Pyrex Purging and Motherhood Musings

I broke a Pyrex dish about a month ago. It was only my second Pyrex casualty ever, but it was one of my favorite patterns and dishes. In that moment, as I stared at the shards of the Butterprint refrigerator dish scattered across my kitchen floor, I decided to sell off most of my collection.

In fact, I've gotten rid of lots of stuff lately. I have never been a hoarder, but after moving (again) this summer, the thought of packing up everything about did me in. There was absolutely no reason to keep my Girl Scout sash from the early 1980s. (You'd be amazed at what people bid on eBay for stuff like that. Clean out your closets and storage areas!) And so, most of the Pyrex went off to auction, too. 

I'm keeping these though!

I went a little crazy on the Pyrex collecting over the years, mainly because I traveled so much and never really had my own kitchen until later in life. While sorting photos from eons ago, I realized I took a LOT of pictures of my Pyrex. It reminded me to pick up my camera and to actually take pictures with something other than my phone. It also reminded me that it's been forever since I posted anything on here. I started this blog five years ago — back when I seemed to have more hours in the day to take photos of stationary things like Pyrex, and to make crafty stuff to later blog about. 

These days of mine now are filled to the brim with cooking, cleaning, train track construction and Lego building with the Peanut, puzzles and books, mud painting and coloring, piles of laundry and dishes, and lots of refusals to nap. He is exhausting and exhilarating all at the same time. 

While I can still remember my life pre-Peanut (oh sleep... I still miss you...) it's hard to fathom that this blog is older than he is. I feel like so much of my life has changed, not only since I started this blog, but since having the Peanut. I am now introduced as my child's mother. (People never seem to remember the mother's name at child-friendly events.) I just ripped apart the last thing I crocheted because I hated it, leaving me to wonder if I'm ever going to use my stash of yarn again. I serve boxed mac 'n cheese for lunch more times than I care to admit. I live for nap time, on the rare occasion it happens. I find myself constantly repeating things like 'put your pants back on'.

I look back over parts of this blog and some days I'm not sure what ever happened to the old me. Well, actually the younger me. 

I got a glimpse of her earlier in the week though, when I met someone moving overseas. Her son is the same age as mine, and she and her husband will be moving to a country near and dear to me in just a few months. She wanted to know about any helpful tips and tricks for adjusting to an international life. She was of course apprehensive, but also excited. I never asked her age, but I'm guessing it was a lot younger than mine, and I realized with a bit of a shock that I've now become that older person who doles out advice to people half my age. 

I saw part of my former self in her though, and it made me smile. I too was nervous before I moved overseas for the first time, but I also remember the excitement — the anticipation of adventure.  

It's something I want to continue to instill in the Peanut, even when I feel old(er) and more tired than I ever have in my life. I hauled him to Scotland this summer because we had travel vouchers to use and because I wanted him to experience this incredible place where I've had countless laughs and adventures for over two decades. I hadn't been back for years, and I missed it fiercely.

Besides the phenomenal amount of rain and mud, the acquisition of a stomach bug, and general fatigue that comes from traveling and camping with a newly minted three-year-old, the trip was pretty amazing. In all of the summers I've spent on the shores of Loch Lomond, this was certainly the most challenging, but also one of the most rewarding. I got to show my little guy one of my favorite places on the planet and he reminded me that sometimes you just need to throw a rock into a loch to feel better. 

He still talks about camping and canoeing in Scotland and months later, he's completely enamored with the Thunderbird rockets that his 'Aunty and Uncle' from England sent to him after our trip. (After at least two dozen flights to several countries and continents with a child, I finally decided to write some travel tips here.)

When he wakes up an hour after falling asleep because he's overly tired from not napping earlier, I have to remember that these days are fleeting, even when I too am struggling to keep my eyes open. I have to remember that he already views life as an adventure. It's exciting for him to help make pancakes or waffles, to pour the milk, to help me put away the groceries, to wrap yarn around a tree, or to build a rocket house with sticks and leaves. 

He's not going to care if we mix those pancakes in a vintage Pyrex bowl. He's only going to care that I let him sit on the counter and crack the eggs. And those are the images that I will probably never get on camera, but they'll be imprinted on my heart forever.  

We don't always have to travel far to see what an adventure life can truly be. And we don't always need a photo to show everyone where we've been. There are days when I miss my old life, but I still wouldn't trade it for the world, because I've already seen it. And now I'm seeing it through the eyes of my son.  

I just hope he sleeps long enough for me to actually publish this post. 

PS: National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, starts in a mere matter of minutes! EEK! This is my third year participating and hopefully my third win. The story of why I started this insane tradition can be found here.

PPS: The holidays will be here before we all know it. If you're visiting friends or family, or hosting anyone, brush up on how to be a charming hostess and gracious guest here.

Missing Loch Lomond

Summer camp has started on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond... and even though it has been four years since I've made it to that part of the world (and let's face it -- I have one of the most legitimate reasons on the planet for missing it this year) I'm still a little nostalgic for that field and the view. 

Last year, I wrote about what brings me back there year after year, here.  

Many of my foreign friends have converged on the field by now and are giving a slew of young people the summer of their lives by introducing them to new skills, new friends and a new environment. Someday, I hope to take the Peanut there to show him or her the place where I first fell in love with travel and foreign experiences.

To my friends there now, may the rain be sparse, the midgies* be few, and may you take the time to enjoy every single stunning sunset Loch Lomond has to offer you in the next few weeks. 

{*The most awful little bugs on the planet... 10,000x worse than mosquitoes in my book. They are so tiny you can't see them coming until one bites you on the face. They will not be missed...} 

Wellington Wishes

Ever since my 19th birthday, I have spent nearly every summer abroad. I was fortunate to attend a college that offered overseas programs -- I've never looked back since. Those programs opened the doors to summers in Scotland, Ukraine and England. After college, various other European outposts opened up, until I eventually ended up in Africa.

No matter where I found myself for the majority of the summer though, I usually made it to Scotland either before or after my travels. There, on the shores of Loch Lomond, friends and I converged for several weeks at a summer camp for teenagers. We worked hard. We laughed a lot. We ate pie. We drank. We sang. And more often than not, I cried when I had to say goodbye. 

Campers and staff alike refer to the place as magical. I don't believe in magic, but one night during my first summer there, several of us sat around a campfire, chatting. At some point, someone ran down the hill, and breathlessly asked us to help herd a few of the sheep back into their fenced-off area. 

We proved a sight. Arms flailing, a half dozen of us ran around a sheep field in the dark, trying to round up a few of the dumbest animals on the planet.

Later, my sophisticated and well-traveled older dorm-mate sat near me by the fire and said something poignant -- I don't remember exactly what -- but in that moment I do remember thinking, 'It's true... this place is magical.'

Year after year I returned to that sheep field. Rain, mud and midgie bites couldn't keep me away. I skipped a summer now and again when I was on board a ship, and I remember missing part of a summer because a boy I liked happened to be traveling through London in the middle of camp. 

But for the most part, I continued to spend at least a few weeks in Scotland, every summer.  

The wellies always changed, but the view never did. 

In 2009, the Sailor and I arrived from Cape Town to America to visit with my family during his study break. He returned to South Africa alone; I spent the next six weeks keeping a close eye on my mother, who had a few health issues at the time.

I had already made up my mind that I wouldn't be able to go to Scotland that summer; I figured I'd be spending the remainder of the summer with the Sailor in a wintry Southern Hemisphere. Instead, I spent the next six weeks hovering over my mother, driving her slightly crazy.  

She couldn't understand why I was so batty myself. She thought I just missed the Sailor, but in truth, we spend half of our life apart. I always miss him, but this time, I was also missing Scotland. I felt displaced.

On the night that my friends arrived in the sheep field, I toasted them from far away with a double shot of single malt, and I found myself feeling a little homesick for Scotland -- or indeed anywhere in Europe for that matter. 

It turns out it was the first summer since 1994 that I spent in America. Even when I missed camp in previous years, I was at least in Europe for the summer.

It wasn't terrible. But it was strange. I found myself looking at my cold-weather wardrobe a little wistfully. While locals lamented the rain that pelted Pennsylvania, I found it comforting. I wanted to wear my wellies, sit by a fire and listen to someone strumming a guitar. I learned to knit and the first real project I made turned out to be a sweater that I envisioned myself wearing on the sheep field. 

I made it back to Scotland in 2010, but the sweater didn't come with me. The sleeves turned out to be a little too short, and increasingly lower baggage allowances meant I left behind anything big and bulky -- except my wellies, of course.  

In 2011, I traded camping on the shores of Loch Lomond with boat camping on Lake Pend Oreille, Idaho with college friends. They had all been to Scotland at some point with me, yet despite their company, I couldn't help but feel a little nostalgic about missing the Bonnie Banks again. 

Last year, I made elaborate plans to return to Scotland. Afterwards, my itinerary included Ukraine for a writing project. When my brother took a turn for the worse, I cancelled all travel plans and wrote my regrets to friends I wouldn't be seeing again for a long, long time. Even after my brother recovered from his infection, and once he started to improve again, I was thankful I stayed. It turns out it was the last summer I'd have with him. No regrets, but I was still a little wistful about missing out on a summer in Scotland. 

I knew early on this year that I wouldn't make it to Scotland this summer. We just relocated to a completely new city. It seemed a little crazy to pack for camp in the midst of our moving melee. I told friends that the excitement of moving to a new place has slightly taken the sting out of not being in Scotland this year. The truth is though, I'm still going to miss it. 

So to all of my friends already there in that field, and to the many who have yet to arrive: Enjoy your summer... cherish the friendships you'll make and the memories you will create. Laugh (loudly) for me. I will be toasting you from across the pond, and wishing you well, in your wellies.