It's coming up roses....

For a person that has never been a fan of roses, I sure do take a lot of photos of them.  Of course, having two dozen rose bushes in my Californian yard has certainly changed my perspective a bit of the thorned beauties.

I still don't like their scent, but there's something about the orange, yellow, and lavender ones.  Lavender.  Spring has gifted me colors and varieties I didn't know I had.  And what a surprise they are.  A yard of these petaled wonders.  Along with bulbs I planted in January and February.  My yard is so bright and cheerful.  And every time I step out into it, I get giddy all over again.  I need to step outside more often.  Every chance I get.  And just stare.  This obsession started last fall.  I couldn't believe how long they kept blooming.  And now it's my first spring here and I just keep gawking.  It's hard to believe someone had loved these roses for decades, and they're still here.  Blessing yet another family.

That doesn't mean that I'm suddenly in love with roses though.  I still don't like having a yard of thorns for my dogs.  Or The Redhead.  I'm still not fond of their scent.  I'm not suddenly one of those ladies with vases of fresh cut flowers sitting on her dining table, appearing lovely and classy.  No, I am not that person.  But I can appreciate a good view when I see one.  I can also admire the bright colors popping up in my yard on a daily basis.  I can appreciate Mother Nature's gifts when she gives them to me.  And I don't mind sharing that beauty from time to time.

Burlap & Bunnies

Much like prior holidays, I have a suspicion I won't get to all of the Easter crafts I had planned before we leave for spring break.  And that's probably okay.  After all, I have a tendency to get a tad overzealous.  So it's nice when I recognize the restraints time can have.

I'm not going to lie.  I had some ambitious projects in mind.  Lots of bunnies.  Yards of burlap.   But I've also been painting, closeting, and uncovering our guest room. Oh, and reading a certain Divergent book.

I can't wait to see what I pull off for next year.  But until then, I'm just going to enjoy my spring.

Childhood Restored

The Redhead was nearing nine when we started plotting and planning our move from The Midwest to the West Coast.  In our Kansas backyard, she had a wooden play structure, the kind with a playhouse attached, swings, and her favorite, an acrobat's bar with rings.  We have hundreds of photos of her playing on it, climbing on top, doing stunts, and putting on circus acts for us to enjoy.  And she was nearing nine, and we thought it made perfect sense that not only were we leaving it behind for our tenant, we wouldn't be replacing it in California.  What was the point?  She was nine.  She wouldn't have many more years of swing set usage.



Folks, that's exactly why she needed a swing set.  Because she doesn't have many years left.  We unintentionally were robbing her of childhood play.  We didn't realize it.  Every now and then, I'd have the fleeting thought, but I'd ignore it and deem it as frivolous.  But we got rid of her train table, her massive kitchen set, tons of toys, and all of her backyard play equipment.  We justified it because of the move and the fact she had too many toys to begin with.  We justified it by her age.  But what we forgot to do was be grateful that we still have these few years left of her childhood.  We took for granted our little girl who wants to still play like this.  We still have an active child who likes playing outdoors.  Who likes swinging upside down like a circus monkey.  Who likes serving her plush husky meals.  She isn't afraid to be little.  She likes being young.  She loves being her.  We took her for granted.

We lucked out with the sandbox last month, the one we found on the curb and turned into a Ninja Turtle.  And just today, Mister Man built this swing set.  It's nothing quite like her former one, but it has her favorite piece, and it's exactly what she wanted.  It's eight foot tall, so it's tall enough for her acrobatics and it's structured a lot more securely than a metal one.  And between that and her sandbox, it will buy us some time as we start to work on turning the little wooden shed into a playhouse.  We probably don't have a lot of years left of use.  But we do have a petite little nine year old.  One that is worthy of such things.  And even if she's done with these toys in a year, they will be well worth their efforts.

Because we simply as parents need to enjoy as much of their childhood as possible and make sure they enjoy as much of it as well.  They're only little once, after all.  And some kids age rather quickly.  Whether ours does or doesn't, we need to cherish every blessed little moment we have with her.  We need to encourage her to be active, rather than tell her she's too big for things.  Or justify the fact we moved and base it on her age or time.  We don't want her thinking we cared more about the move than about her and her belongings and playtime.  We're not following our former ideologies, the ones I held so dear.  Including the one where we wanted to avoid aging her and pushing her into tween interests.  We weren't supporting her like we used to.  From the parents who made sure she had the best of toys.  Not every toy, but a range of toys- the best ones that would last for years to come.  We didn't care if anyone thought we were overdoing it, because we aimed for no regrets once she was grown.  We bought a well-rounded selection of toys for her, based on her interests.  We encouraged her in every aspect we thought we could.  And we continued to do so.  And then suddenly, we lost our way while moving, making excuses and considering ourselves as sensible.

It's time to restore childhood.  We can't give her everything back, nor should we.  But we need to be more understanding and encouraging again.  Like we used to be.  Instead of shrugging and stating her age, we should be finding new and innovative ways to encourage playtime.  She's still our active little girl.  And we should be grateful for that.  Whether she's five, nine, or seventeen.  Whether we're moving or not.  She's nine.  And instead of punishing her for it, we need to savor it.  Because we'll miss all of this in a decade.  Or even less.  And we should be embracing our former no regrets policy.  We need to remember the parents we always have been.  Surely, we didn't forget to pack them.

I Wish I Knew

Much like identifying rashes, I need a guidebook on weeds in California.  I seriously do.  I struggled with this in the fall, and now I'm struggling even more in the spring.  How does one know which ones are the weeds, when they're in a new environment?  And should I just go around knocking on doors and ask?  Because looking them up online isn't helping me at all.  I don't even know where to begin.

Is this a weed?!

Sure, these beauties are easy to identify.

And whether this little orange guy is a weed or not, I'm fairly fond of him and all of his little friends who have been blessing me with their presence randomly in my back yard among the rocks.  They look sort of like a poppy, but lack the fuzziness I'm used to.

It's easy when you planted a bunch of bulbs yourself, so you know they're actual flowers.

But being in a new yard with tons of flowers, being in a different state with lots of foliage, it's truly hard to tell.

I really should go knocking around on doors asking, "Is this a weed?"  The neighbors might think I'm crazy, but if they get to know me, they'll figure out I am anyway.

What the people at Amazon must think...

When I placed my order, my order of various medical supplies and science equipment, I couldn't help but wonder what the people at Amazon might think, the ones filling my order.  After all, here I am ordering many items in bulk, as that's the only way to get specimen cups, biohazard bags, and pipettes, among other items.  And my mind started wandering.  Because it does that from time to time.





I could be cloning.  I could be illegally researching stem cells.  I could be warping DNA.  I could be illegally harvesting body organs, selling them on the Internet.  I could be designing pharmaceutical drugs.  I could be designing biological warfare.








But I'm not.  And sadly, no one at Amazon probably cares enough.  And I don't blame them.  That's not their job.  They're probably not noticing that all these items are going to a small house in California.  And if they did, there's more of a chance they think I'm using them for good, than for anything evil.  It's kind of saddening, really.  But my imagination was getting the best of me.

And maybe I could use the leftovers for some of those random thoughts of mine.  After all, I will have plenty of leftovers.  And I am a curious sort of person.  And it's not like The Redhead's science party will need all of those supplies.  (Actually, I do have other ideas for the leftovers, but how cool would it be to be an actual mad scientist?!)








And even if the Amazon people didn't notice, I want to continue thinking they did.  Because it's more comical that way.  And life's better with comical scenarios.  A mother buying supplies for authentic details at her child's party just isn't nearly as intriguing.  Or funny.

Some days I just feel like pie....

No matter how icky The Redhead's rash is.  No matter how sick I am.  I'm almost always up for apple pie.

And now that Mister Man has returned from his business trip, along with The Redhead's friend, I don't think he minds some apple pie either.

Doctors with Magic Wands

I know I can't possibly be the only person who gets angry when I show up to a doctor's office and am told there's nothing they can do.  I know I can't be the only one who cringes at the word, "virus."  Two weeks ago, we were at the doctor's office because The Redhead was sick.  I was told by her new pediatrician it was just a cold and she'd be fine.  The fever lasted five days and I was starting to doubt her.  After all, she ran absolutely no tests.  And after what we went through in June, the three week marathon fever whilst packing, mind you, I get a little territorial and suspicious over The Redhead's health.


Then yesterday afternoon happened.  The Redhead was covered in a head to toe rash.  Every part of her was plagued.  Hands.  Feet.  Ears.  Face.  Legs.  Arms.  Elbows.  Chest.  Back.  You get the point, I think.  The doctor's office reluctantly took her in.  They made me go through three different people over the phone, answering the same questions, before they begrudgingly made me an appointment.  I am NOT the Mother who overreacts at a sneeze.  Or a cough.  Or an elevated temperature.   I carefully consider symptoms, so if I think something is awry, it usually is.  Then we go in and even though they had absolutely no idea what was wrong with her, even admitted it, they refused to run any tests.  They admitted it didn't look just like hives.  Or any other typical viral rash.  They admitted it was quite unusual.  The doctor brought in a colleague.  She didn't know what to think either.  Yet, they diagnosed her with Fifth's Disease, even though it didn't match the information in the medical book they brought in.  But they had to say she had something.  Then they printed out some information for me, deemed it Fifth's, said she was fine, and sent me on my way.


And then I was angry.


Mister Man and I started thinking we needed a new doctor's office.  We have not been happy with this pediatrician's office.  And sure, we'd had her old pediatrician, even before she was born, these people just don't seem nearly as competent.  And they've yet to give us any reason to trust them.  The first time we ever saw them, for The Redhead's wrist, the doctor forgot to send her referral to the ortho and they kept thinking I was crazy, until over a month later, four weeks later than intended.  And so instead of telling us how long the cast had to stay, it was time to take it off and we were healed.  An unorthodox method, but at least she healed.  So that experience didn't really help me with my frustration level over this rash.



But here's something that dawned on me.  I go to a doctor expecting results.  I expect them to practically wave a magic wand and make everything better.  I want a prescription and a smile and a guarantee everything's going to get better.  I expect them to know exactly what's wrong.  And I expect it to have an easy solution, involving antibiotics and not being contagious within twenty-four hours.  And I get mad when they don't know what's wrong.  I get angry when they can't just wave a wand or write a prescription.  I get frustrated when they say there's nothing they can do.  Isn't it their job to do something? Anything?  Aren't they supposed to fix it?


I know I can't be only one who feels this way.


And then I reminded myself of something else.  Just because they went to college far more years than I did, just because they have a medical degree doesn't change the fact that sometimes it is just allergies.  Sometimes it really is a virus.  Sometimes they simply don't know.  That they really are also human.  And as mad as I get that they aren't just waving a wand, and as mad as I get that they are just human, that maybe, just maybe there's a possibility, that they're mad at times too.  No wonder doctors can be known for having a god complex.  Here I am thinking of them the same.



I can't be alone in this.


And no, I don't believe she has Fifth's.  And yes, I do think they were just throwing something out of the air because they didn't know.  But not all mysteries can be solved.  No matter how good of a detective someone can be.  And maybe, just maybe, I need to remember that.  And stop waiting for the wave of a magic wand and just hope for the best.  Because no one has a magic wand.  No matter who your doctor is.