When Toby was very little, he used to yell, ‘pause it!’ whenever life around him got too chaotic: his brothers racing circles around him, grown ups talking fast and loud and not making sense, schedules becoming increasingly hectic. It was his way of asking for a break in the game, a vernacular adapted from years of panicking whenever we’d whisk him away from a TV show or movie.

Last week, we all ‘paused it’, removing ourselves from our daily life to road trip as a family down the California coast. And isn’t it amazing how well this works? It’s such an easy mind trick to play (maybe because we’re so willing to play it). Once we were physically away, we all somehow adapted Toby’s strategy, freeze-framing our realities. We were toddlers, covering our eyes and insisting the rest of the world could no longer see us.

It was fantastic. One morning at about 9 am, I looked up from an impromptu game of wiffleball (thank you, Charlie) on an utterly deserted San Simeon beach to watch the blue sky fighting its way free of the fog, and tried to figure out whether it was Tuesday or Wednesday. Somewhere very far away–in a different dimension perhaps–I would have been at work, the kids at school. I almost missed it for a moment, because it was so long ago, that other life, but then I went back to hey batter-batter!…hey, batter-batter!ing at Calvin and forgot all about it.

Of course, not completely. On the drive back home, on that last day of vacation, it creeps back, doesn’t it? The reality settles in like the fog the morning of our wiffleball game, and this time, it stays. The laundry. The appointments we’d put off. The deadlines I’d incurred while away. And this is the universally yucky part of vacation; we all know it. People ask me fairly often how I cope with it–the returning home–since we go and come back and go and come back so often. And my answer is always the same. Our lives are just a tide. I can cope with it because I know that for every return to work and obligations, there will be an answering departure.

Plus, while I was away, I learned I’d been honored by my friends at Momalom for my post Having Words in their FiveforFive Round Up. I hope you’ll go and read the other honorees. Their words mean so much.

Title: Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Debut: 1973

Rating: PG

Starring: Graham Chapman, John Cleese, Eric Idle

Directed by: Terry Gilliam, Terry Jones

Summary: King Arthur and his knights embark on a low-budget search for the Grail, encountering many very silly obstacles.

What we fondly remember: An oldie but a goodie, we knew we had to introduce our kids to Holy Grail sooner or later! I remember watching this for the first time in high school, and totally not getting what was so great about it. (I had a similiar experience with Spaceballs.) It took me well into my twenties to appreciate it, which is why I was quite proud of my boys for laughing hysterically on this first viewing.

What was refreshing: Monty Python is just so fun…and dumb…and fun. You’ve got a little bad language and a few inuendos, but pretty much, it’s a clean movie.

Red flags: Really nothing, unless you consider British humor a red flag? If so, fair enough.

Kids’ Review: They loved it. I don’t think Toby ‘got’ much beyond the French knights farting, but the other laughed and laughed. I think we viewed it at the height of their goofy-humor-with-a-dash-of-intelligent-word-play appreciation. A few things went over their heads of course (I don’t think they got the entire gay knight plotline), but that just means they have more to enjoy on a re-watch when they’re older. And best of all, this introduction means that when Spamalot comes back to town, they can see it with us!

Want more after the credits roll? Catch up on past reviews here!

We’ve pulled the kids (and myself) out of school, sports, and a million other obligations this week to travel. (Not sure how much longer we’ll get away with this, so we’re enjoying.) I’ll try to keep the Intagram feed interesting while we’re gone.

Title: The Mummy

Debut: 1999

Rating: PG-13

Starring: Brendan Fraser, Rachel Weisz, John Hannah

Summary: An American serving in the French Foreign Legion on an archaeological dig at the ancient city of Hamunaptra accidentally awakens a Mummy.

What we fondly remember: I remember The Mummy as a fun Indiana Jones type of action-adventure movie, perfect for kids. Whoops.

What was refreshing: Well, there’s no sex or drugs in it.

Red flags: Holy hell, is this movie scary! I’d forgotten how creepy the legend behind the mummy is (and this is shown right at the beginning) with torture, guys being buried alive, and all kinds of additional fun. The mummy storyline is scary throughout; it’s not just the special effects (think lots of skeletons and gore) but the supernatural fear behind it.

Kids’ Review: The Mummy was perfect for Nate, age 12. Calvin (age 10) bailed mid-way, and Toby (age 7) didn’t get past the opening credits (and still had nightmares). Unless you have particularly tough movie-watchers, I’d save this for the tweens and teens. My bad!

Want more after the credits roll? Catch up on past reviews here!

How much do I love that all my kids are now independent readers? Toby especially caught on fast in kindergarten and 1st grade: his teacher remarked on how advanced his instincts are for intonation, always pausing in the right places and emphasizing the right words, and I attribute that to how much he’s been read to since birth. Not just by me, but by Charlie, his brothers, and his grandparents, just about every evening (and every long car ride) since he could understand speech. As an early reading teacher, I’ve seen what the opposite can do: the lack of books and reading at home can have a serious impact on how well a child learns to read and how much he or she enjoys reading. Whenever parents ask me how to get their kids interested in reading, I ask them how much they’re read to. But I’ll step off my soapbox (because I know I’m preaching to the choir, anyway!).

Together, Calvin, Charlie and I have just finished reading the Gregor The Overlander
series to Toby aloud at night. (I have to say this has mostly been Calvin’s doing, rushing through his post-soccer practice shower and snack to read a chapter before Toby’s bedtime nearly every night.) Independently, Toby’s finished off all the Magic Treehouse books and is now reading a Nate the Great a night, much to his brother Nate’s satisfaction. The next book I’ll read aloud to Toby is Half Magic
, which is a wonderful story following the adventures of a set of siblings who find a magic coin which will grant them half of any wish.

What Nate’s reading: I need help, readers. Nate’s in 7th grade, and love to read. The trouble is, he’s currently having a hard time finding something he can be passionate about, since finishing the Hunger Games series. I thought maybe I’d point him in the direction of some classics, so currently stacked by his bed are The Cay, Sherlock Holmes, White Fang, and Fahrenheit 451, and he’s dutifully getting through them, but he’s not loving them. He read City of Ember and Lord of the Flies, and I’ve had several contemporary young adult authors recommended to me, but their novels mostly center around romance. I’m not opposed, but Nate’s just not as interested in that yet as he is in adventure and fantasy, so why push it? I desperately want him to try The Hobbit, but he’s resisting me. Maybe if one of his friends recs it instead?

What Calvin’s reading: Calvin, 5th grade, is finishing the Redwall
series and getting ready to start the Midnight for Charlie Bone
series. It’s hard to keep this kid in books.

What the grown ups are reading: I’ve been reading The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir About Writing and Life (Kindle Single)
by Ann Patchett, which is wonderful, and insightful, and inspiring, and Sex at Dawn
the Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality, which is just as random a choice as it sounds. It was recced to me by a close friend (I’m not analyzing why) but it’s a fascinating look at the anthropology and history behind sex. At least, I’m promised it is: so far, it’s just a fascinating look at anthropology and history, without much mention of sex. (I’ll demand my money back if it remains such.)

Mostly, I’m treading water until my friend Tanya Byrne’s debut novel comes out next month. It’s called Heart-Shaped Bruise and is already getting amazing reviews. I’ve been writing with Tanya in various writing groups for years, and trust me, this woman can write. I can’t wait!

I’m going to cease reporting what Charlie’s reading, because it’s always some mystery (actual mysteries…not a mystery as to what he’s reading) or crime novel, and since he reads about one a day, I can’t keep track. We’ll just say if you need recs in this genre, let me know, and leave it at that.

What recs do you have for me? Any 7th grade boy wisdom (in general, and/or in the reading realm)?

Listen to the fall of rain
hitting the hall sky light to
the beat of a percussionist hammering
the rim of a snare drum.

Listen to the hum of the
refrigerator as it makes that weird
buzzing sound. Give it a kick.

Listen to the birds through the
open kitchen window, taunting the dogs.

Listen to pop music and commericals
on the radio in the car.

Listen to your mother, yelling to
‘take a coat, grab a snack!’

Listen to the honk of horns,
traffic whistle at the school crosswalk,
your coach’s shout to you midfield.

Listen. Bees buzz. Lawn mowers mow.
The boy up the street shouts hello
as he rides past the yard.

The phone rings. The oven preheats.
The iPad chimes in with a
Google calendar reminder: car pool today.
As it hums to life, the Xbox
makes that swoosh-sound you love.

The garage door rattles and squeaks.
A basketball slaps the driveway pavement.
Somewhere outside, a kid’s car backfires.

Written for Day 5 of Momalom’s Five for Five and Six Word Fridays. Prompt: listening. Photo credit: sunlitdays.

Last night, we attended Nate’s middle school junior honor society celebration. Afterward, in the auditorium over sheet cake, I caught up with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. We got to talking about the number of school grades between our respective kids, and when I explained that there were seven grades between my oldest and youngest, I suddenly remembered a moment from–predictably–seven years ago:

Nate had been five. A kindergartener. Calvin had been three, and Toby a red-faced newborn, strapped into his rear-faced infant seat. I had just dropped Nate off at school, and the process of kissing him goodbye and sending him on his way had caused me to muse: what grade would Nate be in when Toby–tiny, flailing-limbs Toby–became old enough to be dropped off in front of this same kindergarten wing?

I did the math on my fingers while pulling out of the parking lot, and then double-checked it, because I couldn’t believe it. Sixth. Nate would be in sixth grade, Calvin (not yet even in preschool) in fourth grade, when Toby entered kindergarten.

It felt so incredibly far away, I burst into tears, right there in the driver’s seat.

And yet here I am, of course. Beyond it, even. Nate’s finishing seventh grade, Calvin fifth, and Toby…Toby’s a first grader. He’s older, taller, and leaner than Nate had been that long-ago drop off day, already older and wiser and sporting more scars. His shoes are tied less often, his clothing more likely to be hand-me-downs. Nate’s hand-me-downs. I had noted that milestone–that kinder-fourth-sixth benchmark–when it had passed last year, but only just. I hadn’t had time to dwell on it, let alone shed a tear. That’s what time does of course, just as everyone warns you: it creeps at first, then speeds up, and I don’t even want to know what it does next.

Just: if you’ve been there, tell me you remember.

Written for Day 4 of Five for Five, prompt: age.

I could look at old photographs all day long. I think most people could, and that what we love most about them–what I love most about them–is how attainable they make the memories they represent. Their subjects sit so satisfactorily still, their landscapes so steady. We can really study them, get up close and see. The moments they represent may have been a blur, or even lost to us completely, but there’s a reason a photograph is called a capture.

Like this one, right here. I can be 11 years old forever here. Perched on the top rail of our front porch of my childhood house, in my riding helmet and boots, waiting for dinnertime. And when I look into the stillness of this self, I remember: it was an autumn evening. Dusk was approaching, the last of the sun setting the needles of the pines edging our lawn amber. We were eating late: my grandparents had just arrived for a visit. I had worked the horse, Tiren, in the corral, and still had dirt caked under my fingernails. In a minute, my mom would tell me to go wash them.

It’s all there, in that orderly rectangle of pixels: the smell of the BBQ. The freedom of a weekend. The particles of hay in my hair. The cord on that hoodie that always stuck. The safety of home and family and the porch light flickering on as the first stars emerged.

My biggest worry was whether Tiren would be well enough trained for the 4-H horse show at the end of the month (he wouldn’t) and what was for dessert (cobbler with vanilla ice cream).

We don’t know what’s coming–I didn’t in 1988, I don’t now–but we know what was. And when we can catch it and hold it and pinch it between our fingers, we own it, just for a minute longer.

Written for Day 3 of Five for Five, prompt: pictures.

I can’t play Words with Friends for shit. Everyone assumes I can (in fact, most of my friends won’t even play me), because I can write, but I’m telling you, this skill is of absolutely no use on a Scrabble board. Also on my total fail list: Boggle. I used to have to play with my (then-future) mother-in-law when Charlie and I first started dating as young, parent-pleasing kids, and the way I played that god-awful game, she must have thought her son had found the dumbest girl on the face of the earth. The irony wasn’t lost on me, even then: I could have described said face of the earth in 500 words in a string of metaphor pretty enough to make her weep, but ask me to find just one that’s five letters long and starts with a P and falls on the double word score, and I was toast.

Also: terrible speller. Plus, I mispronounce things all the time, or insert the entire wrong word into whatever I’m writing. I do it all the time. It’s all fixable. I read and write enough that I always see the error (but often have to look up the fix).

The thing with creative writing is, you need that entire word bank of the English language (and all those additional mutilated words that aren’t English but exist in your head where you think maybe they are, you’ll check later, and all those words that are in other languages that just might work, too). You need to be able to pluck them out of thin air and arrange them on your blank page, and even if you have your nagging doubt that ‘irroneous’ is a word, you have to use it anyway, just to place-hold, because it’s the feel of it that’s right…the ‘irr’ at the start is the flavor of sound you’re looking for, it slows the reader’s voice in his or her head for just the right amount of time as the tongue wraps around it before popping on the next word, conveying just the emotion your character is experiencing, and so who cares if ‘irroneous’ is underlined in red? Microsoft Word doesn’t know what needs to pop. You do. The real word, the one that’s actually a word that you can use without ridicule, will hit you on the second read through, and that’s probably when you’ll realize it was all wrong anyway. But the real work has been done: you know the size and feel and texture of the word you’re seeking (because you didn’t limit yourself to a certain number of characters or even whether a word is a word at all).

Words with Friends doesn’t seem to understand this, no matter how many times ‘irroneous’ would have fit perfectly into a triple word score.

Written for Day 2 of Five for Five.

Never one to say no to anything, nor able to resist a good community effort, I’m tossing my well-intentioned (and precariously balanced) posting and publishing schedule out the window this week to participate in Momalom’s Five for Five. Which, in this round, includes Extraordinary Ordinary’s Just Write and Melissa Camara Wilkin’s Six Word Fridays. I love all these writing exercises, and all these bloggers, so here I am.

Today’s topic is change, which I’m seeing outside, as the buds on the pear trees bloom, and on the baseball diamond, where the weeds grow, and in my living room, as the sound of lawn mowers filter through our open windows on Sunday afternoons. And I should welcome this graduation from cold and fog and perpetual rain, except that I know Oregon springs, and I know the rain will be back. Probably tomorrow.

And so instead, I find myself hitting the rewind button, scrolling through a year’s worth of blog posts to the last time I wrote about spring, just for validation that yes, I do remember how dismal it is, and instead I find this:

Spring. And you. And me.

The ‘you’ is Toby, a year younger, with more baby teeth and fewer inches and smaller shoes. The ‘me’ is me, because some things never change. And yet he’s there, in springtime, in his favorite tree which is still his favorite tree, doing his favorite thing: pretending. Which just so happened to be my favorite thing when I was a kid in spring.

And still is.

Photo credit: orionpozo