Yep. Tonight I begin. I was delayed slightly in this, my most recent, foray into madness. But that was a temporary setback, a mere postponement. Tonight I step into my first oil painting class with a humble, fearful heart. Nevertheless I step because my friends believe in me—so much so, they’ve funded my class fee as a birthday gift.

Yesterday evening I went to the art store and bought $200 worth of oil paints and canvas, much of which was on clearance.

OMG. That’s a lot of money for a lark, a whim, a hobby!

Yep. The voices in my head are really loud about all this, and mostly they are unkind. The harpies are out in full flight, screeching about how ridiculous is it to start this. Who am I to think I might paint? They’re dive-bombing me with doubt and scornful comments. It’s too expensive. It’s impractical. I don’t have enough time to fold all the laundry or work to earn my living, so what in the world do I think I’m doing taking a painting class?

And yet, I’m going. I’m going to try this because I’ve always, always wanted to. And because if a girl cannot find a way to fulfill a dream once in a while, what’s the point?

Both art and living share this: they are a messy, dangerous process. Might as well get messy.

It’s Wednesday. The first one since Asher’s preschool let out for the summer. Today I have babysitting starting at 2-something so that I can work this afternoon and hopefully meet my deadlines this week. The day is stretching out before us.

To be honest, we are having some ups and downs. Lucas is not around, so Asher’s attention is focused on needing my attention. And frankly, I’m out of practice. I am now trying to remember how to spend long summer days with a rambunctious 4-year-old.

The Ups

A forty-minute walk on the American River Bike Trail, under shady live oaks and with wildflowers along the trail, was a nice start to the day. Asher was less into it than I was, and kept wanting to talk about monsters and Batman villains. Before we went very far, he was ready to go home. I must remember to adjust my expectations. And walking with a 4-year-old is not exercise.

A shower with a spray bottle. Yep, a little cold water in a household spray bottle in the warm shower with a 4-year-old is a great time. He gets to spray me all he wants, and I still get to shower. If I squeal a bit about the cold water he’s spraying on my skin, his delight is magnified. Plus, there are slippery, wet kisses to steal, too.

Making popsicles with what’s on hand. Today we made orange juice, blueberry yogurt pops with mango chunks—using the blender, so there were shiny buttons to push. Asher carefully carried each popsicle mold to the freezer and wedged it between the wires of the top shelf to freeze. He’s excited about these. I find it fun to use the same popsicle molds that were my mother’s. We are missing only two bottoms and handles. I must keep an eye out for these at the thrift store.

Harvesting spent calendula flowers from the garden. Oh, Asher didn’t actually want to help with this, but he wandered around in the yard with me while I did it.

The Downs

I learned that I can’t playfully spray Asher with a gentle spray from the garden hose. He doesn’t want to get wet, and assumes that if he gets wet he’ll be ITCHY! Hysterics ensued and, despite my apologies, he said he hates me and thinks I’m the worst. He sneaked up on me to poke me with things. Oh, and he said he is going to break all of my things.

There were tricks played on me, too. “Mama, please come and wipe my bottom! Please.  … Ha-ha! I didn’t even go poop! I tricked you!”

“Mama, I put the pillows away.” No, he did not put the pillows away.

“Mama, I’m gonna kiss you.” Then he licked my face. Later on, “Mama, I want to tell you a secret in your ear.” Then he licked my ear.

There are more, but I don’t have the energy to go into it. He is a rascal. Suffice it to say it’s time to rev up all those coping skills of mine. Nine and a half more weeks of summer vacation in which to focus on the ups and try not pay too much attention to the downs.

Hmmm … Look! The canas have arrived!

Inspired by SouleMama {this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Our third-grade class at Sacramento Waldorf School recently completed a bock of study on clothing. As part of this block, they helped to shear one of the school’s sheep, Misty. Then they carded the wool and spun it into yarn. This is Misty and I must say, she is a good sport.

The March morning dawned beautifully on the school farm. The children lined up along the fence rails of Misty’s pen. The former handwork teacher, Ms. C, greeted the children and shook their hands. Farmer S instructed them on how to behave around Misty. In small groups the children cooperated to shear her. Some children held Misty’s legs, while Farmer S, Mrs. P, and several children began shearing, using scissors.

Mrs. P instructed each child how to use the scissors so that Misty wouldn’t be cut and so that the fleece was cut very close to her skin, preserving the long fibers so that they could be used for handwork.

She taught Lucas what to do. One must hold the scissors horizontally and be able to see the points before cutting. One mustn’t tug on the fleece while cutting because that can endanger Misty’s skin.

Every child in the class got a turn to shear and to help hold Misty, who patiently endured all their busy hands.

It was truly an amazing thing to watch these normally rambunctious children behaving so quietly and moving carefully.

Several parents were there to assist. We all got a chance to shear a bit, and hold Misty, too. Touching the fleece made my hands so soft from the lanolin in the wool.

These animals were the lucky ones: a ram and Balboa the llama. No shearing for them this day. Also spared was the ewe with two spring lambs to care for.

A rainbow of third-graders. Honestly, what a lot to endure! I think I’d freak out if that many hands were on me. Farmer S cut Misty’s hooves and did all the delicate, tricky shearing around her hindquarters.

Some of the kids sat cross-legged, holding Misty’s head in their laps. Here’s R covering Misty’s eye with her hand and whispering to her that everything is OK.

The kids really had a great time, I think.

Not so sure Misty did, but she survived!

Lucas’s first-ever sleepover birthday party started with an epic balloon fight.

Six 9-year-olds and a determined-to-keep-up 4-year-old is a what you might call a cacophany of boys. The dozen balloons lasted almost 8 minutes.

The theme— “No theme, Mom! Just a sleepover.” The cake— “No cake, Mom! I want a homemade apple pie.”

There were antics of all sorts. There was talk of how girls trying to kiss you is the grossest thing ever. There was plenty of belching words. There were stick fights and spy-on-the-parents games. After they inhaled the watermelon, there was a rind fight.

There were two episodes of “Mythbusters,” at the special request of the birthday boy, with extra explosions.

Lucas received marvelous gifts, like a mosaic stepping stone kit, a solar cooker, a Hex Bug, paintbrushes, LEGO, and more.

He greatly enjoyed being the star of the show for a full evening, night, and morning. The boys stayed awake talking and laughing until about midnight, before they finally all fell asleep.

After the guests left on May 1, we spent some time with just the four of us. We gave Lucas our gifts, such as a solar kit, books, a basketball, wool roving and needle-felting tools, extreme dot-to-dot and puzzle books, North American animal fact cards—just the sort of things a 9-year-old needs.

But best of all—most desired of all possible birthday gifts—was this:

And thus he spent much of the day whittling. We were all a bit worn out from the festivities of the night before and so we elected not to attend the May Day festival at Lucas’s Waldorf school. (The third grade had no part to play in the festival this year, and so we left the choice up to Lucas. He wanted to whittle.)

Later that evening, we went to Grandma’s and Papa’s house for dinner. We enjoyed tacos and salad and birthday brownies for dessert. The boys wanted to go swimming—on May Day! And although it was not exactly warm, well—it was his birthday. May Day is traditionally the “first day of summer.”

The next day, which was a day off from school, Lucas got to visit with his other grandmother and his auntie. He came home with a set of woodcarving tools and more LEGO. Bliss!

It’s two weeks later now, and I can tell Lucas is supremely happy to be 9, and is really enjoying all his gifts. He has finally (and briefly) caught up to the age of his classmates, some of whom are soon to turn 10.

We all love to dance, but somehow it was our younger son who galvanized this passion into a family ritual. We didn’t set out to make it a regular part of our family life, but before long it was. We hold After-Dinner Discos—dance parties for four that let us all cut loose for a while and get the dishes done. They are one of my favorite family activities.

We finish dinner around 7 p.m. on most nights. My boys go to bed at 8 and they usually shower before bed. Most of the time, we have a lovely 10- or 15-minute window after dinner and we crank up the music and boogie. When the daylight stretches longer into the evening, I confess we party even more, and our dancing spills out into the backyard under the sky.

What kind of music, you ask? Truly, it’s not lyres and pentatonic flutes. The music we play depends on a lot of things: What mood are we in? Is it a night near a holiday? Have we been talking about anything over dinner that brings to mind a song, a style, or a period of history?

Around St. Patrick’s Day, we all kick up our heels to the Pogues, Black 47, and the Chieftains. During Christmas time, we enjoy the Pandora online radio station called “Christmas Lounge.” At Diwali, we might put on some Bollywood film music. We dance to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra and Aretha Franklin. We shake our booties to Lady Gaga, Cher, and Pink. My older son loves the White Stripes. The little guy loves the Beatles, Bob Marley, and Shakira. I’m fond of Michael Franti and OK Go, and Sting’s music has always been close my heart. My husband is a true musical aficionado, and he always has a fine suggestion for us. Perhaps it feels like ’80s night, or maybe a little big band music fits the bill. We sometimes play a CD called “AM Radio Hits of the ’70s.” Maybe it’s time for some Goa trance or techno. Did you know you could party to a fabulous, techno remix of an autotuned Carl Sagan lecture called “A Glorious Dawn” by Symphony of Science?

My younger son, who is now 4, feels music in his very bones. He’s really got moves, and he’s serious about it, too. He works on a new dance move for a while until he gets it to where it feels just right, to where it’s a facile part of his physical repertoire. Then he works on the next thing. Sometimes I see him mimicking one of us, working out how to make his body do the same thing. There’s no instruction of any kind, and it’s not mechanical or rigid—it’s just a natural learning about his body in space, how it feels to move through the air or place his feet just so. You should see his rock star power slide on his knees.

And he is driven to dancing to just about anything. Beethoven and Mozart work just as well for him as Katy Perry. When the spirit moves him, there’s no standing on the sidelines allowed: “Dance! Mama, Dance!” If I let a little too much of my attention stray to cleaning up our dinner mess, I hear about it. “Mama! You’ve gotta dance with me!” And heaven forbid I’m feeling under the weather. “Mama, I know what will make you better. Let’s dance!”

My older son’s dancing has changed over the years. The carefree quality of his young childhood is moving away gradually. Now, at 9 years old, he sometimes performs Eurhythmy he has learned in school, or attempts some fancy footwork, like a made-up jig or tap routine. He likes to head-bang to electric guitars (which pleases Daddy to no end), and I’ve caught my son playing the air guitar more than a few times. More often than not, these days, my older son’s dancing is morphing into a kind of acrobatic martial art of his own invention, with high kicks and blocking stances. He spins, punches, and dodges imaginary assailants in time to the music.

Before I had children, I used to imagine I’d one day be one of those moms who drives her daughters to frequent ballet lessons. I don’t do that (although if my sons asked, I would). Having boys doesn’t mean I can’t share the gift of music and dance with them, no matter the cultural forces that suggest that boys don’t dance. What better way is there to bring our family together after our long days than to crank up the tunes, revel in our bodies’ abilities, and express ourselves through dance? To get our hearts pumping and put smiles on our faces? What better way is there to have fun and celebrate life?

With a little break in the weather, we were able to let the chicks out to graze a bit. This was only their second time outside in this pen. The first time we could only get six of the nine of them to come outside. The others were being too chicken.

This is pretty Buttercup (“As you wish!”). Remember how I used to despair that we would never be able to tell Buttercup apart from Sunshine because they looked so similar? Well, look at the top photo. Sunshine has a much taller, redder comb and the beginnings of red wattles. Buttercup’s comb is still yellow. I sense trouble of the cock-a-doodle-doo type brewing.

And this one, Chestnut, isn’t very chestnut-colored anymore. The feathers are coming in black and white. This bird is extremely aggressive (loves to play the Jump on Your Head game and bumps chests with Sunshine), which makes me wonder if this might be a male, too.

I put these blankets atop the pen for two reasons: I don’t want any hawks getting any big ideas about eating my chicks, and also, I don’t want my chicks flying out of the pen. I don’t think it would be very easy to catch them back up again and I don’t know if they have sense enough not to run off.

Whenever I go to the chicks’ pen inside our garage, Lightning flies up to sit on me. Many of the chicks gather around me or jump up on me. Perhaps some imprinting has happened.  Lightning always wants to cuddle.

Firefly is still sequestered in the house. She is doing great and seems recovered, but she’s still much smaller than the other chicks, so we don’t feel she’s ready to be with them yet. I am hoping she will grow, grow, grow. Ultimately size isn’t everything when it comes to a pecking order, as sometimes tiny Bantam hens can be bossy, but it’s often a factor—or so I read.

Inspired by SouleMama {this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

They’re getting big, aren’t they? These photos were taken last Sunday, or Day 25 of our chick rearing adventure.

We moved the chicks out of the house and set them up in a bigger pen in the garage. It’s raining pretty heavily and I’m a tad worried that they’re cold. They still have the heat lamp for warmth, and they’re feathering out nicely, so we think they’ll be fine out there. They are birds, after all!

Now that they’ve moved, I miss their sweet chirps in my office. Frankly, apart from the dust, it was lovely having them in here while I worked.

This is Dawn, an Ameraucana. Dawn will most likely lay bluish or green eggs when she’s an adult.

This is Buttercup. The other Buff Orpington chick like her, Sunshine, is looking … well, I wonder if Sunshine might be a cockerel. We’ll see …

This Barred Rock, the black one, is very docile compared to the others. In fact, I’d say that now that Firefly is separate from the other chicks, the two Barred Rocks are at the bottom of the pecking order. I’m going to keep my eye on them to make sure they aren’t being mistreated by the others.

Firefly is still with us and is stronger. Saturday she actually flew up and out of her box! I found her on the floor of my office closet.  She did the same thing on Monday morning when I came near. She is walking with a limp and prefers to rest more than walk, but she is able to stand and move about. She’s eating still, so I take that as a good sign. She will stay in the house for a while longer at least. I would like to see her fatten up and grow some more. Reintroducing her to the others may be a difficult prospect.

Our littlest chick, Firefly, hasn’t been well at all this week. She has been so weak and unable to stand since Sunday morning. Every evening for three days I said good night to her, fully expecting to find her dead in the morning (I even cried a bit).

It now seems Firefly may have other plans.

She has been standing a lot more today. When she’s resting, she seems to have her feet under her, as though she has better control of her legs. I thought before it was her left side that was weakest, but now I’m seeing weakness in her right leg, so maybe I was wrong before? She is eating a lot of food, and appears to me to be stronger for it. I’ve seen her stand when I put my hand toward her, but also when I’m not close by. She’s been on her feet rather a lot for a dying bird, I think. I held her for a while today and she perched on my hand and flapped her wings— something she hadn’t been strong enough to do in days. She’s even preening her feathers a little.

The fact that she seems to be improving has me wondering if the other, bigger chicks were keeping her from the food. I hear that chickens will do that sometimes to a little bird, and Firefly is definitely the “runt” of the flock. In fact, while they have grown tremendously, she remains tiny. Perhaps she was just being starved to death, and now that she’s eating she’s gaining back some strength. (If this was the case, I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner!)

I wonder if she might make it. Then I wonder if we’ll end up with a hen that can’t be with the others and that needs lots of extra care. I have to admit, I’m rooting for her.

The other chicks are huge now. They seem nearly three times the size they were when we first brought them home. They look like proper BIRDS now, and act like them too. Pecking, scratching, flying, leaping, perching, jostling to be higher than the others—they do it all now. Their favorite game seems to be Jump on Your Head, in which one chick will literally jump on top of another. That chick in turn will jump on the head of the next chick, and so on. They make quite a racket doing this.

They still sleep in a pile, which is really funny and kind of sweet. And I thought human babies were light sleepers! The chicks take many naps during the day, but often the naps are only five or ten minutes long. And once one chick disturbs the pile, they all wake up and jostle about. I’ve watched the same chicks fall asleep and be awakened over and over again in just a short time.

Buttercup is eyeing me through the wire in this photo. They pay intense attention to me when I come near, which I do fairly often to feed them and check/freshen their water.

Three chicks stand out as the most active, most dominant of all: Chestnut, Sunshine, and Lightning. They are three different breeds and they each have a “sister” of the same breed who is more docile. I’m wondering if any of these three might end up being roosters. I sure hope not.