber berry boxes and thought, "Hey, that would make a great head!"  So the T-Rex was born.

Note that the kids help with design decisions such as COLOR!  I was thinking green . . . my son thought that was boring.  Since I already had all the crepe paper from Sister's butterfly, I wasn't complaining too much! 

The problem with having early successes at such projects is that people (read: kids!) expect you to keep surpassing yourself.  My daughter is no exception.  This year she requested, of all things, a PRINCESS piñata.  Really.  In pink, of course. 

I received advice to make just the head of a princess, but I personally felt that was cheating.  At this moment, I have a stuffed (over-stuffed, I think!) pink princess drying on my (unlit) wood stove.  I am including a picture here, but don't judge her yet.  She has yet to have her flowing dress, pink hair (I mentioned the kids help with the color scheme, right?!), and gold crown.  She's going to be stunning.  I hope. 

At least I have a PLAN for her.  As for the princess birthday cake . . . that is actually haunting my dreams.  (No kidding . . . I have literally dreamed about it for the past 3 nights!)  Good luck, Mama!

It's Potty Time!!

Potty training can be a nightmare.  With my son, it has been a 2 year process.  It is also an area where he expresses stress . . . notably by regressing.  We've had a lot of regression lately. 

When Ranita started potty training, I thought it would be a breeze.  He was eager, interested, successful.  We bought him his own seat and made a big deal about everything.  I read books on the potty.  We watched "Elmo's Potty Time" more times than I care to count.  We were on our way. 

Then one day he quit.  Cajoling, bribing, arguing, begging . . . nothing worked.  The kid refused to use the toilet . . . any toilet . . . for a YEAR. 

My pediatrician finally told me it was time, so I followed my sister's advice and tried the 3-day potty training technique.  It's pretty simple.  You clear 3 consecutive days in your schedule, put the kid in "big kid underpants," and clean up urine and feces for 2 1/2 days.  By day three, the child is trained. 

It worked.  Mostly.  Aside from aforementioned regressions. 

Enter Chinchita.  This one is a whole different ball game, and I could not be happier!  (As regards potty training ONLY!  They are both fabulous in their own ways, and I wouldn't change their uniqueness for anything!) 

My daughter, you see, potty trained herself.  Really.  She had watched Ranita's potty escapades and, like the go-getter she is, refused to be left behind.  She used the potty when she--or more rarely, I!--thought of it. 

I was not thinking about it much.  I frankly have had too much on my plate over the past 10 months to concern myself over my 2-year-old's potty habits.  My son had taught me not to rush things . . . they all potty train in their own time. 

Her time has come. 

One day she refused to wear anything but big girl pants.  We have had accidents: in the church nursery, at auntie's house, at the Sunday School teacher's house.  But dealing with the embarrassment of an accident was less of a hassle than trying to get her into a Pull-up, so deal we did. 

It seems like a surprisingly short period of time--2 weeks, maybe?-- but perhaps it's been longer.  I've been noticing this week that her accident-free days are becoming more frequent . . . and require less attention on my part. It wasn't until this morning that I knew I could declare her potty-trained. 

The three of us were working in the yard moving plants around.  (I'll write more about that another day!)  The kids were wandering from me to the sandbox and back again.  Suddenly she came running up: "I just peed on the potty!" 

"You just peed?" I replied.  "Did you have an accident?"

"No!  I peed on the potty."

"What?"

Oh yeah.  Six days shy of 3, the child stops playing, goes into the house, uses the bathroom, and comes back out to inform me.  All in about 4 minutes. 

THAT, my friends, is potty training success! Glorious day!!