a world of pure imagination

come with me
and you'll be
in a world of
pure imagination
take a look
and you'll see
into your imagination

for a child, i think there are few movie scenes more magical than the chocolate room from willy wonka and the chocolate factory.

vault doors slowly open, delightful chimes sound with a soft timbre that invokes a whimsical air, and then we see it: a world made of candy. everything is edible, from the sidewalk that winds through the room to the chocolate river that churns the famed chocolate by waterfall ("it's the only way if you want it just right", wonka reveals with a wink). there are trees made of taffy that grow plump gummy bears, lollipop bushes, and daffodil tea cups that can even be eaten after the drink is gone.

when i saw this movie as a little girl, i was completely enchanted. oh, how i wished that candy world existed! despite the fact, it was very real in my mind and i drew pictures of my own wonka-inspired world, evening coming up with unique stories about it.

one night a few weeks ago, when i was putting august to bed, the song from that scene in the movie popped in my head. it had been ages since i seen it so the conjuration was completely random, but i threw pure imagination into the lullaby rotation that night anyway. i sang the words i could remember and hummed the rest, while august's eyes slowly closed. when the song ended ;august started clapping wildy, half-asleep and with eyes still shut! it was one of the sweetest, most honest displays of emotion i've seen from him yet and my heart about leapt from my chest to do a happy little pirouette. after i lied him down that night, i promptly googled the lyrics and dutifully commit them to memory. the song is now, of course, an essential part of our bedtime ritual.

watch the incomparable gene wilder sing it HERE.

books

here is the key to the house. in the house burns a light. in that light rests a bed. on that bed waits a book.

"boo[k]!" (the k is silent) he shouts upon seeing said book waiting on the the basket next to the bed. then, up onto tippy toes he reaches for it before walking over to me and repeating the word, only this time as a command. [translation: read!] so i sit down cross legged and he slowly backs up into my lap. the house in the night. we go through it a couple of times every day, each time telling a different story. it's a beautifully illustrated board book with so many details that you could go through it hundreds of time without telling the same story twice. sometimes it'll be all about the night sky: how the sun shines on the moons face (and what a pretty face she has, i seeee youuuu luna!) and about counting as many stars as we can - which usually leads to an interlude of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star - before the next page turns. other times it'll be about the bird: how it soars through the dark, getting smaller the higher it flies and about it's song (that i then whistle and august squeeks in imitation).

the book was a gift for august - a souvenir from my trip to minnesota earlier in the summer. it was my nephew's favorite book and came highly recommended not only by claudin, but by the clerk at the bookstore who was proud to tell us that the author was a st. paul resident. i had no idea it'd be such a hit considering that at the time, most of the books in our house had been either chewed or torn beyond recognition. we're past that phase though and now books are for reading. i'm not sure where he got it from, but these days august loves to read. he'll flip through books to pass the time in the car or sometimes, when he's out of sight and i go through a brief moment of panic because it's so quite, i'll find him sitting in the dog's bed reading.

i was never a big reader as a child so i know he didn't get it from me. nope, the "reader" in our family was my older sister, the so-called "middle child" (she was the third in our five). she was the only one that really took to my father's passion for reading, just like claudin and i were the only ones to take after his love of running. come to think of it, we each seemed to pick one my dad's passions to share just with him. my brother: his dedication to service (from eagle scout, through the ranks to army ranger) and my oldest sister: his devotion to family (almost entirely inspired by Fiddler on the Roof, TRADITION!)

while i wasn't the [independent] reader my sister was, i did read a lot of great books when i was a kid - i just read them with my dad. he loved literature and it was something he held onto even when everything else in his life was fleeing from him. having children gave him the excuse to read all the stories he had always wanted to read. so when we were growing up and all the way to middle school, he would read to us before bed. some of my best memories come from those nights we stayed up late reading j.r.r. tolkein or c.s. lewis with claudin and i on either side of him, our heads resting on each of his shoulders as he read aloud.

i remember after one particular late night in which we had stayed up well past reasonable sleeping hours to read one more paragraph from the culminating chapters of The Hobbit. with just a few pages left, it took a tremendous amount of discipline from my father to close the book. but it was very late on a school night and he had a strong sense of responsibility. the next morning though, he woke us with the same excitement he was about to bestow: you don't have to go to school today, we're staying home to finish the book! we spent the early hours relishing the last bit of Bilbo's journey back to the Shire and i don't recall what we did the rest of the day (i think, maybe, we rented the cartoon on VHS?) but i'll never forget the time my dad let us play hookie. ever since then i decided that when i had i child i would do the same. with time and maturity i grew to appreciate books and now i've got the same enthusiasm that my father had for reading.  especially now that i have a child of my own - i get to read all the books i never read on my own: Huckleberry Finn, Moby Dick, Robinson Crusoe... august and i will discover all those books and more. and maybe i'll even let him miss school a few times too.

which way did the clocks move?

last sunday's wake up call sounded to the thppppbth, bakabakabaka, thppppbth coming from the crib in the room next door. there is no "sleeping in" on the weekends when you have a baby. not unless your partner decides to take one for the team, leaving you the whole bed and an extra hour to snooze. that there is what you call a clutch performance and it was HUGE since daylight savings was saying it was six a.m. when it was actually only five. heroics like that make you want to do something really special for a person. you know, to show your profound gratitude. so around seven, i shuffled out of the bedroom, traded off with my husband and left him the whole house while it was still dark and quiet enough for to salvage some sleep.

i loaded the baby into the car and we headed to abuelita's house for the day. it's the same house i grew up in and the place my siblings and i now call "the family home". the drive is not that far - only a few towns over - but it feels like another world; another time. the visit was unplanned, so when i walked in - baby on left hip and tray of coffees in right hand - to an empty house, i was only mildly surprised. she must be at church. we passed the time exploring the ol' homestead. memories were ignited by each room: my dad's office, where the desk lamp burned late every night as he prepared work for the next day; my sister's bedroom, where the wall-to-wall bookshelves make an impressive private library and a good source for some classic children's books; the loft, where we flipped through family photos my mother keeps in a wooden chest; and my bedroom, where we played with the same stuffed animals that sat on the pillows when i was a kid. walking around the home where you lived your childhood with your OWN child is kind of mind-blowing.

when my mom came home she had bagels and more coffee, which we enjoyed while helping the baby discover his food's route from table to mouth (a tricky and silly adventure that has its own story for another time). he barely finished his banana, smashing the last chunk into his eye as he rubbed it with sleep. once he was down for his nap, i left him in my mom's care while i went out for a run. running on the c&o canal brings back such vivid memories of my father. it's like he's with me whenever i'm there. i got lost in my mind with thoughts about runs we did together that one summer after my freshman year in college. as i approached the turn-around point, i remembered how he'd come home after having run to that same spot, bragging about finishing "just an easy thirteen [miles]" and had stopped midway to watch the kayakers navigate the white waters below. when i was done, i sat and stretched in the same gravel parking lot where he and i had stretched after every run together. only i have *these* memories of him. they're mine. my brother and sisters have their own intimate memories of him; my mother has countless more. but those moments are for each of us to cherish - gifts from my dad.

it's funny how when everyone was springing forward, i spent the day slipping back.

we're rooting for you, spring

nobody ever says "i'm so ready for this fall to be over". but winter? winter will have most everyone saying that in some form another. whether it's said as a hopeful, "i can't wait for spring" or a bitter, "that groundhog is full of it", by the end of the season, we're ready for longer days and kinder weather. this year in particular has been one giant eye roll. at least, it has been for those of us here on the east coast. you midwesterners and mountain-dwellers would probably yawn and crack your knuckles at how many inches we count as a lot of snow but for us, it's been a real doozy. 

you know, it's not even all the snow so much as it is living in this state of limbo, between cold and warm, lions and lambs, showers and flowers. sixty degree days, followed by record snowfalls just isn't right. then, just when i was starting to get used to seeing bare branches, these darling little pink buds had to appear on the trees. quit playing games with my heart, winter! i beg you. if not for me, then do it for this little guy, who is just itching to get outdoors and roll around in some mud.

we have this daybed set up in the baby's room that sits against a tiny window which opens up to the back yard - a bird sanctuary built by the former tenants and a selling point when we were house-hunting. the bed serves a dual purpose, acting as both resting place and changing table. since learning to crawl, this little one hasn't been the most cooperative during changes. most times, he squirms and crawls away before i can finish getting him dressed. (the window and all the birds returning from migration aren't helping the situation either.) but that little hand slapping against the window and that look on his face that asks, "can i go outside and play?" for those, i'll make more than a few exceptions.

my curly-haired sidekick and i made quick rounds of the yard to take stock of things. i'm happy to report that mother nature is right on track. we saw signs of spring all over: a curious finger met a fuzzy bud (yes, those are bare feet dangling in a blur in the background. don't judge me. it was a short outing), a feathered friend prepared her nest for new little arrivals, and plush greens dotted the roof like tropical islands in the ocean spotted from a plane. blue skies and warmer days ahead! only two more weeks if phil has anything to say about it.