Mom sick day:
Get up early to feed the baby while trying not to breathe/cough on him. Hear toddler wake up and talk to himself. Get his breakfast ready. Put baby down for nap. Make self tea. Get distracted by toddler doing something he shouldn't be. Find tea two hours later, cold. In the meantime, the baby needs a change of clothes due to a leaky diaper/spit up/both. Play with trains. Make lunch for toddler. Eat something, probably bread or cold pizza. Finally, both kids are "napping" at the same time, mom can sit. Wait, the baby's crying...time to feed him again. Toddler is wide awake when he should be sleeping, but at least he's staying in his bed. Make dinner for everyone, and hope you get to eat it while it's at least lukewarm. Fall into bed and thank God that the baby has been sleeping until at least 6am for a few weeks.
Dad sick day:
Asks for decongestant while still in bed at 8am. Gets up and moves to couch. Takes a nice, hot shower a few hours later. Sits on couch again. Goes to bed.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
goals
As the mom of a newborn and a toddler, one of the milestones I was most looking forward to was that of Sleeping Through the Night. Noah has been a pretty good sleeper all along, which has saved my sanity, but even five hours in a row just wasn't cutting it anymore. We would sleep those five hours, then Noah would decide that eating every two hours was a much better plan. Suddenly, however, my child slept seven hours straight. And then went back to five. (I was not a fan.) I would attempt to reenact everything I did on the Night of Seven Hours of Sleep, and it would work. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn't, but all I know is that the last four days I have slept from 9:30 until about 6. So I will not be changing anything anytime soon. (Except that I'm working on potty training said toddler, so I'm sure I'll have exactly 2.5 weeks of good sleep, and then I'll be woken up again. Sigh.)
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
And Some People Say There's No Difference...
between boys and girls.
We were at Monkey Joe's. Monkey Joe's, the land of giant inflatables where children run free. They climb and jump and slide surrounded by primary colors and flashing lights and the whir of the air-blowing machines. It's heaven for Davis, a giant indoor playland. He could spend the whole day there, red-faced, sweaty, and happy, and I wish we could, because it costs an arm and a leg to get into that place. We go once or twice a year for a special treat.
Zoe, though, is getting whiny. It's a bit much for her. She is clinging to me. "Mommy," she intones, "when are we going to do something special?"
I look at her. "Zoe, we're at Monkey Joe's."
"No," she explains, "something special. Like a craft."
We were at Monkey Joe's. Monkey Joe's, the land of giant inflatables where children run free. They climb and jump and slide surrounded by primary colors and flashing lights and the whir of the air-blowing machines. It's heaven for Davis, a giant indoor playland. He could spend the whole day there, red-faced, sweaty, and happy, and I wish we could, because it costs an arm and a leg to get into that place. We go once or twice a year for a special treat.
Zoe, though, is getting whiny. It's a bit much for her. She is clinging to me. "Mommy," she intones, "when are we going to do something special?"
I look at her. "Zoe, we're at Monkey Joe's."
"No," she explains, "something special. Like a craft."
talent
Daniele shared something deep and meaningful and beautiful to prepare our hearts for Christmas.
I'm preparing your eardrums. And yes, it's only December 2nd and I've already had to sing this song about 2394802983059 times. Oh well, 'tis the season.
Merry Christmas!
I'm preparing your eardrums. And yes, it's only December 2nd and I've already had to sing this song about 2394802983059 times. Oh well, 'tis the season.
Merry Christmas!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
In Anticipation
(The following is a reflection I wrote for my church's advent devotional.)
“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be” (Psalm 139-13:16)..JPG)
“Listen to me, O house of Jacob, all you who remain of the house of Israel, you whom I have upheld since you were conceived, and have carried since your birth. Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you” (Isaiah 46: 3-4).
I had never thought all that much about Mary. That is, until I was pregnant at Christmastime.
I was twenty-seven years old, not a teenager as Mary no doubt was. I was already a mother of a two-year-old, not a young, virgin, first-time-mom like Mary. I was married, carrying my husband’s child, one we’d planned and hoped for. I had a safe, warm, comfortable home, and had no long travels planned in that all-important last month until I was due. In so many ways unlike Mary.
But still.
I distinctly remember the moment when I thought I might—just might—have understood one bit of what Mary was experiencing. I was in the car, feeling terrible and uncomfortable and miserable at 8 ½ months pregnant, and my two-year-old was whining in the backseat. Whining because he was feeling neglected by Mommy, who had no energy or time or space for him right then. I was hungry and tired and questioning every life choice I’d ever made. And so I stuck a CD in the player, mostly in hopes of quieting the two-year-old whine. Amy Grant.
Lay down your burdens; I will carry you, I will carry you, my child.
Even in the misery of the moment, the parallel was not lost on me. As I was comforting my two-year-old, I was promising I’d carry him, both physically (no doubt, as soon as we got out of the car) and emotionally, as he learned what it would mean to have a new sister. To my unborn baby, whose feet were digging into my ribs and whose gymnastics stealing my sleep at night, I was promising I’d carry her (and I had no idea through how much). And yet I so desperately needed to be carried myself.
I give vision to the blind, I can raise the dead. I've seen the darker side of Hell, and I returned. And I see these sleepless nights, and I count every tear you cry. I know some lessons hurt to learn.
As He saw the tears that rolled down my face in that car that day (and I hoped no one else did), I thought I could imagine Mary on that donkey. Fearful. Confused. Uncertain. Uncomfortable (on a donkey!). Lonely.
I can walk on water and calm a restless sea; I've done a thousand things you've never done. And I'm weary watching while you struggle on your own. Call my name, I'll come.
What did Mary understand of what the future held for her and for her son? Her Son. Certainly less than (I thought) I understood of my unborn daughter’s future. What did she understand of God’s promise to her in Isaiah 46:4? “Even to your old age and gray hairs, I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”
Call my name; I'll come.
He came to Mary. Even as she carried him—in her womb and later in her arms—He carried her. I imagine the compassion He must have felt for his beloved mother as the time of His death approached: “When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home” (John 19:26-27). He made sure His mother was cared for in His physical absence, in the grief she was certainly to feel in the death of her son. She carried Him, and He carried her. And he carries me, and us.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11: 28-29).
“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be” (Psalm 139-13:16).
.JPG)
“Listen to me, O house of Jacob, all you who remain of the house of Israel, you whom I have upheld since you were conceived, and have carried since your birth. Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you” (Isaiah 46: 3-4).
I had never thought all that much about Mary. That is, until I was pregnant at Christmastime.
I was twenty-seven years old, not a teenager as Mary no doubt was. I was already a mother of a two-year-old, not a young, virgin, first-time-mom like Mary. I was married, carrying my husband’s child, one we’d planned and hoped for. I had a safe, warm, comfortable home, and had no long travels planned in that all-important last month until I was due. In so many ways unlike Mary.
But still.
I distinctly remember the moment when I thought I might—just might—have understood one bit of what Mary was experiencing. I was in the car, feeling terrible and uncomfortable and miserable at 8 ½ months pregnant, and my two-year-old was whining in the backseat. Whining because he was feeling neglected by Mommy, who had no energy or time or space for him right then. I was hungry and tired and questioning every life choice I’d ever made. And so I stuck a CD in the player, mostly in hopes of quieting the two-year-old whine. Amy Grant.
Lay down your burdens; I will carry you, I will carry you, my child.
Even in the misery of the moment, the parallel was not lost on me. As I was comforting my two-year-old, I was promising I’d carry him, both physically (no doubt, as soon as we got out of the car) and emotionally, as he learned what it would mean to have a new sister. To my unborn baby, whose feet were digging into my ribs and whose gymnastics stealing my sleep at night, I was promising I’d carry her (and I had no idea through how much). And yet I so desperately needed to be carried myself.
I give vision to the blind, I can raise the dead. I've seen the darker side of Hell, and I returned. And I see these sleepless nights, and I count every tear you cry. I know some lessons hurt to learn.
As He saw the tears that rolled down my face in that car that day (and I hoped no one else did), I thought I could imagine Mary on that donkey. Fearful. Confused. Uncertain. Uncomfortable (on a donkey!). Lonely.
I can walk on water and calm a restless sea; I've done a thousand things you've never done. And I'm weary watching while you struggle on your own. Call my name, I'll come.
What did Mary understand of what the future held for her and for her son? Her Son. Certainly less than (I thought) I understood of my unborn daughter’s future. What did she understand of God’s promise to her in Isaiah 46:4? “Even to your old age and gray hairs, I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”
Call my name; I'll come.
He came to Mary. Even as she carried him—in her womb and later in her arms—He carried her. I imagine the compassion He must have felt for his beloved mother as the time of His death approached: “When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home” (John 19:26-27). He made sure His mother was cared for in His physical absence, in the grief she was certainly to feel in the death of her son. She carried Him, and He carried her. And he carries me, and us.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11: 28-29).
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Agreeing to Agree
Our dearest couple-friends-who-are-so-much-more-than-just-friends were in town this weekend. As usual, we four ended up in an intense conversation about what we wives need from our husbands. Quotable quote from the other husband: "You've got to admit, we're fathers, not mothers." Indeed.
And then, the following unedited subject line of a spam message appeared in my inbox that very night, reflecting the infinite wisdom of Dumlao Reynolds: "one wife is nott enough."
Nor sometimes one mother, I think we four discuss-ers have come to agree. And at least we agree about something.
Note: If you don't know who Dumlao Reynolds is, don't feel bad. I don't either. To Dumlao, whoever you are: you're fair game if you spam me. So there.
And then, the following unedited subject line of a spam message appeared in my inbox that very night, reflecting the infinite wisdom of Dumlao Reynolds: "one wife is nott enough."
Nor sometimes one mother, I think we four discuss-ers have come to agree. And at least we agree about something.
Note: If you don't know who Dumlao Reynolds is, don't feel bad. I don't either. To Dumlao, whoever you are: you're fair game if you spam me. So there.
Monday, November 24, 2008
On His 5th Birthday
My little guy turned 5 today. Now I understand why my own mother always waxed poetic on our birthdays, why she remembered the exact times of our births and noted that time each year, why she recounted the events leading up to our births. It is an extraordinary event, bringing a life into the world, and commemorating that event involves both remembering how it all started-- and then marveling at how much has transpired since.
I'm really grateful for our Davis. He is, in my very biased mommy-opinion (and only to add to the list of the characteristics of all of our amazing kids) uncommonly sweet, sensitive, and enthusiastic. He has had some struggles in his young life, and we have seen him move through so much with great perseverance. We have consistently appreciated his kindness, his attentiveness to those around him, his eagerness to please, his delightful laugh, his capacity to love.
And so it was really a joy to sit at the dining room table tonight, our family of 5 and his good buddy, eating the birthday dinner which he had requested: hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, carrots, and fruit. We talked about our days and then Daddy asked each of us to say one thing we liked about Davis. This was Luke's report: "He has lots of smiles. He's gentle, and he's kind." Kudos to Luke for having such a kind spirit himself, for being willing to praise a friend without any return. Praise God that our little boy has such a friend. And praise God, for our sweet Davis, for whom we are so grateful on his fifth birthday.
I'm really grateful for our Davis. He is, in my very biased mommy-opinion (and only to add to the list of the characteristics of all of our amazing kids) uncommonly sweet, sensitive, and enthusiastic. He has had some struggles in his young life, and we have seen him move through so much with great perseverance. We have consistently appreciated his kindness, his attentiveness to those around him, his eagerness to please, his delightful laugh, his capacity to love.
And so it was really a joy to sit at the dining room table tonight, our family of 5 and his good buddy, eating the birthday dinner which he had requested: hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, carrots, and fruit. We talked about our days and then Daddy asked each of us to say one thing we liked about Davis. This was Luke's report: "He has lots of smiles. He's gentle, and he's kind." Kudos to Luke for having such a kind spirit himself, for being willing to praise a friend without any return. Praise God that our little boy has such a friend. And praise God, for our sweet Davis, for whom we are so grateful on his fifth birthday.
Honest to Goodness
The piece our ensemble sang in church this past Sunday had one part that I just couldn't quite get right. So I borrowed Luke's toy keyboard and banged it out as best I could over the course of the week. He listened and joined in with me as I practiced each day (and, incidentally, proved he's a much better soprano than I am).
Then Sunday came. We sang our piece and headed back to our seats, greeted by smiles and head-nods and whispered "good job"s. But Luke's enthusiastic reaction beat them all.
"Mom!" he exclaimed--thinking nothing of the hushed church-voices of everyone surrounding him--as he wrapped himself around my knees. "You finally got it right! I'm so proud of you!"
Finally, indeed.
Then Sunday came. We sang our piece and headed back to our seats, greeted by smiles and head-nods and whispered "good job"s. But Luke's enthusiastic reaction beat them all.
"Mom!" he exclaimed--thinking nothing of the hushed church-voices of everyone surrounding him--as he wrapped himself around my knees. "You finally got it right! I'm so proud of you!"
Finally, indeed.
Thankfulness
I got such a laugh as I listened to my 3 year old little girl pray her prayers of thankfulness last night. My 3 year old little girl who is prone to theatrics, dramatic pauses, extreme nonverbal facial expressions, the works. All snug in her bed, with her daddy knelling beside her, here she goes.
"God, I thank you for all the things you give us that are so fun, (dramatic pause and shrug), except sometimes they're not. I thank you for the light, except sometimes it is dark. (A concealed chuckle from my husband). God, I thank you for all the nice people in our lives, except sometimes they are mean." This went on with some nonsensical stuff until my husband could no longer contain his full out laugh and I was laughing with him. It was so sweet and so innocent and yet so right on the money. I find my own mind doing the same thing as I try (sometimes in vain) to pray my thankfulness out to our good God. I will say that I am thankful for something, only to be reminded that the thing I am thankful for is not really all that great after all. My cynical nature takes over. As I was thinking about this I felt really sad that I always have to see the negative in everything. All the good things just seem so fleeting.
So, I pray that for all of us during this season. That we can learn to be thankful. FOR ALL THINGS. For the things that are nice, and not so nice. For the things that are light and the darkness. For the people in our lives that are nice and the people that are mean.
Philippian 4:11 I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. 12I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. 13I can do everything through him who gives me strength.
"God, I thank you for all the things you give us that are so fun, (dramatic pause and shrug), except sometimes they're not. I thank you for the light, except sometimes it is dark. (A concealed chuckle from my husband). God, I thank you for all the nice people in our lives, except sometimes they are mean." This went on with some nonsensical stuff until my husband could no longer contain his full out laugh and I was laughing with him. It was so sweet and so innocent and yet so right on the money. I find my own mind doing the same thing as I try (sometimes in vain) to pray my thankfulness out to our good God. I will say that I am thankful for something, only to be reminded that the thing I am thankful for is not really all that great after all. My cynical nature takes over. As I was thinking about this I felt really sad that I always have to see the negative in everything. All the good things just seem so fleeting.
So, I pray that for all of us during this season. That we can learn to be thankful. FOR ALL THINGS. For the things that are nice, and not so nice. For the things that are light and the darkness. For the people in our lives that are nice and the people that are mean.
Philippian 4:11 I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. 12I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. 13I can do everything through him who gives me strength.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Consistency, Consistency.
She's not a great eater. She's really not.
Will has always been a great eater, and I don't know if this is because he's just like that, or because we were kind of Nazi-parents there in the early days and nigh-on fanatical about the whole cleanyourplate thing. I honestly don't remember how it developed, but he always cleans his plate-- with the rare exception of some Very Challenging sweet potatoes or butternut squash (I think it's their consistency).
Everett has come along quite nicely in this regard, though I do remember a harrowing evening during which we were trying to implement our Nazi-parenting rules on him, after which he cried unrelentingly and in Absolute Despair for so long that we had to call our pediatrician-friend because we wondered what in the world to do for him. He recovered (I think I haven't), and has gone on to be a really good eater almost all of the time.
But maybe our Nazi-parenting stamina wore out somewhere between children 2 and 3, because Emma just isn't a good eater. What's worse, I am Perfectly Dreadful about attending to this fact and even now will fail to monitor her milk intake for the first half of the meal or her Italian bread ingestion on spaghetti night and so am no help to her Whatsoever. By the time I realize what has happened, she's refilling her milk cup or taking the last bite of bread and her tummy is (surprised?) "so full" and she can't eat another bite. Which results in her not eating her dinner and my (once again) realizing that I Am Not A Very Good Mother.
*sigh*
One of our problems is that she invariably returns home from school "starving." This is a Real Hassle for me, as we don't (Ever) eat dinner as soon as we get home and I am not (Ever) ready to cook something as soon as we get home and she is a child with an Iron Will. "Mommy can I please have a snack?" No. "Mommy, I just want a little something." No. "Can I just have three crackers?" And three crackers doesn't seem like so much and I know it's inconsistent and I am Breaking All the Rules by being inconsistent but Oh Heavens I am so tired.
I've tried wising up in this regard. No Snacks At All of late. I've been firm and she has heard me and we're getting along just fine. Empty belly at the dinner table and the careful monitoring of milk intake. And this consistency is good for her. It's good for me. She learns that I mean what I say, and I remind myself (with practice) that I do, in fact, mean what I say. Not so difficult.
Tonight I cooked up something I've been wanting to make for about two weeks. We still have some sweet potatoes left from our delightful CSA, and I found a recipe in my new cookbook called "Sweet Potato and Lentil Curry." I made this tonight for dinner, along with an accompanying recipe for sauteed red cabbage, and I served it with a whole wheat nan. Yum.
I knew she was hungry. I knew we were all hungry. Yes, vegetarian. Yes, containing the (oh, so odious) sweet potatoes. Yes, delicious and Good For You. I served it with a smile.
She touched it not. She drank her milk. She ate her bread (oh, Inattentive Mother!). And she let the rest of it Grow Cold.
But I was steadfast. That meal was it. The congealing lentil curry, the cooling cabbage-- these things sat on the plate, available to her At Any Time, until she was All Tucked In. Bathed, combed, dressed, having read, having been read to, teeth brushed, lights out, Done.
And then.
Down she comes, peering at me over the stair banister: "Mommy, I'm hungry."
Of course she is. And it's her own fault. I gave her a good dinner and she turned it down. These are the repercussions; here are the consequences. You don't eat? You're hungry. That's how it works.
Still, it pulled at me-- the hungry belly rumbling behind her Little Mermaid pajamas. The blond hair, the pale face, the large blue eyes blinking, unaccumstomed to the living room light. Sweet, dinner-rejecting girl.
In the kitchen, the dishwasher hummed its busy tune: that plate is long since scraped. Dinner time was a Long Time Ago.
So I told her. Yes, I did. I stuck to my guns. I delivered the Truth: "There's nothing more until breakfast."
She went back to bed.
I managed to be Consistent.
But it's no small comfort (not small at all) that tonight she drank her milk and ate her bread. All of it.
Will has always been a great eater, and I don't know if this is because he's just like that, or because we were kind of Nazi-parents there in the early days and nigh-on fanatical about the whole cleanyourplate thing. I honestly don't remember how it developed, but he always cleans his plate-- with the rare exception of some Very Challenging sweet potatoes or butternut squash (I think it's their consistency).
Everett has come along quite nicely in this regard, though I do remember a harrowing evening during which we were trying to implement our Nazi-parenting rules on him, after which he cried unrelentingly and in Absolute Despair for so long that we had to call our pediatrician-friend because we wondered what in the world to do for him. He recovered (I think I haven't), and has gone on to be a really good eater almost all of the time.
But maybe our Nazi-parenting stamina wore out somewhere between children 2 and 3, because Emma just isn't a good eater. What's worse, I am Perfectly Dreadful about attending to this fact and even now will fail to monitor her milk intake for the first half of the meal or her Italian bread ingestion on spaghetti night and so am no help to her Whatsoever. By the time I realize what has happened, she's refilling her milk cup or taking the last bite of bread and her tummy is (surprised?) "so full" and she can't eat another bite. Which results in her not eating her dinner and my (once again) realizing that I Am Not A Very Good Mother.
*sigh*
One of our problems is that she invariably returns home from school "starving." This is a Real Hassle for me, as we don't (Ever) eat dinner as soon as we get home and I am not (Ever) ready to cook something as soon as we get home and she is a child with an Iron Will. "Mommy can I please have a snack?" No. "Mommy, I just want a little something." No. "Can I just have three crackers?" And three crackers doesn't seem like so much and I know it's inconsistent and I am Breaking All the Rules by being inconsistent but Oh Heavens I am so tired.
I've tried wising up in this regard. No Snacks At All of late. I've been firm and she has heard me and we're getting along just fine. Empty belly at the dinner table and the careful monitoring of milk intake. And this consistency is good for her. It's good for me. She learns that I mean what I say, and I remind myself (with practice) that I do, in fact, mean what I say. Not so difficult.
Tonight I cooked up something I've been wanting to make for about two weeks. We still have some sweet potatoes left from our delightful CSA, and I found a recipe in my new cookbook called "Sweet Potato and Lentil Curry." I made this tonight for dinner, along with an accompanying recipe for sauteed red cabbage, and I served it with a whole wheat nan. Yum.
I knew she was hungry. I knew we were all hungry. Yes, vegetarian. Yes, containing the (oh, so odious) sweet potatoes. Yes, delicious and Good For You. I served it with a smile.
She touched it not. She drank her milk. She ate her bread (oh, Inattentive Mother!). And she let the rest of it Grow Cold.
But I was steadfast. That meal was it. The congealing lentil curry, the cooling cabbage-- these things sat on the plate, available to her At Any Time, until she was All Tucked In. Bathed, combed, dressed, having read, having been read to, teeth brushed, lights out, Done.
And then.
Down she comes, peering at me over the stair banister: "Mommy, I'm hungry."
Of course she is. And it's her own fault. I gave her a good dinner and she turned it down. These are the repercussions; here are the consequences. You don't eat? You're hungry. That's how it works.
Still, it pulled at me-- the hungry belly rumbling behind her Little Mermaid pajamas. The blond hair, the pale face, the large blue eyes blinking, unaccumstomed to the living room light. Sweet, dinner-rejecting girl.
In the kitchen, the dishwasher hummed its busy tune: that plate is long since scraped. Dinner time was a Long Time Ago.
So I told her. Yes, I did. I stuck to my guns. I delivered the Truth: "There's nothing more until breakfast."
She went back to bed.
I managed to be Consistent.
But it's no small comfort (not small at all) that tonight she drank her milk and ate her bread. All of it.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Not My Thoughts Exactly
You'll want your speakers on for this one...or maybe not, depending on your taste in music.
The following does not depict my opinion of the day at 7:30 this morning. Fortunately, my opinion doesn't count.
The following does not depict my opinion of the day at 7:30 this morning. Fortunately, my opinion doesn't count.
(The spin move is new. Very fancy, if you ask me. Don't know if I can say the same for the fist-flailing. Hmmm.)
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Good Night, Gorilla
I love this book. It doesn't have many words, but the pictures are lovely and the story is cute. On the pages without words, I would narrate the story based on the pictures. Today before naptime Benjamin requested "Good Night Gorilla," and for the first time I didn't have to tell the story, but a sweet little 2 1/2 year old voice did. And it is the best story I have ever heard.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Focus
When I had two kids, the prospect of a weekend without Daddy struck panic into my heart. I would do just about any amount of traveling or begging to find a way to have help for the weekend. It seems kind of silly now, but in defense of my silliness, my first two were pretty rotten sleepers and pretty intense little people, not to mention that their mommy is on the intense side. Or so I'm told.
But since the advent of the third, my perspective has changed. I certainly don't relish a weekend without Daddy, and I would never choose one, but I feel confident in my ability to get through the days and even to enjoy the kids along the way. I think perhaps my expectations and the reality of parenting have finally collided. I don't really expect to be rested or that the kids will follow my plan for their napping schedules or that the weather will be perfect or that friends will be available, and so I'm freed to just enter into the weekend, not sure what it will hold.
One thing I do notice about single parenting, though (and man, do I respect single mothers more every time I do it!) is that I can become more stern and joyless as I have sole charge of all the chores and transitions of our days from morning to night. I forget to laugh sometimes because I'm so focused on the preparing food, serving, cleaning it up, dressing, diapering, pottying, tidying, maintaining order.
This afternoon was classic. We were trying to get out the door to go get favors for Davis's upcoming birthday party and then hit Chick-Fil-A for some playland action and dinner. I'm feeling pretty magnanimous for providing such fun, and the kids had been enthusiastic about the plan until some sort of disagreement broke out between the oldest two. Now Davis is sulking and complaining, refusing to put his shoes on, and I'm delivering this classic lecture about how "this whole trip is for you and if you don't have a good attitude about it, we really don't have to go." I mean, cue the Charlie Brown adult voice: "wah, wah, wah, wah, wah wah." I'm even annoying myself.
Then I realize that Zoe, aged 2 1/2, is behind me, also delivering some sort of lecture. I've been tuning her out but as I pay attention to her little voice, here's what she's saying: "Focus, Davis. Focus. Focus, Davis. Focus."
Her lecture not only propelled all of us into hysterical laughter, but it reminded me to chill out a little. As Charlie Brown would say, "Good grief!" Lord willing, Daddy will be home tomorrow. We'll be just fine until then. And if I can remember to laugh, we might even enjoy ourselves until he comes home.
But since the advent of the third, my perspective has changed. I certainly don't relish a weekend without Daddy, and I would never choose one, but I feel confident in my ability to get through the days and even to enjoy the kids along the way. I think perhaps my expectations and the reality of parenting have finally collided. I don't really expect to be rested or that the kids will follow my plan for their napping schedules or that the weather will be perfect or that friends will be available, and so I'm freed to just enter into the weekend, not sure what it will hold.
One thing I do notice about single parenting, though (and man, do I respect single mothers more every time I do it!) is that I can become more stern and joyless as I have sole charge of all the chores and transitions of our days from morning to night. I forget to laugh sometimes because I'm so focused on the preparing food, serving, cleaning it up, dressing, diapering, pottying, tidying, maintaining order.
This afternoon was classic. We were trying to get out the door to go get favors for Davis's upcoming birthday party and then hit Chick-Fil-A for some playland action and dinner. I'm feeling pretty magnanimous for providing such fun, and the kids had been enthusiastic about the plan until some sort of disagreement broke out between the oldest two. Now Davis is sulking and complaining, refusing to put his shoes on, and I'm delivering this classic lecture about how "this whole trip is for you and if you don't have a good attitude about it, we really don't have to go." I mean, cue the Charlie Brown adult voice: "wah, wah, wah, wah, wah wah." I'm even annoying myself.
Then I realize that Zoe, aged 2 1/2, is behind me, also delivering some sort of lecture. I've been tuning her out but as I pay attention to her little voice, here's what she's saying: "Focus, Davis. Focus. Focus, Davis. Focus."
Her lecture not only propelled all of us into hysterical laughter, but it reminded me to chill out a little. As Charlie Brown would say, "Good grief!" Lord willing, Daddy will be home tomorrow. We'll be just fine until then. And if I can remember to laugh, we might even enjoy ourselves until he comes home.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Oh, Daddy...
My daughter looks forward to her Daddy coming home every day because this means lots of chasing, rolling around on the floor, and, her favorite game, "Jump to Daddy", which entails her leaping from a chair into his arms and them falling down to the ground in a giggling heap. Last night, as this evening ritual was taking place and I was enjoying a few moments of independence, my husband looks up at me and says in an incredulous voice, "Elli is going to be three soon!". "Yeah, she is," I replied. "If by soon you mean a year and 2 months." "Oh yeah," says my man. "It just seems like we've had her for longer than that."
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
What would happen if...
The four of us were at In-N-Out Burger a few weeks ago, enjoying a little dinner out. Benjamin, Noah and I were sitting in our booth while Tim waited for our food. He brought my cup of water to the table, and like all fast food restaurants it came in a small plastic cup which didn't have a corresponding lid. I took a drink and put my cup back on the table, unfortunately within arms reach of my darling, 2 1/2 year old son. [I'm seeing the fault in my actions here. I blame the sleep-deprivation.] Not five seconds later, Benjamin had his hand on my water cup. I thought he might be about to have a drink too, so I started to say "Be careful, it's really full," but before one syllable of that thought escaped my lips I had a cup full of ice water on my lap. Now, in the child's defense, the majority of his experience with cups is that they have lids and that nothing happens when you turn them upside-down. Not so with this one, however. Of course, I was wearing khaki capri pants, which became rather translucent when soaked. There was a large puddle on the floor, which I thankfully did not slip on when we left. The best part of the evening: my son had managed to splash a bit of the water on his shirt, which upset him so much that I removed the article of clothing so he would settle down enough to eat his grilled cheese. Do you have a mental picture yet? Mom with soaking, freezing, somewhat see-through pants, 2 1/2 year old with no shirt, baby asleep in his carseat, and husband soaking up the water on the table with some napkins after getting me a new cup of water and trying not to laugh at the whole situation. Of course, I had to laugh - it's that or cry sometimes, right?
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Falling For It
There's a lot people don't tell you about becoming a mom. And for many good reasons. Like childbirth hurts more than you could ever imagine (they don't tell you that one because of that whole selective memory thing, I think; if they didn't forget, how could they ever have more kids?), like nursing is not easy (because who would be so excited to do it if they knew how hard it was? Right, Susie?)..and that's just the first day. It goes on and on.
But why doesn't anyone warn us about daylight savings time?
Remember how dreamy it used to be? An extra hour of sleep! On Sunday morning! The perfect frosting on the cake of yet another gloriously restful weekend. And so much easier to get up on Monday morning.
And then we had kids. They didn't get the memo. Sun's up. Been in bed a whole bunch of hours (if we're lucky). Hungry. Restless. Ready to go.
And the clock says?
This morning, when I was up with almost-three-year-old Eliza at 5:42, I heard five-year-old Luke singing. Singing. Already.
I woke Dad up: "Luke's singing already."
Grunting as he rolled over to look at the clock: "What?!?"
"Daylight savings time, remember?" (Dads have selective memories, too, I guess.)
He sang patiently until about 6:30, then ran out of patience. Dad went in, and apparently (from what I gathered from overheard snippets and Dad's report), the conversation started something like this:
Luke: "Dad, I was wondering what the clock in your room says 'cause I think mine is broken. 'Cause the sun is shining in my window but my clock doesn't even say it's seven o'clock yet."
Smartie pants.
So Dad explained that we had changed his clock while he was sleeping. (I could hear Luke's exasperated exclamation from across the hall: "Why did you do that?!?"). He could not believe that his parents would violate his trust in such a totally awful way. (He also expressed surprise later on that the clock could be changed...hmmm.)
Dad explained some more. And told him he had to stay in bed. But it wasn't too long before I heard his operatic conclusion: "6:59! Just one minute 'til the time I've been wai-ai-ai-aiting for!"
Why didn't anyone tell us this? Why didn't anyone warn us that, for the next who-knows-how-many years, we'll be longing to spring forward while everyone else celebrates falling back?
And seriously, if anyone needs an extra hour of sleep, isn't it us?
But why doesn't anyone warn us about daylight savings time?
Remember how dreamy it used to be? An extra hour of sleep! On Sunday morning! The perfect frosting on the cake of yet another gloriously restful weekend. And so much easier to get up on Monday morning.
And then we had kids. They didn't get the memo. Sun's up. Been in bed a whole bunch of hours (if we're lucky). Hungry. Restless. Ready to go.
And the clock says?
This morning, when I was up with almost-three-year-old Eliza at 5:42, I heard five-year-old Luke singing. Singing. Already.
I woke Dad up: "Luke's singing already."
Grunting as he rolled over to look at the clock: "What?!?"
"Daylight savings time, remember?" (Dads have selective memories, too, I guess.)
He sang patiently until about 6:30, then ran out of patience. Dad went in, and apparently (from what I gathered from overheard snippets and Dad's report), the conversation started something like this:
Luke: "Dad, I was wondering what the clock in your room says 'cause I think mine is broken. 'Cause the sun is shining in my window but my clock doesn't even say it's seven o'clock yet."
Smartie pants.
So Dad explained that we had changed his clock while he was sleeping. (I could hear Luke's exasperated exclamation from across the hall: "Why did you do that?!?"). He could not believe that his parents would violate his trust in such a totally awful way. (He also expressed surprise later on that the clock could be changed...hmmm.)
Dad explained some more. And told him he had to stay in bed. But it wasn't too long before I heard his operatic conclusion: "6:59! Just one minute 'til the time I've been wai-ai-ai-aiting for!"
Why didn't anyone tell us this? Why didn't anyone warn us that, for the next who-knows-how-many years, we'll be longing to spring forward while everyone else celebrates falling back?
And seriously, if anyone needs an extra hour of sleep, isn't it us?
Friday, October 31, 2008
Monkey Business
My mother is an amazing seamstress. I cannot imagine how many Halloween costumes she sewed over years of raising four children. Needless to say, she made it look very easy.
Her effortlessness made me think that I could sew a homemade costume for my little boy this year. Oh, I thought this would be a fabulous project. I'd have a chance to learn to sew (yes, learn -- I really have sewed very little in my life beyond reattaching an occasional button) and Evan would have a lovingly made and adorable get-up to don come Halloween.
I started early. I picked out the pattern back in August. Right away, I should have known this whole thing was going to be trouble. I pulled the pattern out of it's paper envelope and realized that I had no idea how to read it. Who knew that sewing patterns don't come with instructions? There is no forgiveness for beginnerhood in the sewing world; a level of skill and knowledge is preassumed.
I called my mom in a panic. And, she talked me through what to do first. Several days later, she talked me through what to do next. And so on...
I had envisioned myself cozily sewing away on crisp fall evenings after Evan was tucked away in bed. Instead, most often, I was staying up way too late trying to decipher how to set my sewing machine to make a zigzag stich, or how to thread elastic properly through a seam. My fingers were riddled with pin pricks, my poor sewing machine suffered several broken needles and mis-threaded bobbins. My husband steered very clear of the dining room, where I had my little sewing factory set up, for fear that he might be the brunt of my ongoing frustration.
And October 31st loomed ever closer. I was beginning to fear that at the last minute, we might be headed for the costume aisle at Target after all. I worked frantically, fabric scraps falling everywhere, my mother on permanent speed dial. And, two nights ago, I finished the last stitch.
My husband hopefully asked, "So, I guess you won't be trying this again next year?" And I -- with all the satisfaction and good will of a finished project -- said, "Oh, I definitely will. It was fun."
On close inspection, this costume is pretty poorly constructed. Any veteran seamstress (anyone who buys a pattern apparently!) would look at it and see multiple errors and short cuts. But, to me, it is a major accomplishment. I tried it on Evan for the first time last evening. He seemed unimpressed and looked at me as if to say, "Mom, I am not your show monkey!"
Ah, but for tonight, just for tonight, he is.
Her effortlessness made me think that I could sew a homemade costume for my little boy this year. Oh, I thought this would be a fabulous project. I'd have a chance to learn to sew (yes, learn -- I really have sewed very little in my life beyond reattaching an occasional button) and Evan would have a lovingly made and adorable get-up to don come Halloween.
I started early. I picked out the pattern back in August. Right away, I should have known this whole thing was going to be trouble. I pulled the pattern out of it's paper envelope and realized that I had no idea how to read it. Who knew that sewing patterns don't come with instructions? There is no forgiveness for beginnerhood in the sewing world; a level of skill and knowledge is preassumed.
I called my mom in a panic. And, she talked me through what to do first. Several days later, she talked me through what to do next. And so on...
I had envisioned myself cozily sewing away on crisp fall evenings after Evan was tucked away in bed. Instead, most often, I was staying up way too late trying to decipher how to set my sewing machine to make a zigzag stich, or how to thread elastic properly through a seam. My fingers were riddled with pin pricks, my poor sewing machine suffered several broken needles and mis-threaded bobbins. My husband steered very clear of the dining room, where I had my little sewing factory set up, for fear that he might be the brunt of my ongoing frustration.
And October 31st loomed ever closer. I was beginning to fear that at the last minute, we might be headed for the costume aisle at Target after all. I worked frantically, fabric scraps falling everywhere, my mother on permanent speed dial. And, two nights ago, I finished the last stitch.
My husband hopefully asked, "So, I guess you won't be trying this again next year?" And I -- with all the satisfaction and good will of a finished project -- said, "Oh, I definitely will. It was fun."
On close inspection, this costume is pretty poorly constructed. Any veteran seamstress (anyone who buys a pattern apparently!) would look at it and see multiple errors and short cuts. But, to me, it is a major accomplishment. I tried it on Evan for the first time last evening. He seemed unimpressed and looked at me as if to say, "Mom, I am not your show monkey!"
Ah, but for tonight, just for tonight, he is.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Copy Cat
So, eleven month old Evan is going through two stages simultaneously:
1) He does not enjoy being more than four feet from Mommy.
2) He wants to do, or mimic, everything that Mommy does.
This leads to some very amusing moments throughout the day. The latest and most entertaining came yesterday, on cleaning day. I looked down to see Evan wiping his hand vigorously back and forth across the table I was dusting, in just the motion I was using. In a flash of inspiration, I gave him his own dust rag, and, voila! He dusted intently for several minutes. Who needs a cleaning person when child labor is available?
Now, if we can just work on that attention span.
1) He does not enjoy being more than four feet from Mommy.
2) He wants to do, or mimic, everything that Mommy does.
This leads to some very amusing moments throughout the day. The latest and most entertaining came yesterday, on cleaning day. I looked down to see Evan wiping his hand vigorously back and forth across the table I was dusting, in just the motion I was using. In a flash of inspiration, I gave him his own dust rag, and, voila! He dusted intently for several minutes. Who needs a cleaning person when child labor is available?
Now, if we can just work on that attention span.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Out of the Mouths of Kindergarteners
(Conversation with Nana, overheard thanks to speakerphone)
Luke: My dad's going out of town this weekend.
Nana: Oh, that's too bad. But you'll have fun with your mom, right?
Luke: Yeah, my mom is fun. But not as fun as school.
Oh, that these school-loving days could last forever...
(Wait, my days do seem to last forever. Nix that last bit.)
Luke: My dad's going out of town this weekend.
Nana: Oh, that's too bad. But you'll have fun with your mom, right?
Luke: Yeah, my mom is fun. But not as fun as school.
Oh, that these school-loving days could last forever...
(Wait, my days do seem to last forever. Nix that last bit.)
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Saturday Soccer
It was not raining when we left home for the soccer game. It had been sprinkling on and off all morning, but it most definitely was not raining as we loaded up the minivan with all the requisite chairs, strollers, snacks, jackets, water bottles, soccer balls, and children it takes for a family of 5 to enjoy a 45 minute U5 soccer game.
I have to admit that part of the reason we signed D up for U5 soccer is that it's cheap entertainment. We have such fond memories of watching the son of our dear friends "play" soccer when he was three, which at the time meant zooming around the field like a superhero, only to be interrupted periodically by a black and white ball whizzing by. Mac is now a respectable athlete, I understand. But there's nothing like watching a group (gaggle? herd? pride?) of four year olds in their first experience with team sports.
Today did not disappoint.
As we reached the field, it began to rain. Rain, not sprinkle or mist or fall lightly. It was really raining, and blowing sideways. Alex and I looked at each other, knowing that we probably should take the girls back home rather than subjecting them to watch soccer in the rain, but neither of us really wanted to be the one to miss the game. Some kind people lent us umbrellas to hold over the girls, and they had jackets and covers on their double stroller. (It was a warm day, Mom, really, they were OK!)
At first, D and his fellow Silver Streaks kept looking at the parents incredulously, as if to say, "Do you know it's raining? And we're out here? With no jackets? Is this really OK?" But then they got into the spirit of it, led by ever-cheerful and dripping wet Coach Huong. It wasn't the crispest play I've ever seen by the Streaks, but some soccer was happening.
And then they saw it. The water was running in a rushing stream down a little concrete culvert at the end of the field. Oh, the joy of running water! It is time for a throw-in, but where are the Silver Streaks? Two of them were wading in the brook, happily splashing and kicking a ball with gusto. From then on, the game depended more on how many children could be coaxed out of the stream and back to the field. At one point, the normally 4-on-4 match-up was 5-on-2. I think those Orange Tigers were definitely trying to take advantage of the situation.
Suddenly, it was just like in the movies...cue the music...the rain stopped, the sun came out, the world was fresh and dripping wet. The umbrellas came down, jackets were stripped off, everyone was so glad they had not run for the minivan after all. Time for the second half. Time for some soccer.
Well, it's hardly fair to expect a bunch of four year olds to concentrate on a silly game when a pair of fighter jets appears from behind the trees, roaring overhead. The game was halted for a moment to allow the entranced children to watch. The whistle blew. Now we're ready. But wait, here come the jets again, circling the field. There goes the ball...where are the players? Two have wandered back to the stream, three more are completely oblivious to anything but the powerful aircraft in the sky. The jets continued to circle the field for the remainder of the second half. Some soccer was played intermittently. Coach Huong's whistle blew to end the game, but that second half was a suspiciously shorter than the first.
Another game in the books for the U5 Silver Streaks. See you next Saturday!
I have to admit that part of the reason we signed D up for U5 soccer is that it's cheap entertainment. We have such fond memories of watching the son of our dear friends "play" soccer when he was three, which at the time meant zooming around the field like a superhero, only to be interrupted periodically by a black and white ball whizzing by. Mac is now a respectable athlete, I understand. But there's nothing like watching a group (gaggle? herd? pride?) of four year olds in their first experience with team sports.
Today did not disappoint.
As we reached the field, it began to rain. Rain, not sprinkle or mist or fall lightly. It was really raining, and blowing sideways. Alex and I looked at each other, knowing that we probably should take the girls back home rather than subjecting them to watch soccer in the rain, but neither of us really wanted to be the one to miss the game. Some kind people lent us umbrellas to hold over the girls, and they had jackets and covers on their double stroller. (It was a warm day, Mom, really, they were OK!)
At first, D and his fellow Silver Streaks kept looking at the parents incredulously, as if to say, "Do you know it's raining? And we're out here? With no jackets? Is this really OK?" But then they got into the spirit of it, led by ever-cheerful and dripping wet Coach Huong. It wasn't the crispest play I've ever seen by the Streaks, but some soccer was happening.
And then they saw it. The water was running in a rushing stream down a little concrete culvert at the end of the field. Oh, the joy of running water! It is time for a throw-in, but where are the Silver Streaks? Two of them were wading in the brook, happily splashing and kicking a ball with gusto. From then on, the game depended more on how many children could be coaxed out of the stream and back to the field. At one point, the normally 4-on-4 match-up was 5-on-2. I think those Orange Tigers were definitely trying to take advantage of the situation.
Suddenly, it was just like in the movies...cue the music...the rain stopped, the sun came out, the world was fresh and dripping wet. The umbrellas came down, jackets were stripped off, everyone was so glad they had not run for the minivan after all. Time for the second half. Time for some soccer.
Well, it's hardly fair to expect a bunch of four year olds to concentrate on a silly game when a pair of fighter jets appears from behind the trees, roaring overhead. The game was halted for a moment to allow the entranced children to watch. The whistle blew. Now we're ready. But wait, here come the jets again, circling the field. There goes the ball...where are the players? Two have wandered back to the stream, three more are completely oblivious to anything but the powerful aircraft in the sky. The jets continued to circle the field for the remainder of the second half. Some soccer was played intermittently. Coach Huong's whistle blew to end the game, but that second half was a suspiciously shorter than the first.
Another game in the books for the U5 Silver Streaks. See you next Saturday!
Friday, October 24, 2008
Very brave
All moms have to go through the dreaded shots with their kids. It's a necessary evil, really. We got flu shots for ourselves and our 2 1/2 year old the other day. The parents went first, one at a time so the other could distract our son so he wouldn't know what we were up to. Then it was Benjamin's turn. I sat in a chair holding him (and keeping his arm still) while he held onto his dearest friend (a very well-loved stuffed turtle). I was armed with treats in my pocket. The nurse quickly stuck a needle in my precious boy's arm, making him jump, but no tears. She put a band aid on, and Benjamin's little face crumbled and he cried. I opened the package holding the treats and hugged my baby. Before we left the clinic he had stopped crying and I told him he was very brave. He proceeded to talk about his band aid and ate his snack all the way to the car. I blinked away tears behind my sunglasses. We both were very brave.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
A Hypothetical
What would it say about a person--I mean, if it happened to a friend, for example--if her laundry pile were so high that every time she noticed it out of the corner of her eye, she thought there was a person standing in her bathroom corner? Hypothetically, of course. I mean, really, if it happened to a friend...or something.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Hide-a-Key
I got locked out of the house today. While Eliana was reaching the end of her naptime. While Ben was giving a voice lesson at someone’s house and thus unreachable. While 6 ½ months pregnant and already ridiculously emotional. While all the neighbors I have met so far were not home. While dressed in the always flattering pregnancy drawstring pants, hoodie, and fleece vest.
So, being a mother and therefore having no choice but to humiliate myself in front of a stranger in order to save my child from undue stress, I knocked on an unfamiliar door and met a retired fellow named Gerald. He somehow understood my plight through a flood of tears and offered to drive me to the nearby neighborhood where Ben was teaching. Once there, he chauffeured me around until I spotted Ben’s car and retrieved the key. I unlocked the door and found Eliana…still asleep.
Thank the Lord for small miracles.
So, being a mother and therefore having no choice but to humiliate myself in front of a stranger in order to save my child from undue stress, I knocked on an unfamiliar door and met a retired fellow named Gerald. He somehow understood my plight through a flood of tears and offered to drive me to the nearby neighborhood where Ben was teaching. Once there, he chauffeured me around until I spotted Ben’s car and retrieved the key. I unlocked the door and found Eliana…still asleep.
Thank the Lord for small miracles.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Do you see it? The missing button? Who knew that a missing button on a sweater could bring back a flood of memories? Well for me, it did. I was gathering all of our "junk" and kids clothing for a garage sale we had today, and came upon this sweater, and in an instant, Amaleah was 18 months old again. I was getting her ready for bed, unbuttoning her sweater on the changing table, and I saw that her 3rd button was missing. I asked her, "Where did your button go?" And of course she looked at me like "how in the world am I supposed to know?" We talked about it for a few minutes, and then forgot it and got her into her PJ's and plopped her in bed. Fast forward to the next morning, after breakfast, early morning diaper change..."Oh, Mommy found your button...did you eat it, Amaleah? And wow, it made a little button mark on your bottom!" I have told Amaleah that story several times and she laughs so hard. I think that sweater goes in the memory box.That memory led me to many more little snapshot memories of my kids as I rummaged through the mounds of clothing. Like the little 3/4 length shirt trimmed in red with dragonflies all over it...Amaleah climbed all over our bricks in front of our daffodil garden in NC in that shirt. The little tie-dyed shirt she wore and wore until Daddy said maybe her belly shouldn't be poking out of her shirt anymore. Oh and the red and white pin stripe pants that Am wore at the McNay Art Museum during a visit to Texas. Or the "Durham Rocks" shirt that Julia just has to wear, even though it is soooo stained that any rational Mommy would get rid of it during the night!
I realized that clothes play an intrinsic part in solidifying my memories. It's like I can always remember what happened when she or he or I was wearing that. It's weird how something so "material" can affect me so deeply, and yet it does. All of these nostalgic feelings come rushing over me! So, here's to the missing button...(which, by the way, I threw in the trash immediately.)
Friday, October 17, 2008
Lawlessness
There were a lot of five-year-old boys at my house today.
Here's what I found when I was cleaning up:
A small tattooed man with a big sword in a police car.
I'm not sure what to think:
Here's what I found when I was cleaning up:
A small tattooed man with a big sword in a police car.I'm not sure what to think:
- Thank goodness he's not the driver?
- I'm taking 911 off speed dial?
- Where is the driver, anyhow? Has anyone checked the trunk?
- Is this some sort of sign? Threat of mutiny?
Car Conversations
Does anyone feel like some of the most profound conversations always happen in the car? Usually on the way home from the grocery where we have just spent a grueling hour of looking for bargains and whining. You are in no mind set to answer some of the questions that are rolling around in your children's head. Dad, of course, is not around. So, it is left to you, the mom, and what few brain cells you can pull together to answer.
In the car is where I have explained heaven and hell, why there is sin in the world, how to ask God and others for forgiveness, what it feels like to die, how men should treat women (brothers their sisters), and lots of other "big" things.
We had another one of those moments today. Coming home from Wal-mart where the littlest one cried for most of the trip until he went to sleep from exhaustion, brother and sister pushed, pinched and whined until I was doing the same thing, my mind was shot and I see the contemplative look start on my son's 4 year old face. Here it comes...
On the way home from a friend's house last night we were seconds behind a young girl who crashed her car (pretty bad crash but she was fine). So, first he wants to know why cars crash, why we have to be careful when we drive, why people sometimes die in car crashes. Normal stuff. I can handle this. Then... why does every one have to die, and if we are going to heaven should we be sad to die. Still holding my own. Then he ask why would someone kill you for loving Jesus. Oh Lord. Isn't he too young for this stuff? Can this question wait until daddy gets home? I want to say that no one would kill you for loving Jesus. Loving Jesus is something that will bring you joy and peace here on earth. I want to promise him a life of security in this world where Jesus will protect him from all harm. But, I can't.
So, instead I tell him the truth. From our conversations about hell, he knows that there are people that do not love and follow God. So, I tell him that there are people in the world that do not love God, that in fact hate Him so much that they kill the people that love God. That he may someday meet people that will not be his friend because he loves Jesus. Not quite so brief and to the point but that was the general message I gave him. I had to give him. So, I watch in my rearview mirror the furrowed brow as he tries to take this in. We have a few more follow up questions as he tries to grasp the concept that someone could not only not like him because he loves Jesus, but that someone could actually want to kill him because he loves Jesus.
Then the sweet, innocent face comes back and he says in his loud, 4 year old boy voice, "Whoever loves Jesus, raise your hand!" After just telling him that he could be killed for it I had to wonder what would happen. Praise God, he raised his hand!
In the car is where I have explained heaven and hell, why there is sin in the world, how to ask God and others for forgiveness, what it feels like to die, how men should treat women (brothers their sisters), and lots of other "big" things.
We had another one of those moments today. Coming home from Wal-mart where the littlest one cried for most of the trip until he went to sleep from exhaustion, brother and sister pushed, pinched and whined until I was doing the same thing, my mind was shot and I see the contemplative look start on my son's 4 year old face. Here it comes...
On the way home from a friend's house last night we were seconds behind a young girl who crashed her car (pretty bad crash but she was fine). So, first he wants to know why cars crash, why we have to be careful when we drive, why people sometimes die in car crashes. Normal stuff. I can handle this. Then... why does every one have to die, and if we are going to heaven should we be sad to die. Still holding my own. Then he ask why would someone kill you for loving Jesus. Oh Lord. Isn't he too young for this stuff? Can this question wait until daddy gets home? I want to say that no one would kill you for loving Jesus. Loving Jesus is something that will bring you joy and peace here on earth. I want to promise him a life of security in this world where Jesus will protect him from all harm. But, I can't.
So, instead I tell him the truth. From our conversations about hell, he knows that there are people that do not love and follow God. So, I tell him that there are people in the world that do not love God, that in fact hate Him so much that they kill the people that love God. That he may someday meet people that will not be his friend because he loves Jesus. Not quite so brief and to the point but that was the general message I gave him. I had to give him. So, I watch in my rearview mirror the furrowed brow as he tries to take this in. We have a few more follow up questions as he tries to grasp the concept that someone could not only not like him because he loves Jesus, but that someone could actually want to kill him because he loves Jesus.
Then the sweet, innocent face comes back and he says in his loud, 4 year old boy voice, "Whoever loves Jesus, raise your hand!" After just telling him that he could be killed for it I had to wonder what would happen. Praise God, he raised his hand!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Kindness
Every once in a while, I get a glimpse that the hard work I put into training our kids is really paying off.
We recently checked out a library book called, "You Don't Always Get Everything You Hope For." In it, the protagonist wakes up hoping to have eggs and toast for breakfast. He likes eggs and toast. Instead, a tornado whisks him away to a castle on a hill where a king forces him to eat an ice cream sundae for breakfast...and if he refuses, the king threatens to cut off his head.
Zoe's response: "Oh, Mama, it's not kind to cut off ANYONE's head."
No, indeed, Zoe. Not kind at all.
What can I say? I think my job as a parent is about done here.
We recently checked out a library book called, "You Don't Always Get Everything You Hope For." In it, the protagonist wakes up hoping to have eggs and toast for breakfast. He likes eggs and toast. Instead, a tornado whisks him away to a castle on a hill where a king forces him to eat an ice cream sundae for breakfast...and if he refuses, the king threatens to cut off his head.
Zoe's response: "Oh, Mama, it's not kind to cut off ANYONE's head."
No, indeed, Zoe. Not kind at all.
What can I say? I think my job as a parent is about done here.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Nothing To Do
I am decidedly an introvert by nature. I do love people, but I need regular solitude to keep myself energized to love the people I love. When solitude is hard to come by (say, for example, the last 4 1/2 years), my internal world becomes very skewed and everyone who matters suffers the consequences.
However true this is, sometimes I parent like an extravert. I get intimidated by long stretches of un-spoken-for time when it's just me and the kids. I start making phone calls around town: "Are you free?" "What are you guys doing this afternoon?" "Want to meet at the park?" I feel a little panicky-- what are we going to do for the next 2/4/6/whole-weekend-while-Daddy-is-gone... hours?
My best understanding of this in myself is that, since I can't get solitude with 3 kids-under-5, the next best scenario is to share the hours with a kindred spirit and her kids. And it's true that sometimes sharing the parenting journey with a friend is absolutely the best way to go. The kids are happy and entertained and the mommies have company and an extra set of hands to share some tasks.
But sometimes it's so much better for me to push through my impulse to get on the phone and plan something. When we're forced to just be together for long stretches, the kids and I find all kinds of things to do. We're not in a hurry to get somewhere, so we enjoy the luxury of time. Sure, I can read that book again. What could we do with all those acorns on our driveway? What if we try to build a block tower taller than us? (No, we are not going to watch a video. Not just yet. Talk to me in an hour.) Should we take a walk in the neighborhood? Let's see what old "new" toys I have stashed away. Should we call Nanny on the phone?
I'm sure I'll still be calling you this week (and you know who you are) to see what you're up to and if you want to meet at the park.
And I hope I'll remember to not call sometimes too, and to discover the unexpected treasure of some time spent with my kids with "nothing" to do.
However true this is, sometimes I parent like an extravert. I get intimidated by long stretches of un-spoken-for time when it's just me and the kids. I start making phone calls around town: "Are you free?" "What are you guys doing this afternoon?" "Want to meet at the park?" I feel a little panicky-- what are we going to do for the next 2/4/6/whole-weekend-while-Daddy-is-gone... hours?
My best understanding of this in myself is that, since I can't get solitude with 3 kids-under-5, the next best scenario is to share the hours with a kindred spirit and her kids. And it's true that sometimes sharing the parenting journey with a friend is absolutely the best way to go. The kids are happy and entertained and the mommies have company and an extra set of hands to share some tasks.
But sometimes it's so much better for me to push through my impulse to get on the phone and plan something. When we're forced to just be together for long stretches, the kids and I find all kinds of things to do. We're not in a hurry to get somewhere, so we enjoy the luxury of time. Sure, I can read that book again. What could we do with all those acorns on our driveway? What if we try to build a block tower taller than us? (No, we are not going to watch a video. Not just yet. Talk to me in an hour.) Should we take a walk in the neighborhood? Let's see what old "new" toys I have stashed away. Should we call Nanny on the phone?
I'm sure I'll still be calling you this week (and you know who you are) to see what you're up to and if you want to meet at the park.
And I hope I'll remember to not call sometimes too, and to discover the unexpected treasure of some time spent with my kids with "nothing" to do.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Waffle Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree
I was almost four when my sister was born. When my parents headed for the hospital, they left me in the very capable hands of Polly, our next door neighbor, my second mother, real mother to my two most favoritest babysitters. In the morning, Polly asked what I usually ate for breakfast. I told her that I ate waffles, so Polly set about making me waffles. She admits to having been surprised that my mom would go to so much trouble every day for breakfast, but she was happy to oblige in an effort to make my stay with her and transition to big sisterhood as easy as possible.
As I ate my waffles, Polly asked if I liked them, and if they were like the ones my mom made. I politely (I'm sure I was polite...right, Mom?) responded that they were good but not like my mom's. When Polly asked why, I replied that my mom made hers in the toaster. Good ol' Eggo.
Fast forward a couple decades: This leisurely Saturday morning, my husband asked my almost-five year old what he would like for breakfast. He asked for waffles. (You can see where this is going). So Dad set about looking for the ingredients to prepare the batter. Luke interrupted: "Dad, they're in the freezer."
Leggo my Eggo indeed.
As I ate my waffles, Polly asked if I liked them, and if they were like the ones my mom made. I politely (I'm sure I was polite...right, Mom?) responded that they were good but not like my mom's. When Polly asked why, I replied that my mom made hers in the toaster. Good ol' Eggo.
Fast forward a couple decades: This leisurely Saturday morning, my husband asked my almost-five year old what he would like for breakfast. He asked for waffles. (You can see where this is going). So Dad set about looking for the ingredients to prepare the batter. Luke interrupted: "Dad, they're in the freezer."
Leggo my Eggo indeed.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
An Animal in a Trap
Strong-willed, exhibit 7,183:
My Zoe. She likes to do things on her own terms. She can be so cooperative and helpful, as long as it is her idea to be so. Which it often is. And sometimes, it is not.
As with most of parenting, and maybe all of life, transitions pose particular challenges. "Transition" usually means moving from something pleasant, like playing with her ponies, to something less pleasant, like using the potty. So she is not potty-trained yet, not because she could not be, but because it does not often suit her to make that transition.
But I have outwitted her in one particular arena.
Getting out of the bathtub is not a transition she loves. It's warm in the tub, and fun. It's cold in the bathroom, and getting out involves the work of getting dressed. If I just announce, "It's time to get out of the tub," I will surely encounter some resistance which, true, can be overcome by the force of the necessity of obedience, the threat (and the carryout) of discipline, and the like. But who wants to deal with all that at 7:00 in the evening, the time when my mind and body are crashing?
So instead, this is what I say. I kid you not, it works every time. "Zoe, are you an animal in a trap?" She nods shyly. "Oh, little animal," I say, "can you get out of that trap all by yourself, or do you need help?" Suddenly, that little animal shows me the way to get out of the trap/bathtub, slowly and carefully, and into the snuggly towel and the waiting arms of her Mama. I exclaim that it is such a clever little animal I have! She reveals to me what kind of animal she is, and we are both very pleased with ourselves.
My Zoe. She likes to do things on her own terms. She can be so cooperative and helpful, as long as it is her idea to be so. Which it often is. And sometimes, it is not.
As with most of parenting, and maybe all of life, transitions pose particular challenges. "Transition" usually means moving from something pleasant, like playing with her ponies, to something less pleasant, like using the potty. So she is not potty-trained yet, not because she could not be, but because it does not often suit her to make that transition.
But I have outwitted her in one particular arena.
Getting out of the bathtub is not a transition she loves. It's warm in the tub, and fun. It's cold in the bathroom, and getting out involves the work of getting dressed. If I just announce, "It's time to get out of the tub," I will surely encounter some resistance which, true, can be overcome by the force of the necessity of obedience, the threat (and the carryout) of discipline, and the like. But who wants to deal with all that at 7:00 in the evening, the time when my mind and body are crashing?
So instead, this is what I say. I kid you not, it works every time. "Zoe, are you an animal in a trap?" She nods shyly. "Oh, little animal," I say, "can you get out of that trap all by yourself, or do you need help?" Suddenly, that little animal shows me the way to get out of the trap/bathtub, slowly and carefully, and into the snuggly towel and the waiting arms of her Mama. I exclaim that it is such a clever little animal I have! She reveals to me what kind of animal she is, and we are both very pleased with ourselves.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Strong-Willed
Exhibit 7,182:
"I brang it in the car with me, and I brang it to the store."
"I 'brought' it, Emma."
"I like my sentences the way they are. And I don't need any corrections."
"I brang it in the car with me, and I brang it to the store."
"I 'brought' it, Emma."
"I like my sentences the way they are. And I don't need any corrections."
Friday, September 19, 2008
A Band Aid for Mommy
At our routine check-up this week, the pediatrician suggested some early allergy testing for my son, based on issues he's had since very early infancy. So, at the end of the appointment, I dutifully walked Evan down the long hall to the lab.
He needed two shots (just regularly scheduled immunizations) and a blood draw for the allergist. The phlebotomist prepared to do the blood draw first. I think it is fair to say that no parent has an easy time watching their child undergo a medical procedure. I have always suffered a bit when Evan has to get a shot. But, I have suffered bravely and silently, all the while holding my little boy, singing to him, whispering gently in his ear, telling him, "It's alright."
This would, I assumed, be no different. And, after all, I assured myself as the phlebotomist twisted a tight rubber band around my son's tiny and now strangely bulging arm, I am used to this sort of stuff. Prior to being an at-home mom I was the administrator of a hospital unit. Medical procedures are not foreign to me. Blood and needles do not make me squeamish. So, mentally fortified, I followed the phlebotomist's instructions and bear-hugged Evan on my lap, while she began injecting him to find a vein and another nurse held his legs still. I hugged him and hummed to him while she searched...and searched...and searched, the needle under his skin being poked one way and then another. My poor child screamed in anger and pain and I hummed on, determined to be calm and strong. After all, this was a necessary test. The phlebotomist was unable to get a draw and had to pull the needle out.
I spent about ten minutes calming Evan, while she prepared a second needle and talked with a nurse about a different injection site. He was nearly inconsolable, but was finally able to regain his composure. We sat again. The rubber band was pinched around his arm, the needle was jabbed under his skin and pushed and pulled in every direction. I was holding his top half while a nurse held his bottom half and all the while he writhed with all of his strength, trying to get away.
I couldn't hum this time. The lump in my throat was growing too big. I hadn't had enough time to mentally fortify myself for this second round and it was getting to be too much for me. The phlebotomist met my eye as she continued to unsuccessfully poke and prod.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
Her kindness was the last straw. I felt tears spill over onto my cheeks. My baby sobbed on my lap and I silently dripped tears onto his soft little head.
Finally it was over. She pulled the needle out and conceded defeat. We would need to forgo the testing, or find another way on some other day, to draw the blood.
Again, I worked to calm my baby. No time for my own tears now, I paced and distracted with all my might and again, he slowly soothed.
And, again, we had to sit in that awful chair. We still needed the vaccinations and they couldn't wait. Mercifully, these were two quick shots. Nonethless, Evan screamed with all of his might, so traumatized at this point that even looking at the phlebotomist set him off.
When we left the office, he was still sniffling. But, within an hour of returning home, with a dose of baby Tylenol working its magic and a yummy feeding completed, he was back to his happy self. It was then that he noticed the brightly colored, cartoon-covered band aids that had been placed on his arm and hand. He immediately pulled one off and tried to eat it. So, I knew he was doing just fine.
I, on the other hand, felt like I needed a back rub, a glass of wine and bed. Or, at the very least, a brightly colored band aid of my own.
He needed two shots (just regularly scheduled immunizations) and a blood draw for the allergist. The phlebotomist prepared to do the blood draw first. I think it is fair to say that no parent has an easy time watching their child undergo a medical procedure. I have always suffered a bit when Evan has to get a shot. But, I have suffered bravely and silently, all the while holding my little boy, singing to him, whispering gently in his ear, telling him, "It's alright."
This would, I assumed, be no different. And, after all, I assured myself as the phlebotomist twisted a tight rubber band around my son's tiny and now strangely bulging arm, I am used to this sort of stuff. Prior to being an at-home mom I was the administrator of a hospital unit. Medical procedures are not foreign to me. Blood and needles do not make me squeamish. So, mentally fortified, I followed the phlebotomist's instructions and bear-hugged Evan on my lap, while she began injecting him to find a vein and another nurse held his legs still. I hugged him and hummed to him while she searched...and searched...and searched, the needle under his skin being poked one way and then another. My poor child screamed in anger and pain and I hummed on, determined to be calm and strong. After all, this was a necessary test. The phlebotomist was unable to get a draw and had to pull the needle out.
I spent about ten minutes calming Evan, while she prepared a second needle and talked with a nurse about a different injection site. He was nearly inconsolable, but was finally able to regain his composure. We sat again. The rubber band was pinched around his arm, the needle was jabbed under his skin and pushed and pulled in every direction. I was holding his top half while a nurse held his bottom half and all the while he writhed with all of his strength, trying to get away.
I couldn't hum this time. The lump in my throat was growing too big. I hadn't had enough time to mentally fortify myself for this second round and it was getting to be too much for me. The phlebotomist met my eye as she continued to unsuccessfully poke and prod.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
Her kindness was the last straw. I felt tears spill over onto my cheeks. My baby sobbed on my lap and I silently dripped tears onto his soft little head.
Finally it was over. She pulled the needle out and conceded defeat. We would need to forgo the testing, or find another way on some other day, to draw the blood.
Again, I worked to calm my baby. No time for my own tears now, I paced and distracted with all my might and again, he slowly soothed.
And, again, we had to sit in that awful chair. We still needed the vaccinations and they couldn't wait. Mercifully, these were two quick shots. Nonethless, Evan screamed with all of his might, so traumatized at this point that even looking at the phlebotomist set him off.
When we left the office, he was still sniffling. But, within an hour of returning home, with a dose of baby Tylenol working its magic and a yummy feeding completed, he was back to his happy self. It was then that he noticed the brightly colored, cartoon-covered band aids that had been placed on his arm and hand. He immediately pulled one off and tried to eat it. So, I knew he was doing just fine.
I, on the other hand, felt like I needed a back rub, a glass of wine and bed. Or, at the very least, a brightly colored band aid of my own.
Like Riding a Bike
I'm willing to bet bike training wheels rank among the top ten most-used metaphors for learning life's lessons. Well, we took Luke's off this week, so get ready for one more...
When Luke started asking to take his training wheels off last spring, I said Let's wait 'til summer when Dad can help you. I have neither the patience nor the stomach for teaching bike-riding. No, when it comes to patient encouragement and seeing our son take life's hard knocks, that's Dad's department. And since Dad's a teacher, summer's just the thing for such adventures.
But as we all remember full well from our school days, summer comes and goes all too quickly...and for whatever reason, the training wheels stayed on. Luke wasn't upset, though, as he wasn't yet too attached to the idea of taking them off. Only one friend with whom he regularly rides had his training wheels off, after all. But then the weather started to get cooler, and the neighborhood bikers started to reemerge. And Luke's next-door friend took her training wheels off...and the across-the-street friend. And everyone was practicing on the nice, flat sidewalk right in front of our house. Motivation returned.
So Saturday came, and Dad did the deed. The wheels came off. At this point in the story, it helps to know something about Luke: he's not much of a daredevil. Which is why he and I clash when it comes to things like bike riding, because, of course, I am. But not Luke: he's cautious until he's confident,; he's careful and easily shaken. Which is not to say low-key or not rambunctious, of course. But he'll never be the first to leap off the top of the jungle gym, a quality for which I'm usually very grateful.
Until I try to teach him something like swimming or somersaults or...riding a bike.
So Dad--not I--took him out Saturday morning. I dragged my wishing-I-could-sleep-in self out of bed and dutifully headed out to the porch with the camera, while Dad broke his back running up and down and up and down and up and down the sidewalk, carrying practically the entire weight of the bike and Luke. I give them both credit: Dad was calm and patient as usual, and Luke was unusually brave and determined. The verdict after lesson number one, in Dad's words: "It's going to be a while."
Then Monday came, and with it a busy work-week for Dad. And the dilemma: Luke wanted to practice riding his bike. Dad's not much help when he rarely gets home before bedtime, so all Luke had left was impatient, why-are-you-so-chicken, I-can't-stand-to-send-my-baby-out-to-get-hurt Mom.
Fast forward to Friday morning:
Dad hasn't even seen him yet. No trauma--for him or me!--and no serious injuries (yet, knock on wood). From Monday afternoon, when I discovered I could hold the seat just gently; to Wednesday, when all he needed was a little shove to get started and a shouted reminder to brake! ; to Friday morning, when we hit the bike trail with Eliza in stroller in tow. He's confident and not terrified, I've experienced very little frustration, and we've both had a really great week. I've even been grateful for the falls I've seen him take and for the things he's learned from each one (particularly that brake! thing) that I couldn't have explained to him without him experiencing them.
Here comes the metaphor; you could feel it, couldn't you?
I'm learning something about what God must feel like about this whole free will thing. At some point, He takes off our training wheels and gives us a push. Sure, He has taught us how to pedal and how to steer; sure, He'll give us a boost back onto the seat if we ask, or encourage us to keep trying to climb up there; sure, He may call out brake! when He sees the crack in the sidewalk or the prickly thornbushes as we veer off the path. And for sure He's calling out encouraging words and giving high fives for a ride well ridden.
But like any parent, I think He knows there are things He can tell us and other things we just have to learn along the way. I think we do frustrate Him sometimes when we make the same mistakes over and over and over again. I think He does hurt for us when we don't brake in time to avoid the thornbushes. And of course He doesn't want us to hurt, doesn't want us to have to learn the hard way. But saying Don't forget to brake or you're going to get hurt doesn't make nearly the same impression as crashing into the thornbushes because we forgot to brake.
Can I take all the hard knocks out of Luke's life? Of course not. And I think I'm beginning to understand why God doesn't take all the hard knocks out of ours, either. There's a lot to be learned from the cracks in the sidewalk and the thornbushes along the path.
When Luke started asking to take his training wheels off last spring, I said Let's wait 'til summer when Dad can help you. I have neither the patience nor the stomach for teaching bike-riding. No, when it comes to patient encouragement and seeing our son take life's hard knocks, that's Dad's department. And since Dad's a teacher, summer's just the thing for such adventures.
But as we all remember full well from our school days, summer comes and goes all too quickly...and for whatever reason, the training wheels stayed on. Luke wasn't upset, though, as he wasn't yet too attached to the idea of taking them off. Only one friend with whom he regularly rides had his training wheels off, after all. But then the weather started to get cooler, and the neighborhood bikers started to reemerge. And Luke's next-door friend took her training wheels off...and the across-the-street friend. And everyone was practicing on the nice, flat sidewalk right in front of our house. Motivation returned.
So Saturday came, and Dad did the deed. The wheels came off. At this point in the story, it helps to know something about Luke: he's not much of a daredevil. Which is why he and I clash when it comes to things like bike riding, because, of course, I am. But not Luke: he's cautious until he's confident,; he's careful and easily shaken. Which is not to say low-key or not rambunctious, of course. But he'll never be the first to leap off the top of the jungle gym, a quality for which I'm usually very grateful.
Until I try to teach him something like swimming or somersaults or...riding a bike.
So Dad--not I--took him out Saturday morning. I dragged my wishing-I-could-sleep-in self out of bed and dutifully headed out to the porch with the camera, while Dad broke his back running up and down and up and down and up and down the sidewalk, carrying practically the entire weight of the bike and Luke. I give them both credit: Dad was calm and patient as usual, and Luke was unusually brave and determined. The verdict after lesson number one, in Dad's words: "It's going to be a while."
Then Monday came, and with it a busy work-week for Dad. And the dilemma: Luke wanted to practice riding his bike. Dad's not much help when he rarely gets home before bedtime, so all Luke had left was impatient, why-are-you-so-chicken, I-can't-stand-to-send-my-baby-out-to-get-hurt Mom.
Fast forward to Friday morning:
Dad hasn't even seen him yet. No trauma--for him or me!--and no serious injuries (yet, knock on wood). From Monday afternoon, when I discovered I could hold the seat just gently; to Wednesday, when all he needed was a little shove to get started and a shouted reminder to brake! ; to Friday morning, when we hit the bike trail with Eliza in stroller in tow. He's confident and not terrified, I've experienced very little frustration, and we've both had a really great week. I've even been grateful for the falls I've seen him take and for the things he's learned from each one (particularly that brake! thing) that I couldn't have explained to him without him experiencing them.
Here comes the metaphor; you could feel it, couldn't you?
I'm learning something about what God must feel like about this whole free will thing. At some point, He takes off our training wheels and gives us a push. Sure, He has taught us how to pedal and how to steer; sure, He'll give us a boost back onto the seat if we ask, or encourage us to keep trying to climb up there; sure, He may call out brake! when He sees the crack in the sidewalk or the prickly thornbushes as we veer off the path. And for sure He's calling out encouraging words and giving high fives for a ride well ridden.
But like any parent, I think He knows there are things He can tell us and other things we just have to learn along the way. I think we do frustrate Him sometimes when we make the same mistakes over and over and over again. I think He does hurt for us when we don't brake in time to avoid the thornbushes. And of course He doesn't want us to hurt, doesn't want us to have to learn the hard way. But saying Don't forget to brake or you're going to get hurt doesn't make nearly the same impression as crashing into the thornbushes because we forgot to brake.
Can I take all the hard knocks out of Luke's life? Of course not. And I think I'm beginning to understand why God doesn't take all the hard knocks out of ours, either. There's a lot to be learned from the cracks in the sidewalk and the thornbushes along the path.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A Delightful Day
It really was a delightful day today. Daddy brought Davis to preschool this morning, and Emma Kate took a long nap. Zoe and I passed the time playing "birthday," working with playdoh, chatting, and reading books, all with the screen door open so we could hear the rain falling and the cool breeze blowing-- the first cool air we've felt in a long time!
We dashed out the door just as the deluge started, outfitted in boots and raincoats, to go pick up Big Brother. Soaking wet, we arrived home again to change into "cozy pants." We had a picnic lunch on the playroom floor since we had to cancel our plans for a picnic with friends. Then it was time for naps.
At the end of naps, we made chocolate chip cookies and turned on Mary Poppins. The kids had never seen it before, and they thoroughly enjoyed it. I enjoyed sitting with them, planning our grocery list while they laughed.
And then the magic ended. The movie ended. The rain stopped. It was time for dinner and teeth brushing and pajamas. Many, many quarrels erupted. I spent the last hour and a half of the day mostly disciplining and separating kids.
But I don't want that last bit to color my impression. It really was a delightful day.
We dashed out the door just as the deluge started, outfitted in boots and raincoats, to go pick up Big Brother. Soaking wet, we arrived home again to change into "cozy pants." We had a picnic lunch on the playroom floor since we had to cancel our plans for a picnic with friends. Then it was time for naps.
At the end of naps, we made chocolate chip cookies and turned on Mary Poppins. The kids had never seen it before, and they thoroughly enjoyed it. I enjoyed sitting with them, planning our grocery list while they laughed.
And then the magic ended. The movie ended. The rain stopped. It was time for dinner and teeth brushing and pajamas. Many, many quarrels erupted. I spent the last hour and a half of the day mostly disciplining and separating kids.
But I don't want that last bit to color my impression. It really was a delightful day.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Just for Laughs
The video is too dark (I promise there's a baby in the shadows), and I'm very sorry to subject you to my singing voice...but perhaps you will get a giggle from it nonetheless.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Wisdom and Intuition
It was her first sleep-over invitation, forcing us to confront the line we had drawn some time ago: Absolutely No Sleep-overs Until You Are Eight Years Old. By all accounting, she is seven. Okay, seven and a half, but Still. She is Not Eight.
Yes, the invitation came. A birthday party sleep-over with a very good friend, a friend she only just made this summer but whom she Absolutely Adores. And the friend was turning eight, so surely that should count for something.
"Can't I go, please? Can't I please go? You said I could have a sleep-over when I was seven." (Very Solemn Gaze as Response). "Okay, eight. But I'm almost eight. Can't I go? Please?"
We caved, because we are like that. As much as we would like for intuition and wisdom to guide us, we second-guess that intuition and wisdom All The Time. Why was it we said she must be eight years old for these things? And was it all that important? And isn't this child-- this birthday child who has invited her-- also important? And, oh, how Emma wants to go!
She packed her bag with zeal, even managing to squeeze her pillow into the thing. Pajamas, clean clothes, toothbrush. She was set. She headed out the door with the birthday girl and her mother and only looked back because I called out one last time, "Bye!"
In the end, we were very happy for her to get to go.
Hours later, Bill and I sit on the patio of a favorite restaurant. The boys are with a baby-sitter, Emma is at her sleep-over. We have seen The Dark Knight; we have eaten our appetizers. We are in no hurry for our dinner but are enjoying the night air and the wine and some long-desired, uninterrupted conversation.
The cell phone rings. It is the birthday girl's mother.
Emma has forgotten her bunny. Yes, her sweet pink bunny, the one with her name embroidered near the hem, the one whose ears are worn, whose satin is frayed, whose bluishness at the top of the head comes from sitting in Something Staining a long time ago. She has left it at home and wants that we should bring it to her.
There are All Sorts of Things wrong with this. We are on a date. We are having a good time. We haven't had our dinner and we want to. The bunny is at home. And the girl who is supposed to be enjoying her first sleep-over is sleeping over at a house every bit of a half hour away. We are not going to be taking the bunny to her. No.
And yet.
I can imagine the quaver she feels inside. My confident one, my brave girl who hates to cry and would die before she let it happen. She isn't the sort to bail on a night like this. She will sleep over. But she had Always Intended to be sleeping over With Her Bunny.
Now Emma is on the phone, and Bill hands the phone to me."You left bunny?" I say to her.
"Uh-huh," she says, and her voice is not very strong.
"But I thought you went back upstairs to get her?"
"I did, but then I forgot to get her." Funny the things a mother can hear in her daughter's voice.
"Oh," I say, and "well," I say, and "you were just so excited about the party, weren't you? Of course you forgot bunny. It was kind of easy to do."
"Uh-huh," she says again.
Breezy, is what I am. Calm. Casual. This is not a problem. Not a problem at all.
"Well, don't you worry about bunny," I say. "Bunny will understand. She will be just fine. When I get home, I will go and find her and I will bring her to my bed, and she can sleep with Daddy and me. So you can enjoy the sleep-over and you don't need to worry about her at all. And tomorrow, when you get home, she will be waiting for you."
This sounded very good to Emma Grace. It was, in fact, all she needed to hear. So she went on and enjoyed the sleep-over and got very little sleep, just as one is supposed to do at these things.
And Bunny slept in our room, as promised, and when Emma arrived home the next day, she went in search of her, and found her, as she expected, on her mommy and daddy's bed. I don't think she asked, but I would have told her: bunny slept Just Fine too.
Yes, the invitation came. A birthday party sleep-over with a very good friend, a friend she only just made this summer but whom she Absolutely Adores. And the friend was turning eight, so surely that should count for something.
"Can't I go, please? Can't I please go? You said I could have a sleep-over when I was seven." (Very Solemn Gaze as Response). "Okay, eight. But I'm almost eight. Can't I go? Please?"
We caved, because we are like that. As much as we would like for intuition and wisdom to guide us, we second-guess that intuition and wisdom All The Time. Why was it we said she must be eight years old for these things? And was it all that important? And isn't this child-- this birthday child who has invited her-- also important? And, oh, how Emma wants to go!
She packed her bag with zeal, even managing to squeeze her pillow into the thing. Pajamas, clean clothes, toothbrush. She was set. She headed out the door with the birthday girl and her mother and only looked back because I called out one last time, "Bye!"
In the end, we were very happy for her to get to go.
Hours later, Bill and I sit on the patio of a favorite restaurant. The boys are with a baby-sitter, Emma is at her sleep-over. We have seen The Dark Knight; we have eaten our appetizers. We are in no hurry for our dinner but are enjoying the night air and the wine and some long-desired, uninterrupted conversation.
The cell phone rings. It is the birthday girl's mother.
Emma has forgotten her bunny. Yes, her sweet pink bunny, the one with her name embroidered near the hem, the one whose ears are worn, whose satin is frayed, whose bluishness at the top of the head comes from sitting in Something Staining a long time ago. She has left it at home and wants that we should bring it to her.
There are All Sorts of Things wrong with this. We are on a date. We are having a good time. We haven't had our dinner and we want to. The bunny is at home. And the girl who is supposed to be enjoying her first sleep-over is sleeping over at a house every bit of a half hour away. We are not going to be taking the bunny to her. No.
And yet.
I can imagine the quaver she feels inside. My confident one, my brave girl who hates to cry and would die before she let it happen. She isn't the sort to bail on a night like this. She will sleep over. But she had Always Intended to be sleeping over With Her Bunny.
Now Emma is on the phone, and Bill hands the phone to me."You left bunny?" I say to her.
"Uh-huh," she says, and her voice is not very strong.
"But I thought you went back upstairs to get her?"
"I did, but then I forgot to get her." Funny the things a mother can hear in her daughter's voice.
"Oh," I say, and "well," I say, and "you were just so excited about the party, weren't you? Of course you forgot bunny. It was kind of easy to do."
"Uh-huh," she says again.
Breezy, is what I am. Calm. Casual. This is not a problem. Not a problem at all.
"Well, don't you worry about bunny," I say. "Bunny will understand. She will be just fine. When I get home, I will go and find her and I will bring her to my bed, and she can sleep with Daddy and me. So you can enjoy the sleep-over and you don't need to worry about her at all. And tomorrow, when you get home, she will be waiting for you."
This sounded very good to Emma Grace. It was, in fact, all she needed to hear. So she went on and enjoyed the sleep-over and got very little sleep, just as one is supposed to do at these things.
And Bunny slept in our room, as promised, and when Emma arrived home the next day, she went in search of her, and found her, as she expected, on her mommy and daddy's bed. I don't think she asked, but I would have told her: bunny slept Just Fine too.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
First Day of Kindergarten
As one of you once said to me, I've been living a blogpost this morning...
No, this isn't the story of how I cried and, of course, Luke didn't, when I dropped him off for his first day of school. No, this isn't about how lonely it was to eat lunch without him for the first time today. That's all true, but that's not it.
The morning started off pretty well. I remembered that he's not allowed to wear open-toed shoes and made sure he had socks and sneakers on. I had something other than a peanut butter sandwich to pack (no PB allowed at his school...sigh), plus remembered to pack a little note with his lunch. I even got a few pictures of the proud kindergartener with backpack and lunchbox and all. So far, so good.
I woke Eliza up, poor girl, just like every morning of preschool last year (why she chooses to sleep only in the morning and not at night I'll never understand). Got everybody in the car with time to spare. Luke almost forgot his backpack (with snack inside), but I caught him before it was too late. So far, great.
Getting in and out of school is less than simple with Eliza. Because of an as-yet undelivered wheelchair (since March--arrgh!), we're using a jogging stroller to cart her around for now. The school, of course, has steps up to the entrance, so we need to use an alternate entrance and wind our way through a small maze of very narrow hallways (with not-so-narrow jogger) clogged with hoardes of first-day kids and moms and dads and siblings-who-don't-need-wheelchairs to find the classroom. Pit stop on the way for our first adventure: Eliza decided to christen the school carpet (along with her clothes and mine). This will come as no surprise to those of you who know Eliza. What may surprise you is that I decided to give her a big stomach-full of water just before we left the house. Why? Chalk it up to sleep-deprived consideration of the relative merits of hydration versus vomit-free clothing. Wrong choice, as now we have neither. Watery vomit contained and cleaned up, and we're moving again. So far, not too bad.
Next stop: required hand-washing at the bathroom. Too, too many people crowding the boys' room for me to maneuver the aforementioned jogger, so we stop at the girls' room. I'm a girl, after all. The other little girl washing her hands is none too thrilled to find Luke there. Oh, well. Clean hands, and we're ready to move again. So far, so close...
More narrow hallway navigation and we arrive at the line of kindergarten cubbies, which, by the way, make the hallway that much narrower. Find Luke's cubby: check. As I set his lunchbox into the cubby, it strikes me that it feels awfully light...no drink. And there, as a friend of mine likes to say, goes Mom of the Year 2008. So, so close.
No drink? Impossible! My mom would never have packed me a lunch with no drink! No, she of the homemade Halloween costumes and Christmas presents couldn't possibly forget something so essential. I forgot my lunch plenty of times, but Mom? Never. But I did it. Day one, and no drink. Now surely he could just get a drink from the fountain or even use a paper cup from the teacher...but I can't be that mom. That mom who forgets a drink on day one. No, I have standards to live up to, and high ones, too (thanks, Mom). My head begins to swim: drop Luke off (without mentioning the missing drink, of course), swim upstream again with Eliza, get her back in the car, drive home, get a drink, drive back to school, get Eliza back in the jogger (all before 9:45 when the school doors are locked), navigate the hallways again, drop off the drink, and slink off in hopes that my deficiency won't be noticed by the all the other organized-and-certainly-didn't-forget-the-drink moms.
So a teary (mine, not his) goodbye hug and I'm off to the races. Navigate the maze, trek back to the car, begin the process of loading Eliza in...and what do I see but an empty water bottle on the floor of the car. How long has it been there? Not sure. Last washed? Who knows. But Eliza's still in the jogger and the school door's still unlocked and the bathroom has a sink...Never mind it's not the special new water bottle I bought him for the first day. Never mind it's a bottle bearing the logo of my husband's school, which Luke is not attending, after much difficult discussion and some disappointment. Never mind that it may be germy. No, it's not the water bottle I would have chosen in my happy-go-lucky first day of school world. But it's here...and it holds water. So, so good.
And there's always Mom of the Year '09...
After-school update: He reports that he didn't drink his water at all, not one drop, because--get this--he couldn't open the top. I kid you not.
No, this isn't the story of how I cried and, of course, Luke didn't, when I dropped him off for his first day of school. No, this isn't about how lonely it was to eat lunch without him for the first time today. That's all true, but that's not it.
The morning started off pretty well. I remembered that he's not allowed to wear open-toed shoes and made sure he had socks and sneakers on. I had something other than a peanut butter sandwich to pack (no PB allowed at his school...sigh), plus remembered to pack a little note with his lunch. I even got a few pictures of the proud kindergartener with backpack and lunchbox and all. So far, so good.
I woke Eliza up, poor girl, just like every morning of preschool last year (why she chooses to sleep only in the morning and not at night I'll never understand). Got everybody in the car with time to spare. Luke almost forgot his backpack (with snack inside), but I caught him before it was too late. So far, great.
Getting in and out of school is less than simple with Eliza. Because of an as-yet undelivered wheelchair (since March--arrgh!), we're using a jogging stroller to cart her around for now. The school, of course, has steps up to the entrance, so we need to use an alternate entrance and wind our way through a small maze of very narrow hallways (with not-so-narrow jogger) clogged with hoardes of first-day kids and moms and dads and siblings-who-don't-need-wheelchairs to find the classroom. Pit stop on the way for our first adventure: Eliza decided to christen the school carpet (along with her clothes and mine). This will come as no surprise to those of you who know Eliza. What may surprise you is that I decided to give her a big stomach-full of water just before we left the house. Why? Chalk it up to sleep-deprived consideration of the relative merits of hydration versus vomit-free clothing. Wrong choice, as now we have neither. Watery vomit contained and cleaned up, and we're moving again. So far, not too bad.
Next stop: required hand-washing at the bathroom. Too, too many people crowding the boys' room for me to maneuver the aforementioned jogger, so we stop at the girls' room. I'm a girl, after all. The other little girl washing her hands is none too thrilled to find Luke there. Oh, well. Clean hands, and we're ready to move again. So far, so close...
More narrow hallway navigation and we arrive at the line of kindergarten cubbies, which, by the way, make the hallway that much narrower. Find Luke's cubby: check. As I set his lunchbox into the cubby, it strikes me that it feels awfully light...no drink. And there, as a friend of mine likes to say, goes Mom of the Year 2008. So, so close.
No drink? Impossible! My mom would never have packed me a lunch with no drink! No, she of the homemade Halloween costumes and Christmas presents couldn't possibly forget something so essential. I forgot my lunch plenty of times, but Mom? Never. But I did it. Day one, and no drink. Now surely he could just get a drink from the fountain or even use a paper cup from the teacher...but I can't be that mom. That mom who forgets a drink on day one. No, I have standards to live up to, and high ones, too (thanks, Mom). My head begins to swim: drop Luke off (without mentioning the missing drink, of course), swim upstream again with Eliza, get her back in the car, drive home, get a drink, drive back to school, get Eliza back in the jogger (all before 9:45 when the school doors are locked), navigate the hallways again, drop off the drink, and slink off in hopes that my deficiency won't be noticed by the all the other organized-and-certainly-didn't-forget-the-drink moms.
So a teary (mine, not his) goodbye hug and I'm off to the races. Navigate the maze, trek back to the car, begin the process of loading Eliza in...and what do I see but an empty water bottle on the floor of the car. How long has it been there? Not sure. Last washed? Who knows. But Eliza's still in the jogger and the school door's still unlocked and the bathroom has a sink...Never mind it's not the special new water bottle I bought him for the first day. Never mind it's a bottle bearing the logo of my husband's school, which Luke is not attending, after much difficult discussion and some disappointment. Never mind that it may be germy. No, it's not the water bottle I would have chosen in my happy-go-lucky first day of school world. But it's here...and it holds water. So, so good.
And there's always Mom of the Year '09...
After-school update: He reports that he didn't drink his water at all, not one drop, because--get this--he couldn't open the top. I kid you not.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Politics As Usual
My kindergartener just returned from an airplane trip with Dad, which involved a layover in Washington, D.C. He reported that he saw some bobble-head dolls (if only I'd videotaped his impression of "dolls that go like this" as he lacked the name for such fascinating things) of McCain and Obama while waiting in the airport. Our conversation went something like this:
Luke: Who are you voting for, Mom? I'm voting for John McCain.
Me: Oh, you are? How come?
Luke: No, actually, I'm voting for Rock Obama.
Me: Why Obama?
Luke: 'Cause I think he'll be a good president.
Me: What makes you think that?
Luke: I'm sure he's been practicing at home.
I secretly think he's swooning at the name "Rock." What five-year-old boy wouldn't, really?
Ambition
There are lots of reasons I haven't posted in a while, and really none at all...just typical mired-down-in-life and not sure I have anything particularly interesting in my mind, much less to share with anyone else.
So I'll just share a funny moment from dinner. We were talking about what the kids want to be when they grow up. D wants to be a "digger," to drive a big truck and move big, heavy rocks. Zoe? She wants to be a princess at the state fair.
Look out, Miss Cow Manure. Your throne is being challenged.
So I'll just share a funny moment from dinner. We were talking about what the kids want to be when they grow up. D wants to be a "digger," to drive a big truck and move big, heavy rocks. Zoe? She wants to be a princess at the state fair.
Look out, Miss Cow Manure. Your throne is being challenged.
Monday, September 1, 2008
The Blessing of small hands
Ahhh...life with three kids is always interesting. My newest little fellow is only 8 weeks old and has thrown quite a "kink" into my pretty smooth life. I had really gotten into a grove with my 3 and 4 year old and then the baby came along. Once again thrown into sleepless nights, endless diapers, pacing the floor bouncing for all I am worth at 3 in the morning, terrified he is going to wake the other two. The sweet smiles and baby sounds make up for most of the "what have I done to my life adding a third" questions most of the time. But there are those other times ya know...
My 3 year old little girl never has those "other" times. Of course she isn't up all night or changing the diapers but she does listen to her share of screaming and she does get "in a second sweetie, Mommy is nursing the baby" often enough to raise some jealousy. But, no, never. My sweet little girl is always full of love for her little brother. A couple of my favorite examples are:
1. The times that I have sat my baby in his crib nursed, changed, burped, bounced and walked all I can bounce and walk and he is still screaming, and she will stand by his crib while he screams touching his head and saying in her most calming voice, "It is OK little buddy. I am here. I am sorry I don't know what to do for you. Are you tired? Are you hungry? It's OK, don't cry."
2. My very favorite was last week when I dropped her off for her first day of preschool and she told me as she got out of the car, "Be sure to get baby a good nap this morning. He will be getting tired soon." Yes little mother.
I often feel very convicted of my impatience with my smallest child as I watch my daughter love him with no expectations of his returning her affection. She seems to understand that he is little and is just trying to get used to this life much better than I do. I am so thankful for her. She is teaching me how to be a better mother. God uses the least of us.
My 3 year old little girl never has those "other" times. Of course she isn't up all night or changing the diapers but she does listen to her share of screaming and she does get "in a second sweetie, Mommy is nursing the baby" often enough to raise some jealousy. But, no, never. My sweet little girl is always full of love for her little brother. A couple of my favorite examples are:
1. The times that I have sat my baby in his crib nursed, changed, burped, bounced and walked all I can bounce and walk and he is still screaming, and she will stand by his crib while he screams touching his head and saying in her most calming voice, "It is OK little buddy. I am here. I am sorry I don't know what to do for you. Are you tired? Are you hungry? It's OK, don't cry."
2. My very favorite was last week when I dropped her off for her first day of preschool and she told me as she got out of the car, "Be sure to get baby a good nap this morning. He will be getting tired soon." Yes little mother.
I often feel very convicted of my impatience with my smallest child as I watch my daughter love him with no expectations of his returning her affection. She seems to understand that he is little and is just trying to get used to this life much better than I do. I am so thankful for her. She is teaching me how to be a better mother. God uses the least of us.
Friday, August 22, 2008
My Other Half
Back when I used my brain for analyzing literature and thinking profound thoughts--instead of portioning out animal crackers and measuring medications--I spent a semester studying the concept of the "Other" in literature. I confess that I've lost 90% of what I learned about it, but a bit of it came back to me last week.
In case you weren't a literature or philosophy major, I'll give you my best vague recollection of the concept. Be warned, though: the concept of the Other is strongly associated with the French, at least in my experience, and if you're at all familiar with French literature and philosophy, you'll understand my lack of clarity. Here's my best shot: the Other is one who is excluded in some way by a set of norms, specifically those norms that are used to define those who are included. By defining what is Other, who is Other, a person or society or culture is able to more clearly define (and justify) itself. And that's the Self (capital S), too, which is maybe a topic for another post. (If you're wondering what this has to do with mothering or are wishing I'd just go back to portioning out animal crackers and measuring medications, stick with me; I promise I'm getting there).
Other-ness is often accompanied by isolation and loneliness. One who is Other-ed is excluded in some profound way that prevents him/her from engaging with and participating in the Self-s with whom s/he is surrounded. As mothers, we are Others. Attend a dinner party where you don't know the other guests: what's the second question a new acquaintance will ask (after your name)? What do you do? (Or even more to the point, Where do you work?). For those of us who work at home, portioning out animal crackers, this question forces us into the role of Other. If we spend any time with couples who are non-parents, we are Other-ed each time we are unable to attend a function, go out for an impromptu dinner or drink, meet for lunch; mothers (and fathers, for that matter) don't have the flexibility that defines the average American Self. We are Other.
But I wasn't thinking about this concept of Other-ness in the context of mothering when it first came to me. Rather, I thought of it as I went to the Department of Social Services to apply for services for my severely disabled daughter. As I drove into the parking lot--around a man pinned to a police car being handcuffed--I realized that I had arrived at a place where many of our society's Others spend a significant amount of time. And here, I was the Other, in a more profound and obvious way than I have ever been before. I did not look like anyone else there; I stuck out like a sore thumb as I read the book I had brought with me; I had no use for the "unknown" responses for "parent" and "race" on my daughter's intake form. It was humbling to have the limits of my small world expanded, to see so many people whose life circumstances I cannot even imagine. In fact, I saw one person there who I know, and I know a bit about the daily hardships she faces; multiply those by the fifty or so people with whom I shared the waiting room, and the challenges--and Other-ness--are unfathomable. Here, in a profound and fresh way, I was Other.
As I compared this new Other-ness I had discovered with the Other-ness of mothering, I realized that I live somewhere in between. We Other-mothers do well to find Self-s with whom we can relate: this blog, our playgroups, our moms'-nights-out. And those who are Other-ed from our society in a more concrete way find community amongst Self-s in places I hardly knew existed. Yes, I belonged at Social Services, as my daughter is entitled to its services as much as anyone else there. But that doesn't mean I fit in easily to that community. And while I share in the community of mothers in many profound ways, I am excluded--Other-ed--in ways that the group cannot understand. As the mother of a two-and-a-half year old who is severly disabled--"medically fragile" is a new term I've learned to describe her from my new community of Others--I am unable to share my mothering strategies and struggles with even those Other-mothers with whom I share so much. As the mother of a child whom I will almost certainly outlive and whose dire prognosis I have mourned for over two years, I am excluded in unfathomable ways from full participation in the society of mothers-of-kids-who-grow-up.
What I'll do with this new understanding, both of my Other-ness and of the Others whom I so easily ignore, I'm not yet sure. I'm hesitant even to put this out there in the great big world of not-so-private blogs rather than in some hidden, secret journal. I do know that my understanding of the golden rule--Do unto Others as you would have them do unto you--has taken on new life in some as-yet abstract way. I'll use that tried-and-true rule with my kindergartener in a new way for sure. In that sense, I guess, I'm glad for the reminder that I am--and we all are--Other.
In case you weren't a literature or philosophy major, I'll give you my best vague recollection of the concept. Be warned, though: the concept of the Other is strongly associated with the French, at least in my experience, and if you're at all familiar with French literature and philosophy, you'll understand my lack of clarity. Here's my best shot: the Other is one who is excluded in some way by a set of norms, specifically those norms that are used to define those who are included. By defining what is Other, who is Other, a person or society or culture is able to more clearly define (and justify) itself. And that's the Self (capital S), too, which is maybe a topic for another post. (If you're wondering what this has to do with mothering or are wishing I'd just go back to portioning out animal crackers and measuring medications, stick with me; I promise I'm getting there).
Other-ness is often accompanied by isolation and loneliness. One who is Other-ed is excluded in some profound way that prevents him/her from engaging with and participating in the Self-s with whom s/he is surrounded. As mothers, we are Others. Attend a dinner party where you don't know the other guests: what's the second question a new acquaintance will ask (after your name)? What do you do? (Or even more to the point, Where do you work?). For those of us who work at home, portioning out animal crackers, this question forces us into the role of Other. If we spend any time with couples who are non-parents, we are Other-ed each time we are unable to attend a function, go out for an impromptu dinner or drink, meet for lunch; mothers (and fathers, for that matter) don't have the flexibility that defines the average American Self. We are Other.
But I wasn't thinking about this concept of Other-ness in the context of mothering when it first came to me. Rather, I thought of it as I went to the Department of Social Services to apply for services for my severely disabled daughter. As I drove into the parking lot--around a man pinned to a police car being handcuffed--I realized that I had arrived at a place where many of our society's Others spend a significant amount of time. And here, I was the Other, in a more profound and obvious way than I have ever been before. I did not look like anyone else there; I stuck out like a sore thumb as I read the book I had brought with me; I had no use for the "unknown" responses for "parent" and "race" on my daughter's intake form. It was humbling to have the limits of my small world expanded, to see so many people whose life circumstances I cannot even imagine. In fact, I saw one person there who I know, and I know a bit about the daily hardships she faces; multiply those by the fifty or so people with whom I shared the waiting room, and the challenges--and Other-ness--are unfathomable. Here, in a profound and fresh way, I was Other.
As I compared this new Other-ness I had discovered with the Other-ness of mothering, I realized that I live somewhere in between. We Other-mothers do well to find Self-s with whom we can relate: this blog, our playgroups, our moms'-nights-out. And those who are Other-ed from our society in a more concrete way find community amongst Self-s in places I hardly knew existed. Yes, I belonged at Social Services, as my daughter is entitled to its services as much as anyone else there. But that doesn't mean I fit in easily to that community. And while I share in the community of mothers in many profound ways, I am excluded--Other-ed--in ways that the group cannot understand. As the mother of a two-and-a-half year old who is severly disabled--"medically fragile" is a new term I've learned to describe her from my new community of Others--I am unable to share my mothering strategies and struggles with even those Other-mothers with whom I share so much. As the mother of a child whom I will almost certainly outlive and whose dire prognosis I have mourned for over two years, I am excluded in unfathomable ways from full participation in the society of mothers-of-kids-who-grow-up.
What I'll do with this new understanding, both of my Other-ness and of the Others whom I so easily ignore, I'm not yet sure. I'm hesitant even to put this out there in the great big world of not-so-private blogs rather than in some hidden, secret journal. I do know that my understanding of the golden rule--Do unto Others as you would have them do unto you--has taken on new life in some as-yet abstract way. I'll use that tried-and-true rule with my kindergartener in a new way for sure. In that sense, I guess, I'm glad for the reminder that I am--and we all are--Other.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Spell Love?
My two and a half year old loves the alphabet and spelling words, especially new words he finds funny. (Plum is a very funny word when you're a little boy, for the record.) I have all sorts of papers around with "mama dada house cow tigger thunder hi" written on them, along with the words of the day. Yesterday I asked Benjamin if he knew how to spell "love" and he replied "grandpa." Sounds about right, doesn't it?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Gandalf is My Mother-In-Law
In preparation for my in-laws' visit from Spain next month, I have been trying to get Eliana to say Grandma and Grandpa, rather than Nana and Papa, which she easily and articulately calls my parents. She loves looking at pictures and identifying things in them, so I've been using this little passion to get her going. She has managed to master one of the two names and confidently uses this name for both Ben's mom and dad.
So, why was I surprised when pulling out DVDs from the cabinet, she grabbed The Lord of the Rings, pointed to the picture of Gandalf, and proudly proclaimed, "GRANDMA!"?
Monday, August 18, 2008
Watch This!
We've been watching a lot of Olympics at our house. Have you? The television goes on Every Night these days, and this is very strange because, at our house, from the end of March Madness through the beginning of football season, we usually turn the cable off. Right off. Completely off. The thinking is that we all have better things to do out of doors during the summer than to sit in front of the television.
But we turned the cable back on little early this year due, of course, to the Olympics. And I think you can hardly blame us. The opening ceremonies alone were worth it, and then there's that Michael Phelps guy, and all the diving, and the gymnastics.
Our children are loving this. Yes, they all are. In fact, this unbridled television viewing-- not suspended by screen allotments (usually an hour a day) and continuing on until well past Everyone's bedtime (it is summer, after all)-- is a Feast for our children. They watch the qualifying heats, they watch the competition, they watch the commercials (ah! commercials!). They live in continuous awe of their newfound fortune. How long can it possibly last?
I think the favorite is the gymnastics. That stuff is Amazing. So Very. How do they do these things? The contortions, the twisting, the tumbling, the vaulting oneself into the stratosphere by sheer will- and leg-power. You don't want to miss this. You don't. You want to watch and watch and watch.
Which is why Emma became so annoying the other night. Yes, she did. For her seven-year-old self, the watching just wasn't enough. She was Inspired. She wanted to Be a Gymnast. She knew she could do it. And she did.
In the lovely open space just next to our little seating/television viewing area in our family room, Emma worked on perfecting her cartwheel. She twisted. She turned. She darted across the short space and flung her weight onto her hands, kicking her legs in the air.
And she implored us to watch.
"Watch this! Watch this!" she would say, and we turned our heads and watched her, and dutifully praised her, and were, from time to time, Duly Impressed. But this was her first real go at gymnastics and, with such limited experience, so also was her performance limited. The first, second and third cartwheels really looked a Great Deal like the seventeenth and even the eighteenth. Meanwhile, in Beijing, the Chinese Olympic team was, with what appeared to be really little effort, Blowing Our Minds.
"Watch! Mom, watch!"
"I am watching the Olympics right now, Emma."
Is that okay to say? Is it? I mean, these are the 2008 Olympics. They will not happen again. If previous experience has shown me anything, I can be fairly certain that I will not watch gymnastics of this caliber again for four more years.
But Emma Grace is seven.
"Watch how fast I can run, Mom," she tells me, and she is off, running through the rooms that compose the first floor of our house, hoping that I'm counting, surprised by her own speed.
"Watch me!" and she shows me (again) that she can whistle.
"Watch!" and she is jumping rope.
The boys have been "into" skateboarding this summer. They have learned how to ollie; they are working on kick-flips; they have grown their hair long. And they say it, too:
"Mom, watch this ollie!" "Mom, watch this kick-flip!" Sometimes they are successful ollies, sometimes they are successful kick-flips. Sometimes I am standing with my hands spilling the mail onto the driveway, in the heat, with mosquitoes biting my shins.
"Watch this!"
I don't remember if mosquitoes were an issue that summer evening long ago in Pittsburgh when my friends and siblings and I held a circus in our backyard. Yes, we had a circus: me and my sisters, some of the Munns girls, Megan Fergus, and Janet Fernando. All we did, really, was to hang from our knees from the rings, and work our way across the parallel bars, and maybe do a cartwheel or two. And at the end I, followed by two friends, walked the Entire Length of the split-rail fence, and turned around at the end, and walked back. I loved doing that. I did it all the time. I'm sure that, by the time we held the circus, my mother had seen me do it a thousand times from the kitchen sink window.
But for this circus, I'm pretty sure she watched.
"Watch this, Mom! Watch!"
I haven't said those words to my mother in a Really Long Time.
It's a privilege, you know, and a short-lived one at that. To be the one who is asked, I mean. To have one's attention sought. To be the One who matters.
"Watch this, Mom!"
I'm watching.
But we turned the cable back on little early this year due, of course, to the Olympics. And I think you can hardly blame us. The opening ceremonies alone were worth it, and then there's that Michael Phelps guy, and all the diving, and the gymnastics.
Our children are loving this. Yes, they all are. In fact, this unbridled television viewing-- not suspended by screen allotments (usually an hour a day) and continuing on until well past Everyone's bedtime (it is summer, after all)-- is a Feast for our children. They watch the qualifying heats, they watch the competition, they watch the commercials (ah! commercials!). They live in continuous awe of their newfound fortune. How long can it possibly last?
I think the favorite is the gymnastics. That stuff is Amazing. So Very. How do they do these things? The contortions, the twisting, the tumbling, the vaulting oneself into the stratosphere by sheer will- and leg-power. You don't want to miss this. You don't. You want to watch and watch and watch.
Which is why Emma became so annoying the other night. Yes, she did. For her seven-year-old self, the watching just wasn't enough. She was Inspired. She wanted to Be a Gymnast. She knew she could do it. And she did.
In the lovely open space just next to our little seating/television viewing area in our family room, Emma worked on perfecting her cartwheel. She twisted. She turned. She darted across the short space and flung her weight onto her hands, kicking her legs in the air.
And she implored us to watch.
"Watch this! Watch this!" she would say, and we turned our heads and watched her, and dutifully praised her, and were, from time to time, Duly Impressed. But this was her first real go at gymnastics and, with such limited experience, so also was her performance limited. The first, second and third cartwheels really looked a Great Deal like the seventeenth and even the eighteenth. Meanwhile, in Beijing, the Chinese Olympic team was, with what appeared to be really little effort, Blowing Our Minds.
"Watch! Mom, watch!"
"I am watching the Olympics right now, Emma."
Is that okay to say? Is it? I mean, these are the 2008 Olympics. They will not happen again. If previous experience has shown me anything, I can be fairly certain that I will not watch gymnastics of this caliber again for four more years.
But Emma Grace is seven.
"Watch how fast I can run, Mom," she tells me, and she is off, running through the rooms that compose the first floor of our house, hoping that I'm counting, surprised by her own speed.
"Watch me!" and she shows me (again) that she can whistle.
"Watch!" and she is jumping rope.
The boys have been "into" skateboarding this summer. They have learned how to ollie; they are working on kick-flips; they have grown their hair long. And they say it, too:
"Mom, watch this ollie!" "Mom, watch this kick-flip!" Sometimes they are successful ollies, sometimes they are successful kick-flips. Sometimes I am standing with my hands spilling the mail onto the driveway, in the heat, with mosquitoes biting my shins.
"Watch this!"
I don't remember if mosquitoes were an issue that summer evening long ago in Pittsburgh when my friends and siblings and I held a circus in our backyard. Yes, we had a circus: me and my sisters, some of the Munns girls, Megan Fergus, and Janet Fernando. All we did, really, was to hang from our knees from the rings, and work our way across the parallel bars, and maybe do a cartwheel or two. And at the end I, followed by two friends, walked the Entire Length of the split-rail fence, and turned around at the end, and walked back. I loved doing that. I did it all the time. I'm sure that, by the time we held the circus, my mother had seen me do it a thousand times from the kitchen sink window.
But for this circus, I'm pretty sure she watched.
"Watch this, Mom! Watch!"
I haven't said those words to my mother in a Really Long Time.
It's a privilege, you know, and a short-lived one at that. To be the one who is asked, I mean. To have one's attention sought. To be the One who matters.
"Watch this, Mom!"
I'm watching.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Building my house
"Mom, you're really good at building with Legos."
I had just reattached a door that had come off its "hinges" on a house that I built out of Legos months ago for my son. It's your standard rectangle, window at one end, door at the other, slanted tiles at the edges of the roof and one for the front stoop, too.
To tell the truth, I've never been all that good at building with Legos (though the one nice touch on this house, in my opinion, is that all the colors are symmetrical...not that my son would ever notice such a detail).
Anyhow, for an almost-five-year-old who's just mastering the art of building, this is an impressive structure, one he puts on a high shelf when friends come over so it won't get smashed.
But the door came off...and as it turns out, not only can I build a pretty solid Lego house, but I can do a mean door repair, too.
The Proverbs tell me that "The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down" (Prov 14:1). If only it were as easy as Legos.
What does it mean for me to "build my house"? To encourage, to provide comfort, to quench, to love, to teach, to mend...to reattach what comes unhinged. It's no small order. What comes unhinged for a husband is very different than for a kindergartener, which is very different from what comes unhinged for a severely disabled toddler. Not to mention all those guests--temporary residents--who cross my threshold and whose doors I may need to rehinge, too: playmates, family visitors, neighbors, coworkers.
Even in my small house, keeping it built up--not to mention avoiding tearing it down--is a tall order. Perhaps someday my son will pay me the ultimate compliment on my house-building again...but not just with Legos. Until then, I'll keep building.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Having It All
"Where am I? Who am I?
How did I come to be here?
What is this thing called the world?
How did I come into the world?
Why was I not consulted?
And If I am compelled to take part in it,
Where is the director?
I want to see him."
- Soren Kierkegaard
One morning last spring my friend Madeline dropped by for a visit. We sat in lounge chairs in my front yard on the little circle of synthetic green that, in Arizona, constitutes our ‘lawn.’ Our babies, born a week apart, ogled each other beneath silk sunhats, groping now and then at a loose thread that sprouted between the faded quilt squares beneath them.
Madeline’s three-year-old, Lizzie, quickly made a game of tossing pennies into the stone fountain that stood beside the lawn. Occasionally she trotted lightly round the fountain’s base and, tucking her chin into her neck, abashedly made us guess at her ‘wish.’ When I suggested that, perhaps, since it was so terribly hot, she might have wished for a cold soda or an iced cream cone she said, “No,” more solemnly than I thought any three year old capable. “I asked God to make me more grateful.”
Madeline and I exchanged glances, at once baffled and delighted by her innocence and depth.
In between slow sips of iced tea we chit chatted about this and that – the books we were reading, a newly discovered recipe for chocolate dipped coconut macaroons – and at 11 o’clock shared a snack of fresh strawberries and crackers and cheese. By 11:30 the babies began to rub their eyes. “I believe our window is closing,” I said.
Lizzie, at my elbow, looked up at me quizzically. “Miss Heather,” she ventured, searching stoically about the yard, “which window is it?”
I started to answer, then stopped myself, having grasped her meaning. “Oh, sweetheart,” I said, making little effort to conceal my amusement, “that’s called a metaphor.”
“A meta-what?”
“A metaphor. For example, have you ever heard anyone say, ‘It’s raining cats and dogs?’
“Nooo.”
“How about: ‘She has a heart of stone?’”
Lizzie shook her head.
“Please,” interrupted Madeline, “stop while you’re ahead.”
“I don’t believe I ever was - Oh, Madeline. She's an absolute dream.”
Madeline smiled. “Moments like this make it all worth it,” she said her voice trailing off “…which is why I am embarrassed to admit I sometimes fear I will wake up one day and wonder if I wasted my life. I wanted to have it all, you know? And I’m terrified that perhaps staying home was the easy answer.”
I squeezed Madeline’s arm and told her I didn’t think there were any easy answers.
But after we waved goodbye I lingered a few moments on my front step, feeling a stab of regret that I hadn’t a better response to my friend’s admission. If she could only see herself through my eyes, I thought. If only she knew what she had gained compared to what she had lost…
Madeline met her husband in law school. They clerked together, graduated together, and after their marriage took a job together with a Phoenix firm. When they got married, Madeline was sure she’d return to work after having children. But two weeks into her maternity leave, her husband began to rethink his convictions regarding childrearing. He felt it was important for children to have their mother at home, particularly during their earliest years. And so, contrary to her own preferences, Madeline submitted to his wishes, choosing to honor him at the expense of her career.
Needless to say, she was not the kind of person with a predilection for easy answers.
I knew she loved being a mother. I loved being a mother. Yet I resonated with her fear - not because I felt ambivalence at my decision to stay home – but because I shared what I believed was Madeline’s underlying desire to live a purposeful life. I considered that all people harbor such desires – to live lives that have impact and, as worn out as the phrase may be, make some lasting difference in the larger world.
The desire for meaning and purpose are intrinsic to human nature. But how, I pondered, does one go about attaining these things? More specifically, how does one do so as a mother and a Christian?
THE PROBLEM
As a woman, the culture tells me that I should be able to have it all – love, career, and children – and that I am justified in pursuing my dreams regardless of the cost to my husband, child, and – above all – my relationship with God. Moreover, I am given the subtle but unmistakable message that doing something “important” and being a full-time mother are mutually exclusive.
In contrast, Christianity teaches that in order to find my life I must lose it; and that the key to living is dying. Thus the two states are directly opposed. To live a life of temporal significance – according to the world’s value system – I must devote myself to self-actualization whereas, to follow Jesus Christ and live a life of eternal significance requires self-sacrifice.
Madeline chose to sacrifice her own plans by submitting to the leadership of her husband. From a Christian standpoint, she made the right decision.
But if so, why are there lingering doubts in her mind, and the minds of so many women like her? If what we are doing as wives, mothers, and children of God is really meaningful in His eyes, why does it so often feel mundane and purposeless?
THE SOLUTION
I have come to believe that life often feels meaningless because it is meaningless. King Solomon surveyed the nature of existence and concluded that all things are absurd, futile, and without meaning. Whether you are a lawyer a mother or a world-renown tightrope walker “all is vanity and striving after wind.”
A man may build an empire today but tomorrow no one will remember his name. As the Psalmist says, “[There is] no remembrance of former [things]; neither shall there be [any] remembrance of [things] that are to come with [those] that shall come after." The Bible teaches that we cannot effect any lasting change in the universe. Whatever impact we are to have is in, through, and by the power of Christ at work in us “to will and to work for His good pleasure.”
Galations 5.6 says, “…In Christ Jesus neither circumcision nor uncircumcision has any value. The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.”
I thought again of Madeline. She was but one of a great many of the women I knew who had “put to death” their own plans in order to be obedient to the thing which they believed God had called them to. Madeline was staying home with her girls even though her preference was to practice law. Lucy, a surgeon, was working faithfully despite the fact that her real longing was to be a wife and mother. Jane had made great domestic sacrifices in order to care for her aging parents. And Elizabeth - who had been eager to cease working after the birth of her first child - continued after her baby was diagnosed with a serious illness - just so her family could maintain health insurance!
All of these women have drastically different circumstances; none of them is living the life she envisioned for herself. Yet each is stewarding her circumstances with a faith that is expressing itself through love.
Thus it is neither working nor staying home, mothering nor remaining single, that have any value. What is valuable is being faithful to God through the circumstances He gives – believing Him, hoping in Him, and staking our lives upon His Word.
Hebrews 4.2 says, “For indeed we have had good news preached to us, just as they [the Israelites] also; but the word they heard did not profit them, because it was not united by faith in those who heard.” If we are to live profitable lives, lives that, in God’s kingdom, “amount to something,” we must spend our energies believing in the gospel that was preached to us and the God which it reveals: a God who became man and died a sinner's death in order to reconcile us to Himself. It is this gospel - and not the gospel of self-actualization or self-empowerment - which must become the single, unifying power that holds our lives together. It alone must be the foundation upon which our life is built, the framework through which our every decision is made.
Ephesians 2.10 says, “For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God has chosen beforehand that we should walk in them.” The American mindset is that I am my own workmanship. The world is my oyster; and thus my destiny is my own. I must set my mind on the thing I want and work relentlessly until it is my possession.
But if the Word of God is reliable and true, if we are His workmanship then, like any master artist, He decides precisely what we are to be. He chooses the medium (whether oil, watercolor, charcoal), the subject (perhaps a portrait or landscape) and the period in which the work that is my very soul is rendered. We choose whether to comply with Him in the making, whether – in faith – to persevere through the circumstances He chooses, letting Him have His way, or whether we will dig in our heels and in defiance say, No, You must use this color! And how about sketching me in a grand old house by the sea instead of out here in the desert or the mountains or the swamp?
What is more, if we are His workmanship – His works of art, like living stones being built up into a spiritual house – then it is fair to say that He made us for the same reason that the painter paints her painting, or the sculptor sculpts her clay – she does so for the sheer joy of the thing! The process is certainly painstaking, but it is also delightful! And the outcome remains forever afterward something that brings glory to the Painter, something that proclaims to the whole universe just how magnificent He is.
Proverbs 16.4 says, “The Lord has made everything for its own purpose. Even the wicked for the day of evil.” The clause “for its own purpose” comes from the Hebrew word maaneh which, when translated literally, means “for Himself, for His answer or response.” Accordingly the King James Bible says, “The Lord has made everything for himself.”
Thus we find our life’s purpose in belonging to God, and being the thing He has made us to be. We are valuable because He says so. Specificities of application aside, He has made us to be conformed into the image of Jesus Christ; to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength; and to love our neighbor as ourselves. Such love, if it is genuine, is demonstrated through obedience: “This is love for God: to obey his commands” (1 John 5.3). Like Christ, ours should be an obedience that persists, regardless of circumstances and irrespective of cost.
If we believe Him – and spend our lives seeking to conform ourselves to His word – then we will become increasingly immune to the oft-times alluring but hopelessly mistaken values of our world.
“Having it all” will always be defined as having all of Him. John 15.5 says, “Abide in me and you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” Only God can effect change in the universe. He accomplishes the work; but I can participate. I – with Madeline, Lucy, Jane and Elizabeth beside me – can allow Him to take the mundane and meaningless tasks that often form the substance of my days and use them to shape me into something beautiful, something that brings everlasting praise to His Name.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)