Boys and Their Toys

Finally, a yard to justify every big boy's dream: A John Deere.

Sleeping Beauties

Before heading to bed the other night, I checked on the boys one last time and this is what I found. It is a constant prayer of mine that God unite those two with a bond that can't ever be broken, and I felt like He gave me a little glimpse of what that looks like. So precious.

Coffee

Some people have a palate refined for the taste of good foods or fine wines. Me, I have a hard time distinguishing a cabernet from a pinot noir, and my vocabulary for describing such is limited to good, great, and more, please. You'd think two and a half years in one of the world's premier wine producing countries would have taught me a thing or two about the art, but alas, it's had the opposite effect. Because good wine is plentiful, I've rarely had to use any discrimination when selecting exactly what 4 euro bottle would be the perfect end to a long day. Before you think, however, that I have completely squandered my Italian experience, I can claim to have spent many a morning perfecting the fine art of consuming Italy's other beverage of choice: coffee. I'm not speaking of that watered down drip of a brew I enjoyed back home, but a hearty, viscous, foamy mouthful of smoky espresso. I do have to admit that it has been a morally compromising process. I have had to say arrivederci to my organically shade-grown fair-trade beans, but the perfected taste is worth it. I figure that living without air-conditioning and growing my own tomatoes counts as its own version of fair-trade, right?

When first having arrived in country, I was astonished at the frequency with which Italians drained those tiny little cups. It is true that after an early morning cappuccino, espresso is enjoyed on many occasions throughout the day. It is the signature ending to a leisurely meal, including those that conclude after the sun has set. In my efforts to embrace the local culture, I tried, but Coffee Mate is a hard habit to break. I now had to own coffee as its own beverage and determine whether or not I liked it. It turns out that, in the end, I do. Immensely. So much so, in fact, that we spent a serious amount of hard-earned cash on a machine that would deliver my new found love in exactly the form I craved within the comfort of my own kitchen. It is a tidy little metallic box that grinds, presses, and spits out a perfect espresso. We have a slightly one-sided friendship, but the bond is strong, and my machine is one of my first cognizant thoughts each day. After juice has been poured, bananas peeled and Sesame Street located, I retreat to the kitchen where I flip the switch and wait while my Saeco comes to life. Then, I hear the familiar hiss and stand, salivating, while the chocolaty liquid fills my cup and signals the start to another day in the life for me here in Italy. And so, not for the caffeinated punch it delivers, but for the five minutes of peace, the strong, smooth mouthful, and mostly for the pleasant reminder of the change in me this time abroad has brought about, lo amo mia espresso.

Full Disclosure

Before you begin, you should be cautioned that the following post is not in keeping with the style and context of previous entries. It is a deviation from the norm and my attempt at, well, I don't know, something or other. I figure that filed somewhere between my grocery list and thoughts on how to trick my four year old into liking peas, is a genuine, honest to goodness, original thought. Tis a scary idea for us both, dear reader, so be assured that I bear you no ill will for signing off now and returning at a later date for the safety of a story about how Max currently favors wearing his underwear outside of his clothing in true Superman fashion, or how Cal used the word "p*nis" when telling his teachers and class about our recent day at the beach. Did I mention, too, the fight in the grocery store over whose nuts were bigger? We're speaking bags of pistacios and peanuts, of course, but should you have been shopping one aisle over, you'd never have known.

I recognize that I have been a derelict blogger as of late and can offer no excuse but to throw myself at my the feet of my readership and beg for mercy. You are a forgiving bunch, I should hope, seeing as how we are related, and I am in possession of your grandchildren and nephews. Truth is, I've been stalling. I like to write, but I fear I lack originality or at the very least, a thought worth sharing. However, I do have them; real, honest to goodness thoughts (from time to time, that is). And yesterday, when I threw my back out doing yoga, I figure that I am a big enough (and apparently old enough) person to claim them. So, here goes the risk of a little exposure...of the writing kind.

Owning one's thoughts and opinions is a risky move for someone like me who favors the peace and security that referring or defaulting to others can bring. When your standard for yourself is perfection, you tend to figure that any effort or display of lesser proportion is invaluable and should remain under lock and key lest anyone discover your dirty little secret of imperfection. I know several brave souls who parade through this life with their own brightly-colored flags flying at full mast. I envy them. What am I afraid of, really? A raised eyebrow? A differing opinion? Offending someone? I'm beginning to think that there really is no recourse consequential enough to justify falling into step in someone else's parade. So, as a new chapter in this life begins for me, so does a march in the direction of ownership and full disclosure. Cue the band.

Iron Man

We're big into superheros around here. The boys have never seen any cartoons and/or movies on the subject, so we're not really sure how they became quite such avid fans. We've concluded that it must be encoded in their DNA. The latest fascination is Iron Man. Apparently, the fact that fire comes out of his boots is what makes him particularly special. Cal loves to pretend to have his powers, however the story took a turn for the worse tonight before bed. As we were sitting down to say our prayers, Cal said, "I'm Iron Man. If you push the button on my head, fire comes out my bottom. It makes me run really fast. Want to push it, Mom?" Um, no thanks.

My Mother Hen

We walked down to the river today, and while perched along the edge, I picked a stalk of grass, and just like my roots taught me, stuck the end in my mouth. When Max looked up, he said, "Hey! Take that out! We don't put weeds in our mouths! That's yucky! What were you thinking?" Without so much as a thought, he grabbed it and hurled it into the river. There are times I've heard myself in the boys, but that reprimand had to be the best impersonation to date!

The Prince of Egypt