Yummy Gummi!

Sam loves u-pick eating. Early this spring Papa gave him a lowquat off the tree. Now the gummies and blackberries have come in, and Sam is all about picking his own fruit. He eats the ripe ones, the green ones, the pits, the leaves, occasionally some mulch.

To him, this is the important thing: "I do it myself, mamma". In other words, "Back off, lady; I'm eating here."

The gummi is an important Maples tradition. The bush, as far as Mr. George legendgoes, is a kin to the Russian Olive. All I know is that it is good eating and spitting. Yummy, gummies.

P.S. I'm sorry to my Facebook friends, who apparently can't see the pictures. If you ever travel away from Facebook, try the full-color version at lizmaples.blogspot.com.

Are You Sitting Down?

Once upon a time I had a job at Toys-R-Us. I walked around and straightened things, maybe put some Spiderman underwear out. I spent 5 hours at a time on my feet, and at 23 I thought I was going to die. Yes, I thought it was awful.

Then I started working at the flower shop. After really busy mornings I would sneak into the storeroom, take off my shoes, and put my bare feet on the cool floor. Just for a moment. It was all I needed. I thought, my feet will never recover. Woe, is me.

Then I moved in with Emily and her two kids. I didn't even contribute that much. Maybe made dinner and helped clean up, but after working all day (by working I mean sitting at a computer screen and occasionally strolling over to a meeting where I continued the sit-on-my-buttness), how was anyone supposed to survive?

Then I started teaching. After my first three days I went to the store and bought an expensive pair of running shoes. I felt like I was playing defense all the time. Up the aisle, down the aisle... Talk and move. Don't stand still, don't let down your guard or they will attack and leave you duct taped to a chair.

Then I was pregnant and teaching. Insert expletive here.

None of this. I repeat, none of this has anything on parenting a toddler. In the span of one minute Sam can read a page of a book, climb on the couch, forget the book and climb down, climb back up, lick the dog (yes, he licks the dog), read another page, close the book when Mama even mentions one thing about what might be on the page, climb down the couch, see a cup, climb up the kitchen chair, knock everything off the table, climb down the chair, get the cup, take one sip, manage to spill the spill-proof cup, climb on the car, go two feet, run over Mama, attempt to run over the dog, spy the book. Repeat.

I'm not kidding. I timed it.

Mother's Day

I shot this mother-daughter duo the day before Mother's Day. They were just so cute together. They wanted me to take pictures of the Mom whispering in her daughter's ear. This is one of the things I feel like I'll miss out on, not having a daughter. I love Sam, don't get me wrong, but, maybe it is just that because as a daughter I'm already familiar with the deep, connectedness we, as women, have with out mothers. I can't imagine something as profound as that happening between a mother and her son. Why isn't this in the "What To Expect" books?

The Crud

Sam has had the crud for two weeks. He won't run a consistent fever, I say fever, the doctor won't consider 99 a temperature. He is still eating, but just a little bit less than normal. He is coughing, and I think his nose must be halfway to China by now. I say, please get sick enough for me to do something about it. The in between sick is killing me.

Can we not have a machine that we hook up to our kids, like the one mechanics have for cars, that just tells us what's wrong? Either that or Sam, buddy, it really is time you just started talking.