Hang me out to dry, I don't care

I never thought I would say this: The weather has been perfect the past couple of days.

Normally I wouldn't say that breezy, low 70s is my ideal summer day. I usually root for steamy hot temperatures to help me erase the memory of our bitter Michigan winters. But that was before I started hanging laundry. It is the perfect weather for hanging laundry out to dry.

I came to hanging laundry kind of begrudgingly. My husband mentioned it a couple of times awhile back, but my eye rolling kind of quieted the idea. You see, my in-laws have hung their laundry for years, so my husband grew up with crusty towels and pants that can stand on their own.

But it wasn't the fear of scratchy clothes that was holding me back.

I just didn't like the look of a laundry line in my backyard. I envisioned the old rusty posts of years past. Yuck. Plus, we don't have a huge yard, and I didn't want to waste good kid-playing space with my laundry line.

I also worried about what the neighbors might say. We live in a suburban neighborhood, and hanging all my clothes for prying eyes to see just didn't seem sensible. (Check this clip from the Colbert Report for a laugh about a community's fight over a laundry line.)

But since our kids have come into the picture, I have done a lot of crazy things. In an effort to teach them about being careful stewards of our Earth, I guess I have learned a few things, too.

So, on a trip to Menards looking for something entirely different, I stumbled upon laundry lines and found a sleek, retractable kind. Inconspicuous? I liked it! I brought it home, my husband installed it and, ever since, I've been wondering what took me so long.

Sure it's rewarding to know that in some small way I am helping the Earth. And it's good to know I am helping my family financially. (Find out how much hanging laundry really can help.)

But here's a little secret: I like hanging the laundry.

Yes, I really do. I know it sounds odd — friends have told me it is — but it's quiet when you're hanging laundry. No one bothers you during laundry time. They don't want to get caught helping. I've even gotten over the fear of hanging my unmentionables. I try to hang them on the lines between large T-shirts. Hidden and discreet. That's the way I like to hang my laundry.

Still, there's something soothing about standing out on a breezy, sunny, summer day, the trees rustling. You can get lost in thought. Or have no thoughts at all.

Then I open the back door to the sounds of fighting kids, the phone ringing or a barking dog. My moment is over.

Luckily, there's always another load of laundry.

Our little firecracker

The Fourth of July always has ranked high on my holiday list. It's right up there with Christmas as one of my favorites. As a kid, we spent the Fourth with my grandma and grandpa on Crystal Lake in beautiful, Beulah, Mich. When we were really little, all the uncles, aunts and cousins would come up, too. And we'd cram into the little cottage, even sleeping in the attic to make room for all.

But nine years ago, Independence Day took on a new meaning for our family.

Now, we also call it Carter's Independence Day.

On June 3, 2001, when our boy pushed his way into this world, he came early. He wasn't due until Aug. 11.

At the time, we lived in Muskegon. I woke up in the middle of the night with contractions and stumbled into the emergency room at Hackley Hospital, but I wouldn't stay long. I wasn't new at this. I was in the hospital the week before with similar symptoms, and I understood the gravity of my situation.

The doctor at Hackley attempted to stop my labor with drugs, but it did not work as hoped. So I traveled by ambulance to Grand Rapids and was admitted to Spectrum Butterworth. The hope was that they would stop my labor and I would stay in the hospital for several weeks until it was safe for our baby to be delivered.

Carter had other ideas. He was born at 11:39 p.m. at 3 pounds, 12 ounces.

He spent the next 31 days in the hospital — eight of those in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit hooked to different beeping machines. At one point, he needed an IV put into his forehead. He had blown out IV lines in both feet and arms with all his motion.

We were lucky. His health was good. But he needed to grow before we could take him home.

While he was in the hospital, Todd and I lived at the Ronald McDonald House in Grand Rapids so we could be close to Carter. I spent all day, every day at the hospital with him. My husband went in the morning to hold him before work and then as soon as he got out. We were at the hospital every night until 10 p.m.

In his first weeks, he lived in the incubator. We held him some, but he was fighting jaundice and needed to stay under the lights. We read to him, talked to him, changed his diapers, fed him. But mostly, we waited to take him home.

Finally, he was big enough. He could hold his body temperature and feed from a bottle. At 5 pounds exactly, he was ready to go home.

It was July 4, 2001.

It seemed fitting he would be released on Independence Day.

Oh yes, Independence Day fits him well. He showed us on the day he was born, he was doing things his way. It's a creed he still lives by today.

Seeing him now, you would not know Carter entered the world so petite. Our kid is one of the tallest in his class and one of the busiest, too. And befitting someone set loose on Independence Day, he's got a heart in which I think our forefathers would be proud. He loves the land and cares about our Earth. He goes on self-organized litter pickups, worries about pollution and cares deeply about all our world's animals.

Since Carter entered the world, not a day goes by we don't have fireworks in our home. Sometimes they are the kind that make you want to cover your ears and duck. But most of the time, they are the kind that make you "ooh" and "ahh." The kind that make you give thanks you are there for the show.

The Perfect Waffle

Waffles were taboo when I was growing up. We owned a really old waffle maker, one my parents likely got as a wedding gift. Dad was a breakfast guy. On the weekends, we could rest assured we would have omelets or pancakes, poached eggs or scrambled, and sausage patties or bacon cooked to perfection.

Once in a while, I had a hankering for waffles. Sadly, waffles were off the table. They were just not discussed. Dad and that waffle maker didn't get along. But I was always one to push the envelope, so one day I got up the courage to ask Dad to make waffles. Being a good sport and maybe a glutton for punishment, he agreed. He just likes to make people happy. And he likes to make breakfast.

But as soon as the words escaped my lips and Dad said, "yes," Mom voiced her concern. "Waffles?" she exclaimed. "No, not waffles. It will just ruin everyone's day!" Dad assured her it would be fine. He'd oil up the iron good this time. The waffles would be great.

Mom was right to be wary, though. Things went bad quickly. The first waffle was ready, but it stuck to the iron. It hit the trash. The second one surely would be better. The iron just needed to warm up. A little more oil. It was all good.

Number two is ready. We all sit anxiously. The iron opens. The waffle sticks. Forget the waffle, this time the whole waffle maker hits the trash. That was the end of waffles at our house for a long time.

Now, along comes that newfangled nonstick surface, and my husband and I get our own waffle maker for a wedding gift. And four years later, along comes Carter, our firstborn. He grows to be a power breakfast eater. The kid can put away adult-sized portions, times two. Lately, he has developed an interest in cooking breakfast. With some supervision, he's quite the cook. He even makes waffles.

Twenty-five years after the waffle fiasco of my childhood, my 9-year-old son has done it! He's brought waffles back to their rightful place at the breakfast table. And he's pretty pleased with his efforts, too. A few months ago, he made waffles for the first time for our family and, in his cooking glory, he gazed at the stack of waffles and shared his thoughts on what waffles can do for the world.

"People don't have to be perfect," he said. "But waffles can be."

The insight of a child.

Carter's waffles were perfect. Because he made them.

The boat is afloat with a flood of emotions

Today my dad pulled the old Evinrude motor out for the first time this summer and plunked it on the back of the little Sea Nymph fishing boat. Both, I know well. I grew up with that fishing boat and motor. And I spent countless hours of my childhood in the front of that boat, with one arm dangling just skimming the water, thinking about everything and nothing.

Now, it's a favorite spot of my two children, Carter and Tatum. So, today, when my dad asked for volunteers to hop in for a ride, they both scored seats. My dad turned to me standing on the dock and asked if I wanted to go, too. At the time, I wasn't feeling sentimental. Instead, I dreamed of the quiet time I was about to enjoy while they motored around the lake. Just me and my book ... ahhh. I'd take a pass on the ride, I said.

But before I turned to settle into the chair, I was caught off guard by something that pulled me back to my childhood. I watched them as my dad rowed the boat away from the dock. He turned toward the motor and tugged the pull-rope. Nothing. He tried again. A couple of grumbles from the motor. He pulled a third time, and the roar of the outboard motor filled the air. And with that familiar sound, my eyes filled and almost spilled over. I don't know what came over me. I looked at my two children, and either one of them could have been me all those years ago. My son, parked in my favorite spot right up front. And my daughter, looking at the water anticipating the thrill of the ride. It truly took my breath away.

I stood there taking in the moment waving to them. As quickly as I was pulled back in time, I was pushed right back to reality. "Mom!" Carter called. "Why do you have that weird look on your face?" That's my boy.

"You are all so cute," I shouted back.

It was true, and it was more than that, too. In that instant, I was filled with so many childhood memories crowding my brain. I loved that boat, its ancient motor and all the adventures we went on with it. I loved that guy driving the boat around the lake — now with my two crazy kids aboard. But most of all, I was filled with the gratitude that my children know that same love.