by Sara Barry | Sep 2, 2014 | baking, milestones, parenting, traditions
Seven years ago, I sat on my front porch and watched as my neighbor got on the school bus for the first time. Each September since, I’ve been out at the bus stop on the first day of school, even though my kids haven’t ridden it yet. Somewhere along the line, we added coffee, sausage, and muffins to the morning.
Today, that little girl I watched seven years ago climb tentatively on the bus leaves early for the regional school.
Today my own little-big girl will climb on the bus and leave for her first day of kindergarten.
She’s got her first day of school outfit. Her backpack is packed. And I’ve made the muffins.
First Day of School Muffins
(good for breakfast or after-school snack)
½ cup sugar
½ cup brown sugar
½ cup butter, softened or melted
2 eggs
1 + cup mashed overripe banana
2 cups flour (white or whole wheat)
1 tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
1 cup chocolate chips
- Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
- Cream butter, sugar, and eggs until fluffy.
- Add bananas and mix well to combine.
- Add flour, baking soda, and salt and stir until just mixed in. Gently stir in chocolate chips. (You can skip the chocolate chips if you want, but they are most definitely not optional at my house.)
- Spoon into greased muffin tins and bake 20 minutes or until golden. (Also works well in a square cake pan or loaf pan, but a loaf will bake longer).
What are your first day of school traditions?
by Sara Barry | Aug 27, 2014 | parenting, summer, writing
Brian looked up, our little red head in his lap. My suddenly taller, more long-legged girl at the end of the bench. I was across the picnic table in the sudden quiet after his stove was turned off. It was one of those moments where everything froze for a second, and I was aware of the fullness of what is and what was.
We were camping, our second camping trip with the girls. Our first one with the dog. We were camping on hardpack dirt with a picnic table to sit at, our own personal bear box, and the car just feet away. It is the kind of camping Brian used to scoff at. It’s the kind of camping we can manage right now.
My children look feral after only two days here—hair unbrushed, faces smeared with dirt and chocolate, clothes rumpled and dirty. They look happy too, despite the squabbles over colored pencils while we cooked breakfast. They’ve made fairy houses and walked across fallen logs. They’ve hiked dirt roads and well worn trails with walking sticks they found trailside. The little one adopted the nickname Mountain Sally. Whatever it takes to get through a hike.
Brian and I used to hike a lot more. Our first date was lunch and a hike. He proposed on a backpacking trip, up in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. He was a backpacker long before I knew him, completing the AT a decade before we got married. On our first trip, I had a borrowed pack and boots, nothing fit quite right. By the second trip, I was breaking in my own boots and my own packs, learning its pockets and straps, fitting it to me.
We hiked at different paces. He’d outstrip me on the uphills. Downhills too, but give me flat ground—especially heading out of the woods toward a good meal, and I’d win hands down. I miss those days of long walks, hard work, hiking our own hike, catching up with each other throughout the day and then at night when we settled in to make camp. The stove would fill the evening with its loud static and the smell of gas at first. Then we’d sit in quiet, mugs of cocoa warming us, dinner right out of the pan. We’d start the morning the same way, oatmeal tasting slightly of chili or whatever we’d eaten the night before.
Brian had his own systems when he backpacked solo or with different friends. We had to figure out how to work together—who carried what, dividing up camp chores—but we got into a rhythm.
We’re still finding a rhythm with this car camping thing. Our neighbors had bacon sizzling. The people we met at the beach had kebabs with steak and chicken and bacon. We had oatmeal, hotdogs. The car is a tangle of overflowing bags. I packed too many clothes.
But we had s’mores. We visited the nature center, observed small yellow and red newts navigating the roots and leaves underfoot. We sat on a big rock on the edge of a field and watched bats swooping in the gathering dusk.
We are getting our kids used to the woods, to sleeping in a tent, to walking on rough terrain. Someday, we’ll go deeper into the woods, away from where our car can carry all our stuff. I think of it as a return to what we used to do, but really, I know, it will be different with four of us. We’ll need to learn new systems, figure out how to adapt to our different paces.
I love being in the woods and seeing my kids loving it too.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
Start with a moment that has stuck with you. Tap into your senses as you describe it. Do you know why it has stuck with you? Keep writing.
Share It:
Share your writing in the comments, add a link to your blog, or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com.
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by Sara Barry | Aug 20, 2014 | parenting, summer, writing
It is not a great photo. I snapped it a few seconds too late, I see the tops of heads, red hair and blond flowing toward the lush, green grass as they bend at the waist. It’s not a great picture, but I know that they are mid-bow.
“We’re doing a show! Come watch! Are you coming? The show’s starting.”
This summer was the summer of shows. There have been music shows and dancing shows, hula hoop shows and acrobatic shows (like the one they’ve just wrapped up in the picture that involved the crocodile see saw). The dancing shows usually have costumes: the purple and teal fairy costume or the polka dot tulle dress or the shell pink ballerina skirt leotard from the dress up box. The music shows feature instruments—always a drum—and self-written songs. I’ve watched them march and arabesque, twirl and leap, inside and out, morning or night.
They announce each other—“And now the most amazing dancer ever”—in deep, dramatic stage voices, and tell each other what to do in not so quiet stage whispers, “Now you come in. Now. Dance!”
And before I’m invited to watch the show, I hear the rehearsals, which sometimes turn into squabbles as they each fight for their own vision.
I remember watching our neighbors do shows just a couple of years ago. They’d want my girls to be in the them, and sometimes my girls were up for it. Even when they were, at one or two or three didn’t take direction so well. They crawled off stage or wouldn’t say lines or wanted to play instead. Now, this summer, my girls are directing. This summer, they’re the stars.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
Choose a picture and tell your story. Draw from your memory or your imagination.
Share It:
Share your writing in the comments, add a link to your blog, or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com.
Get more ideas for using your photos for writing—Summer Stories in 5 Minutes.
by Sara Barry | Jul 23, 2014 | grief, parenting, summer, writing
I used Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day,” as inspiration today. The last lines alone would make a good starting point:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
But, my mind caught on some of her other words, and I wrote this:
Do I know how to pay attention any more? Yesterday, I stopped, hands poised over keyboard, falling into relax, when a whirring caught my eye. A humming bird hovered and darted among my neighbors red bee balm. I could have glanced up, kept writing, kept filling the page, checking things off my list. But I sat. I watched. It’s good to look up sometimes, or down at the ants trundling through the grass, carrying crumb nearly bigger than they are. One of the activities K added to our list of things to do when bored was watch birds up in the sky. I should sit and do this with her sometimes. I should slow down on our walks, really notice, but so often I am trying to get somewhere or get some exercise or I need to be back by a certain time. What I wanted most from this summer was the laziness, the time to fall down in the grass, to pay attention.
“Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?” We are in a season of life and growth. I went out this morning, barefoot, to check on the garden. My feet swept through the dewy grass, so wet I could have had a long drink. I need to pull the peas. For even in this time of growing, they are done. The cosmos are almost taller than me and starting to flower. The sunflowers tower over me. The zinnias are just starting to reveal their brilliant pinks and oranges. Ah, the chard I thought wasn’t going to grow is taking off. I need to pick turnips again. I flick a few tiny seedlike eggs off the bottom of a squash leaf (squash bugs, something that doesn’t die too soon). Zucchini to pick later perhaps. Is the lettuce bin full in the fridge or should I pick some more? It too will soon be done. I should plant more.
We plant seeds knowing plants will eventually die, some after just one season. Even things we expect to live long don’t always. A neighbor gave us a peach tree for a wedding gift. Three years later as we were floundering together through grief, struggling each day to communicate with each other, tongues and brains numbed with sadness, both lost in our own dark worlds, the tree began to fail. The leaves yellowed and began to fall in the summer. I was too tired for a while to figure out what was wrong with it. Every day, I looked at our wedding tree and told myself it was not symbolic. I finally found the hole by the base of the tree where something had burrowed in, turning the trunk to mush. We scraped it out and hoped. The tree died. Six years later, we are still here. It was not symbolic. It was a just tree, dying too soon. That little boy of mine did that too.
His death, so many people would tell you, was supposed to help get my priorities straight, help me figure out just what to do with my wild, precious life, but I’m stuck like most of us in the mundane most days—folding laundry, making lunch, paying bills, getting to swimming lessons on time. I try to stop and notice, to really pay attention to the vivid faces of the zinnias in my garden and the fresh green smell of the cilantro I accidentally pull with the weeds. I try to really focus on K’s earnest face as she tells me about the fairies who came to her fairy house. I brush a wisp of blond hair away from her eyes, feel the excitement trembling through her. The moss is soft and damp underneath me as we sit in the green shade. K squats low, showing me how to make the house more inviting, more private so fairies will like them. Part of me zooms in on her small fingers poking, pointing, but part of me is poised to do, not the important things of this life, but the weeding and the work that keeps telling me it needs to get done, calling louder than the fairies or the birds or the rest of this summer day.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
Read Oliver’s poem or choose another poem to inspire you. Then start writing. Maybe you’ll mirror the subject or the theme of the poem, or maybe a particular word or phrase will evoke a memor or spark an idea. Take 15 minutes or so and just keep writing see where the poem takes you.
Share It:
Share your writing in the comments or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com. I’d love to hear what you came up with.
Want another quick writing activity? Download Summer Stories in Five Minutes.
by Sara Barry | Jul 21, 2014 | kids in the kitchen, parenting, summer, what's for dinner
“I’m bored.”
My five-year-old is usually pretty good at entertaining herself, but today, as happens more and more in the afternoon, she started pouting, “I’m bored.” I threw out ideas, all of which led her to wail and writhe on the floor, saying, “I don’t know what to do. I’m bored.”
I bit back a sarcastic comment about all her toys. I didn’t order to clean the play room. I abandoned temporarily my own plan to get back out in the garden. “We’re going to do a project,” I told her.
“What’s the project?” she asked as I laid out a handful of colored pens and a stack of old business cards on the porch table.
“We’re going to write down our ideas of things to do when we are bored.” I half expected her to start pouting again, but she jumped right in, “If you’re bored, you can . . . ”
- Do art
- Ride your bike
- Play with your dog
- Play with your dolls
- Watch birds in the sky
- Set up the box fort
- Weed the garden
- Pick food from the garden
- Play a board game or card game
- Look at books
- Do a word search or maze
- Dust
- Swing on the swing
- Blow bubbles
- Wash the outside toys
- Play with chalk
- Hula hoop
- Give wagon rides
- Go on a scavenger hunt
- Make a fairy house
- Catch bugs
- Play with Play Doh
- Look for stuff for fairy houses
When she tired of listing ideas, she seized upon the last one we came up with—look for stuff for fairy houses—grabbed a basket, and went collecting. I weeded the garden and occasionally handed her things to add to her pile. I’m not sure how well our boredom busters will work when the next round of “I’m bored” starts, but making our set of idea cards broke the cycle today.
Inspired perhaps by her fairy house search, she asked to have fairy soup for supper. She described it me, made it, and ate it. I don’t know why it’s called fairy soup, but here it is.
K’s Fairy Soup
Seasoned black beans
“messy” cheese (shredded Mexican blend)
salsa
tortilla chips
- Spoon black beans into a bowl. Take only as much as you will eat.
- Add two child’s handsfuls of shredded cheese. Heat to warm the beans and melt the cheese.
- Stir in a spoonful of salsa.
- Crumble a few chips over the mixture, again taking only what you know you will eat.
- Serve with additional chips for dipping.
How do you deal with
“I’m bored?”
by Sara Barry | May 20, 2014 | canning, garden, parenting, writing
“So what do you do?” was a common question last weekend at my college reunion.
I answered, like most of us do, by describing my job:
I’m a freelance writer and editor. I’ve been working on textbooks and technical materials for years, but recently I’ve been writing more about parenting and gardening and food. I’m also a writing coach.
I could have answered like this too:
I’m pulling together a lot of things that I love and starting a blog about writi
ng and gardening and food. I’m planning online and in-person writing retreats.
I spend my spring, summer, and fall days in the garden as much as possible—planting, weeding, picking, dreaming.
I stand in steamy kitchens, filling jar after jar with jam or pickles or salsa or relish. I start with strawberries and work my way right through apples. I smile every time a hot jar seals with a ping and every time I open one to spoon some apple sauce or canned peaches out for my kids.
I scramble to figure out what’s for dinner most nights, trying to find some intersection between the food on hand, the time available, what my kids will eat, and what I want. I dream about leisurely meals with friends, catching up over a bottle of wine while
we chop and stir.
I help with fairy houses and set up forts. I grumble over load after load of laundry. I read stories over and over and over again. I hold the two-wheeler so my big girl can start pedaling and find blankie for my little girl. I wake up too early to “Mama, is it snuggle time?” and go to bed too late so I can read a little, write a little, relax a little (play Scrabble on Facebook a little).
What do I do? I write and help others tell their stories. I garden and cook and can. I love and take care of my kids (and if I’m good, myself too).
So what do you do?
