by Ruth, aka Momma Frizzle

Last week, when my mom read about the Mother’s Day gift I made her, she found out for the first time that I had intended to give her a little book of poems 24 years ago, but I never did.

She called right away and said, just like I knew she would, “Oh, honey. I would never want you to give that little book to me. It’s your living memory. You are the bearer of stories now.”

I was pleased for several reasons. One was that I knew my mother so well I could predict her response to my Mother’s Day confession. Another was that after writing the story I really didn’t want to give the little poem book away. But I did want to share the first poem with her and you. It is innocent and idealized, perhaps. But today, 14 years into my own mothering journey, I also find it inspiring.

Here’s what I wrote for my precious mother, when I was still a chick in her nest, long years before I had little peeps of my own and learned how hard it is to tenderly mother a brood.

Oh, the trials and cares
That a mother solely bares

Each little sock she must find
Each shoe string she must bind

The quarrels that she must settle
The cleaning of the pots and kettle

And oh those small muddy tracks
Across her floor she never lacks

Yet each day she will start
With a song of happy heart

And greet her children full of grace
Love and smiles upon her face

The job of a mother is never done
In each little life its just begun

Each child receives their mother’s touch
Life’s lessons are daily taught by such

Her children adore her lively ways
And how she magically fills their days

Oh, the joy and love she sows
As only a mother’s heart can know.

– May 8, 1988

by Ruth, aka Momma Frizzle

Winnie-the-Pooh is a warning and encouragement to all of us who indulge in too much honey.

A warning because — like Pooh Bear — we can get stuck in front doors, inner tubes or folding chairs if we’re not careful.

“The fact is,” said Rabbit, “you’re stuck.”
“It all comes,” said Pooh crossly, “of not having front doors big enough.”
“It all comes,” said Rabbit sternly, “of eating too much.”

An encouragement because even a week of “watching it” can lead to pleasant results, such as becoming unstuck and humming proudly to ourselves about it.

“I’m afraid no meals,” said Christopher Robin, “because of getting thin quicker. But we will read to you.” Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn’t because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: “Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?”

Of course there are those who hate Winnie-the-Pooh altogether. Like my farmer friend Heather, who earlier this week lost two hives to a greedy bear lumbering onto her back acreage. The marauder slashed apart her newly established bee colonies, leaving behind death and destruction.

Pooh: “I think the bees suspect something!”
Christopher Robin: “What sort of thing?”
Pooh: “I don’t know. But something tells me that they’re suspicious!”
Christopher Robin: “Perhaps they think that you’re after their honey.”
Pooh: “It may be that. You never can tell with bees.”

I suggested she train the bees to be more suspicious, like in the story. But after finding out she could not legally handle the nuisance bear unless it was literally mauling her, Heather’s not in a joking mood.

I’ve decided to keep reading the book to my kids anyway. Maybe we’ll find other helpful suggestions. And Heather might appreciate my humor eventually. After all she practically has the full cast of characters on her farm — Piglet, Rabbit, Owl, Tigger, Pooh, Eeyore, and a couple of Christopher Robins.

But for now, I’ve decided to avoid honey and keep doing my Stoutness Exercises, just like the storybook Winnie-the-Pooh. If only his wild cousin would follow the same regimen, we might have a fairytale ending.

– Tidbits from the classic children’s tale Winnie-the-Pooh, by A.A. Milne

by Ruth, a.k.a. Momma Frizzle

Happily, (read the story below) we’ve been invited back to art camp this summer. And those of you enrolled in in Circle Christian School can join us. But for artsy Frizzle Chicks around the world, Laura Bird Miller’s blog offers great art projects tied to art history. Perfect for summer fun with your little chicks.

June 30, 2011 — The art teacher invited us to her house to paint today. She lives beside a natural spring surrounded by moss-draped oaks and towering royal palms. We’ll be painting en plein air, like the Impressionists, capturing the views as they present themselves.

We take a garden path between the houses, over a footbridge and creek, to the placid swimming hole. There the children set down their pencils, palettes and paper. A garden of delights for my budding artists.

Then, I notice my only son heading straight for the sandy beach. He squats at water’s edge and starts peeing — in the clear spring water, in front of everyone — en plein air alright!

Later I see this sign…

But what about six- year-old boys?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

by Ruth, a.k.a. Momma Frizzle

I stopped by the Orlando Science Center today to let the kids stretch their legs in between a doctor’s appointment and grocery shopping. We used it like an indoor park, which is one benefit of having a family membership, especially since another sweltering Florida summer is just around the corner. And that got me thinking about this Frizzle Chick story from last summer. Enjoy.

June 9, 2011 — Back in high school, our final project in chemistry was to build a battery-operated vehicle. Having no mechanical skills, this was an assignment I would definitely fail.

So I went to my chemistry teacher and said, “Mr. D., you know I can’t built a battery-operated car. I couldn’t even make the toothpick bridge earlier in the semester. So instead can I write a story that includes science stuff for my final project?”

He said yes, mainly because he was an Italian father of two daughters and liked giving girls what they wanted. Plus, I always felt like I was a favorite of his. None of the boys in class could have gotten away with such a request, and they were indignant when I told ‘em I didn’t have to build a stupid car.

Anyway, I wrote a science fiction story in which everything was an artificial version of what used to be real.

The main character was an old women who couldn’t make sense of this new manufactured world. The trees were plastic replicas. The climate was controlled. Fake breezes wafted through serene, sterile parks from giant air vents. Mechanical birds trilled in recorded song.

I thought about this old story of mine because last week I was sitting in exactly that same scene — down to the fake park bench and piped in woodpecker knocks.

We were at the Orlando Science Center. And I was watching eight children play in Kids Town, a recreated indoor community with pretend rock springs, plastic orange groves and life-like oak trees.

These are replicas of quintessential Florida environments and representative of actual places we go to all the time. So fake hasn’t replaced real as I bemoaned it would in my high school story 20 years ago. At least not yet.

I did briefly wonder how many of the school kids in there had picked their citrus in real orange groves like we did all winter. Or ever floated in ancient springs which bubble up all over this region. Or could count hours in oak trees rather than minutes.

So it’s possible I’m becoming the old lady after all. I need to go find that story. I forget how it ends.

by Ruth, aka Momma Frizzle

It’s Monday. Vacation is over. Mother’s Day celebrations are finished. Daddy Rooster goes back to work and so do I.

As I sit here drinking coffee, reading scripture, and making a to-do list, my day seems full of unpleasant — albeit necessary — tasks. Starting a diet, scheduling appointments, schooling the kids.

Honest evaluation of myself and talks with Daddy Rooster have convinced me that I need to handle many of my responsibilities better. Across the board, my efforts need to be re-energized. My mom says realizing you have a problem is half the battle. Ah, but it is the other half — the taking action part — that troubles me.

I know from experience (I’ve been here before) that changing habits and establishing new ones is hard work. Whether it’s changing my 3rd graders’ math curriculum or getting my butt up to exercise.

When I was in high school, I ran track. Not well, but I ran. The most nerve-wracking part for me was feet in the stocks, hands on the line, head looking down the track, poised, and waiting for the starter gun to sound.

POW!

Run! I told myself then. And now. I may not be the quickest or the best, but I can run better than I have been.

It’s Monday, and the starter gun has sounded.

by Hannah, aka Picky Pants

I would love to tell you a wonderful story that would make you laugh, cry, or maybe both, but at this moment I don’t have any at my fingertips. Right now, I’m feeling about my mom, not thinking in stories. This poem is what I’m emoting.

My mommy,
I’m her cocker spaniel.

My eyes,
I know are her’s showing through.

Our selves, we both like just fine.

My mommy,
I’m her squeezable.

My husband,
A whirlwind like her’s.

Our caves, just fine are we in them.

My kids hear me cry-talk when my soul is moved,
Listen as a child I did when my mommy did this too.

My mommy,
I’m still her cub.

My Momma Bear,
Now describes me.

Our eyes, we both see deeply with them.

My mommy,
I am to mine.

My Lala and JJ,
Are to me what I am to she.

I LOVE YOU, MOMMY!

by Ruth, aka Momma Frizzle

I made a Mother’s Day gift 24 years ago that I still haven’t given to my mom. It is a pretty little book with handwritten poems.

I’ve forgotten now why I didn’t give it to her on Mother’s Day 1988. Maybe I planned to add more poems. Maybe I was waiting for the perfect moment.

But a couple weeks later I graduated from high school, then went away to college, and within a couple years was married. I took the little book of mommy poems with me. It lived in my dorm rooms, in my first married apartment, in our first house, in the bedroom where I nursed my first child and my last ones too. It still sits on my bookcase.

Over the years, I’ve meant to give the book to Mom. To finally let her read what I wrote just as I was leaving the nest. To reminisce. To laugh and maybe cry together. But I never have. Of course I’ve told her thousands of times how much I love her and what she means to me. Given hundreds of other gifts and cards. But never this one.

I’m not sure why not. Maybe this little book, which has been with me now for over half my life, contains more than sweet Mother’s Day sentiments. Maybe it holds the essence of who I was as a sentimental 17-year-old girl about to leave her beloved family for the wide world. Innocence and youth written in neat loopy script.

Now that I think about it, I find I can’t bear to give this little book away. My mother will understand. She isn’t the sentimental type. She loves her children as we are now, not for who we used to be. She would have loved the gift when I made it, but now it’s too long ago. Of a different era. She is very much of the moment. I am similar to her in this respect, but also enough like my Southern father to cast longing looks backwards. And I’m still sentimental.

So 24 years after I wrote it, here is my Mother’s Day wish:

Dearest Mother,

Both dear and precious are the expressions of the heart which are so evident in people. You have poured out the time, the love, the tears, the joy that make it obvious that we are the expressions of your heart!

I am eternally grateful and blessed to have you! You teach me so much, you show me a wonderful zest for life and peace for living.

Thank you for being my stronghold and for making our home a calm refuge from outside turmoil. You are indeed a great woman of worth. May God grant me the spirit he has given you!

Affectionately yours,
Ruth Marie Boswell