There is a condition of life that is particularly poignant following marriage and childbirth. I call it OOM, also known as "out of money." This condition does not occur in varying degrees. It is never mild or moderate. It is the bottom of the pit. It is always severe. I was reminded of this as a result of my daughter-in-law's most recent blog on the topic.
I recall experiencing a similar episode of OOM when my three children were small. Spring had arrived and Easter was the following day, but the symptoms of OOM had settled in several days earlier. The mortgage on the farm was paid, the pantry was sufficiently stocked. BUT . . . there would be no chocolate bunnies, no cute coloring books, no bottles of bubbles, yo-yo's or jacks, no sugar-coated Peeps, not even a jelly bean. Pitiful. Just pitiful. I even managed to delude myself into thinking that if no one talked about Easter, maybe it would just pass by, and the kids would never know what they'd missed.
Easter morning came that year, trumpeting a sunny sky and warm air. Yet, that dull ache that accompanies OOM prevailed. There had to be a way to take the sting out of the day, but I was at a loss for a solution, until I decided it was time to focus on the good stuff.
We lived on fifty acres in the mountains. In fact, we had our own little mountain. Surely an adventure awaited somewhere up there. With that thought in mind, the kid's Dad packed a hatchet (for what, I could not imagine), I took a basket full of PB&J sandwiches and Kool Aid, somebody dragged along an old quilt, and we set out for the top of the hill.
The farther up the hill we hiked, the more I could feel layers of care peeling away. Paths worn into the hillside by white-tailed deer led us to a small flat just below the peak. Sunlight trickled through the canopy of tall maple and oak trees as they swayed in the breeze. The scent of wood and leaves sweetened the air. It was the perfect spot for a picnic. We spread out the quilt, munched on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and talked and giggled about nothing in particular.
Afterward, the kids' Dad began to meander around with that hatchet, sort of trimming the underbrush, and all three of the children trailed around behind him. Somebody noticed a thick vine stretched from the top of a tree and fastened to the earth. A few whacks of the hatchet freed the vine at the bottom, and suddenly all three of the kids were hanging on it, squealing with glee and swooping out over an embankment (a parent stationed above and below). For hours -- until they couldn't hang on any longer -- they took turns swinging like trapeze artists among the trees.
The sun settled to the top of the next ridge as we walked back to the house. I remember smiling, satisfied that there would be no grief that day for the absence of jelly beans.
Even now, the memory of that afternoon with my children brings me great comfort. And, when the bank account is drained and OOM looms near, it occurs to me there is another meaning for this intimidating acronym.
Once, On a Mountain . . . .
I recall experiencing a similar episode of OOM when my three children were small. Spring had arrived and Easter was the following day, but the symptoms of OOM had settled in several days earlier. The mortgage on the farm was paid, the pantry was sufficiently stocked. BUT . . . there would be no chocolate bunnies, no cute coloring books, no bottles of bubbles, yo-yo's or jacks, no sugar-coated Peeps, not even a jelly bean. Pitiful. Just pitiful. I even managed to delude myself into thinking that if no one talked about Easter, maybe it would just pass by, and the kids would never know what they'd missed.
Easter morning came that year, trumpeting a sunny sky and warm air. Yet, that dull ache that accompanies OOM prevailed. There had to be a way to take the sting out of the day, but I was at a loss for a solution, until I decided it was time to focus on the good stuff.
We lived on fifty acres in the mountains. In fact, we had our own little mountain. Surely an adventure awaited somewhere up there. With that thought in mind, the kid's Dad packed a hatchet (for what, I could not imagine), I took a basket full of PB&J sandwiches and Kool Aid, somebody dragged along an old quilt, and we set out for the top of the hill.
The farther up the hill we hiked, the more I could feel layers of care peeling away. Paths worn into the hillside by white-tailed deer led us to a small flat just below the peak. Sunlight trickled through the canopy of tall maple and oak trees as they swayed in the breeze. The scent of wood and leaves sweetened the air. It was the perfect spot for a picnic. We spread out the quilt, munched on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and talked and giggled about nothing in particular.
Afterward, the kids' Dad began to meander around with that hatchet, sort of trimming the underbrush, and all three of the children trailed around behind him. Somebody noticed a thick vine stretched from the top of a tree and fastened to the earth. A few whacks of the hatchet freed the vine at the bottom, and suddenly all three of the kids were hanging on it, squealing with glee and swooping out over an embankment (a parent stationed above and below). For hours -- until they couldn't hang on any longer -- they took turns swinging like trapeze artists among the trees.
The sun settled to the top of the next ridge as we walked back to the house. I remember smiling, satisfied that there would be no grief that day for the absence of jelly beans.
Even now, the memory of that afternoon with my children brings me great comfort. And, when the bank account is drained and OOM looms near, it occurs to me there is another meaning for this intimidating acronym.
Once, On a Mountain . . . .
4 comments:
Just so you know I don't remember the day being Easter. But, I remember that day very well, I to this day could walk to that very spot, where the vine once hang. I went back to swing on that vine, many of the times that I would disappear onto the hill. There was a disappointment a year or so before we moved as the vine had died and fell from the tree on that first tug test to see if it was strong enough to swing on. I hope you smile when I say, that will be one of the stories that I will tell your Grandchildren about when they ask what we did on a farm growing up. Then again, you just told them!
It was a great day, wasn't it? On that day, on countless days after, you bring smiles into my life. I'd love to hear you tell the story the next time we visit.
Love ya'!
Ok.. I am adding you to my daily blog list! I love this.
I am a 35 year old single mom of six children, my oldest being 16 years old, and my youngest is 7 months.
I find OOM everyday, and still, find the bliss with them. Sometimes it's an afternoon with homemade ice pops and playing board games. Or running in the rain and racing twigs in the gutters. It's so nice to read someone who's done it all before, someone I can see on the screen and know that it's really as good as I think it will be!!
Thank you for sharing such a wonderful story! I'll be back over and over!
Heck, I've been OOM since birth! You are right though, I don't remember anything about presents or Easter baskets growing up. But I do remember playing cards with my family or making popcorn balls or building forts in the back yard.
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