The Mighty Morgansia

Every parent has wondered how best to get their kids to clean up after themselves. We model, make clean up songs, play pick up games, cajole, bribe, beg, and threaten. And at the end of the day, we look at the mountains of toys and think, "I could just light it on fire and it would all go awaaayyyy."

Unfortunately, it would come back in the form of birthday presents, Christmas gifts, and the inevitable creep ins that are a near constant reminder of the stuff heavy, responsibility free, consumerist society we live in. But this story is not about that.

It is about my last ditch effort to inspire self-driving behaviors of cleanliness in Espen that resulted in the emergence of the mythical creature and devouress of toys, The Mighty Morgansia.

The Mighty Morgansia made her appearance this year after one too many nights where the number of toys left strewn about exceeded either parents' energy levels for cleaning them up. Over the night, she began to take shape, feeding upon the bodies of untended toys until the morning light showed her swirling form and an ominous proclaimation to Espen.

"The Mighty Morgansia has an endless appetite for toys that are not in their places. She eats them and becomes stronger, looking for ever more toys to fill her belly."

Espen looked interested.

"So, she gets bigger when there are toys? Can you make her disappear forever?"

I thought about that for a minute. Theoretically if there were no toys out for her to eat, she'd just waste away...but that would mean a child would be fastidiously clean forever and I'm betting that's about as likely a spotting flock of unicorns so....

Espen cleared up his toys in a jiffy.

The questions abounded.

"Does The Mighty Morgansia talk to you?"

"Does The Mighty Morgansia eat toy swords?"

"Do you think The Mighty Morgansia would eat my library books if I put them...HERE?"

Over the year, The Mighty Morgansia has been accused of being none other than mom herself, but there is never sufficient evidence to justify leaving toys out, just in case.

I reminded Espen of a key quality of all magical creatures tonite as he prepared his shoes for St. Nicholas's  arrival.

"You know, Boo, all magical beings talk to each other. It's kind of a thing they do."

Espen looked slightly disturbed.

"So if I leave my toys out, The Mighty Morgansia will tell St. Nicholas?"

"Well, it stands to reason that if there are toys out, she'll be here when St. Nick arrives and he's not going to feel too good about leaving gifts if he knows that The Mighty Morgansia is having to hoover them all up because they get left untended, right?"

Her name has never been shortened to just Morgansia. She is The Mighty Morgansia and she is my new best friend.

"Mom," Espen said tonite. "Do you talk to The Mighty Morgansia?"

"Oh yes." I replied."All parents are able to contact magical beings like The Mighty Morgansia and St. Nicholas. We might not be full fledged magic creatures ourselves, but we are like a bridge between this world and the world of magic, just like children."

"But no one else has The Mighty Morgansia at their houses." he pointed out.

"Oh, she has many names to the children of the world." I told him. "All great goddesses do."

Satisfied, he tucked away his last toy, set out his shoes, and went to sleep. 

More or less in that order.

Self-Educating Kids and Lost Teeth

Espen taught himself to swim last week at the North Clackamas Aquatic Center. While I like to think I had some small role in articulating how to move the arms and legs in a reasonable facsimile of a dog paddle and back float, I can't trick myself into thinking I had much to do with it.


The Bear has been swanning around in life jackets for the last 3 years, merrily dousing himself in any body of water available, from glacier lakes to swimming pools, but he could not be bothered to attempt un-supported personal buoyancy until exactly last week. He is 6 years and 3 months old.

Several developmental leaps happened around the same time. He lost his second tooth, the first making its exit in May, much to his delight. His school friends were duly impressed and he was very clear that he wanted to stick the tooth directly UNDERNEATH his pillow. Not in a cutsey box or pillow. Plain and simple was his decree, so the Tooth Fairy didn't have to mess about.

Waldorf education apparently has very clear interpretations of loosing teeth...something about readiness for first grade and ending the first seven year cycles. So magical. Well, needless to say, things are moving in this little man and it's challenging me to re-evaluate just how much I need to insert myself into his learning process.

Essentially, my contribution to his stroke development was to do two demonstrations and then challenge him to see if he could make it across the pool dog paddling without a life vest. Nailed it.
The next expedition involved him gaining mastery with his back float. Also, nailed it. Sure, I encouraged him to push his belly towards the sky and relax his ears into the water, but only twice. Then he took off and was floating around like a seal with his cheeks puffed out, holding his breath for extra loft.

As a sustainability educator, I value the process of experiential learning and the transformation that embodied learning facilitates. The piece that I witnessed activating during Espen's self-taught swimming lessons, was the motivation to take on the challenge of learning swimming...because it was meaningful to him. Why did he want to swim?

It might have been because he was FINALLY tall enough to ride the water slides and it might have been because he wanted to go sailing and knew he couldn't until he learned to swim. Likely it was a crystallization of these motivations and more that I don't know. But it was tremendous.


My aunt, a retired elementary school teacher reflected on it later by saying, "It's those moments when kids GET something, that teachers live for." It truly is powerful to watch someone evolve before your very eyes.

In the spirit of relationship based learning, which often happens over time and with significant struggle, I also witnessed the profound power in connecting meaning with skill building while engaging the ENTIRE body, mind, and spirit.

Espen was ecstatic that he had moved himself unassisted through the water. We shared a profound moment that strengthened out relationship and built memories that will last a lifetime. He inhabited a lived experience of will, skill, and connection bringing about an enormously satisfying change. You couldn't wipe the grin off his face, even though he swallowed a ton of water in the process.

I recall watching an Indian educator, Sugata Mitra discuss the mechanism involved in self-education. Novelty, free-time to explore, encouragement, and working with others led to amazing increases in learning and mastery of everything from history to technology.

The challenge I face in facilitating learning with Espen now is letting go of my agenda and allowing his interest to lead. I remind myself that many of these things are in his life because I exposed him to them and a spark of curiosity was stoked. And some of them were lit by exposure to the larger world, which I have no control over.

Playing with the balance between healthy boundaries and freedom is the constant dance of transformational education. When we step out of the role of managers and overlords and into the place of co-learner, we expose both our vulnerability and our humanity.

Watching Espen launch himself across the water, I was delighted to be a witness to his growth. Our children absolutely need us to encourage them and validate their experiences, to give them consistent boundaries for their safety and mobility through the world we inhabit, and also, to take a step back and observe where their passion leads.

When it does, it is truly outstanding.

Hakuna Matata, Espen

Espen just watched his first Disney movie at the beach this weekend. We were there celebrating my parent’s 40^th wedding anniversary with all the immediate relatives under one roof. As we are the only ones who do not typically let Espen consume media, I decided that we could relax the line for an evening and watch The Lion King.

Before launching into the exegetical take-aways that Espen expounded on at bath-time, I will simply say this. I last watched The Lion King approximately 20+ years ago and I can basically sing every song, word perfect, on command when it plays. To this day.

Neuroplasticity be real, people, and you’re particularly primed when your younger. But enough said on that little glimpse into my personal parenting beliefs-I let down the spill-ways and the drama of Scar and Mufasa began.

Espen, as you might imagine, was riveted, as only a kid who never gets to watch media can be. He was blithely humming Hakuna Matata the rest of the weekend, as if it had been magically overlaid from the screen onto his brain. Part of me was delighted to be able to clown around with that song and refer to common characters that I loved in my youth. The other part of my brain was rapidly deconstructing the subtle messages being poured into the unsuspecting minds of today’s youth through the vehicle of innocuous seeming talking animals.

But I digress.

Tonite in the bathtub, Espen had some questions about Scar.

Scar, if you will recall, is the nefarious uncle of young Simba, who through cunning, greed, and homicidal inclinations, seizes the throne and gives his nephew a hefty dose of PTSD.

“Scar is bad and Simba is good, right?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

That question has opened soo many doors, some exciting, some a bit disconcerting…and now, it’s back in the form of my 5 year old.

“Wellll….because Scar made certain choices and Simba made others.”

“What kind of choices?”

Parenting on the fly. Seize the lesson. Choices. Ok. Make good choices.

“Scar felt angry and jealous of Mufasa being king.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure, maybe he thought he should have been king. Maybe he thought he would be a better king. There are always reasons, but we don’t always know them, ok?”

“Ok. I guess.”

“Stay with me. So because Scar felt those emotions, he chose to do some really mean and hurtful things.”

“Like killing Mufasa?”

“You got it. Now Simba, he felt hurt and sad and scared when his dad died and he chose to run far away because he didn’t want to make things worse. He could have chosen to get angry and yell at his mom or his friends, but he chose to go away. It’s all about what we choose to do about our feelings that makes us the bad guys or the good guys.”

His eyes are squinting, he’s considering this.

“Well, I feel angry sometimes.”

“Sure, we all do. We all have the same feelings at one time or another. Everyone feels angry sometimes. Or sad. Or confused. Or happy. Or jealous. Or brave. It’s how we choose to act that makes us get into more trouble or less trouble.”

“Ohhhhh. Ok. Look, I can fly Pip all around the bathtub!”

Having a deep conversation about making mindful choices and dualism with a 5 year old is like trying to sew with spaghetti. It goes great until you try to apply the noodle to make a cape instead of eating it. Still, I’m hoping that he’ll remember the “Everyone has feelings, make good choices on how you act on yours.”

We’ll see. Thanks, Lion King, for a provocative and utterly ridiculous bathtime object lesson. Hakuna Matata.

Middle Eastern Stars Go Rafting!

Elk Rock Island is a magical core of an ancient volcano 5 minutes from our house. In the summer, the river drops and you can walk across dry land to the island. But in winter, the river rises and Elk Rock Island becomes a tantalizing and inaccessible river island complete with bald eagles and old foundations from buildings of a bygone era. In short, it begs the adventurous to find a way across the moat.

Espen and I knew the water would be high when we visited. We were prepared to gaze longingly at the elusive island and sail pieces of bark towards it. Well, I was. Espen kept trying to haul logs to the shore to make "bridges". We did not however, anticipate the arrival of two grown men bent on constructing a raft to float across on.

Granted they were young men, but clearly adults, who busied themselves gathering sticks of wood and lumber that had washed ashore on the winter tides. Espen saw them abandon the sticks as too short and swooped down to annex them for his bridge building.

However.

When Espen saw them hauling tires filled with Styrofoam to the shore, any trace of shyness or interest in building his own project evaporated and he sidled closer for a look.

"Hey," he said casually, aiming for his best grown up voice.

They looked up and saw the little man hovering by their pile of  scavenged goods. One of them smiled and stepped closer to Espen.

"Hey," he said back.

"Whatcha buildin' there?" Espen questioned, hoping beyond hope that they would say a device that would carry him to the island.

The young man crouched down. Looked at Espen earnestly.

"We're building a raft. That guy there is an engineer."

Espen stepped closer.

"I can help you find boards and stuff. That will float."

The guy smiled again and the engineer looked up from arranging his tires. Sized up Espen.

"That would be great!" they said and Espen was off and running.

We salvaged lumber and boards, hell we even found a length of rope that Espen trotted back very proudly.

"You can TIE THEM TOGETHER NOW!!"

The engineer looked excited. The other guy bent down to Espen.

"Do you think we can make it, little man?"

Espen nodded furiously, his dreams coming to life before his very eyes.

The engineer now began to drill holes in the Styrofoam with a stick so he could loop the rope through and lash the tires together. Other guy, Espen and I started chatting.

It turned out that he was an airline pilot out with his good pal the engineer for an afternoon adventure.

He asked Espen's name, which the Bear happily explained meant Bear of the Gods.

The pilot nodded solemnly, "That's a good name."

"What's your name?" Espe asked the pilot.

"Sohail" replied the pilot.

"Is that Iranian?" I asked.

He nodded and added that he'd lived here since he was 5 or so. I apologized for our current administration.

"What does YOUR name mean?" I asked, curious.

"It's a special star. Really, it's kind of a Persian thing."

Espen looked impressed.

We asked the engineer what his name was and where he was from.

"Tashi. It's Pakistani."

"What does it mean?" asked Espen.

"It means the stars of the heavens."

I was excited now. "So you both have names that mean stars?! How lovely!"

They looked at each other and stared. Sohail laughed.

"We've known each other for 6 years and this has never come up."

Sohail and Tashi kept building and lashing their raft together which was looking more dubious by the minute.

When Sohail stepped aboard to test it, he nearly capsized himself before being hauled back to shore.

Espen was full of advice.

"Guys, guys," said the Bear wisely, "You need to LAY DOWN ON EACH OTHER AND PADDLE."

They stared at him and slowly nodded. It was a good point, but not one they were prepared to implement.

As we stood there watching the sun fade, Sohail got more enthusiastic about the venture while Tashi the engineer became increasingly reticent.

Espen was actively trying to throw himself onto the raft while they debated.

Finally, much to his chagrin, I had to extricate him from the grand scheme because I was due to teach yoga pronto.

Sohail and Tashi promised to leave the raft on the shore when they returned so Espen could find it if it succeeded.

Two days later, with stars still in his eyes, Espen and I returned to the scene of the scheme. There was no boat to be found, but the legend of the Middle Eastern Stars would live on....

Wilderness Pooping

When I was a girl, my grandparents lived on a farm in Molalla, Oregon. Sometimes, when we would visit, my grandfather would take us out to the barn and solemnly hand us empty chicken feed sacks and cut a length of baling twine he'd saved from hay used to feed his long-ago eaten cows. We would trek through the back field, wade across the crick (that's country for creek) and approach the sacred fence dividing his property from the neighbor's field, wherein lay the treasure we dreamed of.

For geological reasons unknown to us, this field was a graveyard of petrified wood and brilliant chunks of jasper. Grandpa had discovered its presence during one of his forays about the countryside and talked it up like Shangri-la.

"You gotta stick to the gullies," he'd rasp in his voice hoarse from years of smoking. "That's where you'll find 'em." This was of course, the rich stuff. Long dead shards of trees turned to stone that set us through the wire and under the barbs faster than grandpa could pull them apart.

We would spend happy hours sluicing through the gullies and leaping towards anything that looked like it had a grain or crystallization showing. For those of you following my adult obsession with rocks, behold its headwaters.

January 2, 2018-The year of balance and joy dawned bright and promising. I scooped Espen up from Grandma's house intending to run errands like buying food for the week.

But then I got to dreaming. Molalla was on my mind and an idea started to take shape.

Grandma and Grandpa sold their old farm years ago and I had been by several times, watching it fall into disrepair and neglect. But now I started to wonder...

Espen loves stories about my childhood and his favorite imaginary creatures that I made up one day on the way to forest pre-school--Roarfire and Windshadow the dragons...but today it was pure non-fiction...the glory days of prying petrified wood out of the ground with Grandpa.

Before I knew it, the car was headed out to Molalla, past the old mill in Mulino and the school where  I had attended pre-school taught by my aunt years ago.

We hit the main drag of historic downtown Molalla with the White Horse Saloon on the left and stories galore of the magic of driving to grandma and grandpa's place. Espen was eating it up.

And frankly, so was I. My imagination, sparking until we reached town, now burst into a full on inferno. What if I could get permission from the neighbors who owned the field to go on a walkabout and visit the old treasure grounds?! WHAT IF!!!!!

We cruised by grandma and grandpa's old place. I regaled Espen with stories of the bridge over the crick we'd fish for crawdads from, the high bed in the guest room where I'd sleep on over-nighters, the barn where the chicken feed sacks had lain waiting for us...

And there was the neighbor's house, still blue, still split level. My heart sped up a bit. Just beyond the house lay the field. The field of dreams. The field of childhood wonder and magic. Soooo close.

A woman watched us inch up the long drive, waiting for us to arrive. I rolled down the window.

"Hi! I don't mean to disturb you, but I'm Jaime Mathis and I am Jim and Pat's granddaughter. I don't know if that means anything to you, but they used to own the place right next to you and my grandpa used to take us rock hunting in your field." I smiled my most friendly smile.

The woman smiled back and nodded. "Oh my goodness! Of course I remember Jim and Pat! We've been here for 30 years...that place really has gone downhill since they sold it." She nodded sympathetically.

We exchanged pleasant memories of my grandparents and neighborhood gossip for a few minutes before she spoke about The Field.

"You know, we don't actually own that field. It belongs to the Deardorffs."
"Oh! Well, where can I find them?"
"I think they're on Sawtell Road, there might be a brick fence or some such...."

I had no idea where Sawtell Road was, but from her body language I figured I'd just drive....that way. We chatted for a few more minutes with her husband and then bounded back down the lane...in search of the mystical Deardorffs.

Following instinct, I headed in the general direction of Deardorffland. Espen had been quietly observing up to this point and now he wanted answers.

"What now, mama!"
"We go in search of Deardorffs!"
"Why?"
"Well, they are the keeper of The Field. We are going to ask them if we can poke around and pick up some rocks."

Now, as luck or fate would have it, I just so happened to have an old piece of petrified wood from the Early Era of Rockery in my pocket. That's a whole different story. The plan that hatched in my mind however, was to offer the rock to the Deardorffs and say, "Hey! This rock is from your land! Can we go find some more?"

The road we were on came to another road. Sawtell. Adventure told me to go right, which placed us smack dab in front of a majestic sign next to a gated drive that read "DEARDORFF".  Bingo.

It seemed very, well, gated, however and I'll admit I paused for a moment. But only a moment.

"The worst they can say is no!" I sang out and pulled up to the call box.

No call button. Hmmm.....I started examining the numbers looking for signs of wear. Perhaps to what, crack the code right then and there? Who knows!

"Mama, look!" Espen chirped from the backseat.
"In a second, honey. Mama is trying to figure this out."
"No, mama, LOOK!"

I looked. The gate swung placidly open.

ANOTHER SIGN.

We cruised through and rolled up to the house. Espen opted to stay in the car and watch his intrepid mother at a safe distance. I rang. I knocked. No answer. And then, I noticed a small sign.

"UPS deliveries please take to green barn."

Okayyyyyyy!!

Back in the car, we cruised down the long and winding drive past rolling fields holding lovely horses to a huge barn big enough to hold an aircraft carrier.

I wondered what kind of horses they had. Pulled into the parking lot. Grabbed Espen and headed in. No one in the office. But lots of photos of Saddlebreds. A good sign considering my horsey past. I knew this scene.

We walked further in. A groom approached carrying Christmas stockings with a fat doggerel mushing alongside.

"Hi!" I said, walking cheerfully up to him. I felt unstoppable. Joyful. Excited.

"Hello," he said kindly.

We stared at each other for the briefest of seconds.

"Are any of the owners here?" I asked politely.

"He will be at 2. Are you here for the lesson?"

"Nope! This may seem a bit random, but I'm the granddaughter of one of their former neighbors and we used to go rock hunting in one of their fields and I'm hoping I can get permission to take my son for a walk down memory lane."

He smiled and nodded his head. "Why don't you come back at 2 if you want and ask him then?"

"I will! What's his name?"

Another smile.

"Don."

"Thanks!"

And with that Espen and I walked back outside. Only we didn't leave. Because horses!!

15 minutes later and mannnnny horsie pats and kisses, we spotted a silver pickup cruising up the lane. A cowboy hat sat in profile.

"ESPEN! It's DON and he's a COWBOY!!!!"

We ran/walked towards the barn just in time to meet him coming towards the barn from the opposite direction. I waved. Cause, you know, that's what I do. He cocked his head to the side and then waved back.

"Hi!" I said, "Are you Don?" and extended my hand.

He took it, bless his heart.

"Sure am."
"Well, Don, this may be a bit unexpected, but I'm Jaime Mathis, Jim and Pat Mathis' granddaughter and I used to wander your field that bordered their property, picking up pretty rocks with my grandpa as a kid."

He stared for a minute and then chuckled.

"Well I'll be damned. How about that? I remember your grandpa. Liked him quite abit. He was fun to talk to. Grumpy old guy, but I enjoyed out conversations."

I filled him in on grandpa's passing and we talked abit about their place.

"I probably should have bought that when they sold it." he said.
"Yes, it probably would have fared a bit better," I agreed. "But on another note, I see you run Saddlebreds here and I had Walkers and Morgans as a girl so I'm very aware of the Saddlebreds..."

His face lit up. We talked about horses for another while, Espen waiting patiently. Turned out he knew one of my childhood friends and heroes, Jake Price, who had boarded and trained me and my Morgan when I first got her.

"Not much money in horses, you know" he laughed, "So we still teach lessons here and there."
I thought this would be a great opportunity to ask him how young they would teach, since Espen and I had decided we needed to take riding lessons together while meeting the horses.

"How old are you young man?" he asked Espen kindly. Espen held up 4 fingers.

We were all fabulous friends by now, so I held out the rock.

"Say Don, I was wondering if you'd mind if I took Espen down to the old field we used to explore and poke around abit for rocks?"

He accepted the rock and turned it over in his hands. Handed it back and smiled.

"Live it up. We got plenty of rocks around here."

Shangri-la, here we come.
I thanked him, shook hands and headed out to find the best way to get into the field.
We settled on sliding under a big gap in the bottom of the fence along the random road that connected Sawtell with grandma and grandpa's road. Grabbed a cloth shopping bag and a length of rope that Espen insisted on as the stand-in for baling twine.

"Come on, Mama! Let's GO!" We were both super excited. As you might imagine.

We came to a run off creek very soon and I sank to my haunches. Sweet lord. The color in the stream. I reached down and picked up a shard of petrified wood. My brain was melting with happiness.

Meanwhile, Espen was hollering futher down the field.
"MAMA LOOK WHAT I FOUND!!!!"

And I'm thinking, "Holy shit, what ROCK has he discovered! Wheee!"

So I race down to find him standing over a massive, whitened...cow skull. He is stoked. Like, gold discovery stoked.

He wants me to put it in my rock bag which already has several good sized chunks of jasper and wood in it. I politely decline, but suggest that perhaps we could extract several teeth and take those instead. He accepts and I manage to yank out 4 enormous cow molars. But by then, he has grown attached to the WHOLE SKULL and refuses to leave it. We negotiate back and forth and finally he suggests that we use the rope to tie the skull around his waist so he can drag it along with us. This seems like a great compromise, so we get it hitched on and away we go.

We are now halfway down the field, closing in on the original gully, when Espen shrieks again.

"MAMA! THE COWS ARE WATCHING US! AND LOOK!!! MORE BONES!"

Sure enough, in my head down, rock hounding fervor I have missed that there are bones lying EVERYWHERE. It's like a graveyard for bovines AND ancient trees....and a viewing gallery for living cows too. Who are watching us anxiously from a tight cluster on the far end of the field. Mostly Espen, actually, who keeps shrieking his bone lust to the heavens.

We are both overcome by some of our deepest loves at this moment. He is racing around to each bone, the skull bounding around behind him. I am hunched over, my hands in water no doubt laced with cow urine and god knows what else, happily dredging up specimen after specimen of wood.

And then Espen stops. Hollers at the top of his lungs. "MAMA I HAVE TO POOP NOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!"

The last time I tried to get Espen to poop in the woods he went into hysterics and tried to run away from me whilst pooping all over his legs, shoes, socks, etc. But we were straight up in the middle of NOWHERE. No Potty. Nope.

So I lay it down. "Buddy. We need to do a wild poop. I'll show you how."

I led him over to some bushes. He wanted to choose a blackberry bush.

"Ok, honey, watch. See how mama, squats down? That's what you want to do. And just hang out there until the poop is all done."

He must have really had to go because he rapidly agreed and stripped down to his skivvies. He has this thing about not wanting to wear much of anything while pooping. Which is fine in the house, but it was COLD outside in the cow field. Oh well.

To his credit, he stayed in one place for the entirety of the poop. Good job, Boo. But then, wiping, right?

I went around collecting leaves while he watched.

"Mama, get the soft ones. Not the hardy ones. No, not those. Those." So now he's pooping and ordering me around to the "right" leaves for wild wiping.

I thought for sure wild pooping would shorten the time he normally spends pooping. Mais no. He just started complaining that his legs were getting tired. Tried another squat position. Liked it better. Settled in again.

FINALLY he allows me to leaf wipe him. Retie the skull around his waist. Hunt for bones to cover the poop pile. Proceed to the Original Gully. Amazing.

But now we are getting a bit tired from lugging the heavy cow skull across the mighty field.

"Mama. HELP ME."

I try to convince him to abandon the skull. Refuse to carry it back because my rock bag is grossly full at this point.

Nothing doing. He starts to drag it back slowly, but it keeps flipping over, tooth down and grabbing into the earth like claws. He takes one step and gets pulled up short by the teeth. I have mercy.

So now I am carrying 40 pounds of rocks and 10 pounds of cow skull tied to a grumpifying four year old. Our progress is slow over the uneven ground of the field. The cows have stampeded as far from us as they can possibly get.

And I'm deliriously happy. And tired. And SO EXCITED. And ready to be back at the car. And then Espen stops.

"Mama, this is HARD WORK." He is carrying exactly himself and a rope around his waist. I stare at him. Remind myself he is four. Still, I'm really fucking tired. So I stop and just stare at the ground.

"Look at that rock, mama!" he says happily.

And I am. And it's big. AND. It's. an entire cross section of a petrified limb. Sweet Mother Lode.
What's another eight pounds?

We make the fence, Espen slides under and drags his cow skull through. I toss my bag over the fence, cow rib bones poking out (Espen insisted we take three as our "knives") and slide under.

We collapsed in the car and started to drive back, exhausted and full of victory.

I called my Dad later that night and he casually mentioned that at one time the Deardorff family was the largest property owner in Clackamas County. Well, I can tell you, Don was real nice and I bet, if we ask him for riding lessons in a few years, he'll probably be happy to oblige.  And maybe throw in a free rock safari to boot.

I Love Your Boo-boos, Mama

Espen has been experiencing a rekindling of affection for his Original Sources of Life.

We have a pretty relaxed home when we are sans guests, so it's not uncommon for "nudies" to be seen walking to and from the shower or streaking down the hall. (Usually that's just Espen. Usually.)

And for those of you who have followed the antics of Espen over time, you'll recall that he is a rambunctious, joyful little being full of zest for life and throwing his parents curve balls on the regular.

This particular morning, he was in top form-zinging to and fro in the bathroom, asking me to write his name on the steamed up shower glass I was inside.

I've gotten really good at writing from right to left with all the letters backwards. Leonardo Davinci would be super proud of me and I admit to having a certain level of satisfaction at being able to reverse my "S" and "Z" without batting an eyelash. I also have a new found gratitude to the letters "A","H", "I", "M", "N", "O", "T","V","W", "X" and "Y" for being symmetrical.

After I finished writing out his name, I turned off the water, dried off and started brushing my teeth. Nudie. Very normal. Espen padded over and stood in front of me. I continued to brush my teeth.

He reached his hands up, high overhead and placed them on my breasts. Well, on the bottom of them anyway. Bowed his head and put his forehead against my stomach. He inhaled deeply and sighed. Was reverently still. And then whispered.

"I love you, boo-boos."

Then he dropped his hands and ran to my bed, ripped off the comforter and threw it to the ground like a wild dog with a fresh haunch of something within its grasp.

And that's about how life is here, these days.

Feel free to provide your interpretation of this event below.

Panting for Gold

Espen has learned about pirates and treasure and parade candy.

Also, that the three can be effectively packaged to great effect. 

For example. 

We have a sawdust pile in our yard that is both easy to dig in and also relatively clean. Wesp has developed a dear love for getting his kid sized shovel out and zestfully flinging dubiously filled spade-fulls of sawdust into his little red wheelbarrow. 

"Come WORK, mama!" he will yell joyfully, hurling sawdust into the air like a self-generating blizzard.

So I will come and shovel load after load of sawdust into his barrow until he decides there must be something magical in my digging tool that lets me get so much MORE sawdust than he is, and demands to switch.

Now that he knows about pirates digging for treasure, he is shoveling with a PURPOSE. 

"Mama, let's go dig for ARGH, treasure!"

(Thank you pirates and mermaids theatre camp for introducing him to the instant pirate-cred phrase,"Argh")

Around this time period, he also attended the 4th of July parade in Molalla. 

This is an amazing spectacle where people ride longhorn cows with saddles and there are semi-trucks of candy to rain down on the children. 

Neither Espen nor I were expecting this windfall, but fall it did and a month later we are still staggering under the weight of uneaten candy (That's my fault for not letting him have candy every single day.)

I have relocated it several times in an attempt to throw him off the scent, but he is a bloodhound for the Sweet Stuff. 

So when he suggested that we "Dig for treasure" together and meaningfully pointed at the small chest I had a feeling we were in for it.

"Let's dig for THAT treasure there, mama!! ARGH!!!!"

I thought back to my childhood and the treasure lust that possessed me regularly. How many times I had gone hunting for gold with my cousins in the stream by our house. The hours of unmitigated revelry when we thought we'd struck it rich.

"Alright. We can bury the treasure chest."

Espen whooped with glee and began furiously launching sawdust in all directions. I stepped back and waited. He was not impressed.

"Come ON, mama!!! Pant for gold!!!"

I waited on that one, just for a second...channeled my inner pirate and realized that I probably WOULD be panting for gold if I were a pirate and that treasure chest was full of my favorite booty.

"Ok, buddy. Let's pant."

He continued to dig wildly while I started breathing heavily. Espen stared at me.

"Mama. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! DIG!!"

"Buddy, I thought we were panting for gold!"

"WE ARE, MAMA!!! You have to go like THIS."

And he picked up his shovel, took a load of sawdust in it and started shaking it back and forth.

And then I remembered that my mother, his beloved grandma, is the Queen of Treasure Lust. She has been known to take her gold pan with her on camping trips JUST IN CASE she might get lucky. It is also known that she is particularly skilled at getting little kids jazzed about such things.

I looked closely at Espen.

"Espen, where did you learn to pant for gold?"

He didn't miss a beat and just kept swishing his sawdust.

"Grandma, ARGH!! KEEP PANTING!"

And so we did. Until the very last piece of treasure had been exhumed and celebrated.