Adventure Mom

                   Year of the Ratbag 2014 is the Chinese Year of the Horse. But in our house, it feels more like the Year of the Ratbag. ‘Ratbag’ is Kiwi slang for mischievous child. The first time I recall hearing that term was in church, when our priest referred to kids (possibly his) as ‘ratbags.’ It sounded slanderous, but the longer I’ve lived in New Zealand, the more normal ‘ratbags’ seems – kind of like calling children ‘rugrats,’ in the States. My eight-year-old son, Finley (or Finn-bo, or Finn, or whatever we're calling him these days), is the epitome of ratbag. With his number four clippered hair (courtesy of my husband, his stepdad, Pete), and a gap-toothed grin, he oozes ratbag sensibility. Or lack of sensibility. He’s still not a great sport – trying to make up rules to games that favor him: Finn swiped Pete in the face while they were playing handball in the driveway after Pete told Finley he’d lost the point. F...

[I wrote this as a toast to Pete on our wedding day. St. Patrick's Day is the anniversary of when we met in 2011]                                      Sidetracked Thomas Merton’s famous prayer begins with, ‘My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me.’ Husband – I did not see this coming. When I left Spokane on holiday to drag the kids around the world and live six months in New Zealand, I was sure this place was a happy diversion. Then, I got Sidetracked. At the cafe called Sidetrack, where I met a handsome, smiley guy in a red surfy t-shirt with thick brown hair who asked good questions and gave good conversation. Listening is sexy. So are sand dunes, walks around the Mount, pouring rain, text messages and a first getaway in the Coromandel. I knew you were special when you and Finley played at being warriors with monkey t...

                      Wedding Day – Part Two                                I do                                Guests start arriving at the beach house around 9:45. My friends have spirited me upstairs to wait until 10:00, when the ceremony is due to start. Any notion we might still host an outdoor wedding has been blown away like a trampoline in a hurricane – rain and wind batter our friends as they plod muddy grass to reach the side door. I asked Fiona to wrap ribbon around the staircase, which is the only place for a bridal entrance. I hope to avoid tripping over my large bridal feet and tumble, end over end, like a white chiffon slinky, on the wooden stairs.  Jac snaps pictures of the kids and I together – Fiona in her spiral curls and bright pink ta...

            Wedding Day -  Prelude Fiona and Maggie playing ball before the wedding It’s 1:30 am, and I can’t sleep. I’ve been a relapsing/remitting insomniac since college. I didn’t expect to sleep much the night before my wedding, anyway. My bladder awakens me. After tiptoeing to the bathroom, I pad to the kitchen to fix a cup of tea and bowl of cereal. That’ll quell the rumbly tummy. Afterwards, I creep upstairs where Pete is sleeping. “How come you’re up here, Hon?” I ask. “I didn’t want to wake you by coming into bed late,” he responds. I curl into him, feeling his warm, bare torso. I wonder if he’s being traditional by sleeping away from the bride-to-be the night before his wedding. It’s okay. We have a lifetime to sleep (or, in my case, sleep and wake…) together. We cuddle ten minutes before I return downstairs. My alarm is set for 6 a.m.; the wedding’s at 10. I finish reading Anne’s Lamott’s ‘Thanks, Help, Wow’ on my Kind...